tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45380267534492877032024-03-24T09:11:41.242+02:00Frum N' FlippingSharing my World: Life as an Ultra-Orthodox Jewish FeministFrum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-26594817144791871392023-07-30T14:00:00.001+03:002023-07-30T14:00:00.134+03:00Part 2: On Censorship<p dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"> All Orthodox Jewish publications are censored. That’s a fact
of life I grew up with. Our newspapers were founded by political parties, our
magazines are independent, but still establish a ‘rabbinical board’ in order to
pass muster. The goal is always to be worthy to be brought into any Frum home,
to be left on a coffee table in front of the Shabbos candles, and read by
readers of any age and any grade, without raising awkward questions.</p><p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother is a
writer, so from my childhood I was privy to behind the scenes debates between writers
and editors and rabbinical boards. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">One particularly right-wing newspaper made her take out all
physical descriptions of women from her serial. “<s>Golden braid</s>”. “<s>Hazel
eyes</s>”. It all had to go.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">We joked about it around the Shabbos table, the changes each
editor and each rabbi asked for, not caring about historical accuracy or craft,
their only goal a preset template of modesty. I accepted the censorship as a given,
as the way it had to be. It didn’t bother me, because I could always read the
forbidden non-Jewish books, hidden from my teachers but scattered freely around
my home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Then I started writing for those same Orthodox publications.
My first story was published while I was dating TCO. I nervously slid over the
magazine. It was a window into my soul. He loved it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">In my early years of marriage, I gradually stopped blogging,
and started writing short stories. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
magazines eagerly clamored for more. I savored seeing my name in print, listed
in the Yom Tov story editions with the top writers in the Orthodox world. I
wrote satire and Jewish sci-fi, experimenting and pushing limits.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I’m grateful to my editors from that period. Writing short
stories pushed me past my blog posts, into story arcs and character arcs and
word counts in the thousands instead of the hundreds. Stories forced me to learn
how to find precious stretches of hours and weave together scenes. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">But my initial run dried up, I wanted to dive deeper, past dating
and matchmaking and into marriage and all the experiences that come along with
that- the cycles of family purity, Mikvah and intimacy, pregnancy loss, the
challenges of Kollel life - the experiences that made up the fabric of my life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And I hit a wall. Because- it wasn’t modest. Or it wasn’t ‘positive’
enough. I lived through it, but I couldn’t write about it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could only talk about it in whispers on park
benches and anonymous posts in online forums. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Every story idea I sent came back rejected, dubbed too
intimate or too graphic or too critical of our society.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I gave up. For a stretch of years I stopped writing. I was
busy, overwhelmed, but maybe that wasn’t the only reason I quit.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Until something happened, and I had to make sense of my
life, of who I was, of the guilt. And writing was my way through that. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Once I started writing, without thinking who would publish
it, I remembered how good that feeling was, I experienced again the rush of
freedom I used to get from blogging. So I made a decision- no more trying to meet
the approval of a rabbinical board, no more self-censorship of my words to get them
onto the printed page.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would write my novel,
and I wouldn’t worry ahead who would publish it. I would write a story about my
world, knowing that no editor in my world would touch it with a ten-foot pole. They
may secretly read it one day in the privacy of their bedroom. Maybe even, if my
book is successful enough, it will earn an Op-Ed criticism or a rabbinical ban <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(hey no publicity is bad publicity, right?)
but no Frum editor will ever publish it or positively review it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I sat down and wrote about <i>Nidah</i>, and <i>Bedikos</i>
and dipping in a Mikvah under the gaze of a stranger’s eyes. I wrote about
yearning to marry a Kollel husband, while immersed in the secular world. Of
sacrifices women make in the name of Torah, of choices we face. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And I felt incredibly liberated.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">It’s not my intention to “bash” the Orthodox world, as so
many writers who write for the general press are accused of. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I just want to capture my world, write about my world, and
the journeys women take, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And it has
to be <i>my</i> truth. Without censorship.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-3919913315381278322023-07-27T22:02:00.005+03:002023-07-28T09:26:22.383+03:00The Story of A Story (a.k.a How I wrote my Novel) <p dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">This is the story of how I wrote my novel. Now that I have a
(fabulous, wonderful) <a href="https://bookendsliterary.com/new-client-alert-sara-shamansky/">agent</a>, I feel I can finally say – I did it! I wrote a
book!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Even though, why should we wait for affirmation from others?
If you’ve written a book, and feel satisfied with it, celebrate it now!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Even though perhaps I’m being premature, because what if no editor
likes my story and it languishes unpublishable on my Google drive?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">But it is a book. And people (unrelated strangers!) have
read and liked it. And heck, I’ll say it, I’ve read and it and been very proud
of myself, in that "did I really write that?" way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Anyway, back to the story-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wrote a novel, and this is the story of that story.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">15 years ago, when I was a single serial-Shidduch-dates
(think <a href="https://thecinemaholic.com/fay-brezel-jewish-matchmaking/" target="_blank">Faye </a>on <a href="https://www.netflix.com/il-en/title/81423793" target="_blank">Jewish Matchmaking</a> style Shidduch dates), I used to blog about girl-going-on-arranged-matches-with-yeshiva-students who
balances that with being a woman-software-engineer-in-hi-tech. I flittered
between 2 worlds, every day, and every date. It was funny. It was ironic. And
sometimes it was hard.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And I started to write a novel “The Matchmaker Diaries”
about 3 young women dating in that “Jewish Matchmaker world”, and I even posted
the chapters up on this blog as I wrote them (because once you get used to instantaneous
reader feedback, it’s hard to give that up). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And everything was going great. I even had plans to fly to New
York and enroll in a summer MFA program.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And then something happened.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I met TCO (The Chosen One), and fell in love, and got married
to him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Now that was amazing, my literal dream come true, but there
was a part of me that kinda wished I’d met him just a few months – well- ahem- later.
After I’d honed my craft in New York. After I’d finished my novel.
(Confession: I’m an unromantic pragmatist who watches Devil Wears Prada and
goes “Nooo, you were so close! First get that promotion! Don’t give it all up
now!”)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Life happened, I changed jobs, I had a master’s degree to
complete, some kids came along – I was on a cartwheel of busy-ness and I
mourned my book. I thought I’d sacrificed my writing dreams on the altar of
marital bliss.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I opened up my manuscript file a few times, but just wasn’t
able to connect to the story in the same way I did before.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And then, a couple of things happened.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">First of all- I went through something very big, and I
couldn’t talk about it, to almost anyone, it was so taboo. And I started to
write about it, first a diary, then a heavily censored and watered-down story
that no Orthodox magazine would publish because it was “too graphic”, and
finally an essay for Tablet magazine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And a year later – I had an idea. A story idea. And I really
loved it. I didn’t have time to write it, but I thought about it, a lot, and
wrote down the outline. And every time I had another plot twist- I wrote that
down too. Not <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“real” writing, but a collection
of jotted notes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And then, when I was on maternity leave, I took those 3 stories
– Noa the ambitious software engineer who is also a Shidduch dater at the mercy
of matchmakers, Batsheva who went through something so taboo she could only talk
about it to her diary, and Shulamit whose life was turned upside down and must
make a decision- did she want this life? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">I wove them together in a novel. I wrote as my baby slept
and when she gurgled on the playmat and while I nursed her awkwardly balanced on my knees in front of my laptop.</p><p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">Then I needed to go back to work. Because, you know,
