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When I was just a babe in arms, there used to be a TV show called "Car 54, Where Are You?"
My post is entitled "72.129.110.# Where Are You?"
Somewhere out there in blogland is someone who has this number/server number (don't know the technical term) allocated to them. All I know is that the location is United States, and they link to me via www.seraphicpress.com. Whoever this is seems to spend time reading my posts... Which is good, in my eyes.
I'm curious to know who this is...or perhaps I already know them. If that is your "secret number," please do write and let me know.
(I once put out the same appeal on a post. Someone with the "address" of www.nbc.com had linked to me and I was curious who. A celebrity? A behind the scenes person? Of course that appeal went unanswered. Maybe I'll do better with this one.)
Monday, August 29, 2005
You Don't Bring Me Flowers...Anymore (again!)
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MCAryeh, firstly I must apologize if that other photo from the original post was misleading. It wasn't meant to be. It just caught my eye. I'm sure there's a story behind it, but it isn't mine.
This image caught my eye, too. Nobody can really top THE THREE STOOGES and their attempt to woo me...except for my husband, and this post is about him.
When I was newly married, my husband used to bring me a bouquet of flowers for every Shabbos. Yes, the vase enhanced the dining room table or the coffee table -- the only two places I had to display the flowers -- but after several weeks, my practicality won out. I told my husband that although I appreciated the thoughtfulness, we should save our money and he could buy me flowers on certain Yom Tovs and birthdays and anniversaries. So yes, I'd see flowers on Pesach, Shavuot, Rosh Hashana and Sukkot usually, as well as on a special day in September and a special day in December. That was enough for me, especially since I'm lacking a green thumb and flowers never last too long under my "watchful" eye.
My husband is rather private and not one for public displays -- so why is his wife keeping a blog? He might not be too outward in his affections, but he definitely shares them.
He believes in the theory of "whenever"-- whenever the mood strikes, he might give me a gift or a bouquet or a single rose. These "just because" gifts mean so much to me and to him. Here are 2 wonderful examples:
1. Several months after we married, we were walking and window shopping in the Toronto Beaches area, a trendy neighborhood at the lakeside, with a boardwalk, and funky shops at street level. I noticed a wonderful serving tray in the window of a store, we looked at it briefly on the shelf and then left.
A day later I came home from work to find a wrapped gift on the kitchen table. It was that serving tray. He'd seen how much I'd liked it and made it a point to take a co-worker during lunch hour (extended, in this case!) to help him maneuver his way to that end of the city, and retracing his steps to find that store.
2. I was at a sprawling mall and noticed a beautiful wrought-iron bench that I thought would look perfect in our entrance hallway. It was rather expensive, as was the separate pillow, so I walked away from it. But that night I told my husband all about the bench.
Several weeks later I came home on my birthday to find that wrought iron bench, with pillow, in our hallway, wrapped with a red ribbon. He'd searched out that store in that mall with the described bench, and had bought it and schlepped it home in preparations for my homecoming.
It's these "just because" gifts that speak to my heart because they show that my heart was speaking to him and he was listening at the time.
So, too, when it comes to words. I am the evident wordsmith in this family, but it's as if my husband stores up deep-felt feelings and thoughts for birthday cards, anniversary cards, Mother's Day cards, Mazel Tov on baby cards. No gift in the world can surpass the gift of his words -- the beauty and boldness of them or their impact. Those few lines encapture a deep, abiding love, and it's not because I need to read them that he writes them; it's because those feelings are clearly there.
I don't need flowers, or jewelery or big-ticket items from my husband. It's just so nice to know I always get a gift from the heart, whether it's in words, whether it's in a finely detailed and thought-out or spontaneous action. And this, my friends, speaks volumes above all.
Yes, I'll accept these flowers from THE THREE STOOGES, but Mr. TorontoPearl...? No need to
order a dozen red roses with baby's breath, because you, your words and your actions continue to take my breath away!
Sunday, August 28, 2005
20 Ways To Bring Out the Best in Your Children
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Rabbi Zelig Pliskin has these wise words to share. I read them, they make sense, and they are a wonderful road map to follow when parenting. I'm on that road, and am still trying to be the best navigator I can be.
Here is the road map to keep in your glove box:
1) Love your children unconditionally -- irrespective of whether they "behave nicely," clean up their room, and do their homework. Your love must go beyond this. Your children will feel it.
2) Each day tell your children that you love them. All you have to say is three words, "I love you." If this is difficult for you, that is a sign you really need to say it.
3) Speak and act in ways that gives your children a positive self-image. Believe in your child. Believe in his abilities and potential. Say explicitly, "I believe in you." How do you know when you are successful at this? When your child says, "I see that you believe in me."
4) Be a role model for the traits and qualities that you want your children to possess. Share your day with your kids so they know what you do and can learn from you and your experiences.
5) Clarify the main positive qualities you want your child to develop. Keep praising those qualities. Reinforce each quality when your child speaks or acts in ways consistent with that quality.
6) Each child is unique and different. Understand each child's uniqueness and take it into consideration when a challenge arises. Don't take the "cookie cutter" approach. A method of disciple that inspires one child may discourage another.
7) Word your comments positively. Focus on the outcome you want. Say: "By developing this quality (for example, taking action right away), you will be more successful in life." (Rather than saying the negative.)
8) Keep asking yourself, What is the wisest thing to say to my child right now? Especially say this when your child has messed up.
9) Read great books to your children.
10) When you come across a story that has an important positive lesson for your child, relate it. Look for stories that teach lessons. Ask people for stories that had a positive influence on their lives.
11) Create a calm, loving, anger-free atmosphere in your home. Consistently speak in a calm and loving tone of voice. See, hear, and feel yourself being a calm person who has mastered the ability to maintain an emotional and mental state that is centered, focused and flowing.
12) Master patience. Life is a seminar in character development. Your children are your partners in helping you become a more patient person. Even when challenges arise, speak in a tone of voice that is balanced.
13) If you make a mistake when interacting with your children, apologize. Ultimately they will respect you more than if you try to deny the mistake.
14) Watch other parents interact with their children. Notice what you like. Apply the positive patterns.
15) In watching other parents, also notice what you don't like. Think about ways that you might be doing the same. Resolve not to speak and act that way.
16) Keep asking people you know and meet, "What did you like about what your parents said and did?"
17) Every day, express gratitude in front of your children. Ask them regularly, "What are you grateful for?"
18) Become a master at evaluating events, situations and occurrences in a realistic positive way. Frequently ask your children, "What would be a positive way of looking at this?", or "How can we grow from this?"
19) When your children make mistakes, help them learn from those mistakes.
20) Each and every day, ask yourself, "What can I say and do to be an even better parent?"
Rabbi Zelig Pliskin has these wise words to share. I read them, they make sense, and they are a wonderful road map to follow when parenting. I'm on that road, and am still trying to be the best navigator I can be.
Here is the road map to keep in your glove box:
1) Love your children unconditionally -- irrespective of whether they "behave nicely," clean up their room, and do their homework. Your love must go beyond this. Your children will feel it.
2) Each day tell your children that you love them. All you have to say is three words, "I love you." If this is difficult for you, that is a sign you really need to say it.
3) Speak and act in ways that gives your children a positive self-image. Believe in your child. Believe in his abilities and potential. Say explicitly, "I believe in you." How do you know when you are successful at this? When your child says, "I see that you believe in me."
4) Be a role model for the traits and qualities that you want your children to possess. Share your day with your kids so they know what you do and can learn from you and your experiences.
5) Clarify the main positive qualities you want your child to develop. Keep praising those qualities. Reinforce each quality when your child speaks or acts in ways consistent with that quality.
6) Each child is unique and different. Understand each child's uniqueness and take it into consideration when a challenge arises. Don't take the "cookie cutter" approach. A method of disciple that inspires one child may discourage another.
7) Word your comments positively. Focus on the outcome you want. Say: "By developing this quality (for example, taking action right away), you will be more successful in life." (Rather than saying the negative.)
