Essie Poor Lil' Rich Girl

With flash . . .

. . . and without.

An appropriate wintertime shade; when my bottle ran out I was on Ebay for a replacement. Dark shades like these look best with short nails. My nails were in bad cracked shape and I had clipped them to the quick, so I then applied a dark color. 

Ideal Timing

There is another aspect of When Harry Met Sally that really gives one something to ponder; Harry and Sally did not become friends at their initial meeting. Five years later when they bump into each other at the airport, they still get on each other's nerves. It is only when they see each other another five years later, both needing support after their own breakups, that they begin to bond. 

Harry was boorish at the first meeting; Sally was uptight and too fond of hairspray. The next time they meet they are both seeing other people. 

Often, when they meet up again and repeat what one said at the last bump-in, the other says, "I said that? I never said that."

People do change over time. I certainly know my opinions have morphed drastically over the years. 

Harry and Sally couldn't have become a couple the first time they met, nor the second. It took ten years for each of them to be shaped by personal experiences to make them ideal for each other. 

My Prince (snort) will show when the time is right. That's why "iy'H by you b'shaa tovah" gets on my nerves. Duh, he's gonna show at the right time.

The HM Complex

Harry: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.

Sally: Which one am I?

Harry: You're the worst kind; you're high maintenance but you think you're low maintenance. 

That is one of my favorite quotes from When Harry Met Sally.  I could watch that movie over and over; it contains so many truths about human nature. 

I'm sure many take one look at me and think "high maintenance." I'm sure many of my readers will think "high maintenance." Dates have bolted thinking I am "high maintenance." I happen to not think of myself as "high maintenance."

But you wear makeup! You pursue clothing! You frantically preserve your skin! Guilty, guilty, aaaaaand guilty.

When I asked around how one qualifies as being HM, I received similar answers. The true HM is when someone needs other people to maintain them; manicurists, hair stylists, personal shoppers,  maids, etc. Whatever I do, I do relatively alone; my own nails, my own hair (unless it's a simcha), I shop sales, I can scrub a pot. HMers aren't willing to flow with "imperfection"; they need everything just so, and harass others to get what they want. 

Perhaps I am trying to convince myself, but I think I'll allow it. 

And the conversation continues: 

Harry: You're the worst kind; you're high maintenance but you think you're low maintenance.

Sally: I don't see that.

Harry: You don't see that? Waiter, I'll begin with a house salad, but I don't want the regular dressing. I'll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. "On the side" is a very big thing for you.

Sally: Well, I just want it the way I want it.

Harry: I know; high maintenance.  

I'm in the clear!

Precursor to Shabbos Robes

The Hostess gowns of the 1970s can be equated to the "Shabbos robe" that used to be and still is cultivated by many a baalas habayis. Often made from polyester, and so unfriendly around stoves, it was ideal for pre-cooked Shabbos meals. 

via cupofte.blogspot.com

When googling "Shabbos robe," the screen screams with results. It is still with us,  it seems. 

Via RazaDesigns.com

The article was chronicling the debate of the modern hostess; for the non-Jewish world, the hostess gown is no longer an option. Some want to dress up more, others less.

As a hostess, it seems, there is no wrong way to dress. So be comfy when serving chicken soup.

Take 2

"Did you ever go out with Bren Derlin?" 

Bren was a really nice guy I went out with once. However, we had absolutely nothing in common besides being tall. Due to the aforementioned height, his name comes up often. According to many, our similarity in inches is sufficient reason for a future together. 

"Yes, I have, he was really nice, but we had nothing to talk about. We spent the whole night smiling at each other."  

She whips out her phone, tapping out a text to him as though I hadn't spoken. "That was a long time ago; he's grown up since then."  

"But he was grown up then!"  

"He'll do what I ask him," she continues to tap, ignoring my objections.  

"But I—!"  

She swats away my protests as though dealing with an annoyingly buzzing insect. 

I was mortified, amongst other emotions, but thankfully the force of his lack of feeling echoed mine. He wrote back to her, firmly, that I was nice but we had nothing in common, that we spent the whole night smiling at each other. 

She was rather deflated, and confessed that considering how her own daughter's marriage came about (she knew her spouse for years and didn't marry until her 30s) she supposes that one can't force things. 

Y'THINK?

Chapping the Chuppah

We now have an opportunity of potentially getting our hands on  serious royalties. 

The romantic symobolism of the chuppah has appealed to others outside of the Jewish faith.  

Cha-ching!

Chivalry is White Gloved

There is a tale in my family - that when my great-grandfather "came to call" on an eligible gal who would later become his wife, he arrived wearing white gloves and carrying a cane. 

According to the lore, it was those accessories that drove her to the chuppah.  