money. But I had a first draft. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;">And so ends part 1.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-69476702192473670902022-06-01T12:28:00.006+03:002022-06-07T16:43:11.978+03:00Being an Ultra-Orthodox Woman<p><br /></p><div class="gE iv gt" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; cursor: auto; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.875rem; padding: 20px 0px 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf gJ" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-collapse: collapse; display: block; font-size: 0.875rem; letter-spacing: 0.2px; margin-top: 0px; width: auto;"></table></div><div id=":ow" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="qQVYZb"></div><div class="utdU2e"></div><div class="lQs8Hd" jsaction="SN3rtf:rcuQ6b" jscontroller="i3Ohde"></div><div class="btm"></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="aHl" style="margin-left: -38px;"></div><div id=":p9" tabindex="-1"></div><div class="ii gt" id=":oy" jslog="20277; u014N:xr6bB; 4:W251bGwsbnVsbCxbXV0." style="direction: ltr; font-size: 0.875rem; margin: 8px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="a3s aiL" id=":ox" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 1.5; overflow: hidden;"><div dir="ltr"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman, means hearing other people talk about me like I’m a fish in an aquarium.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means being told by Ultra-Orthodox male politicians that I am not interested in having women representing me in government. That I should vote for men, and they know best.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman in Hi-Tech, means working for 15+ years, holding a graduate degree, and still hearing secular men, professors of sociology, lecturing in conferences about promoting my participation in the workforce, like I am some kind of science project.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman in Hi-Tech married to a Kollel student means paying taxes, but reading in Facebook comments that I’m a parasite. Because somehow, despite feminism, households with stay-at-home-moms are fine, but heaven forbid the mother should be the one working, not the father. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means paying city taxes and school tuition, and sending my children to study in caravans instead of a school building. Terrified when the sirens go, because they don’t have a bomb shelter.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means that if I want to write for the magazines I read, I have to self-censor every word I write, and most of what I say I need to erase before it ever hits the keyboard.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means being told by magazine editors that I don’t want to see photos of women in the magazines I buy. Looking up to female role-models while all I get to see is their hands, their homes, or their husbands.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means needing to tell my seven-year -old daughter, when she builds a magnatile castle with her brothers – that her brothers’ photo can be in the kid’s magazine, but hers can’t. I can’t bring myself to use the word immodest, talking to my seven-year-old little girl. She must remain the builder behind the scenes.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means that anything I say that doesn’t jibe with the party line- means I’m not <i>really </i>Ultra-Orthodox. I can go to the right schools, wear the right clothes, pray in the right Shul, and send my sons to a Talmud Torah - but if I think anything I'm not meant to -and <i>kal v'chomer</i> if I say it or write it - I'm obviously a fraud. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman, means staying silent.</p></div></div></div></div>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-29616148066448954252020-02-07T11:36:00.002+02:002020-02-07T11:36:37.192+02:00Diary of a Fall<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a funny thing, how those moments that change your life slip up on you, discordant chords in the rhythm of life, that inflate into a storm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Putting my barbie dolls in their drawer, coming downstairs for supper, my parents telling me, happily, like it’s a good thing, that we will be making Aliyah to Israel in the spring time. As if that didn’t mean leaving my home, with the rose bushes in the front lawn where I posed every year in my birthday dress, and the pair of trees in the back where my big brother kept promising to build me a tree house when he came home from Yeshiva, and the ancient trampoline where I could lie spread eagled and count the clouds, the weedy grass where I picked daisies in the summer, the shul where the old man gave me raisins in a red Sun-Maid box. As if Aliyah didn’t mean leaving my friends, the complicated school yard games we had been leading since before we could remember, of who’s-who’s best friend, and hide and seek, fairies and witches, and running away from the naughty boys who fished in the puddles for worms, which they hung up on sticks and tried to stick in our faces. I was seven years old, but after that meal, the plans and questions and tears, over rice and meat and baked potatoes, I knew my life was changing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Pulling into a forest on the side of the highway, so my sister could take a phone call. Chasing my nieces between the trees, pushing them high on the rusty swings, coming back to the picnic table to see my big sister in tears, being comforted by her husband, not telling me what’s wrong, Driving to a flat in the center of Tel Aviv, opposite Ichilov hospital, hosted by a Chasidic family there to do Chesed, where my mother led me into a small room, and told me the doctors said my father had six month left to live, he had cancer and it had spread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lying on the sand, next to my friend, soaking up the August sun, blissful that first summer out of high school, seeing a woman in a long skirt, running awkwardly, clumping through the sand towards us. Recognizing my neighbor and sitting up, between the towels and ice cream wrappers and a white film covered sun-screen bottle, hearing her voice, quick and agitated, telling me I need to get dressed, need to come quickly, my father is back in hospital, I need to be there. Taking my friend back to pack up her stuff and go home, forgetting in my laptop drive the CD of the movie she brought with for us to watch. The wedding planner. I don’t think I ever gave it back to her. I forgot to, after a week sitting in the ICU, watching drips and beeping lights and my father dying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There were good chords too, the type that evolved into harmonies. Perching on a damask sofa, in the lobby of the King David hotel, watching a liveried doorman argue with a young man in a black hat, not wanting to let him in. Going to see if that was my date, the last in a long line of Shidduch dates, thinking this young man was good looking, happy to find out he was the boy I was waiting for tonight. Discovering we both came from a long line of loyal soccer fans, that we shared this Yichus. Enjoying the next two hours, not wanting the date to end, suggesting we take a stroll in the nearby rose garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lying in bed, reading a magazine, trying to distract myself from the familiar waves nausea of early pregnancy, when the phone rings. Answering with a “what’s wrong”, since my husband never called in the middle of a soccer game, worrying he had an asthma flareup, hearing he fell, he broke his arm, I should come right away, they called the ambulance. Phoning a babysitter, getting dressed, forgetting to turn on the headlights as I drive, ignoring the honking cars, dreading a late night at Terem, a husband with an arm in a cast for weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Thinking it was another mild annoyance, like the time my daughter broke her wrist or my son needed stitches. Never dreaming that this was a storm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The moaning the in ambulance as it bumped over curves, a night in ER, sitting in a hard plastic chair next to the gurney bed, pleading and fighting and giving up to the insistent apathy. Accepting a release letter, not realizing we were returning home in no better shape than when we arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I hear his words now, buried in between the groans and shrieks of pain- “my hand is tingling.”, “it’s all pins and needles”, “I can’t move it”, “I can’t feel my fingers”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Days of nursing him, in between the restless kids and cranky toddler, and throwing up in the toilet. Propping him up on pillows, jumping when he screamed if I accidentally bumped the bed, which jolted the broken arm, on the phone with doctors and helpful rabbis, pulling every string I could think of.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US">The relief when surgery was scheduled, watching his bed being wheeled back into the hospital he shouldn’t have been dismissed from, thinking soon things would get better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Surgery waiting rooms, hospital recovery rooms, weeks and weeks of juggling, being responsible for husband and children and work and money and the little life growing inside me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Wanting to scream every time time anyone complimented me for coping, because – what choice did I have? And I wasn’t even sure I was coping, if it came to that, if I dug too hard, but I had to try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Seeing the black and white paper with the bad results, launching into another round of waiting on hold for medical advisers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Praying that this will be a dark cloud that will pass over us, and not a new and thorny path. Wanting to pray but remembering the other times I prayed, and what happened then. Scared to pray, scared to insert the line of “Refuaah Shleima”- complete recovery, into the silent Amida prayer. Scared to add a name into the prayer, a loved name, a name from my own family, scared of what that means, to us, and to our life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-28546774808081192952012-07-26T21:11:00.001+03:002021-01-28T00:06:58.474+02:00All It Takes<br />
<span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px;"><i>This story of mine appeared in Mishpacha's Sukkos Calligraphy. It's one of my favorite stories so far, so I wanted to share it with you guys too. It came under a lot of fire from Mishpacha readers, and I'm interested to hear what you have to say.</i></span></span><br />
<span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px;"><i><br /></i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">I am a woman, at last. I look at my face,
enveloped by the wavy brown </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">sheitel</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">. The wig frames my narrow
cheekbones; the pony masks my too high forehead. I turn my head from side to
side and enjoy the swish of the silken mane. I look like any other young woman,
young married woman.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background: white;">"How much is this one?" I ask.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Ah, you chose one of our best pieces. A
hundred percent European hair, soft and silky. You have good taste"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Many would suck in their breath when she names
the figure; I don’t. I'm prepared for the expense. I've been waiting for this
day for years, too many years to count. Not in this way, no, my dreams were
more fantastic, but this will have to do.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"I'll take it" I say. "When will
it be ready?"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Wonderful! This <i>sheite</i>l is meant
for you! It fits on you like a glove. Just a wash, we'll give it. Do you want
us to curl it? Many <i>kallahs</i> like curls, for the <i>sheva brachos.</i>"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"No, the natural waves will be fine. But
when will it be ready?"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Don't worry sweetie, you'll have it in
plenty of time for your wedding. It will be in Sivan yes, after Shavuos?"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Shavuos will be too late for my flight. I think
quickly. "Lag BaOmer" I say "I'm getting married on Lag BaOmer,
I'll want to pick it up before that."</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Ah, a short engagement" Ruchi the <i>sheitel
macher</i> smiles. "No patience, ah."</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Who is she to speak of patience? She looks like
a teenager still, and is obviously showing. She probably got married right
after seminary.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"No, you could say my patience has run out."</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I look solemn as I speak, not as a blushing
