Frum N' Flipping

The Frum Woman’s Handshake

2011-11-14T21:35:00.001+02:00

"Shake my hand." I say to my husband

"Huh?" he replies. We don't usually shake each other's hand as a greeting.

"I need to practice" I say. "For the interview."

He looks worried.

"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”

He still looks rather confused. "What's the big deal?"

"Everyone 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.)

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.

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.

Basically we Orthodox women are adept at how not to shake hands, but unfamiliar with how to 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")

Being interviewed by a woman is a new occurrence. ( And perhaps reflective of the state of women's career paths in the Israeli workplace?)

I stretch out my left hand. My husband reaches out and holds it. We shake.

“How was I?” I ask

“Fine”, he says.

“Not too limp? Not too firm?”

“Maybe a bit too strong. You shouldn’t be trying to move my hand.”

“Oh.” I say. We try again

“How was that?”

“You're fine,” he says, “can we have dinner now?”

------
“Hi, I'm Ilana.”

“Pleased to meet you" I say.

We both smile. I wait.

“Would you like a drink? Or shall we get started"

No hand appears on the horizon. Maybe at the end?

------
"It was a pleasure meeting you, FNF."

“Same here.” We both smile. Again I wait.

“Here, I'll show you out.”

I don't believe it. After all that. When I finally can.

Maybe handshaking doesn't even happen anymore? Maybe it’s an archaic custom of a bygone era, sustained in only by orthodox female paranoia?

History of (my) Hair

2011-11-10T21:56:00.000+02:00

Straight- "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.

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.

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.

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.

Now I had a new challenge, proving that my hair was my own, 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 all women of this advanced age must be wearing a wig.

When I pulled back my hair in a headband, the Yeshiva-guy-I-didn’t-marry told me it looked like I was wearing a fall. When I cut side bangs, full bangs, again that was the latest Shaitel trend.

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.

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.

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.

Suddenly I stare in the mirror and see a stranger looking back at me.
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.

Maybe I should buy another Shaitel, a curly one. “If that’s what you want, you should get it.” TCO tells me.

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”.

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.

The "Who-She-Dated" Blacklist

2011-11-08T20:00:00.002+02:00

I try not to be a typical newlywed. In fact, I never really liked newlyweds, caught up in their own little blissful worlds.

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.

But yes, I am guilty of being a newlywed; of the type eager to make matches. And some things really do get me upset.

True fact - We don't know who we are going to marry until we marry them.

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.

And that's normal. Most of us have more than one friend, and usually our friends are not identical.

In other words, we get on with all sorts of people.

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 you can't go out with her. Because "If she went out with Shimon she can't be right for me".

Clarification: She only dated 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?

Your friend Yitzy is friends with Shimon and with you. Why can't a girl go out with and get along with Shimon and with you? (Obviously not simultaneously)

I keep hearing the same line. "But she went out with him. She can't be right for me." Who knew drinking coca-cola with a guy boycotts a girl for life?

This is my first Shadchan rant. Sorry for crossing over to the dark side.

Bye Bye Shidduch Resume, Hello Career Resume

2011-11-06T19:04:00.002+02:00

Now 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.

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 clothes).
I've discovered that there aren't that many employment opportunities in Jerusalem in my field. And have started emailing out my (non shidduch) resume to companies all over the country.

If I start commuting I could probably make a significantly higher salary. (yippee)

But then I'll have to pay for a car. There goes the pay raise. (boo hoo)

But I'd have a car. (yippee)

But I'd have at least one hour less time a day. (boo hoo)

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.

"They all ask me how I plan on balancing work and family life" She tells me. "Then they hire a man instead of me."

It's there, but you can never prove it, never blacklist or sue.

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.)

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.

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.

It's the best of times and the worst of times- for a career change that is.

Shana Tova!

2011-10-04T19:55:00.000+02:00

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.)

Once upon a time I wished my friends Shana Tova in person - we met in school, in Shul, “around”.

Then came the phone calls – we’d moved areas, switched schools, started Seminary.

Text messages were next – a constant beeping of poetic wishes throughout the day.

I blame Kosher phones for the shift to mass emails .

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.

So Shana Tova everyone! Thanks for your loyalty, if you’re actually reading this, after my neglect.

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.

Truth is I have been writing - just not in my old haunts. Check out the Yom Kippur and Sukkos Mishpachas for my stories (by Sara Shamansky) I’m in the third Calligraphy in a row, which I think is kind of cool.

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.

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... )

Anyway, may you have a happy and meaningful year, and may all your wishes come true.

"In your condition"

2011-07-12T20:09:00.000+03:00

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.

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.

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.

"I'm fine." I say. I wonder why she's asking. She's older than me by at least two decades.

She stands up, and gestures to her seat
.
"Maybe she's getting off the bus as this stop." I think.

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.

"Then I'll stay here." The woman says. "I wanted her to sit, in her condition."

They both look at me.

In my what?

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.

So she stands. And I sit.

Hopefully she'll get off at the next stop, and then I won't feel so bad.
She doesn't.

She continues standing, by the door. Does she notice now that my stomach's flat?
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.

"Do you have stomache ache?" TCO asks, from where he's standing next to me. He somehow missed the previous dialogue.

It takes 15 minutes and 3 bus stops of guilt before the good Samaritan finally gets of the bus.

I've learned my lesson. Wearing a tunic top carries consequences.

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.

You can’t win.

Hidden Tresses

2011-07-11T19:36:00.001+03:00

"I wear a hat at night." She says it matter-of-factly.

"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.

"Yes, I decided to keep my hair covered at all times."

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.

"Oh." I say instead. "I don't cover my hair at home."

"Unless we have guests of course." I add. I've got my reputation to mantain.

"Of course" She says.

"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.

The conversation leaves me thinking.

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. )

It's hard enough covering for a woman to cover her hair, so why make it even more difficult?

Or am I missing something here?

Maybe the reason is logistical - when there are older kids around, it confuses them to see their mother without a head covering?

And maybe there really is some mystical Tznius benefit?

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.

So what do you do, or plan to do, in your homes- bare it or share it?

Mrs. FnF

2011-07-10T20:13:00.000+03:00

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.

So my half year anniversary resolution is that I'm going to blog again. I won't write, that's too scary now, the blank white word documents stare back at me when I try to write. Instead I'll simply share the things I'm thinking, and hopefully, one day, this will be the blog it used to be.

Or in other words – Hi readers, I'm still alive, please come back. Anyone?

One thing I still haven't gotten used to is my new "title".

"Gveret"

Is he speaking to me?

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".)

But suddenly I'm a grownup.

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.

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.

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?

Mikvah Madness

2011-01-13T11:32:00.000+02:00

It 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.

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.

"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.

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.

Maybe Simcha was inside, I told myself, I hoped. Or maybe this was Simcha's day off.

"Bath or Shower?" Mrs. Turban asked my neighbors, and one by one they disappeared down the corridor.

Eventually only I and Mrs. Fifth-Time were left. "Bath" she said, "I need a good long soak."

So the shower was free for me, and to it I was led.

"You can take anything you need from the shelves; a comb, a brush, anything else."
"Oh, I got ready at home." I said.

"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.

"Ah, I forgot." I said.

Her face stayed in a frown.

"It's only my second time here" I said, "My first time since the wedding."

Her face relaxed a bit, she opened the door to the bathroom.

When I rang the buzzer, I hoped Simcha would be the one to open the door on the other side.

She wasn't. Mrs. Turban walked in, carrying what looked like a miniature tool kit, spread out on a towel.

I pulled the towel tighter around me. I felt exposed next to her thick stockings and starched clothes.

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.

"I want to leave my nails the way they are." I told her. "My Kallah teacher told me it's Halachically fine."

"Who's your Kallah teacher?" she asked.

I named her. Mrs. Turban gave a hmpph, and started filing my nail.

"But I don't want to do that." I said. "I want to leave my cuticles the way they are."

That's when she stopped, and looked at me, in the eye, for the first time.

""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."

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.

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.

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.
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.

I felt better.

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.
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.

Because when "we follow the Rabbonim", then whatever I say won't help. It's my body, but they are in control.

Sshhh, I'm back

2011-01-03T11:20:00.000+02:00

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.
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.

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.

I guess I'll just have to find the balance. Somehow.

God's Hands

2010-09-12T00:00:00.001+03:00

Dating 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.

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"

I forget to pray. I'm so busy running the show I forget how helpless I really am.

Until I'm sitting on the bus, silent after 2 hours of talking, thinking, thinking about him.

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.

I like him. I want to go out with him again.

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.

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.

I'm hopeless. It's in God's hands. All I can do is pray.

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?

But what better way than by with the very beginning? So here goes:

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!!!!

Hello World

2010-08-02T21:26:00.000+03:00

The good news is, I've not been abducted by aliens.

Yes, I know that you've been getting worried. It's been almost a whole month without posting. I hear your fear.

And all I can say is – Sorry. I've just been rather busy lately.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Connection over Kiruv

2010-07-13T22:43:00.000+03:00

I asked a girl for directions today, and we ended up chatting through the rest of our shared ten minute walk from the train station.

I felt happy. Not because I saved a soul, not because I helped a secular Jew see the light, but because I made a friend.

Just like Yeshivish Harry says perfectly in his post on being friends with secular Jews, relating to other Jews shouldn't be all about Kiruv, it should be about conection, and caring.

Hopefully, the next time that my ten-minute-friend thinks of Chareidim, she won't think of the men throwing stones in the Meah Shearim, but of a girl who's a lot like her inside, even if she is dressed a bit differently.

And you know what, even if that doesn't happen, even if our conversation changes nothing about the way she views religious Jews, it doesn't matter. Because for a few minutes, two Jewish girls were friends. And I bet that when we were smiling, God was too.

Earning a Living

2010-07-06T23:51:00.001+03:00

Some of you noticed already. Thanks for the encouragement!

Those of you who didn't, I'm sorry, I know it's a bit late to only tell you now. Your copy of Mishpacha has probably already been recycled or passed on to the neighbor. But just in case you still have this week's magazine lying around, check out the back page of Family First. Story look familiar?

There's nothing like the thrill of seing your 'name' in Print. (Sara Shamansky = FnF.) Shamansky actually used to be my family's name generations back, so it's half true!

And in another attempt to earn my living from my pen (yeah right, like that's happening), here's a sponsored ad: Check out Modern Tribe for cool and hip Judaica

Chapter 30: A Bottle, a Boy, and a Phone Call

2010-07-01T22:56:00.001+03:00

She felt at home here. The polished mahogany tables, the stiff brocade sofas, the gold velvet curtains falling to the floor, nothing had changed in the years since her first visit. The same pictures still hung on the walls in their gilt frames, obtuse splotches of dark paint; she was beginning to find them almost attractive.

The boy was pulling back his jacket sleeve, looking at his watch. He did it openly. He didn't seem to care that on Shidduch dates it was rude to check the time; that it showed he didn't want to be there, with her.

Brachy could have saved him the bother. She was quite aware of the amount of minutes that had passed, and the amount that were still left to be gotten through. An hour and a half was the standard duration of a first date.

His face creased, as he examined the watch's hands. He looked back at Brachy, and at the half full Coca-Cola bottle and nearly untouched glass, on her side of the table. Both his bottle and glass were empty.

"What do your siblings do?" He asked her.

"I'm the oldest" Brachy said. "They are all in school still." Had he not taken the trouble to find out even that basic information beforehand? Or had he not made the effort to remember it?

She saw his gaze travel down again, to the unconsumed beverage. They couldn't leave, until her Coca-Cola was finished.

Brachy picked up the glass, and tried to gulp down the drink as fast as she could.
The hotel no longer seemed welcoming. She could sense when her company wasn't wanted.

He continued to ask the routine questions. She refilled the glass from the bottle, and answered as best as she could, between swallows.

Finally the glass was empty. She rested it on the table, and looked back at him.

He stood up.

The bill was paid, the taxi cab found, the ride passed with polite small talk, and soon Brachy was alone again, standing on the pavement. She could walk down the gravel path, between the trimmed hedges, and unlock the metal door, and press the elevator button, and travel up to home and sleep.

It wasn't late. The date had been short, shorter than usual. The other boys had pretended to be interested in her, at least. Brachy felt tears well up in her eyes. She never cried. She wouldn't cry.

Would she never find a boy who liked her? What was wrong with her? Was she too quiet, too shy? Didn't she smile enough?

Some boys liked her. Avner liked her. He'd said she should call sometime, and they could do something fun. She didn't have to go in straight away, Ima wouldn't be expecting her home yet. She could meet up with Avner first. She pulled out her cell phone to call him.

Chapter 29: Email Ultimatum

2010-06-30T23:32:00.001+03:00

Hi Karen,

How was Shavuos? Did you manage to go to the Shiurim you were planning to? I ate a very good cheesecake, but I'm ashamed to say that I still have no idea how to make one myself.

I have a request for you, Karen. I know you don't want us to meet. I understand why you feel we are not suitable for marriage. I hear your fears about certain details which I mentioned.

But let me explain my reasoning please.

We are still corresponding. Despite the so called irreconcilable differences you speak of. If there is really no chance of this working, perhaps we should say goodbye and wish each other good luck in life?

I hope your heart trembles at the thought, as much as mine does.

I enjoy writing to you; I enjoy reading your emails. I feel that we have somehow "clicked", is that not so? There is a meeting of the minds. We understand each other.

Perhaps I'm enjoying it too much. Your words, your lines and phrases, burst into my thoughts at the most inopportune moments- while I'm learning, Shmoozing, while I'm meeting some other young lady. I think of you too much, that's the long and short of it.

Rav Kumperneil says a Talmid must focus entirely on his learning if he is to hope to accomplish anything in Torah. The specific Tafkid of finding an Eishet Chayil, an Ezer Kenegdo, must of course be deserving of time, however this must be carefully monitored. The act of meeting must be focused, to the point, without distractions.

I feel our correspondence is a Zchut, a privilege. I thank you for the time you spend, the honor you bestow upon me.

I do not wish to suggest we cease corresponding. You are obviously a young lady with many worthy qualities. Ok, I'll be honest, I think we understand each other, Karen. I would really like to meet you. Please give this a chance. Perhaps my background, which you so object to, will not prove to be an insurmountable hurdle?

This is a turning point, Karen. We cannot carry on ignoring what we are doing any longer. Rehashing the same conflicts in writing will not bring us any closer, or break us any further apart. The only way is for us to actually meet, and talk about it, and see where this is going.

Awaiting your response eagerly,
Yishai

The phone rang. Karen grabbed it and pressed the green button, before the pealing tune could wake up the rest of the household. "Shulamit " the display was flashing. Could Karen ignore her, wait till tommorrow, when she'd had time to think? But tomorrow she'd be at work all day, it was difficult to find a private corner there. She answered.

"Shulamit. Hey"

"Yeah, the date was ok."

"You're right, we do have a lot in common"

"Yes, it was a good idea of yours. I'm very impressed at your matchmaking abilities."

"Oh, he wants to go out again?"

"That was quick, usually we only give an answer the next day."

"Right, I do see that if you've spoken to him already there's no reason to wait around."

"So do I want to?"

Karen ran her fingers over the mouse on the desk, dragging the cursor backwards and forwards across the screen, highlighting Yishai's name in blue.

"Sure, I'll go out with Daniel again."

There was no reason not to.

Summer in the Heights?

2010-06-07T22:41:00.001+03:00

I'm coming to New York!!!

Well to be more accurate, I found a place to stay in Washington Heights, and the unbelievable happened and my boss gave me three weeks off in August, without blinking. (I don't think he realizes that I'm already in a vacation day overdraft, but I'm sure not going to be the one to remind him.) So…all that's left is to book a ticket.

But before I do that- I want to ask you, my dear American readers- is it a good idea?
Because some folk here are telling me that August in New York is horribly hot and humid, and smelly, and worst of all - dead- with everyone clearing out of the city.

Fact or Fiction? I'm collecting votes.

And if you're of the "Do it!" camp, then have any advice and tips?

A Girl's Guide to Fashion Bargains

2010-06-02T23:51:00.002+03:00

My Guide to Tznius shopping is more for those "I desperately need a new outfit for wedding/date/trip and don't care how much it costs" occasions. Or in other words, a lot of the places mentioned are pretty expensive.

But how can a girl look stylish without breaking the bank?

Nothing compares with the satisfaction of finding a bargain. A female returning home with bags filled with clothes bought at half price is the modern equivalent of a triumphant Amazon huntress.

So where are the best deals?

Bargain Stores

Heavenly- (I think that's what it's called, I'll check next time I'm there) have a big selection of pretty skirts. All you need is the patience to carefully go through the racks. I've spotted some really good French labels there, which I remember from my last trip to Paris (doesn't that sound posh?) and even some Old Navy's.
(Prices:50-100 NIS for a skirt.
Location: In the Tachana Mercazit, enter and turn right, carry on till you spot a store on your left, on the corner, crammed full of skirts on racks.)

Shibolet is a store which imports suits and dresses from Europe. They often adjust the clothes before they sell them to make them more modest (lowering hems, adding sleeves etc) They definitely don't fit into the bargain category, but what I discovered this year is that they also have an annual sale around Elul time- Elul is not only a time for introspection and repentance, it's also a time for shopping for the Chagim- at Binyanei HaUma.
Even if you don't need clothes, go for the anthropological experience. Hundreds of Chareidi women browsing though endless racks of clothing at a frenzied pace. Tip: If you find an item there that you want to buy, hold onto it tight! If you put it down for a second, someone else will be sure to grab it.
(Prices:500 - 1500 NIS during the the year, 100-200 NIS at the Pre-Chagim sale.
Location: Rechov HaTurim, but wait for the annual sale in Binyanei HaUmah)

Outlet stores ("Odafim")

I love chains' outlet stores, because they usually have more of a selection than their regular stores. Instead of just this season's trends, they collect everything left over from the last few years. Unless you still care what the color of the season is, outlets win hand down.

The downside is that it's difficult to get to them...

My all time favorites are Mango Outlet stores (In Beer Sheva, Netanya, Haifa) – All their leftover skirts from across the world seem to make their way here. It's a Frum girl's paradise
.
Also there's the Outlet Mall in Hertzliya which has Honigman and Castro Outlets, and loads of other Outlets in random locations across the country.

So if there's an Israeli brand that you're into – Google where it's Outlet store is located, it could be worth a trip.

End of Season Sales ("Sof Onah")

An ironclad rule: Don't buy at the beginning of the season. Ever.

Ok, ok, if you fall absolutely in love with it, and you simply won’t survive the suspense, and the praying that it's still around in a few weeks time, then maybe you can get a special dispensation from the pope. But in general – Wait!

Winter stock hits the stores in September. It's still 30 degrees Celcius outside, and the malls are filled with coats and scarves. Do you really need this now? No!

By the time the first rains fall, and a chill hits the air, we're in November, the winter stock is old news, and is going on sale- Perfect timing!

Summer is tougher. You'll need to make do with last year's clothes for a few months. I know it's tough. Hold in there. Salvation will arrive by August at the latest, I guarantee.

So when exactly are the Sales? That's a tough question. There's no particular date (we aren't as organized as the French) but it does come in waves. So if you see "Sale" signs in one store window, odds are the others will be following soon. The good news is that sales are starting earlier and earlier each year. Soon the end of season sales will be before the season begins.

Of course, the problem with Israeli stores (e.g Castro, Renuar, Golf, Honigman etc.) is that they don't have real sales. They plaster their store windows with "Half Price!"- and only if you look very, very, carefully, you'll see underneath, in tiny letters - "off the second item".

Other popular ones are "buy 2, get 1 free"- like I'm going to find three things to buy there, davka during a sale when not much is left.

Worst of all is"10 % off the first item, 20% off the second, 30% off the third, etc." I mean, do the math, that works out to only a 20% discount if you buy three items all at the same price.

Basically, Israeli sales leave anyone who remembers percentages from elementary school entirely unimpressed.

International stores are a different matter. They actually do sometimes reduce prices by fifty percent. There the trick is going the very beginning of the sale, when there's still hope of finding stuff in your size. You're best off being a size 34-36, or 42-44. Sizes 38-40 are usually sold out even before the sale begins.

Basically. shopping for bargains is all about being in the right place at the right time. Good luck!

And now comes the best part- hearing what your favorite places for finding bargains are..?

A Girl's Guide to Tznius Shopping in Jerusalem

2010-06-02T00:12:00.000+03:00

Warning: Men should stop reading this right about now.

So you're in Jerusalem, the holy city. And you want to be holy, and dress modestly. But you don't want to look holy. You want to look good.

Never fear. I'm a secret Shopaholic. And arriving home loaded with shopping bags tonight, I suddenly felt like sharing my accrued wisdom with the world. This is going to be an exceedingly shallow post. 100% Chitzoniyus and Gashmiyut. My only defence is that a girl in Shidduchim has got to be well dressed!

Frum stores
I'm not so into shopping at Frum stores. Something about the idea of being dressed exactly the same as every girl in Bnai Brak and Sanhedria Murchevet gives me the shivers.

But if you're aiming for a Frum-yet-classy look for a Simcha, where you want Tante Baila to approve of you and suggest a fine Bochur for a Shidduch, then check out One-of-a-Kind (Location: Go down Rechov Haturim, which is off Malchei Yisroel, and then turn either left or right, I don't remember. It's on a small street that runs parallel to Malchei Yisroel)

And for an – I-may-be-an-old-maid-but-I-can-still-be-the-best-dressed-girl-at-this-wedding, look, there's a Frum designer called Shoshi Yogodayov. She's a bit-over-the-top, but much more original and glamorous than anything else you'll find in the Meah Shearim. The prices are crazy, wait for the end-of-season sales.
(Location: Go up the stairs of a building next to Noam Hafakot on Malchei Yisroel)

International Brands
Zara is the basic staple of most 'Yerushalmi' girl's wardbrobes. (Yerushalmi doesn't mean Chasidic from the Meah Shearim, but rather Boro-Park wannabes.) To go with the head bump comes the Zara pencil Skirt. Arab women also love Zara, so shoppers are guaranteed to have their heads covered one way or another.
(Location: Malcha Mall. There's one scheduled to open in Mamilla soon, and then 'there won't be a reason to go to the mall anymore.')

Mango also has a good skirt selection, their short ones are usually too short, but they have some long ones too. And I like their sweaters and tops.
(Location: Mamilla.)

Hold on a second, what about the Gap? Gap is a huge disappointment to all of us Israelis who were counting the days till it opened. American fashion simply does not work in Israel. Take the 'boyfriend shirt' – no secular Israeli is going to wear a huge baggy plaid button down shirt- that's what religious people wear! And no religious girl is going to wear it, because it's too baggy even for her, and besides, it only looks good over jeans, with half the buttons undone. The store is usually half empty, people flick through the racks and leave empty handed, the cash registers are desolate.
(Location: Mamilla, in the indoor building.)

Israeli Brands-
I popped into Mekimi once when I was waiting in Center1, and emerged an hour later with three skirts. They are specially for the religious public, but manage to stay fun and colorful.
(Location: Center1, Mamilla.)

Most Israeli chains cater for the non religious public, which let's just say is a lot less conservative than your average Frum girl. Also their prices are almost as high as Zara/Mango, but the quality usually isn't as good. But some places worth trying are:

Lord Kitch – they used to sell just T-shirts, then got so popular with the religious crowd who flocked there for their high necked 3/4 sleeved ones, that they branched into a whole range of clothing.
(Location: Malcha, Mamilla, two stores in town.)

Golf- Not that much to say about it. It's pretty Blah, but sometimes has pretty stuff.(Location: Tachana Mercazit, town (top of Ben Yehuda), Malcha)

Fox – Itsy bitsy handfuls of fabric in summer, but they stock cute sweaters in winter.

Designers
Local designer stores are Jerusalem's best kept secret. Start off at Betzalel street, and walk down towards King George street, you'll pass a couple of rows of them. Some are more expensive than others. I love the fact that their stuff is pretty unique, yet avoids the typical Israeli-Designer style of vast gray sacks with colored patches randomly sewn on, and asymmetrical hems.

My favorite store is Chumi, on Betzalel 10. They have a collection of Tznius clothes from a bunch of Israeli designers, and have an impressive selection. What sucks is they almost never have sales.

Also I recently discovered Naama Betzalel. Her style is the classic 40s-50s look. There's a store on King George, near Hamashbir, and a "Odafim" store opposite, where they stock leftovers from the last seasons at half the price. That's where the skirt I bought tonight is from :-)

So that's it for tonight. Any questions? Any tips? Places to add?

