Expanding My Mind . . . or Makeup

Between Ma and I, I used to be a Sephora VIB Rouge member (that meant I spent a small fortune during their sales). But hey, I was unmarried and had few hobbies. Plus Ma really liked the Algenist eye serum. 

With marriage, Ben's arrival, and COVID, my makeup spending shrank to . . . nothing. I had stockpiles of makeup to last me through. 

I stopped researching products. I stopped researching application methods. I was focused on other things now, like sleep. 

But as COVID masks came off, and family simchas began again, I started to feel the loss. I still loved makeup. I still wanted to wear it. But I felt a little . . . outdated. 

I've always believed that you can't get complacent. If you don't learn anything new, you regress into ignorance. The new TorahAnytime app has been a delight. My phone is chock full of bookmarked recipes that sometimes work, but mostly don't. I don't mind the failures. I exult in the new discoveries.

My under eye lining, for instance, is in sad need of improvement. I like a nice swath of black liner along my lower lash. But because I need like ten layers of concealer, the liner tends to run. Not cool. 

It's hard to find tutorials about such a subject, because most focus on dark circle concealing only, or lining the lower lash, but not both. So it takes some time to stumble across the right literature and guidance. 

I dipped my toe in, and found an interesting suggestion: When setting undereye concealer, don't swipe; press the powder in with the brush instead. 

Ah! Not a total solution yet, but progress.

Then, I came across an article about lipsticks that stay on under masks. Yay! 

So when Sephora had their sales recently, I cheerfully purchased some oldies and some new goodies too. Which I will try, and then return if needed.

I'm still a frumanista, ha ha ha. 

Five Minute Face as Shabbos Face

 In my single years, I was a regular shul goer. Nearly every week, I would spend precious minutes before lechtzin hair styling and makeup applying. 

Now, that makeup routine was serious stuff. It was practically bullet proof. 

With Ben's arrival, however, the previous enjoyment of shul waned. When he was tiny, being up at night with him meant I stayed in bed in the morning. When he got older, and COVID became less worrisome, he would whine and complain while I struggled to get dressed, then he continued to whine and complain while I struggled to get him dressed, and by the time I finally made it out the door we were both sweaty and tired. 

When I would arrive at shul, he would refuse to go to groups, and after having my own davening disturbed too many times by youngsters I would refuse to bring him in, hovering outdoors and feeling rather stupid. If Han insisted on taking him in, I spent the time wincing whenever he emitted a peep. 

Or, if I didn't time it right, I would have spent all that effort getting it together to find shul is over and I got dressed and ready just to walk Han home. 

Blah. 

I decided instead that I would spend Shabbos morning going for a leisurely walk. I can't do that in the afternoon lest Ben dozes off in the stroller and is then unable to sleep at night. So morning it is. 

Well, do I really need a bulletproof Face just for a walk? When I'm wearing sunglasses? Through a pretty deserted route? 

Enter weekday Five Minute Face. 

Surprisingly, the above stays on rather well through Shabbos morning, giving my ego the slight boost it needs to be seen by strangers in public. When it fades (when you have a toddler, it will fade) it does so gradually, not patchily. Which is nice.

Lipstick will need to be of clingier stuff, though. A long wearing one.

Makeup doesn't have to be all or nothing. There's plenty of room in between. 

"Deserve"?

"Deserve" is a word that makes me nervous. 

It's a word that is bandied about a lot nowadays. Strangers on social media, for instance, exhort that all of the individuals amongst the faceless masses "deserve" love.

I hear parents say that their kids work so hard in school, they "deserve" a vacation. 

This mentality is one that I find disturbing. As we very well know, life on this earth is not based on merit. Hello, how many children were murdered in the war? How many innocents were slaughtered over the millennia? That's not counting good ol' fashioned disease and famine and whatnot. 

But today's generation likes to say, "You deserve!" 

Judaism is about responsibility, not rights. We have to do our part; there's no guarantee we'll be thusly "rewarded." Kids still have to do their homework even if they won't get rewarded for it. For me, one of the last line of Koheles says it all: "The end of the matter, all having been heard: fear God, and keep His commandments; for this is the whole man." A Jew gotta do what a Jew gotta do. That's it. 

In the Wall Street Journal, Crispin Sartwell expresses similar misgivings in "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" He lists all the things he's been told he deserves, by people who don't even know him, and observes: 

. . . if I believed that I already deserved all good things, I might stop trying to improve. After all, I couldn't become worthier or more deserving than I am right now. Nor could you or anybody else. . . some quibble that praising everyone in exactly the same terms makes saints and monsters morally equal. It's about time, is all I can say to that. Even the worst person in the world deserves the most reliable 5G network. 

Wait—can that be right? 

Constantly being told what I deserve puts me in a state of anxiety. . . I'm not entirely sure I deserve . . . I reflect on all the things I've done wrong . . . 

Sometimes I worry that I actually deserve to be penalized rather than awarded . . .  

He's being sarcastic for most of this piece, obviously. But you get the point. The world doesn't operate on a merit system. 

I was listening to a shiur about Dina, about all the various commentaries and their takes on it. This one says it was her fault, this one says it was Yaakov's fault, this one says it was Leah's fault. But the Abarbanel says: It was no one's fault.  

Following contemporary tragedy, we don't try to find causes or reasons. The good die, or live. The bad die, or live. There's no cause to be found. Dina was abducted and raped the same way many women have been since the dawn of time. To put it crudely, **** happens, and there isn't always a message to be learned. There isn't always a way to prevent tragedy.

And we definitely do not get what we think we deserve.  

Singles Shame, Continued

Iliza Schlesinger, Confirmed Kills: 

". . . The moral of that story is I was in a relationship and I wasn't happy so I left the relationship. I'm not advocating leaving the person you're with. What I am advocating for is this: If you're not happy, there's no reason to stay out of fear of being alone. 

"We like to scare women. And I'm sure there are men that feel this way. But we like to scare women when they're single and we like to be mean to them and we label them. We say mean things to them. She's a spinster. Old maid. 'Really involved with animal rescue.' We have names like that. 

"And we like to question them, as if there's something wrong. 'Why are you single?' 'Because the last one was a **** and I'm not stupid.' Like, that's why you do it. Nobody wakes up married. Nobody is born betrothed to someone. We have to be kinder to women and stop doing it. 

"And we have the audacity to have magazines, self-help books, articles, posing the question, 'You're single. Now what?' 'You're single. Now what?' What do you mean, 'Now what?' Now I shave off an eyebrow and take up with wolves. What do you mean, 'Now what?' What do you mean, 'Now what?' I got a mortgage! It's so stupid. 

"What upsets me is that women spend so much time and energy flogging themselves mentally for being single, and changing, and trying different methods, and looking for guys. And men don't have to do that. They have the luxury of relaxing because they don't have eggs. There are no articles in GQ like, 'You're single. Now what?' There's none of that."

