The Stuff Romance Is Made Of

When the Words Don't Fit by Sara Healy is a pleasant debunking of Disney myth. 

She begins her tale as young, sweet, 21-year-old; on the flight to her sister's post-elopement party (eloping being a family tradition) she catches the eye of a dashing fellow traveler. When she departs from the plane, he hands her a poem. 

Swoon. 

One would think it the ideal beginning of an epic romance; two strangers meet and profess their undying love. When she returns to the airport he is there, they take the same flight back, and become a couple. 

He walked me to my car, and we kissed in the parking garage, under orblike yellow lights. It was a still kiss, a postcard kiss, a Disney princess kiss, the kind of kiss that makes blue cartoon birds chirp and swirl in the sky, their beaks holding garlands. And this is exactly where the story should end. It should cut to credits, and the music should be triumphant but soft. Your last image should be of the young girl and the handsome poetry-writing boy frozen in a movie kiss. You should brush the popcorn off your lap and leave the theater smiling because everything worked out the way you knew it would. You can leave remembering that time when you were young and lovely, and things like that could happen. 

But as the audience may recall, this is real life. She held on longer to the relationship than he, since, after all, they have a fabulous story, right? 

The man she meets right after the poet became her husband. They met through mutual friends at a bar. 

My husband and I don’t have a great “meeting” story. We met in a conventional way and had a conventional wedding. And in some sense, we lead a conventional life. 

Her parents had the epic love story, but she knew it was not easy. Their marriage was over fifty years old but it had its ups and downs. As does hers. 

But my husband has seen me at my worst, at my most vile. And he has seen me at my best. He knows the things I don’t tell anyone, and the lies that I tell everyone but him. I have made sacrifices for him and been angry about it. Sometimes his flaws are so egregious, so blatant, they are all I see. And sometimes his kindness is so stunning that I am humbled. And that’s love. Big, epic, fairy-tale love. The kind of love people write about. The kind of love that could inspire a poem. 

Hair Conditioning

Today's hair has it rough. 

If it's lucky, it has been merely curled, ironed, blown, and permed. The hair needs a pick-me-up after such harassment. Once a week I use a deep conditioning treatment instead of regular conditioner, like Neutrogena Triple Moisture Deep Recovery Hair Mask. It sinks into the hair for 3-5 minutes, then can be rinsed out.

I thought that was sufficient . . . until I started to get dandruff, which I am still a little stunned by (dandruff? Me? Who knew?) Dandruff isn't good for the scalp, and all I need to hear is "hair loss" and I'm searching for remedies. It is also annoyingly itchy.

Coconut oil is a pretty awesome being. It's good for practically everything - as a skin moisturizer, a hair treatment, a margarine replacement (try it in cookies).

Coconut oil had a bad rap for a while as some guy claimed he had a heart attack because of it, but here's the deal: anything that grows from the earth, providing it is edible and non-poisonous, cannot hurt you. Fattening, yes, but good for the heart.  The only evil oil out there is hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated, which is a  man-made process, and that should always be avoided.

I bought a tub of non-hechsher coconut oil (it's much cheaper) and began to work it into the scalp. Oh, how soothing it was! When working any product into the scalp, use the fleshy tips of the fingers, not the nails. While massaging, I felt the dandruff flakes loosening amongst the hair roots. Scalp massage also helps to stimulate hair growth. 

Many recommend keeping the oil in overnight, but I wouldn't sleep comfortably thinking I was greasing up my favorite pillow. I keep it in for a minimum of a half hour. 

I then shampooed twice (that seemed to be enough to get out the oil) and my hair being thick and all, conditioned as usual, although other hair types may not need to.

My hair was softer than ever before. It felt healthy, it shined, and it wasn't as thick as it usually was. It was also more manageable. And my dandruff went on hiatus.

No wonder Indian women have been using this stuff for centuries.  

Coconut oil is now returning as a skin and hair treatment, so there  are products available for specifically that. Such as Cococare 100% Coconut Oil. Be sure to check the ingredients; some products claim to be natural oils, but the main ingredient is mineral oil instead (which is a pore-clogging, skin-strangling, petroleum-derived pollutant. Yuch.)

Coconut oil solidifies at room temperature, so to make it more manageable I stir in another oil, like olive or avocado or almond, which is also good for the hair.

New Hair Toy!

