In defense of happy endings or Things with which I have made peace, Part I

Growing up, I constantly heard intelligenzia-type Russians poke fun at American movie makers' penchant for happy endings.   Somehow happy ending in the mind of a Russian thinking elite equates with fluff while - I guess - horrible physical and /or psychological suffering that ends really badly is what real art is made of.  Of course, their judgment was based on the very narrow selection of U.S. movies allowed by the censorship rules, and after Perestroika movie selected for public viewing were based on their guaranteed financial success.   And most of them, if not all, ended well for main characters.  Such minor details as deaths of secondary characters were easily dismissed and forgotten.  Even the movie Gone with the Wind that didn't have the happy ending, as I pointed it out to my dad, didn't have a really bad ending either.  Seriously, was there a single soul in the movie theater doubting Scarlett's ability to win Rhett back in no time?  Not in the mind of this 14 year old.    

Twenty years forward (OMG, this just took my breath away.  Twenty.  fripping.  years...)  After moving here and sampling quite a few American movie genres, I can vouch first hand that not all American movies have happy ending.  Ironically, unlike twenty years ago, I now concede that American mainstream cinema is very fond of happy endings.  (I don't know if director from any other nation could as successfully make a happy ending out of a Holocaust story.)  And I concede this point very happily.

When young and in emotional turmoil about such fundamental questions as "Who am I?"  "What is my purpose in life?"  "Is there true happiness?" "Do men find me pretty?" and "How do I change the world in less than 30 days because this is how much time I can devote to any project without losing my attention span unless it's very serious and in that case it can be extended to 35?" books and movies with heroes in emotional turmoil appealed to me.  They were confused, conflicted, in search of something they often couldn't identify, much like myself.  I could relate to their feelings.  I could be them.  

At some point, probably after I got married and had kids, my movie selections were getting fluffier and fluffier (and books were mostly of the self help kind) with the wake up call coming after watching Unfinished Piece for Player Piano.  My Mom have been raving  about this movie every time she mentioned it and I finally was able to get my hands on it  Probably for the first time in my life my Mom and I saw the movie so differently.  It was a good one, but I found the main character and his search for truth annoying and overbearing rather than compelling.  The drama of a man worried about big truths and what could've been more than with his present life and people in it was quite honestly nauseating.  Most likely because I have seen  a variation of it played out in real life.  And I don't know about you, but once I saw a few people dear to me battling cancer, it is one of the things I currently do not want to see on the screen.  Ditto for bitter divorces, family violence and drug abuse.

A few years ago I finally had to admit to my former self that at that point in my life, and quite possibly forever, I was not looking to get invested in imaginary people's problems.   That when I find an hour or two a week, between dealing with real life headaches and problems and even drama, to sit down and watch something, I want to come out of the experience feeling better about life, myself, my and my children's future and the world in general rather than questioning G-d's goodness and fairness.  That is why I no longer watch most Olympic games (fairness...), sitcoms ( the inevitable Will they or Won't they plots lasting years are just too exhausting) and dramas (for obvious reasons).   Occasionally I accidentally stumble upon something more serious (Hard to Be God, if you must know what it is, please read it, do not watch a movie) or get a poor recommendation (after 4 + years you are still not forgiven - and you know who you are - for recommending me Pan's Labyrinth), which only strengthens my resolve to avoid serious stuff regardless of its artistic qualities.

Part of artistic and thinking elite I am not.  And I have made peace with it.  

You can't always get what you want

There are times when one wants something very, very much. It seems good, right and almost perfect. And then it doesn't work out. For days, months and sometimes even years, one might wonder why that thing never materialized. And while one will never know the real reason for why, at times G-d in his mercy gives one a glimpse of what would have happened had that thing ever come into being. And then one sighs a deep sigh of relief, counts one's blessings and murmurs to oneself, "That was a close one."

Today I got one of these glimpses into the possible present/future. So now I feel a huge surge of gratitude because:
1. If I got what I wanted then, it more likely than not would've made me very, very miserable. For a very, very long time.
2. I could've been left guessing about "what if" and "if only's" for the rest of my life - but I wasn't. That chapter is closed. I am extremely grateful for the sense of closure.
3. Hopefully, when next time I won't get what I really, really want, remembering this will soften the sting of disappointment.

Baby you can drive me nuts, but baby I love you

In my deranged state of constant sleep deprivation, I decided to keep DS home today - to save money and foster some mother-son bonding Well, really in the opposite order, but whatever. At 8.30 SubHub leaves with DD and we are on our own.

