OyChicago blog

My first Facebook status of 2009 went as follows:

“Lindsey Bissett lost her camera. Have you seen it? It’s Kodak and has pictures of a naked guy playing guitar.”

I must’ve typed that while I was lying in bed eating take-out during the second viewing of my Beauty and the Beast VHS. Good way to start out the year? Not so sure. Luckily I found the camera at Nick’s Beer Garden along with my credit card and driver’s license. Boy, oh boy, do I love New Year’s Eve.

I would like to thank the person who turned my camera in to the bartender that night. I don’t know who you are, but if you read this, I like you. After much contemplation, I will take my camera out with me again this year but will handcuff it to my chastity belt.

Pretty much the only thing I like about New Year’s Eve is that you get to come up with your resolutions for the next year. The best way to ensure a wonderful year is by setting low achievable goals for yourself. I like to have many New Year’s resolutions that I know I can accomplish in a few short weeks. That way, the remainder of my year is spent feeling totally accomplished. Example: in 2006 I set the goal to grocery shop more than once a month. 2 days later: check! I also set the goal to learn how to dance the mashed potato. 1 week later: check! And party as hard as I can for as long as I can. 8 days later: check! And it turned out that 2006 was the best year of my life to date.

Other years I just set the bar way too high. I had things on my resolution list like: learn the dance to Thriller (much too long), be on time (my mom calls me ‘Lindsey of love and lateness’ for a reason), and figure out my career (sigh). When I checked on www.43things.com 17 people want to try to take over the world! That’s just unrealistic. You have to aim low to win big.

This year I resolve to:

Once upon a time, about three months ago, I wrote a post on this very blog about how silly it is to wait until December 31st to start making resolutions for the New Year.  Way back then, my plan was to find a meaningful way to give back to the community.  And I did – sort of.  But today, I’m back to my original quest, and I suppose that quest is for self-improvement.

Here I am, on December 30th (at least I’m a day early, right?), thinking about what I can do differently in 2010.  As I said in September, every year this list looks just about the same.  Eat healthier.  Go to the gym.  Blah, blah, blah.

This year, I’m hoping to try things a little differently.  So here are a couple strategies I’ve devised to make my list of goals for 2010 a bit more attainable.

1)   No vague goals.  Making a list of ambiguous plans like “lose weight” or even “lose 10 pounds” won’t cut it.  Even though the “10” makes it semi-specific, it doesn’t outline the strategies to see it through.

A better resolution would say, “In order to lose 10 pounds, I will stop eating junk from Ronna’s candy bowl at work, visit the gym at least 3 times per week for 45-60 minutes of cardio and weight training, pack healthy lunch four times per week instead of wasting money and eating the fattening crap they’re selling in the Loop, and stop ordering Pad Thai delivery because it’s HORRIBLE for you.”

2)  Find ways to reward yourself for a job well done.  Sitting at the doctor’s office flipping through a beat up copy of Glamour, I stumbled upon a great idea.  Make yourself a reward jar and drop in a quarter for every good decision you make.

If you’re thinking about sitting on the couch all night with a bowl of ice cream while watching the Biggest Loser but decide to watch it from the treadmill at the gym instead, pop in a coin.  Or if you eat a handful of almonds instead of succumbing to the tempting treats in the kitchen at work, contribute a few cents more.  Once your good decision piggybank accumulates enough change, you can buy yourself a treat – like a new pair of jeans in a brand new size!

3)  Post that list of resolutions – everywhere!  My 84-year-old Nana has had two very cute signs on her refrigerator for at least 20 years.  One says, “Those who indulge bulge” and the other says, “Little snacks mean bigger slacks.”  Now I think that if I reach my eighties, I will certainly indulge every so often, especially if I still have my Nana’s figure, but the idea is a good one.

Take that list of resolutions, and print it out in bold bright colors.  Put one up on your refrigerator and one in your pantry.  Post one on your desk at work and one in your car.  Make it your cell phone background.  Engrain one in your memory, and if you want, give a copy to your closest friend or family member and ask them to hold you accountable.

You could even blow it up poster-size and tape it up above your bed so you can dream about it each night.  OK – maybe I’m exaggerating a little.  But seriously, the more reminders you can give yourself, the easier it will be to reach those goals.

4)  Speaking of reminders, here is a great resource: http://www.43things.com.  Now in the world of social networking, I’m not one for posting my every thought and feeling in my status update or tweeting about what I ate for lunch.  But while 43 Things may seem like another cliché networking site or micro-blog, it’s not.

On their website, the creators write, “We believe that the very act of writing ideas down helps you answer the question, "What do I really want to do with my life?" and puts you on the path towards accomplishing it.”

On the website, you type your goal into the blank, and using the example above, I typed in “Lose 10 pounds”.  When you hit enter and then click the link, you’ll see that right now, there are 5,960 people online who feel the same way.  Once you add this goal to your list, you have a lot of options – you can blog about your efforts, read advice from others trying to achieve the same goal, or my personal favorite, write a periodic reminder email that will be sent your way, automatically, as frequently as you like.  Here’s an example of one of mine:

Dear future self,
I'm reminding you about your stated goal on 43 things, to "stop biting my nails".  QUIT BITING - it's disgusting, unattractive, unhealthy, unprofessional, and it's been too long!  Enough is enough!

Sincerely,
Your past self

Now, while losing 10 pounds isn’t one of my resolutions, quitting this gross nail biting habit definitely is.  In fact, it’s been my resolution for over 10 years.

So here is the 2010 version of my annual resolution:  no more nail biting.  Strategy:  finding alternative ways to channel stress, quit chewing my cuticles, let my nails grow to the tips of my fingers and maintain them there.  Reward:  manicures every two weeks and polish changes on opposite weeks.  (Also serves as strategy, since I haven’t the faintest idea how to maintain pretty nails).  Reminders:  posted at my desk and next to my bed.  My husband, my friends and my co-workers all know to call me out, and now all of the Oy! readers do too.

 And as for 43 Things, I just updated my email settings to daily reminders, so someone, even if it’s just my “past self”, will pester me about it every day.

For many of us that were born and raised in America, particularly in areas that have significant Jewish populations, we aren’t readily faced with overt, in-your-face anti-Semitism. So you can imagine how taken aback I was the other day when the following took place:

I was enjoying a hot caramel apple cider with a friend of mine at well known coffee chain the Monday before Chanukah. He is Jewish, like me, but unlike me he wears a kippah all the time. We were sitting near a window and were spotted by a heavyset man that looked to be in his 50s, grey hair, and oversized, thick, black-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a blue coat, sweat suit and knit cap. He walked into the establishment and approached our table. Judging by his appearance, I thought he had come in to ask people for money. I quickly learned his intentions were quite different as he sauntered up to our table, specifically to talk to my friend.

The man mumbled when he spoke and the restaurant was loud, so I didn’t catch all that he said. It sounded like he was saying something about Israelis, bombs, women being raped, and people getting killed. He was saying all of this directly to my kippah-toting friend. My friend looked at him and said, “I’m sorry I have no idea what you are talking about.” The man glared at him and responded, “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you filthy Jew.”

There was a pause. I think I heard someone gasp, but I’m not sure if that was just my imagination. I could have sworn for a split second it seemed like the whole establishment froze, like a dramatic moment in a movie. Then the man walked away and there was another pause. My friend spoke first, “Wow. I haven’t wanted to just punt someone in a very long time, until just now.” My response was “Clearly this man is having a really horrible day.” It was all I could think of to say. I felt like I should have said more—maybe I should have said something to the man while he was there. But I didn’t.

What was the right thing to do? Was it better to say nothing as we did? Should we have stood up and made it clear to this guy that he was an idiot and was making an ass of himself? My friend wondered aloud if we should call the cops and get him kicked out of the coffee shop. It’s not my nature to make a scene, to give in to antagonizers and instigators. I wondered if this situation called for it. Any person with half a brain would know that this guy was not all there and was just spewing nonsense and hate; however a part of me felt like we let him win. We didn’t stand up for ourselves.

The most ironic part of all this was it happened the Monday before Chanukah, during the time of year where we celebrate a moment in our history where we as Jews stood up and fought. We fought not only for the right to be Jews, but to be public about being Jewish. The Rabbis tell us that reading Torah, performing circumcision, announcing the new month were among the first things that the Greeks outlawed. Wearing a kippah was not a custom back then, but I’m sure it would have been on the list of banned practices—another public display of Jewish identity.

I was bothered for several minutes that I did not attempt to respond in a more Judah Maccabee like fashion. On the other hand I was reminded that the Rabbis focused this holiday on the miracle of the oil precisely to move our attention away from the military victory. Their intention was to keep us focused on God’s miracles and not so much our own military strength and might.
 
After the man left, we went back to where we left off in our conversation prior to the incident, and finished our drinks. As we were leaving the coffee shop, an African American man in a wheel chair, probably homeless and looking hungry, was on the corner holding a cup, quietly soliciting handouts. My friend with the kippah took out his wallet, pulled out a dollar and handed it to the homeless man, wishing him a very sincere “happy holidays.” I don’t know if I could have asked for a better response to anti-Semitism than that.

Next year, I will celebrate my tenth anniversary at JUF News—the monthly magazine produced by JUF—my first and only job after college. Who says people of my generation can’t commit?! My career at the magazine started in the summer of 2000, mere weeks after tossing my graduation cap in the air and embarking on life on my own. At that time, the world was beginning to turn topsy-turvy, just before the latest intifada in Israel erupted.

A year later came 9/11, a frightening turning point for us as a nation, as a community, and as individuals. My recently graduated (at the time) friends and I talked about this as our JFK moment; we will never forget where we were when the towers were hit or with whom we sat glued to our televisions for the rest of the day. September 11th burst our balloon of invincibility and complacency as young people about to take on the world.

My tenure at JUF News has coincided with all of this upheaval in the world. And I, along with my colleagues, have chronicled this grim reality, this new era of uncertainty in which we find ourselves living in page after page of JUF News for the last decade. As we hear and report on bad things continuously happening to good people in the world, my co-workers and I feel demoralized at times. I often see the world that we write about in our magazine through a bleak lens, from covering constant terror, mayhem, and anti-Semitism around the globe and here at home.

But when I think back over my 10 years as a journalist in the Jewish community, stories of death and defeat don’t come readily to mind nearly as much as do compelling stories about the lives of Jewish people, Jews thriving and triumphing in all walks of life. What I recall most are my many conversations with these people. It’s a privilege to eavesdrop on these lives with a notebook and digital recorder. Each person’s story is different from the next, but all are tied through the tenacious thread of the Jewish narrative.

I’ve had the opportunity to meet incredible people, some of them famous. While sitting with Elie Wiesel—famed Holocaust survivor, writer, and sage—in his midtown Manhattan office, I asked the scholar what it means to be Jewish in America. “Here, Jews can speak as Jews,” he marveled. “In America, you can be seen wearing a kippah in the street. Jews help others but they always help as Jews.”

Turn 180 degrees to Jon Stewart, a wise guy in his own right. My conversation with Stewart stands out to me as the most jokes made at my expense per minute by an interviewee. But the comedian also worked in a few Jewish-themed jokes during our limited time together. “The word Hamentashen—funny word,” he mused, when I introduced myself to Stewart as a representative from a Jewish magazine. “As a comedy writer, I use it frequently. When in doubt—Hamentashen.”

Other memorable conversations have included people with less name recognition, but who have been equally engaging. Alfred Blum, a nonagenarian watchmaker with the spirit of an 18-year-old, fled with his wife, Reni, to Chicago from Germany in the late 1930s, just in time to escape Hitler.

During my interview with the two of them, I admired Reni’s unusual watch. It has a red leather band and a painter’s palette for the face. Reni took off the watch and handed it to me. “You take it. I have another one.” I refused, but they insisted. “When someone offers you a gift,” said Alfred, translating warmly from Yiddish to English, “you take it.” Reni’s watch hangs on my office bulletin board to this day, more than nine years since our interview.

What I love most about working in Jewish journalism is that the stories I cover affect a community I care so much about because I am a part of it.

A ‘wow’ moment for me came after a few months on the job. I reported on a story for a Jewish genetic disorders supplement that we run periodically in JUF News. For the piece, I visited the homes of two heroic families, each with a child suffering from a debilitating genetic disease. Barrie, the mother of Michelle, who is afflicted with a rare illness called Familial Dysautonomia informed me that when Michelle was a baby, pre-diagnosis, Barrie had read two articles, one of which appeared in a past JUF News genetic disorders supplement describing symptoms that matched her daughter’s.

It was only then, after Barrie read these articles, that she was able to identify Michelle’s illness. “I remember reading them, sitting there frozen, thinking this is my child, this is my child,” Barrie told me.

This was a light-bulb moment for her—and for me too. At that moment, I realized my work—and the work of everyone on staff at JUF News, at the Jewish Federation, and in Jewish communal service in general—was helping people, Jews and non-Jews, in large and small ways to live their lives better.

Wanna give back? Click here to donate to JUF.

‘I will raise my head’

By Guest Blogger, Caryn Peretz

 

In order to best express why I do what I do as the Director of JUF’s Young Leadership Division (YLD), I want to share the experience I had this summer on the National Campaign Chair and Directors Mission to Israel, a mission comprised of 100 professionals and volunteers from across the country.

I’ve been to Israel over 15 times and was never exposed to the issues in society that I got to learn about on this trip. I consider myself to be someone who tries to keep up with Israel – politics, current events, culture, music – but this was really seeing the heart of a diverse society and a population addressing the needs of its people.  I felt the Zionist spirit of the country that we learn about from Israel’s early years that I wasn’t sure still existed.

We are only a few generations away from the founding of the state of Israel, and I had the opportunity to see how crucial our assistance is through the JUF Annual Campaign, as society in Israel is changing so rapidly.

The first day we met with representatives of the Ethiopian National Project who were my age and immigrated to Israel on foot through the Sudan desert.  They were smart, beautiful, happy, successful women who told us their personal stories.  I always thought that the Ethiopian population came to Israel because they were miserable and wanted a better life, but I learned this summer that this was not the case.  They were happy in Ethiopia, they came to Israel because they grew up yearning for “Yeru-salam” (Jerusalem), but it was only a dream for them.  They didn’t even know that Israel as a modern nation existed.  Only when they heard rumors, and the Jewish community abroad stepped up to help, did they get to fulfill their dream, and now there are over 100,000 Ethiopian Jews in Israel.

One of the women, Liat, said she remembers that world Jewry played a huge role in their journey, and it was something they all acknowledged.  She said it was as if her mother was holding one hand, and we were holding the other.

The Ethiopian National Project was developed as a partnership of all the Federations, JDC, JAFI, the government of Israel and others to ensure that we finish our job and continue to support the Ethiopian community and complete our promise to help them settle and be successful in Israeli society.

Liat and her family walked in the desert, they paid their price, now it’s our turn to help.  We can’t stop holding their hands now.  One of my favorite quotes is by William Safire regarding Operation Moses.  He wrote “for the first time in history, thousands of black people are being brought to a country, not in chains, but in dignity, not as slaves, but as citizens”.  Israel did this despite pressure not to, and integrating them is not Israel’s job alone.

I see the Ethiopian National Project as a true microchosm of Israeli society – it’s building the country, it’s a work in progress, and it wouldn’t happen without the support of JUF.

Throughout the mission, I felt like I was watching history unfold and Israel develop.  I felt further enthralled with the country and inspired by the spirit of Israelis. 

One of the most powerful experiences for me was visiting the largest army base in Israel where we got a tour of a mock Palestinian village they built for training purposes.  One of the soldiers we met was Abe, a 23-year-old from Chicago who made aliyah four years ago.  There, we heard a presentation from a commander who lost one of his men during an operation during the second Lebanon war.  Three years ago there was a Youtube clip that circulated among my friends during the Lebanon war.  With over 100,000 views, the Israeli who posted wrote she wanted to: “transfer to all of you outside Israel all the pain and sadness that going on in this time of war… And for all our heroes, rest in peace.”  A sad Israeli song called “I will raise my head” plays in the background as we see clips from a military funeral.  The commander we heard from that night played this clip for us, as he shared his stories of the soldier he lost, the soldier who is being buried in this very video.  I’ve watched that video so many times and it’s always been heartbreaking.  But there was nothing like watching it with the soldiers that lost their friend, lived that operation and recall that clip in their memory.  And then, in true Israeli resilient fashion, the soldiers in the dining hall welcomed the IDF entertainment unit and sang and danced with us for the remainder of the night.

As this mission was supposed to do, it made me very proud of what I do for a living and what I’m raising money for.

 

A sense of community

By Guest Blogger, Ariel Zipkin

 

I decided to work in the Young Leadership Division at JUF (YLD) because it is the perfect venue for me to express my Jewish Identity and be involved with the things I care about most – philanthropy, community building and Judaism.  I am continually impressed with the Jewish community here and am extremely appreciative of the warm welcome I have received as a Cincinnati native.  From trying to find me a place to live, to making sure I have plans for the holiday, everyone here has reached out in a touching way.  It is that sense of community and outreach that I love about the Jewish community.

Jewish life and tradition has been significant throughout my life.  This quote sums up how I feel, some of you may know the saying:

אם אין אני לי, מי לי? וכשאני לעצמי, מה אני? ואם לא עכשיו, אימתי?

I first heard this quote at the end of the year I spent in Israel.  I was in a shop in the Old City and I wanted a Hebrew quote engraved on a bracelet from Hadaya.  This sentence immediately caught my eye.

The first part literally means: “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me?”  The year I lived in Israel there were many suicide bombings very close to my home.  Most of my friends and family thought I was crazy to live in Israel during that time, but I was never scared.  I realized how important it was to support the country during such a vulnerable time—it was my responsibility to stand by Israel and show the world that I could not be intimidated by threats or turn my back on the Jewish people’s homeland.  I wanted to learn everything about the conflict, so that I could effectively stand up for myself and advocate on behalf of the Jewish people.  Over the past year, Chicago has been hit hard by anti-Semitism and JUF has been there to respond.  It is so important that we make ourselves heard and stand up for what we believe in.

The second part of the quote states: “and if I am only for myself, then what am I?”  This idea of brotherhood and responsibility for one another is central to Judaism and seems to be the core of what JUF stands for.  Over the past year, I have been continually impressed with the breadth and scope of services JUF supports locally and abroad.  I have volunteered at the Uptown Café, where homeless people of all races and religions are served with dignity and respect; I have heard how JDC has active programs in 66 countries around the world; I have visited Mount Sinai Hospital where JUF dollars help save premature babies lives; and the stories go on and on.  We, as Jews, are responsible for taking care of one another and for tikkun olam, repairing the world.

The quote ends with: “and if not now, when,” which is a simple call to action.  Sometimes as individuals it is difficult to realize how great we are, and how much greater we can become. So we procrastinate.  Working in YLD forces me to act and never be complacent.  I am extremely proud to work for JUF and to be and advocate for the Jewish people on a daily basis.

Wanna give back? Click here to donate to JUF.

I was 25 years old and so green I sat there in my bare naked cubicle that first day at the  Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago  waiting - 5:00, 5:21, 5:37 - waiting for my boss to "dismiss" me. She never did. And I'm still here 15 years later.

I didn't stay for the salary. Not for the tuna, the bronze Ben Gurion bust, or the bio-readers at every door. As for those phonothons - with my telephone phobia and fear of rejection - they damn near give me the hives.

But I understand their importance.

As a professional, I'm proud. As a client, I'm grateful. As a Jew, I'm humbled.

Once upon a time, I was a  Hillel Lewis summer intern , packing food bags for hungry Jews at The ARK. Does it get any more basic than that? As a budding grant writer at  CJE SeniorLife , I saw the kind of care I hope to receive when I grow old. (Let's face it, reading glasses and hot flashes are not so far off.)

Working in the Chicago Federation system for a decade and a half, as I've graduated from that bare naked cubicle to a private office with glorious views of a parking garage, I've shared tuna with some phenomenal professionals. My colleagues - legends in our field with extraordinary vision, managers running model programs, clinicians offering compassionate services.

Compassion that I have come to know firsthand.

A Federation  scholarship  sent me to Israel.  JVS  helped me land a job (guess where). The same JVS taught my husband English.  HIAS Chicago  helped him become a U.S. citizen.  JCC  took care of our babies so we both could work. (And really, would I hand over my three month old to just anyone?) When we hit those goddamn inevitable bumps in the road,  JCFS  was there.

And that, my friends, is the biggest understatement of all. Big vision, big hearts, dear human beings.

Ironically, the moment that sums it up best didn't take place at any of our JUF agencies - it actually took place in Orlando.

I was at a national Jewish conference six months after Hurricane Katrina hit. The first night at dinner (kosher chicken), a professional from the New Orleans Jewish Federation approached the podium and dissolved into tears. He thanked the Miami Jewish Federation for guiding him step by step through disaster recovery. He thanked the Houston Federation for providing physical refuge as he set up temporary shop in their offices. He thanked the Toronto Federation for bailing him out personally when he flew to his father's funeral in Canada and left his passport behind.

He tearfully thanked us all, from Chicago to Chattanooga, for providing the financial resources and the human resources that enabled his Jewish Federation to be a source of leadership, support and concrete assistance to his community in the aftermath of that hurricane, in those weeks of chaos and months of despair. No matter what challenge he faced each day, he knew he could draw on the collective strength of the Jewish community and slowly begin to rebuild.

This is why I'm still here, 15 years and counting. In our darkest moments, whether it's a hurricane or a war, a hate crime, recession, or personal time of need, I know the Jewish community is behind me.

And from what I've seen - as a professional, a client, and highly objective, emotionally detached Oy!blogger - the collective strength of our Chicago Jewish community is second to none.

For this reason - not for the tuna - I will trudge upstairs for the 15th year, pick up my stack of phonothon cards (to hell with my hives) and hope you, fellow Oy!sters, answer my call.

As a professional, I'm proud. As a client, I'm grateful. As a Jew, I'm humbled.

Wanna give back? Click here to donate to JUF.

Hey Oy!sters,

This week at Oy!, we’re taking a break from the usual stuff to devote some web real estate to a cause that is dear to our hearts: The Jewish United Fund. As you know, many of us Oy! team members are also on staff at JUF, spending our days working to help those in need in Chicago and around the world. Stay tuned this week to hear some personal stories from Oy! team members about why we work for JUF and what serving the Jewish community means to us. During this holiday season, we hope you’ll take some time to watch this video, hear our stories and consider including JUF in your charitable donations this year by making a gift that’s meaningful to you by clicking here.

2009 has been a rough year for many of us. Here’s to a better 2010!
Stef and Cheryl, your Oy!Chicago editors

Have you ever not watched a television show because you identified too much with it? When I watched Sex and the City in my 20s, I really enjoyed storylines of older single women in the dating scene. Now that I’m the same age as Sarah Jessica Parker when the series started, I no longer find it (as) funny and kind of depressing.

There’s a new show that I avoided for similar reasons, but at the recommendation of a friend who told me I was being ridiculous (it’s always good to keep those people in your life) I began watching the show Being Erica .

Erica is a single Jewish woman in her early 30s who goes back in time to fix her past in order to have a better present. After the first episode, I was hooked and even became a “fan” of Being Erica on Facebook. My friend Jen Cohen Galet saw that on my newsfeed and connected me with the show’s writer and producer, her friend Jana Sinyor, a Jewish 30something Torontonian married with two kids.

Jana said the show appeals to all audiences, but Jewish people especially identify with Erica.

“She’s Jewish in a way which is recognizable to people who are Jewish. She’s not hyper observant, she’s culturally Jewish, although her father is a Reform Rabbi,” Jana said.

Being Erica deals with Jewish life cycle events like Bnai Mitzvah and Brit Milah.

“People who are educated and people who are more culturally Jewish than religious have trouble reconciling their education with Jewish law,” Jana said. “An episode in Season 2, Erica struggles with circumcision and her feelings about it.”

Although there are Jewish themes, most of the topics are universal. What do you do when someone you love is marrying the wrong person? How do you cope with jealousy and conversely monogamy? How do you deal with your family and society’s expectations of you?

“Erica is funny, smart, educated, attractive, but she is nowhere near where she is supposed to be in her life,” Jana said. “But the expectations are part of the problem. There’s not much wrong with Erica. She’s not a loser. She’s a normal person struggling with normal problems.”

Jana felt that pressure when she first graduated from college. With a liberal arts degree, she struggled to get a job. Her first break was working for the Canadian version of Sesame Street writing lines for puppets. With time, she became a writer on Degrassi: The Next Generation and a producer and writer of Dark Oracle.

“It can be very daunting, you’re smart and you are educated, something I saw everywhere, but there is a lot of pressure to have the things to have in place by the time you are 30,” Jana said.  "This is very common in Jewish families. You must accomplish certain things by certain points and most people don’t.”

Amen Jana! Season 2 of Being Erica begins on Wednesday, January 20 at 9 p.m. on SoapNet and is downloadable via iTunes.

Chanukah music does not begin with “The Dreidel Song” and end with Adam Sandler. There is plenty of great Chanukah music out there suitable for adult tastes. It’s just a little hard to find… until now. So here they are— the Top Ten Best Chanukah Albums for Grown-Ups:

1. Alan Eder:  Reggae Chanukah
After a research trip to Africa, Fullbright ethnomusicologist Alan Eder attended a Passover seder back in America and was struck by the similarities he heard in the music of both cultures. He responded with the album Reggae Passover. His follow-up, Reggge Chanuakah, is even better. As the title suggests, it’s all your favorite Chanukah songs, and way more, done reggae-style. It’s fun, funky, and amazingly well-produced and -performed. I have been reviewing Jewish music for more than a decade, and it’s the best Chanukah album I have ever come across. Hear here.

2. Shirley Braha, ed.:  I Made it Out of Clay
19-year-old Indie-rock fan Shirley Braha solicited her favorite obscure bands to create new Chanukah songs. The performers on Clay are based in a dozen U.S. states… plus Canada and Finland, where they know something about winter. Kisswhistle remakes Elvis Costello’s “Veronica” into “Verhannukah,” and Mesopotamia harmonically laments the passing of a tail-chasing dog named Dreydel. Quirky, provocative, and repeatedly surprising.

3. Woody Guthrie/Klezmatics:  Happy Joyous Hanukkah
Woody Guthrie married a Jewish dancer… whose mother was the great Yiddish songwriter Aliza Greenblatt. Inspired by her, Woody wrote many Jewish-themed songs, performed here by the incomparable Klezmatics. Most are adorable songs Woody wrote for Arlo and his other children. But “The Many and the Few” shows that the man who carved “This machine kills fascists” into his guitar internalized the holiday’s message of liberty. Hear here.

4. The LeeVees:  Chanukah Rocks
Adam Gardner, the frontman of Guster, looked at the Christmas song/Chanukah song disparity and wanted to even the odds. So he created an entire new band to write entire new songs, entirely about Chanukah. He cites the Ramones as the inspiration for “Gelt Melts,” and The Who for “Jewish Girls (at the Matzoh Ball),” about singles’ events. The rest of the album reveals shades of the Kinks, Elvis Costello and other acts whose music makes you think on your feet. As good as any alt-rock on the radio. Hear here.

5. Craig Taubman:  Hanukkah Lounge
Taubman is a one-man Jewish music factory. In addition to his own albums, he has compiled the works of dozens of other Jewish musicians in themed “Celebration” anthologies. This CD is part of yet another series of Jewish-holiday albums, but this time it’s all electronica and chill. Great for unwinding during the frenetic holiday season, or as background to a cocktail party. Hear here.

6. Jon Simon:  Hanukkah and All That Jazz
For a dinner party, though, try these piano jazz versions of familiar Chanukah tunes, presented simply and elegantly. The only sound is Simon’s graceful playing. There are also three originals the capture the warm flicker of the candles. Speaking of fire, it’s also perfect for sitting by the fireplace. Hear here.

7. Erran Baron Cohen:  Songs In The Key Of Hanukkah
Erran did the music for his brother Sacha’s movie Borat. This music is all over the map. Most of it uses the Balkan Beat Box “throw everything in the pot and set it to boil” recipe. Klezmer, hip-hop, acoustic folk, Timberlake-esque pop, they’re all here. Israel’s Idan Raichel, Ladino singer Yasmin Levy and rapper Y-Love stop by to show the range and history of Chanukah’s freedom message. Hear here.

8. Various Artists:  A Chanukah Feast
Do you like snark? Then you’ll like this irreverent CD. The Hip Hop Hoodios rap in English, Hebrew, Spanish, and Ladino; here they present a hip-hop version of a Ladino Chanukah standard. Another standout track is folkie Chuck Brodsky’s p.o.’d “On Christmas I Got Nothing.” The rest includes a heaping helping of experimental klezmer, and way more Jewish country music than you’d expect. Volume II is more of the same. Funds raised go to bring music education to poor kids. Hear here.

9. Various Artists:  Festival of Light
A nice variety. The breakout song here is a duet between Israeli superstar David Broza and American alt-rocker Peter Himmelman, “Lighting Up the World.” Marc Cohn stops walking in Memphis long enough to chime in with his version of “Rock of Ages.” Jane “Calling All Angels” Siberry is here, too, as is Don Byron, an African-American klezmer clarinetist. The collection is rounded out by the famous Klezmatics and the should-be-famous RebbeSoul (check out his Fringe of Blue album). Volume II is jazzier, with Dave Koz, Frank London, Wayne Horvitz, and Yiddish singer Chava Alberstein. Hear here.

10. Various Artists:  Chanukah Celebration
This one’s mostly folksy and laid-back. Mainstream acts like Barenaked Ladies contribute, and it’s also a great introduction to some of the best Jewish singers today, like Julie Silver, Rabbi Joe Black, Judy Frankel, and of course  Debbie Friedman. The Marc Cohen song and the Broza/Himmelman duet are here too… as are songs from the LeeVees and Woody Guthrie/Klezmatics albums, so if you are unsure if you want to get those whole albums, you can start with this one. Hear here.

So there you go. Now, no more complaining about how there’s no good Chanukah music!

I was in eighth grade limping around on crutches when my family took me to an Ida Crown Jewish Academy vs. Fasman Yeshiva High School basketball game. It was a packed house. Literally, my broken ankle was hanging over the court because there was nowhere to sit. The Ida Crown Aces varsity team ran out onto the court and the atmosphere was electrifying. I know it sounds weird that a high school game featuring religious Jews could be so exciting— but it was. And from that point on, I knew I wanted to attend Ida Crown Jewish Academy for high school.

When I got to Ida Crown the games were exactly like I envisioned them. There was heated competition with fans screaming and chanting. And we played our hearts out in every games. Emotions were always high. I remember the coach, Gary Peckler’s, locker room speeches and how we tried to ignore the other team during warm-ups, but were really sizing each other up. Fans would be passing out student papers that compared each player to his counter part. Throughout my years at Ida Crown we split with the Yeshiva. But each game came with a different feeling of either total demoralization or complete accomplishment. Those games usually decided the Metro Prep conference champion.

The games got so intense and so packed that the Yeshiva no longer plays its home games vs. Ida Crown at the school. Instead, they have started renting out a gym and changed their game from the Saturday night craziness to a calmer Wednesday night setting. This year they take on Ida Crown at Chicagoland Jewish High School.

In 2001 Chicagoland Jewish High School officially became the third Jewish high school with a basketball program and they quickly joined the Metro Prep. While CJHS is still a young team they do hold a few junior varsity wins. I remember going to a game and CJHS beat Ida Crown—that win meant a lot to the up and coming school. This year CJHS has left the Metro Prep and will play as an independent school. In 2007 CJHS also built a gorgeous new gym, a perfect setting for any high school basketball game.

For everyone out there in the Chicago Jewish world who has not gone and seen some of these games, I say go for it. The Yeshiva chants of “hit the floor” every time I touched the ball still rings in my ears. The excitement was unbelievable. Jewish pride is on the line with every free throw and every miscue (I mean it is Jewish basketball). Below is the rest of this year’s schedule. Also, Ida Crown and CJHS plan on attending an all Jewish High School basketball tournament in New York at Yeshiva University on March 11th-15th. 

ICJA vs. CJHS - Dec 16th
ICJA vs. Yeshiva - Jan 24th
ICJA @CJHS - Jan 30th
ICJA @ Yeshiva - Feb 6th @CJHS
CJHS vs. Yeshiva - Feb 21st
Metro Prep Tournament - Feb. 22nd
Red Sarachek Tournament - Mar 11th-15th

For more information about high school sports or anything else in the sports world please visit www.thegreatrabbino.com.

And Let Us Say…Amen.

As the holiday season is really all about food, I thought it would be funny if I attempted to cook a traditional Shabbat dinner for my boyfriend Mike and wrote a blog post making fun of my inevitable failure. Lucky for me (and for Mike), this isn’t a story of failure at all.

Let me back up a bit. I don’t cook. In fact, I’m actually quite phobic about cooking—touching raw meat, messing up my kitchen, not cooking things correctly, accidentally using expired ingredients, making people sick…you get the point. I usually prefer to leave the cooking to the experts, like chefs, or Lean Cuisine and Healthy Choice. I never really had the desire to cook—I figured my time could be better spent in other ways. Plus, I had managed to get by for 25 years making soups, sandwiches, TV dinners and pasta.

And then, I moved in with my boyfriend Mike.

For the purposes of this story, all you really need to know about Mike is that he loves to eat—particularly meat—and for a skinny guy, he eats a lot. He loves meat so much that he often salivates while watching commercials. He loves chicken so much that he actually dressed up in a full chicken suit this Halloween. The day I was going to cook dinner, he ran around the apartment all afternoon singing “today is the day of the Shabbos chicken!”…but I digress. He also loves to cook and experiment in the kitchen—a blessing for the half of me that loves to eat too, and a curse for the half of me that really doesn’t like having raw chicken out on my kitchen counter.

Since we moved in together in May, Mike has slowly but surely been showing me the ropes in the kitchen. I can now proudly say that I make a mean scrambled eggs, and despite our super-busy schedules, we take the time to prepare dinner together nearly every night. But despite my progress, I was still lacking the confidence to really be on my own in the kitchen. So, I gave myself this assignment—no backing out of this one. I knew the only way I was ever going to learn and conquer my culinary fears was to just get out there and do it.

I decided to make a traditional, kosher Shabbat dinner for two—no need to subject any of our friends to my cooking quite yet. In the week leading up to the Friday night of my big dinner, I nervously made lists of everything I would need to get at the store, and asked my coworkers silly questions I felt I should have known the answers to. By the time Friday came around, I felt a bit anxious, but ready. I found a recipe for lemon and sage roasted chicken online, borrowed an awesome and tasty recipe for potatoes from Cheryl (Oy! managing blogger) and Jane (Oy! blogger) shared her delicious and simple family recipe for apple cake.

Mike’s only job for the night was to make sure we didn’t get salmonella—I wanted to do this myself. I started with the cake, which was, as they say, easy as pie. Then I moved on to the potatoes, and just as my nerves were calming down, it was time to deal with the chicken. We had purchased a whole chicken that was already broken down into pieces, so all I had to do was rinse each piece and get it into the pan. I’ll admit that a small wave of nausea passed through me as I picked up the first bony, bloody breast, but I swallowed my fear and kept going.

Though our tiny one-bedroom apartment doesn’t have room for a kitchen table, I covered our coffee table with a table cloth and pulled out the Shabbat candles we bought at IKEA when we first moved in and had yet to use. We turned off the television, lit the candles and broke out the nice bottle of wine we had been saving for the right occasion.

While waiting for the chicken to finish cooking (the chicken recipe called for 25 minutes in the oven and actually took about an hour and a half), we drank wine, laughed and talked, and finally got around to putting our mezuzah up on the door post. It took me about four hours to prepare everything, and we didn’t get to eat until long after the sun went down, but we didn’t really mind. Everything came out more than edible and I was really proud of what I had accomplished.

We realized how nice it was to just slow down for one night, to take a break from law school and work and crowded bars and parties and just enjoy spending time with one another, and we made a decision that night to make time one Friday a month to cook Shabbat dinner for the two of us. Stay tuned, next month, I’m planning to tackle matzo ball soup, brisket and challah!

Want to help me learn to cook like a Jewish grandma? Email me your favorite simple recipes at Stefanie@oychicago.com. I’d love to try them out!

Oy!Chicago blogger Chai Wolfman gave birth to twin girls Violet Portia and Autumn Claire on Friday, December 11th at 10:30 p.m. and 10:32 p.m.  The identical twins both weighed in at 4 lbs., 1 oz. and are 18 and 17 inches long, respectively.

Congratulations to Chai and Mandi!!!

It is hard not to feel festive this time of year with all of the shining lights, decorations, and a general feeling of goodwill toward everyone. It is my favorite time of year. I love the brisk—chilly air and broody—moody sky that December brings. I also love Chanukah.

Chanukah is a celebration of oil—lighting it on fire and enjoying the glow and also of frying things in it. What is there not to love? For anyone who thinks that Chanukah is just a child’s holiday, I give you the following.

There is nothing more pleasing than sitting by the soft flickering flames of the chanukia and scarfing down plates of crispy, crunchy fried things. It is customary for Ashkenazi Jews to eat latkes on Chanukah, and who doesn’t like latkes? A properly constructed latke is nothing to trifle with—still, there is a whole world of frying going on out there and we Jews only got eight days to do it. Israelis make sufganiyot, or fried jelly doughnuts; Greek Jews make fritters called loukamades; and Sephardic Jews, originally from Spain and Portugal, make sweet or savory fritters called binuelos. When you think about, the fried possibilities are endless.

There is tempura with its potential for a crispy coating of just about anything; there are all sorts of fritters with batters, doughs and any manner of binding ingredients in an effort to make them… well, fry-able. There are also methods of frying, from pan frying and sautéing to the “fry daddy” of all, deep frying. Then there is the oil itself, really-the cause célèbre for the whole festival. You have your good ole stand-by like peanut oil, but with all the allergies these days you cannot really go that route anymore. You can always go neutral with canola oil, or vegetable oil. But why go neutral when can use a tres chic extra virgin olive oil or an Iron Chef-esque pumpkin seed oil? I hope you are seeing what I see with all of the possibilities of Chanukah. This holiday is the bomb!

I have not even mentioned the ingredients or should I say”fry-ables”? I like to start the holiday with my gourmet or high-end ingredients. I am, after all, a chef and author and I have a reputation to uphold. On the first days on Chanukah, I go with artichokes, heirloom squash, eggplant, fancy mushrooms and local apples. After a few days of pretending to be hoity-toity my frying gets gritty. Have you ever fried gelt? I have! Not bad as long as you remember to remove the foil. I have also gone down the deep-fried pickle, olive, candy bar and marshmallow road. I do not recommend the latter as it messes with the oil.

In short—Chanukah is an eight-day fry fest. Yes, there are lessons to be learned from the holiday and meaning to glean from the story of Chanukah. I, for one, will ponder all of that while crunching and munching on fried goodies. Have a Freylich Chanukah!

TORTELLI DI ZUCCA

These fried purses are filled with pumpkin, rice and cheese. The dough and filling can be made several days ahead of serving. Once the tortelli are assembled, they can be frozen for several months. Before serving, heat your oil to 360, remove the tortelli from the freezer, and fry to a golden brown. Have a Freylich Chanukah and happy frying!

For the pastry

2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
¼ cup olive oil
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 egg
½ cup ice water

1. Combine the flour, olive oil and salt in the food processor. Pulse several times until the mixture looks like cornmeal. Add the egg and water and process until the dough forms a ball. Remove the dough and knead for several minutes until it forms a smooth-elastic dough. Add a little four if the dough seems sticky.

For the filling

olive oil
4 leeks, white part only, minced
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 cup canned pumpkin puree
½ cup COOKED Arborio rice or other risotto rice
2 large eggs
1 cup parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper

1. Place a medium sauté pan over medium heat. Lightly coat the bottom of the pan with olive oil. Sweat the leeks until they are very soft and fragrant (about 15 minutes). Add the garlic and continue cooking for 5 more minutes until the garlic is soft. Add the pumpkin puree. Stir to combine. Transfer the mixture to a large bowl and allow to cool completely.

2. Add the rest of the ingredients and mix thoroughly.

Assemble the tortelli

2 cups extra virgin olive oil for frying
Sea salt and parmesan cheese for garnish

1. Using a pasta machine or on a large work surface, roll the dough until it is very thin. Cut the dough into a rectangle about 12 X 20 inches.

2. Scoop walnut-size pieces of filling and position them 1 ½ inches apart. Brush the dough around the filling with the egg mixture. Fold the dough over the filling and crimp with a fork for a decorative edge. Cut the tortelli using a pizza or pasta cutter. You should have 20 tortelli.

3. Heat at least 2 inches of extra virgin olive oil, to 360, in a deep saucepan. Fry the tortelli 3-4 at a time until they are golden brown and puffed (about 5 minutes. Drain on paper towels. Sprinkle with grated parmesan cheese and sea salt.

Ah, the Festival of Lights—the eight days of oil burning brightly in the newly purified Temple, thanks to the Maccabees and the thousands of Jews that stood against its oppressors. While we do say blessings and light candles as a reminder to the sacrifices of those before us, I say it’s about time we raise our glasses and say a toast! Lucky for us, this year the first night of Chanukah coincides with a Friday night—drink up people!

When most of us think of Chanukah, two major flavors come to mind: chocolate via the tin-wrapped edible coins that we hoard each December; and latkes with applesauce. But come on, who is going to drink a cocktail that tastes like latkes and applesauce? Definitely not this bartender! So I’ve decided to take an Israeli approach to the holiday celebration. And what do they enjoy over in the Promised Land?

Sufganiyot, of course! These delectable jelly-filled treats are found everywhere in Israel this time of year, so I designed a cocktail that I feel best represents the spirit of Chanukah and the wonderful tastes of jelly doughnuts. Most bartenders should be able to fix this up on your next night out, so don’t be shy and give it a try! (Careful of allergies! This cocktail contains dairy and nut components.)

The Sufganiyah
1 oz. SKYY Infusions Raspberry Vodka
1 oz. SKYY Infusions Grape Vodka
¾ oz. Chamboard
½ oz. simple syrup
1 oz. heavy cream
splash cranberry juice
squeeze lemon juice
powdered sugar
4-6 drops frangelico
pinch of nutmeg

Add ingredients to shaker half filled with ice. Shake vigorously and continuously for 1 minute, or until shaker is extremely cold. Rim cocktail glass with powdered sugar. Pour, float Frangelico on top, and garnish with pinch of nutmeg. L’Chaim, and Chag Sameach!

Owning a treadmill, belonging to a gym, even hiring a personal trainer does not guarantee that your skinny jeans, or any jeans, will fit perfectly.  But, the right fitness equipment can help. With all the crap being sold at 3 a.m., SPAM mail guaranteeing “Drastic Rapid Weight loss” (amongst other things), and magazine ads, it’s difficult to know what equipment is truly worth four installments of $19.95. Since my wife might be reading this article, I will not disclose the total amount of money I spent on fitness equipment this year, but let’s just say I tested out a lot of equipment. Here are my recommendations:

The TRX

If I was stranded on an Island and could only take one piece of fitness equipment, I would take the TRX. Fitness Anywhere, created a fitness gadget with two handles, two straps and a carabineer that you can place in a door, ceiling, around a tree, post… and complete a kick butt full body workout. Check out the video. The versatility of this product is amazing:

• Pushups
• Chin-ups
• Planks
• Squats
• Curls
• Presses… You name the exercise and this tool can help you do it.

Since the straps are easy to adjust, you can combine your cardio and weight training into one power packed workout that fits in a small backpack! If you want to buy one, order here. There are a ton of videos you can buy or even visit You Tube for free tips.

The Rope

Is running on a treadmill boring for you? Did the uncomfortable bikes turn you off from spinning? Maybe, your knees can’t handle running or jumping, but you still want to fit in some heart pounding cardio. Well, I have the toy for you! The ropes sold here are awesome! If you don’t have a large backyard, basement of gym, this might not be the best option. This product is really just a long heavy rope. This is not a weighted jump rope. Watch the video to see a few of the crazy movements you do with the rope.  My boot campers love this tool. If someone has a shoulder injury I limit the use, but otherwise I let clients go nuts. With shipping, a 40 foot rope can run you over $200. This is not a cheap toy but it’s cheaper than a treadmill and a lot of fun. I even have my three and five year old nephews play with it (supervised of course), so it’s a great way to exercise and involve the whole family.

The Valslide

Have you ever been on a slide board before? They are about five to seven feet long, you have to put booties on over your shoes and you slide from left to right like a speed skater. Many athletes use slide board workouts to recover from injuries. The Valslide works along a similar premise but it’s much cheaper and small. The gadget comes with two pads that you can put on your hands or your feet, and slide across the floor with them! You can do hundreds of different exercises with this small product. Here’s a product demo. My favorite exercises are:

• Chest flies (hands on Valside)
• Mountain climbers (feet on Valslide)
• Body pulls (feet on Valslide)
• Single leg lateral lunges (foot on one Valslide)

If you decide to buy a set, make sure it comes with a cover. The cover goes over each pad and helps you slide on wooden surfaces.

Extra Long Resistance Bands

The band man, Dave Schmitz, created 42” long rubber bands that give you an amazing workout that builds muscle, burns fat and makes you more athletic! These long bands can be tied to a door, tree, or even a friend! I tie the band around my client and then myself and let my client drag me. It sounds a bit old school torture device, but it’s so much fun! My clients love the bands. For around $100 you can buy a few bands and use door straps and handles and create an amazing workout that can actually increase your speed and agility level. Dave has a lot of great videos on YouTube.

I could probably bore you with several other pages of fitness goodies, but these are a few of my 2009 favorites. The moral of the story: depending on your budget and goals, there’s a tool for your house, gym or park only a few clicks away. If you need help buying equipment, shoot me a note. Happy Holidays from Fit with Krit!

I have an odd name. My mom wanted something unique that couldn't be nicknamed. She was probably none-too-pleased when my dad almost immediately started called me "Niecy Poo-Poo." My parents had a friend who was an intern in a hospital and had access to all the names of patients who had been admitted. My mom asked him to make a note of all the "original" names (read "weird") he came across. He made her a list. I have the list tucked away in some baby book of mine somewhere. I wish I could find it so I could share with you how much worse my name could have been. But needless to say, as a youngster, and as a young adult, I was not fond of my name.

There were a few problems with it. Firstly, "Annice the Beast" rolled happily off many a school bully's tongue. And as we got older, "Anus" was the cruder version that could bring red to my cheeks and a ringing in my ears. And it was embarrassing when one of my aunts would introduce me as "Annice my Niece" which always made people giggle. My best friend was "Jenny." and my other friends were Michele," "Sarah," "Shelly," "Allison," "Kathy," "Molly," "Emily," "Nicole"... nothing radical. Just good, normal names. (Apparently my parents felt being into organic foods, no sugar and limited TV watching before their time was not enough of a statement.)

So back to that list of names. Mine was on it. Or rather a version of it. It was spelled, "a-n-i-c-e". My Grandfather "Israel/Isadore/Izzy" took one look at the spelling and said, "You can't spell it like that! You need another 'n'. Otherwise, she'll be called "a nice." And so, an "n" was added, so everyone would call me Annice pronounced "Ann-niece." But honestly, the only one in my youth that got it right was my mother. My dad called me the poo-poo thing and most other people called me "Uh-niece." I didn't really care, but it set my mom off like crazy. Her name is "Renee" pronounced "Re-knee" but she gets "Renay" all the time. I think it brings up some issues for her.

The birth name of our daughter from Ethiopia was difficult. It didn't help that we got two different spellings and no crystal clear pronunciation. We thought we were pronouncing it correctly, until my Ethiopian friend intervened— it was too late. At least it was too late for my husband. He had the wrong pronunciation seared into the depths of his engineer mind and he couldn't change it. He was very upset by this because I was making an impassioned push in the direction of keeping our daughter's birth name. My reasoning was that children of adoption, no matter how loving, wonderful, fabulous and good-looking their adoptive family might be, are suffering a huge loss. And with international adoption, EVERYTHING changes— the smells, the foods, the language, the topography, the faces— and often, names. This was one loss we could avoid. Something that could stay the same.

There was tons of back and forth. My husband kept saying the same thing over and over. "I am her dad. I can't pronounce her name!" Good point. So after much back and forth, we decided to sit down with the boys and go through a long list of Ethiopian names. They glommed on to "Uniqua" which is the hippo character in the Backyardigans. And although I love, love, love! their opening theme song, we gave them a big fat, "NO!" Then we saw the name "Kiya" which means "mine" and everyone agreed— the name, the sentiment, it all fit.

My husband had a lamb bought by my parents stuffed in his suitcase with the name "Kiya" sewn in hot pink lettering on its chest. I had a softie light pink blanket in mine with a satin "K" on it. We arrived in Ethiopia with her name frequently on our lips. Phone calls home were peppered with her name. And then we met her. We watched as she was kissed and held by the nannies. Her name called lovingly. Her birth name over and over and over. I started to have terrible regret and doubt. This became cemented when we met with our adoption team privately, and I asked, "How do you change a child's name? How do you introduce a new name?" The case worker looked at me and said, "In Ethiopia, our names are very important to us." She then had everyone in the room go around and share the significance of their names. She continued. "I love my name. Do you all love your names?" Everyone in the room nodded. Oh boy.

We left that meeting and I was in tears. We HAD to keep her name. I tried steamrolling the husband. I told him how insensitive he was being. He could learn to pronounce her name. How would he like it if his name was suddenly changed?! He said we'd talk about it later that evening. But I was a mess. And when I’m a mess I can be, um, grumpy. There was much grumpiness I tell you.

That evening discussion stretched into three evenings. I kept apologizing to the cheery couple whose room shared a plywood wall with us. I was passionate and emotional and the husband was practical. Normally a trait of his I appreciate, but not in this case. I felt like I couldn't get him to understand. We were at a stand-off. This, in addition to all that was happening, was incredibly stressful. We needed help.

Help appeared innocently enough. The man accompanying all the families was on the bus waiting for everyone to board. I got on the bus and said, "I'm having a problem." This man is used to fielding all sorts of stuff. I was hoping he could guide us somehow. I explained the situation in way too much detail. He looked at me. He shrugged. He said,” So? call her..." and he uttered her name. A shortened version that we had overheard her nannies, the social workers and the cooks calling her. And the guy I was talking to! But it had never clicked until then. This name WAS her name! And so there it was.

I call her by both names. So do the boys. It's natural. Her birth certificate will have the shortened version to avoid mispronunciation— Fray. I like that we have the lamb and the blanket so our daughter can know the process we went through to get to where we did with her name. It's unique (but not Uniqua) and beautiful. And her. And for the record, if I had been a boy, my name would have been Seth.

Her full name (original birth name) was Frehiwot Tessema and we changed it to Fray Tessema. Frehiwot means seed of life and fray means seed. Tessema is the middle name, but was originally her last name. All children have their birth father's first name as a last name in Ethiopia.

Have you ever felt like a visitor in your life?  Or worse, a prisoner?  One who is walking around in a daze, viewing your life and actions through a haze, as if you’re watching yourself move and act in a dream.  That’s how I’ve felt recently, as if I’m stumbling through a maze and I’ll never find my way out.

Do you think it’s possible to come back home after a period of time and find it feels different than when you left?  Is it possible to move forward in a place you’ve been for most of your life?  I’m beginning to think that the only way to break out of this rut is to move on to a new place.  Changing scenery would force me to change and adapt to a new situation, and maybe that’s what I need.

As for the changing scenery here in Chicago, I’m actually looking forward to the massive amounts of snow we are bound to get this winter.  The beginning of winter signifies the end of construction, and I for one, will be sincerely glad.  However, thinking about construction and how well people in the business must be doing (I mean practically every other street around me in the suburbs is under construction right now) it sometimes makes me wonder whether I’ve gone into the right business.

My uncle works as an executive in construction and accounting, two very secure and essential businesses.  He recently gave me some advice about how to solve my job search problems: pick a very specific career and go to graduate school.  Then, once you finish, you’ll always be able to find work in that particular profession.  Although this advice makes a lot of sense, particularly in seeing how well it worked out for him, at this point in my life I’m not ready to commit to one specific career path.

A lot of my friends majored in Computer Science or were Pre-Law or Pre-Med.  They had very specific career paths, and now are either happily settled in a job or on their way to achieving their dream positions.  But what does a liberal arts degree really do for you?  I have been told that it makes you a well-rounded individual.  One who has a solid background in a lot of different subjects.  One who could branch out into many different careers.  The problem is that I don’t like settling on one thing.  I love being involved in a lot of random interests.  College was supposed to give me direction in life, right?  It seems I am surrounded by people with clearer purpose.

I came across a someecard that said, “Thanksgiving eve inebriation: because tomorrow your family is going to remind you that you suck at life.”  Although none of my family or friends would blatantly say something to make me feel this way, the holidays are an especially difficult time, and my continued unemployment makes me wonder if I do indeed suck at life.

I guess I’m going to have to wait for my Chanukah miracle.  Preferably eight days of job interviews.  Although as another someecard states, “Unfortunately, because of the recession, we’ll only be celebrating the Festival of Lights for four days this year.”  I think that’s more on par with my life right now—only half the luck.  Or maybe it’s that I don’t have a Get out of Jail Free card.  Until I secure one of those, I cannot pass Go into the land of employment. But who knows, if the candles can burn for eight days, maybe some gracious employer will let me out soon.

Jews are some of the most famous novelists, and Jews also are some of the most important people in the superhero-type comic-book world. So it’s no big surprise that Jews are some of the most famous, most important people in the genre that conflates the two: graphic novels. What’s surprising is that so many Jewish graphic novelists have focused on Jewish experiences for their subject matter.

So many, in fact, that essays on this topic have been collected into—what else?—a book, titled  Jews and the Graphic Novel  by David Gantz. There are many books about Jewish artists and subjects in superhero comics (see below), and one or two about individual Jewish graphic novelists. But Jews and the Graphic Novel seems to be the first book covering Jewish involvement in this genre as a whole.

Jews and the Graphic Novel starts at the same place where many discussions of “the graphic novel as art” start— with the work of Will Eisner, the Jewish man largely credited with creating the graphic novel altogether. His first major work, the 1978 A Contract With God, is a series of stories based on the life of Jews in the (in)famous Lower East Side tenements and their Heaven-on-Earth, the Borscht Belt. While it is not the first graphic novel, it is one of the first to have a basis in “real life” as opposed to a fantasy/sci-fi/superhero setting. Eisner’s other Jewish work includes stories of immigration, assimilation, anti-Semitism, and even a retelling of Oliver Twist from Fagin’s point of view. Eisner, who also created the character The Spirit, became so respected, his colleagues created the Eisner Award for achievement in graphic novels… and accolade he would later win himself! His last work was also Jewish in subject; The Plot traces the history of the pernicious forgeries known as “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.”

The next major milestone in Jewish graphic novel-ing has got to be Art Spiegelman’s  Maus  in 1986, which depicted Jews as mice, Nazis as cats, and Americans as dogs. Spiegelman’s landmark effort was listed as a bestseller in the New York Times’ list under fiction until he protested that all the facts and stories in the work were true, so they moved it to their non-fiction list. It may be the first book ever to make in both lists; in any case, it won the Pulitzer. More recently, Speigelman wrote In The Shadow of No Towers, a rumination on September 11.

Since Maus, there has been an explosion of graphic novels on Jewish themes. There are a few that cover the expected subjects, like the Torah, Chanukah and Purim stories. One brand-new standout is Book of Genesis by non-Jewish artist R. Crumb, who also wrote a graphic bio Kafka. Another startling work is the excruciatingly researched, starkly black-and-white  Megillat Esther  by J.T. Waldman.

Others, like Eisner’s work, continue to cover the anomie of urban life. The best of these includes the novels of Ben Katchor, like The Jew of New York, about the historical attempt at a Jewish utopia in the 1800s by a remarkable man with the appropos last name of Noah.

Aside from Maus, the most famous Jewish graphic novel must be one of the few made into a movie— Harvey Pekar’s  American Splendor . Pekar and his wife, Joyce Brabner, also wrote Our Cancer Year, and Miriam Engelberg also dealt with his topic in Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person. Another work about struggles with illness is Neil Kleid’s Migdal David, a memoir about an Orthodox boy and his developmentally disabled brother.

Still other graphic novels discuss more out-of-the way aspects of Jewish-American history, such as The Adventures of Rabbi Harvey: A Graphic Novel of Jewish Wisdom and Wit in the Wild West by Steve Sheinkin… The Golem’s Mighty Swing by James Sturm, about 1920s Jewish ballplayers… and Houdini: The Handcuff King, by Jason Lutes and Nick Bertozzi. Joe Kubert, whose novel Yossel is about the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, also wrote Jew Gangster; Neil Kleid and Jake Allen’s Brownsville likewise covers the Jewish mob world.

Of course, there has been Jewish life outside of America and Europe. Joann Sfar’s  The Rabbi’s Cat  and Aryeh Mahr’s Shmuel Ha Nagid: a Tale of the Golden Age are set in the Sephardic world.

Marv Wolfman’s  Homeland  tells the official story of Zionism and the creation of the modern nation of Israel… while Jetlag and Pizzeria Kamikaze by Etgar Keret, Exit Wounds by Rutu Modan, and real gone girl by Miriam Libicki paint a more current and visceral portrait of Israeli life.

With both fierce honesty and brilliant imagination, Jewish artists are challenging—and changing— the perspectives their readers. Given the mountainous range of Jewish history and the underdog doggedness of Jewish artists, it’s no wonder that Jewish graphic novels are particularly… graphic.

SOURCES AND FURTHER READING:
A list of Jewish-themed graphic novels, some of which are not mentioned above, can be found here; the ones for adult readers start on the second page.

As mentioned, most of the books that touch on the Jewish relationship with graphic novels mostly focus on the superhero end of the spectrum. Two exceptions, which give graphic novels more time, are Charles Hatfield’s Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature and Arie Kaplan’s Masters of the Comic Book Universe Revealed!, which includes interviews with Eisner and Spiegelman along with other Jewish artists.

During my pregnancy, despite not knowing whether we were having a boy or a girl by any scientific means, I always knew that there was a boy in there.  And because I just ”knew” the baby was a boy, I started planning his bris months before he was born.

By “planning his bris,” I mean I chose a location, figured out the menu, thought about what I’d wear, thought about what he’d wear and put together an invite list.  I daydreamed about showing him off to family and friends for the first time.  I emailed a few mohels.

I considered the bris to be an essential Jewish rite of passage for my son, without really thinking about what would have to happen at the ceremony.  In my mind, it was just another Jewish party – lots of love and too much food.

After Ben was born, and we met with the mohel prior to the ceremony, reality struck.  He explained the process to us in detail, and my feelings slowly changed from “boy am I excited for my son to join the tribe” to “keep that evil man and his knife away from my baby.”  How could I subject this tiny little child, who I had protected for nine months in the womb, and for just days in the real world, to certain pain?

Friends and family tried to reassure me, telling me that Ben would be the zillionth Jewish baby to go through this ritual and come out ok, and that at least these days the procedure is done with sterile equipment and topical medication – imagine what babies in biblical times went through.

In spite of my dread, we went ahead with the ceremony.  On a sunny Friday morning, our closest friends and family gathered to welcome Ben to the tribe.  The hysteria that had been slowly building inside me since the day we met with the mohel was unleashed as I watched him place Ben in the circumstraint.  I didn’t watch the procedure, and instead focused on my dad, the Sandek, as he held a gauze strip soaked with sweet wine in Ben’s mouth to soothe him.

The rest of the ceremony went by in a haze.  Our rabbi gave Ben his Hebrew name, we read him a letter explaining where the name Benjamin Cooper came from, we sang a song, and then whisked Ben off to feed him and give him some alone time.

While I sat upstairs, dazed, our guests mingled and had brunch.  I couldn’t help but think it odd that my son had just gone through a minor surgical procedure, yet everyone moved on to the food and fun seemingly without much thought.  To everyone but the baby and his parents, it was indeed just another Jewish party.

It took me a good hour to pull myself together enough to go downstairs.  Ben required only a feeding, and promptly fell asleep.  Apparently his recovery was much smoother than mine.

While Ben slept in my arms, family and friends kvelled.  I had a bagel and cream cheese, hugged and kissed about a million people, and my feelings about the day slowly changed from nervous anxiety to relief and pride.  Ben had just joined the ranks of generations of Jews before him, and I finally joined his party.

Twas the night before Thanksgiving, when all through the house a creature was stirring, but it wasn’t a mouse. 

Trevor, the family yorkie, was playing in the yard, when a skunk strolled by and sprayed him real hard. 

Poor dog let out a big, “yelp” and took off in a flurry.  He rushed through the kitchen door in quite a hurry. 

“Oh Trevor, what’s that smell?”  I heard my mom yell.

“Quick Cheryl— move your caboose.  We need something to soak up the stench!”  “I know, I’ll get tomato juice.”

So I raced out the door and drove to the store mainly because I couldn’t stand the smell anymore.

Poor Trevor the only thing worse than a spray by a skunk is getting a good tomato juice dunk.

Have no fear, it basically worked.  And at least for now, Trevor was in the clear.

Trevor (not skunked) with Stef…happy puppy

Well, it was a Thanksgiving to remember and my very silly Oy! story preserves it forever.

Thanksgiving kicks off the season of family gatherings, holiday parties with friends and outings to the mall and Michigan Ave. for shopping, food and fun.  To borrow a quip from our Christmas-celebrating friends, “ ‘Tis the season for peace, love, and joy!”  But what about the over 10% of Americans on the unemployment roles or the estimated 10% more who are either underemployed or out of work for so long, they are no longer eligible to get help?  ‘Tis it really the season for them?

As a counselor at Jewish Vocational Service (JVS), I’m seeing clients that have been out of work for three months, six months, a year or even more.  For many of these clients, millions of Americans, and I’m certain many Oy! readers currently looking for work, December is bound to be a lot less peaceful, loving and joyful.  As unemployment runs out, bills pile up and family members express concern that they cannot keep up financial support for much longer, stress builds, hope dwindles and the unemployed and underemployed wonder if it’s worth trying at all.  However, it is at this critical juncture that job seekers do not throw in the towel on the job search.

Many people say that looking for employment is and should be a full time job.  There are so many things to do when looking for a job, that someone could easily spend 40-50 hours or more a week looking.  Do you know anyone that really spends that much time working on the job search?  You probably don’t, so give yourself permission to not feel guilty when you are not looking.  You still get to live your life, even if you are unemployed.  If you are worried about not getting enough done, pick three things you know you need to accomplish each day.  Try and finish those three tasks as early as possible.  Think about it—if you do three things a day for a week, that is 21 tasks completed.  Keep it up for month and you have a list of 90 items checked off.  Even some working people aren’t that productive with their time.

This is not an article about how to find a job.  There has already been a lot written on the subject.  It is also not a piece on how the unemployed and underemployed are victims of the economy or how unfair employer’s hiring practices can be.  This is about managing the most important part of the job search—the emotional side.

Three keys to keep it together through the holiday season and into the New Year.

1. Take care of yourself

You may have already heard this one, but what have you done for yourself lately?  Keep exercising.  This is the time to work out several times a week.  The Chicago Park District has workout facilities at many of their buildings and the membership is one of the cheapest out there.  No, they don’t have TV’s on the treadmill, but there is enough equipment to get the job done.

Make sure your diet is healthy, too.  Under-eating because of anxiety and over-eating because of stress is not going to help you look and feel good for your interviews.  Take time once a week to plan out your menu.  Fill yourself with fruits and vegetables and hold back on the comfort food.  Produce can be quite reasonable if you find your way to produce stores or farmers markets instead of the mainstream grocery stores.

Stay on a consistent sleep schedule.  If you find yourself submitting resumes at 3 a.m., remember, the people responsible for reading those resumes are not awake, so why are you?  Go to bed early, so you can be up in time to make those phone calls and return those e-mails when the working world is awake.  Are you too restless to sleep?  Up late, worrying about the job search?  Keep a notebook by the bed and try the following each night:  Write down 3-5 things for which you are grateful.  Next, create a to-do list including everything you want to get done the next day.  Last, write 3-5 things you did well that day—it is important that you find at least three things for which you can acknowledge yourself every single day.  Every victory, large or small is worth celebrating.

2. Keep in touch with friends and family

Keep in touch with everyone.  Employed people spend one-fourth or more of their time at work, so it’s easy to make our jobs define us.  Without a job, you may feel like you have no identity.  This is simply not true.  Your identity is much more rich and complex than something that can be summed up and posted on Career Builder.com.  Get past the shame of unemployment and reach out to those that care for you.  Just make a point to talk about other things besides your job situation or lack thereof.  Ask them about their day and their lives.

