Bsd

I love my friends, and I am grateful for all of them.

But I am sick of the friends that I have that take and do not give.

That I listen to for hours while they process and rant and whine and cry, but who interrupt me just as I begin to talk about something I am having a hard time with.

I love my friends, but I hate having friends who have such a hard time dealing with their own issues they have no energy to help me deal with mine.

Who love me when I'm caring and wise and funny, but not when I need to complain about being miserably sick.

Who get angry at me, and then don't let me fix it.

The friends who don't let me get angry at them.

I just don't want to deal with it anymore.

I will, because I love my friends, all of them.

But I am so sick of it.

Some More Truth

Bsd

Remember how I promised to be honest?

To seek the truth?

Well, here's some.

Truth:

I often doubt that Moshiach is coming.

And not when you'd think I would.

Not when terrible, tragic things happen, or when I see evidence of our physcial world falling apart, no, those are the times when I have more faith that Moshaich is coming. That Hashem has some serious, long-term plans for us.

I doubt that Moshiach is coming on Wednesday evenings, when I'm wandering from the kitchen to my bedroom in my pajamas, alternatively looking for food and another good TV show to watch.

That's when I look at myself, at the realm? I'm living in, at its cozy little pattern of work and rest, of sleep and death, of life and all its crazy shit.

Where is Moshiach in all of this?

Where is that feeling that we are right on the verge of something incrediible?

That we are standing on the cliff's edge, and on the other side of the chasm, lies Glory?

I don't know what it was like when the Rebbe was still physically with us. I was about to be six in 1994, and the only memory I have of the Rebbe is Gimmel Tammuz.

But I imagine that energy pulsed through the streets of Crown Heights. I imagine that every time you did something right, you felt prouder, and every time you did something wrong, you felt guiltier.

I picture the t-shirts, the banners, the slogans not being the sole province of yellow-crazed foreigners, but of every Lubavticher.

And although I dont agree with the methods of those who campaign wih the cry of "Yechi" on their lips, I do envy their passion.

They believe that Moshiach is here, that he is with us still.

I don't want to make plans for the future.

I don't know how to balance planning even six months from now with the belief - firm, unwavering belief, belief so strong it makes you LIVE RIGHT NOW as your belief has been actualized - with thinking about saving up for a massage table, or making over my mother's wedding dress.

I believe Moshiach is coming.

I believe it because the Rebbe said so, and the Rebbe said so because Hashem said so.

And I believe in G-d.

My belief in G-d is illogical, and founded on a whole lot of emotion and a good dollop of neccessity, and so is my belief in the Geulah.

I know it is, and I choose to believe anyway, because - ha! - I BELIEVE IT IS RIGHT.

Even though I often doubt.

Crown Heights Poetry Slam Mission Statement

I was thinking of ignoring this whole issue. This is something taking place in my real life, and so what is being said on the internet doesn't really matter. But somehow blogging has become more than just a way to waste time. I feel like a journalist, like I have a commitment to discovering and discussing the truth. One of the reasons bloggers group together in communities is to call each other on our BS, to make each other dig deep and really figure out what the hell we are doing in our lives - our REAL lives.

So I'm not going to ignore this discussion.

The poetry slam was not my creation. It was a gift to me, from my older brother. Truthfully? I would never have created such a thing, simply because I wouldn't have thought I could! But Levi did. And he gave it to me because he believed I could do it. And I have.

It wasn't until after I was in charge that I had to think about what it was, and what I wanted it to be, and what and who and how and all those questions that have been raised. I have come to some of the answers by experimentation, and some by exploration.

I have some idea of what the Crown Heights Poetry slam is now. And I'm going to share it with you.

Words have incredible power. They take the reader to places they could never be, physically. They allow you to have unity with another person's mind and heart. They can mystify and clarify.

Poetry, especially perfomance poetry, can be a way to use words on a deeper level. The author is allowed to break grammatical rules and societal rules and whatever else in order to discover or create something that is unique to them, to their soul. You can tell a story, view the world through someone else's eyes, relive a traumatic or joyous experience, or tell a joke. It is a way to process your life, or the world, or anything; it is a way to connect to your discoveries and creations

That's how I view poetry.

Now here's how I view myself.

I am a Jew. That is the first and most primary way I identify myself, before my name, before my gender, before anything else. I have a Jewish soul.

And no matter what I'm doing, I am a Jew doing that.

So everything I do is - should be! - a Jewish thing.

Including my poetry.

When I tell a story, I can tell the story of the first time I davened. When I look through another's eyes, it can be that of the non-Jews who surround me, or the Jewish boy I imagine I will be the mother of someday. When I relieve an experience, no matter what it was, my Jewish soul was experiencing it.

So that is what the poetry slam is.

A place for Jews to come and relate their Jewish experiences.

It's not meant to be a shlichus. It's not meant only for religious Jews. It's a place for Jewish expression of the Jewish experience, whatever that is.

I want it to be as welcoming as possible for any Jew who comes.Religious, non-religious, man or woman.

With that in mind, the suggestion of separate seating was a welcome one. As for questions about a mechitza, or whether or not this event should even exist (because it is a mixed event), I personally don't feel those are relevant issues considering my goals. (Of course, my personal opinion isn't enough to rely on, and I do intend to ask my rav his perspective on this event.)

That's about it.

Any questions?

Because It's Been So Long, I Had Time To Rethink It - Superpower Redux

Bsd

Superpower Redux

There is this show, it's called Lie to Me, and it's brilliant. And based on a real person. And he has the superpower I want.

He can read people's minds. Well, not really. He can read their faces, and that's almost as good.

The eyes are the window to the soul, and your face is apparently the window to your mind. Everything you think and feel is expressed in subtle motions of the facial muscles.

And if you have quick enough eyes to notice them and the knowledge to interpret them, you know what is going on inside that person.

The ability to know when someone is lying? When they're angry or sad or happy or satisfied, even if they deny it?

To know when to trust? When to defend?

To know what someone really thinks about you?

That's a power I would want.

That would be real power.

Superpower Meme

Bsd

FINALLY DID IT!!!

Everyone wants to fly. I mean, look at the memes - flight or some variation is present in almost all.

Flight is freedom, or that is what we think.

Flight is power, or so it seems.

Flight is passion, or it could be.

But G-d created us two feet on the ground, wingless and heavy boned.

So where comes this deep desire for flight?

Think of it in reality:

Flight would be cold,

Flight would be tense.

Flight would be terror.

Except -

I close my eyes and imagine myself in flight

and I am bodyless.

Is that our desire for flight?

To be body-free

Like flame soaring up to its source

Soul returning to creator

Free of this world

its woes

and responsibilities.