8) Keep asking yourself, What is the wisest thing to say to my child right now? Especially say this when your child has messed up.
9) Read great books to your children.
10) When you come across a story that has an important positive lesson for your child, relate it. Look for stories that teach lessons. Ask people for stories that had a positive influence on their lives.
11) Create a calm, loving, anger-free atmosphere in your home. Consistently speak in a calm and loving tone of voice. See, hear, and feel yourself being a calm person who has mastered the ability to maintain an emotional and mental state that is centered, focused and flowing.
12) Master patience. Life is a seminar in character development. Your children are your partners in helping you become a more patient person. Even when challenges arise, speak in a tone of voice that is balanced.
13) If you make a mistake when interacting with your children, apologize. Ultimately they will respect you more than if you try to deny the mistake.
14) Watch other parents interact with their children. Notice what you like. Apply the positive patterns.
15) In watching other parents, also notice what you don't like. Think about ways that you might be doing the same. Resolve not to speak and act that way.
16) Keep asking people you know and meet, "What did you like about what your parents said and did?"
17) Every day, express gratitude in front of your children. Ask them regularly, "What are you grateful for?"
18) Become a master at evaluating events, situations and occurrences in a realistic positive way. Frequently ask your children, "What would be a positive way of looking at this?", or "How can we grow from this?"
19) When your children make mistakes, help them learn from those mistakes.
20) Each and every day, ask yourself, "What can I say and do to be an even better parent?"
You Don't Bring Me Flowers...Anymore
Gerolsteiner
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I like this name. Gerolsteiner. Gerol-steiner. Ger-ol-steiner.
It is the name of a mineral water from Germany. I'd never before heard of it, but made its acquaintance this past summer at a Shabbos table. The host kept saying, "Could you please pass the Gerolsteiner?"
I decided this mineral water deserved a taste test. I tasted it. It was not really different than any other designer water I've had...in spite of its label. And that label kept reminding me of something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Until... The host asked again, "Could you please pass the Gerolsteiner?"
Then one of his guests reached for the bottle and said, "Ohhhh, you mean the 'Nazi vasser.' "
I like this name. Gerolsteiner. Gerol-steiner. Ger-ol-steiner.
It is the name of a mineral water from Germany. I'd never before heard of it, but made its acquaintance this past summer at a Shabbos table. The host kept saying, "Could you please pass the Gerolsteiner?"
I decided this mineral water deserved a taste test. I tasted it. It was not really different than any other designer water I've had...in spite of its label. And that label kept reminding me of something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Until... The host asked again, "Could you please pass the Gerolsteiner?"
Then one of his guests reached for the bottle and said, "Ohhhh, you mean the 'Nazi vasser.' "
Keeping Up with the Cohens*
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* For the sake of this post, it has been determined that my last name is COHEN.
I mentioned at some point, long ago in my blogging history, that I resisted moving to this area of the city we live in because I don't believe in "keeping up with the Cohens" (years ago, I came up with a list of imaginary Jewish TV shows; that was the name of a sit-com I'd conjured up). It is common knowledge in this community that money talks -- in a school setting, in a shul setting, in a social setting. Children are being raised with fewer values and more materialism on the brain, and frankly, it disgusts me. Our children understand the value of a dollar and understand that we might look to be like everyone else but we're not and prefer not to be.
We have some friends -- they used to be friends in our old neighborhood, preceeded us to the new neighborhood -- or rather, they're only acquaintances now, but used to be friends. In spite of our proximity to them geographically, and the fact that our sons are good friends, we're grown distant.
It appears to my husband and I that these people have issues of envy/jealousy. (perhaps not the wife, but certainly the husband) We bought a FoozeBall table, they soon had one. We bought a new van 'cause we needed one, they saw it, made a comment and had a new van shortly after. They found out that my son was taking an extra-curricular course; they had to sign their son up too. I mentioned that I had been in L.A. and we were then going at the end of that June week to Florida's Universal Studios, and immediately the husband said "Yeah, we're probably going away too." My husband, who has seen this "copycat" pattern, piped up, "Does your wife know?" Well, they just came back from a week in L.A. and Universal Studios there.
Their son is a spitting image of his father. When I drove him to school this past year for a few months, he'd get into the car, not say hello to my son or I, but immediately pipe up: "My dad is gonna get me..." or "My dad bought me..." I cannot stand braggarts, even if they're young kids. I was thankful that my son never reacted positively to his friend; he knows bragging is the wrong thing to do, and I'm thankful that my children don't do that. They also understand financial limitations are financial limitations, and they don't need to have all the same things that some of their friends have.
It is not just mere coincidence that these people ended up with things that we had or did. They saw these things; they wanted these things, too; they bought or did these things. Once upon a time, the husband asked my husband his salary: that spoke volumes...especially when my husband told him it's none of his business.
Not too long ago, my husband sarcastically told that guy, "We're gonna buy a boat...are you planning on buying one, too?" Of course we're not buying a boat, but I'm pretty sure that if they did see a boat trailing our van, that family would soon be setting sail, as well.
There is a wonderful children's book by Canadian children's author, Robert Munsch. It's called "Stephanie's Ponytail" and is about Stephanie who wears her ponytail differently each day. The kids at school call out "Ugly, ugly...very ugly." But of course, the next day, they're wearing their hair exactly as Stephanie wore it the day before. This pattern repeats and then one day Stephanie announces, "When I come to school tomorrow, I'll have shaved off my hair!" And the next day, she comes to school, ponytail intact, while everyone else has indeed shaved off their hair.
Keeping up with the Cohens... indeed a tough act to follow!
* For the sake of this post, it has been determined that my last name is COHEN.
I mentioned at some point, long ago in my blogging history, that I resisted moving to this area of the city we live in because I don't believe in "keeping up with the Cohens" (years ago, I came up with a list of imaginary Jewish TV shows; that was the name of a sit-com I'd conjured up). It is common knowledge in this community that money talks -- in a school setting, in a shul setting, in a social setting. Children are being raised with fewer values and more materialism on the brain, and frankly, it disgusts me. Our children understand the value of a dollar and understand that we might look to be like everyone else but we're not and prefer not to be.
We have some friends -- they used to be friends in our old neighborhood, preceeded us to the new neighborhood -- or rather, they're only acquaintances now, but used to be friends. In spite of our proximity to them geographically, and the fact that our sons are good friends, we're grown distant.
It appears to my husband and I that these people have issues of envy/jealousy. (perhaps not the wife, but certainly the husband) We bought a FoozeBall table, they soon had one. We bought a new van 'cause we needed one, they saw it, made a comment and had a new van shortly after. They found out that my son was taking an extra-curricular course; they had to sign their son up too. I mentioned that I had been in L.A. and we were then going at the end of that June week to Florida's Universal Studios, and immediately the husband said "Yeah, we're probably going away too." My husband, who has seen this "copycat" pattern, piped up, "Does your wife know?" Well, they just came back from a week in L.A. and Universal Studios there.
Their son is a spitting image of his father. When I drove him to school this past year for a few months, he'd get into the car, not say hello to my son or I, but immediately pipe up: "My dad is gonna get me..." or "My dad bought me..." I cannot stand braggarts, even if they're young kids. I was thankful that my son never reacted positively to his friend; he knows bragging is the wrong thing to do, and I'm thankful that my children don't do that. They also understand financial limitations are financial limitations, and they don't need to have all the same things that some of their friends have.
It is not just mere coincidence that these people ended up with things that we had or did. They saw these things; they wanted these things, too; they bought or did these things. Once upon a time, the husband asked my husband his salary: that spoke volumes...especially when my husband told him it's none of his business.
Not too long ago, my husband sarcastically told that guy, "We're gonna buy a boat...are you planning on buying one, too?" Of course we're not buying a boat, but I'm pretty sure that if they did see a boat trailing our van, that family would soon be setting sail, as well.
