My family has been living in the 1950's for several weeks.
We see everything in black and white, wear earrings that match our shoes and our purse, and have taken to wearing bright red lipstick.
Of course, since it is black and white, the color of the lipstick is just a guess, and the coordinating of shoes and wearing and purses is much easier.
The twin beds in the master bedroom were a little tough to move in , though.
Okay, actually, we are living in the 2010's , but without a microwave.
I think my family might actually prefer that I wear bright red lipstick. At least to not having microwave.
We never had a microwave until this house.
We were the last of the prehistoric people, getting along without a microwave , a toaster over a toaster or a ........ But after living in this house for a couple of years, we broke down and bought a microwave, which we sent off to college with Aaron.
The absence was felt, and we ended up with a new microwave overn- just before Passover, last year. Less than year ago.
Microwaves are convenient.
I suppose they are a bit more convenient if am not your mother or your wife, but they are still convenient.
They allow you to do things like reheat the spaghetti or the cauliflower.
Of course, you have to hit the start button and then run 2 rooms down the hall and wait until you hear the beep, which only one family member can actually do from 2 rooms away. And he doesn't live here, anymore.
And , you cannot peek.
Whatever you do, do not look at it because those microwaves will hurt your eyeballs.
And if someone visits who is pregnant, they cannot even be in the same room when the start button is pushed.
Which is why they are infinitely more convenient if I am not your mother, since those are my rules.
And that is in addition to the fact that I have it on a surge protector because of vampires. Electricity vampires, of which the microwave is one.
So, we have a microwave, or we had one, until it decided to misbehave.
In a scary manner.
Not scary to me- since I am such a neurotic weirdo that you cannot use my yardstick to measure scary, but scary to my husband who is also weird, but not nearly as neurotic, at least, not about microwaves.
I called the company, complained, made a video ( from the other room) and mailed it back to Haier to investigate what was wrong, since the microwave oven was still under warranty.
Oh, and of course, I wrote a Story of the Day about it, on 1/ 25/ 2012. How coudl I not?
After listening to my description of the problem, which was recorded or typed or preserved on a brass plaque by the phone representative, I received a call from the company. They wanted me to box up the unit and mail it to them.
They promptly sent me a bright orange set of labels, and a number to call for pick up , and I slightly less promptly , sent it back to them. Well, it took a few tries to get a box that it and a lot of bubble wrap would fit into.
After playing with the microwave , and I also hope their mothers have insisted they run down the hallway after pushing the button, Haier let me know that the poor little thing had died.
It was defective, and they were sending us a new one.
Except, they didn't.
So, for weeks, we have been living in the 1950's , without being able to conveniently nuke our leftovers.
I have been okay with this, although, I miss the exercise.
Not that I got a lot of it. I usually do not nuke leftovers because I am hungry, but also lazy and I don't' want to run down the hall when the microwave is on; so I just eat things cold.
Like chocolate.
Chocolate is always good cold.
But it has been driving the more athletic members of the household nuts.
My husband and daughter are sure they are losing weight despite not participating in ", several times a day, because they cannot reheat things they want to eat.
Unlike me, they will not just shovel any old thing in their mouths.... I have even seen looks of disgust on their faces over the idea of eating macaroni and cheese cold.
Not sure why, but....
At any rate, at least 6 times in the past 5 days, my husband has asked about the microwave.
Sarah hasn't.
Why ask when complaining is so much easier?
So, today, upon being asked by my husband, I called .
The lady got my information from the computer.
She read it out loud.
Twice.
Then she starts telling me that she is very sorry; she can see that I sent it in, that it was approved that they send us a new microwave, that the order was approved, but ...it wasn't sent.
She repeats herself. She is very sorry.
She will email the place that ships things.
Their warehouse, which is probably in the United States, to save on shipping costs,
unlike her call center, which is in some foreign country, judging by her quaint use of English phrases and the fact that she keeps repeating that she is sorry.
She is very sorry.
She repeats that, again.
I think she thought I was going to yell at her.
I can't do that.
It is 1956 in my house, or maybe 1958 , and I have my red lipstick on, and my matching earring and shoes. I do not have my purse over my arm,because I am in my house, but I cannot yell.
