Stories from my Apartment Building, part II

Last Friday, my husband had a serious stomach virus. And as much as I tried to take care of him, I was pretty useless (I am 9 months pregnant and had recuperated from the same virus with the help of an IV, the day before). After trying different teas, rest, water, homemade Gatorade, and various remedies, I decided that I needed to get him medication. I managed to get dressed, find cash, and drag myself out of the house, not looking forward to the odyssey of finding an open pharmacy so close to Shabbos (everything closes early on Fridays) or the possibility that the pharmacy would demand a prescription for the equivalent of Pepto-Bismol, which I did not have. This happens in Israel- for some reason, you need a prescription for many things that are over-the-counter in the US.

As I crossed my apartment threshold, I tripped over my neighbor, Mrs. S, who lives on the sixth floor- she was busy chatting with the mentally challenged teenage girls who live and study together through the organization Alei Siach, which occupies the apartment next door to ours. I greeted her and asked her if, by the way, she knew of any pharmacy that would still be open. She ignored my question and said 'What do you need?'. I started to repeat myself and she interrupted me and said, 'why should you go out now? What can I give you?'.

I sheepishly followed her up to her apartment (she took the elevator for my sake), and she gave me her entire bottle of Israeli Pepto Bismol, a separate set of instructions in English, and a packet of rice cakes, which she recommended along with the medication, to settle his stomach. As a mother of quite a few children, she knew exactly what needed to be done.

My husband recovered fully from the virus within 24 hours from the onset of his symptoms. When I returned the bottle to Mrs. S., it was almost empty (the doses are large and frequent). And even though she clearly uses it on a regular basis for her own family, she wouldn't hear of my replacing it.

In my building, this is typical. I hope that one day, the entire world will act like my neighbors.

Stories from my Apartment Building, part I

Well, there is the elderly widower on the top floor, who has 12 married children living in Jerusalem or the surrounding areas. He has some physical ailments that make it uncomfortable to travel and visit his children. So the children came up with a rotation where each one of them moves in, with their entire family, once every 12th weekend, just to keep him company and show him how much they love him. During the weekend visit (they all bring their own food and pots and pans for the visit), the mother of each of the 12 families will cook meals for the grandfather and leave them in his fridge so that he can have home-cooked food all week, until the next of his married children visits with their family and leaves him the next week's meals. He has a granddaughter whose family lives outside Jerusalem, and since she has to study in the city, she sleeps there during the week, keeps him company, and keeps the house clean. 

Then there's the extremely learned Rabbi and his wife from the 6th floor who constantly call us and check up on us to see that we're okay (in a kind and sensitive manner, not invasive). He is well past 70, but teaches Torah every day to many devoted students, as he has done for the last few decades. On Shabbos he can be seen climbing the 12 half-flights of stairs to his apartment, with a smile on his face.

Then there's my landlady. We live right next door to her, since our apartment was originally part of her own. She lost her second husband, our noble and gregarious landlord, this past winter. He passed away suddenly, due to a blood infection. But seeing her living life day-to-day is remarkable. She is always looking out for us, she brings us a warm potato kugel every Friday afternoon. She often goes swimming, she works as a nurse, and she always has a smile and a kind word for us. She has many children and grandchildren of her own who sing so loudly and happily on Shabbos that it reverberates through our adjacent windows. All of the members of this woman's family are in mourning along with her this year for their husband/father/grandfather. But there remains so much palpable strength in her spirit that it strengthens their spirits by extension. 

There are many more outstanding individuals in this apartment building- to be continued. 

Being 25 Years Old

I am 25 years old.


I remember being six years old and sitting on my grandmother's rug in her sunny living room, in Michigan, thinking, "I can't wait to be 25. What will I look like? What will I wear? Who will I be? I know I will be grown up and cool and I won't be chubby anymore..."


I had decided that 25 was the magic age in life where I would be fully grown into my best self.


One thing I should point out is that I was not actually chubby. I developed that view from the youngest age simply because my build has never been like the willowy girls. The size of my head, shoulders, and bone structure are much larger than willowy people. But that's not 'chubby'.


