Frum N' Flipping

Meet Brachy. She wasn't going to exist. She was going to be a secret side of Shulamit, or another facet to Karen. Then I realised Brachy is a person in her own right, a complex one, and she deserves a character, all her own. Be patient with her, she'll suprise you. "My first boy…" Their voices went husky and soft. Sometimes they'd giggle, sweet secrets hidden between the decibels. The other girls remembered their first Shidduch dates tenderly. Their introduction to the world of Shidduch dating, their first socially sanctioned meeting with a boy. It wasn't just a meeting of eyes across a Shul hall, or a stammered hello in the elevator. This was a real rendezvous; conversing with a member of the opposite sex, a young single man, not a relative, not an elderly rabbi. It was exciting. They saved a place in their heart, for their first Shidduch dates. Brachy didn't understand. What was so special about the first boys they'd met? They weren't first boyfr

She looks like a typical young matron from Bnai Brak. She's dressed in a baggy suit, the type the stores on Rabbi Akiva street abound with. Her Shaitel is short and straight, mousy colored. She speaks in weighty, solid, tones. Where is the girl I once knew? I can't find her inside this staid creature. "It's happened to her too", I think. She's become a standard Chareidi woman. Fitting the mold, following the rules. Marriage does that to you. She tells me she's studying teaching, in college. "The certificate we got from Seminary isn't enough," she explains, "I need a real degree for doing therapy" "What type of therapy?" I expect to hear one of the standard specialties; physiotherapy, occupational therapy. Or maybe even art or music therapy, they've also come into fashion. "Animal therapy." she says. "Animal therapy?!" I blink. I look at her again, closer this time. Chareidi women cross the stree

Once upon a time I used to buy birthday presents for my friends. First it was Barbies or dolls house furniture. Later on I'd make their presents by hand; pine picture frames covered with sea shells, or smooth pebbles painted with a poem. Then the dolls houses we'd once furnished became real houses, newlywed apartments. I collected towels and rugs in Ikea, for pre wedding showers. I selected tablecloths and cookery books, for preparing husbands' suppers. I stocked up on presents during the sales. They stayed on my top shelf though. What was needed by now was baby outfits, for the newborns. Weekly browsing became part of my routine, in Baby Gap and Golf Kids. By now it's the second round. The first batch of babies are already toddlers. My friends' stomachs are again getting rounder; the invitations to Brits are reappearing. This time I'm prepared. I have a reserve of baby grows and rattles, ready for when I need them. No need to rush to a store when I hear the ha

It seems to me, that the more religious a woman becomes, the less she's supposed to keep. Take Chanukah; I've been lighting candles since before I can remember, probably since I first brought a Chanukiyah home from kindergarten. Now really that should brand me as Modern. At home it seemed natural.But my more religious friends, or maybe I should say more Chareidi ones, well they don't seem to be in such a rush to light. They wouldn't dream of bringing flame to wick themselves, that would be far too shocking. Even being there, to watch the act take place, is rather low on their priorities. "my father/husband will be Motzi me" they say. It doesnt stop there. The more religious women are, the less they go to Shul. The truly Frum woman avoids attending the synagogue altogether, except perhaps for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, on the rare years she doesn't have little kids to prevent her from going. And if a woman is lucky enough to be Chasidic, she stands a go

"No. Stop. Break!" Tires shriek as we grind to a halt. "You almost ran over that puppy!" "Oops. Sorry. I didn't notice…" I resume driving. My new teacher leans back in her seat, trying to relax despite putting her life in my hands. "Can I ask you something?" she says, as I circle yet another traffic circle. "Go ahead" I reply, my eyes firmly on the road, looking out for more stray dogs. "Do you do that Shidduch business?" "Yup. I go on Shidduch dates." I have no problem admitting it. Seeing as how it's a subject that fills most of my waking hours nowadays. (I'm still trying to remember what I used to talk about with friends, before we started dating.) "Have you, like, actually met a boy yet?" "Oh sure." I say. "I've met quite a lot of boys." "Ah." she looks suprised. "Does that mean you don't have to marry them?" I laugh. "A shidduch isn'

