Category Archives: Jewish

Tsuris Visas

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The final frontier in our society is our individual limits of acceptable aggravation — or willingness to be aggravated.

We must find it and name it and protect ourselves from people coming close to the boundary.  Let’s take the woman on the subway senselessly cracking her gum so loud that an entire car full of people were disgusted and searched for the culprit.

But for those we love, we must give them an allowance of indulgences for aggravation.  In Yiddish, the word is tsuris.  So we must give our friends and loved ones free passes for aggravation.  There must be a way to capture this in a phrase . . . .

tsuris visa.

Here is how it works in practice: When my father complains about his aches and pains, which are relatively minor, I grant him a tsuris visa, so he can cross my boundary of tolerable aggravation without my reacting badly (or with my at least feeling bad about reacting badly).  Sometimes, as happened this summer, he was really having problems, so no visa is required because the tsuris was necessary and appropriate.

POB (partner of blogger) NEVER gives me tsuris of any kind, so she has most favored person status.  My son gives me tsuris occasionally that needs to stop at the border of my aggravation boundary, so sometimes I must deny a visa, followed by some amount of stern talk.

So my bottom line is: that if you are going to give me unnecessary tsuris, you need a visa.

And since No-Where-istan is in my head — L’etat, c’est moi (as said Louis XIV) — visas are required because I want to keep my head and my country un-tsuris-y.

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Yom Kippur

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First, to everyone, Jewish and non-Jewish, I wish you happiness, health and prosperity in the year 5770 (or 2009-10).

With the Yom Kippur fast came a blogging fast.  Both fasts have ended.

This Yom Kippur had bloggable moments, some profound and others, well, let’s just say that I have already started the list of sins for next year’s atonement:

Muslim-Jewish Greetings. A Muslim cab driver wished us health and happiness in our new year.  And I told him that we hope that he had had a blessed Ramadan with his family.  There is an advantage to living in NY.  There are no territorial, ideological or historical impediments to honoring other traditions and religions.  (We are cramped in this City, but for purely capitalist reasons.) I am a conscientious objector when it comes to religion (but not tradition), but I see G-d in these ordinary exchanges between individuals of different backgrounds.  These seemingly mundane holiday greetings have transformative power, precisely because they were between Muslim and Jew.

Gay, Muslim and Palestinian. There was a gay Palestinian Muslim at our Yom Kippur services as a guest of our synagogue (we flew some GLBT Israelis here after the attack on a gay center in Israel, so they can feel a part of a huge community of supporters).  Now, that is bizarre on so many levels.  But closeness to community, to spirituality comes with the setting, not the liturgy.  And, I know, I feel more at home in a mosque than in a church.  The lack of iconography (i.e., no depictions of suffering Jews) and the Sephardic melodies are familiar to me.  Spirituality doesn’t, I believe, require belief in a deity, or a particular theology; rather, a sense of essential goodness in (most) people who are inextricably tied one to another because of our inherent humanity.

A River Runs Through It. The rabbi reprised her Rosh Ha-Shanah theme of the colors of the river.  It reminds me of when I tell a joke (or make what I think is a witty comment) and no one laughs.  I assume that no one heard.  I have to remember that everyone heard but no one thought it funny.  So, the rabbi didn’t get that no one could follow her metaphor at Rosh Ha-Shanah, let alone ten days later when people are hungry and have caffeine and nicotine withdrawal.  My head was pounding and all I heard was the light of the river, river, river, and whether we saw the light or not and whether we followed the changing light of the river, river, river.  And I thought, I will wait until the light of the river is a major motion picture but please get to the part where the Shofar is blown and the fasting is over and the pounding in my head stops.  The river, river, river made me dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, AGAIN.  Torture comes in many shapes and size and pretexts.