 Sadly, I dwelled on this 'chubbiness' for a very, very long time until last year, when I was getting married and therefore in search of a wedding dress to rent in Jerusalem, the world capital of wedding dress rentals. I absolutely could not find a wedding dress that fit my...shoulders. Every dress I tried on would fit my body but simply wouldn't accommodate my shoulders. I ended up wearing the wedding dress of my friend who was also, thankfully, born with broad shoulders.


 It was just as difficult to find a wig (see earlier post about covering my hair, part 3). In fact, my wig had to be made from scratch by an ingenious wig maker, because no existent wig on the market would fit the proportions of my head, according to the industry sizing charts. And to create the template for this custom-made wig, my wig maker had to cover my head in Saran Wrap fastened with tape and write on it in marker, because no regular wig template would fit, either.


These two incidents led me to the realization that 'hey! I couldn't lose or gain weight in my head or shoulders if I tried! I can't even have a head or shoulder reduction! I have about as much control over those features as I do over the size of my spleen! Maybe all those years when I thought I was 'fat', when I compared the size of my face and body to others and despaired that I was bigger, I was completely wasting my energy!'


It's true that I have had times when I was in better shape than other times. Taking care of myself is crucial, regardless of my G-d given shoulder size. But I cannot express to you the depths of relief I have felt upon realizing that I can't have unrealistic expectations of my body, which will never, ever be...willowy. Not even at that magic age, 25!


When I got engaged to my husband at 23, I thought, "well, I guess I was wrong about '25'!"


 When I got married at 24, I thought, "I guess all of those years I longed to be 25, I really meant 24..."


But my 6-year-old self was right. My husband and I got to celebrate our one-year anniversary this week, which I consider one of the greatest feats of my life. I think that to build what we've built this year is such a miracle and such an accomplishment. 


And this is the year when I am becoming a mother. I am so happy to be 25 and so utterly blessed by what I've been given.


p.s. I wonder what my six-year-old self would have thought if she knew that I would also be, not chubby, but GARGANTUAN at 25. I am at that stage where most of my maternity clothes just don't cover my stomach anymore. If anyone is renting out their circus tent for the next three weeks or until my body returns to normal, please contact me!

FYI on the bottom of the 9th

Here's a little FYI about the ninth month of pregnancy:

1) You don't sleep.

Well, not true. I sleep in the day just fine. But attempting to sleep at night is an act of futility. Repeatedly telling my conscious/subconscious/unconscious mind to 'sleep!' while laying down with my eyes shut is about as productive as teaching a deaf dog to roll over on verbal command.

2) You don't concentrate.

I was 10 minutes into a conversation with my music engineer about a particular song on my upcoming album (exciting, huh?) when I actually forgot which song the entire phone meeting was about. This was particularly spacey because this one song is the only one he is familiar with so far on the project. What other song could I possibly have thought we were discussing? There are no answers to these rhetorical what-was-my-pregnancy-logic questions...

I have gotten into the habit of burning things. I served my husband 'chocolate chip cookies' the other day, that had the texture of something out of a quarry. I forgot I was baking them and they stayed in way too long. Note: baking time is 12 minutes. Somehow, over the course of 12 minutes, I completely forgot that I was in the middle of cookies. This and many other incidents are due to the distracting Alien/Predator sensation of having a baby kicking and squirming in my stomach at almost all times. And the sleep deprivation.

3) People are really, really nice to you.

I went to the grocery store today, and it was as if everyone on the bus ride there, and the entire staff of the store, and all customers shopping with me, and the security guard on the way out, and my cab driver home, suddenly understood that when you are at the end of the gestation process, all you want from strangers is that they a) get OUT of your WAY because you need more space than usual just to pass by them without knocking over all the cans or b) assist you in any way possible. I found that everyone I encountered voluntarily chose a or b, either of which worked for me. I am definitely going to miss this preferential treatment when I transition from Very-Pregnant-Lady-You-Want-To-Assist to Lady-With-Screaming-Baby, who is generally not as lovingly received by the public (although, I agree with you, she probably deserves the preferential treatment more).

4) Every passing minute, you think- wait...AM I IN LABOR?!?! 

And the answer, until it's yes, is always 'no.' Maybe that's what I was pondering when I burnt the cookies...