I am not sure they were allowed to yell or get huffy in 1956 or in 1958, either.
I wasn't alive then, so I cannot be sure, and there wasn't yet any reality TV, or video cameras on school buses showing children having sex in the back of the bus, or ...... I wonder if pot had been invented yet?
And if you are old enough to let me know what there was or wasn't, that is very nice, but it is too late to let me know, now, that they did actually yell in black and white, because I have already hung up the phone with the lady.
After I told her thank you.
At any rate, the delay is giving me at least another week break from running back and forth and up and down the hall every time someone pushes that start button.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Story of the Day 3/ 15/ 2012
I spend the better part of my life being a Jewish mother.
The worst part, too.
The worst part is when one of my children is ill.
Of course, worst being a relative term. When they were babies, and their temperatures soared, and they screamed in pain, and I had no communication with them, to be able to ask what was wrong, I was left trying to figure out if this was an ear infection or the flu or meningitis ..... and if I needed to drive to the nearest emergency room a t 110 mph.
That was the worst.
At least now, they can tell me what is wrong.
"My head hurts.", "I feel hot.", "I feel dizzy.", or "I am about to puke."
These provide wonderful bits of information, especially the last one because it usually allows me 15 seconds to get out of splatter range.
It also helps me to narrow down what I will do to manage the problem. "I am about to puke" elicits an immediate response of, "Go to the bathroom!" Not to pee, but to...
And "I feel hot" or "I feel cold," tells me to take their temperature.
And, "My head hurts" has me asking all kinds of questions like, "Do your ears feel full? Where does it hurt?" To figure out if this is related to allergies, or if it might be something else.
Today, my youngest baby, is home ill.
Not my littlest, that is Ely.
Not his fault that his baby sister is at least 5'9" or 5'10" or....and possibly still growing.
So, my youngest baby's symptoms started out as "My head hurts" And after asking several questions, yesterday, I gave her an ibuprofen.
I now need to admit a terrible truth: I am not a very good Jewish mother.
I know this because apparently I asked the wrong questions.
I neglected to ask, "Did you feel well today at school?"
It turns out that she did not.
And, it also turned out, as the evening progressed, that the headache was to rejoined by it's friend, the ones that made her say, "I feel hot," and "I feel dizzy."
This was joined by the information that she had felt that way earlier in the day, and also "spacey" during school.
Sigh.
So, today, my baby stayed home to recuperate.
Everything seemed to be going well.
She got up this morning and ate a small amount and took another pill. She lay down and slept. She woke up again for a bit, she lay down and slept...except here is where the whole ting fell apart.
When she lay down, that second time, this morning, she said to me, "My head hurts."
This was post being drugged by her mother. (Another ibuprofen.) Enough post that she should have not felt a headache.
And, as I looked into her face, in her very dark room...dark because the light was off, but also because she has painted it a very dark color and has black curtains and a black set of sheets, I thought I saw purple under her eyes..and maybe over her nose....purple that she claimed was not from congestion, and which was certainly not from a lack of sleep, by then, and that with the headache and the temperature..I did what any good Jewish mother would do...I started worrying about meningitis.
It can be very serious.
I mean, she could become deaf from it.
I decided to calm down and let her rest for 30 minutes, and then go in and make sure she is still breathing.
The worst part, too.
The worst part is when one of my children is ill.
Of course, worst being a relative term. When they were babies, and their temperatures soared, and they screamed in pain, and I had no communication with them, to be able to ask what was wrong, I was left trying to figure out if this was an ear infection or the flu or meningitis ..... and if I needed to drive to the nearest emergency room a t 110 mph.
That was the worst.
At least now, they can tell me what is wrong.
"My head hurts.", "I feel hot.", "I feel dizzy.", or "I am about to puke."
These provide wonderful bits of information, especially the last one because it usually allows me 15 seconds to get out of splatter range.
It also helps me to narrow down what I will do to manage the problem. "I am about to puke" elicits an immediate response of, "Go to the bathroom!" Not to pee, but to...
And "I feel hot" or "I feel cold," tells me to take their temperature.
And, "My head hurts" has me asking all kinds of questions like, "Do your ears feel full? Where does it hurt?" To figure out if this is related to allergies, or if it might be something else.