Chicago has many free or inexpensive options perfect for outings with friends.  There are recession specials at bars and restaurants, free festivals downtown and passes to Chicago museums at libraries, just to name a few.  You can also host a movie or game night.  Even your working friends will thank you for coming up with such a relaxed and cheap idea.  Most importantly, reach out to those who are also unemployed.  One job seeker recently landed a job from a friend he reached out to when they were both unemployed.  They kept in touch for support and occasionally shared leads or contacts. The friend ended up landing a job first.  Three months later, another position opened up and he was able to get his friend’s resume in front of the right people.  In addition to being new friends, they are now co-workers.

3. Volunteer

Volunteering is helpful for three reasons.  First, it is good for your health to just have somewhere to get up and go in the morning.  Second, it gives you something extra to put on your resume.  Interviewers will ask you, “What have you been doing since you got laid off?”  Third, it is a great way to make contacts.  One client that worked with me volunteered to be on the committee for a large nonprofit’s annual event.  When she showed up to the first meeting she happened to sit down next to the hiring manager for a job she had just found out about.  They talked, and she asked some questions about the job.  The manager was impressed with her background and told her to definitely apply.  Of course, she was called in for an interview.

I really believe that for most people, 80-90% of the job search is simply staying in the right mindset.  Almost anyone reading this piece has found a job before, probably several times.  We all know how to find a job.  I worked with a client this summer who complained often.  She would come to my office and say, “Nothing is working for me!  This isn’t fair!  Why have I not found a job?”  She seemed to spend more time complaining than taking my advice.  She often didn’t follow through on assignments I would give her.  After meeting several times, she was still complaining.  Finally I said to her, “Maybe you haven’t found a job because you are too negative.  If you keep putting out all this negative energy, nothing good is going to come back to you.”  She e-mailed me later to thank me for bringing it to her attention and to tell me she left that session feeling better than she had in a long time.  She rescheduled our next session because she had an interview (her first in several months).  We never got to have that session—she was offered the job!

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A note from your Oy! editors:  Thanks to JUF-funded agencies like JVS,  every eight hours an unemployed worker finds a job.  JVS relies on our generous donations to provide for job counselors like Andy.  Wanna help support organizations like JVS?  Give back .  Need help?   Make an appointment online , email   ParnossahWorks@jvschicago.org or visit the  JVS job search website .

The Christmas season seems a great time to debunk one of those nasty rumors: that Jewish people run the media. Jewish people run the media? What a load of garbage. If Jews really ran the media, do you really think we would have allowed “Soul Plane” to be made? Two hours of Snoop Dogg getting high on a plane might be funny to some, but to me it’s a serious issue, and should be treated as such. That said, anyone with Snoop’s phone number is encouraged to contact me immediately.

Indeed, one may look no further than the annual holiday season to fully comprehend that the idea of Jews running the media is as big of a joke as the Bears having an effective offensive line. Or defensive line. Or running back. Or a chance to make the playoffs. Or a coach who knows what in God’s name he’s doing. Is it Cub’s season yet?

If Jews really ran the media, the holiday season would have an entirely different vibe, and Hanukkah wouldn’t take such a subjugate position to Christmas. Last I checked, there was never a very special Hanukkah episode of “The Facts Of Life”, “Mr. Belvedere”, or “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air”. To my knowledge, there’s currently no annual airing of, “Happy Hanukkah, Charlie Brown!” on CBS. (Though, if there were, couldn’t you just see Snoopy and Woodstock doing their happy dance to a jazzy, piano version of “The Dreidel Song”? I sure can. You know, maybe hanging out with Snoop isn’t such a good idea.) And for all of the holiday music floating around out there, the only popular Hanukkah songs tend to be the exact same novelty tunes year after year by folks like Adam Sandler or, even worse, those cloying, cutesy Barenaked Ladies. When Jewish supergroup Guster recorded a holiday song a few years back, it was called called ‘Donde Esta Santa Claus”. Worse, Bob Dylan, whose real name is Robert Zimmerman, and who likely wrestled with whether or not to attend dental school back in the early 1960’s, just released a Christmas album. Even the Black Eyed Peas shout “Mazel Tov” in their latest hit, but not Mr. Dylan. Then again, Dylan’s cover of “My Humps” is pretty killer.

When Lite FM starts their all-Christmas music marathon on July 5th, you never hear any Hanukkah songs. And no TV show worth its’ Kosher salt dares to air a Hanukkah episode. This is no different in film or theater, either. Chevy Chase never made a movie called “National Lampoon’s Hanukkah Vacation,” Reese Witherspoon and Vince Vaughn didn’t make a movie that 16 people saw (all of whom were on an international flight at the time) called “Four Hanukkahs,” and little orphan Annie didn’t give a damn about FDR’s New Deal for Hanukkah in “Annie.” (For those of you keeping score at home, yes; I did just refer to both the Bears’ offensive line and an obscure song from “Annie” in the same blog. I’m a little bit proud and a whole lot ashamed.)

But you know what? Christmas fever doesn’t bother me. In fact, despite being 100% Jewish, I am, and always have been, a Christmas-Loving Jew. Perhaps it’s the inordinate number of Catholic women I’ve dated, or my strange and insatiable desire for those egg shaped Reeses Peanut Butter Cups only available during Easter (trust me – they somehow taste better than Reeses’ traditional variation). Whatever the reason, I’ve long gravitated towards Christmas as a cheerful, non-religious addendum of joy and festive times; not to mention a legitimate excuse to get drunk a lot in December.  And it’s not too late for you to join the bandwagon! By all means, continue to spend your eight nights eating latkes, lighting menorahs, and spinning dreidels with family. But don’t feel too guilty the next time you’re at Walgreens and start singing along to the dogs barking “Jingle Bells,” Nat King Cole’s homage to chestnuts roasting, or Paul McCartney simply having a “Wonderful Christmastime.”

Just keep in mind that if we Jews really ran the media, there’d be none of those catchy Christmas ditties to sing along to. Frosty the Snowman would have said “who cares about a little melting, I’m going to Boca for the winter.”  And Rudolph would have had a good plastic surgeon to correct his “nose issues” just in time for his little reindeer bar-mitzvah, destroying his entire mystique. So as much as I hate to crush the dreams of the “angry-at-everyone-who-doesn’t-look-like-them” FOX “News” types who scream and cry that Christmas is being taken away from them, it’s not our fault! Jews don’t run the media. We’re more like those BASF commercials from the 1980’s: we don’t make the media, we make the media better. So who can blame us if, every now and then, even we need a little Christmas?

Debbie Friedman, Salamone Rossi, Max Janowski, Ben Steinberg, Sheva, Louis Lewandowski … What do all these names have in common? They all have made a remarkable impact on the music of the synagogue. As a Reform cantor, I have always been most drawn to Judaism by its rich heritage of music, and find that many of my congregants share the same strong connection. Musical tastes may vary all across the board, but it is undeniable that it is often music connecting people to moments of prayer, meditation and majesty.

What is important about the six composers I initially named is that they are all a sign of their times. Whether a composer like Rossi of the Italian Renaissance, Chicago's own Max Janowski, or the renowned folk singer-songwriter Debbie Friedman, all of these musicians were and are composing music that reflects the music heard in the secular society of their days. This fact shows that people have continually wanted to have a musical connection to Jewish tradition that is often modern and familiar, and that there is much room for musical change and growth in Judaism. Rossi's music reflected the Italian madrigal style of his day, Janowski's reflects the high art of turn of the century classical composition to the likes of Puccini, and Friedman's music mirrors the simple folk styles of the sixties and seventies. And, while many composers specifically wrote for the synagogue, other music that began for secular use has also made its way into the synagogue. Israeli Rock band Sheva's "Od Yavo Shalom Aleinu" is a perfect example of a song that asks for peace between Jews and Muslims, originating on Israeli radio, and now finding a commonplace first in Jewish summer camps and then in many synagogues. It is even printed in the collection of songs in the back of the Reform siddur, Mishkan Tefillah.

Some music never loses its resonance. There is hardly a synagogue in Chicago which does not incorporate melodies of composer Max Janowski in its High Holy Day services and throughout the year. Janowski was a staple in the local Jewish music scene throughout the sixties and seventies, working in a handful of synagogues, and as the resident music director at KAM Isaiah Israel in Hyde Park for over 50 years. Most would agree with me that a High Holidays without his "Avinu Malkeinu" would be greatly lacking. Although Janowski died in 1991, his spirit is still very much alive, and I often hear vivid tales of his persona from my choir members who sang under his direction.

At the same time today, we have been given a great opportunity. This is the chance to mix up the music we use, and I do this every moment I can. There is such a treasure of music to choose from, with little reason to let any of the great pieces of yesterday go to waste. This also includes not only mixing music of different eras, but also of different cultural backgrounds. How great is it that we can incorporate music in Yiddish and Ladino into our services, next to our standard Hebrew selections, and creative English interpretations?

I take great honor in being a keeper of the great and elaborate musical tradition we have as Jews and Jewish Americans (and furthermore, as Chicagoans!).

Cantor David Reinwald will be joined by Cantor David Serkin-Poole this Sunday, December 6th at 4 pm at Temple Anshe Sholom in Olympia Fields for a wonderful afternoon of cantorial and Jewish music benefiting student scholarships for camp and Israel trips. Call 708-748-6010 for more info. Tickets also available at the door.

In his new book  Eating Animals , Jonathan Safran Foer gives the following advice about having a Thanksgiving holiday that is truly reflective of one’s appreciation for health, happiness and loved ones.  His advice:  DON’T SERVE TURKEY! 

But, wait! I love eating turkey!!  It is so delicious, so juicy and so succulent.  Each bite of that soft and tender turkey meat is pure heaven!  Add to it stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy and some cranberry sauce, and what on God’s earth could be better?!!!

Do I feel guilty about eating turkeys?  Mostly, no.  First of all turkeys don’t really look like real birds when you buy them at the supermarket.  How many birds have you seen walking around with a big open cavity to pack with stuffing?  None, I’m sure.  So— the turkey I am about to eat, is not, nor was it ever a real bird, right? By the way, have you ever had to reach your hand into the turkey’s rear-end to clean out all the guts?  I have, and it is disgusting!!  (Where they get all those guts and stuff them to make it seem like what are you cooking was once a living creature, I don’t know.)

Real life turkeys, as opposed to store-bought ones, are cute.  They have cute little gobbles.  They make adorable gobbling noises and they have a special way of waddling around.  Not everyone, however, thinks they’re cute.  When I lived on a kibbutz in Israel, my friend Marc got stuck working the turkey farm.  Each day after work he would tell me about how, “turkeys are the stupidest creatures on the planet.”  In a short time, Marc learned to hate turkeys and to feel GREAT about eating them.  “Turkeys,” he told me are, “so dumb that if they were outdoors and it started to rain, they would all lift up their beaks to the sky to collect rain water in their mouths—causing them to drown instantly and die.”  Once he told me that he got so mad at a turkey that he “punted it like a football.”

Jonathan Safran Foer would not have appreciated my “turkey-punting” friend.  He feels bad for turkeys—especially the 45 million, “unhealthy, unhappy, unloved turkeys” that find their way to our Thanksgiving tables.  As he describes in his book:

“Today’s turkeys are natural insectivores fed a grossly unnatural diet, which can include “meat, sawdust, leather tannery by-products,” and other things whose mention, while widely documented, would probably push your belief too far. Given their vulnerability to disease, turkeys are perhaps the worst fit of any animal for the factory model.  So they are given more antibiotics than any other farmed animal.  Which encourages antibiotic resistance. Which makes these indispensable drugs less effective for humans.  In a perfectly direct way, the turkeys on our tables are making it harder to cure human illness.”

Now, I ask you this—why did he have to go and say all that?  Is Jonathan Safran Foer trying to ruin our Thanksgivings?  I mean, isn’t life is so much more pleasurable when one simply didn’t think about such things?   Can’t we just enjoy our food without thinking about where it comes from?  Why should we care about factory farming which represents 99% of meat sold at supermarkets and restaurants and which carries with it the realities of unspeakable cruelties inflicted upon animals, unfair and unsafe working conditions, and terrible environmental and health problems?  Why should this be our concern?  (And why can’t we think about it AFTER Thanksgiving?)

Interestingly this discussion has already helped me to blunder into arguments with friends I care deeply about.  Apparently the food we eat and the ethics surrounding it are deeply personal and charged issues!  People don’t want to be told what to eat and what not to eat.  Many people would rather not think about it, and simply enjoy their meal.  (If that is you, please stop reading this, so you will still talk with me later.)

For me, however, as a human being who wants to do the right thing in this matter, I can no longer close my eyes to the issue.  As a Jew, this issue is especially relevant, as our tradition, and more specifically God, has always had something to say about the importance of our food choices.  What we eat matters.  So, while I love animals AND I love eating meat, I need to keep thinking about this.  I am not sure what will ultimately end up on my table this Thanksgiving, whether it will be juicy, succulent turkey or not quite as good, ToFurky, but from this point forward, thanks in part to Jonathan Safran Foer, I will consider the food I eat with a new level of mindfulness and a special consideration for the suffering of other creatures.

In the meantime, here are 10 questions for which I am still struggling. I wonder what you think about each.

1. With all of the terrible things happening to humans in the world is this a worthy cause to devote our energy and concern?

2. With so many food options at the supermarket and with each based on different priorities such as organic, hormone-free, free range, cage-free-grass-fed; cholesterol free, local or imported, and fair-trade food, how does one make the best choices about what is the best food that is ethically, spiritually sound and healthy?

3. Since factory farming represents 99% of the meat produced in the country and since it enables many low-income people to eat and not starve, is it reasonable to hope for the end of such practices?  Is it possible for the farm factory to improve?

4. What about all the cheap but unhealthy and fattening processed foods that are contributing to epidemic health problems?

5. Though I personally only eat kosher meat, does having a kosher stamp mean that the food I eat has meet high ethical standards?  (Apparently—not)

6. If I were to only shop at Whole Foods, could I wipe my conscience clean of the issue?  Does this solve the problems?

7. While I applaud the efforts of Rabbi Eric Yoffie  President of the Union for Reform Judaism who chose as his annual Shabbat Sermon to talk about the ethics of eating, as well as the Jewish Council on Urban Affairs who protested the conditions at Agriprocessors.  And while I am especially impressed by the Conservative Movement’s  Hechsher Tzedek program, I wonder if these directions go FAR ENOUGH to really challenge the system of factory farmed animals.

8. As a compassionate Jew who loves animals and also loves to eat them, sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t make more sense for me to change my eating habits to support the larger organic, ethical meat companies which have a chance to make more of a national and global impact on the meat industry.  (Though I recognize that these products are very limited and expensive.)

9. Apparently being a vegetarian who eats eggs and milk does not mean one’s hands are clean.  There is also extreme cruelty to animals associated with the production of these products.  But being a vegan seems so far out.  The only reason I can imagine becoming a vegan is to score a date with Natalie Portman.

10. Lastly, doesn’t it seem that almost EVERYTHING we do in our modern world, even writing or reading this blog (which consumes energy and puts more carbon in the air) is destructive?  Being a living being on the planet means consumption and waste, death and destruction.  At what point does one say, this is way too much and just do the best you can?

Well, however you celebrate Thanksgiving this year, and whatever you choose to eat… May this holiday be for you one filled with joy, gratitude and the love of family and friends.  Happy Thanksgiving!!

On Thanksgiving Day, before the turkey has even hit the table, I will probably have consumed six glasses of wine, wondering how the hell I will not only make it through the day, but an entire weekend with the in-laws without any mother-in-law (MIL) drama.

Sound familiar?

I know that I’m just one of the 99.8% of women that have MIL drama.  Remember Monster-in-law where Jane Fonda’s character, Viola, manipulates and terrorizes her soon-to-be daughter -in-law?  I WISH my MIL was that easy!

Ok, ok, I’m exaggerating.  In all fairness, my MIL is really nothing like Viola.  But she has reduced me to tears more than once.  Like when my husband and I were planning our wedding and she pushed for ours to be a backyard barbeque affair in order to make a statement about how she thinks Jewish weddings have become—and I quote—“too ostentatious”.

To clarify: this was not a cute little “outdoor wedding” idea.  This was a Frank Hill, don ‘ur BBQ apron, get out the fiddle and fire up the grill, heee haaw we gonna have us a hoo down—kind of BBQ.

The first Thanksgiving I spent with my MIL was especially dreadful–she spent the ENTIRE day giving me the silent treatment because she thought I wanted to spend all her unborn grandchildren’s inheritance on throwing an elaborate wedding.  That Thanksgiving I learned a valuable lesson:  it is far, far, far better to be judged for a perceived alcohol problem–drowning your ire in wine—than it is to tell your future mother-in-law where she can stick the BBQ fork.

But, I am happy to report that despite its rocky start, I have been able to forge a good relationship with my MIL.  (And we did wind up with a respectable wedding that was far from showy.)  It took time, tears, and many, many, many conversations to get to arrive at the place we are now: two women with different views of the world but have learned to respect each other’s boundaries and views.   And when we do conflict, we both try to understand—if not agree with—each other’s viewpoint.

It helps that we genuinely wanted to have a good relationship.  That is key– we didn’t want to become a negative stereotype of women involved in some sort of clichéd power-struggle for the son/husband’s love and attention.  And it also helps that I produced the first—and only grandchild.  But what really helped is that my husband has always had my back and has stood up to his mother when it was necessary.  I have friends whose would never dare to confront Mommy—it’s an ugly position to be in and I don’t think you can have a decent MIL relationship without it.

That’s not to say that we don’t sometimes still sulk or clash over things said or done.  It’s a relationship that needs constant tending to, and I am very careful about what I say, avoiding potential conversational landmines that could cause drama.  And, yes, sometimes I can’t help but step right on one and later regretted it.

But no matter how tense things become with my MIL at times, I take some sick and twisted comfort that my MIL stories pale in comparison to some of my friend’s stores—friends who will undoubtedly call me on Thanksgiving Day to vent their own rage at their MILs.  I’m pretty sure that I will seriously utter at least once to one of my friends: “Don’t do it—she’s not worth the jail time.”

One of my favorite MIL stories belongs to my friend Stephanie.  My stories pale in comparison to hers which include tales of her in-laws staying for weeks on end (yes, in her house) with no known departure date, and her MIL screaming the night before her wedding “I loved him first!”

But spending time with the family is one of the joys of the holidays- right?  HA!  For me, Thanksgiving is only the start of the season of family drama—next month, we head to my side of the family—a family so rife with dysfunction that it makes the Jackson family look like the happiest family on earth.

Oy. I’m going to need a lot of wine.

What is it with Jews and Costco?

Apparently there is a tenet of Jewish law, well-known to everyone but me, declaring that thou shalt love Costco and spend thy Sundays patrolling its aisles. Most Jews I know speak of visiting this shoppers’ paradise as if it were a pilgrimage to our ancient homeland. Now comes news that the mega-discount store will sell an illustrated edition of the Torah, specially published for Costco customers.

I know I shouldn’t be, but I am mortified by this evidence that Costco and the Jewish community have a mutual admiration society. If the retailer were not a discount store—or were, better yet, a bookseller—this relationship wouldn’t bother me in the least. However, ever-sensitive to the stereotype of Jews as acquisitive bargain-hunters, I am embarrassed by Jewish America’s love affair with Costco.

Full disclosure: I have shopped at Costco twice. Each time, I bounced like a pinball between boxes of junk food bigger than my head, became mesmerized by row after row of shiny electronics, and got lost in aisles stacked with cases of paper products more spacious than my first apartment. On this last trip, I went in with the intent of buying cases of chicken broth, Diet Coke and tomato paste, but found myself thinking that I really needed new throw pillows, could definitely use a set of perfectly-matching cookware, and that now was as good a time as any to buy Jenna a small refrigerator for college. While I was at it, why not buy one for the upstairs or the basement, or maybe both? And at these prices, how could I not afford to buy my husband a beautiful Movado watch?

Problem was, that watch still cost as much as my monthly mortgage. What’s more, I didn’t actually need new throw pillows or cookware. And there is no earthly reason why I should have a ‘fridge on every floor.

I have read accounts of new immigrants who were utterly overwhelmed by their first trip to a U.S. grocery store.  The sheer bounty proved too much for them to absorb. It was painful for them to see row after row of shelves bursting with food, when not so long ago they had battled starvation. One would think our collective memory of experiencing such profound want would instill respectful restraint rather than gleeful gluttony in our community at large.

Jewish values teach us to be content with what we have. We are encouraged to use our good fortune to give tzedekah rather than to amass more and more worldly goods. But after 30 minutes in Costco, I felt greedy. Which usually isn’t like me. I try to avoid people and places that bring out the worst in me, so I knew I needed to leave. As I weaved my way to the exit, I was nearly trampled by a stampede of patrons racing for free pizza samples. Which probably isn’t what they’re usually like, either. I call it the Costco syndrome.

It’s that time of the year again! It’s time for the malls to roll out the red carpets and cinnamon spice air fragrances, it’s time for the trees to be covered in pretty lights, it’s time to enjoy your favorite limited edition holiday beverages at Starbucks, and it’s time for us Jews to bitch about the miniscule amount of recognition paid to Hanukkah (while secretly enjoying the Christmas lights and music). It’s also that time of the year where people begin to stress about all of the gifts that must be purchased… Well, spin the dreidel and call me Hanukkah Harry because as a present to you, I plan on eliminating some of your holiday stress by providing you with eight unique and recession-friendly Hanukkah gift ideas!

For the health nut: This year, buy a bag of personalized granola for the health nut on your shopping list! At Mixmygranola.com, you can create the perfect mix for any “granola breath”. MixMyGranola lets you choose from five different flavors of granola, twenty different kinds of dried or dehydrated fruits, seventeen different kinds of nuts and seeds, twenty-four “extras” (such as chocolates and candy), and seventeen enhancers (such as flavors, protein powder, antioxidant powder, and even caffeine). You can add as many ingredient as you’d like to your granola, and MixMyGranola will create your perfect blend. You can name and personalize your granola, making it perfect for gift-giving, and MixMyGranola will ship your granola to the recipient in a personalized tube, complete with nutritional information for your specific blend. The granola starts at $4.99, and the cost goes up for each ingredient that you add. I made my own tube of granola containing 100% organic muesli, banana slices, organic dates, dried blueberries, roasted almonds, and organic acai powder, for $11.44. And it was delicious! Sign up for their email list and receive 10% off your order!

For the person who has everything/kid at heart/ME: Coolest. Gift. Ever. It’s the Executive Elite Marshmallow Blaster! Exclusive to Neiman Marcus, the Executive Elite Marshmallow Blaster “delivers a soft blow and tons of fun. This clever pump-action single shot device fires standard marshmallows up to 40 feet.” Sounds deliciously dangerous, if you ask me! But then again, who doesn’t like to dabble with danger? The Executive Elite Marshmallow Blaster sells for $55.00 at Neiman Marcus. Enter code 90WRAP for free gift wrap, and NMSHIP for free shipping.

For the velour sweat suit inclined friend: Juicy Couture brings something new to the table this holiday season! Treat your Juicy loving friend to something super practical, such as pink furry dog speakers that hook up to her iPod! The Scottie Plush iPod Speakers, made by Juicy Couture, play any princess’ favorite music through frighteningly fuzzy Scottie dog speakers. At just $68 for the set of speakers, you’ll have your favorite Juicy fanatic jumping for joy! Also at Neiman Marcus, this gift qualifies for free shipping and free wrapping (use same codes as above).

For the friend who’s always cold: Everyone knows someone like this! He’s the guy with his own heater at his desk, or the girl who wear Uggs in summer (don’t even get me started on that one…) Just think of how thoughtful your cold friend will think you are when you buy him/her the LAP MUG! This cleverly designed mug is slanted on both sides to fit perfectly in one’s lap on a cold winter day. Costing a mere $16.00, you could even throw in a packet of instant hot chocolate for an added surprise!

For the friend who does not keep kosher: Gratefulpalate has many wonderful offerings for your pork loving pals! Some of my favorites were the Bacon Toilet Paper ($9.95), the BLT Candle Set ($33.95), and the Bacon Air Freshener ($4.95). Your piggy pal with squeal with joy now that he or she can carry the smell of bacon wherever they go!

For the pet lover: We all know how difficult it can be to manage our schedules, especially at this time of the year… throw someone else (or an animal) into the mix and it’s easy to imagine how hectic life becomes! Problem solved: Fido’s Files Pet Organizer! Now your pet loving friend can keep track of his or her pet’s very important schedule, doctor’s appointments, shots, and play dates! Fido’s Files Pet Organizer sells for $20.00.

For the multi-tasker: Finally, the perfect gift for the friend who needs to be doing two things at once: The Potty Putter! “The Potty Putter golf game allows the avid golfer to practice his putting while in the restroom. The Potty Putter includes a 36"x 30" putting green made from mini-golf course carpeting, a plastic cup and a flag, a special mini-putter and two practice golf balls.” This clever gift also includes a “Do Not Disturb sign for uninterrupted practice”. The Potty Putter sells for just $22.95.

Gift for a “White Elephant”/Secret Santa: One word. SMENCILS! These ridiculously fun pencils come in flavors such as watermelon, cherry, grape, chocolate, and many other delicious flavors! Each Smencil comes in its own tube, and is made of recycled newspaper. Buy a 10 pack of Smencils at Target for one very lucky Secret Santa, or split the pack between several friends so you can share the joy of Smencils with everyone! A 10 pack of Smencils sells for $11.99.

I HO-HO-Hope this gift guide comes in handy as you search for gifts for your loved ones this holiday season!

In 2005 when Maccabi Tel Aviv beat the Toronto Raptors the world took notice of Israeli basketball. While it might have only been an exhibition game and meaningless to the Raptors, it was enormous for Maccabi Tel Aviv and Israel. At the time Maccabi Tel Aviv was led by Anthony Parker, who got noticed during that game and eventually signed with the Raptors. Although Parker was not Israeli, or even Jewish, his ability to take an Israeli team to the next level has changed the game in our homeland forever.

Parker and Maccabi Tel Aviv won back-to-back Euro-league titles in 2004 and 2005. And since then several well known professional and college players have been migrating to Israel to play ball and get exposure while playing at a high level for Maccabi Tel Aviv. The list includes NBA player Carlos Arroyo, Dee Brown (Illini), Marcus Fizer (Bulls). Other Israeli teams have benefited from this as well landing players such as Roger Mason Jr., Ira Newble, Mississippi State PF Mario Austin, Illini forward Brian Randle, and Gonzaga guard Jeremy Pargo.

The success of Maccabi Tel Aviv and the influx of former and future NBA players has made basketball a huge success in Israel. Young Israeli children are growing up watching these great athletes and wanting to play the game.

In the past, we have seen great Israeli basketball players like Tal Brody who played for Illinois and was drafted 13th by the Baltimore Bullets in 1965. But Brody decided to move to Israel and play for Maccabi Tel Aviv. In 1984 the Seattle Supersonics in the second round drafted Yotam Halperin. He also opted to play in Israel. Then in 1996 Connecticut great, Doron Sheffer, was drafted 36th by the Los Angeles Clippers, but he went back to Israel and retired suddenly when doctors found a cancerous tumor, ending his NBA career before it started. There have been other attempts to make the NBA by Israeli players, including USC’s David Bluthenthal, but he was unsuccessful in getting a contract.

This year, finally, Omri Casspi was drafted into the NBA and has begun playing for the Sacramento Kings. Casspi is truly an amazing story and provides the Kings with a fast pace enthusiastic style of basketball.

Casspi is not the only Jewish basketball player in the NBA. Jordan Farmar of Los Angeles Lakers joins him, along with coaches Larry Brown (Charlotte Bobcats) and Lawrence Frank (New Jersey Nets).

There are role models in the girl’s game as well. Israeli and former Maryland great Shay Doron was drafted into the WNBA, but left to go back to Israel. Two-time Olympian, NBA Hall of Famer, and former WBNA player and coach Nancy Lieberman might not be Israeli but she was born Jewish. Also, current WNBA All Star Sue Bird is half Jewish (on her father’s side).

The future looks bright for the Jewish game of basketball. There are several college players that are currently playing at major D1 Universities. Yaniv Simpson (Monmouth) and Nimord Tishman (Florida) are both Israelis who are making an impact on the collegiate level. Today the game is also influenced by Jewish college coaches Bruce Pearl (Tennessee), Josh Pastner (Memphis), and Seth Greenberg (Virginia Tech).

I expect the game of basketball to grow in Israel and the Jewish world. In the US, new resources and outlets are being provided for young Jewish basketball players. There is a new Jewish sports overnight camp opening up called 6 Points Sports Academy in North Carolina. There are new high school basketball tournaments for Jewish high schools sprouting up every year, most notably the Red Sarachek tournament at Yeshiva University which features 20 schools throughout the country. And the Maccabi games, both for young athletes and adults, continues to grow and make an impact.

Although Maccabi Tel Aviv has not beaten an NBA team since 2005 (they lost to both the Knicks and Clippers this year) I still believe the future looks bright for Jews and Israelis in the NBA. While baseball might be the traditional Jewish sport it looks like basketball will soon give it a run for its money. Maybe we will even get our Sandy Koufax and Hank Greenberg of the hardwood.

And Let Us Say…Amen.

For more information about Jewish basketball (college and pro) check out www.thegreatrabbino.com.

This is not an article listing all of the Jews involved with writing and acting in Star Wars, Star Trek, or any of the myriad science-fiction “worlds.” It is not an exhaustive history of Jewish science-fiction authors, from Hugo Gernsback through Isaac Asimov up to Neil Gaiman. And it is not about Jewish sci-fi superfans… people like, well, this.

It is about why such articles are so possible, even common. What is it about science fiction, as a genre, that draws so many Jewish acolytes? Why not Victorian fiction, or Cold-War spy novels, or Greek mythology?

In the spirit of science, I hereby put forth several theories. Remember, these are just theories, not facts, (you know, like the ones in display here), about why Jews are drawn to science fiction:

1. Sci-fi is new.
American Jews were shut out of many professions  when we first came to this country. So we excelled in other fields: the movies, stand-up comedy, comic books, and others. One of these was science fiction, which was not just a new genre… but about creating new worlds.

We were promised a new world when we came to the New World. Instead, we got more doors slammed in our faces. But we are writers by tradition, so it is no wonder we turned to imagining other “strange, new worlds,” to create “new life” that doesn’t know anything about us, and so cannot prejudge us. It’s a wide-open genre, with few claims staked by those evil alien interlopers, the DWEMs.

If you really want to see a strange world filled with strange creatures, just pop into a sci-fi convention. It’s come-as-you-wish-you-were.

2. Sci-fi is fantastical.
Planets and stars formed by a super-powerful being. A talking snake-creature. A boat that holds all of life. The destruction of a world by globe-encompassing floods. A tower that reaches to the heavens. Whatever the heck “nephilim” are. The Torah, especially the part we hear as children, is full of such otherworldly imagery.

Then we grow into a world full of amazing technologies. That let us talk in New York and be heard in New Mexico, or plop remote-control robots down on Mars, or make glow-in-the-dark bunnies. We naturally conflate the two, using the imaginations that were nurtured in us by our parents and teachers to envision even newer inventions, beings, and worlds.

3. Sci-fi is complex…
A recent article on Star Wars continuity refers to the task of tracking all the plotlines put forth in franchise’s the endless stream of movies, books, animations, comics, and video games as requiring “Talmudic charts and documents.”

When searching for an adjective to describe something as complex as a sci-fi universe, the author  unsurprisingly turned to a Jewish reference. We Jews have trained our brains over millennia for the keeping of large volumes of material from many sources neatly categorized and cross-referenced. (This also likely explains why there are so many Jewish baseball fans and Deadheads.)

Jane Austen wrote just five novels. Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories fit in one volume. No one plot thread winds through all of Ian Fleming’s James Bond adventures. It takes something the vastness of a space-time continuum to excite a brain used to dealing with the interconnectedness of the Mishna, Gemorra, and their orbiting hypertexts of commentary.

4. … and it’s debatable.
But it’s about more than the having of the information. It’s the arguing about it. The Talmud is an intellectual battlefield. Geniuses hurtle proofs and rebuttals from Babylonia to Bilbao, across centuries.

Enter any yeshiva today, and you’ll see nice, bright people yelling their heads off about how the other person can’t possibly be right, and here’s why. Just like in a sci-fi chatroom. Both are arenas where the heavyweight champ can be, in reality, a 98-pound weakling. But if your arguments are good and your proofs are provable, you can David their Goliath.

5. Sci-fi is sexy.
Unlike the other Abrahamic faiths, Judaism has never been prudish. We gave the world Dr. Sigmund, Dr. Ruth, and even Rabbi Shmuley. And while other genres are swathed in layers of Victorian modesty or girded in chainmail, sci-fi wears its spandex on its sleeve… and everywhere else.

This is a list of “The Top 50 Hottest Sci-Fi Girls.” Try to think of an equivalent— and equally long— list from another genre. Oh, and the other thing you will see if you go to a sci-fi convention is a lot of… well, just do a search for “Comic Con” in Google Images. But not at work.

6. Sci-fi is accepting.
Sci-fi imagines another Earth, a universe of other Earths.. Places where logic and reason have done away with prejudice and bigotry. It’s a place where differences are seen not as dangerous, but intriguing, even magnificent. Aliens land on Earth and are accepted. Earthlings show up on foreign worlds and are welcomed. In sci-fi’s ultimate alternate reality, the more of an outsider you are— and Jews are the ultimate outsiders— the more insider-y you become.

Science fiction is a realm where geeks are gods. Where your merit is measured in how much you know and your power in how largely you can imagine. It’s not the guilt-gluttony of Woody Allen and Philip Roth, the mothballed mythology of I.B. Singer or Saul Bellow, or the assimilation anxiety of Chaim Potok and Bernard Malamud. Sci-fi is a brave, truly new world… as infinite as, well, infinity itself.

So if you change channels by shooting your TV with your phaser remote, while having R2D2 pour you a Romulan ale, boldy go ahead. Let your geek flag fly, and your fellow Jews will likely salute you like a priest from the Holy Temple in ancient Jerusalem. Or a Vulcan… same diff.

Hello, all! Rather than talk about what’s hot and fresh in the mixology and cocktail world, I decided to take a step back and delve deeper into the hospitality industry’s ongoing struggle with gratuity from the perspective of a confessing bartender.

I don’t know how many of you are aware of this, but times are tough. The economy has suffered in more ways than many of us predicted and has affected many sectors of the business world, including the hospitality and restaurant industry. Because of the tough times, more and more people are becoming more cognizant of how they spend their hard-earned money. Everything, from gas to groceries to dining out, has been reevaluated and financially reallocated by the average American, and it shows. Believe me, I know.

A couple of weeks ago, I was browsing around Facebook, seeing what my friends are reading online these days, when I noticed something unusual. A few of my bartending cohorts were joining this Facebook group I had never seen before, affectionately titled “1 million servers strong against Oprah’s comments.” At first, I thought to myself, “Can this be true? Did Oprah really say these things?” Then I thought, “Was this assumption reaction a bit premature?” Probably. So I did a bit more research to confirm or deny these allegations towards one of America’s biggest benefactors and philanthropists. It’s not that I’m immediately jumping to her defense, I just find it hard to believe that someone that has stood for so much good and change would be telling people to flat out tip no more than 10% to their servers as a way to save money. So, snopes.com did the job for me.

Turns out,  my friends and colleagues were off base. But the discussion illuminated their feelings about  how terribly tipped most of them are, particularly at a time when people are pinching their pennies.

As a bartender and restaurant worker, I experience the direct repercussions of people’s opinions on this subject. Like everyone else not on management salary, I work to make money from the tips. I go out of my way to provide a stellar experience with a smile and a cheery attitude – no matter what mood you may be in . If you feel that your service was substandard, by all means the best way to make your point is to shorten your tip. Servers learn quickly that shorter tips usually mean poor service, but after a while they may stop trying to improve  if people continue to be universally stingy. To be honest, most of us expect around 15% as a standard for tipping, while we have more modest expectations with single orders of cocktails or non-alcoholic beverages.

If you think about it, tipping well does so many things that are right and good; rather than thinking of it as a bigger financial expense, try to see it as part of a chain reaction of positive energy and emotions that directly translate to increased performance, attitude and aptitude, which in turn directly affects service and the overall experience for both parties.

So next time you’re thinking of pulling out the calculator, just do what I do when I am out and about: take your total, move the decimal over one place, double the number, and add that additional gratuity if service was above average or stellar. Trust me, it goes a long way for your conscience and for your server’s bottom line.

I hope that the next time any of you venture out and enjoy a nice time out, just remember those that work hard to make your time enjoyable. I welcome any thoughts, comments, and experiences any of you may have had, good or bad.

L’Chaim!

This month I’m stepping outside my fitness expertise to discuss a wonderful yet painful process—buying a condo. By describing the buying and moving process I hope to entertain and offer some helpful insight.

My wife, Erika, and I purchased a wonderful place we like to call, “The Money Pit.” After a year of living in a one bedroom, six hundred square foot condo, we decided it was time to upgrade. As we searched, my criterion was: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, open kitchen, and located in a fun area of town. Erika’s wish list was a little longer than mine:

• One flight of stairs or elevator (I’m a trainer, the more stairs the more calories burned)
• One form of public transportation to work (I agree)
• Three beds-two baths
• Safe (obvious, but somehow I missed it)
• Double vanity in master bath (this has changed our life)
• Hardwood floors

Our real estate agent, Rusty, did a great job of carting us all around town. Despite Erika’s longer wish list, I think I was pickier. My expectations slightly exceeded my pocket book, but I saw the place for us, 1W. Rusty agreed with me, he made himself comfy on their couch and said, “This is the place I can see you guys living.” I wanted to make an offer for it right away. No other place we’d seen had spoken to me like this one, but the process was just beginning, we couldn’t have found the “one” already. A week or so later, while driving from one average condo to the next, I suggested we go back to 1W. Rusty took out his cell phone and dialed.

My dream house crush ended with one call, “So they’ve already accepted another offer? If anything changes, call me.” I felt like I had just been dumped by Heidi Klum, and we’d never even slept together.  Metaphors aside, I was pissed. I wanted to make an offer the moment we walked onto the cherry wood floors.

We soldiered on and found a new place, but not really. We negotiated for two days. I felt like I accepted a new job but we couldn’t agree on a salary. Finally we both caved and signed an agreement. Suddenly, I forgot about 1W and got excited. This place had two indoor parking spots, a large cooking area, and was in walking distance from a gym (always a trainer).

Before we hired a moving company, the deal fell through. The real estate agent said someone else had made an offer. Since the homeowners had not returned the contract, technically they could weasel out, and they did. We were back at step one!

The second round of searching turned me into a bitter mom, nothing was good enough. The commute was too far, the El was too close, one place smelled, one agent smelled and we had had enough. Then our luck turned around—1W was back on the market!

Without going back to 1W for a second look, we made an offer and agreed on a price. Things were starting to look up. Then we had the inspection and the soap opera continued. The inspector we hired had already inspected 1W a week ago. He did not want to come back, OMG! Not a good sign. To make a long story short (if it’s not too late), the inspector came back anyway. He told us, “Get this roof fixed, then move in.” And that’s exactly what we did.

Moving day actually wasn’t so bad for me. That might have had something to do with the fact that Erika did all the packing and dealing with the movers while I worked. Don’t think I’m a horrible husband. I moved our entire jam packed storage unit with the help of a friend (thanks, David).  I also would have helped packing more, but I spent one day and night at 1W, while we had some flooding issues. My dream house became a money pit, before we even moved in. Oh, the joys of adulthood.

Flooding, noise, and water damage are just some of the downsides of  of homeownership. Of course, there have been several up sides:

• We can both use the bathroom at the same time
• When someone snores lightly the other can go in another bedroom
• The bus stop, across the street, takes us a block from our office
• We actually have a kitchen big enough to start using fun wedding gifts

Also, we still have a lot of furniture to buy, so if you came here looking for fitness tips, hire me!

Andy, then and now

Remember Super Size Me—you know, the movie about the man who ate McDonald’s every day, three meals a day, for 30 days straight?  And after you saw it, you were sure to say “I’m never going to be able to eat at a fast food restaurant again!”  When it came out on DVD, I rented it.  I saw the bits on how this man’s fat levels skyrocketed.  I witnessed the scene where he eats a double quarter pounder and vomits.  I observed all the processed craziness that was ground up to make a chicken McNugget.  I finished the movie and all I could think about was, man I could really go for a Big Mac right now.  You see back then and still to this day, I’m addicted to food.

I could spend pages writing about what drove me to food addiction.  How my parents got divorced, how I didn’t fit in at school, but that doesn’t matter.  What I have come to realize is that I grew up in an environment where I felt out of control.  I felt deprived of love, warmth, and all things good.  Inside of me was a deep empty hole, so I spent 25 years stuffing that hole with food.

At my bar mitzvah I became a man and had put on the weight to back it up.  By age thirteen I weighed 150 pounds and my weight consumed my identity.  The nicknames I encouraged at school included “the Fat Guy” and “Big A.”  Once in class a girl asked me if I was wearing a bra because my chest was bigger than hers. Even though I had a growth spurt and actually thinned out some in high school I couldn’t tell the difference.  Every time I looked in the mirror I saw the same 13-year-old kid that got stuck blocking for the quarterback in neighborhood football games. 

In college, food made up for everything I was missing:  good grades, relationships, athletic talent, money.  Forget the freshman 15, I managed to put on a full freshman 50.  I had gained 100 pounds since my bar mitzvah. By my 21st birthday I weighed 250 pounds. I stopped weighing myself after that but was reminded constantly of my weight gain as I kept outgrowing my clothes.

At age 26 I peaked at around 300 pounds.  Around the same time I rented Super Size Me and went out for a Big Mac after the movie. 

My moment of reckoning came in July of 2005.  I applied for health insurance, and I was denied.  I was physically too huge a risk for the insurance company.  Then a friend of mine said something simple, but profound, “Andy we all have problems. You just have one everyone can see, so you can’t hide it.  The question is, what are you going to do about it?” 

So I did something about it.  I joined a gym, I joined Weight Watchers, I worked with a personal life coach and I hired a personal fitness trainer.  I started eating less and moving more.  Three years later I celebrated 100 pounds of weight loss and even kept going.  I made it to 180 pounds, just five pounds away from my ideal weight of 175.  I started my own coaching and consulting business and called it 100 Reasons to Live.  Every pound I lost gave me one more reason to continue to live a healthy and fulfilling life.  I blogged about my five keys to losing weight and feeling great.  I hosted a seminar to teach others how to live a healthy lifestyle: mind, body, and spirit.  It was called the 100 Reasons to Live charity event.

As great as all this sounds, there is still one problem.  I am still addicted to food.  It has been one year since the 100 Reasons charity event, and I’m 20 pounds heavier.  But I have made a new commitment to stop gaining and end my addiction to food.

When I reach 175 pounds I want to be able to say that I implemented simple changes each week to rebuild healthier habits. I will have kept the refrigerator stocked with healthier foods. I will have found a class at the gym that I could go to every week. I will have asked myself questions each day such as, “What would a 175 pound man who wants to be a lean, mean, athletic machine, order off of this menu?”  “Is this the choice for someone who truly loves himself, mind, body, and soul?”  “Why?  Why do I want to eat this right now, is it because my body needs nourishment or is it because I am trying to use food as a substitute for love?”
 
Come April I hope I get to say, “For the last six months I have nourished my body with food when it needed it.  When I didn’t need to fill myself with food, I found other ways to fill myself with the love I was missing all along.”    

28 weeks and 6 days down, many more to go

It has now been a week and five days since I have worn shoes, gone on a walk, or left the house. I am no longer allowed to do these things until I reach the critical week 32 of my pregnancy. Especially with twins, my doctor says I can’t be too careful. When I found out about being on light bed rest I had trouble telling my colleagues and friends without tearing up. My life was about to change for at least the next five weeks, if not until the babies are born. Their due date is not until January! In this first week I’ve noticed that bed rest isn’t so bad. Here’s the breakdown.

Pro: Sleeping longer because my only commute is from the bedroom to the dining room table where I set up my office space each morning.

Con: Little motivation to shower and change clothes because of said commute. Also, I could really use a haircut. My stylist will come to my house, but isn’t free until after Thanksgiving.

Pro: Making snacks and lunches at any point without having to plan in advance. This also saves money.

Con: Needing to have lots of groceries and planning for snacks and lunches over the weekend when Mandi goes to the store.

Pro: Working next to large southern exposed windows and enjoying the changing leaves and natural light until I have to turn on the light at 3:30pm. This is much improved to my office view of an alley and a parking garage.

Con: It is abundantly clear how the days are shortening and I cannot go outside to enjoy my favorite season. Our back porch offers some fresh air and the lovely scene of (of course) an alley.

Pro: Cuddling with kitties Mr. Pants and Cocoa Bean throughout the day while working at my laptop.

Con: Having to protect all food items and the computer cord from playful yet destructive and endlessly persistent cats. I do not move quickly enough for those two anymore.

Pro: Sweatpants and no bra. Enough said.

Con: Not being presentable for the Fedex guy or the nice neighbor who stops by to say hi.

Pro: Being able to eat lots of delicious food with no guilt. Anyone have a brisket they want to bring over?

Con: Not being able to cook anything that takes more time or effort than boiling some pasta. Relying on others is a learned skill that I’m still learning.

Overall, I feel blessed to have this time to relax and focus on growing two babies. I am so fortunate to be able to work from home and grateful for such supportive colleagues and friends who stop by to hang out. Thank you all!

I think the concept that best explains how I think about food is the notion of Cucina Povera. This Tuscan concept is one born out of humble and peasant ingredients both afforded in the region of Italy and grown locally. The phrase Cucina Povera means "poor kitchen." The idea is almost more of a technique and way of thinking rather than just a bare cupboard. Leftover bread becomes a thickener and method of stretching soup; yesterday’s pasta becomes today’s soup and so on. Cucina Povera is the way many of our grandparents functioned in their home kitchens and similar to the way many chefs work in professional kitchens.

In the kosher kitchen we only have so many ingredients to work with, both at home and professionally. Many ingredients that most chefs take for granted are not part of my daily repertoire due to kosher restrictions. I have a meat and pareve kitchen and cannot just add cream to a soup or sauce to thicken it. I have to work a bit harder and find other ways that fit into the kosher laws. I do not believe in using faux foods for substitutions and look to natural ingredients that are already kosher and in season. In the spirit of Cucina Povera I embrace my constraints, accept the materials I have to work with and move on. I always say that if a recipe cannot be made without completely mutilating it, then do not make it. I have never put soy crème brulees on my menus and never will. I also do not sell faux crab or mock sour cream. Real sour cream is amazing and who doesn’t love crème brulee? I know I do after a dairy or pareve meal. The artificial stuff doesn’t come close and I have too much respect for my ingredients, clients and family to ever serve ersatz food.

Kashrut is all about making choices—not getting around them with cheap imitations. Do as the Tuscans do and look at what is growing locally and in season. Make the most of it and Buon Appetito!

Here is a delicious seasonal recipe for a killer Tuscan pumpkin soup—enjoy!:

Italian Pumpkin Soup (Crema di Zucca)

There are as many variations of this soup as there are shapes of pasta in Italy. This festive, seasonal soup makes a great alternative to the more common butternut squash soup in a hollowed out pumpkin for a dramatic presentation. Add toasted pumpkin seeds (pepitas) for a crunchy garnish.

8-10 servings

7 cups plus 1 cup vegetable stock
1 ounce. dried Porcini mushrooms
1 7 pound pumpkin, about 5 cups peeled and diced pumpkin (look for Sugar Pumpkin) or 3 cups canned pumpkin puree
12 Cipollini onions, peeled and cut in quarters
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 medium head Savoy cabbage, very thinly sliced
½ cup heavy cream
Parmesan crisps-see below
½ Amaretti crumbs, (these Italian cookies can be found at most Whole Foods or gourmet stores)

1. Place one cup of vegetable stock in a small saucepan with the dried porcini mushrooms. Bring to simmer. Turn off the heat and set aside.
2. Brown the diced pumpkin if using in batches in a large sauté pan lightly coated with olive oil. Be sure to season each batch with salt and pepper. Transfer the browned pumpkin to a saucepan or stockpot.
3. Add the cipollini onions in the same sauté pan adding more olive oil if necessary. Brown the onions until they are caramelized and golden (about 5 minutes).
4. Add the stock, porcini mushrooms, soaking liquid and nutmeg to the slow cooker. Cover and simmer until the pumpkin is very soft (about 1 hour) or if using canned pumpkin, simmer for 30 minutes. Puree the pumpkin in batches adding more liquid if necessary.
5. Add the cabbage and the cream. Simmer for 30 minutes or until the cabbage is very soft and creamy. Adjust the seasoning. Garnish with parmesan crisps and amaretti crumbs and toasted pumpkin seeds right before serving.

Parmesan Crisps

These salty, nutty crisps can be baked several days ahead of serving and kept at room temperature in an airtight container.

8 crisps

3 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated
1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 300 degrees
2. Line a baking sheet with two sheets of of parchment paper. Place 2 tablespoons of grated cheese in mounds on the baking sheet. You should have 8 mounds.
3. Flatten each mound with the back of a spoon and sprinkle them with pepper.
4, Bake for 5-6 minutes until lightly golden. Allow the crisps to cool before handling.

Chef’s tip for holidays and everyday

The task of peeling pearl onions and shallots is enough to make anyone swear off of using these flavor-packed, gorgeous dish embellishments.
A simple chef trick is to blanch them in boiling water first and then their little “jackets” slide right off.

Bring a large pot of water to the boil. Place the onions, shallots or garlic in a heat proof colander or strainer. Place the strainer in the boiling water. Blanch the vegetables for 2-3 minutes.

Meanwhile, fill a large bowl with ice water (you want it large enough to accommodate the colander with the onions in it). Remove the colander from the boiling water and place it in the ice water. This process is called “shocking”. It stops the cooking process. Allow the onions to cool completely. Remove the onions from the water. Cut a small end from the tip off and the skin should slip right off.

I just came back from a trip down to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I took down 22 high school students with my organization, Jewish Student Union, with the intent of exploring opportunities for Jewish life on a college campus.

U of I also happens to be my alma mater. When I was there this past weekend, I was asked if anything had changed since I left the spacious grounds five years ago to transfer to an East Coast location at Rutgers University. Looking around at fraternity brothers casually tossing a football outside their territory, I drank in the calm but slightly eerie Pleasantville existence where everyone has nice, young legs and shuffles around nonchalantly in cozy, college branded apparel. No, I shook my head amused, not much has changed.  I realized then that though U of I hasn’t changed significantly, I certainly am not the same.

I enjoyed visiting U of I to remember nostalgically a critical transition period of my past. I enjoyed even more, however, the opportunity to feel so acutely the person I have become in the ever unfolding and challenging present.

One of the most external changes in my life in the past 10 years has been my style of dress. If you knew me at Highland Park High School, you would not be surprised to see me walking through the halls in my Dr. Seuss boxer shorts, socks pulled up to my knees, loud mismatched ensembles, tie dyed color robe, and blue face paint on any school spirit day. For our annual Charity Drive, I advertised for Dress Marcy Days, in which people paid me money to dress up in any type of clothing (appropriate enough) they handed me. In one instance, I dressed for an entire day in full Gumby apparel, mask included. I continued these antics in the first couple of years of my college career, sauntering around the Illini quad in assorted regalia, reveling in being alternative.

In hindsight, I believe I made these conscious clothing decisions for an assortment of reasons. I wanted to test my peers for their acceptance—would my friends support my decisions or pretend they didn’t know me? I wanted to test my own strength in defying social norms. I was searching for identity, and if nothing else, I could bank on being known as The Girl Who Dressed Up As Gumby. In a sense, I used my external appearance as a validation for my shakier hold on internal self worth.

Now, if you see me on Devon Avenue in Rogers Park weaving in between black hatters, do not look for boxer shorts. Certainly, I still have an affinity for colors, funk, and short hair cuts. But I also find something comforting on the days when I wear clothing that blends in with the toned down safe colors which often times surround me. This comfort arises from a strikingly similar objective, though diametrically opposed tactic, to my previous elaborate clothing decisions of my youth; I want others to look beyond my façade and see the depth within.

For me, the last seven years since high school have been a dramatic paradigm shift, into attempting to keep what is within me, within. Is this related to my spiritual journey since I left home? Absolutely. Jewish laws have quite a lot to say about ideas of self respect through utilizing the external as a way of housing the internal soul. Nowadays, I only wear skirts to my knees, shirts to my elbows and high necklines.

Has U of I changed in the five years since I had the privilege of paying in state public school tuition?

Not in a way that I care to find significant.

Have I changed? 

I feel in some ways that I am a revamped purified city, constantly breaking new ground to construct a stronger, more elaborate, intimate home within.

I am glad I no longer wear Dr. Seuss boxers.

I love who I was, but I love even more who I am becoming.

He’s cute, he’s funny, he brought us gems like “Dick in a Box” and “I’m on a boat” and… he’s Jewish!

Known for creating and starring in such comic and raunchy music videos as “Motherlover,” “Dick in a Box” and “Lazy Sunday,” Andy Samberg’s videos appear as SNL digital shorts and then rocket their way to YouTube fame.

In addition to seeing Samberg on SNL and on YouTube, you can see him live at the JUF’s Young Leadership Division’s (YLD) second annual Big Event on Sunday, Nov. 15.

The comedian’s videos have garnered several Emmy nominations and awards and broken records on YouTube. For instance, “Lazy  Sunday,” collaborated with SNL alum Chris Parnell, marked Samberg’s breakthrough performance on the sketch comedy show. Then, the video became an Internet phenomenon with more than five million hits on YouTube within a few days of the video airing on television.

A Berkeley native, Samberg recently starred opposite actors Paul Rudd and Jason Segal in the movie “I Love You, Man” about a groom’s search for bromance and a best man for his wedding. And, this fall, Samberg’s voice was showcased in the animated feature film “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.”

Samberg, alongside his comedy troupe Lonely Island partners Akiva Schaffer and Jorma Taccone, released their album “Incredibad” earlier this year, the first full-length album to reach the number one spot on iTunes. The comedian also recently hosted the 2009 MTV Movie Awards and started his fifth season on SNL this fall.

The second annual Big Event, held on Sunday, Nov. 15, at 6:00 pm at the Swissotel Chicago, will launch YLD’s 2010 Annual Campaign. Tickets, $75 per person, will include hors d’ Oeuvres, open bar, and dessert reception and after-party, and require a gift to the 2010 JUF Annual Campaign. The minimum requirement is a match or increase to your previous JUF gift. If you have not given to JUF in the past, you are required to make a gift. For more information, contact the YLD office at (312) 357-4880 or visit  www.yldchicago.org .

You hear the interviewer ask you this question and your mind turns blank.  All the well-rehearsed answers you’ve worked on disappear as visions fill your head.  Dreams of what life could be like in five years.  You’ll be rich, married, and successful at your job—and most certainly not job searching.  The endless cover letter writing, resume updating, phone and in-person interviews will have come to an end.  You’ll finally have established yourself in your field (or fields as in my case) and won’t have to go through the painful process of starting off your professional career.

This question can make your palms sweat and a lump form in your throat.  As you look at the interviewer, you feel fear.  Not the fear of impressing your future employer and making sure you’re selling yourself the best you can.  No, this is a different kind of fear, the fear of the unknown.  Where will you be in five years?  Will things be different?  The same?  Is it really possible to predict what you’ll want in the future?

It’s a difficult question for a recent grad to answer.  Often we will stumble inadvertently upon something we enjoy.  One position will lead to another, and we will end up in a place we could never have predicted.  There’s no certainty of what will happen, and most likely our dreams won’t come close to the reality.

Of course your interviewer does not want to hear that you hope in five years you’ll be able to go on that exotic vacation with your cute Jewish boyfriend soaking in the ocean breeze, drinking fruity cocktails, and relaxing without work on the mind.  They want to hear your commitment to their organization, how you’re going to work hard to be successful at your job and move up in the organization while making the company look good and be glad they decided to hire you.

But you need to answer this question for yourself.  So, to re-phrase the question and answer it for myself…

What do I want to have in 5 years?

1. To have a successful job that provides an income that will keep me comfortable and not always stressing about a budget
2. To have traveled more (particularly to Australia, New Zealand, and the parts of the UK and Europe I have not been to yet)
3. To be surrounded by loving friends and family
4. To be healthy and able to do all that I want to do
5. To be happy and not just content

These five goals are pretty basic, and I’m sure shared by most people.  These are five wishes I have for the next year, five years, ten, and so on.  But overall, the main thing I worry about in the future is being myself.  Now you’re probably thinking, what the heck does that mean?  Well, I want to make sure that through any job changes or detours on my career path I still retain who I am.  We all know that Americans overwork themselves.  In our minds, working longer means working harder which means working our way up the corporate ladder, and I’m really no different in thinking the same thing.  I’m very driven and competitive, and I often lose myself in my work.  I define myself by my successes and failures.

But, if we define ourselves by our jobs, we could lose sight of what makes us, us.  For example, when you’re at a party, do you go around introducing yourself as a twenty-something year old Jew who likes to write, drink coffee, and take long walks on the beach?  No, you say something more like, “Hi, my name is Deborah and I’m a writer.  I write for Oy!Chicago and…”  And what if you could no longer be a writer or a lawyer or a doctor?  Would you fall apart in some sort of existential crisis?  That’s why it’s important to me to connect to other Jews and keep up with my other interests.  Being Jewish and belonging to a synagogue provides a community that is there no matter what your occupation and it’s my hobbies and quirks that make me different from all the other people who will have the same job as me.

I may not know where my career path will lead me over the next five years, but I know one thing for sure—I’ll still be me.  As for what I will be doing, ask me again in five years.

This Sunday marked the end of daylight savings time, the first day of November, the first day after Halloween (a tough one for many of us), and… the first Christmas commercial.  Ugh.

There I was, curled up in bed hoping to enjoy a lazy Sunday of Food Network, football and grocery shopping, and lo and behold, the first commercial to interrupt Sandra’s Money Saving Meals was for Crayola’s new products – “the perfect gift this season”.  All I was trying to do was relax and learn to make Chicken Scaloppine, not start my Christmas shopping list.  I don’t even have a Christmas shopping list!

Being a Jew on Christmas can be quite the challenge – especially when the Christmas season seems to get longer and longer every year.  I remember the days when the commercials started on the day after Thanksgiving, Christmas lights didn’t twinkle until New Years was only about 35 days away, and the store decorations were debuted on Black Friday – the biggest shopping day of the year.

As a sophomore in high school, I had the incredibly cool opportunity to experience decorating for Christmas first-hand, and for a good cause.  My BBG chapter volunteered at Nordstrom on Thanksgiving night – late night – to hang all of the glamorous, glitter-coated decorations.

It was the ultimate fundraiser:  not only did the store donate our “salaries” to the chapter, but a dozen Jewish girls and their moms got a behind-the-scenes look into the back rooms of Nordstrom and had the chance to experience the time-honored tradition of decorating a Christmas tree.

Who knew that Nordstrom and every other retail establishment in the world (or at least our country) would gradually push up their timeline to the point that the seasonal aisle at Walgreens is crowded with leftover costumes and Christmas wreathes?

The irony is that for a card carrying super Jew (ok, minor exaggeration), I love Christmas.  Jelly doughnuts cannot compare to the hundreds of different kinds of decadent Christmas cookies.  The Dreidel Song doesn’t stand a chance to the dozens of beautiful Christmas carols that I’ve been singing since choir concerts began in the fifth grade.  Hell, I think I know more of the words to those songs than many of my Christian pals.  While Hanukkah reminds us of the miracles Jews faced long, long ago, you can’t wear the symbols of the season to an ugly sweater party… or can you?  Probably not, but maybe I’ll try it this year.

And of course, being Jewish doesn’t exclude me from falling into the traps of excessive materialism that is synonymous with the holiday season.  The parental pitch about “eight days of gifts” never relieved my Christmas morning envy, but it certainly got me and my tribe on board with the extreme gift giving that the end of the calendar year brings.

But whether we’re ready to join the holiday shopping mania or we just want to hide from the season’s festivities until the ball drops to ring in 2010, shouldn’t we be able to enjoy the month of November (or at least the first few weeks of November) without the incessant Christmas jingles from Crayola and every other “perfect gift” distributer?

Few things in Chicago these days are trendier than proclaiming, “I love the Blackhawks!” It doesn’t matter how much one knows about the game of hockey, either. Many Chicago sports fans who only think a Blue Line is how you get to O’Hare from the Loop in a mere three hours – and sometimes with a fun-filled underground fire! –  have jumped on the Blackhawks bandwagon. I’m a lifelong Chicago sports fan who must have missed the “you must love the Blackhawks” memo. Because while everyone else is pretending to know what the term “original six” means, or making comments like, “you know, that Jonathan Towes can really…um…skate!” my wintertime sports devotion remains where it’s always been. I’m a proud Chicago Bulls fan.

I’m lucky enough to have grown up with Michael Jordan. No, not playing college hoops at North Carolina. I can barely dribble, and own a jump shot that can most accurately be described as “challenged.” I was actually once asked to never again play basketball in my fraternity. (True story.) But Jordan’s rise coincided with a great time for me to be a sports fan. He became legendary when I was in middle school, and the Bulls won their six titles when I was in high school through just after I’d finished college. I must have watched three quarters of every Bulls game during those years. The memories of those titles, and the names of the players who helped bring the team such success remain indelible a stunning eleven years after the won their last championship. B.J. Armstrong, Horace Grant, John Paxson, Steve Kerr, Toni Kukoc, Ron Harper… The list goes on and on.

But for me, the list doesn’t end there. I never left the team, no matter how bad they were for the better part of a decade. Names like Dalibor Bagaric, Marcus Fizer, Ron Mercer, and Fred Hoiberg are also burned into my sports memory.  Never heard of these guys? Makes sense; because they were all BRUTAL. And perhaps you didn’t stick with the team once Pippen & Jackson left, and they became endlessly down and out.

Well, I did. Year after year. How many current Blackhawks fans can say that? Most alleged Blackhawks fans couldn’t name one player after the Belfour/Roenick/Chelios trio went their separate ways.  I don’t necessarily blame them for this, either. The Blackhawks were so off the radar in this town that a minor league team began outdrawing them on game nights. That’s a lot like your Sport and Social league softball team outdrawing the White Sox on a beautiful summer night. (On second thought, that’s probably happened. A lot. Usually when the Royals are in town.)

Over the last few years, while the Blackhawks were playing to a small fan base of angry season ticket holders and teenagers from Schaumburg who showed up a night too early for the Taylor Swift concert, the Bulls have been on the rise. Last year’s Bulls/Celtics playoff series, which the Bulls lost in seven games, is already mentioned as one of the most exciting playoff series of all time. (Seven overtimes in one series will do that.) And last year’s number one pick, a Chicago kid named Derrick Rose, has the potential to go down in Bulls history as the best player not named Michael Jordan. (This is not to be confused with former Bull Jalen Rose, who will go down in history as having made more money while a freshman at Michigan than he ever did in the NBA.)

I don’t mean to come across as anti-Blackhawks, which nowadays is held in a similar regard as working for ACORN. I support our city’s NHL franchise. I watched the Winter Classic at Wrigley Field last January, am thrilled they’re back on local television for the first time since the Kennedy/Nixon debates, and wanted to see them crush the Red Wings last spring as much as any good Chicago sports fan who loves watching all Detroit teams get their butts kicked. But I’m hopeful that, as another NBA season begins, all of this strange, overdone Blackhawks fever will subside just enough for Chicago fans to realize there’s another team who shares the United Center, and has actually won something in our lifetime, that shouldn’t be forgotten about. There’s no reason why Blackhawks fans and Bulls fans need be mutually exclusive. Tell you what: I’ll listen to you tell me why Patrick Kane is “so incredibly awesome,” but you have to put up with me comparing Joakim Noah to a young Dennis Rodman; and at least feign interest in the conversation. I know it might be hard to do, but it’s the least someone who’s been a hard-core Blackhawks superfan – for, what – a year and half? – can do.

Take a look at how some of your Oy!sters celebrated Halloween. Send your favorite Halloween pics to info@oychicago.com and we'll post them, too!

Patty Mayonnaise with Doug

Ben the dragon on his first Halloween

Jazz hands are back and scarier than ever

Tabasco sauce girl 

Lindsay’s first Halloween, Mommy's little angel

Chicken and chick-a-dee’s chicken shack waitress

Hellllloooo Liza 

Barbie and the rockers

One Night Stand, Crab(s), Alfalfa

A cheerleader, the Devil Wears Prada, a pirate, and 
Miss Piggy with swine flu out and about on Halloween

Mitch Albom has done it again. With his newest book, Have a Little Faith, he has beautifully penned a book that is insightful, touching, and highly memorable. This is the first non-fiction book Albom has written since his, now classic, Tuesdays with Morrie, notably one of my favorite books of all time. Like his earlier book, Have a Little Faith centers on a figure who Albom had a previous connection with in his life, who then plays a later role as a "teacher of life." In Have a Little Faith, that role is played by Rabbi Albert Lewis, Albom's childhood rabbi, and as he explains, the only rabbi he feels he has ever had, even though Mitch moved away from his hometown in New Jersey. 

