Brain Teaser

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If I have nothing to blog about -- I don't want to be like some other bloggers and just continually link to articles ; and I don't want to write about my children or post some of my creative writing or give a play-by-play of my daily life -- does that mean I've become boring...even to myself?

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm...."

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Little things in life can keep me guessing, can keep me wondering, can basically just stun me into silence. Coinicidences are often grand and memorable.

Take yesterday, for instance. My five-year-old had been invited to a birthday party. He was so excited because it was his first school party he'd been invited to, as this is his first year attending school. My son was doing a countdown for about three weeks: "...it'll be Shabbat, and then the next day is Sunday and I have swimming lessons and then after swimming it's DA's party." At this point he'd clap his hands and smile in glee.

So yesterday came and my son was elated and anxious. "When will you take me to DA's party, Eema?" "Are we going soon, Eema?"

Well, we got to the party and it was a pleasure for me to see the birthday boy and his family, especially his grandparents. You see, this little boy's maternal grandmother used to babysit me when I myself was five years old, my son's age. Her first grandchild is friends with my son!

Okay, at the moment I'm tired, so those grand and memorable coincidences I spoke of above...? At the moment there are no others that are memorable. My brain is mush. My fingers are tired. And I'm signing off...

The Dawn of a New Pearl

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Today I experienced a "first"--probably a first, or second or third that would be meaningless to the majority of you readers, but to me it had great meaning. It touched me, plucked a personal heart string, and carved itself into my memory.

Today I was asked for my autograph.

Sure enough, I've signed my autograph many a time...in days gone by. In the autograph books of classmates and later in the high school yearbooks.

And of course, I "autograph" each and every birthday card or condolence card or simcha card or general personal note that I write.

But today, at the launch of the Canadian Jewish annual literary journal, someone approached me with a copy of last year's -- not even this year's -- journal and asked if I wouldn't mind autographing it.

Over the years, I've practiced my signature -- first name, maiden name and married name. As a published writer, I try to use all three, and want to transfer it onto someone else's page. Today, I could do just that!

And I didn't sign a copy for just a simple person who came out to the book launch; this woman, to whom I was briefly introduced as a "poetess" by a common acquaintance, is a well-established poet herself who has a city-wide poetry group that does events annually throughout the city. When she went on to invite me to join a session in my area, I had to decline and say, "I'm just a fringe poet...a dabbler...I don't really qualify." She looked puzzled because she knew that my poetry had appeared in two previous editions, and now the current issue, so I MUST qualify as a poet. But the truth is that I don't work very hard at this craft; it works very hard through me. The inspirations rear their heads, wait for me to catch on and then disappear as quickly as they appear. I'm left on my own to work through and mold these inspirations into my free-form poems. Sometimes they work for me, other times not.

Poetry is a very personal thing, much more so than blogging or writing fiction. And so, today, when I looked at my own issue of the journal and saw that my poem, carved from my heart, had been edited/distorted, I was disappointed. Maybe a line or two were stronger, but cuts had been made, messages that I'd wanted to relay.

And so, when the editor called my name (much to my surprise) to do a reading of my poem, I pulled out from my purse a copy of the poem...a copy of the poem as I'd sent it to the journal. It was my personal retort. Yes, you can have my poetry, but I will read it the way it was meant to be read. And I did. And people came up to me afterward and told me how much more they'd enjoyed the original version. And this woman came up to me afterward and asked me for my autograph. And another woman, the editor's wife, came up with a personalized card she'd autographed, a card that had her own pen-and-ink artwork displayed on it, a card whose drawing actually reflected the message of "Soul Light."

And this sometimes-poet found inspirations for future poems throughout the rest of the day.

Sumos At Large

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"Miracles do happen!" aka "Danny, this post's for you." (sometimes we just have to help those miracles along...and RECREATE them!)

The other night, child #2 and child #3 came home very excited and talking from the minute they walked in the door. They were talking at me, not to me, and thus I needed a translator to relay their message. Translator: my husband.

