The other night, I attended an open school night for one of the places we may be sending T next year. I was sitting next to a friend of mine, and amidst the talk of class projects and school philosophies, we kind of stopped paying attention, and started talking about the things we were doing during the week. She then told me that she was going to be attending an adult gymnastics class the following night. Until that point, neither of us had known about the other's, uh, Gymnast Past, but she told me that one of our other friends—who also used to be a gymnast-—was going to the class with her, and she told me to come, too. I had trained as a gymnast for over seven years (and it is a total coincidence—I swear—that I mentioned it the other day). It was a huge part of my life for such a long time, and, well, an honest-to-god talent that I kind of gave up on, once I hit high school and had no time to keep it up.
I proceeded to spend the next 24 hours excitedly bouncing around, and mentally picking out my outfit for class. I had these grand plans of donning creepy-ass American Apparel-type workout gear, but when the time came, I actually began thinking STRATEGICALLY, which is perhaps the most pathetic admission I’ve made in recent memory. I told myself about how it was time to Focus and Get Serious about my Craft, and so I put on a sensible gymnastics outfit, one that was short on charm, but long on practicality: sports bra, black tank, and black capri yoga pants. No hot pink skintight AmApp harem pants for me.
Sometimes, I feel like such a disappointment.
We arrived at the class, nervous and excited, and immediately began expending our nervous excitement by essentially harassing the tiny teenage gymnasts who were on their way out, staring at us curiously. It was bad, by which I mean, we LITERALLY SAID things like “we used to be good, tooooooo! Enjoy your talent while you cannnnnn!” Under the guidance of our teacher, we stretched, did some basic tumbling, and then we began actually attempting to do our old tricks, and half-jokingly-yet-not-really performing portions of our old routines. It became clear that letting 15 years elapse since your last gymnastics session—-while inevitably painful the next day--does not, in fact, kill the muscle memory required to execute a back handspring. We all had a fantastic time, and unanimously decided to return this week, and it was right around this time that I realized this could totally be a TV show.
Think about it: Take a bunch of aging former gymnasts-- definitely past their prime, but still talented-- and place them in a competitive reality-type show, wherein we attempt to regain our flexibility, relearn our (DATED) routines, and maybe, just maybe, fit into our old competition leotards once again. I’m not quite sure what the winner would get (toaster full of cash from Crate & Barrel?), or who would serve as judges (Dream Team: Mary Lou Retton, Bela Karolyi, Bobby Knight), but I do believe the show will be called Backflipping the Clock. Although I'm totally, TOTALLY open to suggestions.
(Come on, you’d watch it, right?)
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Snotty People
This past week was a milestone of sorts: It marked the first time both kids were sick at the same time. I know! It IS weird that they don’t make a Hallmark card for that. I’ll spare you the details, but in summary, we had a snotty, feral baby with a high fever and four molars breaking through simultaneously, as well as a toddler with a cold, who was exceedingly surly and prone to statements such as “I need soda now. It will help my heavy nose feel better. I love you, Mommy.” Which, I mean, I don’t even know what to say to that. Except that “Heavy Nose” is totally going on the list of potential singles for my hypothetical band, the Rapturous Zipper Protuberances, so named for the best spam subject line I have ever received.
I mention all of this because, well, I love both of my children dearly, but hot damn, BOTH of them sick at the same time was…difficult. J and I kept eyeing each other suspiciously if the other so much as looked at the front door: “What are you doing?” “Taking out the recycling! Jeez!” “THEN WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR PASSPORT, ASSHOLE?” “I WAS JUST INSPECTING IT! NOT FLEEING THIS PLAGUE-RIDDEN HOUSE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!”
Fine, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, but it was a bit stressful.
And you know, I tried, I really did, to find some useful ideas online for how to distract miserable sick kids, and make them more comfortable, but they only responded to my well-intentioned YET INSIPID ministrations (“juice? extra pillow?”) by escalating their moaning. I realized the guidance sucked, threw the metaphorical playbook out the window, and…behold!
I share with you here my patented (read: not patented) five-step program, What To Do If Your Children Are Sick At The Same Time:
1. Deal With Their Noses. Because My God. -- Difficulty Level: Easy to Medium, depending on your puppetry skills
Hey, you know what sucks about cold-having, teething babies that don’t know how to blow their noses? Everything! But more specifically, the fact that, if your baby is anything like mine, he/she flails wildly about if they so much as glimpse the tissue approaching their wee, raw nose, and then! THEN! Heaven forbid you actually make tissue-to-nose contact, they act as though the tissue is CRAFTED FROM PRESSED BATTERY ACID. COATED IN FIRE ANTS. ILL-TEMPERED ONES. And let’s not forget the aforementioned “heavy-nosed” three-year old, who kept sighing and generally looking like a sad-eyed Precious Moments figurine whenever I suggested that perhaps he could entertain the thought of blowing his nose.
My solution came to me while giving them one in an endless series of baths: I was cleaning their faces with their washcloth puppets (you know, like these) ,talking in a ridiculous and embarrassing puppet voice, and I realized they were not making a PEEP. I pressed my luck, quickly tickling them with said puppet washcloths, and then, while they were still giggling, attacking their noses. Miraculously, it worked.
