Gather 'Round, Kids, It's Story Time...

When I was a kid, one of the things my mom would do to keep us busy was give us a picture or a group of phrases and ask us to write a story. When Hilary over at Superfluous Juxtaposition presented a list of odd search phrases which brought people to her site, and laid down the challenge to write a story using them all, there was no way I could resist.....

The phrases:
.dirty employee breakroom
.prostitutes report los angeles
.madonna chris'mas cards
.vanilla ice rapper costume halloween
.be quiet please hebrew
.comic hamlet how is your day
.god bashert and breakup
.what happened to the gap website?
.jewish men and shiksas
.what happened to the gap?
.los angeles where to meet famous people
.girls in los angeles ready to meet and fold you (no, it didn't say fold, but this is a family blog about lesbians in bars, so we won't be using that kind of language here...)

The impromptu story (told in the voice of a married woman who works in a hygiene clinic; she's got issues):

I saw this great black T at The Gap, and of course I can’t get it. But first, crappy work day. I finally take a break and I’m sitting in the “dirty employee breakroom”, which is where we go when we want to touch some lint and dirt and stuff, to catch a break from all the clean stuff, when this Israeli guy walks in that I’ve never seen before. And he definitely has a different idea of what the dirty employee breakroom is all about. He starts telling me (in hebrew, no less - how did he know I even knew any hebrew?)how he heard about all “these girls in Los Angeles ready to meet and fold you” and how he has this list, a “prostitutes report for Los Angeles”, so he knows where all the prostitutes are. And all I am thinking is how do you say “be quiet please in hebrew”. Cause I am always polite in a foreign language. Even when I’m pissed to hell, I am always polite in a foreign language. So he sees I’m looking pissed, so he changes the subject, and starts asking me if I know Angelina Jolie and Catherine Zeta-Jones. And I just turn to him and say what is it with these “Jewish guys and shiksas”? If it wasn’t for Natalie Portman and Winona Ryder, we would have no representation at all. And famous people? What the hell? You know how they say “Los Angeles is where to meet famous people”? Well, I’ve been in Los Angeles 12 years, and the closest I’ve come was this guy wearing a “Vanilla Ice rapper costume on Halloween”. How sad is that? Then when I get home, Rod’s already there, and noone pissses me off more than Rod. I know he’s my husband, but the sight of him before 10 PM just pisses the hell out of me. So he gives me this lame-ass smile, and then like some “comic Hamlet, he asks how is your day?” sounding all serious. And I just hit him. Right in the mouth. Engagement ring hand. And I’m finally feeling good for the first time today and my mom calls, and she mentions the three words she always does, the three words I am not in the mood for - “God, bashert and breakup”. For chris’sake, I just hit the guy in the mouth. How am I supposed to think about breaking up with him now? Maybe he’s not my bashert, maybe God had someone else in mind for me. But who else would let me hit them in the mouth like that? I’m not going to go start looking for someone else. So I’m pissed again, and then I remember that little black T I saw at The Gap, and I go online and are you ready? The website is gone. Not down, gone. And I just can’t take it and start screaming like a total lunatic, “WHERE IS THE GAP WEBSITE”?! “WHERE IS THE GAP”?! How can such a large retailer give up their web site? And so I dial the number for The Gap store, and I get this stupid cheerful girl who sounds like she sniffed a little too much glue, and I just lay into her about the website, and she is just so cheerful that I just want to punch Rod again, when I glance at the screen and the site is back. Just like that. The site is back. And I’m thinking miracles do happen. And I even apologize to the cheerful glue-sniffer on the phone, and I’m so happy about the black T I’m going to get that I might just splurge on those “Madonna chris'mas cards” Rod wants to get, where she’s wearing the dress from the Like A Virgin video, cause he really wants them and I did just hit him in the mouth. But I click on the Ts and I swear the only color they are out of is black. I swear. So the stores are closing, I am pissed, and the online place is out of black Ts. So all I can say is no folding way is Rod getting the Madonna chris'mas cards….

Wall-Staring In Bars With Lesbians

Technically, she wasn't really a lesbian.

To say that I grew up sheltered would be a massive understatement. I never had an actual conversation with someone who wasn't white and Jewish until I reached college. The good part about that: when I did meet people from other religions and races, I came with no preconceived notions or prejudices. The bad: I felt a bit like Woody Allen's character in Sleeper, waking up to a new world. In my case, of course, the world had existed all along.

