Mind Your P's & Q's

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(again, it's not really me...it's my evil twin blogging)

Spent a few late-afternoon hours in the park with my children today. They played baseball; I played "conversation catch-up" with neighborhood/shul friends.

When my husband went off to learn before mincha, my older son and his friend were playing baseball, and my youngest had some kind of tantrum, so I offered to play baseball with him -- I'd pitch, and he'd bat, and then we switched roles.

I joined him on the baseball diamond, and as I moved closer to him, I noticed the front part of his shorts were a bit wet.

"N, did you pee in your pants?" I asked. (he's been trained since he was age two, but if he gets a bit "too involved" in a game, he might just forget he needs to go to the bathroom, which is a common practice among boys, young and old, apparently)

"No, it rained a little." (wow, how far a child can stretch the truth...)

A Jew by Any Other Name...Is Still a Jew

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Original Birth Names of Jewish Performers

Woody Allen --- Alan Stewart Koenigsberg

June Allyson --- Ella Geisman

Lauren Bacall --- Betty Joan Perske

Jack Benny --- Benjamin Kubelsky

Irving Berlin --- Israel Baline

Milton Berle --- Milton Berlinger

Joey Bishop ---Joseph Gottlieb

Karen Black --- Karen Blanche Ziegler

Victor Borge --- Borge Rosenbaum

Fanny Brice --- Fanny Borach

Mel Brooks --- Melvin Kaminsky

George Burns --- Nathan Birnbaum

Eddie Cantor --- Edward Israel Iskowitz

Jeff Chandler --- Ira Grossel

Lee J. Cobb --- Amos Jacob

Tony Curtis --- Bernard Schwartz

Rodney Dangerfield --- Jacob Cohen

Kirk Douglas --- Issue Danielovich Demsky

Melvyn Douglas --- Melvyn Hesselberg

Bob Dylan --- Bobby Zimmerman

Paulette Goddard --- Marion Levy

Lee Grant --- Lyova Geisman

Elliot Gould --- Elliot Goldstein

Judy Holliday --- Judith Tuvim

Al Jolson --- Asa Yoelsen

Danny Kaye --- David Daniel Kaminsky

Michael Landon --- Michael Orowitz

Steve Lawrence --- Sidney Leibowitz

Jerry Lewis --- Joseph Levitch

Peter Lorre --- Lazlo Lowenstein

Elaine May --- Elaine Berlin

Yves Montand --- Ivo Levy

Mike Nichols --- Michael Peschkowsky

Joan Rivers --- Joan Molinsky

Edward G. Robinson -- Emanuel Goldenberg

Jane Seymour --- Joyce Penelope Frankenburg

Simone Signoret --- Simone-Henriette Kaminker

Beverly Sills --- Belle Silverman

Sophie Tucker --- Sophia Kalish

Gene Wilder --- Gerald Silberman

How Curious George Escaped the Nazis

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(Okay, so I'm not supposed to be online, but it's my lunch hour -- does that count? And I wanted to share this very interesting article with you. All those times that you read a Curious George book for yourself or to your children, did you ever think of the story that came before the ones you're familiar with? Here's that story...)


From the New York Times



By DINITIA SMITH
Published: September 13, 2005

Curious George is every 2-year-old sticking his finger into the light socket, pouring milk onto the floor to watch it pool, creating chaos everywhere. One reason the mischievous monkey is such a popular children's book character is that he makes 4- to 6-year-olds feel superior: fond memories, but we've given all that up now.


In the years since the first book was published in the United States in 1941, "George" has become an industry. The books have sold more than 27 million copies. There have been several "Curious George" films, including an animated one featuring the voice of Will Ferrell that is scheduled for release this February, and theater productions, not to mention the ubiquitous toy figure. Next year, PBS will begin a Curious George series for pre-schoolers.

But in truth, "Curious George" almost didn't make it onto the page. A new book, "The Journey That Saved Curious George: The True Wartime Escape of Margret and H. A. Rey" (Houghton Mifflin), tells of how George's creators, both German-born Jews, fled from Paris by bicycle in June 1940, carrying the manuscript of what would become "Curious George" as Nazis prepared to invade.