They'd gone to take a sample martial arts class...or so I thought. I figured they would "try their hand" at judo, karate, ju jitsu, tae kwon do, etc. What they were most excited about was sumo. Near the end of the class they paired up with other children approximately their age and height and had to knock them down...or do whatever it is that sumo wrestlers do. The children rattled on about how they got two points and four points each in their battles, and happily told me that they were invited to attend -- not quite sure as participants or as oglers -- a sumo tournament in a couple of weeks.

When they said "sumo," I immediately pictured gargantuan, primarily Asian, men who slick their hair back, wear their longish hair tied in a ponytail atop their head, and who wear their "sumo thongs". This did not describe my young children!

So I thought I'd better do research and checked out what sumo is all about.

The basic rules of sumo are simple: The wrestler who either first touches the floor with something else than his sole or leaves the ring before his opponent, loses. The fights themselves usually last only a few seconds and in rare cases up to one minute or more.

Most elite wrestlers are highly trained athletes and between about 20 to 35 years old. Besides working out, the wrestlers are eating large amounts of food and go to bed right after eating in order to gain mass. The wrestlers are living in special sumo stables where the rules are very strict, especially for beginners.

Okay, so my kids are interested in sumo. I guess that means that my daughter, who will be displaying her delicate feminine feet, will have to have a pedicure on a regular basis. And I don't mind if they're interested in eating large amounts of food, and it'll be good if they develop going to bed at a reasonable hour. But the sumo stables? I'm not too sure about that. Will our outdoor playhouse work equally well?

And then there's the hair thing. Okay, so daughter loves long hair and doesn't mind wearing it atop her head in a ponytail. But son? Guess we'll have to grow his hair long again, and he'll need to use lots of Dippety-Doo gel to grease it and then will have to borrow some hair scrunchies from big sister for that ponytail. I guess that when he retires from sumo, we can have a formal "upsherin" again -- okay, so he'll be 25 or 26. That's just a few years' difference from being age 3!

And I guess I have to go into our storage bins and dig out those cloth diapers from days gone by. Blue for son. Pink for daughter. (Who said sumo wrestlers can't be fashionable?)

I guess what I really fear now is that these children will apply what they learn. I imagine this scenario: child does not want to sleep/do homework/take a shower/finish chores; child decides a "face-off" is in order, gets into the sumo stance and confronts me... Is there any chance that this mother might still win. If so, can I be titled "SuMummy"?

Sumo No More

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Just wanted to say that I had an amusing, cute post I wrote over half of my lunch hour at work, I hit publish some time ago. Well, something happened, the post was lost, and I couldn't recover it.

I was so annoyed and disgusted (once again!) with Blogger, but at the same time somewhat ambivalent. When this happens I always wonder if it's some sign from G-d, or perhaps the silent voice of some close friends and family members reminding me, "Pearl. You talk too much. Too much information. Some things are meant to be private."

I will not try to recreate my post, my creativity that was out full-force a short hour ago. I will just rely on you to use your imagination and picture young sumo wrestlers...who are my children!

If by chance the post mysteriously reappears, I will say, "Miracles do happen!"

When I Grow Up

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I guess that this post is a tie-in to the previous one, but I was just reminiscing [in my "old age"] and remembering the things I wanted to be, the things I thought I should be, when I grow up.

Kids always want to be something they're not: when they're weak, they want to be strong; when they're plain-looking, they want to be beautiful or handsome; when they're short, they want to be tall; when they're dumb, they want to be smart.

Some of these wannabes can be helped: with weights and exercise, with makeup, with platform shoes, with studying.

When I was young, I wanted to be like everyone else: cute, popular, the center of attention. But as I got older, I realized I didn't want to be like everyone else; I wanted to be me. I could be all those things in my own way, following my own style, not being like everybody else, but being comfortable with the Pearl that I was and then developed into.

