They Break Bones

There was a scene in "Fill the Void" that has wedged itself in my mind. Shira, the 18-year-old protagonist who has recently lost her sister, is back at work, playing the accordion for the local gan. Watching the little girls bounce cheerfully to a joyous tune, she is infected by their enthusiasm and smiles. 

Another teacher comes over, placing her hand on her shoulder, saying she was so sorry to hear the news, she was out of town. How do you feel? How is your mother? 

Shira, now reminded of her pain, droops distinctly. The woman walks away, but Shira can no longer continue with the dancing melody. Instead, drowning in her refreshed sorrow, her fingers and hands contort her instrument into a mournful lament.

This image clashes with the previous scene of the family sitting shiva, remaining steadfastly silent as Shira's mother leans heavily on her. After a few moments, the visitors gets up, saying "HaMakom yinacheim eskem . . ." May God comfort you.

The laws of shiva are that a comforter cannot speak unless the grieving instigate conversation. Unbidden, visitors cannot pry as to details, or feelings (which, I would think, are obvious); they are merely to come and show their support, taking their cue from the mourners. 

Why should these laws be suspended after a mere week? Suddenly, one can ask impertinent questions, stabbing another who is already in agony? It happens all to often, as also seen when the spinster, Freida, is told constantly the Hebrew equivalent of "Im yertz Hashem by you." The audience can see the flicker cross her face, even as she smiles politely, every time it is uttered. What kindness is there reminding someone constantly of the fact that she is single?

In a segment of Social Qs, a woman writes in: 

I heard through the grapevine that a woman I used to work with for over five years is going through chemotherapy. We were never personal friends. This morning, I ran into her on the street. She was clearly wearing a wig (albeit a very nice one that many people might not have noticed). I didn’t comment on her appearance and wasn’t sure exactly what to say. So I asked how she was, and we chit-chatted about work. She never mentioned her cancer. But I couldn’t help feeling uncaring for not asking about her struggle with chemo. What was the appropriate thing to do?

Anonymous, Brooklyn

I (finally) watched the first season of “Breaking Bad” over our rainy Memorial Day weekend. (Don’t worry; my pulse should be back to normal any day now.) And as I watched Bryan Cranston turn from unassuming high-school chemistry teacher to brutal meth-cooker (thanks, in part, to his character’s diagnosis with Stage 3 lung cancer), I realized that taking “vacations” from serious illness is probably crucial, whether that involves gunning down your local drug lord or putting on a good wig and walking along Main Street as if you were as healthy as a horse.

No one wants to be a cancer patient all the time or talk about it with everyone she meets. I think you did just the right thing. Let other folks decide when they want to share their bad news, especially those with whom we’re not close. And if they choose not to mention it, don’t take it as a slight, or let your silence feel like a mark of coldness. Quite the opposite: you let your former colleague enjoy a brief respite from her illness. I’d call that very kind, indeed.

Words can wound. We have to think a moment, perhaps many moments, before speaking. How many times do I cringe in memory of that which I spoke without sufficient aforethought? If I accidentally step on another's toe, while I have hurt them, it will be forgotten in five minutes, tops. If I say the wrong thing? I am guilty of hurting someone for years to come.   

Blot the Oil

I got into oil blotting sheets a while back. Unlike mattifying powder, which has to be constantly, messily applied until layers accumulate (in my case), blotting sheets simply remove the problem without disturbing makeup. 

I used to religiously purchase the Clean & Clear Oil-Absorbing Sheets, until I found out that mineral oil is an ingredient. What is so terrible about mineral oil, pray? Mineral oil is derived from petroleum, which is not exactly known for allowing pores to breathe. That kinda defeats the purpose of my dabbing off the oil in the first place.

Boscia Blotting Linens is of comparable price, $10/100 sheets (as opposed to $4.50/50 of the C&C). I had tried other sheets by other companies that was so thin that one dab soaked it completely through, but these, while seemingly frail, do a thorough job with just one linen. 

These sheets are just leaf fiber (and a touch of peppermint extract). I like the Green Tea ones. 

I use at least one pretty much daily, in the afternoons. They are also great for Shabbos, especially since I wake up with serious oil along my t-zone, even when I've powdered myself into oblivion. 

"Negotiating Peace at Home"

I like Bruce Feiler. He usually has funny and informative articles. This one, "Lessons in Domestic Diplomacy," should be read in its entirety. 

The Wandering Jew

"Um, he doesn't seem to be . . . religious." 

"What!?!" 

