Brace Myself

"You're grinding your teeth," she says, peering into my mouth. 

"Yeah, I figure the lower ones have been looking chewed up. So, mouthguard for the night? Remineralizing toothpaste?" 

"You need Invisalign." 

"Come say what now?" 

I had had a sneaking suspicion that my many years of misguided loyalty to my old-fashioned dentist would come back to bite me, pun intended. Go be nice. After finally braving the drama of abandoning my previous dental provider, I didn't think my courage would be rewarded with "You need braces. Like your teenage niece."

Don't know why she's smiling.

Luke has been doing Invisalign for like forever, but he's in a different category. For one, he doesn't have to worry about excusing himself on a date to yank out fiddly bits of plastic before partaking of dinner; he's already got Organa safely acquired. I'm now actually hoping for lobby and Starbucks dates, which will allow to me to rely on straws.

It gets better! Apparently, in order to ensure the stupid things stay in place, they glue "attachments" on the teeth, small protrusions that scrape the inside of the lip when one finally gets to eat. So even if I would leave them out for a few hours to socialize, wide grins and deep laughs will have to be put on hold for a few months. How am I supposed to be charming now, feeling like an extra in a horror movie? 

"Really? I don't notice them," is a feeble, constant refrain.

"Well, I do. I feel hideous!"

Oh no. My lipstick. My beautiful lipstick! How will it stay on for Shabbos? Oh no oh no oh no. 

It took a week of self-pity and -consciousness before I managed to adjust to my new way of life. My dentist buffed out the attachments and after a few days, the insides of my lips were no longer in agony. On Shabbos I managed to extract the dang things without mussing my makeup, ta-da! (Apparently, I've been training my whole life for this moment.)

I'm still not smiling.

I actually started to believe that maybe they aren't as noticeable as I think, flashing toothy grins with my previous confidence.

Whilst in my initial misery, Ma plopped in front of me an article about the adult-brace trend, as reported by fellow victim Dana Wood. Apparently adults everywhere—and I mean people in their 50s, like the author, as well as celebrities—are being sentenced to plastic or metal smiles. That made me feel a little more trendy. (I'll take what I can get.) 

When I returned to my dentist, I was surprised to see that she, too, has become an Invisalign pal. Ma's dentist as well.

I'll brazen this out as fashionably as I can.  

Work For It

In my parents' day, high school graduates got jobs. While Ta was in college, he taught math and science in his yeshiva. Ma, like the rest of her classmates, got a secretarial job in Manhattan. (Zeidy thought such an opportunity for a young girl to easily earn money to be near miraculous.) That's not really the current default today, which is a shame.

A job—any job—is an education. The first time I babysat for the neighbor across the street—I was eight, with my parents in yodeling distance—I was crushingly aware of responsibility. For that hour while the mother had to quickly run out, I stood ramrod straight clutching the cordless phone while the little(r) girls played peacefully at my feet and the baby gurgled at me from the crib. 

Working is an invaluable experience that many of our youth miss out on. Children can have an over-inflated sense of self—which is mostly due to underexposure—which is crushed the first time they screw up on the job. Bosses aren't going to humor them, or give them a pass. They expect results. 

It is a bleak moment when one realizes that the more one knows, the more one doesn't know. 

At the same time, employees can discover their own capabilities, realizing what is truly worthy of admiration, and feel that soft, fuzzy glow of a paycheck well-earned.

Those memories of my first jobs came back to me as I read Leslie Jamison's response to the question, "What early job later informed your work as a writer?"

Jamison dabbled in many different fields, but she greatly enjoyed her time in a bakery, even though she didn't have quite the knack. 

 . . . Messing up in a kitchen taught me more about “constructive criticism” than any workshop ever had. . . 

I was humbled by that job, over and over again: humbled by how much I needed to learn, how much I needed to keep learning; how I needed to keep practicing what I kept getting wrong. Just because I had published a book, just because maybe 500 people had bought it, didn’t mean I wouldn’t show up (at 7 a.m.) and suit up (in my apron); and it didn’t mean I wasn’t held accountable to my production list, stuck to the walk-in cooler beside the more ambitious lists of my colleagues.

