Who Knows Best?

"The Women's Balcony" has been on my to-watch list for quite a while, and then I saw that it was now free on Prime. Chap arein! 

It was a charming movie, but it also made me think. 

The premise (SPOILERS AHEAD, ABANDON SHIP) is about a small, Sephardi (I think) shul in Israel. The film opens with a Shabbos bar mitzvah, and the close community are all trooping to shul, carrying various dishes of food to contribute to the festivities. 

That scene was so lovely. A beautiful, idyllic family of shul members, all uniting in a simcha.

But then the ezras nashim collapses, and the shul has to be closed. As their beloved, elderly rabbi falls into a funk, a young, more chareidi model wiggles in, and the men are initially taken with him. He preaches that the women should be covering their hair. That the women should repent, because after all, it was their section that was destroyed. 

Soon the members are divided. The wives are furious at their husbands. Friends are turning on friends—all in the name of halacha. 

Eventually, the new rabbi oversteps, and he is ousted, and the shul returns to its former tranquility. 

We learned in school, that if you see someone doing wrong you should tell them so—but only if you know they will hear you. Then again, "an imperfect peace is better than a perfect controversy." 

What is supposed to be our focus? To ensure that everyone else is following the law somewhat correctly, or should we hold hands and sing kumbaya?

Ma would oft say, "Your guf, and my neshama," meaning it is not our business where other people stand spiritually. We should only be concerned, at most, for others' physical safety. I'm of the same opinion, that it is not my place to be judge and jury, to decide that others are transgressing and must repent to specifically my ways. 

My vote is with kumbaya.

Information Overload

Trying to stay on top of what's new and happening in the skincare/makeup velt, I'm getting bombarded with social media terminology. 

First: "Slugging." Slugging is when the skin needs some loving downtime, and after applying moisturizer and somesuch, a layer of thick jelly, like Vaseline, is shmeared on top to seal everything in. 

Sounds icky. 

Second: "Skin cycling." This is when instead of applying certain products nightly, there is a rotation instead, to allow for "repair." 

Thirdly: "Gritting." I gotta say, I'm taken with this one, except I don't have the time/energy/patience to properly see it through. It's the idea that oily buildup on the skin will only dissolve with another oil, so if one were to massage the face for 20 minutes with a cleansing oil or regular oil, blackheads and pore-clogging gunk will eventually float up to the surface. 

Sounds like witchcraft. 

I also follow a number of dermatologists, who thankfully clarify what makes sense and what doesn't, as a lot of the people peddling these methods aren't exactly professionals. 

There is a lot of information out there. There are accounts for weight loss advocating no carbs, all carbs, only fruits, all foods but with intuition. There are recipes galore and the developers are constantly "obsessed" with their creations. There are sleep training accounts and anti-sleep training accounts. Then there's the ones with the best way to keep your home clean. The baby-lead weaning ones really freak me out, because I am not making my baby three course meals three times a day. I don't eat that well!

There is a barfing barrage of information spewing out there, and they can't all be right. 

Some of it I read and think, "Sounds ok in theory, but it doesn't work for me." Take the new trend of "gentle parenting." It's all about validating your children's feelings but still guiding them to better behavior. This new way involves so much talking. I kinda prefer Ma's European way of doing things: The Look. Done. 

That's not to say that just because it isn't for me that it's not for anyone else. Meaning: we all have to do what works for us. I am not into charcuterie boards (I can barely pronounce the word correctly) but I am into making my own tomato sauce (from tomato paste, it takes quicker than you think). We each choose our own patchke.

So don't take everyone so seriously. It may work for them, and not for you.

Indian Matchmaking" Reactions IIII

 While doing some googling to see if any of the couples featured in the past season are still together, I came across this TIME article which had some grumblings about the show. 

Let's see . . . does Sima accommodate the men more than women? Oh, yeah, sure, like every other shadchan, nothing new there. She's also more old-world, and she seems to have trouble navigating the new one. She's constantly displayed here as the savior of all, but there's only one couple this season who's met a potential someone because of her. Either it didn't work for everyone else or they met their someone through family, friends, or on their own. 

But the article grumbled how the people coming to her are asking for someone from a similar background, and how bad that is. They make it seem like it's a form of racism. 

Now this is amusing. I'm all for diversity, people, but marriage is a whole other ball game. 

Take me. I had told people that it would be nice if the guy would be heimish (that's HI-mish, not HAY-mish. The latter is a Scottish name). Unless the other person was heimish, they had no idea what I meant. Some thought I meant chassidish, but no, it is not chassidish, and chassidus definitely does not work for me. 

On the show, Viral asked for a man with the same background as her, Gujarati, including fluency in the language. There is something to speaking the same lingo as your life partner. I, for example, am fluent in Yinglish (cough). Along with that are also certain cultural values. 

There are many happy couples in our world who are "intercultural"; Sephardi and Ashkenazi is just one example. I found a divide with boys from American backgrounds. Yes, I am an American born, but I was European raised, and that makes a difference. It just does. 

I was told not to be hung up on it, and I never used it as a reason to decline the date. But when we would meet, conversation would flounder. We weren't able to understand each other's perspective. 

I was one of those people that shared background was important. It's not important to everyone. Some people enjoy such differences, the exoticness of an unfamiliar culture. Cool cool. 

But let's not call such a preference "ethnocentrism."

"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions III

Rejection. It sucks. 

It's also a large part of dating, whether one is the rejector or the rejectee. Either way, it's not pleasant. 

In my dating years, I was beyond stressed about rejecting someone. For the most part, I could tell off the bat that it wasn't shayach and felt no need to go on a second date. It wasn't until I found out from my dating kinfauna that there is an "obligatory" two-date minimum, to which I respond, "Whah?" 

I had thought, that if I knew this wasn't going anywhere, why raise someone else's hopes up needlessly with another date? Because here's the thing: there is no way to make rejection better. A "no" after two dates isn't more palatable than a "no" after one. I'm saying this from the other side, that rejection sucks, plain and simple. 

On the show, there were two examples of people who were both in the position of rejector and rejectee: Nadia and Vinesh. 

Nadia had been seeing Shekar, who is considered to be a nice, steady guy. But then Vishal walks into a mixer, and well . . . let's just say Vishal is striking. He's tall, gorgeous, and has the same cheerful energy Nadia is known for. But he's seven years younger than her.

So Nadia starts claiming that Shekar didn't seem to be that interested, and calls him to break up with him. She even tells him that she felt like he was "rejecting" her. Shekar seems blindsided, and denies it, but ultimately accepts her decision with grace. He then hangs up the phone and cries. 

