This post is In honor of Chanie, who seems to think that Kallahs are a part of the same species as us humans. They aren't. I am not basing this on a random inferrence, rather, on a collection of scientific studies and data that I have collected over the course of time that my friends have been venturing into the kingdom of "Bridezilla".
The first bit of scientific data I've collected is about the dangerous chemical interaction between the 'brido-sapien' and their nefarious nemesis, commonly known as the diamond ring.
Our field agent reports:
"I was driving in the car with a Brido-Sapien (oh gosh I can't abbreviate that!) on the first day that she had her ring. I was rather alarmed by her driving style. Most people drive with their hand on the wheel, or on their phone, or just plain down at their side. But this Brido-Sapien was driving with her hand up in the air. And, while humans drive with their eyes on the road, at least partially, this brido-sapien was driving with her eyes on her ring. After a couple of near accidents, I whispered a silent prayer of thanks as I stepped out of her car."
Normal behavior? Not for a homo-sapien, but remember, these are creatures of a different species.
The second bit of scientific data was related to me by a Brido-Sapien herself.
My really close friend, who is an overwhelmingly honest person, related a bit about what happens to a person when she gets engaged.
First, some background. We were in the car together, on the way home from some shopping trip (did I mention I'm a VERY good friend?) and she was in the driver's seat. Suddenly, I called out to her. "Uh, Leah, did you realize that you just sailed through a red light?" She looked at me with horror written all over her face. "SD, that is so scary! That's the second time I have done that in two days! I don't know what's happening to me! I am not the spaced-out, head in the clouds kallah type, and it's not like I look at the traffic light and I see my chosson's face, but I simply didn't even realize there was a traffic light there!" Now, you must realize that she really was not spaced out. And even as a kallah, her head was more firmly grounded than many single girls. Yet, in an honest moment, she admitted that she really wasn't herself.
Homo-Sapien? I think not.
So there you have it folks. Highly scientific data from our country's leading scientists. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Further Rants From a Fashionville Refugee
(Just a note: while it was an interesting 'coincidence', the posting of these fashion related posts was not intended to collide with my presence at last night's B'nos Melachim Tznius presentation. The post was written before I saw it, and not intended to be a recap in any way..)
There are aspects of fashion I get, and aspects I don't get. For example, I get why someone would be very excited to buy a sweater they like because it is in style. But I simply can't figure out how it's possible that someone can buy a sweater that they like, and then stop liking it the minute it goes out of style.
And while it is within my comprehension to refrain from buying a skirt that you dislike, which also happens to be out of style at the moment, I can't for the life of mine figure out how a person can rationalize the purchase of a skirt that they dislike-when it comes back in style. And if someone mocks a particular style (which they dislike) when it's considered 'nerdy', I get that. But I just don't get how a person can buy that very same style when it becomes the height of fashion.
So apparently, my belief in these rules has permanently disqualified me from taking up residence in fashionville. But I must confess, it gets worse.
Firstly, realize who you are dealing with. My mode of dress has been described as "underwhelming". I wear the same black skirt every day of my life. Accompanying that is a solid top, usually black. In the winter, it's a cable knit sweater, in the summer, it's a collar tee-shirt. Sometimes it has three buttons in the front, and sometimes it has a small zipper. Once in a while, when I'm feeling daring, it's a v-neck. But honest that's as much variation as you get. The shoes don't get much more thrilling either. They are always flat, round-toed, black loafers. In short, I capture attention by my personality, not my clothes.
The next thing you should know about my clothes is that shopping gives me a headache. And I try to avoid activities that give me headaches. Therefore, I generally shop only when I absolutely can't avoid it. So, my clothing doesn't get replaced with the shifting of the styles. Rather, I wear it until the holes can no longer be patched and the permanent stains start attracting attention.
Are you getting the picture? Basically, to sum it all up, the shopping styles of MP and SD are polar opposites. We simply can't get each other. I think the system is dumb, and she thinks I'm dumb. That works. Perhaps I am.
