Speaking of Style and Class. . .

Okay, I admit it.  This is one Orthodox Jewish woman who is crazy about Fran Drescher's The Nanny.  I know it's not politically correct - a Jewish girl who eats bacon, shrimp and lobster while pining away for her non-Jewish boss Mr. Sheffield.


Maybe it's the Yiddish, or the love Fran the Nanny showers on her charges.  Maybe it's Niles and his hilarious battle to the near-death with Miss Babcock.  I don't know.  I can't explain it or justify it.  In practice, she's not a terribly "good" Jew.  And her "mather" - oy vey.  She deserves a whole other post.


I guess what I really love about the show is the innocence of the 1990s.  There was plenty of fakatah nonsense going on then; Reagan and Iran-Contra for example.  But I have fond memories of those days and The Nanny exemplifies the height that Jews as Jews had reached on television.  Fran was never ashamed of being a Jew, never had to explain her love of her people or justify Israel. 


I miss that.  I miss not having to explain how my people aren't Nazis and why we deserve a home of our own.  Thank you Fran.  To me, the Nanny, or Franny, certainly had style and class.  And a lot of love. 

My Son, The Barber

Mazel Tov to my amazing Yitzy for seeing this through and earning his certification from the City of Los Angeles as a barber.  This reminds me of a joke:

The mother of the first Jewish President of the United States was sitting in the front row to watch the inauguration.  A reporter came to her and asked if she was proud of her son.  Her reply: "Yes of course.  But did you know, my other son is a doctor."

Now say this with a New York accent and you've got me telling my friends how proud I am of my son.  Yitzy baby, you rock!!!

I Knew I Parked Too Close

Several dear friends of mine have been talking up a wonderful, wholesale jewelry store in downtown Los Angeles for a long time.  I had to agree - their necklaces were gorgeous.  And inexpensive.  So I decided that since the store was located a few blocks from work, I was going to check it out.

At first, I got lost.  I kinda remembered the street name but I mean, seriously, I didn't believe it could really be that close to work so I was in the left lane when I should have been in the right lane, et al. Just to make sure, I went another 5 blocks until I decided I had indeed missed the street and doubled back.

And there it was.  A parking spot. Right in front of the store.  How is that even possible?  Okay, I took it, thanked G-d and went straight into the store.  Rows and rows of necklaces and earrings - it was paradise.  Then I remembered I hadn't paid for parking and ran out.  Having experienced downtown parking, I expected the meter to give me 3 minutes for 25 cents.  Oh no - it gave me 15 minutes for 25 cents.  I started to believe I was actually dead and this was heaven.  I had change left over.

I spent the next 30 minutes looking for the right necklace(s) and came up with three and a pair of earrings.  No point going crazy the first time out.  Then the not so sweet cashier asked me for my resale number.

My what?  I panicked.  I gave her my friend's name and business.  Nothing.  I wanted to plead with her to let me have the stuff but no, dignity first, deals second.  I called my friend, no answer.  I left the store confused, and sure that I was still very much alive and well, sans amazing necklaces on the cheap.

Well, after my dear friends got wind of my experience and called the manager, it turns out I may not need a resale number after all.  It appears the clerk was a jerk.  So I ask myself: Why did this happen?  What did I learn?  To be patient, keep my cool, accept rejection and move on?

All that and the restoration of my belief in local government's ability to get things done.  Despite the homeless crisis in downtown, on Crocker and 9th Street, downtown Los Angeles, parking is very affordable indeed!

All I Got Was This Lousy. . .

Today is December 26, and for many of us, it's a day off.  Not that I knew that.  I  had to come to work today to find that out.  Whatever.  I finished up some immediate business and then left.  With my bike.

Yes, I'm riding my bike again which means I'm riding the bus again.  Unfortunately, in a city of 10 million people located in a state considered 7th in GNP, the Metro system is 3rd world.  That's because poor people ride the buses here, most of which have limited English speaking skills.  When I'm waiting nearly an hour for a bus my English language skills become limited to . . . think four letters, starting with an F.

So I got back on my bike at 8:05 am this morning and decided to stop at the 99 cents store on the block.  I call that store my happy place.  It's where all my dreams of cheap food and stuff comes true.  Everyday.  Sometimes several times a day.  When I signed up for a "Secret Santa" at my office, I asked for gift cards to the 99 cents store.  I'm into shopping there real deep.

I locked my bike to the front of the store and went inside, for less than 10 minutes. Seriously, it's a holiday.  They didn't get any deliveries and I was there are on Friday.  I needed some sundries and then I was ready for the road.

In less than 5 minutes, my bike was stolen.  Actually, just the frame and the back wheel.  What I didn't realize is that the front tire is quick release and it remained behind, along with my lock.  There's no cameras at the 99 cents store (hard to believe), so I limped my way to the bus stop, sad, mad, using my limited English language skills over and over again, schlepping one wheel, a bike lock and a helmet.

It took over an hour, two trains and one bus to get home.  I can't believe my stupidity, and I can't believe someone could steal what is not theirs.  I know this is a message from G-d, and my bike is a stand in for losing something far more important.  That's how I will console myself.  Those thoughts, and, of course, chocolate.

Look To The Cookie!

Every Shabbat, the women in our Shul get together after Kiddish (light lunch) and say certain chapters of Tehillim (Psalms) for people needing to get married.  There are 6 chapters (32, 38, 70, 71, 122, 124) we say together after reading out a list of names.  Yesterday, we added a little twist to the Shabbat ritual.

One very enthusiastic member of the group brought in two boxes of little black and white cookies, broken in half (the black and white still intact) and told everyone needing to marry off children to eat one half.

Never, ever tell me to eat 1/2 of a black and white cookie.  It's can't be done.  Yes, I have marriageable age children (all boys, sigh, not of which are "ready) but it's torture to eat 1/2 of a cookie, especially an ity-bity black and white.

Bad news: I broke my diet rule to exclude cake, cookies and soda.  Good news: I ate enough black and white cookies to get the whole world married.

Your welcome.  That's how I roll.

Time Does Not Heal This Wound

9/11: A wound that will never heal. (Photo by Gary Friedman/Daily Beast)

Getting The Shabbat Groove Back

I love the long, warm days of summer - it means I can work eight hours, come home, relax, catch up on my reading or viewing, and then leisurely take a shower before candle lighting.  Last Friday was no different.

Until we all sat down for dinner and the bowl on the top of all the other dishes drying on the drain board fell and flipped the switch starting the garbage disposal.  That's right, while we sat and tried to eat our herring and hummus, there was a horrible grinding sound coming from the kitchen sink.

California, once again, is in the middle of a terrible drought, so running water is pretty much out of the question.  So is burning out the motor of the garbage disposal.  So is any of us turning it off by hand.

So I got up from the table and went outside to find someone, anyone who is not a Jew to come into our home and turn off the garbage disposal.  I was rehearsing in my mind just what I'd say when a big, beat up SUV park across the street from my house.  I waited until the occupants got out, and then I approached them. Right in the middle of the street.  I wasn't playing any games.  This was serious.

Turns out, the young woman is my neighbor who I've never met in the two years I've lived on my street.  Not only that, but she plays the piano wonderfully and has serenaded us every Shabbat day.  When I explained to her what I needed ("the garbage disposal is on and as an observant Jew, I can't turn it off), this sweet, wonderful young lady jumped at the chance to turn it off.

This amazing, delightful young woman saved our Shabbat.  Strange, and a bit sad, I haven't seen her since that Friday night.  But it's a wonderful feeling living next door to a Shabbat Angel.