bride should be. Ruchi gives a nervous giggle.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">-----------</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">What things does a married woman need?</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Not much, it turns out, besides for a wig and a
ring.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">There is a jewelry store on my block, but a <i>heimishe</i>
store will expect me to come on this important mission with my <i>chassan</i>,
or at least my future <i>shvigger</i>. It's simpler to drive across town, to
the mall, a large cement and glass structure, where nobody knows or cares that
a bride is resorting to shopping by herself. </span><br />
<span style="background: white;">The gold glitters in the window. I never used to
go into stores like these, gold and pearls were not meant for me. When I
needed new earrings I went to a costume jewelry store, and bought cheap colored
glass flowers set in copper, they felt less like real jewelry. Because jewelry
is something a husband buys, that principle was deeply engrained in my psyche,
despite my friends telling me I was being ridiculous and old fashioned.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I stare into the window now, at trinkets laid
out on blue velvet, ready and waiting for an adoring husband or a starry eyed
girl. I am neither, but I step closer, and the glass doors slide open,
triggered by a sensor.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"How can I help you?" a man is
standing behind the counter, he is short and dark skinned, with white hair
growing in random tufts.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"I need a wedding ring."</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Yellow gold or white?"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"White." I decided on white gold in
tenth grade, when Chumi and I planned our weddings in the back of my <i>chumash</i>
notebook. White gold goes better with diamonds.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">He lays a tray of rings on the counter in front
of me. I pick up a plain band, slip it on my finger. It feels good.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"I need an engagement ring too" I say.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Diamonds or Cubic Zirconia?"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I want to tell him diamonds, but I say "CZ".</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I choose a simple ring, a plain setting with a
small round stone.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">The rings both fit me perfectly, they don't need
adjusting. That’s me, good old Ravi, even my fingers are average.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">He adds up the figures. I open my purse to pull
out my credit card.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Will you want an engraving?" he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 150%;">“A what?”</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">"An engraving on the inside of the ring. A
line of poetry or something. Lots of couples are into that nowadays"</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">"Oh. No. That's ok, thanks." I try to
smile.</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">_______<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stride into the <i>shul</i> hall, confident in my favorite
beige suit. My high heeled shoes match perfectly. When you’ve been in <i>shidduchim</i>
as long as I have, you learn to put together a chic outfit. I’m no longer the
shy seminary girl on her first date- some would say the change came too late,
but at least I can enjoy it now, with no pitying glances. I lean forward to
pour myself a drink, and stand twirling the cup in my hand, ever conscious of
the new <i>sheitel</i> swaying at my shoulders. I’ve flown halfway around the
globe to be able to wear it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I not only covered my ponytail. I covered my lack, my loss. I’m not poor Ravi anymore. I’m Liora Avigail
Cohen, a married woman. The name Ravi stuck with me since kindergarden, but
finally I’m rid of it, and starting a new life with the new name.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A young woman comes over to me. Dina she’s called, she
introduced herself as we were going into <i>shul</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Good Shabbos Liora. Did you enjoy the service?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s was lovely.” I say. “So spiritual.” I’m telling the truth.
Finally I can <i>daven</i> without feeling eyes in my back, and whispers in the
corners, checking how much I sway and how many tears I shed. Finally I can walk
out of <i>shul</i> without well meaning women coming over to tell me that they
pray for me, and that my pleas can open the gates of heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m so glad you liked it! We are really excited about having a
new family in our community, I’ve been telling Tziporah and Yael all about you.
Come, I’ll introduce you to them.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Soon I’m standing right in the middle of a circle of women. They all seem genuinely happy to meet me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If we’d met a short while ago, they’d be throwing me pitying
glances, and I’d be giving my best
put-together-and-not-desparate-yet-desperately-in-need-of-a-shidduch
performance. I love the sensation of freedom, freedom tinged with fear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Where’s your husband? Dovid you said his name was? Yitz <i>has</i>
to meet him”, says Tziporah. The question I’ve been preparing for ever since I
set this plan into action. This is the real test.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“He needs to sort out some stuff back home.” I say, keeping my
voice casual. “Work stuff, you know… I came ahead to get the house ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh my! You poor thing. All alone for Shabbos! You have to come
over to us! Don’t worry, Yitz always tells me off for making way too much <i>cholent</i>.
“<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I <i>couldn’t</i>. “ I say, and then let Tziporah persuade me.
Test number one passed successfully. They aren’t the least bit suspicious, why
should they be?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
know her as soon as I see her. My height, but wearing uncomfortable looking
heels that add a few inches. Dark brown
hair falls to her shoulders in straight strands, frizzy from too much blow
drying. She’s wearing nude tights, a short black skirt with beaded pink
flowers, a matching pink button down sweater.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4538026753449287703" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Liora
sees me looking her way. “Simi Berkowitz” she whispers. “<i>Nebach</i>, poor
girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
nod. That used to be me, I was the “poor Ravi”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Such
a shame.” She carries on “But what can we do. Levy’s friends are all married,
of course. I did try suggesting her someone once. Oh, so what did you say the
dressing is for your strawberry salad?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
want to go over to her. But what can I say? “Hi Simi, can we be friends? I know
what you’re going through. Maybe we can hang out some evening?” Yeah right,
like I can do that. I made my choice. I look down at the shining gold rings on
my finger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Some
orange juice, a drop of honey.” I list the ingredients for my salad specialty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">______<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the best decision I ever made. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some of my life stayed the same. At work there are the familiar
grey cubicles, and standard issue computers. The blinds are always down, and
block the view outside. I could be back at headquarters, for all the difference
it makes in the office. That’s global corporations for you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And at home, well they were right, I do miss Abba and Ima, and
my nieces and nephews popping in and out. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I chose an apartment that’s outside the Jewish
neighborhood. I didn’t have a choice, I
couldn’t risk surprise visitors, and had to make sure no one could see who
exactly is -or rather is <i>not</i>- coming and going. Sometimes the loneliness
hits me in a wave.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But when I go out- to the Neshei play, the Chinese auction, the
Simchas, every Shabbos at Shul- I live for those times. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because finally I’m part of it, part of the community.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">_____<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">"Ravi, Ravi Cohen!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I spin around.<br />
A tall blonde woman is walking over to me. I've never seen her before, so how
does she know my name, my real name? Have I been found out?<br />
"You haven't changed a bit. Why, as soon as I saw you I was like, there’s
Ravi from Camp Ditza"<br />
I force my lips onto the semblance of a smile. She leans forward and air kisses
my cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I still have no idea who she is. I’ve never been good at
remembering names; an advantage when it comes to dating- most boys’ names
forgotten a week after going out with them, my mind left a blank fresh slate -
but when it comes to female acquaintances I wish I had a better memory. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I don't remember you being from around here." A safe,
neutral, response.<br />
She laughs, "Yeah who'd have thought that I’d end up so far from sunny
L.A. Life can sure be surprising. And
what brought you to this neck of the woods?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Camp Ditza, L.A., the pieces click into place. Shoshi
something-or-other. She slept in the bunk bed on top of mine, and she got the
most points at the bowling alley at night activity. Hopefully she’s not in
touch with the other girls.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Warm community, a job nearby, the usual.” I try to sound
confident.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“And don’t forget the great schools.” She says with a smile. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t have kids yet, we’ve only been married a year or so.”
My voice trails off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She knows how old I am, she knows what stage of life I should be
in, if my life went according to pattern, but she hides her surprise well; I’ve
got to give her that. “Oh, newlyweds, so cute. It’s a great period, enjoy it!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Great meeting you, we have
to get together sometime!” I say in a breezy voice, inside wishing that she
stay far, far, away from me in my new life.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">______<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
door bangs shut behind me. “I’m home.” I call out. I know there’s nobody to
hear me, but I speak anyway, in my new nighttime ritual.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
drop my purse on the floor, kick off my shoes. The apartment is a mess, but who
cares? I take off my Shaitel and carefully place it on the foam head. I stare
at myself in the mirror, no costume now, just my familiar frizzy ponytail. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If
only there really was a Dovid. If only I really did have a husband.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">How
long can I last here, before they get suspicious? How long can I claim my
husband is away for business, or sick, or <i>davening</i> in the local <i>shtiebel</i>?