Today, my youngest baby, is home ill.
Not my littlest, that is Ely.
Not his fault that his baby sister is at least 5'9" or 5'10" or....and possibly still growing.
So, my youngest baby's symptoms started out as "My head hurts" And after asking several questions, yesterday, I gave her an ibuprofen.
I now need to admit a terrible truth: I am not a very good Jewish mother.
I know this because apparently I asked the wrong questions.
I neglected to ask, "Did you feel well today at school?"
It turns out that she did not.
And, it also turned out, as the evening progressed, that the headache was to rejoined by it's friend, the ones that made her say, "I feel hot," and "I feel dizzy."
This was joined by the information that she had felt that way earlier in the day, and also "spacey" during school.
Sigh.
So, today, my baby stayed home to recuperate.
Everything seemed to be going well.
She got up this morning and ate a small amount and took another pill. She lay down and slept. She woke up again for a bit, she lay down and slept...except here is where the whole ting fell apart.
When she lay down, that second time, this morning, she said to me, "My head hurts."
This was post being drugged by her mother. (Another ibuprofen.) Enough post that she should have not felt a headache.
And, as I looked into her face, in her very dark room...dark because the light was off, but also because she has painted it a very dark color and has black curtains and a black set of sheets, I thought I saw purple under her eyes..and maybe over her nose....purple that she claimed was not from congestion, and which was certainly not from a lack of sleep, by then, and that with the headache and the temperature..I did what any good Jewish mother would do...I started worrying about meningitis.
It can be very serious.
I mean, she could become deaf from it.
I decided to calm down and let her rest for 30 minutes, and then go in and make sure she is still breathing.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Story of the Day 3/ 12/ 2012
Sometimes, I feel it is dangerous for me to go draw, in the evenings.
It is not that where I go to draw the model is particularly dangerous, it is because I do not know what I will find when I come home.
When the children were younger, and I would escape, one evening a week,
leaving my husband watching the three treasures,
I would often return home to find him substantially aged, one child still running around, and a lot of dirty dishes.
As the children aged, I would return to find everyone in bed, and less dirty dishes.
Nowadays, I return to find my husband in bed, my teen-aged daughter sometimes up doing homework and sometimes in bed, and lots of dirty dishes.
I am not trying to present any wonderful observations about what I find in terms of people awake or asleep and dishes that are clean or dirty or strewn around the house, I am simply giving you little bit of atmosphere .
You see, the dangerous part is the phone calls.
For some reason, all of the really strange and scary phone calls come when I am out drawing.
I do not know why. maybe it is like that spooky twilight zone music that comes on the second the adults have all left the house and the baby sitter is alone with the small kids,
except the the most reliable adult person in this house is my husband, and he is the one who gets the brunt of these calls.
Over the years i have returned home to such gems as," Your cousin called, she is about to be evicted to a homeless shelter, can you please drive a few hours north and pick her up?"
Calls like, " Do you have any idea why the prosecutor's office would be calling for you at 6:30 PM?"
and calls like, " A collection company called to speak with you about an auto loan.
"
That last phone call came this week.
It was very interesting, because, as far as I know, I don't' have a car loan, or a loan out on my car.
I have also not loaned my car out to anyone, nor am I currently borrowing anyone's car....
My lovely, not so-very recent vintage Honda Civic is all mine or all ours or all.....rust, dents and everything.
Even the crayon mark on the back of one of the seats belongs to us, though no one will admit to having made it.....
"They called for me?"
"Well, they asked to speak with Cassia Margolis,"
and as far as either of us knows, there is only one of those, " but i told them that you weren't here."
My husband was being very truthful...but, of course he was saving the best part for last.
"Why were they calling me?"
"They are trying to get in touch with Mr. Stevens."
Mr. Steven is our next door neighbor, the one who was once carried out of his own house by a few big policeman following a domestic violence call.
He is the one who moved in there with his girlfriend , Kim, and when she moved out, about 18 months later, he promptly ( promptly being about 7 days later) moved in his wife and 3 kids...
whom we found out, several years later, after his Rottweilers ( which they let loose on a regular basis and which they had trained to be attack dogs) had bitten a third person ,
which resulted in him transferring ownership of the dog that had done the third bite to his wife who was only his girlfriend.