Do we think:

" I am flying closer to God." ?

Bsd
Stupid, effing trains.
Stupid, effing test.
Stupid, effing brother.
Equilibrium upset, and I don't know why my roommate loaning me her sweater because she thought I could use something fun and cuddly to wear today makes me cry. And my best friend's a mother, my "uncle" has cancer, and I wish this weather would last all winter. But it won't, cuz I'm not home, I'm here, dragging my feet till the end of the week when I'll get wrapped up in strong arms, at the very least metaphorically speaking, and get some relief.
Poetry night is Sat night, and I have nothing to write; the one thing I think about is the one thing I can't yet talk about (at least out loud, to a public crowd).
Am I sleep-walking, sleep-talking, sleep-massaging/test-taking/kid-sitting/apartment-fixing all this time?
It feels like it.
The writing makes me come alive, caterpillar-cocoon style, the shell of my life hiding what's really going on inside.
Gotta go, class is starting.

'

















'

Definitions

Bsd

Walking down President St

Harlequin Historical in my hand,

and yes, that's who I am,

the girl with the bodice ripper and neckline covered,

the girl with the baby that's not mine and the boy next to me who's not my brother,

and I'm telling someone that she should think of living in Crown Heights

as if she's just living in Brooklyn,

like half the gay/black/hippie-ster people in my school

Replay that:

What?

Crown Heights isn't Brooklyn.

And that's not just who I am.

We talked today about definitions and where we were.

I said - we have to constantly redefine.

Redefine

and

Redefine

and Redefine.

Or we're dead.

Balanced on a thin edge,

and tipping over.

I'm not that girl.

Or at least I might not be, tomorrow.

Linkage

Check this out.

Good writing. Relevant subject. Try not to scare her with your strange blogger ways.

It's Time

Time for me to be honest.

With myself.

My friends,

Mashpia.

You.

You, the reader.

You, the mysterious unknown audience,

You, the ones whose numbers are saved in my phone.

I think I've reached a certain point in my life here.

Either I write about what I'm really thinking or I don't write.

But here's the deal:

Don't ask questions when I write mysterious statements.

Don't give me a hug the next time you see me (unless that's our normal manner of greeting).

Even when you think I need one.

I'm going to pretend that I am talking to myself, the way I do when I'm walking down the street and freaking out.

And you and all your comments?

That's just me talking back to myself.

Bsd

I think my Pandora is reading my mind, my mood.

Music that screams when I need to scream, cries when I need to cry, soars when I need to soar.

Nothing like having a soundtrack to your life, underscoring the moments you want to remember forever, the moments you'll forget never.

Now - angry and sad, scared and mad, I want to jump the cliff, jump the shark, laugh at how crazy it's all gotten, and thank G-d in my quiet moments for what I know I have, for the treasure hidden in the X-marked spot in my own room, my own heart, my own life.

First Day of School Checklist

Bsd

Wake up at the painfully early hour of 6 AM - Check.

Decide to wear my purple dress for luck and love - Check.

Wait for Albany Bakery to open their doors so I can buy breakfast - Check.

Korbanos on the train - Check.

Receive schedule - Check.

Meet Stephanie, who also doesn't have any books - Check.

Go to the subbasement to buy uniform shirt, massage oil, books - Check.

Wait on line for twenty minutes - Check.

Meet Lana and Helmy (who introduced herself as Helmy, named after her Estonian great-grandmother, who was an alchoholic) - Check.

Discover that Lana and I are in the same class, and decide to be late together - Check.

Spend 42 dollars on school supplies - Check.

Change into my tznius version of the school uniform ( school tshirt, black shirt, black short skirt, black leggings) - Check.

Make it to class - Check.

Listen to two hour lecture; need the restroom desperately by the end of it - Check.

Take the stairs to the library to make copies; meet Dani, Librarian Extraordinaire and Savior of My Sanity and Money - Check.

Stuff half an eggsalad sandwich in my mouth in the last five minutes of break - Check.

Watch demonstration - Check.

Partner up with Lana (as in Svetlana, not Lang), who happens to be from Russia via Israel - Check.

Receive 20 minute massage; finally relax - Check.

Give 20 minute massage - Check.

Realize that my table had been one leg higher the entire time - Check.

Change back to street clothes - Check.

Meet Jen and Katie, both fellow Brooklynites - Check.

Leave school - Check.

The End.

Unless you want to hear about how I did my reading at work while my kiddie slept away. Which if you do, means you are really desperate for details of my life. If you're THAT desperate, just call me.

It Smells Like Pee, And Other Stories of Chai Elul

Bsd

Yud Zayin/Chai Elul is my parents' wedding anniversary (27 years!), which is why I spent twenty minutes at Rabbi (Chaim, Mr. Gutnick Chumash) Miller's farbrengen with my phone plastered to my ear, listening to a calm voiced woman interrupt the beauteous Muzac to inform me that, "Your host has not yet joined the conference.".

When you live 3,000 miles away from your parents, you celebrate their anniversary by giving them a phone call. The Welton family has achieved an even higher level of sophistication - we give my parents a celebratory conference call. Whew, baby.

So, four kids, two parents, shouldn't be too hard to get us all on the phone at the same time, right?

Wrong.

Let's just say I'm grateful I have a small family.

On the less sarcastic side, we accomplished our goal. Anniversary call completed, I focused my full attention on the farbrengen.

It was worthy of full attention.

Best farbrengen I've been at since Rabbi Korn, and I LOVE Rabbi Korn's farbrengens.

I knew it was going to be good from the first glimpse I caught as I popped my head through the open doorway, confirming that the farbrengen was indeed where I thought it was. Crammed full of girls, the air in the room was heavy with heat - both literally and metaphysically.

I sat quietly, as I usually do at farbrengens. (Well, not entirely quietly. But any comments were directed at my friend Raizy (shout out to Raizy!), not the room at large).

Rabbi Miller was exactly what I have determined a good farbrenger should be - smart, passionate, funny, but most importantly, he let the girls lead him to what they wanted to talk about without getting lost in the shrillness of their arguments.

We wandered from topic to topic for a bit. A little bit about whether the system is flawed or not, whether mechanchim are given enough respect, whether Lubavitchers are afraid of their emotions (Consensus: Yes.).

A practical, if sometimes self-admittedly grouchy, man, Rabbi Miller decided we should all meditate on five emotional points during davening, and I will present them to you in their abbreviated form and let you all figure out how they'll apply:

1. Gratitude

2. Awe

3. Purpose

4. Joy

5. Hope/Yearning

(Sidenote: Maybe I am starting to get over my seminary hangup...)