When is Shoshy what’s-her-name going to call our old friends from Camp Ditza,
and do the “guess-who-I-bumped-into” routine, and discover that Ravi never did
get married, such a sad story. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll
stay as long as I can, and then I’ll move, take off, disappear. Maybe I’ll try
again, somewhere else, somewhere further away. Maybe I’ll have to go back, to
my old life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But
whatever happens now, I know one thing. It was worth it. For this short,
wonderful period, I belonged.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-83588892844773742572012-07-24T18:16:00.000+03:002012-07-24T18:16:04.738+03:00Freedom<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have time. Four weeks to be precise. Wonderful beatiul
amazing vacation. The reason? I quit my job. Don’t worry, I made sure first
that I had a new job to go to. I'm ever concious of being the sole breadwinner of the house. But I carved out for myself this month of blessed freedom
in between jobs. “To Write.” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I didn’t make plans, didn’t even commit to woking on the
thesis that’s haunted me all year, freed up my diary and my days for one mission,
to finish my book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have the most time on my hands since I started working,
after college. That was a long long time ago.
I had big plans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But so far I’ve read at least ten novels, gone to the pool,
slep till midday, basically did everything except write.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The irony.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-84556983865011393652012-05-16T18:56:00.000+03:002012-05-16T18:56:11.174+03:00How I Forged my EL AL Ticket<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />We are bumping along in the airport shuttle bus, my hand luggage
clutched on my knee.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “I’m so glad we are
flying EL AL” I say happily. “The way to the states was such a nightmare with
Iberia” (who knew it takes 30 hours to fly from Tel Aviv to Madrid?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TCO just nods. Men are like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Next time we are flying ELAL both ways. I can’t handle a connecting
flight again. Besides, their service is so much better.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Famous last words. If life was a movie, dramatic music would
have been playing in the background at this point <span style="text-align: center;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">_________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Flying has really changed” I say to TCO, pulling out a
folded pieced of paper from my purse. “Remember when you had to go to the
travel agent and he’d give you a little plastic pouch with tickets that were
blue ink booklets?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Little did I know that I would soon be longing for those
days. Oh, sweet 90s.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">_________</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We hand over our e-tickets to the EL – AL clerk behind the
check in counter. She inspects them both, asks for our passports. She types
away busily, calls over an older clerk. They both look at the screen, yak away
in Spanish, type away some more.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m sorry. She’s new at this. She is learning.” Says the
older woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s fine.” We nod, we smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“T?” They look at him, look at the passport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I reserved a window seat” he says. We reserved our seats
ahead, the airline confirmed it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, we see. One minute”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few more keys pressed, and they print out a boarding pass
for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then they move on to me. More Spanish, more typing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then they call over a third person. A man this time. His
nametag says G.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He talks with them, looks at the screen, looks at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look back. What’s wrong? Did they forget to order my
Special Kosher meal? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your husband has a reservation. You, however, are not in
the system.” He says to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m not what?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You do not appear in the system. You don’t have a place on
the flight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That can’t be. I confirmed my place, I confirmed my seat
even. Look at the tickets – 27 A and 27 B. “<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’re husband has seat 27 A, yes. But you don’t have a
reservation. I will put you on Stand By.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But here’s my ticket.” I wave it at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“A ticket and a reservation are two different things. You
have a ticket, yes. But you do not have a reservation. You are not in the
system.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your ticket was bought through Iberia. You’ll have to speak
to them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I have an EL-AL e-ticket number. How can I not be in the
system?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ah.” Now he is riled. “All you have is a piece of paper.
That e-ticket, what is it? A piece of paper. Anyone can forge a piece of paper.
You could have forged that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How can I answer to that? How can any passenger answer to
that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>EL AL lesson #1: </b>EL AL e-tickets are worthless, since they
can be forged. How can you know you’re on a flight? Easy, hack into EL AL’s
computer system. Don’t do a silly thing like trust EL AL to honor their e-ticket.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But I need to be on this flight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s none of my business. You should speak to Iberia. I’ll
put you on Standby. That’s all I can do. But the flight is overbooked, there
are no empty seats. There’s nothing I can do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ahah. “ TCO pipes up. “So you are admitting we have a
reservation, if you are giving her a standby ticket! Why would you give her a
standyby ticket if you think she forged the e ticket?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>EL-AL Lesson #2: </b>Don’t use logic.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “I don’t care what you are
saying.“ says G. “I don’t care. I’m not listening. I told you, you don’t have a
place on the flight. That’s it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How about in Business class?” TCO asks. “Since you lost my
wife’s reservation, you should upgrade her to Business class.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />This is the part where I start fantasizing about being upgraded to Business class. I mean, EL AL messed up, now they’ll have to find a solution. Silly me.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We only upgrade EL AL passengers. You are an Iberia
passenger. She will have to be standby”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“OK. So how about you upgrade one of your EL AL passengers
to business class, and then give me her economy seat?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Om second thought, I don’t care about flying Business class at this point. I
just want to get home and out of this dark comedy. I’d go in the cattle cart if
there was one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>EL AL Lesson #3:</b> Don’t try and find a creative solution. Do
not even consider trying to find a solution.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“There are no empty seats in Business class. The whole plane
is full. Full! There is no room for you.” G doesn’t even check the computer. He
prefers shouting at us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Listen, you made a mistake, we accept that. But now how are
you going to solve it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I told you. The plane is full. Speak to Iberia. It is not
my problem. I have to go now, the plane is boarding. Bye Bye” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">G. is yelling. The other clerks, stand around, embarrassed.
Then he strides off. We don’t know what to do, if we try going to Iberia, it
will be too late, the plane is boarding soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then our guadian angel comes along. The older clerk from
before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She steps up, whispers to us. “I will help you. I will find
you a place. Don’t worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her face is kind. She isn’t shouting at us. She isn't claiming
I forged my ticket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She calls Iberia (something G. wouldn't deign to do) . “They have your reservations.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She calls EL AL reservations “Your reservation is missing
from the EL AL system. There must have been a failure in saving your Iberia
reservation in the EL AL reservation system.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A bug in communications between the two systems. It happens.
It could be Iberia’s fault, and could be EL AL’s. Who knows. I just know I'm caught in the middle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>EL AL Lesson #4:</b> Don’t fly with a codeshare </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“There are empty business class seats, but I can’t give you
one without my manager’s permission” G. is the manager, so no high hopes on
that one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She checks in the computer. “Some passengers have not shown
up, I’ll give you their seats.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Here is a standby ticket. Meet me at the boarding gate and
I’ll make sure you are on the flight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We trust her. We rush through passport control, and duty
free. Find our angel at the boarding gate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">G., the manager, sees us and glares. We ignore him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Boarding. The moment of truth. We go to the desk, she hands me a ticket. “I’m
sorry you’re not next to each other. “ She apologizes. “But I tried to make
sure you are close.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We thank her again and again. I want to hug her.We board the plane. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And that kids, is how you “forge” an EL AL ticket.</span></div>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-65498469318510665182012-05-08T20:00:00.000+03:002012-05-13T23:38:37.630+03:00Taking TimeMy friend is getting married next week. She's the last of the "chevra" to cross over to the dark side. It's her shower.We are sitting around a table piled high with wrapped up pots and pans and peelers.<br />
<br />
"I want you all to give me advice now", she says ."One tip for a good marriage from each of you"<br />
<br />
I suppose being the last to marry has its advantages. Not only do we know to give her already toiveled dishes, but apparantly we also can share advice. Well they can. I'm still a rookie.<br />
<br />
One by one they mention giving to your husband and caring about him and encouraging him and all those other good traits<br />
<br />
"It's important to still leave time for yourself" I say when it's my turn "Just because you enjoy being together doesn't mean you won't sometimes need your own space, your own time for the things you like to do"<br />
<br />
The others look at me like they pity TCO, like I'm a selfish wife. I blush. Who knows, maybe I am.<br />
<br />
I just learned that there are things I have to do, that are oxygen to me. Once I was married I forgot about them, I thought I didn't need them anymore. But I was wrong. The tranquility of diving into a swimming pool, churning through the water and letting thoughts bubble up. The high I get from writing, that nothing else gives me. <br />
<br />
My newlywed friend has different outlets and needs. I hope she doesn't forget them.<br />
<br />
Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-14915534203602943672012-05-06T20:01:00.000+03:002012-05-09T15:54:49.223+03:00In Real Life<i>I found this post in my Ipod. It was written "735 days ago". That's back when I was single, skeptical of ever finding the right guy through a Shidduch date, and meeting quite a few of my online readers.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You read my blog. You like it, that's why you carry on reading it. You want to meet me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You have this picture of me in your head.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You expect me to be vibrant and energetic. You expect me to be bubbly and charismatic. You expect me to be </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">like my writing. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I'm not. I'm quiet, I speak softly. Often I don't speak at all, because I'm still thinking.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You either expect me to be rebellious and critical of society (based on some of my posts), or you think I'm flipped out, like my name( which was chosen by mistake, but that's another story).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I'm neither. I'm just another frum girl. The type you wouldn't look at twice if you passed in the street. I do have some </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">criticism of society, but so do most people, they just don't bother to voice theirs.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">And I think most bloggers are the same. We are good writers. But writing and speaking are two different skills.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">We aren't pretending. We are like our blogs, but only inside. And only in one facet of ourselves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Carry on drawing pictures of us in your heads. But know they are probably wrong.</span>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-60644069753173570492012-05-03T19:31:00.000+03:002012-05-03T19:35:55.735+03:00Fading Newlywed Bliss<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Will this last
forever? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I'm estatic, elated. I straighten my
shaitel, half skip, half run. I'm on the way home to my husband. I'm
married, really married! And I have the most wonderful husband in the whole
wide world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
Life feels like a dream. It's too good to be true. When did this happen, when
did everything change, drastically and amazingly? I'm scared I'll wake
up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Newlywed bliss;
an enchanted fairytale that the two of you are living in. Everything’s
wonderful, everything’s perfect. You're married! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wondered how
it would end, when the happiness would dissipate. Sheer amazingness couldn't
last, they told me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"How are
you?" My long married friends asked<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I'm so
happy!" I said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Yeah,
newlyweds…"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Don't you
feel the same?" I asked them<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I didn't
understand. Why should the happiness end, if you're supposed to be loving each
other more and more, not less and less. Shouldn't you be becoming even more
happy, as your marriage grows older?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now I
understand. It's not that your marriage wanes, it's just that life begins to
infringe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are small
things. You feel sorry for yourself because of tooth aches and the flu. You have
worries and decisions- buying a house, taking out a mortgage, changing jobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You have to
deal with finances, budgets, things that didn’t exist beforehand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m still happy.