Because the big thing that I have yet to figure out is brand names. And the big thing that MP has left to figure out is my lack of fascination with brand names. It just makes no sense to me. If you like a tee-shirt, does it matter what animal it has in the corner? Is an alligator really better than a horse? And are either of those really better than a hippo or something? What if, for variety, I want to sew a picture of a canary into the corner of my shirt? Is that un-cool? Why? Just because I didn't overpay for it? And what if I have a picture of a horse, but instead of Ralph Lauren's horse, I have a picture of Shloimy Klein's horse? Did I lose my coolness?
And while I'm on a roll, perhaps someone can explain the following concept. While I don't understand the thought process involved in overpaying for a name-brand object, I've sort of accepted it. Not as rational, sane behavior, but as evidence of the stupidity which is so prevalent in our society. But there is one aspect of it that I just can't accept. It is so mind-boggling, and so ridiculous, I hope there is someone who can explain this to me.
Why in heaven's name would a normal person, who is in full control of a normal and healthy mind, go out and overpay for a COPY of a brand name object? And even worse, I hear (correct me if I'm wrong) that they walk out of the little back room of some booth on Canal Street, clutching their oddly shaped plastic bag which, of course, has a triangular shaped tag with a poor replication of a prada logo, and they actually feel like they found a bargain. Why? Because it looks so real that nobody can tell the difference, but, since it is fake...it's cheaper.
Seriously. Does anyone have any sort of explanation for me?
There are aspects of fashion I get, and aspects I don't get. For example, I get why someone would be very excited to buy a sweater they like because it is in style. But I simply can't figure out how it's possible that someone can buy a sweater that they like, and then stop liking it the minute it goes out of style.
And while it is within my comprehension to refrain from buying a skirt that you dislike, which also happens to be out of style at the moment, I can't for the life of mine figure out how a person can rationalize the purchase of a skirt that they dislike-when it comes back in style. And if someone mocks a particular style (which they dislike) when it's considered 'nerdy', I get that. But I just don't get how a person can buy that very same style when it becomes the height of fashion.
So apparently, my belief in these rules has permanently disqualified me from taking up residence in fashionville. But I must confess, it gets worse.
Firstly, realize who you are dealing with. My mode of dress has been described as "underwhelming". I wear the same black skirt every day of my life. Accompanying that is a solid top, usually black. In the winter, it's a cable knit sweater, in the summer, it's a collar tee-shirt. Sometimes it has three buttons in the front, and sometimes it has a small zipper. Once in a while, when I'm feeling daring, it's a v-neck. But honest that's as much variation as you get. The shoes don't get much more thrilling either. They are always flat, round-toed, black loafers. In short, I capture attention by my personality, not my clothes.
The next thing you should know about my clothes is that shopping gives me a headache. And I try to avoid activities that give me headaches. Therefore, I generally shop only when I absolutely can't avoid it. So, my clothing doesn't get replaced with the shifting of the styles. Rather, I wear it until the holes can no longer be patched and the permanent stains start attracting attention.
Are you getting the picture? Basically, to sum it all up, the shopping styles of MP and SD are polar opposites. We simply can't get each other. I think the system is dumb, and she thinks I'm dumb. That works. Perhaps I am.
Because the big thing that I have yet to figure out is brand names. And the big thing that MP has left to figure out is my lack of fascination with brand names. It just makes no sense to me. If you like a tee-shirt, does it matter what animal it has in the corner? Is an alligator really better than a horse? And are either of those really better than a hippo or something? What if, for variety, I want to sew a picture of a canary into the corner of my shirt? Is that un-cool? Why? Just because I didn't overpay for it? And what if I have a picture of a horse, but instead of Ralph Lauren's horse, I have a picture of Shloimy Klein's horse? Did I lose my coolness?
And while I'm on a roll, perhaps someone can explain the following concept. While I don't understand the thought process involved in overpaying for a name-brand object, I've sort of accepted it. Not as rational, sane behavior, but as evidence of the stupidity which is so prevalent in our society. But there is one aspect of it that I just can't accept. It is so mind-boggling, and so ridiculous, I hope there is someone who can explain this to me.