I kept the gig up, assigning each of them a washcloth puppet Specifically Designated for the Gross Cleaning of Noses. The distraction of the puppet was effective, earth-friendly (like I’d give a badger’s ass in this situation, but still), and afforded me the opportunity to work on my puppet voice. Which in case you’re wondering, sounds like a Barney/Yoda/Grover hybrid. Everybody wins! Including the planet! YOU’RE WELCOME, EARTH.
2. Sacrifice Yourself on the Altar of Dignity, aka, play The Tent Game -- Difficulty Level: Medium to Hard, depending upon ease of tent procurement and relative size of your butt.
My kids were whiny and listless, so I figured that perhaps breaking out some of the toys they hadn’t played with in a while might perk them up. They have this tiny pop-up tent thing which hasn’t seen the light of day in MONTHS. They asked me to play in it with them, but alas, my ass couldn’t fit through the tent door. (In my defense, it’s REALLY SMALL. The tent door, that is. Not my ass. CLEARLY.) Naturally, they thought this was hilarious, and begged me to try to get in again. And so it was that I spent the better part of an hour dramatically and loudly lamenting the size of my posterior precluding me from getting through the door. Occasionally, I’d mix it up and have them try to shove me through, kind of like a circus elephant into a train car, which they found humorous.
3. Godzilla Baby Wars --Difficulty Level: Easy
Build elaborate block tower with older child. Call “Oh, GodZILLaaaaaa!” to baby child. Predictable results, easily repeated, perfect for those run-out-the-clock situations.
4. Putting To Use Oft-Overlooked Hobbies -- Difficulty Level: Easy, for YOU.
My friends, I was a gymnast back in the day, and wouldn’t you know it, children love watching people do somersaults and cartwheels. And YES, I may have done about 73 of them over the past few days, but dammit, the sick kids were happy. You may not have been a gymnast, but perhaps you know magic tricks? Juggling? Drawing cartoon characters? Trust me, there’s something to entertain them. Just put away the 12-sided die.
5. Bubbles! -- Difficulty Level: Easy
Oh my god, LIFESAVER. You know that scene in Knocked Up where Paul Rudd is all, “I wish I liked ANYTHING as much as my kids like bubbles”? It’s kind of true.
Fortunately, they both seem to be on the mend, but I know at the first sign of the next round of sniffles, the tiny, dignity-destroying tent is coming out again. Sigh...Whatever works, right?
I mention all of this because, well, I love both of my children dearly, but hot damn, BOTH of them sick at the same time was…difficult. J and I kept eyeing each other suspiciously if the other so much as looked at the front door: “What are you doing?” “Taking out the recycling! Jeez!” “THEN WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR PASSPORT, ASSHOLE?” “I WAS JUST INSPECTING IT! NOT FLEEING THIS PLAGUE-RIDDEN HOUSE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!”
Fine, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, but it was a bit stressful.
And you know, I tried, I really did, to find some useful ideas online for how to distract miserable sick kids, and make them more comfortable, but they only responded to my well-intentioned YET INSIPID ministrations (“juice? extra pillow?”) by escalating their moaning. I realized the guidance sucked, threw the metaphorical playbook out the window, and…behold!
I share with you here my patented (read: not patented) five-step program, What To Do If Your Children Are Sick At The Same Time:
1. Deal With Their Noses. Because My God. -- Difficulty Level: Easy to Medium, depending on your puppetry skills
Hey, you know what sucks about cold-having, teething babies that don’t know how to blow their noses? Everything! But more specifically, the fact that, if your baby is anything like mine, he/she flails wildly about if they so much as glimpse the tissue approaching their wee, raw nose, and then! THEN! Heaven forbid you actually make tissue-to-nose contact, they act as though the tissue is CRAFTED FROM PRESSED BATTERY ACID. COATED IN FIRE ANTS. ILL-TEMPERED ONES. And let’s not forget the aforementioned “heavy-nosed” three-year old, who kept sighing and generally looking like a sad-eyed Precious Moments figurine whenever I suggested that perhaps he could entertain the thought of blowing his nose.
My solution came to me while giving them one in an endless series of baths: I was cleaning their faces with their washcloth puppets (you know, like these) ,talking in a ridiculous and embarrassing puppet voice, and I realized they were not making a PEEP. I pressed my luck, quickly tickling them with said puppet washcloths, and then, while they were still giggling, attacking their noses. Miraculously, it worked.
I kept the gig up, assigning each of them a washcloth puppet Specifically Designated for the Gross Cleaning of Noses. The distraction of the puppet was effective, earth-friendly (like I’d give a badger’s ass in this situation, but still), and afforded me the opportunity to work on my puppet voice. Which in case you’re wondering, sounds like a Barney/Yoda/Grover hybrid. Everybody wins! Including the planet! YOU’RE WELCOME, EARTH.
2. Sacrifice Yourself on the Altar of Dignity, aka, play The Tent Game -- Difficulty Level: Medium to Hard, depending upon ease of tent procurement and relative size of your butt.