Our Child, Our Oracle. Ok, so here is the best part of the whole Yom Kippur.  Our son was prone to melt-downs this holiday season.  Maybe it was his bow-tie or his blazer that caused a karmatic imbalance (although he was such a chick magnetic and he was in Heaven being kissed and adored by women old and young). So, we had to leave for a while (to relieve everyone from having to hear the meltdown) but PRECISELY because we wanted to leave, our son then wanted to stay.  My partner asked him to rate his behavior in the children’s service.

Our 7 year-old responded, “Mommy, I was a complete ass.”

Parenting manuals don’t teach you how not to laugh and how not to applaud the razor-sharp analysis even though your child used “bad words”.

Choking back laughter and “bravos” for spot-on analysis, we told him those were not words that we used and his choice of language was not ok.  His response:

“Mommy, I don’t think I am being brought up well.  In good homes, children don’t say such words.”

Ok ok ok ok ok ok, it is Yom Kippur, and we are tired, cranky, hungry and our precocious child has laid down the gauntlet.  My partner says something that adjourns the conversation, so that we can prepare for battle or, more precisely, litigation, with our 7 year-old. I have called in reinforcements.

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Sunday

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Before I go shopping for food for the break fast on Yom Kippur, I am going to the sporting goods store and get all the gear that roller bladers use.  If I am going to go to the Zabar’s counter on Sunday, I am not taking any chances. 

Remember, G-d inscribes us in the Book of Life on Monday and I am not giving G-d any easy chances to have that decision made any sooner.

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The rest of Rosh HaShanah

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Saturday the family came over for our traditional New Year’s lunch.  It was pleasant and generally uneventful.  Which is why I thought aliens had taken over my family.  My sister did not go as far as to say that she agreed with my assessment, but she did note the absence of the usual guaranteed bloggable moments.  The rest of the day was a blur except that I chugged Pepto Bismol.

Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) roused everyone to go to synagogue on the second day of the holiday.  We went Friday night, we went Saturday morning (and dashed home to prepare for the luncheon).  And now we are going to shul for the third day running?  Did I go to sleep a Reform Jew and wake up Conservative?  Is this my beautiful house, Is this my beautiful wife?  How did I get here?  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Theological arguments were a non-starter.  So, schlepped we did.  Our son was fraying through this.  After all, up to this point he was lovely and gentle and sweet-looking in his oh-so-cute bowtie.  And he is a boy.  And boys need to run around.  A LOT.  But, he was in services, I was chugging Pepto-Bismol, and he was acting out.   

We went to a luncheon at our dear friends’ house that afternoon.  Those present at the luncheon played connect the riffs of the rabbi’s talk on Saturday, to see who could string them all together into one message.  People did brilliant jobs and came up with different conclusions.  (After Friday night, I just played it safe at the children’s services.)

Bottom-line:  Two days of RH are too much for me.

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Rosh HaShanah evening chez nous

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Friday night is the birthday of the world.  The world is 5770 years ago, or so the Jewish tradition would have it.  And, since global warming has kicked into high gear, it is not looking so good.  Especially after the immense amount of war casualties this year.  And the fall-out of the financial crises.  The world needs a spa millenium.

Anyway, we sang happy birthday in that Jewish way of taking a happy moment and pointing out how bad the world looks and how bad we look in the world’s reflection.  So, no cake for the world.  Anyway, there is not a cake big enough to fit 5771 candles, so a piece of sponge cake will have to do.

Services start at 6:30pm.  I meet POB (partner of blogger) who pulls out Pepto Bismol from her bag and offers me a swig.  This is not a required Jewish ritual for Rosh HaShanah, but many Jews do use the stuff because we have a high incidence of irritable bowel (that’s part of why we complain so much).  I have been suffering mightily recently and since I read the article on social contagion theory, I am sure that my cousin who has irritable bowel syndrome passed it on to me.  But I digress.

It is hard for a room full of Jews to stop talking so the rabbi’s job is hard.  That’s why there is at least a half-hour flex time between when the service starts and when it REALLY has to start. 

