Shidduch TV: "A Match Made in Heaven"

 I don't even recall how I stumbled upon this series, "A Match Made In Heaven": 

 

It was an interesting watch, if an often frustrating one. There was one interaction that jumped out at me, between . . . was it Meirav? I don't remember all the names, you'll get there, and her friend Faigy. 

Meirav (?) was saying that is so bummed after a bad date, while Faigy was claiming she is relieved, that she is one step closer to her bashert. Each were surprised at the other's perspective. 

I fell completely into the "bummed" camp. Why would I be optimistic after a string of bad dates? All it did was ignite the nasty little voice inside that said to marry the next thing that was just slightly better than them, 'cause honey, you ain't gonna do any better.

Luckily, the nasty little voice was very wrong.  

Remember Their Kindness

Samantha Irby is the master of the sentence. I read two of her books, Wow, No Thank You and We Are Never Meeting In Real Life, and she made me laugh out loud. Books don't usually make me laugh until I drool. 

To clarify, these books are completely and totally UA, but her curse words are strategic as opposed to lavishly applied, and I appreciate that sort of consideration. There are a few graphic sections—OK, I had to skip an entire essay—but I found her humor to be quite definitely worth it. 

At one point, when she is recounting the death of her parents, she gets (appropriately) somber. Her father was not a good man. He was a deadbeat, an alcoholic, and hit her if she didn't do dinner properly. But he was her father, and she loved him. 

He had heart problems, and there was a doctor who cared for him until the end, Dr. Ira Weiss. She refers to him as "an angel." He was an Orthodox Jew, she writes (record scratch), who kept kosher. 

This man fought to keep her father's heart going. When her father went to a different state, he paid money out of pocket to bring him back to be under his care. When her father disappeared after a number of cardiac episodes, Dr. Weiss biked through the streets looking for him. 

Her father's funeral was attended only by his good-for-nothing friends, his daughter, and Dr. Weiss. Dr. Weiss, Irby recounts, sang "the Lord's Prayer in Hebrew" for her father—Kel Malei Rachamim. 

I certainly did not expect a passage like this in a book like this. 

Irby did not have an easy youth. Her parents were both gone by the time she was 18. She uses humor to deflect from emotion—she admits this freely. 

And 20 years later, she expresses gratitude to the Jewish doctor who went above and beyond for his patient, her father, in her book. She didn't have to. He wasn't a necessary part of the story. 

His kindness and selflessness was not forgotten. 

I still remember the lovely woman who was my labor nurse—Christina. She was so kind. I remember the off-duty nurse who talked me through my airsickness after I had disembarked on shaking legs. 

They're remembered, and we are grateful for them.

Hurt People Don't Have to Hurt People

Having enjoyed Lori Gottlieb's "Maybe You Should Talk to Someone," I picked up another therapist memoir, "Good Morning, Monster" by Catherine Gildiner. 

I had mistakenly thought the latter would be like the former, with examples about relatively normal people struggling with unexpected challenges. However, it was about five of Gildiner's patients who experienced horrific abuse as children, but dealt with it and rose above it. 

Usually I avoid topics of such a nature, as I cannot handle the details (I never read Holocaust books). But I was sucked in rather quickly, and was unable to put it down. 

The basic premise of four out of five of the subjects is that "hurt people hurt people"; that these individuals were tormented by their parents, and previously their parents had been tormented by their own caregivers. 

Except, none of these people themselves became abusers. Additionally, one of them grew into an amazingly kind, gentle, and generous man—before he ever went to therapy.

"Hurt people hurt people" isn't a good enough explanation. There are those who were hurt and make a decision, whether consciously or unconsciously, that they would never hurt others the way they were hurt. They chose to end the pain, rather than allowing the cycle to continue.

The Neverending Grief

One of the "perks" of my job is if there is an old and confused client, I'm the one assigned to call them. 

A querulous message was left at my extension, by Elena. She is usually okay to talk to. She always asks about Ben. Her husband, who she cared for until his end, died a few years ago, leaving her on her own. She has no children, no other family.

I considered the clock, and figured that 10 a.m. should be a safe time to call her back—the elderly are usually up by then. 

When she picked up though (when the answering machine was already talking), it was clear the phone had woken her. Then the conversation went downhill. (I found out later she's on some serious medication.)

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she began to scream about Jack, the partner in the firm who had died young-ish (like five years ago). "I talked to his wife," she ranted, "he ate like a pig! He didn't take care of himself! Why didn't you do something!?" 

"I—I tried! We tried!" I spluttered, even though the question was not a fair one. "But he called my lunches 'rabbit food'! He didn't want to listen! He would stand by my desk and expound on the glories of medication! He ate out of the office! In the end, he made his own choices." 

She sounded so distraught on the other end of the line that I was wracking my brains what I could say to calm her down. 

"Look," I said, "no one ate healthier than my mother. No one. As soon as she heard a certain food was 'bad,' it was out of the house. I have a vague, distant childhood memory of store bought cookies in the pantry, but I never saw them again. Margarine? Gone. She ate lettuce every day—I'm not kidding. She did yoga. She walked. But she got a random, rare disease, and died. 