So that was last night.

How did I celebrate Chai Elul today?

Well, I said Brachos and as I sped through them at my usual sub-vocal speed, the Big Five streamed through my head.

Then I tried to screw a handle on my dresser, and wished that the men in my life were more available to me.

In the middle of that, one of the men in my life (my older brother, geez) called and asked me to walk with him to Bank of America.

I live on Union and Albany. The bank is on Kingston and Eastern Parkway.

It took 45 minutes.

Damn, black people can dance!

After that, I went to my friend's house (Shout out to D.L.!) to do laundry, and did driveway guard duty for an hour and a half.

What is driveway guard duty?

That is when you sit in your driveway so no one will come and pee in it.

Which leads me to my walk home, late at night and in the dark.

It smells like pee in all the corners of Crown Heights.

Happy Labor Day.

Gut Yom Tov.

(I have to wake up at 6 AM tomorrow. The summer is officially over!)

Elul Times

Bsd

I've talked so much today that my teeth are sore, my mouth is dry, my throat is still pulsing with the energy of my words, and my hands hold tight the memory of their frantic movement.

New is the word of the month.

New year, new school, new roommates.

New relationship with my brother.

New me?

Only it's not a new me, it's the old me, the me I've been trying to be for so long now I couldn't remember who that was.

Only it's a better me, tempered by the failures of this year, strengthened by the hard-won successes.

Ksiva vchasima tova, people.

This Is About Cursing And Other Stupid Things, Because I Am Serious Far Too Often

Bsd

Curse words are hella fun.

See that? Just used a fun (semi) curse word to illustrate my point! They make speech grittier, and more real, and when you want to say something without sounding pretentious, they are really useful.

But often overused. Especially by me.

Which is why I have instituted my new system. If you are with me, and I use a curse word, I must pay you money. (Gotta hit me where it hurts, you know?).

F--- gets you a quarter.

S--- gets you a dime.

D--- gets you a nickel.

Interestingly enough, this system is actually working. I have begun to substitute words like "Shittake" and "Fudge it" for other, more pungent, phrases.

Cursing is also one of those things, like smoking and drinking, that boys - at least chassidish boys - seem surprised and somewhat unnerved to realize girls might do. (Someone, please help me with that sentence. It is structured horribly, but its 12:58 and I have no patience for reconstructing it. Also, will someone please help me figure what the word for remodeling a dress is?)

I still remember talking to a bochur once about what I like to drink, and being rather amused at his thinly veiled horror.

Ironically enough, when it comes to cursing, I am more shocked to hear a boy (especially bochurim) curse than when I hear women curse. When I hear women curse, it's usually one of my friends. It's one of those things we do in our more private conversations. I don't usually have that many private conversations with men, so less overhearing of cursing, ergo, when I do hear a guy curse, it's in public, and I feel the shock value of a crude word more severely.

Ok.

I have voided my brain of those thoughts.

Maybe tomorrow I'll ease into a post that delves a little deeper into the workings of my current psycho-emotional status.

Harry Potter and the Geulah

Bsd

I went to see Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince tonight with a few friends. I grew up with those books, and so I feel like I have to see the movies. Hated the Order of the Phoenix, both book and movie, but this one was rather good. Funny and tender and scary and sad, and I left the theater remembering why I liked the series, and of course, wanting to read the seventh book again, to remind myself of everything that happens.

I had a chavrusa with a friend today, the first time I've learned anything in months. We just went through a short sicha, a simple one, which talked about Geulah. The true and complete redemption. And then I went and watched Harry Potter.

I got home from the theater and no matter that it was 3 in the morning, I sat down with my roommate's copy of the Deathly Hallows and started to read. But it's late and I was tired, so I skipped to the end, to Harry's victory over Tom Riddle, and then the epilogue. Nineteen years later.

When I read that the first time, I was disappointed. It all happened so fast! One minute Voldemort stood there, and they were in the thick of battle and Fred and Remus and Tonks had died, and then he was dead, just a shriveled shell of a body, and then Harry stood with his kids at the train station. Just like that.

"His scar hadn't twinged in nineteen years. All was well."

I read it tonight and I almost cried.

A world where all is well?

It's a dream that hurts because it's been promised a reality.

Harry Potter's world is all well, but we're still fighting our good fight.

Clean

I cleaned the bathroom

Poured various cleaning supplies everywhere, and scrubbed, and plucked random long hairs off the side of the sink (Girls!).

It was fun. Ish. I had to do it, or my apartment mates would fine me.

Yah.

That's our new system. We all got chores, and if we don't do them, we get fined.

Which is annoying but also motivating. Truth be told, I probably wouldn't have cleaned the bathroom today if not for the threat of being fined.

I always forget how satisfying and frustrating it is to clean. Satisfying to spray and wipe and watch the dirt come right off. Frustrating to see the corners that never get clean and the dust that always resettles and the stains that won't come out!

And then there's the headache I have, a mixture of hunger and ammonia scents.

Now my room.

Then I'll feel like a human being, one who buys groceries and does her dishes, and cleans the bathroom and has artwork from her friends on the walls of her room.

My Niece (and Other Things) Is One Year Old

It's my niece's first birthday today. Three days after mine - by the way, I am now twenty one.

It's one of the most special dates of the year for me.

One year ago -

One year ago!

One year ago...

One year to go?

Why, G-d, Why?

Bsd

Why do You make my life so full

of confusion,

all tops and bottoms, beginnings and endings, insides and outsides

reversed,

so that the easy life I have been living left me full of self-loathing,

and tonight,

the hardest thing I've ever done

is the one that leaves me feeling

closest to You?

This is my Gimmel Tammuz.
Quiet and alone in a house with two sleeping children upstairs, bone tired from my day, while my friends get a ride to the Ohel with my sister, and I eat pastries taken from a farbrengen, and chat online.
I will go next week, when the Ohel is as empty as it ever gets, and I can confront my Rebbe on my own.
Tonight, I do a greater service, letting my sister and brother-in-law, front-line soldiers that they are, gather strength from being in Crown Heights at this time.

Summer Time

I worked my last official day at my morning job today.

Despite the fact that it's almost the end of June, that means that tomorrow will be my first day of summer. (Now if it would only stop raining...).

Tomorrow is the first new day I'll have had in months.

I'm thinking of disregarding everything I know about my personality and my weaknesses, and instead of finding a new morning job, I'm going to spend the summer mornings writing.

And more importantly, sending those writings in anywhere I think I might be able to get published.

I've planned on doing that for so long, so many times.

I don't think I'm going to do it this time.