The book's author, Louise Borden, said in a telephone interview from Terrace Park, Ohio, that she first spotted a mention of the Reys' escape in Publishers Weekly. "But no one knew where they had gone from Paris, the roads they took, the dates of where they were, the details," she said.

Her account, intended for older children, is illustrated in whimsical European style by Allan Drummond, and includes photographs of the Reys and wartime Europe, as well as H. A. Rey's pocket diaries and transit documents.

For her research, Ms. Borden combed the Rey archives of the de Grummond Children's Literature Collection at the University of Southern Mississippi, interviewed people who knew them and traced their journey through letters and postmarks.

Hans Reyersbach was born in Hamburg in 1898 into an educated family, and lived near the Hagenbeck Zoo, where he learned to imitate animal sounds, as well as to draw and paint. During World War I, Mr. Reyersbach served in the German Army; afterward, he painted circus posters for a living. After studying at two German universities, he went to Rio de Janeiro in the mid-1920's, looking for a job. He wound up selling bathtubs on the Amazon.

Margarete Waldstein, who was born in 1906, also in Hamburg, had a more fiery personality. After Hitler began his rise, she left Hamburg to become a photographer in London. In 1935, she too went to Rio.

Mr. Reyersbach had first seen her as a little girl sliding down the banister of her family's Hamburg home, and now they met again. They eventually married, and founded an advertising agency. Margarete changed her name to "Margret" and Hans changed his surname to "Rey," reasoning that Reyersbach was difficult for Brazilians to pronounce. Crucially, the two became Brazilian citizens.

For their honeymoon, they sailed to Europe, accompanied by their two pet marmoset monkeys. Margret knitted tiny sweaters for them to keep them warm, but the monkeys died en route.
The Reys ended up in the Parisian neighborhood of Montmartre, where they began writing and illustrating children's books. In 1939, they published "Raffy and the 9 Monkeys." Mr. Rey drew the illustrations, and his wife helped to write the stories. Hans initially had sole credit for the books, but eventually Margret's name was added. "We worked very closely together and it was hard to pull the thing apart," she later said.
Hans was a fanatical record keeper, listing exp
enses and details about their work in tiny pocket calendars. In 1939, he began a story about the youngest monkey in "Raffy," who was forever getting into trouble but finding his way out. It was called "The Adventures of Fifi."

That September, war broke out. The Reys had signed a contract with the French publisher Gallimard for "Fifi" and other stories, and in a stroke of luck received a cash advance that would later finance their escape.

By the time the Germans marched into Holland and Belgium in May 1940, the Reys had begun a book of nursery songs in both French and English. "Songs English very slowly because of the events," Hans wrote in his diary.

With refugees pouring into Paris from the north, Mr. Rey built two bicycles from spare parts, while Margret gathered up their artwork and manuscripts. They then joined the millions of refugees heading south, while German planes flew overhead.

The Reys found shelter in a farmhouse, then a stable, working their way by rail to Bayonne, and then to Biarritz by bicycle again. They were Jews, but because they were Brazilian citizens, it was easier to get visas. One official, perhaps thinking that because of their German accents they were spies, searched Mr. Rey's satchel. Finding "Fifi," and, seeing it was only a children's story, he released them.

They journeyed to Spain, then to Portugal, eventually finding their way back to Rio. "Have had a very narrow escape," Mr. Rey wrote in a telegram to his bank. "Baggage all lost have not sufficient money in hand."

The couple sailed to New York in October 1940, and "Curious George," as Fifi was renamed - the publisher thought "Fifi" was an odd name for a male monkey - made his first appearance the following year.

The Reys wrote a total of eight "Curious George" books; Hans died in 1977, Margret in 1996. The ensuing "George" books were created by writers and illustrators imitating the Reys' style and art.

"Like Hans Reyersback and Margarete Waldstein," Ms. Borden concludes, "the little French monkey Fifi would change his name, and it would become one to remember. "

*************************************

Addendum: Thursday,10:50 p.m

My apologies to Rabbi Neil and to Jack who, I found out earlier this evening, already posted the Curious George story. I did not steal the story from them; I thought I was giving non-NY Times readers a breaking/interesting story. This is what I get from weaning myself off of blogging. I'm late to get a piece of the pie!!!