This is one truth that hasn’t gone away: Whatever happens in my writing, I still have to show up for the rest of my life, whatever that entails — 100 gingerbread cookies or a boyfriend with the flu; a student’s last-minute rec letter or my daughter’s musical.

But it was another truth — the humility of that kitchen, confronting what I didn’t know — that has felt most resonant across my writing life. As my work has evolved, it has demanded uncomfortable, new kinds of capacity: learning how to pursue a difficult subject; how to seduce her in an interview; how to get corrected by fact-checkers; how to live in archives.

Writing hasn’t felt like getting progressively better at a single task; it’s felt more like stumbling toward the bewildering call of each new project, learning how to be a person who knows nothing; how to arrive on time, put on a batter-smeared apron and show up for whatever happens next.

In work, there will be times when one messes up. There will be medicine: criticism, humiliation, but learning. And the next day, with all the residue of the previous day's snafus still twinging, one still has to show up. There is no sick leave for goofs. One clocks in, and keeps on truckin'. 

"Eighty percent of life is showing up," Woody Allen might have said. Yup.

 

Jews kinda know that it's not necessarily the end of the world if they trip up in an aspect of observance. Jews are supposed to keep on truckin', knowing they can do better and going doggedly after it. There isn't much glamor, mostly batter-smeared aprons. But there is a great satisfaction nonetheless.

First Impressions

Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns):

Do guys have any real idea of how much time girls spend getting ready for a promising date? For my second date with Evan, I spent the afternoon getting my eyebrows waxed and my nails done, and spent a fortune at Fred Segal on a new skirt and even more time making salespeople all weigh in on it. I honestly don't understand how people go on dates on weeknights; don't they want all that fun time before getting ready? I had kept all my best friends updated about my upcoming date in a long and exhaustively e-mail chain with the subject heading, "HOLY ****, YOU GUYS, MAY NOT TURN INTO A CRAZY JANE EYRE ATTIC LADY AFTER ALL." I really enjoy all these rituals; it's the part of the fun of having a good date to look forward to. But it takes a lot of time and effort. 

At six-thirty that night, I was standing in my bathroom with my hair in curlers—it's true: pink curlers, like in a Doris Day movie—when Evan texted (texted!) to cancel dinner because he wasn't "feeling well."

Via prettyclassy.wordpress.com

I am not without sympathy for the dudes. The repetition must be tiresome. Making a phone call, analyzing venues, navigating unknown roads with an irritatingly languid-voiced GPS, shaking yet another fatherly hand, then summoning small talk while still navigating unknown roads and trying not to suffocate in the cloud of hairspray that now occupies the passenger seat. 

But as the cloud of hairspray, date prep can be nerve-wracking and all consuming. Here is an actual conversation that took place before a promising date: 

Me, rifling through closet: What do I wear?

Ma: What do you have?

Me: Not much for in-between weather. Maybe the red top?

Ma: Which red top?

Me: You know, the red top.

Ma: Oh that red top. Are you sure?

Me: It is kinda aufalent. What about the black wrap-around?

Ma: No, no, too summery. Can you dress down the red top?

Me: Um, maybe, if I wear it with the gray herringbone skirt and your black smoking slippers . . .

Ma: Hm. That could work.

Me: Great, the red top it is. Wait! Wait! (having spotted a forgotten garment) What about the lavender sweater?

Ma: The lavender sweater? It doesn't fit you right.

Me: Really? This one? (waving it reverently)

Ma: Oh, that sweater! Of course! Perfect.

Me: Really?

Ma: Yes, really, perfect.

Me: So which shoes now that I'm not dressing down the aufalent?

I kid you not.

Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike the process of getting all dolled up. It's like training for the marathon: exhausting yet rewarding. At least, that's what I hear from people who train for marathons. I personally have no clue what that's like.