This book only exists because Rabbi Lewis asked Albom to write and deliver his eulogy. Lewis is battling a tumor in his lung. Albom feels unready and unprepared for this task at the beginning of his story. He struggles with why he has been personally asked to take on this honor, and feels that he needs to get to know Rabbi Lewis better– he wants to know who he is as a basic human being, beyond his rabbinic persona. As the book takes shape, it becomes clearer that this persona is very much a craft of Albom's earlier memories, and that the rabbi is an amazingly down-to-earth man who has brilliant wisdom from his life experience to share. Mitch Albom's personal encounter with the rabbi proves that there is no age limit to arriving at a point of coming-of-age. We see him grow immensely as he takes on this task, and by the end of the book, it is clear that Albom has been incredibly transformed.

This book differs from Tuesdays with Morrie in that Albom has weaved together not only the rabbi's story, but also many of his own personal reflections on religion and his own upbringing, as well as another full story of a pastor he met in Detroit. The Pastor is Pastor Henry Covington, who has been reformed from a poor childhood and a mix up into a life of drugs and crime toward setting himself back on the right track. Covington is now helping others get their lives back on the road at a small church in Detroit, which barely is getting by. He leads the congregation in an old dilapidated church building often without heating and with a gigantic hole in their roof. Needless to say, Covington recognizes the need of his work, and little will stop him.

Pastor Covington and Rabbi Lewis never crossed paths, but the merging of these two stories introduces many common themes. I will admit that while reading this book, I thought there was going to be an actual intersection of the lives of these two clergy. The fact that there is no crossing of paths actually makes for a more interesting and deeper understanding of what Albom is trying to say in this book.

Have a Little Faith is one of the most refreshing reads I have had this year, and I believe this book will be cherished for many years to come by people of all faiths. I predict that many rabbis will be delivering sermons about this book. Albom is also donating ten percent of the book's profits back to Rabbi Lewis' and Pastor Covington's congregations as well as to his own charitable organization.

Memorial day for former Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. Throughout
the evening, in people stood next to the memorial placed over the
spot where he was slain. 2007 

I had a conversation with my coworkers, Gabe Axler and Shahar Gal, the other day who were preparing for Shorashim’s High School Excursion Day. They asked me to provide an American perspective in addition to an Israeli one at a session talking about “Where I was” the day Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated, November 4, 1995.

I looked at them and asked, how do you end a session like that? Why is Rabin’s assassination relevant to teenagers who were infants or toddlers when he was murdered?

One answer was that “It could happen again” and that they as students should be encouraged to protest against hate speech. We discussed current political controversies that feature President Barack Obama portrayed as a Nazi at town hall meetings.

So I asked again, “Well, what could they really do if someone was standing outside their school holding up ‘Obama is a Nazi’ sign?”

They suggested I facilitate a discussion about the dangers of hate rhetoric in a democratic society and what can be done to counter it.

One answer is that you hold a counter protest, which is the exact place where Rabin was killed. That clearly didn’t work. So what could have done before Rabin’s assassination to prevent it?

The “peace” camp couldn’t have stopped Rabin’s assassination. The only ones who could have stopped it were the people who were against the Oslo Accords or indifferent (all five of them) to it.

It is easy to speak out against hate speech when you are opposed to the haters. What’s harder is to stand up to those who you agree with or indifferent to who are escalating their rhetoric to where it devolves from critical to hateful.

Anyone at any of the rallies displaying effigies of Rabin as a Nazi or as a sniper target, who thought such images were vile, but still remained to protest, are just as guilty as the extremists who penned the posters.

Because part of being a responsible member of a democracy is knowing when to protest inappropriate protest within your own country, within your own religion, and within your own political framework.

Although Rabin is an example of rightist extremists running and ruining a protest, the same is true for the left. Uber leftists are just as guilty of hate speech and centrists are guilty as well of laughing it off instead of standing up to it. Why? It’s a lot easier to criticize and confront people we disagree with than those who share some of our values.

As we commemorate the Hebrew anniversary of his assassination today, 14 years later, what have we learned from Rabin’s assassination? Could it have been prevented? Could it happen again in Israel?

Answers to such questions are hyperbole. Truth is derived from the places we stand, the people with whom we associate, and our ability to stand up to our friends who are committing misdeeds with the same strength that we oppose our enemies.

It’s a typical Saturday night at Peabody’s.  Most of us are outback in the heated tent where Alex is DJ-ing.  Everyone is trying to dance to Gnarls Barkley “Crazy” within the confines of this tightly compact space.  Beer is splashing, guys and girls are flirting, and the mood is relaxed and fun.  It’s no different from any other Saturday night at Skidmore, eventually we’ll all meander over to T&L or maybe Gaffney’s and I’ll end the night with my veggie burrito in hand from Esperantos.

Except, it’s not the same night.  It’s still a Saturday, but someone else, actually three someone else’s appear to be DJ-ing in Alex’s spot.  They look as if they’ve been there forever, that this is perfectly natural, that they originated this whole operation—even though we know we did not so long ago.

The crowd is still there, tightly confined to the tent outback and the night is still relaxed and fun, only now everyone is dancing to Miley Cyrus “Party in the USA.”  I don’t recognize most of these people though they all look oddly familiar.  I can still pinpoint the lax girls (for you Midwesterners, lacrosse is an east coast thing)  from the business majors and it’s not hard to spot the hockey boys mercilessly hitting on every fake ID carrying freshman “fresh meat” girl in the bar.

It seems not much has changed in three years.  Same Peabody’s Saturday night scene.  Same bartender (who dated my friend Kristin the summer of junior year) working the bar at Gaffney’s.   Same crowded, narrow Caroline Street full of happy college students bouncing in and out of bars and socializing with friends.  Same Eseprantos (only bigger) still serving late night food to long lines of kids.  Ahhh, college on a Saturday night— just how I remember it.

There were many factors that led to my decision to attend Skidmore in upstate New York: a small liberal arts school, far from the Midwest, with a great community of students that I knew I’d fit right in to, first rate academic programs in my areas of interest, professors you could also call friends and a town, Saratoga Springs, that enhanced the college rather than a “college town,” that exists solely to support the students during the school year.

An idyllic, picture perfect Victorian city, Saratoga is situated at the foot of the Adirondacks and is equally known for its springs, horse racing, first class restaurants and shops and performing arts centers (it’s the summer home of the NYC ballet) as it is for Skidmore College.

Traver’s reunion

It’s hard to say when Saratoga is more popular, during the summer when more than 50,000 people flock to Saratoga to watch the horse races or in the fall months when the leaves have turned and the town is shades of yellow-gold, copper and red.  It just the kind of place you want to visit over and over again, which is why it’s not surprising that over the years two somewhat official alumni weekends mark the calendar when students return to their alma mater to enjoy all that ‘toga has to offer.

This year, my friends and I decided to miss out on the track crowds and check out the leaves, which meant for the first time since graduating we’d be going back while school was in session. I was a little nervous.  I turned 26 three days before we left and had been feeling a little old.  How was I going to handle hanging with the 22 year olds?  I loved my four years at Skidmore.  I was the annoying, perky girl in your classes who just enjoyed being in college. I didn’t want to feel like I didn’t belong somewhere I’d always belonged.  But I sucked it up and went anyway…

Breakfast at Beverly’s just like old times

We did the usual: breakfast at our favorite spots (home to many of our morning after gossip sessions), shopping on Broadway/main street (yes, we have one of those), touring campus (totally jealous of the new buildings), eating at all our favorite night and late night spots, and cheering our friends on in their alumni games and races.

I’ve already mentioned that we DID party with the new skiddies both Friday and Saturday night!   And, I stayed out later then I’ve stayed out in years.  We had an all around awesome weekend reminiscing and seeing old friends.  Now don’t get me wrong, it took the entire week and following weekend to recover.  I just can’t behave like that anymore (nor do I want to), but it’s a good feeling knowing I can still pretend for a weekend that I’m still in college.

Senior Year

It’s also nice to know that even though I’m getting older and definitely don’t live the college lifestyle anymore, Skidmore and Saratoga are still basically the same as I left them over three years ago.  I can still go back and feel like I belong.

Three years later at alumni weekend

In a scene from “A Serious Man,” Larry takes an urgent call in his lawyer's office. Photo Credit: Wilson Webb courtesy of Focus Features.

Have you seen the new Coen brother’s movie A Serious Man yet?  (If yes, PLEASE comment below and let me know what you think!)

For me, watching A Serious Man was like reading Portnoy’s Complaint for the first time.  I found it wickedly funny at times and just plain wicked at others.  Though I mostly liked it, I kept thinking how mortified I would be if anyone besides me were to learn of this story, given that it is so bleak and so unfavorable to the Jewish community and Judaism in general.  And at the risk of sounding hypersensitive here (which I admittedly am), I think the movie was a big old punch in our Jewish faces.

While the Coen brothers have in interviews tried to reassure the Jewish community that they are not “making fun of the Jews” and that their latest movie “is a very affectionate look at the Jewish community” and while they have noted (perhaps rightly) that “some Jews will take anything that isn’t flattering as an indication to think the whole community or ethnicity is flawed,” (myself included), it seems that the Coen brother’s view of what constitutes affection and mockery is different than my own.

Let me explain…

If there is one clear message to this movie, it is that if you are Jewish and you are experiencing tzuris, or troubles of any kind in your life, and if you hope to find help and answers within a Jewish context, then….FORGET ABOUT IT!   You will get no help whatsoever.  Nada, nill, zippo.  The Judaism of A Serious Man is devoid of serious answers to our questions and it suggests that looking for comfort in a Jewish context is absolutely futile.
 
Of course, the movie writers could have placed and plagued their protagonist, Larry Gopnik, within the context of any religious community and then set him up to fail, but as luck would have it, the Coen brothers, out of nostalgia and a claimed “affection” for the Jewish community of their hometown, placed the Job-like character in Midwestern 1967 Bagel-land.

And because the Coen brothers grew up Jewish, they happened to know the things to which we Jews might look toward to help us try to comprehend, avert, escape or cope with disasters and uncertainty.  They know our weaknesses and they seem to delight in poking holes in the infrastructure.

When Larry looks for help to his problems and seeks answers to his questions within a Jewish framework, everything that might have been Larry’s godsend only serves to further torment him.    In the movie, the Jewish family, our longtime stronghold of values and stability, is dysfunctional.  Jewish learning, our hope for answers, is boring as hell and irrelevant—as portrayed in Danny’s Hebrew class.  The Jewish heroes of the community, people like Sy Ableman, turn out to be shams whom the community nevertheless values for all the wrong reasons.  Larry’s Jewish friends who are accomplished professionals in their respective fields are not helpful.  The modern Jewish hope in science to solve our problems solves nothing, which is emphasized by the fact that Larry, who is a Physics professor, who teaches entire classrooms about scientific investigations of uncertainty, also provides no answers or relief.  Also in the Coen’s world, God is absent, unaware, unconcerned and most likely malicious.  The list of Jewish failures in this film is endless.  Even the notion of being a good person and that good will follow comes back to haunt Larry  as his kindness to his brother,  and his attempt to stand up to a student who is bribing him, only serve to further his troubles.  Well, at least Larry has his health, right?  Well…don’t ask…

As a rabbi, I think the biggest tragedy of the entire movie is the treatment the Coen brothers give to the rabbis.  Finding himself utterly alone, bewildered, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Larry recognizes that he needs help and he wants to know why all this is happening to him.  In his sheer desperation and at the urging of various members of the Jewish community, Larry decides to visit a rabbi to get some help.  The trailer pretty much sums up what happens next...

(I guess I should have expected that a movie which opens with a kind and elderly rabbi getting stabbed in the chest after being called a “dybuk” and is then left to die in the cold, wasn’t going to be “rabbi friendly.”)

Larry ends up going to three rabbis.  The first rabbi Larry sees is a young assistant rabbi who tells Larry to radically change his perspective of things.  While this rabbi is right in one sense, he comes off looking more like a deranged Seinfeld character than a rabbi and Larry is neither impressed nor helped.  The second rabbi, “the Senior Rabbi” tells Larry a tale of “The Goy’s Teeth” which is meant to say that there are some things for which we can never find the answer, and we can drive ourselves crazy trying to know that which is ultimately unknowable.  While he is also right in a sense, Larry leaves his office feeling even more bewildered and alone.  Finally the third rabbi, the one who is supposed to possess the greatest wisdom of all, refuses to see Larry because he is too busy “thinking.”

What a shame that these rabbis are portrayed as oblivious, aloof, and unconcerned!  This is such a different picture from the experience I have had with rabbis.  Most of us rabbis go into this work with a sincere desire to help people in their darkest times—to be an extended hand when the floor falls from under people’s feet-not to be a door slammed in people’s faces.  Personally I can’t even begin to offer thanks for the countless times when my life seemed to fall apart, and I was lifted up and rescued by rabbis and the Jewish community as a whole.  Of course I am not the only one who has experienced the healing difference rabbis, other Jewish professionals and members of the Jewish community can make troubled times.  And I can't even begin to say how much prayer, an ongoing connection with God, study and acts of loving kindness can help as well.  It is a shame that this reality of who we are (and can be) as a community is not even hinted at in A Serious Man.

Actually, when people in crisis come to a rabbi with the question “Why is this happening to me—why do the innocent suffer?” an intelligent rabbi knows not to try to answer the question at that time, not because Judaism doesn’t have thoughts on the matter, but because in the midst of a personal crisis to start an academic discussion on the topic is the last thing the person often needs.  What a person often needs in the midst of trauma, is what Larry asks for:  “help.”

Help is not to try to solve the mysteries of God and universe in a moment of crisis, but rather, more often than not, to simply “be present.”  As God instructs the prophet Ezekiel, sometimes the best comfort we can offer a person in great distress is to “sigh in silence.”

Darby Slick, of Jefferson’s Airplane was in fact on to something when he wrote the lyrics to “Don’t You Want Somebody to Love.”

“When the truth is found to be lies…And all the joy within you dies…Don't you want somebody to love?”

What most people need in the midst of a crisis is to know that they are loved and cared for.  People need to know that they are being heard and taken seriously.  They are looking for a compassion, comfort, consolation and hope.  I really don’t think most people in crisis are really looking for the unknowable answers to the universe.  Yes, an experienced counselor may be able to gently introduce a measure of guidance and might be able to teach important skills needed to cope and to manage the crisis, but a seasoned counselor knows at the same time, that sometimes all one needs to know is that someone else cares, and we are not alone and that our lives truly matter.  There is hope.  There is always hope.

While I acknowledge that not everyone has had the same good experiences in the Jewish community and from rabbis that I have; (and I, among others, am trying to change that) I wish that this unfortunately reality wasn’t broadcast to the world as it was in A Serious Man.  There is another side of the picture; one where people in crisis are offered kindness and support, rather than punches and slammed doors.

Again, PLEASE comment below, it would be great to get other opinions on the subject.  What did you like?  What did you dislike?  Would you recommend it to others?  Any interesting theories you want to share?

I’m not sure when or how or why, but at some point in the past few years, I got old—and so did my friends. Now before you start rolling your eyes or getting ready to smack me (because most of you are older than me), hear me out. I don’t mean old in a literal, over-the-hill, clock is ticking, eggs are drying up kind of way. I just mean, at some point along the way, most of the people I know started acting less like children and more like grumpy old adults.

The evidence:

• Two years ago, my boyfriend Mike and I could easily drink and dance the night away at Victory Liquors, Duffy’s, or some equally loud and sticky-floored Lincoln Park establishment, wake up the next day, go to brunch, and do it all again. Today, we prefer quiet nights at home on our awesome couch watching Planet Earth on our awesome TV. When we do end up going out to bars for birthdays or other celebrations, we spend most of the time complaining about the loud music and the crowd, and looking at our watches wondering when it’s appropriate to go home. Also, Mike does that annoying thing grandpas do as he cups his ear straining to hear what I’m saying:

Me: I think I want another Bacardi and Diet.
Mike: What? You think there’s going to be a riot?

UGH! Drives me crazy!

 “Going out” now often means having dinner with a few friends, drinking a single glass of wine, and coming home by 10, so we can wake up early enough the next day to go to the grocery store, run errands, and still have time for brunch.

• In college at UW-Madison, I used to be able to eat Mac and Cheese pizza from Ian’s on a nightly basis at 3 a.m. Now, eating anything after 9 pm gives me heartburn. And, my sensitive stomach can’t ever handle anything with a hint of fried, spicy, grease or cream.

Badgers love their Ian’s!

• During college football season in Madison, I used to don my thrift-store bought vintage Badgers jersey and football beads, pregame with a beer in hand and stand at the game (okay maybe only until halftime and maybe it was a vodka lemonade) cheering and singing at the top of my lungs. Now, I prefer to watch my Badger games with friends in a quiet bar, with nice comfy booths and a great brunch menu or in the comfort of my apartment, on the chaise of my awesome couch wearing my awesome Wisconsin Badgers Snuggie (gift credit to my awesome boyfriend).

It’s a blanket...with sleeves!

• No matter how cold it got in Madison, it was completely appropriate to go out in a tank top and uncomfortable high heels. Now, I’m always properly bundled, tsk tsking at the young 22-year-olds freezing their butts off, turning to Mike to tell him that those girls look ridiculous and they’re likely to catch a cold. Also, unless I’m at a wedding or a serious work meeting, my shoes are flat.

• Halloween: It used to be about finding the tiniest, sexiest costume possible. Now, I find myself gravitating toward giant penguin costumes or Cookie Monster. The warmer and fuzzier, the better.

Last Halloween as bacon (with unidentified mustache) and eggs.
Stay tuned—this year we tackle poultry.

• Vacations: Mike and I would rather rock the desert like JUF snowbirds, stay at a B&B in Door County or lay on a quiet beach in the Caribbean than deal with crazy 20-something destinations like Cancun or Acapulco (plus, my stomach cannot handle Mexico). But don’t get me wrong, we’re still up for a weekend in Vegas every once in a while…

“We’re on a boat!” in St. Martin

• Last but not least, people are getting married like crazy! Everybody’s doing it. And now they’re even starting to have babies…

I think you get the point. Now before you go saying that this is just a couples’ phenomenon, I know plenty of singles out there who feel exactly the same way. And before you start thinking to yourself, ‘man, this girl is super lame’ take a minute to think about your life. You know you just can’t eat crap or drink like you used to.

Plus, I’m not lame, I’m fun. Though I admit that most nights I prefer the snuggliness of my boyfriend, my Snuggie and a movie On Demand, I still love to go out every once and a while and have a few too many Bacardi and diets, dance with my friends at their bachelorette parties and dress up like an idiot with my boyfriend on Halloween. Plus, growing up isn’t all bad. I eat better food, get more done in my hangover-free days, save money and calories on drinks and greasy food and actually (sometimes) feel like I’ve got my shit together like an actual person.

I am fully aware that this phenomenon does not apply to everyone. Eternal frat guys and sorority girls do exist. So to those of you still out there partying and eating greasy late night food post-25 years old, I raise a tequila-filled shot glass to you. As for the rest of you, grab your Snuggie and scoot over. Planet Earth is about to start.

My daughter, in her baby sized jeans

The scariest thing in a woman’s closet?

Her skinny jeans.  Boooooooo.

I bought my last pair of skinny jeans after I had a week-long bout of the stomach flu.  I was so excited to fit into them that I didn’t care about the ridiculous price tag, or that they belonged on a tween.  I was thin!  I was hot!  Wait- I was really hot… and... queasy…

Flash forward one week later, these same jeans went from making me fab-u-lous to flab-u-lous.  The last time I tried fitting into them, I had to do deep knee bends to loosen them, lie down on the bed, suck in my stomach, and pull with all my strength until the button closed—grunting out loud at the effort.

Once closed, thinking I had achieved success, I looked in the mirror and saw a muffin top large enough to feed 25 supermodels spilling over.  Only after my husband walked into the room and he busted out laughing did I—mortified—concede defeat.

Sure, I’ve got plenty of reasons why they don’t fit.  I had a kid 8 months ago.  I don’t have any time to go to the gym.  I moved to suburbia.  The dryer shrunk them.  Aliens came in the middle of the night and zapped them and made them smaller.  But the simple truth is that, while I’d like to fit into my size-6 jeans, I’ve got a size-10 lifestyle.  And I can play with the numbers on the scale, but the jeans don’t lie.

And I’m at peace with the size that I am, even if the fashion industry isn’t.  And I’m tired of obsessing about my weight, it’s been a lifelong endeavor.  I was a zaftig kid and, at my heaviest, I weighed 200 pounds.  Although I lost 70 pounds by high school and managed to maintain my weight, I have always hated my body.  Even at my thinnest—a size 4—I still could only focus on losing those last 5 pounds, not the accomplishment I had made.

And then I had a daughter, and my perspective changed.

For starters, I now appreciate my body for the extraordinary things that it is capable of.  It can create a human being and nourish a child.  That seems more important than wearing a brand of jeans made by people who think women shouldn’t have hips.  (And please, someone tar and feather the designers that think even pregnant women should be thin.)

 I look back at the things that I did that risked my health to be thin and I am grateful to be healthy, that I didn’t do any damage (that I know of) to my body.  I can’t imagine doing any of that now.  It took a while, but I’m old enough and wise enough that my self-esteem is no longer linked to a number on a scale, or a size on a tag.

That’s not to say it’s easy to keep this attitude going.  I have my fat days.  We all know that societal pressures to be super-thin are ridiculous, illustrated by the recent story of Ralph Lauren allegedly firing a model, 5’10”, 125 lb., for being too fat.  Studies have shown that good-looking, thin people enjoy more success and opportunities than those who aren’t.  Simply put, we are as a whole, a superficial and judgmental society.  It’s enough to drive you to… eat!

But the reality is that 5, 10, 15 pounds up or down on a scale really don’t matter.  We are beautiful, no matter the size we might be.  We just need to hear it and remember it on the days when our skinny jeans don’t fit.

Speaking of, I still have those skinny jeans tucked away in a box somewhere.  A part of me hopes maybe I’ll fit back in them some day.  But I think chances are the next time they see daylight they’ll probably be on my daughter as part of a Halloween outfit (sooooo millennium…) She just better share the candy.

Alex Baum (not at the Bagel)

It’s a few minutes after 7 p.m. as we gather inside the waiting area of the popular Lakeview restaurant, greeting each other with hugs and friendly handshakes.  Our ritual marks the end to another weekend and the start to another week in our busy lives.  Restaurant patrons push their way around us to get a table as we gather into a tightly packed circle making sure we have a full headcount to give the host a more accurate number.  One never knows who will show up late or bring a friend along.  We meet at the Bagel in Lakeview frequently, but tonight everybody is in a little brighter mood than normal as we have something special to celebrate.

Every year on the second weekend of October, Chicago is host to 40,000 runners from around the world who take over the city in an effort to achieve dreams, raise awareness, and accomplish a goal they have been working toward the entire summer.  On marathon day the streets close and traffic stops as spectators line the streets hoping to get a glimpse of their friends and family as they run through the different Chicago neighborhoods seeking to finish the 26.2 mile route.  This year the cold temperatures added additional challenges to the already rigorous course.  I was up at 4:45 a.m. to volunteer with my friend Rachel at the Lincoln Park aide station to support and participate in the event.  As my fingers and toes became numb, I was already daydreaming about how nice it would be to warm up with friends at the Bagel later that night.

Diego, our favorite host, led the 10 of us back to our favorite table already set up with pickles, challah, and bagel chips.  We all make room for our honoree of the night, Brian Berman, who will sit in the middle so everyone can hear his stories of running the Chicago marathon in just over four hours.  This is the third year in a row we have celebrated Brian’s triumph at the Chicago marathon with a tasty meal at the Bagel.  Every time we meet here it seems we are celebrating new milestones in our lives: weddings, condo closings, new jobs, and completed graduate degrees.  Our group of friends has grown through meeting at various Lakeview events such as Makor dinners, Sushi Shabbat and Anshe Emet services.  We are Jewish, young, and mostly single.

Sundays at the Bagel started in the cold winter of 2007, picked because of its parking lot, Jewish-style food, and accommodating wait staff.  Sam Leopold and couple of his friends started the Jewish dinner club.  He envisioned a casual, weekly gathering where everybody was encouraged to invite friends.  Every week we would meet new faces from the neighborhood who would join us for matzo ball soup, brisket, lox, bagels, chopped salad, and hot sandwiches.  Every week Diego would have to add another table to accommodate the growing Bagel crowd, which topped out at 32 people on one summer evening.

Seeing a bunch of Jewish urbanities order at the Bagel is always an adventure.  Before our order is taken stiff negotiations are performed to trade side items for soup, pickled herring and a sip of Sam’s chocolate milkshake.  Some rave about the matzo ball soup while others stand firmly behind the mushroom barley soup.  Sam always requests an extra thick milkshake; Brian offers up his sides in exchange for a few bites of somebody’s entree, and someone always insists the dressing be put on the side.  My personal favorite is the challah French toast, but I also really like the potato pancakes on the coldest of winter evenings.

Conversation is always lively and in addition to hearing marathon stories we touched on a plethora of topics on this particular Sunday night.  We discussed how DVR has changed our lives, the effectiveness of the iRobot Roomba vacuum cleaner, “Jon and Kate plus Eight,” and the healthcare debate.  It was interesting to know that our parents fell into two distinct categories, those who could text and those who could not.  Julie showed off her new Blackberry, Brian his new medal and we all joked about who will be brave enough to join Brian in completing next year’s Chicago marathon.  An older gentleman approaches our table and congratulates Brian on his marathon, and he proudly shows off the 2009 medal hanging around his neck.  The man’s friendly gesture truly reflects the community atmosphere of the Bagel.

Eventually the night comes to an end and the check is passed around, often turning into an accounting circus with a mix of cash and credit cards flying in all directions to settle the bill.  We stall, knowing that the weekend is almost over and it’s time to get home and finish everything we have been putting off ‘til Sunday night.  During the week, we will all be connected online, but next Sunday night we’ll have face time once again at the Bagel.

You know the MTV show The Real World?  Yeah, believe it or not it’s still on TV!  I never really got into reality TV.  I couldn’t figure out why people wanted to videotape their lives for the whole world to see.  However, I do remember a bit from The Real World season in Chicago.  Mostly because one of the cast members had gone to Stevenson High School, and all the girls kept talking about how dreamy he was.  Anyways, the show kind of reminds me of both college and the next step afterwards…joining the real world in finding a job.

Having lived in a house last year with six other friends, I am well aware of the drama that can occur when seven people live in close quarters.  The fights, the forming and breaking up of relationships, the house parties, the late night talks, the arguments over shared bathrooms and doing the dishes, not to mention the small, everyday moments that make up a school year and shared experience with roommates.  Although at times I hated it, it’s an environment I now miss.

Now living back home in the suburbs, I can no longer spend hours at all the coffee shops people-watching and writing papers (or pretending to work, while constantly checking my email).  I can no longer eat dinner with all my friends and then hang out afterwards for a homework party.  There are no more Friday nights at Hillel where I can pray and eat dinner with Jews of all ages and backgrounds.  People and places are no longer within walking distance.  Although campus can be a bubble, and we were all so eagerly looking forward to graduation, I wish undergrad had lasted longer.  I can understand why the majority of my friends went straight on to graduate school.  It’s a great way to prolong the instant family feel of campus while delaying the crushing reality of job searching.

When you graduate from college, the first exciting and scary thought that comes to mind is, “hey, I’m going to be a real person now.”  Becoming a real person wasn’t quite what I expected it to be, but the reality of a bad economy quickly set in.  Not only am I competing with all my fellow graduates for a job, but I am competing with people my parents’ age who were unfortunately subjected to company downsizing.

I have to admit, it feels like I’ve gone full circle, and am no closer to figuring out what I want to do.  I went to college, picked a major I liked, and took classes that interested me.  I met a ton of people, who are now great friends, and I learned a lot about myself.  Four years and countless travels later, including many places I temporarily called home, I am not back home to the place I grew up.  Back in Chicago, and no closer to knowing what to do with the rest of my life.

Being a part of the real world is not all it’s cracked up to be.

I’ve been thinking about Halloween a lot lately, and this year I have been a bit stumped about what to wear.

When I was little, my idea of the perfect costume was simple. I usually went as some variation on a witch. One year I even went as a baby witch: I wore a witch’s dress and hat and carried around an absurdly large plastic baby bottle that I must have found at Party City or the like.
 
Growing up, I also had grandiose visions of dressing like the Little Mermaid. I idolized Ariel, believing her to be the prettiest girl in the world—before I realized cartoons weren’t real. My mother shot down the costume idea a few years in a row because it was too cold outside for me to walk around in an elementary school Halloween parade in seashells and fake fins—even if I was wearing a big coat over the ensemble.

My mother somehow convinced me to dress as a pumpkin one year instead. The big orange felt costume over a turtleneck and leggings were warm, but not quite the same—not to mention, I had a felt stem on my head. And yes, this was back in the 1990s when leggings were an acceptable staple in a young girl’s closet. They are coming back though…

I also tried to think back to my days of innocence—around preschool—when my concept of dress-up wouldn’t have been influenced by television’s marketing of Halloween or by Walt Disney. But, I realized, perhaps, I was always influenced by pop culture in some way. When I was little, I had teenage sisters who took pleasure in dressing me like Madonna with red lipstick, a lace glove and strands and strands of beads.

However, around preschool age, I also recalled the thrill of dressing up for Purim—the only “Halloween” truly sanctioned for Jews.

Every Purim my family would attend services to hear the Megillah reading and the younger children and the adults in the congregation would get decked out in elaborate costumes. I made an annual appearance in my mother’s version of an Esther costume, which altogether made me look like a gypsy. I wore a long skirt and a scarf around my hair that was adorned with sequins and beads. I loved that costume because it was so colorful and because I got to wear my mother’s clothes and lipstick.

I found myself in a moral conundrum when I stopped and thought about the Purim story. Here, I had been looking back upon my Esther days fondly. But in reality, Esther was very much a slave to her own good looks. Ultimately, however, she used it to her advantage to help save the Jewish people from annihilation.

The common thread of these costumes was that I loved any opportunity to dress up and look older, more mature.

My desire to look older got warped when I went to college, however, and I think it’s happening for young women earlier these days. Any Lifetime made-for-TV-movie will tell you that.

I got sucked into a Halloween culture at UW-Madison that deemed any sexy version of an everyday person, such as a cop or teacher, as top notch. It’s hard not to get sucked into this cultural norm while attending college—particularly at Madison, where the celebration is likened to Mardis Gras.

But, while living my post-collegiate life in Chicago, that pressure lives on.

I’m a few years out of college now and I’m not only starting to feel older, but also a bit wiser. I was joking with a friend recently that even my everyday wardrobe is a bit tamer than it was in college. I think that my desire to “grow up” has finally taken hold in a real way.

Perhaps, I’ve even come full circle from my youth. Now in my mid-20s, I’m already worrying about getting old.

As Halloween approaches, I am no longer contemplating what over-priced sexy garb I could find at one of those temporary Halloween warehouses. Instead, I’ve been thinking about what might actually feel comfortable and attractive.

This year, I’ve decided to dress up as an old-time journalist. The decade may be off, but I’ve decided, essentially, to be myself.

Bus crushes. Everybody has them. He’s that guy you see every morning on the bus. Or the girl you see every day at Starbucks. He’s that mysterious guy that you know nothing about, or that girl you make eye contact with on a daily basis. For me, my bus crush was also, my gym crush… and my neighbor crush. The great thing about bus crushes is not talking to them. It’s the mysteriousness and endless possibilities that make the guy so appealing. As soon as he strikes up conversation, or as soon as you stalk him enough to find out about his life, the crush fades. Fast. The other nice thing about bus crushes is that anyone can have one. My single, married, and somewhere in between friends all have them. After all, it’s ok “just to look.”

Bus crushes make the mundane more exciting. My bus crush actually started out as my gym crush. Every night, I’d wonder if I’d see him working on his abs. I’d get excited to see this skinnier version of Vince Vaughn walk into the gym, and I would try not to get caught staring (although it didn’t always work). Then, I realized that my gym crush was on my bus every morning on the way to work. Hellllo bus crush! Then, I realized that we live in the same building. This was getting really exciting… in a crazy, stalker-ish sort of way.

This morning, as I walked into the elevator to go down to the bus, I was surprised to see Bus Crush, already in the elevator. Then came the butterflies. We’d never been in the elevator together before! He looked at me, I looked at him, and then I quickly pretended I had a very important email on my Blackberry. I didn’t want to stare. The elevator door opened, and I saw that he was about to say something to me. First I was excited, and then I hoped he wouldn’t say anything to ruin the mystery. Here’s how the conversation went:

Bus Crush: Hey, I recognize you from the gym.
Me: Yeah, I think I’ve seen you there before… (totally playing it cool- in reality, I know his whole gym routine, which weights he lifts, etc.)
BC: Yeah, I struggle there every night.
Me: Ha-ha, you don’t look like you’re struggling. (in my head: you’re not struggling at all, you look damn good!)

So far, so good. Then the conversation turned to where we work. I told him that I work at the Jewish United Fund, and he told me that he had a friend who works there. He mentioned her name and I remarked that she is a good friend of mine and that we grew up together in Minnesota. Uh oh, Bus Crush and I have friends in common, that makes this a bit too real, thus making him less appealing. I prayed that he would stop talking, so a sliver of the crush could remain. He kept talking. Shit.

BC: Oh you’re from Minnesota? I know a lot of people from Minnesota because I went to school at Wisconsin…

Oh no. We have a mutual friend. Strike one. I then remembered a text I had received from our mutual friend, “just woke up in your building- went home with a guy last night”. This was definitely him. Strike two. He went to Wisconsin and played on the same baseball team as a good friend of mine. Strike three. He’s Jewish, from Highland Park, and we run in similar social circles. Strike four, five, and six.

Then came the bus. Thank God. Bus Crush had become a “real person” and my crush had quickly faded. I went and sat down in a seat, far away from Bus Crush, and thought about how quickly my morning (and my crush) had been ruined. First I was excited to see Bus Crush, and then I was “crushed.”

Since we do have friends in common, there is a good chance that Bus Crush will see this. And it will be awkward. Possibly mortifying. It will make my evenings at the gym and my mornings on the bus long and uncomfortable. But this had to be done. I had to write this to warn all the bus crushes and bus crushers out there not to talk to your bus crush. Bus crushes are just so much more fun when you don’t know anything about your crush, and they can be whoever you want them to be, in your head. And Bus Crush, if you’re reading this, please don’t tell me. I’d prefer to go on thinking about you and your cute Vince Vaughn like appearance, rather than have the awkward confrontation that could ensue from this. Thanks a billion, Bus Crush.

Our world is a little pinker this month, much to my daughters’ delight. Pink ribbons, pink soup cans, pink M&Ms, pink skyscrapers all aglow. I can take a moment to tell my girls that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, why that’s important, and what we can do to help. I’m happy to have the pink prompts.

We’ve come a long way since bubbe's day when the word cancer was spoken in a whisper. Now our doctors will tell us, our mothers will tell us, the media will tell us about monthly self exams, diet and exercise, mammograms starting at 40 (shit, that’s me).

We’ve come a long way, bubbe, but the breast cancer awareness movement is not done saving lives. Through the efforts of organizations like the Chicago Center for Jewish Genetic Disorders and FORCE, through the vision of people like filmmaker Joanna Rudnick and physician Deborah Lindner, I have faith our daughters will grow up with new household words that will save even more lives. BRCA mutations, previvor, hereditary cancers/ Ashkenazi Jews, family history, genetic screening.

One in eight women will develop breast cancer in her lifetime.

One in four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime.

Hey you. October is also Domestic Violence Awareness month. As I sit here and wonder – Does that have a color? A face? A voice? – I could use a little pink help.

I learned just now, thanks to Google, that domestic violence awareness does have a color. Purple, to represent the bruises of those who have been hurt at the hands of their partners. Judging from the lack of lavender in the October air, I conclude, the purple ribbon campaign hasn’t hit mainstream.

All the more reason it needs to. To save lives, we can’t whisper.

I want to shout when I hear people say abuse does not happen in the Jewish community. I want to shout as the Jewish faces I know begin flashing through my mind. The girl from my synagogue who disappeared for half of ninth grade after being severely beaten by her boyfriend. My friend who lost her virginity to date rape our first year on campus. The sea of t-shirts displayed at the Response annual meeting, each representing a young person who has survived abuse.

If page one of my mental photo album isn’t enough, the data speaks for itself. The Jewish Community Health Survey of West Rogers Park (2004) found that one in four adults had witnessed domestic violence and nearly one-third of households included a victim of physical, verbal, or sexual violence. A Jewish Women International study on domestic abuse in the Chicago Jewish community confirmed that abuse occurred across the lifespan, across denominations, across income levels, between heterosexual and same-sex partners.

Across the community, in homes, in schools and through our agencies, we see the consequences of sexual abuse, child abuse, physical abuse, teen dating violence, bullying, and elder abuse. The cost of abuse is enormous on a personal, community, and national level, whether we are counting medical expenses, psychological impact, emergency room visits, the demise of families, lost childhoods, or lost lives.

Like all communities, the Chicago Jewish community is deeply affected by domestic abuse.  Of the 270,500 Jews in the Chicago area (Metropolitan Chicago Jewish Population Study, 2001), this translates to tens of thousands of faces, of voices, of individuals who have been impacted by abuse.

And in many ways, the Chicago Jewish community is paving the way in its fight against domestic abuse. Our efforts are serving as a model for other faith-based communities locally and other Jewish communities across the country.

As MENSCH gets men talking . . . as SHALVA opens its door to the next woman who needs help . . . as Project SHIELD prompts another rabbi to scratch his beard and slowly nod his head . . . as JCARES brings another partner to the table and inspires another person (like me) to open her eyes, make needed changes or advocate in her own way . . . as Response hangs t-shirts of teen survivors out on the clothesline . . . one by one, another light bulb goes off.

And whether that light is purple or pink or white, my hope grows that much brighter that when our daughters grow up, the community will be that much safer.

To save lives, we can’t whisper.

My daughter Emma – stay strong. Amen.

When you think of a mensch, what comes to mind? Maybe it’s your grandma telling you to be a mensch or maybe it’s the rabbi at your Bar Mitzvah telling you to grow up and be a mensch. What probably does not come to mind is the grassroots effort started a few years ago in Chicago known as MENSCH, Men for Shalom in the Community and Home.

Picture a group of Jewish guys sitting around a table – guys who work in business, technology, recreation, law, mental health – getting together not to talk about Monday night football or cars or how much money we make. We get together to talk about violence against women and girls – and what we can do to eliminate it.

I first came to the MENSCH table because my friend and MENSCH founder Randy Parks asked me to. I stayed for many reasons.

MENSCH is a community of Jewish men with different perspectives who share a common goal.  We all have daughters, sisters, mothers, and friends and we want them to be safer. At monthly meetings, we have spent many hours learning, sharing, exploring, and discussing ways to make a difference.

You never know who is affected by domestic abuse, be it verbal, physical, financial, or sexual. It could be someone who lives in the apartment upstairs, someone who works with you, someone you meet at bar, or a friend of a friend. Through my job, I encounter many young Jewish people. Do I know how to listen? Would I know how to help?

I brought my youth group to a MENSCH community education event, exposing these high school kids to the issue of abuse and engaging them in dialogue. The Clothesline Project, organized locally by Response, is a powerful visual display of t-shirts, each created by a survivor of abuse. Behind every shirt is a person with a story. I watched these kids begin to “get it”. Through MENSCH events at synagogues, JCCs and elsewhere, and through individual conversations, we can help our friends, our brothers, our sons start to “get it”.

“Get” that we have not only the opportunity, but the responsibility, to prevent attitudes and behaviors that lead to relationship violence. “Get” that building a healthy community, free of violence, starts when we can recognize the harmful effects of our own attitudes and behaviors on our partners, our community and ourselves.

It’s not that guys are schmucks and we should feel guilty. Most men are not violent, but most acts of violence are perpetrated by men. I have the ability, and the responsibility, to do something about it.

To help further our goals, MENSCH recently joined forced with JCARES (Jewish Community Abuse Resources, Education and Solutions), a dynamic coalition working to create a community that prioritizes safe, healthy relationships. With the support of JCARES, MENSCH is launching an attitudes and beliefs study. When we are done, we will be able to say, this is what Jewish men think about domestic violence. And the results will help shape future directions for MENSCH.

In the meantime, here are ten things you can do to make a difference:

• Encourage your HR department to sponsor workshops on positive relationships in the workplace, then sign up and bring your co-workers with you.

• Be a good listener.

• Read the SHALVA fact sheet on what to do when someone needs help.

• Speak with the boys in your synagogue youth group about ways to be cool that don't come at the expense of others.

• Embrace the driving/sex metaphor. Encourage your friends not do either when they or their passengers are drunk.

• Attend a rally, speaker, or seminar – just as you would for Israel, a favored politician or football team. You can “own” men's role in violence without being personally guilty.

• Talk to your friends about attitudes you likely share.

• Participate in the upcoming MENSCH Attitudes and Beliefs Survey.

• Know that there are resources out there – check out the MENSCH website to learn more.

• Take a moment to think about the way you’re talking and what you’re doing – in the words of your grandma and rabbi, be a mensch.

If there is one aspect to Judaism that I find to be truly unique and special, it’s our history. Our shared struggles and triumphs, our traditions and values, our way of life that has remained intact over centuries and endured several civilizations. But what’s more interesting is that not only do we spend time building a rich history, we also dedicate ourselves to study it and to learn from it. It was this idea that led me to explore for myself just what it was like for Jews when they first arrived here in our beloved city of Chicago, and what roles they played. Of course, there were some things to expect: synagogues were built, Jewish communities settled into various neighborhoods around Chicago, and began to influence the culture within the city as early as the 1850s. But it was what I discovered about what some Jews were doing in the 1920s and early 1930s that caught me by surprise.

Recently, I happened to be glancing through the first volume of the Encyclopedia of American Jewish History, under the chapter titled “American Jewish Gangsters,” I came across an interesting fact that I am willing to bet most American Jews are not aware of, “Although Jews made up less than 4% of the nation’s population, during Prohibition, 50% of the nation’s leading bootleggers were Jews, and Jews and Jewish gangs bossed the rackets in some of America’s largest cities.”

Jews, in one form or another, had contributed to the existence, continuance, and eventual lift of the Prohibition Era of the United States of America! This led me to wonder: What was the Jewish attitude toward Prohibition while it was being argued before the nation? What has been the Jewish attitude toward Prohibition since it has been adopted? There were some interesting arguments made at that time, and anyone interested in learning more about this should read this short article from the December 31, 1921 Dearborn Independent newspaper.

Reading the various commentaries and experiences of several different Jews at this moment in history gave me even more insight into the never-ending struggle within all of us Jews, the moral voice that seems to reside within every one of us. In fact, each of you readers should open this page up and glance through it after reading this. Perhaps a discussion could begin…

Anyway, imagine my surprise to find that, in an effort to learn how Jews defined leading a good life in the eyes of God during a time where an important facet to the religion was banned, Jews actually played pivotal roles on both sides of the Prohibition debate. For every Rabbi Leo M. Franklin, president of the Central Conference of American Rabbis in 1921, there was an Arnold Rothstein, Jewish mobster smuggling liquor into the US; for every Orthodox Jew lamenting over the lack of wine for his Passover Seder, there was a Jewish politician or lobbyist looking to continue punishing those that sought to lift the ban. In any event, it seems that when it came to alcohol, the Jewish Americans were as outspoken and passionate as ever. For someone who views the Prohibition Era in the US as the Dark Ages, it was fascinating to learn that, as the Dearborn Independent writes, “first and last, the illicit liquor business in all its phases, both before and after Prohibition, has always been Jewish. Before Prohibition it was morally illicit, after Prohibition it became both morally and legally illicit.”

This issue’s spotlight cocktail recipe comes from my own mentor and master mixologist Bridget Albert, author of Market Fresh Mixology, a book everyone should own and use in their homes to create fabulous drinks with great and fresh ingredients. It’s a perfect fall cocktail that anyone can make at home or at a party. Oprah thought so!

Cinnamon Apple Cocktail, By Bridget Albert

2 ounces fresh sour mix
1/2 bar spoon cinnamon applesauce
1/2 ounce pear liqueur
1 1/2 ounce apple-flavored vodka
Apple slice
Add all ingredients except apple slice to your mixing glass. Fill the mixing tin with ice. Shake well. Strain into a martini glass (double-straining is optional).

L’Chaim!

Jacey watching with her family— the only other time
she gets to watch with a girl.  Notice, no father.

Hello, my name is Jacey Bader and I have an unhealthy obsession with pink, hearts, frills and football.  Yup, you read that correctly.  I am more girly than Barbie herself, and I’m willing to bet that my bedroom has more pink than her entire dreamhouse.  I can also tell you the difference between off sides and a false start, why an onside kick could be beneficial, and I can define words such as “horse collar”, “safety” and “hang time.”

Being a girly football fan is not an easy task.  It’s not my fault!  I was raised in a home where my father would rather take a spin class than come near a sporting arena (the man fell asleep during the 1991 Twins World Series while he was AT THE GAME!), and my mother dragged me to the Vikings games while I was still in utero.  I bleed purple, and I love it.  However, I am at a constant struggle to hold back my girly tendencies.  My only saving grace is that purple is such a great color...can you imagine if I was a Bears fan?  Navy and orange?  Gross!

I watch the games in Chicago with a group of guys I went to high school and college with.  From here on out, I will refer to them as the “squad”.  What a great word—makes me laugh every time I say it.

A typical Sunday would go as follows:

- Wake up at 11ish and text the squad to see where everyone is going.  Lately, the consensus has been State Bar.  I like it there with the giant TV right in the booth.  Last year it was Victory Liquors.  I think I like State better.

- Definitely skip the shower because let’s face it, not one of these boys is getting up to shower on a Sunday morning.  They are like my brothers—what’s the point?

- Put on my super cute, vintage-looking, Vikings t-shirt (new from Junkfoodclothing.com), Vikings earrings and Badger hat.  Gotta represent!

-  Hop on the bus and head to State.

- Squeeze into the edge of the booth that the squad has been saving for a good hour (I’m clearly the last one there as usual) grab a beer and brace myself for kick-off.

- Just when I’m so proud of myself for being one of the boys, they go and order wings.  Don’t get me wrong, if you haven’t tried the bbq wings at State yet, it’s a must.  But seriously, have these boys never heard of a napkin?  This is when the struggle is at its peak.  I so desperately want to get everyone a bucket of soap and a nice warm rag, but I know if I say anything it will draw the attention to the fact that I am not a boy.  The squad has a very strict “no girls allowed” policy that I have worked very hard to penetrate.  I am proud to be the one exception to this rule.  The key is not to ask questions.  If you don’t know what happened, you better Google it.

- Half time: toss a football in the street, listen to the squad talk about last night’s encounters, order another beer.

- Watch the Vikings dominate (so far so good!), split the bill and go on my merry way.

I love being one of the boys.  I love when they completely forget that I’m there and they say the raunchiest stuff!  It’s so gross, and I get such a kick out of it.  Boys really are a rare breed.  This is where I get the best information.  It’s more like a field study, an experiment if you will.  I disguise myself as one of them to get the inside scoop about how guys really think.  What have I learned?  That I’m happy I’m a girl.

The squad is a staple in my chaotic life.  I love knowing that despite my gender and girlishness, I always have a place to watch the game.  It would be really great to have female ally though.  I need someone to gawk at the way Adrian Peterson’s gorgeous pecks move up and down in the new NFL.com Fantasy commercial!  He’s so sexy.  I really love football.

“I’m eating right and doing cardio, why aren’t I losing weight?” I hear that all the time. Usually there are two things going on:

1)      Your eating habits are solid—but your drinking habits (i.e. booze) are not
2)      Where’s the weight training?

I will quickly address number one and then focus on number two. I’m not saying you can’t have a drink, just be aware of the calories.

•        Light Beer = 110 calories (4 beers, 440 calories)
•        4 ounces Red Wine = 80 calories (that’s like a shot of wine)
•        4 ounces White Wine = 75 calories
•        1 ounce Vodka = 65 calories (that’s one shot-not including the Sprite)

Find your favorite drink here.

And let’s not forget, what happens after a night of drinking— the burritos, hot dogs, greasy fries… To find out what’s really sabotaging your diet, write it down! Track three days and look for trends like the post lunch chocolate, the 4 p.m. cookie, the 9 p.m. ice cream…

Since I’m not a nutritionist, I’m going to focus on burning fat! Let me be honest here, it’s not easy to get ripped. The magazine cover abs are usually airbrushed, so first things first, have realistic expectations. Second, what’s your routine? And most importantly, how long have you been doing it for?

Your body is smart— it adapts to how you train. If you’ve been doing the same workout for months, your body will get use to it and that same routine that kicked your butt is now easy and slowing down your fat loss. A client recently told me, “I’ve been doing the same video for two years. What am I doing wrong?” I told her it’s time to buy some new videos. Mixing up your routine forces you to use different muscles, fatigue yourself in a new way and if you keep reading, you’ll learn the secret to super fat loss.

Another big fitness problem is the cardio-aholic. Yes, I’m talking to you Ms. I’m Too Afraid To Weight Train. If your workout consists of only cardio, you need to add weight training! On the other hand, if you’re not doing any cardio, slowly incorporate it into your workout. I say slowly because if you start out too fast, shin splints, knee pain, and other injuries can pop up. Talk to me or a trainer at your gym to lower your risk of injury.

One huge benefit to weight training is you will gain muscle. Most people, especially women, will not turn into Arnold from lifting weights. Sure, a few genetic studs gain muscle easy but the majority of us will gain a few pounds of muscle. And muscles are great because they burn more calories than fat. Another benefit to hitting the weights is you will burn calories. Pumping iron burns lots of calories, especially if you do exercises that work multiple muscle groups at once like, pushups, chin ups, and squatting.

Now, to get the biggest bang for your buck combine cardio and weights (circuit training). Circuit training is popular because it works and it’s efficient. I mean, who has time for 90 minutes of cardio that will eventually lead to joint pain? Take 30-60 minutes and make it count. The combination of getting your heart rate elevated and pumping your muscles will help you lean up fast. I recommend picking eight or so exercises and running from one to the other with little rest between each set.

Circuit Example:
Squat
Push up
Row
Hold Plank
Jump rope for 2 minutes
Dumbbell Bicep curl and shoulder press
Dips
Lunge
—repeat—

Questions/comments? Let me know. You can find most of these exercises on YouTube.

Make sure you check with your doctor before starting an exercise routine.

There was a time when the “Wild, Wild West” was much more than a thoroughly annoying Will Smith song. (Quick: name one Will Smith song that doesn’t stick in your head, for the wrong reasons. Can’t do it, can you?) But the Wild West, for most non rapping sit-com/cheesy action movie stars meant frontier living, sleeping with whomever you wanted to, and not showering for days. You know, kind of like the parking lot at a Phish concert.

For others, the Wild West is best summed up by an obscure yet ridiculously great 1969 movie musical called, “Paint Your Wagon”. Haven’t seen it yet? Well, my friend, go ahead and add it to your Netflix list without haste, buy a cheap and perhaps lethal bottle of whiskey (Kessler, anyone?), and get ready for the surreal experience of hearing Clint Eastwood sing a song about talking to the trees, and those very same trees not listening to him. (One can easily trace Clint going nuts in “Grand Torino” to being blown off by trees.) You’ll also witness the surreal sight of Lee Marvin stomping around drunk singing a song entitled, “Whoop Ti Ay”. You must see this genuinely odd film to believe it, and I promise you, songs like “There’s A Coach Coming In” – which, sadly, has nothing to do with the long forgotten Craig T. Nelson show – will soon be on your iPod.

Then there’s Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” which many consider the ultimate Western comedy. Only Mel Brooks (with a brilliant assist from co-writer Richard Pryor) could make a classic western out of fart jokes, racism, and Dom Delouise as a gay choreographer. Forget “Young Frankenstein”, its way past time that Mel adapts this movie for the stage.

I certainly learned some of what I know about the Wild West – as well as an inordinate number of show-tunes – from both movies. But for most of my younger years, the vast majority of my western education came in the form of a traditional, gold-rush era cheeseburger called “the Motherload," mozzarella sticks wrapped in authentic, frontier-style won-tons, and an awe-inspiring salad bar which no doubt the miners ate from as they were staking their claim in 1800’s California. Who needs beans when you’ve got a light balsamic, right?

Many Jews (and a few goyum, but they’re not reading this so let’s ignore them) raised in Chicago or the north shore in the 1980’s & 1990’s know exactly what I’m talking about: the legendary Claim Company restaurant, a dining staple for Chicagoland restaurant-goers for about 25 years. First located on Clark Street near Belden, and later in both Northbrook court and the 900 N. Michigan Avenue building, I frequented the Claim Company seemingly hundreds of times with family and friends. And I wasn’t alone. Heading to Claim Company was a staple of all kinds of get-togethers: dinners with mom & dad, high school dates, and mini summer camp-reunions to name a few. With a large menu – originally displayed on gold-miner pans – Claim Company was the ideal restaurant for a kid, teenager, and young adult. The burgers were huge, the appetizers were old-school (just try finding potato skins at your local favorite restaurant these days), and the environment was unpretentious without veering into the cheesy “hey, let’s put as much vintage crap on the walls as we can find” décor which mars other similar restaurants.

As has been well documented in this blog, I tend to be a sucker for nostalgia. So when Claim Company closed its’ doors back in the late 1990’s, I was genuinely saddened. Sure, I lost about 40 pounds from no longer eating weekly “Motherloads” – Claim’s signature cheeseburger, which is usually served with a huge slice of cheese, fried onions, sautéed mushrooms, a tangy and delicious concoction called “claim sauce”, and other condiments which could give even the most healthy individual an instant stroke. But I was also heartbroken. After all, I’ve long insisted to anyone who’d listen that the fajita was actually invented by the Claim Company, despite having zero proof of this. (A lack of actual facts has never stopped me from making outrageous and unverified statements, which is a major reason I could someday host a show on FOX “News.” Hello, “Hannity & Shanoff!”)

Sure, I’ve found other, comparable restaurants in the years since Claim Company was closed, but none could hold a candle to that once-great dining experience. So imagine my surprise when one of my oldest friends – and a frequent Claim Company Companion (which is also my least favorite Marc Cohn song) – called to tell me that Claim Company would re-open at Northbrook Court after a 12 year absence. I was rightfully thrilled, and celebrated by purchasing pants two sizes larger. No, I’m not kidding.

Let me state right now that I have no vested stake in the Claim Company, lest this seem like some paid advertisement. But having been there twice since it reopened, I can safely say that anyone in their 20’s or older with fond memories of the restaurant won’t be disappointed. Two of its’ original managers are apparently in control of this new Claim Company, and they have faithfully replicated the original menu, with only a few concessions to a more healthy society. To that end, let me state that I am both equally thrilled and appalled by the addition of veggie and turkey variations of the “Motherload.”  I expected this would be like replacing Five Alive with prune juice, but a taste of the turkey “Motherload” proved nearly as flavorful as the traditional beef variation. On a completely unrelated note, I’d like to promise you that I’ll never again use the phrase “traditional beef variation” for myriad reasons, but primarily because I’m not entirely sure what it means.

Semantics aside, my return trips to the Claim Company – both within its’ first week – did not disappoint. The bar area is a great place to catch a game & have a burger, the milkshake was just as thick and delicious as it was back when Pearl Jam was relevant, and from what I was told by my dining companion, the salad bar as top notch as a salad bar can possibly be. So next time you find yourself trapped at Northbrook Court, clamoring for not only a great meal, but also a need to relive a restaurant from your formative years, you’ll know where to go. Friends of mine in our (ahem, mid) 30’s from the Latin/Parker/north shore set who grew up with the Claim Company will no doubt be thrilled, and hopefully an entire new generation of Motherload eaters (also a phrase I ought not to use again) will soon make the Claim Company part of their adolescence; not to mention their authentic introduction to the wild, wild west.

Now that the nausea has mostly subsided and the shock of having twins has been replaced by pure excitement, Mandi and I have been getting things ready for the arrival of The Winks. I’ve been thinking a lot about setting up the nursery and other logistical details. We have so many ultrasound appointments now that I’m making a scrapbook of all the ultrasound pictures. But most importantly, I’ve been thinking about what kind of life I want to create for the girls, as I imagine many new parents must do around this time. As part of my mental preparation for being a mom, I made a list of some of the hopes and dreams I have for Bug and Sprout.

Bug and Sprout, already putting their heads together

Dear Bug and Sprout,

Today you have been in my womb for 23 weeks and six days. I already love you. You can open and close your eyes and are practicing your breathing. I hope you are not kicking each other or knocking heads too often. I know there is only so much room in there.

I am waiting patiently to meet you when you’re ready to be born. Thank you for kicking me so often so that I know you are alive and well. Even without these reminders I would think about you all the time. There are many things I wish for you in your lifetime here on earth and I want to write them down so that someday you can read this for yourselves.

I hope you will have love in your life and be generous with your love.

I hope you will have a deep friendship with each other. I know you will fight sometimes. Your personalities may be complete opposites. But the two of you will have something incredibly special: someone who has been by your side since before you were born.

I hope you will love learning for your entire life. Reading is fun!

I hope you will respect other people even if they disagree with you. And I hope you stand up for yourselves and what you believe in. I hope you believe in the power of your own voice.

I hope you will become confident individuals and know that you are beautiful. This may be challenging at times, like if someone in your gymnastics class says you have a bubble butt, or if your breasts stop growing before you even realized they were there. Regardless of what your challenges are, you will be beautiful people and I hope you can overcome all the pop culture propaganda about what beauty is and truly love your bodies.

I hope you will sleep at the same times.

I hope you will know that you have two parents who love you and will do anything for you. When you are upset about not having your biological father in your life, I hope you will be patient for the day when you turn 18 and can reach out to your bio dad if you want to.

I hope you will become friends with all of your cousins who have been born in the past four months – Emmett, Tevin and Nathan. I hope you will have fun together and learn from each other, especially since you will have different religions and live in different cities.

I hope you will be proud of your Jewish heritage and at the same time learn about and respect other religions and spiritual paths.

I hope you won’t take yourselves too seriously and will enjoy making fun of yourselves. I wish you happiness and humor.

Above all, I hope you will love waking up every single day and enjoy living in this world. I can’t wait to meet you.

Love,
Mama C

I’m getting married.

The wedding will probably be mid-January; my fiancé and I are figuring that out this week. You’re all invited for the dancing. Really. It’s going to be a wild time.

At Jewish religious weddings, anyone can come and dance. You certainly don’t have to wait for an invitation. We’ll have a private meal for close friends and family, but then the dance floor will open up around 8, and as Jewish beatboxer Y-Love puts it in his song Shake it For Your Maker, “if you’ve never seen this, you’ve never seen joy in your life”. He was talking about the holiday of Sukkos, but I think it applies here as well.

We got engaged about two weeks ago, after eight weeks of dating, after knowing each other for thirteen years.

It’s a beautiful story, a good one to tell.

I was thinking about all the stories we would tell our children one day, about what life was like when we were growing up. About all the fads. Like pogs. Who could explain that? Flipping over cheap cardboard circles, for hours of high class fifth grade entertainment. Or tamagotchis. Or not owning a cell phone until I was 18. Or being perpetually lost, before the GPS was even a Hanukkah gift possibility.

I also imagine the more serious conversations we would have on lessons I learned from my mistakes.

I’d attempt to explain to my children about the world I was raised in, that was incongruously both a gluttonously “disposable culture” and yet conversely also a society obsessed with “being green”.

I would tell them that in my youth “I bought designer bottled water,” and they would look at me in utter confusion and ask- “didn’t you have clean, free, tap water?” “Yes, yes, I would answer, but we were young and foolish.” “You paid how much?,” they would laugh.

 I would tell them how my conscience at that time, desperate for rationalization, felt assured by the writing on the bottle altruistically explaining to me that by buying their product, I was somehow helping save the rainforest.

My children would look at me in the eye, my liberal, socially conscious children, and beg me to tell them that their mother didn’t really know how much of the rainforest was being cut down every day, that her “Google generation” didn’t have that information at their fingertips, that the government caught up in politically selfish motives concealed the truth from the ignorant masses.

 I’d look away, and in that silence, their question would be answered.

I was young, I would repeat . We didn’t realize.

I am young.

 I’m 25.
I’m getting married.

I’ve got things to do. I must read “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” as soon as possible. I must internalize the importance of hangers and the benefits of keeping clothes off the floor.  I must change my texting plan to unlimited. I must meditate on the steps to actualize the environment I want for my future home; a warm, grounded, thinking, and compassionate oasis.

I’m moving on in my life. Everything is dramatically changing, and I love it. I love the person my fiancé helps me become, I love working together with him on life.

I’m looking towards the future, and focusing on the practical next steps. Yet the understanding of the responsibility I will be taking on, with unlimited potential, is felt just as much as the responsibility I have to find a low-cost yet stunning antique wedding dress.

I don’t want my wedding to be the best day of my life. I want the day after the wedding to be better. And I want the day after that to be even better. And I want to look at my husband and my grown children forty years later and feel that, that day is the happiest day of my entire life.

I’m preparing for the next generation. What wisdom will I pass on? What lessons will I derive from my experiences? Will they laugh when I tell them that in my day, people paid forty thousand dollars a year to get a college certificate? Will they still drink Coca Cola? Will they be able to safely visit Jerusalem and cry at the Western Wall?

If I’ve learned anything after eight weeks of dating my fiancé it’s this: to love is to invest time- in caring, thinking, and subduing the ego. I feel even more sensitive to the preciousness and joy of existence. I feel even more acutely the impact my existence and the decisions, collectively and individually, that I must make as I move on to the next phase of my life, at last.

Halloween is quickly approaching. Do you have a costume idea yet? I don’t take Halloween very seriously. That’s why I’ve known I was going to be Liza Minnelli for the last 2 ½ months. That’s also why I’ve practiced my song and dance routine to ‘Ring Them Bells’ an hour each day. But regardless of whether you obsess over your costume or not, Halloween is a wickedly good time. Below is a collection of some of our favorite Halloween stories. Boogidy boogidy boo.

On Halloween, Anyone Can Be A Star
By Mary Gerlach

For four years I spent more time than I’m willing to admit obsessing about Halloween costumes and drinking debauchery. There are five types of Halloween costumes for girls and I’ve worn them all:

1.   2.  

1. Movie character. Freshman year I was Holly Golightly.
2. Pop culture reference. Sophomore year I was Kelly Kapowski.
3. Cute animal. Junior year I was a polar bear (here I am with Oy’s own Lindsey Bissett, my BFF).
4. Celebrity you love to hate. Senior year I was a pregnant Katie Holmes.
5. Anything sexy. I am always sexy.

3.   4.  

All solid costumes (although the Audrey homage is a little overplayed), by far the crowning jewel is Katie Holmes. Friends will always tell you your ideas are good once you’ve already put your costume on (the same goes for boyfriends on Friday night) and the standard-issue frat guy has the lowest of all quality standards. The true test of a Halloween costume is the ability to draw a crowd and come up in conversation later, and I had one ace up my scientology sleeve as Katie Holmes: my very own Tom Cruise.

Portrayed by my friend Erin Hogan, my costume was complete, and frankly without her it would have sucked. The magnetism of our combo deal wasn’t clear until she arrived at a party a half an hour after me. As I stood on the balcony, heckling Halloween party goers with a man dressed as Pooh. I heard “Katie. Katie. Katie. Tom’s here!” I turned around and there she was, the apple of my drunken, hazy eye. Erin’s wig looked amazing, her laugh was perfect and the sunglasses sealed the deal.

I imagine, much like Tom and Katie in real life, separately Erin and I would have been unimpressive that night, but together we were Halloween’s celebrity power couple. Hand-in-hand we made our way down Court Street as my Tommy protectively guided me through the crowd and warned passersby not to push me; I was his pregnant bride to be. Later, we proudly were kicked out of a bar after Erin jumped on the booth seats proclaiming her love. We slowly made our exit only stopping to flirt with two guys she knew dressed as gnomes that year.

Bob the vegan bum, not a costume BTW, told me the following Monday that a professor of his asked the class about any cool costumes they’d seen that weekend. One girl raised her hand and said “I saw two girls dressed as Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. They did a really good job.” And that’s when I knew I was a Halloween celebrity. Strangers don’t know me, but they know the celebrities I love to hate. Dreams really do come true.

