Queenly Bedding

I only sleep on silk. 

Wait, that came out wrong.

Silk pillowcases claim to make frizzy hair less so, to take it easy on the skin, and to maintain soothing coolness when a bed becomes overheated. According to some, they don't collect dust mites, which is a perk in the case of my perpetual rhinoritis.

I am still not sure about the belief that it provides all sorts of skincare benefits (there doesn't seem to be much data to back that up), but I was intrigued . . .   

Then, a cousin told me (Bobovers know everything) that she had heard that a satin pillowcase would be very understanding of Shabbos Face. 

So of course I ordered one the next morning. 

When I first discovered it on Amazon, it was only available in white. Now they come in a motley of colors that will match to any themed bedding.

 

Well, it is certainly addictive. After all, silky smoothness feels veeeeery nice. As for benefits to keeping on Shabbos Face? I'll have to say it is extremely helpful, but still try to keep one's head at an angle, and use a stiffer pillow so the Face doesn't sink in too deep.

A visiting nephew also tried to casually pinch it for his own use. It really makes a pillow very cuddly.   

Sounds Apt

GCB was a short-lived series that captured my attention while it was on the air, and I came across this post that was drifting in my "Drafts."

There is a scene that goes a little something like this, after Burl has proposed to Annie Potts' character, and brings her to the house he wants to live with her in. 

She: "And there will be cabinet filled with very expensive eye cream that you will never see me apply."  

Doing One's Part

"But you have to do your hishtadlus," they all say. 

That phrase has always set my teeth on edge, and now I have finally figured out why. 

Hishtadlus currently translates into chasing after self-proclaimed shadchanim of questionable sanity and non-existent success rate. It means dragging oneself to countless singles' events, despite the fact that one just bumps into the same five guys. It can mean everything up to standing on a street corner handing out your information. 

But if one considers it, is hishtadlus really the word one should go for when it comes to marriage? Is it only about exposure, luck of the draw, that I expand the amount of people that know my face, then there is a better chance of finding "the one"? 

I rarely hear much about hishtadlus outside of the dating world. It is rarely invoked nowadays when it comes to earning a living ("He'll start law school after he gets married"), or preserving one's health ("My grandfather smoked two packs a day and passed away at ninety. Pass the french fries, please"). It doesn't even apply to get out of bed on time ("I'm running late").

I have drawn a line. 

My siblings, my parents, my grandparents, were not set up by Yenta the Matchmaker. It was by family or friends or vague acquaintances. I will not put my faith in a complete stranger who asks me impertinent questions and makes unreasonable demands, nor attend a function where I feel like a piece of meat, or wave down strangers and introduce myself to them. 

The only textual hishtadlus Ta has found is that a father must provide his daughter with flattering cosmetics and garments when she reaches marriageable age. (Thanks Ta, for your credit card.)

Until they bring back the Tu B'Av festivities.

If you want to tackle a "shadchan," gisenteheit, just don't call it hishtadlus. Because hishtadlus is needed for other things first, like bringing Moshiach. Where's the hishtadlus there?

Battle of the Bulge: The Stove is Your Friend

There is an anecdotal saying among Overeaters Anonymous members that "when you are addicted to drugs you put the tiger in the cage to recover; when you are addicted to food you put the tiger in the cage, but take it out three times a day for a walk." — Wikipedia

I blither on about healthy eating and weight maintenance primarily because of the health aspect. Quite frankly, how many morbidly obese octogenarians are there? 

The "obesity epidemic" is a hot topic, under constant analysis. Sometimes people tend to focus on one factor—such as sugar. No problem, there's plenty of diet soda. 

Facepalm. 

As Jane Brody reports, sugar is not the culprit.

Sugar, it turns out, is a minor player in the rise. More than half of the added calories — 242 a day — have come from fats and oils, and another 167 calories from flour and cereal. Sugar accounts for only 35 of the added daily calories.

The mustachio-twirling villain? Restaurants. 

. . . As more women entered the work force, family meals and especially home-cooked meals became less frequent. (Relatively few husbands became family cooks, sadly.) From 2005 to 2008, according to the Department of Agriculture, 20 percent of American calories were consumed in fast-food and full-service restaurants, more than triple the amount in 1977-78.

Eating just one meal a week away from home can translate into two extra pounds a year for the average person, the department calculated. Although the recent economic downturn forced more people to dine at home, the average adult now eats out nearly five times a week.

I eat out very, very rarely—meeting a friend, on a chivalrous date, the occasional office outing. It's not that I'm not tempted; my dreams usually take the shape of a steaming potato gratin, bathed in bubbling cheese. Or is it the ricotta-filled ravioli? Make it the creamy mushroom sauce ladled over gnocchi. Mmm. 

Where was I?

My dairy-laden fantasies, alas, cannot be constantly fulfilled. (A) My heart would stop functioning and (B) my savings would disappear. Financially, eating out doesn't add up. 