"See, I'm religious, and we believe that someone can do everything right, but if it's your time, it's your time."

She was quiet. 

She then found another topic to harangue about, and by the time I hung up a half hour later I had to lie down in the conference room to recover. 

After I managed to crawl back to my desk, I was thinking over what I said about Ma. 

Because Ma took such good care of herself, none of us had anything to blame. No one could think, "If only she didn't ______." "If only she would have ______." We could only think that her death was meant to be. 

But acceptance still doesn't deal with the hurt. It'll be four years soon since she died, and while the pain is not as bad, it's still there. 

My sister-in-law told me of a friend of hers whose mother died when she was a teenager. "My mother is here," she said, motioning to the spot next to her. 

Han doesn't seem to mind that I'm constantly quoting Ma. And constantly saying what she would have done or said about nearly every situation. It still bothers me that Han never got to know her well, when I know the two of them would have gotten along so swimmingly I probably would have been shoved out of the way. 

And then I know that there is no "what if"s. There is no picking and choosing the elements in our lives. What is, is. 

One minute, I'm at peace with the situation; another moment later, I grieve. 

It reminds me of the throw pillow Ma bought for the boys' room all those years ago: "If it's not one thing, it's your mother."  

Happy Anniversary

Well, it looks like I forgot my anniversary. 

Not my wedding anniversary. I think this early in the game that's not such an amazing milestone. 25 years is something, but under 5? Eh. 

I meant my blogiversary! It's a decade old! A decade! April 3, 2011 was the date of my first post. 

I remember how hesitant I was when I created the blog. No one I personally knew had a blog. I had been a frum blog stalker for a while, and realized that I, too, wanted to kvetch about dating. And recommend lipstick.

When I scroll through some of my early posts, I think about the ways I've changed. And the ways I haven't changed. 

Like, ten years is a long time. Things should change. I should learn new things. I should do better. 

But I still have a few bad habits. I'm still stuck in certain ways of thinking. There are some mistakes I still make, over and over. 

Right now, though, I'm so exhausted (good tired, not complaining, good tired) that I'm giving myself a parade if I remember to say a bracha acharona. Seriously. How am I supposed to work on the harder things? Like not accidentally hurting someone's feelings?

Maybe because I'm closer to 40 than 30, but I'm aware of my mortality. Ma certainly threw me for a loop. COVID deaths, definitely. Meron rattled us all. 

I hope I'm granted more time. More time to know better, and to do better. I simultaneously don't want to fall in the rut that "When [specific stage is over] then I'll start working on [specific trait]."

But who knows how much time I have? 

Man, this post went dark. See? Anniversaries don't work for me.

Ivri Anochi

Being Jewish is my primary identity. My whole existence revolves around it. My thought process is based on it. 

It's usually practiced in a supportive environment. I live in a frum area, shop in frum supermarkets (where I don't have to bother to check the hechsher), and my workplace is half frum. 

Han is one of the few frum people in his workplace, and one of them married a few weeks ago. This fellow knows about everything, and Han has asked his advice regarding all manner of topics, so we went as friends of the groom. 

I consciously edited my conversation, making sure to convert any Hebrew or Yiddish terms into English. I also had to refrain from a number of topics that, well, this crowd couldn't relate to, but that other random frummies would have.

I had to fend off the solicitous waiters who begged me to have an hors d'oeuvre, or some champagne. When I declined the alcohol, he counter-offered with apple cider, and when I denied that as well, he asked, scandalized, "But what will you toast the couple with?" Water, my good fellow, water.

The groom had thoughtfully instructed the caterer to have kosher meals for us, but we had to wait for the main course. Han and I watched as the others were served the appetizers, getting a little peckish. At some point we snuck out to the next door drugstore and got a Kind bar and a banana. By the time our kosher meals arrived, we were really, really, looking forward to them. 

Only to realize that the food was from Ben's, which does not have glatt certification. It wasn't even double-wrapped. 

I asked a waiter for a bag, claiming we had to leave for the babysitter, so we could smuggle out our untouched food without the groom noticing. 

Our hunger drove us to leave before the wedding officially ended. As we bid our farewells to the happy couple (both were happily sawing through massive steaks), the groom insisted we take a few bottles of wine that were prepared as a party favor. Then he offered cake. 

We kept demurring, but he couldn't understand how both those items could be problematic, kosher-wise. We took the darn wine, which I ended up passing on to a non-Jewish co-worker (she was very happy). 

By the time we got home, we practically knocked over Eewok (she was babysitting) as we threw ourselves at the fridge. 

As we sat there stuffing our faces on Shabbos leftovers, I still felt accomplished. I was in a surroundings that didn't understand my faith and practices, and we politely stuck to our guns. We proved to everyone and ourselves that we are Jews.

It's not exactly marching into the fires of the auto-da-fé. It was a small, minor happenstance. Matters got mildly awkward, as opposed to literal torture. But I still feel proud. 

Own Your Qualities

Luke and I (as opposed to the rest of our siblings) do not have fond memories of elementary and high school. We didn't make friends easily—or at all. What were/are we? Nerds? Freaks? Geeks? I'm not sure.