The humid summer season has blessedly left us, meaning my harsh hair treatment can be laid aside as well. I iron to defy humidity and its frizzing influence; now with the chill of winter, I need not be so torturous. 

I came upon the Infinitipro Spin Air Rotating Styler by Conair. It is the premise of blowdrying hair in one simple tool - the bristles rotate while it blows air. 

The reviews were enough to convince me, and it arrived in time for Shabbos. 

Like by ironing, pre-drying is recommended. Leave some moisture in the hair. Divide hair. 

I decided I wanted to try the wavy look I thought only my hair guy could achieve. I placed the brush, which was on low, as close to the roots as I could, then pressed the rotating button as I drew to the ends. When I got to the end I stopped, turned off the spin feature and waited a few seconds, then pulled out, the way he does. It resulted in a lovely wave.

For a first try, my hair came out pretty good.  It shined healthily, free of split ends. While my hair guy is still not going anywhere, this toy worked great for me. Now I can give my locks a break from sizzling.  

Jacques Pepin Is The Man

I mentioned beforehand of my mother's interest in cooking shows, and while as a kid I would beg her to put on something more entertaining, I have now found myself intrigued. For instance, I have the cooks I love and the cooks I hate (the latter outnumbers the former). And my favorite chef is Jacques Pepin.

His recent shows are entitled "Fast Food My Way" and "More Fast Food My Way" (plenty of videos are available on YouTube) and they demonstrate that which is often lacking in cooking shows: technique and reality.

When he slices an onion, I watch with fascination. Absolute perfection. It's all about the flick of the wrist (acquired from constant practice), as well as keeping his knives sharp, a necessity which I have never heard. 

If a side of his pie breaks open, he just pats it back together again. Other chefs have these unrealistically perfect dishes that never leak or fall or break. Mr. Pepin loathes waste after his wartime years in France, and doesn't throw away anything, not even apple peel. The way some chefs just cut off one end of a vegetable and toss the rest away is abhorrent to me. If my grandparents went through the war, I can be careful with baltashchis.

Mr. Pepin emphasizes technique, such as what is the best way to fry this or chop that or cook this or bake that, which transcends one-time recipes to cooking technique. 

I barely cook at this point (I live at home with a fabulous cook), but I still find myself scribbling down his tips. He's on at various times on WLIW.

Just watch the man make an omelet. It'll change everything you know. 

This episode in entitled "The Egg First!" 

Olympic Shopping

Shopping is not a fun, casual outing meant to kill time. Oh ho no. Those who sleepily roll out of bed at 11 and leisurely consume breakfast then trot off to the mall at 2 on Sunday, I am sorry, but you are not a shopper. 

Shopping is a sport. It involves endurance. Strategy. Patience. It is survival of the fittest. 

1) Sleep the night before is key. One has to have the energy, and one does not want to get sucked into the "I'm tired so I'll just take that thing to get out of here" trap. This is clothing we're taking about, the very thing that identifies a person to the greater world. Just dragging anything off the rack won't do. Make sure bedtime is strictly observed the night before a shopping outing.  

2) Plan that to be the first one on the doorstep.  If the mall opens at 10, leave however earlier than that to be the first in the door. By 12 parking will be a nightmare, and no one wants to have a shouting match with a guy who can pass for a bouncer arguing over who had dibs to the spot.  

When there are less people grabbing and pushing, making an informed decision is easier. 

3) Going shopping in ballet flats? Uh-uh, I don't think so. For the hours I spend on my feet, I need sneakers. Not dorky walking sneakers, of course, but something that laces up, holding the feet in, with enough rubber on the sole to keep the foot supported.  Something fashionable, like the Puma Soleil in Black/Very Berry or Black/Limestone Gray. 

4) Provisions! I usually take along some whole-wheat crackers and string cheese; stopping into a kiosk for a Haagen Dasz or frothy frappacino will defeat the purpose of the outing: finding clothing that fit right. Consuming sugary calories will alter one's current size.

5) Be prepared not to find anything. One can't go shopping with the attitude, "I need a beige pleated skirt, and I have to find it today." That's not how shopping works. 

In order to shop successfully, an open mind is key. Find something that really flatters at the right price? Buy it, even if it may not be so necessary. Next week an occasion may arise, and the perfect thing will be already hung in the closet. 

If nothing was found that suits for the right price, don't panic. I have often gone home empty handed; on the flip side, I have often emerged from the store laden down with bags. Shopping is about the search, and stores schora is often seasonal; there will be times when there is less or more merchandise in stock.