There is a wonderful children's book by Canadian children's author, Robert Munsch. It's called "Stephanie's Ponytail" and is about Stephanie who wears her ponytail differently each day. The kids at school call out "Ugly, ugly...very ugly." But of course, the next day, they're wearing their hair exactly as Stephanie wore it the day before. This pattern repeats and then one day Stephanie announces, "When I come to school tomorrow, I'll have shaved off my hair!" And the next day, she comes to school, ponytail intact, while everyone else has indeed shaved off their hair.
Keeping up with the Cohens... indeed a tough act to follow!
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Musically Tagged
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I've been tagged for this, but don't worry, I won't tag anyone else...not everyone, I understand, appreciates these things.
Here's my mission:
The Rules: List five songs that you are currently digging - it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and the five songs (with artist) in your blog. Then tag five people to see what they're listening to.
1. This song has been running through my head constantly for about 3 weeks...the chorus is just that catchy.
Breathe (2 a.m.) by Anna Nalick.
2. I heard this last week while driving, turned the car radio up full blast, and reminisced about the eighties.
Bad Girls by Donna Summer.
3. Any Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong duet
4. Hotel California by the Eagles
5. Since seeing Madagascar with the family in June, I can't get this soundtrack song out of my head: "I like to move it, move it, you like to move it, move it..."
Okay... and there are my 5 songs.
I've been tagged for this, but don't worry, I won't tag anyone else...not everyone, I understand, appreciates these things.
Here's my mission:
The Rules: List five songs that you are currently digging - it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and the five songs (with artist) in your blog. Then tag five people to see what they're listening to.
1. This song has been running through my head constantly for about 3 weeks...the chorus is just that catchy.
Breathe (2 a.m.) by Anna Nalick.
2. I heard this last week while driving, turned the car radio up full blast, and reminisced about the eighties.
Bad Girls by Donna Summer.
3. Any Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong duet
4. Hotel California by the Eagles
5. Since seeing Madagascar with the family in June, I can't get this soundtrack song out of my head: "I like to move it, move it, you like to move it, move it..."
Okay... and there are my 5 songs.
Stop Interfering in My Life!
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I just wanted a catchy title to pull you in. This post has absolutely nothing to do with that title, but now that you're here, why not stay for the rest of the show. Turn up the volume on your computer speaker and listen to "Sounds of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel.
This brief post is just about one of my observations about blogging (again?) and commenting (again?). I have noticed that one never knows which posts will incite a mad rush of comments and which won't. As I peruse my favorite blogs, I see great posts that receive nada, zip, "efes" (zero) comments, and I wonder why. Then I read other posts that, like much of Seinfeld's routine, are about "nothing" -- and 30 comments follow.
Apparently there is sometimes absolutely no rhyme nor reason as to why certain posts get comments while others don't.
Someone I know has nearly 45 (at last count) comments on a very powerful post. That is the number of online comments; he told me he has over 100 post-related comments to read and respond to. Apparently that particular post struck a match in peoples' psyche, and very clearly that subject matter deserves not just a post, but a BLOG, of its own.
I've looked to my own blog to see if there's any kind of trend when I might get more comments than others.
Here's what I've figured out: 1.) when I do a lot of name dropping of fellow bloggers with links to their blogs, and 2) when I question out loud whether or not I should continue blogging. That's when the comments come.
Guess what: I QUIT THE BLOGGING LIFE!
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(I'M WAITING..... tap, tap, tapping my foot!)
I just wanted a catchy title to pull you in. This post has absolutely nothing to do with that title, but now that you're here, why not stay for the rest of the show. Turn up the volume on your computer speaker and listen to "Sounds of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel.
This brief post is just about one of my observations about blogging (again?) and commenting (again?). I have noticed that one never knows which posts will incite a mad rush of comments and which won't. As I peruse my favorite blogs, I see great posts that receive nada, zip, "efes" (zero) comments, and I wonder why. Then I read other posts that, like much of Seinfeld's routine, are about "nothing" -- and 30 comments follow.
Apparently there is sometimes absolutely no rhyme nor reason as to why certain posts get comments while others don't.
Someone I know has nearly 45 (at last count) comments on a very powerful post. That is the number of online comments; he told me he has over 100 post-related comments to read and respond to. Apparently that particular post struck a match in peoples' psyche, and very clearly that subject matter deserves not just a post, but a BLOG, of its own.
I've looked to my own blog to see if there's any kind of trend when I might get more comments than others.
Here's what I've figured out: 1.) when I do a lot of name dropping of fellow bloggers with links to their blogs, and 2) when I question out loud whether or not I should continue blogging. That's when the comments come.
Guess what: I QUIT THE BLOGGING LIFE!
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(I'M WAITING..... tap, tap, tapping my foot!)
A Colorful World
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This was sent to me this morning. It is a beautiful piece that I wanted to share with all of you.
Keep smiling, and stay colorful.
http://www.spiritisup.com/colors1.swf'
This was sent to me this morning. It is a beautiful piece that I wanted to share with all of you.
Keep smiling, and stay colorful.
http://www.spiritisup.com/colors1.swf'
Yiddish, Yuddish and Yoodish
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When I was a kid, and I'd ask my father, "Are you speaking German or Yiddish?" he'd always answer, "I'm speaking Yiddish, Yuddish and Yoodish."
I never learned Yiddish formally but often heard my dad speak it with family and friends; I heard my mother and father speak German, too, between themselves and sometimes I was able to differentiate between the two languages...usually based on the accompanying body language.
My ear tuned itself to the language and if given the opportunity, I'd sometimes throw around a sentence or two.
Although some might think Yiddish to be guttural and archaic, I've always loved hearing the "mamaloshen", whether it was a Litvischer Yiddish or a Polnyisher Yiddish. The language embodies so much of Ashkenazic Jewish cultural history and has a richness all its own that transcends time.
I was recently asked about my knowledge of Yiddish because a business contact of mine knows of a freelance copy editing job -- work on a humorous book featuring Yiddish curses and expressions. Oh, that would be a great and fun challenge for me. And think of all the new curses I might come away with and be able to embody in a post or two...
So if I get this gig, great! If I don't, it's "nisht geferlech." (not the worst)
In the meantime, everyone, "zei gesundt!" (be well/healthy!)
When I was a kid, and I'd ask my father, "Are you speaking German or Yiddish?" he'd always answer, "I'm speaking Yiddish, Yuddish and Yoodish."
I never learned Yiddish formally but often heard my dad speak it with family and friends; I heard my mother and father speak German, too, between themselves and sometimes I was able to differentiate between the two languages...usually based on the accompanying body language.
My ear tuned itself to the language and if given the opportunity, I'd sometimes throw around a sentence or two.
Although some might think Yiddish to be guttural and archaic, I've always loved hearing the "mamaloshen", whether it was a Litvischer Yiddish or a Polnyisher Yiddish. The language embodies so much of Ashkenazic Jewish cultural history and has a richness all its own that transcends time.
I was recently asked about my knowledge of Yiddish because a business contact of mine knows of a freelance copy editing job -- work on a humorous book featuring Yiddish curses and expressions. Oh, that would be a great and fun challenge for me. And think of all the new curses I might come away with and be able to embody in a post or two...
So if I get this gig, great! If I don't, it's "nisht geferlech." (not the worst)
In the meantime, everyone, "zei gesundt!" (be well/healthy!)
Monday, August 22, 2005
Oh My Goodness -- I'm a (Kosher) Blog Hog!
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Oh my goodness; today I noticed that I display a rather nasty tendency in the blogging world: I'm a "blog hog"!
I don't know if that phrase exists already, but if not, consider it mine. It means that I'm hogging comment cyberspace. Not that I do it all the time, not that I do it on every blog that I read and choose to comment on, but certainly I've found that I make some comment that has its own way of directing its spotlight on me, rather than exclusively on the blogger's post.