And yeah I realise this blog post totally ignores the fact that 90% of my readers are located in the States, and not in Jerusalem. Save this list for when you make Aliyah.

Chapter 28: Perfect on Paper

2010-05-30T22:23:00.000+03:00

Sometimes a boy and a girl meet, on a Shidduch date, and they know right away that they are perfect for each other. They have the same Hashkafa, outlook on life, the same ideals. They have the same hobbies, and CDs, and favorite books. The character traits they were looking for, their "list", is sitting right across from them, in flesh and blood. They should be thrilled, because perhaps they've found their soul mate.

There's only one problem. They aren't very happy about it.

"There are classical music concerts for free, on Monday afternoons" Daniel said. "I go to them with my sister, she's also in Jerusalem this year"

"That's so interesting" says Karen. "I love classical music. I never heard of those free concerts."

So he's a fan of classical music, the same way she is. Another point in his favor. Why is she wishing this date was over?

"I think balance is very important", Karen is saying. "I believe in a blend of Torah and secular studies"

Daniel finds himself nodding. He agrees entirely. He resists the urge to look at his watch.

They talk for two hours. They have a lot in common. They would make a good match. Daniel sees why Shulamit put them together.

But when Daniel does finally glance at his watch, and say "Shall we?", Karen is relieved.

Daniel walks her to the parking lot in silence. They both have no more energy for conversation.

When Daniel gets back to the Yeshiva dorms, he finds Ari in bed already, reading a biography of the Brisker Rav.

"Here's your tie back. Thanks, Ari."

Ari sits up, keeps a finger in the book, saving his place, and closes it.

"Nu, so how was?"

Daniel pauses for a moment, hesitates, finding the words.

"She's a very nice girl." He says. "We have a lot in common. I'll go out with her again, if she wants to."

And when Karen gets home, she says the same thing.

"He's a very nice boy. I'll go out with him again, if he wants to. I'll call Shulamit in the morning"

Then she turns on her computer. Maybe Yishai sent an email while she was out.

Chapter 27: Army Appeal

2010-05-29T21:15:00.001+03:00

Sunshine, grass, trees, wind catching at her hair, shadows falling in patterns on the ground, the gentle sounds the world made, when it was left alone. And Avner, always Avner.

He crouched beside her as she bent close to a wild flower, perched on a boulder as she climbed up to where there was a better view. Brachy grew to know the steady click of his camera's shutter, as he snapped frame after frame, always staying within breathing distance.

Brachy giggled, as she watched the group gathering around one lone blossoming tree, surrounding it on all sides with their cameras and eager gazes. She flipped the lid off the lens.

"Makes you feel sorry for the tree, doesn't it?" Avner whispered into her ear.

Brachy jumped. She smiled up at him, but moved away, putting some distance between them.

He continued, ignoring her reaction. "So much pressure. I sure hope that poor tree is photogenic."

"Rather it than me." Brachy said.

"Oh I'd way prefer to take a picture of you any day Brachy. You're much prettier than the flower blossoms."

Brachy's face froze. Shock, embarrassment, dismay. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, without speaking. Her eyes were two admonishing guardians, gazing at Avner with disapproval.

"I was joking! Don't worry Brachy, I know you're a Dosit. Forget it, OK? Look, there's a squirrel, think we'll catch it in time?"

Brachy felt stupid, she knew her reaction to his compliment was extreme. She forced her mouth into a more normal expression, and shrugged, nodded, kneeled beside Avner to snap shots of the squirrel now disappearing behind a rock.

"If you hold a stalk of grass, or something, close to the lens, it will blur, create a halo for the picture. Try it, it makes an interesting frame." Avner passed over a twig

"How do you know so much, anyway?" Brachy asked Avner. "I thought this class was for beginners?"

"They taught me photography in the Army." Avner said.

As if that explained it all. "The army?" Brachy pictured a row of soldiers in formation, all taking artistic portraits of the sunset, or perhaps chasing butterflies? Photography didn't fit in with Brachy's image of basic training.

"For reconnaissance. I was in intelligence. " Avner didn't say more.

She'd forgotten that Avner had been a soldier, forgotten that he had done so much already in life. She'd begun thinking of him of another friend, doing the same things that she did.

Nobody in Brachy's family had ever served in the army. Not her father, not her brothers, or cousins. She had never seen a man come home in uniform, was never taught the army slang. Soldiers were heroic, powerful, beings. They'd endured basic training, they'd trekked across deserts bearing loaded packs, they'd risked their lives for the country.

True, lately the soldiers she saw on the bus and the street were looking smaller, younger, more vulnerable. Brachy began to realize that she was older than most of them, that they were just boys really.

But it was still exciting, thinking of Avner as a soldier. He suddenly seemed older than he had before. Brachy saw, as if for the first time, the shadow of stubble on his chin; she heard the thick huskiness of his voice.

She wondered if it was true what he'd said before; did he really think that she was pretty?

What is YOUR favorite Shidduch post?

2010-05-25T22:48:00.000+03:00

You know those Shidduch posts you read, somewhere, anywhere, and really love? The ones where your reaction is "That's exactly how I feel", the ones that leave you thinking, or get you grinning. Tell us about them!

We are collecting the best of the Shidduch Blogosphere, over here.

Our goal- Publication. Don't you feel sorry for those poor souls who don't have Internet access, or who haven't yet discovered the blogosphere? And wouldn't it be great, to have the very best posts collected in one book?

Our motivation- Making a real difference in how singles are being viewed in the Frum Community, and providing a genuine, uncensored, well written narrative about Shidduchim

Bad4Shidduchim launched the project today. Here are some FAQs we are being asked:

Who can nominate a blog post? Anyone! You don't even have to register on the site (although it would be cool if you did!)

Can I nominate my own blog posts? Yes! Who knows your best posts better than yourself? We are trying to find all the great stuff out there, that we might not know about - or might have read, and loved, but forgotten about.

So what do I do now? Go to the Shidduch Anthology Forum, and post the links to your favorite posts. And spread the word!

The Other Species

2010-05-24T22:29:00.002+03:00

They fascinated me. They lived beside us, but in a system entirely apart. Talking to them would cast me into a state of mortal sin, but I badly wanted to hear how yeshiva boys lived, and talked, and thought. I wanted to hear what went in within the hallowed halls where my feet could never tread. I gathered up crumbs of information, snippets of conversations. And I wondered.

Fast forward ten years, out of high school and into Shidduchim. Yeshiva boys are coming out of my ears. Can this be God's repayment for my once secret interest? "You want to hear what it's like in Yeshiva, do you? You'll hear what it's like in a hundred Yeshivas!"

For I am now an expert on Yeshivas.

A Chareidi colleague discusses where to send his son to Yeshiva. I inundate him with a wealth of information; I tell him the pros and cons of each institution, the type of boys who go there, the families they come from, the staff's approach to Chinuch, and the comfort level of the food and dorms. I even share some of the below the surface politics with him.

"Oh they've changed" I say, "The new Rosh Yeshiva want to make it more Chareidi."

He blinks at me. Why should a girl know all this? What business is it of hers?

I wish I could pull out my credentials, and flourish them in his face. I have endless reliable sources; an infinite list of conversations and discussions, on all facets of Yeshiva life- the good, the bad, and the excruciatingly boring.

For what does a Yeshiva boy talk about on a date, if not his Yeshiva?

So if you need advice on where to Shteig in Eretz Yisroel, or where to send your son, contact: 1-800-Frum N' Flipping – for all your Chinuch needs.

Who's the most eligible of them all?

2010-05-23T23:52:00.001+03:00

I have good news. In fact, I have fabulous news. You know how we are always venting about the Shidduch scene?

Well, I misjudged it. The cloud does have a silver lining. The Shidduch world is not that bad after all!

We can start counting our blessings.

Blessing #1: There is no list of top eligible singles published every year in Hamodia.

Let's all take a moment to say a little prayer of gratitude. (Something along the lines of"Thank you O Lord, for sparing us")

For our less fortunate brethren, those abiding in the 'Swamp' of Kattamon, have this to deal with every year.

When Nati on Srugim made it to an online list of eligible Religious singles, I wasn't sure if it was a joke. Turns out it's for real. Every year NRG publishes a list of the top Dati folk who are on the market for a spouse.

I'm so glad I'm Chareidi!

Or should we be starting our own version of "The List"?

Chapter 26: Enough is Enough

2010-05-21T15:39:00.000+03:00

"There are no words for this perfection. No mortal expression can capture the sublimity of your creation." Dovid took another bite of cheesecake, and rolled his hand around his stomach, to show how much he was enjoying it.

"Thank you, thank you." Shulamit grinned. "So your big sis' is good for something, eh?"

"Shulamit, you outdid yourself this year." Ima said. Shulamit's annual Shavuos cheesecake was a family tradition.

"At least she's making the most of all the free time on her hands." Abba said. "Better a gourmet cheese cake than another hare brained scheme."

Ima turned and frowned at him. At least on Yom Tov let there be no disagreements.

"Actually, I have some amazing news!" Shulamit said, turning to her father. "Just wait till you hear this!"

"Well go on then." He said, cutting himself another slice of cake.

"I met this girl at the wedding last week, and I realized she is exactly the type of girl that Daniel is looking for! - Remember Daniel? He came to sell flowers that time when there was a mix up – Anyway I called them both and they agreed to go out!"

Shulamit beamed, as her eyes darted back and forth between Abba and Ima and Dovid, to capture the excitement she knew would be reflected back at her. She waited, but none of them smiled, or said a word. There was silence.

"Aren't you pleased?" Shulamit said slowly.

Ima spoke. "We were hoping you would have better news for us."

"What's better than making a Shidduch? Do you know what a Mitzvah it is?!"

"Matchmaking is indeed a great thing." Abba said. "But 'Aniyei Ircha Kodmin', the poor of your own city come first. What about you Shulamit? When will you stop with this game and focus on your own life?"

"Abba's just worried about you." Ima said. "I also am. We all are."

"But you promised! We agreed on this! You said it was O.K!"

Dovid poured out some of the fancy white wine Abba had brought home. Nobody was looking his way. He tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Girls, and their endless melodrama! Thank God he only had one sister. Although she was a jolly good cook.

"Shulamit, we agreed that you could take a year off to focus on your studies." Abba said, glancing between words at his wife for confirmation. "We weren't expecting you to launch a neighborhood campaign to marry off every girl aside for yourself!"

Now Shulamit was the silent one.

"If marriage is so on your mind, why don't you try to get married yourself? Isn't it time? Haven't you waited long enough?"

"I can't believe you're speaking to me like this. How can you forget what I went through? I need a break. I can’t deal with it anymore. And besides, I need to focus on my career. The religious fashion world needs me."

Dovid picked up a Bencher, and launched into a loud, if off tune, "Shir HaMaalot." He figured the meal had gone on long enough. Why couldn't his family be normal, like Yitzy's family ?

Ambitions

2010-05-20T20:08:00.000+03:00

"What are your plans for this year?" That would be my boss talking. He looks at me expectantly.

The answer is obvious. The words flash in my mind, as if spelled out in neon light bulbs on the top of a store front window.

"Finish my novel."

Wrong answer. There's no way I can say that. He doesn't even know I'm writing a novel.

"My plans?" Stalling for time is always an option.

"How do you want to develop this year?" He doesn't shift his gaze from my face.

I take it "Finally get a driving license" is also out? How about "Work on my Middos"? Does that count as development?

I spend a hefty chunk of my day here, between four office walls. I shouldn't just be killing time, waiting to leave, to date, to write.

"I'd like more responsibility." I mumble. "And more opportunities for creativity."

Yeah that sounds passably professional.

Last year the answer I bit back was "Get married." I really should start preparing for these meetings.

Just One Date

2010-05-16T23:57:00.001+03:00

"'Just one date', they'd tell me. 'A couple of hours, why not? Isn't it worth a try?'

"And they were right in a way. I couldn’t rule out guys before I'd met them. Because I'm a mix, and I needed a mix. I couldn't know ahead what was the exact combination of Israeli and Chutznik, of Yeshivish and open, that I needed. Because it depended on the guy really, it's not an exact science. So I kept trying.

"But one date was never one date. There's the 'before', the whole getting ready business. But what's worse is the 'after', the deliberations, the 'should I try again?'. The hoping he'll say no, because you don't have the courage to be the one to end it. Second dates are almost autmoatic, because how can you know him properly after only one date? Eventually it ends, two or three dates later, one or two weeks later, after endless phone calls and debates. And it always ends for the reason that you saw on the first date."

I nod, I agree. It's often the same for me too. (Those times when I'm not the one being dumped)

"Finally I decided I'm going to start listening to myself. I'm going to trust my instincts. I'll go out for 'just one date', and it really will be for one date only. If I don't see it going anywhere I'll end it, cut it right away, not let it drag on."

"And it worked", I say.

She smiles. She's now happily married to a guy who is totally unlike her 'on paper', who she agreed to the 'just one date' with (because she knew it really only had to be one date, and not more), and who she liked, a lot, and clicked with. And actually wanted spend a second date, and a third, and eventually a lifetime with.

"It saved me so much heartache" she tells me. "I went out with all types of guys that year, I tried everything, but as soon as I didn't think it was going to work, I ended it, and moved on."

"It's scary" I say. "What if I'm meant to marry someone who I don't like straight away? How can I know who my Besherte is, and how much of a chance I need to give the relationship?"

Her dating strategy does sound appealing though. Listening to myself, and to my feelings, which never really change, however much I keep trying. No more forcing relationships that aren't going anywhere. No more praying to be dumped. Should I try it?

Scrawling for a Shidduch

2010-05-16T00:04:00.002+03:00

"We don't know each other. But maybe we'll get married one day. I like your name. I'm sure we'll fall madly in love"

I grin. I wonder what he'll make of that! It serves him right for insisting on this crazy method for winnowing out the unsuitables.

Then I crumple up the paper; I've got to try to take this seriously. I lay out a new blank white sheet on the desk. What should I write in a letter to someone I've never met, never even spoken to?

It doesn't matter really. He just wants to see my handwriting. He doesn't care what I say.

I can't believe I agreed to this; giving a guy a sample of my handwriting, so that he can analyze it, before we even go out. I bet he's not even my type. I don't go for this sort of stuff.

My writing looks messy on the paper. I always joke that my handwriting is encrypted, because I'm the only one who can decipher it. I wonder what the scrawled letters and lines will teach him about me.

I told them that they could forget it, a year ago. I didn't care that he was a 'great guy'. I wasn't going to let my handwriting be analyzed, by anyone. I thought it was insane, I still do. But now I'm in my "what the heck" mood. Compared to posing a Shidduch profile online, is this any crazier?

The situation is ironic. Usually I worry what guys will think of my writing. But this time I wait to see what he thinks of my handwriting. I can't win.

This all happened a while ago. To my great surprise, my messy handwriting passed the test. We were soul mates. Until the actual date proved that premise wrong (it was face to face, not handwriting to handwriting). I'm curious, what's your take on Graphology and Shidduchim? What would you have done in my place?

Did you know that I'm a fanatic?

2010-05-16T00:01:00.001+03:00

I'd love to see your comments on my guest post about being a fanatic in Jerusalem.

For Appearances Sake: A Story

2010-05-13T23:09:00.002+03:00

She tells me there's another way. She tells me it can be different. I try to keep my disbelief from showing; I try to keep the skepticism out of my eyes. I humor her. I nod along as she speaks. The poor girl can't be quite all there, if you know what I mean

Her eyes are steady, as she looks back at me. She seems normal enough. Perhaps she merely doesn't realize the implications of her words, and no one has taken the trouble to teach her, to show her the way things need to be. Her statements tumble out in a stream of perplexities, until I break in, interrupting. I can't keep quiet any longer.

"You go to the shows that sound the most 'fun'? You only go to Shiurim that you 'find interesting'?"

She nods. She doesn't deny it.

"What about weddings?" I ask her. "Which weddings do you attend?"

"Weddings that I want to go to."

"But what if there's nobody there?!"

"There's always somebody there" she laughs. She looks at me like I'm the crazy one, would you believe it.

"But what if there's nobody there who matters?"

"Nobody who matters?"

"Who knows people. You need to go to places where you'll be seen, where you'll meet people." I explain with great patience. Really I'm proud of myself, managing to show such understanding.

As a single girl, she has duties. She needs to go to the right places, in order to meet the right sort of people, so that they will introduce her to the right sort of boy. She can't just saunter around like she's on vacation, without a thought to the future. How will she ever be set up with anyone, if she's not even trying?

The girl seems oblivious to the dim fate that lies ahead for her. She carries on speaking, smiling, telling now of the curious friendships she strikes up with people of no social significance. She doesn't even seem embarrassed.

I try to picture the world she describes. Faint pictures rustle in my mind, they are faded and brittle, scenes of days gone by. Is she from another time, another place? Do they ignore the whispers, in her world?

"What about the whispers?" I ask her.

She stops her chatter. She stares at me, as if she's not sure what to say.

"The little voices that whisper in your head, that ask 'Does she know anyone?', whenever you're with someone. Don't you hear them?"

Still she stares at me, unspeaking.

"'Who will be there?', 'Who will I meet?', 'Should I go?'" I continue. "The whispers. They are a continuous echo in the background. They tell you what to do, where to go, who to speak with, who to make an effort to socialize with. "

She turns around and walks away from me.

I remember now. I remember that I used to be like her. I used to live life without the whispers. Then things changed. They'll change for her too, when she starts Shidduchim.

I hope it won’t always be like this. I have friends on the other side. I have friends who are married. They tell me things are different, in that place. They tell me the whispers go away. They tell me the ulterior motives vanish, disappear. They live life for its own sake again, and not for appearances sake. That's what they say, at least. I don’t know if to believe them.

Chapter 25: Before Shavuos

2010-05-11T23:53:00.001+03:00

There was a kit for sale. Cheese, cookie crumbs, topping, all wrapped up neatly in a plastic tub, instructions included. It was tempting.

She already had a cheesecake recipe, waiting at home, torn out from this week's Mishpacha. The ingredients she needed were listed on the back of the envelope, tucked in the purse somewhere, if only she could find it.

The recipe had looked good, when she'd read it. But the half-the-work -done-for-you kit would be less work, less of a bother. It was double the price the ingredients would cost stand alone though. And it wouldn't come out as good. Besides, she made a cheesecake every year for Shavuos, she loved baking. What had gotten into her?

She wondered what would happen if she went home, without the ingredients? What would happen if she didn't make a cheesecake? What would happen if she stayed home, and didn't go to Shul? Could she pretend it wasn't Yom Tov? Could she ignore the date, and wait for it to be over?

Shavuos was the spiritual start of the year. Shavuos was the day when Hashem decided how much help with Torah he'd give you the next year, the same way that on Rosh Hashana he decided on the material stuff. But Brachy still wished it was over. How had she ever had the energy, for the Shiurim and the Mussar books, the praying and the learning?

Brachy used to worry that she wasn't really religious. Did she really believe in God? How could she know if she did? She read books, written specially for teenagers, about faith, and belief. She read books about the truth of the Torah, and proofs of the existence of God. She wanted to believe. But she didn't know how she felt deep inside. She couldn't tell. What would happen, if she was tested?

So it had been a relief, in a way. Going through the worst, and seeing that she did believe in him.

God had been there with her then, with them all. One week, spent by a hospital bed. One week, in the hospital's Intensive care. Brachy had felt him then. If she shut her eyes and blocked out the world, she could still remember. It was the hardest week of her life, but God had been there, he'd wrapped himself around her, and comforted her, and made her strong.

Now it was over, and she was on her own again. Daddy was gone, God was gone, she was left to cope. Year after year, Shavuos following Pesach. Would the cycle of festivities never end? She tried to bring back the feelings of faith, of assurance, that she'd had in the year of mourning, but the emptiness, hollowness, stayed.

Trust Sara Leah to call for a chat when Brachy was surrounded on all sides by impatient shoppers. She managed to hold the phone with one hand, and push the cart with the other.

"Where will you be for Yom Tov?"

"At home."

They always asked her that question. It started when Daddy died. They expected her to go away for Yom Tov, go somewhere where there was a man at the head of the table. As if now her family was no longer a family, her home no longer a home.
She was creating a traffic jam in the drinks aisle. "I'll talk to you later Sara Leah, OK?"

The Yahrzeit candles, she mustn't forget them. What aisle were they in?

This time the phone gave only a short beep; it was a text message, not a phone call. Avner had started texting her in between classes. He wanted her to see a new movie with him tomorrow night, when Yom Tov was out. Didn't he realize that she didn't watch movies? She couldn't do a thing like that of course.

Brachy dropped a handful of Yahrzheit candles into the cart. Enough for them all to light tonight.

In front of the fridges, Brachy reached out and took a cheesecake kit. It would be easier.

Disclaimer: I have a messy room. It took me two hours to tidy it today. While I was hanging up clothes I thought about this scene, and tried to bring it to life. Why am I telling you all this? Because, flattering as it is when my story sounds real, this is NOT a true story, and Brachy is NOT me. Glad we cleared that up..
Happy Shavuos everyone!

Chapter 24: When Dreams Come True

2010-05-09T14:34:00.000+03:00

It wasn't coming out right. Was it the lines that were wrong, the shading? Shulamit wanted the dress to be simple, fresh, but instead it looked flowery and naïve on paper. She ran a thick x through the center of the charcoal figure, and folded over the sheet.

The blank whiteness of the new page reflected back at her, as if it were the enemy, mocking her. She'd never found it so difficult to work before. In school she'd always been drawing. While the teachers drawled on, while the girls giggled and gossiped, Shulamit had drawn out her fantasies, working her way back from the ends of notebooks to their centers, only stopping when she reached class notes and homework, encroaching from the beginning.

The pictures she'd produced had been admired, praised. "You're so talented", they told her. 'You have a gift." "Don't forget us when you're famous."

And she'd believed them. She'd always known what she wanted to be when she grew up. She enjoyed drawing and designing dresses, she was good at it, she was meant for it.

So really everything should be perfect now. Finally she could spend all day studying and practicing fashion, art, and design.

The table was spread with charcoal pencils of varying thicknesses. Dovid was in school, Abba was at work, Ima was out shopping; the house was quiet. It was too quiet. Shulamit found her portable microphones in Dovid's room, plugged them in to her IPod. All artists needed background music to work to, why hadn't she thought of that before?

Being an artist was a lot of pressure. She couldn't sit around and wait to be inspired. She couldn't work when she felt like it. There were deadlines, and assignments to hand it. It was positively draining, sucking out every ounce of creativity she'd ever possessed. No wonder her pictures were falling flat. What did they expect from her?

How did the other students do it? How did they turn up week after week with original masterpieces? Were they better than her? Was she good enough? Maybe she'd made a mistake? Shulamit couldn't bear to be mediocre, when she'd always thought she was the best. Should she give up, and go back to the Seminary where she belonged, and study teaching, together with all the others?

She needed a break. Shulamit remembered the girl from Sara Leah's wedding; Karen, that was her name. She'd told Karen she had a Shidduch for her. Daniel would be perfect; he was sophisticated and worldly, just like Karen was. Had Karen tried dating Baal Teshuvas before? It really was the ideal solution for her. Anyway, she'd call him. Sometimes being a matchmaker was much more relaxing than being an artist.

"Hi Daniel, it's Shulamit, can you talk now? How are you?" Shulamit cradled the cordless phone in the nook of her neck, even though the school nurse had told them how bad that was for posture. She needed her hands free to fish for the scrap of paper where she'd written down Karen's details. When she'd emptied out her evening bag, where had the contents landed?

"I'm doing well. I'm enjoying this Zman at Yeshiva. Still fitting in the basketball I told you about. The dorms are emptying out, with all the boys getting engaged, but the truth is I'm enjoying the space."

"Right. That's great." Shulamit had been expecting a grunt and a swallowed "Baruch Hashem", not a whole conversation.

"And how are you, Shulamit?" Daniel prompted.

Now Shulamit felt obliged to give a genuine response. "Well I'm also studying..."

Her voice trailed off.

"I remember. Fashion design. Your dream! Is it going well?"

Shulamit didn't know how it happened. But Daniel was the first person to ask the question, and sound like he wanted to know the answer. The words tumbled out in a torrent, flowing smoother than the sketches she'd been agonizing over. She told him everything. He was patient, on the other side of the line. He asked more questions, encouraging her to talk. Shulamit realized that she'd been lonely, working at home all day. And classes weren't much better, she felt an alien there, among the students in their T- Shirts and Jeans. It felt good, to be finally talking to someone.