If an occasion is coming up, don't push off the search to a couple of weeks before; go now to look. More options, such as sales, will be available, so grabbing something and paying a fortune  out of desperation will be less likely. 

 
6) Make sure of the store's return policy. Sometimes I'll be in a dressing room weeping at the beauty of the clothing I tried on, only to realize at home that the hem can't be fixed or the price was too much or my waist is not defined. Return it rather than kill yourself over it. 

If the store it was purchased in is too far away for a second trip to return, many department stores will accept returns by mail. I have sent back garments via Priority Mail boxes, and while $10 may seem like much it's a lot cheaper than gas and tolls. 

7) Unless the man in one's life will be a help, don't bring him along. Leave him with the kids at home; dragging around a whining crew will torpedo any chances of finding anything. They'll harass  you so much you'll be too frazzled to shop successfully. Without hubby and children, purchasing a wardrobe for both in peace is more probable.

Irrationality In All Its Forms

An episode of 30 Rock entitled "Gentleman's Intermission," has Liz Lemon (Tina Fey) at her wit's end with her 80-year-old father (Buck Henry) who has decided to have a mid-life crisis forty years too late. 

He decides that he is bored with his wife;  he puts on teenage clothing and takes off his glasses so he can "play the field." Liz goes to her mentor, Jack Donaghy (Alec Baldwin) after failing to convince her father to go home to Mom. Jack asks for her father's cell number, and Liz, relieved, says, "You'll talk some sense into him?" 

Jack chortles. "Oh no. He's being irrational. You can't be rational with irrational people. The only thing irrationality responds to is fear."

He gets on the phone and, affecting a Brooklynese accent, pretends to be the outraged boyfriend of a woman the old man has hit on. "I'm a corrupt cop! My brother is a corrupt fireman! He's going to set you on fire, and I'm not going to report it!"  Liz's father is docilely on the next bus home.

For some reason, what popped into my head with this was another example of irrationality in our day-to-day lives: tantruming children. 

When it comes to children, I have a motto: Do not negotiate with terrorists a.k.a. Do not reward bad behavior. 

First I provide a safe environment for the kid to flail (a bed or floor). If the screeching and thrashing doesn't taper off after a while, I boom, "DON'T YOU DARE KICK ME!" That usually stops the legs in midair, and the bawling is reduced to aggrieved sniveling. As Jack Donaghy said: Fear.

I would not advocate peace talks. 

If one is pressed for time, meaning one can't wait until they scream themselves limp, here's the plan. Threaten removal of a given rather than offering a bribe. "If you don't stop screaming I will take away your new toy," vs. "If you stop screaming I'll get you a toy." The latter simply reinforces the bad behavior, while the former provides an unappealing consequence. Fun things are not a given, they are earned.

And be sure that whatever is the threat, that it is carried through. No chances. Say it, and if they don't stop in ten seconds, get up and say, "I'm going to take it away," and reach for it. If that doesn't do the trick, take it away and put it on top of the closet.  

I can guarantee you, if the kid sees swift repercussions, he won't misbehave so quickly again. He is out of control, and he knows it. He wants to know that when he's lost it, the parent (or aunt?) is cool and calm.

Always, always, follow through on consequences. Not punishments, consequences. One pours water down their neck, one gets wet. Simple common sense.

And don't try to have a rational conversation with a toddler going "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" about what he's feeling or why he is screaming. If it didn't work for Liz, it won't work for you. Usually it can be solved with a good night's sleep.

If Avrohom Wasn't Crying Crisis . . .

I was reading an old Mishpacha magazine at my sister's house. There was an article by Rabbi Dovid Hofstedter which I would recommend.  

Here are a few points he mentions: 

He was saying that Yitzchok Avinu was 37 when his father decided he should be married. 37 is the equivalent of ancient bachelor nowadays, a quintessential example of the shidduch crisis, the Rabbi writes. 

Some sources say that since Rivkah was his bashert, he had to wait until she was 3. But another source responds that if Avrohom knew that specifically Rivkah was for Yitzchok, he then would have simply given Eliezer instructions to get her, rather than the general task of finding a bride. 

Avrohom decided to marry off his son after the akeidah, a spiritual test that Yitzchok actively participated in. This elevated him to a new level. 

Rabbi Hofstedter says that one shouldn't marry just because friends are getting married. If a boy or girl is currently content with the companionship of friends or studying then they should hold off. 