One would think that I don't have my own soapbox on which to stand and recite or rant or display or point out, when in fact I do. But sometimes I'm moved to make a comment elsewhere that relates to the post at hand, but suddenly takes on a life of its own as I put myself and my experiences into the comment. Am I taking something away from the blogger, or am I enhancing what he/she has said? I wonder.
I really don't like this quality and dislike that it's reared its ugly head; I've talked before about not being egotistical and disliking egoistes...so why does it appear that I've seemingly joined that group?
Maybe you'll comment and say that a comments forum is for opinions and speaking your mind; comment threads often take tangents and eventually steer themselves back to the original topic. But like anything else in life, there's a wrong way and a right way to do things. Perhaps I've taken the wrong way...?
Oh my goodness; today I noticed that I display a rather nasty tendency in the blogging world: I'm a "blog hog"!
I don't know if that phrase exists already, but if not, consider it mine. It means that I'm hogging comment cyberspace. Not that I do it all the time, not that I do it on every blog that I read and choose to comment on, but certainly I've found that I make some comment that has its own way of directing its spotlight on me, rather than exclusively on the blogger's post.
One would think that I don't have my own soapbox on which to stand and recite or rant or display or point out, when in fact I do. But sometimes I'm moved to make a comment elsewhere that relates to the post at hand, but suddenly takes on a life of its own as I put myself and my experiences into the comment. Am I taking something away from the blogger, or am I enhancing what he/she has said? I wonder.
I really don't like this quality and dislike that it's reared its ugly head; I've talked before about not being egotistical and disliking egoistes...so why does it appear that I've seemingly joined that group?
Maybe you'll comment and say that a comments forum is for opinions and speaking your mind; comment threads often take tangents and eventually steer themselves back to the original topic. But like anything else in life, there's a wrong way and a right way to do things. Perhaps I've taken the wrong way...?
Sunday, August 21, 2005
I REALLY Do Thank G-d for My Blessings
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Growing up, I didn't light Shabbos candles unless my parents were on holiday and I was the only female in the house. But all the years I was used to watching my mother light the Shabbos candles and make the bracha silently. I don't recall her lingering over the candles.
When I was in my twenties and staying over for Shabbos at single girlfriends' who were living on their own, I'd watch them light the candles, make the bracha and linger, eyes closed, hands covering them. Once I politely asked what sort of thoughts were running through my girlfriend's head, ie. why she hesitated so long. She explained that she was thinking her private thoughts, among them that G-d should help her find an appropriate husband. I lit the candles at that friend's place, but did not linger over the candles. I figured that when the time was right, I'd have my appropriate match. [ooo...in rereading this, I noticed the unintentional pun: candles/match]
And when that appropriate match did arrive, and I did marry, and I did light two candles every week and every Yom Tov in my own home, I did linger there, eyes closed, hands covering them. In the first couple of years, I thanked G-d for my husband; then we added a candlestick and I added my son's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my daughter's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my other son's name to that list. Then I added every family member -- parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews -- to that mental list of thanks, and the names of friends or family members that needed their own brachot.
This ritual is my personal way of saying a bracha [over Shabbos/Yom Tov candles] while at the same time thanking G-d for the brachot he has granted me. My children have not yet questioned why I linger at the candlesticks for a few moments longer...but if they do, I'll know what to answer...
...because SHOW & TELL is as much a part of my life as it is to a preschooler. And as it has been said, "Everything I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarten."
Growing up, I didn't light Shabbos candles unless my parents were on holiday and I was the only female in the house. But all the years I was used to watching my mother light the Shabbos candles and make the bracha silently. I don't recall her lingering over the candles.
When I was in my twenties and staying over for Shabbos at single girlfriends' who were living on their own, I'd watch them light the candles, make the bracha and linger, eyes closed, hands covering them. Once I politely asked what sort of thoughts were running through my girlfriend's head, ie. why she hesitated so long. She explained that she was thinking her private thoughts, among them that G-d should help her find an appropriate husband. I lit the candles at that friend's place, but did not linger over the candles. I figured that when the time was right, I'd have my appropriate match. [ooo...in rereading this, I noticed the unintentional pun: candles/match]
And when that appropriate match did arrive, and I did marry, and I did light two candles every week and every Yom Tov in my own home, I did linger there, eyes closed, hands covering them. In the first couple of years, I thanked G-d for my husband; then we added a candlestick and I added my son's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my daughter's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my other son's name to that list. Then I added every family member -- parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews -- to that mental list of thanks, and the names of friends or family members that needed their own brachot.
This ritual is my personal way of saying a bracha [over Shabbos/Yom Tov candles] while at the same time thanking G-d for the brachot he has granted me. My children have not yet questioned why I linger at the candlesticks for a few moments longer...but if they do, I'll know what to answer...
...because SHOW & TELL is as much a part of my life as it is to a preschooler. And as it has been said, "Everything I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarten."
Emotionally Saturated
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If I were a sponge that you were to squeeze just about now, tears would be falling endlessly from that sponge.
It has been a tough and trying weekend.
Friday's weather that I blogged about started that deluge; the very close friend that I mentioned in my last post who popped in during the storm to use our telephone, lost his mother within a couple hours after he came here. When he stopped here, he'd been trying to make his way to his mother's to give her a painkiller because she was suffering the pain of end stages of cancer -- it was coming fast and strong.
He did eventually make it to his mother with his wife and son, and about 1/2 hour before Shabbos came in she took her last heavy breath. He'd sang "Shalom Aleichem" for her and "Aishet Chayil" and kissed her Gut Shabbos, and within minutes she was gone. Everybody has their own memorable version of Shabbos Nachamu; unfortunately, this was my friend's version.
We had my friend's son over Shabbos and much of the day today, until after the funeral. This little 4 1/2 year old boy had been told by his mother that his "Savta was now with Hashem" but we didn't know just how much he understood of that. And when the little boy said, "My savta and sabah live beside your savta," my youngest piped up: "NO, YOUR SAVTA'S DEAD!!" There was a long pause as my husband and I turned to each other, wondering what to say, but the little boy said it for us: "She's with Hashem now." And when my little one asked, "Why?" the boy said, "'Cause she's dead!"
I'm physically, mentally and emotionally sapped after a weekend of dealing with the ins and outs of curbing discussions around a curious child who'd lost his grandmother but didn't quite "get" what that meant; after dealing with all the mitzvot my family could do to help our friends prepare for shiva; after contacting back and forth other friends and acquaintances re. funeral preparations, shiva preparations, childcare preparations.
Today we tried to hit two birds with one stone: we wanted to fulfill the mitzva of "Bikur Cholim" (visiting the sick) and visited a sister-in-law's father, but he wasn't in his hospital room at the time and we couldn't find him on the premises of the nursing home/hospital. And then an hour later we went to a cemetery for a graveside service, and then to a shiva house.
Really, who should I be to complain? I thank G-d for my blessings, and will try to help my friend and his family as much as I and my family can. It is lovely to do mitzvot, but yes, they can and often do take their toll on people...
May we all share in simchas!
If I were a sponge that you were to squeeze just about now, tears would be falling endlessly from that sponge.
It has been a tough and trying weekend.
Friday's weather that I blogged about started that deluge; the very close friend that I mentioned in my last post who popped in during the storm to use our telephone, lost his mother within a couple hours after he came here. When he stopped here, he'd been trying to make his way to his mother's to give her a painkiller because she was suffering the pain of end stages of cancer -- it was coming fast and strong.
He did eventually make it to his mother with his wife and son, and about 1/2 hour before Shabbos came in she took her last heavy breath. He'd sang "Shalom Aleichem" for her and "Aishet Chayil" and kissed her Gut Shabbos, and within minutes she was gone. Everybody has their own memorable version of Shabbos Nachamu; unfortunately, this was my friend's version.