When I was young, I thought I should be a veterinarian...because I loved animals.

When I was young, I thought I should be a librarian...because I loved books.

When I was young, I thought I should be a writer...because I loved to write stories and poetry.

When I was young, I thought I should be a teacher...because I loved to guide and help people learn new things.

When I was young, I thought I should be like everyone else...because, after all, doesn't every kid want to be like everyone else?

Well, I'm an animal-loving, copy-editing (of fiction), creative-writing person who still likes to guide and help people learn new things.

And guess what else I am...

I'm lucky. I'M ME!!

Young - Old...It Really Doesn't Matter

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I'm 44 years old -- I mean young!

Like I've said many a time in my blog, age is just a number. I thank G-d that my life has been a good one up till now and I haven't had any negative life-altering events that have aged me physically or spiritually or mentally.

Okay, so I wish I had some more energy, some secret resource of "I'm rarin' to go, what are we waiting for?" physical energy to share with my kids who are still rather young...and deserve a mom who will run when they run, do sports when they do sports, etc.

My spirit is there, though. My young mentality is there. Although I'm 44, I continue to look out at the world through the eyes of a young teenager. I'm in awe of many things still, my eyes are big as they take in the things I see around me. I have lots yet to experience, as "late bloomer" is my middle name. And so, I think that I'm in the "spring" of what has already been formally deemed my "middle age" several years ago.

When I was young, I often related much better to older people. Perhaps it was because there was no "peer pressure" involved in such circles -- sitting with my mother and her friends in shul instead of with people my age, loving my several years' worth of volunteering stints with seniors in nursing homes for years, volunteering with an archival committee where I was the youngest by a good ten to fifteen years, etc.

When I was young, I also thought in older, more mature ways. I felt that my personal philosphies of life mirrored those of my parents -- was that a result of their wartime experiences, I wonder? I often said things that my peers wouldn't even think of, and when I hit a certain age, when it came to blowing out the candles on a birthday cake and making a wish, I ALWAYS wished for good health...for me and my parents. What young healthy person makes such a heavy-duty wish?

At times, as a young or older teen, I'd just suddenly let out a heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders. People tended to comment, "What was that for?" "You sound like an old woman."

But I've learned throughout my life that it doesn't hurt to be young and have and display some "older" ideas, and it doesn't hurt to be older and have and display some "younger" ideas. One's spirit is nurtured throughout one's life, and at the end, the young-old balances itself out!

So with the sigh of an old woman, and the childish giggles of a girl, I'm signing off...

"Hello? Is This the Person To Whom I'm Speaking?"

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Sometimes "progress" is actually really backwards. So many children these days do not understand the simple days of yesteryear: rotary telephones, AM radio, b & w television, NO REMOTE CONTROLS, getting up to answer the telephone (not having a machine picking up the call) REGARDLESS of who was on the other end. The list of course goes on and on.

Yesterday, en route home from work I made a stop that set me behind schedule. So I called home to let the family know when I was nearing our neighborhood.

My daughter answered in her eight-year-old sultry voice. "Hello."

"Hi." (I sounded more or less like myself, no need for a sultry voice here)

"Hi."

"What are you doing?"

"Homework."

"Who's there with you? Where's your father?" (at this point, I disguised my voice somewhat)

"He's here, helping us do homework."

"He is? So... where's your mother? Let me talk to your mother please!" (further disguising my voice to more of a bass tone, trying to throw my daughter off and let her think it's a man on the line)

Pause. Laugh. "Hi Mummy!"

"What? (trying to sound gruff) Let me talk to your mother!"

"Hi Mummy. I know it's you," she says, laughing.

(back in my regular voice) "Did you recognize that it was ME putting on a fake voice?"

"No...I didn't have to. I saw the phone number!"

Ha, so the joke was on me. Call display will get you (almost) every time!

"Andy Hardy" Comments on "Dorothy"

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Please click on the linking title.