Lessons I’ve Learned On Halloween
By Lindsey Bissett

1. Never let two Marines who are locked out of their friend’s house help you dye your hair with KoolAid.

2. It is possible to black out twice in one day.

3. No need to buy cups for the keg when you’ve got an abundance of mini pots and measuring cups.

4. Ex-boyfriends do not make good guests over Halloween weekend.

5. If someone meets you while you’re dressed as Patty Mayonnaise, that person will call you Patty Mayonnaise for the next five years.

6. Your night will be slightly unpleasant if you ask an annoying, but nonetheless fun, friend to dress as Warren Jeffs so you can be one of his many wives. He’ll take the role too far.

7. Roller skating with beer in hand down a brick road is more fun than you’d imagine.

8. If your mom makes your dad an M&M costume when you’re five, he’ll wear it for the next 20 years.

9. Fake blood is easy to remove from a wall months after it splattered there. Be sure to wait until moving day before cleaning up that mess.

10. Sexy grandma trumps sexy nurse any day.

Casper the Cowardly Ghost
By Morgan McNaught

My friend’s brother, Clayton, went as Casper the friendly ghost because his last name was Casper, but he was too afraid of the mask to wear it. Needless to say, no one had any idea who he was supposed to be dressed as. When we went to one door, and they didn’t know who he was and then gave him money instead of candy, he shouted, “I hate you, you look like a gerbil!” The woman was hard of hearing, and couldn’t understand what he said. We explained that he wanted to buy a gerbil with the money. She really liked the idea, but said we should ask his mom first.

For a recent article I wrote for Triblocal, I interviewed a Jewish couple living in Highland Park that is about as nontraditional as it gets.

The two met later in life after previous marriages, already had their own children and are now enjoying their marriage of only about five years.

The husband is an African American male who converted to Judaism in his 30s; the wife was born Jewish and scarcely identified with her roots.

Together, they’ve found Judaism in perhaps an unusual place—a comic book.

Chicago native Aaron Freeman is an author, blogger, public radio personality and stand-up comedian. Some of his routines have taken on Jewish significance, such as his involvement with a traveling show called The Israeli/Palestinian Comedy Tour.

His wife and Glencoe native Sharon Rosenzweig is a painter and printmaker who has recently taken to being a cartoonist.

For those of you loyal Oy! readers who are scratching your heads and wondering why something sounds familiar, Oy! blogger Jane Charney actually wrote about Freeman once before. In her article, “Torah Tales,” Charney discussed Freeman’s performance work as a Torah maven, or storyteller/translator of Biblical Hebrew into vernacular. I am going to focus on another of Freeman’s Jewish endeavors.

Freeman discovered the program called Comic Life on his computer and in three years, he and Rosenzweig have joined forces and decided to make a graphic novel of the Torah called “The Comic Torah, Re-imagining the Very Good Book.”

Each week they went through translations of the weekly Torah portion and together developed a two-page comic based on their discussions of the portion. They would post it to their Web site and sent it out to a list serve comprised of friends and interested parties.

Rosenzweig said the project even evolved into thematic Shabbat dinners with friends based on the portion they had completed.

Rosenzweig said being with Freeman has given her second chance at being a Jew.

She explained that growing up, she didn’t identify with the religion. She married a non-Jewish man and “shelved it.”  It was only after her divorce that she realized she and her daughter might have been missing out, she added.

“I had been doing Jewish studies in college and it really seemed intriguing and wonderful, but not without a community,” Rosenzweig said. “I didn’t know how to do it. So, I just really put it away.”

When she got divorced, she said her daughter complained about her own lack of exposure to the religion.

“My daughter said the worst thing I had done to her was to not give her a Jewish education and that the other kids complained about how boring Hebrew school was, but they didn’t know what it was like not to be in class.”

Rosenzweig said she took her seriously and enrolled her in a program.

“I went with her and I re-kindled my interest, which was really just dormant,” she said.

She synagogue hopped and found a community of her own, and her interest grew even more after meeting Aaron.

Once they began their comic book, their lives began to revolve around Torah, Rosenzweig said.

Rosenzweig and Freeman said they spent their weekends mulling over text and translations. They took their job very seriously. But, they also had fun with it.

In earlier versions of their comics, for instance, Pharaoh was George Bush and the Egyptian magicians were Rumsfield and Cheney. Even Obama made it in there.

Rosenzweig said some of the timely insertions were removed when they got more serious about making a book of the work.

However, they left in other elements, such as personifying the holy land as a woman, whom some may recognize as Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty.

The God character, called Yhwh—a phonetic translation of the Hebrew word—looks a lot like Rosenzweig, she admitted. And Moses has a strong resemblance to Freeman. Some of their friends also have small appearances in their version of the Bible.

Marc Slutsky is the president of Aitz Hayim Center for Jewish Living of the North Shore, the congregation to which the couple belongs and where Freeman performs his maven work.

Slutsky said Torah has to be modern for it to have value.

For Jews in the generation after the Holocaust, when centers of Jewish culture were wiped out and populations were reduced, they felt the need to hold on to what was lost, he said.

But, for a culture to survive, it has got to use the tools of the culture to speak to the problems faced today, Slutsky said. The Torah, for instance, could be used to discuss modern issues such as medical ethics or dealing with children.

“Jews have always been interpretive with regard to the Bible,” Slutsky said. “Torah has a way of saying, ‘Let’s put this in a broader perspective.’”

When I asked Freeman what response he hoped others would have to his work, his answer reflected a desire for continued dialogue.

“The best thing that would happen is they would see this and they’d go, ‘What? This is nonsense. I can write a better Torah than that,’” Freeman said. “And they’ll do it. And then we’ll get to look at theirs.”

Freeman and Rosenzweig haven’t published their comic book yet. They’re working with a small publishing company in New Jersey called Ben Yehudah Press. The company can’t afford color printing. The couple is soliciting donations on a site called Kickstarter.com. The couple has the goal to raise $12,000 in 90 days by Nov. 18. If they don’t meet the goal by that date, none of the pledges made will be charged through the site. For more information, go to  www.thecomictorah.com .

It’s been a busy few months for me.  And for Khloe Kardashian.  It seems like we have a lot in common.  Khloe moved to Miami and started taping a new reality show.  I moved to Evanston and entered the business school world of theme parties.  I have nearly half a dozen friends and colleagues who are pregnant, and of course, Khloe’s sister Kourtney is knocked up with her dead beat boyfriend’s love child.

David and I knew each other for almost five years when we got married, dating for three and a half of them.  Khloe and Lamar Odom got married after dating for thirty days.  We registered at Bed Bath and Beyond.  For a shocker, check out the newlywed’s registry.  E! footed the bill for the Kardashian/Odom wedding and OK magazine paid the newlyweds $300,000 for the photo exclusive.  Mom and Dad Friedson had exclusive rights to the bills from our not-quite-as-lavish affair.

Today is my two year wedding anniversary, and it’s Khloe’s…ten day anniversary?  Proportionally, we are at the same stage of our relationship.  OK – so maybe we don’t really don’t have much in common.  I’ve never had a DUI and my husband is not an Olympian, an NBA big shot, or a multi-millionaire.

But from one not-so-newlywed to another, I have a few words of advice for you, Khloe:

Marriage is hard.  Don’t get me wrong – it’s also wonderful.  But it’s not something to be taken lightly.  And it’s hard enough when you live under the same roof, much less commuting between L.A. and Miami.  Maybe next season should be called Khloe Returns to L.A.

Holy matrimony needs to be less focused on the glamorous details of wedding cakes and bridesmaids dresses and more on shared goals.   It’s important to be sure you’re on the same wavelength about things like money, children, and…in the world of celebrity relationships especially, fidelity.  Make sure to keep communication lines open and talk about everything, even the hard things.

Amy Adams said it right in the most amazing chick flick of all time ( Enchanted , obviously): “How does she know that you love her?  How do you show her you love her?”  Love and marriage isn’t about saying “I love you” when you leave the house or when you’re ending a phone conversation.   For a lasting union, you have to find ways to show your spouse how much you love him through your actions as much as your words.  Khloe, this means cheering for the Lakers and being supportive when Lamar has a bad game, taking care of him if he’s hurt, and finding unique ways to surprise him with things you know will make him happy.  (And definitely share this paragraph with Lamar.)

One of the hardest things to get used to about married life is that relationships aren’t always 50/50.  Your paychecks won’t always cover equal halves of the expenses (especially since Mr. Odom is pulling $33 million over the next 4 years – I highly doubt reality TV paychecks are quite that big!), your husband may not be so great at doing the dishes, and you may not love doing most of the laundry – that is, if celebrities like you two even have to deal with household chores.  Sometimes one person will be doing more of the traveling to see the other or picking up the phone more often – while planes and phones work both ways, they don’t have to work evenly.

Finally, when times get rough, as I’m sure they will – especially for the two of you, remember why you love him and what made you want to get married in the first place (besides all the exposure to the media, of course).

As originally posted on JTA:

An episode of the dark Fox comedy Family Guy took a Jewish turn this week when Lois discovers she is Jewish.

The L.A. Jewish Journal reports:

This second episode of the season, written by Mark Hentemann, begins with a geektastic “Super Friends” parody opener and then meanders through some flat gags about Peter falling in love with a Kathy Ireland cutout before moving on to a mostly sharp-witted Jewish plot. As can happen in “Family Guy,” the script’s humor takes a few mean-spirited, dark turns, including one gag that only a white supremacist could love –- shooting at Jews.The Jewish plotline begins when a breast cancer scare leads Lois (voiced by Jewish actress Alex Borstein) to discover that her mother, Barbara Pewterschmidt, is a Holocaust survivor who gave up her Judaism to help her husband get into country clubs (“It was the right thing to do, dear,” Mrs. Pewterschmidt says).

“So Grandma Hebrewberg is actually Jewish?!” Lois asks.

“Yes, when she moved to America, her family changed their name. It was originally Hebrewbergmoneygrabber,” her mother says.

“Family Goy” includes the brief return of Jewish accountant Max Weinstein, the titular character from the episode “When You Wish Upon a Weinstein,” who reassures Lois she doesn’t need to change her life. (Another returning “Weinstein” character: the congregational rabbi voiced by Ben Stein.)

Peter embraces his wife’s Jewish heritage—donning a tallit, kippah and Star of David necklace (chest hair included), and changing his name to “Chhhhhhhh.” When Lois objects, Peter complains, “Leave it to a Jew to take all the fun out of being a Jew.” His enrolling the kids in day school is good for a few laughs, along with his pushing Lois to dress frum in the bedroom to turn him on and, wanting to be humiliated, says, “Tell me I don’t earn as much as your friend’s husband.”

While celebrating Sukkot this week, I found myself rethinking what the symbols and rituals of the Fall harvest holiday have to teach us throughout the rest of our year. If you pause to think about these rituals for a bit, they may seem a little odd:  We are commanded to build a hut-like structure, dwell in it, and invite guests to join us. We are then told to shake together a citron and a bunch of dead branches in different directions. When you put it that way, these rituals sound more than just a little bit strange. And, yet many of us take much joy in celebrating this holiday, so it must be important and worthwhile, right?

Following Yom Kippur, a period of introspection and repentance, we are now ready for a period of renewal and redefinition. The sukkah itself is a symbol of  extending our home and of creating a safe space outside of where we normally reside. If we think about this in its symbolic form, we can begin to evaluate how safe we feel, and how safe we make others feel, in the spaces we inhabit throughout our lives--like the places we go to work, worship, study, relax, and entertain ourselves. Of course, for all of us, what defines these places and who we share them with are all very different. Today, we should stop and evaluate whether or not we are following the commandment of creating a sukkat sh'lomecha, a shelter of peace, in these places where everyone should feel comforted—not only by the strength of the walls surrounding us (clearly lacking in a sukkah), but by the good nature we establish in the human bonds we create.

The shaking of the etrog and the lulav traditionally serves as a remembrance that God is everywhere, since we shake these symbols in all directions.  However, I propose we think about this as a symbol of the way we position ourselves and direct our own interactions at those who surround us.  In Hebrew, this is known as kavannah, literally meaning "direction," and the intentions we have and the way we develop them.  The idea of kavannah is rooted in choice, and how we choose to direct ourselves at others who surround us is a key element we can extract from this symbol.  When we take the lulav and etrog into our sukkah and look around as we are surrounded by our guests, maybe we are really commanded to put aside our differences and the things which segment our communities.  We then look up through our temporary roof and see the great sky stretched out above us and recognize that we are all here and in this together, huddled within our temporary confines, living out our holy, yet also ever-temporary lives. 

When we leave the sukkah to return to our regular everyday existence—back to our normal patterns, now once again surrounded by much stronger, familiar walls—all we are left with is the experience we had during the holiday season.  If we have truly harvested this experience, we can walk away from the sukkah and allow it to continue to nourish us for the year to come.  We can continue to challenge ourselves to move beyond the ordinary and to build a constant sanctuary of peace forever. 

Chagim u'zmanim l'sasson.  May this festival season be one of great joy for all of you

When we first moved to America, my dad threw his equal-opportunity-bigot weight around. Mostly it involved not letting my then 12-year-old sister’s first American friend come over because she was, God forbid, Indian-American. If you didn’t look like him, think like him, act like him, you didn’t have a place at his table. (Imagine the brain aneurism my dad almost had when, at 16, my sister came out as a lesbian and began dating a classmate, a relationship that lasted more than 2 years.)

I rebelled against his bigoted attitude. I became friends with all the “wrong people” – the black kids and the Muslim kids and the Asian kids and the Quakers and the Protestants. In fact, only one close friend in my circle was actually Russian and Jewish, like me. Admittedly, Russian Jews were pretty scarce in my suburban Cincinnati high school. And though I did go to Jewish Sunday school and, surprisingly, loved it, I was never more than friendly acquaintances with my friends there.

I guess dad is having the last laugh now, though. While I keep in touch with some of my very diverse group from high school, hardly anyone among my close friends now was born in the States. Most of the people who regularly come to my house, the people whose birthdays I celebrate, speak Russian and are mostly Jewish. My one really close American friend is a self-proclaimed lapsed Catholic, and she’s an honorary Jew anyway because of her incredible patience and curiosity toward all the weird Jew traditions I can wax poetic about. And because I work for a Jewish organization, at work I’m surrounded by Jews, too! Nothing wrong with that picture of course: I carefully picked both my friends and my workplace.

Still, lately I have noticed that I rarely venture beyond the “safe zone.” I feel quite at home with the Russian, the singing to guitar till all hours of the night, the random get-togethers that turn into hours-long discussions about life, the old movies and modern improv comedy shows from Russia.

For the past several years, I’ve been very involved in the whole Russian Jew thing. I’ve gone to programs and led programs about Russian Jewish identity and even helped start an organization for Russian-speaking Jews in Chicago. I enjoy being part of this community and exploring all the ways Russian-speaking Jews fit into the puzzle of American society.

But I refuse to turn into my dad. He’s the kind of person who says he’s not allowed to go to Israel because of his burning hatred toward Arabs and of what he might do once he gets there. I refuse to turn into someone who doesn’t want to hear new, different perspectives or into someone who judges people’s intellectual abilities based on their country of origin or the color of their skin.

In some distant future I’d like to be able to talk honestly to my children about race and religion and diversity. I want to show them diversity in all its glory through the people around them rather than invoking that eternal principle of parenting, “do as I say not as I do.” And in my current bubble, I don’t think I can. So it’s time for the bubble to burst.

In the spirit of the New Year, I’ve decided this is going to be my quest for 5770. While I love my friends and my job, I want to add to my circle and hear new things, meet new people. I feel a little bit as a newly singly woman who is unsure of how to pursue the next love interest – a feeling I haven’t experienced in more than eight years. The question today is where do I find these engaging people? Is there a JDate for friends? Actually, in my case make that a match.com or E-harmony for friends, right?

This past weekend, in between going to shul and fasting, I managed to move apartments.  Yet again.  This time it was different—I know I’ve said this before, but I am really done moving.  I have to be.  It’s permanent, because I bought a condo with my boyfriend.  I needed a way to put an end to the madness of moving every year for the past EIGHT years and buying just seemed the way to go.  Plus, the Obama first- time homebuyer tax incentive didn’t hurt either.  I’m officially a retired serial mover.  But this story isn’t really about becoming a home owner.

Even though I’m all moved in, I stayed at my boyfriend’s old place last night since the cable hasn’t been hooked up yet and The Hills was premiering.  I hate staying at Jason’s house during the week because my commute to work on the brown line is double the length.  Plus this particular morning I’d forgotten my book and was definitely not getting a seat.  This left me with plenty of time to think on the long train ride into the city.  I began counting up all the different public transportation routes I’ve taken over the years to get to work—and they are as plentiful as my apartments.

So I’m deep in thought, balancing my body on the now jam-packed train when I keep getting interrupted by the sound of coughing from the girl sitting in the row in front of me.  Now I don’t mean a cough here or there cause “my allergies are bad” or “I’m getting a cold,” I mean “I’m about to die or at least hack up a mucus-filled lung” kind of coughing.  And it didn’t stop the whole way from Southport to Washington/Wells.  Ugh, I’m grossed out all over again just writing this.

Does it really need to be pointed out, that if you’re so sick you can barely stop hacking for 40 minutes straight you probably shouldn’t be on the L?!  For the sake of those around you, stay home in bed so we don’t catch your illness and die too.  And if you have to go into work, can’t you at least take a cab?!  I mean, really.  Sick girl, you didn’t look like a member of the tribe, but if per chance you happen to read this, then please heed my advice and stay off the L when you’re sick.  It’s just not cool.  If I get sick tomorrow because of you, I can guarantee I won’t be riding the L and putting others through my misery.

Sick girl got me thinking about all the nasty, rude, unfortunate experiences I’ve had on the CTA in the past four years—from the Lake Shore Drive buses to the Blue Line, I’ve pretty much ridden them all.  I’m just amazed by the lack of civility people show one another these days.  (I know we’ve got Congressmen yelling at presidents during national addresses in Congress, so I guess I don’t know why I expect anything better, but it still makes me very sad.)

I’ve put together a list of what I consider to be the top 10 pet peeves about riding public transportation.  I borrowed some of these from others’ experiences; feel free to add any of your own to the mix.  My hope is we can all practice following these rules so that when the Chicago Olympics rolls around in 2016 (fingers crossed) and we have a new fangled CTA system (fingers double crossed) we will all know how to behave with proper decorum reflective of our first class city.

1. Don’t get up while the bus or L is in motion and expect someone to let go of the pole because you are in such a rush.  The train or bus will stop and you will have plenty of time to exit.  You don’t need to make someone else fall because you can’t wait.

2. Most people know to give up their seats for a pregnant person (just make sure they are really pregnant) but do people really need to be told not to push pregnant people out of the way so they can board the train faster?  I know someone who was 8½ months pregnant when she was pushed into a snow bank by a man in a hurry to board the train.  Not cool.

3. Walk all the way to the back of the bus!  Don’t just stop at the stairs.

4. Please stop with the inappropriate and loud conversations about how drunk you got on Saturday night or who you went home with, no one wants to hear them especially Monday morning on the way to work.

5. Likewise, try to maintain your personal space with cell phone conversations.  We’re all guilty of it, but just try to not broadcast the results of your latest pap smear to everyone around you.

6. Sometimes shorter people can’t reach the tall handles, switch places with them so they can grab a pole.

7. This one is targeted towards the drivers who won’t wait for you to run to catch the bus even in the dead of winter or even better completely ignore you at the stop and drive right past.

8. Be patient when the back door doesn’t open.  Continually pushing on it won’t make it open any faster it’ll just set the siren off.

9. Be aware of how you smell.  Enough said.

10. Finally, if you’re sick, just stay off the bus!

Hey there Oy!sters-

So, we admit things are a bit slow here this week because of the holidays, so in lieu of something intellectually stimulating, and in honor of the news that Beyonce will be performing in Israel this January, we’ve decided to share with you this video of an adorable and talented baby dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.”

Enjoy and happy hump day!

You could say that brothers Zach and Josh Sharpe have both been pinball wizards since they each were born. Originally from New York City, the Sharpes moved to Arlington Heights in 1988 after their dad, Roger Sharpe, took a job with Williams/Bally Midway - the world's largest pinball manufacturer at the time. Roger Sharpe has been in the pinball industry since the 70s, designing games for a number of different companies, writing a book on the game, and even testifying to help legalize pinball in New York back in 1976, which led to pinball being legalized in Chicago and Los Angeles!
 
Both Josh and Zach went to the University of Illinois in Champaign—older brother Josh to study accounting (he is currently the Controller for Raw Thrills, Inc., a company that makes video games) and Zach to study marketing (he has worked in the advertising/marketing world ever since). In the pinball world, they are the President and Vice President of the International Flipper Pinball Association. They created the World Pinball Player Rankings back in 2006 which tracks hundreds of pinball competitions from around the world in over 20 countries, using a point system to rank players based on their performance.
 
Josh lives in Palatine with his wife, Amanda and Zach lives in Arlington Heights.

So if you like pinball, guys who look like Jason Biggs or hanging out with Diane Sawyer, the Sharpe brothers are two Jews you should know!

1. What is your favorite blog or website?
Josh: www.ifpapinball.com!
Zach: www.pinballrankings.com

2. If time and money were limitless, where would you travel?
Josh: With over 100 IFPA endorsed pinball tournaments held each year, it would be awesome to try and hit as many as I could for a year.
Zach: I'd love to travel and set foot in every single country in the world while eating/drinking the best delicacy that each country has to offer...and of course competing in any pinball tournament that is taking place.

3. If a movie was made about your life, who would play you?
Josh: Jason Biggs from the first American Pie would be pretty good. I've been known to change between "Cool hip Josh" and "Laid back Josh".
Zach: The easy answer would be Brad Pitt, but for realistic purposes I'd go with Jason Biggs, someone who could pull off sarcasm with a touch of self-deprecating humor.

4. If you could have a meal with any two people, living or dead, famous or not, who would they be? Where would you eat or what would you serve?
Josh: The meals I enjoy the most are the ones with Zach and our friend Brian. The three of us enjoy a nice celebratory meal following the completion of any big tournament we've run. Anytime we have one of those, it means something just went really well!
Zach: While Josh's answer is pretty spot on, there wouldn't be any fun having the same response so why not… Albert Einstein and Tiger Woods, that'd be an interesting pair to eat Chicago style pizza with.

5. What’s your idea of the perfect day?
Zach: Waking up without the use of an alarm clock, followed by some sort of physical activity (golf, working out, pinball tournament), at some point watching a good movie or TV show to relax, sprinkle in an amazing breakfast/lunch/dinner to the equation and finally going out with friends at night.  All of this would take plus during a sunny, non-cloudy 77 degree weather day.
Josh: Eighteen holes of golf, followed by winning a pinball tournament.

6. What do you love about what you do?
Josh: It's so enjoyable to get to compete at such a high level in something. To know that this group of players is the BEST at what we are doing brings a certain level of excitement to the action.
Zach: I've always been a big fan of doing what you love and what makes you happy in life.  With a competitive fire that will probably never go away, it's exciting to compete all over the world in something I love to do (and happen to be good at).

Zach working some pinball magic

7. What job would you have had if not the one you have now?
Josh: I was lucky enough to combine my education (CPA) with my hobby (coin-operated amusement games). Most likely I would have another accounting job in a much less exciting field. If I had to change fields entirely, I always thought being a math teacher would be fun.
Zach: If I did not end up in the world of advertising I'd say in another life I'd be an artist; painting, drawing and sculpting for a living.

8. What’s your favorite Jewish thing to do in Chicago?
Zach: Of course it's food related, but nothing quite beats a fresh corned beef sandwich with a huge bowl of matzo ball soup from an authentic Jewish deli.
Josh: Tuesday at Kaufmann's in Skokie has $2 off sandwiches, and their corned beef is amazing. Between corned beef and saving money, I can't think of anything more Jewish!

Are you going out Saturday night – during the 10 Days of Awe? You wouldn’t believe how many sins you commit just at a bar on a weekend night. Luckily for you, Yom Kippur begins Sunday night, so there’s still time!

If you’re having trouble relating to the Machzor, print this out and carry it with you to services. (Disclaimer: This prayer was not sanctioned by a Rabbi or God.)

Ashamnu
For the sin of drinking too much, embarrassing your friends, and ending up stumbling home alone only to throw up.

Bagadnu
For the sin of not visiting a sick relative or helping out a friend and instead doing something worthless like watching “Dancing With the Stars.”

Gazalnu
For the sin of stealing from the hot bar at Whole Foods … for saying you’re awesome at something you have no idea how to do …for the sin of being a wing man, talking to the other girl so my friend can hook up with her friend, even though I have no interest in the girl and hence have wasted her time.

Debarnu Dofi
For the sin of getting upset when a romantic interest treats you poorly, and then treating your next romantic interest just as badly.

Hevinu
For the sin of spilling something and not cleaning it up because you are in a hurry and no one saw you.

Vahirshanu
For the sin of goading someone into getting into a conflict with someone else.  “She was totally into you until X started talking to her. He always does that.”

Zadnu
For the sin of stealing that cool beer mug.

Chamuasnu
For the sin of road rage or for the sin of pushing your way onto the train and shoving someone else out of the way so you can get on and not have to wait in the cold.

Tafalnu Sheker
For the sin of saying “I’ll be there” when you know very well you won’t be.

Yatznu Ra
For the sin of advising a friend to do what feels good instead of what is right.

Kizavnu
For being on a committee just to have your name on the invitation and not actually participating in any of the volunteer work.

Latznu
For the sin of calling someone a slut or a male whore.

Maradnu
For the sin of bringing the bottle of red wine to the party that was sitting on your shelf for a year instead of the white wine your friend asked you to get that goes with the meal. Red? White? What’s the difference?

Niatznu
For the sin of instead of issuing a sincere apology when you have wronged someone, you make excuses as to why is it his fault or tell him, “I’m sorry you were upset,” instead of admitting to wrongdoing.

Sararnu
For the sin of bailing out of jury duty.  For the sin of not voting.

Avinu
For the sin of not filtering and saying something hurtful and not helpful.

Peshanu
For the sin of not giving a dollar or food to a homeless person because you already give charity that is tax deductable.

Tzararnu
For the sin of even though you may have had your eye on that guy first, sending that nasty email to an acquaintance telling her to go to hell.

Kishinu Oref
For the sin of refusing to recognize the point of view of a friend with opposite political beliefs.

Rishanu
For the sin of being a jerk because you are in a bad mood.

Shichatnu
For the sin of not telling a sexual partner the truth about your sexual history.

Tainu
For the sin of not getting up from a seat on the El for someone who could probably use the seat more than you. For the sin of driving way too fast.

Tiatanu
For the sin of telling an unsubstantiated rumor about someone.

Now you know why services are so long! Luckily you have your community to lean on. Kol Nidre doesn’t use the word “I” once. It speaks in the plural: “Our and We.” So during services, look around the room and don’t think of it as being in a room of sinners, think of it as being in a room of repenters.

Happy repenting and have an easy fast.

My teenager is not keeping up her end of the bargain. During her senior year in high school, she is supposed to be so obnoxious that we cannot wait to ship her off to college. The truth is, she is a joy to be around. And I have no idea what I am going to do with myself when she’s gone.

Being a working mom is kind of an all-or-nothing proposition. Right now, “multi-task” is my middle name. I can bake brownies while editing a fundraising script, drive a car pool while devising a marketing strategy and plan Thanksgiving dinner during a conference call.

Last week, my friend made the mistake of asking what my plans were for that evening. As I rattled off my schedule, he looked at me and asked:  “Do you ever, you know, just chill?”

I admitted that I do not.

Here’s how it goes down:  I am preparing to leave the house with time to spare when my daughter produces a ream of permission slips that must be signed—and reminds me that she needs separate checks made out for each. I barely make the train, and plow through my morning. I plan to go to the farmer’s market at lunch, but then a young colleague asks if I will meet with her to talk about grad school. How can I tell her no, when I know what it’s like to need a mentor? Afternoon is busy but uneventful. I am halfway out the door to take an early train when a friend calls and asks me to recommend her for a free-lance job.

When I finally make it home, as I am cooking dinner, Amvets calls to ask if I have any items to donate (not now), Hubbard Street calls to ask if I want tickets (ditto) and another choir mom calls to ask if I’ll bring snacks to a school event (okay). During dinner, my husband reminds me that he has a rehearsal and needs to leave in a few minutes. He asks me to find the proofs for Jenna’s senior portrait so he can show them to his friends. After he’s out the door I deal with the dishes and several work e-mails and am pedaling away on the exercise bike when the daughter calls to tell me rehearsal is letting out early. I jump into the shower and get her, and make it home in time for Top Chef, my weekly guilty pleasure. This is my official Down Time! Except…five minutes after the show begins, Jenna asks me to test her on Spanish vocabulary during commercial breaks. I finally bite her head off, telling her to wait until 10 and let me watch my show in peace.

So let’s not engrave that Mother of the Year Award just yet. This is the downside of being on full throttle, at least for me. I periodically snap. And I don’t know how to sit and just “be.” It seems that whenever I try, the phone rings.

What does a woman have to do to get some peace and quiet?
 
I guess I should be careful what I wish for: Next year, I’m going to go from having no time for myself to having only time for myself. I will be able to read and watch TV and work out and cook to my heart’s content. But when the phone stops ringing, I know I will miss it. Just as I will miss the days when Jenna burst in needing to talk just as I was in the bathtub shaving my legs.

How long do I have to wait for grandchildren?

In preparation for Rosh Hashanah this year, I baked two plain round challahs and an apple one, set out the Shabbat candles and checked to make sure we have enough wine to sanctify the holiday, just as people across the Jewish world were doing. But rather than go to services, my husband and I packed all the supplies into a backpack, gathered our sleeping bags and tent, and set out to Sky High Camp near Portage, Wis., for the Rosh Hashanah weekend.

That’s because this year, another tradition happened to fall at the same time as Rosh Hashanah: the KSP (klub samodeiatel’noi’ pesni – or the club for amateur song in Russian), a four-times-a-year Russian singer-songwriter festival and camp-out. Some friends from the Russian Moishe House – a grassroots community center catering toward the twenty-something post-college Jewish crowd – and I decided to combine to the two events in a nod to our Russian-Jewish heritage. About 15 of us plopped our tents next to about 100 other KSP participants – children and adults, semi-professional singers and lovers of music who prefer to listen rather than participate.

After lighting Shabbat candles, making Kiddush, and saying the Motzi over home-made honey whole wheat round challah on Friday night, we sat by the campfire singing familiar tunes with fellow amateur songwriters and guitar players. Although our homemade song books include some Jewish songs, favorite songs from the heyday of Russian rock dominated the night.

But rather than devoting Saturday to sleeping off the previous night, our small group made our way to Devil’s Lake for a celebratory Rosh Hashanah program. The air was saturated with the smell of pine needles as we climbed into the rocky hills above the lake. Before reaching the very top, we found a small overlook just off the path and settled for an hour of discussion and contemplation. No one in the group is a rabbi or even a Jewish educator, but our common interest in Jewish learning brought us together.

We started with the basics: What’s Rosh Hashanah? Why do Jews around the world celebrate it? What do we say on Rosh Hashanah? As simple as these questions sounds, some among our group had never thought about them before.

The goal of Rosh Hashanah is to look inward, to see where we missed the mark, to figure out how we can be the best version of ourselves in the next year. That’s exactly what we did as we read Yehuda Amichai’s poem “A man in his life” and Jack Riemer’s interpretation on Unetaneh Tokef, one of the central prayers of the Rosh Hashanah service. Together, we learned what Rosh Hashanah is about – the birthday of the world and the symbolic “soul check.”

As Jews from the former Soviet Union, we did not grow up with the tradition of celebrating Rosh Hashanah or fasting on Yom Kippur or lighting Chanukah candles or breaking matzah at Pesach. But celebrations that include both our Russian cultural traditions and new ways to do Jewish make us realize that Jewish tradition has a place in our lives despite our largely secular-cultural stance toward Judaism and Jewishness.

Spencer Tweedy is a pretty cool kid—and not just because his dad is Jeff Tweedy, lead singer of Wilco, an alternative rock band based in Chicago. Though he’s only 13, Spencer already has several significant accomplishments under his belt. He started playing the drums at age two, started his first band at age six and now plays with the band Tully Monster. On his 13th birthday, Spencer was dubbed “boy genius” by Rolling Stone magazine after he got to perform a killer drum solo Madison Square Garden during a concert featuring Wilco and Neil Young—not your typical bar mitzvah celebration, but pretty awesome.

Lucky for Spencer, he did have a very special and significant bar mitzvah—not every kid can say they got to share their bar mitzvah with their blind grandfather. Spencer chose to document his bar mitzvah in a blog he calls “All About Mitzvah” where he explains why he chose to donate a portion of his bar mitzvah gifts to charity. Spencer also writes several other thought-provoking blogs, including “Spencer Tweedy’s Blog,” where he writes about politics, music, social action and general stuff that’s going on his life. He also uses his blogs to share one of his other passions—photography.

To top off an incredible 13th year, Spencer was named one of JVibe, the magazine for Jewish teens, “18 under 18,” an award honoring extraordinary teens, and he is nominated as a hero in the United Jewish Communities’ (UJC) Jewish Community Heroes campaign. Check out other locally nominated heroes here at Oy!

Oy!’s Stefanie Pervos caught up with Spencer this month to talk music, blogging and bar mitzvahs:

Stefanie Pervos: How does Judaism play a role in your life today?
Spencer Tweedy: My family belongs to a Reform temple where Sammy (my little brother) and I go to Sunday School and Hebrew school. I had my bar mitzvah there in May and it was absolutely amazing!

I know you love music and have been playing drums since you were two years old. What’s it like having a famous musician for a dad?
Music to me is a lot of things. It's a form of art, but really I think it's an awesome, awesome way to express yourself and share emotions and communicate with other people. Both of my parents played huge roles in me becoming a musician and are both really involved in the music industry.

What made you start blogging? How does your Judaism influence your blogging?
At first, my blog began about two years ago as a random writing outlet. I'd post school language assignments, articles I'd written. I was really into this "child-professionalism/entrepreneur" thing, and that's what kind of got me started on blogging. Then, just last winter a Wilco fan emailed me a link to another teen's blog, Style Rookie. I'm not into fashion, but seeing Tavi's – who I'm now friends with – writing really, really helped me realize a whole 'nother side of blogging, and one that I like a lot more. Now I write mostly about my life and what's going on, with posts about other things (music, photography). And I love it.

Why do you blog? What’s your message?
I blog because it's an outlet for my writing and a way to express myself. Aaand it's fun! I've met so many awesome people through blogging—it's just great. I don't think of myself as having a particular message. I'm really proud that in a lot of emails I get (mostly from adults – I think most of my readers are adults) people are inspired that there are kids like me "out there" and that it gives them hope. And that's my message really, I guess.

What was it like to share your bar mitzvah experience with your grandpa? What made you decide to donate a portion of your gift money?
Aaah my bar mitzvah was the best I could have asked for. If you haven't heard the story, my grandfather was too poor to have a bar mitzvah as a child and didn't even have enough money to continue his Jewish education, so it was really cool to see him become a bar mitzvah – in his 70s. He's also blind, which made training a little more difficult. But he did it and it was great! As for the money: It's custom for (people celebrating their) b'nai mitzvahs in our temple to donate a portion of their bar mitzvah cash to an organization. For mine, I chose Direct Effect Charities, which helps children in-need living in Chicago.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
I would like to be a musician and a writer, and take photos as well.

Who is your biggest inspiration?
Hmm…Well, I think it kind of depends on what I'm talking about. In general, I think it would be my parents because they're the biggest role models in my life. I think they've done a pretty sweet job of raising my brother and I. Aside from us being pretentious brats, you know.

How did it feel to be named one of JVibe’s 18 under 18?
It was awesome! I'm really proud about it.

And what does it mean to you to be nominated as a Jewish Community Hero?
I have to admit, I was (am) really surprised to be acknowledged as a "Jewish community hero." I don't really think of myself as a hero by any means – especially after reading other nominee's profiles. There are people on there [the website] the have started up organizations, raised millions of dollars.. And then you go to my page and it's like, "I blog." Haha. Regardless it was an honor. :)

What’s next for you?
High school! Education! Music!

Hopefully everyone had a nice Rosh Hashanah celebration.  My dad sent me an email over the holiday weekend with the following images and captions.  It was forwarded many times and I’m not sure who created it.  In any case, I thought it was a creative and touching way to commemorate the high holidays…  Enjoy!

  

 May you enjoy your apples and honey. 

  

 May you find it easy to give and receive. 

  

 May you know when to surrender, and do so with grace. 

  

 May you remember that some people's lives are parched dry...
and be grateful for the abundance in yours.

  

 May you find beauty in unexpected places. 

  

 May you carry your loads with ease amid sweetness. 

  

 May you learn and teach well. 

  

 May you move with as much joy and ease as you can. 

  

 May your home be filled with fresh air and light. 

  

 May your tense and angry times be short-lived... 

  

 so that you come back quickly to your comfortable ol' self. 

  

 May you be startled and delighted by new beginnings. 

  

 May you find your uniqueness. 

  

 May you play with friends. 

 And hear beautiful music. 

  

 May you come to the surface for air when you need it. 

  

 May you take exquisite care of yourself. 

  

 And may everything that hurts you also be a little funny. 

Well, my friends, a new year is upon us. Celebrations are inevitable: reunions with old friends and familiar temple-going faces, parties to break the fast, and prospects of starting with a clean slate. But how much celebration is allowed? And what exactly constitutes a holy celebration? In this installment, I will be exploring the question of whether or not consuming alcohol is considered holy, or even allowed, in the eyes of the Jewish faith.

To begin, there are an abundance of both positive and negative references to alcohol and, more specifically to wine, throughout the Old Testament and even in our rabbinic traditions. In ancient times, every sacrifice offered in the Holy Temple was accompanied by a wine libation. Because wine is considered to be the "king of beverages," the rabbis coined a special blessing to be recited exclusively on wine: the Hagafen blessing. Jews use wine for kiddush and havdallah on Shabbat and Jewish holidays. Many, many mitzvot are accompanied by a cup of wine. Blessings are recited on a cup of wine beneath the chupah (wedding canopy), at a circumcision, at a Pidyon Haben (the "Redemption of a Firstborn Son"), and let's not forget the four cups of wine we drink at the Passover seder! However, there are some pretty ugly stories as well. According to an opinion expressed in the Talmud, the Tree of Knowledge was actually a grapevine, believing that it was the fruit of the vine that tripped up Adam and Eve, causing them and their descendents untold hardship and misery. Nadav and Abihu, Aaron's two holy sons, entered the Holy of Holies while drunk, and were instantly consumed by fire.

When I asked some Jewish experts about this topic, I had a few different responses. Many pointed to the passages in the Bible about the negative effect of wine on the body and the insignificance of earthly temptations in opposition to becoming closer to God. From a close Orthodox friend, I learned something very unique about the relevance of alcohol in Jewish traditions. He begins by explaining to me that each of us (humans) has a body and a soul, and that our body is usually interested only in the material pleasures – good food, exciting entertainment, money, comfort and instant gratification. The soul, however, has higher aspirations than the body. In addition to seeking higher truth, it also seeks true love, meaning, inspiration and a meaningful connection to what's holy. So, essentially each person has an ongoing internal conflict that can convolute one’s true purpose in life.
 
“But how is this unique to Judaism?” I ask. “I know that the Muslim faith forbids all forms of alcohol in order to testify to its followers that earthly desires will deter one from achieving total spirituality with God.” He replies, “Well, all religions attempt to give us access to our souls, but as long as the body continues to follow its path towards the earthly desires, the soul becomes inherently trapped.” This explains why Muslims forbid alcohol consumption, to clear the mind and cleanse the body in preparation for holiness.

He goes on to say that there are two major methods to free the soul that are offered by different religions. First, by suppressing our bodily temptations, we can allow the soul to become free to explore its own path. Taken to its literal extreme, it will create a life of ascetism and abstinence, avoiding the pleasures of this world and concentrating only on achieving oneness with the holy.

Alternatively, by using restraint, we can find spirituality within the mundane itself by being involved with the physical world in a holy and refined way. Once we achieve that balance, he concludes happily, the body no longer opposes the soul but rather serves as a vehicle to express the soul's needs.

Then he turns to me and says, “Now, which method sounds more like us Jews?” I thought about it for a moment, then mumble, “Probably the second one, right?” He claims that Judaism insists on the second approach. Rather than suppress the body, refine it. Don't be celibate, but save sexuality for marriage. Don't fast all day, but only eat foods that are spiritually pure. Essentially, work with the body and not against it.

As I walked away from our conversation, I couldn’t help but start to think about how this philosophy about body and soul relates to Jews drinking wine on the holidays and even on Shabbat. Then I realized that there are some things about wine itself that parallel many Jewish traits. For instance, wine improves with age, much like our souls and lives learn and improve with each passing moment. Wine also embodies a unique property that demonstrates the fact that we need not afflict our bodies in order to tap in to our souls. While most foods decompose as time goes on, as most physical things do, the one exception is wine. Although it is physical, wine has the spiritual property of improving with age. Wine therefore represents what is at the fundamental core of the Jewish faith: fusing the holy and the mundane, the spiritual and physical, the body and soul. 
 
My cocktail for this blog had to embody the themes of our holiday, so this refreshing drink has some wonderful flavors and can be a great addition to any party or a night out, if your bartender is flexible enough to pull it off. Best of all, it’s 100% kosher! Chag Sameach!
 
A Sweet New Year 

2 oz. Apple Vodka (Smirnoff Green Apple is kosher)
½ oz. Apple Pucker
½ oz. organic honey/agave nectar
Or
½ oz. Koval Chrysanthemum Honey Liqueur
1/4 oz. Grand Marnier/Cointreau/Triple Sec
Splash fresh lemon juice
1 thinly sliced apple wheel
Optional: splash of butterscotch schnapps

Add ingredients to shaker filled with ice. Shake and strain into chilled cocktail glass or highball glass. Garnish with an apple wheel dipped in honey or agave nectar and serve. Also try with a splash of club soda or San Pellegrino.

L’Chaim!

With the High Holidays fast approaching, it must be noted that perhaps the most culturally significant contribution to popular music has Jewish roots. No, I’m not referring to Matisyahu, whose dominance in the vast world of Jewish rap is pretty much unparalleled. (No offense meant to early 1990’s rap legends “Two Live Jews” and their smash hit “Fiddling with Tradition”. Any of you who think I’m making this up need to get to iTunes immediately, and spend .99 on “Mertyle the Matchmaker”.)

I’m of course referring to The Beatles’ manager, Brian Epstein, the lost Jewish link to the Fab Four. You don’t hear much about Mr. Epstein these days. And frankly, you won’t hear too much about him in this article. I’ve merely used him as an obligatory Jewish reference to justify this article’s place on a Jewish website. Sneaky, right?

But really, does religion even matter when referring to the single greatest band of all time? That claim isn’t entirely subjective, either. To wit: they broke up in 1970, but during the week ending September 13, sold a staggering 500,000+ copies of their newly re-mastered back catalog. On their re-release date, 9/9/09, I was first in line at my local Borders (a moment of silence for bygone, real record stores like Tower and Rose Records) to purchase them all. In stereo. And in mono. Despite already owning all of them many times over, on every conceivable format. (Yes, I’m that guy who has every Beatles 8-track tape. If you’re too young to know what an 8-track tape is, I’ve probably written you on J-Date. Sorry about that. And please don’t tell your dad.)

Speaking of J-Date, allow me to relay a story which should illustrate my life-long relationship with the music of The Beatles. A few years ago, I experienced a genuine connection while trolling for love on J-Date. She and I exchanged the requisite 2-3 e-mails, and then went on what was shaping up to be a fantastic first date. After a two-hour dinner, we hit a local wine bar, and began to connect in ways clearly unique for a first date. As the wine flowed, and we began to discuss what our interests were, she spoke lovingly of her many years playing tennis. I’m not a tennis player – though the incessant grunting of random Russian women on TV never seems to get old— but found her interest in the sport really endearing; and told her as much. When she asked me what my interests were, I explained that as a musician, my passion was The Beatles. She appeared stone-faced for a moment, then began to smirk, and said to me (this is verbatim, by the way), “I never understood the whole Beatles thing. I mean, they’re not that great”.

Well, in the immortal words of White Sox announcer Hawk Harrelson, “She Gone.”  Our fate was sealed. She might have been the most giving, caring, loving woman in the whole world and might have gone on to be the ideal mother of my kids. Who knows? And who the hell cares? We were incompatible. She didn’t love The Beatles. That’s like Joe Wilson’s wife not loving the confederate flag.  It wasn’t going to work, and the date ended shortly soon after. I don’t need to date a die-hard, but is it too much to ask that my girlfriend knows the difference between the British and American versions of “Rubber Soul?” (Don’t answer that.)

Flash forward to 9/9/09. After a grueling work-out, done to punish myself for the forthcoming day of sitting on a couch and holding my own version of Beatlefest in my condo, I spent nearly $500 on the stereo and mono re-mastered boxed sets of every Beatles album ever released. Many friends, mostly casual fans of The Beatles, have asked, was it worth the purchase? Was it worth the purchase? “Of Course!” Ok, so the mono versions are clearly for diehards like myself, or for that grouchy old guy in your apartment building who lives alone and is still angry that they cancelled “Touched By An Angel”.

But the stereo remasters, all available as individual CD’s as well as a fancy boxed set, are an absolute revelation. The initial Beatles CD’s came out in 1987, back when digital was in its’ infancy. Accordingly, the old CD’s have never sounded very good, and have in fact dated the band in ways unfair to a new generation of fans. (This didn’t seem to stop music buyers in 2000, who made the greatest hits compilation “Beatles 1” the number one album of the year, and one of the biggest sellers of the decade. Again, this was mostly due to dummies like me who felt it incredibly necessary to own “Penny Lane” for the 92nd time.)

The remastered CD’s? Night and day from the old ones. The guitars in “Revolution” tear through the speakers. The harmonies in “Paperback Writer” have never sounded clearer. Paul sounds like he’s sitting right next to you during “Blackbird;” which may or may not be a good thing, depending on how much you want to hear him kvetch about his dreadfully dour ex-wife, Heather. (She was also, I might add, not a fan of The Beatles. Bad move, Sir Paul.) The early stuff (“Twist & Shout,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” “I Saw Her Standing There,” etc…) sounds fresher & crisper than ever, and the later stuff reveals the instrumentation & harmonies to be even more sophisticated than ever before, if that’s even possible. In short, each new CD will open the eyes and ears of any Beatles fan, of any interest level. I should know. I listened to them all on 9/9/09, from their first, “Please Please Me”, to the last one recorded, “Abbey Road”. My new downstairs neighbors must either think I’m Ringo Starr’s uncle or Dick Biondi; who may or may not be the same person.

Sure, I’m a little biased. My friends who’ve known me for years have another word to describe my Beatles fandom: “nuts.” Maybe they’re right? But at least I’m not alone. Bands like Pearl Jam, Wilco, the Beastie Boys, Ben Folds, Guster, and countless more continuously cite The Beatles as an immense influence on their work. And the literally hundreds of thousands of CD’s sold in one week indicate that “Beatlemania ’09” hasn’t just afflicted me. Plus, they’re a gift to a sagging music industry which now relies on such cutting edge “artists” as Susan Boyle; who’s new album, “Showtunes to Make You Suicidal” is unfortunately coming soon.

But I’m not looking for validation here; just to immerse myself in some of the greatest rock & roll music ever recorded, by a band that continues to inspire generations both new and old. Don’t believe me? Forget about all of the Beatles-related hype for a second, and pick up the newly issued “Revolver” or “Help!” Chances are, you’ll be hooked right away. If not, I happen to know a tennis fan you might like.

When a writer for Men’s Health magazine recently described a college athlete as a “mensch,” I knew I had to interview him. You don’t see Yiddish often in the sports world.

The author of said article turned out to be Northbrook native, Adam Bornstein. He’s a Men’s Health fitness editor, which might be one of the coolest jobs a self described fitness fanatic, could land.

Here’s a little bit about Adam: He has an admitted love of exercise, eggs, and oatmeal. When he’s not researching resistance training, nutrition, and physiology, Adam is applying the academic knowledge to living a more active, healthy, and fit life. Adam holds a master’s degree in journalism from the University of Florida, and a bachelor’s in psychology from the University of Colorado. He has worked as a faculty researcher at the University of Colorado and a fitness and sports reporter. He now collaborates with the best in the fitness industry on ways to improve men’s lives.

After speaking with Adam, I totally want his job! Seriously though, it was amazing to discuss fitness with a man who spends most waking hours researching exercises, trainers, nutrition, health gadgets, health studies… This is what I learned:

To be an editor at the number one selling health magazine in the world:
You have to research. Adam spends countless hours reading studies, fact checking, researching trainers, trends, and the list continues.  He’s constantly learning, and getting a chance to do what he enjoys most— educating others. The perks of interviewing professional athletes are fun, but it’s also a lot of work.  For a recent article, Adam worked-out with perennial pro-bowler, Dwight Freeney, of the Indianapolis Colts.  Although he enjoyed rolling and dragging giant tires around, it was not an easy day in the office.

Adam’s fitness philosophy:
Adam’s philosophy on training is similar to mine, high intensity, fun, and full body. “Don’t be so competitive. A lot of people think guys go to the gym to watch women, but they really look at other guys.  Who cares what you bench, get a good workout,” Adam said.

Trends in Fitness:
Adam commented, “Right now there is a lot of misinformation out there. People jump on the bandwagon so fast. It’s all about the basics, start slow and progress. Kettlebells are hot right now and they’ll probably stay that way. People need to realize, just because something is popular now, doesn’t mean it’s the best for them.”

“Research indicates that frequency over volume shows the greatest results, so the body part per day guys, might need to mix up there routine more. Tabata training is popular now, which are short very intense workouts.”

Adam has also formed a love/hate relationship with the TRX, which is a bodyweight-based portable training tool that allows you to workout anywhere.

This might surprise many readers, “research is leading away from crunches. They may even be harmful. There are so many other ways to work your abs, something as simple as a plank is a great way to work your stomach.” (Personal note, if you want non-crunch ab exercises, shoot me a note and I’ll send you some).

Adams Personal Trainer:
Right now Adam’s training with Todd Durkin and loving it. He hooked his father and brother into working out with Todd as well.  Like a kid with a new toy, Adam boasted, “The workouts are intense, with a lot of variety, no boredom, fun and challenging.”

Common Questions:
People write in with questions about diet, nutrition, posture, injuries, you name it. Adam tries to get people to understand proper form and debunk myths, like -“Low fat, this must be good.” He is shocked how many women write in and think avoiding fat is the key. “Eating the low fat Oreo might be worse for you then eating the regular Oreo.” Not that Adam condones eating Oreo’s, his point being, the less processing the better.

Changing people’s perception is the hardest thing to do; especially when it comes to women and weight lifting. Since Adam also contributes to Women’s Health, he hears the fear “Weights will make me bulky.”  And that’s just silly. Sure some women put on muscle easier than others, but in general weight training will only help women have better shape, stronger bones and more energy.

FitSchools:
Last but not least, we discussed FitSchools. FitSchools grew out of an article about revamping physical fitness for kids and turned into a full -fledged nonprofit organization. The goal was to reassess phys ed classes for children. Schools have archaic methods of testing kids fitness levels, he said, “The sit and reach test, doesn’t do much and the presidential fitness test, is out dated.” Schools should concentrate on getting children moving, teaching them the basics, focusing on improvement over the semester not grade them on running a four minute mile. For more information on FitSchools, check out, http://www.menshealth.com/fitschools.

Finally, if you haven’t had enough of Adam, here’s some word association with the fitness fanatic:

Jewish Athletes- Do they exist? Although I hear we can lay claim to USC stud Taylor Mays.
Working out is- The best way to add balance to your life and cope with stress.
When the television is on- I’m not around or sports are on. My TV is very lonely.
Chicken- Great, now I’m hungry. Thanks, Ron.
My job- The most challenging and educational experience of my life.
Protein shakes- “Bro Dust”—Let’s credit Alan Aragon with this one, but too funny and yet so true.
Power or- Passion-dedication to any cause is the real secret to success.
Sage Rosenfels- Wishes Brett Farve would disappear.

To learn more about Adam, read his blog: http://workingout.menshealth.com/

From one fitness enthusiast to another, thanks for making the time for us Adam!

Tradition.  It’s an integral part of the Jewish religion.  Every Friday night Jews around the world sit down for Shabbos dinner.  Every December we spin the dreidel.  And every fall we sit in services for an ungodly amount of time in order to welcome in the New Year, a tradition dear old Hashem did not count on becoming the social event of the season.

Each year Jews from all over the country venture to their hometowns to spend Rosh Hashanah with their families.  What is intended to be a time to take a step back and think about all the sins we’ve made, and yes, we’ve all made them, for some it’s slowly transcended into a time to show everyone your cute new High Holiday outfit and gossip about the people you haven’t seen for an entire year.  Ironic, I know.

I am about to embark on this yearly tradition and travel all the way to Minnesota to eat apples and honey and spend time with my friends and family.  While the players may have slightly changed, the game always remains the same.  I will go to my aunt’s on Friday night and eat my grandma’s carrot mold.  The evening will get progressively more tolerable with every glass of wine I drink.  I will wake up in the morning and meet my parents at shul, because going with them at 7:30 a.m. is out of the question.  I will have to park the car at my friend Maia’s house, because this is the one time throughout the entire year that trying to park at the synagogue is like trying to park in Times Square.  My parents will have saved me a seat on the left side of the bema.  The Weiners will be in front of us, the Sudits behind us, and the Rodiches will be across the way.  Now comes the fun.

If you think that sitting through a 4 hour service in a language you can’t understand could never be fun, you should come to the Adath, my synagogue in Minneapolis.  It’s this 4 hour period of time that happens to be the most entertaining.  Here is a glimpse of what will go down:

- There will be a person in the back corner covered from head to toe with talit (although it looks more like a burka).  She will be standing the entire time while rocking from her heels to her toes.  After 9/11, we all thought she was a terrorist.  This went on until the end of the service when she disrobed, and we were all shocked to see a girl we went to preschool with.  My, how people change.

- Throughout the service people will get up and walk around the sanctuary and out the doors for a restroom break.  This creates the perfect opportunity to scope out their outfit and whisper to your mother how much weight she has lost or gained.  Sad, but true.

- Starting from the moment we all take our seats, you will see people trying to have conversations with people from across the room.  Unfortunately, mouthing words from that far away can lead to lots of confusion.  It’s pretty entertaining when you try to speak to a friend across the sanctuary, and the person behind her answers.

- There will be lots of hugs and kisses.  Some from people you know and some from people you think you know.  After a while, and especially with age, all us Jews start to look the same.

- The stench of the room will be filled with the potent cologne of old women.  In order to reduce the coughing that ensues, the Adath has actually roped off a section in the balcony and marked it with a big distracting sign that says “scent free zone”.  Can’t you see Larry David sitting here on Curb Your Enthusiasm?

There is something comforting about the fact that even though it’s been 25 years, I can still map out where all of my friends and family will be seated during services.  Throughout the service, we all take breaks and meet in the lobby and catch up.  There will be constant pitter patter of new generations getting antsy.  The same ushers will be there, getting more and more bitter with age, yelling at all the kids who are trying to get back into the service during the sermon.  People will have gotten older; some won’t be there anymore.  But no matter what has happened that year, the nostalgic and comforting aura of being there is still the same year after year.

I have attended services in Chicago, Buenos Aires and Israel, and it’s nice to know that no matter where one goes, the outcome is the same.  No other culture can even compare.  It’s pretty cool to be a Jew.

Michael Goldstein, aka the Mensch with a Wrench, is the ultimate handyman. He will tackle the projects you don’t know how to do, don’t want to do, or simply don’t have time to do. Some people refer to Michael as a marriage counselor because he takes care of the 'honey-do' list! He'll put together your IKEA furniture, mount your T.V., fix your electrical problems, or build you a deck. Plus, he’s got two little handymen of the future, fraternal twins Ethan and Charlie who are almost two years old. When he’s not at home in Lincoln Square, he goes on adventures with his family to places as close as the neighborhood playgrounds to as far as the family's cottage on Commerce Lake. So if you enjoy swimming in the lake, love your little toddlers, or need something fixed, Michael Goldstein is a Jew You Should Know!

1. What is your favorite blog or website?
Craigslist.org - you can find anything in the world on there. I have sold a lot of stuff from window air conditioners, furniture, and tools. It is the most random site. I’m also hooked on Ebay and msn.com, but am still trying to figure out the blogging world.
 
2. If time and money were limitless, where you would travel?
Everywhere and anywhere. I would have an open ended ticket around the world, first stopping at the Island of Truck in the Micronesian Islands. My parents volunteered in the Peace Corps there right after they got married almost 50 years ago. I grew up seeing slides and pictures and have always wanted to go there.
 
3. If a movie were made about your life, who would play you?
Jeff Cohen, the actor who played Chunk in The Goonies. Growing up I was the chunky kid and had the nickname of Chunk.
 
4. If you could have a meal with any two people, living or dead, famous or not, who would they be? Where would you eat or what would you serve? 
I would have lunch with two people: Lin Brehmer from 93.1 WXRT and my father’s father, Abe. I would take Lin to Manny’s for a corned beef sandwich (I would have latkes since I keep Kosher) and pick up the tab. I’ve always enjoyed his humor. He does a great piece in the mornings where people write the most random questions to him and he answers them on the air. Once I wrote in and asked for advice about having twins since I knew his brother has twins.
 
I never met my grandfather Abe – he died when my father was only eight years old. But if he’s anything like my dad he would have a big sweet tooth. I’d get to know him over a milkshake at Margie’s.
 
5. What’s your idea of the perfect day? 
The perfect day would be 85 and sunny and I would spend it at my family’s cottage in Commerce, MI splashing in the lake with my children, Ethan and Charlie. Everyone has their little piece of heaven and this cottage is mine. My mom’s from Detroit and her family bought the cottage in the 1950s as an escape from the city during the Polio epidemic and it has been in the family ever since. My mom and her siblings grew up there, then I spent a week there every summer with my sister and two brothers, and now I take my family there.
 
6. What do you love about what you do? 
It’s an adventure and I get to meet a lot of very nice and interesting people. The project I’m most proud of is the huge two level deck I built for my brother in Washington, DC. I took a road trip out there and built him a deck in one week. I guess that's what younger brothers are for.
 
7. What job would you have if not the one you have now? 
My dream job would be to run a Habitat for Humanity site. I volunteered with them while in college at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and did some electrical work here in Chicago at a site in Pilsen. I would also love to own an overnight camp with my wife as the director and myself in charge of facilities. My wife and I were both overnight campers growing up. I went to the Habonim Dror Camp Moshava in Maryland, which is a kibbutz style camp where I learned some Hebrew and a lot about Israel.
 
8. What’s your favorite Jewish thing to do in Chicago? In other words, how do you Jew? 
My favorite Jewish thing is being a Shabbat Dad at the JCC for my children’s classroom. I also like celebrating Shabbat with my family and volunteering for Yad B’Yad. I also worked at the JCC for seven years.

If you need a handyman, Michael can be reached at...

Michael Goldstein
773.791.7769
michael@menschwrenchchicago.com
menschwrenchchicago.com

Rosh Hoshanah is coming. Step up to the starting line. Wait for the shofar blast… And you’re off.

Running is boring only to those who do not understand it; those who have never tripped on a runner’s high or been calmed by the meditative rhythm of their feet partnering with their will, defying what was previously believed to be their bodies’ limitations.
                                                          
I ran track in high school and it changed my life. Countless times I stepped up to starting lines, jumping in the air to warm up my muscles to prepare my body for the impending shock. In a couple of seconds, it would be me and five other women in different colored jerseys entertaining fans for 800 meters.

 No matter how many times I stepped up to that line, I was always terrified. Terrified. Little me, feet pounding, lungs hyperventilating, fiercely elbowing objects who no longer are people in my eyes but only obstacles in my hunger for victory.

To anyone else listening, my thought flow would sound like a three way conference call between my mind, spirit, and physical appendages, a little something like this: go go goooooo gooooooo go go goooooooo. Looping. For 2 minutes and 42 seconds.

With four years under my belt of this, I’m prepared for Rosh Hoshanah.

The word shana, year in Hebrew, has the same root as the Hebrew words for both tired and repetition. Jews follow the lunar year and a new month is called Rosh Chodesh. Chodesh meaning newness. For we believe the universe is being breathed into existence through God’s mouth at every moment, always new, fresh, constantly. Yet for the beginning of the Jewish year, we use the word shana, the opposite of newness. For the danger is that one can live and yet be asleep at the same time, unaware of the world around them. Some people think that just because you are running around in circles, you’re not getting anywhere. The days and years blend together, and boredom is a constant painful state of being.

Jews rectified this potential for disaster by wisely choosing a ram’s horn as our spiritual alarm clock. If you remove your ear plugs, you’ll hear the music that will energize you more than  “All the Single Ladies” ever could. If you’re not grooving, you’re just not fully conscious.

Make no mistake about it, you are not the same person you were last Rosh Hoshanah. You’re still breathing heavily from the previous year’s trials. You were tested this year, in ways you have never been tested before. You continued running when you thought you couldn’t move.  And you discovered, as any real runner realizes, that the real race is always within you. No matter what place you come in, no matter which girls you pass along the way, when you cross that finish line all you care about is how much you actualized your potential. The pride that comes from that accomplishment exceeds any other compliments you could be given.

The year is in front of you, and you have no idea what it’s going to be like. But you know this. You’re going to run it and you’re going to finish. And if you’re brave and optimistic, you are going to give it everything you have, and then beyond. It’s going to hurt. In that pain and struggle is the greatest reward, so you hope you will have the courage to push yourself past what you thought were your limits. This makes you terrified, but that’s not going to stop you from stepping up to that line once again.

We aren’t coming to the synagogues this Friday night to stand for countless hours and confess our sins. We are proudly celebrating our personal victories, with medals hanging like bling bling around our necks, ready to share in the victory with God who is chilling at the prayer house ready for the spiritual cocktail hour. Yeah God, thanks for all the help, ready for the next one, we chant over and over again, swaying back and over. It’s not about the past now, because now you’re about to begin a new race.

It’s a serious moment, for the moment before competition your body tenses expectantly, completely focused on one goal; the finish line and the strategy for getting there. The rest of your life melts away, as your eyes look steadfastly forward.

They say that how your year will turn out is determined on Rosh Hoshanah by the effort you put into your prayers. It’s critical to go into the prayers with the determination that you will be moved and inspired. There is not time for hesitation. The moment you doubt yourself, the possibility of success disintegrates.

We are all runners.

For anyone who truly knows how to live, there is nothing boring about this sport. Wait for it.  The shofar is going to blast at any moment. You better be ready to charge.

Many of us have a story about 9/11.  This is mine.

On September 11, 2001, I lived in Washington, D.C.  I woke up that morning excited for my first international trade show in Amsterdam—I was to fly out that night.

Bags already packed, I was leaving for the office when I learned a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center Towers.  I remember thinking that it was a bizarre fluke, and I flicked off the news and headed out the door.

As I walked into the lobby of my office, I saw on the giant TV screen a plane crashing into the Tower.   At the time, I didn’t realize that was the second plane, not a replay of the first.

It took a while for us all in the office to grasp what was happening.  My memory is fuzzy on the details.

I remember reassuring my boss that I was not scared to fly out that night, annoyed at the prospect of my flight being delayed and plans canceled.

 I remember a brief meeting to recap our show strategy, interrupted when a colleague informed us a plane had just hit the Pentagon.

I remember 8 of us crowding around my boss’ small TV, watching in horror as people jumped from the towers.  When the Towers crumbled, I remember we all went silent.  The silence was finally broken by David, whose broken voice uttered “they couldn’t possibly have all gotten out.”

I remember looking out my office window and seeing the smoke that was rising up from the Pentagon.   It was a clear day—you could see it billowing thickly up into the clouds.

And I remember being afraid, truly afraid for the first time in my life, when we heard that a fourth was plane missing.  We had no idea that it had already crashed—all we knew was that it was headed our way.

I remember trying in vain to reach my husband (then boyfriend) who worked on Capitol Hill.  He wasn’t answering his office line, and his cell phone was busy.  (As with New York, cell phones were hard to get through on—networks were overloaded.)

I remember going out to the patio with my coworker, cringing in fear when we heard an aircraft overhead—a response I would have to the sound for weeks thereafter.

I remember when our office went on lockdown, and we had to decide whether we would stay or leave.  The news warned us that the bridges getting out of the city were jammed with traffic, and, as was the Metro, vulnerable to attack.

I decided that I would try to find my husband, and I walked the two or so miles in heels to his apartment in Cleveland Park.  He wasn’t there, and I still could not reach him on his cell phone.