We had my friend's son over Shabbos and much of the day today, until after the funeral. This little 4 1/2 year old boy had been told by his mother that his "Savta was now with Hashem" but we didn't know just how much he understood of that. And when the little boy said, "My savta and sabah live beside your savta," my youngest piped up: "NO, YOUR SAVTA'S DEAD!!" There was a long pause as my husband and I turned to each other, wondering what to say, but the little boy said it for us: "She's with Hashem now." And when my little one asked, "Why?" the boy said, "'Cause she's dead!"
I'm physically, mentally and emotionally sapped after a weekend of dealing with the ins and outs of curbing discussions around a curious child who'd lost his grandmother but didn't quite "get" what that meant; after dealing with all the mitzvot my family could do to help our friends prepare for shiva; after contacting back and forth other friends and acquaintances re. funeral preparations, shiva preparations, childcare preparations.
Today we tried to hit two birds with one stone: we wanted to fulfill the mitzva of "Bikur Cholim" (visiting the sick) and visited a sister-in-law's father, but he wasn't in his hospital room at the time and we couldn't find him on the premises of the nursing home/hospital. And then an hour later we went to a cemetery for a graveside service, and then to a shiva house.
Really, who should I be to complain? I thank G-d for my blessings, and will try to help my friend and his family as much as I and my family can. It is lovely to do mitzvot, but yes, they can and often do take their toll on people...
May we all share in simchas!
"...Cold Black Waters, Keep on Rollin'..."
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On Friday afternoon I thought Judgement Day had arrived. The heavens opened, and the rain fell...and fell...and fell.... Pounding the roof, pounding the pavement, slapping against the windows.
I thanked G-d that I was already home because it would have been hellish to be out of doors in that weather.
Hailstones fell from the sky, landing on our balcony, on our deck, pinging heavily against the front door and windows. The lights flickered several times...went out along with all power systems...came on a few seconds later. After readjusting the clock and resetting my stove and oven (I hadn't yet cooked for Shabbat), a few moments later the power went off again.
My children were rather distressed; they'd heard me only a short while earlier listen to the news and repeat after the announcer, "Tornado warning in effect for the Greater Toronto area..." My little one panicked and said, "Are we going to be picked up and land somewhere else?" Oldest son comforted him by piping up, "This isn't THE WIZARD OF OZ." The problem was that at Universal Studios in June, my kids had been at a "reality" display of the Spielberg film "Twister" and thus knew what could happen. I appeased them and said it wasn't supposed to be in our immediate area and not to worry. But it didn't help that I was telling them this with the lights out, with the pounding rain and hailstones, and with the storm sewer in front of our house backed up halfway up our driveway and halfway up the street.
We watched as cars tried to maneuver the neighborhood streets and couldn't because the waters were rushing and knee-deep. A friend stopped at our house; he'd been out and couldn't get through many of the streets, his cell phone wasn't getting reception and he needed to use our land line.
Yes, eventually the waters receded, the sun weakly poked its head through the clouds and the storm was gone. (but it left many basements with water damage and some severe flooding)
My husband opened the front door and brightly announced: "Yup...just saw a dove fly by with an olive branch in its mouth." I interjected: "And there was no ark at the curbside...?"
On Friday afternoon I thought Judgement Day had arrived. The heavens opened, and the rain fell...and fell...and fell.... Pounding the roof, pounding the pavement, slapping against the windows.
I thanked G-d that I was already home because it would have been hellish to be out of doors in that weather.
Hailstones fell from the sky, landing on our balcony, on our deck, pinging heavily against the front door and windows. The lights flickered several times...went out along with all power systems...came on a few seconds later. After readjusting the clock and resetting my stove and oven (I hadn't yet cooked for Shabbat), a few moments later the power went off again.
My children were rather distressed; they'd heard me only a short while earlier listen to the news and repeat after the announcer, "Tornado warning in effect for the Greater Toronto area..." My little one panicked and said, "Are we going to be picked up and land somewhere else?" Oldest son comforted him by piping up, "This isn't THE WIZARD OF OZ." The problem was that at Universal Studios in June, my kids had been at a "reality" display of the Spielberg film "Twister" and thus knew what could happen. I appeased them and said it wasn't supposed to be in our immediate area and not to worry. But it didn't help that I was telling them this with the lights out, with the pounding rain and hailstones, and with the storm sewer in front of our house backed up halfway up our driveway and halfway up the street.
We watched as cars tried to maneuver the neighborhood streets and couldn't because the waters were rushing and knee-deep. A friend stopped at our house; he'd been out and couldn't get through many of the streets, his cell phone wasn't getting reception and he needed to use our land line.
Yes, eventually the waters receded, the sun weakly poked its head through the clouds and the storm was gone. (but it left many basements with water damage and some severe flooding)
My husband opened the front door and brightly announced: "Yup...just saw a dove fly by with an olive branch in its mouth." I interjected: "And there was no ark at the curbside...?"
Thursday, August 18, 2005
M.'s Words Are Powerful
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Please link to Ink as Rain, M's beautiful and eloquent blog. Her latest post will definitely move you.
Please link to Ink as Rain, M's beautiful and eloquent blog. Her latest post will definitely move you.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
From Riches to Shmattas
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Here's another piece I wrote many, many, many years ago, and just dug up. I haven't read it in years, and will be reading as I type it. Hope the humor is still fresh.
From Riches to Shmattas
By: A. Shmatta
Wipe, wipe, wipe. Shine, shine, shine. Polish, polish, polish.
Oh, I'm so tired. Please let me rest awhile. Mrs. Baumgarten continues to rub me over her silver wine cups. Oooo, I'm so black and streaked. How will I ever get white again?
Mrs. Baumgarten tosses me onto the counter the moment the phone rings. She rushes to answer it. "Hullo? Ida Kaplan, how are you? How's Morris? How're the grandchildren?" She rattles on and on, finally giving me a chance to rest. She didn't place me in a very comfortable position however, so I'm lying her all scrunched up.
These days, my home is in the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink (where I can at least stay warm while hanging over the hot water pipes), and I only get washed about once a month. But you should know that not long ago, I was something. I was important! I was a white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt and belonged to Selma, the youngest Baumgarten daughter. And not just any old white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt either; I was a Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt.
Was I ever thankful when three years ago, someone came into the boutique, ruffled through the rainbow-colored sweatshirts, and salvaged me from the bottom of the pile. Mmm, I don't look so bad, just a bit rumpled, I thought to myself as the teenager unfolded me and held me up against her chest as she looked in the mirror. The body contact felt good -- I'd lacked contact for a few weeks since that lady had finished sewing me in the factory. Was I thrilled when the girl told the saleslady, "Okay, charge this white one to my dad. Here's his credit card."
I was very popular in those days and got lots of compliments from Selma's crowd. "Wow, what a great sweatshirt. Selma, do you think I could borrow your 'sweat' sometime?"
Selma and I became bosom buddies. She took me nearly everywhere she went and I got to see a lot of sights -- the high school gym, the school library, some good movies, and even the back seat of an old, beat-up '69 Chevy. Spain last summer was great and California during spring break was even wilder. Some unpleasant places I came into contact with and dreaded were cluttered gym lockers and the dirty clothes hamper.
I also lived for a while with Brian Green, one of Selma's many boyfriends. He gave her a gold bracelet, and she in turn gave him her favorite sweatshirt -- that's me! Life with Brian wasn't so splendid. I often had to tag along to football games and be left alone on the bleachers. Once in a while, Muffy, Brian's terrier, started up with me. We'd get into some pretty heavy arm wrestling. She thought it was a ball. I didn't!
Lucky for me, the relationship lasted only a couple of months. Brian and Selma broke up and returned each other's love tokens. So, back I was with Selma, a little out of shape and showing a few more wrinkles, but still in style nonetheless.
At first, Selma was excited to have me back, but it soon became evident that there was competition in my life.