Why in heaven's name would a normal person, who is in full control of a normal and healthy mind, go out and overpay for a COPY of a brand name object? And even worse, I hear (correct me if I'm wrong) that they walk out of the little back room of some booth on Canal Street, clutching their oddly shaped plastic bag which, of course, has a triangular shaped tag with a poor replication of a prada logo, and they actually feel like they found a bargain. Why? Because it looks so real that nobody can tell the difference, but, since it is fake...it's cheaper.
Seriously. Does anyone have any sort of explanation for me?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Uh Oh! The Fashion Police Are After Me!
I complimented my coworker on her skirt yesterday, and was treated to a rant in exchange. "It's impossible to find cute navy skirts these days! Seriously, I searched all over till I found one." I looked at her, and had to laugh. She's quite a bit younger than me, so I had to remind her. "You know, it wasn't that long ago that even a nerd wouldn't be caught dead in a navy skirt. They were THAT nerdy."
Her mouth dropped in surprise, though I'm not sure why. She obviously doesn't wear what she likes, rather, whatever is in style. So I went on, figuring I'd shock her a little further. "Then I guess you don't remember the time when saying that someone wears vests would be the ultimate insult, huh?" Needless to say, she didn't, but she didn't see the irony in her navy and white vest and navy skirt get-up either.
In truth, I feel like this topic is so stale, it's an embarrassment to write about it, but as the sister of an MP, I am exposed to the brutal realities of fashion on a constant basis. And as many times as I hear the rules, I simply don't get it.
Not too long ago, I was shopping with MP in Woodbury Commons, an outlet mall near Monroe. I needed shoes, she needed more Brand Name Perfection. She led me to a part of the mall that was rather unfamiliar to me. I looked around at the stores, and I understood. These are not stores I frequent. Most of them are not stores I'd even know about if not for my familial relationship with Her Perfectness.
Ok, Saks I've heard of, but seriously, Tod's? Theory? Torre Burch? What gives?
I really wanted to find my shoes and get out of there, as shopping is not an activity I enjoy. So I turned to my sis and I said "uh, MP, I don't think these stores sell shoes for me. Can we please go to the part of the mall where they have stores like Nine West and Aldo?" She wasn't really paying attention. "Oh, look, Ferragamo! They have shoes sometimes!" I snorted, but not loudly enough to get me kicked out of Torre Burch, where we had just walked into. I asked MP if she wanted a bath towel, cause they were on sale for only $119. She didn't find that funny. Neither did I, btw.
In the next store, (don't tell! I forgot the name. It was probably hard to pronounce, if I had to guess,) MP tried on a navy top. I asked her if she has a navy skirt to go with it. Silly me. "The rule is that you're allowed to wear a navy top with a black skirt."
Woah.
Firstly, my poor coworker made herself crazy looking for a navy skirt for nothing. But more importantly- "the rule is?!?"
I saw my window of opportunity, and I pounced. "You're kidding me, right? The rule? Who makes these rules? The fashion police? And what happens if I break the rules? I get a ticket? Then what? I get points on my fashion license?" MP didn't find it funny at all. I mean, we should NOT be making fun of a topic as serious as this, huh?
But when I think about all this, things start to make sense. I must have had my fashion license revoked a number of years ago. Because the whole thing simply makes no sense to me.
I'll explain what I mean in my next post...
Her mouth dropped in surprise, though I'm not sure why. She obviously doesn't wear what she likes, rather, whatever is in style. So I went on, figuring I'd shock her a little further. "Then I guess you don't remember the time when saying that someone wears vests would be the ultimate insult, huh?" Needless to say, she didn't, but she didn't see the irony in her navy and white vest and navy skirt get-up either.
In truth, I feel like this topic is so stale, it's an embarrassment to write about it, but as the sister of an MP, I am exposed to the brutal realities of fashion on a constant basis. And as many times as I hear the rules, I simply don't get it.
Not too long ago, I was shopping with MP in Woodbury Commons, an outlet mall near Monroe. I needed shoes, she needed more Brand Name Perfection. She led me to a part of the mall that was rather unfamiliar to me. I looked around at the stores, and I understood. These are not stores I frequent. Most of them are not stores I'd even know about if not for my familial relationship with Her Perfectness.