See, I said "weaning"; I didn't say "going cold turkey". THAT would be much more difficult, but for the most part I curbed my enthusiasm greatly these past couple of days regarding blogs. As tough as that is for me, I had to -- and still have to -- do it. But then again, if something as interesting as the George story catches my eye before a week from now, I might just have to post it.

In the meantime, Shabbat Shalom to my Jewish readers; happy weekend to all others!

Your friend (who is really only here in spirit; if anyone asks, I wasn't here!),

TorontoPearl

Elul: A Time for Introspection, A Time for Change

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I've "introspected" and have decided I need some changes in my life. I'm pretty happy overall with myself as a person, but there is always room for improvement and growth. One of these changes involves my getting off the computer. Instead of getting tired of blogging and reading blogs, I'm finding new ones to read and comment on. This cuts into a big chunk of my personal time. Even before I discovered the world of blogs last October, my life was pretty quick paced. I'd tell people, "Life gets in the way." These days, it's life -- AND BLOGGING -- getting in the way.

As tough as it will be for me, I have to step away from the computer ("Place both hands in the air where we can see them, and s...l...o...w...l...y step away from your computer"). I have freelance work deadlines to meet, family time that needs to be doled out, household and work commitments.

So I'll make like Houdini and disappear for a while...and then show my face yet again. Perhaps in a week. I'll be a year older by the end of next week, and supposedly a year wiser. Let's see if the latter proves true.


In the meantime, watch me s...l...o...w...l...y back away. G'bye ... G'bye ... G'bye

*****************

And in a meek, little voice I say, "I can only try..." That goes for not reading blogs, not commenting on blogs, not reading comments on blogs -- and not writing my own posts.

It's Worth a Shot in the Dark

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I apologize for the "look" of this piece; I'd copied it when I found it online, but now you can only plug in to NYTimes to read it. This (minus images) if from the copied piece I had.

It's a most interesting article...and apparently he's not the only screenwriter who's ever felt the urge to attack his own work!






A Screenwriter Shoots His Own Unproduced Scripts, With a Gun



Published: September 7, 2005

INGLEWOOD, Calif., Sept. 2 - In the dim light of a shooting range, a figure clad in black baggy trousers and a black T-shirt is carefully loading a .45-caliber pistol. He adjusts his glasses, plants his feet and aims straight ahead.

Misha Erwitt for The New York Times
The screenwriter Tom Benedek displaying one of his original works of art: an old script of his that he shot full of holes and then turned into a bronze sculpture.

Misha Erwitt for The New York Times
After firing a gun at a script, Tom Benedek photographs the results.

Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Five ear-splitting cracks ring through the cavern, and a flurry of paper - like tiny white feathers - wafts to the floor.
"That's 'Ivory Joe,' " says the screenwriter Tom Benedek, who has just pumped bullets into one of his 22 unproduced scripts. "It's a rewrite of an adaptation I did after 'Free Willy' for Lauren Shuler Donner," he adds, referring to a well-known producer. "A romantic comedy-drama."
Many a Hollywood screenwriter has bemoaned the brutal Darwinism of the movie business, has felt the dull pain of too many pages and too many years of orphaned work unproduced and unrecognized. Few, however, have found the path of catharsis and creativity discovered by Mr. Benedek.
After 20-plus years of a middling career as a Hollywood screenwriter, Mr. Benedek, 56 - the brother of Peter Benedek, a partner in the United Talent Agency - is forging a new path in the field of fine arts, using the raw material of his past failures for a canvas. Having shot the "Ivory Joe" script, which he wrote in 1992, Mr. Benedek will make it into a bronze sculpture, or take photographs with a special camera for striking jumbo prints. He will show these and other pieces this month in an exhibition at the Frank Pictures gallery in Santa Monica titled "Shot by the Writer - Works on Paper: 1982-2004."
In an era of self-referential entertainments like "Entourage" and "Fat Actress," it all seems somehow appropriate. With his shuffling gait, hangdog air and dark-rimmed glasses, Mr. Benedek might be the contemporary answer to the Michael Douglas character in the 1993 vigilante drama "Falling Down." In that film, Mr. Douglas was an otherwise peaceable Everyman who, after being fired from his white-collar job and suffering other indignities, takes control of his life by shooting his way across Los Angeles.
In the Hollywood hierarchy, the screenwriter is Everyman, an undervalued cog - albeit a well-paid one - in the whirring entertainment machine. Mr. Benedek's move to take control of his own work sounds like a dark fantasy for many of the movie world's ink-stained wretches.
But he prefers to call it closure rather than catharsis. "Sometimes it's fun," he said, as the harsh smell of gunpowder still lingered. "Sometimes it's sad. When I look at the exit wounds, and the paper and the words exploded by the bullets as I photograph them, it feels like I'm taking the words back."
Mr. Benedek said the project started when he realized he had run out of storage space in his garage, which was filled with 20 years of script projects, both produced and unmade. Among those that did become films were "Cocoon," "Free Willy" (for which he did not receive a credit) and "The Adventures of Pinocchio."
But there were nearly two dozen other completed scripts that never got a green light: An adaptation for Sydney Pollack about mental health. A drama about the Israeli spy Elie Cohen for Martin Scorsese. A comedy about a Soviet collective for the producer Ray Stark. There were stacks of boxes filled with drafts and notes, movies "that remain on paper and nowhere else," Mr. Benedek recalled.
Before throwing out some of this paperwork, he said, he felt he needed to "memorialize" the work. "Mentally, I was as encumbered as my garage."
Initially, he considered chopping the scripts into small cubes with a table saw and filming the process. Then he had a vision of one of his scripts, riddled with bullets, bronzed.
Somehow, that image stuck. He hired a shooting coach and the project grew into a serious endeavor, step by step. "It started as 'I'm just going to do one for myself.' I'd do it, and have it bronzed like a baby shoe," he said.
But it turned out to be complicated to make a bronze sculpture out of paper, and every two or three weeks Mr. Benedek would explore another step to make it work. He tracked down a foundry that could perform an age-old process, eventually using a wax mold and a rubberlike cast as preludes to pouring the bronze. And he found that the objects he was creating - the shot-up scripts - were visually intricate and often quite beautiful. A local gallery owner suggested he photograph them.
"It just snowballed," Mr. Benedek explained.
The artistic experience connected to a long-neglected interest in photography. Born and raised in Great Neck, N.Y., Mr. Benedek pursued fine-art photography as an undergraduate at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. He entered the movie business because he wanted to be a cinematographer. But his first break in the industry, in the 1970's, came from writing a screenplay, so he took that road instead.
It has turned out to be a path of only intermittent satisfaction. But the photographs and sculptures - those have turned out to be exciting, and deeply satisfying. The poster-size prints are exotic swirls of torn paper and random words like "love" and "time." The 30-pound bronze sculptures, pockmarked with holes, have their titles etched in gold letters: "Viagra Falls," a comedy written for the production company Working Title in 2001; "Spells," a 1986 rewrite of a horror film.
After two more rounds, Mr. Benedek reels in the script, now puckered and swollen by the force of the bullets. He flips it over to shoot the other side. "I feel like I'm creating something new from something old," he says, refilling the clip.
But is he still a screenwriter? Mr. Benedek hesitates before answering, as if weighing how prospective employers will perceive his response. Finally, he answers glumly: "Yeah. I just got a call to go to a meeting."

I'll Raise Your Heehee with My Ha

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"Yesh li jewkim ba-rosh." Loosely translates from the Hebrew as "I have bugs in my head."
I have quirks, neuroses, wacky ideas.

I have a problem with the way I've seen people note in blog comments that something is funny.
I'm used to seeing LOL or ROTFL (laugh out loud or roll on the floor laughing).
I'm used to plain out saying "That's funny." Or I like to say "Ha" as counterpoint to LOL (right, Randi?)