But suddenly, she was embarrassed. She had no business mixing her personal life in with making Shidduchim.

Shulamit lowered her voice, making it sound more businesslike and mature. "Listen Daniel, it's been great talking to you, but I actually called to ask you something. I have an idea for you."

"An idea?"

"You know. A Shidduch idea. Are you free now?"

"Of couse. A Shidduch..."

"She's an amazing girl! I met her last night. Remember how you said you're looking for someone intellectual? Well she's really into all that stuff."

Shulamit didn't understand why Daniel sounded so reserved all of a sudden. He really was the most perplexing boy. But as long as he'd agree to go out with Karen, it didn't matter.

So What's Up?

2010-05-06T23:12:00.000+03:00

To stop you thinking I've been slacking off, to dispel the impression that I've been spending my free time lounging around in a hammock on the shores of the Caribbean, instead of typing away like a dutiful blogger should be, I figured it's time to post some links.

I've been blogging for Midnight East at the International Writer's Festival in Jerusalem. (But don't get your hopes up- I'm not shedding the cloak of anonymity. It's a pseudonym.)

I was worried I'd be discovered for a fraud beforehand. I couldn't believe that despite usually teetering around in heels, on the one day I meet the President of Israel(well I didn't actually meet him, but let's not get nitty gritty here) I'm wearing sneakers and looking a mess. Guess that's life. And I did enjoy the Invitation Only press conference and opening ceremony.

What do single girls like? Or more precisely, what do Frum single girls who are in Shidduchim like? And what do they NOT like?

Frum Satire also reposted my Marrying-a-Gay-Guy question. The feedback was interesting. (Although some is R-rated, so be warned)

The other breaking news item is that, from across the Atlantic, BOSD came to Jerusalem, and we got to meet up. This historic event took place on Ben Yehudah. Luckily, we managed to keep away the Paparazzi. (And don't worry Bad4, despite it being a chapter meeting of the BadForShidduchim club, I knew better than to order an ice cream this time. The fruit shake wasn't very good though, BOSD, was it?) And guess what? I discovered I'm not the only blogger to write all my posts on my IPod!

Ps. Since I know you're all waiting in suspense, let me make the official announcement that my career in double dating is over.

Mamma's Lil' Boy

2010-05-04T23:44:00.000+03:00

Do you ever feel like you're living in a surreal Kafkaesque universe, too weird to be true? Do you ever wonder when the shutters will open, and sense will seep back into the world? If you open up your eyes will it be over? Can you go to sleep and wake up from this dream? You cry, from the sheer frustration; the absurdity overwhelms you, you look around frantically for the clarity that once was. How did you get here, what step along the way brought you to this society of madness? Why don't they see it too; why do they let this happen; where is this leading to?

I've been on dates with men. I've been on dates with women. I've never been on a double date before. A double date which is also a first date. A double date where both our moms get to tag along with us, and join in all the fun.

I'm confused as to the coupling. Do I pair up with him, while his mom pairs up with mine? Do we trade, me dating his mom and vice versa?

"Fine. Wednesday. 9 PM. At the café. Oh...there's there's one small thing. His mother wants to come along."

"His mother is coming on the date with us?! On a first date?!"

"Only for the first few minutes . That's the way they do things."

I'm too tired to put up a fight.

Then he calls back.

"They say the way they always do things is that both mothers meet beforehand. They want your mother to come too."

You know when you're too shocked for your mind to respond?

Later I take it in, the implications; I'm going on a chaperoned blind date.

Despite my ripe old age, I'm taking part in an act choreographed for children, too immature to know their own mind.

Because what can be their motives?

Is this to get a picture of my family religiosity, level of Frumness, Heimishness?

Perhaps it's all a matter of establishing my class, a not so subtle socio-economic background check?

Or do they want to see my mother's figure, to decipher the genetics of what dress size I'll be when I'm a grandmother?

I am going to refuse point blank. Delete the little box in Outlook with the place and time, and move onto the next guy. Because how can any guy who needs to bring along his mom on a first date; who relies on her approval not only of a girl, but also of a girl's family; who can't make the decision whether to go out a second time on his own; how can a guy who behaves like that be suitable for me, mature enough for me? I want to marry a grown up man, not a little boy.

I make the decision. Hashem makes a different once. There's a miscommunication along the chain of telephones and arrangers. It's all set. We are going out tomorrow, all four of us.

Let's look on the bright side. My grandmother lives abroad. So at least it won't be a triple date.

I'm an INTP

2010-05-02T00:52:00.000+03:00

We ask about hats, and colors of Kippahs. We ask which stream of society he belongs too.

"Which Yeshivas did he go to?"
"What do his parents do?"
"What do his siblings do?"
"Where do they live?"
"How many years does he want to learn for?"

That's how we match up couples. Surprisingly, despite two people being perfect for each other on paper, despite them both agreeing that the husband should be in Kollel for exactly 5.5 years, until the birth of their third child; despite them both having brothers who learn in the Mir, and sisters who are working in special Ed; despite all of that, they meet and don't click.

The infamous click. The adults around them tear their hair out in frustration.
"What do you mean you don't like him?!"
"He's a very good boy, what's there not to like?"

The dater is ashamed. Indeed the boy is wonderfully suitable for her. She too will only eat Rubin and Eidah Chareidit chicken. But nonetheless, she doesn't enjoy being with him.
She's scared that she really is picky, like they all are saying.

There's one facet we often skip in Shidduch dating. Indeed, it's a minor detail. It may be the topic of one or two questions, asked and answered generically.
"Is he outgoing?"
"Oh yes. He's a very friendly boy."

All boys are friendly. Perhaps he nods and says Good Shabbos to the men he meets in Shul. Perhaps he's friendly with his dog, or his pet lizard. But he's friendly for sure. So what's the point in even asking? A boy's personality is hard to describe, hard to measure. It's not black and white like his suits and shirts.

So we don't even try to assess it beforehand. Personality we leave for the date. That's the point where we can see if there's a click. The main thing is we know what his Hashkafas are. All of married life will be smooth sailing, as long as we can agree where to send our kids to school.

It turns out that outside the religious world, people are search for mates in a different fashion. Zodiac "love matches" have been around since who-knows-when. Then there's graphology (more on that another day). And EHarmony has come along with a 250+ question Personality Profiles. Should this be a new section for our Shidduch DVDs?

Meanwhile, I took a free Myer Briggs test. Turns out that I'm an INTP. Now, I don't usually go for this sort of stuff, but 90 percent of what they wrote was totally accurate. It was like they could see inside my mind. It's pretty cool.

I don't think I want to rely on Myer Briggs for determining who I marry though. That's all I need.

"He won't go out with you because your Myer- Briggs personality types don't match".
"But we have the same Hashkafas! We are perfect for each other!"

Shidduch Experiment

2010-04-27T23:08:00.002+03:00

Is the internet filled with weirdos? Crazy, creepy, stalkers, who lurk in cyber shadows, afraid to venture out into the real world?

I don't think so. I think the internet has become pretty main stream. Regular people use it; nice normal people surf this site, people like me, and like you.

Yes, you.

And now the question is, Are you a guy? Are you single? Are you smart? Are you a balance of seriously Frum and open minded? Do you want to live in Israel?

And if you don't fit the above criteria, maybe you know somebody who does?

Frum Satire's been trying to convince me for months to post a Shidduch profile on his site. I remained skeptical. Why look for trouble? It’s not like I don't have boys to go out with.

But I'm trying to break out of the mold. I've been dating for four years, from ever since I turned nineteen. And I don't think I've been meeting the right type of guy. I could carry on with the way I've been doing things. Hear the same Shidduch suggestions from family friends, and siblings' friends, and Seminary friends' husbands'. But instead I turn to you, the world-wide-web. Frumster and SYAS work for some people, is this any different?

So here goes. And I know I can rely on all my wonderful friends in the JBlogosphere to link to this post, and spread the word. (Yup, that's a hint! Admit it's a fun way to test the power of blogging.)

"So tell me about yourself"

Well I fall between two worlds

Boys who are raised in Israel, and go through the Chareidi system, tend to become very Chareidi themselves. While we girls keep our home's Hashkafa, and still look for openness.

And so I turn my eyes to the States. But it's hard to find a YU-style guy, who wants to live in Israel. It's hard to find ANY YU-Style guys, while I'm in Israel.

Of course, maybe the real reason I'm still single is that Clever Girls are Ugly

Or that I'm Frum N' Feminist

And oh no, have they been speaking to my neighbors?

Did they hear about my lack of housekeeping skills?

Anyway, I shall continue my search for True Love

Maybe my next date will be a GOOD Shidduch Date?

And maybe I'll meet him online?

My email address is chutznikit@gmail.com . Consider this an experiment.

Skipping to Motherhood

2010-04-26T19:29:00.001+03:00

I could buy a Sheitel and a ring, and move to a place where no one knows me. I could say my husband is a Masmid, and learns in Kollel night and day, and thus explain away his absence. I could have a baby, and raise him on my own. I could stop waiting for the right man, and skip to the next stage. I could be a mother, before I'm a wife.

I won't, of course. But sometimes I want to.

I told my theory to the guy I was dating, when we sat on the grass one night.

"First you think marriage is about having a permanent boy friend, and it's not."

Teenagers also want to get married. They want a boy to give them red roses and heart shaped candies. They want a boy to tell them he loves them. They want the romance, and the relationship. But marriage should be about giving, not taking. They aren't there yet. If they do get married their relationship will have to mature, after the Chuppah, for it to last.

"Then you think marriage is about giving to each other, building a relationship. That's closer, but still not enough."

When I started dating, I was nineteen. I wanted to get married, but secretly also hoped I could push off having kids for a couple of years.

"When you actually want to have children, that's when you know for sure that you're ready for marriage, ready to build a home"

I can't put my finger on the exact moment when it all changed. It happened gradually, I suppose.

You may say that it's peer pressure, being surrounded on all sides by strollers and pacifiers.

You may say it's my biological clock beginning to tick louder.

I think that it's age, maturity. Reaching that stage where you want to love without limits, where you want to be a parent, and raise a child.

You're scared, it's a big responsibility, but you feel ready for it, ready to be a mother.

And now I'm past the stage of readiness, I've reached the stage of impatience, of longing.

I hold out my finger, and a baby grasps it and wraps his little hand around it. I read a story about a stuffed elephant to a chubby toddler, she smiles and repeats the words. "Kick" I tell the six year old, showing her how to swing all by herself.

The right guy hasn't showed up yet. But I want to be a mother. I wonder what would happen if I could buy a Shaitel and a ring, and move to a place where no one knows me...

Chapter 23: Brachy's Pictures

2010-04-20T14:28:00.001+03:00

They sat cross legged, in a circle on the grass. As she leaned over, to take the photos from her bag, Brachy's skirt brushed against Avner's jeans. Brachy shifted a little, away from Avner. She did it carefully, for him not to notice and be offended. It felt strange for a boy to be so close.

Avner was nice; her one friend in the class. He always saved a place for her, and filled her in on what Ilana had taught, when Brachy arrived late after work. The others mainly ignored her. They were busy with their cameras and equipment. Unscrewing lenses, playing with the settings, using foreign terms like "aperture priority" and "white balance".

The two men on her left were having a heated debate on the merits of Canon vs. Nikon. "Canon's autofocus is useless!" the one man was practically shouting.

Brachy had a Canon. It lay on her lap now, an even rectangle of metal and plastic. It was dwarfed by the cameras around her. They were big and bulky, jutting out in awkward angles; they were cameras for professionals.

"Can I see?"

Avner pointed at the pile of pictures she was holding. He could only make out the brick wall, on the top one.

"They're the photos Ilana told us to bring, our best ones from before the course."

"Yes, I guessed. I'd like to see them, can I?"

Brachy passed them over to him. She was careful to hold only the one edge, so that Avner could take them by the other side, without their fingers touching.

She watched him, as he placed the photos one by one on the top of the stack. She watched his eyes, his face, the creases around his mouth, trying to guess what he thought of her work. She felt as if she were letting him see inside her. She never showed her photos to anyone. They were taken in random moments, and then forgotten.

Avner was surprised. He'd expected panoramic views, of rivers and the sea shore. He'd expected close ups of flowers and butterflies. He'd expected smiling babies, and toddlers in beribboned dresses. Those were the type of pictures that girls took, that his old girl friends used to coo over.

Instead he saw people; adults, old men, teenagers. They kept their backs to the camera, their faces turned away. Their backgrounds were walls, and wires, and odd patches of shadows.

"I like the composition" Avner said finally.

His eyes met Brachy's.

Ultra orthodox girls weren't new to Avner. He saw them every day, as they streamed past him in flocks, between schools and stores and apartment buildings. They looked away from him, ignored him. They were primly dressed, staidly dressed, in pleated skirts and baggy blouses, buttoned to the collarbone. They sent out a forbidding aura, carefully bred into them by mothers and matrons and teachers. "Stay away", their every gesture told him.

Brachy was dressed the same. But Brachy was different.

He wanted to know her.

"How about we go grab a coffee, afterwards? I know a fun place in town. It's Mehadrin, you only eat Mehadrin, right?" Avner said it casually, as if it wasn't a big deal.

Brachy should have known this would happen. It was what she had been warned about, her whole life. Boys were dangerous, if you got too close to them.

"I can't" she said. "I don't do that."

Avner shrugged. "No problem."

He picked up Brachy's phone from where it nestled by her side, in the grass, and tapped on a few buttons. It only took a minute.

"Here's my number, call me if you ever change your mind. Maybe one evening you'll be free, and bored." Avner smiled at her, and gave Brachy back her phone, and her pictures.

Happy Yom Ha'Atzmaut

2010-04-19T22:27:00.001+03:00

The annual Underground Independence Day celebrations continue in the Chareidi world.

A funny twist is that my Kollel-wife friends are also joining in the fun and making Seminary/School reunion parties, since they are on vacation, while their husbands don't have off.

Chapter 22: The Women's Side

2010-04-19T19:03:00.001+03:00

Shulamit wished she had a notepad with her, or even a scrap of paper. She loved the line, simple and flowing. She loved the fabric, matte silver lace. She itched to draw it.

The girl wore it well; her blonde hair was cut in one clean line, and lay on her shoulders, in bright contrast to the muted lace. The girl had poise, a certain sophistication in her stance, as if she knew it all already, and there was nothing new you could tell her.

Shulamit hesitated. Something about the girl looked too perfect, intimidating. Confident people scared her. But she had to know where that dress was from. She picked up a last cookie from the buffet table, and moved purposely towards where the blonde girl in the beautiful dress was standing, by the Mechitza.

__________

Karen wanted to cry, from the sheer disappointment. She had spent weeks, getting ready for Sara Leah's wedding. First the dress, which she'd spotted in a window on Betzalel street, spent a solid chunk of salary on. Then finding the right shoes, a matching bag. Then the hour applying makeup, the rushed trip to the hairdresser after work.

She really thought she was at her best. And all for what? It was wasted, effort down the drain. Separate by a wooden partition, ignored entirely by all men.
The most she could hope for was to find favor in a woman's eyes. A mother of a boy, an aunt of a boy; if one of the matriarchal women here approved of Karen, there was hope they'd later try to set her up
.
Then Karen felt a tap on her shoulder. She spun around.

"Hi," a girl she didn't know was saying, "Can I ask you a question?"

__________

Two girls sit next to each other on the playground's monkey bars.

"What's your name?"
"How old are you?"
"What's your favorite color?"

Two girls stand next to each other at a wedding.
The questions change. So do the answers.

"Where is your dress from?"
"Where did you go to Seminary?"
"What do you do now?"

The dialogue is more subtle. The dynamics remain the same. Two girls, strangers before, become friends.

Except the end result is no longer "Do you want to come to my house to play?"

These days the conversation can only have one conclusion. "What are you looking for?"

Pieces slot into place. It was meant to be, that Shulamit meet Karen tonight.

Shulamit saw that now. Because Daniel would be perfect for Karen. And Karen would be perfect for him. Shulamit could make another match.

Motzai Shabbos in Jerusalem

2010-04-18T16:37:00.001+03:00

Brachy paused, halfway down the steps, and looked up at the mirror, suspended above her head, like a modern day moon. It was placed there so that the bus driver would be able to see the back door, but now it served her well, allowing her to check that her hair was still in place, her lip gloss hadn't smudged. She felt the passengers behind her shuffle impatiently, willing her to move, and so she gave a last glance as the shining orbit, and jumped off, onto the pavement below. She was in Jerusalem.

They'd told her she could catch the 6, they'd said that would be quicker. She hesitated, when she came to the number 1 bus stop, unsure what to do. The 1 may be a longer route, but it was familiar.

There was a man standing there, leaning on the metal wall. He had a short beard, he reminded her of Avner, although he wasn’t as tall as Avner, and was wearing the Chareidi uniform of black pants and white shirts. Avner had always been wearing T-Shirts and jeans, whenever she'd seen him. She knew this man wasn't Avner, but still she looked at him. He looked back at her. Neither of them smiled. She wondered what would happen if she did. She carried on walking.

It was almost at the end of the row; she saw a 6 on the yellow sign, and stopped. A boy stood by the sign. He was tall, and blonde, and gangly. He reminded her of the students bicycling at Oxford, of a character out of an F.Scott Fitzerald book. She knew he couldn't be from here.

"Does the 6 go close to the Kotel?" Brachy asked him, in Hebrew.

"I don't know" he said.

She'd known, even before he replied, that he would speak with a thick accent, that Hebrew was not his first language. She always started the conversation in Hebrew though, just in case. Because they were in Israel, after all.

"Where do you need to get to?" His friend stepped in, beside him.

His friend used English, straight away. He was dark, against the other's fairness. He had brown eyes. Brachy never noticed boys' eyes. Shulamit always asked her, "what color are his eyes?", when she came back from dates, as if that was the most important detail. Brachy never remembered. She couldn't remember what color Avner's eyes were either. She thought a pale color. But this boy's eyes were big and brown, and warm.

"To the Kotel. To the old city" she said to him. "Does the 6 go there? Someone told me it did?"

"It's a walk" he said, "ten minutes or so. The 21 stops closer. You'll need to walk through Yaffo gate"

She bit her lip, she twisted a loose brown curl of hair around her finger. She was scared to walk alone through the old city. She always got lost, on her own.

The number 6 bus came. The doors opened, people streamed through.

"Do you reach the old city?" Brachy asked the driver. She had one foot on the step, so he couldn't drive off. Her other foot she kept on the ground, so he couldn't close the door, and entrap her inside, take her to a place she didn't want to go to.

"Shlomtzion." He called to her, between the passengers crowding on, and handing over change.

Shlomtzion street was too far. It was a 20 minute walk from there, past Mamilla and through Yaffa gate, past King David's tower and through narrow alley ways.
She put both feet back on the street, and let the bus drive off. The boys had gotten off the bus too. They were back beside her.

"The 6 takes too long" The dark boy told the blonde one. "We're better off waiting for the 21."

The blonde one only nodded, looking at Brachy out of the corner of his eye.

"So, what are you going to do now?" The dark boy turned to Brachy with a smile.

She shrugged.

She recognized his accent, the pattern of his speech. Now was the time to ask him where he was from, play "Jewish Geography", find friends in common.

She saw a bus, come up behind them, and come to a standstill. She saw a line stretch out, in front of the doors. She saw the numeral 1, in red lights, above the front window.

She turned and ran.

Afterwards, sitting on the bus, beside a bulging woman wrapped up in scarves and shawls, Brachy wondered what the dark boy's name was. But it was too late to ask.

________

The Kotel was beautiful at night. An Israeli flag waved in front of it. The sky was a perfect midnight blue. Brachy felt peace here. She tried to breathe it in, to soak it up. She tried to let go, of the thoughts crowding her mind. She tried to hold on to just one thought, the one wish she'd come here to pray about.

Praying was hard work. Brachy understood why, out of the three pillars the world rested on, prayer was the 'Avoda', the labor. The women around her seemed to find it easy to pray, easy to turn to God, and feel his presence, and cry. For her it was more difficult.

She had too much cold Litvak blood running through her veins. Around her the women cried aloud, and shook backwards and forwards, faces buried deep in their Siddurs. They pressed her close to the wall, they surrounded her, with their sobs. Brachy ran her fingers along the stones, worn away by centuries, they were cold, and yet warm to her touch, soothing. She leaned forward and laid her lips against the crevices.

She opened her Siddur to pray. She would try her best.

________

Eventually you arrive back at the same place. It was almost midnight. Only one boy was sitting on the metal bench, inside the bus shelter. There was enough space to join him there. Brachy sat, leaving a large gap between them. There was no risk of an accidental touch.

The boy stood up. He was a Yeshiva boy. He probably didn't want to sit on the same bench as a girl.

Then he sat down again. He turned around, and looked at her. Brachy ignored him.
She felt a strange power here tonight. As if she could interest men, merely by glancing their way. As if she was in control. Was this what secular girls felt, all the time?

The Yeshiva boy worked up the courage to speak.

"How old are you?"

It was a good first question. Brachy was impressed. She didn't have much experience, at this sort of thing.

"How old do I look?" She smiled at him. Was this what they called flirting?

"Um. I don't know." He looked shy. "Over twenty."

"I'm a lot older than twenty" Brachy said. She smiled again. She was enjoying this.
"How old are you?"

"I'm almost twenty" he said proudly.

"Almost". She wanted to laugh. It was a long time since she'd used "almost" before her age, and tried to sound older.

"I'm twenty three." She said.

"Oh. Whoa."

Then Brachy remembered that she was twenty four. Tonight was her birthday. That's why she'd come here, to go to the Kotel, to pray on her birthday. She couldn't be bothered to correct him though.

There was silence.

"So…want to talk?" He wasn't giving up.

Brachy did want to talk. She wanted to ask him what it felt like to be nineteen still, what the world was like, before you started Shidduch dating. What it felt like to be a boy, and not a girl. Maybe he would tell her the truth.

But he was nineteen. Too young for her. And the bus arrived.

She examined herself in the window's reflection, as she stood on the step holding a bus ticket outstretched, waiting for the driver to punch a little star through it. She was no prettier than she'd been at nineteen. No boys had talked to her then. Maybe her body language had changed, the years of dating had paid off, and given her a patina of experience. She no longer looked away, no longer blushed. What was talking to one more man, following the hundreds? Maybe that's why now the bus stops, lining Binyanei HaUmah, suddenly seemed full of potential, more than she'd ever found in a hotel lobby.

________

At home Ima was waiting up for Brachy.

"Mrs. Sheiner is upset. She's still waiting for your answer."

"Why is she upset?"

"She's been waiting to hear from us. The boy is waiting to hear from us."

"Can't he wait some more?"

Brachy closed her eyes. She saw a dark face with warm brown eyes. She saw a Yeshiva boy, with shy eyes. She saw Avner's eyes. She remembered now, they were a greenish grey.

Then she saw a figure, in a black suit. He was sitting opposite her, in a lounge chair, in a hotel lobby. She couldn't picture his face, she hadn't met him yet.

But she would have to. She wanted to get married. This was the only way to do it, through blind dates, Shidduch dates, arranged by others. She couldn’t marry somebody she met directly, they would never be suitable.

She opened her eyes.

"I'll go out with him." Brachy said.

Chapter 21: The Photography Course

2010-04-16T17:18:00.000+03:00

Brachy stood in the doorway. The sun beams slatted through the bars on the opposite windows, and fell on her dark hair, turning it a coppery red. Her eyes were large in her pale face, as she looked around the classroom, at the seats already occupied, at the desks covered with books and equipment. She stood still, not knowing what to do, where to go. There were many faces, looking back at her, some wearing scarves, hats, kippahs, some bare.

Avner thought she was quite beautiful. He'd been with so many girls, they were brash and obvious these days. The girl in the entrance looked young, fresh, naive almost. She appealed to him.

He picked up a rucksack from the chair beside him, and smiled at Brachy, gestured towards it.

Brachy would have preferred to sit next to a girl. It was bad enough to be attending a mixed course, she should try and stick with women as much as possible. That was the only free space though, beside that boy. Besides, it would be rude to refuse, when he was only being friendly.

Mythical Creatures: The Guys I Should be Dating

2010-04-14T21:53:00.000+03:00

"What you need is a more modern guy. Someone open minded."