Ok, Saks I've heard of, but seriously, Tod's? Theory? Torre Burch? What gives?
I really wanted to find my shoes and get out of there, as shopping is not an activity I enjoy. So I turned to my sis and I said "uh, MP, I don't think these stores sell shoes for me. Can we please go to the part of the mall where they have stores like Nine West and Aldo?" She wasn't really paying attention. "Oh, look, Ferragamo! They have shoes sometimes!" I snorted, but not loudly enough to get me kicked out of Torre Burch, where we had just walked into. I asked MP if she wanted a bath towel, cause they were on sale for only $119. She didn't find that funny. Neither did I, btw.
In the next store, (don't tell! I forgot the name. It was probably hard to pronounce, if I had to guess,) MP tried on a navy top. I asked her if she has a navy skirt to go with it. Silly me. "The rule is that you're allowed to wear a navy top with a black skirt."
Woah.
Firstly, my poor coworker made herself crazy looking for a navy skirt for nothing. But more importantly- "the rule is?!?"
I saw my window of opportunity, and I pounced. "You're kidding me, right? The rule? Who makes these rules? The fashion police? And what happens if I break the rules? I get a ticket? Then what? I get points on my fashion license?" MP didn't find it funny at all. I mean, we should NOT be making fun of a topic as serious as this, huh?
But when I think about all this, things start to make sense. I must have had my fashion license revoked a number of years ago. Because the whole thing simply makes no sense to me.
I'll explain what I mean in my next post...
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Mocking...ME?
While we do have internet in my house, most of my family isn't too internet savvy. My mother recently figured out how to sign into yahoo, and shocked the living daylights out of me by sending me an Instant Message. In truth, it was a long message and I am pretty sure she was trying to email me. Oh, and did I mention that it was a request for me to make supper? ;) MP isn't too technologically inclined either. She had a document to print the other day, and went into a state of total panic. I was enjoying watching her grovel, but eventually I took pity on her and I went to help. I told her to connect the printer's USB cable to the computer. She looked confused. USB cable? What's that? In a remarkable display of patience, I showed her the end of the cable, and how it magically fit perfectly into the USB port of the computer.
So I can blog with confidence, pretty sure that nobody in my family would stumble upon my blog. Now, recently, at the shabbos table, my mother said a devar torah, and mentioned that it was from a blog she reads. I chocked over my chicken soup, as my family turned to me, the computer geek, for an explanation. I put my acting skills to use, and looked scandalized. "Why would anyone think I know anything about blogs?" To some extent, they believed me, but they know that there aren't too many big buzzwords on the net that I don't know anything about. So I called upon my limited knowledge of blogs, and I explained.
"A blog is pretty dumb," I began. "It's basically this online diary, that for some inexplicable reason, people decide to share with the general population of the world." My father looked a little confused. "So why would someone start a blog?" I decided to grab my opportunity. "Well, basically, a blogger (-I think that's what they call people who have blogs, but I can't be so sure-) is a really self-centered person who has this mistaken impression that there are actually people that are interested in reading the not-very-exciting going-ons of their lives." My father summed it up marvelously. "So basically, a blog is dumb." I nodded in complete agreement. Now I am pretty confident that if they find my blog, they would never suspect someone with as much to do as me, and as much self respect as me, and as much caution and sense as me to start something as dumb as a blog.
I wouldn't bother to correct them.
Not long after that exchange, I found the following description of blogs. It summed the whole thing up so splendidly, I was laughing. Unfortunately, there was not much post-able, as the author obviously doesn't share the same standards of clean language as I do, but here is the first, clean paragraph:
Blogger: Term used to describe anyone with enough time or
narcissism to document every tedious bit of minutia filling their uneventful
lives. Possibly the most annoying thing about bloggers is the sense of
self-importance they get after even the most modest of publicity. Sometimes it
takes as little as a referral on a more popular blogger's website to set the
lesser blogger's ego into orbit...