While we may all guffaw that such times are long behind us - a date once showed up on my doorstep in a disintegrating baseball cap and cargo pants, then inquired why I was so dressed up (in my simplest dress) - there is, of course, still that yearning when men wore tails and women wore silk gloves, the very romantic formality depicted in Cinderella.  

Charlotte Altar, who grew up with tales such as these from her mother's reminiscing, felt the lack that a dating website cannot fulfill. She, also, sought a memory of romance to pass on to the next generation.

When it comes to love, the main lesson I absorbed from my mother’s experiences was that even if most relationships hit the rocks, you should at least walk away with a good story. And I had none. So when I saw a chance to step into a memorable narrative of my own, I leapt.

She began to see a West Point Cadet. Despite her lack of feelings for him,  she was taken. 

He invited her to a West Point banquet, and her grandmother commented that she has a "beau." 

I rolled my eyes, though I was secretly pleased to have this experience vaguely linked to an earlier time, when people wore gloves and dating was a social fact. There was something comforting in the idea that my experience was not completely foreign to her.

I began to realize that even though this flirtation with the Cadet wasn’t a real romance, I was romanticizing it nevertheless. I was practically clutching at the idea even if I wasn’t clinging to the person.

The banquet itself was a blur of pinched toes and formal introductions. The Cadet wore a white uniform, crisp gloves and a sword.

Freshmen (guys my own age) waited on us, bringing us drinks with a stiff “Yes, sir,” and “For the lady.” 

. . . He had a sword, we drank Champagne, there was war talk: that sounds like a real love story, doesn’t it?

While the experiences with the Cadet may seem a bit much, even dates taking a walk by the river, as baby boomer college alumni inquired of their former university, is extinct. 

“Well, what do people do then, on a date?”

I wanted to assure him that people still occasionally go out to dinner or attend formal events. But the truth is that sometimes these encounters feel more like acts of nostalgia than acts of love.

My great-grandparents' story survived past world wars until today. And that was a shidduch date, yet! 

I have no such desires, truly. My parents have no story; my siblings have no story. My grandparents do, possibly because they were survivors, so any story is automatically gripping.  

"Happily ever afters" do not necessarily require "Once upon a time." I can settle for a non-epic. 

The Art of the Sale

"I have just the boy," she says, ruffling through her papers. "Ah! Here we go. He's 35 and looking for a younger girl." She beams at me.

He sounds like quite the catch. 

"This boy," another woman gushes, "doesn't care if you cover or don't cover you hair." 

She knows what I'm like and the background I come from; of course I'm covering my hair. The fact that he doesn't care (a) doesn't apply and (b) tells me where he stands religiously. How is this supposed to pique my interest?

"This boy, while he doesn't want to leave the yeshiva world," another says, "he's still worldly. For instance, he can talk about the Yankees and the Mets."

The Yankees and the Mets. Memo: I'M. A. GIRL. I don't give a hoot about the Yankees and the Mets. And by the way: knowing about baseball doesn't mean he's "worldly." It just confirms the fact that he's male.

Proper shadchanim, shadchanim who do things old school, realize that when trying to sell someone, the way to go about it would be to, say, highlight their qualities and gloss over their faults.  

But when so-called shachanim try to sell me someone by focusing only on the negative, I get confused. Have you actually set anyone up successfully? 

Let's say selling a boy was like selling a house. Would the tactic be, "The plumbing could be better, the floor is slanted, and there is an army of mice in the walls"? 

Ladies, ladies, ladies. Here's the thing. If you want to make a date and then, hopefully, a marriage (and get shadchanus), presenting the other party with the most trivial of details that don't place them in the best light, is, oddly enough, not going to spike your success rate. 

"This fellow," the shadchan describes, "is super-sensitive." 

And I'm running away now. No commission for you.

Momma Always Said, "They Hate You"

Shalom Auslander is not an author I would usually bring myself to quote, but this tale featured as the back story in the NY Times Magazine kinda destroys any sort of fantasy where the whole world joins hands and sings "Kumbaya."

Purrrr

In the spirit of all the lovely ladies, who, in a moment of panic, believe their future to be feline rather than fella filled, I present the musical recommendation, Cats. The lyrics are derived from T.S. Elliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. 

It was one of the longest running musicals on Broadway; I was taken to see it at age 12, which for me was quite an experience. 

Andrew Lloyd Webber is an amazing composer, churning out reliably singable music. A made-for-TV version was released in 1998, which I had taped on PBS and watched on a loop. It was on Ovation the other day, and  I hummed The Peeks and the Pollicles on the way to the train this morning. 

If I'm to provide a snippet, Memory is the usual choice, but I don't like many slow songs. Here's The Awful Battle of the Peeks and the Pollicles, where the human performers who are pretending to be cats are now dressed up as dogs.

Thankfully, it doesn't take itself seriously.