Us frummies really do think, when it comes to the singles, that we are in a unique position. That the secular world doesn't have to put up with this hooey. That we are alone in our seemingly endless quest to find a good man to be a spouse, and if you don't put his ring on it, then there will be no one else for you.  

It happened to me often enough. "Well, you said yourself he's nice, so how can you say no?" But I feel nothing for him, except a burning need to to walk briskly away in the opposite direction. "But you're single and he won't beat you" is not a good enough reason to marry someone. 

Maybe that would have been sufficient reason to marry three hundred years ago, but hello, people, we ain't in the shtetl no mo'. We need more from our relationships, and that's not a bad thing. 

Browbeating a single girl into a yes isn't helping anyone. It doesn't solve anything. All she would know, going forward, was that she is not in this relationship because she wants to be. So why postpone the inevitable, when she finally can't go forward and breaks it off after the 15th date or an engagement? 

Singles aren't mental defectives, or children (for the most part). They don't need to be told ghost stories in order to get them to commit out of terror. 

They may just be waiting for what is right for them. 

(And by the way, Schlesinger married 2 years after this special, at the age of 35, and is now expecting.)

"Too"

And you will always be "too much" for some people. Too kind. To friendly. Too sensitive. Too giving. Too loud. Too quiet. Too loving. Too hopeful. Too passionate. Too scared. Too frigid. Too soft. Too much of this and too much of that. Too much every single thing that makes you the person that you are. Don't change yourself because you are "too much" for people who are too little. Just remember that your "too much" will never make sense to those who put boundaries where there should be none. — ruby dhal

Singlism

 Frum people sometimes think the grass is greener on the other side. "Oh, if I wasn't frum, such-and-such wouldn't be an issue." 

Singles certainly have those moments. "Oh, if I wasn't frum, it would be no problem to get a relationship." That (erroneous) belief stems from the current day restrictions to meet potential dates—bars, clubs, or even basic social interactions are off the table. 

But marriage is not just a numbers game, that if I just meet as many people as possible one them would be my spouse. While I didn't date with proficient regularity, Han certainly did (he lost count at some point, but I did some lame math and yeah, he met LOTS of women). 

Additionally, frum singles seem to think that secular/gentile singles don't get flack for being unmarried. But according to this article on TED, yeah, they do: "The Price of Being Single" by Jessica Gross. 

DePaulo has coined two words that are essential to this discussion. “Singlism is the stereotyping, stigmatizing and discrimination of people who are not married,” she says. “The flip side of that is matrimania: the over-the-top celebrating and hyping of marriage and coupling and weddings. So if you’re single, you get it coming and going.”

OOOOH, those terms sound fun! 

DePaulo and her colleagues created biographical sketches of people who were identical — except that half were single, while half were married. Participants judged the hypothetical singles to be less socially mature, less well adjusted, and more self-centered than their otherwise identical married counterparts. The effect was starker for hypothetical 40-year-olds — who, by cultural standards, are at a should-be-married age — but persisted for hypothetical 25-year-olds, too.

Yup.  

As the article relates, "singlism" is not considered to be a form of prejudice, even though singles can be discriminated against. Additionally, while there may be supposed studies that "married people are happier," that can't really be substantiated. People are happier when they first marry, but over time they end up where they were before. Plus there are divorces. Obviously those people, when they were married, were unhappy. 

A married couple are not "better" people than singles; marriage does not mean the couple is more mature or more selfless; they are not necessarily happier. 

And just because you are single doesn't mean others have the right to treat you badly.

Book Review Continued: "Group"

The second aspect of the book that I noted . . . 

It's not like Tate came from an abusive home. Her parents were solid Catholic Texans. There was no fighting. She mentions her siblings in passing, and they seem to be fine, married and settled. 

But Tate's upbringing did leave a mark. She was a tween when she witnessed a horrific accident, and her parents did not know how to deal with it. They told her to buck up, to put on a happy face, to power through. At some point the school sent her to a therapist who was not a good fit, and she lied to her parents after one session that she was good to go. They were happy. 

It made me think of Thomas Boyce's dandelion and orchid theory. Some children come into this world mentally and emotionally sturdy. No matter what life throws at them they can cheerfully trundle along. (A neighbor once said about Luke, "You could send him to public school no problem." Yeah, total dandelion.) 

But other children are more sensitive. They need more support, more nurturing, more attention. If they don't get that from their caretakers, they flounder. If they do, they flourish, becoming ever more than a dandelion can. 

My thought on this was—besides for the belief that Tate is an orchid, and many messages given consciously or unconsciously to her by her parents and teachers left deep marks—that what if it doesn't have to be so extreme? What if there is a plant that falls between a dandelion and an orchid? (My botany is not proficient, so I don't have an example there.)

Life is rarely black and white—it's not like children are either one thing or the other. Some kids can be more sensitive in some ways, and less sensitive in others.  

Chanoch l'naar al pi daarko—it's a toughie. Parents can do everything "right," and the kids will still end up on a therapist's couch complaining about their upbringing. 

Ben is too small for me to be worried too much right now. He's content with regular meals, a good night's sleep, and reading the same book on a loop (I'm going mad). I'm curious as to what he is, but I think it's neither dandelion nor orchid. I have to be in tune for when his personal sensitivities pop up, so I can be ready to accommodate them.

Book Review: "Group"

I don't usually read much non-fiction, but I seem to be drawn to therapy memoirs. The first, Lori Gottlieb's Maybe You Should Talk to Someone was from the perspective of both therapist and patient; the second, Catherine Gildiner's Good Morning, Monster was strictly from the therapist. I recently finished the third, Group: How One Therapist and a Circle of Strangers Saved My Life by Christie Tate. 

She's obviously a patient. 

The book opens with Tate in her late 20s, wishing for death. She's smothered by loneliness. She wants a significant other. But the only men she's been attracted to thus far are incapable of relationships. 

She goes to a therapist (Jewish, of course) who has an atypical method of treatment: it's group therapy, and EVERYTHING is shared. His belief is that secrecy is damaging, as secrecy is tied to shame. 

That's not quite my outlook on secrecy (isn't there a difference between secrecy and privacy?) but the therapy does wonders for Tate. We see how she progress step, by step, by step. Sure, there are some missteps too, but the seven years that she details is fascinating, although I could have done without some of the EVERYTHING she relayed (warning: very UA). 

Two aspects jumped out at me from the book. 

The first:

There is a raw scene when Tate expresses her desire for a family of her own. The members of the group are inviting her for the holidays (all are married), but she wants her OWN family. It was at this point when I began to relate to Tate. 

That understanding continued as she describes one of her relationships. She has made progress with the sort of man she dates, but these attempts have not ended happily. The next relationship she's in, he's, well, a bit odd. But he has a stable job, a stable personality, suitably boring. She expresses her misgivings to the group, but they all firmly say that this is what she needs. She herself swallows her misgivings because, after all, this is the best she's going to get. 