But I have a pet peeve; I can't explain it, but it's there...this bug in my head. I cannot stand seeing someone comment about a blog and then the words "heehee" showing up. What is up with that?

Either it brings to mind some little schoolgirl hiding her laugh, actually her "titter" behind her hand, a little shy, a little embarrassed to be laughing out loud, or if there's a third "hee" in there, it brings to mind a sinister, mocking laugh of an evil person. (and I've seen guys "heehee" as well)

I like hearty, robust laughter, and "heehee" is not it; it actually comes across as wimpish even if the reader has been entertained. We need people to comment and write: "Loud guffaw"; "This is so funny, I peed in my pants"; "Hilarious"; "Make the laughter stop!"

You wanna "heehee", go back to your play group; you wanna "ha" or "guffaw", hang out with the grown-ups!

I. blog.

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Its vortex sucks you in
leaving you
dry
or sometimes high.

Too much of a good thing
can't be good.
Can it?
Or perhaps I should use the affirmative
and just say

CAN IT!!!

This blogging of mine has replaced TV --
not that I was a big watcher anyhow --
for the past near year
you can find me sitting in front of
the little screen,
not the big one.

I find it equally entertaining,
educational and exciting.

My friends say I'm addicted.
Sometimes I admit it, other times I deny it.
Should I start a support group?

Will I have to start by writing on the blackboard twenty times:
I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not blog.
I will not.
I will blog.
I blog.
I.
blog.

Snobs: The Sequel

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This is a book cover; it's the name of a piece of fiction.

This is a post; it's the name of a piece of non-fiction.

When I finished my high school studies in public school that had a 95% Jewish population, I encountered A LOT of snobs, or as we preferred to say, JAPS. (no Canadian version of that term)

The irony about these girls is that so many of them kept mirrors in their lockers so that they could look at themselves, at their hair, at their makeup throughout the day. Yes, they looked...but they did not see. They did not truly see themselves beyond their masks of artificiality. Or if they did see themselves, it wasn't evident that they cared how they were perceived.

A good indicator of this was when it came time to the graduation yearbook, and filling in grad forms. Many of these girls wrote under the caption "Pet Peeves/Dislikes": JAPS.

It is many years since I graduated high school. Snobs are still clearly evident around me. And it is not just women, but men, as well, who suffer from this very ugly disease.

The "snob syndrome" runs rampant in our synagogue; it runs rampant in our children's school. My husband and I are friendly, unassuming types. Just as he came to this city and said that he'd go out with any blind date he was offered (it's only a couple of hours, a cup of coffee, he claimed) because he had nothing to lose and much to gain, he is equally friendly to all. He nods hello or shakes everyone's hand at shul, and some of these men just pass him by or grudgingly give a limp handshake in return, often without even looking in my husband's direction. Is a simple gesture so difficult to undertake? Or he can see the same men weekly when he takes my son to his shul sports teams and although he's friendly and tries to have a conversation, he's generally excluded by many who just don't bother with him.

And women? Equally if not more nasty. You're lucky if you get a response to a hello. A limp handshake to your firm one. You're lucky if you get into a conversation, however brief, however superficial. But many times the other person is looking around to find someone "better" to talk to, and G-d forbid I should be in the middle of the conversation with one and someone else comes along; often I'm just ignored, hung out like clothing on a line and forgotten for a while.

A hello in return to mine might constitute a woman looking me not in the eye, but starting at the toes of my shoes, slowly working her glance up my body, over my outfit to the top of my head where my hat sits. Is she looking at me like I'm a Claiborne model on the runway and she's contemplating buying the outfit I'm modeling? I don't think so...

Is it that money walks and money talks? Is it a holier-than-thou persona speaking loudly in actions rather than words? Is it just that common decency is lacking, as in giving someone the time of day?

I like to twist Shakespeare's famous words, "Get thee to a nunnery" and make them my own by saying, "Get thee to a snobbery."

It is really unpleasant to be amidst men and women of this lowly caliber. My husband and I and our equally unassuming, decent and pleasant friends often discuss this issue. It isn't that we need to be "accepted" by these types, it's just that we'd like to be on the receiving end of common decency when we ourselves display it wholeheartedly.