I never met anyone who was openly gay or lesbian until graduate school. My program of study was in an arts-related field and required a lot of time spent in Soho and Greenwich Village. During that period of my life (my wayward years) I was blessed to work at a job with a wonderful group of people who I actually enjoyed spending time with - not just a few people, but every single one of my co-workers was someone I wanted to get to know. One of these was LM, a brash and sardonically funny woman 2 or 3 years my senior, who smoked incessantly and always regaled me with a play-by-play of her latest therapy session with a doctor she viewed as an incompetent, but whom she just couldn't leave.

Though LM called herself a lesbian (and even included it proudly in bold on her resume), she would flirt with anything that moved, and admitted openly that though she preferred women, she was actually bi-sexual; she employed the term lesbian because bi "didn't mean anything politically." For a sheltered boy, all this was quite an eye-opener, and fascinating. Being an incredibly open, frank and forthcoming person, LM was happy to share her thoughts, opinions, and experiences, which led to many deep, occasionally existential, often touching, and always thought-provoking conversations.

LM's mother had been a nun in a convent who could not fight her urge to have a child, and left the convent in search of an intellectual man who would enable her to fulfill her desire; she found him in the form of a Jewish university professor, whom she contacted only twice more - once to tell him she was pregnant, and again to say she had given birth to his child. They had no real relationship with each other, and neither wanted one. LM's mother later married a gay man, who helped raise her daughter.

LM always imagined what it would be like to meet her biological father. It haunted her, and she yearned for it. As her father was somewhat well-known, she kept tabs on him, knew where he lived, knew of his other children, kept track of his career. She would create different elaborate scenarios in her mind of how she might run into him and how it would be. Once, she even saw him from a distance, but did not approach. This was the one area where she was not impetuous, was downright scared: "Hi. I'm your lesbian daughter by a woman you had a one night tryst with. I have many neuroses and now I'm here in your happy home." In the face of potential parental rejection by a father she did not know, her normally bold, tough exterior was hobbled by fear.

As a result of her dad's Jewishness (to which she attributed her neuroses), LM was intrigued by all things Jewish. She was always very respectful and accomodating of my religious needs, suggesting kosher restaurants we could go to, and never asking me to do anything on shabbat. She did, however, feel the need to broaden my horizons and loosen me up - she introduced me to some great bookstores and record stores, museums and cafes. I drew the line when she wanted to take me to Hell, a bar/dance factory where you have to feel along the wall to find the entrance door. She just shrugged ok when I dropped her off and repeated that I would not be accompanying her.

The office we worked in was a very convivial atmosphere. Any excuse would do to call for an after-hours drinkfest ("hey, it's Tuesday!"). Not being a big drinker, and not entirely wayward during my wayward days, I would sometimes go and not drink, just to observe, and sometimes not go at all. I never understood the appeal of getting blasted on a regular basis, and was especially surprised that this would continue after college.

I asked LM about it during one of our "broaden my horizon" excursions. LM had decided to take me wall-staring, which for the uninitiated goes something like this: you find a dive bar somewhere in the Village, one that is the size of a large broom closet, with a faded sign outside; the bar stools should face a brick wall, where there should be X-mas lights hanging in June. You go to the jukebox and put on some tragic-sounding French music, sit at the bar and drink, and drink, and drink, and stare at the wall until you get horribly depressed and then numb. As she started on her fourth beer, I turned to LM, and I asked her: "Why? I don't get the appeal. I don't get wall-staring, I don't get any of it. Why does everyone always want to go out drinking?"

Being the very open, honest, and forthright person she is, LM looked at me and said, "because when it comes down to it, no matter who loves you, no matter who is in your life, you're really completely alone in this world, and so you drink, to forget how lonely you are."

I was never so glad as I was at that moment that I believed in G-d. That was the beginning of the end of my wayward days.

What Did Della Wear?

My parents left this morning, with my youngest sister in tow, on their annual "states no one else wants to visit" summer vacation. My mother's fear of flying meant all our family trips were limited to where you could drive by car without depleting the energy and patience of the driver - my dad. So from ages 5-14 or so, after exhausting all the enjoyable east coast destinations (Florida, D.C. , Ottawa, New Hampshire), I became very familiar with states like Delaware.