His information seemed to depict an out-of-the-box, yet inherently frum individual. But a cursory internet search proved otherwise: He was off the derech. Not in the past tense; currently, he is without faith.

The shadchan did not know; friends with the mother, she had derived all impressions from her. A mother who, stricken by her son's abandonment of the family's beliefs, perhaps hoped that a date with a religious girl might coax him back onto the beaten path. 

She couldn't have expected to succeed, as I don't know that many irreligious guys who would say "Sure Ma! I'll go on a shidduch date for old time's sake," then not keep Shabbos the following evening.  

I wasn't mad. If anything, I felt for this woman, trying every which way to rekindle in her boy the goals and values of his upbringing.

I suppose I should be flattered to be considered bait . . .    

Battle of the Bulge: Get Out!

Of the kitchen. 

Yes, I do advocate cooking as opposed to eating out, but if I am in there when not meal-focused, bad things happen. 

The kitchen is a treasure-trove of hidden delights, neatly packed away in cabinets and freezers. The cake which I have sternly told myself to consume only on Shabbos is there, waiting to be loved. The chocolates, which I bought (I thought) for my niece, innocently peer from the pantry door. Who could resist cookies 'n' cream Kisses? 

I can be smug about not succumbing to temptation because five days a week I am parked at my office desk, unwilling to take time off to buy extra food. If I am hungry, I simply go hungry, waiting to go home, where I quickly consume supper and flee the kitchen, plopping before the television. 

But when I come home early on Fridays? The long Shabbos afternoon? When home on Sunday? It is a constant struggle. "Lead us not into temptation" is the path up my walkway. 

For those who are at home all day, and one day, please God, I hope to be too, I know there will be a whole new front to fight at, new strategies needed. 

Ana Benaroya

Neil Izenberg wrote, "Is Your Kitchen a Health Hazard?" The concept of the kitchen has evolved over the years, making it easily accessible to the entire household, becoming the center of the home's universe. Oy.  

. . . our kitchens, like our girths, have grown substantially, in terms of size and of function . . .

Soon I’ll be able to amble (or, more likely, roll) a mere five feet from my kitchen counter stool to my couch to watch “Chopped,” “Top Chef” or “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.” The refrigerator, pantry and containers of food will remain alluringly in sight (and all beautifully lighted, I might add). I won’t even have to leave the room during a commercial. And why would I leave at all? The kitchen has Wi-Fi. 

There's a BBC comedy that is constantly replayed on PBS called "As Time Goes By," and the kitchen is a recurring source of amazement. The fridge is a small box beneath the counter, and it seems that the only item stored in there is milk for coffee; while the dining and living rooms are rather comfortable, the kitchen cannot accommodate the entire family at the same time.

How British. 

I know our usual celebration of a yontif is "They tried to kill us, we won, let's eat," but considering how we do the latter every day as it is, maybe we should cut back on the enormity of our meals, savoring light suppers devoid of hefty amounts of heavy meat and belly-busting portions of farfel.

Perhaps there is one more kitchen option I should get: a neon sign that says “Kitchen Closed.” After dinner, I’ll turn it on.  

Elephant in the Room

There are plenty of dates who ask me about the status of my friendships. 

"Oh, you moved . . . do you have any friends?" 

What is this, first grade? Let's see, there's the best-best friend, the second-best friend, the friend who is only a friend by recess because she has awesome snack . . . 

I have very high expectations from friendships. I assume a friend is someone loyal and pleasant, with whom one truly can exchange ideas or beliefs without feeling mocked or criticized. 

I had to later conclude that I must have been delusional. 

After being betrayed or hurt in a number of situations, I have been leery about sharing my innermost thoughts with others, specifically females my own age. 

Facebook has certainly diminished the glow from friendships, equating them indiscriminately with "vague girl from Calculus five years ago." Friendship, the actual, pure meaning of the word, is a rarity nowadays. But few are willing to concede to it the rank of "endangered species." 

Some bloggers, shielded by the comfort of anonymity, will admit that they are friendless. Because to be friendless today is often viewed as an equivalent of Jud Fry, the murderous sociopath in Oklahoma! What do you mean, "no friends"? Impossible! 

He's on the right.

We no longer hunger for friends for mere companionship, but as proof of our worth. How often do I receive a wedding invitation from a girl I barely know? Too often.

How can so many single girls cry that their married friends have completely abandoned them? You know why? She wasn't really your friend to begin with. She was single, she didn't have many responsibilities, and why not hang out with you? You threw her showers, hired shtick, and danced the night away in painful shoes. Why? Not simply because you believed her to be your friend, but be honest: That when the time came, she would return those many favors. But she didn't, did she, after all, she's married, she's too busy. If she was truly your friend, she would hold that relationship as dear as you do.