This was so it did not show up that he had multiple offenses concerning dogs that bite.
Fortunately, the judge determined that the two of them had already been living together for a number of years, had a number of kids together, and told them that the" transfer" meant shit.
Okay, he used a slightly more polite term.
"The guy who called asked me if I could give Mr Stevens a message.
" And I told the guy that occasionally a piece of his mail finds its way into our mailbox, and I promptly walk over and put it in his mailbox. "
As you can see, his reputation for needing 4 burly cops to subdue him and his history of attack trained Rottweilers has served its purpose.
We stay FAR away.
I asked my husband if he had told the collections agent, which is what the caller was, that it is illegal to call a third party, like a neighbor.....but then I realized that , of course, that guy knows that.
He was just hoping we were too stupid to know it, and would pass along the "friendly" reminder......
And I also realized that ( unlike most of the odd calls we get, on the nights I go out to draw) I am enjoying this call,
because I am not a very nice person,
even though i would never train a dog to attack people and then let it loose to bite children,
nor can I see myself being factious enough to have the need to get the attention of 4 burly police officers
( okay, they weren't that burly, but they were tall) to get me to...behave.
But I can enjoy this bit of negative information about a neighbor I keep praying will move far away,
maybe to some windswept town in Alaska,
near Sarah Palin......
It is not that where I go to draw the model is particularly dangerous, it is because I do not know what I will find when I come home.
When the children were younger, and I would escape, one evening a week,
leaving my husband watching the three treasures,
I would often return home to find him substantially aged, one child still running around, and a lot of dirty dishes.
As the children aged, I would return to find everyone in bed, and less dirty dishes.
Nowadays, I return to find my husband in bed, my teen-aged daughter sometimes up doing homework and sometimes in bed, and lots of dirty dishes.
I am not trying to present any wonderful observations about what I find in terms of people awake or asleep and dishes that are clean or dirty or strewn around the house, I am simply giving you little bit of atmosphere .
You see, the dangerous part is the phone calls.
For some reason, all of the really strange and scary phone calls come when I am out drawing.
I do not know why. maybe it is like that spooky twilight zone music that comes on the second the adults have all left the house and the baby sitter is alone with the small kids,
except the the most reliable adult person in this house is my husband, and he is the one who gets the brunt of these calls.
Over the years i have returned home to such gems as," Your cousin called, she is about to be evicted to a homeless shelter, can you please drive a few hours north and pick her up?"
Calls like, " Do you have any idea why the prosecutor's office would be calling for you at 6:30 PM?"
and calls like, " A collection company called to speak with you about an auto loan.
"
That last phone call came this week.
It was very interesting, because, as far as I know, I don't' have a car loan, or a loan out on my car.
I have also not loaned my car out to anyone, nor am I currently borrowing anyone's car....
My lovely, not so-very recent vintage Honda Civic is all mine or all ours or all.....rust, dents and everything.
Even the crayon mark on the back of one of the seats belongs to us, though no one will admit to having made it.....
"They called for me?"
"Well, they asked to speak with Cassia Margolis,"
and as far as either of us knows, there is only one of those, " but i told them that you weren't here."
My husband was being very truthful...but, of course he was saving the best part for last.
"Why were they calling me?"
"They are trying to get in touch with Mr. Stevens."
Mr. Steven is our next door neighbor, the one who was once carried out of his own house by a few big policeman following a domestic violence call.
He is the one who moved in there with his girlfriend , Kim, and when she moved out, about 18 months later, he promptly ( promptly being about 7 days later) moved in his wife and 3 kids...
whom we found out, several years later, after his Rottweilers ( which they let loose on a regular basis and which they had trained to be attack dogs) had bitten a third person ,
which resulted in him transferring ownership of the dog that had done the third bite to his wife who was only his girlfriend.
This was so it did not show up that he had multiple offenses concerning dogs that bite.
Fortunately, the judge determined that the two of them had already been living together for a number of years, had a number of kids together, and told them that the" transfer" meant shit.
Okay, he used a slightly more polite term.