DS's baby sister refuses to cooperate and keeps on whining asking for attention. So in the absence of his big sister, DS has to find a way to entertain himself. He starts by raiding every kitchen drawer in search of candy and of course finds it. I allow one, he eats two and begs for more. I put my foot down and he agrees. I am surprised.

Two minutes later, still surprised, I find him munching on chocolate, taking bites off an entire bar. I confiscate the chocolate, sigh, mentally compliment DS on his survival skills, and take a bite of chocolate myself when I am out of DS's sight. What? I need some mental and physical reinforcement, and in my book chocolate is better than Prozac. Right?

"Mama, may I watch a cartoon?" "No, we are supposed to bond"

While the baby is still whining, at 9.05 DS finally finds his toy plane. I am grateful for an opportunity to brush teeth when the baby finally falls asleep. By the time I am done with my teeth, the baby is awake (no, I did not take 2 hours or hid in the bathroom from the kids, not today). While she nurses, I mentally note that the apartment smells really nice. Nice. Finally a break. Mmm....

At 9.15 I find my underwear drawer turned upside down. Ugh, I hate organizing the drawers in my drawers. (My lame attempt at joking. Give me a break, I am sleep deprived, OK?) What was he looking for? Lucky for DS, my attention span is very short. I start a load of laundry and in the process realize why the apartment smells so good: DS's plane needed refueling and there's no better fuel than Mommy's perfume. You know, the one they sell only in fancy stores and that costs like $70 a sniff. I take away the perfume.

"Mama, may I watch a cartoon?" "No, we are supposed to be bonding" (A tad louder than the last time.)

At 9.25 I find my underwear drawer messed up yet again. Ughrrrrr! Did I mention I HATE HATE HATE organizing that thing? Especially after doing it only 10 minutes ago? What could he possibly be looking for?! I run looking for DS and find him with another bottle of my perfume. I finally make the connection between messed up underwear drawer and perfume - I hid my perfume from children so well that I forgot it was there. I mentally thank DS for finding my perfume and congratulate on his ingenuity though verbally I chide him for using half of my smelling supplies. I try to confiscate precious liquid, but DS breaks down crying: he needs something that makes pshh pshh to refuel his plane. A real tragedy might happen if he doesn't get where he intends to get on that plane. We settle on my deodorant.

"Mama, may I watch a cartoon?" "Nooooo"

Still hoping for some bonding experience with DS, I try something we can do together only to be derailed by a wailing baby. At least I will be in the same room with him. I enter the living room and immediately start sneezing uncontrollably - whatever makes deodorant go pshh pshh, also makes me sneeze until brains start dripping down my nose.

"Mama, may I watch a cartoon?" "No"

It's only 9.40, and I am ready to depilate my head. Good thing I cover my hair.

At 9.50 he finds my very fragile amber necklace. For a few minutes I pretend that I don't notice he has it. I can no longer do so when DS starts handling it with one of his father's tools. By the way, where is his father?

By 10 am , I am ready to give DS a very different bonding experience: I contemplate tying him to a chair to prevent damage to our apartment. I decide against it, but only after making a long list of pros and cons, all while nursing the poor baby who is still kvetching.

"Mama, may I watch a cartoon?" "No"

The next 45 minutes pass in a blur, I might have passed out from the deodorant gasses for all I know or from sleeping only in hourly increments for the past month. By 10.45 I break down and put a cartoon for DS.

At 11.15 am, SubHub comes home and starts on his woodworking project. He takes DS with him to the porch, much to DS's delight. They bond... (Why are these things easier for men? Or is there something wrong with me?)

It's 11.45 am, and DS and I are making faces through the window at each other while I rock the kvetching baby. Ahhh, finally some bonding experience...

SubHub Scissor Hands

A couple of months ago DD came home from school with bangs. I distinctly remembered that when she left, her hair was equally long on all sides. Not so when she came back. Turned out they were doing some project in school that involved cutting, and DD decided that cutting her bangs would be fun. Thank goodness she didn’t cut them too short, but that didn’t stop SubHub from mentioning to her several times a week that it wasn’t a very smart move on her part.

Last week DD asked to trim her hair. A bit. A little bit. SubHub is a man of many talents, and one of the things that he does at home is cutting kids’ hair. Actually, mostly DS’s because we like our little girl with pigtails, ponytails, French braids – you get the picture, we like to play with her hair. And we don’t like it when cuts her bangs.