. . . I fantasized about calling him later to say, "Have a nice life."

But I didn't think I was allowed to let go. That was literally the word in my head: allowed. I'd been bellowing about relationships for years. I'd invested thousands of dollars in therapy . . . I'd recently been involved with a married man. Therefore, I wasn't allowed to walk away from [him]. He was single, solvent, and kind. . . I knew I wouldn't break up with him. The urge to flee was overpowered by my need to prove I was willing to do the hard work I was sure intimate relationships required. 

And there we have it. 

This group of people love her. When you spend hours upchucking your emotional guts to a group, of course you feel something for each other. They socialize together outside of sessions. And yet, and yet, they encourage her to ignore her gut because this is the best option—so far. 

Well, does that sound familiar. 

During my dating years, I certainly heard this message enough. I heard mothers say it about their own children, how they told their kid that they must commit to the current option. Sometimes that works out—and sometimes it doesn't. 

Thankfully, Tate's boyfriend finally raises a red flag high enough that she could break up with him with the blessing of everyone. That irritated me, that she was told to ignore all those other flapping signals, supposedly for her own good.  

This breakup, unlike the others, carried something novel: a strong whiff of relief. Now I could stop pretending that [he] was my soulmate and get on with my life. 

In the end, it's not all those other random people who will be present in a relationship. It's two people, alone. Shouldn't they be the most comfortable together as possible?  

The second aspect in the next post. 

Taste of the Jewish Nation

Continuing on the idea of Jewish food, Padma Lakshmi's "Taste the Nation" had a Jewish food episode circling around Chanukah. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised she focused more on kosher style as opposed to actual kosher food. 

She goes to the Lower East Side, for some reason, and pretty much remains there, despite the fact that the Lower East Side isn't really the New York center of Jews anymore. 

There, she samples the typical fare of lox, cream cheese, and bagels, which seems rather limited. There were latkes, obviously, considering the theme. 

I thought it a shame she didn't head out to Brooklyn to experience the food there. For one thing, Boro Park, Crown Heights, Williamsburg, Flatbush, and Downtown boast a dizzying array of "Jewish food," along with a booming populace to go with it. OK, gefilte fish is not something we should proudly share, but what about a hearty cholent? Kneidlach? Rugelach? Delkalach?

Then the conversation veered away from food. Lakshmi went to visit Ruth, who she sorrowfully describes as a Holocaust survivor. 

I sat up straighter, interested to hear her story. Lakshmi's voiceover explains that Ruth came to the US in 1939, at the age of 11. That left me confused, as the Holocaust hadn't really revved up yet.  

It turns out that Ruth's family fled Europe following Kristallnacht, and for 10 months she was separated from her parents while they worked to get the paperwork to leave. 

Ruth explained how traumatizing that experience was for her, and I don't doubt it. But then Lakshmi prodded her (in an obviously staged way) why telling her story was so important, and Ruth compared her situation to the separation of children and parents at the southern border. 

So now we have made the connection from "Holocaust survivor" to "contemporary hot button issue."  

Umm . . . 

Yes, Ruth and her family were driven out of Europe by the Nazi regime, but in my opinion, but that doesn't make them Holocaust survivors. It makes them very, very lucky that they were not interned in death camps or hiding from SS soldiers in the woods. Ruth was 11 in 1939; chances are, if she would have been deported, she would not have lived. So I'll give her a "refugee" title, but I'm not cool with "survivor."

I was reading Yaniv Iczkovits' book review of Dara Horn's book, "People Love Dead Jews," and my peeve was right there: 

We look for universal lessons in lieu of attending to the actual persecution of Jews.

There is little to no relation of the current policy by the US border to, say, GENOCIDE. I don't exactly appreciate that sort of comparison, Lakshmi. Eating a bagel doesn't make you an honorary Jew of sufficient status to make such a claim.

"Jewish" Food?

Is there such a thing as "Jewish food"? 

I belong to a number of Jewish food groups. Some are more cultural, shall we say, than religious. During the pre-Chanukah season, the page was obviously going berserk for latke recipes. 

One person asked if she could make latkes in the oven. "The point is that they're fried!" she was sternly admonished. Since this was the more cultural page, I was amused. Is this what people think is important about the holiday—frying? The message of anti-assimilation is more vital, me thinks—and relevant.

Potatoes, to begin with, were not around in the times of the Chashmonaim. Chanukah food used to be cheese fritters, but Eastern European Jews only had shmaltz, not oil, to fry with. They therefore couldn't use cheese, so they relied on the sturdy potato that is readily available from winter storage. 

So what we have here is a holiday dish with tenuous ties to the original holiday. Now that we know about smoke point, frying in extra virgin olive oil is not recommended. So, does frying in sunflower oil or butter or shmaltz make something a Chanukah food? Shouldn't we be making more of an effort to consume olive oil, which doesn't necessarily mean frying? (I heartily recommend these cookies instead. Or, even better, good ol' salad vinaigrette.)  

My upbringing revolved around paprikash. The only thing that's Jewish about it is that typical Hungarian paprikash is usually served with sour cream, and the Jewish version is not.  

Jews are a bendy people—that's how we've survived. We learned, as we were shunted from place to place, how to pick up bits and pieces from the current culture around us and make it our own. Like braided challah—it has taken over our lives so much that women think bread HAS to be braided for Shabbos, when, no. That's an echo of a European fad in the 1500s, ladies. If women knew bread for Shabbos doesn't require braiding, maybe they would make it more often. 

I happen to like chremslach better than latkes—and both are fried potato patties. Yet the former is "for" Pesach, and the latter is "for" Chanukah. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's just that in Eastern Europe, people ate potatoes all the time, and had to make do. 

So no, I'm not going to start deep frying on Chanukah just because "you have to fry" on Chanukah. We don't "have" to, especially if frying makes you nervous (it makes me nervous!) and/or not really worth the work for you.

And lately, my timid tastebuds have been experimenting with more "exotic" options, like tahina and silan (I'm so daring, she said sarcastically). 

It's all Jewish food. There's no right or wrong way of doing it, except if it's treif.

More Than Happiness

Happiness. The founding fathers made a point to mention it, although I think their version of "happiness" doesn't align with the modern translation. 

Parents say, "I just want my child to be happy." Do they, though? If their child was happy to live in a yurt and off the grid, would that be what they wanted? 

Sally Hepworth's The Mother-In-Law was an interesting read, flipping between the mother-in-law's and daughter-in-law's viewpoints. I like books that tell two sides of a story. It's not about wrong vs. right; different people see things differently, operate differently, have different needs, and this can cause clashes in perspective. 

The mother-in-law, Diane, is a woman of principle. She runs a charity for pregnant refugee women. She believes that the good things in life are earned, not given. 