Brody writes that restaurants overpile plates, and the clientele tends to consume what they are given. In my case, with a constant terror of baaltashchis, I am incapable of leaving anything over. While doggy bags are an option, sometimes (mostly) I can't resist temptation and polish off my plate.

Additionally, many foods peddled as "healthy" are anything but. Be very wary of yogurt. Muffins, by the way, are simply cupcakes by another name.   

 

The human body also does not make it easy to lose weight permanently. 

Researchers now know that people who struggle with weight are battling evolution itself, which has programmed us to store calories when food is plentiful and, when food is scarce, to reduce calories we expend.

When an overweight person cuts down significantly on what he eats, the body defends itself by using fewer calories. The effect can be long-lasting: If a person’s weight drops to 150 pounds from 250, significantly fewer calories must be consumed daily to stay at that weight than would be necessary if the person had never been overweight.

Even if a 170-pound person loses 20 pounds, he needs 15 percent fewer calories to maintain the new weight than someone who always weighed 150. Short of bariatric surgery, very gradual weight loss — say, no more than 20 pounds a year — may be the only way around this metabolic slowdown. This strategy gives the body and appetite a chance to adjust.

In my case, I happened to have lost weight gradually, over the past ten years. It wasn't intentional; I would happen to take on a new step every few years, and it seemed to be successful. Always slow and steady. Pick one aspect to tackle at a time: Weaning oneself off daily sugar, or smaller portions, or only eating by meals. It's too much for evolution to take to go full restriction at once.

Brody concludes:

Michael Pollan, an author and journalism professor at the University of California, Berkeley, has said it best: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” His newest book, “Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation,” adds a corollary: “And cook it yourself.”

No time? People always have time for what they consider important, and what is more important than your health? Home-cooked food contains better ingredients, and you know what you’re eating.

It all comes down to homemade, nothing processed. I'm not the greatest cook out there, nor did I always have interest in it, but for the sake of my health and weight I have prioritized it. I pan-roast veggies or make a soup in the evenings, prepared for lunch the next day. Ten, fifteen minutes? 

Via kentuckianahealthwellness.com

Think of what you'll save in medical bills, never mind in the price of take-out. 

Mommy Matchmakers

Synonymous with the term "arranged marriage" is "parental input." Observant Jews are not the only ones whose mothers actively seek eligible singles for their children; Koreans and Indians make us look rather mild. 

Even irreligious Jewish mothers are upping their game, and their kids don't seem to mind, as Ji Hyun Lee reports in another article about arranged marriage entitled "Hey Mom, Call Me When You Find My Wife." 

Websites have come into being as these Jewish moms go where their matriarchal ancestors have gone before. You can take the Jew out of the shtetl . . .

Colby and Geri Brin, who invented "Date My Single Kid" on faboverfifty.com

Parents are often vilified as the most hopeless of matchmakers in television- and movie-dom, but that may be just the scriptwriters' biases. 

There's even an Australian reality show called Please Marry My Boy, in which the bachelors can only go out with the gals their mothers select. The U.S. version barely lasted a season.  

New York Magazine wrote of "The Yenta Experiment" as a Jewish (not religious) singleton was set up three different ways: Via Mom, ex, and dating site. 

The best date? Mom's. Even though he wasn't Lysee's usual type, the mother based the blind date on the "fun-ness" of his personality. 

Just a side-bar: The Indians call their profiles "bio-data," which I must say sounds less annoying than "résumé." We should totally adopt the term.   

Do Not Be Certain of Yourself Until The Day You Die

"Your makeup is a little too . . . dramatic," she sniffs. 

Um, who asked you? 

We were standing in her kitchen, she being freshly engaged, devoid of face paint besides a faint hint of shadow in the dark recesses of a crease. While her nails were brushed with a refined clear topcoat, I noticed that beneath her stockings (she having kicked off her shoes) her toes sported maroon lacquer.

I didn't remotely take her words to heart, since, frankly, I didn't particularly ask nor care for her opinion. 

Now she has two babies gamboling about at her feet, and she sails into shul wearing red lipstick and red nail polish. Yes, on her hands.

See? It's fun to wear color, isn't it?

Or the one who made snide references to my gray eyeshadow, and after years of "tame" makeup wear suddenly showed up looking fabulous with Mac Carbon (black) on her lids? 

 

After situations like these, I always wonder: When do I get to go around offering "advice" to those who didn't ask for it? Did I permit myself to say to either these two then, "Well, your complexion could certainly use a little coverage" or "Your eyes are dying for some mascara" or "How about a swipe of pink on those lips?" 

To quote Doug Heffernan: "Shutty!"   

Ah, To Be Young

At the Shabbos table, my four-year-old niece was holding court in her squeaky, earnest voice about her choice for a spouse. Her brother was the same way; they just want to plan ahead, leaving nothing to chance. 

"I don't like curly hair," she insisted, "so his hair will have to be straight. And he should be skinny"—my grandmother would be proud—"and not have those things on his face," she waved toward her father's glasses. 

Of course, we were all pretty much cracking ribs to keep from laughing out loud. 