And, the saddest part is...it's true. So, if anyone has a more popular blog, feel free to get to work on my ego. My mother insists that it can't possibly get any more inflated than it is now, but let's test it. ;-)
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Bridal Showers and Wedding Flowers
I ask you to look deep into the recesses of your mind and try to contemplate the perplexities of the following.
Why do we make bridal showers? What is the point?
Are we making it for the kallah? That busy girl who doesn't have the mental capacity to formulate even one sentence that doesn't start with the words "my chosson said"? Do we really think she cares for these things?
Is it for the kallah's friends? Cuz people certainly enjoy getting together and pretending not to be hungry while picking at salads with exotic names and even more exotic ingredients, huh? (Though I am proud that I once showed up at a shower with a caramel cheesecake that made everyone forget their diets and fight over the last remaining morsels. :-D)
So what is the point? Why do we do it? Who needs it?
My engaged friend recently told a few of us that she doesn't want a shower. "Just buy me a present" (I couldn't have said it better myself!) Another friend pointed out that it might be a little presumptuous of us to ask people for money but not invite them to an event to go with it.
I disagreed. "I'd be willing to give double the money if I didn't need to show up at a dumb shower." I'm not sure if the others were in agreement or not, but she isn't having a shower so that must tell you something.
Another problem with showers: why do we try to surprise the kallah? What makes you think she isn't going out with her chosson? Or that she doesn't have a sheitel macher appointment or something? or maybe (gasp) she has prior arrangements that are not centered around her impending wedding ceremony?
Also, in the rare case that you actually have her surprised (as opposed to having her feign shock) ask yourself; is it really fair to her? Everyone else has ample warning, and is able to make herself look presentable. The kallah, on the other hand, (remember this is a hypothetical situation) shows up to 'pick something up' from her friend's house, looking quite disheveled. Suddenly, the cameras flash, the music goes on, and then.....she finds her casually-clad self in the midst of a social frenzy. Then again, any girl who is soon-to-be-married and doesn't see a shower coming when she finds friends making excuses to invite her over, truly deserves the kallah stereotype.
So why DO we make showers? My guess is the fancy paper goods manufacturers are behind all this. It's a conspiracy, and we fall for it- hook line and sinker.
Why do we make bridal showers? What is the point?
Are we making it for the kallah? That busy girl who doesn't have the mental capacity to formulate even one sentence that doesn't start with the words "my chosson said"? Do we really think she cares for these things?
Is it for the kallah's friends? Cuz people certainly enjoy getting together and pretending not to be hungry while picking at salads with exotic names and even more exotic ingredients, huh? (Though I am proud that I once showed up at a shower with a caramel cheesecake that made everyone forget their diets and fight over the last remaining morsels. :-D)
So what is the point? Why do we do it? Who needs it?
My engaged friend recently told a few of us that she doesn't want a shower. "Just buy me a present" (I couldn't have said it better myself!) Another friend pointed out that it might be a little presumptuous of us to ask people for money but not invite them to an event to go with it.
I disagreed. "I'd be willing to give double the money if I didn't need to show up at a dumb shower." I'm not sure if the others were in agreement or not, but she isn't having a shower so that must tell you something.
Another problem with showers: why do we try to surprise the kallah? What makes you think she isn't going out with her chosson? Or that she doesn't have a sheitel macher appointment or something? or maybe (gasp) she has prior arrangements that are not centered around her impending wedding ceremony?
Also, in the rare case that you actually have her surprised (as opposed to having her feign shock) ask yourself; is it really fair to her? Everyone else has ample warning, and is able to make herself look presentable. The kallah, on the other hand, (remember this is a hypothetical situation) shows up to 'pick something up' from her friend's house, looking quite disheveled. Suddenly, the cameras flash, the music goes on, and then.....she finds her casually-clad self in the midst of a social frenzy. Then again, any girl who is soon-to-be-married and doesn't see a shower coming when she finds friends making excuses to invite her over, truly deserves the kallah stereotype.