If you ask me, everyone is a little too interested in their children's happiness. Ask anyone what they wish for their kids and they'll all say they want them to be happy. Happy! Not empathetic contributing members of society. Not humble, wise and tolerant. Not strong in the face of adversity or grateful in the face of misfortune. I, on the other hand, have always wanted hardship for my kids. Real, honest hardship. Challenge big enough to make them empathetic and wise. Take the pregnant refugee girls I deal with every day. They've been through unimaginable hardships, and here they are, working hard, contributing and grateful. 

What more could you want for your kids?

I agree with Diane that happiness isn't the goal, especially, in my opinion, that empathetic, humble, wise, tolerant, strong, and grateful people are happy because they have cultivated these traits. 

What I don't necessarily agree with is that hardship will guarantee those results. 

Yes, there are some people who emerge bigger and better from hardship. But others are crushed beneath challenge. They become bitter, or timid, or focus on victimhood. 

Happiness comes in many forms. But it often begins in gratitude. If someone finds their life partner, and they are happy, it is because of gratitude. If someone can support their family comfortably, and they are happy, it is because of gratitude. If we are joyful on our yomim tovim, it is because of gratitude that we are Jews.

Then, I wonder. Is someone who found their bashert later in life happier than the one who married at 21? Meaning, did hardship (dating for eons) create a greater level of happiness from gratitude? 

I think it depends on the person. We all respond differently to hardship. Not all materials can withstand stress. 

Diane wants her children to have hardship. But did she prepare them for it?  Do they have the qualities that will guarantee survival?

Tradition vs. Observance

I read The Dinner Party by Brenda Janowitz, and I rather enjoyed it. It's about a Passover Seder hosted and attended by traditional Jews and the drama that ensues. 

One passage: 

The house Alan lives in now is far different than the house he grew up in. A home filled with two Holocaust survivors who feared going to the dentist and refused to stand on line. Parents who never slept at night. . . his childhood home was cold. There had been no rugs on the floor; the furniture was sparse. Nothing adorning the walls. It was as if his parents wanted to be ready, if they ever needed to again, to run and hide. 

Alan wasn't allowed to have friends over. "Who are those people?" his mother would ask. Alan's parents didn't trust anyone but other Holocaust survivors. They didn't entirely trust them, either. It was easy to avoid the outside world in their tiny Brooklyn enclave. His father worked as a haberdasher just blocks from their home. His mother rarely left the house. The only socializing they did was on the holidays, and that was with other Holocaust survivors. People Alan barely knew. They had no family. 

Alan was embarrassed by his parents. He was scared of them. He wanted very little to do with them. 

I don't know if Janowitz is depicting a situation that she knows personally, or if it was invented by her as how survivors reacted to their experience. But I found it to be an interesting contrast to my grandparents, and Han's. 

I don't really know of any survivors (and I know many) who lived their lives as described above. They didn't perpetually live in fear. If anything, many were joyful. 

I couldn't help but wonder if religion played any part in the contrast. Does religion provide us with the structure for resilience? To be able to move forward, beyond pain, towards a more optimistic future? 

Hmmm.   

Five Minute Face

Nowadays, I don't have much time in the mornings to apply serious Face. If I do, I try to up things with my eyes, as that is what is usually neglected. But here's my new basic routine, which manages to still get me compliments from the nice lady in Costco who checks my receipt by the door. 

We begin: 

1) I clean my face with Thayer's Witch Hazel and Aloe Astringent and a cotton round;

2) I apply a Vitamin C serum. I wait until it's been absorbed (I spend the time climbing into some clothing);

3) I then shmear on IT Cosmetics CC+ Cream Illumination. This version has a sheen that makes me glowy. I've noticed as I'm getting older that my skin gets less oily so I need less powder-based products; 

4) Concealer for my monster dark circles (between genetics and exhaustion, I need it!) I apply two products. First, is a cream based color corrector. I'm currently using up one by Cover FX that I don't even think is being carried anymore by Sephora, but in any case my previous one, by Bobbi Brown (Under Eye Corrector), I liked better;

5) I have to set this cream corrector or else it settles in unpleasantly. I use the Bare Minerals Broad Spectrum Concealer in Well Rested; 

6) Mascara, preferably two coats. I'm still fond of the Tarte Gifted Amazonian Clay Smart Mascara, but I haven't researched anything new in a while. Sometimes I use the Dior Diorshow Maximizer 3D Triple Volume Plumping Lash Primer underneath; 

7) A swipe of Tarte Amazonian Clay 12-Hour Blush in Dollface; 

8) I set everything with loose powder. I'm currently using one up that I bought in desperation in the drugstore. But I find most loose translucent powders to be the same in performance; 

9) I fill in my brows with Tarte Amazonian Clay Waterproof Brow Pencil in Taupe. I've tried a number over the years and it's my favorite. It matches my brows so well and gives excellent definition. I apply it after powder as it doesn't go on so well on freshly cced skin; 

8) LIPSTICK! I can finally wear some! I'm still working through my mother's stockpile (I know that sounds grisly but she had a major lipstick obsession and was constantly trying new colors and some of them are da bomb). I begin with lip lining, using Make Up For Ever Aqua Lip Waterproof Lipliner Pencil (I've used a number of pencils and I do like this one as it glides on, instead of struggling); 

9) So my lipstick of choice is rather random at the moment, currently using up a discontinued lippy by Bite Beauty. It's too satin for me, but I blot it to get the finish I want. I prefer more longer lasting options on the matte spectrum.

OK, does this take five minutes? Well, it could go a little over. But if I'm pressed for time I can always skip eyebrows or lipstick.

Before and After

I used to be a curated work of art. 

Every day, I carefully monitored the image that was to go into the outdoors. I couldn't control how many/what type of dates I got, but dammit, I could make sure I looked fabulous in the meantime. 

It took lots of effort, and since I had few hobbies besides shopping I was game. I spent hours sifting through racks of discount clothing. I analyzed makeup options for weeks before selecting the right one. The shoes, oh, the shoes . . . 

I never realized how much of that depended on sleep. 

I've always been very attached to my bedtime. Always. I was never the carefree teenager who crawled into bed at 1 a.m. and snored until noon. It was 9:30 to bed, 5:30 to arise. Well, I didn't have to be out of bed by 5:30, but that's when I woke up, so I would snuggle in my cocoon until the alarm chirped. 

But now I'm a whole new person, baby. Gone is my chic wardrobe because (a) whatever I put on gets covered in yogurt or snot in five minutes and (b) it doesn't fit.

In order to monitor my weight to ideal parameters, I need sleep to have the energy to make the few vegetables my stomach still tolerates instead of relying on quicky meals of string cheese and brown rice cakes. 

I have at times, quite literally, nothing to wear, and I no longer have the time or energy to spend another 1,000 hours culling through sales racks to find another wardrobe. I stick to two denim skirts that still fit and a few comfortable dresses that are not remotely chic in any way. I try to style them as best I can, but I am all too aware of the contrast. 