Well, long story short (no pun intended), Friday afternoon DD entered the bathroom as our little fair and long haired princess and reemerged 15 minutes later with a shortish bob. To my bulging eyes and horror-filled “Huh?” sulking SubHub provided little explanation and kept sighing. This was NOT a typical SubHub behavior. He could only bring himself to talk about it half hour later when he said that our little angel didn’t have much patience and was twisting left and right, so in order to make her hair even, he had to cut and cut and cut. Enter the shortish bob…

It took us a few hours to get used to DD’s new look. She really looks very, very different with short hair. But we like it, mostly, I think. Between the two of them, they came up with a style that suits DD well and looks adorable. The scene of DD waking up one morning and demanding her long hair back hasn’t happened, yet. All in all, not terrible. And hair does grow back, right?

The guarding dog

It’s no secret that our kids treat my bed as their own. We broke DD’s habit of climbing into it in the middle of the night about a year ago (mostly SubHub’s achievement), and except for a very rare occasion, she stays in her bed all night long. DS is another story, and every night around 3 a.m. he climbs over me and stays in my bed until he wakes up for the day. In the past two weeks, however, DD crawled into my bed twice. Unlike DS, she just quietly climbs in and stays until DS shows up for his shift, and then leaves.

Last night SubHub went into the kids’ room and came out with the stuffed dog DD took to bed with her. “Look what they did to the poor animal, “he said. I looked up and saw SubHub’s belt wrapped tightly around the toy’s neck. “Somebody needs to tell them they shouldn’t do it.” I diplomatically withheld a comment: only two days ago SubHub was kicking the same dog all over the living room floor for reasons unknown to me or mankind, and of course, in front of the kids. Stuffed animal cruelty (big no-no in my parents’ house) is not on his list of sins, which made SubHub’s concern about the fate of DD’s dog even more perplexing. I hope he wanted to tell the kids that belts are not toys and didn’t start getting senile ..

Then we went to sleep, and a few hours later I heard someone climbing into my bed. I realized it was DD and immediately started thinking, “Great. There we go again. Pretty soon there will be two of them here and I would actually have to ask DD to leave (which I hate. It really isn’t fair that she gets to leave and he gets to stay all the time. But she cooperates, so I ask her. Nighttime parenting is just not my strong point, hence my sleeping arrangements.)”

DD, however, was not settling in. She wanted to ask me something. “Mommy, will you help me find my dog in the morning?” What? Where am I? What dog? Who are you? But instead I answered, “Yes, sure sweetie.” (Just don’t ask me for a drink, or light in the bathroom, or anything else, I really don’t want to get up. Just curl up next to me and fall asleep fast.) But DD did not fall asleep fast. Without further ado, she climbed off my bed and disappears into the darkness while I all of a sudden found myself wide awake with questions roaming my mind. What just happened? Why did she leave? All by herself? Was she even awake during the entire incident? And my person favorite: HOW CREEPY WAS THAT???? If you weren't there, it's probably hard to imagine, but take my word for it, it was.

On cookies, donuts and organized religion

These are just my musings on the topic of Holiday Season. They are too short to get a post of their own, plus I am not sure if I'll manage to get another post out for this to be relevant. So there. Oh, and before I forget,

HAPPY CHANUKAH!!!

Holiday season happens to be the time when our large vendors send us, their good customers, Christmas baskets with edible goodies. I do appreciate the thought and all, but would it kill them to send something kosher? I mean, we live in NY, how hard could it be? Yes, I do realize that complaining about Christmas baskets not being kosher is at best ironic. But when the 3 p.m. hunger strikes and everyone around happily munches on gourmet cookies while you hope to satiate yourself with your own saliva, philosophical musings are the last thing that comes to mind.

Here's one for marriage experts to illustrate that men truly are from Mars. I call hubby today and ask if he would like some donuts. Ask any woman (any sane woman) what that means, and she will tell you, “Honey, would you be so kind as to pick up a few dozen donuts from the bakery on your way home?" What does a male hear? "Honey, would you be so kind as to allow me to spend hours in kitchen for the honor of serving you some home made donuts?" and replies with “Yeah, sure, make some.” Ugh, whatever, they are hopeless… When I explain the true meaning behind the question , hubby is genuinely surprised, “But you like making donuts!” Yes, I also like expensive jewelry, playing preferance and girls only nights out. I don't see anyone rushing to fulfill those likes of mine...

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This is the time of the year when one hears a lot of griping about organized religion (as far as I am concerned, in 99% of the cases this is just an excuse to avoid going to church or whatever else the religion would obligate the person to do). So I had a bright idea. What if I started a disorganized religion? Or religion for the disorganized? Either option would be fine, if it let me quit my day job and spend more time with kids. I even have a motto, "Mess for the masses." Something to look into...

P.S. As this post was edited, a very nice woman from a different department came over and brought me a package from a vendor that is delicious AND kosher. And left it on my desk since she knows we don't get many of those. How nice is that? And another (male) co-worker brought in a kosher donut, just for me (and other three kosher people on the floor). SubHub, if I were you, I would start getting jealous...and run to the bakery.