So why DO we make showers? My guess is the fancy paper goods manufacturers are behind all this. It's a conspiracy, and we fall for it- hook line and sinker.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Difference Is Clear
I was in Ripley's recently. I was going to write a post with a whole bunch of not-so-exciting observations, such as the camera in the wax guy's hand has been removed, possibly stolen, but either way, they really need to replace it with a digital camera. I know it's an old couple, but even my grandfather has been trained to use a digital camera, so apparently film is officially extinct.
Anyway, there is a new exhibit right near the entrance, which has apparently achieved widespread fame:
This is not just a portrait of a great man. This testimony to our nation's first ever black president is made out of no more, and no less than 12,784 gumballs. Yep, you heard right. Gumballs.
It's kind of like the old favorite there, this picture of Lincoln:
This remarkable portrait of the Great Emancipator is made completely out of pennies, all different shades. It's a pretty neat way to make his portrait, when you think about what is on the face of the penny.
And yet, wouldn't you say that this is a far more respectable way to memorialize a great person and his accomplishments?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Top Five Reasons I Love Being Single
(This post was inspired by my spending way too much time with married friends lately. As I sat there in these dark, little basements, trying not to stare at bellies which have swollen tremendously since I last saw these very same girls, I came to the conclusion that single-hood has got to have it's perks. It wasn't too hard to find my top five reasons. What are yours?)
1-I can complain about nausea or mention that I am craving ice cream and pickles without people examining my stomach to see if I am pregnant.
2-I can complain to my married friends about my bad hair day, and listen with glee as they respond in a wistful voice (disguised as a boastful voice) that they don't have that issue anymore.
3-I can do really stupid things like staying up until 5am texting someone and have only my tired self to answer to (ok, maybe an irate boss too).
4-I can decide that ice cream is a perfectly good supper one night=no pressure to make fancy things like butternut squash soup and creamed spinach casserole.
5-I don't have to wash anyone else's dirty laundry. And if I ask my mother sweetly enough, I don't even have to wash my own dirty laundry.
1-I can complain about nausea or mention that I am craving ice cream and pickles without people examining my stomach to see if I am pregnant.
2-I can complain to my married friends about my bad hair day, and listen with glee as they respond in a wistful voice (disguised as a boastful voice) that they don't have that issue anymore.
3-I can do really stupid things like staying up until 5am texting someone and have only my tired self to answer to (ok, maybe an irate boss too).
4-I can decide that ice cream is a perfectly good supper one night=no pressure to make fancy things like butternut squash soup and creamed spinach casserole.
5-I don't have to wash anyone else's dirty laundry. And if I ask my mother sweetly enough, I don't even have to wash my own dirty laundry.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Be Careful What You Wish For
Although it feels like it's been years, it was only two days ago that I was sitting there thinking about the lack of postworthy occurrence's in my life. I was thinking about the boring nothingness that has taken over my life, and about how I need some A-C-T-I-O-N!
Famous last thoughts.
It was less than ten minutes later that Chava Yitty went into her deathbed convulsions. That really was NOT what I meant by action, but I did get a blog post out of it.
So today I am sitting here thinking that following the aftermath of my phone saga on Tuesday, I am STILL left with nothing to write. I was debating writing a eulogy about chava yitty, who served me faithfully for almost a year, but I decided it was taking things a little too far.
It's pretty insane that I couldn't even squeeze a second post out of an event as monumental as losing a dear friend and 500 contacts all at the same time. But there I was, stuck.
I was in the car, contemplating my dilemma, when I saw a cop on the side of the road. As quickly as my foot went to the break, my eyes went to the speedometer. I sighed. There was no way he wasn't stopping me. A glance in my rear view mirror was all it took.
Twenty aggravating minutes later, I was the reluctant owner of my third ever speeding ticket. I hear stories about people charming the cop out of a ticket, but those things just don't happen to me. I did have an excuse for speeding, but somehow telling the cop that I was speeding cuz the phone call I was on had distracted me didn't seem like a very good idea.
I did get a couple of post ideas out of the whole thing, which you may or may not see, depending on how bad my mood is and how long I have to spend in traffic court. But that wasn't quite what I meant.
I'm done with action. I am SO ready to go back to my regular boring life where nothing ever happens. If you don't see me for a while you'll understand...