What kind of examples are these people setting for their children? Perhaps it's an inherent characteristic, something learned from their own parents, which continued to rear its ugly head throughout their lifetime. Where is the derech eretz? You send your children to shul to learn to daven and "treat your fellow man as you'd like to be treated"; you send your children to expensive Jewish day schools and camps to learn derech eretz and positive behaviors and nice manners. Yet in the home and publically you display negative qualities, which your children learn and carry with them into the public arena, as well.

I guess that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and if you'd ask, a snob would probably qualify this statement and say that their apple is a fabulous quality, the tree it fell from is thriving, the yard it fell into is beautifully landscaped. And even if you didn't ask, the snob would make sure that you heard their story.

But in fact, you don't have to stick around to hear it. You can each get out there and tell your own.

*******

A (morning after) thought: You know that famous slogan "A mind is a terrible thing to waste"? Well, I think I will adopt it, with modifications, and print up some snobby designer T-shirts that announce: An Ego Is A Terrible Thing To Waste

Breakfast Date

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A couple of posts ago I talked about going out to a friend's house with my husband and another couple and hanging out...like adults, sans children. (although they came up frequently in conversation)

I'm pleased to say that I took this morning off work, as did my husband, to settle our youngest into his first day of school. Then we went out for a tete-a-tete (imagine the appropriate accents on the words) and had breakfast at a nearby cafe.

Yay, I had a breakfast date with my husband. Let the good times roll...!

Back to School, Back to Reality

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Umm...does this image caption refer to stress on the kids or on their parents?

'Cause I think I might already need to take a long, hot bubble bath in the Jacuzzi, and sign up for a 90-minute session with a masseuse...

And it's only the first day of school -- for two of my three kids.

Tomorrow, child # 3 starts senior kindergarten, school for the first time. Until now, he was with a home day care provider. This provider babysitter has been the surrogate mother for my children since my eldest ( now 10 years old) was 6 months old; he stuck around with her till he was three; my daughter stayed till she was five, and my youngest is also leaving at age five.
In essence, this wonderful woman has raised my children on a daily basis from infancy through early childhood. Every day with her was "back to school."

Giddiness fills the air, carpool traffic fills the neighborhood streets and school parking lots on the first day of school. Forms and notes fill the children's knapsacks on the first day of school. Appointment notices and schedules fill my bulletin board on the first day of school.

The cycle repeats each year...and I recall my own first days as a student. Tradition held that my mother would take a photo on the first day of school, capturing me dressed in a new article of clothing or wearing new shoes and toting a new schoolbag. That tradition has carried over into my married life, and we ushered the children out early this a.m. to have them stand in our front yard and capture their faces on camera, in their first-day jitters and twitters.

These kids of mine now write in a daily school agenda, listing assignments, tests, homework, memos. I think I ought to get one of those agendas for myself...to help manage -- and minimize -- that back to school stress. Or maybe I should go back to school myself, take a stress-management course, and maybe by next year, having had a wonderful practical placement in my own home, who knows....? Maybe I'll get to teach the class.

Hope all of you who attend school, or those of you who send off others to school, had a good first day back. Break out those books; you've got some studying to do!

Tickle My Tichel

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I just found this bit in the NY Times online section. It certainly tickled my invisible tichel -- and funny bone.

Correction: August 27, 2005, Saturday An article on Aug. 19 about a peddler at the bungalow colonies in the Catskills where many Orthodox Jews spend summers misstated the length of Tishah b'Ab, the observance of mourning for the destruction of the First and Second Temples of Jerusalem, when the faithful wear plastic sandals to abstain from leather. It is a single day -- the ninth of the month of Ab -- not nine days. The article also misspelled the term for a head covering sold to some Orthodox women. It is a tichel, not a tickle.

Yay, I Feel Like a Grown-Up

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I pay taxes. I pay bills. I own a home...and a mortgage. I own two vehicles. I had three children by natural birth and reasonably quick labors. I work outside the home. I am a mother and a wife.