But . . . this is what mommies look like. This is how mommies operate. This is what I was hoping for, sleep deprivation and hot-mess-keit. OK, no one wishes to be sleep deprived but it's a side effect of marriage and kids. Along with bills and making Shabbos and laundry and finding a good electrician. 

My friend, so much younger than I but in the same place in life, laughs with me at how glamorous we used to be. Oh, we both try, but we know the before and after have quite a difference. My other friend, who also married "later," laughs at the same situation. 

So I if I crawl out of bed early enough, I can manage Five Minute Face (I'm so glad that masks aren't mandated everywhere anymore so I can apply some lipstick) and a garment that is only slightly stained. 

And one day, one day, my time with grubby handed infants will pass, and I might even miss that era. Then I'll possibly be able to shop and style once again. 

So my former glamazon is merely . . . going on hiatus. 

Neat Endings

Before the holiday season, I was forwarded an "inspirational" video about a young couple who had had a wrong done against them. The transgressor had acted with the best of intentions, but he had still grievously erred. Before Yom Kippur, he asked forgiveness from this couple. Initially, they were not sure if they could do it, but they ended up granting it. 

A few days later, the wife was in a terrible car crash, but she and her unborn child emerged unscathed. 

With a swell of violins, the video concludes with the reminder of the power of forgiveness. 

This didn't jive with me. 

Was this couple amazing for forgiving the wrong-doer? In my opinion, yes. If the video's message was that if this couple could forgive this fellow, then open your heart to mechilah, well, I would be behind that.

But it was the connection I was bothered by. Because life rarely has a perfect connection between one action and another. 

Is the video's message that if this couple had not freely given their forgiveness, the wife and unborn child would not have emerged unscathed? That is not a prediction that can be made.

What if there had been no car crash? There would be no story, that's for sure. "This young couple gave their forgiveness, and experienced no incidents on the road!" HaShem could have spared her from the car crash to begin with, right?

Do any of us arrive home safely and marvel at the miracle of our survival? Or try to examine our actions as to why we merited returning home in one piece? 

We don't. Because human nature takes such things for granted, while only according near-misses as miracles. 

What if our everyday, drama-free, crisis-absent (in other words, boring) existences is the very blessing we should be cherishing? 

There are plenty of sin-free souls who die in car crashes, or are taken in equally horrific ways (hello? Holocaust? Illness? Freak accidents? Etc.?) If we apply this premise to everyone, it would follow that they are/were guilty in some manner, or else they would have lived. Which is not Judaism. 

People should be inspired to do amazing good without the reminder of reward—or the belief that if they don't, well, there's a car crash waiting for you. Then that goodness is not freely given, but extracted through threats of cosmic lightning bolts. 

Someone once asked me for forgiveness. I was so bowled over by her request that I freely gave it. Do I know if that "saved" me in any way? I didn't "almost" get hit by an air conditioner, so I have no idea. And I don't need to know. 

The way Divinity operates . . . it's not my business. My job is to do my part, while keeping my puny human mind out of His methods.

Houses

I was taking a scenic walk through a poshy-woshy neighborhood. For every house, there were two mansions. 

I observe these homes with a critically appreciative eye. I note the materials, the color scheme, the architectural style. But not with any sort of envy. 

I grew up on a poshy-woshy block. To our right and to our left were mansions. Our house, by comparison, was rather modest. Once, when I was around 10, a child from one of these behemoths came to play, and kindly informed me that my house was "cozy." 

With the childish belief that "bigger is better," I would sometimes gaze wistfully at these massive constructions, wondering what it would be like to live there, while I certainly knew that the neighboring children were no happier than anyone else. 

Then, one day in elementary school, I was assigned to a group for a project, and it was agreed we would meet by my house. My classmates marveled at my "cozy" house, exclaiming, "It's a mansion!" Surprised, I viewed my home again with fresh eyes, and realized that yes, it was rather roomy.  

Time passed. The neighbors, like my parents, began to marry off their children. The bedrooms began to empty out. Initially, yes, the married kids would come visit, but there is always a time when it becomes easier for the grandparents to come instead. 

These mansions, so coveted in the owners' 30s and 40s, were now mostly dead space that demanded constant maintenance. Downsizing beckoned, as well as sunny retirement destinations. But selling these white elephants proved difficult. While the neighborhood had been in high demand 20 years ago, it had fallen in value since. These owners were now stuck, hoping a buyer would come who would pay what the houses had cost.  

Despite the "coziness" of our home, with my siblings married and out it felt bleakly empty. But because the house wasn't a technical mansion, my parents were able to eventually sell it and downsize. 

So, no, I don't dream of living in a mansion. 

The home I grew up in was spacious that we all lived comfortably beneath its roof, but even then, with change, it became too big and outgrew its use. 

I know of a couple who have slowly been working their way to build their mansion. First they bought the property, but then their finances took a turn. It took more then a decade for them to scrape together the dough necessary to continue building their castle. 

By the time the mansion will be ready, all their children will be married, and Florida will be looking much more appealing.  

That is not to say I'm not an envious person. God, no! I am more than capable of envy. 

But then, if I have the presence of mind, I'll realize that everything has pros and cons, and that which I envy may not be as cracked up to be . . . like a big house. 

Shidduch Lit: Playing With Matches

I belong to a few online groups to help with book recommendations. What to read after exhausting favorite authors, that sort of thing. One suggestion looked cute: Playing With Matches by Suri Rosen. Despite the orthodox content, it was actually available on my library network!

But I was wary. OK, why wary? I'll be honest, I've read few books by frum authors that didn't somehow disappoint. Clunky, not flowy, you get the drift. 

I made a request for a stack of books from my local library, and chucked that one in too. Why not give it a try? 

The first book from my haul, by a best-seller name with rave reviews, was unreadable. The prose was stilted and saccharine. I had to put it down after 15 pages. I rarely put books down. 

I then picked up Playing With Matches, and the contrast was amazing. Rosen's words flow pleasantly, even humorously! The plot can be a little farfetched at times, but it doesn't matter. Every time I had to stop reading I was itching to continue. It was a sheer delight. 

Rosen, very smartly, doesn't overplay the orthodox card. The characters are frum, but very little is overtly said in terms of observance. Shabbos is matter-of-factly mentioned in passing. As for the dating system, again, no apologies, this is how we do it people, moving on. 

It's simply a story, and the characters happen to be religious. It's more about bein adam l'chaveiro then bein adam l'Makom, and the importance of owning our actions, which is a good message.

Lessons from Massacres

I was reading an article about a recent book release called Afterparties, by Cambodian-American Anthony Veasna So, who died before it came out. 

This passage was quoted in the article: 

One young woman says, "Forty years ago our parents survived Pol Pot, and now, what the holy [expletive] are we even doing? Obsessing over wedding favors? Wasting hundreds of dollars on getting our hair done?"