Famous last thoughts.
It was less than ten minutes later that Chava Yitty went into her deathbed convulsions. That really was NOT what I meant by action, but I did get a blog post out of it.
So today I am sitting here thinking that following the aftermath of my phone saga on Tuesday, I am STILL left with nothing to write. I was debating writing a eulogy about chava yitty, who served me faithfully for almost a year, but I decided it was taking things a little too far.
It's pretty insane that I couldn't even squeeze a second post out of an event as monumental as losing a dear friend and 500 contacts all at the same time. But there I was, stuck.
I was in the car, contemplating my dilemma, when I saw a cop on the side of the road. As quickly as my foot went to the break, my eyes went to the speedometer. I sighed. There was no way he wasn't stopping me. A glance in my rear view mirror was all it took.
Twenty aggravating minutes later, I was the reluctant owner of my third ever speeding ticket. I hear stories about people charming the cop out of a ticket, but those things just don't happen to me. I did have an excuse for speeding, but somehow telling the cop that I was speeding cuz the phone call I was on had distracted me didn't seem like a very good idea.
I did get a couple of post ideas out of the whole thing, which you may or may not see, depending on how bad my mood is and how long I have to spend in traffic court. But that wasn't quite what I meant.
I'm done with action. I am SO ready to go back to my regular boring life where nothing ever happens. If you don't see me for a while you'll understand...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Tragic Loss
As a little kid, my memory for phone numbers was phenomenal. I knew all of my parents friend's numbers by heart. My father, who is lousy at things like that, used to say "can I please have Mr. Green's number?" or "what's Mr. Bernstein's number, I forget." My mother utilized my memory in a similar fashion.
All that changed a little over four years ago. See, that's when I got my first cell phone. So began the era of speed-dial and voice recognition dialing, and ended the era of memorizing phone numbers.
And so, slowly the brain cells involved in phone number memorization have shriveled up and died. In truth, I never missed them. Till today.
It was very sudden, very tragic. Out of the blue, my phone, which has been pretty sick for a while, breathed it's last. Picture it. Me, SD, sitting there phone-less. I hope you're shuddering at the thought.
I wasn't completely unprepared, I did have an old phone, which I was actually able to get working pretty quickly. But as I turned it on, the grim reality hit me.
I lost everything. Saved texts, pictures, and most importantly...500 contacts! I wanted to call my friend and vent about it, but I realized that I don't even know my closest friend's phone numbers.
So I'm seeing the flip side of our technological goodness. I mentioned my devastating loss to an older woman at work, and she was dumbfounded. "You mean you don't have a paper address book where you write people's numbers in?"
A week ago, I would have laughed at her. I would have told her that it's the new world, the new generation. I would have told her that we do things differently in this century. But now I get it. Technology isn't all good.
Two important notices: to those who know me, and know my cell phone number, please gimme a call or a text. I don't have your number anymore.
And, ve'hameivin yavin, Chava Yitty will be having a levaya as soon as I check if the sprint store can do an autopsy and glean some info from her. ;-)
All that changed a little over four years ago. See, that's when I got my first cell phone. So began the era of speed-dial and voice recognition dialing, and ended the era of memorizing phone numbers.
And so, slowly the brain cells involved in phone number memorization have shriveled up and died. In truth, I never missed them. Till today.
It was very sudden, very tragic. Out of the blue, my phone, which has been pretty sick for a while, breathed it's last. Picture it. Me, SD, sitting there phone-less. I hope you're shuddering at the thought.
I wasn't completely unprepared, I did have an old phone, which I was actually able to get working pretty quickly. But as I turned it on, the grim reality hit me.
I lost everything. Saved texts, pictures, and most importantly...500 contacts! I wanted to call my friend and vent about it, but I realized that I don't even know my closest friend's phone numbers.
So I'm seeing the flip side of our technological goodness. I mentioned my devastating loss to an older woman at work, and she was dumbfounded. "You mean you don't have a paper address book where you write people's numbers in?"
