I Was the Same

I've started Alice Adams' Superior Women, and I'm cringing a lot. 

There are two characters, two women, who are vastly different. Megan, the California girl, is from a middle-class background and wears denim. Following a brief fling with a visiting Ivy League boy, she decides to pursue him by applying to Radcliffe. 

Lavinia, her dorm-mate, by contrast, is a blonde, ethereal Southern belle, wafting about classily in cashmere sweaters. She constantly throws belittling comments Megan's way about her round proportions. Lavinia's home boasts servants, and there is a summer place too. 

But despite their differences, Megan and Lavinia are disturbingly similar in their approach to men. Both nervously tiptoe around the men they adore, frightened they might "scare them off," calculating each interaction in an attempt to bring them closer. Then both boys leave them to marry the women their backgrounds dictate they marry—both girls were, quite simply, a little bit of fun before they had to settle down. 

The book opens in 1942, and so I had hoped that this was merely an outdated depiction of women, when they had little identity, merely waiting for a man to marry them and fulfill their destiny. 

But then I realized: I had been no different when I was dating. I had been so anxious that I would say the wrong thing, of "scaring him off," and if he had said no to another date, I blamed myself, my mouth, my words, when in reality he merely saw sooner than I did that we did not suit. 

I had erroneously believed that it was all up to me, all up to my careful phrasing. Which was pathetic. 

With Han, I had initially done the same—how silly! Relationships—at least, the sort of relationship I wanted—cannot be carefully manipulated into existence, and if they are, they do not have much of a leg to stand on. Thankfully, as our dating progressed, I stopped worriedly filtering everything I said, and let 'em rip. We got along better, then, I think.

It is no different with friendships, when we contort ourselves to appease another, hoping that for all our self-obliteration she will accept us into her circle. 

I was talking with my friend about the series Grace and Frankie, about the male character who is madly in love with a extremely annoying woman. There is someone for anyone, no matter what we are. We don't have to suppress who we are simply to marry or find friends. Believe me, I've tried—and it never worked for me, anyway.  

Still One of My Favorite Things

Motherhood, then covid, blunted my makeup knowledge. I feel rather behind the times, clueless as to what deliciousness has hit the market in recent years. 

But I am a firm believer in beloved basics. Ma lived in Mac's Ruby Woo matte lipstick, which has been around for TWENTY TWO YEARS. Long may it reign. 

I have been rhapsodizing about IT Cosmetics CC+ Creams for a few years already, and now that I'm vaccinated I've been finally applying it again after a year. 

And you know what? It's still got it, baby! 

 

A 60-year-old woman, who is more tentative in her makeup than I am, bought it on my fierce recommendation. The first time she wore it, she met a friend: 

Friend: Wow! You look great! Did you have work done? 

IT Wearer: Um, nooooooo . . . 

It was only when she and her friend had parted ways that she realized she was wearing the IT Cream.

My (favorite) niece is not into makeup. But when she stopped by, she asked me about moisturizers and what to wear on her face during the day. I have her a list of instructions, along with an order to buy the Oil-Free Matte version of the IT Cream. 

"See?" I said, motioning to my own face. "It provides more coverage than tinted moisturizers, and while it moisturizes, it's not as rich and heavy as the tinted moisturizers—they made me too greasy." 

"Foundation makes me break out," my niece said. 

"This shouldn't make you break out," I assured her, "but you'll have enough coverage that it looks like you're wearing foundation." 

"Hmmmm." She peered at my skin with interest. Hope bubbled in my chest, but I decided not to push it. 

So, yes, I'm still recommending it. No, they aren't paying me. Yet.

Motherless Mommies

Abigail Tucker wrote a piece on how the presence of one's mother is invaluable while mothering, even citing a number of studies how the lack of a maternal Babi can be detrimental, and her presence to be beneficial. 

Until I had read that article, I thought I was doing ok. Not only have I been grappling with babies since I was a tween, I was also heavily exposed to Ma's many opinions on the matter. Additionally, if I need to ask a mommy about why Ben is suddenly not sleeping, I have a sister and sister-in-laws' to interrogate, which I do. 

But this piece seemed to be insisting that I need Ma's presence, that her support is vital. Well duh, I would prefer to have her around, but it's not like I have a choice, right? 