All the other times, I was convinced, THIS time would be the one.

Now, I have lost faith in myself.

But I cannot give up.

If I don't even pretend to have hope for myself, where will I be?

(PS. I apologize for writing such a demoralizing post. I'm just getting in touch with my dark side.)

Childhood Memories

Bsd

The rain today struck a memory chord.

El Nino, the weather pattern of my childhood.

Rain, rain, rain.

My block flooded with currents so strong my brother and his friend could almost float down the street.

It rained all winter and all summer and all the time.

I was always surprised when it didnt rain quite that much the following years.

I love rain.

Rain dripping off the ends of my hair down my nose to my fingers clutching the handlebar of the stroller and I am wet! Dripping! And I don't give a damn and how freaking freeing is that?!

Giving up control and just letting it happen.

I wasn't going to have my writing group tonight. My sister is in town, and needs help with the kids, and I was tired (two hours of sleep will do that to you). But Shmuly guilt tripped me into doing it, and I'm glad I did.

It was good! We had a little group, and we wrote, and we read, and I liked what I wrote.

So I'll share.

I had everyone create a childhood memory. It could be for themselves or for a character, but it could not be a real memory.

Here is what I wrote:

In the summer, we would walk to the Central Library, my mother and I, and take the 3 train home. I was a sturdy four year old, but not sturdy enough to walk there and back. I am amazed at my mother's patience, to hike up each long block holding my hand, stopping with me at every bench along Eastern Parkway to say hello to the old black people who sat there. It must have taken us an hour or more to finally reach our destination. But then my mother would get her reward. She would pick out some books for me - the ones by Steven Kellog, with Rosie the cat and the Great Dane whose name I can't remember hidden in each story, were my favorites - and then she would seat me in one of the squishy chairs planted in a square amongst the fiction racks. I would curl up and "read" to myself while she wandered the aisles, always coming back to wave at me and deposit another book on the growing stack beside my chair.

After she was finally satisfied and before I grew bored and fidgety, we would go to the cavernous hall that was the main lobby to check out all of our books. Every time, I would have the urge to shout my name and hear how it would echo, all the way up to the high roof and back down to bounce against the shiny marble floor, the syllables loud and clear at first and then fading gently, " Dov-ov-ov-ov."But my mother had said to me that the library was a quiet place, and I listened.

Finally, it would be time for my reward. No matter how tired I was, once we left the library, I would run up the incline, dragging my mother by the hand behind me. Both of us would stand breathless at the stoplight, and I would wiggle, until my mother warned me, "We wait until we see the person, Dovie, then we look for a car, and then we can cross!" Once we crossed the street, I could see it - the jets of water leaping joyously into the air, and then falling back down, hitting the pavement in a syncopated rhythm. They danced to a tune I felt only I could hear. My mother would take our bag of books and sit on the giant steps of the Brooklyn Museum and I would run up to the fountain, right next to the iron bars that fenced it in. And I would dance.

I would raise my hands up and the water would shoot up into the blue sky! I would stamp my feet and it would smack into the ground, pelting me with delicate droplets. I was the king of the water, I remember thinking, king being the closest word to commander that I knew.

My mother would wait on the steps until I grew tired and then she would scoop me up and carry me to the subway station. I would wrap my arms around her neck and keep my eyes on the dancing water until our descent into the underground blocked it from my view. I would fall asleep on my mother's lap on the ride back to Crown Heights, body jolted by the 3 train's jerky stops, bolstered by her arms around me and the bulky bag of books next to me, the water still dancing behind my closed eyes.

I'm Back

It rained tonight, and my living room felt like a boat. The fan stirred cool air over our heads and the windows shouldered the blows of the raindrops. I've been waiting for the hideous muggy weather that New York is supposedly blessed with in the summer time, but so far it has yet to appear. I'm praying that there will be a miracle (or as the people in my home town call it, some serious global warming), and that this cool, sunny, sometimes a little humid stuff will stick around.

I read a book tonight, one of my favorites, one of the only books that I read twice in a row, one time right after the other. I remember the first time I read it. I sat curled up on the couch on our front porch, on a lazy afternoon. I read the book, closed it, paused, opened it and read it all over again. It was just that good. The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley. She has authored some of my favorite books, but this book is of a different caliber. It is one of the books that made me want to write.

I was thinking about something I wanted to write down today and then realized that I couldn't write it, because who knows, the person I wanted to write about might read it someday. As unlikely as that is, I've taken note of the hard lesson other bloggers have learned. There have been other things I wanted to write that I have chosen not to voice here, because here I am known. People I know and love read this and because of that, there are just some things I cannot say. Part of me thought that and envied those who write anonymously. But then I think about everything I've gained from being open about who I am. I blog for the connection just as much as the expression. And if I have to sacrifice brutal honesty for that, I will.

Six Feet Under

Bsd 

This is a guest post by our very own Sarabonne:

Six Feet Under and I'm Still Waiting

 

I'm surrounded by solidity & warmth, a womb that cradles me,

holds me, caresses me,

and moves inward.

I am claustrophobic. I am under,

where the light is stark and artificial.

I am six feet under.

Sitting in rooms with windows at the ceiling, waiting by tunnels that roar,

so much time I'm below,

below everything living & I want to tear my eyes out.

And I'm waiting, it is my constant, this creeping time,

waiting to arise,

to climb out into the light.

I am six feet under & I want out.

To see infinity, air & space,

flocks of birds floating in waves of sky,

to breathe, to be free.

And I am still waiting.

Central Park Stories

Bsd

1.

                         Girl with pink hair 

            fairy wings painted on her face 

                             bells 

                       strapped over jazz dancers' shoes

                               on her ankles. She sings, 

                  her voice ringing out alongside the pure tone 

                                   of the bells she rings 

                      under the bridge with its Turkish ceiling

                            accompanied by the dark faced 

                                       dread - locked 

                                          black man.

                An elf and a witch doctor, singing together.

2.

Two girls crouch under the statue in the fountain, and they are orphans, thieves, searching for something they barely believe in, armed with a rusty key and the spell sold to them by the old woman in the market. In New York City's Central Park, they are two girls, too old for this, who indulge themselves in a moment of childish fantasy. In a city whose name does not exist, they are exactly that, and who knows what else? Witches themselves, lost princesses, oddly loyal citizens? They teach themselves to fence with badminton rackets, or sticks, or perhaps they do not teach themselves to fight at all, except to survive. 

Monday Morning

Bsd

I know I should save them up and delay posting these, but what the hey. You can go to town and read it all, or save them up for a rainy day and savor my finely crafted work.