P.P.S. He ran, even before he heard that there's a competition. OK, got to get off the computer and start consuming all that nice food.

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Happy Holidays everyone!!!

To trust or not to trust...again...

While I was sleeping…

Guess who left me a comment last night at 1.45 am? OMG, OMG, OMG!!! It was Mrs. G of the Derfwad Manor! I am never going to sleep again! Ok, maybe an occasional catnap. First, Suburban Correspondent, and now Mrs. G! I am becoming famous! If you have never visited that Manor, I highly recommend. A warning to my conservative friends: Mrs. G is unapologetically liberal, but she rarely talks about politics and is very, very funny! I particularly like her Secret Boyfriend entries.

But Mrs. G’s last night’s entry was of a different kind; it was a trip down the memory lane, about a friend’s betrayal. It brought me to thinking about my own experience with this subject. Unlike Mrs. G, no friend of mine ever stole my boyfriend; mine was betrayal of a different kind. Did it leave me less trusting? I would like to believe no. But this and other betrayals in life made me think about what was better: to trust less and have less fulfilling friendships or have real friends, but run the risk of another heartbreak?

So here’s the story of my first betrayal. Luda (let’s call her that) and I were 12 years old at the time. We became best friends pretty much the first day she came to my pre-K and were almost inseparable for 6 years. We shared all our secrets, mischief, dreams and crushes. I saved my treats to share with her the next day in school. We even discussed our kids playing together in the very distant future because we were supposed to be friends forever. Then one day we had a fight, one of many stupid meaningless fights girls of that age have. It was so insignificant, that I quickly forgot what we fought about and was sure that in no time we would be friends again.

But I was wrong. I don’t think I have ever spoken to her again, even though we were in the same class and physically in the same room for several hours each day. Maybe I did say a few things like “excuse me” and asked to return the money and the book that she borrowed, but it is also possible that I didn’t. Because the next day after the fight she passed me a note during a class, which said, “I told Maya (also not real name) everything.” I remember the note and the cold feeling in my stomach. Maya was the girl who was not particularly nice to me for some unknown reason. We never openly fought, but every now and then she would make snide remarks about or to me without any provocation on my part. I could never find what to say back to her because she was so pretty, so well dressed, so neat and organized - so much better than me… So I took my revenge once and only once by saying trash about her to my then best friend. I just didn’t know how else to express my frustration and regretted what I said almost immediately. What I said was supposed to stay between my friend, my true friend and I and be quickly forgotten like many stupid things we told each other.

And now all the dumb things I said in confidence were repeated to Maya. For no reason other than to hurt me, to win the fight. This was my first true betrayal. Before long, Maya’s mother got involved and fortunately didn’t blow things out of proportion. We had a short, but very unpleasant conversation, at the end of which this woman said, “Maybe you should pick your friends better.” If I remember correctly, I replied that I already knew that. I just hope I was polite saying that because looking back, this woman really couldn’t have handled the situation better.

But this was not the end of my woes. I refused to acknowledge Luda or have any dealings with her. I think she did not expect that. One night my father got a phone call from Luda’s mother, and in a 30-minute conversation got an earful about all the mischief I got into in the prior two years. (And before your imagination runs wild, my misdeeds were very timid, prank calling and smoking my first cigarette were among the more serious ones. But I am sure hearing about them, especially from another “concerned” parent and especially all at once was not particularly pleasant.) Needless to say, I experienced one of the worst nights of my teenage life. At the end of the very long conversation with my parents, I found out that they never particularly liked Luda, but never told me that. With all his outrage at my antics, I saw that Dad felt bad for me. He knew that I was betrayed. He knew that friends shouldn’t do what Luda did.

I think this whole episode happened in early spring. I quickly made friends with another girl in my class. Two days after classes resumed in the fall, Luda transferred to another school. I never saw her again. But some time in the winter I received a letter from her, saying that she was truly sorry for what happened. She never made any friends in her new school and regretted losing the only true friendship she had. She wanted us to be friends again, friends in the true meaning of that word. I quickly wrote a very long reply, where I recounted all the wrongs she had done to me, all the things I had to overlook during our 6 years of friendship, told her I couldn’t forgive her and the only reason for her very late apology was her loneliness. Had she made new friends, she wouldn’t be apologizing to me. I am proud to say I never mailed that response. I waited several months before writing another one. I simply didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to kick someone on the low, but I didn’t have anything to offer either. Then finally my new best friend shamed me about not responding, and I finally wrote another letter. It was much shorter, kinder, but still with the tact and straightforwardness of a young teen. I basically said that all was forgiven, but my trust was broken, and it would take a lot to become friends again. I wished Luda luck and expressed hope that she would find friends in her new school. She never replied. A few years later I heard a rumor that Luda’s family moved to Germany, but no one knew when and to where.