Apparently, another reader had that same thought, a woman who wrote a book about grandmotherless mothering, and her letter insisted that such mothers do a quite fine job, thank you very much. 

It was probably not Tucker's intent to make the motherless moms feel sucky, but to rather invite mothers to become closer with their own mothers, to see them as a help instead of a hindrance. But she indirectly jabbed those who do not have their own mommies to help. 

Then I read a heartbreaking Modern Love by Genevieve Kingston, who's mother died before she turned 12. Her mother had been sick since her daughter was 7, and when the prognosis turned terrible, she began to prepare. She purchased and wrapped birthday presents for the next decade, as well as leaving letters brimming with assistance for major milestones. 

So Kingston's mother was still a part of her life, long after she died. When her father suddenly passed ten years after her mother, he was not able to leave any advice, no words of guidance, and she found the silence jarring compared to her mother's written legacy. 

Ma was a woman of lots of advice. She always (well, nearly always) knew what to do. She was also a woman of action. She took care of things. 

Is it ironic to say that in retrospect, it was a blessing that I was single until my 30s, that I lived at home with her and was able to spend so much time with her, until the end? That yes, she was my best friend, but that she also—unknowingly—prepared me for a life without her, when I would have to be the one giving advice and doing the action. 

"Sholet," Ma would say, a Hungarian saying that means, in essence, "If you look back, you turn to salt" (Lot's wife, you get it?). If I spent my time focusing on the fact there is no Ma and it's not fair and why can't I talk to her and I need her support—I can't be an effective mother that way. 

Sure, there are times when I wallow. But Ben smiles at me winningly and I summon a smile back, and I know I am enough for him. 

Never Say NEVER

Eons ago, when I was barely 20, Ma and I became enamored with an opinion writer in the local frum paper. He would espouse the importance of the small acts of derech eretz, like putting back the shopping cart instead of leaving it in the parking lot, where they occupy spaces and roll into unsuspecting cars. 

"YES!" Ma and I said firmly, nodding along fiercely to his articles. "Of course. Such a simple thing to do! And so important!" 

A decade or score later, I had to eat my own words. 

When Ben was born, my back took a hit. Big time. I could barely walk by his bris. I was hobbling for weeks. I had gotten a scan, I went to an orthopedist, who shrugged and said there was no visible damage, that the issue was muscular. But I was still in pain. 

I did Ta's roster of back exercises, and a few more, and sometimes they would keep the pain away, but sometimes they didn't. 

Leading up to my point. When Ben would still be in a car seat, I would haul the whole thing to the nearest shopping cart, trembling in agony afterward. To do the same on the return journey, putting back the cart then hauling him back to the car, was too much. Even when he got a little older and was able to sit in the cart, carrying him back to the car could be agony. 

So I wouldn't put back the cart. I would carefully park it nearby, to ensure it didn't bang into anyone, and smile apologetically to the store employee who collected all the strays. 

It took about two years, but Baruch Hashem my back pain has abated for the time being, and I can now return the shopping carts like a mensch. 

But during that back pain era, I was all too keen of my potential hypocrisy. Yes, it is an important thing to be considerate of others and return the cart. Yet there is also a time for exceptions, and I had to make an exception for me to not aggravate my injury.

I'm trying, I'm trying, not to be too adamant about issues. Because there will come a day I will probably have to backtrack.

Gee, Thanks

As we now emerge from our hermit-like existences, I am now being thrust once again into socializing. I miss being a hermit. 

"Soooooooo," she said, a relative's friend, who is barely an acquaintance to me, "how are you adjusting to mommy-hood?"

I blink. "Well," I replied, motioning to the kinfauna nearby, "I had lots of practice." 

She did not retreat. "Even so!" she insisted, "It must be a big adjustment."

Let's just say this interaction did not leave me feeling warm and fuzzy inside. 

  

1) Like, she has kids. Nearly everyone in this room has kids. No one is on the floor sobbing, "I can't take it anymore!"   

2) Does she ask this of all new mothers? Or just me, the one who got married "late" and had a baby "late"? Does she put this inquiry to a new 21-year-old mother who is still going to school while juggling a day job? 

3) Did I look that bad? I rather prided myself on my appearance that day, that my Shabbos makeup remained intact as I hadn't slept in it in, well, over a year. 