I'll scream if I hear that one more time. And not because it's not true.

"You need a more modern guy; not a standard Israeli Chareidi yeshiva boy; someone on the same wave length as you; someone who's seriously Frum, but still knows the world."

You all tell me that; my family, my friends, my blog readers.

But I've been saying the same thing for years. I need, I want, I'm looking for, a more modern guy.

And I'm willing, I'm wanting, I'm waiting to date him

There's only one problem. I can't find him.

Where are these wonderful, mythical, open minded guys? How do I meet them?

There are thousands of single yeshiva boys at Mir, hundreds more at Chevron. In Gruss, the Israel branch of the YU kollel, there are three single guys. That's right, three. (And I can't even get to those ones. So if anyone has any leads...)

There are almost no "modern" guys in Israel. Not above the age of nineteen that is. They come to yeshiva here for a year or two, and then they go back to the States, to college. If they ever return, it's as one half of a young married couple.

I could move to New York, hunt them down in their home habitat. But I want to live in Israel, so dating guys in Chutz LeAretz just doesn't seem like such a smart move. Meanwhile I'm left with the guys who are here, in the same country as me.

I grew up in Israel, went through the Chareidi educational system, mixed in the Chareidi world. My friends married guys from "black Yeshivas"; their husbands are now suggesting friends from the same yeshivas. They tell me the boys are "open minded", but usually that means that they "don't object" to me learning to drive, or that they watch movies in Bein Hazmanim. To me open minded encompasses a lot more than that.

I don't know if modern, open minded, guys exist in Israel. Perhaps it's a brand peculiar to abroad. True, in Israel there is Dati Leumi society, but that comes with different ideals, beliefs, Hashkafas. I wouldn't fit in there. There's no Yeshiva University style middle ground here.

There are some individual families living in Anglo Ghettos in Ramat Beit Shemesh and Har Nof. But I don't know what happens to their sons, their students. I haven't managed to find them.

Meanwhile I keep trying, with the only type of boys I'm ever suggested; boys from Mir, and Chevron, and Ateret. Boys in suits, and big black hats.

So if you think I need a more modern guy, fine, great. Find me one.

A Pesach Story

2010-04-13T22:29:00.001+03:00

She screamed JAP, Jewish American Princess, from the flat suede pumps to the black taffeta rosette clipping back blonde strands of hair. She walked with poise, too; heading directly to the table in the centre of the room.

Raizl watched the girl pile a plate high with cakes, selecting slices from each tray, layers of chocolate and mousse. She stifled feelings of annoyance. That little girl was acting as if she owned the place. She could only be nine, or ten, years old. Yet she strode around like a little queen.

"She's only a child", Raizl told herself, but still the feelings came.

Hatred was too harsh a word. Raizl kept track of the girl, as she circled the hotel dining room, backwards and forwards between tables, fetching drinks and desserts, bearing bounty back to the table where her family must be sitting.

Resentment, perhaps. Yes, that was closer to the truth. Raizl resented the girl, with her perfect outfit and complete confidence. Raizl was a grown up now, a married woman, but still, she would never possess that self assurance. To have it, you had to be born with it, to it, to that life.

Raizl didn't belong here. Others thought she did. She managed to fool them. After years of trial and error, she'd learned. What to wear, what to say, where to go, who to know.

But then she saw that little girl, bred from the birth with everything, only a child, but already educated in all of societies standards. She saw her, and remembered what she was lacking, what she'd missed out on, what she'd never have. And she tried not to be jealous.

___________

She recognized her by the flower. This time it was brown velvet, matching the brown pleated jumper dress. Raizl could see only her back, since the girl stood right by the Mechitza, in the center of the front row. Raizl always chose seats in the rear, by the side.

The moment approached, that time that Raizl had been half dreading, half waiting for; sadness mixed with sweetness.

The reading of the Torah ended. Around her women streamed out of the makeshift Shul, murmuring words of apology as they slipped passed her, pushing forward the chairs in front, while Raizl stood firmly in place, avoiding their eyes, not wanting to see what she might find in their gazes- Pity perhaps? Or relief that they were not in her place?

A few women remained inside with her. They were all older than she was, with starched short Shaitels, and faces already creased with lines. She was used to being the youngest, by now, after all these years.

Then Raizl saw the girl, in her dress and flower. She was still in Shul, still standing in the same place, by the Mechitza. She hadn't gone with the others. She stood rigidly straight, a prettily dressed little girl, among the old ladies.

Worlds can shift, in seconds.

Raizl wanted to hug the girl, to cradle her close and tell her to be brave, to hold her hand and tell her she understood. Instead there was silence, aside for the rustlings of pages, and the sounds of unspoken memories. Yizkor had begun.

___________

It was blue today, a bright peacock blue that Raizl spotted between shoulders and raised plates. The blue of the lace flower set off the sky blue of the girl's sweater. She looked as fashionable as always, with not a hair out of place, and the same confident lift of shoulders that Raizl had been envying all vacation.

Raizl watched her carefully choose cakes, filling up first one and then another plate. When she picked them both up, she faltered for a moment, losing her balance, trying not to drop the dishes.

Raizl put down her napkin and pushed back her chair. She half walked, half ran, across the room, to the little girl, and stretched out a hand, to help, to clear the way.

The girl looked up at her, with clear eyes, and the solemn look that Raizl had thought, before, was condescendence, then her lips relaxed for a moment, formed a soft half smile. She gave a nod, of thanks.

Raizl helped the girl carry the food back to where her mother waited, feeding the baby, trying to keep the little kids distracted. Because the girl was the oldest, the big sister. She needed to help, now that Abba was gone, she had responsibilities.

She reminded Raizl of herself, so many years ago. They were both fighters.

I need friends

2010-04-12T23:58:00.000+03:00

I say the words, silently, hear them echo in my mind. There's no cause for self pity, but I do have to face the facts.

I need friends, new friends.

I'm a fresh yet quintessential loner. My free-time options are being home alone, or being in town alone.

I've perfected the art of eating alone; buying a French crepe on Ben- Yehudah, spread with chocolate and nuts, and nibbling at it as I window shop. That's better than finding an empty table at the pizza place, watching the other people there, eves-dropping on their conversations, while biting and chewing down a necessary supper as fast as possible.

How did I get here, to this lonely place? I may not be a social butterfly, but I'm no sociopath either.

And I do have friends! I consider printing it in bold marker pen letters on a folded piece of cardboard, placing it by me as I eat alone. "I have friends." Just they are married you see. Almost all of them. They can't hang out any more.

I never bothered to make new friends, when the old ones cleared the ranks. Because I didn't need new friends, my current ones were great, so what if they were married? Soon I'd be married too and we could go shopping for Shaitels together. Besides, changed marital status is no reason to end a friendship.

And when do I even have the time, the opportunity, for meeting new girls? Every spare moment, every gram of physical and emotional energy, goes on meeting guys.

I sometimes bump into girls my age, at Shiurim and in Shul. Though I should call them women; they are all married, usually pushing a stroller, or holding a toddler by the hand. They won't go hitchhiking across Europe with me, or even pop out for a milkshake. They are no more use than my old friends.

Perhaps there are single girls out there, hiding in the crevices. Perhaps I should search for them, set out on a mission. Perhaps I should even move from suburban-family-land to central-singles -city, and start bonding with female roomies.

The truth is though, that once I discovered the exciting and exotic other sex, with all its quirks and complexities and endless differences, well, girls just seem boring after that. Too like me. All you end up doing, with girls, is talking about guys.

But guys aren't the solution either. The guys I date, they come and go. The other guys, the platonic friendship ones, they often end up being complicated, or even just akward when I'm dating someone else. In any case, I can't go to Europe with a guy, I can't go shopping with him, or swimming at the beach.

I need friends, new friends, girl friends.

But I don't know where to find them. And I'm not trying very hard. Because I don't want them. I want a new guy friend. A husband friend. A friend who's forever.

Bitter, Cynical and Desperate

2010-04-11T00:00:00.001+03:00

I've disappeared for a while. Here's my excuse.

"Do me a favor, and don't ever show that to any guy you want to marry, OK?"

"Isn't it a bit late for you to be telling me this now? I already showed it to him." Not to mention to a few hundred blog readers. But she doesn't know about that.

"Oh, you were obviously trying to scare him off, last night."

"I was?"

"Yes. That story shows the worst side of you, the cynical side. It doesn't give a flattering picture of its author. Any decent boy who reads it will run a mile."

"You could have told me that when you read it."

"Well it is well written. But, sweetheart, I know you, you're not like that."

"I was trying to copy Dorothy Parker's style."

"But did Dorothy Parker ever get married?"

I don't remember the answer. I guess it's a no.

"Men don't want to marry Dorothy Parkers. Or Jane Austens. Good writers don't make good spouses."

I'm stunned. There goes my dream.

"Don't worry, when you're married you'll become softer."

I didn't realize I needed to become softer. I liked myself the way I was.

"But I'm writing the truth. Dating is like that." Of all people, I thought she'd understand. She's pretty critical herself of many things in the Shidduch world.

"It may be the truth, but there's no need to focus on the negative. You're telling him that you're desperate, and that's the only reason you're dating him."

Now I'm scared. "The character in the story isn't me!"

"Yeah, right."

Oh no. I hope he didn't think that too. Can’t I write about a single girl, without her being me?

"The only type of person who'll like your stuff will be bitter and cynical too. Is that the type of person you want to marry?"

I thought I'd learned how to let criticism run off me, like a river down stone, without penetrating. I thought I didn't care what people thought, I had enough inner confidence.

I guess it's different when it's someone you love, someone you've looked up to, your whole life, someone whose advice you usually follow.

For days I walked around with the same question. "Am I bitter, cynical and desperate? Does my writing sound that way?"

I asked everyone I knew who'd read my blog, or who'd read some of my writing. They said enough to make me laugh, to still the panic. They warned me I better get a cholera vaccine before I print my novel, because Jane Austen died of Cholera.

But I notice now, as the crumbs of Matza settle, that I haven't written since then, since that conversation. And maybe it's not just because I've 'been busy'.

I start writing a sweet little story, a story even Mishphacha would publish. "At least this story isn't cynical", I tell myself. Then I realize what I'm saying, what I'm doing. I get stuck half way through. The words feel corny. There's so much else I want to say. I miss writing. I miss blogging.

I've discovered another stage to growing up. It's learning that the people you love the most, even they can't always understand. They can be wrong about life, about you. You've just got to let go, and carry on, and do what you believe in.

Because I don't want to get married and start thinking life is a fairytale. I don't want to forget what dating was, what this stage was like. I want to remember, always. I want to be able to understand other people, to help other people, going through similar things. Not to begin spouting platitudes and becoming 'softer', and 'sweeter'.

So Shavua Tov, Blogosphere. I'm back.

Chapter 20: Separate Seating

2010-03-14T23:51:00.000+02:00

She peered through the wooden slats. They were there, dozens of them; young, and single, and eligible. Karen had always liked the sound of their Yeshiva, the boys who went there were supposed to be smart, and also independent. She'd been trying for months, to be introduced to someone, anyone, from there.

Karen liked the look of one boy in particular. He slung his jacket casually over his shoulder, and his Kippah perched at an angle on his head, as if he'd thrown it on without caring where it landed. His hair wasn't cut as short as usual for a Yeshiva student, and flicked up and out, in little waves. Karen was sure he must be fun, relaxed; not uptight like the boys she dated. His friends gathered round him, followed him from buffet to bar to dance floor. He was a leader. She liked that. If only she could go out with him. If only this wedding wasn't separate. He was but a few meters from her. It could have been an ocean.

She pushed the Mechitza slightly aside, widened the gap between the two wooden stands. She could be seen now, from the other side, from the men's side. The boys continued talking. She tried smiling. Nobody glanced her way. Karen wondered how secular girls got boys to talk to them. Making eyes, it was called. How did they do that? Should she try looking into his eyes, from afar? For one brief second, their eyes met, Karen's blue with the nameless boy's dusky hazel. But he didn't smile, his face stayed blank, he looked away, away from her, back at the circle of grinning boys.

Karen felt dirty somehow. As if she'd done something wrong. As if she was cheap. What was she trying to do? Everyone knew no good yeshiva boy would talk to a girl, if it wasn't a Shidduch date, if it wasn't prearranged. And no good girl would even look at a boy, it lacked all modesty.

Matches were for others to make, adults, teachers, strangers. She could only pray.

She turned around. The women were spinning in tight circles now. Girls pushed through clasped arms; always trying to be the fastest; always trying to be further inwards, closer to the center, to the bride.

"Are you engaged?"

A skinny girl stood beside her, swathed in black taffeta embedded with crystal beads. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail though, frizzing at the front. She must be new to Shidduchim. She smiled as she asked the question, looking at Karen expectantly.

"No. I'm not" Karen said. The girl was a stranger.

"Oh, I thought that's why you were looking through the Mechitza."
Karen merely stared, shook her head.

"I thought that's the reason you were looking at the Yeshiva boys," The girl explained, "because one of them was your Chassan."

"No, I'm looking at the Yeshiva boys because I'm single." Karen said. "I'm single, and hence single Yeshiva boys are of interest to me."

She didn't care about the consequences, any longer. She was tired of this act.

Marrying a Gay guy

2010-03-12T15:39:00.002+02:00

It's got to be one of the worst fears of an Orthodox girl. How can you tell, if the boy you are dating is really not that into you, is not that into any women.

Religious men are told to keep it a secret, to keep their leanings under wraps.
There are those that don't listen to the rabbis, that step out of the closet, those of the YU variety for instance, but they are the minority.

So meanwhile a huge percentage of homosexual guys are out there, on the Shidduch circuit, looking for a nice Frum girl to marry and have kids with, build a family with. Which may admirable, in principle, but let's just say I don't want to be that woman.

And there's no real way to find out ahead. You're in a Shomer Negiah relationship. You’re not checking out the physical side of things. You jump in on faith, telling yourself that you like each other, that it will all work out later, in the Yichud room, once you're passed the wedding canopy.

You rely on 'chemistry', that wonderful, promising, vague word. You rely on the way his eyes light up, the way he smiles, the glances, the vibes. But can't that be faked? And maybe, if you want something enough, if you like him enough, you make yourself see something that isn't really there. Because it's there on your part, you think he's gorgeous, and he's going out with you, pursuing you, so surely he likes you?

So you marry him. You discover only much later, what's lurking in that closet.

Can an Orthodox girl tell, if her Shidduch date is homosexual? There are stereotypes, about looks, and dress, about voice and tone, body language and aura. There are jokes, about 'artsy' men, sensitive souls. But maybe those men really are the husbands of your dreams, caring and empathetic and artistic, and straight.

Bored Jewish Guy was nice enough to give his take on it. I feel the same way. But is talking about it beforehand enough, when boys are basically told by their Rabbis and teachers to hide it, to deceive?

Blame this post on Srugim. (If you're a Srugim fan, and you aren't up to date on the second series yet, please don't kill me.) I don’t understand Reut. How can Reut know that the guy she's dating is gay, and still be willing to carry on dating him? How can she contemplate marriage with him?

I don't know what the truth is, about how orthodox homosexuals should be handling their sexual identity. It must be hell for them, that much is obvious. I'm not here to judge them. I'm not here to offer an opinion. So much talk abounds about the men. Debates flourish, on whether they should hide it, whether they should try and lead a standard Orthodox family life.

What I never hear about, what I never thought about, before, is their wives.

Mourning in Stages

2010-03-11T23:04:00.006+02:00

I don't think I'd be able to write this now, even if I tried. I found some scraps of paper, which I wrote during Shnat Avel, and put them all together.

And sorry about this sad streak of posts. Someone asked me for an essay about mourning, by special request.

The Day
He dies. Death. You think it's the worst thing that can possibly be, the end, to everything.
It's not real. It's a dream, a nightmare. You're sure you'll wake up soon. You are numb.

The Week
Slowly you feel again. You thought mourning was sadness, you weren't expecting the pain. You feel pain, you live pain. All of your being is pain. There is no escape. You can't shut it out, you can't let it out. You don't cry, because if you start to cry, you'll never stop. No rainfall of tears will ever be enough.

The Month
It hurts to see the sun shine, to hear people laugh at a joke. All you can manage is a wan smile. Everything seems unimportant, trivial. Daily life pales beside the finality of death. But you go on, because you have to.
Then there comes a moment, when you- forget. For one millisecond of eternity- you listen, you smile, or you simply close your eyes and breath. Peace between the pain.

The Year
Life draws you back. You have to continue, to live. You want to curl up in a tight ball and shut out the world. Instead, you take every drop of strength you possess, and use it to carry on.
Somehow it becomes easier. A whole day can go by before you remember.
You are happy sometimes. You see it's still possible. You care again- about classes and clothes. You learn the world again; a different, sharper, clearer world.
And that's it. You live, you learn. You soak up the sun and feel at peace. And he'd dead, gone forever.

The Year After
You're back again, back in the world. There is no label for you, anymore. You're not a mourner, you've finished with that. It's back to normal now.
You know, though, that there will always be a part of you that's hurting. You can never be a hundred percent happy again. There will always be that little corner of sadness, of pain. But that's OK. You can live with that. There is no perfect happiness, in this world. Perhaps we need death, to appreciate life. The same way we need darkness to see light.

Five Years Later
Loss does get easier, when time goes by. Weeks pass, without you looking at his picture by your bed, without you speaking of him.
Another part of you gets sadder. It's been longer without him. You miss him.

But you realize the pain has gone. You don't hurt, any longer. You've healed.

Chapter 19: The Virtual Way

2010-03-08T19:28:00.000+02:00

Karen stifled a laugh. Yishai's emails always made her smile. He took what she'd written, and pinged it back with a twist, adding another smart, amusing, facet.

There was something about the Internet, about corresponding with each other only through the written word, which caused communicating to be much deeper. It was as if they had skipped the shallow facade of looks and gestures, of dressing up and being introduced, of polite nonentities and social norms, and delved straight to the essence. She felt freer to speak her mind, to share the private and personal. She wasn't shy, or embarrassed. Because he wasn't here. He couldn't see her, he couldn't watch her face. She didn't blush, and her voice didn't drop to a whisper, unconsciously. They were only emailing.

Also, it turned out that she liked writing. She could pause, and think, and go back a line to delete, fix, clarify. There was no rush to press send, Karen could wait until she'd managed to express herself to her satisfaction. It wasn't like a date, a conversation, where by the time she'd worked out what she wanted to say, it was too late, they were onto a new topic. It wasn't like life, where she'd let slip a sentence, and it would hang in the air, irreversible, and often taken the wrong way.

Because Karen did have quirks, opinions that differed from society's standard lines of thinking. She'd scared more than one boy off, when she'd expressed them. But Yishai she could explain herself to. Yishai understood. Often he even felt the same way. That was heaven, when she discovered she was not alone, was not so peculiar, heretical, after all.

It was such a pity this couldn't work out, didn't stand a chance. Unless he hadn't meant it.

Maybe it was merely a word to him, a title, a phrase. Maybe it wasn't what it sounded like.

Chapter 18: Not a Date

2010-03-07T15:20:00.005+02:00

"Is that Shulamit?" The voice on the other side of the line was warm, and low, and slightly hesitant; a man's voice.

"Yes, speaking." she said.

"Hi!" his voice became more confident now. "It's me, Daniel, remember? I was at your house."

Of course, the flower seller. Shulamit recognized his voice now, with its tinge of a British accent.

She wondered why he was calling. They hadn't spoken since that Friday. She'd promised him that she'd phone, as soon as she thought of a girl for him. But none of the girls, summarized neatly on the pink papers in her binder, seemed right
.
"I was thinking about what you told me" he said. "About, being a matchmaker...?"

"Yeah." she said. Wondering where he was getting.

"Well, Shidduchim haven't been going so well for me lately, so I was hoping we could meet and discuss your ideas" his words came out all in a rush.

"Oh Daniel, but I don't have any suggestions at the moment."

Was this was it felt like to be a matchmaker? Turning down people asking for help?

"Still", Daniel said. "Maybe if we meet and discuss things, you'll get a better idea of my personality, of what I'm looking for, and you'll think of someone then."

Shulamit murmured acquiescence. She couldn't say no, the boy was obviously desperate to get married, and she had promised to help him.

____________

"How about I pay?" Daniel said suddenly, as she reached for her purse.

"No, that's ok" Shulamit said, as she scrambled around in the overstuffed compartment, searching for her wallet. ״I brought money"

Daniel laid his credit card on the leather tray, "Are you sure?" Daniel asked. "It's much simpler if I just pay"

Shulamit laid a 50 shekel note on top of the card.

"Fine. Split it fifty- fifty" Daniel told the waitress.

"My dish cost more than yours." Shulamit objected. "I should pay more."

She reached for the bill, to see how much it came out to. The bill had only one amount on it, she saw, the total. Obviously the waitress had expected Daniel to pay for it all.

Shulamit looked up; the waitress and Daniel were both still staring at her. Daniel looked annoyed, embarrassed. She felt rude, as if she was doing something wrong.

"Oh alright then, fifty-fifty" she said. The waitress departed.

"This was a great idea of yours!" Shumalit said, with a big grin, looking across at him, trying to cover up the awkwardness of the bill. Did Daniel have some peculiar idea than boys must always pay? How ridiculous. It's not like this was a date or anything.

"I've got a much better picture of your personality! It's so interesting how you became religious while you were in university in England! I really admire that."

Daniel just nodded.

"I'm sure I'll be able to find the perfect girl for you! I have a lot of friends, and I'm meeting girls all the time, and one of them has got to do."

Her voice trailed off. The waitress was back, again placing the leather tray on the rippled glass table. Daniel reached for the slip, to sign. Shulamit reached behind her chair, for where her bag was now hanging.

"Leave it. I'll pay for the tip" he said, while he was scrawling his name on the paper.

Shulamit wasn't going to agree. With friends she always split the bill equally, right down the middle. But Daniel still looked a bit upset. Had she made him feel emasculated or something? Boys could be funny sometimes. She put down the bag.

Chapter 17: But it's Mixed

2010-03-05T13:18:00.000+02:00

Brachy didn't know when it was, that she started wanting it.

She'd seen the advertisements hundreds of times, she'd heard it discussed and seen picture displayed. She'd never thought it could be meant for her though. She was a teacher, she was solid and sensible. She wasn't creative; she wasn't artistic. She wasn't the type of girl who learned photography, especially not in a place like Kattamon.

"But it's mixed" she said to Ima.

"Brachy, you're a good girl, I trust you; I'm not worried. If this is what you want to do..."

"But I can't go, Ima. I was only joking."

"Brachy listen to me now" Ima's voice was firm and strangely compelling. "If you think you will enjoy studying photography then I want you to do it. You're a mature girl who can handle herself fine wherever she is. I think this course is a great idea. You said the school will pay for it?"

"The ministry of education sponsors it for teachers. We get credits for it too"

Learning photography did sound like a lot more fun than another boring evening class about education and children's psychology, which she would have to take for credits otherwise.

"Wonderful, so it's settled. Enjoy!"

Ima passed the advert in the journal back. Brachy had been idly flicking through it while working her way through a bowl of cornflakes. She'd half joked, and half wished, that she could go to the photography course described there. Now it looked like it was really going to happen.

Her mother was pleased. Finally something that Brachy seemed keen about.

Brachy hardly ever smiled now, about anything. And the idea of this course had her eyes lighting up. It was time Brachy did something that made her happy. She needed it, the poor girl. She'd been through enough. Dating seemed to be getting her down too. She wished she could knock some sense into those spoiled boys, not to see what a jewel her Brachy was.

It was hard, seeing your child hurting, and there not being anything you could do for her, there being no way to protect her, to shelter her, the way it was a mother's job to do.

This, at least, she could do for her, she could help make happen.

Yes, Brachy definitely deserved to have some fun. And so what if it was in the non Chareidi suburb of Kattamon? Nobody needed to know.

A GOOD Shidduch Date

2010-03-02T21:43:00.001+02:00

"Write about good dates", somebody commented, "Not only about bad ones". So these are my good dates. They are rare, but they do exist.

Oh, and, um, sorry to let you all down, but this post is not based on recent/current events

On a good date you don't care that you’re meeting a semi stranger in a hotel lobby, surrounded by other identical couples, you don't care that you feel part of a primitive mating ritual, you manage to get past all that, and beyond it.

On a good date you feel yourself. You don't automatically and subconsciously slip into a façade that isn't really you, in order to be on the same wavelength as him.