Nadia is then bouncing along with Vishal, happy as a clam, until he flies out to see her. She is looking at him with excitement and expectation. He does not look at her the same way. He then proceeds to break up with her. 

Nadia, stunned, does not accept his decision gracefully. She snaps and snarls. Initially, I was taken with her sassiness. But then recalled: she rejected Shekar, and hoped he would take it ok. Yet when she is rejected, the claws come out. 

Well well. 

Then there is Vinesh. Vinesh is cheerful, loud, and jokes a lot (his jokes are not always funny). He is first matched with Mosum, who matches his energy, but she's not so focused on appearances. Vinesh asks her for her number after they meet, but then tells the screen that he asked for it to be polite, that he does not intend to date her (he does know that Mosum will hear this, right? This is international programming). 

Later, he's set up Meena, who, dare I say it, is smokin'. From her perfectly blown hair, fake lashes, and low cut cleavage, she is striking. But it's obvious that she does not appreciate Vinesh's humor. Vinesh, smitten with her looks, proclaims that the date went well, while Meena thinks otherwise. 

When told that Meena felt "friendship rather than romance" (this is the show code for "no way Jose"), Vinesh looks stricken. It takes him a few minutes to recover. 

It seems, for both these people, it's perfectly reasonable to be the rejector. After all, if it's not meant to be, if they're not feeling it, they just gotta be honest, y'know? They don't give the other people much thought. But when they're being rejected . . . it's a whole other ball game. REJECTION SUCKS. 

Rejection, in all forms, sucks. It sucks when you try to talk to someone new and they scurry away from you. It sucks when you apply to a school and they don't accept you. It sucks when your credit card gets rejected. It just sucks, overall. 

There are some people who so don't want to reject someone else that they just marry them. That really could have been me, if there wasn't a shadchan to do my dirty work. I would not have survived to have a happy union if I had to tell someone directly "I like you like a friend." 

So while there are times when rejection is necessary, please remember: try to be as kind as possible.

"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions II

Pradhyuman was a problem in Season 1. He was, by all accounts, too picky. Siiiigh. 

He was unrealistic. He was too demanding. He did not understand that he cannot get everything. He rejected 150 suggestions (I think that's less than Han dated).

At the end of the season, he FINALLY goes out with someone who looks compatible, and the music swells hopefully. But as the credits roll, we're informed that it didn't take.

Ay, Pradhyuman. What are we to do with you? Tsk tsk. 

Then, much to my surprise, Season 2 opens with Pradhyuman beaming, gushing about his girlfriend that he met at a party. He's floating on air. 

A few episodes in, he eagerly prepares the engagement setup—with no one shoving him—and of his own free will, proposes to his beloved. 

Huh.

Now, I gotta admit, I had been a nay-sayer. I had also thought that Pradhyuman was one of those really impossible ones that will end up alone with his cats because he's just not being amenable. 

But here we are, with him blissfully committed. 

There are numerous stories like this, about seemingly "impossible" singles, who everyone sighs and moans and predicts doom and gloom and then—the moon hits their eye like a big pizza pie and it's AMORE. 

Maybe they weren't being impossible. Maybe they were just . . . waiting for the right one.    

"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions, I

A new season of "Indian Matchmaking" has arrived, and I plowed through it. Luckily Anakin finds it entertaining. 

The new season opens with Akshay, who lives in the Indian equivalent of Yehupitz. The family business is based there, so he cannot relocate. Both he and Sima the Matchmaker agree it's difficult for him "because the girls don't want to be in" Yehupitz, "they all want to live in the big cities." Dramatic sigh. 

Generalizations. They rankle me. 

Perhaps because I had been constantly lumped into generalizations, that because I was single and a certain age I was automatically picky, that I was unrealistically demanding this or that, that I must have, I must have, I must have—no, I wasn't. I wasn't. 

Additionally, I was constantly told that the man I was on the search for, with 2.5 criteria, did not exist. There are no boys like that, I was repeatedly told. 

So even when a semi-scripted reality show starts spouting generalizations, I get annoyed. It still—still!—gets under my skin. 

Because, seriously, in ALL OF INDIA there isn't ONE or TWO or maybe ONE HUNDRED women who would be willing to live in a small, cozy, warm community? Heck, enough of our own people want to live out-of-town, and we're a pretty small minority, as opposed to a country with one BILLION people. 

I was trying to set up an acquaintance, and on the phone with her I was stunned that she had pretty much the same criteria as me, maybe 1.5. (I refuse to count "normal" as criteria.) I felt compelled to reassure her that I got what I was looking for, it's not unheard of or impossible. Because yes, men like my husband exist, the same way I exist. 

All May Be Well, But . . .

I follow @iwassupposedtohaveababy on Instagram, even though, B'H, that is not my concern. But I feel a vague sort of kinship to women who waited years for something that others seemed to have attained with ease. 

(Disclaimer: I am in no way comparing my situation to that for those struggling with infertility.) 

I did a little googling on the creator of the account, who expresses raw emotion at times, even posting reels of herself crying. So I was surprised to learn that she had, B'H, overcome her infertility struggles and B'H has a bouncing family. 

Initially, I was confused—if she has her children, why does she still carry such sadness? 

But then I remembered: 

"All's well that ends well" isn't quite true. You read this blog, hearing me still complain about my single years, how I was treated, how much it hurt, and maybe some of you wonder, "She's married now, she has kids, maybe she should let it go"? 

It's not so easy to let go of pain. 

I was once venting to my sister about relatives who live in a bustling, interconnected community, and how they had never attempted to set me up, even though they had tried for other people. 

She said, puzzled, "But you're married now. To Han. Who isn't even from their area. So it all worked out anyway." 

"That's not the point. When I was in it, when I was desperate for a suggestion, when the phone wasn't ringing . . . it hurt when they would gush about a shidduch they were trying for someone else, and not for me. Never for me." 

When I see the people who insulted me in the past, it's hard to get over what they thought of me then. Do they find me acceptable now that I'm married? Maybe. Well, I don't care, and would prefer not to interact with you, buh-byeeeeee. 

For those who have experienced pregnancy loss, people (including me) can mistakenly believe that with the arrival of other children, the previous ones were simply "replaced." But she lost a child. The child may not have been viable, the child may never have drawn breath, but that child was still loved, cherished . . . and lost. Those children cannot be replaced, anymore than my mother could be replaced with a stepmother. People are not interchangeable.

Shidduch Lit: Italian for Beginners

I've become impossible to please when it comes to romantic fluff. 

