The Antidote to Anti-Semitism

A quick note on Parshah Balak, in honour of the bar mitzvah of my friend's eldest son (Mazal Tov!).

In Parshah Balak, we read how the King of Moav (Balak) summons the national prophet Bilaam to curse Bnai Yisroel. The Parshah then ends with the recounting of the episode involving Zimri and Cozbi.

The question that comes immediately to mind is why Balak summoned Bilaam at all. The Moavim knew that Hashem had commanded to refrain from attacking Moav (Devarim 2:19,19). Logically then, there should have been no fear of attack. Instead, Balak is so unnerved sheer magnitude of the approaching nation that he forms an allegiance with Moav's sworn enemies, the Midyanites, in an attempt to take down Bnai Yisroel (Rashi).

Morevoer, who was Bilaam? Bilaam was a relative of Lavan, from whom he learned black magic (Midrash/Zohar). It was, in fact, from Lavan that Bilaam learned how to discern the precise time of day when Hashem sits in judgement. By issuing a curse at that moment, Bilaam was able to obtain an unfavourable ruling from the Heavenly Court upon the cursed individual(s). That Bilaam is eager to curse the Jews indicates how he, like Lavan, enjoyed inflicting misery upon Hashem's people.

So what is really going on here? From the incident of Bilaam and Balak we learn how anti-semitism operates: an irrational fear/hatred of yiddin incites a rationalisation for one's hatred, and in turn, serves to justify in the anti-semite's mind any anti-semitic action s/he takes.

Yet, as always, Hashem provides the antidote to the problem with problem. Thus, we see that due to the piety of the Bnai Yisroel, Hashem was unable to find fault with them, and in turn cause Bilaam to bless instead of curse three times. As we know, the number 3 is a number with positive spiritual ramifications: Three Patriarchs, Three Matriarchs, Three Annual Festivals, etc. In Parshah Balak, with each attempt to curse, the given blessing that Balak utters proves greater than the previous blessing.

To underscore this point, the parshah ends by recounting the story of Zimri and Cozbi. Because of his supreme hatred of Bnai Yisroel (not to mention a blatant display of self-interest that is consistent with the legacy of Lavan), before leaving after issuing the curses, Bilaam attempts to curry favour (and monetary compensation) from Balak by telling the latter how to cause Bnai Yisroel's downfall. That Pinchas stops the plague by killing Zimri and Cozbi underscores that zealous adherence to Hashem's moral code (versus falling prey to moral squalor, i.e. consorting with the Midiyanite and Moavite women), we can continue to merit Divine Protection as individuals and as a nation.

Good Shabbos.

A Long Time Coming

Since I have become more lenient recently in my frumkeit, I felt it was high time to write a post on the circumstances that lead to my frying out.

As I have highlighted in previous posts ad nauseum, I grew up extremely modern. We kept everything, but I wore t-shirts and jeans, and attended Hebrew school several times a week in tandem to going through public school. We belonged to a Modern Orthodox shul, and whenever I went there (aka Shabbos and Yom Tovim), I felt the glory and splendour of Hashem in both the services and in the respect that people showed to being in shul (read: no kids running amok and total silence during davening). The net result was that while I felt free to be me, I also possessed a profoundly strong, warm, and emotional connection to Hashem.

I first went to a Litvish shteibel as a teenager. The experience was startling; everything struck me as severe and rather cold, from how people dressed to the matter-of-fact drone of the davening. It basically looked like people were simply going through the motions in order to do what was right, what was expected. Granted, when I went to the Rebbetzin during the week wearing pants, she never said a word. And when I helped her in the kitchen preparing the shteibel’s Kiddush every week, she would occasionally smile a broad smile that shocked me with its warmth. Yiddishkeit was suddenly a complex thing.

As a Yekki, I am never going to be the profoundly spiritual, hippie-dippie type. But that lack of *joy* that I felt when keeping Shabbos as per the Litivish shul created a lack, a void within me. In stark contrast to my personal connection to Hashem, which had hereto been a source of wonder and strength for me, the definition of what was proper as per the rebbeim left me cold and unfulfilled.