Danny Miller, whose writing I discovered around the same time that I discovered Neil Kramer's Citizen of the Month blog, is brilliant. He is eloquent, he is bright, he is well-immersed in cultural and entertainment trivia. He'd probably be a rather wonderful guest to have at a dinner party or at a casual gathering with friends, with his tales of department stores, old theaters, old houses, public figures and rubbing shoulders with movie industry types.

Picture a dog who shows surprise. What does the dog do? He sits, looks and holds his head askew, as if asking, "What? What was that you said/you did? What exactly was that all about?"

Picture Pearl. Picture Pearl reading Danny Miller's blog. Picture Pearl, her head askew. Picture Pearl smiling. Picture Pearl typing furiously to let others know about Danny Miller talking about THE WIZARD OF OZ.

Picture yourself hurrying to his blog. Picture yourself reading his latest post. Picture yourself smiling. Picture yourself singing:

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW
(Dorothy)
When all the world is a hopeless jumble
And the raindrops tumble all around
Heaven opens a magic lane
When all the clouds darken up the skyway
There's a rainbow highway to be found
Leading from your window pane
To a place behind the sun
Just a step beyond the rain...

Somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There's a land that I've heard of once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true
Some day I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow blue birds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, oh why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow
Why oh why can't I?

Soul Light

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Soul Light


I place the tin candle holder on the tray,
light a match
and hold it steadily at the candle’s wick –
watching as the flame slowly comes to life,
rising higher and higher.

This candle, this soul light,
will burn for at least twenty-four hours.

A small window of opportunity
To bring you back to life.
To recreate for others all that you were.
To share with them all that you represented.
To give your neshama a spark once more.

I say a silent prayer and remember.

A Writer's Anxiety Dream...Comes True

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Last month, I posted about an odd anxiety dream I had. This evening I found out that the dream more-or-less has come true.

The launch for the annual Canadian Jewish literary journal, Parchment, is this coming Sunday morning. A fellow poet had told me that she'd already heard before Rosh Hashana from the editor that she was to read some of her accepted poetry at the launch. But she hadn't been told which poems to read. In other words, the literary project had grown quite scattered this year...

As I hadn't heard anything about whether or not my poetry was accepted, and it was so late in the game, I made the assumption that it's not. Especially too, since I hadn't been contacted about providing an updated bio. But I was sort of planning to go to the launch anyhow to hear those writers/playwrights/poets whose works HAD BEEN ACCEPTED. But could a rejected poet like myself feel comfortable amidst published ones? So it was truly going to be just a spur of the moment decision as to whether or not I'd go on Sunday.

Tonight, out of curiosity, I went on to the journal's web site. It had gotten updated since the last time I checked, and now referred to the 2005-2006 new edition...complete with an index. And MY name was in the table of contents and bio listings. I was curious to see what was written, as I hadn't been informed that a poem of mine would appear in the journal, and as I'd never been asked to submit a bio this year. The bio said that it was my third appearance in this journal, and then the rest of the blurb was the same I'd submitted last year. Okay, so they made something up. Not exactly what I'd have said AGAIN, but it's still something, I guess.

The problem is that (at least online, but probably in the actual book too) the index lists my current married name (I think I must've submitted the poem under it), but the bio (already pseudo-set from last year) lists my maiden name and married name, which is what I prefer for my published writing.

So...had I not by fluke looked at the web site earlier, and just gone this coming Sunday to the book launch, the complete dream would have come true: going to the venue, being handed a book and being told that I do have stuff published in it, seeing that they got my name wrong...or at least partially wrong.

In spite of these "kvetches" of mine, I'm once again honored to have had a poem accepted in this prestigious publication. I had submitted two, but this accepted one has never been published, while the other one already appeared in the Canadian Jewish News and in The Book of Ariel, Robert Avrech's two-year-long project memorializing his son, Ariel Chaim Avrech.