Many years have passed. I would occasionally remember about Luda and try to find her on Classmates.com, through Google or by other means. Then I think about what I would do if I actually found her, what I would say, come up with nothing worthy and abandon the search only to pick it up a few months later. I hope she is well and happy, and I guess I just want proof.

As for myself, I have answered the question of whether or not to trust someone again long time ago. The girl, who became my best friend shortly after our falling out with Luda, turned out to be one of the most trustworthy people I know. Our friendship was much deeper and healthier than my previous one. (And my parents approved. I think.) We still shared all our secrets and crushes; but we also shared ideas, discussed ideals, the meaning of life and love and pretty much everything we could think of for hours. We were still young and silly girls and had stupid fights, but we always made up. And we are still friends to this day, really, really good friends, best friends forever. Despite the distance, the time, the different religions, the not seeing each other for years and busy lives. And despite me losing her phone number every time I find it (thank G-d for email).

As I got older, I don’t necessarily think that sharing every single thought and feeling is necessary or even desirable. But I do know that if I need to share, there is a person across the ocean who would listen, understand and keep it to herself. That kind of friendship would have never happened had I clammed up and refused to trust anyone again.

A cautinary tale

We took the kids to the Bronx Zoo today. Once again, the Zoo turned them down citing administration's fear for the welfare of the animals. Just kidding. It seemed like a good opportunity to go somewhere since SubHub is on vacation and for August, today's weather was rather mild. We made good time on the way there, about 45 minutes. However, a lot of people felt the same way about today's weather, so finding parking took about another 15 minutes. We should've tried parking on the street, and not at the Zoo. I didn't take any real food on purpose, deciding that it was much preferable for everyone to be a bit hungry than to end up with food poisoning.

So on the way back everyone was tired, myself included. I set up our GPS to "home" and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw something that I totally didn't expect: IKEA, Elizabeth and a worried SubHub. He asked me if I was sure that we were going in the right direction. I said I was. To be double sure, I reset GPS to "home" again and wrote off the entire experience to weirdness of the device. Sometimes it tends to give strange directions, like last week-end when we went to check out new IKEA in Brooklyn, when on the way home the device kept on sending us to New Jersey.

When we were asked to take Garden State Parkway, I lost all trust in the device. We were going further and further from home. I looked at the GPS again, and all of a sudden I had a light bulb moment. SubHub had lent our GPS to his friend a few weeks ago. What if - the thought was almost unthinkable to me - his friend changed out "home" setting. Lo and behold, I was right. We were ten minutes away from out new "home" in Mahwah, New Jersey.

SubHub was pretty ticked off. It meant that he was going to be late for the meeting with - ironically - that same friend who took liberties with out homing device. Somehow the whole thing ended up being my fault. Not his friend's, who changed out default settings. Not SubHub's, who all of a sudden took liking to precisely following directions (I guess as long as they don't come from the wife or the manual, but from electric device, why doubt them?). But mine. Because I didn't check. Whatever. Two minutes later everyone calmed down, and turned out that the friend mentioned something about changing destinations to SubHub. Once again, it never occurred to SubHub that the default settings would be changed (but it was supposed to occur to me).

So the several lessons of the story are as follows:

1. Never skimp on snacks, especially if the real food was not served on time. I thought I went a little overboard, spending $25 or so, but we pretty much went through everything.

2. Having plenty of hydration is important!

3. Put on a diaper on your toilet trained toddler. You'll thank yourself later, especially if #2 applied.

4. If you are a wife, be prepared to take the fall for everything, including bad weather and other acts of friends and G-d.

5. THE MOST IMPORTANT LESSON OF ALL. If you lend someone your GPS (or any other electronic device), make sure that your default settings are still intact. Or you might end up living in Mahwah, NJ for the rest of your life.

Don't go changing

Day Care Center my kids go to has seen a lot of changes in personnel recently, with a quite a few new teachers coming in. We probably don’t know half of them in face because we pick up our kids so late in the day when only one or two babysitters stay to supervise the kids. Our son’s group got a new afternoon babysitter/teacher, but we haven’t actually met her until very recently, and of course under peculiar circumstances.