My kids were whiny and listless, so I figured that perhaps breaking out some of the toys they hadn’t played with in a while might perk them up. They have this tiny pop-up tent thing which hasn’t seen the light of day in MONTHS. They asked me to play in it with them, but alas, my ass couldn’t fit through the tent door. (In my defense, it’s REALLY SMALL. The tent door, that is. Not my ass. CLEARLY.) Naturally, they thought this was hilarious, and begged me to try to get in again. And so it was that I spent the better part of an hour dramatically and loudly lamenting the size of my posterior precluding me from getting through the door. Occasionally, I’d mix it up and have them try to shove me through, kind of like a circus elephant into a train car, which they found humorous.
3. Godzilla Baby Wars --Difficulty Level: Easy
Build elaborate block tower with older child. Call “Oh, GodZILLaaaaaa!” to baby child. Predictable results, easily repeated, perfect for those run-out-the-clock situations.
4. Putting To Use Oft-Overlooked Hobbies -- Difficulty Level: Easy, for YOU.
My friends, I was a gymnast back in the day, and wouldn’t you know it, children love watching people do somersaults and cartwheels. And YES, I may have done about 73 of them over the past few days, but dammit, the sick kids were happy. You may not have been a gymnast, but perhaps you know magic tricks? Juggling? Drawing cartoon characters? Trust me, there’s something to entertain them. Just put away the 12-sided die.
5. Bubbles! -- Difficulty Level: Easy
Oh my god, LIFESAVER. You know that scene in Knocked Up where Paul Rudd is all, “I wish I liked ANYTHING as much as my kids like bubbles”? It’s kind of true.
Fortunately, they both seem to be on the mend, but I know at the first sign of the next round of sniffles, the tiny, dignity-destroying tent is coming out again. Sigh...Whatever works, right?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wednesday: The day I imitate Whitney Port, and steal my kids' hair products.
1. I have been watching --with an appropriate amount of shame-- The Hills and The City for...well, a while now. And you know what? I accept the fast and loose definition of the shows' versions of "reality" as an added level of hilarity. (Particularly in the case of The City, which bears only the faintest of passing resemblances to living and working in the actual city of New York.) However, something that happened on this week's episode of The City that made even me say, "forgive me, but this is just too much. And also, it's AMAZING."
As you may or may not know, Whitney is trying to start a fashion line. At one point during the episode, we catch a glimpse of Whitney's "sketches," which are--without hyperbole--the worst, most unskilled renderings in the history of anything, ever, and I include therein the drawing of a snowman in a top hat I drew with a ballpoint pen between my toes, drunk, at 3 am one night during college JUST TO SEE IF I COULD.
The point here is that her drawing of shorts? WAS A PICTURE OF TWO SQUARES. ATTACHED. THAT'S IT. And lo, it was HILARIOUS, because everyone is taking her seriously, and talking about what she Needs To Do For The Line, when in fact what she needs to do is back slowwwwly away from the sketchbook. It's...it's important to take stock of yourself and your abilities, which is why I personally have shied away from careers in professional dance, cleaning, and... trigonometry. It all reminded me very much of the scene in Not Another Teen Movie where Jake is talking to Janie about her masterpiece of a painting, describing its beauty, its soulful qualities, and then you see it... and it's a stick figure with a smiley face. I've taken the liberty of reimagining Whitney's sketchbook for you here, based on actual drawing discussed and displayed on the show:
2. Admittedly, humor is subjective, but I was unable to breathe when watching this SNL skit this past weekend. The dipping did me in:
3. I have a post up over at BeautyHacks, and I'm kind of in mad love with the product. (Also? Kind of touched that the creators of the product found the post, and reached out to me via Twitter to thank me. INTERNET MAAAAGIC.)
4. I need help with an admittedly insignificant problem: Does anyone know of a product for hair that gets knotty incredibly easily once the weather turns fall-like? Because the minute I step outside, my hair becomes an untenable rats' nest, and my desperate solution involved stealing my children's detangling spray, and while I am enjoying both the apple scent and its tear-free properties, I am hoping that there is perhaps a more sophisticated answer out there, by which I mean, "a bottle that does not prominently feature a freaky looking purple cartoon octopus." Help.
5. I needed five things, because I'm delightfully OCD like that. Uh...I like pie.
As you may or may not know, Whitney is trying to start a fashion line. At one point during the episode, we catch a glimpse of Whitney's "sketches," which are--without hyperbole--the worst, most unskilled renderings in the history of anything, ever, and I include therein the drawing of a snowman in a top hat I drew with a ballpoint pen between my toes, drunk, at 3 am one night during college JUST TO SEE IF I COULD.
The point here is that her drawing of shorts? WAS A PICTURE OF TWO SQUARES. ATTACHED. THAT'S IT. And lo, it was HILARIOUS, because everyone is taking her seriously, and talking about what she Needs To Do For The Line, when in fact what she needs to do is back slowwwwly away from the sketchbook. It's...it's important to take stock of yourself and your abilities, which is why I personally have shied away from careers in professional dance, cleaning, and... trigonometry. It all reminded me very much of the scene in Not Another Teen Movie where Jake is talking to Janie about her masterpiece of a painting, describing its beauty, its soulful qualities, and then you see it... and it's a stick figure with a smiley face. I've taken the liberty of reimagining Whitney's sketchbook for you here, based on actual drawing discussed and displayed on the show:
2. Admittedly, humor is subjective, but I was unable to breathe when watching this SNL skit this past weekend. The dipping did me in:
3. I have a post up over at BeautyHacks, and I'm kind of in mad love with the product. (Also? Kind of touched that the creators of the product found the post, and reached out to me via Twitter to thank me. INTERNET MAAAAGIC.)
