A couple days ago, I felt like a voyeur in an alien, sexy world.
Nothing inappropriate happened, mind you, just something for which I was unprepared. I was invited to a bridal shower for Laura, a young woman I've been honored to know since she was pre-pubescent. Her parents and my husband and I are simpatico, and our children clicked with each other from the time we met them eleven years ago. The girls were innocent and happy, enjoying dolls and games and toys. The two boys, four years apart, were like big-and-little brothers, my son looking up to the other kid as a mentor on coolness.
Our families were very close, though in one important area we differed: Our friends are committed, fervent Christians; we are serious, observant Jews.
That wasn't enough to divide us, however, as our friends were extremely respectful and accommodating. They joined us in our home for Shabbat so often they memorized the "bentching," the grace after meals. They were cognizant of Shabbat rules, stepping in as "Shabbos goyim" without being asked (it was for their benefit, too). They were conscious of kashrut, and though mostly they were our guests, when we went to their home, they provided food they procured from the kosher market, cooked in specially-purchased pans.
In more recent years, with the children teens and in college, they became wrapped up in their church activities and cohort, and we saw each other far less. Our eldest daughter, after seminary in Jerusalem, became uncomfortable around them, knowing their beliefs (and, though they didn't talk about it, that they even spoke in tongues). Our middle daughter got caught up in her high school, and then college crowd, which didn't overlap with our friends'. And our son's "mentor" got his driver's license, his own place, a job, went to college and joined a band.
To me, the loss of our closeness was sad, but then again, all moms learn how sad it is when your home empties out as the kids grow up, and things just can't be the same.
And then Laura got engaged to Ben. Her whole family was thrilled, and we knew Ben must be as devout and wonderful as Laura. In their religious world, young couples were as "shomer negia" as the most Orthodox Jews. Laura had pledged many years before to save her sexuality until after marriage; she and her intended touched hands for the first time after their betrothal--which occurred only after Ben had obtained the blessing of Laura's dad.
And so, I was invited to Laura's bridal shower, a celebration of this most pristine and pure of relationships, soon to be officially sanctified. The shower was at the home of a dear, close mutual Jewish friend, who had shared Laura's and my children's development as she, herself, matured, met her own b'shert, married and had children.
When I entered the familiar home, I recognized no one but the hostess, Laura and her mom. Animated chatter of about twenty-five young women, who to me looked far too young to be brides, arose from the cordial group, seated around the perimeter of the living room, paper plates of Italian food balanced on their laps. Everyone was dressed casually, in jeans, capris, t-shirts. The hostess and I were the only ones in skirts and fancier clothes.
Friends of the bride had prepared some games--such as memorizing the contents of a table-full of Laura's stuff (including a Bible, cell phone, high heels, stethoscope, as she's training to be a nurse, toothbrush and an item I didn't know and would not have chosen to display--a "pimple popper" that the aspiring 
Florence Nightingale uses on her beloved. Ouch.) The bride and groom were asked Newlywed Game questions about the other; Ben's pre-recorded responses were played at appropriate moments on a laptop. A festive polka-dot ice cream cake was served, the hostess provided moving D'vrai Torah--and then came the gifts.
Mine was opened first--household items I'd picked out. Graciously received. And then came my surprise.
It had been assumed that all the gifts would be lingerie. None of the bridal showers I attended in the Jewish world were undergirded in that presumption. But this is what the girls in that polite, well-churched circle do.One after the other, Laura cooed at the contents of gift bags--a parade of Victoria's Secret-type push-up and bare-it satiny and silky and even leopard-print baby-dolls, bustiers, teddies and thongs. Merry widows, garter-slips and the black stockings to match. Slinky camisoles and teddies and lace panties. Black with shocking-pink trim. Black with peek-a-boo cut-outs. See-through and underwire and halter.
Even Laura's mom presented her with a see-through ivory baby-doll, with matching see-through ivory slit-arm flowy "jacket." It couldn't have been in case she gets cold.
