Frum N' Flipping

He's leaning through the gap in the Mechitza. She stands on the other side, gazing up at him. They look so in love with each other, I think, as I watch them. "Is that her brother?" a woman asks me "No, he's her Chosson" I say. Surely it should be obvious? They came out of the Yichud room an hour ago, and it shows. Some serious chemistry going on there. I'm so happy that she's finally found him. It was a long journey. "That can't be her husband, he's not wearing a hat" the woman announces, breaking my reverie. "She told me her Chosson wears a hat." I stare at her; finally take in her tailored suit, sensible flats, and self righteous expression. Who is she? A rebbetzin, a teacher, a busybody neighbour? Then I swivel round, take another look at the happy couple. She is right, he's not wearing a hat. I hadn't noticed before. He's wearing a black suit, and black velvet Kippah, but no black hat. His hair l

"Where did you.go to school?" I name a seminary, then a college. "Oh. You're a Bais Yaacov girl," She sounds suprised. I wonder if I should be insulted. Maybe this skirt really is too short. Maybe I should have tied back my hair, and not worn such long earrings. We are on the bus, sitting next to each other. We discover we are the same age. I tell her I thought she was younger, and she's flattered. It's frightening, reaching the age where it's a compliment to be thought younger. I rememeber the years of trying to look older, guess they are over now. Naturally, the conversation drifts to dating. Us both being single and all. "Do you go on real shidduch dates, like they are set up before and everything? Or do you just, like, meet guys?" "I go on shidduch dates." I answer. "Oh." Again she sounds suprised. "You're a good girl then." The words hang in the air. I'm good. Despite the complainin

Frumsatire's post on why he loves being an Orthodox Jew had me itching to write one of my own. So here's the female perspective, on why I'm glad I'm religious. Deep existential reasons aside. Shomer Negiah- I complain about it endlessly, about how tough it is not to be able to touch my boyfriend, OK, how tough it is not to even HAVE a boyfriend. But, when push comes to shove, being Shomer Negiah is a great excuse to get out of kissing old men on their dry parchment skin, or hugging fat uncles, or basically any physical contact whatsoever with the male species who are, on a whole, less than appealing . It's bad enough having to kiss every female at a wedding; Thank God the men keep to their own side of the Mechitza. And even if we do end up making out with the opposite sex, we limit touching to the guys we find attractive. The rest of the clan we can tell "Sorry, I'm Shomer." Also, I'm glad I wasn't pressured into sleeping with my boyfr

The women milled outside, waiting for the men to exit. Friday night was the time for showing off their Shabbos finery. The next day was too late. By the time morning prayers ended, their lipstick had long vanished, their eye shadow had faded, and their hair drooped in wilted curls. Once the holy day had begun, makeup was forbidden, along with all the other tricks of the trade. So instead the women came to Shul the night before. That's when they were looking good. Fresh from the Erev Shabbos showers, made up and pristine. Their perfumes hug low in the air, encompassing the patio with the scents of Dior and Lancôme. Shulamit spotted Brachy. She pushed her way towards her, between the rustling skirts and silken tops. When Brachy turned around, with a smile of greeting on her face, Shulamit grabbed her arm, and pulled Brachy to the side, away from listening ears. "Whoa, Shuli. And a Good Shabbos to you too. What's the rush?" "Brachy, I have the perfect guy fo

1. Between boots and woolen tights, girls, you can get away with not shaving your legs. But let's keep that as our little secret. 2. You can stay indoors, snug and warm, curl up with a book and a hot chocolate, and not feel guilty for not having a life. Because who goes out in the rain anyway? 3. You can find Tznius clothing in the stores. Winter, time of long sleeves and high necks. There's no such things as an immodest coat. Even Rabbi Falk couldn't think what to ban in winter outerwear. 4. Shabbos goes out early enough for scheduling in relaxed dates on Motzai Shabbos. Way better than the post workday rush Sigh. It didn't work. I still can't wait for summer.

"I'm Shulamit and I'm a…" She couldn't do it. She simply couldn't do it. What was she thinking of? How could she sit in the circle of chairs, younger even than the singles here to be set up, surrounded by stately matriarchs, and announce that she was a matchmaker? She was definitely the youngest person attending. The girl on her right was elegant, and stylish, but she still looked faded, somehow. Perhaps it was the tinge of transparent blue under her eyes, or the way her hair looked like it had been blow dried once too often. Expectant eyes still stared at her. "...a student." She completed the lingering sentence. "I'm a design student." Well a wannabe design student, pending acceptance. And a matchmaker on the side. That she didn't say. It had sounded so simple. An Oneg Shabbos for single girls to network with matchmakers. Shulamit had thought she could expand her customer base. She hadn't realized that they would al

They never touched. They never hugged, or kissed, like other families. Some would call them cold. Yet they loved her, Brachy knew they did. They just didn't show it, at least not physically. They didn't feel the need to. Except for once, when walking back from where Daddy was buried, Miriam reached out and held her hand. They walked that way, the two sisters, fingers entwined, all the way down the dusty path, past the graves and marble monuments. It felt good, sharing feelings without words, sharing love without awkward phrases. Miriam let go, when they reached the exit, stepping out from under the trees into the courtyard by the parking lot. They stood by the carved water fountain, and freed their hands from each other, ended the contact. They needed to pour water over their fingers, six times in all, to wash away the spirit of death, to be pure. Then, as, its job done, the copper washing cup clanged back against the damp stone basin, Brachy and Miriam walked to the car,