I would just like the guys to recognize my—femalekind's—efforts. Peace out.  

Battle of the Bulge: The Myth of the "Make Up"

There often seems to be a . . .  disconnect between knowledge and practice. Being the irritating "good foods!" cheerleader, I bump into such hypocrisy often. 

I have heard individuals pontificate about the importance of a healthy diet, and not five seconds later make a crappy food choice. It's like once they've stated the fact "Broccoli is good for you," then they are free to eat anything.

According to how our brains are wired ("How Salad Can Make Us Fat" by Alex Hutchinson), this Kohl's commercial is probably a true reflection of life. Apparently, less than 3% of Americans live heart healthy lifestyles. 

Route data from more than 1,000 shoppers, matched to their purchases at checkout, revealed a clear pattern: Drop a bunch of kale into your cart and you’re more likely to head next to the ice cream or beer section. The more “virtuous” products you have in your basket, the stronger your temptation to succumb to vice.

Oddly, if there is simply a salad option on a restaurant menu, one is more likely to order the junkiest item available. 

 

We often soothe our bad choices by telling ourselves that "We'll make up for it later"—in general. Ergo the kale in the shopping cart: Once the means to "making up" is in the fridge, the sin can be committed. 

This mental quirk applies in all sorts of other areas, methinks. Like how in a moment of frustration, a parent (or an aunt) can yell at a child on a decibel level disproportionate to the crime, and when stricken by guilt, overcompensates in affection. But there is no such thing as "making up" with children; as Dr. Phil says, it takes one thousand "atta boy!"s to undo one really bad message. 

Inconsistency is what makes kids shaky. Being hollered at one minute and cooed over the next does not inculcate a sense of stability. Kids need to know with 100% accuracy what their parents' reactions will be. One has to be even-keeled from the get-go, because there are no do-overs.

I'll try not to fool myself too much this Pesach.    

Brownie Epic Fail

Experimentation can be rewarding. Unless the experiment fails.

I tried three new brownies this Pesach. Why? Well, The Ultimate Pesach Sponge Cake is divine, but composed of simple sugars. Since it contains little of substance, one can easily consume an entire cake without any sensation of satiety. 

The sort of cake where I could have better "healthy" success would be a brownie. Chocolate shields a multitude of questionable filling ingredients. But it would also have to freeze well. All of our baked yummies go in the freezer, and we like 'em cold upon consumption. Waiting to defrost is not an option. It has to be cut-able in the frozen state. 

After seven sponge cakes were churned out and popped into cold storage, I began to dabble. 

1. Avocado Brownie; 

2. 5 Ingredient Paleo Chocolate Cake; and

3. Flourless Chestnut Brownies.

After all three were safely frozen, I began to sample. 

Brownie #1 froze the best of all contenders. But there was a slight avocado flavor lingering in the depths. The kinfauna (and their parents) would revolt. Could have been sweeter, too

Brownie #2 had two problems. Firstly, while it calls for a bake time of an hour, and I took it out early, it tasted distinctly overdone. It probably doesn't need more than a half hour. Secondly, chances are due to the high water content of the date paste, it was difficult to cut frozen. 

However, it performed wonderfully at room temp. I plan on playing with the methodology soon.

Brownie #3 called for 1/4 cup of honey, and I used date paste instead. I don't know if it was because of that, but it froze rock hard. A buzzsaw was needed. Also, it obviously wasn't sweet enough.

After flinging my hands skyward, I considered: Why couldn't I simply slightly modify the hailegeh year-round brownie recipe? I had wanted to try replacing the flour with oat bran so my gluten-intolerant nephew could enjoy it, but my sister nay-sayed it, claiming it wouldn't work. Well, to heck with it: I would replace the flour with ground chestnuts. 

Vered's Whole Wheat Brownies

It worked. 