When we walked in, we thought we belonged to the synagogue “servicing the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered Jews, their families and their friends.”  Apparently, that is soooo older generation.  Now the synagogue “serves Jews of all sexual orientations and gender identities”.  Ahhhh.  Wait, there are more than two genders?  This is its own separate bloggable moment.  We have established, however, that POB and I are here, we’re queer and we are out of touch.  Ok, I digress again.

So, we sit through a lovely service (comfortably, thanks to POB and Pepto Bismol).  There is something comforting about the rhythms of the seasons and the traditions and chanting the prayers using melodies and tropes that have gone from generation to generation (even if one generation doesn’t understand that there are more than two genders).  The rabbi gets up and starts speaking.  She uses beautiful imagery but I get lost in the imagery and cannot follow what she is talking about.  I am thinking she doesn’t know either.  First, we learn that the founding of the Hudson River shares a birthday with the world.  400 years ago.  There is probably a cake big enough for 401 candles.  Soooo special.  The river flows in two directions.  The river’s water has lapped these shores as change has to come to the river and Manhattan Island.  Change is not fast, but a slow progression of miniscule changes the cumulative impact of which is only visible in hindsight. This is an excellent metaphor for the process of changing the nation, the world and humanity.  Then, the rabbi gets a little lost in the poetry of light beams dancing on the river and the blue of the river changing with the light.  I am hearing about lots of different blues.  I check my blackberry.  POB nudges me.  I stop messaging and start listening.  Still, lots of blue water lapping the shores while we fail to notice.  Lots of lapping blue that we could notice, but then we wouldn’t make it to work or feed our families.  I am really losing the point here.  I am dizzy.

We get home, where my sister and brother-in-law are staying with our son.  This is their way of observing the birthday of the world — watching videos and eating pizza and lying on the couch.  My sister is wearing my sweatshirt .  Apparently she was cold and didn’t want to hunt through our stuff (remember only two weeks ago, they hunted for a bird caught in our apartment), but knowing me, she could just go to my side of the bed, look down, and find something that was only partially worn that day.  Life is good when your sister knows you and loves you and will wear your slightly worn clothes.

POB and I went to sleep that night exhausted and dizzy, but happy because a new year brings new beginnings (and for me, more bloggable moments).

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Buying Challah can be a Contact Sport

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Tonight is the start of Rosh HaShanah and the ten days of introspection, reflection, repentance and atonement, culminating in Yom Kippur.

But today, today, is the day when frantic Jews push and shove to get the ingredients of the holiday meals.

The rule is:  tonight, we start atoning for what we did at the store today.

I went out to get a challah (special bread for Sabbaths and holidays) from the neighborhood bakery on the upper, Upper West Side.  I stand in a long line winding its way outside this adorable store front.  All is seemingly calm until I move into the store as my turn comes up.  I hear in a booming voice:

“I put my order in DAYS ago!! Last name FERNberg. F-E-AWR-N-B-E-AWR-G.  FernBERG.  5 plain, 2 raisin challahs!!!  Do I have to call my husband?”

One woman is so upset that she isn’t being paid attention that she refuses all bakery workers’ efforts to assist her.  She needs to feel oppressed.  This is the kind of stuff that should happen in the privacy of a psychiatrist’s office.

Then a rumor rages rampant that only raisin and whole wheat (oy) challahs were left.  Now, comes the pushing and the shoving.  People step out of line, disgusted.  Then we find out there are plain challahs.  Now people want to step back into line.

Now comes a Talmudic question:  when a person voluntarily steps out of line but under false pretenses, does the person get his or her place back?

Great for Talmud, not for the hand-to-hand combat of pre-holiday upper, Upper West Side.

As everyone climbs over each other (vowing internally to start repentance tonight), I get my challah and leave quickly and, thank G-d, intact.

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Conundrums for the High Holy Days

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Each year I am faced with the same conundrums:

Issue 1:  If the days of repentance and reflection start with Rosh HaShanah, what happens to the bad things you do between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur? 