I was amused. Admittedly a little embarrassed, because my table runners and platter just weren't the right gift, far from it. But the invitation didn't say "lingerie shower," but "bridal shower." Bridal must mean "finally I have someone to be sexy for."
The good news is that Laura will never, ever, have to buy another baby-doll push-up again. And she has enough thong underwear to last a good, long time.
The shower was a festive event for a delightful girl, and I left with a glimpse into a different world. And that in itself was worthwhile. Congratulations on your marriage, Laura and Ben, and I hope you enjoy each and every gift you received!
Sox. I have a huge drawer full of them.
I like them to match my clothes, and also to match each other. But WHY? This kiosk in New York's Grand Central Station suggests otherwise. Why NOT wear two different sox? I even saw an article in the New York Times Style Section, my guide to the trends, that featured non-identical footwear.
There's the squishiness issue, of course. You don't want a fat, furry anklet on one foot, and a thin, smooth knee sock on the other. It could give you a gimp.
You don't want a warm winter hiking sock on one foot, and a summer rainbow shortie on the other. You could get befuddled. Or, with one foot, walk in a puddle.
Also, combining halves of pairs causes other complications. If you're the type, like me, who has enough trouble deciding what to wear--which shirt, which bottom part (skirt? jeans?) having to make TWO choices about sox just adds to the frustration. Then, you have to decide if the sock you pick actually matches or clashes with the other sock you're considering, and seldom do you find mismatched socks that actually harmonize.
There's also the bravery issue--if you DO find two compatible halves, is this something to be proud of, or keep secret? In other words, do I wear the two new-found friends with my low cut flats so they reveal my non-conformity proudly, or does such a daring maneuver call only for the discretion of high boots?
The orphan issue also arises. Is this a means to employ members of the lost-sox pile that grows after each laundry day? Or do I intentionally relegate the unused member of a perfectly synchronized set to that sad fate by calling its buddy to service?
I have a plastic box that is populated with socks that are mate-less, though many are so similar that without scrutiny, they could be combined. I've got the sport sock with the ribbing that's thick, and the similar one with the thin ribs. The lo-riser with the logo, and its nearly identical twin that goes nameless. The gym sock that looks big enough for a man's size 12, and another abandoned individual that is its exact replica, though sized for a petite feminine pied. Dare I plumb the depths of the plastic box for exciting near-perfect but curiously off combos?
But look! The kiosk cunningly called "Little Miss Mismatched" displays...only matching sets of socks! What a boo-boo I've made, it isn't "mismatched," but "Miss Matched!" The sprightly miss is MATCHED! The name is a clever come-on, designed to bring sock-crazed ladies lured by stripes and dots and rainbows and vibrant hues! Well, they got me...and I'll keep buying those dynamic duos and maintain them in rolled-together bliss in my bountiful sock-drawer, because life is always more fun in pairs.
Just back from the Big Apple after a three-day jaunt with my sorority daughter and friend for her spring break. Cold weather doesn't daunt the bustle or noise or commotion, as cab horns, sirens, hawkers, jackrabbit-starting autos and cell-phone yellers all compete to be heard.
It was tough to find a hotel, but after dueling between websites, Travelocity found us a place in the San Carlos Hotel that Orbitz, Kayak, Travelzoo and Expedia all claimed was full. A red-eye flight left the three of us zombie-esque upon our 10 am arrival, but a kindly desk clerk named Quron took pity and upgraded us to a one-bedroom suite with immediate entry. I plan to commend him.
Our first day in The City was frigid but sunny and we took the opportunity to stroll with my NY daughter in Central Park. The benches in the sunshine were lined with bundled visitors, faces turned upward as ours were. Next to us was a young couple taking their 8-day-old baby girl, Mia, outdoors for the first time. Alice in Wonderland was alive with climbers; the characaturist sat sketching with a crowd of approving onlookers.