Baruch Hashem! I want to thank God every day. But it’s not the same as in the
beginning. I have to work a bit now, to forget the small worries, and
appreciate my miracle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-88002456934565088302012-05-01T20:00:00.000+03:002012-05-02T10:09:35.071+03:00I'm Free<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m free. I can do whatever I want. I don’t have to listen
to anyone, I don’t have to care what anyone thinks of me. (Except for TCO, but then we agree on most things, so that works.)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I savor it. My short period of freedom.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not in school, ducking into a store when I see a teacher
or a classmate in the distance, anyone who will report my long jeans skirt, strictly
forbidden by my Israeli Bais Yaacov.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not in Seminary, I can’t get kicked out for speaking a
boy. (Not that I ever did.) <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Best of all – I’m not in Shidduchim. I can go to a wedding with no makeup, I can be
unfriendly to annoying yentas, I can even make shocking and controversial statements
comparing the Shidduch scene to an auction.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We live in a mixed, non Charedi, neighborhood. I could do cartwheels in the street and nobody
would care. I wear a baggy old skirt and glasses to the supermarket. I never go
to anywhere just to “meet people”. When
I try to decide if my outfit is tznius, I only have one criteria – God. Not the
shadchans, not the rabbis, not society.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should enjoy it while it lasts.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cycle will start again. Maybe we'll move to a religious neighborohood, and start caring about the neighbors.We’ll need our kids to
be accepted, first to Cheiders and Bais Yaacovs, where they’ll check the length
of my Sheitel and if I wear black tights, and do we have internet at home. The
next stage is Seminaries and Yeshivas, an especially tough scene in competitive
Jerusalem. Some mothers stop driving, some fathers change Shuls, anything to
pass the test. Then our kids will be in Shidduchim, by which point we’ll need
to pray we are millionaire saints, living the holy kollel lifestyle in style,
with enough money set aside to buy eligible son in laws.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s easy to tell me I should always do what’s right, never
listening, never caring. But there’s the right way, and the smart way. I’d
rather be smart. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But meanwhile –I don’t have to be anything I don’t want to
be. I’m free.<o:p></o:p></div>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-10760427126639564402012-04-28T20:00:00.000+03:002012-04-29T10:12:15.104+03:00Five ways to show I'm not Pregnant<br />
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969);">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">1.Throw back shots of whiskey. Liquor will do too. Anythig with high alchohol content. If no drinks are available, complain loudly about lack of booze.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
2. Tell tall tales of extreme sports. Recent bungee jumps or skydiving is best. If the most adventurous you've been is walking up the steps insead of taking the elevator, lie loudly or make fictitious plans for next week.</div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
3.Ostentatiously carry packs of feminine hygiene products into bathroom. Enough said. </div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
4. Ask to be the kvatter at a Brit</div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
5. Leave a packet of contraceptive pills lying around</div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<u>What <i>not </i>to do:</u></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="text-align: left;">- Wearing tunic tops or any form of baggy clothes is stricly forbidden. Wear tight and form fitting clothes only. (Sorry rabbi.)</span></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; direction: ltr; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">
- Never be sick, Ever. If you are sick, don't tell anybody. Nausea is off limits, whatever virus you have.</div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; direction: ltr; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; direction: ltr; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">
Don't say I didn't warn you.</div>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-12198290595367073242012-04-26T11:31:00.000+03:002012-04-26T11:33:43.226+03:00Yeshiva Guys are PedophilesEvents of the past week have fortified my belief. Yeshiva guys are all pedophiles. And so are their moms.<br />
<br />
I get a frantic phone call from Mrs. Mom-of-Yeshiva-Guy.<br />
<br />
“She’s 25! 25, not 24!”<br />
“Oh.”<br />
“Does she look her age?”<br />
“Her age?”<br />
“You know, does she still look young, or does her age show?”<br />
<br />
Her age. In any other western society except for the one I live in (and possibly Mormons too) twenty five is considered young. In fact, women are considered to peak in the late twenties and early thirties – according to <a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.com/celebrity/news/women-hottest-at-age-thirty-one">Cosmolitan</a>. Check out the average age of most female celebrities (who aren’t exactly famous based on their IQ)<br />
<br />
But Yeshiva guys like them young. High school girls are illegal, but the good news is that most eighteen and nineteen year olds, fresh out of seminary in their sweatshirts and ponytails, still look like high school girls (and sound like them too)<br />
<br />
Then there’s the fact that by the time an average Charedi woman hits her mid twenties, she’s after three pregnancies, and hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in who knows how long. Plus she’s wearing a scarf, or at best a wig. Let’s just say she’s had prouder moments, looks wise (Nachas wise is another thing, we’re being shallow here).<br />
<br />
So yeah, maybe the typical Charedi woman in her mid twenties looks ten years older than her biological age. But please don’t generalize about the rest of us. When we find grey hairs, we’ll let you know.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-11764377311616978062011-11-14T21:35:00.001+02:002011-11-14T21:38:51.258+02:00The Frum Woman’s Handshake"Shake my hand." I say to my husband<br />
<br />
"Huh?" he replies. We don't usually shake each other's hand as a greeting.<br />
<br />
"I need to practice" I say. "For the interview."<br />
<br />
He looks worried.<br />
<br />
"Because it's a woman who’ll be interviewing me." I explain. “They said her name is Ilana. I"ll actually be able to shake her hand, so I want to check my handshake is ok”<br />
<br />
He still looks rather confused. "What's the big deal?"<br />
<br />
"<i>Everyone </i>knows there's a lot they learn about you from your handshake. It's very psychological." I should know, I’ve been reading enough online posts about how to prepare for an interview. (Tip: don't say your biggest weakness is hating routine boring work.)<br />
<br />
I’ve shaken hands with someone perhaps once in my life. I've spent my last thirteen years making excuses for why I can't shake hands with men, an art form mastered by most Frum women. <br />
<br />
We know the hold cellphone/drink/notebook in each hand trick, the sneeze into your hand and hold dirty tissues trick, the nod and smile before he has a chance to stretch his hand technique, and when all fails the " I'm sorry but I don't shake hands with men" explanation. But that's a last resort that risks offending; we try not to let it get that far.<br />
<br />
Basically we Orthodox women are adept at how <i>not </i>to shake hands, but unfamiliar with how <i>to </i>actually shake someone's hand, should we so wish. ( Maybe that should be my excuse next time. "I'm sorry, but I don't know how to")<br />
<br />
Being interviewed by a woman is a new occurrence. ( And perhaps reflective of the state of women's career paths in the Israeli workplace?)<br />
<br />
I stretch out my left hand. My husband reaches out and holds it. We shake.<br />
<br />
“How was I?” I ask<br />
<br />
“Fine”, he says.<br />
<br />
“Not too limp? Not too firm?”<br />
<br />
“Maybe a bit too strong. You shouldn’t be trying to move my hand.”<br />
<br />
“Oh.” I say. We try again<br />
<br />
“How was that?”<br />
<br />
“You're fine,” he says, “can we have dinner now?”<br />
<br />
------<br />
“Hi, I'm Ilana.”<br />
<br />
“Pleased to meet you" I say.<br />
<br />
We both smile. I wait. <br />
<br />
“Would you like a drink? Or shall we get started"<br />
<br />
No hand appears on the horizon. Maybe at the end?<br />
<br />
------<br />
"It was a pleasure meeting you, FNF."<br />
<br />
“Same here.” We both smile. Again I wait.<br />
<br />
“Here, I'll show you out.” <br />
<br />
I don't believe it. After all that. When I finally <i>can</i>. <br />
<br />
Maybe handshaking doesn't even happen anymore? Maybe it’s an archaic custom of a bygone era, sustained in only by orthodox female paranoia?Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-82590636374598383292011-11-10T21:56:00.000+02:002011-11-10T21:56:00.810+02:00History of (my) HairStraight- "stick straight"- hairstyles were in fashion when I was in ninth grade. On my trek from home to school I ogled the glossy photos pinned up in the local hairdresser’s windows- models with choppy haircuts, layers of varying length, all falling in perfect symmetrical lines.<br />
<br />
My torturous attempts at blow-drying resulted in puffy, frizzy, waves. Straightness was out of my reach except for on those rare visits to the hairdresser for a cut- from which I emerged with glossy locks, content until I couldn’t drag out the days any longer, my hair needed to be washed, and returned to its natural wavy state.<br />
<br />
I counted the years until I’d be able to wear a wig. I already knew which wig I would choose; it would be fall below my shoulder in beautiful straight layers.<br />
<br />
I didn’t count enough years. Fast forward a decade, and I was still making do with my own hair. A lot happened in the meantime. I discovered the wonders of the straightening iron, and finally straight hair could be mine. Then fashions changed, wavy was “in”, and I decided my hair wasn’t too bad after all.<br />
<br />