I beat together the eggs, sugar, and three tablespoons of vanilla sugar (since vanilla extract isn't Pesach available). In a separate bowl, I thoroughly whisked together the cocoa and ground chestnuts for a few minutes, since I didn't want to make a mess sifting it together (which would be the best way). After mixing the oil into the eggs, I then carefully poured the cocoa and chestnuts into to the egg mixture with the beaters going on the slowest setting. As soon as combined, I turned the machine off. 

The batter was the prettiest I had dealt with so far. Probably ground nuts would work as well. Maybe it doesn't even need a half cup of anything to replace. (In my research on date paste as an alternative to sugar, it is usually substituted one for one. So the Paleo cake is almost identical to the "good" brownie, since it relies on a copious cup of cocoa to compensate for no flour.)  

I took out the brownie too early—so it doesn't photograph well—but it tastes fabulous while being cut-able. There's no getting around the hefty amount of sugar, I guess. Will experiment (dun-dun-dun!) with less. 

MATZAH!!!

To my family, Pesach matzah is a beloved delicacy. My siblings and I fought over and continue to fight over it. Even the tzigekiminer who initially watched on, baffled at our violence, quickly converted to our ways. They starting battling over them as well, even those with machine-matzah minhagim. 

Come to the Dark Side; we have matzah.

Any leftovers are lovingly hoarded (in a hiding place that shall remain unrevealed lest Luke discovers it) throughout the rest of the year. Usually around Chanukah-time the last piece is treasured and savored to the triumphal send-off of imaginary trumpets. 

Hant matzah is so. Damn. Good. 

Here's the thingy: We ain't the only ones to think so. The front cover's of this week's Sunday Review was plastered with this article (and that illustration) by chef and restaurateur Dan Barber, cooing about the tastiness of hant matzah. 

 

Apparently, all the complex laws in keeping the wheat for shmurah results in a yummier matzah. 

Can't wait for my rezeveh Shatzer matzahs! Oh, the suspense! 

The Authentic Life

Rabbi Yissocher Frand, We Are All in this Together:

I want to share a letter a Bais Yaakov girl sent to her principal. Before I share it, I will point out that this stinging indictment is one girl's opinion, but I think it is somewhat indicative of what many other children nowadays may be feeling:

"So your parents push you into the right Bais Yaakov. You go to the right camp and seminary. You build your résumé. Then your father buys you some cliché to marry. Then you have a daughter whom you push to the right school, the right camp, the right seminary, so that she can marry a cliché.

"And then we all die."

I can see it from both sides. 

Not all of us want to be "different." The meaning of "different" can range from the innocent—like preferring non-Heinz ketchup—to the more drastic. 

From childhood on, I wanted to be different. In my zealousness to be unique, I wasn't always true to myself. Ironic. I was adamant throughout my elementary school years that my favorite color was purple, since it was no one else's choice. It took me years to figure out which shades really appeal (red, green, and cerulean blue).

It took me some time to accept that sometimes I would like something that everyone else did, too. 

For those who just wants to belong, who don't want to stand out, who don't want to see or know of a different life or else their heads will explode: I get it. I do. 

But what to if they have kids who take after some obscure Babi and don't want to live that way? Could it be even mentally possible for an unimaginative parent to unbend?  The child who wants to do her own thing can't comprehend what her folks are getting so worked up over; they, in turn, can't understand why their child would question everything they hold dear. 

Can they meet in the middle? 

I hope so.

Guest Post: Found on Facebook

Before I begin, I think it's important to tell you a little backstory. I recently started listening to a lot of shiurim by Rabbi Pesach Krohn who is a fascinating speaker. In one of his shiurim he talks about the ongoing "shidduch crisis" and in that shiur he talks about a letter he received from a single woman's struggle with dating. This is a response to that but from a man's perspective. Or at least mine. Chronologically, it's the year 2016 my birthday is soon. I'll be turning 28 within 24 hours and Pesach is less than 2 weeks away. I am single. 

There is a sentence that I hear quite often, so often that I see it in people's eyes before they can even say it.