So now you know, whether you are female and not yet there, or male and will never experience such adventures, a little more about the ninth month of pregnancy. And if you've had children, feel free to share with me your own bizarre ninth-month phenomena. 

Watermelon: The Sequel

There's a sequel to the watermelon issue. After I overcame my overly-hormonal (we're in our 8th month, after all) embitterment, I actually researched 'how do you choose a good watermelon?'
I got the answer from some online research, which was verified by my sister-in-law, who is Moroccan and therefore knows every secret tip to everything in life (I'm serious- these Sephardi women know everything).
So here's the scoop...


There are a few traits to look for in a watermelon:
1) either a nice round shape, or a nice oval shape, but not an awkward, in-between, or asymmetrical shape.


2) a nice, dark-green hue


3) a 'ripening spot' somewhere on the melon- although this should be cream or yellow, not stark white or light green, which could indicate a prematurely picked melon


4) the 'tap' test. I had seen this and heard of it, but I, like most people, didn't know what I was testing for, exactly. Basically, when you hit the melon with the flat part of your palm, you should feel it spring back a bit, as if the melon were an air-filled basketball. If you don't have that springy sensation, it may be mushy inside. 


5) one thing I didn't realize is that a melon doesn't continue to ripen after being picked. It may rot, but it won't get any riper- so the buying-green-bananas-for-next-week's-banana-needs strategy doesn't apply. If you get a watermelon that is premature, it will stay that way. 


I found this information fascinating and I was determined to be a melon victor, rather than a melon victim, on my next shopping excursion. And today, I was the successful selector of a healthy, intact watermelon (after 2.5 bad ones in the last couple of weeks). 

Dear Grocery Store Owner,

Dear Grocery Store Owner,


Please refrain from putting spoiled, rotten-in-the-middle, normal-on-the-outside-yes-even-when-you-tap-them watermelons on SALE in your store. As if it's somehow less of an insult to pay 2 and a half shekels per kilo for a rotten watermelon than the usual 3 shekels. Obviously, as the consumer, I feel cheated (if you're in America- don't bother suggesting to ' return it!'- this is the middle east).

But let me appeal to your business senses. This is for your own good.


You may succeed in clearing out your spoiled-watermelon inventory with that sale. But think long-term! All of the customers who purchased and lugged home those watermelons will have a bad taste in their mouths, literally and figuratively. Think of the future produce sales that will never come your way again, from all who shopped at this 'watermelon sale' today. 


Trust me, it was not just my watermelon. I've lived here long enough to realize that produce doesn't usually go on sale for no reason. 


The only problem is the timing. I always remember this principal AFTER I buy the watermelon. 

A Beam of Sunshine

It's been hard.

It's really hard. 

I can't quite seem to make the transition. 

There's a transition which, I guess, needs to be made. But it's been two weeks and I can't seem to make it.

It's the transition from thinking, "Lauren is..." to "Lauren was...".

I feel like my heart just can't. 

Lauren WAS? Did I ever think I would be saying Lauren WAS anything? She was (is?) such a constant presence, a constant light, a beam of sunshine. I've known her (I knew her?) for so long that she's part of the scenery of my life- it's like saying orange juice WAS. That's silly. Orange juice IS. 

I guess this is called the 'denial' phase. This phase in which my heart cannot admit that Lauren...'was'. 

ice cream correction

CORRECTION: I said that this ice cream was on the Ground Round menu- my older brother pointed out that no, this one is from Friendly's. My mistake!

Baseball Cap Sundaes with Gummy Bears

Do you remember going to family restaurants as a child?

We always went to the Ground Round.

When you came in, they would weigh you, and then your kid's meal would cost 68 cents if you weighed 68 pounds (I actually remember weighing 68 pounds, and I remember feeling devastated at weighing 'so much'. That's not normal but I guess this post is not about premature self-esteem issues). 

Then, they handed out packs with a red, yellow, blue, and green crayon in each, and ushered you to your table, where the waitress laid down fresh puzzle-and-game papers. My brother would always work out the crosswords, hidden pictures, word scrambles, and connect-the-dots activities on the front of the paper, while I would immediately flip it over and draw on the blank back. 