Though my school-break daughter was there for serious shopping, my secret agenda was to gain a peek at the life of my NY college senior. The biggest thrill for me was being surrounded by the lithe voices of six young women singing choral rounds in rehearsal under the sweet-voiced director whose lilting instruction was as melodious as the harmonies I heard. That a child of mine could reach notes as distantly ethereal as the far-octave pitch she achieved was in itself worth the plane flight.
Also leaving me flying was the chance to observe a dress rehearsal of her school play, for which she ultimately switched her Northwestern normality for a thick Brooklyn accent. I happened to luck into also hearing the presentation of a veteran Broadway actor who had played for years in the same comedy my daughter helped stage; his insights into the struggles of actors just to survive were as startling as they were entertaining. Needless to say, throughout all my adventures, my paparazzi camera recorded it all.
The days of shopping, though, did have their amusements. Walking from 50th Street all the way south down Broadway to Canal Street gave me a slice of activity as diagonal as the avenue's slant. Macy's Flower Show was a breathtaking display of real blooms of brilliant hues stuffed in long troughs above all the merchandise, down the centers of aisles and forming astounding stands of creative floor-to-ceiling displays. If my inveterate shoppers hadn't rushed me on, I would have cooed over every blossom.
Canal Street, formerly for ferreting fabulous fakes, now brought every hushed mutter of "Coach?" the reply, "No more Coach," or, "No Coach, Police." The stalls just north of Canal on Broadway that once housed colorful Guatamalan boiled wool purses, rainbow-striped scarves, t-shirts and sunglasses were tarped-over and surrounded by a chain-link fence. One building that previously offered obvious knock-offs in front but more convincing inventory behind rear false walls showed merely a plywood facade. I doubt the crack-down on counterfeiters has eliminated them; they've probably moved into new digs likely accessible with persistent surreptitious inquiries, though not to three ladies respectful of the law.
We left on a quest for the store "Joyce Leslie" (20 University Pl. between 8th and 9th Streets in Greenwich Village) in which the fashionista duo ultimately spent nearly four hours and a couple hundred dollars--while I escaped after a cursory and overwhelmed perusal. Racks of styles are arranged by color, the lemon yellow contrasted with black; the kelly green interwoven with white, jammed in a two-story labyrinth replete with dead-end cubbies and random rounders.
I just don't need more clothes. My closet is stuffed already with hand-me-ups, shirts, denim skirts, sweaters, tank-tops cast off by my youthful flaw-finders after a season or an unsatisfactory wash. I can't bear to discard something that could be worn; something I could combine with this or update with that or wear layered with the other--that I paid for! In most cases, my girls' pleas or requests or cajoles to purchase each of the items still echoes in my brain. I also too-clearly recall my own college days, when, (rather than walking both ways to class through snow drifts) I was forced by poverty (as well as lack of interest) to wear the same pair of jeans every day with one of my four tops (laundered every other Friday). This frugality has led me to jam my closet with unwearables impossible to abandon, denying some African citizens of desperately needed too-short tops and shrunken hip-huggers that would have been shipped their way jumbled in ton-sized blocks.
New York at this point seems a fantasy, a faraway hive of bumble bees buzzing and rushing and honking seriously in their separate world. The kosher restaurants were wonderful (though expensive; Gusto Va Mare's heavenly Peanut Butter Pie is pictured), the sights stimulating, the contact with my
NY daughter exhilerating, but I'm glad to be back home, even under book deadline, even with an every-weather weekend of snow, sleet, hail, rain, sunshine and overcast. Time to get back to work and stop procrastinating by basking in a dream.
Can't believe it's nearly Purim already. Which shouldn't be a surprise, given that this is a Jewish leap year and we've had an extra MONTH to prepare! But the daffodils are just now in full flower, brightening up the nearly consistent gray and rain here in the Northwest. The forsythia bushes are brilliant yellow as well, shocking the bland pavement and monochrome sky into embracing springtime.