On a shopping outing one day, Selma, with me hugging her shoulders, stepped into the same boutique where we had first become acquainted (ie. where she had picked me up). She wasn't looking for anything in particular, but that didn't matter. No sooner were we in the store, than Selma spotted a neon banana-yellow sweatshirt. "Oh, how chic!" she exclaimed. "I just have to buy this Fiorucci. It'll add so much color to my wardrobe."
I hung there, peeking over Selma's shoulder and silently pleading, No, no. You don't want a Fiorucci. Fiorucci isn't in style. Camp Beverly Hills garb is!
Selma voiced her opinion to the saleslady as she pulled out her father's infamous credit card. "I'm going to be the first one in my crowd with a 'Fio' sweatshirt. If the girls see that I have one, they'll all want one too."
The next thing I knew, I was being stuffed into the Boutique La Moda bag, while the Fiorucci sweatshirt took its place around Selma's shoulders. Was I angry and jealous! Selma walked home, swinging the bag freely in her hand, so I was feeling pretty claustrophobic and nauseated within my plastic prison by the time we got home.
Selma laid me and my archrival side by side on her bed and went to call her friends to tell them of her latest purchase. The Fiorucci tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood to try to break through the language and cultural barrier.
Selma would still take me with her when she'd go out, but less frequently and to fewer places. I'd sit and wait anxiously in Selma's top dresser drawer for her to choose me, but more often she chose to take "the little bambina who ain't from Pasadena." There was no doubt that Camp Beverly Hills was out and Fiorucci was in!
One day, Selma came into the room, opened the drawer,took me lovingly into her arms and said aloud, "Well, the jig is up. You've just about had it with me. I think I'll donate you to the Hadassah rummage sale. Someone might still be able to make use out of you."
What was I hearing?! Selma, you can't mean it! After all those good times we've had together, you're getting rid of me?
There was no time to plead my case aloud 'cause Selma took me into the kitchen, tossed me over to Mrs. Baumgarten and said, "Here, Ma. You can take this along with your other old clothes to the rummage sale next week," and walked out.
Mrs. Baumgarten turned me over in her hands, examining me closely and said aloud, "Bazaar, shmazaar. They'll have enough stuff to sell. I'm keeping this. It'll be good to use as a shmatta for polishing silver."
Oh, no! How can she do this to me? How can Selma do this to me...?
So...that's the story of my life -- "A sweatshirt today, a shmatta tomorrow."
Here's another piece I wrote many, many, many years ago, and just dug up. I haven't read it in years, and will be reading as I type it. Hope the humor is still fresh.
From Riches to Shmattas
By: A. Shmatta
Wipe, wipe, wipe. Shine, shine, shine. Polish, polish, polish.
Oh, I'm so tired. Please let me rest awhile. Mrs. Baumgarten continues to rub me over her silver wine cups. Oooo, I'm so black and streaked. How will I ever get white again?
Mrs. Baumgarten tosses me onto the counter the moment the phone rings. She rushes to answer it. "Hullo? Ida Kaplan, how are you? How's Morris? How're the grandchildren?" She rattles on and on, finally giving me a chance to rest. She didn't place me in a very comfortable position however, so I'm lying her all scrunched up.
These days, my home is in the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink (where I can at least stay warm while hanging over the hot water pipes), and I only get washed about once a month. But you should know that not long ago, I was something. I was important! I was a white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt and belonged to Selma, the youngest Baumgarten daughter. And not just any old white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt either; I was a Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt.
Was I ever thankful when three years ago, someone came into the boutique, ruffled through the rainbow-colored sweatshirts, and salvaged me from the bottom of the pile. Mmm, I don't look so bad, just a bit rumpled, I thought to myself as the teenager unfolded me and held me up against her chest as she looked in the mirror. The body contact felt good -- I'd lacked contact for a few weeks since that lady had finished sewing me in the factory. Was I thrilled when the girl told the saleslady, "Okay, charge this white one to my dad. Here's his credit card."
I was very popular in those days and got lots of compliments from Selma's crowd. "Wow, what a great sweatshirt. Selma, do you think I could borrow your 'sweat' sometime?"
Selma and I became bosom buddies. She took me nearly everywhere she went and I got to see a lot of sights -- the high school gym, the school library, some good movies, and even the back seat of an old, beat-up '69 Chevy. Spain last summer was great and California during spring break was even wilder. Some unpleasant places I came into contact with and dreaded were cluttered gym lockers and the dirty clothes hamper.
I also lived for a while with Brian Green, one of Selma's many boyfriends. He gave her a gold bracelet, and she in turn gave him her favorite sweatshirt -- that's me! Life with Brian wasn't so splendid. I often had to tag along to football games and be left alone on the bleachers. Once in a while, Muffy, Brian's terrier, started up with me. We'd get into some pretty heavy arm wrestling. She thought it was a ball. I didn't!
Lucky for me, the relationship lasted only a couple of months. Brian and Selma broke up and returned each other's love tokens. So, back I was with Selma, a little out of shape and showing a few more wrinkles, but still in style nonetheless.
At first, Selma was excited to have me back, but it soon became evident that there was competition in my life.
On a shopping outing one day, Selma, with me hugging her shoulders, stepped into the same boutique where we had first become acquainted (ie. where she had picked me up). She wasn't looking for anything in particular, but that didn't matter. No sooner were we in the store, than Selma spotted a neon banana-yellow sweatshirt. "Oh, how chic!" she exclaimed. "I just have to buy this Fiorucci. It'll add so much color to my wardrobe."
I hung there, peeking over Selma's shoulder and silently pleading, No, no. You don't want a Fiorucci. Fiorucci isn't in style. Camp Beverly Hills garb is!
Selma voiced her opinion to the saleslady as she pulled out her father's infamous credit card. "I'm going to be the first one in my crowd with a 'Fio' sweatshirt. If the girls see that I have one, they'll all want one too."
The next thing I knew, I was being stuffed into the Boutique La Moda bag, while the Fiorucci sweatshirt took its place around Selma's shoulders. Was I angry and jealous! Selma walked home, swinging the bag freely in her hand, so I was feeling pretty claustrophobic and nauseated within my plastic prison by the time we got home.
Selma laid me and my archrival side by side on her bed and went to call her friends to tell them of her latest purchase. The Fiorucci tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood to try to break through the language and cultural barrier.
Selma would still take me with her when she'd go out, but less frequently and to fewer places. I'd sit and wait anxiously in Selma's top dresser drawer for her to choose me, but more often she chose to take "the little bambina who ain't from Pasadena." There was no doubt that Camp Beverly Hills was out and Fiorucci was in!
One day, Selma came into the room, opened the drawer,took me lovingly into her arms and said aloud, "Well, the jig is up. You've just about had it with me. I think I'll donate you to the Hadassah rummage sale. Someone might still be able to make use out of you."
What was I hearing?! Selma, you can't mean it! After all those good times we've had together, you're getting rid of me?
There was no time to plead my case aloud 'cause Selma took me into the kitchen, tossed me over to Mrs. Baumgarten and said, "Here, Ma. You can take this along with your other old clothes to the rummage sale next week," and walked out.
Mrs. Baumgarten turned me over in her hands, examining me closely and said aloud, "Bazaar, shmazaar. They'll have enough stuff to sell. I'm keeping this. It'll be good to use as a shmatta for polishing silver."
Oh, no! How can she do this to me? How can Selma do this to me...?
So...that's the story of my life -- "A sweatshirt today, a shmatta tomorrow."
Confessions of a Barbie Doll
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I dug up this piece I'd written over 20 years ago. At the time I'd hoped to publish it, and after some snail mail back-and-forth correspondence with Mattel to use the Barbie and Mattel trademarks, permission was denied. Guess you can see why...
BTW, I shared the piece with a newfound friend and she said, "Your Barbie sounds just like Paris Hilton!!!"
CONFESSIONS OF A BARBIE DOLL
Hi, I'm Barbie. Actually, that's not my full name, but that's what my friends call me. Ken, Skipper, Madge, Farrah, Brooke, and Mr. T. all know me as Barbie. And if they really want to get my attention, they call, "Hey, Barbie Doll!" That's sure to make my head turn.