I'm sure you can tell why I was taken with this. 

We call our grandparents "survivors," and whoa, did they survive a lot. Whereas today, some of our difficulties are tied to first world problems—materialism, peer pressure, staying grounded.  

Neither Han nor I had any grandparents by our wedding—his grandmother had died earlier that year. We are both full descendants of survivors, and I wonder what they would have thought about the "stress" of wedding planning nowadays, especially considering the basic simplicity of their own, in decimated towns or DP camps.

But then, for their own children, they didn't say, "Well, we got married with barely anything and that was good enough!" They happily got the gowns and the chicken dinners. 

I suppose, as with everything, it's about balance. Demanding perfection of every minor detail is missing the big picture, losing sight of what is important. 

After our ancestors narrowly missed death, time and time again, we should hopefully have some idea of what that is. 

Name, Rank, and Serial Number Only

Inappropriate questions. Singles get used to them. At least, I did. In a misguided attempt to make the world find me likable in order to get set up, I certainly tolerated more than I should have. 

I'm finding that I now have to relearn intolerance to certain questions. In my earnestness, I think I have to honestly answer every query, even if I don't want to. 

I have a friend that always makes conversation by bombarding me with questions. By the time I've barely stammered a reply to one, another is being lobbed. At some point I'm internally sobbing, "I'll tell you everything I know! Can I have some water and a lawyer?" 

She once asked, "So how's Ben sleeping now?" 

OK, I'll admit Ben's sleeping at night has been a bit of a wild ride. I've also learned that discussing it with anyone is the kiss of insomnia. If I dare say, "Oh, he's doing much better!" guess who's up and chatting at 3:42 a.m. For two hours.

But I didn't know how to wiggle out of this. I have very little finesse when it comes to these things. I tried the blunt route. 

"I'm not saying." 

"OH, it's THAT bad?!" 

Well, I don't want her to think he's a demon . . . 

So I gave more details than I should have.

Guess who was up that night? 

"You didn't have to tell her," Han said, bleary-eyed, come morning. 

"I don't know how to!" I wailed after a jaw-cracking yawn. 

"Just say 'Baruch Hashem!'" my sister said in exasperation later that day. "We're too earnest! We don't have to answer everyone's questions!"   

"Oooooh, 'Baruch Hashem' is good. Vague. Non-specific." 

This is a problem, from what social media has been telling me: people asking questions, demanding details that isn't their business. Sure, my friend probably thought her question was more caring, but I didn't want to answer. I have that right. 

Maybe there's a class on this. 

You Get What You Want

When Han was in yeshiva (many, many, eons ago) there were guys who would talk about what they want in a wife. Some would talk grandly of the size 2 bombshell with the oil well daddy that would apparently be swooning to wed them. 

Maybe a few of those guys married wealthy. Was she a supermodel? Well, no. 

Maybe a few of those guys married va-va-voom hubba hubba. Was she loaded? Well, no. 

I have been having conversations with my sister about the whole dating hellscape, and she has been saying: "You get what you want."  

Keeping in mind that what we say we want isn't necessarily what we want. 

My examples are rather simplistic, I know. But I'm trying to illustrate a bigger concept. 

Take the gal who earnestly describes the boy of her dreams, who is the best boy in Lakewood and is shtark and all that. But then she gets engaged to a tall dark drink of water who is maybe not known for his learning prowess. 

There is a quality that is at the tippity top of the list of desired parameters that, in the end, is what is the most important to every dater that outshines any other wants or needs. 

A woman really wants a refined boy from a refined family, and that's her most important desire. Will she end up with an uncouth clown? Not likely. 

Our deepest needs in a marriage partner will make themselves known while we date. I said that I wanted a nice guy, right, but even when I went out with nice guys, that wasn't always enough. There was another deep seated need that wasn't being met. 

People will try to poo-poo your wants. "Oh, that's not important in a marriage!" That wasn't important in their marriage. A woman I know, who had tried to set me up, was obsessed with eye color. After 40 years of marriage, she's still gushing about her husband's eyes, and she thought that would be a selling point for me, too. 

Eye color was never on my list. It's probably not on many people's list. But it was so important to her that it still makes her happy after decades of marriage. So who am I to mock that?  

The dating climate doesn't allow for singles to be honest about their wants. Eligibility is in the eye of the beholder, and shadchanim tend to sell those that they found appealing, not always hearing their clients' requests. 

Luckily, the Lord takes care of it. Have you ever gone to a vort and scratched your head at the beaming couple, wondering how exactly these two paired off? Despite your confusion, chances are, they got what they wanted.

"Sitting in Discomfort"

Whilst yet another yuntif/Shabbos morning walk, I contemplated. It has been a pleasant reversal, that for quite some time following Ma's death solitary strolls (babies don't exactly converse) were painful, as my undistracted mind wailed and keened. But it has passed (for now) and I can spend the time simply pondering once again. 

I was thinking about a recent family simcha, and how so many approached me with "assurances" that Ma was present (in spirit, obviously). I did not find these statements to be comforting; for one, I do not personally subscribe to that mentality that the dead are even aware of what the living are doing, that they are "released" at certain times to observe. Even if they were, it does not change the fact that in every way that matters, the dead are no longer present, can no longer be interacted with. 

I was then wondering why others felt the need to tell me this. Then it occurred to me: It all goes back to Brené Brown. Brené speaks of "sitting in discomfort," and how difficult that can be for many. 

It is uncomfortable to see a potentially still-grieving family by a simcha, so let's fix it!  

So they say, "Don't be sad, she's here!" But she's not here. And I'll be as sad as I like.

This mentality falls into other awkward social interactions. 

Sitting at a table with an older single? Uncomfortable! How to fix this? Let's roll out the blame game/unhelpful comments! "Did you consider maybe you're being too picky?" or "I would set you up but I don't know anyone for you!" 

Meet a couple who are childless? Uncomfortable! How to fix this? Let's roll out the blame game/unhelpful comments! "Why don't you just adopt?" or "You still have plenty of time!" 

There are many situations in life when one does not know what to say. It is AWKWARD. So we desperately try to fill the air with chatter, trying to assuage our own discomfort, but in the process we do not realize we are uttering painful things.  

I am a work in progress. I am guilty of doing the same, because my mind couldn't work fast enough to figure out that silence would just be better than saying the wrong thing. 

When we were sitting shiva, a Korean man who rents an office near Luke came to be menachem aveil. His English is shaky, and yet perhaps due to his Christian practice and work associates he is very familiar with Judaism. He simply sat next to Luke, his head bowed in prayer, but said nothing. The two sat in companionable silence, sharing a moment, and then he raised his head, smiled, and left. Luke found it to be one of the most comforting interactions during that week. 

Sometimes silence is better than speech. 