A week ago, I would have laughed at her. I would have told her that it's the new world, the new generation. I would have told her that we do things differently in this century. But now I get it. Technology isn't all good.
Two important notices: to those who know me, and know my cell phone number, please gimme a call or a text. I don't have your number anymore.
And, ve'hameivin yavin, Chava Yitty will be having a levaya as soon as I check if the sprint store can do an autopsy and glean some info from her. ;-)
Monday, May 4, 2009
Boring Class Antics or Solving The Shidduch Crisis?
Boring classes sometimes call for desperate measures. I was always the grand queen of entertaining myself and the others around me during the really tedious classes.
My friend and I had a class newsletter, which was published as often as we had a particular teacher, who bored us enormously. We had various contests, games and other ways of entertaining ourselves.
Some were brilliant (a letter writing campaign that involved four different classes), some were pretty ordinary (scattergories), some were pretty dumb (a drawing contest to see who could depict the teacher in a way that would make everyone laugh the hardest and get somebody sent out), some were risky (photographing the teacher), while some were just plain desperate (an electronic solitaire game).
Now, as an outsider, I feel for the girls who are sitting through those same classes, especially those who lack my creativity, and therefore find themselves with nothing better to do than take notes.
But my ninth grade sister came home with tales of boring-class-antics that astounded even me.
"This kid in my class passed around a paper during Mrs. ------'s class today, asking people to write the names of anyone they know who needs a shidduch."
First, I misunderstood. "That's nice," I said without much interest. My sister was confused. "Nice?" I was in middle of something, and distracted, so I mumbled something like "Yes, nice. That way if people aren't listening in class at least they could daven for people who need a shidduch."
Granted, I didn't really think it's so nice. I'm really young, just a year or three out of high school myself, yet to ninth graders, I am an ancient old maid and the epitome of the shidduch crisis. So I could see this list being jammed full of names of girls my age or younger, which is a ridiculous thought...
But I had misunderstood the entire point. My sister clarified. "No! It wasn't asking for their tehillim names! There was a column for boys and a column for girls and you were supposed to write all the singles you know so we can try to match them up."
Whatever had been distracting me until then was suddenly less interesting. I was completely dumbfounded. A class of ninth graders trying to solve the shidduch crisis? Trying to fund their class trip through shadchanus gelt? Trying to stay sane through one of the world's most boring teachers?
I don't even think I want to know...
My friend and I had a class newsletter, which was published as often as we had a particular teacher, who bored us enormously. We had various contests, games and other ways of entertaining ourselves.
Some were brilliant (a letter writing campaign that involved four different classes), some were pretty ordinary (scattergories), some were pretty dumb (a drawing contest to see who could depict the teacher in a way that would make everyone laugh the hardest and get somebody sent out), some were risky (photographing the teacher), while some were just plain desperate (an electronic solitaire game).
Now, as an outsider, I feel for the girls who are sitting through those same classes, especially those who lack my creativity, and therefore find themselves with nothing better to do than take notes.
But my ninth grade sister came home with tales of boring-class-antics that astounded even me.
"This kid in my class passed around a paper during Mrs. ------'s class today, asking people to write the names of anyone they know who needs a shidduch."
First, I misunderstood. "That's nice," I said without much interest. My sister was confused. "Nice?" I was in middle of something, and distracted, so I mumbled something like "Yes, nice. That way if people aren't listening in class at least they could daven for people who need a shidduch."
Granted, I didn't really think it's so nice. I'm really young, just a year or three out of high school myself, yet to ninth graders, I am an ancient old maid and the epitome of the shidduch crisis. So I could see this list being jammed full of names of girls my age or younger, which is a ridiculous thought...
But I had misunderstood the entire point. My sister clarified. "No! It wasn't asking for their tehillim names! There was a column for boys and a column for girls and you were supposed to write all the singles you know so we can try to match them up."
Whatever had been distracting me until then was suddenly less interesting. I was completely dumbfounded. A class of ninth graders trying to solve the shidduch crisis? Trying to fund their class trip through shadchanus gelt? Trying to stay sane through one of the world's most boring teachers?
I don't even think I want to know...
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