When SubHub went to pick kiddos last night, he discovered that our little man had dropped a huge stink bomb in his diaper. He often does that right before he’s picked from daycare/we need to leave/we are in the middle of dinner with guests/he had his diaper changed three minutes ago. Long story short, his timing is almost always off, as if he senses when changing his stinky diaper would cause the most amount of disgust, inconvenience, and loss of appetite. (On the other hand, good dieting idea! Though I’m afraid that I would be so distraught by the loss of appetite that I might double up on emotional binging. Still, worth exploring.) But, thank God, everything works in that department, so I am not complaining.

But back to daycare. Hubs was in a rush and started looking for someone to change DS. He asked another teacher in the room where DS’s babysitter was. She looked at him a bit strange and asked who DS (insert the name) was. When hubs pointed at the little stinker, the teacher said that she didn’t know the whereabouts of his babysitter. Hubby thought to himself “Newbie”, but was a little ticked off that this new babysitter didn’t volunteer to change DS herself (something she was supposed to do in the absence of her colleague). He was about to ask her to do just that, when he was distracted by DD. And thank God!

DD was pointing to something on the street, and hubby noticed a double-parked car in front of the entrance. Then he saw DS’s babysitter entering the room with a diaper and changing him. He saw that other teacher chasing two older boys and promising to leave without them… As if in a slow motion, pieces of the puzzle started coming together. That other teacher was not a teacher at all, she was another parent picking up her kids from daycare!

When SubHub told me this story I asked him to describe that woman to me. That’s when I realized to my horror (and maniacal giggles) that she and I are well acquainted, and we often bump into each other on the street, at day care, while grocery shopping and during social events. She usually picks up her kids an hour earlier (when and if I pick them up), and that’s why my hubs never met her there. Even though SubHub doesn’t know this woman, she knows me and the kids (at least in face) and can easily make all the necessary connections. Imagine the embarrassment every time I would see her!

Feliz Purim

My amazing ability to channel out (read: inability to notice or concentrate on) the things around me was one of the things that my husband found particularly cute when we were dating. As some unwritten law of relationships goes, it is the very thing that drives him particularly crazy now. But that's not what the post is about.

One of the ways this channeling out thingy declares itself is in my not knowing my neighbors. At all. I know that they are my neighbors because they appear where my neighbors supposed to appear - on the porch next to ours, in the doorways of houses next to ours, in our own yard saying hello - but I wouldn't be able to pick them out of a crowd. I know my landlady really well because I have to climb down a set a stairs every month to bring her a check for an obscene amount of money, which is now called a bargain due to the present real estate market. But this post is not about real estate either.

So on Purim we exchange packages of food (shaloch manot). This Purim was particularly hectic, and giving a package to my neighbors was not something that occurred to me in the morning. Then some time in the late afternoon it hit me that it would be a nice gesture. Our (or more precisely, our landlady's house) is adjacent to another two-family house owned by an Israeli family, and they have Israeli tenants on the second floor. So I prepared a package for the landlord, and rang the bell. There was some scurrying around behind the closed door, then the woman who obviously didn't expect anyone at this hour (wet hair, bathrobe, etc), opened it. She looked positively scared and seemed to not quite comprehend what I wanted from her. I tried to not look directly in her direction, threw at her the package and ran off with a "Happy Purim" wishes. I hate being caught in the middle of a shower, and didn't enjoy doing this to her.

So after I brought the food package to the neighboring landlord, hubby said it would be nice to bring one to his tenants, since apparently hubby is friendly with them. Again, this was news to me. I got the package ready and went out to deliver it. I knew the family wasn't home, so I had to leave the package by their door. I thought it was right next to the landlord's when all of a sudden stairs to the second floor porch caught my eye. I had seen my neighbors on this porch numerous times, so I knew that the door on the porch led to their apartment. So where did the second door on the first floor lead?

After I left the package on my neighbors' second floor doorstep, I ran to hubs and asked him whether the adjacent house was a two or three family house. The look that hubby gave me was worth more than the words could express and much more than we have in our savings account. "Didn't you live here for about a year?" he finally said. "It is a three-family house. We have a landlord and his Dominican tenants living on the first floor, and our (??!!) Israeli friends (??!!) living on the second."

Dominican? As in most likely Catholic? As in on a Good Friday (which happened to coincide with Purim this year)? I obviously rang the wrong doorbell! That explained why the poor woman looked so shocked when I presented her with my food. I would be shocked too if someone for no reason dumped food on my lap and ran off. Very, very grateful, but nevertheless shocked.

At that point I suspended all my food-giving and started getting ready for Shabbat. When all of a sudden a bell rang and a girl (who looked like she could be my neighbor's kid) brought us a basket with goodies. They were all kosher and made in Israel, so I guess I rang the right doorbell after all. Phew. The neighborhood peace is preserved, the inter-religious conflict averted.

Short Recap in my favorite art form: MasterCard Commercial.