The basic structure of such a novel is to involve a very easily avoidable misunderstanding. Like, seriously, a five-year-old could have navigated this successfully. And Italian for Beginners is no different. 

Additionally, it has that annoying trope of "busy American who doesn't know how to live visits an exotic locale, imbibes the wisdom of the natives (who are all waiters, and yet live in lovely apartments), and discovers the meaning of life." 

However, the book had enough relatability that I will plug it here. 

Not to give a spoiler here, so if you don't want one then do not read on, but our heroine is a single woman in her mid-30s who has become the despair of her religious family (Catholic, not Jewish, but the emphasis on marriage and kids is near identical). She is humiliated at her younger sister's wedding despite her attempts to retain her dignity. 

She also has a lot of childhood issues with abandonment that should really have been addressed earlier with a therapist, and a lot of information was unnecessarily withheld from her on that subject, but at some point she realizes that she cannot be in a relationship if she doesn't know herself. 

Now, this point is a pet peeve of mine. How can people select life partners if they don't really know themselves? A lot of what we do involves following a societal script, without much questioning. Bad4 was the first to dryly proclaim that she would get a man without blow-drying her hair every morning, and many of us choose to slightly rock the boat in multitude of harmless ways. 

For instance, there had been some mumblings during my single time for my love of colorful makeup (which, I attest, was still classy and tasteful). Han loves the painted version of me (which I rarely apply nowadays, being a dishrag of a mommy) and even recently commented that so many girls aren't into strong makeup—why is that?

Because Han and I chose to express ourselves as we did (he's a rather snazzy dresser), that was one aspect that showed how our personalities could align. We didn't suppress our identities for the sake of appearances; our appearances reflected who we were.

I see other frum girls harmlessly stepping out of line and I love it. I love how they follow their passions, and also marry happily (I'm assuming happily) as they are.  

This, Too, Shall Be Forgotten

My memory is, pardon my French, in the toilet. 

My brain is keeping only primary processing needs online. I am not, as Data would say, operating at optimal parameters. 

Han tells me that I said something and I have no memory of the conversation. He could so easily gaslight me. Maybe he has? It's possible.

I was recently scrolling through old dating posts and found it amusing that I didn't remember some of the incidents. Sure, there were some guys I remembered, but some happenings were completely erased from my memory banks. 

At the time, these occurrences were so frustrating, so all consuming, and now—they've vanished.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I haven't forgotten everything. I still have that ability to hold a grudge for nearly forever. Yes, yes, I'm working on it.

But I'm glad to see that some occurrences that had upset me so much once upon a time have faded into the ether, of no significance.

Experiences

Han and I have been mulling the significance of "experience." 

For instance, when Han was dating, he had a married friend inform him that he should be focusing on such-and-such (rather shallow criteria) and he should be trusted because, you know, he's married. 

But what his friend considered sufficient for marriage was insufficient for Han. So while his friend may have been married, his experience was not enough to be a guiding force for Han. 

And then, with Han and I now on the other side, having accumulated a wealth of dating experience between us, no one wants our advice. To have dated for so long was strictly our faults, no one wants our insight, thank you very much, have a good day. 

I thought of myself, when I went through the harrowing and traumatizing experience of childbirth (no, I did not find it "empowering" at all, it's called "back labor"), I had a whole new respect for every other woman who has done it. Especially the 20-year-olds. Never mind the teenagers. 

There are some experiences that others cannot really understand, even though they think they do. Like loss and grief. Until you've been there, you cannot chap. 

I have my judgy moments, my cut-and-dried proclamations about certain subjects, but when I've finally donned those shoes and taken a walk around the block, all I can say is "Oh." The less we know, the more we think we know. As time goes on, the more I see, the more I realize that I have to shut up. 

OK, I Take It Back

 Al tiftach peh l'Satan. 

I've found he has impeccable timing. 

Keeping in mind my prior post, announcing that I am not working on myself right now, thank you very much, I was, just yesterday, thrust into a situation in which I would have to work on myself. 

A week before Rosh HaShana, I was tested. It was definitely a test. 

But I'm not sure on what subject. 

Nor do I know what the right answer was. 

Did I pass? I have no idea. Could I have done more? Should have done less? Who knows? 

There are times in life when it is clear what the "right" thing to do is. But more often, it's murky. On the one hand . . . on the second hand . . . on the fifteenth hand . . .  

It's a miracle I sleep at all. 

I suppose I have to be reminded from time to time (or often) not to get smug about anything. Because it's always when I've decided to relax in some way, whether it be mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, something comes flying at me like a bat outta hell to get me to wake up. 

Maybe that's what my test was? A friendly reminder? Hm.

In any case, a goodly year to all. 

Oh, and while I have you, please give this shiur by Rabbi Joey Haber a try. I managed to squeeze him in while driving to an appointment, and he's da bomb. This one is excellent, too. 

No "Growth" For Me

I've been wondering if I should feel like a "bad Jew." 

I don't mean pork, obviously. I mean in that once I had kids I've been in, as my friend describes, "survival mode." All day, all night, it's about keeping my offspring alive and somewhat content. It's a full time job.  

The shiurim I used to listen to have fallen to the wayside. When can I listen to them? How could I even hear them, with two loud babies? 

Even my reading material—when I finally get a chance to read, I need something light and escapist. I spend all day tending to the needs of two self-centered creatures; when I get the chance, I want my mind to unspool, not get worked up about my failings. 

Then I saw a reel on IG from a frum woman who feels exhausted from the constant emphasis on "growth" (I personally hate that word; I've always associated them with tumors). Are we ever permitted to just . . . be?

It's not like I'm twiddling my thumbs. I spend my days telling myself not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, only to lose it with Ben. He's testing boundaries right and left, and it's testing my temper. 

It's not like I feel guilty. I come from European stock, which means they find the highest value in mothers killing themselves for the next generation, without demanding more.

Elul is a conversation of dun-dun-DUN!!!, but I don't care. I don't have the energy to care. I'm tapped out. 

Because it's technically 24/7 chessed, people. I've already resigned myself that Ben will marry a girl who can't stand me and they'll rarely visit. 

I know, I know, seek professional help.

I think that many of us have a lot on our plates. Some of us are caregivers, part of the sandwich generation to boot. They are asking God for assistance just to get through the day, and can't spare a thought to spiritual improvement. 

In a funny twist, I find that I'm in a better frame of mind on the Yomim Noraim than I used to. Pre-motherhood: Invariably, at davening, someone would bring their kids, make a racket, disturb my prayer, and make me so angry I knew I failed the divine test. For the last few years I've been home, in pajamas, davening sporadically, taking care of my offspring, but calm and mellow and exuding peace and love to all humankind (sort of). 