Before I get a rash of e-mails from irate Delawareans, I want to make it clear that I am not dissing Delaware. It is a fine state for setting up tax shelters and for driving through on the way to other, far more interesting states. Delaware is also justly famous for its state bird, the blue hen chicken, and for being the birthplace of actress Valerie Bertinelli (who is either best known as one of the daughters on One Day At A Time or as the woman who married Eddie Van Halen, but not, alas, for being born in Delaware). As a destination in and of itself, however, Delaware is a bit lacking, water gaps notwithstanding.

I was the first person in my family in four generations to visit Israel, and never made it west of Pennsylvania until I was 24, so to my mind, Delaware is the symbol for all that is limiting or marginalized in life, as it was the least ingratiating of all the uninteresting states we visited when I was a child.

And yet...I miss those trips, even the one to Delaware, mostly for the shared family experience. The car rides themselves were always more entertaining than the destinations, as invariably someone would throw up, someone else (why was it never the one who threw up?) would spot a license plate from Hawaii or Alaska (the ultimate point-getters in spot the state license plate game), my dad would threaten to stop the car if we didn't stop fighting, and my mom would remind us before getting out of the car not to touch anything anywhere ever.

There was a warmth and an innocence to these trips it is impossible to recapture. The world is too large now, and I have been weathered by living in it. I feel bad for my youngest sister, who at 11, does not have the camraderie of a bunch of siblings to go with her (the closest in age being 8 years older), and who, having already been to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas and San Franciso, will only know places like Delaware as the places no one else wanted to go to...

Somewhere Off The Coast Of Maine

Before four years in Israel, shoko b'sakit, dodgy and ort, my love was an island off the coast of Maine. I had just started my masters thesis and thought it would be a good idea to get away and have time to myself to write. I rented this wonderful cabin - sight unseen - on Mount Desert Island.

I still had the car I bought in high school with my bar mitzvah money (what a good racket that whole bar mitzvah party thing is! I still question the wisdom in letting a 16 year old buy a brand new car, and I sigh when I think now how useful that money would have been during my time in Israel, but...) It was a scenic nine hour drive from NY to Maine. The first thing I noticed upon arrival, aside from the natural beauty, was the overwhelming lobster presence. There was lobster everywhere, to the point where even if I didn't keep kosher, I would think to, if only to get away from lobster. I don't think I've ever had more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my life in such a short span of time as I did on that vacation.

It was an important vacation for me, as it was my first without friends or family. Just me, completely on my own. My days consisted of hiking (there was a national park on the island), whale watching, beaches and solitude. Sometimes, I would sit on the large rocks by the shore and write page after page, describing waves. I would often stop by the island's only bookstore, Port In A Storm. Surrounded by water on three sides, the store featured obscure books on the mating habits of moose, Maine history, local poets, and of course, lobster, in addition to whatever was on the current national bestseller lists. Just the kind of warm and quirky spot I like. Comfortable couches, where you might find a cat or two already curled up for a nap, were placed strategically throughout the store. Tea was available for purchase, poured by the owners, who actually worked in the store and always greeted you with a smile and a wave; if you went round back, you could sip tea on the porch and watch the sun set over the ocean.


My cabin was small, but plenty of room for one person. It was far enough from any other cabin that I could go for days without seeing anyone, if I chose (sometimes I did choose that). The owners of the cabins were transplants from New York who were taking a chance, having both quit their high-powered rat race jobs in Manhattan for a simpler, more peaceful existence as lobster-eating cabin renters on Mount Desert Island. I admired their spirit then, and now, in retrospect, their courage - it is not easy to give up security and good cuisine for uncertainty and lobster.

The trip was relaxing, rejuvenating and very good for my writing. The coast of Maine quickly became one of my favorite spots in the states, a close third behind Berkeley and Boulder for shear beauty. After a few weeks, however, I began to feel lonely, sick of peanut butter, and all writ out, and I headed back to NY, with promises to return. For me, at least, being on my own has a shelf life of about three weeks before I crave the warmth of close friends and relations. I have not been back since that time, but do intend to fulfill that promise one day, perhaps on my own, perhaps with a wife (preferably mine!) who is indulgent of her husband's wistfulness.