"Uuuuuuum," she pondered, "what should his name be?" 

"How about Yitzchak?" Ta offered to this fink on his lap. 

"Yeah! No, Hadassa's Daddy's name is Yitzchak." Hadassa is her cousin who lives across the street. 

"How about Avrumi?"

"Yes, Avrumi! No, wait, not Avrum, Avrahum." 

Her future decided on, she slides off Ta's lap and patters off to play with the doll house.

Time will tell, I suppose, to see what this minx ends up with. Then I can throw it in her face by her vort.   

"A Nation of Slobs"

In shul one Shabbos, in walks my fantasy project. Week after week, this gal of eligible age enters with her hair untamed—not even thinking about giving that mess a once-over with a brush. 

In my attempt to be tolerant, I consider that maybe she holds that brushing hair on Shabbos is not permissible. I sigh internally and let it go. 

Until I see her on a weekday. Oh. She just doesn't brush her hair, in general. 

As spawn of Europeans, and Hungarians to boot, appearance is major. I mean, MAJOR. My parents would be excellent hosts on What Not to Wear. Never mind Babi—she would be a merciless judge on Project Runway. 

I have noticed a direct correlation to self-esteem and the fit and flare of my wardrobe. If I rush one morning and don't think out my look for the day thoroughly, I pray that I don't bump into anyone that will notice that my skirt desperately needs tailoring. If I don't respect myself, other people won't.

CBS News Sunday Morning featured a story on the downward spiral of current American dress. Thank goodness, it's not just us! Although Linda Przybyszewski, who teaches the "A Nation of Slobs" class in Notre Dame University, has a European unpronounceable name that fits in with the Continental mantra. 

"Americans," Ma and I moan as yet another ill-dressed disaster prances by in a cheap baggy top that ends in the worst possible spot, highlighting every potential bodily flaw. 

Via jezebel.com

As a reminder: When someone gushes, "Oh, this is just something I threw on," in response to a compliment, spoiler: She agonized a full ten minutes before she got dressed. Don't think it just happens.

Hi Lili

I adore Leslie Caron. (Like I said, Gigi is my favorite musical.)

Technically, it has all the things I hate; a man who mistreats the very object of his love, a young girl infatuated with a no-goodnik. Maybe it is because Mel Ferrer is so very dashing (just because I don't need looks doesn't mean I'm not aware of them), and Leslie Caron is Leslie Caron, so I find Lili enchanting. 

A teenage orphan finds herself a member of a carnival puppet troupe, her job to converse with the puppets. Despite the fact that she knows they are not real, she chats innocently and honestly with them, forgetting they are all actually her grim employer. 

The original name for Paul Gallico's short story, from which the film is based, was The Man Who Hated People, which was later extended to a novella called The Love of the Seven Dolls. While Gallico is a great author, able to infuse humor even in the most miserable of situations, I found the tale disturbing as the Lili character is abused most heinously by the puppeteer. Brrrr.

In the movie version, a war wound robbed the puppeteer of his dancing career, leaving him bitter and reticent. The only way he can express himself is through his puppets; the only kindness he shows Lili is when he shields himself with the different voices and personalities of his alter-egos. In truth, he has actually been there for her, but she doesn't realize it, gazing after a womanizing magician instead. 

The moment I like best is when Lili's dreamy gaze focuses into that of steel. She grows up, and she understands, and she will demand instead of passively accept. She is no frail lily needing a man's protection; she becomes independent in her own right. 

It is categorized as a musical although there is only one song and two dance sequences (the film was later the basis for Broadway's Carnival! which starred Jerry Orbach, which then had a full musical score). The song from the film, "Hi Lili Hi Lo," is stuck quite irritatingly in my head. 

After seeing Lili I wondered about the whole idea of "love at first sight." Not being romantic I don't believe in it, but perhaps it was more common once, when men and women lived such separate and uncomplicated lives (I need to work these things out if a movie will get my endorsement).

"I loved you the moment I saw you." Possible? Eh.

Boomerang

"Mazel tov!" I wish her heartily. Her son has recently become engaged, and I am truly happy for her and her family. 

"IY'H by you of simchas bikarov!" she quickly rattles off. 

Look, I am giving you a "mazel tov." Keep it, it's free, I've got plenty more in storage. 

Who's to say my life is lacking simcha? I have a large, wonderful, family, kinfauna I love dearly, celebrations by others that I merrily partake in; what is this assumption that my "mazel tov" should returned or exchanged? That I can't spare it? I have enough of my own simchos, thank you!

Flinging my "mazel tov" back in my face is merely an unnecessary reminder that I am single. I'm single? Who knew? I completely forgot! 

I hate to state the obvious. I hate it more when others do.

I am wishing you "mazel tov" because I am happy for you. I rejoice with you. Your son getting engaged really has nothing to do with me one day getting engaged. It sounds the same, but it's not.

Let's just focus on one celebration at a time, shall we? So here is my "mazel tov," gift-wrapped, topped with festive ribbon. It's yours. All you have to say is "Thank you."