"The guy who called asked me if I could give Mr Stevens a message.
" And I told the guy that occasionally a piece of his mail finds its way into our mailbox, and I promptly walk over and put it in his mailbox. "
As you can see, his reputation for needing 4 burly cops to subdue him and his history of attack trained Rottweilers has served its purpose.
We stay FAR away.
I asked my husband if he had told the collections agent, which is what the caller was, that it is illegal to call a third party, like a neighbor.....but then I realized that , of course, that guy knows that.
He was just hoping we were too stupid to know it, and would pass along the "friendly" reminder......
And I also realized that ( unlike most of the odd calls we get, on the nights I go out to draw) I am enjoying this call,
because I am not a very nice person,
even though i would never train a dog to attack people and then let it loose to bite children,
nor can I see myself being factious enough to have the need to get the attention of 4 burly police officers
( okay, they weren't that burly, but they were tall) to get me to...behave.
But I can enjoy this bit of negative information about a neighbor I keep praying will move far away,
maybe to some windswept town in Alaska,
near Sarah Palin......
Friday, March 16, 2012
Story of the Day 3/ 8/ 2012
My daughter was having a conversation with a young friend.
Her friend is Deaf. She started attending public school and using an interpreter a while ago, and she had a really good interpreter who has recently been replaced.
This young girl is very concerned about the new interpreter.
"She is blind."
Sarah wondered how the school could have hired a blind interpreter. For a deaf student.
She has nothing against hiring blind people to do most jobs, but....she cannot figure out how this would work.
"Why do you think she is blind?"
"When I sign to her, she keeps signing back, 'What? What?' So she must not be able to see what I am signing."
Sarah sat there for a second, stunned, and not because she believed that the school had hired an interpreter who was blind for this Deaf child - an interpreter who , because she was blind, couldn't see her signs.
My daughter was stunned because she knew that what had happened was that the school had hired an interpreter who didn't know enough sign language to understand a 9 year old girl.
Sarah has seen enough of these "interpreters" hired by her own school.
Then Sarah, responding to this young girl, nodded her head.
Because the interpreter might as well be blind for all the good she will be doing this child.
Her friend is Deaf. She started attending public school and using an interpreter a while ago, and she had a really good interpreter who has recently been replaced.
This young girl is very concerned about the new interpreter.
"She is blind."
Sarah wondered how the school could have hired a blind interpreter. For a deaf student.
She has nothing against hiring blind people to do most jobs, but....she cannot figure out how this would work.
"Why do you think she is blind?"
"When I sign to her, she keeps signing back, 'What? What?' So she must not be able to see what I am signing."
Sarah sat there for a second, stunned, and not because she believed that the school had hired an interpreter who was blind for this Deaf child - an interpreter who , because she was blind, couldn't see her signs.
My daughter was stunned because she knew that what had happened was that the school had hired an interpreter who didn't know enough sign language to understand a 9 year old girl.
Sarah has seen enough of these "interpreters" hired by her own school.
Then Sarah, responding to this young girl, nodded her head.
Because the interpreter might as well be blind for all the good she will be doing this child.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Story of the Day 3/ 2/ 2012
I wasn't sitting down. That wasn't good.
For certain messages, it is best to be sitting down. This was one my daughter texted to me.
School was out, and I was expecting her home, shortly.
The text read:
Can you please call Washington Township transportation services ( the school systems bus service) because the bus didn't' move for ten minutes now.
I am not sure if the bus driver is waiting for the police.
The police?
It was 3:30. Where was the bus?
Why did she think they were waiting for the police?
Thankfully, my imagination didn't carry me too far afield.
That is because it wasn't very long until I got the next text from my daughter:
Oh, never mind. I think the bus driver is waiting for the police because the boys are putting perfume/cologne on themselves.
I must admit, I am not sure why that would make the bus driver call the police. Even fishnet stockings and pushup bras on the boys would not necessarily be a police matter.
After all, the boys are riding the bus, not standing on the street corner.
And, personally, I find the sagging pants with views of really stupid underwear to be infinitely more offensive.
I also probably accepted the second email more calmly simply because I was sitting down. I was, however, a bit concerned about when my daughter would be coming home. It was ,after all, Friday afternoon, and our sabbath starts at 6:13 PM.