So by the time I got to university, you could describe my mindset as being that of "frumkeit is the right thing to do". I did not obtain greater fulfillment by attending the Modern Orthodox Machmir shul in my speck of Small Town Canada. Indeed, the general atmosphere at MOMS was of civil tolerance for deviance from their norm. I recall spending one seder where the hostess took me aside after the meal and gave me stockings (from Israel! It’s a mitzvah to support Eretz Yisroel!) so that I could wear a skirt next time. While well-intentioned and certainly understandable given my having worn dress pants to her house, let's be honest: frumkeit began to feel a bit oppressive. Too many negatives, not enough positives. All these machmir stuff was getting in the way of my love of Hashem.

And so, gradually, unexpectedly, I began to find my personal relationship with Hashem, in jeopardy. I consequently took the course of action that I felt would best preserve my relationship with Him- I ditched being frum. A most misguided decision it was.

Yet at least I remained consistent. When did I begin to return to frumkeit? After spending a good week or so truly doubting whether Hashem existed. That scared me straight, as they say, and I began actively seeking out ways to become more anchored community (I attended shul during my frydom, but sporadically). The rest is, of course, history.

So why am I sharing this with you now? Because of late, I have been feeling the same degree of discomfort against all the chumrahs and so forth that disillusioned me to the point of jumping overboard. So you will excuse me if, both now and in future posts, I dwell more on cultivating my relationship with Hashem in a way that is personally meaningful to me. Because I can guarantee you that saying Tehillim and all the other frummie frumstein avenues posited around these parts will fail to net the desired effect for yours truly.

And the alternative is not a road I wish to travel down a second time!

A Note on My Local Library

So yes, the BPL is planning on closing several branches and reducing hours across the board. Perhaps my experience with my local branch yesterday demonstrates why. It's called lack of customer service.

First, for some unfathomable reason, my new branch does call my home phone, as specified under my account preferences to indicate that my holds are ready. However, their automated system fails to leave a message. I have subsequently become familiar with all of their numbers in order to note when my holds become available.

Next, upon entering the branch to pick up my hold yesterday, I decided that I would only take one of my two holds. I proceeded to the Customer Service Desk to check out the one book and return the one I would be relinquishing.

As I arrived at the Desk, one of the volunteers took a patron's card and checked out all of her holds. Such was not my luck. No, instead I was served by Mr. Lazy, who attempts at all costs to avoid working by turning your attention to any and every automated gizmo available. Since the scanners at the Self-Checkout at my branch tend to fail when reading my card, you can imagine some of my previous dealings with him.

I gave him my card and indicated which book I would be checking out and which I would be returning. He proceeded to waste 3 minutes on why I should use the Self-Checkout and that he would help me this time only because the library wasn't busy. I then told him that I had heard his sermon in the past, he needn't bother showing me how to use the Self-Checkout as I had tried and failed in the past, and he should simply check out my book in order to save time. To his repeated grumbling I let out an audible: This is why branches are closing. Lack of customer service! He said it was due to people not paying their taxes.

Of course, he proceeded to check out both of my books, to which I told him the precise reason why I came to him was because I only wanted the one book. His response? To have me go put it in the Return bin.

Listen, if people found friendly, helpful staff (ah, the librarians of my youth!), perhaps they would want to frequent the library more often. Maybe not, but certainly, getting attitude and having to service everything yourself is annoying. I pay my taxes. Now give me some service!

To Tell or Not To Tell

As could be expected from residing in Brooklyn, my "new" place poses its share of neighbourly challenges. There is the schizo cat collector downstairs, the dysfunctional Israelis behind, and my upstairs neighbour. It is the last party who inspired this post.

The stated woman is the epitome of petite: she stands perhaps 5 ft tall, possesses a tiny frame, and has delicate features. What accentuates her diminutive size beyond anything, however, is the fact that I see her flitting up and down the stairs with her huge black lab. The dog, if rendered vertical, stands taller than and weighs significantly more than his owner.

