Nerd Love Song and Shanghai Shidduchim

When I saw this when the episode aired, I got teary-eyed. I initially planned to find a way to link it to a post, but decided I couldn't wait. 

Yes, even though my idea of hell is to be serenaded in public, nothing gets me quite like Klingon.

Ah, parmaq.

Below is courtesy of Mrs. A. Thanks again, Mrs. A.!

You Make Me Better

When she first began her shiur, I winced at her initial point. It wasn't terrible, just I didn't agree with it. 

But an hour later, I was floating. 

Has one ever been in the presence of sheer goodness? Someone who radiates an aura of genuineness? Simply hearing her speak made me defy gravity. 

She wasn't a well-known name, nor a rebbetzin, nor a personality; she was a mother in her 30s, who is truly spiritual and seeking a close relationship with Hashem. She wan't posing, or purring, or stroking her own ego; she had nothing to prove. She simply is. 

She cried when telling over Aharon HaKohen's death, that he lived to see his own son take over from him, while Moshe did not. She spoke of yearning for her children to grow up to be spiritually successful. She gave suggestions how when one is having a busy day, one should pray, in one's own words, on the format of Shmoneh Esrei, praise, request, and thanks, a practical suggestion for a busy mother. 

I left that shiur infused with light; swollen with a desire to be better.

Not because someone told over a miforash that blew my mind, or shamed me into scorning my mediocre self. Because she herself strove with the noblest, purest, and selfless of motivations.

Are You Not Entertained?

My nephew, so very little, can flick his fingers with remarkable dexterity when playing "Fruit Ninja." I am constantly re-amazed how with almost adult assurance he can summon the game, his face bored with lack of effort. 

This new generation, that has been born into glowing screens and constant distraction, have it differently than we did. The ancient television that we kids squabbled over needed pliers to change the channel (Ma had the newer model with functioning remote). Car rides were just plain tedious and nausea-inducing. Shopping trips? Sheer hell, for both parent and child. 

Yes, as a lover of sweet, sweet TV, I who ran home to watch "Batman: The Animated Series" and "Wishbone," can't really sniff in condescension at these kids who have never known a moment's stillness.

I must say, television was wonderfully educational. Because of a little dog with an overactive imagination, I knew all the classics without having to read them. I cannot be anti-television. But there was always limits due to the fact that that wondrous box was immovable, bound to the house. 

Steve Almond's article, "My Kids are Obsessed with Technology, and It's All My Fault," expresses his worries quite well. A child television addict, he decided he didn't want his children to be hooked to constant 2-D entertainment the way he was. 

This is the moment we live in, the one our childhoods foretold. When I see Josie clutching her grandmother’s Kindle to play Angry Birds for the 10th straight time, or I watch my son stuporously soaking up a cartoon, I’m really seeing myself as a kid — anxious, needy for love but willing to settle for electronic distraction to soothe my nerves or hold tedium at bay.  

It's how the shallow is utilized, at the expense of reality. 

Back in the day, when my folks snapped off the TV and exhorted us to pick up a book or go outside and play, they did so with a certain cultural credibility. Everyone knew you couldn’t experience the “real world” by sitting in front of a screen. It was an escape. Today, screens are the real world, or at least the accepted means of making us feel a part of that world. And they can no longer be written off as mind-rotting piffle. “The iPad is an educational tool, Papa!” Josie declared last month, after hearing me grouse about Apple’s efforts to target the preschool demographic.

Except now the real world is the technological one. Almond's daughter began to read heavily with the iPad's coaxing. I was the know-it-all kid in school because of PBS, and even Batman got some knowledge in. 

In the course of mulling this question, I stumbled across an odd trove of videos (on YouTube, naturally) in which parents proudly record their babies operating iPads. One girl is 9 months old. Her ability to manipulate the touch screen is astonishing. But the clip is profoundly eerie. The child’s face glows like an alien as she scrolls from app to app. It’s like watching some bizarre inverse of Skinner’s box, in which the child subject is overrun by choices and stimuli. She seems agitated in the same way my kids are after “quiet time” — excited without being engaged.  

To engage, interact—that cannot be executed with an unfeeling computer chip. What is truly worth experiencing will be only with the tangible. 