Only when they realize that they cannot complete their purpose in this world without a spouse, the way that Adam asked Hashem for a helpmeet, is when one is ready for marriage. 

While marriage itself may shlep one up a few rungs of maturity, it should not be relied upon to be the means to do so, he writes.

Huh. I like him. 

Rabbi Hofstedter has come out with a book, Dorash Dovid (volume 1), which delves into the parsha. I think I shall get it. 

The New American Dream

"I'm so nervous for my son," the sweet crossing guard tells me. "He lives near Wall Street, and those protesters may start getting violent." 

She's not American by birth, so she doesn't understand. I try to explain. "Americans are too lazy to riot," I reassured her. "What the Londoners did? And the Greeks? Americans can't exert that much energy." 

She was still rather dubious, but then Joel Stein arrived, not a week later, to validate my theory. (Time magazine now requires online readers to be actual subscribers, so I will try to synopsize and quote the funny bits).  

In his article entitled "Nice Work If You Can Avoid It," Stein writes about the joys of laziness, something I can relate to. American's work ethic has plummeted, and narcissism has arisen.

People like me have worked not-hard to replace the work ethic with the leisure ethic. We value innovations such as Angry Birds, Avatar and Facebook instead of laying down railroad track and getting to the moon. We have even invented a euphemism for laziness: work-life balance. Just like not so long ago, we invented a euphemism for narcissism: Oprah. 

Is it a bad thing? Stein says not.

Some will bemoan our nation's laziness. Not me. And not just because bemoaning sounds like a lot of work. It's because laziness is the mark of a mature society. China is exciting right now with all that dynamic growth, but you don't want to live there with its smog, dangerous infrascructure and insistence on learning math. You want to live in Italy, where no one has worked for centuries . . . Americans were so ready for a lazy cafe culture that we spent the last 15 years building nothing but Starbucks. 

He does have a point. The place where I want to visit is Italy, where the government may be corrupt but where life is worth living.

There was no leisure culture until now because leisure culture sucked. Of course our grandparents liked to work. When they weren't working, they were at home with their eight children. Without television. 

Shiver. And now, my favorite line from Stein:

Our great-grandparents worked hard so we wouldn't have to. To strive is to dishonor them.

(Wiping away a tear) Sniff. Too true. Too true. 

In your honor, Zeidy.

Wearing Black Responsibly

Black is getting a lot of flack, I've noticed. It is a shade associated with obnoxious matchmakers and "typically" dressed females. 

I possess very few all-black outfits. Two suits, tops. OK, I'll confess to three black dresses.

While I do object to daily all-blackness, it is still, no matter how one slices it, an excellent choice for weddings; black is always appropriate for evening wear, shoes are a breeze, it slenderizes the figure, and black stockings are an option. (Although I do have wedding wear that is distinctly not black, which I don season permitting). 

But for ensembles, mix it up. 

I find that matching two shades of black is difficult; one black looks bluer or grayer by comparison. Therefore, I rarely wear a black skirt and black top together. 

For instance, I have a great black sweater. The skirt I wear with it is red. Sometimes white. Maybe camel. Pretty much anything but black. Black tops really makes the face pop—black is a very flattering hue to the face.  

Carolina Herrera

Moschino

As for the black skirt, I have red jackets, winter white jackets, orange jackets, and so forth. 

Ralph Lauren

Moschino

As for dresses, there are black frocks available with little punches of color.

Letting go of black completely is being rather unreasonable. Black is and should be a staple in women's wardrobes, but a balance should be found to snazz it up. Like colorful shoes or brooches. 

Respectful Makeup

As I mentioned beforehand, I am a recent convert to daily makeup. When I began to apply paint every morning, I could detect a change in people's attitudes. Their voices became more courteous, they gave me a wider berth on the sidewalk, I get called "ma'am—simply put, I get more respect.

As always, it turns out it's not in my head. 

Catherine St. Louis writes of studies that show that women who wear makeup—not much, even just a light dusting—are considered more competent in the workplace.

For those who protest that such a thing shouldn't be, of course not. But like many unfair quirks of our culture, that's how it is. Have you ever seen photos of celebrities sans cosmetics? It's not pretty. 

Today Show went bare, and the children cried in fear.

If I had known, I would have put on makeup for my college years; the professors would have treated me better. She never would have dared to give me that B.