Cost of ingredients and goodies for shaloch manot: about $150.
Time spent baking/preparing them: don't know, all I know is that I went to bed at 3 am the night before.
Finding out who your neighbors are: priceless (and still on my "to do" list).

Gimme some washin'

Friday afternoon is the busiest time of the week for me. A lot of tasks and chores are crammed into that hour and a half between my coming home from work and shabbat, that is if I am so lucky to leave work early enough. Last Friday I come home to find DH grilling our Friday night meal - a wee bit too close to shabbat for my taste, but one cannot be to picky. I assess the situation and figure out what needs to be added to my "to do" list when hubs hits me with this request, "Hon, can you wash my feet?"

I stare at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief, seeing that he is completely serous. Hubs reads my stare slightly differently, thinking that I am annoyed at him for adding things to my already long "to do" list. He says, "I'll do it myself then, you are too busy." "You better do it yourself," I think as I am watching hubby go into the fridge and take out a package of chicken.

I think I genuinely scared hubby with my wild roar. Afer a brief explanation, we were both laughing out loud. (I still am, even when surrounded by people on the train.) You see, in Russian leg can be used to describe "leg" or "foot". When I thought my hubby was asking me to wash his feet, he actually requested me to prep chicken legs for grilling. And I thought that my Levite ancestry finally caught up with me...

The magical mystery pain

January was a medically interesting month. First, I had vertigo a few times, then I woke up with the unexplained pain in my ribs, which was followed by a long and nasty cold; as a cherry on this sundae of medical events I woke up with a pain in my right middle finger, arguably the most important finger for anyone living in NYC. Maybe it was a message from my body: you treat me badly, here's what I have to show you... My own body cursing me out...

But back to the mysterious ribcage problem. I woke up one January Sunday with the pain, and either I was having a deja vu, or this had happened before. I decided to ignore it fairly sure that it would go away on its own like the last time, but on Monday it actually got worse to a point where I couldn't take deep breaths and started waddling (I am sure that waddling and clutching my stomach didn't help dissuade the pregnancy rumors already circulating at work). All of a sudden everyone had a theory to explain it. My favorite one was given by my male colleague who jokingly suggested that when asleep I was kicked in the ribs by my husband. Yes, I could barely contain myself because spousal abuse is soooo funny. I was tempted to say that unlike my colleague, my husband prefers kicking me when I am awake, so this way I can share all the juicy details with my girlfriends. I didn't say it because the male colleague was higher than me on the food chain, though honestly that rarely stopped me. My own best theory was that I got so fat, I crushed my own ribs in my sleep.

Putting the kids to bed on Monday was sheer agony (which it almost always is), accompanied by lots of screaming (also not unusual). Every time I stretched out my arm to put on a diaper or pj's, my side would get so painful that I simply couldn't hold the scream in. Kids actually felt bad for me and almost behaved like humans. When rolling in bed became more painful than giving birth (with an epidural, of course), I realized it might be time to see a doctor. Herein was the problem: I see a few good specialists, but I do not know of any good internist. The last one I knew left family medicine to specialize in something else. And his partner, Dr. L who always gave out antibiotics for good behavior the way pediatricians give out lollypops, was advertising a new service last time I visited his office - Botox injections! So I wasn't going to Dr. L just in case the theory about crushing ribs with my own weight was right. If I were to trust my intuition, he most likely mastered the art of liposuction by now and undoubtedly would recommend that to treat my problem. Unless, of course, I preferred the course of antibiotics.

I called a few doctors close to the office from my insurance list, but the earliest appointment I would be able to get was in a week. One office promised to squeeze me in in about month and a half. When I would tell them that I couldn't wait because of pain, they would all say one thing: go to the clinic or ER. Why didn't I think of it myself? Here's why: I would not set foot in either unless my life depended on it. And then I remembered that years ago I went to one highly recommended doctor to get my health exam and shots done for college, so I decided to call there. Since I technically was not a new patient, they could squeeze me in for an emergency visit the very next day!

The visit didn't go smoothly. Even though I was the only patient in the waiting room, I had to wait about an hour to be seen. The nurse, a 60-something Russian woman, who probably received her training in Gulag, refused to answer any questions and viewed them as personal insults. She also strongly believed that wearing gloves was for suckers and wouldn't wear them even for drawing blood. I wondered if she ever heard of HIV or thought that any normal Russian could just sleep off that pesky virus after a few shots of vodka. Then the doctor came in and told me that I had nothing to worry about. However, I was to get five different tests no later than the very next day and was to report to the emergency room immediately if I had any difficulty breathing. He reiterated that tests had to be done the very first thing next morning and the labs were to submit results by 3 p.m., just in case. When I asked what that "just in case" meant, he said "a possibility of blood clot in your lung." A-ha...