While I worried about him, my family and friends worried about me, not knowing if I was on that flight from DC.  My mother (who knew that I wasn’t on one of the planes that crashed) was worried I was stuck on a grounded plane somewhere in the country—a situation that two of my colleagues found themselves in.  They didn’t make it home for days.

Unable to walk another 3 miles in heels to my apartment, I braved the metro home.  That was one of the strangest rides I ever took—it was a virtual ghost town.

My husband finally made it to my apartment hours later.  His office had been in a panic—they heard a plane was headed right for them and rumors about other attacks on the Hill—and he had been evacuated out of the city.

I remember when, weeks later, I drove by the Pentagon and saw the gaping hole and the destruction.  Pictures and images on TV didn’t do it justice.

I remember wondering about the fate of the two New York City firefighters I had gotten to know over the years through trade shows in New York.  Both survived.  Louie had been stuck in Texas on vacation.  Jim wound up on the cover of a 9/11 Heroes book.

I remember seeing armed soldiers guarding National Airport for the first time—something that I had only seen in other countries’ airports—and it drove home our lost sense of security.

I remember when the barriers first went up around the White House, blocking traffic from driving down the road in front.  Never again would I be able to drive by the White House and wave.

Needless to say, I never made it to Amsterdam that year.  Instead, arrangements were made for an American Flag to hang in our empty booth.  We didn’t know it at the time, but some of our British friends had placed a makeshift memorial in our space.  The following year, a number of industry colleagues from various countries made a point to stop by and express their sympathy and support.

I am fortunate to not have lost any family or friends on September 11, or any at all to terror.  And still, the events of that day have had an enormous impact on my life.

It’s one of the reasons my husband quit his job on the Hill and decided to become a Rabbi, and one of the reasons why I have chosen a career in the non-profit world.  Like millions of Americans, it opened my eyes to how vulnerable we all are, how fleeting our security and how brief our lives can be.

Today I remember all those who perished on 9/11, and the brave men and women who risked their lives to save another.

May their memories be for a blessing.

It never fails that on December 31st, I sit at my computer with a document that looks something like this…

1) Actually go to the gym – at least 3 times a week
2) Stop eating so much chocolate at work – enough is enough

The list usually goes on for a few more bullets, but you get the point.  Then of course, by February 15th, my gym bag is collecting dust in the corner, and I’m back to the daily trips to the candy bowl down the hall (ok, multiple candy bowls throughout the floor).

For most of us, this is our one chance each year for calculated self-improvement.   But then, last week, on the eve of my 25th birthday, my friend Julia asked me what was going to be different in my 25th year.

Wow – I had never thought about making a birthday resolution.  It got me thinking.  Can I make a new resolution that doesn’t begin (and end) in the dead of winter?  And then, I realized – I’ve been doing it for years, but just not as explicitly.  Every autumn, I schlep to Cleveland, head to shul with my parents, and begin the year anew by celebrating Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

As Jews, we ask God for forgiveness, ask our peers for forgiveness, and in general, try to be the very best people we can be as we seek absolution for our sins.  We apologize for our wrongdoings, communally and in silent prayer.  We pound our chests, we sing Avinu Malkeinu, and somewhere during these multiple 5+ hour prayer sessions, we commit to changes.

So today, on the 9th day of the 9th month of 2009 (weird…), I’m going to share a couple of my resolutions with you – resolutions for my 25th year, for 5770, for myself.  And, of course, it starts in a similar fashion as almost all of my annual resolution lists begin:

1) Actually go to the gym – at least 3 times a week (maybe even 4 – but let’s not get ahead of ourselves)
2) Stop eating so much chocolate at work – enough is enough
3) Budget better – my spending, my time, all of it

And the most important one…

4) While I’m busy planning one-time volunteer projects for others, find an ongoing volunteer project that adds meaning to my life.

Yes – I said it.  Rachel Friedman, Oy!’s resident volunteer coordinator, is looking to volunteer.  By sharing that information with all of you, hopefully it will light the fire under my ass to get started and find something meaningful that I can do regularly, while still helping folks like you find your passions.  Call it a quarter-life crisis.

And while I spend the next month seeking that perfect project, I thought I’d share a couple cool opportunities with you, Oy!sters.  Here are a few snippets from TOV’s Fall Mitzvah Mania, a catalog of one-time opportunities that will give you a taste of volunteering at a new agency.

Kids Enjoy Exercise Now (KEEN)
Work one-on-one with an athlete at a KEEN sports session.  Activities include KEENquatics, playing with basketballs, jump ropes, scooters, parachutes, hula-hoops and more.  Shift time includes training. KEEN is an active volunteer opportunity.
Date:
Sunday, September 13
Time:
2:15 p.m. – 5:15 p.m.
Location:
High Ridge YMCA
2424 W. Touhy, Chicago

CJE Lieberman Geriatric Health Centre
Escort residents to and from synagogue and assist during Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur services.
Dates:
Saturday, September 19
Sunday, September 20
Monday, September 28
Time:
9:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m.
Location:
9700 Gross Point Road, Skokie

Chicago Chesed Fund
Organize, clean, and restock the shelves at the CCF warehouse.
Date:
Sunday, September 13
Time:
2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m.
Location:
7045 N. Ridgeway, Lincolnwood

Bottomless Closet
Sort clothing inventory into categories: designer, professional, and unsuitable.
Date:
Tuesday, September 15
Time:
9:30 a.m. – 1:30 p.m.
Location:
445 N. Wells St., Chicago

To sign-up to volunteer, register online at http://www.juf.org/tov/mm_form.aspx, or call TOV at 312-357-4762.

Terri Albert wants to get into your drawers… and closets, basements, attics and garages. Terri is now in her dream job as a professional organizer. Dubbing herself The Chicago Organizer, she says: “I hold your hand to help you make necessary decisions you have put off, to get rid of the excess clutter in your home— freeing you up to enjoy what really matters in your life. I take a no-nonsense approach to clearing your space and setting you up for success.” Even as a kid, her folks made her a T-shirt that said “Neat Freak”!

A native Michigan-er and U of M grad, Terri has made Chicago home for 25 years but has traveled the world. She worked in magazine ad sales for 13 years— for everything from Ms. to Soap Opera Digest. She still sells ads, on the side, for Divorce Magazine, which she helped launch. And she substitute-teaches at Jewish schools.

So if you collect clutter, read incessantly, or ride elephants, Terri Albert is a Jew you should know!

1. What is your favorite blog or website?
My favorite website is The Chicago Public Library site as I’m always requesting books to read, DVDs to watch, and frequently renewing online since I have so many books I want to read and don’t get to them by the due date!
 
2. If time and money were limitless, where would you travel?
Around the world— I want to go everywhere! Probably Spain as first choice since I’ve never been there. I’ve been to Russia twice already, but would go back even to places I’ve been before (i.e. Budapest, Prague, Israel, Thailand, Portugal and The Rock of Gibraltar). Get me back on that elephant’s back and white-water rafting!!

3. If a movie was made about your life, who would play you?
Someone who has hyper energy like I do— I was told when I was younger that my looks resembled Tatum O’Neal’s. (Do I still look like her and is she a Tasmanian devil-type like I am?)

4. If you could have a meal with any two people, living or dead, famous or not, who would they be? Where would you eat or what would you serve?
Eleanor Roosevelt, because I liked reading her biography as a kid and Hillary Clinton, as I admire strong and smart women. The last meal I cooked was damn good so that could be the menu: cranberry chicken; quinoa with butternut squash, cranberry and almonds; and roasted butternut squash and dark chocolate for dessert. Dinner will be in a beautiful but warm and inviting apartment in NYC with a good view of the city. I love the energy of New York City!

5. What’s your idea of the perfect day?
Biking for hours on a ‘rails to trails’ path in Wisconsin; maybe hitting some tennis balls; jumping in a lake/pool; hiking in the woods for awhile; cooking over an open fire; and singing by the campfire with a wonderful man under the stars (with a beer of course!). And then going to sleep in a motel! Or, second choice: matinee on Broadway in NYC. Lunch of a pizza slice and iced coffee. Then evening performance of another play, musical preferred. And then some people watching in The Village.

6. What do you love about what you do?
I love straightening up messy spaces—especially when the owner of the clutter feels their clutter is insurmountable. It’s a win/win for both of us. Bring on those messy closets and drawers and corners and cupboards!

For those extra dirty jobs...

7. What job would you have had if not the one you have now?
Teacher in a Jewish day school or maybe administrator.

8. What’s your favorite Jewish thing to do in Chicago?
I love listening to Jewish music and have loads of CD’s from Debbie Friedman to The Piamentas, Tirzah Firestone, Shefa Gold, Hannah Tifferet Siegel… and my new favorites from The Kallah— Martin Levson and The Kirtan Rabbi.

Caren Minkoff checks out the list of tasks at JUF’s Uptown Cafe,
where the group volunteered earlier this year.

They all have full-time jobs, but for the past 2 years, the five people who founded Chicago’s first Moishe House have been turning a shared passion for all things Jewish into about seven – and sometimes more – events a month.

Open to the larger Jewish community, Moishe Houses are ways for young Jews to get in touch with their heritage in an agenda-free environment. Since the organization’s founding in 2006, the organization has grown to 18 houses in the United States and eight around the world, from Beijing to Warsaw.

“We aren’t affiliated with any movement and so there’s room in the House for everything,” says Joe Harrow, 27, who has lived in the House since its founding.

“Moishe House gives people a chance to be what they want to be, without any rules,” adds Ilana Schuman-Stoler, 26. “The people who come to our House are the people that Jewish community institutions want: they’re waiting longer to marry, waiting longer to join existing institutions, they might have gone to Hillel when in college, but are out of school now.”

The Moishe House kitchen was full of people as some rolled the
dough and others filled hamantaschen with traditional fillings.

Harrow and Schuman-Stoler have known their housemates – Caren Minkoff, 27, Elana Porat, 26, and Karen Lutsky, 26, – for years. All five worked at Camp Tavor in Michigan and ended up in Chicago after college.

Over the two years of its existence, Moishe House Chicago – there are two now: a house targeted toward Russian speakers opened in July – has hosted everything from barbeques and movie nights to trips to see Sox and Cubs’ games to excursions to learn Chicago’s Jewish past.

Their most popular events are the laid-back monthly Shabbat dinners, which regularly attract about 25 to 30 people. Nestled in a quiet courtyard in Wicker Park, the cozy third-floor abode becomes a hub of activity on Friday nights. The Moisheniks cook a vegetarian feast, and guests supply side dishes, dessert and drinks. The choice to go all-vegetarian for communal events was a conscious undertaking, says Minkoff. Their kitchen isn’t kosher, but the House’s residents want everyone to be comfortable eating there.

The Moisheniks combined their eco-conscious attitudes
with Passover to create an Earth Day Seder.

Some people who first discovered the Moishe House through a Shabbat dinner have become fixtures at events. Others don’t really go to any other event besides the Friday night celebrations. Still others might show up one day only to disappear for two months and come back later, says Lutsky. “It’s part of their lives,” she says.

Last week’s Shabbat dinner was a bittersweet gathering – it was the last for this group of Moisheniks.

The journey has been great for two years, but it’s time to “pass the torch,” Joe says. Each of the five founders of the Chicago House will stay involved in some way. They aren’t moving far, either. They even plan to hold a communal Shabbat dinner once a month like they did while living in the House – and of course, they’ll be at Moishe House programs, too.

“The house isn’t about us at all,” says Lutsky. “We’re in a different place in our lives now, but Moishe House is a great thing to continue.”

Five new Moisheniks are moving into the House this weekend.

Depressed Oy!sters

Yesterday, Chicagoans received some rather unfavorable news, for the second year in a row Forbes Magazine has named Chicago the most stressful city in America.  Why did we earn such a dubious distinction?  According to Forbes, “Chicago’s rising unemployment rate, expensive gas, high population density and relatively poor air quality create a perfect storm of stress.”  Can you say, depressing?

To make matters worse, Forbes failed to include arguably the number one reason why Chicago should be considered the most stressful city in America— the weather.  Also, published yesterday was the Farmer’s Almanac winter prediction.  You guessed it— it’s going to be a “bitterly cold and dry” winter here in Chicago.

I mean seriously?!  Talk about two low blows in one day!  I’m stressed out and shivering!  And to think this whole time I’ve been waiting for summer to finally show up.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I HEART Chicago.  I’ve lived here my whole life and I have no intentions of ever moving anywhere else.  Five of my East Coast friends visited this summer and they all fell in love with the city too.  They were shocked to see the vastness of Lake Michigan, the crowded North Ave. and Oak St. beaches and the beautiful Chicago skyline.  My roommate and I gave these New Yorkers and Bostonians a whole list of reasons why this is the best city in the country: Second City, the Bean, summer festivals, laid back and low key people, Lou Malnati’s, Garrett’s and other great cuisine, the Art Institute, the beaches, Wicker Park and Bucktown boutiques, the Architectural boat tours, Wrigley and the Cubs, Michigan Ave., people-watching…

I know Chicago rocks and I know my fellow Oy!sters agree.  But still, I can’t not be saddened and overwhelmed by this news.  Plus, it doesn’t help that I’m also busy worrying about swine flu, the recession, the healthcare debate, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and always, the situation in Israel.  Maybe, Chicagoans (including me) really are the most stressed out people in America?!

So, what do we do?  How do we fight back?  How do we combat the stress of living in a crowded, fast-paced, urban environment?  What are your survival tactics for making it through Chicago winters?  Please share, I’d appreciate any advice. For now, I plan to spend the next 6 months or so hiding in my bed under the covers trying to stay warm, avoiding swine flu and watching mind-numbing reality TV to avoid any stress.

So, we already know that I can be a bit compulsive sometimes. But recently, I’ve been thinking that my addiction to social networking may be a serious symptom, if not the cause, of my obsessive-compulsive behavior.

I just finished reading The Accidental Billionaires, by Ben Mezrich, which tells the story of the founding of Facebook—although, if you read the reviews, apparently it wasn’t the most accurate account... (I guess failing to speak with Facebook founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg in a non-fiction book about Mark Zuckerberg makes you lose some credibility). Still, I was enraptured by the stories of two nerdy Harvard AEPi guys, Mark Zuckerberg and Eduardo Saverin, who really just wanted to meet some hot Asian chicks, but ended up revolutionizing how the world socializes while making shitloads of money.

They may be Bill Gates-sized geniuses, but there are a few side effects of Facebook I’m not sure Mark, Eduardo and the other Facebook guys could have foreseen: somehow, they created the ultimate distraction and stalking mechanism and the perfect drug for compulsive people like me. Could Mark have known that the genius idea he cooked up in his Harvard dorm room would simultaneously make him a billionaire while companies everywhere lost money as employees spent hours upon hours tagging pictures instead of working?

The Facebook phenomenon first reached my computer screen during my sophomore year at UW-Madison. At first, like you, I was hesitant, but eventually I caved and caught the bug—friending people left and right, checking out the guys that would be in my classes for the semester, taking funny drunk pictures to use as my new Facebook pic. Now, about six years and a gazillion new Facebook applications later, I’m afraid that little bug I caught isn’t so little anymore.

An example: Like everyone else, I hated the new design and newsfeed when it first came out. But now, I’m not sure what I would do without it. When I’m feeling low, or uninspired by my work, I simply refresh my Facebook page (yes, I leave it open all day) to see if any new posts have been added. My favorite is when I’ve been gone for more than 10 minutes (this is a rare occurrence) and I see “show 14 new posts” Yes!!

As you can tell, this is kind of becoming a problem. And since reading Mezrich’s book (accurate or not, I couldn’t put the damn thing down), I’ve realized that maybe I need to get into some kind of twelve-step program or something to wean myself off of Facebook altogether. But then again, that seems kind of dramatic—

Before doing anything drastic like taking down my profile (like that would ever happen), I decided to do some research. Apparently, this is a real psychological condition! The RedEye posted a story this week about a treatment center in Seattle that just announced it will offer the first known rehab program in the U.S. for Internet Addiction Disorder! All you need is 45 days and $14,500 and you’ll be cured! If you think you might have IAD (or even just FAD) you can simply Google “Facebook addiction” and you’ll find tons of blog posts and articles where you can easily self-diagnose.

Despite the many reliable resources right at my fingertips, I wanted to make a list of my own to help me decide whether my life is better with or would be better without Facebook. Here goes nothing…

Things I couldn’t do without Facebook:

1) Find out who’s engaged/gawk at the size of their diamond, married/Can you believe she put her bridesmaids in that color? or pregnant/ew, I do not need a minute-to-minute update on your contractions (although cute baby pictures are encouraged).
In other words…stalk people.

2) Remember people’s birthdays. Once Facebook reminds me, now I have to decide whether you merit a gift, a card, a phone call, a ‘Happy Birthday! Hope it’s a great one!’ Wall message, or nothing at all…sad.

3) Keep track of old boyfriends and crushes/play matchmaker for friends and look up potential dates to read up on them/check out if they’re hot or not beforehand. What? You know you do it too.

4) Be “friends” with quasi-famous reality TV stars/school mascots/TV or movie characters/eating establishments.

5) Shamelessly promote myself, my articles and cute pictures from my friend’s wedding/my latest vacation/that weekend when my friend from out of town came to visit (sorry about this one guys…)

Things I could do without Facebook:

1) Get shit done—hell, I looked at some random girl from my sorority’s summer picture album just to get me through writing this sentence.

2) Get more sleep—enter boyfriend Mike: Would you stop playing on Facebook already and come to bed! Me: But so and so just put up pictures from her wedding this weekend! Can you believe she put her bridesmaids in that color?

3) Not get invited to people’s parties and events that I probably don’t want to go to. Just because we had a one hour class together freshman year, we were never really friends and haven’t spoken in six years, so I really don’t want to celebrate your birthday.  (I know it sounds harsh, but you have to admit it’s true, right?)

4) Write the next great American novel. Actually, in all the time I’ve spent on Facebook, I probably could have written it twice.

5) Oh hell, who am I kidding? There is no #5. Facebook, I need you!

As far as I know there’s no special patch or gum to help wean you off Facebook, and even if I could afford the $14,500 treatment program in Seattle I’m not so sure I’d want to be cured. Now that I’ve got it, can I live without it? Hell, no.

And now, there’s Twitter too. But I’ll save that for another post.

    

As I began packing for my Advanced Mixology Academy class field trip to Chef’s Garden in Milan, Ohio, I had no idea what to expect. Sure, I have been to my share of the city’s vast and vibrant neighborhood farmer’s markets. I've tasted some of the best food and sipped the highest quality cocktails around, but I was told that this wasn't anything like your typical farm and that these ingredients weren’t going to be found at the average farmer’s market.

I made sure to leave enough room in my bag to bring back anything unusual or unique that I might encounter. As a mixologist, I am responsible for helping to raise the quality of drinks for the average person to experience and enjoy, and this was another way we could incorporate aspects of the culinary world into the cocktail world. I could feel the excitement building and the creative juices flowing as I dreamt of mixing amazing cocktails with exotic ingredients: multicolored heirloom tomatoes, garlic chives, white celery herbs, multicolored and multi-spiced chiles, and square one botanical vodka for a perfect Bloody Mary; Cruzan blackstrap rum, pomegranate molasses, sorrel and orange mint with fresh lime juice. Patron silver tequila, fresh ginger beer, giant root beer leaf...

Twenty eager mixologists pulled up to the famed Culinary Vegetable Institute, which has welcomed food celebrities like Alex Guarnaschelli of the Food Network as well as local high-end restaurant chefs like Charlie Trotter. People say Farmer Lee Jones’s specialty produce is among the most demanded in the country, the farm even ships its “microplants” to China. As we walked up the entrance, we passed a number of gardens woven together in a circular path, with a fountain spouting freshwater out its top. As we made our way through, we realized the white labels sticking out from the ground were for ingredients in a completely edible mini garden! None of these plants reached past our knees, and some even fit in the palm of our hands! When we picked some and tasted them, we could not believe how flavorful they were.

    

After a fabulous dinner that consisted of items taken directly from the farm, including luscious mixed greens and a superb steamed sweet corn right off the cob, we dove right to the herbs table and started mixing! A lot of us were excited to be bringing some of nature back to the bars and restaurants and reintroducing Chicagoans to freshness and quality.

We all expected to pull up to huge, corporation-owned farm, with acres and acres sprawling with all kinds of large and juicy crops. Instead, we were treated to a small family farm thats transformed itself into a literal creation of a chef’s personal garden, where he or she can tailor grow his crops and produce. The farm uses no chemicals, cross pollination or cross breeding, or seed manipulation. Instead the farm grows marvelous creations, including: “cukamelons”, or cucumbers shaped and looked like watermelons; garlic chives that really tasted like garlic cloves; giant root beer leafs that, you guessed it, tasted like root beer; and the coolest of all, the oyster leaf that looked exactly like a giant leaf but allowed me the chance to smell and taste something eerily similar to something not kosher!

We were also treated to some unusual produce: mini eggplants, multicolored heirloom tomatoes, chiles of all shapes and sizes, and even purple colored carrots called “dragon carrots” whose skin was dark purple and the flesh a vibrant orange! I brought home a sample of some of these fresh micro-plants and produce to work, my general manager and sous chef went nuts when they looked at such wacky but flavorful items such as purple-colored broccoli bunches! And I am sure fellow Oy! Blogger Ron Krit would agree that the freshest, most natural fruits, herbs and produce are the healthiest foods for your body!

The best part of this trip was not just experiencing this amazing garden, but also spending time mixing the sprits the Culinary Vegetable Institute makes.

Farmer Lee

Today’s signature cocktail is in honor of Chef's Garden in Ohio. Named after the generous and hospitable Farmer Lee Jones, this cocktail is a wonderfully refreshing beverage that is a modern variation on a classic sour recipe, but using Farmer Lee's fresh ingredients and herbs. You can try to make this yourself at home with fresh ingredients, but even if you can't the possibilities are endless when it comes to incorporating fresh herbs and ingredients such as these into a cocktail or a home-cooked meal.

Farmer Lee's Lavender Elixir

2 oz. Square One Botanical Spirit (You can use Tru Organic Vodka if you can't find Square One)
1/2 oz. Grand Marnier (Triple Sec or Cointreau will do)
3 oz. Fresh Lavender lemonade
4-6 orange mint leaves
3-4 lavender flowers

To make the lavender lemonade, stir together about 1 and a half ounces of fresh squeezed lemon juice for every ounce of simple syrup (heat equal parts sugar and water in saucepan until sugar is dissolved, then cool). Place 1-2 lavender flowers inside the pitcher and chill in the fridge for a couple hours, or until really cold. Do NOT add ice as this will dilute the mixture. Stir in more simple syrup to taste, leave flowers in pitcher for presentation and added lavender flavor.

In a pint glass, muddle the mint leaves with a splash of sparkling water. Then pour the vodka and Grand Marnier into mixing tin with ice. Shake well, then strain over crushed ice into highball or pint glass. Fill almost to top with lavender lemonade, top with splash of sparkling water. Garnish with orange mint sprig and lavender flower.

L'Chaim!

Dear Republican Party:

As painful as this is for me to say, I think we both know that it’s time for a trial separation.

I loved you the first moment you knocked on my door more than 20 years ago, presenting yourself in the form of an energetic, idealistic young politician who made me believe in your ability to make the world a better place. Your history was distinguished, your commitment to the military noble, and your economic policies seemed prudent.

Standing on my door, you exuded confidence, charisma and success. I wanted to be like you, to share in your success as together, as we proved that the best government was a small government, that a strong military was vital, and that prosperity would be shared by all.

And for a long time, things were good. Sure, we had our disagreements over social issues, but still, I stood by your side. I fought for you, voted for you, helped to pick you back up when you were kicked down.

Sometimes it felt like the whole world was against us, and even when we were ridiculed, marginalized, and misunderstood, I never once entertained the thought of leaving you, especially seeing how well you treated Israel.

But, slowly, things began to change. Sometime, I don’t know exactly when, you started talking about “family values”, yet wanted to prevent people you didn’t like from becoming a family. What happened to the party that believed in freedom and equality for all?

Then, I watched as you hurt some of those that loved you the most—bright, honest, loyal and brave people that devoted their entire lives to you. That’s not the Party that I once knew: the party that would have rallied around its candidates and its soldiers.

Most painfully, I saw how you catered to a select few among your ranks who pushed you so much further to the right than you ever were before. Shame on you.

And then you had a fling with her. How could you? Any fool could see that she was just using you—she never had your best interests at heart.

But even that wasn’t enough to drive me from you. I still believe that you could once again be great, that you could offer a much-needed temperate voice in political debates.

But lately I am embarrassed to be seen with you—not because you did not win, but because of the people you have been hanging out with. Maybe it’s not your fault, you didn’t necessarily choose them—they chose you.

But their anger, ignorance, and unfounded accusations scare me, Republican Party. Instead of intelligent debate, I hear loud voices shouting at me to fear, that somehow I’ve been betrayed, that I should hate. We always agreed that, no matter how much politically we might disagree with somebody else, we would show compassion. It was part of what I loved about you.

I want you to know that I hope you will get the help and support that you need. I know that I haven’t done much on my part, save to vote, and maybe one day, I might help you. But first, you have to prove to me that you are worth fighting for, and dump the toxic relationships that you have built.

I will make you this one promise: I am not leaving you for that “other” party. I’ve spent too many years enduring the snide remarks made by those supporters who displayed nothing of the liberal openness they said they embraced. Even if I wanted to, I would never feel welcome.

I don’t know what I will do without you, it’s the first time in my life that I will be independent. But truly believe that this is what we both need and someday, maybe, we could once again be great together.

Wishing you the best,

Karen

You know how every job has its busy times and slow times? After Labor Day, one of Shorashim’s two busiest times of the year begins. Our phones ring off the hook and our necks stiffen as we answer them. We swim through our inboxes racing to answer emails. Our fingers sprint to chat with 18 to 26 year olds across the country (and their parents).

Why the communication overload? Shorashim runs Taglit-Birthright Israel trips. Registration opens for those who have applied during prior rounds on September 8 at 11 a.m. and September 9 for new applicants. We will register more than 1,000 applicants within the first 48 hours if not more, and our small staff will have personal contact with 2/3 of those applicants within the first week.

Anticipation, stress, and excitement permeate an office staff which most of the year works hard, but is also calm and lighthearted. There is no serenity the first three days of registration. The energy is frenetic as we answer questions ranging from safety to eligibility, help technophobes complete their applications, have philosophical discussions on the phone about “Who is a Jew?” and explain what makes Shorashim different: Israelis on the trip for the entire 10 days.

In contrast to what’s to come, this August I attended two retreats through the ICenter and Project InCite for Israel educators. Most of the sessions were practical but a couple of them were cerebral including one prepared by Clare Goldwater, an experienced Israel educator and tour guide from England who now lives in Washington, D.C. Her session was titled, “Some Thoughts on what it means to leave home.”

She used the book “The Art of Travel” by Alan de Botton and referenced the following question that in all my travels throughout the U.S., Canada, Israel, Egypt and Western and Eastern Europe I have never thought about:

Why travel?

Why leave our homes which we fill with comforts to be less comfortable somewhere else?

To answer the question, I returned to those phone calls with Taglit-Birthright Israel registrants. Several people ask, “Why do you think I should go to Israel?”

I have a million answers to that question that I won’t get into here (email me!) but the question I struggle with is why go anywhere? Especially today with globalization, as Clare Goldwater pointed out, you can see anything online and meet anyone from anywhere in the world on the Internet.

Botton probably answers that question in his book that I might read. But as an educator at Shorashim who has been to Israel three times in 2009, I should be able to answer the question, right?

Let me try.

Traveling is similar to falling in love and playing sports. I feel great emotion after engaging in media about love in The Notebook, the poetry of Yehudah Amichai or watching Casablanca, but it doesn’t compare to falling in love itself. The depth of emotion is far greater, far more compelling than the tears that fall from a sad movie. The joy of love and the grief of a broken heart transcends 2 or 3D or even the second world.

Same with sports. I love watching the Bears, ND Football, Cubs, Bulls, IU basketball, but the feeling I get when I (rarely) hit the ball and sprint (and make it to) first base far surpasses the excitement of being a spectator at a baseball game. When I was younger and played soccer, stealing the ball from an opposing teammate was more exhilarating than watching someone else score a goal at a stadium.

Traveling is no different. To absorb, to understand, to experience, you have to visit the place and eat the food, see the sights, breathe the air, and meet the people. It doesn’t mean that additional interaction isn’t necessary like studying the place beforehand or going with an excellent educational tour program to optimize the experience. But being in a new place is like a first kiss or a first interception. It’s an excitement that endures and propels you like no other. You don’t cease to love after your first love and you don’t stop playing after scoring a goal. What happens instead? You want to love more and compete more.

Have a great trip!

 

There is nothing like a Jewish mother’s love. She loves so deeply that she wants her daughter’s life to be filled with love too—but, he must be Jewish.

I was sitting at work late one Tuesday afternoon and my mother called me, her voice filled with adrenaline. She had just come home from the grocery store, and apparently she tried to pick up a little more than milk and eggs.

My mother had just finished getting her groceries into her car and was amused as she watched a “good-looking” Jewish boy doing a juggling act with his. As he picked up three bags, two would drop to the ground.

A Shabbat candle went off in her head, she recalled to me later. The urge to help him was overwhelming.

She called out, “Fella!”

Miraculously, he knew that he was her intended, and had his bags not been weighing him down, he might have run the other way.

My mother shouted out across the parking lot, “Would you like a ride?”

The poor vulnerable soul replied, “Sure.”

She got into the car so that she could pull up to him because he couldn’t walk to her car. He put his groceries in the way back of her station wagon, and he sat down next to her.
 
As she drove him home she explained that she saw his Michigan t-shirt and it reminded her of her three daughters (who went to Big Ten universities) and “she felt bad for him.” She talked about her daughters, while scanning and assessing him to figure out his age, asking him questions about what he did, etc. She didn’t want to allocate him to the wrong daughter.

She learned that he was in graduate school for journalism at Northwestern University’s Medill program and she zeroed in on me. He talked about his studies and she told him I’m a reporter.

She scrambled telling him about my work as they approached his apartment and said, “I should have you meet my daughter!”

He laughed and said, “Right”—as if they were both joking. He got out of the car and got his bags and peeked his head back in the window and said, “Have her come and visit me at Medill.” He shook her hand, thanked her and went on his way.

Thankfully, my mother couldn’t follow through, as she often has successfully attempted to match my sisters in the past. When I say successfully, I mean she has succeeded in actually giving out our phone numbers to strange “good looking” Jewish boys.

With a mensch whispering in her ear from one shoulder and a yenta shouting at her from the other, the mensch won. She admitted that she didn’t want to look like she was doing him a favor just for him to meet her daughter—though that had been her intention.

“I turned out to be a decent person in the end,” she laughed. “I preferred he think there is some decency in this world and that I didn’t have ulterior motives.”

My mother has the warmest heart of anyone I know, and truly wants the best for her daughters. When she finished her story, she was genuinely disappointed in herself that she didn’t succeed with this one.

“It was a short ride,” she added.

I, however, was horrified and laughing at the same time.

My sisters and I have faced many matchmaker attempts from both of our parents. I know too that I am part of a sisterhood of women whose parents also subtly or not so subtly try to set them up.

In general, secular societal attitudes about women have markedly changed since our parents’ era, but some Jewish mothers are still sending a strong message: Why aren’t you married yet?

Whether they’re kidding or half-kidding or not kidding at all, it puts some of us in an awkward fix.

Some young Jewish women I know are happily entering into matrimony, others aren’t ready yet. For example, those who are pursuing multiple degrees or trying to navigate their careers throughout their twenties may not yet have marriage on the brain. Young professionals move for jobs. Ask any journalist, for instance, how many times they have to move cities and markets to move up the media ladder?

That being said, it’s sometimes hard to build a nest with someone else when a young woman is still trying to find her own roots.

How do you manage to balance your love lives, your friends, your families and your careers?

Some are able to do it all simultaneously. Others need a little more time.

A boy and his dog, Nazareth Ilit, Israel, circa 1974

Piku stole my husband's heart over 20 years ago and I’m working on getting it back. I call it Operation Get a Dog and it’s a full force attack.

The history is poignantly clear. A whimpering puppy left to die in a Galilean dumpster, a five-year old boy, a dramatic rescue. Fourteen years and many shared steaks later, the boy kisses the dog good bye and bravely sets out to defend his country. Am Yisrael Chai. Poor dog drops dead that very week and the young soldier decides his beloved Piku cannot, will not, must not ever be replaced.

Heartbreaking, I know.

But I want a dog, dammit. And so do our two daughters.

Six-year old Emma is the most rational and mature about it. You lost your best friend and that makes you sad, Abba – but at least you had a best friend all those years. Yes, dogs shed hair - but so do we. Yes, dogs have accidents - but so do we.  (And by the way, I want a girl dog. I don't like penises - they look like worms.)

Five-year old Noa just bats her blue eyes and turns on her blonde ringlet charm. Please, Abba?

And me, I whine. It's not fair. Every kid needs a pet. Our yard is fenced in. You work from home. It’s my 40th birthday. Our house needs more love. Blah, blah, blah. My dog died, too. Get over it.

None of these strategies seemed to be working. The answer was always no. Not maybe. Not we’ll see. Just flat out no.

Until one afternoon in July, the Hoffmans ask us to dog sit Buddy. I say yes and he doesn’t say no.

Buddy the English Spaniel – our protagonist, our hero – comes from a kosher home; his family is shomer shabbos. It’s a fact I ponder for about three seconds before concluding he'll be fine with us, treif and all. What’s Shabbat for a dog? Isn’t every day Shabbat for a dog?

Regardless, Buddy arrives on a Sunday and within 20 minutes, he loves us unconditionally.

Dana blogs about dogs – enter Emma, Buddy and Noa.

When Noa falls down the stairs, Buddy is the first to her side, shows the most concern and offers the most comforting kisses. Emma feeds Buddy his dinner. Noa feeds him breakfast. My husband and I refresh his water bowl every 28 minutes (on average).

We walk the dog. Long, leisurely, family walks. Deep-breathing, Mama-Mia-singing, flower-sniffing, greet-neighbors-we’ve-never-seen-before walks. Stop at the park walks. Sometimes solitary, clear your head walks. When I wake up and before I go to sleep. At noon and again at 6, I love walking that dog.

Granted, I wouldn’t in January. And granted, when dogs eat grass and proceed to throw up on your bare foot, it’s gross. When the entire house is covered with a thin film of dog, it’s gross. Fresh dog poop in the morning dew, in the warm summer sun, in the evening twilight. Nothing, if not gross.

On Monday, the girls and I head off to work and camp. Early. Without any bickering. My husband and Buddy apparently spend the day bonding because by the time I get home, they’re speaking a combination of Hebrew and dog talk. Oooh, muchi puchi puchi poo, bo kelev, bo l’abba, ken, ken. And pretty soon, they’re kissing mouth to mouth.

When my family comes to pick me up from the train station the next day, guess who is sitting in my seat? (Clue: He’s furry.) Guess who Googles English Cocker Spaniel that night? (Clue: He’s bald.) Guess who asks, “what is their average life span?” Followed by, “fine, you can get a dog if you take care of it.” Ten minutes later when I say, “Honey, will you take Buddy out for his 10 PM walk,” my husband goes to fetch the leash.

The boys get acquainted.

The Hebrew word for dog, kelev, is spelled with the same three letters as k’lev, which means “like the heart”. I think if we are open to it, we can all find a little extra space in our homes and in our hearts.

We would like to adopt a young female English Cocker Spaniel. The girls want to name her Lila. Benny will teach her Hebrew. If you have leads or advice, please comment below or email me at  dmr18@aol.com .

Taron with The Hangover crew. His head hurts from too many tequila shots… and from being shamelessly photoshopped into this picture.

Scratch the surface of this summer’s blockbuster hit, “The Hangover” and you will find much more than what film critic Robert Davis deems as “pointless, goofy fun.”  From this rabbi’s point of view, “The Hangover” is a soon-to-be –High Holy Day Movie Classic, chock full of important lessons and values for anyone who is old enough to see an “R” rated movie.
 
Believe it or not, I saw “The Hangover” with eight rabbi friends of mine.  Though some of us were initially hesitant to check it out (given its raunchy reputation), we took comfort in a Talmudic passage that permits a Jew to view a gladiator contest (despite the inane nature of the event) with the thought that, in a moment of peril, such as, if a lion were to creep up behind a gladiator, the Jew might shout out a warning thereby saving the gladiator’s life.  Since this movie was rumored to feature an angry tiger, we thought that perhaps we too might get a chance to save a life with a well-placed shout in a crowded theater.  This being said, I admit that we, like you, assumed correctly that this film would be hilarious and we didn’t want to miss out on the fun.

This is not to say that there weren’t scenes in “The Hangover” that made us wince, and that there weren’t moments when we each took offense.  But overall, the film had (as I have already mentioned) some redeeming qualities.

From my humble point of view, “the Hangover” is more than a simple story of a road trip bachelor party gone awry.  It is a profound tale documenting the transformative power of t’shuvah, the process of repentance and return to our best selves and to God that we Jews undertake each year before the High Holy Days.
 
Think about it.  As the old saying goes, “sometimes you have to go far away to discover that which is very near.”  Soon after the four men wake up from their night of debauchery, a night they were to never forget… the t’shuvah journey begins…

Awake you sleepers, for your sleep! Rouse yourselves, you slumberers, out of your slumber! Examine your deeds and turn to God in repentance…Look closely at yourselves, improve your ways and your deeds. Abandon your evil ways, your unworthy schemes, every one of you!  (High Holy Day Liturgy)

The great Jewish thinker Maimonides teaches that the first step of t’shuvah is recognition.  At this time of year, we undertake a process of cheshbon nefesh, an accounting of our souls.  It is a process of introspection, of looking back on our past deeds and assessing where we may have gone astray so that we may right our wrongs. Our three heroes, Phil, Alan and Stu, recognize that something is wrong the moment they wake up from their slumber.  Phil accurately assesses the situation when he says: “What the F*%ck happened last night?”  Similar to Phil, at this time of year, we too, must rouse ourselves from our sleep and begin to ask ourselves similar questions about our entire year of misdeeds.  And, like Stu, we too must hold up a mirror (or a silver platter-whatever’s available) to look deeply into our reflection and examine ourselves.  Sometimes we smile and we like what we see.  More often than not, we witness the damage we have done to ourselves and the damage we have done to others.  Our High Holy Day liturgy asks: “Who among us is righteous enough to say: I have not sinned?”  Today we take this thought one step further.  Today we ask: “Who among us has not over the course of the year forgotten about someone with whom you were once close?” and given how crazy hectic our lives can all be, “Who among us has not left a newborn baby in a cabinet after a rocking party, and who here hasn’t at one time or another stuffed a naked guy in a car trunk?”  I assure you, we are all human.  Surely we all have.

Sometimes we err because we are selfish, heartless, or just plain cruel.  Other times, we err because someone spiked our drinks with roofies in an effort to get closer to us.  Regardless of our reasons, we must always remember that “the gates of repentance are never barred.”  Therefore we must endeavor to complete our journey of t’shuvah.  We must regret and renounce our evil behavior, we must reconcile with those we have hurt, and we must resolve never to make the same mistakes again.  Not to do so could, as our High Holiday liturgy suggests, yield terrible outcomes.  On Yom Kippur we read the Unetanneh Tokef which asks: “Who shall live and who shall die?” and we read: “Who by fire and who by water?”  To this I might add: “Who by taser and who by crowbar?” and: “Who by Tyson’s fist and who by sunburn?”  As our tradition teaches, when we have erred, it is only through repentance, prayer and charity that such evil decrees can be tempered.  Therefore, friends, let us endeavor to learn from our past mistakes, from our own personal hangovers and let these past missteps remind us where not to go, so that we can become our best selves.

At this point, I would like to share with you a second level of interpretation.  Bear with me.  Not only does the film teach of the transformative power of t’shuvah in a generic sense, it also provides us with specific and practical ways that you too can make changes in your lives based on your personality type.  This is why in the movie, Alan, Stu, Phil and Doug all clearly represent well-established and relatable Jewish archetypes.  I know I am stating the obvious when I tell you that the four men in this movie are really the Four Sons of the Passover Seder Haggadah.

Alan is the “Child who knows not how to ask the question.”  He is unaware of himself and his surroundings.  As his own father describes him, “there is something wrong with him.”  And as Stu mentions, Alan is “too stupid to insult.”  A creative interpretation of the Unetanneh tokef, asks the following: “Who shall strangle for lack of friends?”  To Alan, who has experienced profound loss in his life (he lost his grandfather in WWII in a skiing accident in Vermont) to find friends, to be included and to be noticed, means the world to him.  His life’s dream is to add three more friends to his “wolf pack.”  Clearly by the conclusion of this film, both by owning up to his mistake of spiking the drinks to gain friends, and by winning eighty thousand dollars, Alan for once in his life earns his place as an equal among friends.  This is his journey of t’shuvah.

Stu is the “Wise Child.”  He knows what is right and wrong.  He knows the rules and laws and is fearful from straying.  The problem is that these rules, whether they be self-imposed, the laws of the land or the rules imposed by his shrewd girlfriend, constrict him and prevent him from enjoying his life and getting what he ultimately wants—a loving relationship.  At the same time Stu possesses strong values and a tradition that means something to him.  This is why, for Stu, when he finds Jade, a stripper with a heart of gold, he finds someone who on the one hand wants to reform her life to play by the rules, but at the same time, enjoys having fun and is willing to give Stu the freedom to be himself.  Because she too (in her heart of hearts) values tradition, she returns the ring and they agree to meet again, to see how things go.  Soon, I imagine, Stu will pop the all important question to her.  Not the “will you marry me?” question but rather:  “Would you be willing to convert to Judaism?”  

Phil is the wicked child.  He is less mature than his high school students.  He is unconcerned about the consequences of his actions for himself or others.  Case in point:

Stu: We don’t want to call attention to ourselves! 
Phil: [while driving a squad car and using the loudspeaker] Attention! Attention!   

Most of all Phil is a finagler. He is someone who will try to squirm out of any situation.  He will do almost anything to avoid taking responsibility for his actions.  Phil’s moment of t’shuvah comes when he finally owns up to his actions and makes the painful phone call to Doug’s fiancé.

Phil Wenneck: Tracy, it's Phil.
Tracy Garner: Phil, where the hell are you guys?
Phil Wenneck: Listen, we f&*ed up.  We lost Doug.
Tracy Garner: What?  We're getting married in *five hours*.
Phil Wenneck: Yeah... that's not gonna happen.

And while it didn’t play out as such in the movie, I am convinced that had he not been tackled by Stu, Phil would have apologized to Tracy and asked forgiveness thereby completing his t’shuvah journey, assuming she were to grant him forgiveness.

Finally, though the simple child, Doug beautifully models forgiveness.  The text we read on Yom Kippur at our Temple states, I set before you life or death, blessing or curse; choose life.  By refusing to curse his friends for nearly ruining his wedding and for making such a mess, and by blessing his friends with one last pictorial look at their misdeeds before forgetting the night forever, Doug surely chooses life.  Of course, when the slideshow ends, someone says aloud the words:  “Oh Dear Lord.”  I interpret this to be the movie’s way of saying that each of the four characters also ask God for forgiveness.  To this Alan concludes: “That’s classic” meaning that the traditional process of t’shuvah followed by Jews for countless generations of the past will continue on for countless generations to come.

Forgiven for the past, renewed for tomorrow, may we go forth with rejoicing to a year of great goodness!

Shanah Tova!

Joshua Grabowsky, AKA “Chef Joshua” became a chef in an “ass-backward” way. Fifteen years ago, he learned in a Zen-type macrobiotic kitchen, more “how to be”, than how to cook. He opened the Red Avocado, a 100% Organic Vegetarian Restaurant, in Iowa City, cooked for yoga & meditation retreats, catered parties, and even bussed tables. He started an all organic kids’ school lunch program in Chicago, and had his own private chef firm. Now, he is just himself, Chef Joshua, and he cooks for some of the most prominent Jewish families in Chicago & the North Shore. Ahhh…the simple life.

Chef Joshua has many sides, though. He is a kick-ass private chef, a talented drummer and percussionist, an adoring husband, a father of 2 nice little “Jew-ish” boys, an avid Belgian beer & pizza connoisseur, and every Halloween he transforms into his socially awkward Brooklyn Jewish grandma, a.k.a. “Granny”! In his mind, he just launched “Granny’s Funky Fresh Jew Food,” an underground kick-ass quasi-kosher catering service featuring “King Josh’s” dope Jewish recipes (think: salami baby bagel lollipops with giardinera aioli).

So whether you’re into cooking, love Belgian beer and pizza, or if your alter ego is an awkward Jewish Grandma, then Joshua Grabowksy is a Jew you should know!

1. What is your favorite blog or website?
Embarrassed to admit it, but…it’s Facebook! It’s an incredible tool— both personally and professionally. I can post recipes through Twitter to my wall, sell songs, make new friends in South Africa. I mean, what could be better?!

2. If time and money were limitless, where would you travel?
First, I’d travel to Israel. Then I’d go all over Morocco, Tunisia, Ethiopia, Eritrea, then on to West Africa— Senegal, Ghana— to learn all the drum rhythms I could.

3. If a movie was made about your life, who would play you?
Someone girls go crazy for, like Johnny Depp…or Flava Flav.

4. If you could have a meal with any two people, living or dead, famous or not, who would they be? Where would you eat or what would you serve?
I’d cook my Papa Morry a mean brisket, then sit down with him for hours (he ate really slow) and pick his brain about old Maxwell Street, and his famous store, Smokey Joe’s. Next, I’d probably pick Jesus— just to see what all the fuss is about. I’d serve him up some of my “Gramma Esther’s” challah with yak butter (what the heck did they eat in those days?!). Maybe some Matzo Ball Soup if we found a local chicken wandering the streets.

5. What’s your idea of the perfect day?
Great question! Here’s the order of the day:
1. Ashtanga Yoga set.
2. Mondo soy hazelnut latte from Metropolis Coffee.
3. Turkey Loretta (no cheese) and crispy hash from Sarkis.
4. Long nap by the beach with my wife, Nancy.
5. Wake up, drum for 2 hours in the sun, while Nancy dances.
6. Skip lunch.
7. Spicy-ass dinner at Ras Dashen Ethiopian Restaurant.
8. Another long nap.
9. A good, long drinking session at the Hopleaf with my buddies, followed by late night Konak Pizza (next door).
10. Finish the night with a little love – if you know what I mean.

6. What do you love about what you do?
For the Private Chef gig… I absolutely love my clients. They are all extremely successful, super cool, happy, and informal people. I love taking normal, everyday family style food, and transforming it into Funky Fresh Jew Food! I also dig the chill pace (as opposed to freakin’ out in a restaurant kitchen).

7. What job would you have had if not the one you have now?
When I play music, I am at my happiest. I’m in the flow – completely. I am closest to God.

8. What’s your favorite Jewish thing to do in Chicago?
I got two:
1. Go to Shaevitz in Highland Park, buy kosher meat and kibitz with Label, the somewhere-around-90-year- old kosher butcher. He’s been a butcher since he was 10 years old. He works 7-8 hours a day on his feet. In my mind, he’s a living legend.
2. I love asking any Jewish or black man over 60 years old if they know about Smokey Joe’s. I always get a huge smile and a story, or two.

This past April, I joined an entirely new age demographic that solidified one of my greatest fears. At 35, I’m officially old. Calendar pages are flying off of the wall that is my life. Heck, before I know it, I’ll be subject to one of those death panels that our socialist, Kenyan president is trying so hard to organize when he’s not busy “hating white people.” (Thank you Glenn Beck, a.k.a. the smartest man ever, for that 100% true and accurate information.)

And as I take stock of my life during these golden years, not unlike my contemporary Bernie Madoff (but without the whole “holy s**t, I’m going to die in prison” thing), I’ve begun to ask myself the important questions that any man who reaches such a milestone must ask. Have I discovered true happiness? Has my life turned out the way I thought it would? And perhaps most importantly, why the hell am I still in a fantasy football league?

That’s right. As I write this, it’s a beautiful summer night; but instead of enjoying a nice gin & Geritol on my deck, kvetching about the weather and my gastro-intestinal issues like most Jewish men my age, I’m on the new fangled interwebs, studying whether or not the return of Brett Favre is going to put a dent in Adrian Peterson’s rushing numbers. (I have the number one pick for the second year in a row, and am schvitzing with cold sweats after LaDanian Tomlinson intentionally sabotaged my season last year. You and I have some talking to do, L.T.)

What in God’s name am I doing with my life? I don’t have the time to care about whether or not Tom Brady can stay healthy! I’m in the process of directing one show and writing another at Second City, I have a wonderful girlfriend, and great friends and family who I’m always trying to fit in my busy schedule… There’s barely enough time in the day to turn on the radio and listen to how brutal WXRT is. (Seriously does Tracy Chapman have a photo of Terri Hemmert naked or something? Because how else does one explain the inordinate amount of times I hear “Give Me One Reason To Stay Here” on that once-great station?)

Maybe I’m still involved because I came to fantasy sports a little later than most people. Back in high school, when many of my friends were in rotisserie leagues, I could have cared less. I was far more into the more traditional things that every all-American high school boy should be into, like collecting obscure Paul McCartney imports or rehearsing for “Anything Goes.”

Sigh.

But even that doesn’t explain my inability every football season as an adult to follow the advice Nancy Reagan gave to a young Arnold Drummond: Just Say No. (See? Even my references sound old and dated. And don’t even get me started on trickle down economics or frozen blintzes…)

I thought I made great progress when I ditched my PS2 upon buying my condo a few years back. And giving up the NBA League Pass on DirecTV after one year was such a coming of age decision, it felt like the Bar Mitzvah I never had. (That, in itself, is a blog for another time.) But something about fantasy football, and the forthcoming three hour draft replete with trash talking, beer drinking, and feeling like an absolute genius as you watch your team take shape, just never seems to get old.

Unlike me. In the T.V. theme song of life, I’m one chorus of “Thank You For Being A Friend” away from being one of the Golden Guys. O.K., I have no idea what that means. And I don’t really have the time to figure it out right now, because I’ve got to continue reading an “expert” opinion on what round is too early to draft a tight end; unlike last year, when my surprise pick of Tony Gonzalez in the third round was greeted by the kind of howls usually heard during a Larry The Cable Guy set at the Blue Collar Comedy tour.

Surely, right about now, I could pick up a book, or go to the gym, or really seal the deal as an old man by watching Season 1 of “Murder She Wrote” on DVD. (Face it, guys. Angela Lansbury is pretty hot in that whole, “hey, grandma’s hot!” kind of way.) Instead, I’m at my desk, thumbing through an eight dollar fantasy football guide which has been outdated since before Sarah Palin inspired millions of young women by quitting her job to spend more time on Facebook.

Neil Young once sang, “old man take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you”. Pretty heavy stuff for a guy my age. I realize that lyrics are open for interpretation, but I wonder if he’s saying to me, “old man, take a look at your team; and do not draft T.O. again. Idiot.”

Thanks for that advice, Neil. And if you’re around to help this old man come fantasy basketball time, I’d be all for that as well. Perhaps there’s even an AARP league out there for guys my age?

A man my age can only dream.

Dropping a few pounds takes more than blueberries, elliptical trainers, Pilates, and lean chicken. Yes, you need to work out, eat right and sleep to be healthy—but there’s more.

I’m not going to get all Yogi or Tai Chi on you and tell you inner peace is the answer to a thinner waist and Madonna arms. However, one piece of the puzzle is how you see yourself. Yes, this might sound a little self help-ish but in my experience as a trainer, I’ve noticed one simple difference between those who’ve succeeded and those who’ve failed—attitude.

Fat-i-tude, adverb, adjective, verb: a person who cannot see themselves fit, even if they are either on the way there or already there. I.E. Henry has to change his fatitude, he’s always referring to himself as the fat kid.

Sadly, more people suffer from fatitude than obesity. I’m not a licensed therapist or a friend of Oprah’s, but I am a coach and I did create the word, so let me shed some light on fixing this problem.

If you are trying to get in better shape, drop pounds, and gain muscle, keep up the healthy eating, the workouts, and see yourself fit. Visualize the new you—the more details the better—and if you can find a picture of yourself at your ideal figure/build keep that at your desk for inspiration. (If your ideal body was when you were seven-years-old, you might need more help then I can offer.)

Here’s the clincher, you have to act, better yet, believe you can achieve this goal. To fully see the healthy you, avoid the following traps:

• “I’ve always been the fat one in my family.” Stop saying that! If your family is in good shape, that means DNA might be on your side.

• “I love food to much!” Really, we all love food. Pick a cheat meal each week where you order the cheeseburger, or the sundae…or whatever your favorite unhealthy food crush may be.

• “I don’t have the time.” I have two jobs and a wonderful wife, and I still find the time. Build exercise into your schedule. Lunchtime walks, morning hikes (get off the train a stop early and walk), take the stairs more often...Need more? Email me, I’ve got a lot of suggestions.

• “I hurt every time I workout!” Call me or another trainer with experience working with sore shoulder, hip, knee or other injuries. You can also focus on healthy eating first and build the exercise in later.

• “I’ve been this way my entire life.” And you can change. Being out of shape is not a character flaw, it’s a lifestyle flaw. Look at your lifestyle and start by making small changes.

What’s holding you back from getting in better shape? First, change your fatitude and then mix in blueberries, walking, lean proteins… and soon you’ll be on your way achieving your wellness goals!

For more information on this debilitating issue, respond below or email me at rkrit@fitwithkrit.com.

There comes a time in every relationship when it’s time to make the grand gesture.  He’s nervous, you’re nervous, and no one is really sure what the outcome will be.  What should I say?  What will he say?  Nope, I’m not talking about a proposal—please, we’ve only been dating six months!  I’m referring to something much scarier: introducing your boyfriend to your parents…

In the perfect scenario, my family would live locally, and there would be a more dominant occasion, such as a wedding or bar mitzvah to distract the parents from this sub-occasion—“the meeting of the boyfriend.”  It would all be over in a few hours, and then everyone would part ways.  Easy and painless.

Unfortunately for my boyfriend, Aaron, this was not even remotely close to what happened.  In fact, we planned a special trip to Minnesota, where Aaron was fully immersed in the Bader household for an entire weekend.  And if you think he had time to ease into the situation, you’re dead wrong.

Just 60 minutes after our plane landed, my house was booming with grandparents.  All four came over claiming to want to see me, but I knew the truth— they cared more about meeting the nice Jewish boy I’ve been talking so highly about.  Picture your quintessential Jewish home, with kibitzing, noshing and kvetching…now add vodka.  Poor Aaron was thrown in head first.  But, with the exception of a small incident (nervously knocking over a candle, no worries, it wasn’t lit!), he passed the test with flying colors.  Not only was he polite and friendly, but he held his own, which is the ultimate test of character in my family.  I have to say, I was very proud!  This, however, was only the beginning…

I only had one thing on my agenda for the weekend: show Aaron how amazing Minneapolis truly is.  Saturday morning we woke up bright and early to rollerblade around the lakes.  We Minnesotans love our lakes, and, as the Rollerblade was invented in Minnesota, rollerblading is in our genes.  Apparently, this is not the case for Chicagoans, as before we even left the parking lot, Aaron was down for the count.  (He’s going to kill me for sharing this.)  Now, to be fair, he was wearing my brother’s rollerblades, and they were a little big.  The spill, however, didn’t faze him a bit, and we continued all the way around without any more follies.  There may be hope here after all.  At about 3 p.m., my dad called and wanted to meet us for coffee.  We accepted the invitation, blissfully unaware that seven of my parent’s closest friends would be there to greet us.  Unfortunately for us, Starbucks is not an alcohol-serving establishment.  When we arrived, they were all there gleaming, waiting to pounce.  Yet again, with his wit and charm, Aaron won them over in the span of about five minutes.  Parents and grandparents—check!  Friends—check!  Now on to the siblings.

That night, we all went out for sushi.  My brother, who also recently started dating someone, devised a genius plan.  He decided that this was the perfect time for my parents to meet his girlfriend as well, taking the pressure off both our significant others, as well as ourselves.  He’s a nice, Jewish boy from Northbrook, and she’s a nice Jewish girl from St. Paul:  They had brownie points before they even shook my parents’ hands.  Needless to say, the evening went on without a hitch, and before we knew it, we were back at the airport on our way home.  (Literally.  We went to bed at 3 a.m. and caught a 9 a.m. flight.)

All in all, it was a great weekend.  I knew it was successful when my father, now super hip since he learned how to text, sent me a text message telling me how much he “loves this guy.”  It was really important to me to have Aaron see where I grew up and meet my parents, since they both play such a huge role in my life today.  I’m happy to report, that in this Jewish version of “Meet the Fockers”, there was no losing of the family pet, no breaking of the sibling’s nose, and no teaching the baby naughty words.  He who makes me happy, makes my parents happy…usually.  Way to go, Aaron!

What follows is a letter from guest blogger, Barak Gilor, founder of Club 1948, a non-profit organization providing “your alternative connection to Israel”, to Chicago-based Gender JUST, described on its  website as, “a multi-racial, multi-ethnic, and multi-generational grassroots organization of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, and Allied (LGBTQA) young people, LGBTQA people of color, and LGBTQA grassroots folks developing leadership and building power through organizing…Gender JUST believes that you cannot fight against sexual and gender oppression without fighting against racism and poverty.  Because of this, it is especially important to Gender JUST to fight against racism, classism, sexism, ageism, and able-bodyism within LGBTQA communities.”

Dear Gender JUST,

We were recently dismayed and disappointed to hear that the organization Gender JUST has refused to support an LGBT-related event because it is being “co-hosted by a Zionist organization.”  In justifying their decision to avoid contact with Club 1948, Gender JUST described itself as an “anti-oppression organization,” and clearly indicated that it believes Club 1948 to be some kind of “pro-oppression” organization, merely because of our cultural connection to the state of Israel.  We are happy to report that the vast majority of LGBT organizations in Chicago do not share this view, and have enthusiastically welcomed the support of Club 1948.  Gender JUST’s position is saddening to us because Club 1948 is also an anti-oppression organization, and we believe that Gender JUST may have misunderstood the nature of oppression of homosexuality in the Middle East.

Club 1948 is a non-profit organization that supports education and cultural understanding between Americans and Israelis through community events.  We are named for Israel’s year of independence: “1948” is the Israeli “1776.”  We do not take specific political positions; we merely take pride in Israeli culture, and in Israel’s existence.

Israelis are a diverse and democratic people who work very hard to foster a safe and peaceful home for those of all sexual orientations.  Here are a few examples:

Israel has no sodomy or other disguised “anti-gay” laws, many thriving, Lesbian, Gay, Bi-Sexual and Transgender (“LGBT”) organizations, annual gay pride parades in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and even members of parliament who actively speak out on LGBT issues.  LGBT culture is proudly featured on television, in movies, and visible in the culture of daily life.  There was recently a tragic and highly unusual attack by a lone extremist against the LGBT community center in Tel Aviv, which resulted in a massive outpouring of support and emotion from hundreds of thousands of Israelis from all walks of life.  If anything, this attack is the exception that proves the rule: Israel and Israelis overwhelmingly understand, accept, and advocate the idea that basic human freedoms apply to LGBT people just as much as to any other person.  In fact, it is not uncommon for Palestinian LGBT people to escape TO Israel as refugees FROM their respective Palestinian governments.

In Gaza and the West Bank, Palestinian police ruthlessly enforce what those particular governments perceive as the Islamic principle that homosexuality is an offense of immorality, punishable by torture and death.  (There are many around the world who would disagree with this interpretation of Islam.)  These are just a few examples of LGBT life in Gaza and the West Bank over the last several years:

Gays who are caught by the Palestinian police are sent to jail and then forced to become undercover police agents, sent to "ferret out homosexuals."  One such 21-year old Palestinian gay man was caught by his own brother having gay sex, and turned over to the local Palestinian police.  He went through the following ordeal: "to stand in sewage water up to his neck, his head covered by a sack filled with feces, and then he was thrown into a dark cell infested with insects."  During one interrogation Palestinian police stripped him and forced him to sit on a Coke bottle (Chicago Free Press).  A 17-year-old gay youth recalled that he spent months in a Palestinian Authority prison "where interrogators cut him with glass and poured toilet cleaner into his wounds” (The New Republic).  A 33-year-old gay Palestinian man petitioned the Israeli High Court of Justice asking it to grant him permanent residency in Israel so that he may live with his partner, who lives in the central Israeli city of Bat Yam. The man, a resident of the northern West Bank village of Tamon, claimed to fear for his life should he not be able to leave the West Bank and live in Israel (YNet News).

The peace process between Israel and Palestinians, like all peace processes, is a complex one.  It requires great understanding and also painful compromises by all involved.  To define Israelis, who are a real and complex people, as being “oppressive,” is just as narrow minded and naïve as the idea of defining all Palestinian people as “terrorists.”  Neither definition is accurate or conducive to the quest for peace, security and dignity for all peoples of the Middle East.  It is not our intention to address this broad and complex topic in a single letter.  Today, we are focused on a specific issue:

It is Club 1948’s position that all people, regardless of sexual orientation, are entitled to basic human rights, not the least of which is the right to live a life that is free from fear.  This is why Club 1948 sponsored a float in this year’s Chicago Gay Pride Parade, in commemoration of the Tel Aviv Gay Pride Parade, which was proceeding during the same month.  There are no Gay Pride Parades in Gaza or the West Bank.  Perhaps someday there will be.  Perhaps we will all play a part in helping to bring that day closer.

We hope that the evolving landscape in the Middle East will bring to Israelis and Palestinians not only safety, prosperity, security and peace, but also that it will bring to the Palestinian LGBT communities the same basic human rights that LGBT communities enjoy in Israel today.  Further, we hope that someday the good people of Gender JUST will come to understand what most of the Chicago LGBT organizations already know: as Americans we have so much in common – with each other, with Club 1948, and for that matter the state of Israel, in our shared pursuit of the freedom from oppression.

Club 1948 will continue to support Chicago’s LGBT community with PRIDE, because that is part of what Israeli culture is all about.  We look forward to the day when Gender JUST will join us!

Sincerely yours,

Barak Gilor
founder, Club 1948

Lilac Epstein
director of public relations, Club 1948

Daniel Pomerantz
general counsel, Club 1948

For more information about Club 1948 visit their  website  or email  info@myclub1948.org .

A major international crisis was nearly averted yesterday by Lady Gaga when she, in a sweeping gesture of respect for her more conservative Israeli fans, covered her skimpy attire by donning a black leather jacket adorned with a Star of David made of silver spikes on the back.

Quick—what do you think the top of her Dead Sea bathing suit will be?  Two kippot strung together?

(I would caution her against wearing fringes on the bottom—bad tan lines.)

Forgive my snarkiness today.  Maybe I’m old, maybe I’m jaded, maybe I’m just grumpy (or all of the above), but I fail to grasp what makes this tidbit interesting and why it was widely covered in the Jewish news.

Frankly, I—along with tween boys throughout Israel—would have been more interested if Lady G didn’t cover up.

As a woman who has been the recipient of piercing glares and negative verbal comments made by Orthodox men while walking through Jerusalem, who dared to touch the small sliver of the Western Wall allowable to women in pants, let me be the first to say that I’m disappointed in Lady G’s choice to present a more modest version of herself.

We could use more boundaries in this area pushed, and not just in the Middle East.  I find it incredible that, in the year 2009, there are still some United States Senators who require their female staff workers to report each day in a skirt, heels and pantyhose.

(My husband would argue the equality issue here with me, pointing out that these Senators require their male staff to wear ties.  My response is the same dress code should apply to all.  If I want to wear a pantsuit, then I would be required to also wear a tie.  And if my husband wants to wear a skirt, then he would wear the required heels and hose.  Damnit, he looks better in a skirt than I do anyway.)

Or maybe we should change the conversation entirely and talk about why female performers continue to almost bare-it-all– including 16-year-old Disney pop tarts.  Somehow I doubt most of these woman are true feminists embracing their sexuality.  At what point do we, as an intelligent society, decide that talent, not sex, should be what sells?

But I digress.  Back to Lady G, who does deserve some props for performing in Israel, and making an obvious effort to relate to her Jewish fans.  In what feels like an increasingly anti-Semitic world, I for one appreciate the gesture, even if it’s linked with a questionable fashion choice.

Lady G: coming from someone who also has gotten drunk in Jerusalem, I raise my glass to you.  I, too, am more excited for you to see Jerusalem than I am to “get drunk in a bar.”

I just can’t wait to see what her note for the Western Wall says.

I’m not a hard line environmentalist, but I try to do eco-friendly things like support local agriculture through a CSA share, bring my own bags to the grocery store, and recycle. I know these small things are important, but my motivation to be green pales in comparison to the environmental passion of my best friend Erin.