4. I need help with an admittedly insignificant problem: Does anyone know of a product for hair that gets knotty incredibly easily once the weather turns fall-like? Because the minute I step outside, my hair becomes an untenable rats' nest, and my desperate solution involved stealing my children's detangling spray, and while I am enjoying both the apple scent and its tear-free properties, I am hoping that there is perhaps a more sophisticated answer out there, by which I mean, "a bottle that does not prominently feature a freaky looking purple cartoon octopus." Help.
5. I needed five things, because I'm delightfully OCD like that. Uh...I like pie.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Ask a Jew! Episode 5: Totally Random Questions Edition
If you read my last post, you know I’ve got The Pleurisy. And if you follow me on Twitter, you know I’ve now been stricken once again, with some sort of awful, suddenly-manifesting deathflu. All I know is I’m shivering, sweating, and generally acting like Mrs. Snow in Pollyanna. I stayed home from work today, because my philosophy is “if it hurts to blink and your leg stubble feels achy, perhaps you should not be around other people.” WISH YOU’D HAVE TAKEN THAT APPROACH, MYSTERY PERSON WHO GAVE ME THIS ILLNESS. A POX ON THEEEEEE!
Anyway, because it presently hurts to perform even the simplest of tasks, I’m currently bundled in my bed, trying to catch up on anything on my “To Do” list that can be accomplished from amidst a pile of fluffy blankets. And as it happens, “Finish writing ‘Ask A Jew’ post” dovetails very nicely with that.
Usually with these, there’s some sort of theme, but these questions are all over the place, which should be fun.
Before we get underway, my standard “Ask a Jew” disclaimer: I am not an expert, nor do I claim to be perfect in my observance. This is my understanding and my interpretation. Yours may be different, and we can both learn something from each other and be right, in our own ways. In fact, I’d LOVE to hear if you know of a different explanation, but please, be courteous.
So! Let’s get this started, shall we?
What's up with the whole tribes thing? Do you know which tribe you're from? Are priests all from Levi? Or is that sort of ancestral detail long gone?
OOH. Love this question! Eons ago, we had Jewish “forefathers,” one of whom (Jacob) fathered 12 sons, each of whom became the “tribes” of Israel from which we believe that all Jews are descended. (Want their names? Why not! I’m sure you’ll see some familiar ones in there: Reuben, Simon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zevulun, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher, Joseph, and Benjamin.)
As time went on, a broader overall delineation was made, and all Jews were classified as either Kohen, Levite or Israelite. The “Kohen” group describes all descendants of Aaron (the brother of Moses). They were the high priests of the nation…royalty, almost, and to this day, men from the Kohen group perform certain special blessings in the Jewish prayer service. (It has nothing to do with the last name “Cohen” or “Kohen,” by the way, but many people with those names are, in fact, from this group.) The "Levite" group is composed of the descendants of Levi, and they were appointed to assist the Kohens, and be dedicated, so to speak, for their service to God. They specifically got this privilege because they were the only tribe that didn’t worship the Golden Calf when, you know, that went down.
The "Israelite" category is a catchall for the rest of us. Yes, my friends, I am an Israelite. As you may imagine, I have zero idea what tribe I’m initially from. I'd say a vast majority of the Jews who are not of the Kohen or Levite group don’t know their tribes. Most within the Kohen and Levite group, however, are well aware of their status, as it carries with it certain responsibilities that have been passed down for generations. Fascinatingly, there is actually a KOHEN GENE. Seriously. It was discovered about a decade ago, is called the Y-chromosome Alu Polymorphism (YAP), and appears in almost all who are of the Kohen group. Cool, right?
I'm invited to an Orthodox wedding. The Chuppah is at 6, and "Kabalat Shabbat" is an hour and a half earlier. First of all, what is that? Second, is that something I should go to, and if so at what time?
I’m going to make an assumption here and say that perhaps the invitation said “Kabalat Panim” and not Kabalat Shabbat.” (Yes? No?) The reason I say that is because most Orthodox wedding invitations (and thereby, weddings) include a reference to something called “Kabalat Panim.” I mentioned it in my Jewish wedding post, but in short, it’s like a cocktail hour/smorgasbord wherein the bride is brought into the main room, seated in a throne-like chair, and all the guests come by to greet her.
What is the correct term for someone of the Jewish faith? (i.e., someone who practices Islam is a Muslim, someone who practices Catholicism is a Catholic, and someone like me who is "Mormon" actually prefers to be called "LDS".) I've seen and heard conflicting things and I would never want to be offensive.
I receive this questions (or forms of it) constantly. The answer is, simply, “a Jew.” I love easy answers!