"Healthy" is Relative

"These ices don't even have a lot of sugar," he said cheerfully. "It's only 20 grams. A yogurt has 20 grams!" 

I spluttered in outrage. "20 grams is a lot of sugar! Just because there's 20 grams in flavored yogurt doesn't make it healthy! PLAIN yogurt is healthy!" 

Later: "This non-dairy cheese is made from sunflower oil! Sunflower oil is healthy!" he says cheerfully, while tearing into slice after slice. 

I nearly started crying. Yes, if oil is needed to cook, sunflower oil is a healthy oil, but not to just recreationally chow down. Especially since this guy has no issues with dairy, and could have munched on actual cheese. 

I remember reading about a woman who actually majored in nutrition, but when she graduated she still didn't know what constituted as "healthy." Her courses went into the science and biology of the body consuming nutrition, but not how that translated into a beneficial menu.

Because it's pretty darn hard. Studies come out every few minutes debunking previously accepted "fact." I recently picked up a "healthy" cookbook that had been published in 2000. Inside, there was a brownie recipe with no oil, only applesauce, that I found initially promising. But the recipe called for 2 cups of sugar, which I think is a lot considering the small dimensions of the cake. 

Then I realized that when the book was published, fats were the villain. Later, carbs would become the bad guy. In today's day and age, the recommendation would be to focus more on "healthy" fats to help process sugar better, as opposed to it hitting your bloodstream and causing a sugar high, then crash. 

I've tried to stay current. I'm also aware that some diets are healthy for some people, while some are not for others. Celiacs have to be careful with certain ingredients, diabetics with others, colitis sufferers with others. I myself, following a round of antibiotics five years ago, have a trashed stomach and have to work with around a  low FODMAP diet; then my acid reflux restricts my diet further. But each of those diets aren't necessarily healthy for everyone, only for those with those conditions. 

A diabetic was asking if I ever used monkfruit, but since I am not (BH!) diabetic, I see no need to introduce it to my repertoire. I'd rather use real sugar, and be judicious with it. 

Online, there are always epic battles to the death over what is "healthy." 

"Fruit is a healthy dessert." 

"NO IT'S NOT! Fruit is FULL of SUGAR!" 

"But it's healthy sugar!" 

"SUGAR is SUGAR!!!" 

I can't handle all that drama. 

Personally, I have a few ingredients that I try to stay away from. I learned in my teen years that white flour doesn't like me, so I don't use it. When I learned that non-dairy whip is pure trans fat, I can't even look at it. Even though the various coconut offerings are popular—coconut oil, coconut cream, coconut sugar, coconut aminos, coconut flakes, coconut yogurt, coconut water—I hate the taste of coconut, so no coconut has crossed my threshold. 

They say, "Everything in moderation," For me that means: I don't demonize carbs. I don't demonize fats. I don't demonize sugar. I try to consume them all in moderation, as these three still are necessary for the body (okay, I physically don't need sugar, but mentally I definitely do).  

So I smile wryly and shake my head wearily as someone merrily posts a "healthy" recipe, because for me her offering is not very "healthy." At this point, "healthy" is in the eye of the beholder.  

Create Good

I've also started watching 9 Perfect Strangers, which was based on a book by Liane Moriarty, one of my favorite authors. The show takes a pretty large departure from the text, and there's definitely more kink than I would like, but hey, I'm loyal. 

It's about an atypical wellness retreat, headed by the mysterious Masha who keeps it shrouded in secrecy. One of the new guests, Lars, is introduced as not very pleasant. He's mean, quite frankly. 

Lars is gay, and apparently knew that very early on. He has a flashback to his childhood prep school, where his classmates tormented him for that. He became an investigative reporter, trying to sniff out misdeeds and proclaiming them to the world. 

Masha asks him this: Your whole life has been about tearing down. You target the bullies and destroy them. The question is, have you ever nurtured anything?

Well, that line made me think. 

Lars has, all this time, couched his snarkiness in a veil of righteous indignation, but in actuality, he is a bully too. His job may be important, yet he has forgotten about kindness. 

I belong to a few online groups. One member posted a rant, about "those people who don't say Gut Shabbos" and "the people I invited for meals and didn't invite me back." 

I understand her frustration. She's right, it isn't nice when people don't return a greeting or a meal. But her anger is tearing her down. It won't improve the situation. Giving someone the stinkeye for not responding to your Sabbath greeting doesn't achieve anything. 

However, a big smile, despite being ignored, has a far better outcome for everyone involved. It nurtures not only others, but oneself too. 

All Grown Up

I've started watching The Kominsky Method, as I've currently exhausted Grace and Frankie and need to get my elderly kicks somewhere. In general, I like older people—there's often, oddly, less baggage, less insecurity, less bushwa. Who's got time for that anymore? 

I'm not far in, maybe the third episode, but a sentiment has come up more than once. A millennial ascribes their behavior to their childhood, and either Alan Arkin (87) or Michael Douglas (76) tiredly responds, "You're not a kid anymore."

When you're in your 70s and 80s, does childhood really matter anymore? Plenty of people think so. It does leave its mark. But so much more would have happened in the interim. 

I look to my childhood. Who doesn't? But heck, it was so long ago. Does it really matter anymore in terms who I am now and who I want to be in the future? Do I want to be the person crying on the therapist's couch that I can't move forward in my life because I didn't feel validated by authority figures when I was 10? 

When Arkin and Douglas say that line, it sort of highlights a tendency to whine in the current generation, an unhealthy focus on the imperfections of the past when such effort would be better applied trying to improve the future.

Contemplations of Anti-Semitism, Continued

 I'm not a big fan of Sarah Silverman's comedy. She tends, in my opinion, to rely too much on shock and cuss, rather than the nuance of comedy. 

A.O. Scott is one of my favorite movie reviewers—he doesn't stand on intellectualism when it comes to, say, a Marvel film. Is it a good movie? Yes? No? He'll tell you, simply. 

Silverman made a film called "Jesus is Magic" in 2005, Scott did not like it, and Silverman felt that critique keenly. Silverman and Scott were brought together (eons later, puh-leez) to discuss. 

There was one excerpt from their conversation that I was surprised by:  

SILVERMAN [Reading from the review] “Like many … Jewish comedians, Silverman falls back on her ethnic identity as a way of claiming ready-made outsider status.” Would you say that today, or would you ever say that about any other minority?

SCOTT You know as a Jewish person, I would say that because it’s sort of an internal argument, but I don’t think I would say it that way. I don’t think I would say it again without including myself in it.

SILVERMAN Listen, obviously, I agree, and I partake — as so many Jewish comedians do — in this self-deprecation that is Judaism. But as “a false way to claim outsider status” is the actual problem with this gas in the air that is anti-Semitism, especially on, I hate to say it, the left. It’s assuming that Jews are not to be worried about and do not merit allyship. Racism is defined by racists, not liberals, and they don’t like Jews. So, when people say Jews are white, I’m as white as you can be, but if you ask a white person, they’ll disagree.