I would say these qualify me as pretty much a grown-up.

But because I'm a grown-up, my life, together with my husband's, is so wrapped up in the lives of our children, our parents, our siblings. It is pretty rare that we go out together as a couple, just because circumstances seldom allow us that luxury, and if given the chance to do so, we're really just so tired from keeping up with daily family and work life. So in essence, and for the most part, we're homebodies. (I might still yearn for jazz clubs, or comedy clubs, or galleries or concerts, but those do appear on my social calendar once every few months...um, I mean years.)

We were invited to another couple last night for coffee; they too were seeking adult company after having been on holiday for two weeks with their four children. We accepted the invitation, and hired a new babysitter and went to the other couple's home. Another girlfriend and her husband showed up, as well, a short time later. She, too, exclaimed that it was so nice to get such an invitation.

We three couples, who have ten children between us, sat and discussed how, aside from going to people's homes for Shabbos and Yom Tov (and with our children in tow!), really never went out. Okay, does going to a simcha (wedding/bar or bat mitzvah) count?

It was a nice evening to sit and shmooze about this, that and other, with: this = kids; that= school; other = shul. We hadn't strayed too far from our homes geographically, but mentally and psychologically it was as if we were miles away... we were able to be grown-ups, not just family people.

Today I talked about the evening with my husband, and we actually could not remember the last time we ever went over to someone's house or out with another couple. Let's hope this might be the start of a new phase in our lives...

A Thought for Today (not original...unfortunately)

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I received this today from a distant cousin in Australia. It stood out amidst the rest of the e-mail message. It's probably worth remembering...


A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.

Write On...

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I have to admit something (isn't my entire blog an admittance of something or other anyways?).

I love it when I know that I have actual writers reading my blog, with some of them even commenting from time to time. Screenwriters, fiction writers, copywriters, freelance writers, columnists, etc.

I'm not really sure why the thought of writers reading my words means so much; perhaps it's because I find myself on the periphery of that particular category, and I feel a need to belong. The fact that these people read Pearlies of Wisdom is perhaps my way of belonging...? The fact that I might have something interesting to say that draws them in is an ego stroker for me. These people hone their writing craft daily, I polish off my writing skills semi-regularly (not counting writing a blog, of course) and actually attempt to create something publishable. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

But in the meantime I can be content to know that my blog's words act as a drawbridge, allowing these writers to cross over to the other side and act as readers.

Just Say "We're Fixin' the Road"... Okay?

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On my way to and from work, I take varying routes-- no highways, but lots of side streets and main streets. I prefer driving through residential areas, looking at landscaping and architecture, rather than driving through commercialized main thoroughfares.

On one of my semi-regular routes is a big posted sign: Road Rehabilitation Program.

What a fancy-schmancy name; it just translates as "These roads are being fixed!"

But it sounds as if it's like a medical rehabilitation program -- a diagnosis, a prognosis, a method of care and paying lots of medical bills. In this case, it's break up the concrete, dig up some earth, add tar, flatten the tar, pave the road nice...and get lots of drivers irked because they have to slow down or find alternate routes.

Have any of you seen signs around (not necessarily roadworks-related) that say something basic but in a fancier way? Care to share?

Something To Ponder

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If it's called Labor Day, how come I have the day off from work...?

Hmmm????

(an aside: in Canada we spell it Labour Day, but for the sake of my readers, who are primarily American, I've continuously been using American spelling in my blog and personal correspondence with fellow bloggers. Reason: I don't want any of you to think that I, a copy editor, don't know how to spell! Look, I can even spell in Canadian and American! You say labor, I say labour, you say mold, I say mould, labor, labour, mold, mould, let's call the whole thing off... You say jewelry, I say jewellery, you say honor, I say honour, jewelery, jewellery, honor, honour, let's call the whole thing off...)

We Need a 12-Step Program in Our Home/ And On Another Note... (Wow, a 2-for-1 Post!)

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I admit it loud and clear. I'm an addict. To the blogging life -- reading, writing, commenting.

Lately, my family members have developed addictions of their own.