On a good date you don't need to explain yourself much, he understands what you mean, he understands you.

On a good date you're surprised and pleased that there's somebody else in the world who thinks the same way as you do.

On a good date you can speak of science without him thinking you brainy, you can speak of fun without him thinking you shallow, you can speak of Torah without him thinking you a 'Frummy', you can speak of culture without him thinking you 'Modern'. Because he sees the full picture, the whole you.

On a good date you feel pretty and desirable, you feel feminine.

On a good date you laugh, and he laughs, and you both smile.

On a good date you feel like you're with someone who can take care of things, you can relax and let go.

On a good date, when the waiter comes to clear the glasses, you feel a secret pride that you're sitting there with this great guy, that you’re his date.

On a good date you're sorry when it ends, you're left with so much you still want to say, to ask, to hear.

After a good date, time is torture, you're counting the seconds until you receive the verdict, you jump every time the phone rings.

After a good date you don't speak of it or write of it, you want to keep the moments to yourself, close to your heart.

After a good date you think again of things he said and did, and appreciate them even more.

After a good date you miss him, you continuously store events and thoughts in your mind, to share with him, the next time you see him.

After a good date, you can't wait for the next one.

Well that's my take on it. What makes a date good, for you?

Chapter 16: Daring to Drive

2010-03-01T18:28:00.003+02:00

Silence came, without warning. They had run out of things to say. They had used up the standard topics of conversation, drawn them out as much possible.

Karen listened to the rain falling outside. The patter of raindrops on cement reached her even through the closed glass patio doors, and ornate velvet drapes.

He picked up his hat, from the low manhogany table, signaling it was time to end the date.

"Shall we?" he said. She nodded.

They both stood up, and walked past the fountain, and towards the exit. They stood by the revolving doors. The same revolving doors that she'd entered by an hour and a half previously, with such high hopes.

At least she'd brought the car, and didn't need to rely on public transport and on boys' goodwill anymore. No flurrying into and out of a cab, careful to sit modestly, and not brush against her escort, even by accident. No more being dropped off at a crowded bus stop, and standing alone, arrayed in all her dating finery, ignoring the knowing glances of those around, waiting for the bus to come.No more standing in heels, in the aisle between the already occupied seats, clutching a handle jutting out of patterned felt, swaying on stilettos, as the bus went through curves, down and out of the hills.

"How are you getting back?" he asked, when they stood outside, out of the doormen's hearing.

He was expecting the standard answer of "from the central bus station".

"I drove here" she said. "My car's parked outside."

He was taken aback. Chareidi women didn't drive. It was forbidden by the seminaries. Girls were often expelled if they were caught possessing a driving license. This is what came of dating a girl who was out of a framework, who was semi independent. He'd know not to do it again.

"Would you like a ride?" Karen offered. "Your yeshiva is right on my way"

He shook his head in two brief yet decisive strokes. "That's ok. I'll walk"

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It's really no trouble"

But he was quite sure. What would his friends think of him, if they saw him being driven around by a woman?

He said a curt goodbye, and strode off. Karen remained standing there, on the sidewalk, car keys clutched in one hand.

_________

Later- once Karen had arrived home, and parked the car, and made herself a sandwich (to ward off the post date starvation), and attempted to explain to Abba and Ima what she'd done wrong this time, with this boy, and ignored the ringing of her cell phone, and gotten ready for the long awaited moment when she could collapse into bed, and logged into her site account, not expecting anything new- she found a message waiting, in her inbox.

It was from someone called Yishai. She checked his profile, first, before beginning to read. Too often the loveliest messages came from totally unsuitable men, often twenty years older than she was, so she preferred to be reading their words in context.

This Yishai guy looked intriguing though. She wondered how she hadn't noticed his profile before; she was very thorough in her site searches.

His message was friendly and flattering. She smiled as she read it.

There was one thing that bothered Karen, about Yishai's profile. There was one statement there, that didn't fit in with what she was looking for, that could be a problem, a rather big one in fact. But she decided to ignore it, for the meanwhile.

Because would he care, that she drove a car? Would he mind, that she'd ignored one of society's unwritten rules?

It sounded like he wouldn't. Actually, it sounded like he didn't pay much attention to what society thought, at all.

She spent twenty minutes, writing out the perfect reply; casual, encouraging, and light.

Chapter 15: Brachy Tries Again

2010-03-01T15:33:00.004+02:00

It could have been romantic. The moon hangs low in the sky, over the walls of the old city. The ivory paving stones are smooth, trodden by hundreds of couples who have come before them. They both lean on the railings, with a panoramic view of Jerusalem below.

A breeze ruffles Brachy's hair and her full skirt, that falls down, to below her knees. She clutches the flowered folds of fabric, preventing them from sailing up, and showing Yaacov long nylon encased legs; a forbidden sight, for him.

Brachy glances at Yaacov. He is dressed in a black suit, probably his best, and a black fedora hat, polished to a sheen. He tugs at the hat now, pulling it lower, then higher, before turning round to look back at her.

"It's a pleasant night" He says.

"Yes. It is." She agrees

"We are lucky to have such good weather today. Yesterday was a Chamsin"

"Yes. We are."

Shulamit had been so excited about putting them together; Shulamit really thought this could work. Brachy knows she should try harder. She knows she should give him a chance. She is tired though, and bored, and wants this ordeal to be over. Soon she'll be walking through the front door and kicking off the patent leather flats; curling up on a corner of the sofa, resting her head on the cushions. Soon she'll sip hot fruit tea deluged with honey, and report on yet another unsuccessful Shidduch date.

"But what's wrong with him?"

"Nothing, Ima. Nothing."

"So you'll go out with him again?"

"I doubt he'll want to. We spoke of nothing but the weather."

"He's a Yeshiva boy. He's nervous, naturally. You've got to give him time to open up"

But Brachy was right. The next day Shulamit's phone call came. Yaacov would look elsewhere for a wife. Brachy was back on the market.

Purim Haters Anonymous

2010-02-28T00:43:00.005+02:00

Lots of things make me happy. Watching waves crash on the shore. Feeling the sunshine on my cheek. Falling into a steady rhythm as I cut through the water at the swimming pool. Seeing my nephew break into a smile, as the wind up train I bought him chugs around plastic tracks. Sitting with friends at a café and catching up on each other's lives. Writing the last line of a chapter I'm pleased with. The feeling is so good I want to bottle it up, keep it forever.

Purim doesn't make me happy. Purim makes me sad.

When Adar rolls around, and loudspeakers burst out with "Mishenichnas Adar"s, inside me I want to run away, to somewhere where there are no Purims, or perhaps hide out at home, until the worst has passed.

When I try to speak of it, it sounds odd, peculiar, loner-like and spoilsport-ish. Who doesn't like Purim, the year's official day of happiness?

I used to like Purim, once. When I was a kid, and planned my costume all year. Probably in ninth and tenth grade too, although I don't really remember.

I don't know why I hate it, these days. I don't know why I dread it, and feel like a huge burden is lifted off my shoulders when it's over.

Maybe I can blame it on the year my father was diagnosed with Cancer. Returning to the classroom as Purim carnival preparations were in full swing, joining in, planning and cutting and pasting and dressing up, because I didn't think there was any other way.

Maybe it's the year he was ill at home, and someone came to read the Megillah to him there, as the party went on in Shul.

Maybe it's the year after he died, when we were all putting on brave faces for each other, and we dressed up as gypsies, and strangers in the street asked us to tell their fortunes, and everything was great, on the surface.

There's no real reason, for me to hate Purim. I spend the week before making lists and packing Mishloach Manot, sometimes even themed ones. Once the sun has set I usually scramble around and find a costume to wear to Shul, in the 'if you can't beat them, join them' spirit.

After all, I sat enraptured in Seminary, through the Rabbis' lessons on the deeper meaning of Purim, the light of the hidden miracle, deeper and more intimate than the more obvious battles of Chanukah. I soaked in the Rebbetzins' talks of Purim as a day of prayer, of asking for miracles. So I try to remember, to get into the spirit of the day. I tell myself that this Purim will be different.

Then the hordes of Yeshiva boys arrive, banging on our door, wanting to dance with the nonexistent men of the house, and hit them up for donations. The music blares outside. I know there are parties going on, men getting drunk, boys dancing. Everyone else is happy, and I need to be too.

Maybe if I could get drunk, like men do, I'd be happy. I tried that one year, at the Seudah, surreptitiously pouring 'just a sip' of Smirnoff into my glass, every few minutes. It didn't help much.

I just want it to be over. Want life to be solid and steady again. Want to find joy in the small things, the precious moments, the intimate and close. Not in this loudness, brashness, that feels somehow fake, and shallow, and artificial.

Last year was different, if only for a moment. A woman came to visit us, on her way to a Seudah nearby. A successful, sophisticated, put together woman. A divorcee, her children assimilated and intermarried. On the spur of the moment, without much thought, we gave her a small Mishloach Manot, the left-overs from other packages, wrapped up in cellophane and a ribbon.

She was so excited. It was the first Mishloach Manot she'd received all day, she said. She placed it on the back seat of her car, proudly. She waved as she drove off.

And I was happy.

Perhaps that's what Purim is really about?

Confused Kallahs

2010-02-20T23:43:00.001+02:00

"Mother's, take note. Don't allow your teenage daughters to shop without you! It is also vital to accompany kallahs. They are young and inexperienced and can't see how fitted clothes are alluring."

I put down this week's Hamodia.

"But it's not logical." I wonder out loud. "She's saying these girls are old enough to be brides, and choose their own husbands, but not old enough to choose their own clothes?"

Surely if they are responsible enough to get married, they can be trusted to go shopping on their own?

"Ah, but who's to say the brides choose their own husbands?" My mother points out the flaw in my logic.

Oh. Good point. Well that makes sense then. Obviously if you carefully select a teenage girl's husband for her, you should be watching over her shopping too. As the letter writer points out, the Satan lurks in every store, and every item of clothing needs careful inspection by a mature woman of experience.

The same way a potential son-in-law does.

Missed

2010-02-18T23:06:00.000+02:00

I used to pray, that my father live to see my wedding. I calculated the extra years he'd need, to make it, to be there. For getting married is entering a new stage, a new phase; I wanted him to see me at it, see me reach it, see me grown up. I wanted him to be pleased, and proud.

But some things are not to be. He hasn't been around for a while, my dad. And even if he had been, so far he wouldn't have gotten to see that day.I'm still in the same stage I was then; same family status, same title before my name. Nothing's changed.

Yet it has. I may not be a married woman, but I have grown up, nonetheless.

I come home from work and run for my slippers and sweatshirt, rush to shed the constraining clothes of the day. He used to do the same. I thought it was funny, amusing, then.

I attend the Shiurs that he used to love, that I used to find boring. I enjoy them now.

I read his favorite books and columns. I appreciate his taste. I wish we could discuss them together.

I think of phrases he said, actions he followed. I see the wisdom, now. I understand, now.

There's so much we could have talked about, so much we could have shared. I would have understood him better, for I'm older now. Our whole relationship could have matured, developed. It would have made him happy, would have made him proud.

It's not only my wedding that he's going to miss. It's my adult life, which has already begun.

God let me have him all through my school years, he let me have a father growing up. I'm grateful.

"At least I'm not growing up an orphan" I said, at seventeen. "I'm an adult now. I can manage."

It is true, in a way. But as time passes, as life deepens and broadens, I'm grasping what I'm missing; a real relationship with him, an adult relationship.

Loss is supposed to get easier, when time goes by. And it does. Whole days go by where I don't even think of him, don't even look at his picture on my shelf.

Yet a part of me gets sadder. It's been longer without him, he's missing out on more of our lives. There is more and more that he's never going to see. The moments pile up, that I can't share with him.

I suppose that is what it means to lose somebody, in the simplest sense. He's gone, and in all the years that follow, through all the moments and events, he's not there. He's missing.

I almost didn't post this. I decided to in the end, because it's for all of you out there who are also missing someone.

My Secret Life

2010-02-18T01:17:00.001+02:00

I have a secret life. I can't speak of it in public. I can't mention it in polite society.

"Where were you last night?" they ask. "Somewhere", I say.

"I heard this funny story from…Someone." I pronounce.

"I need to leave early" I tell my boss. "I need to do..Something."

"We are learning about Rabbi __" my niece says.
"Ooh, I went out with his grandson" I almost blurt out. I bite my tongue.

"Why are you so busy?" they ask. "Why don't we ever see you anymore?"
"Well I am working," I say. "And studying."
"And dating!" I want to yell. ""Hours upon hours of dates. Huge portions of my week, my time, my energy."

But I don't. Dozens of boys, hundreds of dates, thousands of hours, spent on an activity that must be kept under wraps, except with close friends and relatives. Phone calls and decisions and dilemmas; all unmentionable. They know it, they guess it. But they don't speak of it. Because, of course, it's private.

I have a secret life.

Slow Me

2010-02-17T23:27:00.001+02:00

"I'm slow" I tell him. "It takes me time to process things"

"Oh come on" he says.

"Really" I say. "You always want to have serious discussions when we are walking. But the stuff you tell me only sinks in a few hours later, when I'm already back home. I'm slow. I'm no good at on the spot debates."

A while later he tries to tell me a joke. I guess the ending while he's half way through.

"And you say you're slow. You always know what I'm going to say before I've even said it", he teases me.

It's true, I do have an annoying tendency of completing people's sentences for them.

"Ok, I'm not slow when it comes to understanding" I admit "It's only when it comes to feelings, opinions. Then I need to let in sink it before I can respond. I'm a bad arguer too. By the time I realize I'm upset, a good few hours have passed, it's all over. So I just get over it."

He was clearly unconvinced.

I think I've discovered the secret to my slowness.

It turns out the difference between extroverts and introverts isn't about being sociable, it's about how they think. Extroverts get their energy from the crowd; introverts get their energy from the quiet times. Extroverts process information while they are talking; the social interaction is what inspires them, what gives them the fuel to get going. While introverts can be equally friendly, but the time they actually think, analyze, understand, is when they are alone. They need to internalize in the peace.

Whoa, I am so an introvert.

I'm 23

2010-02-11T20:22:00.001+02:00

They are only 23. They are coming back from India, becoming students and waitresses, living life step by step, vaguely thinking of plans for the future. They are still young.

I'm 23 already. I should be married, should be a mother; should have settled down, moved on. I shouldn't be in this position. I'm an older single.

You suggest evenings for single girls, events arranged specially for those left on the shelf. I tried them. I went to Shiurim, organized for girls "in my situation".

It felt like stepping back in time, back to my schooldays. I'm used to boardrooms and conferences now, not classrooms where we sit in rows, like good little girls, and are lectured to on why we should be brave, have faith, on how there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

It felt like a quasi support group, where all that united us was our unmarried status.

There's more to me, than being single. There's more to life, than waiting to get married.

So I'm 23. I'm not a spinster, of the Victorian era. I'm not an old maid, sitting on the shelf. So I'm not married, not a mother yet. I'd like to be, I'm not. But I am young, nontheless, all the same.

There's a world out there, there's a life ahead. There's more than being a hanger on, at the fringes of society, tagging on to couples and families. There's more than being an older single, seeking comfort with the others who struggle.

What I search for is acceptance as an adult, with an adult's life, despite not having the marital trappings, despite my flat stomach, and bare finger.

There is a different world, where I can be me. Where I can travel and study and experience. Where I don’t need to count the days, the months, the years that pass, while I'm in limbo.

I have one foot in it, already. Yet if I step out, into that world, I'm stepping further from my ideals, my life's ambitions, further away from what I truly want. The world outside is not what can fulfill my dreams, of a simple, focused, home, and a family, and a husband who learns Torah.

So I stay where I am. I don't become a student again, taste life on campus. I don't quit my job, and try out living in NY. I don't backpack across Europe, meeting strangers on the way.

I stay. I wait. I'm only 23.

Left Behind

2010-02-11T00:33:00.000+02:00

My universe has shrunken. It happened gradually, without me noticing.

Parties, trips, Shabbatons with friends, all are distant memories. Shopping in the mall, praying at the Kotel, I do them alone, now.

Theoretically, I do have friends. There is even one hour each day, a sixty minute gap before their husbands get home from Kollel, when I can actually see them. The rest of the time, they are "phone friends". Great for giving as references, ever ready to gush about how close we are, but not much use for my social life.

"I don't need new friends," I tell myself. "I just need to get married, and I'll be back on the sane terrain as them."

But I've been saying that line for a few years now. It's not enough, any more.
I want a world, I want to be part of society again.

I try going to Shiurim, to the gym and the pool. To Melava Malkas and Kidduses. Everywhere I'm the only bare head, surrounded by scarves and Sheitels. No best friends in the making there. I learn to adjust my conversation to babies' sleep cycles, and the best strollers. Films and shows are of no interest, because who can find a babysitter, anyway?

I've discovered a place, a society, where I can belong. Where I don't need to make excuses. I sit at the wide wooden table. Around me are women my age. There is one scarf, that's it. The rest have long hair, flowing down their backs. It feels so good. I fit in. I'm normal once more. I lean back and listen to the Shiur.

But there's one problem. There are men there too. It's a hang out scene. It's modern, it's mixed. I shouldn't be there.

"The longer a girl stays single, the more modern she becomes." someone once told me. With a boy it's the opposite, he stays in Yeshiva, he becomes Frummer, Shtarker. But the girls are out in the world, and it affects them."

I didn't understand her, didn't want to believe her. "That won't happen to me", I swore. "I'm not going to change. I'm Frum."

And indeed I was. I kept it all. I believed in it too.

But it wasn't enough to stay the same. I should have moved on, to the next stage.

I've lost my place, and am yet to find a new one. And my society, Chareidi society, has no answers. It's not that single girls leave the Chareidi world, it's that society leaves them, leaves them behind. And so they look elsewhere. Maybe I should, too.

Dragging In the Stars

2010-02-09T00:27:00.003+02:00

'I don't trust you when you drag in the stars,' she said. 'If you were quite true, it wouldn't be necessary to be so far-fetched.'

(Ursula, Women In Love)

It was worth reading the whole book, just for that line.

Because it's exactly how I feel, when men start going all romantic on me.

How about you?

Prayer to be Dumped

2010-02-06T19:13:00.002+02:00

Excerpted from the Complete Siddur for the Bas Yisroel. To be recited in Shema Koleinu or before Yehiyu LeRatzon:

(For those of you who missed seeing my guest-post over at FrumSatire)

Blessed be you our God and God of our foremothers. May you have mercy on me [insert name] daughter of [insert mother's name] and spare me from another date with [insert date's name] son of [insert your hopefully-not-to-be-mother-in-law's name].

Please, God, let me not find favor in his eyes. For the thought of another date with him doth not appeal.

It is true, O Lord that he is a rightful servant of your name, and he doth be all that is good and eligible. Moreover, there be no man without failings, as is written 'There is no Tzaddik in the land who does not sin'.

Yet though I do travail, there doth be no click, no connection. And though I labor to know him, to like him, it doth be of no avail.
And I don't know what to do.

And I do fear for my name and reputation. For to be named 'picky', in the language of the people, is ruinous. As it is written 'a good name is better than precious oil'.

And I do not wish to lie awake, afterwards, wondering if I have done the right deed.

So let it be your will that he dump me. Amen.

Cradle Snatchers

2010-02-04T19:05:00.007+02:00

I don't know much about my little brother. I don't know anything at all, in fact. You see, he wasn't born, wasn't conceived, doesn't exist. I'm the youngest.

But I do know one thing about him. And that's that if I had one, he'd be getting married now. Yes, right about now my little brother would be announcing his engagement to the world.

What makes me so sure? Well that's what little brothers do, apparently. It's all that my friends' little brothers have been doing, the whole flock of them.

"Isn't he 18?" I ask, when I heard of yet another engagement.

She looks insulted. "No, he's 19. His birthday was ages ago."

"Oh." I say. "I'm sorry. I still think of him as 5, and getting in the way when we played house".

They are mainly 19. A few of them, the older ones, have waited it out till the ripe old age of 20. They span across society, from National-Religious to Litvak to Chassidic.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, really. I shouldn't call them babies. I also started dating when I was nineteen.

But I never went out with a 19 year old boy, it never even came up. And if a 20 year old had been suggested to me, I would have laughed. Even 21 I considered childish. I still do. Let's face it, men mature much later than women.

Boys getting married in their teens, that used to be because they were hitching up with their high school girlfriends. Not because they were Shidduch dating.

So what is this new trend, of teenage grooms? Is it only in Israel, or has it reached across the Atlantic too?

I've got to admit, I understand the girls, the brides, in a way. Grab the men when they are young.

Chapter 14: Her Virtual World

2010-02-03T19:32:00.000+02:00

"She should be Tznius, and have Yirat Shamayim, and encourage me to excel spiritually, and push me to learn torah"

Karen closed the tab. It sounded like he was looking for a rabbi, not a wife.

"Looking for a chilled girl, who likes to have fun, and enjoys a good movie"

She closed that tab too. He sounded like he wanted a permanent version of a girl friend, a party girl.

It was funny; really she was all those things they'd described. Really she was Tznius, and did work on her faith, and also did like to chill and have fun sometimes. But the guys who said they were looking for that in a wife; that warned her off them. She supposed it was a question of priorities. They were showing what was most important to them. And what they didn't care about, not that much.

Karen had it figured out by now, how to read between the lines, how to sort the wheat from the chaff.

She had a method, how to search their profiles, how to skim descriptions, picking out key words, learning all she needed to know from a few phrases. She had tactics, techniques for initiating contact, for responding to messages.

Here at least, at last, in this virtual dating world, she could instill order.
True, she'd never actually gone out with any of them, met them in real life. It always remained in the realms of the website; messages and chats and photos exchanged, a burst of enthusiasm. Eventually petering out, once the exotic stranger had turned into a known mundanity.

She had never met any of them, face to face, voice blending into voice. It was only words, cold black and white on the screen, laid out in rows. She could reply in her own time, at her own pace. She could sit at the keyboard, in Teddy bear pajamas, with moisturizer smeared in generous dollops on her face, wet hair wrapped up in a towel, and formulate the most appropriate response. So much easier than a date.

She knew it was unusual. She knew some would call it weird. She hid it, from them all, this new pastime she had.

She let them continue pestering matchmakers, and turning the world upside down in order to find boys for her to meet. She didn't stop the Shidduch inquiries, and webs of phone calls, between mothers and boys and rabbis and her, all to set up yet another stilted date. She went on the dates, she went along with it. Hopefully shed meet the right man, her future beloved, on one of them.

But every night, when she got home, she'd check her online dating account's inbox. This she could do herself, without asking for help. This was her backup plan.

Going After Your Man

2010-02-01T21:42:00.001+02:00

I'm old fashioned. I was brought up to believe that you don't chase men; they've got to go after you. And if that guy of your dreams doesn't? Then he's just not that into you. Forget about him, baby. Move on.

My high school years revolved around crushes on guys who barely knew I existed. I learned my lesson. Take what you can get, don't chase stars. If he really liked you, he'd show it.

The most that us weaker sex can do is reciprocate. Subtly show we are interested, show the admiration is mutual. Hope he'll be encouraged, will work up the courage to ask us out.

The only problem is, I still haven't quite figured out how to do that. Flirting isn't something we were taught in Bais Yaacov. My 'subtle' is probably another girl's 'get lost'. And what if he's shy, nervous, scared? Or he thinks some insurmountable hurdle stands in the way, an issue you don't even care about? Or he simply never thought about you that way before, and somebody needs to light the switch in his mind?

There is another way. And it can work. A guest post from the keyboard of a happily pursued (and now married) man:

I met my wife in passing once. I went to college with her older brother. I didn't really give her a second thought, because she was so much younger. To me she was just my friend's sister.

She, however, was very interested in me. She found excuses to either come by with her brother to see me, or bump into me in various places. We struck up a sort of flirty friendship, over a few weeks. It slowly made its way over to regular phone calls.

A week later I broke my leg. And it was the perfect excuse for her to come over to my apartment to check and see how I was doing. That act made me think of her differently. One week later, when we were talking, she asked me out. I said of course.

The dating only lasted for a year. Then we got married.

Why did I *make* her ask me out?

Too often the guy does all the pursuing because he likes the girl. Usually, because he is very attracted, for one reason or another. As such, his feelings are pretty much known to all. But the guy is left guessing as to how the girl feels. Is she in it because she just wants company until something better comes along? Does she just like the free meals she's getting?