Much to my delight, none of the kinfauna seem to have any difficult in that area, thank God. They all have sufficient friendships to fulfill their social needs, no matter their personalities. 

I was chatting about this with Luke, how pleasantly surprised I am that his Eewok, who has a rather forceful nature, is being invited all over. 

"It's so nice," I was saying. "considering how I had just a fraction of her bossiness, and yet she's beating them off with a stick!" 

"I wouldn't call you 'bossy,'" Luke kindly replied. "I would say you're more of a 'know-it-all.'" 

I tilted my head for a moment's thought. "That's true," I concurred. 

Flexibility

I'm delighted to report that I'm still stubbornly slogging along with sourdough. I make it regularly, and use it in other recipes that call for "discard," even when I don't need to discard. 

I've joined a number of Facebook groups to help expand my knowledge. Many members are very militant about their bakes. They will only phrase their recipes in percentages, which is absolute gibberish to me. Or they will rattle off a stream of instructions in sourdough terminology that makes the whole process sound rigid and inaccessible. 

But the more I work with it, the more I realize how flexible sourdough baking really is. There isn't only one way of doing things. Nearly every attempt is delicious, even if it isn't pretty. 

There was a post put up on one of the groups, where another believer in flexible sourdough baking explained why you don't need to be so rigid. 

For instance, those who abide by the rigid group insist the starter has to be "fed," and then to "double" before use in baking, and maybe it should "float" as well. But he explained that it's not necessary. Sourdough starter is full of microbes, and while they will certainly ferment the dough faster if they are "active," they will do the job even if cold straight from the fridge. It'll just take a little more time. 

One day I tried it—I used cold, unfed starter from the fridge, and the resultant bake had the same taste and texture as if I had fed the starter and let it double. 

In general, I think we are less likely to try to tackle something new because we think that there is only one way to do it. It seems daunting, then, if there is only one, highly complicated method. 

I was thinking of those baby sleep training books, how they proclaim that their system is fool-proof, that it works on ALL BABIES EVERYWHERE. But how can that be true? All babies are different. All mothers are different. Different strokes for different folks. 

There is, rarely, only one way to get to a certain result. 

Au Contraire

After I had Ben, someone gave me their copy of Pamela Druckerman's Bringing Up Bébé, the American take on French mommying.

Of course, the French way of doing things makes any American feel inadequate. French children always eat new foods (Ben will eat four things). French children sleep through the night at two months (Ben is two years old and he usually wakes me up at some point). French children never misbehave (well, duh, a toddler doesn't always behave . . . right?) 

Today I was watching Netflix's Call My Agent! a rather funny French series about the acting biz in Paris. An actress had two babies in three years. Her agent visits her at home, trying to coax her to come back to work. She is feeding her three year old, begging her to try the baby carrots. Her daughter's mouth is firmly closed, refusing to take a bite. The mother gives in, plucking another option from the fridge.

There is no mention on the show that this is an aberration, that she is a sucky mommy. It is simply presented as . . . kids are kids. 

I found this to be profoundly comforting. 

In the end, there are few cases where generalizations apply. People are different. People parent differently. Kids are born with their own natures. It has nothing to do with nationality. People are people all over. 

People like generalizations, though. It makes life simpler. But it makes us more judgy.

The Way to the Heart is through the Stomach

I am going to say something now which will, in all probability, be considered controversial. 

Are you currently dating someone but can't get them to commit? 

Bake and/or cook for them.

I "joke" with Han that he would have married me much sooner if I had made muffins for him while we were dating. 

"No, no," he denies, his mouth full of lemon cake. But there is no denying the adoration shining in his eyes. 

I didn't really get into baking until we married. Ma used to hog the kitchen in that regard, and while I would be intrigued by different recipes, she wasn't exactly encouraging. She wasn't that jazzed about potential mess and sugary temptation.

But it turns out that I like to bake. Can baking be a hobby? I don't have many others, so it would be nice to have one. I see a recipe and I itch to try it. I frantically calculate: How much sugar can I shave off? How can I divide it into a smaller pan? What ingredients do I still need for it? I've always sucked at math but now I convert tablespoons to cups with ease.

As I type this, I have a whopper of a burn on my left wrist. Ben has a fascination with the oven so when I have to quickly get something out (it can be just a few moment between moist and dry goodies) I tend to scorch myself. It's fine. It's like a cool battle scar.

So after I started dabbling in baking, I noticed that Han was happy. Very very happy. While I grew up with at least two steady cake options in the freezer, Han did not. That makes him quite appreciative of my homey efforts.

And so we "joke." 

Brownie: "I'd marry you all over again!" 

Blueberry muffins: "I looooove yoooouuuuu!" 

Pesach sponge cake: "Damn, girl!" 

This strategy swings both ways. Han's brother likes to bake too, so he'll be a'wooing with ease. 

Suck at baking? Can't cook to save your life? No problem! Enlist the help of a friend who does like to and make sure to never expressly lie to the object of your affections. "You seem like you could use a home cooked meal." "These were no trouble to whip up."

Hey, just give it a try. Like chicken soup (Han lives for chicken soup) it can't hurt.