Now why might I care, you are asking yourselves? Because the said dog, one Jose, is left leash less during these ventures in and out of the building. My neighbour is delusional enough to believe that she can control Jose with a simple call of "NO". You will note that I say call, as Jose scampers ahead of his owner, glad to be free of his two bedroom pen. Indeed, whenever I have met Jose and his matron, it is because Jose has come within an inch of me before his owner tells him to stay and what not. She actually got offended after one early run-in when I told him "No". I mean really- how much longer was she going to wait to issue the command? Yet whenever I have seen her after the stated incident, she gives me the lemon eye!

Since I am invariably clothed in either work or Shabbos attire during such encounters, I am getting rather annoyed. I run into them at least a few times a month, and her iciness towards me on top of friendly Jose practically jumping on me each time is wearing rather thin.

So I am contemplating asking the super to post a sign in the lobby advising owners to please leash their dogs. Thoughts? Suggestions?

What's a Girl to Do?

I once informed someone who was contemplating divorce: "You have no idea what divorce does to you spiritually". In short, contemplate staying married, because the spiritual ramifications of divorce are quite dire.

What I was referring to in that long-ago conversation is how,post-divorce, you typically get to a point within the first year where your tayvahs come to the fore. Indeed, it happens in such a linear fashion that you unconsciously start questioning where you have been holding and start adopting all types of koolahs. To wit- my current trading in of stockings and long skirts in favour of ankle socks and knee-length skirts, not to mention my wearing pyjamas instead of a nightgown if my laundry situation permits.

Granted, according to many poskim, my wardrobe choices are 100%permissible. Still, I cannot help but heave a sigh of relief that my shenanigans seem to have stopped there, because I know plenty of divorcees who became full-on pleasure seekers. I have even known a handful that frequent clubs of the "exclusive, adult-only" ilk. (Shudder.) Still, I wonder/worry about just how much further down the road I might wind up going.

Motzei Shabbos, during a bout of insomnia (and fueled by my neighbours' audible argument concerning a particular shidduch), I read online that it is an aveirah if you do not wish to marry. Now, while I assume there is some leeway for persons such as myself that are recently divorced, I had to question my present mindset. After all, do I want to remarry? Do I rush to fulfill that unspoken expectation from the frum community? No. Instead, if my mind happens to even go there (which is basically never these days), I see such a situation transpiring only many, many, many, many (you get the idea) years from now. In short, I can hardly state that my objective is to get married anytime in the foreseeable future. Heck, given my apathy towards dating, the venues left for "finding my basheret" basically include the sidewalk, street corner, metro or shop. Mind you, given my track record, maybe that's not a terrible thing...

To be honest, the most troubling aspect of my single status is that I have zero interest in dating because I have zero interest in dealing with men. Sometimes even my male friends manage to peeve me off due to their male mindset/behaviour. Moreover, since spent my 30s navigating the gender divide, I am ready for an extended break from it. Additionally, the dating pool that I dove into twice before is not exactly offering me anything new and enticing. That renders the prospect of dating and remarrying even more unappealing.

Thus, while I am thoroughly enjoying 1. being single, and 2. devoting my limited energy and resources to yours truly (for the first time in my life), should I be worried? Is the impetus for my behaviour simply self-nurturing or does it stem from a more insidious, evil source?

I suppose only time will tell. In the meantime, I am attempting to straddle the divide between spiritual vigilance and a life that I enjoy living. Since the universal enemy of yiddin is the yetzer hara, and in turn every yid faces the same challenge, that approach is pretty much all I can expect to do, for now.

I'm Becoming Dumb

Between my mind-numbing new job and my lack of time to read, my spelling has deterioriated. Lately I actually have to pause and contemplate the potential spelling of certain words. Sure, I inevitably remember, but still.

I would qualify this as an intellectual emergency, no? Time to start refreshing the old noggin' with some of those library books, methinks!

Bring on the Ts!

Yesterday I had the pleasure of eating Shabbos lunch with a family whose acquaintance I made recently. They are a fave of mine already due to their refreshing take on Brooklyn frumkeit, i.e. we concur on the topic. :)

After lunch, the hostess and I retired to the couch in order to talk away the afternoon, as has become our custom. She then reminded me of a tznius point that I had long forgotten, due to my current surroundings.