Last year my sister-in-law told me, "I've turned into you!" Now that her youngest is old enough she's started going to back to shul on Rosh HaShana/Yom Kippur, only to be driven mad by the antics of children. 

"The munching of the chips—the popping of those sensory toys—I just can't—" 

Maybe it's best that I'm home, doing mundane things on a sacred day. But the work is sacred to, in its own way.

Who Am I?

I would think, that at my age, I would know myself by now. I mean, I'm me, right, so if I don't know myself, who will? (That sounds rather Pirkei Avos-y.)

But then I surprise myself. 

So, long story. 

Ma used to be finicky about certain things. She couldn't stand to wear her sheitel over three hours. Sunglasses were carefully selected, as she would feel the weight on her nose. Stockings? Torture. Whenever she walked in the door, her shoes were removed immediately. She even drove with one shoe kicked off.

Then a granddaughter cropped up who, from toddlerhood, couldn't stand socks and shoes. We once took her to a restaurant, where she matter-of-factly removed her footwear, handed them to Ma, and spent the meal happily barefoot. 

"Sensory," her older sister explained, about 12 herself at the time. 

It was the first time I had heard the term. I'm a child of the '80s, where EI and all that jazz wasn't a "thing." People just . . . had different quirks. Oh, so funny, the two-year-old can't stand shoes! Ha ha! 

In my case, for instance, I can't stand having hair resting on my neck. It really really bugs me. That's why I opted for high ponies while I was single. Once I got sheitels it became clear why Ma couldn't stand them. They're so oppressive! When I actually don my wig (which is rarely) I count down the three hours until I've reached my limit. (Han is very sad I wear it so rarely. Tough.)

I was once discussing it with Han, how I can't function when hair is on my neck. 

"You're sensory," he said, in a casual, but-of-course tone.

I stared at him.

I remained mute as the realization hit. I'm sensory. Like my mother before me. 

I had heard the term before. But I never connected it to me. Sure, Ma was sensory. But me, too? 

It's not a major epiphany. But I went from "Oh, I can't stand having hair on my neck" to "I'm sensory, I can't wear a wig every day." "Sensory" gives a validity to personal preferences, rather than my being a pitchetch. 

I'm 36, and now I've figured out that I'm sensory. Nice to meet you. 

I wonder what traits I'll figure out when I'm 40.

Commentators

I'm going to confess something to you now. This secret is so heinous that you must keep it to yourselves. 

You'll keep shtum, right? I can count on my peeps. 

Here goes. 

I've decided not to sleep train Anakin. 

Was I being a wee bit dramatic? Perhaps. But deciding to or not to do something with one's offspring can unleash a torrent of unsolicited comments. 

And I've discovered that the root of all evil in this world is just that: comments. 

I mean, anything is up for criticism. Like, anything. And some of these comments can wreak quite a lot of havoc. 

Over 20 years ago, by my brother's vort, someone sniffed to my sister, "Well, I'm surprised your mother took someone from that seminary." Sure, that was just what my anxiety-ridden mother needed to hear.

At a Shabbos meal that my sister-in-law hosted maybe ten years ago, she served "sweet chicken," a dish Ma had discovered that had become a fast family favorite. It calls for dipping chicken cutlets in a batter and lightly frying, then smothering it in a sauce and finishing it in the oven. 

When a guest commented on its deliciousness, my sister-in-law explained how it's made. "Oh," the guest delicately laughed, "I couldn't make that, it's too much of a patchke." 

My sister-in-law blanched. She prides herself in not patchke-ing. (What is bizarre about comments about these if that someone expends more effort in cooking, she finds herself on the defensive?) 

"I don't like to patchke either—but the kids eat it all up—I don't make it that often—" 

I'm trying to remember if she ever made it again. 

Someone lobbed a comment like that at me recently, and I did not like it. I felt initially belittled, then annoyed. Because I'm doing that work, you're not, and yet I'm made to feel stupid?

L'havdil elef havdulos, tv shows have a recurring premise that I do not like. The protagonist is humming along, happy with her choices, when someone makes a comment. Suddenly she's reevaluating EVERYTHING, and makes a drastic change to her life, simply because of a comment. 

Back to Anakin. 

So why am I not sleep training him? 

Quite frankly, it never worked with Ben. I sleep-trained—rather, I attempted to sleep-train him—because "everyone" made it sound like a given, rather than an option. 

 It was a flaming train wreck. 

He's a determined chap when he wants to be, and he howled every night. I would wait outside his door, waiting for him to taper off, only to be awoken in the night when he would stay conscious for hours, chattering away. 

The final straw was a few months after his second birthday. He had gotten to the point where he would reluctantly lie down when I put him in his crib, but suddenly he started standing and crying. It was going on for weeks. I got frustrated with him, and even lost my temper once. In my desperation, I asked a mommy group, and a few suggested an ear infection. 

It was an ear infection. 

He was in pain and unable to express it. It took a few weeks for the antibiotics to work, followed by another bout of teething. 

I gave up. 

I started cuddling with him at night until he falls asleep. That time in bed helps to soothe any daytime "difficulties." 

When Anakin turned 4 months old, meaning he was old enough to be sleep trained, I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't want to do it again, especially since it didn't achieve anything the first time around. 

I prowled online. Apparently, sleep-training is NOT a requirement for successful parenting. It is an OPTION. 

My friend, for instance, sleep-trained her oldest and it worked fabulously for her. Her daughter loves her crib, loves her sleep. 

For some mothers, getting their full night's sleep is necessary in order to function. In my case, listening to my baby cry for hours on end shredded my nerves. When I was younger and tougher, I heartlessly let my nieces and nephews bawl in the crib. But they went back to their parents in a night or two. I can't listen it to it for months. 

It actually assuages my anxiety when I am "allowed" to respond to my baby. That's my choice for my peace of mind. Others may choose otherwise, and power to them. I'm not saying my choice has to be everyone's choice. 

But I don't want to be put on the defensive. So I lie or evade. "How does he sleep? Like a baby." There are many ways to teich that statement.  

It's a big world out there. There isn't only one way of doing things. We can find all the sources we want in order to validate our choices, but it shouldn't be required. So people shouldn't feel a need to comment, and everyone should trust themselves and their choices. 

A Temporary Victim

In 2017, Indian comedian Hari Kondabolu released a documentary called "The Problem with Apu," detailing the racist depiction of the character. Eventually, due to negative publicity, "The Simpsons" removed the character from the show. 