There were several children's meal options- french fries were across-the-board, and with them you could have a hamburger, hot dog, grilled cheese, or the dreaded, never-ever-ordered fish sticks (which were served almost daily in our school's cafeteria anyway). 

I seem to remember very long stretches of time between seating, ordering, serving, clearing, and dessert. Now I wonder if we were there for hours, or if this was because a child experiences time much slower than an adult. 

We would play pinball and buy gum balls, using all of our quarters, and go to the bar section ("no children allowed") on the other side of the restaurant, and choke on the second-hand smoke, and spin on the bar stools. We marveled at, but never played, the casino-style machines in the bar section. We enjoyed hitting all the buttons on the cigarette machines, and running into the wrong-gender bathrooms, while the baseball game blasted on the big screen in the bar section.

Ice cream sundaes came with your kid's meal, so I always ordered the upside-down ice-cream cone in a dish, that was styled to look something like a wizard. My chosen topping was gummy bears. During baseball season, the children's ice cream sundaes were always served in plastic mini-baseball caps, which I collected by the score (we went weekly to this restaurant, after all).

I was reminded of this memory when I was trying to explain the concept of a restaurant kid's meal to my husband, who is Swiss. In Switzerland, he explained, there is such a thing as a side salad which is smaller than an entree salad, but he'd never seen a 'kid's menu' or crayons, coloring at the table, pinball machines in the restaurant, or any of the other imagery I described.

It's so fun to be married to someone of a different culture, because it helps me to examine my own. I think of that restaurant as 100% common, expected, and typical. But there are nations, probably entire continents, who would feel as if they had entered the twilight zone if you took them to the Ground Round for a plastic mini-baseball cap sundae!

Story of my Hair Part III- Covering My Hair

I cover my hair. Every day. Not when I am by myself, necessarily, but in the presence of others and certainly in public. 

This is an actual law in Judaism, like keeping kosher or eating matzah on Passover. I grew up unaware of it. There were always certain things in Judaism that I was pretty sure Orthodox people did, but I didn't do. Like keeping Shabbos, for example. Or the observance of many other holidays, or that the women always seemed to be wearing skirts, or that the men attended frequent prayer services. 

Then, from about age 18, I started to realize that those Orthodox Jews were actually keeping Judaism, not 'Orthodoxy', in the form that it was originally established and had been observed for thousands of years. And that the laws they were living by were amply supported by generations of scholarship and extensive documentation of sources. 

Then, at age 20, I said to myself,  "Enough is enough. I can't live in contradiction anymore, I can't ignore that I was born Jewish, I can't find sufficient answers in Reform or Conservative Judaism like I can in Orthodoxy, and if this religion is true, I have to change for it, even though I didn't grow up with knowledge of these things, and even though I am more comfortable living the way I do at present, than changing."

So I began to gradually live, eat, sleep, pray, dress, and behave like a religiously observant Jewish person. I educated myself on what I would need to fill this role, and to one day raise my children this way, and to prepare to have a marriage that reflected the beautiful moral values I had discovered in the Torah. 
One law that I became aware of, but didn't observe because it didn't apply to me as a single person, was the law of hair covering. Then, last June, I got married.


My hair is now covered. It's a statement of modesty that was actually observed in more cultures up until pretty recently in human history when it went out of fashion. The difference with the Jewish religion is that because the laws are divine in origin, they didn't change just because women don't cover their hair in other cultures (especially Western culture). Jewish women were covering their hair 3,300 years ago, preceding the cultures that have risen and fallen since, in which women covered their hair. And trust me, they will continue to cover their hair, regardless of the trend to do so or not to do so. That's what it means to keep a law that is divine in origin. The source is way,way above public opinion or popular science, and it's older and much more substantiated. 


It's interesting, because before I followed Torah, my hair WAS subject to Allure Magazine's advice that 'blunt bangs are in' (regardless of the face shape of the reader, of course), or that I needed to have the perfect layers, or that auburn lowlights were a must for the fall season. If I think back on the significance of my hair at the time, it was an object to me. I used it as a tool to try and define myself, albeit in an unsatisfying manner (true self-definition can never come from something as fleeting as hair). 