Sometimes it feels like too much work to wash the moldy leftovers out of the plastic container so it can be recycled. It is much easier to just throw it away. “Lazy!” My head screams as I toss it in the garbage. “At least Erin isn’t here to see you,” it says next.

I feel a little guilty that I don’t share her level of passion for the subject, but I’m always interested in learning more. Erin has taught me that putting your TV and other appliances on a power strip saves power. She’s shown me that organic cottons can be fashionable. She’s warned me that clean water is rapidly becoming our most endangered natural resource. Most recently, Erin introduced me to this organization called No Foam Chicago, which is working to encourage the city of Chicago to join the 100 plus cities that already have a ban on Styrofoam food packaging. There are some striking facts about polystyrene (a.k.a. Styrofoam) on their website. Here are three examples:

-­ Styrene, the basic building block of polystyrene, is a large environmental health concern as toxic chemicals leak out of these products into the food that they contain (especially when heated in a microwave). These chemicals threaten human health and reproductive systems. (Protect The Winks of the world!)

- Americans use and discard over 2.5 billion Styrofoam cups each year. That’s more than one cup for everyone living in India and China combined. These cups are made with petroleum, a non-sustainable and heavily polluting resource.

- Chicago Public Schools serve school lunches on Styrofoam trays, endangering students to these harmful chemicals while choking our landfills with unnecessary harmful waste. 400,000 trays are discarded every single school day, never to biodegrade. Ever. That’s more than the entire population of Minneapolis.

And if Styrofoam isn’t your green cause of choice, how about water? I recently heard that it takes 2,000 gallons of water to make one pair of jeans. Two thousand! And that a normal toilet uses 3-5 gallons of water per flush. Whoosh, it’s gone. I won’t go into the details of the composting toilet I recently heard about, but apparently people are having them installed in their homes right here in the city.

Whatever eco-cause you take up, Judaism is there to back you up. Here’s a little story I like about our responsibility to take care of the environment.

Two people were fighting over a piece of land. Each claimed ownership.  To resolve their differences, they agreed to put the case before the rabbi.  The rabbi listened but could not come to a decision. Finally he said, “Since I cannot decide to whom this land belongs, let us ask the land.”  He put his ear to the ground, and then straightened up. “My friends, the land says that it belongs to neither of you – but that you belong to it.” (Jewish Folk Wisdom)

For more on Judaism and the environment, check out the JCRC Environmental  Initiative  and Coalition on the Environment and Jewish Life ( COEJL ). To find out more about No Foam Chicago and how you can help, check out their  website  or stop by their  event  next week Wednesday, August 26 at Joey’s Brickhouse.

Don’t you get it, honey?

You call me to gripe, to cry, to express the frustration that has been building inside you, increasing to a dangerous level with the latest drama that seemingly follows you wherever you go.

You tell me that someone close to you, someone dear to you, was speaking trash about you behind your back. What could bring you to such hysteria and hours of therapeutic soothing? This naysayer flippantly accused you of lacking intelligence. Little may she realize that this comment was a crushing blow to the most vulnerable point of your deflated ego, the words that have followed you, haunted you, throughout your life.

Dumb.
Stupid.
Special ed.
Don’t you get it?

I’m going to pull the “G” word out now, so beware. You know , the one that makes even me feel like  a gullible moron when I pronounce it. God. There I said it. I want to gag.

The word god in today’s culture brings about a skeptical, corny aftertaste. I say this not because I don’t believe in Him. Oh baby, I do. But I don’t believe in the god that people talk about when they try to allude to His Existence. My God is a Jiving, Loving, Free spirited, All Powerful, Hilarious, Hopeful, Helpful, Beautiful, Energetic, Quantum Physics Genius. My God delights in hip hop, romantic conversations, and good coffee. “The Great One” is a personal pet name for my Adorable Creator.

So The Great One has this game that he loves to play, and He calls it Testing. What He does is very simple, yet excruciatingly tricky for His participants. Finding your weakest link, the thing you struggle with the most, He tests you. If you don’t pass, if you don’t face your faults, if you don’t work on these issues in order to rectify your character traits, you will fail the opportunity to tikkun olam your soul. And guess what? He’s gonna pull that exact same shtick on you a year later, five years later, until you pass. And even then, after you pat yourself on the back, as you are rusting, the test will confront you like a reoccurring nightmare and make you toss restlessly in your sleep.

Don’t you get it?

Let’s look at the trusty patriarchs of Jewish lineage. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Abraham’s greatest quality was that of hesed, loving kindness. Isaac’s was gevurah, strength, and Jacob’s was emes, truth. So what type of shtick did The Great One pull on them? Abraham, the man who epitomized loving kindness, was ordered to kill his son.

Wait, what?

 Isaac, the man who epitomized strength, willingly gave of himself to be slaughtered, without a fight.

Huh?

And Jacob, the man who represented truth, was told by his mother to lie to his father and tell him he was his son Esau in order to get the birthright.

Sounds like a headline from those supermarket checkout lines.

Don’t you get it?

The Great One is slapping His Knee up there in heaven, gleefully watching His congregants participate in the original Real World, Planet Earth. The questions is not “why me?”; the realization is “because of me” I am being tested in this specific area.

In a society so obsessed with standardized testing, we don’t realize that our actual tests are nothing if not individually, specifically given. All children in a world of generalized education are left behind, no matter how much government money is grudgingly transferred from war funds to public school administrations.

Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were given tests that were specifically against their nature. Because doing multiplication tables while in Calculus is too easy. Yet for a first grader, understanding division is merely a distant fantasy. To tell a woman who still hears the words of her fifth grade teacher condescendingly ringing in her ear that she is dumb leaves her in a state of crippled shock.

So what do you do with these tests? The answer can only come from within you. But the more confrontation is avoided, the more astutely The Great One is already plotting His next move, giving you the opportunity to face yourself and this time, hopefully pass. To those pessimists among us, never forget this game is intended to be one of ultimate triumph.

Don’t you get it?

Like the good old days in the Garden of Eden, there is nowhere to hide. Oh, we are all always naked, but there is no reason for us to cover ourselves with shame and seek far away safety. The Great One is here and you must acknowledge the rules and your role in this game in order to beat it. For then you can laugh right along with Him as you face your greatest weaknesses, together.

Rachel and Dejanay, the student she tutored at George Manierre

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Hey Oy!sters, it’s your friendly neighborhood matchmaker here – ready to make your dreams come true.

Wait…I hope you’re not expecting me to find you a boyfriend or girlfriend. That’s not quite what I’m referring to. I am a professional volunteer matchmaker. I am here to help you find the perfect volunteer project.

Working at the JUF TOV Volunteer Network, my time is spent cultivating relationships with nearly 100 Jewish and general nonprofits throughout Chicago and its suburbs so that when you call, I can suggest a handful of agencies that correspond to your availability and interests.

So yes, if you work eighty hours a week and can only volunteer once a month at a location that is accessible by public transit, I can help. Or if you are between jobs and are looking to volunteer A LOT to keep yourself busy and distract yourself from the tortures of a job hunt (and maybe buffer your resume), I’m also your girl. All you need to do is fill out this form and you’ll receive a list of agencies with opportunities that are right for you.

With the summer coming to an end (boooo – I know!) and the 2009-2010 school year just around the corner, I wanted to fill you in on a great volunteer opportunity that is ideal for a busy young professional like you.

TOV, in conjunction with a nonprofit called Innovations for Learning coordinates a program where you can tutor a first-grader from Cabrini Green without ever leaving your desk at work.

The JUF TOV Literacy Project’s Online Tutoring program uses an interactive website for students and tutors to connect, read stories, and play word games that enhance the classroom reading curriculum. TOV hosts a meet-and-greet party at the school in late September where you’ll meet your student and then in just 30 minutes per week (even during your lunch hour if you want!), you can make a difference for a student in the first grade class of George Manierre School.

All you need is an internet connection, a phone, a bit of patience and the desire to make a difference.

For information on this program and other volunteer opportunities throughout Chicago, call Rachel at the TOV Hotline: 312-357-4762, or email her at tov@juf.org.

English freely mixed with Hebrew as nearly 250 people gathered to celebrate the Tel Aviv 100 on North Avenue Beach Wednesday.

From humble beginnings as the first modern Jewish city, Tel Aviv – which means “Hill of Spring”, a title taken from the Hebrew translation of Theodore Herzl’s “Alt Neuland” – has grown into a world-class metropolis, the hub of economic and cultural development in Israel, said Israel’s Consul General to the Midwest Orli Gil.

“Tel Aviv today is a lively city – full of booming restaurants, clubs, trends from all over the world when it comes to fashion, food and music,” she said. “Tel Aviv today is a city to celebrate; a city to go out and enjoy.”

Dan Bielski, the news editor at Kol Israel radio gave a brief tribute to the city, recognizing its special place in the hearts of Israelis.

“When I drive to Tel Aviv, I have tears in my eyes because Tel Aviv is quite an impressive place,” Bielski said. “I would not trade Tel Aviv for anything else. If you want to stay young in your heart, Tel Aviv is the place.”

Lively games of Makot – Israeli beach paddle ball – sprung up on the terrace at Castaways as Israeli music pounded and attendees crunched on falafel-flavored bisli sticks and bamba, Israeli peanut snacks.

The runaway hit of the night was the falafel eating contest, which attracted about 15 participants. Each had to put away as many garlicky falafel balls as possible in 30 seconds. The record went to David Held, whose name tag proclaimed him as “Hashem.” One arm held behind his back, David managed to munch four falafels in thirty seconds, and put away seven in the one-minute final round, in which friends fed the three remaining participants. His prize? Two tickets to comedian Howie Mandel’s appearance at JCC Live!, the annual JCC benefit.

“As an organization that brings Jewish values to life, it was really important for us to connect people to Israel, which is a big part of our tradition,” said Rachel Dreytser, who coordinates the Sidney N. Shure Kehilla, the JCC’s young adult program, and organized Tel Aviv’s birthday party.

Other event sponsors included the American Zionist Movement, Israel Aliyah Center, Israel Ministry of Tourism, Stand With Us!, Consulate General of Israel to the Midwest, Birthright Israel NEXT, Honest Reporting. Shaarey Tzedek Medical Center in Jerusalem and Pumamaki Expeditions.

Weather.com says it’s 76 degrees and mostly sunny outside, but I can’t confirm this firsthand. Me? I'm just chillin' in my 67 degree, mostly florescent cubicle. No, it’s fine. I can only see two windows, which face a very dark alley, and the blinds are pulled shut.

But… it’s Thursday! And that means it’s almost Friday. And that means it’s almost the freakin’ weekend, baby, I’m about to have me some fun! Top of Thursday's to-do list: Weekend Daydream. Sunshine, party trolleys, margaritas, beaches and puppies. Sigh…

Oh, hey, what did you say you were doing?

Ooooh. Say what? In an office? Yikes.

Too bad, cuz we’re just havin’ a laugh on the beach.

Watching this dog do super cute dog things.

Yep, still watching.

Awww

I belong to a secret club of women. Sadly, the club is such a well-kept secret that the other members do not know about it. These women are famous and accomplished and published, and have no idea that I believe we are friends. Or surely would be, if only we lived in the same city, or perhaps had gone to the same college.

Anna Quindlan is a founder of the club. Anne Tyler and Alice Hoffman are members. Wendy Wasserstein and Laurie Colwin are officers emeritus. The newest inductee is Jennifer Weiner.

All these women are whip-smart and wry and witty. They each have done their therapy. They are writers; women of substance. They are people for whom the personal is political and the political is personal. Family and feminism both run deep in their veins. Many of them are moms. Most are Jews. The others might as well be.

I am sure they would love me, if only we met.

When I was a young woman, I subscribed to the New York Times simply for Anna Quindlan’s column.  She gave insights into issues that helped me clarify my own world view. Her voice became a yardstick by which I measured my ideas and ideals. She made me feel less lonely as I trudged through my 20s, frantically trying to maintain my inner compass. I was so proud of her, and utterly horrified when she gave up the column to write novels. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t consulted with me before making such a big decision.

I did write to her once or twice during the 1980s, and got brief, very kind, hand-written responses. Over the years I had many conversations with Anna in my head as I swallowed disappointments at work, at home, in the world. When I met Anna at a book reading a decade ago, I kept a careful distance, for fear that if I got too close I would simply throw my arms around her. There was, of course, a chance that she would understand. There was also a chance she would call the police.

To this day I give anthologies of her columns as graduation gifts to puzzled young people who probably would prefer a Forever 21 gift card.

You will note that none of my club members write about groups of friends whose relationships unfold gloriously over the decades, where the women sustain each other through trials and triumphs, love and loss, blah blah blah.

In real life, as time goes by, I think most women find our worlds get smaller. My contemporaries and I have drifted away from one another—or, more often, we have been pulled away. One of us cares for aging parents and another is overwhelmed by the needs of her kid with ADD; one moves to another city for a better job, another gets divorced and falls under the spell of J-Date. Each of our schedules is turned inside out by our kids’ lessons and practices, which never seem to coincide with those of our friends’ kids. Even when we’re not at work, we are preoccupied by a pressure to produce that leaves little energy for more than a glass of wine and an evening with Jon Stewart.

I have never been so busy, and so lonely, in my life.

I wonder if Anna would understand.

Everyone here at Oy!Chicago would like to say mazel tov to Alyssa Latala and her husband, Joe Latala who are now proud parents of a healthy baby (and who guessed it?) boy! I guess the shamapoo-er at the salon was right on that one. Little Benjamin Cooper was born on August 7. We can’t wait to hear how they decided on a name. Congratulations Alyssa and Joe!

Last night’s vigil at Congregation Emanuel for the victims of the Tel Aviv tragedy was a quiet one. It was filled with peaceful poetry and prayers, including traditional memorial prayers and those for healing for the people who were killed and wounded in the awful shooting that took place just a week ago. The community came together very quickly to create a service organized by Rabbi Larry Edwards of Congregation Or Chadash and featured both Jewish and non-Jewish leaders from the area.

Participants in the service included: Rabbi Larry Edwards (Cong. Or Chadash), Hon. Orly Gil (Consul Gen. of Israel to the Midwest), Rabbi Michael Balinsky (Chicago Board of Rabbis), Rabbi Shoshanah Conover (Temple Sholom), Jeryl Levin (New Israel Fund), Rabbi Rebecca Lillian (Limmud Chicago), Rabbi Brant Rosen (Jewish Reconstruction Congregation, Evanston), Judith Golden (cantorial soloist, Cong. Or Chadash), Aaron Frankel (principal, Cong. Beth Israel, Munster, IN), Rev. Kevin L. Downer (Metropolitan Community Church), Bishop James Wilkowski (Evangelical Catholic Diocese NW), and Cantor David Reinwald (Temple Anshe Sholom, Olympia Fields).

The service was well-attended and there was an outpouring of support from the wider Jewish, LGBT, and other religious communities.

May the memory of those tragically murdered be for a blessing and we wish a refuah sh'leimah, a full recovery, to all of those injured in this brutal attack.

Sponsors of this Chicago program included Congregation Or Chadash, Emanuel Congregation, the New Israel Fund, Jewish Council on Urban Affairs and the Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago.

I am an incredibly avid reader of fiction, but when I venture into the land of non-fiction, I am usually looking for a book that I can relate to in some way. Thus grew my interest in the debut book of Eddie Sarfaty, a fellow gay Jew. Okay, so Eddie, a comedian who has a steady gig in Provincetown, Mass, is really nothing like me, a cantor. But hey, I did go to Provincetown once for a day, and I loved it!

If you like David Sedaris, you will definitely go for this book. Sarfaty's writing in "Mental: Funny in the Head," has a similar style, and while the stories are a bit off-the-wall, they are still believable. A close-up look at a lot of family drama and his life's escapades, the book often ventures along the path of his dating and love life. Any reader is sure to revel in amusement at the first chapter, where he comes out to his grandmother in the company of his sarcastic and loud-mouthed mother— clearly surrounded by Jewish neurosis to the max. You may still find yourself trying to self-identify with his family at times, even if they are a bit over-the-top. Watch a short film based off this story here.

The rest of the stories in the book tell of Sarfaty's daunting adventure to return an adopted cat gone wild, of his frustrations with his incredibly cheap ex-boyfriend, and of his semi-chaotic trips to Paris and London with his parents and grandmother. He also writes about his former job as a bartender at a gay bar for well-to-do, older clientele on the Upper East Side of New York.

In his writing, Sarfaty is pretty much no-holds-barred, and I found that sometimes he shared more than I needed to know, but the book does have many funny parts and was an enjoyable read.

We live in a consumer culture, no question about it. I’ve got friends and relatives who never met a sale they didn’t like (hi, mom!). But how we make decisions about what to buy – and we want to buy-buy-buy – can tell a lot about us.

On a recent trip to Boston, I checked into a Courtyard Marriott hotel in the city’s Theater District. The first thing I saw in the bathroom were towels proudly proclaiming “Made in Israel.” Seeing that label made me smile. As conflicted as I might be on Israeli government policy sometimes, I firmly believe that buying Israeli is one of those essential things, a sort of statement of belonging to the Jewish people.

In fact, seeing “made in Israel” on a label often doubles the chance that I’ll buy the item, provided it fits well/suits my lifestyle. I don’t go out of the way to find “made in Israel” and I don’t shop exclusively for Israeli products – it would be impossible to eat or wear clothes if I tried that. But Israeli wines have found a permanent home on my wine rack, and many of my clothes have Hebrew on the label.

For many, the origin of the product can be a deciding factor:

Some friends refuse to buy a German-made car or tool. Despite painful Holocaust history, I refuse to believe that blaming modern-day Germany for the sins of its past leaders is a valid strategy for preventing another Shoah. And one acquaintance, who works for the German tool-maker Bosch, always prefaces talking about his job by adamantly distancing himself from his employer.

Journalist Sara Bongiorni and her family tried to live for a year without buying any products made in China, a decision spurred less by notions of idealism or fair trade-though she does note troubling statistics on job loss and trade deficits-than simply “to see if it can be done,” according to a review of her book. As readers will see, Bongiorni struggled with the choice because everything from her kids’ shoes to school supplies to home repair equipment is produced in China.

For others, consumer choices center on environmental consciousness: they buy local, organic and fair-trade. They prefer to pay more for the comforting knowledge of having helped our planet and its people through their purchases. Shopping at farmer’s markets and participating in community-supported agriculture (CSAs) are the eco-conscious way to procure food. In fact, Chicago even has a kosher CSA, which operates in partnership between Anshe Sholom Bnai Israel, Anshe Emet and Hazon, a national organization whose goal is to create a healthier and more sustainable Jewish community.

And if none of these reasons drive your purchasing decisions, what does? A good price? A good time? A chance to fulfill a need regardless of how?

Five days ago, an as-yet-unidentified assailant walked into a gay community center in Tel Aviv and indiscriminately opened fire, killing two young Jews and wounding nearly a dozen others.

Five hours ago, I received an email that read, “I'd like to see someone write an Oy! response to the shootings in Tel Aviv...”

Yeah, well, I would too. I just don’t want to be that someone. Nor do I want Chai or David to be.

We Jews are not known for our ability to bite our tongues.

We’ve rallied together under the words “NEVER AGAIN” to speak out against injustice and hatred and genocide. We tell our stories so that future generations may never forget, and never permit history to repeat itself.

Look through Jewish news sources, blogs, and agency press releases from the last few weeks and months and you’ll see that community members and leaders have repeatedly condemned Muslim leaders and conference organizers for their hateful anti-Israel and anti-Semitic words.

Go back a bit further and you’ll find mass outrage, unity, and community response after the US Holocaust Memorial Museum was the site of a brutal murder in June.

But an unidentified assailant brutally murders two young Jews in what appears to be the first publicly acknowledged hate crime in the State of Israel’s history and the socially and politically aware, strong-willed and strong-voiced young Chicago Jewish community is silent?

Or a stalker guns down a college student in Connecticut and makes threats toward Jews, and no one over here in the Great Lakes region seems to bat an eyelash?

In the particular case of the shooting in Tel Aviv, it is certainly possible that everyone is waiting with bated breath for the “obvious choices” of the gay Oy! contributors to spearhead a strong community response and speak out against the violence and spiteful rhetoric that has befallen the gay community in Israel.

Or—worse yet—have we really become so provincial and self absorbed that we can't see that what happens to others in other parts of the globe matters in our personal worlds, too?

Have we Millennials already forgotten the lessons we learned from Martin Neimöller?

"First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me."

Without a doubt, we must remember Hillel’s question as well: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”

No group can expect for others to stand up for them if they do not first stand up for themselves. The gay community cannot stand idly by and ask for others to take a stand on our behalf. But we can stand up and say that the time has come for the entire Jewish community to live up to the Talmudic teaching, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la'zeh (All of Israel is responsible for one another).”

Let’s band together to say that we will not tolerate any future discrimination, violence, or hatred. When you see injustice, speak out against it – either here on Oy! or in a letter to a newspaper or a phone call to your legislators.

The time has come for the Jewish community to shake off our “two Jews, three opinions” reputation and to proclaim with one powerful, unified voice, that we are for ourselves – ALL of our selves.

You can start by coming to a memorial vigil for the victims of the Tel Aviv center shooting on Monday. 

Actual conversation…

Jason (the boyfriend) over at my apartment:  Cher, why won’t your TV let me turn the Cubs game on?
Me:  Because the DVR is on…
Jason:  Well, can I turn it off?
Me:  No, NYC Prep is taping!
Jason:  I can’t turn that off?!
Me:  Hell no!
Jason:  It’s the Cubs game!  Isn’t that more important?  Can we at least watch it on a different TV?
Me:  I don’t think so, Tori and Dean Home Sweet Hollywood is taping upstairs and its part I of their season finale.  You might have to put the game on the computer.
Jason:  You know these people don’t care about your life, right?  I don’t know why you care so much about theirs.  You watch way too much TV!

The first step in overcoming an addiction is to admit you have one, right?  Well, I can do that.  I have an addiction.  There, I said it.  It’s not just to TV though, but more specifically, to reality TV.  And not the good kind of reality TV, if there is such a thing?  Apparently, the whole country watches American Idol or at least it seems they all vote for the new idol.  I’ve never even tuned in for an episode.  Same goes for shows like the Biggest Loser or Survivor or the Bachelor, never got into them.

I like a different type of reality TV.  I’m not sure how to classify my tastes…washed up celebrities with their own shows, rich people who like drama?  But my DVR is set to the following— every Real Housewives franchise, The Hills even without LC, the City, NYC Prep, Miami Social, Millionaire Matchmaker, Kendra, Tori and Dean Home Sweet Hollywood, Keeping up with the Kardashians, Say Yes to the Dress, Dancing with the Stars and the list goes on.

The addiction started out innocently enough (don’t they all) in college with Laguna Beach and The Hills.  My roommates would get together each week to cook dinner, have some drinks and watch our favorite girls from the OC.  We envied their lifestyles—they were at the beach everyday and at bars every night, while we were in class during the day and spent our nights studying at the library.  It might have been a reality show, but it was our escape from reality.

Now? Now I don’t know what to call it.

I consider myself to be a relatively intellectual person.  You all know I love to write and I love to read even more.  That’s why I joined a book club this year.  I have my boyfriend, my friends and my family all nearby to socialize with in my spare moments of free time and yet, I’m finding myself more and more in front of TV.  (To my credit, I do work out while I watch, that’s one of the biggest benefits of having a DVR you can watch commercial free at your own convenience, but the down fall is that you can tape EVERYTHING.)

I wish I could say the addiction ends with the TV.  But did you know that you can follow a lot of these “characters” in the blogosphere?  Each cast member of the Real Housewives franchise has her own blog; the stars of The Hills and Keeping up with the Kardashians are all on Twitter.  And any celebrity web site covers the lives of these pseudo celebs.  Two of my favorites, Bethaney Frankel from the Real Housewives of New York City and Lauren Conrad from The Hills both published books this year that made it the New York Times Best Seller List!  THE NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER LIST!  Isn’t that reserved for REAL authors?!  There’s even talk that one of these books will be adapted into a movie and the other into a new TV show.

So I must not be alone.  Reality stars are hot commodities.  I’ve never been a fan of Jon and Kate Plus 8, but it’s hard not to know who they are as they are everywhere these days.  I even saw them on CNN.  When did we become so obsessed with other people’s lives?

In a way, one could say that Oy!Chicago is even a product of this voyeurism.  The advent of the blogosphere has encouraged everyone with a computer to start sharing their lives with the world.

In recent weeks, Stef and I have been told by several of our coworkers that we should have our own reality show.  (We can be pretty entertaining when we are crazed trying to assign, edit and publish stories.)  And you know what?  It’s a good idea.  I bet you someone soon will make a show about a start-up blog, it’ll be like the Office, but reality.  I’d star.

In a recent article for Triblocal, I interviewed Riverwoods resident and professional videographer Dan Gelfond about his experiences as an interviewer for Steven Spielberg’s Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation.

The foundation, now housed at the University of Southern California, is called the USC Shoah Foundation Institute for Visual History and Education.

Gelfond interviewed Holocaust survivors in the Chicago area from 1994 to 1998.

When Gelfond went into the video-making business, he got to thinking about living legacies. Now, as part of his service, he interviews everyday individuals and has them tell the story of their life on video—thereby leaving a legacy for the individual’s children and grandchildren.

Spielberg sought to capture Holocaust stories before the dwindling survivors are no longer around. Similarly, Gelfond uses these Living Legacy DVDs to hold on to the stories that also will be lost to future generations.

I got to thinking about the story of the Jewish people in America before and after the Holocaust, and what American Judaism looks like today, particularly for the young, and often secularized population of 20- and 30-somethings.

What legacy do we, young Jews in America, want to leave for our future generations?

To generalize, we’ve had it pretty easy, as compared to our grandparents or great grandparents who endured boats and long lines at Ellis Island.

And even when they got here, it wasn’t a cakewalk.

Our grandparents and even parents faced barriers to suburbs, colleges and country clubs.

Today, it would be unheard of for a university to deny admission based on religious affiliation.

I say we have it easy because I think many Jews, who at least live in or near large urban settings don’t have to think about their Jewishness as a barrier to opportunity.

At the same time, when we don’t have to think about our Jewishness, we don’t think about our Jewishness.

So much of the Jewish tradition entails the telling of our collective story, over and over again. On Passover, for instance, we recall the Jew’s exile from slavery.

In the 21st century it is less likely that multiple generations within a family will live within one household—a way in which we lose our story and sense of tradition.

Also, intermarriage is commonplace.

Those factors matched with a generation that has not had to struggle in the same manner that those before it had, we are at risk of losing our story.

I am by no means bashing secularism, and in fact, think it’s inevitable in an increasingly globalized society.

However, the global threats against Jews did not end in 1948, nor have they disappeared in 2009. Evidence of anti-semitism is rampant all over the world today.

America, too, is not insulated from anti-semetic sentiments, particularly as the country is entrenched in an unpopular war.

Iran looms as a threat to Israel abroad and America at home.

And finally, when the Illinois Holocaust Museum, in Skokie, opened its doors, former President Bill Clinton gave a speech at the opening, warning that an unstable economy fuels hatred and scapegoats, much as it did in pre-Nazi Germany.

What can young Jewish people do on a micro level?

They must remember their story. However, they must also think about what world they would like their Jewish children and grandchildren to inherit.

I think it’s a balance between becoming so integrated that we don’t know who we are anymore, versus holding on to old notions of how to live Jewishly.

I don’t think living Jewishly necessarily means one is religious. I think it means we take into account who we are and we try to preserve that, in whatever capacity is comfortable—whether you’re a cultural Jew or an orthodox Jew.

Our collective identity is what binds us, no matter what your Jewishness means to you. If we hold on to that collective identity, our grandchildren will still have a story to tell.

I hate water.  I don’t love drinking it, I’m not a swimmer – not even to cool off while sunbathing – and as my college roommates can attest, I went through a phase where the shower and I were basically frenemies, interacting only when absolutely necessary.
 
Thankfully, I’ve grown up enough to recognize that even though I hate getting wet, showering is non-optional.  However, even on the hottest of summer days, you couldn’t pay me to jump into the pool and I can provide a 100% guarantee that I will never step into Lake Michigan.
 
So when my rabbi informed me that I’d have to visit the mikvah before I got married, I panicked.  For those not familiar with the mikvah, rest assured – you are not alone.  I didn’t know much about it myself until I found out I’d be going.
 
According to Orthodox Judaism, a bride must visit the mikvah before the day of her wedding, as a ritual of purification before entering the chuppah and getting married.  As a not-so-Orthodox Jew, I had a lot of questions – and the mikvah lady was there to answer all of those questions and more.

The mikvah lady, otherwise known as my rabbi’s mother-in-law, walked me through the process.  We toured the building, which looked more like a spa than a scary bath house, and she asked me a lot of awkward questions about my sex life, my menstrual cycle, and my plans for starting a family.   I asked her about the technicalities, what I would need to do to prepare for my visit, and most importantly, how long I’d actually have to be underwater.  And while it was mortifying talking about premarital sex and family planning with a lady my grandma’s age, it was a very eye-opening discussion.  As I am certainly not an expert in the Jewish laws of Mikvah, Nidah and family purity, I encourage those harboring curiosity to click here or here or here for more info.  Riveting stuff.

Back to the story.  After wrapping up my Mikvah 101 course, I scheduled my appointment for my pre-wedding dunk and promptly put the whole issue at the back of my mind.  I returned to sorting out seating charts, confirming last-minute details with vendors, and finalizing honeymoon plans.

At last, the day was upon me.  No – not my wedding day.  Dunk day.  I arrived at the mikvah and spent about 20 minutes preparing:   shampooing and combing my hair, exfoliating my skin, and removing my nail polish.  I took out my contacts, because no foreign objects are allowed into the mikvah (not even ones that keep you from stumbling into the mikvah by accident).  And then I hit the buzzer to let the mikvah lady know that I was ready to head in.

It was only when I stepped into the water that the mikvah lady and I found out that the water heater was broken.  Just my luck – the girl with the water aversion stuck in a freezing cold mikvah.  Luckily, the only requirement is that you are completely submerged for literally one second, three times.

Quickly, I repeated after the mikvah lady as she helped me say the prayer before plunging into the pool and then, about six seconds later, it was over.

I know many brides who have described their experience at the mikvah as a deeply spiritual moment. For me, my connection to Judaism is rooted more in tradition and community than spirituality, and despite the technical difficulties, I left the mikvah feeling a profound connection to the Jewish women over dozens of generations who had gone through this ritual cleansing.

And if thousands of other women could suffer through getting wet long enough to start a marriage with a clean slate, I could too.

Annoyingly, the timing of my conversion coincided with Charlotte’s on Sex on the City, leaving my friends all wondering why the hell my conversion process was taking so long when Charlotte managed to convert in 3 episodes. (For the record: it generally takes one full calendar year.)

Understandably, most assumed that, like Charlotte, I converted to Judaism in order to marry my husband. It’s an answer that I’ve learned to give out of self-preservation. Ever try telling a Fundamentalist Christian that you don’t believe Jesus Christ was the son of God?

Actual response: “You know that you are going to spend eternity in hell, right?”

I should have told her that there isn’t a Santa Clause either, but I took the high road.

Anyway…frankly, a deep philosophical conversation about religion just doesn’t make for good TV, or good cocktail conversation. Few truly are interested that, at age 8, around Easter time, I had begun to question if Jesus was the Messiah, doubts that I feared to give voice to lest I become an outcast. That by age 13, having been exposed to Judaism through friends, I found that it was a religion that I could believe in, and when I went to college I slowly started to practice it, and this brought me a closer connection to God. And, by the time I met my husband at age 28, despite my upbringing, I had spent most of my life “feeling” and identifying as Jewish.

I told you it was boring.

So, instead I say I became a “Jew by choice” because of my husband, who “brought me to Judaism. “ And he did, in a way.

Despite having been drawn to Judaism, I think I could easily have married a Jewish man, practiced a Jewish life and raised my children Jewish without ever formally converting to Judaism. Before him, I had seriously dated a Jewish man who did not feel any religious conflict with my technically-Christian status.

So it somewhat surprised me when my husband (then boyfriend) brought up the topic, telling me that he would not marry someone who would not raise the children Jewish. Promising that was not a problem for me, and vaguely committing to consider conversion “someday”, the conflict was seemingly resolved.

And then he decided that 7 years in politics was enough to bring him to God, and he applied to Rabbinical school. And the application asked him to promise that he would only marry a Jew. ‘Nough said.

(I like to say he went from working for people who thought they were God, to working for God himself. Or herself, whichever floats your boat.)
 
And so, I formally began my conversion process, a decision that I have never regretted. It took a nudge, but now I cannot imagine NOT being Jewish – to not be the same religion as my husband and child. For me, it was like a homecoming, and the ability to practice a religion that I believe in has brought joy and meaning into my life. And it lifted a weight off my shoulders—I never felt good about being Christian and not believing Jesus was the Messiah—I felt that was disrespectful to the religion and those that do believe.

That’s not to say my decision to convert came easy. It took a lot of courage to make that choice- being Christian was part of my identity and the foundation of my values. As a kid I had gone to Bible camp, sang in the choir, and was an acolyte (I lit the alter candles).

Choosing to be Jewish set me apart religiously from my family—and 98% of Americans. I’ve been fortunate that my family has been very accepting and supportive of my religious choice, but it does pain me to know that there are people out there who will hate not just me, but my child, simply because of my religious choice. I find myself easily angered by those that use the Bible to spew anti-Semitism, because as a Christian, I was never taught to use religion as a weapon, and I find those who do despicable.

Beginning the conversion process was also scary. I didn’t know how the Rabbi would respond to my request, and I feared being rejected. Once “in”, it required a lot of work, I attended class, met with my Rabbi regularly, and read many books spanning a range of topics from Jewish history to philosophy. Basically I had to cram a lifetime of learning (or at least a childhood) into a year.

Consequently, I often get the comment from Jewish-born people that I “must know SO much more about Judaism than they do.” I know the remark is meant to flatter, but really I find it annoying. I can read and study all I want, but there is a cultural part of Judaism that is hard—if not impossible—to master.

But that is also the fun part- the constant discovery and exploration of my chosen religion. Along with listening to my mother try to pronounce Rosh Hashanah. (A woman who pronounces quesadilla as “keysadillya”. Gotta love her, she tries about 3 times and finally just says “Happy New Year.”)

And so, that’s my story of how I became a Jew. Former WASP meets nice Jewish boys, falls in love, converts, and gets married. And becomes a Rebbitzen.

I’ll save that story for later, ideally when I’m drunk in the city.

The Jewish world has successfully (and sometimes unsuccessfully) launched projects in the virtual universe to capture the attention and hearts of the next generations of cyberJews. One such application was recently introduced by (disclaimer: I know him) Ron Gejman and his partner at Lost Tribe App, Jacob Andreas. It allows you to search for more than 5,000 synagogues in case you need one in a pinch.

As  educators, Jewish educators and educators of Jews, we are constantly encouraged/pressured to incorporate the latest technology into our teaching. This has made me think about apps that could be or could have been useful in my day-to-day life that I’d like someone to create:

1.  high school paper grader
2.  reverse commuter (will get you from your home to the suburbs and back) in less than a half an hour during rush hour
3.  dream interpreter
4.  cheater detector
5.  health insurer
6.  ‘does he really look like his pic?’ scanner
7.  ‘is this cheap wine going to taste good enough to bring to someone’s home for dinner?’ taster
8.  ‘is the milk still good?’ smeller
9.  ‘are there any single people at this party?’ notifyer
10.  ‘is there actually alcohol in this drink?’ determiner
11.  ‘do I look good in this?’…talking mirror
12.  ‘am I engaging or boring my students right now?’ observer
13.  ‘stop me from eating that cake that isn’t even that good’ alarm
14.  ‘tell my mom I’m safe and not to worry’ communicator
15.  condo cleaner

What would your number 16 be?

From time to time I am reminded of my first pet, that damned hermit crab, and I momentarily yearn for a memento of his short life. Sadly, we don’t even have a picture of him.

It’s too bad LifeGem wasn’t around when he died.

Yesterday I found this article in the Chicago Tribune about the company, which for the low price of $2,199 and up, creates an eponymous “certified, high-quality diamond created from the carbon of your loved one as a memorial to their unique life.”

The testimonials on the site reveal that most LifeGems are sold to spouses who have lost their life partners, adult children who aren’t ready to be parentless yet, and parents who braved the unthinkable task of burying their son or daughter. And then there are the Ludwig van Beethoven LifeGems, sold on eBay a few years ago for $200,000 (proceeds went to charity).

The loved one whose carbon they will be using this time around to create up to 10 half-carat diamonds? None other than the man who popularized sparkly crystal-studded couture himself.

The King of Pop, Michael Jackson.

I was only two years old in 1984, so I don’t recall the (apparently infamous) Pepsi commercial shoot when MJ’s hair caught on fire and had to be put out with a fire extinguisher. But reputable sources confirm it happened. And the MJ carbon that will be used to create these LifeGems comes from none other than a few charred locks of his hair that were preserved by the executive producer of the commercial.

Now, I’m not generally a queasy person.

When I’m eating fast food “chicken” or Combos (neither one happens frequently, but a girl’s gotta treat herself now and again), I don’t mind if a friend asks incredulously, “do you know what’s in that?!” Because of course I do. Of course it’s not all-natural, organic, and hormone-, and preservative- free. But I don’t particularly care. The stuff tastes good.

When a friend is cooking me dinner at their apartment, I don’t ask whether they thoroughly rinsed all of the produce, or made sure to use a new cutting board for the veggies after cutting the animal protein, or washed their hands after handling raw eggs – and they don’t tell me. It wouldn’t bother me either way. Bugs in produce? Extra protein!

But I’m a diamond girl (I might be a lesbian, but I’m still a nice Jewish girl).

And that means if I see a sparkly ring on your finger, I’m going to look at it. And if I like it, I’m going to compliment you on it.

But oh dear God, if I ever compliment someone on their ring and they tell me it was produced from their loved one’s cremated ashes or lock of hair, I will vomit.

And if they tell me it’s a LifeGem from their precious pet (apparently diamonds aren’t just a girl’s best friend anymore, but man’s best friend, too…) I will almost surely drop dead on the spot.

And then you can all make a LifeGem out of me.

Eww.

As a rising high school senior I have many different things to occupy my mind: boys, clothes, friends… but sadly, the most prevalent is my weight. I have always been a bit pudgy, but a about a year ago I went over the edge. Immobility caused by ankle surgery turned my love of food into an obsession. After school I would crutch my way into the kitchen, grab some saltines and a diet ginger ale, plop down, prop up my foot and inhale one salty soup cracker after another. With the passing of my grandfather I became a pack-a-day snacker. After his shiva, I braved the scale. At 162 pounds, I was barely fitting into my size 12 jeans, I felt sick and sluggish. Terrified of running and working out, I saw no solution for my bursting waistline. I felt ashamed and guilty, especially because my cousin was struggling to keep weight on as she fought against anorexia for her life; I knew that I should have felt grateful for my health.

But then, what if I didn’t become anorexic, what if I just ate less? There couldn’t be anything wrong with eating less could there? I was eating far too much as it was, what if I just cut the amount of food I ate in half?

The first few days were excruciating. I gave my friends my fruit and chips only allowing myself half a sandwich, no excuses. Later that day, I was certain that my entire chemistry class could hear my groaning belly. I could feel the acid sloshing in my gut and felt very much in danger of throwing up. It was so painful, I wanted to cry, but I was determined. Returning home each day, all I could think about was food; the smell of it, the taste of it. But, I had to prove to myself and my denim jeans that I could do this. I threw myself into my school work and found other ways to distract myself and soon the pounds started to fall off. I ate miniscule breakfasts and lunches, but slightly larger dinners so as not to worry my parents. Soon, it became easy. I found that I wasn’t especially hungry anymore. I felt lighter, I felt powerful and beautiful. Soon my clothes were too big and my confidence was through the roof. I was a size 6.

But this all came at a price. I was terrified of eating out with friends and family. I ordered as healthy as I could and ate almost none of it. I obsessed over portions and I’m sure drove my friends crazy worrying about the handful of potato chips I ate at so-and-so’s birthday party yesterday. My mom was scared that I was anorexic and routinely confronted me about it, but, in my mind I wasn’t. I felt fine, I looked great, and I didn’t see the problem. But one day while I was quietly obsessing over the fact that I’d had a second rice cake at lunch, it hit me. This wasn’t healthy. I may not be anorexic, but a rice cake? Come on! That’s just ridiculous.

I would love to say that I’m cured of my weight obsession, but, I’m not quite there yet. However, I am fighting it with every fiber of my being. I eat a healthy amount now, even though that crazy sophomore in my head freaks out a little bit each time that I do. I work out to burn off calories in place of avoiding them all together. I have gained a few of the pounds back, but I feel that it’s better this way. I am proud of the way I look, but I think it may be awhile before the war is over. Until then, my food fight continues.

As I walked from the Wilson Red Line stop to the JUF Uptown Cafe one sunny Sunday morning, four people called to me asking to spare some change. Two of those people were later guests at the JUF Uptown Cafe, Chicago’s first kosher anti-hunger program, where I was volunteering as a server for two hours of Sunday brunch.

Located in the Dina and Eli Field EZRA Multi-Service Center, the JUF Uptown Cafe is neither a soup kitchen nor a cafeteria. Volunteer waiters serve dinner three times a week and Sunday brunch to guests who are seated at tables and order food from a menu, choosing dishes they’d like to receive. Some of the guests are chronically poor, some are homeless; others have only an eighth-grade education. Still others have college degrees and are working, but do not make enough to afford food, housing and medical care. About 40 percent of the guests are Jewish and the rest come from a variety of backgrounds, the Cafe’s manager, Sara Shapiro, told our group of 14 volunteers as we learned how to set the tables, how to take orders and where to get the drinks and the condiments. Most were recruited by JUF’s Russian Jewish Leadership Forum, which builds bridges between the organized Jewish community and Chicago’s Russian-speaking Jews.

Jane, left, prepares the tables at JUF Uptown Cafe

As I got their drinks, their bagels, their plates of pancakes, hash browns, eggs and sausage, I got to know the four people who sat at the table assigned to me. Among them was a middle-aged avid Cubs fan, who had heard some of the volunteers talking about the game that day and eagerly interjected stories from his own times at Wrigley Field. He also shared a fascinating take on the 1919 White Sox bribery scandal. Another guest was a former art teacher, who shared her secret aspiration to take up PR work – she said she’d “always been able to sell an idea.” After she finished her dessert – chocolate cake and fruit this time – I told her about my sister’s exceptional skill with portraiture and my utter lack of talent at anything requiring pencils or paints. She told me it’s just about practice and a lack of inhibition. After all, kids can draw anything; they just haven’t gotten discouraged yet.

A feeling of absolute helplessness washes over me whenever people ask me for money on the street. How do I decide who to give and who to snub? My husband and I have a philanthropic plan we work out every year. We give to community organizations we trust, like JUF and the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. But sometimes, people on the street tug at my heartstrings, and I can’t help but wish I had more to share.

That’s why the JUF Uptown Cafe and programs like it are such a boost both for the people who use them and for those of us who are lucky enough to volunteer there. The Cafe provides an essential service, satisfying the basic human need for nourishment. But it also gives the guests and the servers the opportunity to interact in a dignified manner. We smiled at each other and we shared stories as I checked to see if the Cafe guests needed anything else. A sense of hope pervaded our encounter, however brief it was. For me, the Cafe also takes away the need to grapple with the choices: should I or shouldn’t I give. Everyone walking through the door receives a meal, period.

JUF’s Tikkun Olam Volunteer (TOV) Network offers plenty of opportunities to do good and give back in a very real way, like the JUF Uptown Cafe and Maot Chitim, which distributes home-delivered meals for Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. For all opportunities, check out TOV’s site or contact the Network directly at 312-357-4762 or tov@juf.org.

So, I was reading the RedEye today on my way in to the office from Evanston (such a long journey!) and I couldn't help but notice that the cover story was about INTERNS.  LIKE ME!  Being that I'm your Oy! Intern, I thought it would be nice to read about my compatriots in the land of proto-employ, my fellow knights in the struggle against the dragon experience.
 
According to the article, in this economy, interns are getting more and more responsibility, filling in for cutbacks in hours and employees, but while some are paying thousands for the experience of an internship, others are getting paid—an average wage of $17.13 per hour!  So, Oy! owes me approximately $582.42—I mean, apparently as an intern I can command an average wage of $17.13.  I'll wait.  Well, actually, I won't because I'd be waiting for ever.  This is the non-profit world after all.

Once I picked my jaw back up, refitting my mandible onto my maxilla and sewing my muscles back together, I wondered how I could get myself a cushy little internship with a salary like that.  I thought it might be a fledgling newsroom intern thing, so I checked with some friends.  No dice.  Sounds like CBS's investigative unit is implementing some New York City Ballet style cost-saving measures.  I figured Catalyst Chicago would probably in a similar boat to us here at Oy!  But Energy BBDO?

I'll agree with RedEye’s featured intern, Derek Moody, that I've got loads to do here, but it can still be a lot of hurry up and wait.  And yet, remember last week's party in Bucktown?  I cut up all those little attendance cards.  With an X-acto knife.  To be fair, Mr. Moody is working directly for his company, and for an established moneymaker.  I'm working in JUF's not-so-secret literary laboratory.

In all, do I think it's worth it?  Yes, and so do my friends—otherwise, we wouldn't stay put.  Oy! took a chance on me—a kid with no journalism experience outside of one opinion column in the Garfield Messenger—and it's been unreal, especially as a film major who gets to fool around on a camera for work.  I just hope this means I'll be getting a spot here in a couple of years…

Thanks to everyone who came out for the EnjOy!Chicago Bucktown Bash on Thursday! We hope you had as much fun as we did. Here are some photos from the night. To see more visit the Oy!Chicago group page on Facebook and don’t forget to tag yourself!

When was the last time you asked your waiter where the ingredients and dishes on the menu came from, or how the chef chose to cook them? Now, ask yourself the last time you asked a bartender where your recently poured cocktail recipe originated, or even how the clear, tasteless and odorless vodka in your drink was made? You might ask about the year or region of a particular wine on the list, but do you ever ask what month or time of day the grower decided to pluck the grapes, or what they feed the soil?

Not as much, huh? I thought so.

I had the rare opportunity to learn and experience the fine and underappreciated art of making spirits from scratch to barrel to bottle—specifically Maker’s Mark bourbon in Loretto, KY. After witnessing the process, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons to what farmers, flower growers, and textile people experience. The attention to detail, the history, the procedure, the variables, all of these qualities were shining through.

We began by going to the source of the spirit and of life itself –water. Just like fresh quality food, everything great begins somewhere. The limestone filters out the iron in the water, making for a great base for the bourbon. Then we saw the corn they grow and bring in specifically for Maker’s Mark, denoted by a little dent on the corn kernels. We watched as all the fresh ingredients were boiled and the yeast was added to convert the sugars in the malt and corn into alcohol and CO2, and saw the alcohol vapors as they condensed down the tall column still. We got to taste the “White Dog”, or pure alcohol, straight of the still. It’s about 130 proof, so watch out! We went to look at the warehouses to see where and how they barrel and store the bourbon. New American oak barrels go through a rigorous stress test to make sure they can withstand the test of time. We tasted bourbon at various stages of maturation, and noted that longer does not always mean better or higher quality when it comes to time spent in the barrel. Finally, we got to go to the labeling and bottling area, where we saw the “dip ladies” dip all the Maker’s Mark bourbon bottles by hand! A couple of us were so pumped by it, that we  had our sunglasses and shoes dipped in the Maker’s Mark red “wax” polymer! Whether it was the bottling or barreling, the trip to Loretto provided all us Chicago bartenders and mixologists a rare opportunity to see how what we pour gets made!

Today’s cocktail selection is a wonderfully balanced and refreshing summer cocktail that uses – you guessed it – bourbon as its base spirit. The name of this cocktail is the Bourbon Beachcomber, and it goes well with practically any BBQ plate or grilled vegetable platter, preferably soaked or basted with the bourbon. Having been a recent visitor, I am recommending Maker’s Mark for your home shelves as well as for this recipe. It’s great for food and cocktail experiments alike.

Bourbon Beachcomber

Ingredients:

Rocks glass
Crushed Ice (hammer + terry cloth towel + BANG x 20 = crushed ice)
1 orange wedge, quartered
½ bar spoon (1/2 teaspoon) fresh grated ginger, or 3-5 small, thin ginger slices
2 bar spoons of raw Demarara sugar
¾ oz. fresh squeezed lemon juice
¼ oz. Domaine De Canton Ginger Liqueur
1.5-2 oz. Bourbon (Maker’s Mark)
Orange wedge garnish

In the rocks glass, place the sugar, orange quarters and ginger. Muddle gently 6-8 times. Pour in crushed ice above the top of glass, then add, in order, the lemon juice, ginger liqueur and bourbon. Stir and add more crushed ice to top. Garnish with orange wedge and sprinkle a little raw sugar on top to imitate sand and sunset. Sip slowly.

So next time you head out on the town, don’t be afraid to talk to your bartender or waiter about  what’s seasonal or pairs well with your food order—or better yet, take a risk and discover for yourself. L’Chaim!

Do any of you watch the Biggest Loser? My wife loves it, so I watch it. I think it’s great that people lose all that weight, but in my professional opinion it’s too fast and that’s why so many contestants gain the weight right back. Anyway, this article is not about the show, but about a gadget used on the show—the bodybugg.

The bodybugg is the armband contestants wear to track calories burned and the number of steps they take. It’s sold through 24 hour fitness.

The same company, Body Media, also sells the Go Wear Fit, which tracks the same things that the bodybugg does, and the number of hours you sleep. Sleep isn’t always mentioned in diet books but it’s helpful in weight loss. Most people eat more and exercise less when they are fatigued.

I decided to test this technology out for myself, and I have to admit wearing the armband became an obsession. I tracked everything. How many calories did I burn sitting at my desk for an hour? 97. During my lunch workout? 256. Arguing with my wife, 300 calories! It was almost worth it.

You’re probably wondering how this all works. Science, is the answer. Inside the armband are several different instruments that measure body temperature, movement and steps. It’s not 100% accurate, but it’s close. The unit has actually been used for years in a clinical setting. Many doctors that perform gastric bypass surgery have their clients use the armband and review the results with the patient. Tracking activity level and sleep is step one in successful weight loss.

Step two of losing weight is tracking calorie intake. The Go Wear Fit user can track his or her calorie intake by logging meals into the software. If the food item is not in the database it can be added. (This happens often with all calorie counters.) After entering in meals, the Go Wear Fit shows calorie intake, a breakdown of proteins, fats, carbohydrates as well as sodium, potassium and other nutritional information. Once calorie intake is calculated, it’s a simple subtraction problem. If you burn more calories than you eat, you lose weight. If you eat more than you burn, you gain weight.

The Go Wear Fit is a great tool if you’re trying to lose weight or gain weight. But wearing the armband alone will not make the pounds disappear. You have to consistently look at the numbers and make lifestyle adjustments for it to work. I would recommend this tool to athletes that have to be at a certain playing weight and to overweight individuals. For the average Joe trying to cut a few pounds, I’d recommend just eating more veggies, less sugary snacks and exercising consistently five times a week.

If you have used the Fitbit, a competitor to Go Wear Fit, let me know how it went. If you would like information on ordering the Go Wear Fit, send me a note and I will point you in the right direction.

A few weeks ago, the JUF staff received a fax informing us of an upcoming protest to be held by people I’ll call the “Voldemort” Baptist Church as a warning to us “contentious, Christ-rejecting Jews.” These same folks, known for protesting at military funerals, said we were, “self-righteous hypocrites who are stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears.”  Their final warning: “God has made you evil figs!” The fax is even adorned with illustrations of little figs.

We were well aware that the composers of this fine piece of literature intended to create shame in our uncircumcised hearts, but we kind of found it hilarious. The night before, I even ran out and bought a package of Fig Newtons to snack on when the big day arrived.

On July 21, as promised, a group of six arrived at 10:50 sharp, adorned with T-shirts, festooned with placards and singing loudly. They appeared to be members of the same family. Their signs preached hatred of: Jews, Obama, gays, Catholics and apparently people who eat their babies. (I didn’t know that was especially common). There were two teenage girls brandishing “God Hates Israel” signs; two older women with anti-Obama, anti-gay, and baby-eater signs; a young boy with a sign declaring that the Jews stole Israel; and the main attraction, the ring-leader of crazy, the mom. She wore blood-splattered Israeli and gay pride flags and sported four huge signs (she must have been a waitress at some point in her career, because it takes a considerable amount of talent to simultaneously bellow hateful songs and balance so many placards). To the tune of the Beatles’ “Hey Jude,” they sang “Hey Jews” and paced in front of the Jewish Federation.

But, the protest brought a pleasant surprise: the reactions of passers-by. Almost immediately, cabbies honked angrily, motorcyclists flicked off the protestors and business people of all ages yelled at them to go away. Workers of all races booed loudly as they walked by. College students mocked the protestors’ lack of reason, and tourists laughed and snapped pictures. A grandmotherly-looking lady flicked a cigarette butt at them.

 I felt a real unity with the people of Chicago. They refused to tolerate hatred and that made me proud to be a Chicagoan and American. Never have I felt so safe, which was not at all what I was expecting. I now see that if we all embrace our evil figginess, we can make a stand against injustice.

Meet The Winks, baby A and baby B

Morning sickness is a wholly inaccurate term, occurring all day, every day, 24/7. Only sleep provides some relief, and then only until the moment you wake up. (Don’t even think about trying to fall back asleep, you’ll be running to the bathroom in five minutes. And again when you get to work, and again when you get home.)

I was so happily wrapped up in the process of getting pregnant that I did not spend much time thinking about what it would be like when it actually happened. I charted my cycle for months, taking my temperature every single morning before getting out of bed. My partner Mandi and I read through hundreds of anonymous donor profiles. We saved enough cash. And then all of a sudden I didn’t need that thermometer anymore.

For the first week after we found out about our little embryo (aka The Wink), I was really tired - I mean, so completely exhausted that I was napping on my office floor during lunch and going to sleep at 8 pm. Boring, but manageable. The next week, I met with the midwife for the first time, threw up and did not stop throwing up for a month.

I did not expect to have this problem. I have watched several colleagues breeze through their pregnancies with glowing skin, skinny legs and cute little bumps. That was sure to be me, happily anticipating my growing belly and future family filled with adorable children.

So this upchucking thing completely caught me off guard. I asked for advice from everyone I knew. Most people told me stories about how wonderful they felt during pregnancy and how sorry they were that they could not help me. Bitches.

I know what you’re thinking. Ginger ale, hot or iced ginger tea, candied ginger, vitamin B, red raspberry leaf, crackers, watermelon, jell-o, jell-o water, wrist bands with pressure points, eating before you lift your head off the pillow – all of these are great suggestions. None of them worked for me.

But then along came this wonderful thing called western medicine. Drugs. The anti-nausea medicine that would save my life. THANK YOU. The midwife said she would take it herself in a heartbeat. As someone who usually tries everything possible before taking medication, I am so grateful for this wonder drug which has allowed me to work, return phone calls, drink water, and keep those huge prenatal vitamins in my stomach. I still can’t eat most vegetables and cannot imagine ever consuming lettuce or potatoes again, but I can once again give hugs, drive all the way home without having to pull over, and laugh when something is funny.

After the midwife prescribed those amazing pills, we listened to the heartbeat. It took my breath away and I want to hear it again right now.

Because I have a family history of twins, some of my friends had been making comments about The Winks, plural. To put that taunting to rest, I asked the midwife, “There is just one heartbeat, right?”

So she moved the Doppler instrument and the heartbeat went away. She moved it to another spot. The heartbeat came back. Say what? Two heartbeats?

I scheduled an ultrasound and it was confirmed: Twins! “HOLY SHIT!” was the response of choice from family and friends. Well at least that explains the extreme morning sickness. Wow.

As the news sinks in, there are so many new questions, the most important of which is how the hell are two babies going to fit in there?! But like other questions about money and space and time, I’m sure that we’ll figure it out and everything will be fine.

In the meantime, Mandi has been unbelievable. She makes me endless amounts of mac and cheese. She goes to the grocery store every other day for fresh apricots and my favorite soy ice cream. She never complains about how I can’t cook anything or stay up past 9 pm. She says she owes me for life and sends me flowers at work. She was among the “Holy shit!” reactors when we first saw The Winks on the ultrasound monitor.

Now at the dawn of the second trimester, I am hopeful that I will soon be drug-free and eating vegetables again. After all, that farm box keeps on coming and I have a feeling The Winks could benefit from some organic veggies.

Any moment now, it’s going to ring.

I’m watching my phone.

My body is preparing itself to receive two words emphatically digitally shrieked from the confines of a New Jersey suburban home: “I’m engaged!!!”

One of my closest friends has flown to the other side of our beloved country to meet the family of the man she has concluded is her beshert (intended match). A long distance relationship, they have only actually met four times, for multiple days each visit, in the last six weeks.

Welcome to the world of frum dating. I’ll be your guide.

For starters, a common term associated with frum dating is shomer negiyah (guarding touch), meaning that the couple desists from any physical activity— including handshakes, hugs, etc— until after the chuppah. Which also means delayed gratification for the impatient among us.

Myself a Baal Teshuva (someone who became observant later in life), I became shomer negiyah five years ago, when I was 20, with curiosity about the way it would change my relationships with men. Growing up, I was ignorant of any Jewish rules regarding sexuality. Not aware there was even an option of anything different— who would agree to a nonphysical, romantic relationship?— I cheerfully chose a lifestyle similar to my peers. Though I had more or less healthy relationships, I am deeply cognizant of the scars these decisions left behind. Now I observe the positive impact physical boundaries can have on the emotional and psychological growth of a couple. I am a walking witness to the workings of both worlds.

I am reminded about a night a few months ago when I attended my friend’s birthday party at a Chicago bar. Explaining that I don’t touch men to one who approached me, I had to reassure him that I was not a victim to the delusions of an oppressive religious doctrine. Motioning to the ladies chatting around us, thin layers of fabric occasionally covering parts of their body, I grinned and assured him that though externally I am more restrained than in my past, internally I am living joyfully the greatest time of my life.

My eyes return to the silent phone, and I text her a simple, concerned “how are you?”. I wonder why the news hasn’t yet hit.

To meet a potential spouse, I might go to a coworker, rabbi, teacher, friend, or anyone who knows anyone in the religious community, and tell them what I am looking for. I have a resume I sometimes send out to shidduch (dating) groups who try to pair up people. The resume includes my personal history, where I stand religiously, what I offer and what I am looking for. The person who does the matchmaking is called the shadchan. Many times, I research into a potential spouse with given references to inquire about the person’s past and compatibility.

With this style of dating, those who enter this focused arena are aware they won’t receive the perks of the noncommittal, let’s- wake- up- in- bed- next- to- each- other- for- two- years- and- then- maybe- we –will- be- ready- for- the- marriage- talk relationship. Thus, the intensity level for men and women on discerning their needs and commitment usually matches. With any confusion, the shadchan can be called, to offer advice or to call the other party to address any concerns. The infamous male/female divide is bridged slightly by the in-between who volunteers his or her services to bring clarity to the situation as quickly and comfortably as possible.

There is no standardization; the number of dates varies by each couple. My previous roommate went on 7 dates over the span of two weeks before deciding to engage. Others will go on 10 dates, 20 dates; no proper measurement exists. Without physical interaction, which often delays cutting off an ill-suited pair, and having a well matched team decide on their future, the process is often quicker.

I will not suggest that frum dating is painless. In fact, it most often is a deeply painful process of feeling judged, being rejected, rejecting others, waiting, trying to smile when others succeed, falling into despair, reminding yourself of who you are, brushing off the debris, standing back up, and re-dialing your shadchan’s phone number to reestablish your availability in the market.

However, the perks of such a system are, without a doubt in my mind, immense. It is impossible to understand the glory of such a system without experiencing it, just as it is impossible to fully know the emptiness of a world until you leave it behind for a more satisfying existence. These days I think about my previous lifestyle and revel in my increased level of calm, joy, and clarity. In a society obsessed with youth, all I can say is thank goodness I have aged.

I glance at the phone still lying silently beside me.

In the system my friend and I have chosen, all we can do is keep our hopes high, be as levelheaded as possible, and hurry up and wait for the Almighty to do what He does best. We are determined not to be left behind as we clamor to participate in this volatile ride. We are convinced that the seats we have chosen to get us to where we need to be are, in the end, the smartest, smoothest, and most enjoyable ones available.

Being pregnant with a first child could potentially bring out the worst in a couple.  There are just so many new things to fight about – what to name the baby, how to budget for diapers, who is going to care for the baby.  Joe and I have gotten through most of these issues, and more, unscathed (but please don’t ask us what we’re naming this child, because we’re letting that subject “rest” for awhile).

All that aside, there is one baby-related decision that we can’t seem to agree on.  Joe wants to know the baby’s gender; I do not.

At this point, eight months into the pregnancy, it would seem to be a non-issue.  We had the opportunity to find out the baby’s sex three months ago, and we passed.  Call me old-fashioned, but I really think the baby’s birth will be even more special this way.  I’ve also convinced myself that labor will be just a bit more survivable knowing that I’m that much closer to finding out whether the baby is a he or a she (I know this is not logical, but I have to resort to self-trickery to avoid having nightmares about my rapidly approaching hospital stay).

Unlike many other moms-to-be I’ve come across, I get a kick out of strangers’ predictions, from the shampoo-er at the salon who took one look at me and said, “Oh, you’re expecting a little boy!” to the clerk at Walgreen’s, who asked me when my daughter is due.  The bubbies who lunch with my grandma all put their hands right on my belly before making their guesses, as though by osmosis the gender would suddenly appear before them.

Joe has grudgingly gone along with the plan, mostly, I suspect, out of fear that I will turn into a raging, hormonal lunatic if he dares to voice his objections.  Ever the more pragmatic half of the partnership, he feels that knowing the baby’s gender would help us to plan better for his or her arrival.  That, and he’s just plain dying to know, and doesn’t understand why I’m purposely torturing him.

None of my reasoning has helped to convince him.  “There are so few surprises left in life” prompted him to list a dozen “surprises” we have to look forward to, like what the baby’s first word will be.  “But I think it will make labor easier, since I’ll be so excited to find out” just got me a look that said “you’re insane and delusional.”  And “I’m the one who’s pregnant for nine months, and I say we’re not finding out” didn’t end up working out very well (I’ve since learned when I can and can’t pull the “pregnancy card”).

At one appointment with my doctor, Joe asked if the doctor knew the baby’s gender, because he had decided that he’d find out what it was and just not tell anyone.  The doctor said no, that no one other than the technician who had performed the ultrasound knew.

A few weeks later, at one of our childbirth preparation classes, the teacher mentioned something about the baby’s gender being in our file, and Joe realized he’d been had.  He toyed with the idea of calling the doctor’s office and asking again, but decided that maintaining marital harmony would probably be a better plan.

And so we wait in anticipation, Joe bemoaning the fact that we can’t paint the nursery walls blue or pink (but in the end really liking the bright green we chose), while I daydream about whether we’re having a son or daughter.

I hope he comes around and realizes that it has been kind of fun not knowing.  And if not, at least the torture is almost over for him.  That is, until we have to decide on the name.

My mom always says that she expected a baby with black hair, a big nose, and a wild temper; she likes to say that she got two of the three. As a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Jew, I have tried to find ways to make myself more obviously Jewish on the outside and inside. I tried wearing a Star of David, being a strict observer of Shabbat, and keeping kosher (that one never even made it out of the starting gate; my love for BLTs was simply too powerful). I tried volunteering at my synagogue, attending Jewish summer camp, and Jewish studies programs, and although they were all fun and beneficial, I still felt like I was on the margins of Jewish society. Whenever I saw someone on the street who was obviously a member of the tribe, I hoped to be recognized. I bought Hebrew “Coca-Cola” t-shirts, cut the collars off sweatshirts, and sported a “Chai Maintenance” T-shirt as often as I could, but nothing was working.

But, this past May, as I was taking prom pictures, I caught myself turning my face away from the camera to make my nose less noticeable in the picture. And as I tried to summon my inner beauty queen, I began to wonder how long I had been hiding my face like this. Then, like a hit between the eyes, I realized that all this time I had spent trying to make myself stand out as a Jew, I’d had it in me all along. The nose protruding from my profile was not only there to ruin school pictures and get stuffy in the winter, it was my long sought after connection to my people. It was enormous, beautiful, mine, and most significantly, Jewish. Now I don’t feel the need to prove myself at the grocery store as the woman sporting a large Star of David swipes my bacon strips. I know that racing out ahead of my golden locks and blue eyes is a Jewish nose, big and perfect.