(Written February 26)

I wake up ticked off

by the alarm

on my phone incessantly beeping

three days in

and I don't want to get up for work

the burn of frustration

propels me out of bed

straight into a cup of coffee

hoping the sweet sugar buzz slide down

my throat

will lessen the sting

of this cranky morning

when nothing I wear or own

is quite right

neither is anything else in my life

I've got this invisible TO DO list

with too many things TO DO

I could use a cliche

like I'm struggling to breathe

say something familiar

like I just want to sleep

I want my coffee to save me

from the pointless persistence

of the thoughts clogging my brain

I walk out the door ticked off

by the time flashing

in blue numbers on my phone

three days in

and I don't want to go to work this morning.

Union Square Starbucks

Bsd

Things are a bit busy here in the Union St abode, what with moving and all. Thank G-d (and a handy handyman), we managed to get our couch through the hallway and into the living room with only a minor loss of limbs (the couch's, not ours). 

In the meantime, I'm posting a couple of poems I wrote recently. Because I read them today, and they were pretty damn good.

(Written March 29)

In the space between 

assaulted ears

        and behind 

busy eyes

        there exists

                  a    

         core of silence,  besieged by thoughts:

                                     

                               I love her shoes, oxford heels

                                                                       with a shearling lining  

                   black men look so good 

                                                    when they

            dress classically

                            

            and BAM!

          that woman's wearing bright colors

                                        three kids run 

after their father

 my coffee is too hot

          and milky

   That couple  

 ape bearded man 

 sharply

  rat featured woman 

walked by 

this Starbucks window

                                         just a moment ago

     Manhattan is full,

                                            fast,

                                  and I miss the rhythm of Brooklyn

Breath inhaled, breath exhaled

                        the calm space between lungs

                                            widens

                        even as the nerves in my belly

                                         tighten

                     under the strain of thoughts:

I have less than twenty dollars in my bank account

                         but I really want new shoes

         I wanted to shop today,

         but didn't.

         and damn

         will my roommate be angry when I tell her the cord to her laptop is frayed

                              and won't charge anything anymore

                             the new one won't arrive for a week. 

                                     

                               our security blanket is gone.

          I have to cancel my credit card,

                        because I am too lazy to clean my room

                                           and find it.

                                                     besides, I think I accidentally threw it out

  when I was sick.

The Alarm Clock and the Sound

Bsd

In a cold room that exists solely within the confines of my

         pretty  little head,

this alarm clock is a weight upon the dresser by my

        cozy little bed,

and it ticks

        (tick tick tick)

and this melancholy quiet sound 

                    echoes.

        On a morning that didn't happen, or may have happened, or always happens,

            I lie on my back with my eyes closed,

                           lonely gray light filters through the shades

                        this alarm clock makes its harshly quiet sound

                                      (tick tick tick)

                              and as I drift back into a drugging sleep,

                                            it fades

                                          away.

It's a warm night,

     heat 

blankets every surface

in this solitary room of my imagining

I drop the alarm clock. 

It bounces,

damaged,

but there it is -

still making its jarring quiet sound

                                                                        (tick tick tick)

                         I am exhausted.

                           of all hope.

                           of making

                                   it

                                 stop. 

I Am Moving Up in Life

Bsd

I am moving.

Up two floors, to a beautiful pre-war detailed, four bedroom apartment, with lots of sun, built-in closets and beautiful high ceilings, where I will hopefully reside in the room with the skylight and the glass sliding doors. Oh, and there's a bathtub. 

I have proclaimed my love for my basement many a time, and as basements go, it's a pretty amazing one. There are so many memories held within these stark white walls. My little pink bedroom is dear to my heart.

But this new, bigger, brighter place has stolen my heart away. 

I'll save the nails I bought today to hang the pictures in my new room. 

I'll begin saving money for all the new furniture I'm going to buy tomorrow. 

I'll dream tonight of Shavuos, when a fellow blogger is coming to stay with me, and we'll sit in my gloriously sunny new living room, and talk until the sun has set and risen again

Hair

Search for My Soul, Part 1

Bsd

I'm so glad I got to talk to you

You 

sparked the memories

of what I want to be

off the flint of who you are;

I was stirred into flame

by my frustration. 

How did I

let my life get here?

To this point

where the distance between my dreams

and my reality

have grown so far

I no longer even feel

a need

to bridge the gap?

I thought

I always knew who I was

I thought 

I still was that person

I think

I still am. 

But buried underneath

layers of laundry and dishes left too long

jobs proposed and left unpursued

education attempted and failed

the me I thought I was

has been crushed

Deeper and deeper

harder and harder

smaller and smaller

I can feel the lump of my soul

next to my heart

held safely between my lungs

under the protective plate

of my breastbone. 

You

added the slightest

lightest

bit of pressure.

There is something about the way you think that is just so foreign to me. 

I couldn't help 

but fight with that

even though

it was like banging

my head

against a wall. 

Again

Again

Again

until suddenly I shook 

loose

that crushed piece of myself

and it was a diamond in my hand. 

Such Great Heights

Bsd
This song has been threading through my mind these past few days. Walking around in the alternately bright and cloudy spring, I'll find myself singing, and what I'm singing is this:
Such Great Heights (as covered by The Wrong Trousers).

WARNING: THIS SONG FEATURES A WOMAN'S VOICE.
(This is when it's good to be a woman. At least when I'm feeling guilty for listening to non-Jewish music, i don't also have to feel guilty for kol isha!).

In Other News....

I went shopping in Target today, and was quite satisfied with my purchases. Oooh, and the purple quilted flats I bought at Payless for ten bucks. I'll have to pop those up on Hip in the Heights. 

I ran into a friend of mine that I haven't seen recently. 

She got married. 

I went to her house once, for dinner. It was nice. We hung out on the couch, oohing and aahing over shoes. Her husband played us salsa music so she could try to teach me to dance (it didn't really work. I need a lot more time to learn a dance than fifteen minutes.). 

But I haven't really seen her since. Oh, here and there, a lchaim, a phone call. But we haven't had time together, had  a really good chat. 

And this is a good friend. When something life altering happened to me, she was one of the first people to know. 

Another very close friend just got married, and another is engaged. 

I'm not there yet. Not yet ready for that. 

But almost. 

Soon. 

Sometimes, it kills me. The mystery of married life. I know so much about it, but there's only so much you can learn from observing, from listening, from reading. There are some things that only experience can prove. 

    

* * * * *

Last week was hard. I don't know why. Now I look back, and I see it was good. Feeling sad last week was the kick in the butt I needed to get myself moving again. To see that for the first time this year, I have structure, and it is so good. 