But not all Indians felt the same. Akaash Singh, also a comedian, has a special called "Bring Back Apu." In a NY Times article, he explains why he is pro-Apu. The article opens with a quote from his special:  

Here is a brown man married to a beautiful brown woman, owns his own business, selling overpriced products to unwitting white people. Apu is not racist. He’s the American dream.

But he explains his perspective further: 

Singh is quick to compliment Kondabolu, who he said reached out to him after hearing him on a podcast. “He said I implied he didn’t work hard and I said I don’t think that at all,” Singh said, praising Kondabolu’s joke writing and work ethic. “My issue is with your mentality,” Singh said he told his fellow comic. “The victimhood mentality. The mentality weakens us as a people.”

There was an organization that's purpose used to be enlightening frei Jews as to what being frum meant. It did so cheerfully, educating readers without being insulted by the oddball assumptions they had to clarify. 

But as the various minorities began to clamber up their soapboxes, they also shifted. Now, with furrow-browed intent, they focus on misrepresentations in media, demanding for change. 

When Singh talked about victimhood, it occurred to me why I found the change in attitude disconcerting. 

As you know, I'm a descendant of survivors. Not only did they survive the war (dayenu!) they then had to flee their rebuilt lives 10 years later when the die-hard communists came to power. They had to move to a new country and start again, again. 

It was not right, on any level, what they had to go through. But if they had stopped to focus only on their injustice, they would not have achieved anything. 

If you kvetch too much, no one will want to be around you. Including your own family. And you don't get anywhere. 

My grandparents were well within their rights to collapse into helpless mush. But they didn't. They were victims once. They didn't stay victims forever. 

Constantly focusing on those who have sinned against you isn't healthy. Nor does it accomplish anything. 

This organization could still do the work they do . . . with a little more humor. Less "this has to stop!!!" Rabid racists won't change their mind anyway, and most people are simply misinformed, not malicious. 

I'm not saying they aren't right. But being right isn't always enough.

“There’s merit to both sides,” Singh said. “I’m not completely right, as much as I would love to be.”

IG Woes

As I confessed, I've actually downloaded Instagram. 

I'm very careful with it. I know it can be a gateway to self-loathing due to comparison, so I am discerning with those I follow. 

I prefer accounts where they share something funny or useful. Recipe developers, makeup artists, dermatologists, snarky mommy memes, comic strips, exercises for postpartum stomachs. If one person posts a picture of herself in a bikini, I unfollow her account. I am not here to feel bad about myself, or to assuage the neediness of another to be admired for her thigh gap. 

I think it's brilliant, social media, the way any person can promote their business or career without the need for someone on the inside.  Some accounts are for support, like @iwassupposedtohaveababy, which I think does an amazing service. 

But people take it too far, and I find it concerning.

I blame, to some extent, the constant messaging girls get in school that tznius means covered elbows and knees. Hatzneiya leches im Hashem is also about behavior. 

I squirm when someone posts about her anniversary, sharing multiple photos of her squeezing her boo, gushing about what a wonderful man he is. I shift when someone posts pictures of her perfectly coiffed children. What I find particularly irritating is when someone does the now standard "now don't think my life is perfect, cause it's not" post, but uses a pretty darn perfect photo to accompany that statement (how could someone look THAT good one month after having a baby???)

I remember, quite clearly, the envy that would overtake me anytime I saw a pic online of a new couple or a married couple or a couple with their kids when I was single. My lack of couplehood was so consuming that even if you told me your life wasn't perfect, I would roll my eyes: but you have a husband. You have children. Of course it isn't perfect. But you have what I don't and what I want.

There is a concept not to do PDA in public, lest it make others jealous (I forget the exact term). 

Additionally, when I see some IG accounts in person, they seem to not remember that they are being pretty open with themselves over the internet. They can't see their followers, they can't see their faces. They seem to think they are in a safe, enclosed bubble, when it is actually the opposite. The internet, let's not forget, is the domain of creepy men in a variety of basements.

I'm not saying it should be banned—far from it. But it should be navigated with caution, with restraint. Even I have fantasies of creating an IG account, but one that would not show my face, so I don't think it would be very popular (only @chezchaya managed to pull that off). 

And if there is an account that bums you out with her perfection, feel free to unfollow it. You'll be happier.

The Friend Quest

While once upon a time I used to rail against the evils of smartphones (not in a frum capacity, but rather as constant distractions and time wasters), I've turned to the dark side. I just need something to keep me awake when I'm feeding a baby at 1a.m.

I like mindlessly scrolling through Facebook and Instagram for this. It's the right level of non-awakening stimulation to get the job done. 

I belong to a number of groups on Facebook. A recurring thing in one of them is about how difficult it is to make friends. The poster has actually tried to by joining chessed activities and such, but nothing's happening. 

I'm also in that situation. Well, I currently do have one friend, who was also on a search for a friend herself. Fortuitously, we bumped into each other, made a point to put out some chatty feelers, and it worked. We meet up usually once a week. That was after weeks, nay, months, more like years, of failed connection attempts. 

But I'm concerned about the fragility of the relationship only in terms of possible relocation. She's trying to find a house for her growing family, and is looking out of state. Once she leaves, we'll both be back at square one unless she moves near someone she knows. 

I try to be open, make small talk in the park (although it's usually babysitters, not mothers), and while they smile politely, maybe chat back, it usually stalls there. Twice I met lovely women in the park, and hoped to take it further, but twice I fumbled the ball. I haven't seen them there again. 

Sigh. 

It's hard making new friends. What people don't realize is that many people have that same challenge, when they walk past each other on the street. 

It's also not enough just to meet someone new; you have to have the right chemistry. Some people may just not get your humor, for instance, or may be so consumed with her own insecurities that she cannot be present for you. In my case, I'd rather not have a friend than deal with drama. 

Whenever I've tried to make a friend, it usually is a fail. Expending effort and seeing no return is demoralizing, and frankly after ten years of dating I am done with that. 

So what I do now is try to be open. That is it. I smile if I can. I'll reciprocate conversation if it is offered. And if I feel as though the other party is on the same page, well, there you go. 

Maybe one day, if the Lord is kind, Ben will come home with a new friend who has a great mother.

Know Thy Limits

My sister and I were discussing boundaries. Not necessarily between ourselves, but the concept, and its importance. 

I noted that boundaries are also different from person to person. What I find difficult, for instance, is simple for someone else, and vice versa. 

For example, when I was still in elementary and high school, Ma HATED to have to take me there or fetch me home. She HATED it. I don't know why. If it was mid-term season, there was NO WAY she was going to come pick me up, even if I would have to wait around school for another four hours for the bus. I sheepishly asked for rides home instead.  