Next year her daughter is entering a modern high school out-of-town. Her daughter is thrilled that she can now wear shirts to the elbow and show her collar bone. I then recalled how, when I was returning to frumkeit after my time off the derech, I had a conversation with a fellow shul-goer who was "notorious" in the community; she was an FFB, had been raised ultra-chassidish, and became modern as a result. She would, in fact, turn up at shul in short sleeves, and despite the shul being full of fry yiddin (who everyone knew wore shorts the rest of the week- men and women alike), people went tsk-tsk.

In short, yesterday's conversation triggered my recall that she once gave me a beautiful short-sleeve shirt and told me that there are different definitions of tznius. I had worn the short-sleeve shirt on a few occasions (it had a very conservative line and fell halfway to the elbow), but sensing the community's disapproval, I stopped wearing the offensive item. My biggest concern at that period in my life was the concept of tznius that one should blend in with the rest of the community, i.e. the point of tznius is to not stick out, whatever your surroundings. That is actually the same reason why, while I initially worn hats post-Marriage #1, I started wearing a sheitel when attending a Chabad shul.

Anyhow, my new friend reminded me that the minimum standards of tznius are as follows:

• Armpits must be fully covered at all times
• The top of knees must be covered when sitting down
• Closed shoes can be worn without stockings/socks
• Open toe shoes should be worn with at least an ankle sock, if not more.

I gave a very hearty mental cheer, let me tell you. Especially given the current heat wave.

To be fair, I was wearing stockings over Shabbos, because I had expected to visit an ultra-Yeshivish friend of mine, and I wanted to respect her standards. In short, I am not advocating rocking the boat and wearing something deliberately to rebel and make others uncomfortable. I would not, for example, go stocking-less to a Yeshivish school or Yeshivish host/hostess. That would be disrespectful and, in turn, completely inappropriate behaviour.

But having been reminded of a minimum that I can live with, I do not see why I need to hold to a more stringent standard when I go about my business. Shopping, visiting modern/open-minded friends, lounging at home, etc.- under such circumstances, I should be allowed to wear the minimum.

To put it differently, I will respect your standards when I am in your home. Therefore, please respect my standards when you encounter me on the street/in my realm.

Now, who wants to go with my to Conway to check out their collection of killer graphic Ts?

Oy

I went to the doctor recently, and he diagnosed me with a few syndromes. After all that I've been through medically the last few years, believe you me, I was thrilled to locate a doctor who gave me an actual diagnosis; instead, most doctors I've seen related to my current issues have told me it's "all in my head" - versus simply acknowledging that they don't understand what's going on with me (due to their own medical incompetency). While in his office, the doctor drew blood to get a snapshot of my health before sending me for some extensive testing.

As it had been over a week since his office sent in the blood work, I rang his office the other day to ensure that I could go ahead and book the tests. Oh no, said the medical assistant. My blood work is a horror. Not only am I in seriously bad shape (chasve shalom), but they need to run several more tests, to rule out some pretty serious stuff. I was, quite frankly, shocked.

Now surely, I understand intellectually that my body's inability to absorb nutrients adversely affects my health. In fact, I have finally accepted that I will most probably never regain the level of health I had prior to my car accident(chasve shalom [again]). But to get the news that I was already in the health dumpster? Pretty harsh news, to say the least.

I am now in the midst of taking all necessary measures to address each medical issue. And I can't say that I'm not nervous; both the best case and worst case scenarios they're positing aren't good. Yet I'm remaining positive, following my general strategy of remaining optimistic until I have concrete evidence that I should tone down the optimism.

After all, in life, you've got to roll with the punches. And where will being all Eeeyore-ish get me anyway, even if I did decide to be all "it's my birthday and nobody remembered"? Not very far, that's where. Better instead to be a Tigger, trust in Hashem no matter what the outcome, and hope for the best.

It is, after all, His World, B'H".

Count with Me

I am now notorious.

I went shopping at my local pharmacy and the cashier that checked out my items said "I know you" with a laugh. Well, I remember her as well. :)

A few weeks ago, I shopped at the said pharmacy with a rain cheque. Actually, since the given shop almost always runs out of sale items by the time I go shopping on Sunday, I typically have rain cheques when they ring up my purchases.