I lead what I think is a pretty exciting life for a young person, and I have lots of friends. Ken has been my steady boyfriend for quite a number of years now. We've talked about marriage, but have decided that we're not yet ready or mature enough for it. (Besides, Mattel has not yet designed a wedding chapel.)
Before I met Ken, I had a thing going with a soldier -- a G.I. His name was Joe; I never did find out what his last name was. But it didn't really matter -- I like men in uniform and I was very attracted to his army fatigues. We met on a blind date that Madge had arranged and we began dating after that.
The relationship didn't last too long because Joe always had to leave town for overseas missions and we began to drift apart. I had suggested that he try to get a job at NASA, but too many people had the same idea, and no more applications for astronauts were being accepted. Joe decided that he was meant to be a G.I. rather than just a suburban type and we broke up. I also had to give him back his dog tags, which he had let me wear as long as we were dating.
And then there was Ken. He was everything I'd ever wanted in a man: he was tall, handsome, wealthy, athletic and cultured. He reminds me, even to this day, of Oliver Barrett, the character that Ryan O'Neal played in the movie Love Story.
Like I mentioned before, I lead a pretty exciting life. I LOVE shopping for clothes and have a wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. My problem is that I can't bear to throw anything out. I got closets-full of clothes that I might've worn for one season and never again. But now, that might change because some of the styles are back in. I'm so glad that I can wear my patent leather shoes and purses again and not stand out in a crowd. The same goes for my plaid skirts, my leather bomber jackets, my fun furs and my ear muffs.
As for my hairstyle, well, that's changed with the times as well I've had it long, short, crimped, curly, braids a la Bo Derek and a fluffy hairdo like my friend Farrah. Maybe I should have taken a hint from my friend Madge, who believes that her pageboy style will never be out of fashion.
Most people think I'm pretty. I guess I am. Sometimes I'm even considered glamorous. People are pretty envious of my peaches-and-cream complexion, my natural blonde hair and my proportioned figure. But I've worked hard to look that way and my lifestyle is regimented by beauty tips and nutrition tips that I read about in Vogue, Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines each month. Even while growing up, I had subscriptions to Young Miss, Co-Ed, Teen, and later, Seventeen magazine.
Mom's friends told me to try my hand at modelling and I took a few course at Barbizon's modelling school in the city. My picture got into some catalogues for which I modelled clothing and accessories, and I was popular for a few years. I started losing contracts and realized that a look like mine is needed in the business for only a short while. It's okay -- I learned to handle it and took a few sessions with a psychotherapist who taught me how to deal with the rejection. There were a couple of chances for a comeback last year, but I declined the offers.
These days, my purpose in life is to fill the pages of my appointment book. I sty physically, socially, and mentally active. Every afternoon, I go to aerobics classes and then work out on the Nautilus equipment with my friends Mr. T. and The Incredible Hulk. Other than aerobics and Nautilus, I swim, surf, rollerskate, skateboard, cycle and dance. When I'm not physically or socially active, I like to read. Believe it or not, I like Harlequin stories, Kahlil Gibran's works, the New York Times, do-it-yourself, and also self-improvement books. I had once considered taking up journalism, but at the end, opted against it. I figured that a journalist's job is part of a dog-eat-dog world, and I hate violence.
I haven't worked in the last few years, anyways, not since I was modelling. When I was a teen, I worked after school in a Burger King and made pocket money. But ten years ago, Grand-Daddy passed on and left his billion-dollar fortune to our family. Dad divided the money equally among us and then helped me make some wise investments with my portion. I've lived off the interest ever since from my purchases, and my real estate properties. I also bought a motor home, a dune buggy, a show-dog Afghan, and became a partner in an ice-cream shop. Three years ago, I bought a home and decorated it myself. It has even been featured in Metropolitan Home and Architectural Digest magazines. I've had some tempting offers from people who want to buy it, but I've got no intention to sell it at the moment.
Not long ago, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blast. Daddy rented out a beach house with its own private beach and flew me and twenty of my closest friends there for the weekend. A mini-bus picked us up at the airport and drove us along the coast to Malibu, where we partied all weekend long. The weather was perfect, the view was fantastic and the company was just great...especially Ken. I couldn't have asked for anything more.
My gifts were pretty special, too. Ken gave me a beautiful sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirrow set, and to top that off, he also gave me a diamond bracelet which read: BARBIE--25. He says that next year he'll give me a diamond ring for my birthday. Mom and Dad bought me a large share in that famous toy company Mattel, and an Italian sports car.
Now I think I'm all set for at least another twenty-five years, don't you?
I dug up this piece I'd written over 20 years ago. At the time I'd hoped to publish it, and after some snail mail back-and-forth correspondence with Mattel to use the Barbie and Mattel trademarks, permission was denied. Guess you can see why...
BTW, I shared the piece with a newfound friend and she said, "Your Barbie sounds just like Paris Hilton!!!"
CONFESSIONS OF A BARBIE DOLL
Hi, I'm Barbie. Actually, that's not my full name, but that's what my friends call me. Ken, Skipper, Madge, Farrah, Brooke, and Mr. T. all know me as Barbie. And if they really want to get my attention, they call, "Hey, Barbie Doll!" That's sure to make my head turn.
I lead what I think is a pretty exciting life for a young person, and I have lots of friends. Ken has been my steady boyfriend for quite a number of years now. We've talked about marriage, but have decided that we're not yet ready or mature enough for it. (Besides, Mattel has not yet designed a wedding chapel.)
Before I met Ken, I had a thing going with a soldier -- a G.I. His name was Joe; I never did find out what his last name was. But it didn't really matter -- I like men in uniform and I was very attracted to his army fatigues. We met on a blind date that Madge had arranged and we began dating after that.
The relationship didn't last too long because Joe always had to leave town for overseas missions and we began to drift apart. I had suggested that he try to get a job at NASA, but too many people had the same idea, and no more applications for astronauts were being accepted. Joe decided that he was meant to be a G.I. rather than just a suburban type and we broke up. I also had to give him back his dog tags, which he had let me wear as long as we were dating.
And then there was Ken. He was everything I'd ever wanted in a man: he was tall, handsome, wealthy, athletic and cultured. He reminds me, even to this day, of Oliver Barrett, the character that Ryan O'Neal played in the movie Love Story.
Like I mentioned before, I lead a pretty exciting life. I LOVE shopping for clothes and have a wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. My problem is that I can't bear to throw anything out. I got closets-full of clothes that I might've worn for one season and never again. But now, that might change because some of the styles are back in. I'm so glad that I can wear my patent leather shoes and purses again and not stand out in a crowd. The same goes for my plaid skirts, my leather bomber jackets, my fun furs and my ear muffs.
As for my hairstyle, well, that's changed with the times as well I've had it long, short, crimped, curly, braids a la Bo Derek and a fluffy hairdo like my friend Farrah. Maybe I should have taken a hint from my friend Madge, who believes that her pageboy style will never be out of fashion.
Most people think I'm pretty. I guess I am. Sometimes I'm even considered glamorous. People are pretty envious of my peaches-and-cream complexion, my natural blonde hair and my proportioned figure. But I've worked hard to look that way and my lifestyle is regimented by beauty tips and nutrition tips that I read about in Vogue, Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines each month. Even while growing up, I had subscriptions to Young Miss, Co-Ed, Teen, and later, Seventeen magazine.
Mom's friends told me to try my hand at modelling and I took a few course at Barbizon's modelling school in the city. My picture got into some catalogues for which I modelled clothing and accessories, and I was popular for a few years. I started losing contracts and realized that a look like mine is needed in the business for only a short while. It's okay -- I learned to handle it and took a few sessions with a psychotherapist who taught me how to deal with the rejection. There were a couple of chances for a comeback last year, but I declined the offers.