By now, I am hoping that the police are efficient, and my daughter gets home in time to shower.
Less than an hour later, my daughter walked through the door.
She was excited.
She got to see a real live detective. At least, she thinks it was a detective. He was the one who was dressed nicely, in a long trench coat, and driving an unmarked car. The police officer wore a uniform, and drove a marked police car.
The policeman spoke to her, also. But she isn't' sure what he said.
He spoke to a lot of the kids. He asked questions.
Sarah could have tried to speech read him, but it occurred to her that if she stared intently at his face, he might think that she was guilty of something. So she didn't. And when he asked her something, she didn't' see the front of his face until the last word, so she has no idea what he said or asked.
But she pointed to her ear, and mouthed the words "I can't hear."
She is not sure if he believe her, or if he thought she was lying.
He did however, move on to speak with the next student.
What was all of this about? Some guys who like perfume?
Actually, the perfume was probably Febreeze. They got it from a girl, the guys did.
After the bus driver called for the police, one of the guys asked the girl something, and she got the container of it out of her backpack.
Of course, what was said, we can only guess, because Sarah didn't' hear any of it.
Then they sprayed themselves, and where they had been sitting, and their backpacks.
To get rid of the smell.
Of the pot.
The pot they had been smoking or selling or whatevering on the bus.
Which is why the bus driver had called the police.
Apparently, she ( the bus driver) had either seen something or smelled it.
This made for a very interesting Shabbat.
I kept wondering, "Does that girl always carry Febreeze to school in her backpack for just such emergencies?" " How did they figure out this practical use for the product? " and "Do they market Febreeze to students who need to eliminate that 'tell-tale' odor of pot"? "
And, if they do not already market it this way, maybe they should.
It would make a really great Superbowl commercial........
For certain messages, it is best to be sitting down. This was one my daughter texted to me.
School was out, and I was expecting her home, shortly.
The text read:
Can you please call Washington Township transportation services ( the school systems bus service) because the bus didn't' move for ten minutes now.
I am not sure if the bus driver is waiting for the police.
The police?
It was 3:30. Where was the bus?
Why did she think they were waiting for the police?
Thankfully, my imagination didn't carry me too far afield.
That is because it wasn't very long until I got the next text from my daughter:
Oh, never mind. I think the bus driver is waiting for the police because the boys are putting perfume/cologne on themselves.
I must admit, I am not sure why that would make the bus driver call the police. Even fishnet stockings and pushup bras on the boys would not necessarily be a police matter.
After all, the boys are riding the bus, not standing on the street corner.
And, personally, I find the sagging pants with views of really stupid underwear to be infinitely more offensive.
I also probably accepted the second email more calmly simply because I was sitting down. I was, however, a bit concerned about when my daughter would be coming home. It was ,after all, Friday afternoon, and our sabbath starts at 6:13 PM.
By now, I am hoping that the police are efficient, and my daughter gets home in time to shower.
Less than an hour later, my daughter walked through the door.
She was excited.
She got to see a real live detective. At least, she thinks it was a detective. He was the one who was dressed nicely, in a long trench coat, and driving an unmarked car. The police officer wore a uniform, and drove a marked police car.
The policeman spoke to her, also. But she isn't' sure what he said.
He spoke to a lot of the kids. He asked questions.
Sarah could have tried to speech read him, but it occurred to her that if she stared intently at his face, he might think that she was guilty of something. So she didn't. And when he asked her something, she didn't' see the front of his face until the last word, so she has no idea what he said or asked.
But she pointed to her ear, and mouthed the words "I can't hear."
She is not sure if he believe her, or if he thought she was lying.
He did however, move on to speak with the next student.
What was all of this about? Some guys who like perfume?
Actually, the perfume was probably Febreeze. They got it from a girl, the guys did.
After the bus driver called for the police, one of the guys asked the girl something, and she got the container of it out of her backpack.
Of course, what was said, we can only guess, because Sarah didn't' hear any of it.
Then they sprayed themselves, and where they had been sitting, and their backpacks.
To get rid of the smell.
Of the pot.
The pot they had been smoking or selling or whatevering on the bus.