I'm not a naturally sad person. The opposite, in fact. I'm naturally happy, optimistic, a believer. I don't have to do much to be that way. G-d gifted me. 

So when I do feel sad, that sweeping undertow of sorrow, the waves of loss, (I hate when I get overly wrapped up in my metaphors) - when I feel sad like that, I need to take action. I can no longer let my life flow along, relying on my good nature to keep things pleasant. I need to act. To change. To do - to do all those positive things that bring good feeling and the joy of satisfaction with them. 

So I did. 

Thanks to the support and wise words of my friends and family, despite the fact that last week was one of the saddest of recent times, it was also one of the best. 

Disney Movies Are Strange.

Bs"d

I babysat tonight, as a favor for a friend. She had a wedding in New Jersey, I don't work in the afternoons, her sister is no longer available to babysit because she just got married... So, even though I'm no longer sixteen (despite looking like it) and I'm no longer in high school (despite acting like it (I had the best time acting like I was still in high school with my friend this past Friday night. We giggled, invented strange animals (the Shiraffe - available soon in toy stores near you, although probably not the ones on Kingston), and skipped - yes, skipped - down the street)), I babysat tonight. 

What that consisted of was watching a lot of Disney movies on Youtube. (Hey, I was tired! I had to babysit last night, too. But for work. My real job. Which is essentially playing house, in someone else's house. Doing someone else's dishes, sorting through someone else's receipts, bathing someone else's kid, ironing someone else's husband's pants.... It's actually kind of enjoyable. I just wish it were my own house... Infer from that what you will, folks). 

What all that Disney-movie-watching led to was this conclusion:

Disney movies are strange.

All the subliminal messages... all the psychedelic songs... all the anthropomorphism....

Strange. Neil Gaiman strange. Kids-are-going-to-grow-up-seriously-twisted-because-they -watched-this strange.  

Take Dumbo - the people who made Dumbo were on drugs. There is no denying it. There's this one scene where Dumbo gets drunk or something and has a "dream". A dream. Riiiight. Go find that clip and watch it and tell me those animators weren't high as kites!

And Bambi. Has anyone watched Bambi? The entire second half of the movie is just animals making out! My sister was uncomfortable letting my nephew watch Cars, because she thought there was too much of a sexual undercurrent.  Ha! Has she ever seen Bambi? I don't think so!

Of course, like all good, strange stuff, the old Disney movies were also beautiful. They were works of art. Paintings made alive. The closest I've seen in beauty is Wall-E. It shares in common with old Disney films two things: A lot more silence than we're used to in a kid's movie, and a lot more beauty. 

Beautiful and strange. 

Disney. 

Huh. 

G-d is Funny

Bsd

Anticipation sucks. You look forward to something, the highlight of your year, the moment you'll never forget - and then a day before, a week before, something happens, and you can't even appreciate it. 

I'm whining, I know, and I'm sure it's getting old for all the people who actually have to listen to it in real life. But I can't help it!

My lip hurts, my stomach hurts, my throat hurts.

Everything that could go wrong seemingly did. 

And all on the eve of one of my best friend's wedding!

I look and feel like I've been punched in the mouth. 

My brother says it's cool, now I have Jolie lips. I was satisfied with my own, you know? 

I'm all dolled up, blue dress and Uggs (it's a long, chilly walk from my apartment to Razag), and I've got the blue wig I didn't get to wear on Purim because I was stuck in bed. And I've got my cold medicine, the kind that makes you stop coughing. 

So hopefully this won't be too much of a disaster. 

(See, and that sucks too. Normally, I'd be so excited, but now all I want is to STOP COUGHING.)

Hey, He's My Brother!

Everyone, this is a PSA:

Check out the newest blog on the block - parshacomics.blogspot.com

Because we could all  use a little funny in our week....

Neil Gaiman is a Friggin' Genius

Bsd

Part One:

He is.  A big-nosed genius. A big-nosed, English-born, Jewish genius. 

Reading his books takes me back to the days when everything had possibility. My brother says he can no longer tell stories, because he has lost the innocent pleasure in just telling a story for its own sake. I have become obsessed with finding real stories to tell, stories that will mean something to my peers. Is there such a thing as a Jewish fairy-tale?

The man writes stories, poetry, books, comics, movies. I don't think there's a medium he doesn't write in. He's a Renaissance man, and he lives in Minnesota. 

The point of this is, Neil Gaiman is a genius. 

But why?

Part Two:

Why fantasy?

Because the good guys always win.

Why fantasy?

Because there is another world out there, one that we don't see. Not the one most authors imagine, but at least they're thinking about it. 

Why fantasy?

Because too many books written about the "real" world are written on the assumption that, as Victor put it so succinctly on the last episode of Dollhouse, "people are mostly crap". 

Why fantasy?

Because I like it, dammit.

And that's that.

Bsd

Just

     intenseness.

the whole damn week,

good and bad and thank G-d for all of it, 

i'm alive and there's so much happening

in a week that feels like a month sunday so far from monday and friday even farther away

missing people,

so happy,

hurting for friends and happy for them and myself mixed up in all kinds of lives, including my own

can't seem to catch a breath

i'm so grateful

and yet sleep (my personal Kyptonite, sleeping at all the wrong times and in the wrong places,, why is the couch always more comforting than my bed?) is so alluring.

An Exercise

His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York. 

I'm tagging TRS to write the next paragraph. TRS, you tag someone to write the paragraph after yours. Etc, etc, until we get back to me and then we start over until we finish the story.

That 25 Things Thingy

1. When I was 9, I was anemic. I couldn't swallow the iron pills - those things are as big as horse pills - so my mother taught me how to eat the marrow out of the bones (chicken, steak, etc). This is a habit I retain to this day, which is why when my family goes anywhere where there's steak served - I get the bone. 

2. The nickname my high school friends call me comes from the name of a character in a series of vampire romances they were reading when we met. 

3. My bottom right front tooth is chipped, because of the time I was playing with a little boy and he jumped up unexpectedly and hit the bottom of my chin with the top of his head. 

4. When  I was little, I was scared my family would die and I wouldn't have told them "I love you" before they did. Every night before I went to sleep, I would make the rounds and tell each of them "Good night and I love you". Every time someone left - "I love you". Every phone call - "I love you".  (I think this is still why I say "I love you" so often.)

5. I used to eat frozen peas as a kid, until the time I got carsick and threw peas up all over my lap. I didn't eat peas in any shape or form for years afterward.