There’s an old adage that goes something like this: “you can’t go home again”. Supporting that point is this bit of great wisdom from that noted philosopher Mike Ditka, “the past is for cowards and losers”. Granted, this came from the same man who once shouted his way through “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” at Wrigley, traded about 52 draft picks for Ricky Williams, and thought stumping for poor Sarah Palin was a good use of his time. (It wasn’t.)

So it is with great pride that I take this opportunity to refute the none-too-prescient words of Da Coach, and hereby proclaim that indeed, you can go home again. Or at least you can go to summer camp again. That’s exactly what I did during a recent July weekend, and if that makes me a coward or a loser, fine. At least I can go to sleep knowing I would have let Walter Payton find the end zone in the Super Bowl, unlike Mr. Ditka.

I should mention that one of my work endeavors is the first all-summer camp social networking website, MyCampFriends.com. I’ve been a “camp guy” ever since my first of 15 summers at Harand Camp, back when I was 11 in 1985. (Interesting trivia: I was just a few inches shorter than I am now at that time. More interesting trivia: I’ll save future meanderings on my height – or lack thereof – for $150/hr therapy sessions.) I fell in love with camp immediately, a requirement for Jewish kids by most state laws. But Harand was – and thankfully remains – different from your average summer camp: it’s a theater camp. No, not like that creepy theater camp in the movie “Camp” where every camper looks like they’ll spend their lives acting in bad community theater productions of “Rent”. Harand takes a more well-rounded approach to the camp experience, where only part of the day is dedicated to theater, and the rest includes traditional camp activities. That’s not to say the theater training isn’t top notch. Indeed, Harand boasts such alumni as Jeremy Piven, Virginia Madsen, Billy Zane, and “The Fugitive” director Andy Davis. (And, of course, ahem, yours truly.) It’s just that Harand puts far greater stock on developing one’s confidence both onstage and off, which is one of the many things I respect about camp.

Most everyone I grew up with at Harand Camp still loves the place, but given my profession in comedy and music, I’m in the unique position where I can still visit and contribute to the camp’s theater program. Usually I’ll stop by for a day or two every few years, which at this point in my life, seems just about right. Part of the reason I finally left camp back in 1999 at 25 years old was because I just felt I was too old to share a bathroom with 12 year old boys, wake up at 7AM for breakfast, and date women just finishing their freshman year of college. (Legal? Sure! Creepy? You bet.)

This summer is Harand’s 55th anniversary, and after not stopping by in a few years, it seemed like the perfect time to head to Cheesehead territory for a visit. There was one wrinkle this time around which was a bit of an impediment – I severely sprained my ankle the day before I was to leave, and was unable to get around on my own or make the drive to camp. Enter my girlfriend of nearly 18 months, who happily (I think?) not only drove me to camp, but did the unthinkable: stayed with me and experienced camp for the entirety of my visit. That she didn’t dump me after hearing hundreds of stories ranging from, “So, there was this one kid back in ’88 who forgot all the words of his song in “Oklahoma”! to “We had a counselor get fired for showing the 10 year olds  the video of “Hellraiser Two” on a rainy day” is a miracle of the highest proportions.

From the minute I arrived, I was ushered to the theater to sit at the piano – my home for 3 days – and began rehearsing with the kids for the Pageant, the mid-summer show the entire camp does for the parents during the first visiting weekend. Because I’ve known most of these songs since I was a kid (90% of the camp songs don’t change from year to year, another great thing about camp), playing them came back to me immediately. So many of the kids looked familiar; either because I’d seen them at camp before during past years (Haranders, as Harand Campers are affectionately known, tend to come back for many years), or because Jewish kids (like me) from the north shore/Latin/Parker circuit tend to look the same in 2009 as they did in 1987; minus the outrageous hair and Depeche Mode t-shirts.

From the craziness of mealtime, to sharing a twin bed with my girlfriend; from the wild Wisconsin thunderstorm that passed by late one night, to drinking too many shots of Kessler whiskey at the town bar with other camp staff who’d been there for ages, it felt like I’d never left. It’s amazing how walking back into summer camp immediately places you right back into a certain time of your life no matter how much you try and fight it. This is a theory which was proven every time I entered the dining hall, where I ate like a 13-year-old: pancakes & sausage for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch, chicken patty sandwiches for dinner, and ice cream cones for dessert. (At one point, I was one brownie away from extending my middle finger to the salad bar. How dare you exist in a world of such high calorie goodness?)

This routine went on for a few days, and then came Saturday, the night of the Pageant. I’d forgotten just how impressive of a feat the Pageant is, especially as it’s rehearsed in three short weeks. The camp, which is still led by the inspiring and ageless Sulie Harand (her sister and Harand’s co-founder, the equally wonderful Pearl Harand, passed away 10 years ago), ends its camp season with traditional musicals for each age group, which many campers prefer. But to me, Pageant captures the spirit of what Harand is all about. The show features every camper in his/her own “section” (usually a tribute to an era, such as the 1960’s, or a notable composer, like George Gershwin), and all the campers come together onstage for the finale. (The final shows are also great. But any high school in the world can put on “Guys and Dolls,” while Pageant remains a uniquely Harand concept.) Harand’s credo of “No Man Is An Island, No Man Stands Alone” could not ring more true than when every camper is assembled onstage singing together, and that, to me, is the defining moment of a Harand season.

I was surprised how nervous I was before the show began. As I mentioned, I’d played these songs for years. And in the ensuing years, I’ve played piano for some pretty high-level shows, including ones with Bill Murray and Martin Short. (Yes, I’m name- dropping. You would too if you got to play the Saturday Night Live, lounge version of “Star Wars” while Bill Murray sang along.) Yet something about playing at camp made me particularly nervous. Luckily, they were nerves I’d felt many times in that same environment, and once the show began and my fingers found their way to the right notes on the piano, I was instantly at ease. (OK, so perhaps the pain meds for my ankle had something to do with that. This may also explain why I slipped an occasional Pink Floyd reference into my scoring.)

Two hours and 10 minutes later - a record for anyone who’s ever sat through Pageant - the show was over. I caught my girlfriend’s eye in the audience, and could tell how impressed and surprised she was with what she saw. I became unexpectedly emotional as I watched the parents give the kids a much deserved ovation. Perhaps it was because I was genuinely happy for the kids, and knew exactly how they were feeling at that moment. But more likely, it was because in those kids, I saw part of myself from days past; a time in my life I thought would never end.

Of course, like most things, those days did end. Kind of. Because as long as Harand Camp exists, I know I’ll have a place to stop by for a few days each summer, play a little  piano, do my part to make a great group of kids feel good about themselves, and re-connect with a group of people who have always felt like family. And kids from all over the country will have an amazingly unique place to grow their own memories year after year. For those of you who might be too old for camp, MyCampFriends.com is there to help you re-live all those great camp memories. For me, I’ll continue to re-live all those great camp memories, and make new ones, in a way few others ever could: at camp.

As Jews of the modern age, we have the ability to create for ourselves traditions which speak to us personally and fit the times we live in. I see this more and more these days, especially as a cantor. Even some rituals which now seem commonplace were once new and unexplored—like bat mitzvahs and baby naming and the addition of an orange to the Seder plate!

I have been incredibly drawn to this idea in the past, and I spoke about a new ritual I helped create in my post "Twice Blessed." I am also excited that two new prayer books have recently been published—one from Congregation Beth Simchat Torah in New York and the other from Sha'ar Zahav in San Francisco. Both are now available to the public, and open new doors into how prayers can be utilized with translations that are incredibly inviting. A recent article on Jewcy.com reviews the new siddur from Sha'ar Zahav and shares some of its offerings.

The Reform movement in particular has chosen to apply great sensitivity to its word choices and the language it uses in its prayers. This is apparent in its newest siddur, Mishkan Tefillah. Over the past two decades, much thought and energy has been given to replacing masculine imagery of God with gender neutral language where possible, as well as including the names of female counterparts to the traditional and original male references. For example, all of the imahot (mothers) have been a part of the avot (fathers) prayer for quite some time, while a new addition is the name of Miriam alongside Moses in the Mi Chamocha.

I must add that creating new ritual is not always a serious effort. My family and good family friends have rarely missed a chance to give thanks to Maxwell House for sponsoring our free Haggadahs during Passover! I am sure that our Seder would feel somewhat lacking if we didn't make mention of this personal tradition.

I am curious to know what type of personal rituals you have created, and how do you relate to them? Perhaps you wrote your own vows for your wedding or maybe you have your own specific family traditions. Just think, if you share, there is a good chance that someone else would love to make your tradition their own!

Believe me, we didn’t look like this at the Russian wedding ...

We tried. We really tried to get away. But even at the southernmost tip of the Dominican Republic we ran into people who know someone who knows someone who probably knows us.

The “we” in question includes me, my husband and six friends who planned to lounge on the beach together for seven glorious worry-free days.

The people who probably know someone who knows us not only spoke Russian, but they are also Jewish and almost from Chicago. Well actually, they live in Milwaukee, but it’s close enough considering that the clientele at the resort included what seemed like the entire population of a small Serbian town, some snarky Irish kids and about a zillion honeymooners from all over the world. The Russian-speakers were Masha (a leggy blonde) and Dima (the bearer of a prominent eagle-beak nose) and they chose Dreams Punta Cana for their destination wedding.

The sunset ceremony at the marble rotunda must have been beautiful. But we were at dinner and at the moment weren’t even aware of Dima and Masha’s existence. Our ears perked up when Russian-language pop music suddenly began blasting from a second-floor ballroom balcony. The group – seven of us were born in the former Soviet Union – couldn’t believe that we had run into a bit of our own lives in this remote location.

We got even more excited when we spotted a kippah and realized the rabbi must have come from Milwaukee to officiate at this wedding. Yeah, I admit it, we’re Jewish nerds. After all, our hotel wasn’t exactly the JCC’s Perlstein resort. No mezuzahs on the doorposts and definitely no kosher food. Not that the group really cared all that much – the relaxing atmosphere and whole days spent in the water were enough.

Pretending to be exhausted after a day in the sun

(On a side note, turns out, Masha and Dima could have hired a rabbi from the Dominican Jewish community. About 400 Jews live on the Dominican half of the island, worshipping at three synagogues in two cities.)

In any case, what could we do but join the happy couple for a bit of their celebration? The temptation was simply too much. We weren’t quite in full-on wedding crasher mode– with only 20 guests at this wedding, we decided we wouldn’t be able to blend in. So we didn’t drink their champagne or eat their cake or loudly toast to long years of marriage and a bunch of kids. But we did briefly meet the bride and groom, wish them all the best and dance to the Russian pop.

This vacation was everything we wanted – peace, quiet, the ocean. Turns out, it left us with more memories than we expected. The instant sense of kinship we felt with the just-marrieds made it even more memorable. We don’t know much about them except their names, that they speak the language we speak with our families and that they made sure to include some Jewish ritual into their celebration. And yet, here I am, recalling this one episode from among the many exciting moments of our week in Dominican.

Ouch

You know that feeling you get when you know you’re about to trip, but if you’re lucky, you can still “catch” yourself in time to save yourself from embarrassment and pain?  I thought I had “caught” myself yesterday morning as I hurried down Southport to catch the brown line for work.  So. didn’t. catch. self.  What broke my fall instead, was my mouth and big nose hitting the cement pavement.  OUCH!

Let’s back up a second here.  I’m a klutz.  I know this and I do my very best to take this into account during my daily life.  I carefully get on escalators for fear I’ll fall or worse get caught, I always hold the railing on a staircase— I’ve crashed enough times to know better.  I’ve been known to trip over X and knock into Y more times than I’d like to admit.  But really?  I tripped over myself, yes, just myself, not a hole in the pavement, not  those metal grates in the sidewalk, just tripped over myself and wiped out so bad that I now sit here with cuts and bruises covering my nose, mouth, chin, shoulder, hand, and both knees.  My lip is the size of a blimp.  I made an emergency trip to the dentist to make sure my teeth aren’t going to fall out—they’re not.  And a face that could scare young children.  Not kidding.  Yeah, even for me, this is pretty impressive work.

I know Jews don’t believe in karma, that’s for Buddhists and Hindus and whomever else, but I must have done something pretty bad to someone to deserve this kind of a fall.  Seriously.  Can I use Oy! to take a moment to apologize to anyone whom I may have harmed recently?  I’m very sorry.  I know Yom Kippur is still a few months down the road, but it may as well today be for me.

This has been very therapeutic.  Thank you Oy!sters.  Hopefully, some of you can relate a little.  Although, I really hope no one else has tried to pick a fight with the sidewalk.  You will lose.

 I’m really not quite ready to laugh yet, not while my face can be described as a) a third world child with a really bad cleft palate, b) bad lip injections gone very wrong, c) a domestic abuse victim or d) (my personal favorite) a really bad case of herpes.

Ok, that’s kind of funny.  Ha! Ow!  It hurts too much to laugh.

I’d never given much thought to what record I’d want to break in order to end up in the Guinness Book of World Records. Until this morning, that is.

That’s when I came across this little snippet about a 42-year-old Russian woman who gained a spot on the honor roll of bizarre talents and collections for having the world’s strongest… vagina?!

Seriously?!

Apparently so. And it’s not her first time at this rodeo, either: Tatiata Kozhevnikova recently broke her own previous world record by lifting a 14 kg (30.8 lb) glass ball with her hoo-ha muscles.

Now, I knew that you could hold the record for having made the world’s largest sandwich. I knew you could be measured as the shortest or tallest person alive. Thanks to David Blaine, I knew that there are people out there who are willing to risk their lives trying to see how long they can hold their breath underwater.

Those are, I suppose, normal enough records to try to break. As is the record for the world’s largest flag, which was unveiled on November 25, 2007, at Masada Airfield in Israel, between two other record locations: the Dead Sea (the lowest exposed body of water on Earth) and Masada, where some 960 Jewish zealots committed the largest mass suicide of ancient times by cutting each others' throats during a siege by the Romans in AD 73.

But how do you wake up one morning and decide that you think you just might have the world’s strongest Kegels, and dammit, you want the world to know it?

For that matter, under what circumstances did Jackie Bibby find himself with a live rattlesnake in his mouth – and what could possibly have prompted him to see just how many more he could cram in there at once? Mr. Bibby’s parents must be so proud of their son, who holds the record for Most Live Rattlesnakes Held in the Mouth.

How bored could the students at Ritsumeikan Asia Pacific University possibly have been in order to decide that they needed to get peers from as many nationalities as possible into a sauna?

I could go on.

I could tell you that Niek Vermeulen of the Netherlands holds the largest collection of airline barf bags – and that he apparently wears a smashingly elegant baseball cap emblazoned with “Barf Bags Wanted” when he leaves his home.

Or that the world’s highest ranking law enforcement camel is named Bert, and that in 2003 he became a Reserve Deputy Sheriff for the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department in San Dimas.

But frankly, I’m still a bit distracted by Tatiata’s superhuman special lady flower.

I’m still not certain what world record I’d like to hold. Those who have seen my office might nominate me for largest stress ball and plastic dreidel collection. And I went through a phase not long ago where I probably could have won Most Consecutive Meals That Included at Least One Bowl of Cheerios. But I’m not quite ready to submit my application just yet.

What about you, Oy!sters? What records would you want to hold?

Want to know more about Chicago’s Jews before Oy? Here’s a history lesson of the past 150 years: Irving Cutler, a professor emeritus at Chicago State University has published an updated edition of his "The Jews of Chicago: From Shtetl to Suburb.” The update adds another 13 years worth of Jewish Chicago history to the opus, first published in 1996. Cutler uses his expertise on Chicago-area neighborhood demographics and Jewish institutions as he explores the movement of Chicago’s Jews from the city to the suburbs. He also published a photo compilation, “Jewish Chicago: a Pictorial History.”

The Jerusalem Post reviews the book, noting that Cutler also presents brief biographical sketches of the people who contributed to the vitality of the Chicago Jewish community. So if you’d like to keep up on your Jewish geography – literally – here’s your chance.

Two blonde Reverend Lindseys that pray together stay together

I have a very good friend whose name is also Lindsey and she also happens to have blonde hair. Two blonde Lindseys, you could say. We like to do most things together. We have mourned the decaffeination of Sparks together, planned parties together, stayed out way past our bed times drinking way too many PBRs together, and most recently we became ordained ministers together. Two blonde Reverend Lindseys.

On Friday night we were hanging out at my place waiting to go to the Lupe Fiasco show and, I have no idea why, but we decided to look into becoming ordained so we could someday perform a wedding or two. We stumbled upon this Web site of the Universal Ministries where we could “Follow our calling by becoming a minister!” and “Become an ordained minister and start your own church today.” The Web site assured us that Universal Ministries will ordain anyone, at no charge and women are welcome and have the same right as men to ordination. (This made me wonder, are there Web sites offering ordinations that don’t allow women the same rights?)

Turns out Universal Ministries will welcome you “whether you worship God above, Our Dollars in Denver, or Nature's beauty.” Uh… what’s Our Dollars in Denver? “However, if you are a true soldier of the faith, we request you check your weapons with the man behind the curtain before proceeding.” Aren’t they clever?

The only information you have to give to become ordained is:

Your full name
Your full address
Your e-mail address
Your birthday
Your phone number
Your religion or faith of choice
Your gender

This is all optional, too. It seems harder to sign up for Twitter (are you following Oy! on Twitter?) than to be ordained. Although by filling out the form you do have to promise that you won’t marry any pets. My poor hamster. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

Wednesday on her would-be wedding day

So, Saturday rolls around and I’ve completely forgotten that we filled out those applications, because I actually didn’t even fill mine out, the other Lindsey did it for me. But I have an e-mail from “Doug” with my proclamation of ordination. It says:

“Thank you Reverend Lindsey Maurine Bissett. Please understand that IF this is not your LEGAL name, this is not a valid ordination. If it is, there’s no need to worry. We are referring to everything after the “Reverend” part above. We ordain you as a member/minister of the Universal Ministries in a service on your behalf at the Milford church, not just through an online registration. You are now a minister of this church within the Doctrines and articles of Association of the church, with all rights and obligations thereof. You are now legally able to use “Reverend” as part of your name if you wish.”

And I DO wish.

The e-mail goes on to tell me that earlier in the day, Doug, along with the rest of Universal Ministries held a real service on my behalf to ordain, anoint, appoint and select me for placement into their Registry of Ministry as a minister. OMFG! It’s real. I don’t even need a certificate, although I could get one if I wanted for $10, and if I want it extra fancy it’s $20. What a deal! I can now officially start my own church, perform weddings, funerals, baptisms, etc. I hope the etc doesn’t mean I could do a bris. Yikes.

They also have an online store to get all your reverend clothing needs. Two blonde Reverend Lindseys would look so stylin' in these robes.

Oh man, if Lindsey and I started a church together each wedding would begin, and end, with a dance party. We’d have Gregg Gillis there every time and special performances by R. Kelly. I’d like to be Lindsey’s hype man for the actual ceremony part and just back up everything she says.

I could daydream about that for hours. Maybe the next time Lupe Fiasco comes to town we’ll begin planning the foundation for a Two Blonde Reverend Lindseys Cathedral. Wouldn’t you be a member?

As the saying goes: “It’s a small Jewish world.”

I say, “Use it.”

I was on the phone with a friend the other day, recapping a funny Saturday night we’d had at a party. The hosts were from Deerfield and she and I are from Highland Park.  We knew the hosts and a few of their friends. After playing some serious, Jewish geography that evening, it wasn’t long until about 50 of us discovered we were mishpuchah.

My friend recalled the theory of six degrees of separation when meeting people, and pointed out that in the Jewish world, it’s two degrees. I would argue that with anyone you meet from north suburban Chicago, it’s one degree.

In leaving the North Shore, going off to college in the Midwest and returning to Chicago, I never, for a moment, lost sight of my Jewish suburban neighbors. 

While it’s fun to wax nostalgic at a party or out at a bar, I never imagined how useful these networks could actually be.

I don’t want to be mistaken for an opportunist—these networks have often found me. However, you can seek them out.

This year, I began working for the Chicago Tribune’s Triblocal, a hyper-local niche publication that focuses on Chicago’s surrounding suburbs. Ironically, I was assigned to report on the North Shore. 

As time goes on, more and more of my mishpuchah have been coming out of the woodwork. Some have become great sources for story ideas, but others are actively looking for employment during these difficult economic times.

To all of you 20- or 30- something displaced suburban refugees living in Chicago, I have a couple helpful hints: Don’t forget your roots and never stop networking, whether you’re employed or not. Jews are not only notoriously charitable, but they also love to schmooze. There are even Jewish networking events throughout the city.

But, your own network is bigger than you think. If you’re already in the practice of spying on old high school friends on Facebook, spy wisely—check out where they’re working and whether there are any openings. That’s how many have contacted me, and I try to help when I can.

If you haven’t visited the Twitter-verse yet, check it out. You may find that tweeting with fellow Jews will give you some unexpected leads. What is Twitter, but a big virtual handshake—or in our case, a big Jewish hug?

Abby, shopping on the Mag Mile

In the winter I dream of tank tops and exposed toes.  I crave short dresses and new bikinis.  I long for the warmth of the sun’s rays on my back in my skimpy summer attire, turning my shoulders a delicious shade of golden brown.  I anxiously await the day that my pale pink nail polish goes into summer hibernation, to be replaced by a brighter, eye-catching shade of magenta, coral, or bright purple, and I live for the excitement of purchasing the latest summer fashions in vibrant, stimulating hues.

While not all of you love summer style as much as I do, I’m sure you can at least commiserate, as fellow Chicagoans, about how long we have to wait until summer arrives.

It’s not fair that I see pictures of Kate Hudson walking around LA all year long in her maxi dresses and gladiator sandals.  It’s not fair that summer styles appear on fashion websites in February, as I sit shivering in my bulky parka, trying not to cry out of jealousy, for fear that my tears may freeze on my cheeks.  And, it’s definitely not fair that fall fashions hit the runway in late May, as we Chicagoans are still waiting for our summer to come.

Typically, I go a little nuts when it comes to shopping for summer clothing.  You couldn’t have guessed that from reading the last few paragraphs, would you?  HA!  However, this year is a little different.  Not only does the schmuckonomy suck, but I also happen to work for a non-profit.  Bad schmuckonomy, plus non-profit salary, equals, yep, you got it, not a lot of spending money.  The plus side of the horrible economy, and as a friend endearingly calls it, my “breadcrumb winner” salary, is that it has forced me to take a step back and assess my summer fashion purchases.  I decided to sit down and make a list of everything I “absolutely needed” for the warm months ahead.  My list, after every boho maxi, boyfriend jean, ombre sunglasses, one-shoulder top, leather jacket, statement necklace, and gladiator sandal was added, resembled a Torah much more than a shopping list.  My list needed major re-evaluating.  I started thinking about what I truly needed.  I crossed off items that were “one time wear” trendy items.  I crossed off the items that in reality only look good on the models, and make normal people look silly, and I crossed off items that I knew in my heart of hearts that I just didn’t need.  I kept crossing off and kept crossing off.  Eventually, my list looked like less of a Torah, and more like a small (chapter) book.  All joking aside, it was comprised of much more practical, realistic items, sprinkled with a few fun/trendy pieces that I decided to treat myself to throughout the summer.

After looking at my list, I realized a few things.  One of the most important realizations I had was that I really don’t make a list this big for other seasons.  Maybe it’s because winter is so cold that I lose all motivation to shop.  Who knows.  Either way, it’s a fact that I live in Chicago.  And, unfortunately (or fortunately, for my wallet) it’s a fact that it is too cold for summer clothes nine months out of the year.  So why was I spending all of this money on clothes I could only wear three months out of the year?  After thinking about it more, I realized that of those three months, I can really only wear my fun summer clothes on weekends, away from work.  That leaves me with thirteen weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day.  Let’s figure in three rainy weekends to be realistic, and I can only wear these summer clothes for ten weekends!  Ten weekends!  Depressing!  Awful!  Yet, liberating!  Liberating, because it made me realize how ridiculous I’ve been in the past with my shopping habits.

Even if I do spend nine months of the year dreaming of the clothes I can wear for ten weekends, I am proud to report that my summer shopping was much more controlled this year.  I’ve learned that I can salivate over the summer trends on websites like shopbop.com, without giving in to every “ammmaaaazing” item I see.  Though I’d love to be able to buy more and give in to the urge of every summer trend, I know I’m fortunate for what I have, and if you ask my friends, I still have more than enough clothes.

Oy’s resident fashionista sporting some of this summer’s latest trends; bright colors (top, Banana Republic- on sale $60, leather jacket (Gap, on sale, $200), and statement necklace (Street fair in California, $10)

As a reformed summer-shopaholic, I want to conclude my very deep, highly intellectual article by sharing a few tips with my fellow fashionistas on a budget:

1.  Make a list of what you REALLY need vs. what you want.  Buy yourself what you truly need (hopefully on sale because of the schmuckonomy) and treat yourself to a few key pieces for special occasions (birthday, raise, big date, breakup, etc.) and try to find those special items on sale!

2.  Invite your friends over for clothing swap parties.  Pop open an (inexpensive) bottle of champagne, and invite your friends to bring over several items of clothing (must be cute and in good condition) that they would be willing to swap for something else.  You can swap permanently, or just borrow each other’s clothes temporarily, to increase your wardrobe.  It is a fun (and inexpensive) activity to do with your girlfriends on a Friday night!

3.  Look for trendy items in places you wouldn’t expect.  Don’t empty your wallet buying a statement necklace at Neiman’s that you’ll only wear this summer - take advantage of the many street fairs in Chicago and maybe you’ll find an awesome beaded tribal necklace like I did, for less than $15.

4.  When it comes to the big items, shop around for the best price.  Resist the urge to be impulsive, because you never know, maybe something else will come along that you like better, and you can’t afford both.  Tip: put big items on a list for one month.  If that month passes and you still feel like you can’t live without it, then maybe that will be your summer treat to yourself.  If the month passes and your eye has already moved on to something else, you’ll be glad you didn’t spend your money on the first item.

5.  Remember the weather!  We live in Chicago (i.e. the tundra), and summer colors might be fun, but they won’t go far.  As amazing as the bright pink Foley and Corinna leather cross-body bag is, remember, you can only wear it ten weekends a year, so it makes a lot more sense to buy a more neutral color that you can use all year.

6.  Visit places like Borrow a Dress Couture where you can rent high-end dresses for as low as fifty dollars.  So often we spend big bucks on that one dress for that one occasion, and then we can’t wear it again because we just wore it (you know how it is) so spend a fraction of the price, and rent a dress!

7.  If you are going to spend a lot of money on a purse/clothing item, make sure it is an “investment piece”.  That black, studded, “rocker glam” purse may be cute now, but are you really going to wear it next year?  Invest instead in neutral colored bags and classic, well made clothing that doesn’t go out of style.  Leather jackets are in style now, but make sure you find one that isn’t too trendy, that can carry you into fall, and many seasons to come!

Remember, you can be fashionable and still not spend a fortune.  Maybe some of that money you save can be used to go on a vacation this winter to give yourself one more week of sizzling summer style!

After living with stark white walls, slumlords slow to fix problems but quick to raise the rent, and hauling my groceries up 3 flights of stairs and down a long hallway, only for the bag to break right before I can get my door open, I’m ready for my own place.  (Ideally one where doing the laundry doesn’t rely on me having enough quarters.)

Sound familiar?

With housing prices finally coming down (and rents starting to go up as more people rent vs. buy), owning that little piece of grass (or, for you condo dwellers, sky) is tempting many first-time home buyers into the market.  You’ve probably discussed this at length already with your friends, your parents, and just about anyone else who will listen and are convinced that now is the time to buy.

Before you jump into the real estate game, here are a few more things to consider based on what I’ve learned as a condo dweller and current house hunter.  Good luck and happy hunting!

1. It’s a buyer’s market, but many sellers haven’t gotten that memo yet.  Beware of the sellers that are living in the past—you will know who they are because their properties are overpriced, and they are usually quite stubborn about negotiating.  (Hint: if a place has sold in the last few years you can probably see what the current owner paid for it on zillow.com.)

2. You’d be surprised how much orange-shag carpet and wood-paneling is still out there.  In HGTV land, everyone has updated their properties with shiny flooring and stainless steel.  In the real world, you will see more heinous décor than you thought possible. (Especially if you are looking in the ‘burbs.) The kicker is when the owner considers it updated (From what I ask? The 1800s?) AND worth extra money.  Be prepared for lots of black and white color schemes, pink countertops, and my personal favorite: burnt–orange stripes on the wall.

3. Your home could seriously hurt your social life.  For one moment, put aside all the practical reasons (tax breaks, etc.) that are driving you to buy your first place.  Instead, think about what makes you happy.  Are you willing to give up going out with friends? Vacations? Going to grad school?  Can you still do what you love (at least in moderation) if you buy your place?  If not, you might be very miserable down the line.  I’ve got plenty of friends who are in this exact predicament: owning a beautiful place that sucks all of their discretionary money, who have come to regret their decision.  Remember, the mortgage is about half of what ownership costs, then there are taxes, maintenance, fees…… oy!

4.  Beware of being the youngest person (or oldest) on the block.  I lived in a condo building for 10 years where the average age had to be 95.  On the one hand, I never had a noisy neighbor.  On the other, I learned a valuable lesson: old people can be really, really difficult to live with.

For example: One morning as I was innocently eating my breakfast bar in the elevator, I was curtly informed by an “older gentleman” that I was in violation of condo rules.  Eating in “common areas” was strictly verboten.  Consequently, I was fined $100.  Do you know how many Nutrigrain Bars I could have gotten for $100?

The moral of the story: when you buy a home or condo, you are buying into a community.  Old or young, make sure it’s one you will want to be part of.  (And I definitely recommend that it’s young, or at least, younger.)

5.  And, beware of being the only Jew in the neighborhood.  My current frustration with where I live is how far I have to go just to get challah.  If being connected to Judaism is important to you, either now or in the relatively near future, you will probably want to figure out not only where congregations are, but other things that contribute to leading a Jewish life.

6.  Before putting an offer in, ask some basic questions about the appliances and other ‘mechanicals’.   True, an inspection will reveal problems with your property, but it costs about $450 (if not more) and, should you walk away from the property, it’s non-refundable.  By asking some questions about how old, and what kind of condition things are in—from the refrigerator to the furnace—you can get a better idea of what you might be getting into before you make that offer.

7.  Don’t just assume renovations to the place were done legally.  I just dodged this bullet: a lot of people do work on places without permits or inspections so you have no way of knowing that the work was done up to code.  Once you buy the place, this becomes your liability.  So, before making that offer, ask the seller for proof of permits and inspections on any work done.  Also, if you are buying a condo, know that if you plan on doing anything to your unit, you will need the permission of the Home Owner’s Association (HOA) and they have all sorts of rules and regulations.  Which leads me to…

8.  Home Owner’s Association’s (HOA) can impose more rules and regulations on you than your parents.  You may be surprised about the rules that govern you—they can range to restrictions from when you are allowed to run your dishwasher (e.g.: not after 11 p.m. at night), to how much of your floors must be carpeted for sound, to whether or not you can rent out your unit.  If you can, get a copy of the HOA’s Guide of Conduct or any other information you can get about the place you might be living in.  And on that note, check out how much cash they have in reserve to cover an unforeseen building repairs or, in this economy, enough to cover lack of fees collected from other units.

9. Remember, this is just your first home.  Don’t sweat it being perfect.

It’s finally summertime at Oy! and it seems like many of us have fitness and nutrition on the brains.  Well, I can’t resist adding my two cents…

Now that I don’t have to spend my workout time on long walks, I’ve been trying to diversify my workout routines.  While I’m quite sure that I won’t be joining Jacey at her Bar Method classes, I have been stepping out of my workout comfort zone and stretching into some yoga.

Why yoga you might ask?  I know it’s not some kind of new-fangled exercise a la the Bar Method, but well, I did just walk 40 miles and by serendipity a new, very different type of yoga studio, yogaview-Division, just opened right by my apartment in Wicker Park.

Yogaview-Division is the offspring of the popular yogaview-Elston, which has been offering yoga classes to Bucktown residents for many years.  The Elston location is considered one of the premier yoga studios in the country.  The opening of this second location is a direct result of the current economy it is the first donation-based studio in the city.  The owners believe that “yoga should be accessible to everyone” regardless of ability to pay so instead of charging a flat fee, they invite their class participants to give a donation that fits their budget

I arrived at the studio for a Monday night level 1-2 course.  I walked into the modern, airy room, and had to spend moment figuring out how to pay for my class.  There is a discreet table at the entrance with a small, dark rectangular box with a slit on top to deposit your donation.  That’s it.  No one knows how much you give and you’re welcomed into the class.  The hope is that those who can afford to give donate more and those who might not be able to pay as much, still attend. 

The studio is fully equipped with mats and other yoga accessories, so all you need to do to take the class is show up!  My class was an hour and fifteen minutes and involved a lot of standard yoga poses with a whole lot of repetitions of downward dog and plank position, a.k.a. my least favorite yoga poses.  I suffered through it and otherwise enjoyed the class, especially the relaxation part.  All in all it was a pretty good experience. 

Molly, the instructor, was incredibly nice and helpful.  She stuck around after class and answered questions.  I got some good advice on ways to stretch my bad knee.  And her stretches have really helped ease the pain.  There’s a wide range of courses for all levels, even one for expectant mothers, and instructors to fit any kind of work out personality. 

Now I must admit that yoga is not my favorite workout activity.  I work out, not to be physically fit per se, but so I can justify being a fat kid who eats too much ice cream.  And I just really like my elliptical.  I can hear Ron now, ‘you must diversify your workouts to achieve a higher level of fitness’ and I’m trying!  I am determined to keep up this yoga thing even though I’m terribly un-flexible and there’s way too many push-upesque poses.  Did I just invent two words?

Anyway, I’m not yet really convinced that yoga will help me lose any weight, but maybe it will help with toning.  Though it won’t help with is my ice cream addiction.  Yogaview-Division is located directly above Starfruit, a local Wicker Park ice cream and frozen yogurt joint.  A little yoga followed by some ice cream--there’s my motivation!

The suggested donation for a yogaview-Division class ranges from $10-$20, but the studio truly stresses the pay what you can policy.  Credit cards are not accepted at the Division location, so make sure you bring cash or check.  To learn more about yogaview and to access the class schedules, visit the site at  www.yogaview.com .

Photo credit Tiffany O'Neill Photography 

As a bartender and a mixologist, I’m often asked by my patrons and even my colleagues some great questions about making drinks. So, I thought I would dedicate this blog post to answering some of those questions about the use – and abuse – of spirits. Then I’ll wrap things up with this issue’s Cheers Chicago Cocktail!

The most frequently asked question I get while pouring cocktails goes something like this: “So, what’s the difference between vodka, gin and scotch?” followed closely by, “which type of alcohol messes you up the most?” Both great questions. Each type of alcohol has a base ingredient from which the yeast feeds from to produce alcohol as a byproduct. There are several choices: whisky and vodka are commonly derived from wheat and barley, while wine and brandy are made from grapes. Rum and cachaça are derived from sugarcane and molasses, while sake comes from fermenting rice. The distilled spirit will only change color, however, if it’s aged in a wood barrel, which gives scotch its unique color, aroma and taste. Unlike other spirits, vodka is actually distilled to the ponit where it has no distinctive aroma, color or taste. Other than, of course, the various congener aromas (like fusel oil) or the subtle differences in texture in the water used (heavier french spring in Grey Goose, lighter Russian distilled water in Stoli, for instance), but only the very best can distinguish these differences amongst all popular vodkas. Gin starts as vodka, but uses a combination of herbs and botanicals in the distilling process to “cut” the harsh flavor of the distilled spirit.

As for which one “messes you up” the most, here’s the bottom line: the higher the proof, the less it takes to become intoxicated. The real question lies in how you consume your alcohol. For instance, a drink by itself or with water will be absorbed by your stomach wall into your bloodstream much more slowly than one complemented with a carbonated beverage such as Pellegrino, tonic, or soft drink. Therefore, even though the alcohol content may be comparable, those that drink with carbonation are more likely to become intoxicated more rapidly than other combinations.

Another question I’m often asked is: “What’s the best cure for a hangover?”At this point in the conversation, other people at the bar might chime in with a story about a night out and discover the very next morning some mysterious combination of ingredients that cured their sloppy hangover. While others might swear by water and ibuprofen before going to bed, or drink Gatorade, or even eat lots of greasy food. I am going to clear the air for any doubters once and for all: the ONLY thing that can CURE a hangover is TIME. Sure, doctors admit that they aren't entirely sure what a hangover is, let alone how to cure it, but they are sure of time healing all post-alcoholic wounds.

Can you imagine what a clinical trial for a hangover would look like? I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I'd want to play along. Here's what doctors do know about hangovers. For starters, booze dehydrates. Alcohol blocks specific hormones in your kidneys that normally would keep you from racing to the bathroom. With each drink, you effectively lose more water than you take in— and that leads to all sorts of problems, like a searing headache. When breaking down alcohol, your body pumps out lactic acid and other byproducts that impede the production of glucose (sugar) and electrolytes (salts and other minerals that keep your body functioning properly). Hence that familiar weak, woozy feeling you get when you're hung-over. Here most people insert the “Gatorade” and “water plus ibuprofen” quips, which will in fact help your body re-hydrate and expel the toxins. Too much alcohol also irritates your gastrointestinal tract, therefore eating just about anything while you drink will ease the pain and slow down your body’s alcohol absorption rate. In the end, though, intoxicated people get the munchies, too, which will help the individual sober up more quickly. So, if you want the pain to end, you can try to slow it down, but you’ll eventually have to bite your lip and simply wait it out.
 
If I get the chance to introduce myself to my patrons, I’m often asked the origin of my name, which leads them wondering – out loud, of course – what makes something “kosher”. If they’re referring to the dietary restrictions, I share some facts with them as to what makes alcohol and all its derivatives kosher. For example, wine is made from grapes, and the Bible is clear as to what constitutes kosher preparation and production. For instance, the vines must be untouched by non-Jewish hands in order to be classified as kosher. Similarly, brandy, sherry, vermouth and champagne are direct products of wine and therefore need to use kosher wine to qualify. A little known fact: Southern Comfort that’s made in Ireland is kosher, while the one made in the United States is not. No reason for this is given. Mezcal and tequila are also kosher, so long as it’s without the worm (worms aren’t kosher, but believe it or not locusts are…gross.)

And now for your Cheers Chicago Cocktail of the month! This particular cocktail came to me by way of Forbes’ top 10 Summer Cocktails, and it certainly fits the summer theme! Enjoy!

The Goods:

3 ounces Bombay Sapphire gin
squeeze of fresh lime juice
2 tbsp Blue Curacoa
1 tbsp peach schnapps
1 tsp confectioners' sugar or one packet of Equal
lemon zest

Fill a martini glass with ice and water to chill it. Half-fill a martini shaker with ice and add the gin, lime juice, Curacao, schnapps and sugar. Shake well for at least 30 seconds. Pour out ice and water from martini glass, and poor in the mixture through a strainer. Garnish with lemon zest.

L’chaim!

www.fitwithkrit.com
rkrit@fitwithkrit.com

Gluttony hides in a Corner Bakery Salad with 61 grams of fat (yes, a salad), or a Panera chicken sandwich with 1,000 calories. You could eat almost two nasty Big Macs instead of one Panera sandwich. Now if you think your fancy meal at a steak house is better, you’re wrong. Most restaurants don’t even list calories, fat, sodium, fiber...because if you knew how much fat was in your steak and potatoes, you might never dine out.

I’m not saying to starve or avoid dessert; I’m saying, eat smart. I LOVE sushi! I could eat it for every meal. But the savory eel sauce on the delicious dragon roll, is filled with fat, so instead of depriving myself, I’ll only eat it once a month. I’m not a nutritionist, but through my experience as a personal trainer I’ve come up with the following tips for dining out:

1.      Portion, Distortion. This first tip is based on a book I’ve wanted to write for years:
Size does matter. This one is pretty basic. The size of protein in your meal should be about the size of your fist. For most people, this is not very big. Pasta or mashed potatoes should be about the size of a deck of cards. Your portion of non-starch vegetables can be about double the size of your pasta.
2.      Doggie Bags are Cool. If you want the steak, the ribs, chicken parmesan…order it. Ask the waiter to cut the portion in half or split the meal and order a soup or salad. Restaurants like Cheesecake Factory have HUGE portions. Save yourself the calories and have them bring out half on your plate and the other in a doggie bag.
3.      Salads 101. Corner Bakery, Panera, and Cosi all have salad options, most of which are filled with sodium and fat. A few easy tips to save your waist line:

•        Dressing on the side
•        Hold the croutons
•        No BLUE CHEESE
•        Baco’s instead of Bacon
•        Cheese on the side
•        Creamy dressings are higher in fat
•        Vinaigrettes are usually the healthiest dressings
•        Fruit adds great flavors to spinach/lettuce salads
•        Add beans, chicken, turkey and other lean proteins
•        Spinach has more fiber than lettuce

If there’s anything special that’s unhealthy and you want it on your salad, order it on the side. If you want bacon or croutons, eat it, just add small quantities.
4.      Soups 101. Clear or vegetable broths are usually the healthiest. Ask if the soup is cream based or contains cream, if so, the small soup becomes a belly-buster. If you want broccoli and cheddar soup, have some, just order a cup instead of a bowl. Look at the sodium. I’m not going to lecture you on salt intake, but sodium is not healthy and many soups are sodium factories. This especially applies to canned soups and fast food restaurants. Broccoli and Cheddar soup (8 ounces) at Panera has 968 milligrams of sodium. Gross.   
5.       Steam. Butter is most restaurants’ favorite tool, and you know why? It tastes awesome. Butter is the artery clogging, heart attack causing fat, so ask for steamed vegetables or fish. Most restaurants will listen if you ask for light on the cream, butter, oil…
6.      Snacks. When you’re really hungry, you eat a lot. Many people figure, I’m going to Shay Fancy for dinner so I won’t eat a lot during the day. WRONG. By not eating enough food your metabolism goes into starvation mode and slows down. Eat! A healthy snack, apples and a handful of almonds, will help you from over-eating. If you need healthy snack options, shoot me a line. If you have a great snack option, share.
7.      Salt and Sugar. Sugar and salt are a chefs best friend (along with butter). Not only are they unhealthy but they are trigger foods. Trigger foods make you over eat. I’m not saying you can blame your love handles on salt/sugar but less in this case is more. Add less sugar to your coffee, fruit does not need extra sugar and try to avoid using the salt on the table.

I am not suggesting you skip fried calamari and apple pie and then go for a run. Listen to your belly. If your meal tastes really buttery, salty, or creamy, eat less, drink lots of water, and save room for a cookie…a small cookie.

Keep reading; next week I’m reviewing an arm band that tracks all the calories you burn and how much sleep you’re getting. I can’t wait!

Jacey flaunting her new figure at a wedding

The dreaded moment that every girl fears came to me about a week ago.  I was standing in my room, looking for a pair of jeans, and suddenly it hit me that I only had one clean pair—the “skinny” jeans—and that’s not referring to the cut.  Like most girls, I have a section in my closet dedicated to days I feel skinny and a section dedicated to PMS and brownies.  (Let’s face it, we Jews like to eat.)  So, I grabbed them off the hanger and wiped off the dust.  I put one leg in, then the other.  I pulled them up, sucked in hard, shut my eyes, and low and behold…they fit!  All hail the Bar Method!  And just in time for summer!

For the past few months, I have turned into one of those crazy people who actually likes to work out before work.  I wake up at 5:15 a.m. in order to be at the Bar Method by 6.  What’s the Bar Method you ask?  The Bar Method is a revolutionary way to tone, tighten and stretch your body.   Located on Belmont and Sheffield, it looks like a sweet little place where lots of twenty-something females come to get in shape.  The truth?  The Bar Method = The Devil.  But, it’s a devil that works.

Each class is one hour long and begins with 40 knee lifts, definitely doable.  After that it gets a little tricky.  Starting with 2 and 3 lb. weights, they work your triceps- repeating tiny, 1-inch movements until the muscle gives out and you can’t do anymore reps.  This is continued with your thighs, butt, abs and more.  My favorite part is when they say, “Good shaking, Jacey!”  To me, the shaking means my muscles are saying “Why are you hurting me?!”  To them, it means that you’re only just getting started.  Trust me, you will shake.

While the workout itself is insanely difficult, the staff makes up for it with their cheerful personalities.  I have no idea how they do it, but those women are awake, friendly and ready to chat at 5:30 in the morning.  They make an effort to learn your name, and they will cater the class to your needs.  And, the moment you want to give up and crawl back into bed, they are there, cheering you on.

Insider tips:

- Reserve your spot online.  There will probably be a waitlist, but you will usually get in.
- If you know you are not going to go, cancel at least an hour before!  They charge you $20 for every missed class, and trust me, it adds up.
- Make sure they are aware of your specific physical limitations as there are variations to every move.
- Buy the socks!  They sell Bar Method socks with grips on the bottoms, and while it is not necessary, it definitely helps.

The best part about the Bar Method is that it works, and the more you do it, the easier it gets.  If you are looking for a new, interesting and effective way to get in shape for the summer, check it out!  You will feel really good, like me, when your size 4 jeans actually zip-up!

Having only been a Mom for four months, I hardly qualify as an expert on the topic of pregnancy or motherhood.  But a lack of expertise hasn’t ever stopped me from doling out unsolicited advice before, so why stop now?!  So, in no particular order, here are a few insights from my own experience.  Oy!

1.  You can get pregnant on the first ‘try’, even in your 30s.  Be prepared for it to happen right away, and be grateful that it did.  And definitely don’t complain about it to your friends who are still trying.
2.  No matter how faint that line is on the pregnancy test stick, it still counts as a line. 
3.  Fellow commuters don’t care that you are pregnant. Don’t be surprised when no one offers you a seat on the bus or train in the morning, or when an obnoxious pedestrian practically runs you over as you waddle your way down the sidewalk.  While some people are nice, don’t count on special treatment from anyone but your partner.
4.  It is normal to hate other pregnant women who are thin everywhere except in their bellies.  For someone like me who has struggled with body image all of my life, the weight gain was the hardest part about being pregnant.  It didn’t make it any easier to see pictures of pregnant models with thin arms and legs in all of the baby magazines, or not fitting into trendy maternity clothes in boutiques (seriously, where are these women from??)  I felt like crap that I gained a little over the 20-30 pound range my doctor recommended until I realized no one I knew gained less than 30 pounds.  My advice: try to focus on the health of you and your child and not on the scale.  It will take some time and effort, but the weight will come off afterwards. 
5.  If birth isn’t imminent, stop and get a pedicure on the way to the hospital with your husband.  This really worked wonders at relaxing my husband and me, and made for a good story.  Just let your doctor know that you are *ahem* ‘stuck in traffic’ and will be a little late.
6.  The only people who need to concern themselves about if you will go through labor with or without drugs are you and your doctor. Don’t listen to anyone else—that includes your partner.  You will be the one in pain (or not), all your partner has to do is go get the ice chips. 
7.  You might change your mind about working.  There is no way you can predict with 100% accuracy how you will feel once you give birth about staying at home, either way it’s a tough decision.  Just know that feeling conflicted, even if you previously were not, is normal and that whatever you decide, you and your baby will be O.K.  Nothing is ever written in stone, you can always change your mind later. 
8.  Your younger, single brother-in-law will look at your still-inflated belly a couple of days post-partum and ask when it will “return to normal”.  Yes, you may hit him (and anyone else who asks) and blame it on post-partum mood swings.   
9.  The pregnancy weight does not melt off just because you are breastfeeding.  Breastfeeding burns up hundreds of calories a day, so I thought the weight would fall off me in a few months.  However, thanks to an increased appetite and zero time to work out, this hasn’t happened for me.  Better rule of thumb: “9 months up, 9 months down”.
10.  You will cry out of sheer happiness when you look at your child’s face, even if you aren’t normally very sentimental.
11.  You will fear kids touching your baby.  Little kids love babies, and can’t keep their germy little hands to themselves.  This will put you in a tough spot if you have family or friends with young children who can’t wait to see the baby.  Just remember that you should….
12.  Never, ever apologize for doing what you need to do for your child or for your family.  As a Mom, it is your job to put the health, security and happiness of your child and family above all else.  If that means going back to work or staying home, or keeping little cousin Moshe away for a couple of months, you do what you need to do.

A poll* finds that 78 percent of people surveyed, between ages 20 and 39, know the name of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes’s daughter, but only 45 percent of those same people know the interest rates on all their credit cards. Young people need to learn to be more financially literate, according to Beth Kobliner, a Jewish personal financial expert living in New York City and a former staff writer for Money Magazine.

To make matters worse, people in their 20s and 30s—like other age groups—are facing severe financial troubles in the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. For instance, 20- and 30-somethings are earning less than young people in the 1970s, adjusted for inflation; they’re drowning in debt; and they are the least-insured age group in the country.

In 1996, Kobliner wrote a practical guide to finances entitled “Get a Financial Life: Personal Finance in your Twenties and Thirties” (Fireside Press). Now, in a revised and updated edition, released this spring, Kobliner offers tools and solutions to helping young people get their finances under control in tough economic times, covering financial topics including debt, housing issues, banking, investing, taxes, and insurance.

This spring, just a few weeks before graduation, Kobliner traveled to Chicago and spoke with students at DePaul University, Loyola University, Northwestern University, and the University of Chicago, where she encountered many seniors frightened to face the poor job market.

Following her trip, Koblinger sat down for a phone interview with JUF News to discuss her new book, the financial crisis, and tips to help young people ride out the recession.

Why did you originally write this book back in the mid 1990s?
When the book first came out, I was in my 20s and I had been writing for Money Magazine. I was an English major in college at Brown University. I really didn’t have all that much financial background. When I graduated, I started writing for a Jewish woman, [the late] Sylvia Porter, who was the first person, at least the first woman, to write about personal finance. Then, I got a job at Money Magazine. I realized that there were no books at the time for younger people starting out. Everything was written for people who already had stock, who already had savings. I realized there was a real need out there.

As you travel around the country today, including to Chicago universities, what are the biggest concerns you’re hearing from students and other young people?
A lot of them are so overwhelmed because they have on average $22,000 in student loans and many have much more than that. They also have, on average, $4,600 in credit card debt. They have a huge amount of debt and the economy is so bad right now that they are overwhelmed and can’t find jobs. It’s very stressful for young people. That’s why a record percentage of them are moving back home with their parents. Their parents are stressed because they’ve paid for, often, expensive colleges, and their kids not only can’t get a job but are loaded down by debt.

Young people also have to see this as an opportunity: Move back home, make some money, do some volunteer work that you may not have done otherwise, because maybe, when the economy does get better, that will lead in a direction that you wouldn’t have thought about. I am seeing young people thinking more about what they really want to do. The knee-jerk response in the 1990s was, I should go into investment banking because that’s a smart thing to do…A lot of people [in the past] chose a field based on money rather than what their passion was. One young person in Chicago recently said to me that he had more in common with his grandparents than his parents because his grandparents were from the Depression generation and they lived through tough times [like now].

You’ve done studies about young people knowing more about celebrities than their own personal finances. Where did we go wrong in society? Shouldn’t we be teaching our kids about finances in schools from an early age?
One of the biggest problems is that we don’t address financial literacy. There are some basics that aren’t being taught in schools and if we did, it would make a huge difference. [Schools need to teach] how debt can add up and be a huge problem for people. If we educated people starting in junior high school, or maybe even in elementary school, it would not only make people more knowledgeable, but it would be a great way to teach subjects like math, because it’s so practical and it’s going to be used for the rest of your life.

How bad is the job market looking for recent grads?
The unemployment rate for people, ages 20-24, is 14 percent and the unemployment for the average general public is 8 percent. I have visited about 20 colleges in the last month and a half. I would always ask the seniors, “How many of you guys have jobs?” In a room of 100 people, maybe three or four would have a job. It’s really tough.

Are older people filling the jobs that graduates usually take?
Teen unemployment is at the highest rate since World War II. What’s happening is that people in their 30s and 40s are keeping their jobs. If a company can only keep a couple of people, they’re going to keep their older ones, who have more experience. The people in their 20s aren’t getting those jobs. Then, the college graduates, this summer, are going into what teenagers used do, scooping ice cream and lifeguarding, all the jobs that used to be classic teen summer jobs. So everyone is moving down a notch and a lot of people can’t find work at all.

What are a few of the preliminary steps young people should take to ‘get a financial life?’
If they are graduating and they have credit card debt and student loan debt, it’s really important to analyze what they have, because a lot of people have a mix of private loans and a mix of government or federal loans. The interest rate on federal loans is much lower than the interest rate on private loans. Credit card debt is usually the highest of them all. The goal is to pay off your highest rate debt quickly. Managing your debt is really important.

If you’re lucky enough to have a job, and if the company has a 401(k) or another type of savings plan, you must take advantage of this because it’s just free money.

The other thing is, if you can save a little bit of money, you want to open a Roth IRA, an individual retirement account. Even just putting a small amount can really make a difference long-term. The good thing is that you can withdraw money you contribute to your Roth IRA for any reason without paying taxes or a penalty. It’s a smart way to save because it will allow your money to grow tax-free for life. It gives you a lot more flexibility than you realize.

Also, if you’re on your own for the first time, and you’re moving back home with your parents, use it as an opportunity to save money, to save as much as you possibly can… [until] the economy does come back.
 
What can the Madoff scandal teach young people about finances?
It was so sad, especially for the Jewish community and it’s very upsetting to think about. It teaches everybody that tried and true ‘If something seems too good to be true, it is.’ The problem is that it goes counter to the notion that if you’re smart and research things and you shop around, you can get a good deal.

What did your parents teach you about saving money growing up?
My parents worked really hard—my father was a principal and my mother was a teacher. They didn’t have a lot of money and they saved a lot and that is something I always saw as a kid. That’s partly why I got interested in this field, not really from a money perspective but from a values perspective. In order to get into a good college, you needed to have enough money to pay for it. I don’t know if that’s called Jewish values or good values or just a hard-work ethic.

*The 2009 poll was designed and commissioned by Beth Kobliner and conducted by Harris Interactive.

I never thought registering for baby items was something I’d do.  After all, if the general Jewish practice is to hold off on bringing baby stuff into the home until after the baby is born, isn’t it kind of missing the point to shop for the things you want in advance?

As a Jew with a Catholic husband, and a baby shower in the works, registering was pretty much a given for us.  At the same time, my pregnant Jewish friends all seemed to be doing it anyway, so I swallowed my Jewish guilt (fully realizing that I was feeling guilty for something I didn’t know whether or not to even feel guilty for – how Jewish is that?) and set a date with the husband.

Joe was excited to use the registry gun again, having become a pro after registering for wedding items.  I was excited to linger over the baby clothes, bouncy seats and pacifiers, daydreaming about having those items in our home, with our baby.

The first aisle we hit had about 30 different kinds of baby monitors.  Video monitors, monitors that vibrate, monitors with more than one handset.  Monitors for $20, and monitors for $200.  Joe looked at the options, looked at me, and said, “Should I call my mom?”

And that’s pretty much how the rest of our day went.

Joe (inspecting the health care section): Look, here’s an American Red Cross baby thermometer.  Let’s register for that.
Me: Oh, OK, but look, do we need to get an ear thermometer, too?  Or can we get that instead of the other one?
Joe: (blank stare)
Me: (frantically dialing my mom)

The overwhelming Wall of Bottles…the hundreds of different pacifiers…the endless displays of strollers…we had clearly entered another planet.  With every aisle, we were on the phone with one mom or another, or a friend with a baby – anyone who could help us decipher why in the world we would need both a swing and a bouncy seat.

By the time we made our way to the back of the store (halfway through!), we each collapsed on rocking chairs for a full five minutes before collecting ourselves, registry gun in hand, ready to check out bassinet sheets, changing table pads and tummy time play mats.  After a good three hours in the store, we felt no more educated about baby bathtubs than before, but you’d never know it by looking at the 74 items we’d registered for.

As we angst about our upcoming new arrival, our parents and friends keep telling us that instinct will kick in and we’ll just know what to do with the baby.  We’re hoping that same logic will apply for all the “stuff,” too!

It’s hard for me to keep quiet, even at a bridal shower, when I hear ignorance spreading thicker than chunky, vegetable cream cheese on a toasted bagel. In my opinion, it’s a courageous act to correct misconceptions. After all, who else will shed light on the truth? If not me, who? If not now, when?

So there I was, nibbling on cheese blintzes, surrounded by twenty chatty ladies I had never met. I overhear one woman across the table confide to her friend about a movie she had just seen; Kadosh by acclaimed Israeli filmmaker Amos Gitai, produced in 1999.

“I had no idea those Orthodox women were treated so terribly,” the woman shook her head in dismay, proud to be part of the liberated world. Her conversation collaborator nodded with her. Together they paused for a moment as if to mourn for their imprisoned religious female counterparts.

I couldn’t hold back from rolling my eyes and cynically laughing under my breath. “I saw Kadosh,” I blurted out. “I didn’t care for it.”

The noise of cream pouring into coffee must have drowned out my words, for the women seemed to miss my outburst. Luckily, this gave me a moment to breathe, reconsider, and join a different conversation at the other end of the table. There is a time and place, after all, I reasoned, for confrontation. If the main objective for the next hour and a half was clapping hands and giggling at the bride-to-be unwrapping tissue-papered pots and pans, this bridal shower did not seem to be the most suitable arena for intellectual discourse.

What better location than the Oy!Chicago blogosphere?

Kadosh is a fictional account of two women trapped in a religious community in Israel. One is forced to marry an emotionally abusive man she is not interested in. She ends up running away at night to be with her former secret lover. The other woman has been childless for ten years, and the tensions between her and her husband because of it are painful to say the least. The problem obviously lies in the structure of this oppressive religious society into which they had the misfortune of being born.

There are shades of truth I’m sure in the storyline, as there are people who corrupt the system in every strata of society. I could barely finish the movie, but not because of the women’s tormented life. The coloring of these women as powerless, miserable puppets who were a product of the religious system was hard to swallow. I live and participate in a religious community, yet never having come into contact with such a constrained culture as this cinematic depiction, I was skeptical to accept its representational authenticity.

Working with public high school students, I once had a teen speak with me in disgust about how all religious women shave their heads when married. I had to explain to her that though a very small minority, including in the Satmar community, apparently do shave their heads for various reasons, this is an obscure exception to general practice. Rumors about the religious community have a long history of lumping diverse groups of people into a single accusation.

I think about Aya de Leon, a profound spoken word artist who critiqued Apple Computer’s usage of Ghandi’s life as an advertising tool. She warned that we must be careful with who we let tell our stories and who we let control our pasts. Likewise, one should be wary of treating Kadosh filmmaker Amos Gitai as the premier journalist documenting the religious world.

The responsibility of examining authorship occurred to me as I pored over a recent Time magazine article about Mormons later that week. While I found that reading about the Mormon faith amusing, I couldn’t help but think that the same magazine writer could easily contort a bris ceremony to appear as pagan, bloodthirsty, buffoonery.

As a Jew who observes shabbat, kashrut, shomer negiyah, and tzniut, I would be classified as “Orthodox”. Yet I don’t emotionally/spiritually associate with the term—I’m not your typical “Orthodox Jew.” I am in and out of all categories. Some religious Jews find me too old fashioned when I refrain from singing in front of men. Others look critically at my Zionist convictions and casual conversations with the opposite gender. I am too strict and too lenient simultaneously for this Orthodox world.

Growing up in public schools and universities, I certainly did not always act or think as I do now. Yet people busily decide what types of people I am friends with and where I’ve traveled in life, before actually hearing me out.

Don’t let me stop you; listen as much as you want to these “anthropologists” who watch communities from afar and cluck at their primitive methods, barbaric rituals, and oppressive misogynistic designated roles. Or push yourself to interact with different communities and listen to their own explanations. Go for a meal, take a class, make a real friend of that world.

And for G-d’s sake, don’t invest your important time in this life watching Kadosh. Or watch it, but only if you desire a fictional tale that merely cynically impersonates a crevice of reality. Maybe it’s true, maybe there are communities much more right wing than mine that are emotionally strangling their women through their doctrines. It’s entirely possible they exist, albeit most likely as an exception and not a rule. Until I actually get to the bottom of it and speak to more people, you’re not going to see me wasting any moments of my life mourning for these “unfortunate souls”.

 I am starting to come to terms with many truths that are not always self evident; not all Time magazine articles, no matter how fancy the pictures, are completely objective, and not even Israeli filmmakers, no matter how much they love hummus, can claim a monopoly on the reality of  religious life. These shades of gray in a polarized world are critical for comprehension.

Who knew bridal showers would be so conducive for cognitive development!

View from my window -- oh, Chicago, how I'll miss you...

“Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?”
 
Joni Mitchell must have been reading my mind.  Ok – so I wasn’t quite born yet when she wrote it, but she certainly said it right.  I’ve lived in Chicago now for three years.  I’ve been to the Field Museum and the Shedd Aquarium.  I’ve meandered through the Lincoln Park Zoo, sunbathed at Oak Street Beach, and mastered the maze of bus lines and El tracks.  I’ve drunken my fair share of beers at the weekly street fests, seen the planes whiz by at the Chicago Air and Water Show, and witnessed the spectacle that is Flugtag – Red Bull’s flying machine contest on the shores of Lake Michigan.
 
Most of these things happened by accident.  I never woke and said – “I’m going to take advantage of all that Chicago has to offer today!”  But maybe I should have. There are so many things in the city that I've wanted to do and see and just haven't found the time.  I want to picnic and see a free concert at Millennium Park and learn to salsa dance at Chicago Summer Dance in the park.  I want to eat Greek food in Greektown, Indian food on Devon, and Chinese in Chinatown.
 
As we race toward July 31st – the dreaded date where nearly every renter in town is seeking to move into a new place to call home, or, if they’re lucky, bunkering down for another year in an apartment they love – I begin my countdown to the end of my Chicago residency.  I’m not going very far, just to Evanston, and I don’t intend for this to be permanent.  What’s crazy is that I loved the suburban lifestyle growing up in Cleveland.  LOVED IT.  I never wanted to leave.  Now, a few years later, I’m having mini-van nightmares and wondering how I can have a social life from a whole 13 miles away from downtown Chicago.
 
Luckily, Evanston still has a beach, a farmers market, a movie theater, a bunch of good restaurants and even a couple of bars!  So, in a handful of days (37, but who’s counting, right?), I’ll be northward bound.  I know I'll still have plenty of opportunities to head south, and I have a few great friends who will lend me their couches to save me a $30+ cab ride home late on a Saturday night.  But in the meantime, I intend to squeeze all the fun I can possibly have into my Chicago experience.  Any suggestions?

In honor of LGBT Pride Month, I thought I’d share some information about Congregation Or Chadash, Chicago’s LBGT synagogue, which will celebrate its 35th anniversary next year as a strong and vibrant community. Founded in 1975, Or Chadash opened alongside several other gay and lesbian synagogues, such as Congregation Beth Simchat Torah in New York and Beth Chayim Chadashim in Los Angeles. These congregations created a community for members of the Jewish community who otherwise felt incredibly excluded.

Or Chadash started small, as just an ad placed by a University of Chicago student looking to gather other gay and lesbian Jews. It soon grew into a congregation, with a strong tradition of lay leadership, and a wonderful part-time rabbi for most of its years. Rabbi Larry Edwards, a highly respected scholar and educator (as well as a mensch!), is the current rabbi of Or Chadash.

Fortunately, these days, a whole spectrum of congregations have open and inclusive policies toward LGBT Jews, so a question may arise--what are the benefits of being a part of a community like Or Chadash? At Or Chadash, there is definitely a greater emphasis on the specific needs and interests of the community. Rabbi Edwards's sermons address current LGBT issues, and the congregation offers many ways to join the community through social functions, educational opportunities, and other avenues that create the feel of a small Chavurah. I saw this tightly knit community firsthand, when I met with the congregation's group of lay service leaders for an annual wrap-up discussion. It felt like being at a gathering of close friends, all who feel very drawn to this special community.

While Or Chadash is a long standing member of the Union of Reform Judaism, one will find that its membership is incredibly diverse in their backgrounds, a spectrum of those who grew up Orthodox to Jews-by-choice. One will also find variety in the types of services offered, as there is a more traditional Shabbat morning service monthly. It should be noted that Or Chadash's doors are open to anyone, regardless of sexual orientation. A recent article in the Forward addresses Why Straight People go to Gay Synagogues and how much they can get out of LGBT congregations.

There are a couple of special events happening in the congregation in celebration of Pride this month. The World Congress of GLBT Jews will be meeting in Chicago, and has invited all those interested to meet its international leadership at a reception on Thursday, June 25 at 7 p.m. at Congregation Emanuel (5959 N. Sheridan). On Friday, June 26, join the congregation for their annual Pride Shabbat. There will be a 7 p.m. cookout and an 8 p.m. service, both on the beach adjacent to the congregation. And, look for Or Chadash again this year in the Pride Parade on that Sunday. Last year, they marched alongside a cute little Smartcar!