However, the rain cheque that day was unusual. Rather than stating a sale price, the rain cheque was for 40% of the regular price. I had the same cashier as I did today, and she said, "Oh, I'm not good with math". She called the assistant manager. While we were waiting, I said to her, "Look, 10% of $21.99 is $2.19, right? So $2.19 x 4 = $8.76". She said, no that wasn't right.

By then, the assistant manager arrived. I went through my calculations again with her. She said, no, it should be something like $18. When I started doing my calculation yet again, the cashier decided they should call one of the guys from the back. "_____ is good at math", said the cashier; "_____ is real smart", said the assistant manager. They decided to call both guys to the front to assist.

Mr. Good with Math said it should be $7-ish. I started yet again chanting out loud, when Mr. Smart decided to whip out a calculator. He announced that I was right. The assistant manager then said that no, I had been saying $8.76, when the amount was $13.23.

That's when I realised: I had been stating the amount to be deducted from the full price. So I said to her "I'm sorry, I wasn't clear: I meant that we needed to subtract $8.76 from the original price". She then softened and we all made nice. We had both been right. ;)

Now the part of this whole saga that disturbed me is that these were all college-age workers. That they had gone through the New York school system and remained unable to do basic calculations in their head was, well, shocking. Maybe I'm naive, but that it should have taken 4 workers 10 minutes to calculate what to charge me is a complete disgrace. At fifteen, my very first job involved bookkeeping. And you'd better believe there were no digital devices involved: I calculated in my head or by long-hand.

To their credit, the people who work at the pharmacy are really nice. Certainly more cordial than another pharmacy on Kings Highway, which shall remain nameless. So while it's selection may not be on par with yet another pharmacy on Kings Highway, the rain cheque pharmacy remains my preferred shopping location. Why deal with snippy cashiers if you can deal with nice ones?

Still, where the 3 Rs are concerned, I think Mr. Bloomberg might want to reconsider that teacher budget cut he just announced, if my experience that Sunday is any indication. Because do we want another generation of New Yorkers who are handicapped where basic life skills are concerned? I sure hope not...

Cool Rav

Since I moved to Brooklyn, no matter which shul I attended, I stuck with one Rav in particular for my numerous shailahs.

One of the reasons why I like the given Rav so much is that, for a Gadol, he has an excellent sense of humour. More to the point, he's a straight shooter; if what you're asking is a problem, he'll just tell you. And, while he's doing so, he'll even give you a very brief explanation of why. Efficient and educational. My type of guy.

So tonight while cooking I ran into a confusing situation, as often happens when you are trying to balance both milchig and fleischig in a small apartment kitchen. As luck would have it, the incident occurred during the last 30 minutes of the Rav's phone time. So I rang him and behold! I actually got through!

I explained my situation and apologised for calling but wondered if there might be a problem. "Not really", he said, and proceeded to explain why in under 15 seconds. And thus, he calmed my fears and gave me food for thought while remaining amusing to boot (his tone when he said "Not really" was hilarious).

Definitely a keeper. :)

Plugged In

Now that I'm working in a yeshivah, I feel like I'm plugged into the yeshivish community. More to the point, the community is suddenly incredibly accepting of me. Because whereas previously, when asked "What do you do?", people were befuddled by my response; they became perplexed because my unusual job prevented them from easily categorizing me.

Now, because people know the yeshivah and recognize my job title, they accept and remember me. Indeed, my first day back to work after Pesach, one of the Rebbeim mentioned that he had run into someone at mincha who had eaten a meal with me. Funny thing is, I don't remember eating with the person in question, but they remembered everything about me- name, workplace, place of origin. I guarantee you that such instant recognition was lacking in my pre-yeshivah employment period.

I understand that most people are only comfortable with what they know. Therefore, when faced with an unknown commodity, they try to find a connection to something familiar. That’s why, for example, people will ask you ultra-personal questions within seconds of meeting you (“Where are you from?”, “What do you do?”, “Where did you go to school?”, “Do you have kids?”, “Are you looking for a shidduch?”, etc.). I find these questions offensive, but I understand that they, having grown up within a very narrowly-delineated corridor, do not mean to be rude; rather, they are hoping to find a common meeting point, an opening into their world of experience.