Can you tell us about Jewish education? Do Orthodox kids all go to religious schools? Is there an option for additional education if they go to public/secular schools?
I’d say that—based on my knowledge--MOST Orthodox kids do go to Jewish institutions, at least for elementary school. (And I should point out that there are some amazing schools--e.g., Solomon Schecter--for Jews who align more with Conservative and Reform branches of Judaism, and want their children to attend a Jewish school that fits with their philosophy.) I happen to have attended Jewish private schools for the entirety of my educational experience, but as with most things, I’m sure the answer varies based on one’s situation. Private school—particularly Jewish private school—is, uh, prohibitively expensive, so there’s nothing WRONG if one cannot/does not attend such a school. Apropos of which (and as it relates to the second question), there are a number of organizations that operate successful afterschool/Sunday morning programs to address the needs of kids who don’t attend Jewish school.
[Regarding Sabbath…] If it begins on Friday night before sundown, what if you're still at work then? Do you leave early so you can be home when the Sabbath begins, or do you begin observing while you're still at work?
Great question! Essentially, the Sabbath starts when it starts, so I make it a point to be home when it begins, no matter what. Sabbath commences shortly before sundown on Friday evening, so in the winter, when it begins reaaaaaally early, I work from home on Fridays. (I am fortunate in that I have an understanding employer.) That makes it easier to prepare without ducking out super early.
How do men keep their yarmulkes in place? (Pins? Glue? Another accessory I am not aware of?)
Hee! Standard bobby pins are the norm, HOWEVER OMG. This reminds me of two Very Important Yarmulke-Related Things.
1) When my brothers were little, my grandmother was running some rummage sale at her temple, and she brought over some things she thought my mom could use. Among other items was a bag of these “sparkly yarmulkes,” which my brothers wore for a few years. UNTIL MY PARENTS REALIZED THEY WERE NOT YARMULKES AT ALL, BUT PASTIES. YOU KNOW, FOR THE COVERING UP OF STRIPPER BOOBS. I swear I am not making this up, and I MUST find a picture of one or both of my brothers wearing said “yarmulkes.” Again, by which I mean “PASTIES” OMG.
2) J and I found these gems in his old room on a recent visit to his parents’ house. Apparently, around 1987 (judging by the yellowed label), someone apparently had the brilliant idea to invent something called the “Kippon!” an adhesive-backed Velcro strip for yarmulkes. Yeah. Again, NOT MAKING THIS UP.
Hope this answers your questions. As always, feel free to ask away!
********
On a related note, I have a post up over at Work It, Mom! today, all about easy tips for putting together a fun, unique Halloween costume for your kid. And yeah, I do not celebrate Halloween, but I do celebrate Purim, and have a bit of experience in the costume-making (or buying. WHATEVER) arena. Check it out!
Anyway, because it presently hurts to perform even the simplest of tasks, I’m currently bundled in my bed, trying to catch up on anything on my “To Do” list that can be accomplished from amidst a pile of fluffy blankets. And as it happens, “Finish writing ‘Ask A Jew’ post” dovetails very nicely with that.
Usually with these, there’s some sort of theme, but these questions are all over the place, which should be fun.
Before we get underway, my standard “Ask a Jew” disclaimer: I am not an expert, nor do I claim to be perfect in my observance. This is my understanding and my interpretation. Yours may be different, and we can both learn something from each other and be right, in our own ways. In fact, I’d LOVE to hear if you know of a different explanation, but please, be courteous.
So! Let’s get this started, shall we?
What's up with the whole tribes thing? Do you know which tribe you're from? Are priests all from Levi? Or is that sort of ancestral detail long gone?
OOH. Love this question! Eons ago, we had Jewish “forefathers,” one of whom (Jacob) fathered 12 sons, each of whom became the “tribes” of Israel from which we believe that all Jews are descended. (Want their names? Why not! I’m sure you’ll see some familiar ones in there: Reuben, Simon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zevulun, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher, Joseph, and Benjamin.)
As time went on, a broader overall delineation was made, and all Jews were classified as either Kohen, Levite or Israelite. The “Kohen” group describes all descendants of Aaron (the brother of Moses). They were the high priests of the nation…royalty, almost, and to this day, men from the Kohen group perform certain special blessings in the Jewish prayer service. (It has nothing to do with the last name “Cohen” or “Kohen,” by the way, but many people with those names are, in fact, from this group.) The "Levite" group is composed of the descendants of Levi, and they were appointed to assist the Kohens, and be dedicated, so to speak, for their service to God. They specifically got this privilege because they were the only tribe that didn’t worship the Golden Calf when, you know, that went down.
The "Israelite" category is a catchall for the rest of us. Yes, my friends, I am an Israelite. As you may imagine, I have zero idea what tribe I’m initially from. I'd say a vast majority of the Jews who are not of the Kohen or Levite group don’t know their tribes. Most within the Kohen and Levite group, however, are well aware of their status, as it carries with it certain responsibilities that have been passed down for generations. Fascinatingly, there is actually a KOHEN GENE. Seriously. It was discovered about a decade ago, is called the Y-chromosome Alu Polymorphism (YAP), and appears in almost all who are of the Kohen group. Cool, right?