Now I had a new challenge, <a href="http://frumflipped.blogspot.com/2009/05/its-my-hair-i-swear.html">proving that my hair was my own</a>, and hadn’t been shaved of the head of an Ukranian peasant girl. Because I was a frum female in my twenties. And everyone knows that <i>all </i>women of this advanced age <i>must </i> be wearing a wig.<br />
<br />
When I pulled back my hair in a headband, the <a href="http://frumflipped.blogspot.com/2009/12/is-attraction-important.html">Yeshiva-guy-I-didn’t-marry </a>told me it looked like I was wearing a fall. When I cut side bangs, full bangs, again that was the latest Shaitel trend. <br />
<br />
I stood on the roof of a hotel, watching my friend’s Chuppah, the wind blowing my fresh-from-the-hairdresser hair in all directions, and I was glad, because maybe now it would look messy enough to be obviously non-Shaitel. Then I trooped down the flights of stairs with my friends, and sat around a satin cloaked table with them, looking from one to the next and envying their glossy, perfectly set, “babylissed” curls and what they represented- lifetime membership to a fraternity I was locked out of. <br />
<br />
When I was miraculously granted the key to the club, I was too busy with planning a wedding to give much thought or time to my soon-to-be-mandatory head covering.<br />
<br />
I tried on a Shaitel. It looked OK. I bought it. It cost a packet, but then so does everything else that goes with getting married. I didn’t think twice until after the wedding. <br />
<br />
Suddenly I stare in the mirror and see a stranger looking back at me. <br />
The straight hair I once envied now feels fake, and flat. I long for my own natural curls, with all their messiness and lack of discipline. <br />
<br />
Maybe I should buy another Shaitel, a curly one. “If that’s what you want, you should get it.” TCO tells me.<br />
<br />
But looking at the price tag, from the viewpoint of a newly married, it seems like a horrible waste of money. More than a dining room set. More than wall to wall bookshelves. More than an extended honeymoon in Europe. Just so I can look less married, more “like myself”.<br />
<br />
Wearing a wig does save time, I plop it on without a thought to what’s underneath. Wearing a wig does symbolize something I’ve been waiting a long time for. But wearing a wig, well, it’s wearing a wig.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-54878505091710185432011-11-08T20:00:00.002+02:002011-11-08T20:00:04.622+02:00The "Who-She-Dated" BlacklistI try not to be a typical newlywed. In fact, I never really liked newlyweds, caught up in their own little blissful worlds.<br />
<br />
One common newlywed trait is matchmaking. And for newlywed bloggers- the complaining that goes with it. Suddenly singles are "pushy" and "picky" and "ungrateful" I swore never to switch roles quite so drastically, and I hope I'll stand by my word.<br />
<br />
But yes, I am guilty of being a newlywed; of the type eager to make matches. And some things really do get me upset.<br />
<br />
True fact - We don't know who we are going to marry until we marry them.<br />
<br />
I have lots of different types of friends; some are loud, some are quiet, some are shark and some more easy going; basically every friend is different.<br />
<br />
And that's normal. Most of us have more than one friend, and usually our friends are not identical.<br />
<br />
In other words, we get on with all sorts of people.<br />
<br />
So why, when it comes to dating, is there a perception that a girl can only date one type of person. And if a girl went out with a guy who's not exactly the same as you, then obviously <i>you </i>can't go out with her. Because "If she went out with Shimon she can't be right for me".<br />
<br />
Clarification: She only <i>dated </i> Shimon, she didn't marry him. And it was a blind date at that. Maybe she dumped him after one date? And even if she didn't, even if she - shock-horror -dated him seriously, why does that rule her out for you?<br />
<br />
Your friend Yitzy is friends with Shimon <i>and </i>with you. Why can't a girl go out with and get along with Shimon <i>and </i>with you? (Obviously not simultaneously)<br />
<br />
I keep hearing the same line. "But she went out with <i>him</i>. She can't be right for <i>me</i>." Who knew drinking coca-cola with a guy boycotts a girl for life?<br />
<br />
This is my first Shadchan rant. Sorry for crossing over to the dark side.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-57718043003540273842011-11-06T19:04:00.002+02:002011-11-06T19:07:38.301+02:00Bye Bye Shidduch Resume, Hello Career ResumeNow that I've quit my evening job (shidduch dating, for the uninitiated) , I've been able to give a lot more thought to my day job.<br />
<br />
That and the fact that suddenly mortgages and bills are eating up a major chunk of what used to seem like a generous enough salary (when all it needed to pay for were <a href="http://frumflipped.blogspot.com/2010/06/girls-guide-to-tznius-shopping-in.html">clothes</a>).<br />
I've discovered that there aren't that many employment opportunities in Jerusalem in my field. And have started emailing out my (non <a href="http://frumflipped.blogspot.com/2009/05/shidduch-resumes-are-out-interactive.html">shidduch</a>) resume to companies all over the country.<br />
<br />
If I start commuting I could probably make a significantly higher salary. (yippee)<br />
<br />
But then I'll have to pay for a car. There goes the pay raise. (boo hoo)<br />
<br />
But I'd have a car. (yippee) <br />
<br />
But I'd have at least one hour less time a day. (boo hoo)<br />
<br />
I GChat with a former colleague. She's married with a kid. She's quit her job after having a baby, and has been trying to get back into the workforce for more than a year. She has a great resume, and impressive skills. And she's still jobless. <br />
<br />
"They all ask me how I plan on balancing work and family life" She tells me. "Then they hire a man instead of me."<br />
<br />
It's there, but you can never prove it, never blacklist or sue. <br />
<br />
Companies will prefer to hire a single man than a woman with kids. And what if the man has kids? That's OK, because everyone knows men can "compartmentalize". What if the woman is single or doesn't have kids? She can just get away with the sin of her sex. (Obviously there are women that break the rules. But I'm guessing many of them joined their companies while still childless.)<br />
<br />
My friend claims that now's my last chance, if I want to change jobs. Now, when my stomach is flat, and I don't need to juggle daycare and long hours. <br />
<br />
On the other hand job security will be a big plus when I do eventually enter that beautiful state of nausea and hormonal madness, and want to take sick leave for checkups, and extended maternity leaves. The job security I'll lose if I leave.<br />
<br />
It's the best of times and the worst of times- for a career change that is.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-75580624816409793622011-10-04T19:55:00.001+02:002021-01-28T00:08:14.519+02:00Shana Tova!OK, I know Rosh HaShana has been already. But it’s like Tashlich right? I can push it off my new year’s post to before Yom Kippur, or even up until Hoshana Raba. (Hey I made Yom Tov, that’s a ton of cooking and I don’t even know how to cook, so gimme a break.)<br />
<br />
Once upon a time I wished my friends Shana Tova in person - we met in school, in Shul, “around”.<br />
<br />
Then came the phone calls – we’d moved areas, switched schools, started Seminary.<br />
<br />
Text messages were next – a constant beeping of poetic wishes throughout the day. <br />
<br />
I blame Kosher phones for the shift to mass emails .<br />
<br />
But emails are so 20th century. Nowadays we wish Shana Tova intimately to our close friends – using Facebook Statuses, Tweets, and of course – on our blogs.<br />
<br />
So Shana Tova everyone! Thanks for your loyalty, if you’re actually reading this, after my neglect.<br />
<br />
Blogging more regularly- that's my new year’s resolution. Together with finishing my novel. Oh and being a better person etc. etc., but we don't need to get into that.<br />
<br />
Truth is I have been writing - just not in my old haunts. Check out the Yom Kippur and Sukkos Mishpachas for my stories. I’m in the third Calligraphy in a row, which I think is kind of cool.<br />
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With proceeds of said stories I ordered an IPad (money is a great motivator !) and hopefully I'll get more blogging done on my new toy. <br />
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I’m also back at pounding away at The Matchmakers Diaries, so expect to see some new chapters up soon. ( If any of you still remember the plot... )<br />
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Anyway, may you have a happy and meaningful year, and may all your wishes come true.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-73869035667099075472011-07-12T20:09:00.000+03:002011-07-12T20:09:14.328+03:00"In your condition"The seats are all taken. I stand next to TCO, both of us clutching the hand rail. Through the front window we see old ladies leaving the Shuk with their shopping trolleys and cutting in front of the traffic. The bus crawls along Aggripas street, the driver trying not to run over any of the old ladies.<br />
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Now before I continue, I better clarify one thing. I'm skinny. That's my body build, and even 6 months of no exercise hasn't changed that. We're on our way back from a lunch date, so I'm wearing a new tunic top from my TJmaxx spree in the US, My shoes and hat also match, and I'm feeling pretty fashionable.<br />
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Then a middle aged woman makes eye contact with me. She's sitting in a single seat by the door. She asks me I want to take her chair. I shake my head.<br />
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"I'm fine." I say. I wonder why she's asking. She's older than me by at least two decades.<br />
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She stands up, and gestures to her seat<br />
.<br />
"Maybe she's getting off the bus as this stop." I think. <br />
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I move down the aisle to right beside her. As she stands up, I'm ready to take her place. Then a man blocks me. "I was here first." He says loudly. Heads turn in our direction.<br />
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"Then I'll stay here." The woman says. "I wanted her to sit, in <i>her </i>condition."<br />