My published poem is entitled Soul Light and is about the ner neshama/memorial candle.

A True Story

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Unlike today's vista of decrepit buildings, dilapidated housing and rusting junked cars, the South Bronx in 1950 was the home of a large and thriving community, one that was predominantly Jewish. Today a mere remnant of this once-vibrant community survives, but in the 1950's the Bronx offered synagogues, mikvahs, kosher bakeries, and kosher butchers -- all the comforts one would expect from a traditional Jewish community.

The baby boom of the post-war years happily resulted in many new young parents. As a matter of course, the South Bronx had its own baby equipment store. Sickser's was located on the corner of Westchester and Fox, and specialized in "everything for the baby," as its slogan ran. The inventory began with cribs, baby carriages, playpens, high chairs, changing tables, and toys.
Mr. Sickser, assisted by his son-in-law Lou Kirshner, ran a profitable business out of the needs of the rapidly-expanding child population. The language of the store was primarily Yiddish, but Sickser's was a place where not only Jewish families but also many non-Jewish ones could acquire the necessary paraphernalia for their newly-arrived bundles of joy.

Business was particularly busy one spring day, so much so that Mr. Sickser and his son-in-law could not handle the unexpected throng of customers. Desperate for help, Mr. Sickser ran out of the store and stopped the first youth he spotted on the street.

"Young man," he panted, "how would you like to make a little extra money? I need some help in the store. You want to work a little?"

The tall, lanky African-American boy flashed a toothy smile back. "Yes, sir, I'd like some work."

"Well then, let's get started." The boy followed his new employer into the store.

Mr. Sickser was immediately impressed with the boy's good manners and demeanor. As the days went by and he came again and again to lend his help, Mr. Sickser became increasingly impressed with the youth's diligence, punctuality and readiness to learn. Eventually Mr. Sickser made him a regular employee at the store. It was gratifying to find an employee with an almost soldier-like willingness to perform even the most menial of tasks, and to perform them well.

From the age of 13 until his sophomore year in college, the young man put in from 12-15 hours a week, at 50 to 75 cents an hour. Mostly, he performed general labor: assembling merchandise, unloading trucks and preparing items for shipments. He seemed, in his quiet way, to appreciate not only the steady employment but the friendly atmosphere Mr. Sickser's store offered. Mr. Sickser learned in time about their helper's Jamaican origins, and he in turn picked up a good deal of Yiddish. In time young Colin was able to converse fairly well with his employers, and more importantly, with a number of the Jewish customers whose English was not fluent.

At the age of 17, the young man, while still working part-time at Sickser's, began his first semester at City College of New York. He fit in just fine with his, for the most part Jewish, classmates -- hardly surprising, considering that he already knew their ways and their language. But the heavy studying in the engineering and later geology courses he chose proved quite challenging. Colin would later recall that Sickser's offered the one stable point in his life those days.

After signing up for an ROTC program and serving two tours of duty in Vietnam, the young man quickly rose to the top ranks of the U.S. military. In 1989, under President George Bush, Colin Powell was sworn in as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

In 1993, two years after he guided the American victory over Iraq in the Gulf War, Colin Powell visited the Holy Land. Upon meeting Israel's Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir in Jerusalem, he greeted the Israeli with the words Men kent reden Yiddish -- "We can speak Yiddish."

As Shamir, stunned, tried to pull himself together, Colin Powell -- now U.S. Secretary of State -- continued chatting in his second-favorite language. He had never forgotten his early days in the Bronx...

Bad Habits Be Gone!

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Okay, so what are some of your bad habits? Smoking, leaving the toilet seat up, twirling your hair, snapping your gum, leaving dirty dishes in the sink, biting your nails, never letting a person get in a word edgewise...? The list is endless, isn't it? There are some habits you might've kicked since you were younger; you might have acquired new ones along the way to adulthood.

Whatever the habit, I'm pretty sure you've tried to quit, tried to come clean, tried to go cold turkey... But these suckers aren't too easy to distance yourself from.

