Newest Segulah for the Shidduch Crisis
I'm halfway through my weekly attempt to murder my driving instructor, when I ask to book a lesson on the eve of Rosh Hashana .(I decided the kitchen will survive without me for an hour, seeing what a lousy housewife I am anyway) "So we're on for next Friday?" "Oh, sorry. I'm going to Uman." "You're going to Uman?!" I'm sure he's kidding. He's not Breslov, not Chasidic, not even Chareidi. This is the perennial joker, who sarcasm I never get. On second thought, maybe he's serious. It makes sense. He needs to pray for survival. It's a miracle I haven't yet killed him and me both (several near misses with lampposts, buses and helpless puppies) and I've paid him ahead for the next batch of lessons, so he can't back out. "I'm really going. Want me to Daven for you?" He pulls out a list, hands me a pen. "Add your name" I look at the list of names, written in traditional plonit-bat-almonit s