So I did just that, and got all tests done right away. At four I called the good doctor to get the results and was told that he would call me back. He didn't. He didn't call me back on Friday, and on Monday I found out that he was on vacation all next week. That made me wonder whether the urgency of obtaining tests was due to his taking a vacation and covering his behind, '"just in case," not having my best interests in mind. Finally, next Monday the receptionist called me back, after I left yet another message, to say that all tests came out normal, something I already knew because the pain went away on its own. Also, had I been dying, he probably would've called. I hope. Now the physical pain is being substituted by the financial - the bills for my lab co-pays ended up being over $200, and that's before x-rays and sono because those did't come in yet.

So after all the time and money spent on this mystery, I am not a step closer to knowing why I had that horrible pain. Maybe the doctor knows, but he wouldn't tell me.

What will countess Marya Aleksevna say to this ?

I went to a wedding this Thursday. It was one of my husband's old friends, who finally found his other half. I wish them happily ever after.

During the main course I took my little one to the restroom, where a woman heard me speaking Russian to DD, and in turn started a conversation in Russian with me. Turned out she was from Baltimore; we had a few friends in common. During the conversation this woman mentioned that Baltimore has a lot of available guys, and she wanted to know if I knew any single girls. I had a few names ready, and we were going through the regular questions: age, ever been married, where from, appearance. The last question inevitably led to the discussion of weight, at which point this woman sighed and said, "Guys nowadays only want thin girls." No kidding, I think I can write a book on the topic that could rival War and Peace in its length. (Don't worry, this post will not be that long.) At least this woman was nice about it and actually sided with us, pleasantly plumped female population.

This brought me back to about five years ago, when I myself made a call to some matchmaker, who was recommended to me by an older acquaintance from the synagogue. After a short introduction and a few questions, I was asked about my weight and was told that girls over size 8 needed not apply for her services. That included me. In a few very short words I was rendered unmarriageable and hopeless. In five short minutes my spirit was crushed without much consideration. There was no sympathy, apology or compassion in her voice. You are fat, you deserve to stay single. Sometimes I think that a convicted murdered would have received more support from this woman. After that conversation, I immediately called back my acquaintance, and very indignantly recounted what had happened. I was in for another shock. My acquaintance told me, "Call her back. Tell her you are size 8." "But won't she notice that I am not?" I asked. I got an exasperated, "Then you should get to size 8!" I expected more understanding, especially from someone whose own daughter struggled with weight. But then again, due to a medical condition my acquaintance never was an ounce over size zero, so she would never, ever understand what it felt like to be told to lose six dress sizes in two weeks, especially when you tried for the past two years. She would never, ever know how insulting it was to have had your personal worth measured in pounds and dress sizes. For the first time in my life I was grateful to come from a family of full-bodied women; I might have gotten a fat gene or a lifetime of bad eating habits, but I also had my mother's understanding in this area. Somehow, I think that the daughter of my acquaintance was sorely lacking it.

Now, after getting married, I got my own window into the male psyche. I once broached this subject with my hubby, and received a confirmation to my long held belief. There truly are men who cannot be attracted to a woman over a certain size. And there are others, greater in number than the first group, who might not personally object to the looks of someone size 12. However, they are concerned about their friends' opinions. Since thinness is "in", having a fiancee or wife over a certain size is a sign that they have settled for someone sub-par.

And there it goes: there are tons and tons of men in their thirties claiming to be willing to do anything to find their better half who all the while not able to risk dating someone not picture perfect. They are searching for years, not getting a clue from the experiences of their married friends most of whose wives gained a dress size or two (at the very least) after marriage. Not getting at all that maybe, just maybe they themselves are not greatest catches (often time themselves lacking in appearance department as well as other areas), and adjusting their (or actually their friends') expectations to reality might be the only way to ever get married. (By the way, most of these friends whose opinion is oh so important don't really care what the girl looks like as long as she makes the guy happy.) If you ask me, these morons are probably doing us fatties a huge favor by refusing to meet/date our kind. Because living a life where "keeping up with the Kohens" is a norm is not my idea of happiness. On the other hand, some women may prefer this over staying single...

But back to the guy who got married on Thursday. He was looking to get married close to ten years. He had his list, and would not consider compromising. I don't know at which point be broke down, but the girl he married is definitely someone he would never consider dating only three years ago. No, the girl was not overweight, but that's not the point. He finally got over the fear of what some people might say, and now found someone with whom he wants to spend the rest of his life. So there are happy endings, and I hope that all my friends get their own happy endings too.