Though most guys won't admit it, it's nice to be pursued. As great a feeling as it is for a girl to be courted, it feels even better for a guy.

At least, that's what I was waiting for. I always told my friends, if a girl ever asked me out, no matter what she looked like, where she was from, etc., I would say 'absolutely' and go out with her, and pay for the whole date too. When someone can make themselves that vulnerable to another, that, in and of itself, is reason enough to give it a shot.

Bottom line, never say no, and it never hurts to ask...

So girls, what do you say? Should we start asking them out?

A Bnai Brak Wedding

2010-01-29T00:57:00.002+02:00

He's leaning through the gap in the Mechitza. She stands on the other side, gazing up at him. They look so in love with each other, I think, as I watch them.

"Is that her brother?" a woman asks me

"No, he's her Chosson" I say. Surely it should be obvious? They came out of the Yichud room an hour ago, and it shows. Some serious chemistry going on there. I'm so happy that she's finally found him. It was a long journey.

"That can't be her husband, he's not wearing a hat" the woman announces, breaking my reverie. "She told me her Chosson wears a hat."

I stare at her; finally take in her tailored suit, sensible flats, and self righteous expression. Who is she? A rebbetzin, a teacher, a busybody neighbour?

Then I swivel round, take another look at the happy couple. She is right, he's not wearing a hat. I hadn't noticed before. He's wearing a black suit, and black velvet Kippah, but no black hat. His hair lies in damp strands on his forehead.

"He does wear a hat usually" I reassure the woman. "He probably took it off when he got hot from all the dancing"

"Hmmpph", is all she'll she say. She's not impressed. What sort of Yeshiva Bachur removes his hat, ever? He must be Modern.

"I'm a good girl, I am"

2010-01-22T22:15:00.000+02:00

"Where did you.go to school?"

I name a seminary, then a college.

"Oh. You're a Bais Yaacov girl," She sounds suprised. I wonder if I should be insulted. Maybe this skirt really is too short. Maybe I should have tied back my hair, and not worn such long earrings.

We are on the bus, sitting next to each other. We discover we are the same age. I tell her I thought she was younger, and she's flattered. It's frightening, reaching the age where it's a compliment to be thought younger. I rememeber the years of trying to look older, guess they are over now.

Naturally, the conversation drifts to dating. Us both being single and all.

"Do you go on real shidduch dates, like they are set up before and everything? Or do you just, like, meet guys?"

"I go on shidduch dates." I answer.

"Oh." Again she sounds suprised. "You're a good girl then."

The words hang in the air. I'm good. Despite the complaining, despite the online venting. Despite the dreaming, sometimes, of something different, of some other way.

"Um, yeah", I say finally. "I guess I am."

I'm good. Because I meet boys on prearranged Shidduch dates. Isn't life simple.

Chapter 13: Shidduchs in Shul

2010-01-19T22:03:00.003+02:00

The women milled outside, waiting for the men to exit. Friday night was the time for showing off their Shabbos finery. The next day was too late. By the time morning prayers ended, their lipstick had long vanished, their eye shadow had faded, and their hair drooped in wilted curls. Once the holy day had begun, makeup was forbidden, along with all the other tricks of the trade.

So instead the women came to Shul the night before. That's when they were looking good. Fresh from the Erev Shabbos showers, made up and pristine. Their perfumes hug low in the air, encompassing the patio with the scents of Dior and Lancôme.

Shulamit spotted Brachy. She pushed her way towards her, between the rustling skirts and silken tops. When Brachy turned around, with a smile of greeting on her face, Shulamit grabbed her arm, and pulled Brachy to the side, away from listening ears.

"Whoa, Shuli. And a Good Shabbos to you too. What's the rush?"

"Brachy, I have the perfect guy for you!" Shulamit was ecstatic. Finally she'd found a match for Brachy.

"Um. That's wonderful." Brachy said. "But what are you talking about?"

"I found a guy! He's just what you're looking for!" Shulamit said. "He's a great boy, really special, everyone said so. He's a serious Torah scholar, he learns all day. He even learns in the afternoon break! And he's got good Middos, they all said how sweet he was. Oh, he may be a bit quiet. But that's not so bad is it? After all, you're also quiet."

"I see" Brachy said. "How do you know him?"

This was the tough part. "Well…I don't actually know him..." Shulamit admitted. "He was suggested to me actually, at, um, the singles evening I went to on Monday."

"Shulamit, you went to a singles evening?! Even I don’t go to those. Aren't they for people who are much older?" And desparate, she thought, but didn't say.

"Yeah well, I went as a matchmaker. I am one now, remember."

"Right." Brachy was keeping her thoughts on Shulamit's new career to herself.

"Someone there suggested this boy to me. I checked him out, and he sounds great. Then I told them about you, and they were very impressed. He wants to meet you, Brachy!"

"If he's so great, why don't you go out with him yourself?"

Shulamit's face went white and taut. The mauve blusher stood out in stark contrast on her cheekbones. "You know I'm not dating this year. I want to finish studying first, remember?"

"I'm sorry, Shulamit. Of course you're not dating yet." Brachy reached out and squeezed her hand. Poor Shulamit, no wonder she wasn't dating. What a nightmare last year must have been. None of them were allowed to talk about it, though. Shulamit had made that clear. "You’re absolutely right to take your time, Shuli. You need to be a famous fashion designer one day!"

Slowly Shulamit regained her color. She managed a smile. "So, Brachy, now we've settled that, are you going to give this boy a try or not?"

Brachy nodded. Then grinned.

Four Reasons to Love Winter

2010-01-18T22:04:00.004+02:00

1. Between boots and woolen tights, girls, you can get away with not shaving your legs. But let's keep that as our little secret.

2. You can stay indoors, snug and warm, curl up with a book and a hot chocolate, and not feel guilty for not having a life. Because who goes out in the rain anyway?

3. You can find Tznius clothing in the stores. Winter, time of long sleeves and high necks. There's no such things as an immodest coat. Even Rabbi Falk couldn't think what to ban in winter outerwear.

4. Shabbos goes out early enough for scheduling in relaxed dates on Motzai Shabbos. Way better than the post workday rush

Sigh. It didn't work. I still can't wait for summer.

Chapter 12: Shadchan Undercover

2010-01-17T23:04:00.000+02:00

"I'm Shulamit and I'm a…" She couldn't do it. She simply couldn't do it. What was she thinking of? How could she sit in the circle of chairs, younger even than the singles here to be set up, surrounded by stately matriarchs, and announce that she was a matchmaker?

She was definitely the youngest person attending. The girl on her right was elegant, and stylish, but she still looked faded, somehow. Perhaps it was the tinge of transparent blue under her eyes, or the way her hair looked like it had been blow dried once too often.

Expectant eyes still stared at her.

"...a student." She completed the lingering sentence. "I'm a design student."
Well a wannabe design student, pending acceptance. And a matchmaker on the side. That she didn't say.

It had sounded so simple. An Oneg Shabbos for single girls to network with matchmakers. Shulamit had thought she could expand her customer base. She hadn't realized that they would all think she WAS a customer. Being a single girl of marriageable age and all.

"And what are you looking for, Shulamit?"

What was she looking for? A career in fashion design, for one. And to help people. Yes, she'd like to help people.

"What are you looking for in a boy?" the woman repeated patiently. Shulamit probably looked nervous.

"Um, well, I haven't really thought about it. But send me all the details of anyone you think of and I'll check him out!" Check him out for her clients, that is.

Wow. Why didn't she think of this before? This was a great way to hear of single boys! She'd get them suggested to her, and then she could pass them on to her clients... She'd be a sort of undercover matchmaker. An agent provocateur. Scouting out the Singles scene.

Chapter 11: Longing for Touch

2010-01-14T22:18:00.004+02:00

They never touched. They never hugged, or kissed, like other families. Some would call them cold. Yet they loved her, Brachy knew they did. They just didn't show it, at least not physically. They didn't feel the need to.

Except for once, when walking back from where Daddy was buried, Miriam reached out and held her hand. They walked that way, the two sisters, fingers entwined, all the way down the dusty path, past the graves and marble monuments. It felt good, sharing feelings without words, sharing love without awkward phrases.

Miriam let go, when they reached the exit, stepping out from under the trees into the courtyard by the parking lot. They stood by the carved water fountain, and freed their hands from each other, ended the contact. They needed to pour water over their fingers, six times in all, to wash away the spirit of death, to be pure. Then, as, its job done, the copper washing cup clanged back against the damp stone basin, Brachy and Miriam walked to the car, in the bright harsh sunlight, separate again, alone.

Brachy hadn't cared before, hadn't even noticed, how solitary her life was. But now she longed to be held; to be cradled in another's arms. She yearned for safety and warmth. She didn't want to be brave any longer, didn't want to hear she was 'dealing with her loss so well'. She didn't want to be independent, and strong, and self sufficient. She wanted to be a little girl again, sheltered and protected from the cold outside.

It was too late now, to change things, to change her family. Touching wasn't a part of their language.

And if Brachy were honest, honest enough to admit to those feelings hidden inside, it wouldn't be enough, even if her family were more demonstrative.

She saw the couples; the models and actresses on billboards and screens, and the real life couples in the streets and the parks. She watched them, boys and girls, men and women. She watched them wrap their arms about each other, and stand close together, and kiss sometimes, when they thought no one was looking.

If only someone would hold her that way, would be with her that way, she'd feel better. She knew she would.

Because then she wouldn't be alone any longer.

She just wanted to be held.

Mismatched

2010-01-11T21:35:00.007+02:00

"I come out of the bedroom, in my nightgown, and she points at me, at my bare legs, and tells me I'm not Tznius. Can you believe it?! She's only three! What are they teaching her there? I don't know what this Bais Yaacov is drilling into her head. Tznius is important, but this is bordering on obsessive."

"Relax." I tell her. "Girls take in more from their families than their schools. Look at me, I went to the most extreme school possible, and I'm normal, no? My friends are all the same. With girls it goes by the home, not the school. It's the boys you should be worying about."

She puts down her fork, leans across the table. "No, The Talmud Torah is fine, they barely teach Mussar or Haskafa. In boys' schools the focus is entirely on Torah learning, nothing else. It works out great, the boys listen to us, and there's no contradiction with what they're getting at school.

"Wait till your boys begin Yeshiva Ketanah." I say. "It's the path of no return."

Because it's the boys who change, they go to off to Yeshiva and that's it. Their family can be open as open can be, but the boys morph, into streamlined products of the yeshiva system. Put it down to the dorming, ascribe it to them being less attached to home, whatever the reason, the results are the same.

I should know. I suffer the consequences every day. I date products of the system. Many girls have the same problem. Girls from American families retain their homes' openness, their Chutznik mentality. Boys, from the same families, are swallowed up in the Israeli Hareidi world. It's a mismatch.

Come to think of it, maybe that's at the root of the Shidduch issues in Israel. We are mismatched, crops of two different systems.

Despite the exorbitant financial demands placed on parents, despite the apartments the girls need to provide, the fathers prematurely aged by the weight of loans, despite it all, 95 percent of my class is married by now.

Who's left? The Americans, the girls from middle-of-the-road families, who want their own homes to be equally open minded. Because their male parallel doesn't exist. Their male peers, the brothers and cousins and neighbors, left home at thirteen, and entered a different world, the mainstream Hareidi world, and never looked back.

The other girls having the same issues are the Sefardi girls. The daughters study at Ashkenazi Bais Yaacovs, the sons are sent to Sefardi Yeshivas, and again the result is a clash of cultures.

There's no Shidduch crisis in Israel, as long as you both tally, parallel products of parallel systems. But when the girls belongs to one world, and the boys to another, then trouble lies ahead.

Shidduch Sick Leave

2010-01-09T20:02:00.004+02:00

Would you go on a date feeling sick? I don't mean sick at the sight of him, which isn't a good sign for future marital happiness, rather sick due to ghastly diseases like the common cold, and the flu.

The thing with dating is, there's no one to provide a sick leave note. The Shadchan is never happy, being asked to make another batch of piggy-in-the-middle phone calls, delaying the auspicious meeting to a latter occasion, to a time when you're hoping you won't feel like a clan of elephants are playing hockey in your head.

You feel sorry for the guy, too. Maybe the poor thing has already showered, and shaved, and now his efforts are going down the drain. He's going to have to make do with the 'company of sweaty guys' - as one boy described his roommates to me-instead of cavorting with a charming Shidduch Maidel.

The fears lurk, unspoken. What if he thinks I'm generally sickly? Not up to being a future baby machine? What if he doesn't believe it's 'only a 24 hour thing'?

Or what if he thinks I'm a hypochondriac, forever searching for excuses to cancel dates?

He could merely think I'm spoiled, coddled. Fleeing to the warmth and comfort of bed, orange juice, and chicken soup, instead of taking pain killers and braving the elements, like any sturdy, responsible, girl would do.

I'm in Shidduchim. I'm supposed to be perfect. Not a mere mortal.

I've tried it both ways. I've done the stiff upper lip thing, covering my red nose with foundation, and disguising pale cheeks with rouge, sucking Strepsils, and dosing myself with double strength Paracetemol, tucking a plastic bag into my purse, in case I throw up on the way, teetering off to the bus stop, grasping the railings for support as I walk.

I don't remember now what the reason was, why I didn't cancel. I do remember I had to go out with him a second time. Because how could I rely on my judgment of the first date? It had been impossible to distinguish which part of the nightmare was him, and which part was the flu. I was just glad I'd remained conscious.

I'll never forget an ill fated date, a couple of years back. Hopefully I'll forget eventually, when I'm happily married to the man of my dreams, but until then it haunts me. I thought I'd met the one. The only one, the right one. All was going hunky dory, until our fourth date.

I was so tired, lethargic, I didn't know why, I just wanted to curl up in bed, not talk to him. We spoke of the commonplace, standard conversations on Judaism and current affairs. As he walked me to the bus stop, I used up tissue after tissue on my wayward nose, trying valiantly to follow what he was saying, to reciprocate. When I got home I collapsed, discovered my temperature was sky high, realized I was probably coming down with something.

The next day, I was lying on the sofa with a pile of tissues scattered around, a mug of tea in my hand, when the phone rang.

"What are you doing home?" she asked

"Sick leave." I said

"Oh. Refuah shleimah. But listen, it's a no." the Shadchan said. "He doesn't feel the relationship is going anywhere."

I mumbled something back at her. A combination of flu and being dumped is a wonderful recipe for feeling sorry for yourself.

It didn't help, saying I'd been sick, suggesting trying again. His rabbi had told him by the fourth date he had to feel ready to marry the girl. And he wasn't ready to marry me. Love doesn't conquer all, I learned that day. Love can be conquered by a fever.

He can't have been my Besherte. He obviously isn't, since he's married with a kid by now. But I sometimes wonder, what would have been the outcome of that date, what would have been the progression of that relationship, if I'd actually arrived to it a person, and not a zombie.

So tonight, I'm not going anywhere. The floor is sparkling, roses peek out from the vase in the corner, but no man will be calling on me tonight. I'm wearing flannel pajamas and a sweatshirt, not the dress I ironed on Friday. Fuzzy slippers and not heels. I'm taking daters' sick leave.

Getting Dressed in Israel

2010-01-07T22:30:00.000+02:00

They only tell you stories from Israeli buses, from the Shuk. It's time you hear about our changing rooms too. They are the true key to Israel.

I'm trying on a sweater, minding my own business, enclosed in a curtained booth, when a head peeps through, imposes itself between curtain and plywood wall. "Mind if I join you?"

Before I know what's happening, head is followed by body, and both are beside me, inside the now cramped space.

"Thanks so much! Are you sure you don't mind?"

I nod mutely. Haven't quite figured out what's going on yet.

She begins to strip. Soon she's standing there in underwear, entirely unembarrassed. I back out of the stall, feeling rather in the way.

"Oh, you don't need to go! You don't mind me sharing your stall do you? There aren't any empty ones." She steps into a pair of jeans, starts pulling the denim fabric up her legs.

I guess it's her choice. I only have a pile of sweaters to try on, over my shirt. There's no real reason not to do it front of her. I stay in the cubicle.

But I try to imagine the same scene happening abroad, and fail miserably.

Modesty can be taken to the opposite extreme too.

"Is this skirt too short?" I ask my friend. I sit down on a stool, and try to see if it still covers my knees.

"It's much too short!"

I spin around. Is that woman speaking to me? She is. "None of the skirts here are Tznius", she tells me.

"Um, right." I say. "Thanks."

She's a soft spoken French woman. She means well. She's merely giving me advice. Never mind that I didn't ask for it. Never mind that she's never laid eyes on me before in her life.

Hey, we are all one big happy family, right? Nobody is a stranger in Israel.

Chapter 10: More than Torah

2010-01-06T22:30:00.003+02:00

"What's she looking for? Well, just a nice boy really, a Mentsh. Middos is the most important thing, don't you agree?"

Ima was impossible. How was the Shadchan going to suggest the right type of guy, if all Ima could say was that he needed to be "nice". Nice, indeed. As if that would solve everything.

The problem with nice boys was they wanted nice girls. Nice sweet little girls. They didn't want her. Not that she particularly wanted them.

Karen gestured to Ima. Stood in front of her and whispered "sophisticated".

Ima waved a hand, brushed her aside.

"so- phis-ti-cat-ed", Karen mouthed, trying to get her attention.

"What was that? Hold on a second please, my daughter's saying something. What do you want Karen?"

"Sophisticated. Mature. Put together" Karen whispered.

"What? I don't understand. Here, you talk to her."

Karen wanted to scream. Ima knew she hated talking to matchmakers directly. That's what parents were for.

But now she was left holding the receiver. Ima had disappeared back into her beloved kitchen.

"Shalom Rebbetzin Auerbach. Yes, I'm also happy to be finally speaking to you. Well, about the boys."

Should she have said 'Bochurs'? Would that have sounded more Frum?

"Yes, so Middos are very important. But I do feel that, for it to work, he'll need some other character traits too. I also need someone sophisticated, do you know what I mean? Like mature, an adult, someone who knows what's going on in the world."

Karen settled down into the chair by the telephone, this was going to be a long conversation.

"Oh no! Of course I think learning's important! And I do want to marry a Yeshiva Bochur! Just I'd like to, well, be able to talk to him. About other things, not only Torah. Not that I'm saying Torah shouldn't be the focus! But there are so many other interesting things going on in the world too…" Karen's voice drifted off. It was so hard to explain. And they never understood.

"Yes, I realise that you deal only with boys from mainstream Yeshivas. I've gone out with boys from those Yeshivas. Surely one of them can be a serious learner, and still be able to hold a conversation about current affairs? About art, history, science, something, anything?"

"Oh you're saying those boys aren't the dedicated ones, that the ones you deal with are all good boys from good solid Frum families? Is that a contradiction? Maybe you can think of someone all the same?"

"Right. I see. Well, good bye then. Thanks anyway"

Karen carefully placed the receiver back in its place. She swiveled around, called into the kitchen . "It's no good. She says she doesn't have anyone suitable".

The water stopped running in the sink. Ima came back out into the living room.

"Karen, darling, was it really necessary to be so specific? You scare them away. Can't we start with finding you a nice Jewish boy? Why do you need to add all the fancy words?"

"But what's the point, Ima? What's the point in going out with yet another typical Yeshiva boy? I never like them. I just want to be able to talk to them, is that so much to ask for?"

"I don't know Karen. I don’t know what to say to you."

Karen's parents had been ready for all the laws and rules and stringencies, when they became religious. They'd been ready to move neighborhood, to change the way they lived and spoke and dressed. But they hadn't been ready for this. For the sheer helplessness they felt now, while their daughter's future wavered in the balance.

Maybe it was their fault. They hadn't been able to resist sneaking in secular culture, their favorite tidbits from the world they'd turned their backs on. The parts they couldn't give up.

So this was the result, here was Karen, Frum through and through, yet not quite, not quite the same as the others, as other people's children. The standard Yeshiva boy's weren't enough for her. She wanted more, more than her parents could give her. What had they done to their child?

Chapter 9: Her Father's Name

2010-01-04T22:00:00.003+02:00

When Brachy was thirteen, she had a problem on her hands. She was a teenager, almost a grown up. She couldn't go around calling her father "Daddy". It sounded so babyish. She listened to what the other girls said, the words they used. It was mainly "Abba", sometimes "Tatty", or "Dad". But none of the names were him. This is what she'd called him all her life. This is what he was, her daddy. And how could she start calling him something different; how would she explain. He'd be hurt.

She tried to minimize the damage to her adult image. In public, she'd speak about him as "my father". That sounded reasonable. And when Shuli and Miriam came over, when any of her friends were around, she'd try not to call him anything at all.

Then came the point where they all knew his name. She went from classroom to classroom, every morning, writing his Jewish name in big curvy letters on the blackboard. Shimon Yosef son of Rachel Devora. Never mind that he was only Shimon Yosef for Aliyos in Shul, that he was Sam the rest of the time. This was the name they had to pray for.

That last week, the week he lay in Intensive Care, and slipped day by day away from them, she still called him "my father". She passed a cluster of classmates, gathered outside the grocery store, as she made the trek from hospital to home.

"Where've you been Brachy? We haven't seen you in a while."

"My father's very ill." She said. 'Please Daven for him. Please Daven for my father."

But what she wanted to yell was "Daddy is dying. Inside that cold white building. While you're standing here."

And now, Abba, Father, Daddy, it didn't make a difference anymore. She didn't have to worry about sounding childish. There was no one to call. God had taken that problem away from her.

"Do you remember how Daddy used to make us pancakes, on Motzai Shabbos?", she asked Shlomo.

Shlomo nodded slowly, "Yes, he was so proud that he'd learned how to. We used to add ice cream on top."

He didn't want to forget Daddy, either.

Chapter 8: Shadchan's Interview

2010-01-03T21:21:00.006+02:00

The floor was covered with Lego and puzzle pieces, scattered artistically in bright splodges of color. Shulamit kicked them aside and cleared a path to the dining room table. Brachy followed in her footsteps, trying her best not to step on any toys. Shulamit gestured to Brachy to sit down opposite her.

"So Brachy, tell me a bit about yourself please."

"Shuli, we've been friends since kindergarten!"

"I know, I know. But I still need to write down the details. Your personal information and stuff."

"Like what? You know who I am" Brachy thought this whole thing was ridiculous. Shulamit was getting carried away.

"Brachy relax. I know what I'm doing. I am an experienced matchmaker."

"Um, exactly how many matches have you made Shuli?"

Shulamit made a non committal sound. It was a sore point.

"Nu, how many?"

"One" Shulamit said. "But now I've learned the technique! This is just the beginning!"

"Right" Brachy said, not convinced. "So, what do you want to know? I'm called Brachy Miller. I live down the street from you. I grew up with you"

"Hold on, let me get organized." Shulamit opened up a loose leaf binder, pulled out a pack of fluorescent pink writing paper.

"I have a system", she told Brachy. "Pink is for girls, blue is for boys"

"So all you need to do is match the pink papers with the blue ones?"

Shulamit smiled widely. "Exactly!"

Brachy muttered something, but Shulamit pretended not to hear it. It didn't sound flattering.

"Brachy, tell me what you're looking for."

"Looking for in life in general? Or something in particular?"

"Looking for in a husband! Come on, Brachy, you agreed to this."

Brachy sighed. "I'm so tired of that question though. It's all anyone ever asks me. 'What am I looking for?' Like all I need to do is punch my order into a manufacturing system and a boy will come out the other end. And then, once I've finished spilling out my heart's desires, they tell me they don't have anyone, they don't even know any single boys. So why ask in the first place?!"

"Right. I can see how that can be upsetting. But we have to start somewhere."

Shulamit flushed a bright shade of pink. She matched the paper she was holding.

"You don't have any boys either, do you Shulamit? Admit it"

"I did meet one!" Shulamit defended herself. "Just this Friday I met a lovely boy who's interested in dating!"

"Great. So set me up with him."

"Oh. I don't think you two would really suit. I can't see you together..."
"Don't you think you should let me decide that?"

"Please Brachy, trust me, OK?"

Chapter 7: The Flower Seller

2010-01-02T18:32:00.004+02:00

This matchmaking business wasn't working out the way she'd planned. Shulamit opened the folder again, slammed it shut. Nothing had changed. No blue papers had miraculously flown into the file overnight. She still had almost no boys, just a thick stack of pink papers, one for each girl looking for a date.