Example:Let’s say I see someone in a horrible outfit at synagogue and, over Rosh HaShanah lunch with the family, I discuss the sartorial transgression in all its gory details  This is technically a sin (because it is gossip, aka loshen hora).  

Quandary:  Do I need the chuvah (repentance/atonement) ambulance or am I in a chuvah-free zone?

Issue 2:  Why shouldn’t we shower and brush our teeth on Yom Kippur?

Example:  If you have one date with G-d each year and you are begging for another year of life, shouldn’t you look and smell good?  My mother would not let us out of the house without lipstick on a regular date.  And this one is with the Almighty. 

Quandry:  With everyone getting back to basics, do you think bringing a burnt offering is a good idea?

Issue 3: Based on my observations, is the rule on Yom Kippur no animal skin on your shoes but not your purse or belt?

Example:  Let’s say you see someone wearing canvas shoes (because no animal skin on YK), and you notice that the person is carrying a leather bag and wearing a leather belt.

Quandary:  Do you say, “from one animal killer to another, nice belt and shoes”?

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An excellent day

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Every morning POB (partner of blogger) brings a mug of coffee for me and puts it on my bedside table, so I have coffee as I am waking up.  I am a lucky person.

I am especially lucky this morning because the coffee is delicious and warm and my body is stiff and sore from my run yesterday and our son bounds into our bed and lunges over me to get the remote control lest we miss one moment of the senseless cartoons available to numb our children’s minds. Warm coffee (as opposed to piping hot) spills all over my jammies.  Even if it were piping hot, I may not have been able to move. POB is already dressed and going out to get some groceries.  No wonder I am tired.  POB’s schedule is enough to exhaust TWO people.

I speak to my cousin who is recovering from major surgery and he says some chicken soup would do him good.  What does POB do?  Starts making chicken soup.  I need a nap now and it isn’t even 10am.

By 10:45am, I am able to limp into the shower.  Then we dash off to our son’s schoolmate’s birthday party.  New school, new friends, new challenges.  Our son is a little scared. We go to the amusement park and we meet up with the group and all is good.  Except amusement parks remind me of horror flicks, sad clowns and freaky sideshows.  There is an odd, clown-like man working at this place and I am as fascinated by him as I am ooked out. 

Then pizza and cake and chaotic running around.  The kids are so friendly and I can see that our son feels right at home.  He has a crush on one girl whom he has known for many years — more than a crush really, because even though he is 7, he asked her to marry him and she said yes.  But he is talking up another girl, too.  Bad form, dude.  It is your first week, so be circumspect with the girls.  The other girl’s mom says that her daughter and my son may be competing for the affections of the same girl. I think, wow, this place is too groovy and hip for words.  But I can tell already that there are back stories.  I’ll ease into those.  For now, I am happy because my son is happy.

POB and I are so happy that we do not want to ruin the moment by discussing wedding plans.  As founding members of the Bridezombies, we have to set a standard for detail avoidance.  We set a high standard.  We are proud.

Family dinner tonight, but my sister and brother-in-law bag out.  My sister cannot seem to follow doctor’s orders (even though she is a doctor) and her foot is not healing.  She over-exerted and now can’t move.  Let’s work through this problem together.

Let’s say you are a competent doctor (as in you didn’t get your medical degree from the internet) and another doctor whom you respect (as in it is ok for the doctor to examine you but not cut into you) tells you to use a cane and stay off your feet as much as possible.  Then let’s say you have a conference where if you were really healthy you would stand all day and present an interesting case (work with me here; I know we are talking about diseases).  So, even though you aren’t healthy, you stand all day and don’t use a cane. 

Ok, so maybe my sister did get her medical degree from the internet.

Bottom line, Sis and the Man cannot come to Sunday night dinner.  I call them afterward to tell them about the fun and the food they missed so they feel really bad.  It is, in fact, the least I could do.  My brother-in-law sends a grovelling email.  A little more grovelling ought to do the trick.