I'm invited to an Orthodox wedding. The Chuppah is at 6, and "Kabalat Shabbat" is an hour and a half earlier. First of all, what is that? Second, is that something I should go to, and if so at what time?
I’m going to make an assumption here and say that perhaps the invitation said “Kabalat Panim” and not Kabalat Shabbat.” (Yes? No?) The reason I say that is because most Orthodox wedding invitations (and thereby, weddings) include a reference to something called “Kabalat Panim.” I mentioned it in my Jewish wedding post, but in short, it’s like a cocktail hour/smorgasbord wherein the bride is brought into the main room, seated in a throne-like chair, and all the guests come by to greet her.
What is the correct term for someone of the Jewish faith? (i.e., someone who practices Islam is a Muslim, someone who practices Catholicism is a Catholic, and someone like me who is "Mormon" actually prefers to be called "LDS".) I've seen and heard conflicting things and I would never want to be offensive.
I receive this questions (or forms of it) constantly. The answer is, simply, “a Jew.” I love easy answers!
Can you tell us about Jewish education? Do Orthodox kids all go to religious schools? Is there an option for additional education if they go to public/secular schools?
I’d say that—based on my knowledge--MOST Orthodox kids do go to Jewish institutions, at least for elementary school. (And I should point out that there are some amazing schools--e.g., Solomon Schecter--for Jews who align more with Conservative and Reform branches of Judaism, and want their children to attend a Jewish school that fits with their philosophy.) I happen to have attended Jewish private schools for the entirety of my educational experience, but as with most things, I’m sure the answer varies based on one’s situation. Private school—particularly Jewish private school—is, uh, prohibitively expensive, so there’s nothing WRONG if one cannot/does not attend such a school. Apropos of which (and as it relates to the second question), there are a number of organizations that operate successful afterschool/Sunday morning programs to address the needs of kids who don’t attend Jewish school.
[Regarding Sabbath…] If it begins on Friday night before sundown, what if you're still at work then? Do you leave early so you can be home when the Sabbath begins, or do you begin observing while you're still at work?
Great question! Essentially, the Sabbath starts when it starts, so I make it a point to be home when it begins, no matter what. Sabbath commences shortly before sundown on Friday evening, so in the winter, when it begins reaaaaaally early, I work from home on Fridays. (I am fortunate in that I have an understanding employer.) That makes it easier to prepare without ducking out super early.
How do men keep their yarmulkes in place? (Pins? Glue? Another accessory I am not aware of?)
Hee! Standard bobby pins are the norm, HOWEVER OMG. This reminds me of two Very Important Yarmulke-Related Things.
1) When my brothers were little, my grandmother was running some rummage sale at her temple, and she brought over some things she thought my mom could use. Among other items was a bag of these “sparkly yarmulkes,” which my brothers wore for a few years. UNTIL MY PARENTS REALIZED THEY WERE NOT YARMULKES AT ALL, BUT PASTIES. YOU KNOW, FOR THE COVERING UP OF STRIPPER BOOBS. I swear I am not making this up, and I MUST find a picture of one or both of my brothers wearing said “yarmulkes.” Again, by which I mean “PASTIES” OMG.
2) J and I found these gems in his old room on a recent visit to his parents’ house. Apparently, around 1987 (judging by the yellowed label), someone apparently had the brilliant idea to invent something called the “Kippon!” an adhesive-backed Velcro strip for yarmulkes. Yeah. Again, NOT MAKING THIS UP.
Hope this answers your questions. As always, feel free to ask away!
********
On a related note, I have a post up over at Work It, Mom! today, all about easy tips for putting together a fun, unique Halloween costume for your kid. And yeah, I do not celebrate Halloween, but I do celebrate Purim, and have a bit of experience in the costume-making (or buying. WHATEVER) arena. Check it out!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Because there's no "So! You Have Pleurisy" Pamphlet: A Fake Q & A
My friends, I am currently afflicted with pleurisy. Pleurisy, you say? YES, PLEURISY. And while other, more exciting illnesses like H1N1 and gonorrhea hog the spotlight, the motto for this affliction should be “Pleurisy: it IS a real sickness. YES, IN THIS CENTURY.”
I think that this (hilarious and old-sounding) illness does NOT get enough airtime, and so I stand before you today, armed with a (fake) Q & A to inform you all about pleurisy. I also feel that pleurisy is precisely the type of affliction that you’d expect to befall a fusty old dowager at the turn of the century. I mean, remember An American Tail? And more specifically, the fancy lady mouse named Gussie Mausheimer, who was all “wewease the secwet weapon?” OF COURSE YOU DO. Well, the minute they said “pleurisy” to me, for whatever deranged reason, THAT IS WHO I PICTURED HAVING IT. And as much as I’d like for her to host the Q & A, her inability to pronounce most letters would undoubtedly grate after about two questions. So, I’ll have to resort to a totally made-up character for this fake Q & A. I shall name my fake dowager…Miss Vickie, after these here potato chips. Mmm, Lime & Black Pepper...
AHEM. This is my story. (Well, and that of Miss Vickie, the fake Victorian-era dowager):
Merciful heavens! I fear my corset must be laced far too tightly. I…It can’t be pleurisy, can it? Whatever would the symptoms be?