If she ever HAD to take me, like if the bus didn't show, she grumbled and complained the whole trip as though it was my fault. 

I never found out why she hated it so much. But she was entitled. We all have tasks that we'd rather not do.

It has become my gauge that when deciding whether to do something or not, I think, will I be resentful for doing this? 

For instance, in my teen and single years I was called upon to babysit the kinfauna. A lot. And I usually didn't mind. No one even asked me; they called Ma and she said I would. 

But one time, I had a bad cold. You know how colds can be; innocent, but you feel like death and just want to sleep in your own bed after glugging down some Nyquil. Additionally, I was in college and had two finals the next morning. For the first time ever, I nervously called up the sibling in question and said I couldn't come. They were shocked, and annoyed. They eventually understood. I think. 

In recent years, there is another factor: Will this make me more impatient with Ben?

Ben's school PTA posted a bake sale right before Shavuos, and asked people to contribute their homemade yummies. Initially I was excited; I like to bake! Then I stopped myself. I couldn't bake for the sale. It was two days before yuntif, I still had to do my food shopping/cooking, and with two littles, it takes twice as long. I didn't have time to bake something, fuss over it with glazes and such, and then drop it off to boot. 

So even though I wanted to, I didn't do it. For the sake of my family I must take on only what I can handle at this current life stage. One day I'll be able to leisurely bake for the PTA. But not now.  

Now, my job is to stay somewhat operational.  

Don't Put On a Happy Face

While I have gotten somewhat used to the sleep deprivation, there are some days I'm so wiped I can barely walk. Throw in some humidity, some blazing sun, and I'm just about to keel over. 

I picked up Ben from school, and true to our routine, took him to the park (I hate the park. There's no shade). That done, I was trudging home, pushing the double stroller. I was so tired that my eyes closed and I took I few blissful steps half asleep. 

I was jolted out of my stupor as a neighbor bellowed from his car, "Smile, Mommy!" as he drove by. 

If I had the energy, I would have howled and leapt for his throat. 

The next day, he met Han in the gym, and began to lecture him. "I saw your wife yesterday, and she looked absolutely miserable. How can she be miserable when she's so lucky, she's a mother!?" 

Han explained I had had a rather rough night with Anakin, but he kept at it. I am not allowed to ever be looking unhappy because I, thank God, have children, despite being geriatric. 

This neighbor can be rather clueless, so I don't expect much from him. But this anecdote serves to illustrate the concept of "toxic positivity," also known as "spiritual bypassing." It's the idea that any sort of negativity in life can be overcome by simply focusing on the good. 

One meme I've found annoying is one that insists that we all must be suffused with gratitude because we have working limbs. Meaning, I am never allowed to be upset about anything because I can walk. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm very happy I can walk. I'm very happy I can talk. I'm very happy about a bazillion things in my life. But Judaism permits holding two opposing emotions at once. It is not a contradiction. I can be happy to be a mother, but I can also be miserably exhausted and resent being awoken six times in one night. 

I made this mistake when Ma died. I thought I was being noble, and frum, by telling myself that I accept Hashem's will, so I'm fine! So fine! Until a year later when I found myself crying while making supper. She has been dead for five years, and while I can accept Hashem's will I am still very very sad. I am surprised how sad I can be. Contrary to popular sayings, time doesn't heal all wounds. 

I've been following a lot of parenting gurus, and one message they repeatedly intone is to teach children that all feelings are okay, but all behavior is not. 

We are able to feel many emotions at once. Those feelings must be processed, not denied. 

(BTW, most people don't walk down the street smiling to themselves. That makes you look like a serial killer.)

What is the End Game?

Everything is relative, is it not? 

After marrying at our decrepit ages, Han and I are surprised to hear parents panic over their single 19-year-olds. That's still a thing? 

Han is actually, well, insulted when he hears the terror in the voices of relatives, fretting over their unwed not-yet-of-legal-drinking-age offspring. 

"Don't they see how well it worked for us?" he asked me, flabbergasted. "Don't they realize that while the wait couldn't be helped, it was worth it?" 

"Oh, my sweet idiot," I said condescendingly, patting his arm, "no." 

No one is asking our advice about launching their children into the dating realm. Because we messed up, you see. 

There could have been a confluence of factors. Perhaps our profiles didn't show us to our best advantage. Maybe we didn't consult the "right" shadchanim. Obviously, we were too picky, until we saw some sense and made the choice to "settle." 

We are the cautionary tale, not the inspiration. Sorry, Han.

I bumped into my niece's friend, who laughed how her 21-year-old sister is freaking over her singlehood. Especially considering how their parents wedded at a later age than Han and I. 

"She should be enjoying herself!" I said. "She should be doing things! Because soon," I gestured towards my burbling Anakin (yes, I'm going with Anakin, it's canon), "she won't be able to do ANYTHING. And she'll miss that time." 

I know of a gal who was shocked to find herself "still" single at 22. She married, happily, at 23. At 24, holding her bouncing baby, she finds herself hit by that proverbial Mack Truck. "I'm supposed to be up every two hours all night?!" Then: "I'm glad I didn't get married when I was 19!" 

The whole screaming infant part isn't exactly advertised in the brochure. A baby in theory is very different than a baby in practice. Even the really good ones don't let you go to the bathroom as often as their mothers would like. 

I have my moments when I sing to myself one of Ma's favorite sayings: "I'm gonna run away from home." The second time around, I'm used to the sleep deprivation, but Ben's adjustment to a new interloper was a real doozy. Then there are all those cheerful people who tell me having three is even harder, because then Han and I will be outnumbered. 

My point is this: motherhood is hard. It shouldn't be taken on lightly. 

Next: I've been hearing too many stories about young couples on the rocks. A few have lead to divorce. Which makes me sad. I know "they" say that marriage is work, but that doesn't mean it's never fun. Why else would anyone marry? There are "projects" out there that urge earlier marriages to circumvent singles, but what about the divorces? 

In today's times, younger marriages can be catastrophic. And yet these . . . children are being harried into early couplehood. That's meant for life.  

I recently came across this blog post, and when I mentioned it to Han he said that while men are allowed to nix a shidduch due to "attraction," it is considered an unimportant expectation from women. Here's the tip: if engagement is in the conversation, you both should be excited to spend time with each other.

Han and I were not willing to settle. Baruch Hashem, our parents understood and supported us, even though they found it difficult to watch us stay single. Because they also wanted us to be happy. 

Do we want our children to be happily married? Or just married? 

Yet Another Hiatus

Yes, I have vanished—again—thankfully for a good, yet exhausting, reason: Ben is now a (shocked) brother. The infant's arrival kind of threw him for a loop, and I don't blame him. Heck, I'm youngest, and it was great for the most part. So I feel rather guilty. 