Take the case of a youngster I know. Said youngster is all-boy, part baby and very endearing. He can hang out with older kids and be "one of them"; he can also interact well with younger children. He's pretty well immersed in society, save for one flaw, one bad habit if you will.

BLANKIE -- aka "Blanka" and "Shmatta Blankie."

Blankie, the culprit in this scenario, is a longtime friend of this child. They go w...a...y... back to... Well, way back. Blankie and said child have been bosom buddies through good times and bad. Of course, Blankie was put through the wringer quite a number of times, but child stood by his side, hanging on for dear life. After all, Blankie has been a true friend all these years.

Although a friend, Blankie has become a bad habit. Too much of a good thing turns out not always to be a good thing -- we all know and recognize that, don't we? Try telling that to a young child!

There's a beautiful children's book called "Something From Nothing" about a blanket that wears out through the years, diminishes in size, changes format. Well, I think Blanka (name changed here to protect identity of Blankie) heard that story one too many times, clutched in the hand of said child. Blanka thought that she, too, could have a story...or a blog...written about her, and tried to change over the years. Not as colorful, washed-out with time, feeling tattered around the edges -- time took its toll on Blanka and soon she became Shmatta Blankie.

Was young child fed up with Shmatta Blankie? Nope, but parents were somewhat disturbed, and tried to use "child psychology" to break the cling-on habit that child displayed.
Didn't work too well...until child came up own personal Piaget-Adler-Freudian theory:

"I'll have Blankie for one night; you take it away for two."

What a theory! What a five-year-old to come up with it! Actually, consciously trying to wean himself off his bad habit!

"One night on, two nights off." Great idea, kid. Now if only we could all adapt it to our own bad habits...

How Smart Is Your Right Foot?

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This is so funny that it will boggle your mind. And you will keep trying at least 50 more times to see if you can outsmart your foot, but you can't.

1. While sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.

2. Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand.

Your foot will change direction.

I told you so... And there's nothing you can do about it.

Make sure you pass this on to your friends...they won't be able to believe it either.

If You Can't Beat 'Em...Share 'Em

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And so, I've had to change my philosphy. After blogging for nearly a year and being told "If you blog, they will come," early on when I asked someone who'd been in the "business" for a while, and seeing that isn't quite so, I've opted to change my ways.

Perhaps I have some interesting things to say, but apparently not that many of you agree with me. My readership might have gone up since last December, but the number of comments haven't. If I'm "lucky" I might average a couple a day. If I'm "very lucky" and post something about wanting to perhaps quit the blogging scene, I might see 15 comments that day.

Yes, envy runs through our veins alongside our blood. Isn't it a blogger's dream to see 25 and 50 comments a day...and exclusively from other people, not mixed in with a commentary dialogue of yours!

Well, I know someone who gets those daily averages of 50+ comments, who gets honorable mentions in other blogs, yet in fact deserves none of it. He deserves SO MUCH MORE...such as his own syndicated column.

We thought that Jerry Seinfeld had a wonderful run on his "show about nothing" -- it captivated us and kept us glued in front of our TV sets every Thursday p.m. We lived with the characters, we were eager to watch their weekly interaction.

Well, not too long ago, I found that certain blogger who has inched his way into my heart -- he has moved me to tears, he has had me rock in gales of laughter, he has had me roll my eyes in disbelief and sometimes disgust. His blog is about nothing while at the same time, it's about everything.

Some of you discovered him before I did and I'm sorry for missing the boat the first part of his run. But now that I'm on that boat, I don't want to get off. And I want you all to get on that boat with me. The captain of the boat is Neil Kramer, his on-again-off-again co-captain is named Sophia, and the boat is named "Citizen of the Month".

Pick random posts of Neil's to read. I guarantee that you will be caught off balance by some of his worldviews, by some of the comments that go with his posts, but that you will be most entertained.