"Im Yirtzah Hashem by you."

"Im Yirtzah Hashem," or the abbreviated version, "IY'H." It's something I hear frequently, at weddings, engagements etc. When people see me at these functions they say "IY'H by you." I hate hearing that. I hate those words with a passion. To me they are empty, meaningless and patronizing. I'm always tempted to say something back but I don't. I may think about it. In the end I bite my tongue, grit my teeth, smile and say "Amen." See, when people say "IY'H by you," they think it means something, and to them it does, it's a bracha they are giving you. But it isn't. Not to me. To me it's false hope, an empty promise. A promise of freedom without the power to grant it. A painful reminder of my situation and how it hasn't changed. I'm aware that they mean well and I won't take that from them. I do appreciate the sentiment and effort.

"IY'H" literally translates to "If God wants/wills." Not when. If. And to me that's where the distinction lies. People throw the term out with the greatest of intentions, not realizing the arrow it represents. I've wanted to reply, "Aval im Hashem lo rotzeh?" But what if God doesn't want? There is no guarantee that I will get married, that is a painful fact. We all know of people who unfortunately didn't, and as I get older I fear I will join their ranks. People tell me that when God made a person He split them in half, so your bashert is out there. Well, where is she? It is so maddeningly frustrating when people say "Don't worry, it will happen in due time," or "She's out there somewhere. Be patient." As if that's a balm on the open wound. It's like a child bringing me a band-aid when I need stitches. "It will happen, don't worry." Can you guarantee that? How do you know? Is she alive? Is she hanging out with Waldo? Where is my wife?

Rabbi Pesach Krohn, in one of his many speeches talks about how during the chagim one needs to be kind to widows and orphans. I am NOT in any way, shape or form comparing my situation with theirs. At all. I will say that being single around the holidays is painful. Especially when surrounded by siblings and relatives who are not only married, but have started families. Especially when they are a few years younger than you. Yes, I'm a proud uncle, and I'm involved with their lives. Yes, I play with them, teach them things and just get so much nachas watching my nephews and nieces interact with the world. But I'm still there, lighting the Chanukah candles, sitting at the Seder, eating in the sukkah by myself. It is a constant reminder, an alarm that goes off without stopping, with no option for the brief release of a snooze button. The loneliness is strangling, the silence of no spouse deafening. I feel alone while surrounded by people.

At family events I get to answer the awkward questions like "Are you dating?" or "How did that date go?" And I have to tell them. I have to say, "Oh, I didn't go out" or "It didn't go anywhere." I get to see the pity in their eyes and feel the burn of shame and embarrassment. While letting none of it show. Which usually prompts them to say, "I'll keep my eyes open," "You're a great catch," yet never hear back.

I go to weddings where the chasson and kallah are barely adults and already moving in a direction I wish I can. I have to fight the tears of jealousy and swallow the sour taste of bitterness while watching someone I know get married. Fight to prevent saying to myself how did this person manage to get married? I put tongue in cheek and force myself to realize that it's not about me. It's about them and their simcha, to enjoy and share in their momentous occasion. So I hug him, give him a kiss and say "Mazel tov," dance with him, and he says back, "Im yirtzah Hashem by you."

There is something so bittersweet watching your friends get married one by one. It really encaptures that if you're not moving forward, you'll fall behind. 

People tell me not to worry, you're still young. I'm going to be 28 soon. How old is young? When I was 23 I didn't worry. When I was 25 I didn't. Now? Now I distract myself from thinking about it too much. I try not to think about my father who got married at 26 or my brother at 25. My sisters at 18. My friends who are my age and have been married for years and now have kids.

It makes me question, what's wrong with me, what did I do or what can I do and what am I doing wrong. I do my hishtadlus, I have 7 shadchanim and I am on 3 dating websites but so far nothing has come of it.