Now, suddenly, I am perceived as run-of-the-mill. And the benefit to that is I am no longer asked impossibly rude questions.

It’s all good…

B'H' and Bli Ayin Hara!

So, in case you hadn't noticed, I haven't really been posting the last several months. For those of you who I've become friendly with online, you know the gory details. For random readers, let's just say that I was going through some major, uhm, life changes.

Divorce, job search, apartment move. It's been interesting. I'll start with the highlights since my post all the way back in late November.

My divorce was finalised. Yup, that's divorce #2. I actually have a future post about shidduchim related to that point, but I'll save that juicy missive for future reading.

I found a job, B'H', and bli ayin hara! The funny part is that I'm now working for a yeshiva. And not as a tech writer either. Yup y'all, I'm now part of the Brooklyn establishment. Indeed, post-Pesach, when I returned to work, one of the Rebbeim noted that they met someone who had been at a meal with me. Work for a yeshiva, and suddenly everyone pays attention to you. It's kind of hilarious. More on the career switch at a later date as well.

I decided I needed a change of scenery. Plus, let's be honest, my previous apartment was WAY outof control. Summons to the landlord taped to the wall? Neighbours who were so loud that they might as well have been my drunken roomates? Mentally unstable potheads as my other neighbours? And lest we forget: the illegal playgroup in the basement, the never-ceasing honking, etc. etc. It was oh so long overdue. So I moved to a different neighbourhood. And I'm looooooooooooving it. Sure, it has its pros and cons, like everywhere else. And yes, the apartment has some real doosies in the con department. But overall, I can only say B'H' and bli ayin hara!

Actually, that last sentence basically says it all!

A final development of note: I adopted a cat. She is HILARIOUS and really does brighten up my time at home. I mean, she bleets like a billy goat. No joke; she doesn't meow she bleets. And she is so smart, she literally rings the bell on her collar to get my attention. I should be blessed with such intelligence! ;)

Phew. This post was much longer than I expected. I may add a few posts to backtrack, but if not, these have pretty much been the pertinent developments. Very heady stuff indeed.

Oh, and in keeping with the theme of my blog, I've also been investigating further my comfort zone within yiddishkeit. Case in point, I wore a skirt today that just covered the knee. I enjoyed the change of pace, as did the various latinos and teenagers that I passed en route to and from work, lol.

That's all folks. For now...

Why don't I just address it to Saudi Sheik?

Today, I had the joy of receiving my gas bill.

As mentioned in previous posts, I tend to be rather conservative with my energy use due to growing up in Canada. So I was very surprised to see my bill jump by quite a few dollars this month. Upon inspection of my bill, I became aware of certain details.

First, the several dollars difference over last month was due to my having used just 1 more therm. Well, that didn't seem right. So I re-read the bill. And I was still dissatisfied with the explanation offered therein (albeit annoyed to see that I paid MTA surcharge on my gas delivery. Seriously- at this rate, how can the MTA even be charging fares to New York residents, what with how widespread this "surcharge" is being applied? More like surcharges ad infinitum. Sheesh.). So I called Customer Service.

The CSR was most apologetic and explained all the undocumented reasons why my bill was higher. My favourite was the 10 cents difference this month over last month for the price of oil. Fabulous. Yet another way that yiddin in New York are supporting our friends in Saudi and their compatriots across the Middle East. I hope the sheiks in question enjoy milking me for my extra shekalim.

So, once again, I am amazed and appalled by the state of New York's infrastructure. And I fill the need to repose the question: Why oh why do New Yorkers tolerate it?

Run Baby!

As you can tell by my recent tweets, I started up running again this past week. Today I made my third run, and this time I decided to up the time to 30 minutes. It's a good thing.

Anyhow, sometimes people are surprised to learn that I used to be very hardcore about running. I mean, I wasn't fanatical, along the lines of those who do the NY marathon, for example. But I was dedicated and ran daily.

It's a funny story how running presented itself as an exercise option, and I figure now is as good a time as any to share the saga. Hope you enjoy!

About 15 years ago, I was at the fitness level of an elite athlete. I trained with the guys, and enjoyed a level of strength, flexibility and endurance that had taken years of a strict physical lifestyle to achieve. And that's when it happened: my trainer told me that the only way I could continue to improve is if I started running; nothing else would do the job any longer.