Meanwhile, my family room is ablaze with a rainbow of tissue paper splaying from colorfully prepared bags of shaloch manos (food gifts for friends). Tomorrow night, we host a break-fast pot luck dinner party, this time featuring a new activity (beyond the "write a gramin song for the person whose name you drew out of the hat" that we enjoy every year). It's a college drinking game called "Kings" that for the evening we're calling "King Achashverosh" where cards drawn from a deck indicate silly behaviors to do that ultimately end in a swig. And laughs.
My sorority daughter has just regaled me with descriptions of drinking games. Not that she's played them all, but just about every college student finds out about them by osmosis. I WAS looking for something new and fun to play at our party. And if Purim isn't the occasion for a drinking game, then when? I'm going to provide some beverage selections, including a punch made from fruit sherbet, 7-Up and Cranberry juice, spiked with vodka. Save the recipe--it's yummy.
My wish for you is to have a "Chag Purim Sameach," a very happy Purim. And don't forget that every day of our survival is a miracle, even if it isn't always obvious.
Like millions of other Americans--not to mention New Yorkers enveloped in it--I'm morbidly interested in the downfall of former Gov. Eliot Spitzer.
I clicked on the TV news reports, and his press conferences on You Tube. I watched three times Spitzer's campaign ad that says, "You begin your journey on Trustworthy Turnpike, make a left on Honesty Road, turn down Integrity Lane, and eventually, if you've walked the right 
way, end up on Responsibility Road..." I admit, a bit embarrassed, that I saw the photos of Kristen, and chuckled at the Rush Limbaugh promo to the strains of the parody, "Client Number Nine."
During his apology press conference the day before he resigned, Spitzer said he needed "time to rebuild the trust of my family," and I thought, "No way, buddy, is your family EVER going to trust you again!" Certainly no electorate will ever entrust their governance to the pathetic, hypocritical former New York "law and order" attorney general.
What kind of arrogance allows someone in so visible a position, so elevated and honored, to think he can escape undetected YEARS of spending $5,000 per pop on call girls? Who uses eighty thousand dollars of inherited wealth (or, who- knows-whose funds), in a hurtful web of illegal duplicity? One word comes to mind: CHUTZPAH, brazenness born of self-aggrandizement to the selfish disregard of anyone else.
OK, it's bad enough that he publicly humiliated his wife and three daughters and scarred forever their feelings about him. His family tragedy is sad, but localized. What's worse is that, despite vocally eschewing any religious association, (refusing a bar mitzvah, marrying a Baptist), Spitzer is seen as a Jew. Even if news reporters don't focus on his background, they slip in that now, his aspiration to become the first JEWISH president is dashed.
Eliot Spitzer has committed a sin Jews are commanded to sacrifice their lives rather than commit: defaming God (chillul Hashem). By being identified as a Jew, Eliot Spitzer's carnal indulgences make all Jews, and God, look bad. It takes a lot of positive role models like Joe Lieberman living honorably on a daily basis to offset a single splashy transgressor like Eliot Spitzer. And chances are, as the news unfolds, the activities of Mr. Spitzer will continue to smear our people's reputation.
And, I must add, his misdeeds continue to taint me. My interest in his conduct, aroused out of shock, has continued out of prurience. It does not elevate me to know about his creepy connivances, the 22-year-old brunette misfit he engaged, and the heartbreaking experience of his family. It does not improve my character to know that a fellow Jew, whom I'm commanded to love whether or not he identifies with our faith, is behaving disgracefully. Each person with ears or eyes is lowered by knowing of this sordid and skanky affair. I'm glad he resigned immediately, because that likely will shorten the number of days I must absorb new smarmy details.