"I come out of the bedroom, in my nightgown, and she points at me, at my bare legs, and tells me I'm not Tznius. Can you believe it?! She's only three! What are they teaching her there? I don't know what this Bais Yaacov is drilling into her head. Tznius is important, but this is bordering on obsessive." "Relax." I tell her. "Girls take in more from their families than their schools. Look at me, I went to the most extreme school possible, and I'm normal, no? My friends are all the same. With girls it goes by the home, not the school. It's the boys you should be worying about." She puts down her fork, leans across the table. "No, The Talmud Torah is fine, they barely teach Mussar or Haskafa. In boys' schools the focus is entirely on Torah learning, nothing else. It works out great, the boys listen to us, and there's no contradiction with what they're getting at school. "Wait till your boys begin Yeshiva Ketanah.&quo

Would you go on a date feeling sick? I don't mean sick at the sight of him, which isn't a good sign for future marital happiness, rather sick due to ghastly diseases like the common cold, and the flu. The thing with dating is, there's no one to provide a sick leave note. The Shadchan is never happy, being asked to make another batch of piggy-in-the-middle phone calls, delaying the auspicious meeting to a latter occasion, to a time when you're hoping you won't feel like a clan of elephants are playing hockey in your head. You feel sorry for the guy, too. Maybe the poor thing has already showered, and shaved, and now his efforts are going down the drain. He's going to have to make do with the 'company of sweaty guys' - as one boy described his roommates to me-instead of cavorting with a charming Shidduch Maidel. The fears lurk, unspoken. What if he thinks I'm generally sickly? Not up to being a future baby machine? What if he doesn't believe it

They only tell you stories from Israeli buses, from the Shuk. It's time you hear about our changing rooms too. They are the true key to Israel. I'm trying on a sweater, minding my own business, enclosed in a curtained booth, when a head peeps through, imposes itself between curtain and plywood wall. "Mind if I join you?" Before I know what's happening, head is followed by body, and both are beside me, inside the now cramped space. "Thanks so much! Are you sure you don't mind?" I nod mutely. Haven't quite figured out what's going on yet. She begins to strip. Soon she's standing there in underwear, entirely unembarrassed. I back out of the stall, feeling rather in the way. "Oh, you don't need to go! You don't mind me sharing your stall do you? There aren't any empty ones." She steps into a pair of jeans, starts pulling the denim fabric up her legs. I guess it's her choice. I only have a pile of sweaters to try on,

"What's she looking for? Well, just a nice boy really, a Mentsh. Middos is the most important thing, don't you agree?" Ima was impossible. How was the Shadchan going to suggest the right type of guy, if all Ima could say was that he needed to be "nice". Nice, indeed. As if that would solve everything. The problem with nice boys was they wanted nice girls. Nice sweet little girls. They didn't want her. Not that she particularly wanted them. Karen gestured to Ima. Stood in front of her and whispered "sophisticated". Ima waved a hand, brushed her aside. "so- phis-ti-cat-ed", Karen mouthed, trying to get her attention. "What was that? Hold on a second please, my daughter's saying something. What do you want Karen?" "Sophisticated. Mature. Put together" Karen whispered. "What? I don't understand. Here, you talk to her." Karen wanted to scream. Ima knew she hated talking to matchmakers directly. That&

When Brachy was thirteen, she had a problem on her hands. She was a teenager, almost a grown up. She couldn't go around calling her father "Daddy". It sounded so babyish. She listened to what the other girls said, the words they used. It was mainly "Abba", sometimes "Tatty", or "Dad". But none of the names were him. This is what she'd called him all her life. This is what he was, her daddy. And how could she start calling him something different; how would she explain. He'd be hurt. She tried to minimize the damage to her adult image. In public, she'd speak about him as "my father". That sounded reasonable. And when Shuli and Miriam came over, when any of her friends were around, she'd try not to call him anything at all. Then came the point where they all knew his name. She went from classroom to classroom, every morning, writing his Jewish name in big curvy letters on the blackboard. Shimon Yosef son of Rachel

The floor was covered with Lego and puzzle pieces, scattered artistically in bright splodges of color. Shulamit kicked them aside and cleared a path to the dining room table. Brachy followed in her footsteps, trying her best not to step on any toys. Shulamit gestured to Brachy to sit down opposite her. "So Brachy, tell me a bit about yourself please." "Shuli, we've been friends since kindergarten!" "I know, I know. But I still need to write down the details. Your personal information and stuff." "Like what? You know who I am" Brachy thought this whole thing was ridiculous. Shulamit was getting carried away. "Brachy relax. I know what I'm doing. I am an experienced matchmaker." "Um, exactly how many matches have you made Shuli?" Shulamit made a non committal sound. It was a sore point. "Nu, how many?" "One" Shulamit said. "But now I've learned the technique! This is just the beginning!"

This matchmaking business wasn't working out the way she'd planned. Shulamit opened the folder again, slammed it shut. Nothing had changed. No blue papers had miraculously flown into the file overnight. She still had almost no boys, just a thick stack of pink papers, one for each girl looking for a date. Finding girls hadn't been a problem. Wherever she went, she kept an eye open, for the ponytails, the braids, and the bobs. She'd gotten bare head spotting down to a fine art. Shulamit could tell the natural hair from the wig, even when she was five rows behind in Shul, down a supermarket aisle, or across a wedding hall. Once she'd satisfied herself that the girl wasn't married (and also wasn't a minor), she'd pounce. They'd usually agree to come over, to be interviewed. (True, after a tiny little bit of effort on her part.) With boys it was proving to be more of a problem. Where were they hiding? What a stupid question. The boys were all in Yeshiva