Which is why the bus driver had called the police.
Apparently, she ( the bus driver) had either seen something or smelled it.
This made for a very interesting Shabbat.
I kept wondering, "Does that girl always carry Febreeze to school in her backpack for just such emergencies?" " How did they figure out this practical use for the product? " and "Do they market Febreeze to students who need to eliminate that 'tell-tale' odor of pot"? "
And, if they do not already market it this way, maybe they should.
It would make a really great Superbowl commercial........
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Story of the Day 2/ 29/ 2012
My son, Aaron, will, God willing, be flying home from Israel on April 2nd.
Just in time to help do a little last minute cleaning for Passover.
Actually, I have been planning on saving the bathrooms for him. After all, he is the family champion shower stall scrubber, and how could I possibly deny him the mitzvah ( good deed) of doing this for his tired, overworked , old mother.
Well, the last adjective is true.
However, my son, in a fit of sociability, has decided that he wants to visit his grandparents who are all in New York. He wants to actually leave the airport between his flight from Israel to New York and his connecting flight from New York to Indiana.
Yes, Virginia, there really are Jews in Indiana.
This means several things. First of all, it means changing his airline ticket.
It also means calling his grandparents and making sure they want to see him.
It is not that no one loves him, it is just that they are all on fixed incomes, and our son , who is 6 '3" - or , at least- he was before his feet grew recently- eats their entire food allowances for the week each time he sits down at the table. And he likes to eat more than three times a day.
Being Jewish grandparents, they find this thrilling.
Instead of having to repeat, over and over, "Eat , eat!" and having the grandchild pick at the food they have lovingly prepared, they can just stare, wide -eyed in amazement as all of the food in the house, well apartment, disappears into this massive baby boy.
Of course, then we have to worry that they will not have anything left in the house to eat.....which is the wrong direction for the "eat, eat" worrying.
For some weird and inexplicable reason, they were all thrilled with the idea of him coming and eating them out of house and home. They even find this, and him, charming........
My next job was to change his airline ticket.
So, like a good mother, I called the airline. Three times. The first time, I was disconnected. The second time, I was told I needed to call a different number. The third time, ELAl told me that I needed to call Delta, since it was their flight that need to be changed.
I made a 4th call... to Delta.
And the agent at Delta told me that the third agent at EL AL was wrong; since they issued the ticket, I needed to call them back .
I decided that it was not a good day to make a fifth call.
In case you think I am easily discouraged....well, you are right, but I should also explain that three of those phone calls involved long conversations where they had to look up exactly what kind of a ticket we had purchased for our little boy, and then go over what the fees would be to change the ticket.
And this was after listening to a lot of really bad muzak.
So, late this evening...actually, so late it is very late at night, I made another call. to El Al.
To the same guy I spoke with who had told me I needed to call Delta. I cringed when I realized it was him. I mean, what were the odds.
You are now allowed one guess as to what he told me.
Gee, you are brilliant. Much more brilliant than he is. I told him good bye and I hung up.
And I did NOT call Delta.
I called El Al back. And got a different agent.
I figured my bad luck couldn't last forever, and I was right!
This agent went through the same long ," let me see what the fees will be to change it", routine.
I waited patiently, then reaffirmed that I still wanted the change.
He checked for the date I had originally given him, April 5th.
"There are no seats available to Indianapolis on April 5th."
"What about the morning of April 6th?"
If the flight leaves New York in the morning, he will easily arrive before Passover starts. It will be a pain to get him at the airport, but....
"There s a seat on the 8:50 PM flight."
"I said the morning of April 5th."
Since it was ELAL I added, "He has to arrive before YomTov starts." Surely this person with the strong Israeli accent has at least some vague idea that my kid cannot be on an airplane when it is Passover, and that he needs to be at home sitting at the table.....
"That is the only seat on April 6th."
Okay, what about April 4th?"
"In the morning?"
"No, any time on April 4th."
Which will make for a short visit with the assorted grandparents, but.....
"No, there is nothing available."
I thank the agent and hang up.
