Frum N' Flipping

 All Orthodox Jewish publications are censored. That’s a fact of life I grew up with. Our newspapers were founded by political parties, our magazines are independent, but still establish a ‘rabbinical board’ in order to pass muster. The goal is always to be worthy to be brought into any Frum home, to be left on a coffee table in front of the Shabbos candles, and read by readers of any age and any grade, without raising awkward questions.   My mother is a writer, so from my childhood I was privy to behind the scenes debates between writers and editors and rabbinical boards. One particularly right-wing newspaper made her take out all physical descriptions of women from her serial. “ Golden braid ”. “ Hazel eyes ”. It all had to go. We joked about it around the Shabbos table, the changes each editor and each rabbi asked for, not caring about historical accuracy or craft, their only goal a preset template of modesty. I accepted the censorship as a given, as the way it had to...

  This is the story of how I wrote my novel. Now that I have a (fabulous, wonderful) agent , I feel I can finally say – I did it! I wrote a book! Even though, why should we wait for affirmation from others? If you’ve written a book, and feel satisfied with it, celebrate it now! Even though perhaps I’m being premature, because what if no editor likes my story and it languishes unpublishable on my Google drive? But it is a book. And people (unrelated strangers!) have read and liked it. And heck, I’ll say it, I’ve read and it and been very proud of myself, in that "did I really write that?" way. Anyway, back to the story-   I wrote a novel, and this is the story of that story. 15 years ago, when I was a single serial-Shidduch-dates (think Faye on Jewish Matchmaking style Shidduch dates), I used to blog about girl-going-on-arranged-matches-with-yeshiva-students who balances that with being a woman-software-engineer-in-hi-tech. I flittered between 2 worlds, every day, a...

Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman, means hearing other people talk about me like I’m a fish in an aquarium. Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means being told by Ultra-Orthodox male politicians that I am not interested in having women representing me in government. That I should vote for men, and they know best. Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman in Hi-Tech, means working for 15+ years, holding a graduate degree, and still hearing secular men, professors of sociology, lecturing in conferences about promoting my participation in the workforce, like I am some kind of science project. Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman in Hi-Tech married to a Kollel student means paying taxes, but reading in Facebook comments that I’m a parasite. Because somehow, despite feminism, households with stay-at-home-moms are fine, but heaven forbid the mother should be the one working, not the father.  Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means paying city taxes and school tuition, and sending my children to study in caravans instea...

It’s a funny thing, how those moments that change your life slip up on you, discordant chords in the rhythm of life, that inflate into a storm. Putting my barbie dolls in their drawer, coming downstairs for supper, my parents telling me, happily, like it’s a good thing, that we will be making Aliyah to Israel in the spring time. As if that didn’t mean leaving my home, with the rose bushes in the front lawn where I posed every year in my birthday dress, and the pair of trees in the back where my big brother kept promising to build me a tree house when he came home from Yeshiva, and the ancient trampoline where I could lie spread eagled and count the clouds, the weedy grass where I picked daisies in the summer,  the shul where the old man gave me raisins in a red Sun-Maid box. As if Aliyah didn’t mean leaving my friends, the complicated school yard games we had been leading since before we could remember, of who’s-who’s best friend, and hide and seek, fairies and witches, and ru...

This story of mine appeared in Mishpacha's Sukkos Calligraphy.  It's one of my favorite stories so far, so I wanted to share it with you guys too. It came under a lot of fire from Mishpacha readers, and I'm interested to hear what you have to say. I am a woman, at last. I look at my face, enveloped by the wavy brown sheitel .  The wig frames my narrow cheekbones; the pony masks my too high forehead. I turn my head from side to side and enjoy the swish of the silken mane. I look like any other young woman, young married woman. "How much is this one?" I ask. "Ah, you chose one of our best pieces. A hundred percent European hair, soft and silky. You have good taste" Many would suck in their breath when she names the figure; I don’t. I'm prepared for the expense. I've been waiting for this day for years, too many years to count. Not in this way, no, my dreams were more fantastic, but this will have to do. "I'll take it" I say. ...

I have time. Four weeks to be precise. Wonderful beatiul amazing vacation. The reason? I quit my job. Don’t worry, I made sure first that I had a new job to go to. I'm ever concious of being the sole breadwinner of the house. But I carved out for myself this month of blessed freedom in between jobs. “To Write.” I said. So I didn’t make plans, didn’t even commit to woking on the thesis that’s haunted me all year, freed up my diary and my days for one mission, to finish my book. I have the most time on my hands since I started working, after college. That was a long long time ago.  I had big plans. But so far I’ve read at least ten novels, gone to the pool, slep till midday, basically did everything except write. The irony.

We are bumping along in the airport shuttle bus, my hand luggage clutched on my knee.  “I’m so glad we are flying EL AL” I say happily. “The way to the states was such a nightmare with Iberia” (who knew it takes 30 hours to fly from Tel Aviv to Madrid?) TCO just nods. Men are like that. “Next time we are flying ELAL both ways. I can’t handle a connecting flight again. Besides, their service is so much better.” Famous last words. If life was a movie, dramatic music would have been playing in the background at this point                                _________ “Flying has really changed” I say to TCO, pulling out a folded pieced of paper from my purse. “Remember when you had to go to the travel agent and he’d give you a little plastic pouch with tickets that were blue ink booklets?” Little did I know that I would soon be longing for those days. Oh, sweet 90s. _________ We h...