Finding girls hadn't been a problem. Wherever she went, she kept an eye open, for the ponytails, the braids, and the bobs. She'd gotten bare head spotting down to a fine art. Shulamit could tell the natural hair from the wig, even when she was five rows behind in Shul, down a supermarket aisle, or across a wedding hall. Once she'd satisfied herself that the girl wasn't married (and also wasn't a minor), she'd pounce. They'd usually agree to come over, to be interviewed. (True, after a tiny little bit of effort on her part.)

With boys it was proving to be more of a problem. Where were they hiding? What a stupid question. The boys were all in Yeshiva of course. How would she get to them there?

She could make a sign. "Shulamit the Shadchan. Call me!". She could ask Dovid to go round the Meah Shearim, hang up the ads in the study halls. No, that wouldn't work. She could hardly start interviewing strange guys in the living room. Abba and Ima would never agree to it.

What a mess. Why hadn't she thought of this before. How was she going to keep all her promises now?

Shoot. The doorbell was ringing. "Dovid!", she yelled, "Someone at the door!". Let him answer it, she had bigger things on her mind.

Oh right, Dovid was at the grocery store. She'd promised to make his favorite peanut butter brownies, if he went to buy the ingredients.

There was a knock, this time. Two gentle taps, and a pause. Didn't people realize she had a business to run here? She gave up. She'd go see what they wanted.

The door swung open. Shulamit found herself looking at flowers, a big bunch of pink roses. A boy was holding them. He thrust them towards her, wordlessly. Had Abba invited Shabbos guests again without telling them? Now she was going to be stuck with playing hostess until he got back.

"Hello", she said, trying to look welcoming. "Do come inside! Would you like a drink?"

The boy looked rather surprised. Hadn't he known about her? Was he the type of Yeshiva boy who wouldn’t eat at homes where there were girls? Then he smiled. "Thanks, that's so kind of you to offer. I really could do with a glass of water"

As he stepped over the threshold, Shulamit saw a bucket, by the elevator outside, behind where he'd been standing. He'd been blocking it from view before. It held a mass of color, of life. The bucket was filled with flowers- roses, and gardenias, and orchids- Shabbos flowers.

Oops. He was the flower seller. Not a Shabbos guest. But she couldn't throw him out now. Besides, his face was red, his black hair clung damply to his forehead, there were wet patches on his T-Shirt. The poor boy obviously needed a rest.

"You know, I've been going door to door, all morning, lugging around this bucket, and even though it's a heat wave outside, you're the first person to offer me a drink!"

Shulamit gestured wordlessly at a chair, went to the fridge to get a bottle.

"I never realized how much work it was to sell flowers! When Motty woke up sick this morning , and asked me to do his round for him, I figured it was as good a way to spend a Friday morning as any.
"
He didn’t stop talking, now he was given the chance.

"I don't have Seder on Fridays. So I figured I'd do him a favor. But I guess I'm out of shape, Gemorra learning isn't exactly physical."

Shulamit stopped, her head bent over the plastic cup she was handing him.

He wasn't a regular flower seller. He was learning in Yeshiva. He was a Yeshiva boy. In her house. Without her even needing to post ads. Thank you God.

She looked up at him, a big smile on her face. "Take your time! You need to cool down in the air conditioning for a bit!"

She went over to the table, pulled out a blank piece of blue paper, from under the file. She picked up a pen, and sat down opposite him. Now all that was left was to find out what he was looking for. He had to be right for somebody, out of all the pink papers. The Shidduch was as good as made.

Chapter 6: Brachy's First Date

2009-12-30T21:39:00.004+02:00

Meet Brachy. She wasn't going to exist. She was going to be a secret side of Shulamit, or another facet to Karen. Then I realised Brachy is a person in her own right, a complex one, and she deserves a character, all her own. Be patient with her, she'll suprise you.

"My first boy…" Their voices went husky and soft. Sometimes they'd giggle, sweet secrets hidden between the decibels.

The other girls remembered their first Shidduch dates tenderly. Their introduction to the world of Shidduch dating, their first socially sanctioned meeting with a boy. It wasn't just a meeting of eyes across a Shul hall, or a stammered hello in the elevator. This was a real rendezvous; conversing with a member of the opposite sex, a young single man, not a relative, not an elderly rabbi. It was exciting. They saved a place in their heart, for their first Shidduch dates.

Brachy didn't understand. What was so special about the first boys they'd met? They weren't first boyfriends, first loves. They weren't even first dates. She remembered the first boy she'd been introduced to. He hadn't been a date. He hadn't asked her out, hadn't flirted with her. He hadn't even liked her.

Brachy didn't remember what his name was. She never remembered their names. Shmuel teased her, said that one day she'd call him from the taxi, on the way to her engagement party, and ask "what was his name again?" about the boy she was engaged too.

The boy had been extremely eligible, that much Brachy did remember. Brachy's "first boy" was perfect; very religious, serious about learning Torah, from a wonderful family, wealthy, and even intelligent. He was the "top boy", in a "top yeshiva". Shmuel expected no less for her. After all, Shmuel had spent three months investigating the boy, doing a full background check, assuring himself that all was well, before Brachy was allowed to meet him.

Brach felt sick, the day of her first Shidduch date. Her stomach was sending confused messages, or was that her heart? She said Tehillim in the recesses between classes.

Maybe she was about to meet the man she'd marry. Maybe this was the beginning of their life together. Maybe she'd have a family again.

She concentrated while she said the afternoon prayers. She stood with her feet together and head bowed, and tried to envision herself standing before God. From between the Siddur's pages, she pulled out the little laminated card, a present from Shuli, and recited the Prayer for a Soulmate.

They were meeting in Bnai Brak, close to the boy's Yeshiva. It was a two hour journey for her, but this way his learning schedule wouldn’t be disrupted. Torah learning was precious, Yeshiva students' time shouldn't be wasted, squandered on travelling and girls. So Brachy sat on the bus, and used the time to say more Tehillim. She prayed that soon she'd be building a home, a Torah home. She begged God, for this boy to be her destined mate. A part of her was worried too, what if she did marry him? How would she know he was the right one, when she had never met anyone else?

Brachy's first date wasn't in a movie theatre or a bar, the places secular couples went. Nor was she to go to a café, or a hotel lobby; the chosen venues for Shidduch dates. Brachy's first date was in an apartment building, in a stranger's home. Shmuel had arranged it.

The door was covered in crayon drawings, Brachy could just make out the family name on the engraved sign, hidden under the cardboard and glitter. They must have small kids. She sure hoped the kids were safely asleep by now.

She stood on the doorstep, didn't move, wondered how long she could push off what came next. Eventually she lifted up her hand to ring the doorbell. In a couple of hours this would be behind her, she'd be safely back on the bus home. How bad could it be? Really it should be fun, to finally be dating, like everyone else.

But it only lasted an hour. An hour for the carefully selected suitor to decide she wasn't right for him. An hour for him to learn all here was to know about her. A barrage of questions, thrown at her one after the other, so she hardly had time to breath in between stammering out replies. Her throat grew dry, she longed for a drink, but he didn't pause from the interrogation.

After an hour he stood up, brushed off his jacket, and strode towards the exit. He paused for a moment, spun round back to her, "well, good bye then", and with that he was gone. Brachy's first date over. Brachy's first boy had exited the scene, never to return.

Now, years later, Brachy did still remember him, her first date. But she didn't remember him fondly. Her introduction to Shidduch dating had been rather brutal, thanks to him.

Diversity

2009-12-28T23:55:00.000+02:00

She looks like a typical young matron from Bnai Brak. She's dressed in a baggy suit, the type the stores on Rabbi Akiva street abound with. Her Shaitel is short and straight, mousy colored. She speaks in weighty, solid, tones.

Where is the girl I once knew? I can't find her inside this staid creature. "It's happened to her too", I think. She's become a standard Chareidi woman. Fitting the mold, following the rules. Marriage does that to you.

She tells me she's studying teaching, in college. "The certificate we got from Seminary isn't enough," she explains, "I need a real degree for doing therapy"
"What type of therapy?" I expect to hear one of the standard specialties; physiotherapy, occupational therapy. Or maybe even art or music therapy, they've also come into fashion.

"Animal therapy." she says.

"Animal therapy?!" I blink. I look at her again, closer this time.

Chareidi women cross the street when they see a dog. Try as I might, I can't picture her, I can’t picture any Chareidi woman, in a barnyard or a stable, surrounded by dogs or horses or whatever animals it is they use for therapy. It doesn't fit the image I have of her. Shaitel and suit meeting feathers and fur. Surely not. Whatever happened to conforming to the unspoken rules? What happened to fitting in?

She's smiling. There's a light in her eyes. "Yes. Animal Therapy. It's always been my dream."

I smile back at her. "Good for you!" I say.

And so I've learned my lesson. Never judge a book by its cover. There are shapes between the lines; there is color beneath the black and white.

From Barbies to Baby grows

2009-12-26T20:00:00.000+02:00

Once upon a time I used to buy birthday presents for my friends. First it was Barbies or dolls house furniture. Later on I'd make their presents by hand; pine picture frames covered with sea shells, or smooth pebbles painted with a poem.

Then the dolls houses we'd once furnished became real houses, newlywed apartments. I collected towels and rugs in Ikea, for pre wedding showers. I selected tablecloths and cookery books, for preparing husbands' suppers.

I stocked up on presents during the sales. They stayed on my top shelf though. What was needed by now was baby outfits, for the newborns. Weekly browsing became part of my routine, in Baby Gap and Golf Kids.

By now it's the second round. The first batch of babies are already toddlers. My friends' stomachs are again getting rounder; the invitations to Brits are reappearing. This time I'm prepared. I have a reserve of baby grows and rattles, ready for when I need them. No need to rush to a store when I hear the happy news.

It's a new way to measure my life, reflected in the gifts I buy. Time passing, life progressing. Progresing for others. Pity I'm still at the birthday present stage.

The Irony of Religious Women

2009-12-23T22:00:00.001+02:00

It seems to me, that the more religious a woman becomes, the less she's supposed to keep.

Take Chanukah; I've been lighting candles since before I can remember, probably since I first brought a Chanukiyah home from kindergarten. Now really that should brand me as Modern. At home it seemed natural.But my more religious friends, or maybe I should say more Chareidi ones, well they don't seem to be in such a rush to light. They wouldn't dream of bringing flame to wick themselves, that would be far too shocking. Even being there, to watch the act take place, is rather low on their priorities. "my father/husband will be Motzi me" they say.

It doesnt stop there. The more religious women are, the less they go to Shul. The truly Frum woman avoids attending the synagogue altogether, except perhaps for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, on the rare years she doesn't have little kids to prevent her from going.

And if a woman is lucky enough to be Chasidic, she stands a good chance of not having to fast on the fast days, aside for the major ones.

Then there's Succos. I've already written about that. No self respecting Frum woman should be caught sleeping in a Succah. Unless she wants to risk being branded a feminist, that is. Certain Chasidic sects are against women even eating in the Succah. It could give them ideas above their station. One Chasidut holds that if a mother wants her sons to grow up to be Torah scholars, she should avoid the Sukkah as much as possible.

I've decided it's a great tactic, becoming more Frum. It will free up my time for the important things in life, now that I won't have to bother with doing all the religious stuff.

No Arranged Marriages

2009-12-21T22:00:00.000+02:00

"No. Stop. Break!" Tires shriek as we grind to a halt. "You almost ran over that puppy!"

"Oops. Sorry. I didn't notice…" I resume driving. My new teacher leans back in her seat, trying to relax despite putting her life in my hands.

"Can I ask you something?" she says, as I circle yet another traffic circle.

"Go ahead" I reply, my eyes firmly on the road, looking out for more stray dogs.

"Do you do that Shidduch business?"

"Yup. I go on Shidduch dates." I have no problem admitting it. Seeing as how it's a subject that fills most of my waking hours nowadays. (I'm still trying to remember what I used to talk about with friends, before we started dating.)

"Have you, like, actually met a boy yet?"

"Oh sure." I say. "I've met quite a lot of boys."

"Ah." she looks suprised. "Does that mean you don't have to marry them?"

I laugh. "A shidduch isn't an arranged marriage. It's an arranged date." And if I'd married all the boys I'd gone out with, well, it would be pretty confusing by now. "It's sort of like a blind date."

"Really? We do those too. I used to go on blind dates all the time" She's trying to take it in. "Then what's the difference from what we do?" We being the secular public.

"Well I don't stam go out" ( Sorry, there's no good English equivalent for stam) "shidduch dating is for a purpose״

"You mean if it doesn't work then on to the next one . No hanging around." She approves. "And what do you do on a shidduch date? Someone told me once that you went to hotels"

"At first it's hotel lobbies. Then cafes and museums and other places. Maybe parks or the zoo."

"The zoo?!" she thinks that's hilarious.

"Yeah, the zoo is filled with religous couples, dating."

"Gosh how boring. You must know all the animals by name by now"

I agree with her. "One guy got a fright when I told him the zoo is only fun with kids. He thought I was hinting."

Maybe I should explain to her about Chasidim doing Shidduchim differently, about the different streams in Chareidi Judaism. Hold on, is that a truck? I better keep my eyes on the road and concentrate. Otherwise there might be one less Shidduch Maidel in the world.

"You know, it doesn't sound so bad. I always thought Shidduchim were like in the films. That you had to marry them, you didn't have a choice."

I'm glad I sorted that out for her. One less misconception about the Chareidi public.

I decide I'd better leave it at that. Not tell her about certain online blogs where Shiduch daters vent their frustrations with the system. Better not to spoil the good impression.

Chapter 5: Reverse Shidduch Crisis

2009-12-19T19:30:00.009+02:00

I'm happy, sitting by the window, typing away. A little face peers into mine, mouths words I can't hear. I pull the headphones from my ears, and Matisyahu stops pounding.

"I want to sit here." She points at the seat next to mine. I look across the aisle, at where she'd been sitting quite comfortably with her sister. The older girl still sitting there looks back at me, and shrugs. I pull the purse and coat into my lap, clear the space for the little girl. She clambers into it, settles in. I slide the headphones back in, wake my IPod up from sleep mode. The girl climbs off her new seat, disappears into the back of the bus, comes back a moment later with two activity books.

"This one's mine, and this one's my sister's." She shows them to me proudly.

I turn off the music again. Someone has obviously decided she's my new friend.

She opens the books. Shows me which pictures she's colored in. I admire them. I offer her a pen, so she can do another puzzle. She pulls a line through a maze, looking up at me, for approval, every few minutes.

"Wow. You're so smart." I actually love little kids. Babies are quite boring, (sshhh, don’t tell anyone I said so), but once they begin to talk, they become fun. "You're drawing like such a big girl! How old are you?"

"I'm six." She says. She's called Rivky. She learns in the Gur school. I tell her that I have a niece her age, also in Kitah Aleph. She's disappointed to hear my niece go to a different school.

Then I notice Rivky's big sister, standing in the aisle. "What's your name?" she asks me. The questions carry on. "How many kids do you have?"

"Oh, I'm not married." I pull at my hair, show where it's connected to my scalp. People have been thinking I'm married all evening, I'm used to it by now. I've given up explaining that this afternoon, before the engagement party, I just stepped out of the shower and let my hair dry the way it is. That it's the Shaitels Machers fault for copying my messy look this year.

The "big" sister (She's already ten and a half, she's in fourth grade) goes back to her mother. Then she comes back again.

"Where do you live? How old are you? What Chassidut are you?"

Finally she comes out with it. "My mother asks if you want to marry a Gur Chassid?"
I gulp. Try not to laugh. "Oh. Well I'm not Chasidic you see, so I don't think I'll marry someone Chsasidic. But tell her I say thank you anyway."

At first I'm flattered. I resolve to sit next to a Litvish first grader next time. Who knows where that could lead? Maybe she'll have a big brother? An uncle would do too. Maybe this is why Chareidi girls aren't allowed to drive?

Then I remember that Gur has a Shidduch Crisis going on too, just like we have. Only it's a reverse Shidduch Crisis. There are too many single boys, looking for wives.
You see, not many girls want to marry into the Gur Chassidut. Not even the Gur Girls themselves. They often look for husbands who belong to other Chassiduts.

The reason? Gur has a lot of rules, a whole lot of rules, about marriage. There are the rules on exactly how it's permitable to have marital relations. You know those recommendations in the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch? Well by them that's law. Along with a lot of other restrictions. Like they aren't allowed to sleep in the same bed together. Ever. But I won't go into them all here, it being a Frum blog and all.

There are other restrictions too, not only for the bedroom. One that I heard is that a husband isn't allowed to call his wife by her first name.

So now Gur is looking for wives for their boys. Women willing to take on the all the restrictions. And they are having a hard time finding them.

Which leads me to my brilliant idea. A solution to both Shidduch crises. Let's marry our girls to their boys! If a girl in NY is feeling desparate, ship her over here, to the local Gur community! Simple, yet brilliant. I wonder why nobody else has thought of it yet.

Chapter 4: Raising Illiterates

2009-12-17T22:05:00.003+02:00

This was going to be a "real" blog post. Because it's true. It happened last week, and I've been wanting to write about it ever since. And I do have an issue with Chareidi society raising illiterates. But I'm in novel-writing-mode, so this is what came out. There's no reason I can't make the same point in fiction, right?

"So how can I send a document?" Bracha asked.

Karen sighed. There was so much to explain. "You see the paper clip? And underneath it 'attach'? It's called attaching when you add a document to an email."

Michael, sitting over at the next desk, sniggered loudly. Karen swiveled around and glared at him. It wasn't Bracha's fault, that she knew none of this. She was a product of the system.

Bracha sat on a folding chair beside her, eyes glued to the computer screen. "What's an inbox?"

Bracha had called in a panic. "All the tourist sites want to send me emails. They won't mail the brochures. They won't even agree to fax the details. And the principal wants this trip organized by Friday! Listen Karen, I need your help"
And so, an hour later, here she was, sitting in the office, soaking in what a lifetime of education had denied her.

Karen couldn't really blame Michael for laughing at them. The conversation must sound funny. As she explained to Bracha how to open a Gmail account, as her words echoed in the room, they sounded ridiculous. As if she were teaching a child perhaps, or an 80 year old. No, not even that. Children were on Facebook nowadays, and grandparents on Twitter.

"But how will you use your account? You don't have internet access anywhere. You can’t come here every day." It was one thing teaching Bracha how to use email. Karen couldn't have her turning up repeatedly. The bosses would complain.

"Well the secretary has internet on her computer. She'll let me use it."

"So why couldn't she have dealt with this?" Karen was annoyed. The interruption was using up precious work hours. Hours she'd have to make up later.

"Oh she doesn't know how to use it either. I don't know why Rabbi Horowitz bothered to have it installed."

Bracha was a computer teacher at the local Bais Yaacov elementary school. She'd studied with Karen in Seminary. Together they'd been taught programming languages and office programs. They'd done homework, and given practice lessons. But one thing they'd never been allowed near was the World Wide Web. There was a ban on using the internet in the Chareidi world. It wasn't lifted even for those who were supposed to work in the field.

Karen still remembered her first job interview. The face of the man interviewing her, when she didn't know what MSDN was, hadn't heard of any of the popular programming websites. She hadn't gotten that job. She'd learned her lesson by the next one. Going to the local library, and browsing site after site, in preparation.

Nowadays Karen was pro. Despite her long skirts, and prim button down shirts, despite being automatically labeled as religious, and hence obviously backwards, she was "Tech savvy", she was part of the modern world. She would prove it. She could Google with the best of them. She wrote a technical blog. She was on all the online social networks.

She had joined a dating website too, but that was a secret. That was one thing nobody was allowed to know.

Her old friends, the girls she'd gone to school with, the girls she'd grown up with, none of them could understand this new language she was speaking, new universe she was spending time in. Except for the others who'd also rebelled against teaching, who'd also sought to join the secular work force. One by one they too joined her online. Together they formed networks, and chatted, and posted photos; forgetting the Rabbis' warnings, ignoring the bans.

But Bracha, good pious Bracha, never had. She'd listened to what she was taught, followed the instructions given by society's leaders. She'd managed fine in her teaching job, typing and printing and mailing, travelling to libraries in the center of the country when she needed to do research.

Yet now the school Bracha taught in, the Bais Yaacov school, wanted her to organize a trip for them. And for that she needed to use the sinful Internet. So here she was, coming to learn what she'd been told was wrong, having no choice. Sitting clueless and sounding ludicrous, which basically she was. Because she was this century's equivalent of illiterate. She 'd been purposely raised to be ignorant.

Chapter 3: Ending the Shidduch Crisis

2009-12-16T11:38:00.004+02:00

Every time she saw the long lines of religious girls, waiting at the cash tills of Mamilla with their fathers' credit cards and their mothers' cheque books, Shulamit felt her heart scrunch up. The travesty, the absolute travesty, paying good money, a lot of it, for clothes they wouldn't be able to wear. Well at least not straight away, and by the time they'd finished with the bits of fabric, by the time they'd let down hems and sewn up slits and added buttons and safety pins to raise the necklines, it would all be spoiled. She knew it would. It always was. She felt so sorry for them. Fashion wasn't meant to be meddled with.

Really, if you thought about it, there was a lot that could be done with Orthodox fashion. Women's bodies had to be covered, from top to toe, and that was a large canvas (a very large canvas indeed after seven pregnancies had left their mark), a blank canvas just waiting for her.

When she had a store, it wouldn't sell items blindly imitating the catwalk. She wouldn't copy standard patterns, and then add material indiscriminately in order to deem it modest. When she had a store, it would be stocked with the fashion she designed. Fashion for the Orthodox woman.

Shulamit was following her dream. It wasn't a standard dream, for a frum girl. Wasn't a typical one. She couldn't train for it in seminary, in the same way the other girls learned teaching and special Ed. But it was just as idealistic, just as holy. She knew her store would make the world a better place. She'd be helping the next generation of Frum girls, same as if she were teaching in a Bais Yaacov. She'd be helping them dress well, look good. Maybe she could even end the Shidduch Crisis. In her outfits girls would be so irresistible that no Yeshiva guy would be able to turn them down.

So she had to venture out, into a very different world, which was new to her. Well the truth was she could have learned sewing in one of the girls-only colleges popping up. They promised to teach design too. That's what her teachers had encouraged, when they'd realized she wasn't going to join the ranks of teachers. She'd tried, really she had. She'd gone to the group of white washed rooms, tucked into a dingy building off Rabbi Akiva street in Bnai Brak. She'd sat patiently through a lesson on creativity, fighting off the urge to close her eyes, which grew heavier, as the lecturer, a middle aged woman in a bushy Shaitel, droned on, saying nothing very creative at all.

At the end of that lesson, she stood up, thanked the teacher, waved a good bye to the students, and left.

To make a dream come true wasn't easy. She needed the best. She got on the bus to Tel Aviv, and rode straight to Betzalel. Betzalel was the top art academy in Israel. That's where she wanted to study fashion design. But it was too late. The year had already started. They told her to mail forms in May, to apply for the next year.

Shulamit would wait. Meanwhile she had enough to keep herself busy. After all, she had another profession too. She was a matchmaker. She'd focus on that. Not only fashion could end the Shidduch crisis, she'd give it a good try with her trusty notebook too.

Chapter 2: A Game Plan

2009-12-14T22:31:00.003+02:00

Karen was always in control. That's the way she was, the way she'd been all her life.
She was the one who organized the hikes in summer. She was the one who passed round a sandwich bag to collect money for teachers' presents at the end of the year. (Then she'd gone out and bought the presents, that same day. And written the poems to go with them.)

Karen had a mantra. "If you want a thing done properly, do it yourself." Every time she tried to let go, tried to leave things for someone else to take care of, it went wrong. Other people forgot, and delayed, and got mixed up. Not Karen. She learned it was quicker and easier not to rely on anyone else, if she wanted something done right.

First she worked out what to do, and then she did it. And then she dispensed advice, How-Tos for every step of the way. From organizing a hike in the Golan, to winning a treasured Madricha position in sleep-away camp. From picking the best Seminary to finding colleges that would give credits for their near worthless Seminary diplomas two years later.

Once it was time to join the grown up world, she was the first in her graduating class to prepare a resume. Her details were already sitting in the inboxes of all the prospective employers on JobNet, together with a customized cover letter, when one by one her friends traipsed over, and she helped them prepare resumes too.

She knew it all, because she'd done it all first. She had her life worked out.