I found a good thing -- and I'm sticking with it!

"Last Dance"

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World Jewish Digest out of Chicago features a very beautiful and poignant essay this month. It was written by Rochelle Krich, a bestselling and award-winning author of mysteries and suspense fiction.

I've been corresponding with Rochelle since the spring, and had the good fortune to meet her and spend a couple of hours in her company this past June on my trip to L.A. Not only is she a bestselling author, but she is also a very gracious one -- I explained to her that due to my work in publishing, I have difficulty reading for pleasure and so, have not yet read any of her books. She did not reprimand me because she knows that even though I myself might not be reading her books, I'm spreading the good word to others about them!

Rochelle is a mother, a grandmother and a very spunky and bright gal. She does her research and it shows in her creativity. She is also a very warm and loving person, and it definitely shows in this essay, "Last Dance" -- a very moving tribute to her late father.

I urge you to reach for your copy of the newspaper if you get it; if not, get on the web site and do read her piece. After you do so, if it's still possible, go call your father/mother, or even better, visit with him/her. You will be very glad that you did...

Open for Business

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Now... a sign like this one is what I'd like to see more of.

For the most part, we live in a 9 to 5 world, sometimes 9 to 6; if you're lucky, 9 to 9. Open Saturdays 9 to 6; open Sundays 12 to 5.

My weekday work life fits into the 8:30 to 5 world (by the time I'm home, it's 6:00), my home life (considering kids--feeding, homework, entertaining) fits into the 6:30 a.m. to 9:30 world. My personal life fits into the 9:30 to 1 a.m. world.

Hello...do you see something in this pattern? Where is the time slot that fits with MY life?

I know in the States there are 24 hour Super Wal-Mart stores and supermarkets open for the late-night, early-morning needy folks, but we don't really have that here. The one time I went rather late to an all-night local supermarket, there was one cashier working, or should I say, talking on the telephone, and there was a lengthy lineup. When I go to the store at 11 p.m., I do not want to stand in a lineup. I do not expect to stand in a lineup. If I wanted to stand in a lineup, I would have gone to the supermarket at 5:30, on my way home from work!

We have to wait till the 3rd week in November to have malls stay open late on Saturday nights. Being Shomer Shabbat, I cannot seek out a mall from Friday p.m. through sunset on Saturday p.m. But I don't want to have to wait till the end of November to be able to pop into the mall late on a Saturday for the next 4 Saturdays! (this bonus mall feature ends with Christmas)

How about starting some new societal arrangements? Yes, let's have more supermarkets and stores of all kinds stay open till midnight, or better yet, all night! And while we're at it, let's open up hair salons, public libraries, doctors' offices, government services, etc. until midnight...or even later.

Do your grocery shopping at 9:30 p.m., pop into the library at 10:30 p.m.to pick up a couple good reads, and hit the salon at 11:15 p.m.. I mean, who wants to wake up with "bed head"? Get your hair done, and maybe your nails while you're at it, and if time allows (of course time allows -- this is my fantasy post) , have a 90 minute Swedish massage. Okay, it's now 3 a.m. and you're on a roll. Go to the optical store and try on some funky frames; even better, pop in at the walk-in Lasik (tm) Eye Center and do some minor work on your left eye. Next week, your right eye will have its turn.

Sleep? Who needs sleep? But I do need to take the kids for flu shots, have my annual checkup, get the car tuned up and checked out for winter, return some clothes I bought, have a meeting with a particular teacher and buy some small hostess gifts. Do you think I can manage all that between 11 p.m. and 7:30 a.m., when I have to leave for my day job?!

(People, let's try to make this fantasy post a reality. C'mon now. Run with it. After all, instead of having to take 1/2 a day off work and shlep for 40 minutes of traffic to make an appointment, wouldn't it be nicer to sit in your gynecologist's or cardiologist's waiting room at 4 a.m. and hear: "The doctor will see you now...")