4) Did I look hapless and unprepared? I had brought with me a bag of entertainment for Ben, including books and various kitchen utensils that he enjoys to chew on. I was rather proud of myself for that. 

5) Ben is 2 years old. It's not like he's fresh off the assembly line. 

Comments never end, people. Comments never end.  

From Where Will My Help Come

When it comes to shidduchim, as it does in most aspects of life, people tend to heartily recommend what worked for them, and poo-poo what didn't. 

A family friend was a divorced kohein in his 60s, and he was introduced to his second wife through SYAS, so he heartily recommended the service to me. I smiled politely when he did, because there was a bit of a difference between our circumstances. He was on the search for a widow of a similar age, and those criteria shrink the candidate list a bit. At that point in my life, nearly every man on SYAS could have been suggested to me, which was not exactly a targeted search. 

For those who met their spouse at a singles event (I know of a number of couples who did), that will be their suggestion. For those who went to a specific "professional" shadchan, that will be theirs. 

There was an article recently about matchmaking services (non-Jewish ones) and what to expect. I was very surprised to see the amounts these services charge, sometimes a few thousand per match (that's just the first date, not when the marriage happens). From the people polled, some had a blah experience, some pareve, some happy ending. 

It made me think how it's a crapshoot, like with doctors. There is a neurologist that my family had a very good experience with. I was talking to another woman, and when she heard his name she gasped and said, "He's terrible, isn't he?" She wasn't feeling well a number of years ago, and consulted him. As a neurologist (to a hammer, everything is a nail) he prescribed her certain medication. 

However, it turned out her issue was with her heart, not her brain, and the medication he gave her could have been deadly for someone with her condition. 

There aren't any guarantees. My own experience with doctors has been rather dicey, a one step forward two steps back sort of situation. 

That's why we gotta daven, to be sent to the right messenger, who will heal and help, and not hinder. 

Keeping things in perspective—that it's not humans who save you, but the right messenger in the right time. It's not the dating websites or the singles events or the professional shadchanim. There is no one way to find your match. They are a means, but that's not where faith belongs. 

Shidduch TV: "A Match Made in Heaven"

 I don't even recall how I stumbled upon this series, "A Match Made In Heaven": 

 

It was an interesting watch, if an often frustrating one. There was one interaction that jumped out at me, between . . . was it Meirav? I don't remember all the names, you'll get there, and her friend Faigy. 

Meirav (?) was saying that is so bummed after a bad date, while Faigy was claiming she is relieved, that she is one step closer to her bashert. Each were surprised at the other's perspective. 

I fell completely into the "bummed" camp. Why would I be optimistic after a string of bad dates? All it did was ignite the nasty little voice inside that said to marry the next thing that was just slightly better than them, 'cause honey, you ain't gonna do any better.

Luckily, the nasty little voice was very wrong.  

Remember Their Kindness

Samantha Irby is the master of the sentence. I read two of her books, Wow, No Thank You and We Are Never Meeting In Real Life, and she made me laugh out loud. Books don't usually make me laugh until I drool. 

To clarify, these books are completely and totally UA, but her curse words are strategic as opposed to lavishly applied, and I appreciate that sort of consideration. There are a few graphic sections—OK, I had to skip an entire essay—but I found her humor to be quite definitely worth it. 

At one point, when she is recounting the death of her parents, she gets (appropriately) somber. Her father was not a good man. He was a deadbeat, an alcoholic, and hit her if she didn't do dinner properly. But he was her father, and she loved him. 

He had heart problems, and there was a doctor who cared for him until the end, Dr. Ira Weiss. She refers to him as "an angel." He was an Orthodox Jew, she writes (record scratch), who kept kosher. 

This man fought to keep her father's heart going. When her father went to a different state, he paid money out of pocket to bring him back to be under his care. When her father disappeared after a number of cardiac episodes, Dr. Weiss biked through the streets looking for him. 

Her father's funeral was attended only by his good-for-nothing friends, his daughter, and Dr. Weiss. Dr. Weiss, Irby recounts, sang "the Lord's Prayer in Hebrew" for her father—Kel Malei Rachamim. 

I certainly did not expect a passage like this in a book like this. 