Karen knew how she'd go about finding a husband, if it was up to her. The same way she went about everything else. She'd research current dating trends. She'd go to the right places, dress the right way, say the right things. She knew she'd find a guy. The right guy. And quickly.

But for the first time in her life, Karen had to let go. Her hands were tied. Bound behind her back by the rules society had invented half a century before.

There was no such thing as speaking to a man directly. She couldn't even hope to catch the eye of a potential mate. Someone else had to be in the middle. Someone else had to arrange it. So she needed help. Had to ask for help. Because that was the system. And there was nothing she could do about it.

In the beginning it wasn't too bad. She thought she could handle it. First she went to the local Jewish bookstore. She came home with all the books her teacher in the Shalom Bayit class in Seminary had recommended; "How to find your Zivug", "The Shadchan Speaks", "Dating made easy", "Splitting the sea". She read them all. She soaked up the advice of rabbis and matchmakers and "dating mentors". She prepared for what lay ahead. Knowledge was power.

Then she prepared a list. Lists were the key. She carefully wrote down every family friend and relative who moved in the right circles, who could know of a suitable boy. She added her teachers from high school through Seminary, because teachers were good at making matches.

Chanukkah was the best time of year to start dating, that was common wisdom. Winter meant Shabbos went out early, with the stars in the sky by five, and so Motzai Shabbos could be used for dates. Also, she'd settled into a comfortable routine in the new job. She was ready for the next stage.

On the first night of Chanukkah, after candle lighting, Karen presented her parents with the list. It was time to train them.

The Matchmaker Diaires: At the Bus Stop

2009-12-12T20:12:00.001+02:00

The woman's black hair was parted; two smooth waves pulled back tightly from her brow, disappearing under a scarf. The scarf was white, with silver threads running through it. It matched her white skirt and woolen coat. Only her boots, black patent leather, spoiled the snowy effect. She looked like a china doll, petite and perfect. She leaned against the man, who stood at right angles to her. She rested her hips on his, curved into him.

He wore a woolen hat, pulled down low. He looked so obviously irreligious. Shulamit had no need to see his head underneath it, she was sure there was no Kippah there. Stubble grazed his chin, jeans were slung low on his hips. The archetypical secular Israel, confident and fit after army training. And attractive, she admitted that silently to herself.

They stood on the other side of the bus stop. They didn't kiss. The woman rubbed her smooth cheek against his rough one. He moved his arm up, around, to cradle her.
Shulamit was fascinated, horrified. She couldn't look away. When the man's eyes swept the area, checking he wasn't being watched, she made her glaze blank, indifferent, pretended to be staring at the busy street.

The woman was married, religious and married. The head covering showed that. The man was secular. The man and woman were not, could not, be married to each other. Yet they looked right together, they slotted together, fitted together. Like a couple, a couple having a relationship. They were touching. It was like the scenes in the movies she had stopped watching, had given up as sinful.

The woman couldn’t be very religious, Shulamit reassured herself. After all, her skirt didn't attempt to reach her knees. And it was slit at the back, the slit reaching up to her coat, possibly beyond that. No truly pious woman would dress that way.

And what's to say the woman was still married? Once married didn't mean always married. Maybe she was divorced. Divorced women had to cover their hair too.
That would mean it wasn't an affair, wasn't adultery. "It was just," Shulamit stumbled to find the right words, "just a relationship that broke the rules".

She felt slightly better. Despite herself she turned round again. The man was brushing his cheek back against the woman's, tenderly. Shulamit stifled the feelings of envy. Shulamit was studying, pursuing the career she wanted. She didn't want to get married yet. She didn't want a relationship, didn't need a man. She was fine on her own.

The bus came, and she got on it. The couple still stood there, at the bus stop. She carried on watching them through the window, until the bus drove away.

Against Principles

2009-12-11T15:14:00.003+02:00

"I don't like people with principles", a boy once told me.

I stopped and stared at him.

"Because they put their principles before everything else. They refuse to step out of their comfort zone, to stretch. People should come first, and that takes flexibility."

"But everyone has principles," I said, "at least, I hope they do. Like in my family, my father stressed honesty, I hope I'm carrying that on."

"That's different. That's Halachah. Think about it. There's Torah, Halachah, we should be acting according to that. Not be adding things on."

"Oh. I see." I said. But I didn't really see. It took a few months, with his words buzzing in the back of my mind, before I grasped the meaning.

Today I remembered him. Today I understood.

A Rabbi refuses to give me the name of one of his Talmidim, until he's met me.
"We can discuss it on the phone." I said. "I'll tell you everything you'd like to know."

"No, I have to meet you. That's my Shitah."

"You can speak to your friend Rabbi C., he knows me well. Or you can speak to your Talmid, Yitzchak Greenberg, I dated him for a while, he’ll remember me."

"No. This is the way I do things. I won't set up my Talmidim with girls before I've met them. On principle."

I also feel strongly about preferring to date single guys, and not middle aged married men and women. I even wrote about it. I didn't pull the "principle" card on him though. I'd just be told I'm stubborn and picky and not doing my Hishtadlus.

I gave up, said goodbye and hung up.

I've begun to notice when principles appear.

When something is wrong, it's simple. "I don't do that.", "I can't do that.", "I don't feel that's right", "Sorry, but that's breaking Halachah."

And when something is right, it's even simpler. Often there's not even a need for justification. Most good things people are happy to accept without explanation.

Principles are used for behavior that is outside what the Torah teaches us, outside what is obviously correct. Principles are used when we can’t find a better argument.

Chapter 1: After the Ball is Over

2009-12-09T22:38:00.003+02:00

The tiles were cold against her bare feet. Karen dangled the shoe straps from one hand, fished around in her purse with the other. The key had to be in there somewhere. A powder compact fell out, crashed onto the floor below. She bent down, opened the marble plastic. Clay colored lumps lay scattered inside, useless now. She snapped the case shut again, shoved it back into the overcrowded jumble. She'd need to buy a new one before the next date. What a waste. Trust it to break now.

Ah, there was the sliver of purple, peeping out between tissues and a folding umbrella. She pulled at it, tugged until the key ring dislodged from the mess.
With a twist and a push, she was inside. She dumped the purse and coat and keys, all in a pile on the bench by the phone. The shoes, she dropped onto the carpet by the dining room table. She'd taken them off in the elevator. Beauty was pain.

Karen went straight to the first bedroom off the hallway, still wallpapered with pink rosebuds, a remainder from the girly phase she'd had in second grade. She didn't stop to turn on the lights, or pick up the clothes that lay scattered everywhere. It was always a rush before, always a mess left behind. But she ignored it, pressed the computer's big rubber button. When a soft whirring filled the silence, when flashing icons appeared on the monitor coming back to life, she paused, to catch a breath, to settle in.

Tights came off. Fuzzy bunny slippers went on bare feet. Lenses came out, glasses went on instead. She loosened the earrings and necklace and hair clips. She rubbed at her eyes, smudging mascara and eyeliner carefully applied a few hours before. When she looked in the mirror, black panda eyes stared back, out of a pale face. She reached behind, under the shiny fabric of her top, to undo the bra's clasp, and wriggled arms out of sleeves to slip it off. That was better.

She settled into the swivel chair. Squatted on it cross legged, reached out fingers to the keyboard. The web browser was still opening. She didn't move, just gazed at the screen until the homepage had finished loading.

There were messages. One was from that guy who wouldn't take no as an answer. She'd have to be blunter with him, explain again how unsuitable a match they were. On second thought maybe she would ignore him, not answer at all. Maybe that way he'd get the message.

The second was from "Avraham". He'd replied at last. She crossed her fingers, said the only chapter of Tehillim she knew off by heart, chapter 121, and clicked on his message, to open it. He sounded so perfect, so right.

It was a rejection, couched in kinder words. Karen opened up his profile again, compared the "what he's looking for" paragraph with the description she'd written of herself. She couldn't find any contradictions. She wondered what put him off her. Was it worth another try?

The third message was from someone new. She hadn't noticed him on the site before. She'd read that, before going to bed. She hovered the mouse over the envelope, was about to click on it, when the door swung open.

"Sweetheart, how was your date?"

The Matchmaker Diaries: Prologue

2009-12-06T23:48:00.004+02:00

She looks nervous. Pretty, but nervous. I wouldn't be caught dead in a suit, and I told her as much last night, when she laid it out on the bed, but it does make her look older somehow. Grown up.

If only she wouldn't keep latching and unlatching her hands together, and would stop with the lip biting. At this rate that shiny lipgloss will be worn right off, before he even arrives.
Is that him? A tall, black suited figure is approaching. I can't make out the face beneath the hat. My angle is wrong. The postcard stand spins around, as I push past it. I catch it from toppling over, just in time.

"Can I help you?" The woman behind the counter does not seem very pleased with me. I've already spent as long as humanly possibly, inspecting every souvenir in the store. I obviously am not about to make a purchase. She's losing patience. I had better leave.

Standing in the doorway, I check out the scene. He's saying something to her. He must be the one. Neither of them is looking in my direction. I make a dash for the opposite doorway.

Inside H.Stern, I lean against the wall, relieved. I haven't been spotted, I'm pretty sure of that. Outside I can see them still talking. He's gesturing now, pointing at a corner of the lobby. She follows him over to a pair of sofas, perches on the edge of one, lays down the shiny purse. He sits at right angles to her. He takes off the black hat, places it carefully on a vacant chair.

A saleswoman approaches me. I avoid her gaze, peer intently at a nearby display cabinet. The jewels inside glitter back at me. I straighten up, trying to look like I regularly go shopping for diamonds, like a potential customer. I don't want to be thrown out of the store before I've completed my mission. It's too risky to stand outside, in the open and wide exposed lobby. Bracha would never forgive me if she caught me spying on them.

Well, spying is too harsh a word. Seeing a job through to its end, that's what I call it. I mean, I set them up. I did all the phoning and persuading. I want to see the pieces fall into place.

Good. They are smiling now. Laughing. I think this is going to work. Time to move on.

The problem with trying to write a novel, is that I miss the feedback. What's been getting me to write is you guys. The comments, the responses, you're great! And I miss it when I plod through my chapters. So I thought I'd give this a try. Introducing my new serial story: "The Matchmaker Diaries". Please, please, nudge me and nag me and beg me for the next installment. Maybe this way I'll actually write it!

Seventy Paths

2009-12-03T23:46:00.005+02:00

I almost missed the message. Then I noticed the little envelope in the corner of my cell phone's screen.

"I'm engaged!!!" the SMS shrieks out at me.

She asks me to give the news to her high school teacher, who happens to be a relative of mine. That night I make the call. It starts off pretty typically.

"Guess what? Rachel is engaged!"
"Mazal tov! That's so exciting!"
I can hear the genuine pleasure in her voice. Rachel is one of her favorite students.
"Tell me all about it? Who's the boy?"
"Well, he's in the army."

Silence.

I take a deep breath, and plow on.

"He's an officer. Something quite high up. I don't remember the initials, 'samech' something or other."
"I see."
"It's such a cute story how the Shidduch was made. See she didn't think it would work out, but she thought 'why not', and gave it a try, and voila!'

Frozen replies from the other side of the line. The esteemed Mechaneches suddenly sounds eager to end the conversation.

I could have been imagining it. I don't think I was.

Prize student, pride of the Bais Yaacov system, betrays the establishment by marrying, not only a not-in-Yeshiva boy, not merely a working boy, but a soldier! What can be worse than that?

I think where our society went wrong, is by focusing on negatives instead of positives.

Torah learning is a good value, an important ideal. So is making a living for your family, and contributing to society. So is defending the country, and we all owe those who do it a huge debt of gratitude. You can decide that Torah outweighs the others, decide to focus on that. That's your decision. But please, let it be about "learning Torah'. Don't let it be about "Not serving in the army", and "Not working".

I read the stories and letters-to-the-editor, about fathers running from Gemach to loan shark to bank. Or scheming up improbable get rich quick plans. Or flying abroad to go door to door collecting. Somehow it's OK for a man to spend all his waking hours in a chase to cover debts, rather than learning in the Bais Medrash. It's socially acceptable. As long as he's not working. Chas VeChalilah. Good chareidi men don't work.

And a boy can be doing many things, some of them not so savory. Society can deal with it. The true red line is the army. Shedding the black and white for khaki green. If he does, then he can still be wearing the black kippah, but it's not enough . He's crossed over to the other side.

"Learn Torah" has somehow morphed into "Don't do anything else".

That's how a nice Jewish girl can get engaged to a nice Jewish boy, and instead of being happy for her, some people, out there, can be upset.

Not only Chareidi Society negates other approaches. I mix in many worlds. I hear the remarks about 'parasites'. The disapproval of Torah scholars who 'have their heads in the clouds'.

So many ideals are good and right and true. Let's focus on our goals, whatever they may be, instead of negating the other ones.

Is Attraction Important?

2009-12-01T23:55:00.004+02:00

You think it is, I think it is, but aren't you curious what the Rabbis of Israel have to say about it?

We are sitting on the sloping hill, alone aside for the trees and the moon. I've convinced The-Yeshiva-Guy-I-Didn't-Marry to sit down on the grass with me, instead of on the customary bench. It's a new sensation, sitting on the grass with a boy. I cross my knees, pull my skirt down to cover them. He sprawls out on his side, a few inches from me. This is so much more relaxed than benches and chairs. It's the first time I've ever done it, on a date. A part of me whispers that that's a rather sad fact.

"Are you attracted to me?" I ask. There's a certain light missing from his eyes, when he looks at me. He doesn't look at me the way the boy before him did. I'm worried. I don't know what they've been telling them in Yeshiva, about feelings coming later, and all that. I know one thing, I don't want that to be the case with my husband. The question is blunt, but I don't care. I'm passed the beating around the bush stage.

Like a true Yeshiva student, he avoids the question. "Is attraction even important in a marriage? Rabbi C.K. say's it isn't."

Rabi C.K. being the venerated Gadol Hador.

Before I can open my mouth to protest, he continues. He is quick. One of the things I like about him.

"Of course, you know what Rabbi S. says."

Rabbi S. being an esteemed Rosh Yeshiva.

"Rabbi S. says attraction is very important."

"Well, I agree with Rabbi S." That sounds better than saying I disagree with Rabbi C.K. I've already learned what not to say about the Rabbis he admires.

"I thought you would. He also says: The reason Rabbi C.K. can say that attraction isn't important is because to Rabbi C.K. the couples come only before they get married, for his blessings. To Rabbi S. they come after the wedding, with their Shalom Bayis problems. "

I'm beginning to like the sound of Rabbi S. Not the kind of line I'd fit with his image.

"And what do you think?"

A dog comes bounding over, breaks the moment. My Yeshiva guy stands up and brushes the clinging greenery from his pants. I follow suit. We make our way towards the park's exit.

The relationship doesn't last much longer. I tell him I want a husband whose eyes will light up, when he sees me. I hold by Rabbi S.

The Weatherman

2009-11-29T22:42:00.002+02:00

Naming my last date is easy. He's the Weather man.

Now there are a lot of stereotypes out there about a certain nation being obsessed with the weather. I'm an open minded girl. I don't believe in stigmas.

Except that in this case they were spot on accurate.

"Did you enjoy the weather today? So nice and sunny. With only a light breeze. I loved the weather today. Such a lovely day! Wouldn't it be great if every day was like that? I don't see why the weather has to change every day. I wish every day the weather would be the same. Don't you sometimes wonder why the weather has to change?"

"Well it is giving us something to talk about …"

Let's just say he didn't get the hint. I'm still trying to figure out how he dumped me for our "Hashkafa being incompatible". What Hashkafa exactly? The evening reminded me of the advice given in My Fair Lady. When in doubt, stick to the weather, your family and your health.

Until he shows up

2009-11-24T21:33:00.002+02:00

Remind me never to listen to a cab driver again. Telling me I'm better of walking. Huh! I mean, I'm sure he meant well, but I'm freezing. This may be my favorite coat, but it's not very warm. Everywhere seems so much further in heels. I hope I won't be too tall in them. Why do all the men in the street have to be Arab? Aren’t there any Jews in Jerusalem? And why do they think I'll understand what they are saying to me in Arabic? I hope I'm not being stupid, walking here alone. Was that a whistle?

Oh good the guard is waving me through. He's not making me open my bag. Lucky, I don't know how I'd get it closed again, if he did. It's not easy fitting a science book into an evening purse. I suppose I don't look very suspicious. Maybe he recognizes me from the last time I was here. It was only a week ago, after all. I'm a regular, you could say.

Please, please, that can't be him. No. God, listen to this prayer at least, don't let that be him. The trick is to avoid eye contact. That's the main thing. Let him be for someone else. It can't be him, right? Surely they would have told us about the beard? I'm going to ignore him. Circle round and make a quick dash to the bathrooms.

Is that what I look like? What a mess. Don't know why books romanticize the windswept look. It's not a success on me. Now where's my lipgloss? Umbrella, book, Mp3, cellphone, ID tag, keys, tissues, disk on key. Disk on key? There's top secret information on that. It's not supposed to leave the office. What’s it doing here? Oh well, hope I'm not abducted. Ah, there's the tube. Nothing like a dab of Clinique.

Whoa. She's tall. I feel so short all of a sudden. Is that blonde natural? Nice jacket. Didn't know non religious women still wore suits. At least not in Israel. Hey. One second. Belle Du Jour, last night. Only hookers wear designer suits, it said on the blog. Hmm, is she one? Oh it's a tweed jcket. Probably not then. Maybe a guest from abroad. Come to think of it I'm wearing a suit too. Wonder what they'd make of me abroad, wandering around hotels dressed up and unescorted. I wish the Amazon goddess hadn't come in. I felt much prettier before.

Nine on the dot. I'd better venture back into the ring.

Phew. Beard man is gone.

Now this one looks cute. Perfect, in fact. But why isn't he smiling? And now he's walking away.Sigh. Guess it's not him.

Another scan of the territory. I see a black suit. Black hat. Walking next to a woman in a Shaitel. Right.

Who's that guy? He looks chilled. Is that a white Kippah? Weird. Who wear's white Kippahs nowadays? Oh it's knitted. White knitted, with a thin blue border. Makes more sense. But he can't be for me. Yeah there's a girl in a long skirt. That fits. Is that a sweatshirt? How does she get off so easy?

Where can he be? Does he think this is fun for me?

Stop. Think positive. Music. Classical music. Coming from the piano over there. It sounds pretty. Tonight this scene reminds me of a ballet. Yeah that's it. Not a primitive mating ritual. A ballet. Men in suits, women in dresses. Grouped on either side of the stage. A flurry as they meet each other in the centre. Pairs pull back to the sides. Perfect symmetry as they align, to fill rows of parallel sofas. Man opposite woman. He removes his hat. She lays down her purse. He speaks. She nods. Waiters glide over, then withdraw. Now she speaks. He answers. He looks down, twiddles his fingers, clears his throat. She looks down, plays with her necklace. Pattern repeated in every set of seats. Matching outfits, matching body language, identical conversations too, probably. Great choreography.

Where is he?

Hmm, good opportunity to check out the menu. I've always wanted to do that. Coffee is the same price as a soft drink? OK. That's it. I'm ordering a coffee tonight. Correct, coffee is more intimate. Soft drinks are for dates one and two, hot drinks are only done on the third date onwards. But tough. Too bad. I've drunk enough coca colas to last me a life time.

Still not here? Should I call home, and have them call the rabbi, and the rabbi call him? What a performance. I'll give it another few minutes.

Wait. I see a white and yellow blur through the glass. A taxi has drawn up outside. Is that a black suited figure? The door is swiveling round. Someone is stepping out. Tall and broad shouldered. I'll stand up. His back is to me. Now he's turning. Oops. He must be sixty if he's a day. Better sit down again.

Do I dare go into H.Stern? Don't want to have him thinking I'm too into diamonds. Catching me gazing starry eyed into a display cabinet is not the way to get off on the right foot. I guess I'll risk it. There's nothing else to do here.

Stop. On the right. Yeshiva guy. Approaching me. Saying my name.

I knew I shouldn't have worn heels.

Is Blogging Tznius?

2009-11-23T21:34:00.004+02:00

Or more to the point, is my blog Tznius? Got some not-so-positive feedback recently. Here's my response.

Being a Bais Yaacov girl means many things. Most of them are good. I made a conscious decision to study in the places I did, to belong to the society I do. I don't regret it.

But along with the schooling came a pattern. The pattern of Chareidi society at large, perhaps. What not to say, where not to go.

When I was in high school it was non Jewish music, movies, boys. These subjects were taboo. Good girls didn't even think of them, at least not aloud.

Even now, in the discussions of "kids going off the derech" flourishing in the Frum press, so many theories are produced, for what drives teenage boys and girls to hang out together. What they never mention is hormones. Awakening needs, wants, temptations. Teenage boys want to be with girls, teenage girls want to be with boys. Sometimes it's as simple as that.

Some kids do it. Do the forbidden, the banned. They are branded as at risk.
They cross the red lines. Other's don't. The kids who behave according the rules are embraced. These are the top Bais Yaacov girls, the prize Yeshiva students. No one ever thinks that they too may be battling temptation every day.

I used to envy my friends in the more modern schools. Not because they were allowed to do more than me, but because in their their schools they spoke about it, openly. They could, and did, question, discuss, seek advice, all without fearing disgrace.

When we grew up not much changed. As least not for those of us still single. Now it's the Shidduch- crises, not the Kids-at-risk crises. Again the debates as to causes and symptoms.

But again so much is left unsaid, unacknowledged. It's not only about being left behind, while peers move on to the next stage in life. It's not only about being in a strange limbo, with no defined place in society. It's not only about burn out, and fears for the future.

There is another factor too. We are Frum, we do follow Halachah, we do work on Emunah and Bitachon and want to build true Torah homes. But we are also human beings, mature men and women, struggling with desires, some of them physical, battling with pulls in different directions, every day.

I'd like my blog to reflect this, the different facets that together make up being a Frum single girl in the 21st century, with all that that entails.

Some of you don't feel my blog is Tznius, or appropriate. My apologies.

Mixed Messages

2009-11-23T00:54:00.003+02:00

"The surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel is to look for the lady in the designer suit. Fact."

From Belle Du Jour. Diary of a London Call girl.

Now where does that leave us Shidduch Maidels?

Better stick to the Marriott, girls, and not venture into the Ritz-Calrton, at least not in your best black suit. Don't want to give some gentlemen the wrong impression.

Living in a Bubble

2009-11-18T20:48:00.002+02:00

"Raise your hands if it's a challenge for you to look your husband in the eyes."

I almost raise mine. It's sure a challenge for me.

I've looked hundreds of men in the eyes. Deeply, soulfully, admiringly. I've even resorted to fluttering my eyelashes at them. But I'm yet to look my husband in the eyes. I wonder what color eyes he has, and when I'll get to see them.

Oh, that's not what she means. She's talking about relationships with our husbands, about Shalom Bayis. I guess that's what this Shiur is going to be about.

A warning would have been nice. I was looking for some uplifting spirituality, not a reminder of how lacking I am on my own.

I hope my mother, sitting next to me, is not upset. I hope she's not thinking of how much she'd give to look into her husband's eyes. An opportunity she's not had since he died.

I wonder how many other widows, divorcees there are in the room. I catch the eye of a single woman in her fifties. She's managing to mask the pain. Or perhaps she doesn't mind. Perhaps by now she's grown numb, grown used to it. Used to never ending references to things she is missing.

We all live in bubbles, bubbles of our own making. We have a tendency to think that where we are holding, so is everyone else.

Please, remember the others.

Before you speak of children, remember the childless.
Before you speak of spouses, remember the single, the widowed, the divorced.
Before you speak of families, remember those who are alone.

It can work in the other direction too. From sagas designed to pull at heartstrings, to casual episodes to spice up a talk. Melodramatic tales are casually dropped. References that can drive some listeners to tears.

I've been in the corridor, outside, when women have stood up and left Shiurim in the middle, able to take no more. I've seen their faces as they've leaned against the wall, outside, shaking, fighting back the memories that the careless mentions brought back to them.

So before you tell of sickness and disease, of hospital wards and intensive care units, think of the terminally ill.
Before you tell of death, of deathbeds and burials, think of those who recently lost a loved one.

Tact, sensitivity, consideration, these should be values in our world too.

Pause, stop a moment, remember there are people in the audience for whom this can be a sensitive topic, choose your words with care. There are some places where even angels fear to tread, and rightly so.