Because aren’t we just kidding ourselves? When we whip out our smartphones in line at the bank, 9 times out of 10 it’s because we’re jonesing for a microhit of stimulation, or that feeling of power that comes with holding a tiny universe in our fist.

The reason people turn to screens hasn’t changed much over the years. They remain mirrors that reflect a species in retreat from the burdens of modern consciousness, from boredom and isolation and helplessness. 

When I'm miserable, I turn to television, not Häagen-Dazs. By keeping things light and entertaining, maybe the depths of my anguish can be lessened. But Louis C.K. had this great bit on "Conan" about just this. Louis being Louis, vulgarity will have to get in there—I am warning my audience—but for those willing to brave it, he is still very much worth hearing.

The Times They are a-Changin'

My sister dated for a long time. When I was little I would breathlessly run to the window and peer in excitement at the battered sedan outside as she stiffly walked across the grass with this evening's offering. Once or twice I would lean my head as far as possible through the upstairs banister to catch a glimpse of black hat and a snatch of an unfamiliar male voice before it disappeared into the dining room.

There was also the standard rituals to observe. Ma applying her Face, but leaving her utilitarian skirt on, since she would be sitting behind a table. The bottles of untouched Pellegrino placed on a tray, along with a dish of foil-wrapped truffles, which merely gathered dust over the years. Ta giving his hat a vigorous brush or two before the new victim arrived. Sis waiting at the top of the steps, silently counting to thirty before slowly making her descent. 

Thirsty? Tough.

As the years passed, I no longer found it scintillating. Yeah, sure, whatever, she's on another date, what else is knew. So it was a complete shock when Luke burst into my room one morning with a goofy grin and told me she was engaged. Apparently, no one had bothered to waken me for the midnight l'chaim. 

When my turn came around, I put my foot down. Okay, maybe I just tentatively placed it on the floor. He's obviously not going to touch the water or chocolates, I argued. That went. Ma, an early-bird, decided she can't stand to redo her Face in the evenings, and doesn't bother to come downstairs on first dates anymore, happy to take up the spot by the window. Ta just stays casual; the tie is nonchalantly draped on a chair, the hat safe in its box in the closet. 

As for my waiting upstairs? Nah. I'm going out with the guy; if there is something of interest after the first few dates then the folks can pick him apart. Often I have—gasp!—opened the door myself if Ta couldn't leave the office. C'mon, I'm not 19 anymore, neither are you. Why can't this dating thing be more natural?  

Ta grumbles from time to time. He likes meeting new people, even if they are one-date-wonders, and he tries to insist that I remain unseen for at least two solid minutes. I just want to get this outing going, I insist, my kishkes can't stand this waiting. Twitching silently in the den for two solid minutes feels like two hours.

I like doing things this way, more at ease, less complicated. I probably have horrified more than one guy, but why should I let a ship that passes in the night be grilled and interrogated to no good purpose? 

Never mind teasing him with well-aged chocolate.  

Hunger is the Best Sauce

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease," he whines, for the shiny toy he sees on the store shelf. 

"Oh, all right," I succumb. 

It's not much of a surprise when all the bits and pieces are scattered about, forgotten and neglected, all too soon.

Let us consider dinner for a minute. I have come to a point that I don't enjoy eating unless I am hungry, since there is a missing element of delicious satisfaction when the juices haven't been stewing in anticipation. It seems that also applies to purchases. 

Elizabeth Dunn and Michael Norton report in "Happier Spending" that thanks to technology, people can buy without marking the cost, also known as instant gratification. 

Ma has nurtured in me a preference of using cash. Whenever I go shopping and I hand over my credit card, I do not even process the price. When I'm using cash, I repeat, "It's how much?" and sadly count out the bills. 

Square Wallet’s chief appeal is that it makes payment essentially invisible. This is exactly what makes it so dangerous. Yes, the app soothes the pain that might be connected to forking over five dollars for morning coffee, but numbing that pain is tricky. Just as the sensation of burning tells you to pull your hand from the stove, the pain of paying can keep spending in check. This isn’t just a metaphor. Paying high prices for goods and services activates the region of the brain associated with the anticipation of actual physical pain.

I always thought my hands felt suddenly arthritic when I have to empty my wallet.

Cash smells so nice and papery . . .