But this will—again—put a but of a crimp on my blogging. Back to being a sporadic poster. 

 

An Ideal Shabbos

I've always thought that when it comes to some things I'm rather mellow (to others, I'm a friggin' nutcase). Like hosting guests for Shabbos. I'm the first one to say that people just want to enjoy the company of other people, and don't give a hoot about the food. 

But in actuality, I obsess over the menu. For days beforehand, my dreams are haunted by warring sidedishes: quinoa vs. roasted veggies vs. kugel. Do I need to make fish? Should I make chicken legs or chicken cutlets? Legs taste better but are messier to eat. Should I just stick to the white meat? Should I make individual lava cakes in ramekins or just plate a square of brownie? Do I have enough Trader Joe's pareve ice cream?

Obviously, hosting stresses me out so much I've barely done it. 

Then I came across this Vogue article by Avital Chizhik-Goldschmidt. As a rebbetzin, she's certainly under more pressure than I am to put on a stunning meal - every week. 

Having emerged from the pandemic, she is eager for social interactions, and instead of being tethered to the kitchen and a multitude of courses, she serves one course, and can actually partake in the conversation. 

I like this idea. But I know I am unable to model it. Currently, I do not make fish for Han and I since he hates it (one course off the menu) but if guests come, I feel compelled to serve it. Han lives for chicken soup, so that's staying (but I make a massive potful every few months and defrost as I go, so that's not hard). Then there's the main, sides, dessert, obsessing while I sleep . . . 

All the while knowing that consuming a four course meal leaves me unpleasantly stuffed and munching on Tums the whole night. 

Some programming is difficult to realign.

Shtisel Observations

 I've been rewatching Shtisel. The first time I saw it was after Han and I married, before it was on Netflix. Han bought the DVDs, and we slowly enjoyed it, the one show we watched together. We enjoyed it at such a sluggish pace that halfway through it hit Netflix. 

Now, I'm binging. My memory sucks in general and I have very little recall as to the plot. 

But the whole time that I savor, I still have some complaints. *SPOILERS ahead*

One of the basic positives of observant life is family. Emphasis is placed on young marriage and parenthood. Shulem says in the show that he has six children, and five are married. There's a lot of people there to have your back. 

The show opens with the matriarch, Devorah, as having recently passed. I can personally attest that such a death leaves a mark in the family. But one thing is for sure, Shulem and Akive would be having dinner or Shabbos by one of the other children's houses at some point. Instead, Shulem is dining alone, or hopefully visiting the homes of various widows or divorcees for a hot supper.  

Even later, when Giti has her own restaurant, Shulem is still sadly on the search for a decent dinner. C'mon, people.

Additionally, when Lippe vanishes, Giti does not ask for her family's help at all. Even though Kive is unmarried and currently unoccupied (broodily chain smoking on the balcony is not a valid activity), she never calls upon him for help with her five kids. Instead, Ruchami is appointed the sole caregiver while Giti works. 

While we know Giti was terrified of the community finding out and becoming an object of pity, her father would definitely be the one person she could definitely rely on to keep her secret. 

Instead, she struggles alone, in terror, trying desperately to support her family. While she didn't have to accept her father's money, she could have accepted other forms of help—emotional support, babysitting.  

As a side point: What do the writers of the show have against women? They're either dead or dying or near death. Devorah is dead; Bubbe falls down the stairs, recovers, then dies; Rebbetzin Ehrblich, my favorite character, commits suicide; initially, Nuchem's wife is unseen, but alive, but then is also dead; Libbe mysteriously dies two months after having a baby; Ruchami almost dies in childbirth. At least kill them off in more original ways. 

The show does a great job of showing that observant women are not oppressed, that they are strong, capable, and respected. So why are they all dead?

Fathers Are Also Parents

I was scheduling a doctor's appointment, and the only time that was available was after Ben's school hours. "I'll have to see if my husband can babysit," I said automatically. 

I paused. "No," I corrected myself,"if he can parent." 

As Ali Wong observed in her Netflix special Baby Cobra: 

It takes so little to be considered a great dad, and it also takes so little to be considered a ****ty mom. . . People praise my husband for coming to all of my doctor’s appointments with me.

Guess who else has to go to those doctor’s appointments? Me! I’m the star of the show. There’s nothing for the camera to see if I’m not there, but he’s the hero for playing Candy Crush while I get my blood drawn!

On one of the online groups I belong to, a new mother posted, saying that she wants to do something nice for her husband as he's been "so helpful" since the baby was born, so understanding that she can't give him as much attention as before. 

Whaaaaat? The baby is not some random interloper in his life, it's got 50% of his DNA! IT'S HIS CHILD! Of course he should be freakin' helpful, he's the baby's PARENT! 

A local paper used to feature a sort of "Ask Abby" column. This was years ago, but one question and answer has stuck with me. A woman was writing that her husband works very hard, he has two jobs, while she is at home with the kids. But she still needs help at times. 

The columnist responded that there is a difference between housework and parenting. Anything that is parenting he should help with. So cleaning the kitchen shouldn't be his problem, but bathing the kids and putting them to sleep is.

Because news flash: fathers are PARENTS too. 

Mishpacha had a short story a few weeks ago, and while this wasn't the point of the story, a couple of sentences really irritated me. 

The protagonist was 7 months pregnant, and was technically on light bed rest. But she has three other little kids, so that's not exactly realistic. Her husband comes home, and she "guiltily" confesses to cramping, at which point he tells her to lie down and puts the kids to bed:

He's an angel, my husband. And concerned about my health, and our unborn baby's. 

Putting the kids to sleep does not make a father "angelic." He's being a PARENT. If he came home and let her huff and puff with the kids when she should be lying down, that would make him a jerk. It's not "angelic" to care about your wife and children! It would mean he would be a sociopath if he didn't! (BTW, his "angelic" help wasn't enough, as she goes into premature labor that night.)

The bar shouldn't be so low.

I started watching Bosch, a detective series on Prime. There is the side plot of Bosch's personal life: he shares a daughter with his ex-wife, who is remarried. She was living overseas for the past few years, but now is back in the States. Their daughter is now 14. 

The daughter is a passenger when her friend, a minor, gets in a car accident. She's fine, but Bosch tells off his ex-wife as though their child is her responsibility only, which she rightfully shuts down. 

When their daughter hops a bus to visit him (the distance is not close) without telling her mother, Bosch is waiting for her by the station. Her mother flies in that night to retrieve her. 