Now back then, I hated running. I hated the mere thought of it. It seemed inane, and more to the point, all the runners I knew were on the whole rather annoying types. So when my trainer delivered this little message, you can imagine my reaction:

Trainer: You've got to start running. There's no other way.
Me: I don't run.
Trainer: You're going to have to.
Me: I. Don't. Run.
Trainer: Well, we're going to change that.
Me: Keep dreaming.

It's obvious who won that battle. I started running, and true to my expectations, I hated it. I would rather go on the highest level of the StairMaster or the highest incline on the treadmill all day long rather than run for even 5 minutes. I just felt like a moron.

So what changed? I wish I could say. But one day about 6 years ago I decided to start adding intervals of jogging to my cardio. And I suddenly found myself enjoying it. So I began to build up my jogging time until I could jog for an hour. Then I worked on my speed.

Of course, moving to Brooklyn, where running is considered very untznius, put a wrench in my routine. I continued to run indoors, which isn't the most effective method but better than nothing, until the car accident.

Then last week, feeling a bit like a blob, I decided that Brooklyn would just have to get over itself, and decided to give running a trial run. The rest, they say, is history. If any of my female readers is interested in going together for a run, let me know!

Fled the Country

Last Thursday morning, I heard a knock on my door. It was someone looking for my landlord. Since I didn't know who it was, and I don't like making problems for people, I told the gentleman that my landlord didn't live in the building anymore. When he asked how long ago my landlord left, I decided that being vague was the best route to take. After all, how am I to know who this guy was? So I told him that my landlord had left in the summer and left it at that.

Then this layl Shabbos, I come home to find a 20 page Summons addressed to my landlord et al taped to the wall. The Summons was against not only my landlord, but all his known business associates. I suppose that solved the mystery of why my landlord basically moved in the middle of the night to Israel. More to the point, it explains why he decided not to provide a forwarding address to the Post Office. He continues to have all his mail sent to his old mailbox downstairs, with his father coming by every few weeks to collect it.

As I was coming home motzei Shabbos, my downstairs neighbour was exiting the building carrying the Summons. She said that she wanted to see what the papers said, because (surprise) both she and Basement Lady have been paying rent by depositing money directly into the landlord's bank account. She wanted to see what she might be implicated in. By the next morning, the Summons was taped back on the wall for all to see.

Just when I thought things were "quieting" down around here (she types as Downstairs Boy continues to give a full-blown concert from his bedroom.). If ever there was Big Sigh moment, this could well be it...

Missed Photo Ops

Friday afternoon, I look out the window onto the backyard and witness a glorious sight. There, curled up all warm and snug on the foam square closest to the playgroup's door, was Big Tabby Cat. It was almost as if he was challenging them, like "What're you going to do NOW?". I was busy cleaning for Shabbos though, and neglected to secure a photo.

Then Shabbos morning I peered out the window to gauge how bad the rain was falling. I began convulsing with laughter. Big Tabby Cat had somehow climbed up onto the roof of the neighbour's garage, which is abuts my landlord's backyard. He sat there all serene, looking out calmly over his kingdom as the rain and wind whipped about.

After his big show over the weekend, when I met him by the garbage bins earlier this evening, I had to stop and see what his reaction would be. How feral is he, I wondered? Would he skitter off like the former backyard cats or was he more used to humans than that?

He was awfully well-behaved, that's for sure. I suppose he felt it below his dignity to do as his predecessors had and rip open the garbage bags to procure food. Instead, he just looked at me, with a sad look. It broke my heart. So after dropping off my groceries, I came down a few minutes later and put out a bowl of milk for him by the corner wall, away from the garbage.

So I guess I'm now officially the Cat Lady for my building. Oh, and since once you feed a cat you're allowed to name him, Big Tabby Cat now has a name: King. :) I'm looking forward to some stellar pics sometime soon.

My New Favourite Day of the Year

After my phone interview this morning, I dashed to Manhattan to jump through hoops for an employment agency (I'm not a fan of having to drag myself into the city for a 10 minute face-to-face in order to be submitted for a position).