Irby did not have an easy youth. Her parents were both gone by the time she was 18. She uses humor to deflect from emotion—she admits this freely. 

And 20 years later, she expresses gratitude to the Jewish doctor who went above and beyond for his patient, her father, in her book. She didn't have to. He wasn't a necessary part of the story. 

His kindness and selflessness was not forgotten. 

I still remember the lovely woman who was my labor nurse—Christina. She was so kind. I remember the off-duty nurse who talked me through my airsickness after I had disembarked on shaking legs. 

They're remembered, and we are grateful for them.

Hurt People Don't Have to Hurt People

Having enjoyed Lori Gottlieb's "Maybe You Should Talk to Someone," I picked up another therapist memoir, "Good Morning, Monster" by Catherine Gildiner. 

I had mistakenly thought the latter would be like the former, with examples about relatively normal people struggling with unexpected challenges. However, it was about five of Gildiner's patients who experienced horrific abuse as children, but dealt with it and rose above it. 

Usually I avoid topics of such a nature, as I cannot handle the details (I never read Holocaust books). But I was sucked in rather quickly, and was unable to put it down. 

The basic premise of four out of five of the subjects is that "hurt people hurt people"; that these individuals were tormented by their parents, and previously their parents had been tormented by their own caregivers. 

Except, none of these people themselves became abusers. Additionally, one of them grew into an amazingly kind, gentle, and generous man—before he ever went to therapy.

"Hurt people hurt people" isn't a good enough explanation. There are those who were hurt and make a decision, whether consciously or unconsciously, that they would never hurt others the way they were hurt. They chose to end the pain, rather than allowing the cycle to continue.

The Neverending Grief

One of the "perks" of my job is if there is an old and confused client, I'm the one assigned to call them. 

A querulous message was left at my extension, by Elena. She is usually okay to talk to. She always asks about Ben. Her husband, who she cared for until his end, died a few years ago, leaving her on her own. She has no children, no other family.

I considered the clock, and figured that 10 a.m. should be a safe time to call her back—the elderly are usually up by then. 

When she picked up though (when the answering machine was already talking), it was clear the phone had woken her. Then the conversation went downhill. (I found out later she's on some serious medication.)

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she began to scream about Jack, the partner in the firm who had died young-ish (like five years ago). "I talked to his wife," she ranted, "he ate like a pig! He didn't take care of himself! Why didn't you do something!?" 

"I—I tried! We tried!" I spluttered, even though the question was not a fair one. "But he called my lunches 'rabbit food'! He didn't want to listen! He would stand by my desk and expound on the glories of medication! He ate out of the office! In the end, he made his own choices." 

She sounded so distraught on the other end of the line that I was wracking my brains what I could say to calm her down. 

"Look," I said, "no one ate healthier than my mother. No one. As soon as she heard a certain food was 'bad,' it was out of the house. I have a vague, distant childhood memory of store bought cookies in the pantry, but I never saw them again. Margarine? Gone. She ate lettuce every day—I'm not kidding. She did yoga. She walked. But she got a random, rare disease, and died. 

"See, I'm religious, and we believe that someone can do everything right, but if it's your time, it's your time."

She was quiet. 

She then found another topic to harangue about, and by the time I hung up a half hour later I had to lie down in the conference room to recover. 

After I managed to crawl back to my desk, I was thinking over what I said about Ma. 

Because Ma took such good care of herself, none of us had anything to blame. No one could think, "If only she didn't ______." "If only she would have ______." We could only think that her death was meant to be. 

But acceptance still doesn't deal with the hurt. It'll be four years soon since she died, and while the pain is not as bad, it's still there. 

My sister-in-law told me of a friend of hers whose mother died when she was a teenager. "My mother is here," she said, motioning to the spot next to her. 

Han doesn't seem to mind that I'm constantly quoting Ma. And constantly saying what she would have done or said about nearly every situation. It still bothers me that Han never got to know her well, when I know the two of them would have gotten along so swimmingly I probably would have been shoved out of the way. 

And then I know that there is no "what if"s. There is no picking and choosing the elements in our lives. What is, is. 

One minute, I'm at peace with the situation; another moment later, I grieve. 

It reminds me of the throw pillow Ma bought for the boys' room all those years ago: "If it's not one thing, it's your mother."