But I'm going to try to resist further exposure to this story. I see this as an opportunity for self-discipline in skipping the enticing newspaper headlines and switching radio channels during the top-of-the-hour newscast. It's a chance to reaffirm my own values, and appreciate even more the normality and closeness with those in my life. It's a time to reconnect with others in a positive spirit, especially on the eve of Purim, which celebrates Jews' embracing of Torah even when hidden in a secular and anti-Semitic climate.
Yes, I've heard enough, and it's time to move on to happier things in this month of simcha.
Back from New Jersey...Long Branch, that is, and a lavish and sophisticated wedding. Color scheme was light beige and cream..."balls" of roses in those tones were spotlighted in a dim room for a dramatic effect. Large orchestra, famous singer, both steak and stuffed chicken...pre-ceremony food at many "stations" augmented by waiters bearing trays of delectables...an array of square plates of colorful fruits including South African gooseberries...
Illustrious rabbis giving their blessings, and joyous family and friends dancing in such frenzied circles (separated by gender) that both glowed with perspiration as well as happiness.
I took photos. I feel I've lost a dimension of any activity if I haven't measured it in my viewfinder and taken bounteous images. Taking photos is the way I grab
and freeze and re-live moments, events and emotions. And so, at this life-altering occasion, I recorded and edited my still-lifes and while viewing them was there in that grand ballroom again, noticing expressions I hadn't seen, and framing highlights in new perspectives.
I do believe that each encounter, each vision (every day) is important and precious, and so, with
hundreds of witnesses there to link forever to this couple and to discharge their personalities into the amalgam of the guest amoeba, I was on my secret mission...well, sometimes my slightly obnoxious mission...to preserve it and examine it and immerse myself in it behind the protection of a little black electronic unit with its ability to zoom close into interchange and later to allow me the luxury to savor a smile and eliminate a grimace right here, in front of my computer screen back at home.
Mazel tov, Rachelle and Zev!
So I was sitting at my computer, listening to the dots shuffling on my metal roof, when I looked up, expecting to see the morose sky and dashes of raindrops when--big shock! There was a gorgeous rainbow, brilliantly boasting its distinct colors. I felt instantly grateful to see it: "Acknowledged are You, God, who remembers and is faithful to His covenant and fulfills His word..."
We're taught that it's not all that good to see a rainbow; that God's reminding us that He won't destroy the world by flood this time, but, well, we might be deserving it anyway. I find it tough to associate something so grandly beautiful with a warning from God. Instead, it feels like He's ready to party, and here's a festive new outfit to prove it. After the enclosing oppression of dark gray and claustrophobic pelting of determined drops, to see the sun illuminate the view, and an arc of color stretch heavenward, brings a feeling of hope and encouragement. I can't return my eyes to my computer screen when a magnificent and fleeting show is right outside my door.
Don't Put Away Your Umbrella Yet... Speaking of showers, yesterday I helped organize a bridal shower, and it was bountiful fun. Peak was when the bride guessed responses of her fiance to "Newlywed Game" type questions, and when guests shared recipes brought for the bride. Best story: the reminiscence of the 
college student who at age 7 had made a cake for the father-of-the bride's birthday. The slightly intimidating Dad cut into his cake to discover the baker girl had added a rather novel ingredient: a metal spoon.
Also fun: Descriptions of The Proposal on an icy beach near a closed-for-renovation lighthouse. There were no passersby on that frigid sand to memorialize the moment--so the clever groom-to-be had set up a tripod. The bride, meanwhile, was thinking, "Why did he spring this NOW, when I'm in sweats and my hair's a mess?"
The bridal couple we feted yesterday are slated to wed this coming Thursday. I'll be flying cross-country to attend; watch this space for an update!
Florence Nightingale uses on her beloved. Ouch.) The bride and groom were asked Newlywed Game questions about the other; Ben's pre-recorded responses were played at appropriate moments on a laptop. A festive polka-dot ice cream cake was served, the hostess provided moving D'vrai Torah--and then came the gifts.