Good question, Miss Vickie! Put simply, the symptoms of pleurisy include, but are not limited to, waking up and feeling as though William “Fridge” Perry is sitting atop your chest, and a tiny Chuckie doll is simultaneously stabbing your ribs from within.
What is this…Fridge? “Chuckie doll”? Are you daft? Need I call the physician for a leeching?!
Sorry. Sorry! I’ll put it in your terms: It feels as though President Taft sits atop your chest, while a wee demon simultaneously stabs your ribs from within.
How dreadful! What did you do once you felt this pain?
Well, naturally, I consulted Doctor Google.
Oh! Is he new in town? Does he make a reliable, robust poultice? Tell me, how is he with his lancings?
Sigh…No, it’s a computer…inter--hey, word up, fake q&a lady: I’m not going to play “What’s that giant metal bird up in the sky?!” all day like we used to do to the actors when we visited the Magical Colonial Village, so get used to words like “hospital” and “x-ray.”
Oh. Surely. I’ll try to follow along.
Good! So, as things got progressively worse, I told J, and he felt very strongly that we should get me to the ER. We were in Long Island by my in-laws celebrating the Jewish holiday (Sukkot). Which: convenient from the standpoint of the whole emergency babysitting thing. NOT so convenient when taking into account that we don’t drive on Sabbath or the holidays (except in cases of emergency). And I hadn’t taken my wallet. Which contained my insurance card and license. BECAUSE WE DON’T DRIVE THEN! SO WHY WOULD I HAVE NEEDED IT HAHA IT’S NOT LIKE THERE’S EVER ANY OTHER REASON TO HAVE IDENTIFYING DOCUMENTS ON YOU HAHAAAA. *maniacal laughter*
As we drove along, I asked J if this hospital was any good. He looked up thoughtfully, and said “It's really closeby. But…I think this is the place where they dump gunshot victims.” I laughed, which hurt my poor ribs, but then it hurt even more when I realized that he was totally not kidding. A small pile of BLOODY ASS CLOTHS was just…sitting there, in the parking lot. Quelle fantastique!
I decided not to fret about that, and instead focused my attentions on the fact that I had no ID whatsoever, and for all they knew, I could be some teen hooker on whom J had taken pity, Eddie Murphy-style. I was all fired up, prepared to deliver a stirring speech along the lines of, “I know you have to treat me no matter what! I watched ER for 30 LONG YEARS!, but it turned out to be unnecessary. They allowed me to hand over J’s insurance card (he’s under my policy, and…I may as well be talking Swahili to my Canadian friends right now, yes?) and I was sent to triage, where I was asked if I was pregnant no less than four times. (Spoiler alert: AM NOT.) I was shown to a room where I underwent a bunch of tests which were inconclusive, and so I was recommended for a chest x-ray. I should at this moment point out that I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. And so, when the nurse arrived to summon me for the x-ray and said “can you walk?” I assumed she meant IN THEORY. Not in ASS-FLAPPING-IN-THE BREEZE PRACTICE. I mean, I wrapped myself up in the gown and all, but seriously? Give me a robe! A second gown! A cafeteria tray! SOMETHING.
That sounds detestable!
Indeed, Miss Vickie. Indeed. My doctor came back to give me the news of The Pleurisy shortly thereafter. J and I just kind of laughed-- because—what? Pleurisy? --and then immediately decided to append “The” to “pleurisy” because it just made it funnier. I also took to referring to it as “the black lung” and “the consumption.”
How did you treat it? With a stout poultice, right?
ENOUGH WITH THE POULTICES. MY GOD. Sadly, there’s no real cure for viral pleurisy (which I had), other than Motrin, time, and rest.
I know not of Motrin, but I am aware of the concepts of time and rest. Huzzah! Did you spend the rest of the afternoon alternating between your solarium and sauna?
Funny story about that, Miss Vickie. J’s parents had taken the kids off to the synagogue, and the house was fully locked. They were not expected back for hours. J was wearing jeans, and I, pajamas and a toothpaste-smeared hoodie. (I HAVE THE PLEURISY, OKAY?) Not exactly synagogue material, you know? We finally found a basement window we could jimmy open, and I, um, climbed on J’s shoulder and sort of…smooshed myself through the laptop-sized window to gain access to the house. Apparently, we live in a CBS sitcom. As you can imagine, that felt awesome on the ol’ pleurisy-ridden lungs.
It is my hope that in sharing my tale with you, you can attach a face and a voice to the Rodney Dangerfield of sicknesses, PLEURISY. It afflicts real people. And there are dozens of us. DOZENS.
I think that this (hilarious and old-sounding) illness does NOT get enough airtime, and so I stand before you today, armed with a (fake) Q & A to inform you all about pleurisy. I also feel that pleurisy is precisely the type of affliction that you’d expect to befall a fusty old dowager at the turn of the century. I mean, remember An American Tail? And more specifically, the fancy lady mouse named Gussie Mausheimer, who was all “wewease the secwet weapon?” OF COURSE YOU DO. Well, the minute they said “pleurisy” to me, for whatever deranged reason, THAT IS WHO I PICTURED HAVING IT. And as much as I’d like for her to host the Q & A, her inability to pronounce most letters would undoubtedly grate after about two questions. So, I’ll have to resort to a totally made-up character for this fake Q & A. I shall name my fake dowager…Miss Vickie, after these here potato chips. Mmm, Lime & Black Pepper...