6. Now that I've decided I won't be dating for the near future, I keep getting suggestions. 

7. I've wanted to write since I was seven years old. 

8. I'm four feet nine inches (I think). A couple of years ago, I found out that my pediatrician wanted to give me growth hormones when I was a child. My mother consulted with a family friend who was a pediatrician. She said I'd be fine. I'm just barely tall enough to ride without a booster seat in California, but I am fine. 

9. In eighth grade, I lied to my English teacher about completing an assignment because I really hated her, and I hadn't done it. She caught me, confronted me, and called my mother. That was one of the worst days of my life. 

10. I read Dickens when I was nine years old. 

11. My most vivid memory of my grandfather (my mom's dad, who died when I was in sixth grade) is his thick, white hair. 

12. My right index finger is slightly crooked. When I was eleven, I fractured it when it got slammed in a door. I was playing tug-of-war with my younger brother, because I didn't want him to come into my room.

13. I still miss my neighbor's cat, Knika. she used to sit on my lap while I read books on our front porch. 

14. My best friend in my third grade class was a boy, because he was the only one who'd climb up the metal structure and play spaceships with me. 

15. From ages 13 to 17, all my major crushes were at least 5 years older than me. That's what you get from growing up in a college town...

16. I didn't learn how to ride a bike until this past summer (and I'm still not very good).

17. I read trashy romance novels - and I love them.

18. I can paint my own nails - right AND left hands. (Guys, it's tougher than it looks).

19. When I was in middle school, I used to wake up at 6 am to get ready for school. That's how I heard about the WTC attacks - my radio alarm woke me up that morning. I didn't even know what the World Trade Center was. 

20. In 12th grade, I convinced my English principal to let the five of us who wanted a creative writing class to let us do it on our own. And we actually had class. 

21. I'm always challenging the social system that has developed in the frum world, and then encountering situations that make me realize why it's there. I still believe that things can be different - and better. 

22. I'm named after my mother's mother. My mom says I look like her. 

23. I hold my brother's hand when we walk together - even in Crown Heights. 

24. I doodle hearts and trees when I get bored. 

25. I can trace my maturing sexuality in high school by this timeline: First LOTR - I liked Elijah Wood. Second LOTR - Orlando Bloom. Third LOTR - the King himself, Viggo Mortensen. 

I Got Published!

Bsd

Read my genius here:

Nightlife Yud Shevat Farbrengen

(Now if only I could have gotten paid for it...)

One of the Happiest Days of My LIfe

Bsd

Today has been one of the happiest days of my life. Serious, mind-bending, heart-exploding, crazy, pure joy kind of happy. Hard core happiness. 

A little background first: I grew up in Berkeley. Now, frum people rarely know where that is, but secular people know that Berkeley is the town wherein exists the University of California Berkeley aka Cal Berkeley. They also know that it is one of the most violently liberal (and I mean that in its political, not literal, sense) places in the world. Ok, that's kind of a sidetrack. Well, not really. The point is, it's a crazy place to grow up Jewish, Orthodox, and Chabad. (Awesome, and I am so moving back there if the Messiah doesn't show up before then, but crazy.) 

Growing up, there were three families. The shluchim's family, my family, and a third Lubavitch family. Three families - Ferris, Welton, Feld. 

I can't get mushy right now, because I will cry and write such cheesy stuff my brain will explode when I read it later. 

Let me just say this - these families are my family. I don't have a lot of actual blood relatives, and these people are the closest I get without actually sharing DNA. 

Now when I tell you that Rivkie Ferris is engaged to Dovid Feld, you might begin to comprehend the heart-melting, body-shaking, so pure I might OD on it kind of joy I'm feeling. 

So. So. So. So. SO. SO SO SO SO SO SO SOSOSOSOSOSOSOSOSO HAPPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's more to the story that I am not at discretion to reveal. 

There's more going on in my life than this. 

But I want to leave this post with just this pure taste of happiness. 

(I'm going to scream like this when Moshiach comes.)

Flying Ants (I Have Too Much To Do To Try To Make This A Chassidishe Post)

Bsd

I'm sitting on my couch, minding my own business (meaning, finding more websites about shoes to look at with yearning), when this wriggly little black bodied ant-like thing with wings lands on my roommate's laptop. 

DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS THAT IS??

I mean, this is where I sit and eat, read, sleep, talk in my sleep, talk on the phone, write, do my nails, go on line - essentially, that couch is where I live. And now it is being invaded by this horrific flying ants. 

I eyed that little bugger with disgust and a little fear, watching as it writhed between the keys. I wondered if it would get stuck between G and H forever. Finally, finally, finally, it squirmed its' way past the Return key and I was able to blow it off the laptop and onto the table, where I smashed it with a book of Robert Frost poems. 

About five minutes later, another one landed on the pillow next to me. I noticed yet another little bastard crawling on the floor under the table. Realizing that these weren't just fluke bugs that had flown in through a briefly opened door, I looked around for the source of these monstrous creatures. 

I looked up. 

Little black dots peppered the inside of our living room light fixture. 

Little black dots that moved and fluttered. 

I'm still not sure what to do. I'm thinking of spraying Raid in the light, but I'm afraid of poisoning my roommates and myself. 

In the meantime, I'm keeping that Robert Frost book close at hand. 

Depression, Seminary, and Other Things

Bsd

I'm sitting on my front stoop, wearing fingerless gloves so I can type, and attempting to avoid sitting on the ice frozen on the steps, because the moment I stepped into my silent, flourescently lit apartment and slumped down onto the futon couch in my accustomed position of the past few weeks, my creativity up and died.

Suffering for art, I am, and you guys are going to have to tell me if it's worth it. 

I'm unemployed. Say it again, with feeling. I'M UNEMPLOYED. What a grown up thing to say. Only adults are unemployed. Unemployment leads to depression, and I'm depressed. Sort of. The thing is, I'm a naturally optimistic person. Thanks to the One Above, who blessed me with an Annie-like disposition, there's usually a smile on my face, and something that I'm happy about. Whether it's finding my recently engaged friend an apartment in Crown Heights, dinner with my brother, or even just a damn good trashy novel, it's hard to realize that I'm down. 

But I am. 

You can't see the walls in my room, let alone the floor. The requisite chair for draping clothes on is entirely overused. My suitcase from my trip home Chanukah time still lies open and vomiting clothing, of which I remarkably have both too much and not enough of. 

I stay up all night, sleep all day, and am officially addicted to the Internet. 

It's just so easy to escape. 

But there comes a point where you can't escape anymore. When even the girl who's prided herself on the ability to fall asleep instantly, anywhere, finds herself lying awake, wondering if this is the way the rest of her forseeable future is going to be. 

That's how I felt this morning (well, this afternoon, when I finally got up). 