I'm given advice that I need to go out more. Go to the chupahs and simchas so people can see you parade around like a prized horse at market. Which in the end makes me feel like a dog in the pound wanting someone to pick me. Or better yet, at weddings, go look at the women's side and see if someone catches your eye, yeah because that's completely proper and tznius and in no way comes across as creepy or wrong. I mean what are the odds of accidentally checking out someone else's wife? Or are we not acknowledging the complete shallowness of wanting to go out with someone simply because she looks good in a dress? Just that one fact and knowing absolutely nothing else about her except she's pretty? What a wonderful way to start off a possible marriage! There's no way that backfires, or comes across as anything other than lecherous. Oh I can see it now, my kids ask me how we met, and I can say, "Well son, I was at a wedding, and I went over to the women's side to check out the women while they may have been dancing—but ignore that small detail—and I happened to have seen your mother and thought she looked gorgeous in her dress, so I asked someone if she's single, and that's that. Now remember son, be respectful to women and know that they aren't objects of only lust." Yeah, no thanks.

I'm also advised to go to single events. Now those are so much fun if you like awkward moments, because the entire weekend is awkward. I'm a friendly guy, I can go into a room of strangers and walk out with a few friends, this isn't me tooting my own horn. This is me saying that for someone who is approachable and friendly, shidduch events are uncomfortable and draining. Everyone is there for the same reason. There is so much pressure and tension, it's stifling. You and everyone else there are on constant display. You're told to just be yourself, but it's hard to when you know everyone is judging you. And you're judging them. It's what you're there for.

Or people say, "Maybe you're not talking to the right shadchan," that may be true. I don't know. What I do know and will admit is, I dread talking to shadchanim or anyone who wants to "help," really. It kills a little part of me every time I speak to a shadchan or potential shadchan. It never goes anywhere. When I do go to weddings and the like, I'll inevitably meet someone who knows lots of girls, and when I tell them about myself (which is super fun and in no way uncomfortable for me) they'll push me to another shadchan. There is something so dehumanizing when being passed around like leftovers. When you feel like you're reduced to a number.

The entire process is so degrading. I feel like a puppy being given a treat out of the kindness of their hearts. I have to act surprised and the expectation to wag my tail when someone says "I may have a girl for you." Or "Quick, send me your resume" (even though I sent it to you at least 3 times already). I feel as if I have to debase myself to random strangers out of fear. In the letter the woman sent to Rabbi Krohn, she mentions the struggle not to respond when someone tries to give "helpful" advice, because this person may have a shidduch for you. I cannot emphasize enough how truly painful and great that struggle is. Its comparable to working with someone that is haphazard and lazy, but you can't say anything because he's the boss's son.

People forget what it's like to be single, forget the time and investment you put in. Forget how much of a nightmare dating is. What it's like answering the same questions, asking the same questions, and it getting you nowhere. The mind-numbing activities. When you go on 3-4 dates with someone, and you get a little more comfortable, and it ends suddenly with a "You're great and I can be myself around you but I just don't see us as husband and wife." Or "It's not you it's me" or whatever reason the person has which frankly isn't my business. The time and money you invest. The effort you make to get to know someone, the expectation to keep going after it falls apart. That, after you've been on 4-5 dates and it ends abruptly, people expect you to get back up and try again. Almost immediately. That it's simply a matter of picking up the pieces, brushing yourself off and going back out there. As if you didn't just go through all of that and invest resources that are not boundless. And that's on the premise that you even have anything lined up for after. That you have a list of girls to choose from, like cattle. Which unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your view—is not my reality. I can go months without getting a resume or a response, let alone a date. I'm told to push and badger. Make calls and demands. Things I'm not comfortable doing.

There's the part that, if you're lucky and have a list to choose from, of going through the resumes. Going over them, making phone calls, and in the process: forgetting you're dealing with people. That in the process, it becomes monotonous and impersonal. And before you know it, they have been reduced to a piece of paper. A print-out of a list of qualities, characteristics and highlights. Having to remind yourself that these are the cliff-notes to a complex and unique story. That in the end you are dealing with a real live person. With hopes, dreams and emotions.