A young cousin comes over.  My son wants to know why he didn’t become a professional hockey player since he played in college.  I want to know, too, because he is depriving the extended family of an element necessary to the true American family.  We need a sports star.  We already have doctors, lawyers, artists, entrepreneurs, felons (ok, only one), mixed marriages, gays and lesbians (ok, only one), etc.  What a crowning achievement for a Jewish family to have a member who suits up in armor and carries a club to do battle on ice and someone keeps score.  But, he is taking the easy way out and going to school, going into debt, to become a professional.  So old school.  Still, he is a lovely guy and it will be great to see more of him.

I am so happy to have (some of) my family together around my table.  I think wistfully of a bigger gathering, one that includes my sick cousin, my dear cousin who is his niece, all together.  I know my cousins who are uncle and niece need to work out their issues, but I love them both and family is so precious.

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New Game Show Idea

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My brother-in-law is scared of me.  Mostly because I have no filter.  What I think, I say.  It hasn’t always been an asset but it is part of my DNA.  You should see the rest of the family.

In an effort to make up for his recent absences from family gatherings, my brother-in-law suggested that he sit in a newly-created Shondah Chair (shonda being Yiddish for embarrassment) and I would just torture him through shame and guilt.  He thought it would be a short session.  Hah. 

Then he suggested that I have a talk show, where I put a malfeasor in the Shonda Chair and grill that person as I sit behind the Self-Righteous Desk.  What a great idea.  He knows how to charm me and get back in my good graces.  But not before he squirms in the Shonda Chair.

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Visiting Mom

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So I let my son wake me earlier than usual on a weekend [dulcet tones of “wake up, WAKE UP, Mom, there are CARTOOOOONS on!!”] because I need to pick up my sister and father to go to visit Mom at the cemetery.  My son didn’t want to come because he says cemeteries are creepy and make him think of ghosts and skeletons.  I get that.  Cemeteries are creepy, I tell him, but I have to visit Grandma’s grave.  He says he will visit us but he is not ready yet.  We are not ready to be visited there for a really long time, I tell him.  He nods and then asks to turn on cartoons.  Good, I think, death and destruction before the pilgrimage to the cemetery.

Lots of people are buried in Queens and on Long Island.  Very convenient if you need to pop in on two funerals on different sides of the family on the same day. We had to do that once. Very convenient, indeed.

I pick up my sister who is limping badly, even with a cane.  Her husband who is NOT coming with us (he hasn’t met Mom yet) is feeling sheepish but he needs to focus on a painting.  He is trying not to look like a heel by carrying my sister’s stuff to the car.  He even offers to carry her cane.  Ok, he IS funny.

We drive to Dad’s and set off to Long Island.  Once, when I mentioned that Grandma is in Heaven, my son asked, “Heaven is on Long Island?” [ To some, yes, I guess, Heaven is on Long Island.]  I stammered that her body is there but her spirit is somewhere else.  Then I called for my partner because I was WAY out of my element.  Kids are smarter than adults.  But I digress.

Dad gives me helpful driving hints like, “is there a reason you are driving behind the slow car?” and “go straight. no, make a left.  I said make a left!” and “well, I guess I told you to get off at the wrong exit.”  It is really ok.  My dad is going to be 89 in October, and he is in terrific shape (spit in the evil eye, a Jewish superstition).

We arrive and get a little lost in the cemetery.  So many dead people.  But we find Mom and our other relatives.  Luckily, they haven’t moved.  We three say a few prayers for all of the family members, leave stones on the graves and reminisce about Mom.  My sister brings pictures of Mom through the years.  It is good to have the gravestone as a focus of our thoughts.  About 45 minutes into our visit, a couple stops and visits another grave nearby.  After they finish their drive-by visit, the woman comes over to us to say, “we come all the time and never see anyone else here.”  Gee, thanks.  Very thoughtful of you to say and I don’t really notice all your ugly plastic surgery.   

My sister needs to take pictures to document the occasion.  No joke, these go into our family photo albums. I wish she had taken a picture of the woman with the bad face lift.

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