Americans are mired in debt. Sometimes it isn't avoidable, or even can be financially sound, but happiness is diminished anyway. However, prepayment, the vanquisher of debt, is connected to higher happiness.

No matter the item to be purchased, if it was paid for in advance as opposed to on the spot, the buyers were happier. It would seem the physical pain of parting with greenbacks then does not taint the joy of receiving the item later—the sensations are experienced separately, so the happiness is complete. 

It's about anticipation, which even applies to dating. The idea of the first date is usually more palatable than the date itself.

Parents recognize this principle when they wrap Christmas gifts and leave them under the tree for weeks. Wrapped presents are often more exciting than ones that have been opened. We all know a child who pined for some toy only to end up playing with the packaging. Perhaps this explains why research shows that people frequently experience a happiness boost in the weeks before their vacation. Stuck in an office cubicle, the anticipation of the beach is almost as enjoyable as the beach itself. The French — those masters of pleasure — even have a word that helps capture the thrill of anticipating the future: réjouir.  

Additionally, the mind uses the anticipation to gloss over any possible flaws when the union takes place. So in the end, waiting is a win-win. 

Masters of Misleading

"Oh, I know just the boy for you," she trills, continuing to gush about his qualities. "Email me!" 

The next morning, I dutifully send her my information. She replies, "Could you go through this organization I'm a member of? Thanks!" 

A month later and $100 poorer, I emerge dazed from the "discrete" location of this dating organization, tucked away in the midst of rambling Brooklyn. Most of the names the tribunal had suggested I had already gone out with, and the few that I hadn't sounded . . . not me. 

As for the specific bachelor originally mentioned? No one had brought him up. 

I have been contacted only once since they took my money, and that was with a fellow so off his sanity that his "What he's looking for" section made me swallow my soup wrong.   

I was a victim of the Nigerian Scam. "You will receive all your heart can ever desire, in exchange for a small fee." Not. 

At least if I had kept the money I could have had new shoes for emotional support.    

Daring Greatly

   

I was first formally introduced to Brené Brown's work when happening upon her being featured on Oprah's Lifeclass a few weeks ago. I found her insights to be so breathtaking that I sat immobilized for the whole hour, clutching a pillow, jaw slack. There may have been drool.

Sadly, I can't find the entirety of the Lifeclass episode available online for viewing; above is only one of many "WOW" snippets.  I managed to tape it off of Demand for my personal use, though.

I am one who also associated vulnerability with weakness. When in my young gullible state I tried to be vulnerable with others, sharing embarrassing aspects of myself in order to gain friendships, only to be laughed at one too many times. I'm a quick study; I clammed up, and dared not reveal myself. 

But Brown clarifies that vulnerability is the most precious thing one can share with another, and it does not get revealed willy-nilly. Another must earn the right to see it.

My mistake was not being vulnerable; my mistake was not being discerning. 

Any deep, meaningful relationship will mean vulnerability. Tim Kreider's article, "I Know What You Think of Me," clearly illustrates the very same idea.

Brown discusses shame and vulnerability, two connected concepts that aren't limited to relationships; it also has to do with knowing oneself. One has to be vulnerable, and unafraid of shame, to be able to look oneself in the eye and see oneself. To see qualities and faults, and then to take action to improve oneself.

Another Teddy Roosevelt quote: "Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty." Any meaningful emotional connection can be fraught with terror and anguish as well. But it is worth having. 

Nisht a Heir, Nisht a Heen

One date called me a Bais Yaakov girl.

Two weeks later, another stated, "You consider yourself 'modern.'"

I was wearing the same exact getup both times, just to clarify. Nor were they on opposite sides of the "frum" spectrum; they were both of pretty much the same outlook/lifestyle.

I don't consider myself "anything". I am simply an observant Jewess. No hashkafa, no specific rabbanim that I ally myself to, just let's take a look at what halacha says. I live my life pretty close to how my parents and grandparents lived theirs, also lacking identifying labels other than maybe "heimish." (That's hi-mish, not hay-mish. One vowel makes all the difference.)

But everyone prowls about with a label-maker in hand, so they can quickly type in a classification and slap it on my forehead. I have been called everything from modern to yeshivish to chassidish, from frummy to bummy. Doesn't make it so, just 'cause you called me that.