Green Mitzvah Mania at the Lincoln Park Conservatory, August 2008

It seems like the whole world is really into “going green” these days.  Everyone from Jewel and Walgreens to Bloomingdales and Barnes and Noble is selling their own reusable bags, hybrid cars are hitting the streets at rapid speed, and the new Whole Foods at Sheffield and Kingsbury has Chicagoans salivating at the idea of buying organic (even if it’s just an excuse to see this shrine to deliciousness – it’s unreal!).

For me, this wave of environmentalism has crashed on top of my office.  In the past several years, we’ve received countless calls about volunteering to help the environment.  The TOV Volunteer Network strives to connect potential volunteers with opportunities that suit their interests and availability, and for me, this means working with bar and bat mitzvah kids, recent graduates, professionals of all ages, retirees, stay-at-home moms, and anyone else you can think of who might ask “How can I get involved and help?”

Volunteering for the Cook County Forest Preserves or lending a hand at the Lincoln Park Conservatory are a couple of clear answers. Getting your hands dirty.  Diving in head first to surf the green wave. 

But what about the not-so-obvious answers.  Sorting donations at a consignment shop means that clothes that might have ended up in a landfill will now go to someone in need (or those lucky people who shop in thrift stores and somehow find the coolest vintage clothes for, like, 50 cents…).  Same goes for shoes – next time you’re at Fleet Feet getting new sneakers, bring any old shoes collection dust in your closet and an agency called Share Your Soles will take those last-season shoes and give them to children and adults who have never owned a pair of shoes in their lifetimes…or even better, volunteer to wash and sort those shoes!

In response to communal interest, TOV initiated a program (or shall I call it…a surfboard) called Green Mitzvah Mania, a calendar of one-time eco-friendly volunteer opportunities, and this year, we’re at it again!  Check out the link for the details – the first project is on June 18th!

But repairing the world – or as us Jews like to call it: tikkun olam – doesn’t have to be a scheduled volunteer project.  It can be as easy as making changes to your everyday actions, like recycling, using public transportation, or changing your next light bulb with a compact fluorescent bulb.  Or become an advocate by reaching out to your congressman.  

I know that not everyone out there is ready to catch a ride on that giant green wave…but if you are, TOV is happy to give you a surfing lesson!

   

It’s been over a year since I first saw on the Cubs’ schedule that they would be playing the Minnesota Twins June 12th-14th, 2009.  I immediately put the dates on my crackberry, and started calling around to see who was interested in getting tickets to the games.  How exciting, my two favorite baseball teams playing each other!   Awesome, right? WRONG.  No sooner had I purchased my tickets, when I began to stress. Do I root for the Twins, the team I grew up with, or the Cubs, the team I have grown to love since moving to Chicago two years ago?  Do I cheer for Joe Mauer, Minnesota’s hometown hottie, or Alfonso Soriano, as I sit (hopefully) in his left-field bleacher section?  Most importantly, do I wear my authentic 1987 World Series Twins shirt, or do I wear my cuter, newer, mass-produced, way more generic Cubs shirt?

Before I moved to Chicago, many people asked if I would abandon my Twins and become a Cubs fan. “Oh hell no,” was my reply.  But after experiencing Wrigley on a hot summer day, the bleachers, the die-hard fans, and of course, the Old Style beer, my response is now, “I’m a Cubs fan— unless they are playing the Twins,” which luckily for me, rarely happens.  Until now.  Now I am faced with this horrible decision of who to cheer for come Sunday.  Am I a traitor if I root for the Cubbies?  Am I not fully embracing my new home if I root for the Twins?  Is there a way for me to cheer for both of my teams?  If only I were more domestic and had the skills to create my own jersey by cutting up a Twins shirt (NOT my World Series shirt) and a Cubs shirt and sewing them together.  As you can imagine, I’ve lost many hours of sleep over this dilemma.

To me, the Twins symbolize home, my grandpa Mel— the biggest Twins fan ever, many great memories, and my borderline obsession with stalking and/or marrying Joe Mauer.  But the Cubs represent my new home, new friends, a new stage in my life, and brace yourselves Minnesotans— outdoor baseball!  Also, I’m proud to mention that I do not have any unhealthy stalking fantasies about any Cubs players.  I’m not sure if this ambivalence to become a fan of a team other than the team I grew up with is normal, or if my hesitation to abandon the Twins indicates a secret longing to move back to Minnesota, but either way, it leaves me feeling torn between my old life in Minnesota, and my new life in Chicago.

So here I sit, just days before the game, and I still don’t know what to do.  I will always, always love my Minnesota Twins, but is there anything better than being able to sing, “Hey Chicago what do ya say the Cubs are gonna win today!”  Yeah, I don’t think so. 

It looks like I’ll be making up my mind about who to cheer for as I get dressed for the game on Sunday morning.  And, if you see me in the bleachers in my Twins shirt, don’t pour your Old Style on my head, because I just may be wearing a Cubs shirt underneath.

I admit it. I’m a snob. A literary snob, that is.

Growing up, books were everywhere. What little extra room was available in my parents’ apartment was occupied by floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with tomes as varied as The Secret Garden and an obscure pre-revolutionary edition of Little Women to the complete works of Lev Tolstoy and Shakespeare. The shelves at my grandparents’ place were similarly crowded.

Some kids might balk at books as birthday presents, but I relished them and was never short for requests. For my seventh, my grandparents gave me an “Adventure Library”, a set of historical adventure novels. The collection is one of my prized possessions, and I made sure that it made the trek from Moscow to the United States when we moved in 1996.

As a child I’d consume books, constantly looking for new titles. One memorable experience had me reading Nabokov’s Lolita at the tender age of 12. Guess how much I understood of that one? Having re-read it as a college student, I realized that I had skipped important parts of the book simply because I did not find the philosophical musings of the pedophilic Humbert Humbert interesting. But to an adult’s mind – while still disturbing – the parts I skipped are the heart of the book.

Despite entirely missing the point of a book because it was not age appropriate, I have not been prevented from continuously attempting to gobble up at least three books at a time. That has been true most of the time – with the exception of my time in graduate school when every spare moment was devoted to digesting academic jargon.

My fascination with literature of all kinds has so far proven a double-edged sword. I often judge people by whether they have read a certain book or not. There are Russian novels that I consider hallmarks of the culture and having read them indelibly marks a person as a member of the intellectual elite. See, that’s where the snobbishness comes in.

Admittedly, I haven’t read all 100 books on Modern Library’s “100 Best Novels” list or Time Magazine’s “100 Greatest Novels of All Time” collection. But at about three-quarters of the way through, I figure I’m pretty close.

P.S. If you need recommendations, I’ve been on a memoir kick, reading about Jews in Arab lands: André Aciman’s Out of Egypt and Lucette Lagnado’s The Man in the White Sharksin Suit: My Family’s Exodus from Old Cairo to the New World. Both are intensely personal stories of growing up Jewish in Egypt and moving to the United States. There’s something fascinating about reading of another person’s journey to America.

Ever wonder what it’s like to be in the Israeli army? Israel Defense Forces are renowned throughout the world for being one of the most organized and most efficient military structures. The Israeli newspaper Haaretz has been following five Golani Brigade soldiers through basic training and the trials of getting used to life in the army during their three-year mandatory service. The brigade, which has earned a reputation for its die-hard spirit and initiative, is a microcosm of Israel – moshavniks, Tel Avivians, yeshiva students and new immigrants. Each soldier profiled in Haaretz had to deal with different challenges, both expected and unexpected, during the first weeks of boot camp, including learning to set the watch by that of his superiors.

My Middle East history professor prophesied back in 2005 that Ahmadinejad would never win the Iranian presidency because Iranian youth, who she believed were the key to the election, were in fact, progressives and would come out and vote against him.  She was certainly wrong about that prediction—while many may not have voted; a lot of youth supported Ahmadinejad and helped him win that election.  (Side note - this professor was wrong about a lot of things, but that’s a whole other story.)

Well, another election is upon us and there’s been a lot of talk in the media once again about the role of youth in this new election.  It goes without saying that as a Jewish American, I hope Ahmadinejad is defeated and that the country elects the most moderate of the candidates with the help of the 70 million people in Iran under the age of 30.  But, I’m not going to hold my breath.  Iran doesn’t have any independent polling, so it’s hard to predict who will win the election. 

There are four candidates this year, Ahmadinejad, who I’m going to the call the radical.  His fellow conservative and former Revolutionary Guard commander Mohsen Rezaei  and two moderate candidates, former prime minister Mirhossein Mousavi and former Parliament Speaker Mehdi Karoubi.

I dug around and here are a few articles speculating about the role of youth in the 2009 election.
 
Anti-Ahmadinejad human chain stretches across Teheran.

Khatami urges Iranians to help create 'miracle' by electing Mousavi.

There’s also a good op-ed piece from CNN about the role of women in the election.  Khatami urges Iranians to help create 'miracle' by electing Mousavi.

One more op-ed about the pro-Israel lobby, Will pro-Israel groups miss Ahmadinejad? 

And if you’re still interested…Dateline did a large piece titled “Inside Iran” a few nights ago that’s quite compelling.

Max Feinberg died in 1986. His wife, Erla, died in 2003. Max, whose family came to America to escape anti-Semitism in Russia, was a dentist. Sound familiar? At a glance, they could be anyone’s Jewish grandparents. Before they died, Max and Erla devised trusts which they would use to dictate the proceeds of their respective estates concurrent with their wishes. Max’s estate contained an interesting provision which is now known as the “Jewish Clause.” Here it is, quoted it in its entirety:

“A descendant of mine other than a child of mine who marries outside the Jewish faith (unless the spouse of such descendant has converted or converts within one year of the marriage to the Jewish faith) and his or her descendants shall be deemed to be deceased [emphasis added] for all purposes of this instrument as of the date of such marriage.”

So, when Max and Erla had five grandchildren, and only one of them married a Jew, the four would-be beneficiaries of Max’s estate sued for their inheritances after Erla died. (Read a Tribune story from last year for all the sordid details) The trial court found for Max’s grandchildren, and the court of appeals upheld the trial court’s ruling in a 2-1 vote. According to the Court, public policy encourages marriage, and the Jewish Clause “tends seriously to interfere with or inhibit the exercise of a beneficiary’s freedom to obtain a divorce or the exercise of freedom to marry by limiting the beneficiary’s selection of a spouse.”

While Illinois law favors Max’s grandchildren, the lone dissenting Justice of the appeals court said that most states have upheld provisions like the “Jewish Clause” in Max’s trust. “[A] testator [Max, in this case] has the right to make the enjoyment of his bounty dependent on the condition that the recipient renounce, embrace, or adhere to a particular religious faith.” A New York court held that our Constitutional right to freedom of religion is intended to protect us from government intrusion on religion, and not to limit the right of a man like Max to  pass on his property as he pleases.

The Illinois Supreme Court will soon hear the Feinberg case.

Even without all the legal details and the specific effects of Max’s Jewish Clause, the case raises some interesting questions:

Should someone be allowed to restrict who gets his or her assets upon death based upon who they marry? If Max is allowed to “stiff” his grandkids for marrying non-Jews, should someone also be allowed to stiff his or her descendants for marrying someone who is black or a member of any other group that he or she doesn’t like? Most of us want to say no. But I can relate to Max, or at least understand where he is coming from. His family came to this country to ensure their own survival and to escape anti-Semitism. After working and saving his money, Max sought to provide a tangible incentive to his grandchildren to carry on Jewish traditions. That being said, Max’s Jewish Clause seems kind of harsh to me. Encouraging in-marriage is one thing, but deeming your grandkids legally dead (for the purposes of inheritance) when they marry non-Jews is another.

What do you think?

Read the official opinion of the appellate court here.

Grand Canyon

I often feel like a walking contradiction.

I went to a theater camp for six years and was president of my BBYO council in high school, but am now terrified of even opening my mouth in a business meeting with more than three other people.

I know that if I watch any crime show after dark, when I go to sleep that night I will more likely than not dream that I was the victim in the most recent episode, and will sleep fitfully at best. And yet, I am currently obsessed with CSI: Miami, and will watch two or three episodes in an evening after getting home from work.

I’m terrified of regaining the 50 pounds I lost a few years ago, and yet if you put donuts, biscuits, ice cream, popcorn, corned beef hash, brownies, pretzels, nuts, cheese, or even a jar of peanut butter in front of me, I will lick the plate/bowl/carton/jar clean.

I refuse to cross the street against even the flashing “don’t walk” sign, or outside the crosswalk, and yet I’ll hurl myself out of a plane at 120 miles per hour from a height of 12,000 feet? That’s right, this past April I went skydiving.

Perhaps most ironically of all, I wrote an entire post about how my long, long, long list of fears had paralyzed me long enough, and how I wasn’t going to let fear and anxiety keep me from living my life any more, and promptly decided that I was not going to post it.

Because once more, I was afraid.

I was afraid to admit to the world (and, even worse, my mother), that I don’t have it all together.

I was afraid to admit that there are days when I can’t bring myself to do anything after work other than eat a few bowls of Cheerios for dinner and watch TV for three hours before crawling into bed.

I was afraid to admit that there are times when I’m so paralyzed by fear of not doing a good enough job at work that for anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes, I’m unable to do ANY job. I stare at a blank Word document. Or I write a sentence, read it back to myself, erase it, and start the process all over again.

I was afraid to admit that my fears aren’t just idle fears anymore, that my perfectionism and desire to live up to everyone’s expectations are no longer simply a quirky byproduct of being raised in a middle-class Hyde Park family.

No, that ship sailed a long time ago.

What I was afraid to admit to my mother, my father, my brothers, my friends, my boss, my colleagues, all of you Oy!sters out there—and to myself—was that I’d spiraled back into depression.

But here’s the thing. I know I’m not alone in fighting this particular demon.

Sunrise over dead sea from Masada

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, Major Depressive Disorder is the leading cause of disability in the U.S. for individuals between 15-44, and it affects approximately 14.8 million American adults—6.7 percent of the U.S. population age 18 and older—in a given year. It is estimated that women are twice as likely as men to suffer depression.

Add to that the findings from a National Mental Health Association survey that 54% of people believe depression is a personal weakness, and it’s no wonder that the same study found that 41% of depressed women are too embarrassed to seek help. All told, 15% of depressed individuals commit suicide.

Those are staggering statistics. And yet if depression is so prevalent—last night during a single episode of the Rachel Maddow show I saw commercials for Pristiq, Cymbalta, and Abilify—why are we all so afraid to talk about it?

So here’s where I end my cycle of contradictions.

Here’s where I stand up to myself, to my own fears, and to the rest of the world, and say that the time has come for those statistics to change, and the stigmas, too.

Here’s where I admit that I may not be posting my original piece, but that I’m not going to be afraid to be the (slightly imperfect) person I am anymore. I’m not going to hide my battle with depression, because it’s not something shameful.

It’s a medical condition, just like diabetes, hypertension, arthritis, or cataracts; you wouldn’t shame your next door neighbor for his cataracts, would you? You wouldn’t be ashamed to admit to your mother that your arthritis was making your backhand a little less powerful on the tennis court, would you?

I’m not going to ask you to share your own stories in the comments, because I know how deeply personal mental illness can be—though of course you’re welcome to share if you’re so inclined.

I’m not going to ask for your pity or sympathy or to cry on your shoulder—my pity party ended a long time ago, and I’ve got a great therapist to listen to me whine and blather on and on for an hour every week.

I’m not going to ask you to donate money to specific mental health organizations, or to lobby your local representatives in favor of or against specific legislation related to mental health issues, or to sign up for any number of mental illness/suicide awareness events that are being held in the Chicago area in the coming months.

But I will ask you to take the time to learn more about depression (and mental illness in general).

I will ask you to understand that just because someone is depressed, it doesn’t mean they hate their life, or they’re permanently unhappy, or you need to preface every conversation with them with “how are you? Are you okay?” (That’s not to say that there aren’t situations where additional concern is warranted, but I think you understand what I’m saying).

I will ask you to be honest with yourselves and—in a textbook case of “do as I say, not as I do,” since my family is reading about this current struggle of mine for the first time here on Oy!—your loved ones.

Don’t become one of those NIMH or NMHA statistics of people who would shame others, or who would neglect to seek help for themselves.

Don’t be afraid to admit to yourself that you’re not perfect. None of us is, as Jacey and Dana touched on recently, and Cindy wrote about last fall after interviewing Leslie Goldman.

Don’t be afraid to confront your fears and stand up to stigma.

Don’t be afraid to admit that you’re afraid.

Stef and Mike—new roomies!

You know that episode of “Friends” where Monica’s about to move in with Chandler? When she turns to Rachel and with a look on her face that says both I-can’t-wait-to-live-with-the-person-I-love and I-can’t-believe-I’m-going-to-live-with-this-slob-who’s-going-to-leave-the-toilet-seat-up, whines “I have to live with a booyyyyy!?”

I get it now.

About three weeks ago, I moved in with a boy—my boyfriend of over a year and a half, Mike.

The decision to move in together was not a rash one. I have a very strict rule that you should not sign a yearlong lease with your significant other until you have been dating for at least that long.  But when we knew both of our leases would be up in June 2009, moving in together just seemed like the obvious, and right, thing to do.

 Leading up to the big move, I had no apprehension whatsoever. I was excited to be able to see him every night, excited to feel settled and grounded, excited to move on to the next phase of our relationship. I expected the transition to be smooth—why not? The rest of our relationship has certainly been that way.

We found a small but beautiful one bedroom in the city, managed to agree on furniture that was nice and affordable and fit all of our clothes into our small but mighty walk-in closet—no easy feat for a boy who wears three pairs of socks a day and a girl who…well, and a girl. We decorated and built furniture, and dreamed of bbqing on our tiny balcony and snuggling on our comfy new couch to watch our way too big TV—if we could only agree on what to watch…

And so it began. He likes to go to bed early—I like to stay up late. He likes to cook meat in the kitchen—I don’t want to clean it up. I like to watch quality television like “Jon and Kate Plus 8” and “So You Think You Can Dance” –he wants to watch “Man vs. Wild.” I have to leave my hair straightener out on the bathroom sink to cool down—he wants it out of his way to make room for his beard trimmer. And the list of trivial disagreements goes on…

At first, I got frustrated—and a little freaked out. Why wasn’t everything perfect? What if these little fights turn into bigger ones? What if this didn’t work out? 

One afternoon, after a discussion about where to go to lunch escalated into a full-blown fight— amid my irate stomping around and door slamming—I looked over at Mike and smiled at the horrified look he was giving me. I love that “Man vs.Wild” watching, meat cooking boy. Finally, I was able to put things in perspective.

 I decided then it was time that I stop fuming about the stupid stuff and start to appreciate all the good stuff that comes along with living with a boy—like, there is always someone to take out the trash, reach things up high and kill spiders! (okay, maybe that stuff is trivial too, but it’s still useful!)  And after a long, busy day, we both have someone to come home to, a shoulder to lean on, someone to make us soup when we’re sick, a built in plus one for weddings and parties. 

The other day, after many dizzying hours of picking out furniture at IKEA, Mike suggested that we get a set of Shabbos candles. And a few days later, I went to my parents’ house to pick up the mezuzah I had bought years before in Venice, still in its original packaging because I had been saving it for the right time.

Sure, there will always be trivial disagreements when two people try to meld their two living styles into one, but the really cool part about all this is that through putting together this apartment, we are starting to build our life, together. Maybe all these little fights are just practice for some of the bigger compromises that lay ahead of us.

And even though we’re just renting our tiny one bedroom, for the first time since leaving our parents’ houses after high school graduation, the place where we eat, sleep and watch TV is starting to feel a lot more like home.

If you’ve been following along, (see Walking to save “The Girls,” Part I and Part II), you know that the four of us, Team Motorboat, have been “training” for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer and last weekend, all our hard work paid off when we crossed the finish line after walking nearly 40 miles for boobies! Since you couldn’t all walk along with us (you lazy bums, you!) enjoy some of our favorite highlights from the weekend:

Top 10 Moments from the Avon Walk
10. Adult trick or treating…a.k.a. getting candy from cheering strangers at the cheering stations/rest stops and not feeling guilty about eating any of it
9. Abby and Cheryl using the port-a-potty for the first time

Abby and Cheryl hating on the port-a-pottys

8. The Aleve cheer…Give me an “A,” Give me an L,”….”What’s that spell?” “ALEVE,” “What do we want?” “ALEVE,”  “When do we want it?” “Now!,” “Why do we want it?” “Because we hurt!” (cheer was later modified to include V-O-D-K-A and P-E-R-C-O-S-E-T as the walk progressed)
7. This guy

Cheering on the Avon walkers…apparently he lost a bet

6. Jacey learning the end of the state song…Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, WYOMING!
5. Singing Lean on Me under the bridge with our fellow walkers
4. Making a friend named “Big Redd” who was smart enough to bring a battery-operated ipod speaker for our listening entertainment.  Singing every song we could possibly remember any of the words of to pass the time and distract us from the pain in our muscles and joints.
3. Limping through the COLD rain around mile 20 on Day 1
2. Our guest stars/walkers…a BIG Thank you to everyone who came out and walked with us!!  You kept us motivated and you kept us moving through the pain!!
1. Going through the finish line!!!!

Abby and her mom (the speed racers) going through the finish line!

Cheryl, Jacey and Rachel going through the finish line!

Facts and Figures
Number of Orthodox Jews watching us walk through their neighborhood on Shabbat = 36017610 (not really, but lots)
Total amount raised for Avon Chicago walk = $7 million
Amount raised by Team Motorboat = $10,929
Number of Chicago participants = 3,200
Miles walked = 39.3
Amount of Aleve taken = 30
Home-made pink ponchos worn = 9

Pink poncho power!

Number of women in our lives affected by breast cancer = 8
Blisters popped = 7
Team Motor Boat member s= 5
Knee braces worn = 4
Ice cream stops rejected by Cheryl = 3
Value of the walk, participants and dollars raised = priceless

Favorite Slogans
“Motorboat this!”
“Save second base”
“Save mardi gras”
“I’m a boob man (worn on a one-sie by a baby)”
“Save a life grope your wife!”
“Windy titties!”
“Making cancer my bitch!”
“Yes we cans!”
“Breast we can(cer)!”
“Save our ABC’s!”
“Go Chicago Cups!”
“The Real Housewives of Northern Indiana (We clean, we cook…we walk for Tracy)!”
“Blisters don’t need chemo!”

Want to join the fun next year? Learn more about the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

The “American Dream” may be on sale, but l’m still struggling to afford it.

From the moment I discovered I was pregnant, I became completely obsessed with buying a house in the suburbs.  (The nesting instinct makes you do very strange things.) With visions of white-picket fences dancing in my head, I set off on my quest throughout the North Shore for that perfect, charming little ‘starter-home’ under the delusion that I would happily be able to take advantage of a *'buyer’s market.'

One year later, after increasing my housing budget and reducing my expectations, my search continues.  Hell, it was easier to produce a human being than it is has been to find a single family house in good condition, that doesn’t have a train running through the back yard, or a toilet in the laundry room to serve as the second bath, in my price range.  (Imagine the efficiency: fold your laundry while going to the bathroom!)

Granted, my price range is laughable compared to the average cost of homes in the area, but at twice the national average cost of a home, I’d hardly consider my budget unreasonable.  Rather, I’ve come to the difficult conclusion that perhaps the problem is my expectations.  

When I began searching for a home, I envisioned the average-American middle-class family home that I grew up in. But each time I walked into a home that was probably the same size, with the same amenities, I found myself contemplating how I could rehab or add onto the home, to make it “normal” according to—what I think are--today’s standards.

It’s not the price of houses that are the problem.  It’s my perspective of what is “normal.”

The room I spent my childhood in is the size of my walk-in-closet now.  My family shared the one full bathroom upstairs, a thought that is unthinkable now.  Blame HGTV or TLC, but the fact is that many Americans have bought into the idea that we must have a room just for our TV, a separate playroom for our children.  Even those of us who don’t have this—or know anyone who does—are led to believe by what we see on TV that most people do.

The “bigger, better and more expensive” attitude has appeared in virtually every materialistic aspect of our society.  When did jeans start costing $300? Sneakers $200? And who the hell needs a desert-army vehicle to take little Timmy to and from soccer practice? 

When did our wants become our needs? 

Every generation wants to be able to achieve more than the one before it, but who dictates that this achievement is to be measured by materialistic acquisitions? At what point do we measure our standard of living by what we do, not by what we have? 

This is not to downplay the real problems and concerns that so many people have in today’s economy.  I should be ashamed at complaining that I’m having a hard time finding a home, and I am immensely grateful for all that I have.

Nor do I mean to diminish the immense frustration that my generation feels just trying to attain the same quality of life that our parents have.  From education to housing, to the amount of taxes taken out of our paychecks, it seems that the cost of everything has gone up.  And factor in things that we have to pay for that our parents didn’t—cable, cell phones, Internet service.  Granted, none of us would die without these, but we’ve become so dependent on them that we no longer know how to live without them. (Imagine how many crackberry addicts would need rehab.)

But when do we say no? That even though whatever new product or technology is available, we don’t need it?  When do we stop one-upping ourselves?

My frustrating housing search has made me step back and take a look at my priorities and what is really essential in my life.  I will never again buy a handbag that costs more than what I have given all year to charities.  I have vowed to set a positive example for my daughter, and for my non-Jewish family who already mistakenly thinks that most Jews are rich. 

In short, I’m changing my view of the “American Dream”.  While I still won’t buy that  “cozy, great opportunity starter home”—real estate jargon for a really small, overpriced shithole—I’ve come to grips that my life will not be diminished in any way because my kitchen doesn’t have an island.  I don’t cook anyway.    

*Author’s disclaimer: I realize the North Shore isn’t exactly middle-class, believe me, if it wasn’t because my husband’s job demands that we live in the area, we wouldn’t be looking to buy a house there at all.  I’m not crazy, just screwed.   

I have a friend who claims that hell is being a teenage girl. I beg to differ: hell is being a pre-teen girl. Seeing photos of my chubby, pubescent self still makes me flinch, and bra-shopping still gives me flashbacks. What could be worse than the junior high years, when you didn’t fit in and nothing fit?

The answer is: having a REUNION of your junior high school class.

This is the dark side of Facebook. Ex-lovers crawl out from under the woodwork, you get banal hourly updates from your friend’s cousin’s wife, and former classmates whose names you have happily forgotten reappear on your computer screen, eager to reminisce. And now, to plan a reunion. Seriously.

At first I thought they were kidding.  Then I began to receive multiple invitations and daily updates to entice folks to attend.

In my mind, I take inventory of the possible replies:

#1:  Dial 1-800-GET-A-LIFE

These people are actually debating which is their favorite bar in the godforsaken suburb where we grew up. Did none of them ever venture beyond the local mall? Apparently high school really WAS the best time in their lives.  

#2:  I would rather put needles through my eyes.

You all were mean as hell. I wish you no harm, but also don’t wish to think about you. Ever.

#3: Can’t wait!

You see, there is potential satisfaction to be had.  The former classmates appear to be balder, fatter and less well-adjusted than me. Some married badly, or never married at all, and I have a sweet husband. Many seem to have wandered from job to job, whereas I have a career I’m reasonably proud of.  Most appear worse for the wear, while I am reaping the benefit of having had oily skin then, which is: no wrinkles now…

Nah.

The bottom line is that I really don’t want to have a beer with the girls who stuffed me into my locker 35 years ago, or do shots with the guys who called me “four-eyes”. Heaven is being comfortable in your own skin, and hell really was being a pre-teen girl. And I have no desire to visit.

Imagine you and I are seated together on an airplane. You, a complete stranger to me, try to strike up a conversation. I, a rabbi, try to do everything I can to avoid the subject of what I do………my “calling.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am very proud to be a rabbi. I feel blessed, privileged, and honored to maintain such an important communal position. It’s just that sometimes when I say “I’m a rabbi,” strange things happen. Like people get all weird. There is astonishment, shock, bewilderment, anger and sometimes even excessive glee. Some people ask me “Why don’t the Jews believe in Jesus?” Others rant about “how ALL RELIGION is evil.” Still others, upon hearing I am a rabbi, start covering their mouths after uttering a swear word. (I #$% hate that!)

The list of crazy possibilities of what might happen when I say “rabbi” is truly endless. And while these and other conversations may be interesting to my seat-mate, when I’m stuck in a flying metal can for three hours, such discussions do not always make for an enjoyable flight.

On the other hand, there have been many other times when blurting out to a stranger “I’m a rabbi” has led to meaningful, interesting, and heartfelt conversations. Like the time someone told me about how, as a radiologist he self-diagnosed a life threatening situation which would have certainly killed him within the hour had he not had access to the equipment and tests that indicated that he needed immediate emergency surgery. (That story still gives me chills!) Sometimes saying “I’m a rabbi” enables me to help a random person cope with a challenging life situation and sometimes I can help others see Judaism (or their own religion) in a more positive light. In such situations, an otherwise seemingly “chance” meeting seems “Beshert,” and it is me who learns something valuable from the encounter.

Often the question is asked of me: “Why did you want to become a Rabbi?”   While this question is usually asked out of sincere interest and from a place of kindness, there are occasions when I wonder if what is really being asked is: “Why THE HECK did you want to become a rabbi?” Or to put it another way: “Why would anyone want to do something like that?” Because to my inquisitor, the notion of dedicating one’s life to God, Torah, and the Jewish people seems so ridiculous, so unfathomable, that no one in their right mind would make such a commitment.

In moments like these, when seated on an airplane next to someone who carries this approach, I have been known to avoid answering the question by creating a diversion: “HEY, LOOK THERE IS A MAN ON THE WING!!”  Luckily, you, my dear airplane seat-mate, are not a person with such an attitude. And since you have read this far, you no longer are a stranger. So for you, I will tell my tale.

I became a rabbi in part as a response to growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan as one of the only Jewish kids in my public school. For me, a profoundly influential religious moment occurred when, in the midst of a holiday art project, my 3rd grade teacher announced the following: “Today we are now going to make Christmas wreaths. Everyone here is Christian, correct?” (This, in my PUBLIC school!) Upon hearing the teacher’s question, my fellow students, my dear friends, all turned their gazes upon me as I sat in the center of the room, trying not to be noticed.  And then, with their pointer fingers extended toward me, they excitedly exclaimed: “He’s not Christian! He’s a Hanukah!!”

Let’s just say that I was not pleased.  After all, it had only been three days (THREE DAYS) since my mom had come into the class, told my friends the story of Hanukah, fattened them up with latkes and donuts, and basically bribed them to be nice to me with delicious chocolate gelt. Sure, letting my mom “out” me as a Jew was my choice, and I don’t think my friends meant me any harm. And yet, truth be told, the experience left me feeling like the loneliest Jew on the planet.

As time passed, thanks to my parents’ positive Jewish modeling and some good heart-to-heart talks, I eventually embraced and took pride in my Jewish identity. No longer did questions like: “Do you guys celebrate Thanksgiving?” or “Are you guys all rich?” or “Do Jews eat carrots?” make me bristle. Instead I started to enjoy answering such questions. Soon I began to see myself as an “ambassador to Judaism.” Being an ambassador meant that what I said and what I did really mattered. It also meant that I needed to know as much as I could about that which I was representing. No, I didn’t score any converts, (I didn’t try) but I didn’t get beat up either.

As good as this “ambassador” role was, I found myself often longing to be among others who understood me. I pined for people who knew the secret Jewish handshake, people who also had “Dayeinu” stuck in their heads, and people who, like me, knew the truth about Santa. In time, I found my “peeps” at Jewish summer camp, youth group, synagogue and in college. In a sense, it was this search for my people that led me to the Rabbinate. And what I found while searching for Goldsteins, Schwartzs and Cohens was a profound love of God, Torah, Jewish texts, rituals, music, ethics and values, Israel and more. At the same time, I realized that Judaism has something important to say about how we lead our lives.

BTW-the decision to become a rabbi didn’t come easily. I agonized for a long time, wondering if I was right for the job or if it was right for me.  It seemed to me that I had the right personality to succeed, I just wasn’t so sure about God. After much soul searching, praying, and writing, I finally decided to apply to Rabbinical School and though I still have lots of questions, (Thank-God) I know I made the right choice.

There’s so much I love about being a rabbi:  I love people and being a rabbi means getting paid to be a mensch.  I love having the chance to encourage, teach, and to inspire others to do good in the world—like working at Temple Sholom’s weekly soup kitchen, or building a house in New Orleans to help flood victims. I love sharing with others Jewish texts which teach us to be more moral, holy and ethical people and help us to improve our relationships. Being a rabbi also means having the honored privilege to be invited into people’s lives during some of their most joyous moments—like standing under the chuppah with a couple while officiating a wedding—(How cool is that?) and it means extending a hand of support to a family in their darkest moments when the ground suddenly crumbles beneath their feet.

Quick story—recently in the midst of a happy celebration of my birthday in Michigan I received a heartbreaking phone call informing me of the tragic death of a young person.  It was clear that I needed to return home immediately to comfort the family. As you can imagine, this call was the last thing I wanted to receive on my birthday. And yet, as strange as it may sound, this phone call, received on my birthday, served for me as a ringing reminder of why I was born, and what God has called me to do on this earth. (I hope I am doing a good job!)

Admittedly I don’t always succeed and sometimes I find myself awake at night thinking about what more could be done. What keeps me going is the sustaining comfort of our loving and caring God and my faith in the power of Jewish tradition and community. My own losses too have made me even more aware of how God, community and tradition can be a source of comfort in times of need. For example, I had only been at Temple Sholom a month when my own younger brother and only sibling died suddenly. I will never forget the kindness and caring of the Temple Sholom community who at this time barely knew me. To be a part of this Temple during those trying times felt to me and my family as though angels had descended upon our broken-hearted home and had enclosed us in the loving shelter of their wings.

Listen—I could go on and on about what I love about my “calling.” Were there more time, I might talk about having a relationship with God or how praying, studying and being an active part of a Jewish community can make such a positive difference in one’s life. I’m sure there are a hundred other topics I could discuss as well, but alas, I think the plane is landing soon.

Anyway, I haven’t yet had a chance to ask about you! What do you do? Why THE HECK do you do what you do? What stirs your soul? Please, please tell! I am interested, I mean come on, you read this whole long essay—you are so nice and patient….now talk!!

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu meets with U.S. President Barack Obama at the White House in Washington on May 18, 2009. (Moshe Milner/GPO/Flash90/JTA)

I read an article this morning posted by Daniel Dagan written before President Obama delivered his big speech in Cairo yesterday.  Click here to read President Obama’s speech on Facebook in the form of status updates.  You can also watch a video of President Obama giving his speech.

Dagan is a Jewish reporter who was born in Egypt and was forced to leave his home as a child refugee— a consequence of the Arab-Israeli conflict.  In this fascinating article Dagan shares many insights and anecdotes about his childhood and his multiple encounters with Mubarak and poses the question to President Obama, “Why don’t you ever mention me?”

Here is a short excerpt from the article:

I was in the reception line, among a row of political bigwigs and illustrious guests, at Mubarak's Cairo palace. A routine handshake, with a word of greeting in Arabic. Then I took Mubarak by surprise with the comment that I used to play on the property as a child.

But he simply didn't believe me, so I dipped into my vest pocket and pulled out my birth certificate. He read it out loud - in Arabic, of course: "Born at 1 Ibrahim Street, Heliopolis, Cairo..."

The president was almost left speechless. "Ibrahim? I know this street; it's just around the corner. So you grew up here?"

"Yes, I did," I confirmed. And I told him that the headquarters of his regime used to be called the Heliopolis Palace Hotel and was considered the most beautiful residence in Africa. When I was a child living in the neighborhood, I played there often, as the manager of the hotel, the Belgian Baron Empain, was a friend of our family.

Spontaneously, Mubarak invited me to stay in Egypt a little longer and to come back (which I did a number of times). To Rau standing next to him, he said with feeling: "Thank you for bringing an Egyptian brother with you."

DURING THAT BRIEF meeting I was too polite to react on the spot. But the dramatic events now unfolding in my native town offer a good opportunity to put a straight question not just to Mubarak and other Arab and Muslim leaders, but also to Obama: When you address the problem of refugees forced to leave their homes as a consequence of the Arab-Israeli conflict - as surely you will - do you intend to consider all the refugees affected by this ongoing confrontation? Why have you failed until now to mention the 1 million Jews who fled Arab countries and sought a new home in Israel? Why have you ignored the fate of these large, ancient communities across the Arab and the Muslim world that have all but disappeared?

Why don't you ever mention me?

Good question.

Many Jewish-Arabs (around a million) were forced out of their homes throughout the Middle East as a result of conflict with Israel beginning in the second half of the 20th century.  But we don’t hear much about them these days.  They are another piece to a large, complicated puzzle that makes up the Arab-Israeli and Palestinian-Israeli conflict.  I’m always searching for more knowledge and insights to add to my understanding of Israel and the Middle East.  If you, like me, are still trying to educate yourself on the issues, than I urge you to read this article in its entirety.

As a twenty-something journalist living in Chicago, my daily rush consists of commuting, interviewing, writing and sometimes remembering to eat.

Despite the madness, I have a side hobby. I love collecting recipes, and one of my most cherished possessions is a huge cookbook I’ve been compiling over the past year. In fact, some friends poke fun that I bake to de-stress.

While I’m constantly searching for new recipes and drooling over the Food Network, I often forget the best recipes may be tucked away in my mother’s kitchen. Only around the holidays do I pause and smell the matzo balls.

A few weeks ago, I interviewed chef and Food Network star Gale Gand, a fellow Jew, for a story I wrote for the Chicago Tribune’s Triblocal.com.

Gand is a north suburban native. She’s also executive pastry chef and a partner at a famous Chicago restaurant, Tru. Some might remember when she hosted the Food Network’s show, “Sweet Dreams.”

When we talked, she mentioned her new show, “The Heirloom Recipe Project,” scheduled to air on PBS Oct. 1. On the show, grandparents will teach their grandchildren a family heirloom recipe, and each week the show will have a different focus on cultural cuisine, Gand said.

“We’re trying to encourage people to make sure this stuff gets passed on because it is this sort of ethereal art form,” Gand said. “It’s hard to record.”

Gand gave an example of one story she encountered: After several failed attempts, a young woman asked her grandmother to show her how to make her babka recipe. As she took out her measuring cup for flour, the grandmother asked what it was. It was then that the young woman discovered her grandmother had been using a Jewish Yahrzeit glass to measure the flour.

“It’s like storytelling,” Gand said. “There’s an art form there that can only be passed down, person to person.”

Gand said it’s “crowded” in her kitchen; all of her relatives are in there with her.

Gand’s story got me thinking about my own family, and what recipes might be lost because my grandparents already passed away.

The dish racks in my parents’ home are filled with depression era plates, cups and silverware that we take out only for Passover. My Russian grandmother, Eda, on my dad’s side, lugged beautiful candlesticks on the boat to Ellis Island, and then on to Chicago.

Much like Gand’s story, Eda failed to write down all of her recipes, which spurred my mother to scoot Eda over to her house for demonstrations.

“She just knew them,” my mother said.

Eda didn’t use measuring cups.

“I would watch Eda scoop three handfuls of this and two pinches of that, and would write down, ‘three handfuls of this and two pinches of that,’” she said. “After all of the handfuls and pinches, voila—the best Russian beet borscht you’ve ever tasted!”

It became a little more complicated with Eda’s chicken soup, when she would measure two soup bowls of water for every pound of chicken. Every time my mother makes the soup, she complains it’s not as good as Eda’s; she says it’s missing one major ingredient, schmaltz—Yiddish for chicken fat.

In my grandparents’ day, fat was of little concern.

“Eda never skinned the chicken or skimmed the fat,” my mother said. “That soup was the real thing.”

My mother and I thumbed through her mother’s cookbook, unraveling another thread of stories.

My grandmother, Bubbe Debbie, kept a carefully organized, leather-bound book with recipes cut out from magazines dating back to World War II. The recipes reflected food rationing of items such as meat and sugar. Intermingled were American recipes, and European delicacies from her mother. She included magazine pictures depicting luxurious kitchens of the 1940s with happy housewives in aprons serving their families. This recipe book provides a fascinating window into that era.

On a less gourmet and schmaltzier note, my mother, and her mother before her, considered crusty rye bread spread with a thin layer of rendered, cold chicken fat a fine after-school snack. Her mother kept a jar of schmaltz in the fridge at all times.

“Don’t dare forget rubbing the ‘kanuble’ around the crust,” my mother said. “Kanuble” is Yiddish for garlic.

It gets worse.

My mother told me my that grandmother made “grivenes,” or what she referred to as “Jewish popcorn.” This so-called popcorn is fat kernels that burn off from chicken skin.

I suddenly imagined myself as a descendent of the family in that commercial where the father and children each have a stick of butter in their baked potatoes.

My mother and I discussed several other family favorites such as Eda’s challah and fried matzah recipes, as well as Debbie’s cholent recipe—akin to a slow-cooked dish that one might make in a crock-pot. It heats for about 24 hours so that Orthodox women can turn on the oven before Shabbat and have a feast when the holiday arrives.

The piece de resistance was my mother’s tongue recipe. As a child, she claims, I refused her tongue dinner. I couldn’t recall—I must have blocked that memory out. I vow to this day that I will never put bovine tongue on my tongue.

I learned about many funny quirks in my family’s culinary history, and I’m grateful that we have captured some treasured recipes on paper.

My mother had one take-away message: The key to authentic, Jewish cuisine is SCHMALTZ.

This weekend, you won't find me at any of the many street festivals or pub crawls.  I won't be celebrating birthdays with friends at the bars or shopping on Michigan Avenue.  Nope, this weekend you'll find me painting the town pink with the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.  You may remember Cheryl's story about our "training" (yes - the word training belongs in quotations, since our Yoberri stops and leisurely strolls along the lake didn't always qualify as training).  Well, training time is over, and we've raised a ton of money - nearly $11,000!  The big weekend is finally upon us!

This weekend, Jacey, Abby, Cheryl and I will be walking a marathon and a half with over 3,500 others to raise funds and promote awareness for this cause that has impacted so many women in our lives and around the world.

I don't think it would be out of line for me to guess that almost everyone who follows the Oy! blog knows someone who has been affected by breast cancer.  This will be my third year walking with Avon, and it's a cause that's very close to my heart. My participation began in 2007 when I was seeking a mitzvah project that could offset the materialistic undertones of planning a wedding.  David and I wanted to find a way to give back as our friends and family were showering us with gifts and well-wishes.

Picking the cause was easy for us.  My aunt Cindy is a two-time survivor, and my mom's friend Peggy was just wrapping up treatment.  David's grandmother Lotte has battled breast cancer twice in her lifetime, and his mother Carolyn lost her hard-fought battle when he was just six years old.  For us, writing a check just wasn't going to be enough. 

My sister and I walked together in 2007, and by the end of the weekend, I was dragging a bum-leg behind me and wondering why I signed up in the first place.  In theory, walking 39 miles doesn't seem so daunting -- it's only walking, right!?  Wrong.  After hobbling on achy legs for a week after my first Avon Walk, I shocked myself at the realization I came to:  I wanted to do it again.

In 2008, I signed up to do the walk on my own.  My friends who had seen my blisters from the year before were intimidated by the physical side effects and the seemingly-high fundraising minimum of $1,800.  Last year, with no training partner and a brutal winter that didn't seem to end until early June, I did the walk without training and with no walking partner.  By the end, my hip joints throbbed, and I waddled through those last few miles at what seemed like a one-mile-an-hour pace. 

As I was trudging down Lake Shore Drive toward the finish line, a woman and her daughter came up from behind me and asked me if I was alright.  Emotionally and physically exhausted, I explained that I was having a tough time finding the motivation to keep walking alone through the pain.  The woman, who had seen the tag on my back recognizing those who I was walking in honor and memory of, looked me right in the eye and said that if Carolyn could see me now, she would be so proud.  Tears welled up in my eyes as they told me that I was no longer alone. 

Now, as I prepare for my third annual Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, I hope that the mother-in-law that I never got to meet is smiling down on Team Motorboat.  Perhaps she'll be able to convince the Big Guy to defer the rainstorms in the forecast for the weekend.  My mom and her friend Peggy - now a two-year survivor - will be volunteering, and many of my friends will be joining me and my teammates for a couple miles along the way.  Each year, I hope that this will be the year that they find the cure for this disease that seems to strike Ashkenazic Jews at an unusually high rate and endangers women everywhere.

If you're curious about how the walk is going this weekend, follow Oy! on Twitter -- Cheryl will be tweeting updates on Team Motorboat's progress.

My next door neighbors at Tabor Absorption Center, Israel, 1994. The grandma, of blessed memory, used to cover one nostril and blow her nose directly onto the linoleum floor with astounding nonchalance. Of perhaps greater relevance, the mom (seated) permanently changed my view of childbirth.

When it came time to deliver, my Ethiopian neighbors used to squat, yelp, yelp some more, and pop out those little babies. Then and only then would they call for an ambulance. At least, that’s what Benny the security guard told me, and he should know. He witnessed it five times.

Eight years later, the scenery had changed. Benny the security guard was now my husband and the view out our window was no longer the hills of Upper Nazareth but the sloped embankment of some not-so-scenic El tracks in southeast Evanston.

It was our turn now. Benny and I were ready to procreate. At least, we’d successfully deceived ourselves into thinking we were ready. And we remembered our former neighbors.

If Ethiopian women could squat, yelp and deliver -- why should I subject myself to the Western world of obstetrics-gynecology, in all its induced, episiotomied, caesarian section glory? Hadn’t I successfully turned a roundoff, back handspring, back flip the summer before fifth grade?  Hadn’t I, at age 28, ridden my bike 500 miles in five days with only modest butt-chafing? Hadn’t I mastered Pilates teasers and other abdominal torture? My body was made for this.

That’s what I told myself.  But the truth is, part of me longed for a nice silent, sterile C-section.

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but skinny girls hate their bodies, too. You know those kids in the gym locker room who changed their clothes without giving anyone a glimpse of their underwear? That was me. I won the Silent Camper award at overnight camp (where, it goes without saying, I showered during off-hours). I wore XL shirts on my 120 lb. frame from age 12 to 21, simply as a distraction. (No, I didn’t think I was fat – just ugly.) I walked around my entire junior year with my right hand plastered to the side of my face in an attempt to hide three small moles (as if, that didn’t draw attention). I even sneezed silently.

So the thought of making loud, guttural noises up and down a maternity ward – with my ass hanging out – held no appeal.

Here’s how I got over it.

Not one for secrets, surprises, or superstition, I told pretty much everyone I was pregnant within days of conception and then got busy preparing myself. The first person I told, on the train approximately 46 minutes after watching that little blue line appear on the pregnancy test, gave me the name of his midwife.

Debi Lesnick, CNM. To Debi, I was never merely a uterus, an inconvenience, or an imminent complication. I was a person – a wise, strong, capable person on an extraordinary journey – and I felt cared for. So much so that I kept her business card in my wallet and bedside drawer for the next five years.

Debi told us about a class in Andersonville taught by Mary Sommers. For six consecutive weeks, Benny (the security guard turned husband turned doula) and I learned the ins and outs of natural childbirth. He learned how to apply counter pressure, both on my back during a contraction and to any doctor pushing pitocin. You need to know enough to know what’s right for you at any given moment.

So I had my team – Debi, Mary, Benny. And I had my inspiration – the Ethiopian women of Tabor Absorption Center.

But sisters, I’m not going to lie to you. Squat, yelp and deliver, my ass. My former neighbors were clearly not having their first babies, sunny-side up, weighing in at 8.3 lbs. It hurt like bloody hell.

After 13 hours of back labor, uninhibited nudity and bodily fluids (because really – who gives a fuck when it comes down to it), one bite of purple popsicle in the labor tub, 90 minutes of pushing, and plenty – believe me, plenty – of loud guttural noises, Emma Sigal was born with her hand plastered to the side of her face. And Benny, the proud abba, cut the cord.

While I took pride in my Pilates teasers, flips, and marathon bike rides, nothing compared to childbirth. I had grown a person from scratch.

Emma is now six; her sister just turned five. And with two little girls watching, I try to send the right messages about beauty, about bodies, about strength. It’s hard to begrudge your barely B cups after they’ve nourished two kids to toddlerhood. What’s a few stretch marks, when you know why you stretched? Diapers trump vanity, contractions give you strength.

Not that I’d deny that at 2:41 this morning, my daughter woke me up to cover her and on my way back to bed, I ducked into the bathroom to get rid of a few pesky chin hairs.

The sad thing is, Emma – at just six – already engages in a daily battle to straighten her bouncy curls. Some days, she complains about her unibrow and moles and rounded belly. They’re beauty marks, I tell her. Your body is just right, I tell her. Look how fast you run.

Dana and Emma, making noise.

Three days after Emma was born, I wrote a poem in my journal. We’ll call it hormone-induced, if you don’t mind.

EMMA
I found my voice.
I found my heart.
I found my strength.
When I had you.

Someday I’ll tell her about the Ethiopians. And electrolysis.

1. The High Holidays have absolutely nothing to do with marijuana.

2. Where there's smoke, there may be salmon.

3. No meal is complete without leftovers.

4. According to Jewish dietary law, pork and shellfish may be eaten only in Chinese restaurants.

5. A shmata is a dress that your husband's ex is wearing.

6. You need ten men for a minion, but only four in polyester pants and white shoes for pinochle.

7. One mitzvah can change the world; two will just make you tired.

8. After the destruction of the Second temple, God created Nordstroms.

9. Anything worth saying is worth repeating a thousand times.

1 0. Never take a front row seat at a Bris.

11. Next year in Jerusalem The year after that, how about a nice cruise?

12. Never leave a restaurant empty handed.

13. Spring ahead, fall back, winters in Boca.

14. WASP's leave and never say good bye; Jews say good bye and never leave.

15. Always whisper the names of diseases.

16. If it tastes good, it's probably not kosher.

17. The important Jewish holidays are the ones on which alternate side of the street parking is suspended.

18. Without Jewish mothers, who would need therapy?

19. If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it. But if you can afford it, make sure to tell everybody what you paid.

20. Laugh now, but one day you'll be driving a Lexus and eating dinner at 4:00 PM in Florida.

The 20 and 30 something liberal Jews of today partake in Jewish practice to whatever degree it suits their needs. Be it dating, eating, drinking, traveling to Israel for free, the overwhelming sentiment is “What can Judaism do for me?”

This is a post modern phenomena and to some degree a successful one. Jewish continuity has been achieved to some degree via dining on free Shabbat meals, cheering l’chaim at the Chabad house, and traveling to Israel via Taglit-Birthright Israel programs.

Whether or not this kind of Judaism can be sustained given the current collapse of the economy is unclear. What is clear is that unless a 20 or 30-something finds Jewish identity advantageous to their broader life goals, it disappears with perhaps the exception of an extended family occasion.

It’s hard for me to preach the benefits of Jewish practice, as although I am committed to Jewish education, community and Israel, I make my hellos quick or avoid saying them at all to the observant friends and acquaintances walking down Broadway at about 12:30 p.m. every Shabbat and holiday. Last Friday, you would have found me holding a Walgreens bag with self tanner to even out my crazy tan lines from my most recent trip to Israel and my observant friends were heading to eat cheese lasagna on Shavuot.

Despite my own lack of an observance, there is an issue within the Jewish world that is causing me great alarm and I’m afraid that modern day narcissism will get in the way of its preservation in the memory of future generations—the Holocaust.

“The Holocaust, that’s the most remembered thing ever.”

True, numerous museums are dedicated to the subject including a new one in our backyard. But as Holocaust survivors pass away and Jewish identity fades, I can’t help but wonder how our generation will respond to commemorating the tragedy that befell six million Jews.

While all of us learned about the Holocaust in Hebrew school, camps, day schools and even public schools, how many of us are actually willing to prioritize the transmission of the horrors of the Holocaust to future generations? There is nothing visceral to gain from teaching about the Holocaust. In fact, it’s quite horrible and depressing.

As a generation of people who won’t do things just because we have to, how will we prioritize teaching the lessons of the Holocaust to our children and our neighbors’ children?

Whatever our generation’s norms are, they can’t continue when it comes to passing on the lessons of the Holocaust to future generations. Those of us who identify as Jews, no matter our observance or interest, must take on this responsibility. Because if we won’t no one else will, and it is our responsibility to make sure that the Shoah never happens again. How you approach this is up to you. There are many avenues in which to transmit Holocaust studies. You have to choose one that you are willing to do (museum donations, meeting with school officials to see how they tackle the Holocaust in classes, telling the stories of survivors, working on behalf of organization to prevent and fight other genocides).

We can’t be the generation that screws this up. We must remember. Even if it’s not fun. Even if it’s not easy. Even if we don’t directly reap the benefits.

Did you read about the local Catholic schoolteacher who was just fired for showing an AIDS prevention video?

Patrick Szady has been teaching at a Catholic grade school for 32 years, and has been showing his students an AIDS prevention video for the last decade. Time Out: The Truth about HIV, AIDS and You is a 16-year-old video featuring physicians and such subversive celebrities as Magic Johnson, Tom Cruise, Paula Abdul, Luke Perry, Arsenio Hall and Neil Patrick Harris. And Szady was fired for showing it to his kids.

In 2009? Really?

In the early days of the AIDS epidemic, I helped establish the State Health Department’s AIDS Unit, and I recall that time with searing clarity. I remember religious leaders who forbade condom use, preaching that anyone who engaged in the sin of non-marital sex deserved whatever their fate might be.

I honestly thought we had passed that epoch of ignorance and hate. Apparently not.

Can you think of a response that is more antithetical to Jewish law, to the dictate that we must preserve life above all other commandments?

I’ve joined the Facebook Group: “Get Szady Back”, just on principle, and urge you to do the same.

It probably won’t get this quiet hero his job back.  But it will let him know he’s not alone.

Jacey, having no trouble attracting a mate

We Jewish girls are so lucky, aren’t we?  I remember going to a friend’s birthday party at YMCA when I was about eight years old.  We were changing out of our swimsuits, and I looked around at the undeveloped, blonde stick figures in the room and concluded that I was a chubby Jewish girl.  Yup, you read correctly.  The truth was that my stomach muscles hadn’t quite developed, and like a little pygmy child, I too, had a belly.

Since this glorious day at the Y, I have been all but obsessed with trying to attain a precise kind of beauty, and I am not alone.  We are told from day one by our mothers, television shows, and magazines that we need to look a certain way. 

I was at a bar the other day, and I was talking with this cute sailor (in uniform).  Everything was great until he said, “Are you Jewish?  You look Jewish.”  What was I supposed to say?  Why yes; as a matter of fact, I do have big hair, big boobs and a big nose?

The Hebrew Mamita had a similar experience

As little girls, we are growing up with constant pressure to look like Swedish models, so what does one expect?  I blew out my hair in the sixth grade, and yes, this was before the blessed Chi.  It was not my best look.  I had a breast reduction when I was eighteen, as I had had it up to here (literally) of both boys and girls talking to my chest instead of my eyes.  No nose job yet, but I can rattle off the names of at least 20 girls from my high school who have had one without even blinking. 

In the past year, I have done more to change my appearance than I care to admit. Of Russian-Jewish decent, I am the palest person I know.  My brother called me Casper for a decade.  So what did I do?  I bought tanning spray. I paid actual money to expose my skin and lungs to toxic chemicals that are supposed to mimic sun damage.  Last month, my roommate had a crazy idea to do a “cleanse”.  This meant that we simultaneously drank some nasty, chunky powder mixed with apple juice for a week, and nothing else.  I convinced myself that I did this for health reasons.  It’s supposed to clean out your colon.  Truth?  Not eating for a week makes your stomach shrink and you lose weight.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not condoning this.  It was pure torture, and I can no longer drink apple juice.

Why do we girls do this to ourselves?  Why can’t we embrace our ethnicity, whatever it may be?  Now is the time to say “enough”.  I am beautiful the way God made me, and so are you. Hey—writing this blog has been a cleanse in itself.  However, if you think this means that I am going to start wearing my Jewfro out on a daily basis, you are dead wrong.  That will simply never happen.

Have you guys seen the new Star Trek movie yet? Ever notice that the Vulcan salute is a bit familiar? That’s because Leonard Nimoy, the original Mr. Spock, borrowed from Jewish tradition when the screenwriters of the original “Star Trek” series needed a special greeting to incorporate into the action. Nimoy remembered the way the Kohanim – the genealogical descendants of the Jewish high priests who used to serve in the Temple in Jerusalem – would position their fingers for the priestly blessing (known as Nesiat Kapayim in Hebrew). The ritual is associated with Pesach, Shavuot, (which starts at sundown tonight) Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur in the Ashkenazi tradition and performed daily in Israel and among Sephardim.

In the Vulcan salute, much like in the priestly blessing, the index and middle finger are kept together and separated from the ring and little fingers. Thus the hand has three sections, which in Jewish tradition resemble the letter shin, the first letter of one of the names of God. Find out more about the Jewish origin of the Vulcan salute.

Nimoy explained his vision for the Vulcan salute as part of a documentary about the iconic series.

When someone asks what makes Chicago so great, several possible answers come to mind:

Many natives like to boast about Chicago’s wonderful and illustrious architectural history.

Some can’t wait to point out our culinary fame, persuading tourists to go to deep-dish pizza joints and the summertime gorge we call the Taste of Chicago.

Others mention the city’s natural beauty with its lush public parks and bike friendly avenues, despite the looming skyscrapers.

But I am not like most natives.

Sure, I may have been drinking since day eight like most Jewish males (badam-ching!), but still too many fail to realize the rich history – and promising future – of cocktails available to Chicagoans. We all know that alcohol has been an integral component to human society since the dawn of civilization, and the Jewish community is not without its history, too. Jews have also been a part of Chicago since 1832, when cocktails were in their Golden Age and Chicago was rapidly becoming a major transitional hub between the expanding colonies and the New Territories. Fast-forward to the Prohibition, and you have Al Capone smuggling moonshine and beer into speak-easy joints right in the heart of our city. There is even a tour that takes you around his old stomping grounds, reenacted in a makeshift prison bus. Today, there is no shortage of bars and nightclubs to whet your whistle, including those frequented and managed by members of the tribe.

Since we are discussing cocktails, I will be providing a different cocktail recipe for you readers with each new installment, either to try at home or out on the town.

This time, I have chosen Cohasset Punch, one of the old school Chicago staples that has since vanished from drinking menus.

1½ oz dark rum, 1 oz sweet vermouth, juice of ½ lemon, ½ oz syrup from canned peaches (or peach purée/nectar), ½ oz Grand Marnier, and 2 dashes of orange bitters.

Start by putting half a canned peach/purée in the bottom of a saucer champagne glass; then half-fill the glass with shaved ice (crushed is an ok substitute). Put all the liquid ingredients in a shaker with ice. Shake and strain into the glass.

Try it for yourself and tell me what you think!

Until next time,
L’Chaim!

Remember when you were ten, you didn’t need a low carb diet, points or a personal trainer—you simply played. You didn’t go to a group fitness class for spinning or weights, you didn’t even have a membership, but you worked out.  Whether you were riding bikes, shooting hoops or just playing tag, you were exercising.

With summer on its way, playing can once again become your workout. The parks of Chicago are free! You don’t have to spend much money to play basketball, run laps or do calisthenics. There are also leagues to join for almost any sport. Visit http://www.chicagosportandsocialclub.com/ or just Google, “sports clubs” in your neighborhood and you’ll find several options to burn calories while actually having fun.

Aside from team sports, there are boot camps (I run one in Oz park), Yoga in the park, Pilates in the park and other great workouts at a reasonable cost. I’m going to let you in on a big secret, if you buy some resistance bands, you can create your own workout at the park. I love the site: http://www.resistancebandtraining.com/blog/ you can get equipment and great workouts all from the “Band Man.” The bands are great to tie to a swing-set or use with a partner where you can pull, drag and push your way fit.

If bands, boot camps or volleyball games aren’t your thing, there are other options. To get a total Rocky workout you can run the Lakeshore path near Diversey Harbor. The path is complete with pull-up bars, sit-up stations, and other exercise equipment with brief descriptions. You can run, bike or walk to each station and get a great workout without spending a dime! And if the water ever gets warm enough (or clean enough) you can add swimming to your routine.

If you know any other great summer workout options or have questions, send them by.

Have a Healthy Day!

Ron Krit
rkrit@fitwithkrit.com
www.fitwithkrit.com

Our neighborhood Jewel just completed its renovation. This is not just a statement of fact or inconsequential news. It is a sign. When we lived in Lincoln Square, the Jewel was being renovated along with a million gut rehab jobs and new condo buildings. Prices went up. Mom and Pops moved out. Potbelly’s and Coldstone moved in.

Now residing on the dividing line between Andersonville, Uptown and Edgewater, we are pleased to see that our investment in this neighborhood may eventually pay off. But I like the way things are and am wary of the coming changes.

I love my little street in Chicago. You’d think it would be quiet because it is an extremely narrow (yet somehow still a two-way) street, one of the only ones without its own number. But at 50 ½ blocks north our street is anything but quiet. I’m like a nosy old lady who stares out the window commenting on the foot and street traffic going by. And there is so much to comment on, like why would fire trucks choose our narrow little street complete with speed humps to blaze through, sirens blaring?

I love that I hear different languages on my walk to the el every morning. The older Vietnamese man tends his vegetable garden at the same time every day, hand rolled cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth. The large bearded man in the wheelchair yells at everyone and to himself as he rolls down the sidewalk. Our Afghani neighbors regularly share the most delicious flatbread I’ve ever tasted. Bikers, skateboarders, strollers, and the young Hispanic guy pushing his cart of snacks are all on their way to the beach a few blocks away. Couples of all ages hold hands and stop to read the enormous new condo sign next door and I wonder if they will be our new neighbors.

After at least a hundred years – I believe our building was built around 1900 – the roof started to leak. And while we prepare to patch up the holes, I wonder if it too is a sign. That no matter what we do to preserve it, the inevitable change creeps in, drips right in front of your face, and then covers you in buckets you can no longer ignore. Mostly I welcome change with applause, but I wonder what our neighborhood will look like in 10 years and it makes me prematurely nostalgic. Who will live next door? Will that ugly green-sided building which supposedly once housed the entertaining Charlie Chaplin still be standing?

There are only a few Swedish businesses that have managed to stay rooted to this historically Swedish neighborhood. Is gentrification inevitable? It is undeniably sad, uprooting families and businesses and lives. At the same time, I was ecstatic to discover the new variety of Tofutti ice cream at Jewel just in time for summer. Despite the foreshadowing of the Jewel renovation, the housing market has slowed way down in the past couple of years. Will it merely slow down during the recession and pick up gentrifying again when things turn around? Is the housing market a blessing in disguise? Is your neighborhood changing too?

My husband and I recently came to the realization that we are living a cliché.  Some might call it the “American Dream”; we sometimes call it Our Life in 847. 

We moved to Arlington Heights about a year ago.  After renting some one else’s condo in Bucktown for a few years, we decided it was time to buy a home of our own.  Our first go-round of open houses in the city was enough to send us scrambling towards suburbia, where the combined salaries of a teacher and non-profit employee stretch a bit further.  Before I knew it, we were closing on a townhouse, saying goodbye to city life, and waving hello to my family, who live about a two minute drive away from the new place.

Two months later, even before we finished furnishing the house, Ruby Latala, an adorable cockapoo, came home.  Friends and family joked that we had the house and the dog – the only thing left was the baby.  I laughed and told them they were crazy.

But suburbia must have seeped into our blood, with its multitude of minivans, good schools and strip malls.  By December, Baby Latala was on the way, and I was looking back over the last six months and wondering whose life I was living.

I loved Bucktown.  We walked to Red Hen for coffee and a treat most Sunday mornings when it was warm outside.  We took the bus and the Blue Line all over the city, sampling restaurants, visiting museums, checking out farmers markets.  I could walk to my closest friends’ homes in less than 15 minutes.

Now, Joe, Ruby and I walk to the strip mall Dunkin Donuts on Sunday mornings.  We bought a second car, and we drive pretty much everywhere.  Our restaurant options are a bit more limited, though there are at least three Chili’s, three Chipotles and two Olive Gardens nearby. 

Instead of a 15 minute walk to friends’ homes, we walk 15 minutes to my mom’s house, where we are able to spend time with my brothers, recent college grads who will likely not be neighbors for very long.  And instead of settling for the peeling paint in our rental unit, we have bright, beautiful walls that we are free to paint any color we want.  We have a cute little backyard, where we’ll soon be planting flowers and herbs, and where Ruby is free to run around and eat grass.  And best of all, despite my long Metra commute, at the end of the day, I come home to my little family.

Do we miss city life?  Sure.  Would we trade in our little piece of 847 heaven for it?  Not a chance.