Continue reading the main story

SCOTT All right. Point taken.

SILVERMAN Sorry, I get passionate.

SCOTT No, I think that’s fair.

SILVERMAN You would never say that about another culture, who also in comedy uses their culture as a way in with — — 

Scott is Jewish (Wiki confirmed through his mother) and yet he himself believed that for Jews to consider themselves outsiders was a bit much. 

Yes, I will admit, that as a Jewish woman I don't really excite much anti-Semitism. It's not like I have a stereotypical hooked nose, cackling over a money sack. But there have been times when I was identified as Jewish, and some unpleasant interactions followed. And I was frightened. 

Even someone who holds few things sacred, like Silverman, knows this. But there are plenty of Jews who refuse to acknowledge the hatred, perhaps in a misguided belief that they are accepted, and from a desire not to be an outsider.

That's what we failed to learn from German "assimilation."   

"True to Me"

I was delighted to read this piece in Mishpacha Magazine by Avigail Stern, especially when it echoed my sentiments exactly. 

Stern describes her experience as an "older single," and when she finally reached her limit of "pretzel twisting." 

As a single, one is bombarded with "advice," and she was no different. She initially listened to it all, dutifully following their suggestions, until she realized that she was no longer dating as herself. 

She worked to rediscover what she needed, what she wanted, what her values were. She realized that hishtadlus doesn't mean doing everything and anything possible. 

She was discerning when it came to single events. She stopped sending out photos of herself, a step that she had disliked intensely (as did I, but my parents didn't let me). 

The experience of meeting her husband sounded so familiar: 

And at the end of our . . . first date, I walked back into my friend’s house shocked and confused. I liked him. And he liked me back. How did that happen? Wasn’t that weird? That’s not how this dating game usually plays out!

I’d been dating for 20 years. I knew how this was supposed to go. But apparently, the rules can change at any time, when Hashem wills it.

. . .  I knew I’d met someone unlike anyone I’d met before. I called my rebbetzin after that second date, just to make sure something wasn’t wrong with me. Is it normal to just like someone? To feel we connected so easily? To not have any doubts or worries about him as a person? Maybe I was missing something ominous that I just didn’t see?

She laughed and said this was a gift from Hashem called clarity. Barely four weeks later, still shocked but no longer confused, we drank a l’chayim. It had been the easiest, smoothest, calmest dating experience I ever had.

When I came home from my first date with Han, I remember walking through my door and thinking, "I like him!" Usually, it would be, "Well, he has this, this, and this going for him, but that, that, and that isn't really ok with me. People would say that it's not important. I guess I should go out again? But I don't want to . . ." 

Those "advisors" would have us think that choosing a spouse is merely a matter of tallying pros and cons. But it's more than that. I think of that scene in Fill the Void when they go to consult the rebbe, and he asks her what she feels about it. She briskly replies, "It's not a matter of feeling," but the rebbe begs to differ, that it is very much about feeling. 

It doesn't have to be about forcing yourself to become someone else. It doesn't have to be about ignoring your gut just because someone is good "on paper." It doesn't have to be analyzed to death. We meet the right people in our lives at the appointed times. 

Hindsight is 20/20, but I regret how nervous I was in those years, how I believed that "trying" meant being on active alert 24/7. It was exhausting, while the ending would be the same. I'm still a worrier, though. That hasn't changed. Work in progress.  

They Hate Us. Get Used To It.

Taffy Brodesser-Akner is a favorite of mine. That became even truer after reading her book review of the novel, "The Netenyahus." 

Yes, the book is a novel of Bibi's father, Bentzion, during his time as a professor in the US. The review begins in a typical fashion, about the actual book, and then Brodesser-Akner goes on a different track. It goes on a bit, but it is very, very worth it: 

. . . this was a great book for me to read during the weeks after it was assigned to me, as tensions between Israel and Gaza raged and there was nothing to say about the matter but to text a few people I’m in touch with when these things go on and share my distress and also my inability to share that distress wider. This was a good book to read while tensions escalated further, and friends reached out to me who were just “wondering” what my point of view was on it, in argument stance, and people I didn’t know tweeted at me to see where my support for an oppressed people was, and my peers — who know full well the constraints of my job’s policy on tweeting about politics — liked those tweets, as though being Jewish meant I had to answer for Israel or its government, which I did not elect.

This was a good book to read as I searched in my mind for other times that we cheer on terrorism except for when it’s happening to the Jews. This was a good book to read as the meme of asserting that the “questioning” of Israel’s policies is not anti-Semitism morphed into something that was, by some parties, actually yes quite gleeful and strenuous anti-Semitism, until finally my sisters in Crown Heights began to beseech their male children to cover their yarmulkes with baseball caps and the world around me was heartbreakingly silent as Jews were cornered and threatened here in America for something going on very far away. This was a good book to read as my Jewish friends texted me that this would stop if we could just get Bibi out of power, and I wondered what they texted each other in 1935 as the streets in Europe overheated with pogrom energy and there was no Bibi and no Israel to blame.

Yes, this book was a good place to turn to swallow my opinions, which are fungible and not really worth knowing, while smart people I know shared the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict as cherry-picked by an Instagram influencer or by a tweet thread that had similarly squishy origins. It was good to actually know the history of the Jews and the founding of Israel, and learn about the infighting of it even more intimately from this book, as the noise around me got louder and I began to sympathize with Benzion’s point of view not of everything, but of the fact that it must be that Jews were doomed to this particular torture: to remain polite and quiet as this goes on. I began to have Benzion Netanyahu’s old dogmatic thought that this kind of hatred had to be preordained by someone. A thing they didn’t prepare me for in my own cheder — or maybe they did and I just didn’t hear it — was that the unique sadness and terror of anti-Semitism for the Jews lies not just in its violence, but in the people around you pretending that the violence doesn’t even exist. . . 

I finished writing this as the rhetoric against Israel that had parlayed itself into violent attacks on Jews in the streets of America quieted down, and the online conversation on anti-Semitism chastened itself and receded into its safest places, a place we all agree upon, where a gentile author was bullied into removing an innocuous Anne Frank reference and we Jews all broke our necks nodding in defense of an author being able to make an innocuous Anne Frank reference — and there we American Jews were again, going out of our way to promise we won’t be any trouble if you just leave us alone. Yes, make jokes about that poor dead girl, just please don’t kill us!

In the house I grew up in, a family descended from survivors, we have a pragmatic approach to anti-semitism: It exists, and there is nothing we can do about it. My brothers had always been told, if out for the day in Manhattan, to wear a baseball cap and tuck their tzitzis into their pocket. Nothing new there.

Han, who is from a similar home, becomes upset when he reads obviously slanted news in favor of the oppressor, but I shrug. The world hates us, this I know, no matter how they try to couch that dislike into rejection on moral or warranted grounds.