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They both look at me.<br />
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In my <i>what</i>?<br />
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I have a millisecond to act. I don't feel like announcing to the entire crowded busload of passengers that I'm not pregnant. Sitting down seems the easy way out. I do it instinctively, without thinking.<br />
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So she stands. And I sit.<br />
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Hopefully she'll get off at the next stop, and then I won't feel so bad. <br />
She doesn't.<br />
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She continues standing, by the door. Does she notice now that my stomach's flat? <br />
I clutch my stomach, covering it up. Pretending the phantom baby is kicking now. My one mission is for the overly kind stranger not to find out that I'm a fraudulent pregnant woman.<br />
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"Do you have stomache ache?" TCO asks, from where he's standing next to me. He somehow missed the previous dialogue.<br />
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It takes 15 minutes and 3 bus stops of guilt before the good Samaritan finally gets of the bus. <br />
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I've learned my lesson. Wearing a tunic top carries consequences.<br />
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Meanwhile my friend from Kiryat Sefer shared horrific tales of daily commuting by bus, with morning sickness, in her first trimester when she wasn't obviously "showing" yet, and standing throughout the ride, no one offering their seat. She threw up every day, as soon as she reached solid ground again. <br />
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You can’t win.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-40383311657413367192011-07-11T19:36:00.001+03:002011-07-11T19:38:01.782+03:00Hidden Tresses"I wear a hat at night." She says it matter-of-factly.<br />
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"You wear a hat to bed?" I try not to sound shocked. She's not Chasidic, she's not even Chareidi. It seems rather extreme to me.<br />
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"Yes, I decided to keep my hair covered at all times."<br />
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That's the point when naughty questions pop into my head, like when exactly does she show her hair, but I bite them back, being the nice frum girl/woman I am.<br />
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"Oh." I say instead. "I don't cover my hair at home."<br />
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"Unless we have guests of course." I add. I've got my reputation to mantain.<br />
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"Of course" She says.<br />
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"I mean it's a good thing, covering your hair all the time, I guess… There's that story with the woman who merited torah scholar sons because the walls of her house never saw her hair…" It's a Bais Yaacov classic. I always hated it, but that part I leave out.<br />
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The conversation leaves me thinking.<br />
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I don't cover my hair at all, except when I have to, i.e. I'm outside, or there are (non related) men around. (Halachically I heard that in her own home a woman doesn't have to cover her hair even if there are strange men around, but I'm not going that far, it would make them, and me, uncomfortable. )<br />
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It's hard enough covering for a woman to cover her hair, so why make it even more difficult?<br />
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Or am I missing something here?<br />
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Maybe the reason is logistical - when there are older kids around, it confuses them to see their mother without a head covering?<br />
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And maybe there really is some mystical Tznius benefit?<br />
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It's a bit like the great "what to wear to the separate swimming pool" debate. It's about extra sensitivity. What can I say, I don't have it yet.<br />
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So what do you do, or plan to do, in your homes- bare it or share it?Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-36251031919415456222011-07-10T20:13:00.000+03:002011-07-10T20:13:47.335+03:00Mrs. FnF<i>I'm suffering from a dreadful case of writer's block. Well maybe it's more like newly-married-and-haven't-blogged-for-six-months block. But in any case I really want to get back to blogging, since as I revert into a 9-6 working gal who cooks supper and does laundry on the side, I feel like I'm losing a part of myself, a very precious part, that I was rather proud of.<br />
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So my half year anniversary resolution is that I'm going to blog again. I won't <i>write</i>, that's too scary now, the blank white word documents stare back at me when I try to <i>write</i>. Instead I'll simply share the things I'm thinking, and hopefully, one day, this will be the blog it used to be.<br />
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Or in other words – Hi readers, I'm still alive, please come back. Anyone?</i><br />
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One thing I still haven't gotten used to is my new "title".<br />
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"Gveret"<br />
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Is he speaking to me? <br />
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I'm not a "gveret", a lady. I'm a "bachura", a girl. (That's I I'm lucky. Usually I'm a "motek" or "chamuda" or "mami".)<br />
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But suddenly I'm a grownup. <br />
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The taxi drivers, the cashiers at the supermarket, the clerks at the bank, they are all treating me with new found respect.I've been working for five years, paying taxes and handling bills, releasing multi million dollar projects and investing in a pension plan. But then I was still a kid, according to the voices on the street.<br />
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I find it funny that one wedding ring and one hat/sheitel/scarf, is what makes me an adult, a lady, in the world's eyes.<br />
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And I wonder, when go secular women get to escape their "bachura" status? Because they wear no telling head covering. Or is their ring finger being surreptitiously checked every time they step foot in public?Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-59912902583535416432011-01-13T11:32:00.000+02:002011-01-13T11:32:46.876+02:00Mikvah MadnessIt was too late. I was naked when I found out the truth. I clutched the towel around me and stared at her in horror. I was trapped. <br />
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Only I could make such a stupid mistake. I missed all the clues- the sandy path that was longer than I remembered; the sign post for the Mikvah Keilim I didn't recall; the type of women inside- I should have known something was wrong when I saw the women. Nine of them, lined up in a row, one empty chair in the middle that they seemed to have saved for me, ready to interrogate me; the questions- how long I'd been married, how many times I'd been here before; the blessings that I wouldn't need to be back the next month.<br />
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"I've been married six years and this is my fifth time at the Mikvah" one woman proudly told me. I tried to do the math in my head, while the other women congratulated her.<br />
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The woman sitting behind the till wore a thick turban. She wasn't Simcha, the Mikvah attendant I'd come back here for. I'd travelled all the way, decided the long journey was worth it, because Simcha had been so understanding and easygoing the last time, my first time. <br />
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Maybe Simcha was inside, I told myself, I hoped. Or maybe this was Simcha's day off.<br />
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"Bath or Shower?" Mrs. Turban asked my neighbors, and one by one they disappeared down the corridor. <br />
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Eventually only I and Mrs. Fifth-Time were left. "Bath" she said, "I need a good long soak."<br />
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So the shower was free for me, and to it I was led.<br />
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"You can take anything you need from the shelves; a comb, a brush, anything else."<br />
"Oh, I got ready at home." I said. <br />
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"You still need to comb your hair" she said. She sounded stern, or was I imagining it? Simcha hadn't sounded like that, Simcha had been nice.<br />
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"Ah, I forgot." I said.<br />
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Her face stayed in a frown. <br />
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"It's only my second time here" I said, "My first time since the wedding."<br />
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Her face relaxed a bit, she opened the door to the bathroom.<br />
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When I rang the buzzer, I hoped Simcha would be the one to open the door on the other side. <br />
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She wasn't. Mrs. Turban walked in, carrying what looked like a miniature tool kit, spread out on a towel.<br />
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I pulled the towel tighter around me. I felt exposed next to her thick stockings and starched clothes. <br />
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She sat down and spread the sharp and shiny tools on her lap. She told me to stand in front of her. She lifted up my hand, and picked up a nail file. <br />
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"I want to leave my nails the way they are." I told her. "My Kallah teacher told me it's Halachically fine."<br />
