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.