I am reminded of that harmless movie, 27 Dresses, an ode to "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride." The main character, Jane, goes ridiculously above and beyond for her "friends," to the point that it can be officially labeled abuse. She says at one point, "By my wedding, they will be there for me," and the concluding scene of her nuptials has all her 27 friends in attendance, wearing the atrocious getups they had stuffed her into for their own. 

 

It is a statistical infeasibility she had 27 best friends to begin with. Never mind that she supposedly kept up with any of them following their marriages, or that they still had any interest in her. 

When it comes to a friend, I am holding out, the same way I am holding out for my Han Solo. I don't want to be around someone who will bring me down, nor do I want put up with someone I constantly have to puff up. Just someone whom I can talk to without being ridiculed or scorned, with whom a give-and-take is the norm.  

For the past few years I had a few individuals who I would maybe refer to as "friends," but I must admit the relationships were less than satisfactory. After leaving their company I would be aggravated from their behavior and my own reaction to it. 

But then I met someone, one with whom I can share and won't be laughed at. She doesn't hog the conversation. She understands me (and I her) to the point we are finishing each other's sentences. Yes, at the advanced age of 27, I think I finally found an actual friend. The others? Cheap imitations, who obviously maintained the connection to ensure a dancing section by their weddings. 

Even if this relationship will have an expiration date, I am still happy to have this time together while we are still in the same place. People do change, and I wish to enjoy another's company in the here and now. 
 

Friendships are, in some ways, like marriages. They are based on respect, kindness, and work. If they can be cast away easily, one half was not doing their part. Time for a divorce.   

Not Alike? Sure They Are.

My boss, who is Jewish but not religious, has an annoying habit of kibbitzing. A client of his was being overly-friendly with me, and his theory was that maybe the client was trying to play matchmaker for his son, much to my horror. 

My boss wanted to know why that would be a problem. I responded that I am a Sabbath observer, and these guys are not. "What does that matter?" he snorted. 

"Jack, I'm religious. I actually believe in this claptrap. I believe in it so much that, for me, I wouldn't be able to have a conversation with a potential suitor if he didn't believe in the same things I do." 

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "Like your parents talk about religion?" 

"Um, yeah, they do. All the time." 

"WHAT?"

When two people aren't perfectly alike, religion is a wonderful glue. Like this couple; republican meets democrat, amongst other things. Both Asian and deeply religious, they view commitment in a way that has somewhat fallen to the wayside. 

“Love is definitely about feelings and emotions and poetry,” she said, “but for me it’s about sacrificing for the other person, putting their feelings before your own.” 

And: 

. . . during a lunch at his church . . . Ms. Hsieh excused herself and began to clean up. When he asked her why she was doing that, she told him she felt the need to serve others. 

“From that point, he made it clear he was here to serve me,” she said. They had a frank discussion about marriage, commitment and sacrifice, and agreed to devote themselves to each other, to the glory of God and to serving others. 

And: 

A relationship proceeded, though the word “love” did not enter into it. When they discussed previous relationships, Mr. Wong told Ms. Hsieh that former girlfriends had been upset that he had not expressed affection. She told him she did not expect him to say those sorts of things to her.

She said that in her previous relationship, she did not understand the meaning of love. Mr. Wong, she said, “was more legalistic about it. For me, it was more experience related.”

Though the word itself was not spoken, the feeling did manifest itself . . . 

I have always had issues with "I love you." To me, love, as it says above, can and should be expressed through action. The same way that every day is Mother's Day, every day should be Valentine's Day. Deeds on a beloved's behalf means love, not words.

The couple kissed for the first time at their wedding ceremony. Yeah, we hear that. 

I could probably put up with all sorts of alien mishagaas from a man (what is this thing with sports?) but I really hope that we will click when it comes to religion. The basic stuff. I'm always game for a theological discussion.  

Middle Part Must Go

I hate middle parts. The hair that hides the face, instead of framing it; the starkness of the line bisecting the scalp; how in order for it to look good, one needs to seriously pay a stylist. 

Even then . . .

Nope.

If men look dorky with it, why shouldn't women?

When the part is off to one side it's so much more flattering. That way, the face is displayed to its best advantage, while on the other all that hair can do its chic thang. 

Now, isn't that better?

And it looks good on guys, too. 

Get yourself a rat tail comb to make a defined side part.