My time there had been a distant memory until two years ago, while riding the bus down from Tzfat to Jerusalem, when Mount Desert Island came roaring back into my thoughts. I
had struck up a conversation with the woman across the aisle from me, a lovely, fascinating woman in her late 50s or early 60s. We talked for the entire hour-long trip, discovering not only that we knew people in common through Jewish geography, but also that we shared a love for writing and the arts, and for cabins in Maine.

Turns out, she owns a bed and breakfast on the very same island I had rented my cabin. A recent ba'alat teshuva through her daughter and son-in-law in Tzfat, this woman had asked a rabbi to come down from Portland and kasher her entire establishment, which is now a fully kosher organic vegetarian bed and breakfast. She invited me to her daughter's wedding there that summer. I didn't go, but kind of wish I had...

The encounter was the kind I've only had in Israel, where the past is recontextualized, this time rooted somewhere off the coast of Maine.

The Date Getter

There are some things in life it's difficult to own up to. When I was a child, I insisted that my hair was brown, though it was obvious to everyone with or without bifocals that my hair was clearly, undeniably red; I never willingly admit to being a New Yorker by birth (could I help it if I was conceived in Brooklyn, which I am beginning to suspect is really the origin of humanity as we know it - who can't connect themselves back to Brooklyn?); and for the past few years now, I have been reluctant to admit that I own a black hat.

This hat of mine is not your typical black hat. It is both shorter and narrower than the standard. My intent in purchasing it was to be able to fit in with the Charedi crowd while still maintaining my individuality. I was at a point in life where I was not vehemently opposed to being hatted, so once I didn't care, why not wear one?

The change in people's perception of me was extraordinary. I was able to walk into a Charedi shul without being stared at, able to leap small earlocked children in a single bound, and generally accorded the mantle of "ben torah" simply by virtue of the object on my head.

My friend Zvi calls my hat the "date getter" because having a hat meant I could now be set up with a whole cadre of women who were to that point off limits. Magically, the hat provided entree to a world of women who were both stockinged and seriously devout, who wanted their husbands to both learn full time and work full time at the same time. Apparently, having a hat enabled the wearer's wife to believe such things were possible.

As I couldn't bring myself to wear the de rigueur plastic bag with supermarket logo over the hat, I bought an unofficial official hat cover, which was basically a hat-shaped shower cap. Zvi would take to wearing the hat cover on it's own (see exhibit A - picture to come), and I must say he looked quite dashing in it.

Though the number of dates with stockinged women increased by virtue of the hat, I came to find that I really didn't like stockings or the rigidity of the women who wore them. The hat became a mask to hide my quirks and bursts of creative expression. I was able to fit in just fine, but the world I was fitting into was not mine. There are aspects of the Charedi world I like, even admire. But I am no more Charedi than I am modern orthodox, Carlebachian or Chassidic. I am a mix of all of the above, a melange, if you will (certain words like melange, dodgy, milieu and ort can never be used enough, and I reserve the right to invoke them in inopportune places throughout this blog).

In time, I stopped wearing the black hat during the week, and wore it just on shabbat and on dates. Some shabbats I would not feel so Charedi, and took to simply carrying the hat with me, but not actually wearing it. People became very agitated by this, much as when I used to wear my hat with birkenstocks (and shadchanim would say, "I don't understand who you are. How can you wear a black hat and birkenstocks?" to which I could only reply, "because that's exactly who I am - a mix, a melange, if you will, which if you would stop being so dodgy and gave an ort, you would realize...."). It is somehow threatening to others to carry a hat without intent to place hat on head. I knew I was in trouble when I lost the ability to leap small earlocked children in a single bound when carrying my hat.

Today, I am learning to make peace with my hat. I am able to wear or carry it without letting it define me. It is, after all, just a hat. And black. It represents my Charedi side well (Charedim in the house...props to DJ Kool, Let Me Clear My Throat, which peaked at #30 on Billboard in 1997 - one of those songs with afterlife). It's a good-looking hat, it looks good on me, and it comes in very handy if you are walking through Meah Shearim or Borough Park and want to blend in. Of course, by wearing the hat, you open yourself up to being spoken to in Yiddish, but as I've learned, the shoulder shrug is part of the Yiddish vocabulary too, and very often passes for fluency.

As a date getter, the hat has been a mixed blessing. It has gotten me plenty of dates, though perhaps not the right kind. Or maybe it is that I am not wearing the shower cap hat cover on top? I will have to get that back from Zvi.....