Now my hair is subject to a few considerations- 
What will keep it at its healthiest? 
What style does my husband like the best?
When its covered, how do I want to cover it? Which choice of covering best reflects my values?


These questions are so much more empowered than 'how can I please everyone else in society?' which is basically the question that magazines like Allure are answering with every article and headline. 


When I cover it, I am reconnecting to G-d, and to the Torah which I believe in and strive to fulfill. In high school and college, I used to search fervently through works of poetry and philosophy to find some meaningful statement about life that I could hold on to and follow. I was baffled by the possibility that there was nothing out there. School, traffic, work, retirement, dead. It just didn't make sense, but I didn't yet have a better or clearer answer for why I was on the planet. 

Now I savor the moments in my day, which occur every day and will for the rest of my life, where I perform actions that reconnect me to my source, and to the source of everyone and everything. Covering my hair is one of those moments. 

I Only Want To Get Married Once

I posted a long, long time ago about an amazing book, 

        

I Only Want To Get Married Once, by Chana Levitan,

but it deserves another mention. It's really worth the read. It's simple, direct, honest, and clear about a subject (dating/relationships) that looks anything but clear.The whole concept of infatuation masquerading as love is hard to admit but rings hauntingly true. As you read it, every movie/love song/failed relationship/irrational crush will come flooding into your memory afresh. This book just dissects the subject of love (or what appears to be love) in real terms. Reading this will spare any reader from potential heartbreak and self-delusion. Even if you're happily dating or happily married, it's a refresher of the basics that we all need to hear and review to make the most of our relationships. 

The author happens to be a teacher of mine (but believe me- I am not trying to promote someone just because I know them). I've observed her for years now, and she really lives and breathes every value she writes in her book- this is the biggest testimonial to the book's greatness. She wrote it out of her wholehearted dedication to helping people find, and hold on to, true love. 

Just for Fun

  

If this picture doesn't make you smile, you must be suffering from canker sores.

Recommendation: It's really fun to peruse gettyimages.com. Type in any word that describes your mood, or ask yourself, what would make me smile? And you will find 1000's of images resulting from your search. 

school aka life

Hello world out there,

It's funny how each day you seem to be re-tailored for me.

To teach me the lessons I was sent here to learn and aquire.

And in case I didn't understand yesterday, or last week,

the lessons takes a new form today.

G-d is a patient, patient teacher.

Imagine calmly explaining a concept, with every possible 

game/visual aid/assignment/field trip/learning tool 

that exists, continuously, until we understand. 

Story of my Hair Part II

I totally never got back to writing about the Story of my Hair. That'll teach me to commit to a series of anything!


I mean it's basically skip skip skip, some cuts, a lot of temporary dye in high school, sun-in attempts (I have yet to see that stuff work), and then college.

What was my hair like in college? Long but low-maintenance (I was a drama major with no time and no exposure to natural light- rehearserehearserehearsestagecrewcostumeshoprehearseshowshowshowlibraryclassrehearseclassclass). And I was always searching for a budget hair cut. 


One thing I used to miss a lot about America was Duane Reade/Rite-Aid/CVS, simply for their hair-care sections. The selection of creams, serums, mousses, all designed to change your life, money-back guaranteed!  I rarely bought anything there, but boy, did I peruse! It's not as fun in Israel. Anything with English on the bottle is double the price and the selection is seriously reduced.

I say "I used to miss" because now, I actually cover my hair in public. Every day. 
We'll get to why in the next installment, but I wanted to share with you the irony that now that my hair is not on public display, it is
GORGEOUS! Shiny, healthy, grows faster, has high and lowlights. How funny is that?
Just when I let go of the need to have beautiful hair, it arrived on the scene!

(note- a practical reason for the phenomenon is that my hair hasn't seen a straightening iron since I started covering it last June. Irons make your hair look great short term and awful in the long term. This may be useful to those of you whose hair is still on display.)

Sometimes gratitude cannot be contained.

I would like to thank my Creator 

for all of the incredible things in my life. 

No, my life is not perfect. 

But on a clear day, like today,

I can see that even those elements

I have in mind 

when I say 'not perfect' 

...are actually blessings. 