My friend is getting married next week. She's the last of the "chevra" to cross over to the dark side. It's her shower.We are sitting around a table piled high with wrapped up pots and pans and peelers. "I want you all to give me advice now", she says ."One tip for a good marriage from each of you" I suppose being the last to marry has its advantages. Not only do we know to give her already toiveled dishes, but apparantly we also can share advice. Well they can. I'm still a rookie. One by one they mention giving to your husband and caring about him and encouraging him and all those other good traits "It's important to still leave time for yourself" I say when it's my turn "Just because you enjoy being together doesn't mean you won't sometimes need your own space, your own time for the things you like to do" The others look at me like they pity TCO, like I'm a selfish wife. I blush. Who knows, ...

I found this post in my Ipod. It was written "735 days ago". That's back when I was single, skeptical of ever finding the right guy through a Shidduch date, and meeting quite a few of my online readers. You read my blog. You like it, that's why you carry on reading it. You want to meet me. You have this picture of me in your head. You expect me to be vibrant and energetic. You expect me to be bubbly and charismatic. You expect me to be  like my writing.  I'm not. I'm quiet,  I speak softly. Often I don't speak at all, because I'm still thinking. You either expect me to be rebellious and critical of society (based on some of my posts), or you think I'm flipped out, like my name( which was chosen by mistake, but that's another story). I'm neither. I'm just another frum girl. The type you wouldn't look at twice if you passed in the street. I do have some  criticism of society, but so do most people, they just don't bother...

Will this last forever? I'm estatic, elated. I straighten my shaitel, half skip, half run.  I'm on the way home to my husband. I'm married, really married! And I have the most wonderful husband in the whole wide world. Life feels like a dream. It's too good to be true. When did this happen, when did everything change, drastically and amazingly?  I'm scared I'll wake up. Newlywed bliss; an enchanted fairytale that the two of you are living in. Everything’s wonderful, everything’s perfect. You're married!  I wondered how it would end, when the happiness would dissipate. Sheer amazingness couldn't last, they told me. "How are you?" My long married friends asked "I'm so happy!" I said "Yeah, newlyweds…" "Don't you feel the same?"  I asked them I didn't understand. Why should the happiness end, if you're supposed to be loving each other more and more, not less and less. ...

I’m free. I can do whatever I want. I don’t have to listen to anyone, I don’t have to care what anyone thinks of me. (Except for TCO, but then we agree on most things, so that works.) I savor it. My short period of freedom. I’m not in school, ducking into a store when I see a teacher or a classmate in the distance, anyone who will report my long jeans skirt, strictly forbidden by my Israeli Bais Yaacov. I’m not in Seminary, I can’t get kicked out for speaking a boy. (Not that I ever did.) Best of all – I’m not in Shidduchim.  I can go to a wedding with no makeup, I can be unfriendly to annoying yentas, I can even make shocking and controversial statements comparing the Shidduch scene to an auction. We live in a mixed, non Charedi, neighborhood.  I could do cartwheels in the street and nobody would care. I wear a baggy old skirt and glasses to the supermarket. I never go to anywhere just to “meet people”.  When I try to decide if my outfit is tznius, I on...

1.Throw back shots of whiskey. Liquor will do too. Anythig with high alchohol content. If no drinks are available, complain loudly about lack of booze. 2. Tell tall tales of extreme sports. Recent bungee jumps or skydiving is best. If the most adventurous you've been is walking up the steps insead of taking the elevator, lie loudly or make fictitious plans for next week. 3.Ostentatiously carry packs of feminine hygiene products into bathroom. Enough said.  4. Ask to be the kvatter at a Brit 5. Leave a packet of contraceptive pills lying around What not to do: - Wearing tunic tops or any form of baggy clothes is stricly forbidden. Wear tight and form fitting clothes only. (Sorry rabbi.) - Never be sick, Ever. If you are sick, don't tell anybody. Nausea is off limits, whatever virus you have. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Events of the past week have fortified my belief. Yeshiva guys are all pedophiles. And so are their moms. I get a frantic phone call from Mrs. Mom-of-Yeshiva-Guy. “She’s 25! 25, not 24!”  “Oh.”  “Does she look her age?” “Her age?”  “You know, does she still look young, or does her age show?”  Her age. In any other western society except for the one I live in (and possibly Mormons too) twenty five is considered young. In fact, women are considered to peak in the late twenties and early thirties – according to Cosmolitan . Check out the average age of most female celebrities (who aren’t exactly famous based on their IQ)  But Yeshiva guys like them young. High school girls are illegal, but the good news is that most eighteen and nineteen year olds, fresh out of seminary in their sweatshirts and ponytails, still look like high school girls (and sound like them too)  Then there’s the fact that by the time an average Charedi woman hits her mid twe...

"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 cell...

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 b...

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 da...

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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...

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 bu...

"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 h...