I looked on CrownHeights.Info and Shmais, and saw the same two job advertisements that I've already emailed about and gotten no response to last week still up. 

On impulse, I opened up craiglist.com and started emailing anyone who had a job that sounded even remotely interesting - mystery shoppe? Why the heck not? Dogwalker? I like dogs! There's even someone on there looking for someone to write a blog. 

This is when I realized that this wasn't working. I wasn't going to find the 9-5 job I'd been dreaming of. And if I did, I probably would hate working there. 

So I picked myself up off that all-too comfortable couch, threw on some clothes (yes, I was still in pajamas at 4 pm), and ran around the corner to see if the job that was almost perfect, but not quite, that I had refused last week, was still available. 

We'll see what happens with that, but the good news is - I'm no longer depressed. 

Now if I could just get myself to tackle my room...

Now for the second portion of this increasingly pointless (see, there's that depression again! This has a point. I'm not sure what, but there is one. I hope.) post.

Seminary. 

I have seminary issues. They really deserve their own post, so I'm just going to give you a taste of what is to come. 

Standing on my street corner, waiting for the light to change, I run into, not one, not two, but three (three! count 'em! what are the odds?) girls I went to seminary with, all of whom are now bewigged, and one of whom is most definitely bepregnated. Really, G-d? I don't see any of these girls ever, and now I've got three of them on my street corner?  

To take a cue from sarabonne's great post Dress to Impress, just looking at what we were wearing should give you some insight into my seminary issues:

Them: Wool coats, straight brown wigs, kneelength (that very carefully kneelength skirt that will definitely cover your knees when sitting) skirts, suede pointy boots.

Me: Cotton jacket, wavy blond hair, midcalflength vintage wool skirt (with a slit that ends right below my knees), brown leather buckled brogues. 

Here's another one: What do we do?

Them: Teach.

Me: Well, nothing. But no teaching, never teaching, (unless you count the writing workshop I'm arranging). 

I get sucked in though. I lived, went to school with, laughed with (and at), ate, rode the bus with, shared my nephew's birth with, had incredibly bonding experiences with all these girls. 

Just two years ago (it's my nephew's second birthday today!). 

I'm a social person - I like people. I like talking. I like listening. 

So here I am, standing at this street corner, and I want to be excited to see them. I do. 

But I'm not. 

I'm trying to keep myself from getting too personal because I have a tendency to do that, and from talking too much, because I have a tendency to do that, too, and I just want to have an honest connection with one of these girls, one of them who looks at me and sees me, but I don't. 

Which is why I have seminary issues. 

In other news, I have my writing group tonight at Mimulo's and Fradel got in some new teas. Should be exciting. You might even get more than one post out of me today. 

Shabbos Table Dreams

I'm pleased to announce that I, TRS, am now officially insane. Only an
officially insane person would do what I am about to do. I'm going to
follow Cheerio's instructions and write what a Bochur thinks when he's
at a Shabbos table with a cute girl. Of course, this is only what I
think. I'm not everyone. I'm sure a lot of guys have brains the size
of walnuts and think differently than me. But I can hardly be held
responsible for their conduct. Anyways...

If I was as chassidish as I wish I was it would go something like this...

Hmm. A girl at the Shabbos table. What is wrong with the hosts here?
Don't they know that it's terrible to have bochurim and girls at one
time? Sick perverts. I'll get plastered and not have to think about it
anymore...Seriously, what is their problem? I'm trying to live the
bochur life here, not attend brothels on the holy shabbos day. Oh,
she's passing out the soup. I'll say thanks. I said thanks. I may be a
fanatic, but I still have manners. Oh, the croûtons? Yeah, I'd love
some of those. Thanks. Man, these hosts have mental issues. What were
they thinking?

If I was less chassidish than I am...

Ooh, a hot girl. This is great. How can I get her phone number? I'll
get plastered and work up the courage...

Finally, what TRS actually thinks...

Hey. A cute girl at the Shabbos table. I wonder how chassidish she is?
This could be it. This could be great. We can be married in a month or
so. Of course, she has to find out what my name is. And be interested
in me. How do I get girls interested in me? Farbreng. Well. All right,
I'm in someone else's house. So to do this properly, and without
embarrassing myself totally, I'll get plastered and impress her enough
to call her mom and breathlessly say, "I'VE FOUND HIM!" Or something
like that.

As you can see, all roads leads to alcohol.

Sound Familar?

Bsd

Is she looking at me?

I can feel her looking at me from the other side of the table, but if I look up from my gefilte fish, she'll get embarrassed. Or maybe she won't Maybe she'll smile. Oh sh**, what if she smiles at me? Will Eli's dad notice? Will Eli?

Ok, ok, the girls are standing up, they're clearing off the table. I can look up now, man, she is cute! Look at that little skirt, those little ankles, crap, now I'm staring, eyes back to the gefilte fish, boy. 

I wonder what her name is. She's Eli's sister's friend, maybe she's her age, but sometimes Shaina has older friends, so she could be my age. 

She could be dating. 

I could be dating.

I could be dating her. 

Ok, they're coming back now, f***, they're giggling, is she looking at me again? Sing, you idiot, sing, before Eli's dad booms at you, "Shmulik, sing with us!" because then she'll know your name, sh**, what if she does already? What if she knows my sister? I was looking at my sister's friend's tush. Sh**, sh**, sh**. 

"Can you pass the Coke, please?"

F***, did she just ask me to pass the Coke? Pass the Coke, Shmuel! Smile. Pass the Coke. F***. She has a lovely voice. Definitely not from New York. Does that mean something? She could have asked Eli to pass the Coke. She asked me. Oh, come on, she asked you to pass her some soda, not if you'd like to... yeah, don't even go there, it's bad enough you didn't say anything when you passed her the Coke.

I hate these meals. 

I wonder if I can come back next week?

Reporting Live From Crown Heights

Two bloggers and one commentator were spotted, having lunch at Bunch O' Bagels, on Friday, around noon.
Don't get your panties in a twist, they weren't having lunch together.
Cheerio and Farbengen, having encountered each other in the hallowed halls of 770, decided to traipse across town for respective cups of coffee and juice. And where else does one go for such things than Buncho's? Imagine their surprise when upon entering, they bespied an upstanding member of Morristown's rabbinical seminary - none other than our very own TRS!
The blue pantsed gentleman was dining with a group of people, among them, two very cute girls. (Insiders later informed us that those two girls were in fact the nieces featured in a recent Chanukah post on therealshliach.blogspot.com.)
There has been speculation that this is merely the preliminary stage of a bloggers' convention that would be held in Bunch O' Bagels in a few months' time.