Blogger Notes...No Relation to Monarch Notes

It occurred to me this evening that we bloggers are also commentators, whether in our own posts or in the comments sections of our blog and those of others. We are not unlike the famous commentators of Jewish history: Rashi, Rashbah, Onkeles, etc. These men extracted from the main messages of Torah and Talmud to post their own thoughts on the matter at hand. We do that, as well.

We do it to blog strangers, we do it to blog friends. And if we're lucky, sometimes some other blogger cites our words or gives a link to our message.

Many of us think through our comments before writing them, while others take them lightly and toss them off easily. Like the famous rabbis and Talmudic and rabbinical students of yesteryear who were called upon to respond to Halachic questions, we are sometimes consulted upon to give opinions, rationales and elaborations. In essence, we, like the great thinkers, are providing "responsa".

Perhaps we can take that a step further. Will our responsa, our blogs in essence, be discovered in great warehouses in Cairo, in "genizahs" hundreds of years from now? If so, what great words of wisdom and commentaries will you be remembered for?

Me Time/We Time

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I came up with an idea this a.m. en route to work, and thought it to be a good one.

My late-August - September "free" time was taken up by two freelance projects. When I was offered these copy editing assignments, I was pleased, because it was new clientele I'd be working for and like most anyone thinks: "Maybe this gig will lead to another one..."

In any case, many of September's Sundays were beautiful days; I should have been outdoors with my children, taking them to parks and other venues. But what was I doing? Sitting at the dining room table, papers, Post-Its, reference books and red pencils spread out around me. And the excuses tumbled out one after the other: "Sorry, I can't play with you now. Sorry, it's so nice out but we can't go anywhere. SORRY, SORRY, SORRY." (the lyrics to "Cat's in the Cradle" kept running through my head as I thought of this imbalanced parent-child relationship)

After my deadlines, I said to my husband, "It was so not worth it. Even a thousand dollars for both projects would not have made it worth my while... I should have been with the kids."

So, I decided that when I get my two paychecks for these assignments, for the few hundred dollars that it will be, I will take the money and plan for a weekend or even overnight family getaway at a family-oriented hotel. The "Me" time that I spent last month will become the "We" time that it should have been.

The Way You Do the Things You Do

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I know that Pearlies of Wisdom has several readers who are parents of young'uns--PsychoToddler, A Simple Jew, Doctor Bean, Stacey, Tuesday Wishes, to name a few.

Have any of you ever stopped to really look at your kids as they throw little hissy fits and full-blown temper tantrums? Have you ever stopped to wonder how it would look if we adults emulated our children when we were just a wee angry? I think about it a lot and often demonstrate for my children what they look and sound like.

Luckily, my kids don't throw themselves down on the floor or bang their heads against something when they're angry (thank G-d that's long outgrown), but they do: stare me down with daggers shooting from eyes, yelp in frustration, whine incessantly, bark out noises of disgust, stomp in their shoes or in bare feet (I call that "slap happy"-- their footfall slaps against the hardwood floors), arch their backs as they stand on tiptoe and screech for a moment or two.
Of course, when I stop them and say, "What if I would do what you're doing when I'm angry?" and proceed to demonstrate, it looks comical. But when they do it, they're in the heat of the moment and oblivious to how they look or what they sound like.

There have been times when one of them is ranting about something or other, and I hush them up, saying, "Please be quiet. I can't even hear the voices in my head." They look at me quizzically; yes, my offbeat sense of humor works on them and they lower their tone.

A child is lively; a child represents life. Yes, we all would like to have perfectly, well-behaved children, but sometimes these "sparks" that they emit are what we need as parents to remind us of why we chose to be parents. We wanted to help mold a child's life and leave our marks on the world. Okay, so in their anger, some kids prefer to leave marks on the wall or on the furniture or floors, but it isn't really anything we can't handle...right? [as she arches her back, stands on tiptoe and screeches in frustration]