There's a quote from the movie "Rocky V." The main character says, "Being strong isn't how hard you hit, it's how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward." At what point are you strong or just setting yourself up to be a punching bag? When is being positive and hopeful turn into being naive and wishful thinking?

So then people say maybe you're being picky. I don't think so. I don't think looking for someone that is positive, spiritual, not high maintenance and outgoing is picky. I don't think wanting a spouse that grows in Torah, is a good and kind person is out of the realm of possibility. So maybe I'm being shallow? Again I'd have to politely disagree. I'm in shape and believe in living a healthy lifestyle, and looking for someone that wants the same. Not to insane degrees. I'm not looking for that "thin" girl that when she turns sideways she disappears, and I'm not looking for someone that's a walking heart attack.

Dealing with people who mean so well, but in the end causes you to ask if they're lying, is brutal. Especially when they use platitudes like, "You're such a great person, anyone would be lucky to marry you." "You're going to make a wonderful spouse, a great father and anyone would be lucky to marry you." "How are you still single?" When I start to hear these things, I go on autopilot because these words have lost all meaning to me. Hearing from a few shadchanim, "You'll be easy to set up." Not realizing that what they are saying are barbs that pierce you to the core.

Yet the expectations to keep moving forward is there. And for what? The part of convincing yourself that this isn't a waste of time. That somehow doing the same thing over and over again with the same results is not insanity? So you can question yourself constantly, and feel continuous rejection? To feel crushed time and again while valiantly trying your best not to give in to despair? To finally ask yourself, is it worth it? 

It's making me antisocial. I don't like going to my friends' houses for Shabbos because every time I do, the same questions arise. "What's new with you, how's the dating life going?" As he's changing his kid's diaper, or about to listen to a dvar Torah his son wants to share. When your friends invite you for Shabbos, and everyone there is newly married and you're there by yourself. Convincing yourself this isn't uncomfortable, awkward or a cruel prank. It's akin to showing a starving man his favorite food as you eat it in front of him.

I'm at the point where I'm not excited when I have a date. In fact I hate dating. There is no joy in it anymore. I don't get those butterflies of anticipation, that excitement of going on that first date. I feel like I've been robbed of something that should be fun and enjoyable. And instead feel used and worn out, like a used car people are pushing to sell.

When a friend, family or coworker says "I have a girl for you," I just say "Cool." It's hard to care after a while. It's hard to daven for the same thing over and over again expecting things to be different when, in the back of your mind, you're a step away from being done with the whole thing.

So daven for it, pray for it. I did and still do. I go for brachos, give my name when the person is under the chupah. But for how much longer? How long until I realize it's not happening? How much do I need to invest? How much do I need to give of myself? How much do I need to spend? How far must I drive? How many cups of coffee? How any games of mini golf? How many mind-numbing innocuous conversations must I have? How many rejections? How many tears do I need to shed? How many nights do I have to lay awake wondering? How long until I meet her? How long until I realize I won't?

When I was 22 I went to Israel to volunteer as a medic. While I was there, I saw and dealt with a lot of tragedy. Which, while a little scarring, taught me valuable lessons and helped me grow in tremendous ways. One of the things I did to cope was to go to the shuk, and every so often buy something for my home when I get married. A kiddush cup here, a havdala set there, custom benchers, etc etc. It was a hope chest, if you will. Once in a while I used to take out the box, open it, go through it and see what I want/need. It is now in a closet on the top shelf in storage. I haven't taken the box down, I haven't looked at it, or gone through it in a little over a year.

If I had to sum up how I feel with a word, it would be "tired." I'm so tired. Tired of all the lies, the resumes, the excuses. Tired of being hopeful and having it burn down around you. Tired of the stupidity, and how much emphasis is placed on a piece of paper. Tired of waiting for a response. Tired of telling people when it falls through not to worry. That it'll be OK. That I'm OK, when I'm not. Tired to the point where everything starts to blur together after a while. But you endure. You move forward because what's your other option.