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"Who's your Kallah teacher?" she asked.<br />
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I named her. Mrs. Turban gave a hmpph, and started filing my nail.<br />
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"But I don't want to do that." I said. "I want to leave my cuticles the way they are."<br />
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That's when she stopped, and looked at me, in the eye, for the first time. <br />
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""Here we follow the Rabbonim." She said. "Here we file away the cuticles. That is what the Rabbonim said we should do. This is the Chareidi mikvah."<br />
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And that's when I realized what I'd done. I'd gone to the wrong Mikvah. There were two of them, one next to the other, one "standard" and one "Mehadrin". Last time I'd gone to the standard Mikvah, where Simcha worked, but somehow now I’d landed up in the Mehadrin one. I used to think my bad sense of directions was a joke, but this wasn't funny. <br />
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I wondered if it was too late to make a run for it. I pictured myself, running through the streets in my towel, with Mrs. Turban chasing after me with her nail file and scissors. I stayed.<br />
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I read too many Naomi Ragen horror stories in my teens, of prying attendants, intimate inspections and humiliations. I used to dread the day I'd need to dunk. <br />
Then before my wedding I learned that the responsibility to be prepared for the Mikvah would be mine, and mine only. The Mikvah attendant's main task was to see that I was entirely immersed in the Mikvah's waters. She would also be there ahead to help me, to remind me of things I may have missed, to offer to look in places I couldn't see myself, such as behind my ears. She would have no further authority. The decision when and how to dunk was mine, and not hers.<br />
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I felt better. <br />
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But that's not what was happening now. "Here we follow the Rabbonim." The words echoed in my mind. There was no arguing with that, no respecting my wishes. <br />
My hands hurt for a few days, where Mrs. Turban had picked and snipped at them. Worse than that was the feeling inside me, the feeling of humiliation, the fear that slowly ebbed away.<br />
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Because when "we follow the Rabbonim", then whatever I say won't help. It's my body, but they are in control.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-71487241555279901192011-01-03T11:20:00.000+02:002011-01-03T11:20:55.956+02:00Sshhh, I'm back<i>I owe a big apology to my readers. I disappeared, and it wasn't very nice of me. All I can say is that planning a wedding sure takes a lot of time. But at least I'm back now :-) And I missed you! </i><br />
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One of the big differences with married life is the sudden secrecy that veils your life. There are two of you now, and the things that go on between you should remain between you, should be private, intimate, told to no one, shared with no one. That's right, that's good, that makes sense. <br />
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And it really is wonderful, being together, sharing a life and a home and a future with someone you love, who loves you. It's so good you don't know how you survived so long on your own. It's like tasting heaven. It feels like a dream you don't ever want to wake up from.<br />
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Yet still the secrecy bothers me. I wish I'd been more prepared for the halachic aspects of marriage, the physical aspects of marriage. Nobody told me, because nobody talks about it. Ten sessions with a Madrichat kallah are supposed to cover all of that. One woman, one hashkafah, one bank of knowledge; it's not enough. There's a new voice inside me, crying that it wasn't meant to be like this, feeling betrayed by the silence. Knowledge is power, that's been my motto throughout my life, and suddenly, in one of the most important aspects of human life, of Jewish life, I feel like an ignoramus. <br />
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I would have like to read about more than the sweet platitudes of married life. On the internet I only find the PR, the comparisons of Mikvahs with Spas, the marketing of Niddah laws as the secret for a perpetual honeymoon. Is it only me who finds it difficult? Do no other women ever struggle with some of the laws of Taharat Hamisphacha?<br />
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And now I want to write, want to break the silence, but keep coming up against a brick wall. The wall of privacy, of modesty, blocks me from speaking. <br />
I don't want to stop blogging. I don't want to lose that part of me. I may not be single, not be in Shidduchim any longer, but I think my blog was and is about more than that.<br />
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And I don't want to stop being open. I don't want to start spouting out surface sweetness, all the time hiding what's really on my mind.<br />
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I guess I'll just have to find the balance. Somehow.Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-22313265113004752762010-09-12T00:00:00.001+03:002010-09-12T00:03:16.328+03:00God's HandsDating is misleading. It can give me a feeling of being in control. Phoning people, finding out about boys, scheduling dates; I've learned the rules already, I know what I'm doing. There are the rules of the game, there are moves you make, the responses you foresee. I can handle it.<br />
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There are those moments when the world seems to gang up around you in order to thwart you, there are days when the world seems to disregard you, and ignore your existence, not care about the ticking time and you remaining single. But even then I'm usually caught up in trying to set things to rights. I use logic, and thought. I "try different types", and "mix in a new crowd", and "speak to so and so who I met in Shul and should know the right people"<br />
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I forget to pray. I'm so busy running the show I forget how helpless I really am.<br />
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Until I'm sitting on the bus, silent after 2 hours of talking, thinking, thinking about him.<br />
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I really liked him. We kept finding things we have in common. Small things, like family football teams, big things, like our relationship with our older siblings.<br />
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I like him. I want to go out with him again. <br />
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So many things can go wrong. He can not like me (chas vechalila! my heart is crying) I wasn't lookig pretty tonight, I went straight from work, I'm not feeling pretty, that's not a good sign. I feel over dressed in this suit, messy in hair that was only washed last night.<br />
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And even if I like him and he likes me, so many things can go wrong. I know them all, they've all happened to me before. Or it can be something new, that I never even worried about before now, that's suddenly disrupting it all, breaking it all, ruining it. I'm so scared. My dream is within reach, let it not be snatched away. <br />
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I'm hopeless. It's in God's hands. All I can do is pray.<br />
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<i>I've been waiting for a long time, for the moment to be right to share some news with you. And then when the moment came I delayed it, writing a few lines and not completing them, starting posts and deleting them. Because where to start? What to say? How to virtually jump up and down?<br />
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But what better way than by with the very beginning? So here goes:<br />
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Ladies and gentleman, I wrote the above post a few months ago, on my way home from my first date with my most wonderful and amazing FIANCE!!!!<br />
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</i>Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4538026753449287703.post-54556102652944529122010-08-02T21:26:00.000+03:002010-08-02T21:26:33.472+03:00Hello WorldThe good news is, I've not been abducted by aliens.<br />
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Yes, I know that you've been getting worried. It's been almost a <i>whole </i>month without posting. I hear your fear.<br />
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And all I can say is – Sorry. I've just been rather busy lately.<br />
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Mishpacha asked me to write a story for them for their Sukkos issue, and that's taken up all my free time, the time I usually use for blogging, or working on my novel. Even when I wasn't writing it, I was thinking about it, and thinking that I should be writing it if I could only get myself to stop reading/resting/randomly wasting time. I've never written a story with a deadline before, and I'm not used to the pressure. Inspiration goes out of the window, and forcing myself to clang away at the keyboard arrives instead. But I think the end result was OK, I'll let you know when it appears.<br />
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My other update is that I won't be coming to New York this August. It sounded like a ton of fun, and I was really looking forward to meeting a lot of you(!!!), but some logistical details in Israel mean I'm going to be stuck indoors in my boring office job instead. Oh well, hopefully some other time.<br />
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Also, I may have an exotic variation of writer's block disease. There is some stuff I want to blog about, but for various reasons now isn't the time. <br />
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So all I can say in the meantime is- please don't give up on me! I love blogging, and I love you reading my blog. I'll be back soon!Frum N' Flippinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08916430533625318667noreply@blogger.com8