I'm happy, sitting by the window, typing away. A little face peers into mine, mouths words I can't hear. I pull the headphones from my ears, and Matisyahu stops pounding. "I want to sit here." She points at the seat next to mine. I look across the aisle, at where she'd been sitting quite comfortably with her sister. The older girl still sitting there looks back at me, and shrugs. I pull the purse and coat into my lap, clear the space for the little girl. She clambers into it, settles in. I slide the headphones back in, wake my IPod up from sleep mode. The girl climbs off her new seat, disappears into the back of the bus, comes back a moment later with two activity books. "This one's mine, and this one's my sister's." She shows them to me proudly. I turn off the music again. Someone has obviously decided she's my new friend. She opens the books. Shows me which pictures she's colored in. I admire them. I offer her a pen, so she can d

This was going to be a "real" blog post. Because it's true. It happened last week, and I've been wanting to write about it ever since. And I do have an issue with Chareidi society raising illiterates. But I'm in novel-writing-mode, so this is what came out. There's no reason I can't make the same point in fiction, right? "So how can I send a document?" Bracha asked. Karen sighed. There was so much to explain. "You see the paper clip? And underneath it 'attach'? It's called attaching when you add a document to an email." Michael, sitting over at the next desk, sniggered loudly. Karen swiveled around and glared at him. It wasn't Bracha's fault, that she knew none of this. She was a product of the system. Bracha sat on a folding chair beside her, eyes glued to the computer screen. "What's an inbox?" Bracha had called in a panic. "All the tourist sites want to send me emails. They won't mail the

Every time she saw the long lines of religious girls, waiting at the cash tills of Mamilla with their fathers' credit cards and their mothers' cheque books, Shulamit felt her heart scrunch up. The travesty, the absolute travesty, paying good money, a lot of it, for clothes they wouldn't be able to wear. Well at least not straight away, and by the time they'd finished with the bits of fabric, by the time they'd let down hems and sewn up slits and added buttons and safety pins to raise the necklines, it would all be spoiled. She knew it would. It always was. She felt so sorry for them. Fashion wasn't meant to be meddled with. Really, if you thought about it, there was a lot that could be done with Orthodox fashion. Women's bodies had to be covered, from top to toe, and that was a large canvas (a very large canvas indeed after seven pregnancies had left their mark), a blank canvas just waiting for her. When she had a store, it wouldn't sell items blindly i

Karen was always in control. That's the way she was, the way she'd been all her life. She was the one who organized the hikes in summer. She was the one who passed round a sandwich bag to collect money for teachers' presents at the end of the year. (Then she'd gone out and bought the presents, that same day. And written the poems to go with them.) Karen had a mantra. "If you want a thing done properly, do it yourself." Every time she tried to let go, tried to leave things for someone else to take care of, it went wrong. Other people forgot, and delayed, and got mixed up. Not Karen. She learned it was quicker and easier not to rely on anyone else, if she wanted something done right. First she worked out what to do, and then she did it. And then she dispensed advice, How-Tos for every step of the way. From organizing a hike in the Golan, to winning a treasured Madricha position in sleep-away camp. From picking the best Seminary to finding colleges that would gi

The woman's black hair was parted; two smooth waves pulled back tightly from her brow, disappearing under a scarf. The scarf was white, with silver threads running through it. It matched her white skirt and woolen coat. Only her boots, black patent leather, spoiled the snowy effect. She looked like a china doll, petite and perfect. She leaned against the man, who stood at right angles to her. She rested her hips on his, curved into him. He wore a woolen hat, pulled down low. He looked so obviously irreligious. Shulamit had no need to see his head underneath it, she was sure there was no Kippah there. Stubble grazed his chin, jeans were slung low on his hips. The archetypical secular Israel, confident and fit after army training. And attractive, she admitted that silently to herself. They stood on the other side of the bus stop. They didn't kiss. The woman rubbed her smooth cheek against his rough one. He moved his arm up, around, to cradle her. Shulamit was fascinated, horrif