These days, my purpose in life is to fill the pages of my appointment book. I sty physically, socially, and mentally active. Every afternoon, I go to aerobics classes and then work out on the Nautilus equipment with my friends Mr. T. and The Incredible Hulk. Other than aerobics and Nautilus, I swim, surf, rollerskate, skateboard, cycle and dance. When I'm not physically or socially active, I like to read. Believe it or not, I like Harlequin stories, Kahlil Gibran's works, the New York Times, do-it-yourself, and also self-improvement books. I had once considered taking up journalism, but at the end, opted against it. I figured that a journalist's job is part of a dog-eat-dog world, and I hate violence.
I haven't worked in the last few years, anyways, not since I was modelling. When I was a teen, I worked after school in a Burger King and made pocket money. But ten years ago, Grand-Daddy passed on and left his billion-dollar fortune to our family. Dad divided the money equally among us and then helped me make some wise investments with my portion. I've lived off the interest ever since from my purchases, and my real estate properties. I also bought a motor home, a dune buggy, a show-dog Afghan, and became a partner in an ice-cream shop. Three years ago, I bought a home and decorated it myself. It has even been featured in Metropolitan Home and Architectural Digest magazines. I've had some tempting offers from people who want to buy it, but I've got no intention to sell it at the moment.
Not long ago, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blast. Daddy rented out a beach house with its own private beach and flew me and twenty of my closest friends there for the weekend. A mini-bus picked us up at the airport and drove us along the coast to Malibu, where we partied all weekend long. The weather was perfect, the view was fantastic and the company was just great...especially Ken. I couldn't have asked for anything more.
My gifts were pretty special, too. Ken gave me a beautiful sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirrow set, and to top that off, he also gave me a diamond bracelet which read: BARBIE--25. He says that next year he'll give me a diamond ring for my birthday. Mom and Dad bought me a large share in that famous toy company Mattel, and an Italian sports car.
Now I think I'm all set for at least another twenty-five years, don't you?
You Can't Retract Your Words Even If You Try To Retrace Your Steps
Blogroll Me!
I was just "blog surfing" and came across such a stark rant that a child had for a parent. It was ugly; it was detailed; it was ANGER SPEAKING OUT.
Call me naive, but even if a person has been truly hurt, physically and emotionally, by a parent, is a blog the right path to take for venting? EVERYTHING you ever say in blogland "can and will be held against you." Even if you keep your identity secret, there is always something in a post that will give it away. Google archives hold you and your words captive for a very long time!
If it isn't a personal counselor/analyst you choose to speak to, then write a letter detailing your thoughts, but certainly do not post them. Those words are coarse, and ugly, and I really don't know how cathartic they are for you. I do know that I, as an innocent bystander, am more than embarrassed to read them...especially from a fellow Jew.
You rant in one post, and in the next post, you want to retract your words and announce your apology for venting so publicly, so loudly.
Your pain is palpable, but you can never retract those uttered words... Google's gotten hold of them and just won't let them go without a struggle.
Walk before you run. Look before you leap. Think before you speak.
Sometimes you just have to use those same lessons that a nasty parent might have taught you.
I was just "blog surfing" and came across such a stark rant that a child had for a parent. It was ugly; it was detailed; it was ANGER SPEAKING OUT.
Call me naive, but even if a person has been truly hurt, physically and emotionally, by a parent, is a blog the right path to take for venting? EVERYTHING you ever say in blogland "can and will be held against you." Even if you keep your identity secret, there is always something in a post that will give it away. Google archives hold you and your words captive for a very long time!
If it isn't a personal counselor/analyst you choose to speak to, then write a letter detailing your thoughts, but certainly do not post them. Those words are coarse, and ugly, and I really don't know how cathartic they are for you. I do know that I, as an innocent bystander, am more than embarrassed to read them...especially from a fellow Jew.
You rant in one post, and in the next post, you want to retract your words and announce your apology for venting so publicly, so loudly.
Your pain is palpable, but you can never retract those uttered words... Google's gotten hold of them and just won't let them go without a struggle.
Walk before you run. Look before you leap. Think before you speak.
Sometimes you just have to use those same lessons that a nasty parent might have taught you.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
R.S.V.P. ...not!
Blogroll Me!
Thought I was inviting you to some simcha, some gathering, some blogger festivities, huh? Sorry, nuh-uh... But I am inviting you to your opinions.
I'm in my 40's; I'm not in my late teens or twenties or thirties.
My parents are in their seventies and eighties, not in their fifties and sixties.
So, why, then, pray tell, do we continue to get wedding invitations that invite us to Kabbalat Panim, Chupah...and Simchat Chatan v'Kallah some five hours later?
Oh, yes, it's lovely to have a simcha, and want to share it with people, and of course, you can't invite everyone to partake in the festivities, but please...enough already.
I am a borderline acquaintance to you; you do not need to invite me; you might need the monetary gift for your children and this invitation/appeal is the cost of a postage stamp, or even better, a hand-delivered invitation. But the truth of the matter is that when you're married, with children who need babysitters, you're not gonna run home from work, get dressed for a chupah, rush to the shul or social hall, stay for a chupah and plan to go back in a few hours...to hand over the check.
My parents have friends from yesteryear who still have them in their address book. These friends' grandchildren get married, and the friends say, "Send an invitation to Mr. & Mrs. ____ for the chupah and simchat chatan v'kallah at 10:00." Yeah, like my parents really appreciate this nicety.
Over Shabbat lunch with friends we've had opportunity to discuss this matter and we're all voting the same: if you cannot afford to invite us forty- and fifty-somethings, don't, (can't talk for the twenty and thirty-somethings) but don't send a shout-out invite for the in-and-out celebrating. It just ain't worth it to us...!
Yes, we wish you a hearty mazel tov, and yes, we might send a gift when we hear that you're making a simcha, whether we're invited or not, but please...take us off the guest list...UNLESS IT'S FOR DINNER.
(and should we choose to attend your simcha, with the revolving door entry/exit, and give you a gift, find it in your heart -- and address book -- to send us a thank-you note...a nicety, just like the invitation was!)
Thought I was inviting you to some simcha, some gathering, some blogger festivities, huh? Sorry, nuh-uh... But I am inviting you to your opinions.
I'm in my 40's; I'm not in my late teens or twenties or thirties.
My parents are in their seventies and eighties, not in their fifties and sixties.
So, why, then, pray tell, do we continue to get wedding invitations that invite us to Kabbalat Panim, Chupah...and Simchat Chatan v'Kallah some five hours later?
Oh, yes, it's lovely to have a simcha, and want to share it with people, and of course, you can't invite everyone to partake in the festivities, but please...enough already.
I am a borderline acquaintance to you; you do not need to invite me; you might need the monetary gift for your children and this invitation/appeal is the cost of a postage stamp, or even better, a hand-delivered invitation. But the truth of the matter is that when you're married, with children who need babysitters, you're not gonna run home from work, get dressed for a chupah, rush to the shul or social hall, stay for a chupah and plan to go back in a few hours...to hand over the check.
My parents have friends from yesteryear who still have them in their address book. These friends' grandchildren get married, and the friends say, "Send an invitation to Mr. & Mrs. ____ for the chupah and simchat chatan v'kallah at 10:00." Yeah, like my parents really appreciate this nicety.
Over Shabbat lunch with friends we've had opportunity to discuss this matter and we're all voting the same: if you cannot afford to invite us forty- and fifty-somethings, don't, (can't talk for the twenty and thirty-somethings) but don't send a shout-out invite for the in-and-out celebrating. It just ain't worth it to us...!
Yes, we wish you a hearty mazel tov, and yes, we might send a gift when we hear that you're making a simcha, whether we're invited or not, but please...take us off the guest list...UNLESS IT'S FOR DINNER.
(and should we choose to attend your simcha, with the revolving door entry/exit, and give you a gift, find it in your heart -- and address book -- to send us a thank-you note...a nicety, just like the invitation was!)
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