Whenever I travel outside of New York, I am always struck about how the Jews everywhere else live their lives as a true melting pot. They don't recognize N.Y.-area "rules" for what qualifies as a certain outlook; they just do what appeals to them, and may call themselves "yeshivish" or "modern," but there is a lot of wiggle room. 

When they transplant to New York, they decide they want to continue being "yeshivish" or "modern." But it is different here, very, very, different. For instance, they don't realize that yeshivish people here have "officially" banned television, so talking about the most recent episode of a reality show in public kinda labels one another way.

But I'm yeshivish! they cry. I really am! Sir, your skinny suit says otherwise.  

These labels have to go the way of the dodo. Or the way of Alderaan. It's causing too many identity crises.   

21st Century Marriage

One of the reasons why I think the so-called "singles crisis" is hooey is because marriage, itself, has changed. 

What was marriage once? Well, most women were unable to support themselves, and required a man to establish her own home, have children, and most importantly, eat. A man needed a woman to keep that home upright, bear his children, and most importantly, make dinner.

A typical couple did not have Starbucks dates. They did not spend myriads of hours discussing their hopes and dreams. Moonlit walks on the beach were not likely.

For Yaakov and Rochel: Not exactly a shared Coke.

Men and women had concrete expectations in marriage. Now, a man no longer needs a woman, and a woman no longer needs a man to live non-starving lives. There's restaurants, social connections, and dry cleaners. 

Marriage today is more about spiritual and emotional fulfillment, which, I must say, sounds pretty great. People no longer have to get up before dawn to thresh, milk, or slaughter something, which is kinda awesome. We have quality time available to learn, delve, strive. 

Stephanie Coontz discusses the modern state of marriage in "The Disestablishment of Marriage." While society may opine that the institution of marriage has fallen to the wayside, she brings data showing otherwise. 

The once rigid state of marriage has evolved. 

Until recently, women who married later than average had higher rates of divorce. Today, with every year a woman delays marriage, up to her early 30s, her chance of divorce decreases, and it does not rise again thereafter. If an American woman wanted a lasting marriage in the 1950s, she was well advised to choose a man who believed firmly in traditional values and male breadwinning. Unconventional men — think beatniks — were a bad risk. Today, however, traditionally minded men are actually more likely to divorce — or to be divorced — than their counterparts with more egalitarian ideas about gender roles. 

It's so nice to have research on one's side. While I know that for the frum world, divorce is appearing in every age group and affiliation, but in terms of the "singles crisis," the longer one stays single means her chances of divorce dwindle. 

I thought of this article when I read of Kelly Williams Brown, 28, who wrote a book on how to become an adult. A 28-year-old, one would think, is already an adult, no? But consider: our generation is maturing at a slower rate than previous ones. In Isaac Bashevis Singer stories, a teenager would be an old married lady. As our life spans lengthen, milestones are reached later than before. 

I'm all about individuality, not statistics. But if we opt for that whole bashert thing, we might as well see the pros as well as the cons for the frummies marrying later. 

I thought I was a big girl when I started dating at 19. Then, when I was 23, I was all, "Phew, baruch Hashem I didn't get married then!" When I was 26, I thought I knew all there was to know in order to get married, until one bad date, in hindsight, made me aware of what I am truly looking for. At 28, can I get smug now? 

I still got some more growing up to do.

All these changes make it an exciting time to research marriage — and a challenging time to enter it. But it’s not that we’re doing a worse job at marriage than our ancestors did. It’s that we demand different things from marriage than in the past. And marriage demands different things from us.    

Illamasqua Powder Blusher in Tremble

Having a stone floor in the bathroom does not bode well for my cosmetics. One innocent fumble, and wham—my Illamasqua Powder Blusher in Hussy is no longer with us. 

I discussed blush strategy a year ago, and I don't have new information to add in terms of application method (some things are timeless). But, I decided that Hussy was too dark for my skin tone. 

I adore Illamasqua since the majority of its offerings are matte with potent pigment. Peering at the online swatches (which are rarely accurate), I zoned in on Tremble. No shades of orange, lilac, bronze, or neutral need apply; I seek pink. That left only Tremble. 

Via makeupandmacaroons.com

It looks pinker in person. 

Remember ladies, a little swipe on the apples of the cheeks does wonders. (Please don't put bronzer there. That's not where bronzer goes.)