AHEM. This is my story. (Well, and that of Miss Vickie, the fake Victorian-era dowager):
Merciful heavens! I fear my corset must be laced far too tightly. I…It can’t be pleurisy, can it? Whatever would the symptoms be?
Good question, Miss Vickie! Put simply, the symptoms of pleurisy include, but are not limited to, waking up and feeling as though William “Fridge” Perry is sitting atop your chest, and a tiny Chuckie doll is simultaneously stabbing your ribs from within.
What is this…Fridge? “Chuckie doll”? Are you daft? Need I call the physician for a leeching?!
Sorry. Sorry! I’ll put it in your terms: It feels as though President Taft sits atop your chest, while a wee demon simultaneously stabs your ribs from within.
How dreadful! What did you do once you felt this pain?
Well, naturally, I consulted Doctor Google.
Oh! Is he new in town? Does he make a reliable, robust poultice? Tell me, how is he with his lancings?
Sigh…No, it’s a computer…inter--hey, word up, fake q&a lady: I’m not going to play “What’s that giant metal bird up in the sky?!” all day like we used to do to the actors when we visited the Magical Colonial Village, so get used to words like “hospital” and “x-ray.”
Oh. Surely. I’ll try to follow along.
Good! So, as things got progressively worse, I told J, and he felt very strongly that we should get me to the ER. We were in Long Island by my in-laws celebrating the Jewish holiday (Sukkot). Which: convenient from the standpoint of the whole emergency babysitting thing. NOT so convenient when taking into account that we don’t drive on Sabbath or the holidays (except in cases of emergency). And I hadn’t taken my wallet. Which contained my insurance card and license. BECAUSE WE DON’T DRIVE THEN! SO WHY WOULD I HAVE NEEDED IT HAHA IT’S NOT LIKE THERE’S EVER ANY OTHER REASON TO HAVE IDENTIFYING DOCUMENTS ON YOU HAHAAAA. *maniacal laughter*
As we drove along, I asked J if this hospital was any good. He looked up thoughtfully, and said “It's really closeby. But…I think this is the place where they dump gunshot victims.” I laughed, which hurt my poor ribs, but then it hurt even more when I realized that he was totally not kidding. A small pile of BLOODY ASS CLOTHS was just…sitting there, in the parking lot. Quelle fantastique!
I decided not to fret about that, and instead focused my attentions on the fact that I had no ID whatsoever, and for all they knew, I could be some teen hooker on whom J had taken pity, Eddie Murphy-style. I was all fired up, prepared to deliver a stirring speech along the lines of, “I know you have to treat me no matter what! I watched ER for 30 LONG YEARS!, but it turned out to be unnecessary. They allowed me to hand over J’s insurance card (he’s under my policy, and…I may as well be talking Swahili to my Canadian friends right now, yes?) and I was sent to triage, where I was asked if I was pregnant no less than four times. (Spoiler alert: AM NOT.) I was shown to a room where I underwent a bunch of tests which were inconclusive, and so I was recommended for a chest x-ray. I should at this moment point out that I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. And so, when the nurse arrived to summon me for the x-ray and said “can you walk?” I assumed she meant IN THEORY. Not in ASS-FLAPPING-IN-THE BREEZE PRACTICE. I mean, I wrapped myself up in the gown and all, but seriously? Give me a robe! A second gown! A cafeteria tray! SOMETHING.
That sounds detestable!
Indeed, Miss Vickie. Indeed. My doctor came back to give me the news of The Pleurisy shortly thereafter. J and I just kind of laughed-- because—what? Pleurisy? --and then immediately decided to append “The” to “pleurisy” because it just made it funnier. I also took to referring to it as “the black lung” and “the consumption.”
How did you treat it? With a stout poultice, right?
ENOUGH WITH THE POULTICES. MY GOD. Sadly, there’s no real cure for viral pleurisy (which I had), other than Motrin, time, and rest.
I know not of Motrin, but I am aware of the concepts of time and rest. Huzzah! Did you spend the rest of the afternoon alternating between your solarium and sauna?
Funny story about that, Miss Vickie. J’s parents had taken the kids off to the synagogue, and the house was fully locked. They were not expected back for hours. J was wearing jeans, and I, pajamas and a toothpaste-smeared hoodie. (I HAVE THE PLEURISY, OKAY?) Not exactly synagogue material, you know? We finally found a basement window we could jimmy open, and I, um, climbed on J’s shoulder and sort of…smooshed myself through the laptop-sized window to gain access to the house. Apparently, we live in a CBS sitcom. As you can imagine, that felt awesome on the ol’ pleurisy-ridden lungs.
It is my hope that in sharing my tale with you, you can attach a face and a voice to the Rodney Dangerfield of sicknesses, PLEURISY. It afflicts real people. And there are dozens of us. DOZENS.
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