There is a story I heard and the message I find to be profound and powerful. I believe it's with Rav Noach Wienberger (if it isn't I apologize, I'm not a magid ). The story goes: Rav Noach was davening at the kotel and he happened to see out of the corner of his eye a young girl davening with so much passion and intent that he couldn't help but be captivated. When the young girl finished her prayer and was walking away, the Rav asked her if everything and everyone was alright due to the intense Prayer. The young girl said, "Baruch Hashem everything is fine, why would the rebbe ask me this?" Rav Noach replied that he noticed her prayer, how passionate it was and was curious. She replied saying, "My birthday is soon and I was davening for a new bicycle." The rabbi said, "Oh, I hope your prayer was answered," and he goes on his way. A week or so later he was walking in the old city and he happened to see that same girl from the kotel walking around and he said to her, "I guess Hashem didn't answer you." She looked at him and said, "He did. The answer was no."

I love that story. I love the message. We don't always get what we want. And we are not entitled to happy endings. When we ask for things, it's OK for the answer to be "no." Otherwise it wouldn't really be a question, it would be a demand, a sense of deserving what we want when we want it, and not knowing whether we deserve it or not. That it's somehow owed to us. IM yirtzah Hashem, IF Hashem wants/wills.

I know I'm coming across beaten, broken and defeated. I'm not. I may have been knocked down, I may be battered but I am not out. I am still standing. I won't lie, I have thought of giving up and not even bothering to try, but I can be stubborn and will fight for things that are worth the battle over. I am still hopeful. Still wishful. I still look forward to the day I walk to my kallah, with my heart full of joy and happiness as I make my way, surrounded by family, friends and love ones to the bedecking. I still wish, daven and hope to meet my other half, my better half, my soul mate, my bashert.

The Silicone Spatula and Other Doohickies

One for fleishigs, milchigs, and pareve. It will change your life. 

Silicone is heat- and freezer-proof. Spatulas have that whippy, sharp-edged form to thoroughly scrape and stir. Combine the two, and cooking will never be the same. 

Instead of using metal flatware that scrape my beautiful pots, or fumbling with an inefficient wooden spoon, I can flip and mix the boiling and the bubbling. When it is time to serve, I can get every fleck out of the pot. 

Note not all are created the same. Some may be too thick in the center, some not quite sharp enough along the edge, some just too dang heavy. Experiment. Read reviews. 

Ma found this one by Zyliss in Homegoods, and it is has a sacred spot in the milchig sink (with a multitude of backups in the basement, when each officially cries uncle). It was originally meant only for the morning oat bran and scrambled eggs of breakfast. 

Via gq.com

Once those once mundance cooking processes had been converted into religious experiences, she scurried out and bought other brands in different colors to differentiate for pareve. Then when one became accidentally fleishigs, we were all, "Hey, why didn't we do this sooner?"     

There are plenty others to try. Getting every drop of paprikás sauce onto a plate is so much fun.

As for other doohickies: 

For Pesach, we have no food processor. The year-round one gets little use as it is. 

But there are a few recipes that could use a chopping tool, like charoses, so we had a hand-cranked version that could also be used on yontif. When the blades became dangerously dull, I browsed online for a replacement. 

I bought the Chef'n VeggiChop Hand-Powered Food Processor. It's cool, you pull on the string on top like a lawn mower to get it going. It's not very large—about three cups—but it is smartly designed for easy use, everything interlocking neatly and competently. 

I used it for the first time to liquefy an avocado for a Pesach brownie on Sunday (don't ask, haven't yet tasted the results) and it did a great job. It was fun, too. 

Zyliss also has a model, and Brieftons has a four cup version, if one desires something roomier.  

TGIF

• You don't have to "do stuff" on Chol HaMoed; 

• The "Simple" Way to Break a Bad Habit;

• Millenials are comin' back!; and

• Dudes, how to fold and pack a suit.