"Thanks, Harry," she tells him when she arrives. 

"What for?" he replies. "She's our daughter." 

YES. 

Mask+Lipstick=FAIL

There was an article about lipstick that lasts under a face mask, and so, excited at the prospect, I purchased two. 

Both were of a style I don't particularly like—liquid lipstick that is applied with an applicator. 

This format has never worked for me. Invariably, there is a blob of product at the end of the wand, which means more ends up in some areas, less in others. Because of this heavy application, it tends to end up outside the environs of my strategically placed lip pencil. 

Meaning, the results don't look very . . . polished. More like an amateur. 

But hey, more than one article recommended them, so I decided to try again. I bought one by Fenty and one by Sephora Collection (there was a sale, you see). 

The Fenty one was not the right shade—too dark—but I decided to wear it anyway under a mask to see what would happen. The only clean one available that day was rather small and hugged my face. Which meant the lipstick went EVERYWHERE. I looked like Nolan's Joker, and I spent five solid minutes attempting to mop up the damage in an office building hallway in front of a mirrored wall while Ben looked on, entertained. (Should I mention I did not realize the damage until I passed said mirror? Meaning PEOPLE saw me like that first?) 

But the Fenty did go on well, and managed to stay somewhat within the pencil. The Sephora option was also too dark, but went on so badly I had to take precious time first trying to fix it with a q-tip, then giving up and reaching for the makeup remover. 

I am not meant for liquid lipstick. Not happening. They both went back to Sephora. 

While masks are back and I miss my lipstick terribly, I am sticking with my standard lipstick and lip brush. And it's also better to go without than to look like Nolan's Joker. Shudder.  

The Jewish Heart

Unlike Han and my father, I do not "do" Holocaust books or films. There are a few exceptions, as there usually are in life, but I do not actively seek out their company. 

But since I'm the one who reads the Book Review, I introduced Han to Dara Horn's People Love Dead Jews, and Han is smitten (I might actually make PLDJ another exception). He prefers audiobooks, and he played me a segment he found interesting. 

The essay he played I was able to find online, on the Smithsonian website. 

Anne Frank's memoir has been insanely popular, worldwide. While it is about Jews hiding from the Nazis, it doesn't really deal with the genocide currently taking place. Other memoirs, that do recount the acts of horror, are not remotely as popular. 

Horn cites the work of Zalmen Gradowski, a Sonderkommando who was later killed in a failed uprising. Reading a passage Horn inserted into her essay, I was breathless at how a man who was forced to be a part of such indescribable crimes can not only remain religious, but recount the murders of his charges with compassion. 

Any other soul in such a position would have numbed himself, refusing to connect to the acts he is forced to commit. but Gradowski even details an example of a young woman who not only defies a Nazi official but manages to hit him too before she is taken away. She was no sheep led to the slaughter (a metaphor I have always disliked). 

Sonderkommandos were dead men walking, on limited time (they were killed every three months and replaced). And yet, Gradowski managed to hold on to his humanity and faith, to use beautiful language to describe ugly actions. His empathy remained, even while the Nazis tried every way to burn it out of him.

Queen Anne

I recently read The Jane Austen Society (the book was simply okay, in my opinion). 

Two characters were discussing their favorite characters. One said (obviously) Elizabeth Bennet. Another countered with Emma Woodhouse. 

It made me consider who my favorite character is. 

I am not sure if it's allowed to have a favorite Austen character if one has not yet read the book (I have only the 1995 film adaptation to work with at the moment) but mine is Anne Elliot. 

I first saw it in my youth—maybe in my tweenhood?—with Ma. It was on Masterpiece Theater and I had taped it. I then rewatched it, as I was wont to do with my favorite films, many many times. 

Anne does what has to be done, even if no one appreciates her for it. She gets no parade—if anything, she is merely scorned by her own family for her efforts. But she keeps soldiering on. (That's why Wentworth is an ideal mate—he's an actual officer in the navy, complete with stiff back, who knows what it means to keep soldiering on).

Removed from her oppressive household and placed in fresh surroundings, she blossoms. Kind and receptive company brings out her qualities. And yet, a common-sensical creature, she never loses her head. As various crises arise, she is the one who wades into the fray and calmly takes hold of the situation (like the captain of a ship?).

Anne's "error" was for not accepting Wentworth's proposal when she was 19—an understandable mistake, considering how he was penniless at the time and her only trusted source was Lady Russell. But she does not make the same error again. Nor did she compromise in the interim. 

Elizabeth Bennet, while highly admired for her wit and sparkle, makes quite a few boo boos. She messed up big time by believing Wickham's lies so readily, especially in a society when tattling is considered déclassé. But then, she wanted to believe the worst about Darcy, so she did. 

Anne herself is capable of a retort, perhaps without Elizabeth's delivery, but because of her stillness her response is more likely to be heard and accepted. 

Emma—well, a bit of a self-important meddler, wasn't she? She nearly ruined Harriet's life, and she was cruel at times to boot. 

Elinor Dashwood is a close second for favorite (I read the book, but must say the 2008 adaptation was infinitely more enjoyable), but Anne has my vote.  

No More Dark Circles?

Continuing my quest to expand my current cosmetic horizons, I decided my concealer game, which is decidedly lame, needed an upgrade. 

As I have mentioned, one genetic bane is my epic dark circles. In previous years, I've tried all the touted concealers, which didn't conceal much—even the sacred Clé de Peau Concealer didn't do the job. 

I therefore concluded that perhaps my circles were uncoverable. 

But, with a Sephora sale, it can't hurt to experiment, right? 

I squinted at the endless options, and decided to try IT Cosmetics Bye Bye Under Eye Full Coverage Concealer in 10.5 Light (peering at the swatch online it looked like this shade had yellow undertones, which is what I have). I selected IT for a few reasons: it says it's for under eye, and it comes in a tube, not with an applicator like most concealers do. I don't want an applicator constantly touching my face then contaminating the rest of the product. 

Initial reaction: WOW. This stuff COVERS. All you need is a pinprick (I am not exaggerating) of product and it really COVERS. And brightens! 

The texture is thick and tacky, and is supposed to be warmed by the fingertips. While I should probably apply it by bouncing it on with a makeup sponge, that's too much work for a standard weekday morning; I tap it on with my ring finger to spread it on, then set it with my regular translucent setting powder. 

Until now, I thought I had to use color corrector and top that with concealer, but with one product I can do both!

I think that IT's a keeper!  

Now, it's not a perfect solution. It probably needs more patience and time in application that I don't give it. But its pros outway cons.

There are products better than Clé de Peau? Ma wouldn't believe it.