That's where the day took a nice nose dive. First, the recruiter had neglected to give me precise directions to her building. Instead, when I arrived at the noted address, I found myself staring at a Starbucks. I walked a little further, consulted my sheet, determine that Starbucks was the right address, then started looking for a dry place to make a phone call. That's when my umbrella broke. There I was, getting pummelled by rain, shoes already squeaky, trying to find that darned building. You can imagine my chagrin when I place the call (and waste yet more money for a pretty much useless exercise) and find out that the address stretches around from the avenue to the street. I have to walk halfway down the block after turning the corner in order to arrive at her location.

By the time I reached her office, I was not in the best of moods. It was bad enough that she had to have me come in despite my having had the interview in the morning, but to give me incomplete directions on a day when it's down pouring? Not cool. I announce myself to the receptionist who then gives me a huge wad of paperwork to fill out. I start to fill out my name, birth date, etc. and then figured the heck with it- why am I providing all this information now? The client hasn't even seen my resume!

The receptionist was displeased, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that she was dressed inappropriately for her position (can we say jean miniskirt and low-cut t-shirt under some sweater thingie?). Naturally though she thought that I was the one who was amiss. Well, maybe she was right. After all, I was declining to complete the sacred paperwork.

The recruiter was only slightly better. I had been told on the phone that I would be meeting both her and the account manager for the position. Of course the account manager had had to step out. More to the point, the recruiter just asked me really basic questions (which I had already answered on the phone) and barely listened to my responses. I refrained from correcting her, since I figured she wouldn't be registering that either.

To console my drowned rat self, I bought a beautiful peach-coloured pashmina. Definitely the highlight of my Manhattan experience today. Because blast it- at 3:30 on a Thursday, the metro was already packed with sardines. When I arrived home though, all the aggravation (and moisture- I was drenched to the skin) melted away. For lo and behold, B'H' for Oct 15- I opened the front door to discover that the heat was on!

Now that's the way to end your day, y'all!

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty...

This afternoon, surprised that it was the allotted hour and the playgroup/pre-school wasn't yet outside (ok, I'll admit it- I was hopeful), I took a look-sey out the window.

You'll recall that the invasion of the playgroup in June caused the resident outdoor cats to set up shop elsewhere. Imagine my amusement when I peered out just now and saw a Big Cat sitting smack dab in the middle of the foam mat. Perhaps the cooler weather has been causing the cat to seek shelter in the playgroup's slide/cars; kitty cat looked pretty at home.

Then it occurred to me what was about to ensue: how would the kinder, Flatbush natives all and most probably scared of animals as a result, react to Big Cat when they exited the house for their play hour?

I didn't have long to wait. I was clear in the kitchen, which is basically the farthest room from the backyard save the lavatory, when the petrified shrieks met my ears. Boy, do I wish I could've videoed that encounter. I wonder how Mr. Big Cat responded?

Anyhow, what with the change in weather, I'm thinking more of these episodes may be forthcoming. I wonder who will give in first? My money's on Big Cat for now. :)

Blast It, Bother, Phooey

My doctor's visit this evening was a total waste of time. The doctor (who came highly recommended) refused to give me any information until he runs x-rays/tests. And wouldn't you know it- they had just run out of the x-ray film he needed to do the x-rays right before my appointment.

So my schlepp out to BP only netted me the debiting of my co-pay from my bank account and several scripts. I even tried to find out something by reading the coded receipt he had me give to the medical assistant. Just my luck- he had only coded for what I had indicated on my medical history sheets.

Blast it. This guy really knows how to pull the Return Visit fast one. Highly recommended? Not by me!

Yeesh

So I celebrated my birthday recently. And yes, I did in fact celebrate versus do my typical hermit routine, because my friends surprised me with a mini-party layl Shabbos. Thoughtful of them, eh? Anyhow, when did I feel old? On my birthday? Nope. As people sang "How old are you now"? Nope.

Instead, yours truly clued into how old I am (read: penultimate to a milestone) when I listened to this song and realised it was a hit in 2001. That's eight years ago. Here's the short version, although true to my trance roots, I prefer the Armin Van Buuren remix. Hope it brings back some memories for someone other than myself. ;)