(the above photo is was taken in a bus station in Switzerland, where I traveled with my husband last week)

Normal for Israel, Abnormal for anywhere else

The other day, 

I took a bus home from the outdoor market in central Jerusalem. 

I sat down next to a lady in her 50's wearing polka-dotted pants. She was Israeli, but not from Jerusalem.

She said to me,

Her (in Hebrew): Excuse me, but I am looking for a place. It's called Olamei Beit Yisrael. Do you know where that is?

Me (in Shme-brew): Actually, I know it very well- I got married there.

And I was able to give her full directions to get to the wedding of her relatives. To express her gratitude, she promised to ask the bride to pray for me and my husband and our future children (it's customary for brides to pray on behalf of many on the day of their wedding).

FYI, there are a ton of wedding halls in Jerusalem.

 And that bus pulled up the instant that I arrived at the bus stop and saw that there were absolutely no seats in the waiting area (and if you have ever waited for the #7, you know how miraculous that really was). 

And when I boarded the packed bus, there was only one seat available. In the front row. Next to this person, who needed my help. 

Living here

 gives you the feeling

 that the scenes are constantly being set up

 for your entrance. 

In Case You Needed Inspiration

Our deepest fear is not that we are

  inadequate. 
Our deepest fear is that we are 

powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
You are a child of G-d.

Your playing small does not serve the world. 

There is nothing enlightened about 

shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. 

We are all meant to shine as children do.

It's not just in some of us;

 it is in everyone. 
We were born to make manifest the glory of G-d that is within us.

And as we let our own lights shine, 
we unconsciously give other people 

permission to do the same. 

As we are liberated from our own fear, 

our presence automatically liberates others. 
- Marianne Williamson 
(who is not Nelson Mandela- thanks Meg, for the clarification!)

This Picture Made Me Laugh

Do you remember being a child

 and creating complex and elaborate chaos?

 I remember deciding to cover 

every square inch 

of my bedroom floor 

with clothes and toys,

and I worked diligently to accomplish this goal.

I felt productive,

 even innovative. 

When my mother saw it,

 instead of applauding my attention to detail

 in successfully concealing the floor from view, 

she surveyed the damage and then said 

"Great. Now clean it up."

She must not have appreciated 

my vision...

a dear friend

My husband lost a dear friend yesterday. And after the initial shock, and besides the deep pain, hearing of death always reminds me that there is so much to be grateful for.

Having a heartbeat

And experiencing the perfect temperature

And natural light

My phone and having people to call

Feeling peaceful

Ice water 

with lemon 

and a straw. 

A Sparkling Gift

One cold day, years ago, at the end of winter, I was closing the door of my Brooklyn apartment and discovered a sparkling yellow gift bag hanging from the outside doorknob.
Within it was a small bottle of grape juice and a box of chocolate-covered jellies that said 'kosher for Passover'. And a note, which was written in children's handwriting, saying, 
'Happy Purim!'. 
Between my class and rehearsal schedule, and lack of religious affiliation, this gift took me completely by surprise.

1. today was Purim?!

2. someone left me a gift?!

Keep in mind, this was New York City. Not Pleasantville! And my life had yet to take on the constantly-charmed quality it has since moving to Jerusalem. This was a little unusual.
Knowing precious little about the Jewish religion or the holiday of Purim, I viewed these items as ritual offerings, not to be consumed. I saved them in my dresser drawer, in my 'room' with a tapestry for a bedroom door.
There is a specification when giving small gifts of food on Purim (called Mishloach Manos-a commandment that comes straight out of the Book of Esther) that, although the gifts should preferably be sent from the giver to the recipient through a messenger, the recipient should know the identity of the giver. The reason is that a gift builds relationships between the giving and receiving parties, and this can only occur if you know from whom you are receiving.
But in the case of my anonymous glittering bag, I accepted it as a gift from all the religious Jews of New York City, who walked by me every day, with whom I rode the train, to whom I was often too shy to admit that I was Jewish. When I lived in New York, before coming to Israel, my instincts were constantly screaming to me that I had a connection with these people which stretched back for thousands of years and would somehow, in the future, become relevant.