Late at night, when I want to get online to check out my favorite slew of blogs, I've started to find my husband at the computer...checking out Ebay. He hasn't been an excessive bidder, but he's become an excessive bid watcher. And he's taking up my valuable computer time by doing so!

Son #1 is addicted to watching baseball games or the highlights on TV. Give it a few more weeks, and the sport of the day will be hockey. (I was so thankful there was no Canadian hockey for him to watch this past year.)

Daughter is addicted to watching these teeny-bopper shows that feature Britney Spears's younger sister, Jaime, or shows that feature Raven Simone, the now all-grown-up girl who used to be a cute tot on the Cosby show.

Son #2 is addicted to playing GameCube. He gets up very (and I mean VERY) early in the morning, runs into my room to ask if it's light outside yet, and if it's not, I say it's too early and he goes back to sleep for a couple of hours. If it's a reasonable hour, I just give him the head nod and "okay" and within minutes he's dressed himself, brushed his teeth, washed his face and is headed to the family room to spend some precious time with his game before Son #1 wakes up and competes to play a different game.

So what's wrong with this picture? Well, we're all addicts, and we're all addicted to something that has to do with a screen, with something you watch.

Yes, my kids and I and my husband read books too, play board games, play outside, so it's not as if we spend ALL our time in front of a screen. But maybe there is a group, Screeners Anonymous, that we can join. Maybe at the first session, we deal with a Primal Screen. That would be an audiovisual screen listing the group's 12-step program. I'm not too sure what those 12 steps would entail, but I figure we could get a group rate to partake in them, and wean ourselves off these terrible vices of ours, then perhaps go on to mentor others who also got waylaid in life by screens.

Yes, I guess in essence that this post is just another "screen for help"!

*******

And On Another Note....


Happy September 1. It's hard to believe that we're already in September.

I have absolutely NO CLUE where summer went after I returned from California and Florida. But it sure didn't have an in-your-face attitude this year.

It's hard to believe my kids start school next week -- grade 5, grade 3 and full-day senior kindergarten. It's hard to believe that my kids are already those ages for those grades.

It's hard to believe that later this month I'll turn 44.

I have absolutely NO CLUE where my life went after I left the one-womb schoolhouse all those years ago. It's just zipping along...

...and I'm trying to keep up.

My Son the "Crack Dancer"

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We had a family simcha this past weekend; it was a niece's bat mitzvah party...celebrated Moroccan-style. That means fabulous Sephardi music with lots of drums and nasal voices, a colorful spectrum of caftans and fez hats parading through the social hall, rose water sprinkled around, a procession of family members holding above their heads trays with sweets, nuts, coins and jewelery for the bat-mitzvah girl. The piece de resistance was when my niece was carried out on a litter, not unlike Cleopatra being carried by slaves on a canopy covered sofa. My niece was wearing a white caftan with a beautiful jeweled headpiece on her forehead, and marched around the room in circles high above the shoulders of uncles and cousins. It was like something from a MGM film from the fifties. Later, women were invited to receive henna on their palms.

I watched in wonder, thinking that technically my daughter should celebrate in the same way because I am married to a Sephardic man. Only difference...he was raised very Ashkenazic...and although these Morrocan traditions might be in his roots, it's not part of his cultural awareness and upbringing. (his brother, on the other hand, although raised the same way, is married to a Morrocan-born girl who thrives on the culture and traditions, and so, he is immersed in that style of living)

Well, while all this great music was playing, with some very upbeat tempos, my five-year-old was suddenly on the floor, lying on his back, spinning around and doing some great moves. I looked at my husband in surprise: "How does he know how to do this, how to dance like this?" He shrugged, and was equally amused.

It isn't as if my son watches American Bandstand (is that even on still, I wonder?) or Soul Train, two favorite shows of mine, while growing up. But he kept smiling and spinning and showing us and everybody "what he's got"!

When he was finally finished, I asked him how he knew how to break dance. He smiled and shrugged with an "I dunno" look. But he did know to correct me...because according to him, he wasn't break dancing, he was "crack dancing"!

72.129.110.# Where Are You?

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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.)

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!