"I don't like people with principles", a boy once told me. I stopped and stared at him. "Because they put their principles before everything else. They refuse to step out of their comfort zone, to stretch. People should come first, and that takes flexibility." "But everyone has principles," I said, "at least, I hope they do. Like in my family, my father stressed honesty, I hope I'm carrying that on." "That's different. That's Halachah. Think about it. There's Torah, Halachah, we should be acting according to that. Not be adding things on." "Oh. I see." I said. But I didn't really see. It took a few months, with his words buzzing in the back of my mind, before I grasped the meaning. Today I remembered him. Today I understood. A Rabbi refuses to give me the name of one of his Talmidim, until he's met me. "We can discuss it on the phone." I said. "I'll tell you everything you'd l

The tiles were cold against her bare feet. Karen dangled the shoe straps from one hand, fished around in her purse with the other. The key had to be in there somewhere. A powder compact fell out, crashed onto the floor below. She bent down, opened the marble plastic. Clay colored lumps lay scattered inside, useless now. She snapped the case shut again, shoved it back into the overcrowded jumble. She'd need to buy a new one before the next date. What a waste. Trust it to break now. Ah, there was the sliver of purple, peeping out between tissues and a folding umbrella. She pulled at it, tugged until the key ring dislodged from the mess. With a twist and a push, she was inside. She dumped the purse and coat and keys, all in a pile on the bench by the phone. The shoes, she dropped onto the carpet by the dining room table. She'd taken them off in the elevator. Beauty was pain. Karen went straight to the first bedroom off the hallway, still wallpapered with pink rosebuds, a remainder

She looks nervous. Pretty, but nervous. I wouldn't be caught dead in a suit, and I told her as much last night, when she laid it out on the bed, but it does make her look older somehow. Grown up. If only she wouldn't keep latching and unlatching her hands together, and would stop with the lip biting. At this rate that shiny lipgloss will be worn right off, before he even arrives. Is that him? A tall, black suited figure is approaching. I can't make out the face beneath the hat. My angle is wrong. The postcard stand spins around, as I push past it. I catch it from toppling over, just in time. "Can I help you?" The woman behind the counter does not seem very pleased with me. I've already spent as long as humanly possibly, inspecting every souvenir in the store. I obviously am not about to make a purchase. She's losing patience. I had better leave. Standing in the doorway, I check out the scene. He's saying something to her. He must be the one. Neither

I almost missed the message. Then I noticed the little envelope in the corner of my cell phone's screen. "I'm engaged!!!" the SMS shrieks out at me. She asks me to give the news to her high school teacher, who happens to be a relative of mine. That night I make the call. It starts off pretty typically. "Guess what? Rachel is engaged!" "Mazal tov! That's so exciting!" I can hear the genuine pleasure in her voice. Rachel is one of her favorite students. "Tell me all about it? Who's the boy?" "Well, he's in the army." Silence. I take a deep breath, and plow on. "He's an officer. Something quite high up. I don't remember the initials, 'samech' something or other." "I see." "It's such a cute story how the Shidduch was made. See she didn't think it would work out, but she thought 'why not', and gave it a try, and voila!' Frozen replies from the other side of the

You think it is, I think it is, but aren't you curious what the Rabbis of Israel have to say about it? We are sitting on the sloping hill, alone aside for the trees and the moon. I've convinced The-Yeshiva-Guy-I-Didn't-Marry to sit down on the grass with me, instead of on the customary bench. It's a new sensation, sitting on the grass with a boy. I cross my knees, pull my skirt down to cover them. He sprawls out on his side, a few inches from me. This is so much more relaxed than benches and chairs. It's the first time I've ever done it, on a date. A part of me whispers that that's a rather sad fact. "Are you attracted to me?" I ask. There's a certain light missing from his eyes, when he looks at me. He doesn't look at me the way the boy before him did. I'm worried. I don't know what they've been telling them in Yeshiva, about feelings coming later, and all that. I know one thing, I don't want that to be the case with my hu