I send an email to Aaron in Israel, and to Larry, who is asleep in the bedroom, that I couldn't change the ticket because there were no seats available. I add that i might call ElAl back in a couple of days, because it is possible that someone with a ticket for April 5th, or 4th or the MORNING of the 6th will be changing their flight.....we can hope.
I send an email to my husband? The same one who is currently asleep in our bed, down the hall?
Yes, because I will see him briefly, tomorrow morning when I will be at my not-very-well-rested best, which isn't' very good even on a good day, and unlikely to remember to mention this.
Then I do what I should have done, and go to sleep.
Just in time to help do a little last minute cleaning for Passover.
Actually, I have been planning on saving the bathrooms for him. After all, he is the family champion shower stall scrubber, and how could I possibly deny him the mitzvah ( good deed) of doing this for his tired, overworked , old mother.
Well, the last adjective is true.
However, my son, in a fit of sociability, has decided that he wants to visit his grandparents who are all in New York. He wants to actually leave the airport between his flight from Israel to New York and his connecting flight from New York to Indiana.
Yes, Virginia, there really are Jews in Indiana.
This means several things. First of all, it means changing his airline ticket.
It also means calling his grandparents and making sure they want to see him.
It is not that no one loves him, it is just that they are all on fixed incomes, and our son , who is 6 '3" - or , at least- he was before his feet grew recently- eats their entire food allowances for the week each time he sits down at the table. And he likes to eat more than three times a day.
Being Jewish grandparents, they find this thrilling.
Instead of having to repeat, over and over, "Eat , eat!" and having the grandchild pick at the food they have lovingly prepared, they can just stare, wide -eyed in amazement as all of the food in the house, well apartment, disappears into this massive baby boy.
Of course, then we have to worry that they will not have anything left in the house to eat.....which is the wrong direction for the "eat, eat" worrying.
For some weird and inexplicable reason, they were all thrilled with the idea of him coming and eating them out of house and home. They even find this, and him, charming........
My next job was to change his airline ticket.
So, like a good mother, I called the airline. Three times. The first time, I was disconnected. The second time, I was told I needed to call a different number. The third time, ELAl told me that I needed to call Delta, since it was their flight that need to be changed.
I made a 4th call... to Delta.
And the agent at Delta told me that the third agent at EL AL was wrong; since they issued the ticket, I needed to call them back .
I decided that it was not a good day to make a fifth call.
In case you think I am easily discouraged....well, you are right, but I should also explain that three of those phone calls involved long conversations where they had to look up exactly what kind of a ticket we had purchased for our little boy, and then go over what the fees would be to change the ticket.
And this was after listening to a lot of really bad muzak.
So, late this evening...actually, so late it is very late at night, I made another call. to El Al.
To the same guy I spoke with who had told me I needed to call Delta. I cringed when I realized it was him. I mean, what were the odds.
You are now allowed one guess as to what he told me.
Gee, you are brilliant. Much more brilliant than he is. I told him good bye and I hung up.
And I did NOT call Delta.
I called El Al back. And got a different agent.
I figured my bad luck couldn't last forever, and I was right!
This agent went through the same long ," let me see what the fees will be to change it", routine.
I waited patiently, then reaffirmed that I still wanted the change.
He checked for the date I had originally given him, April 5th.
"There are no seats available to Indianapolis on April 5th."
"What about the morning of April 6th?"
If the flight leaves New York in the morning, he will easily arrive before Passover starts. It will be a pain to get him at the airport, but....
"There s a seat on the 8:50 PM flight."
"I said the morning of April 5th."
Since it was ELAL I added, "He has to arrive before YomTov starts." Surely this person with the strong Israeli accent has at least some vague idea that my kid cannot be on an airplane when it is Passover, and that he needs to be at home sitting at the table.....
"That is the only seat on April 6th."
Okay, what about April 4th?"
"In the morning?"
"No, any time on April 4th."
Which will make for a short visit with the assorted grandparents, but.....
"No, there is nothing available."
I thank the agent and hang up.
I send an email to Aaron in Israel, and to Larry, who is asleep in the bedroom, that I couldn't change the ticket because there were no seats available. I add that i might call ElAl back in a couple of days, because it is possible that someone with a ticket for April 5th, or 4th or the MORNING of the 6th will be changing their flight.....we can hope.
I send an email to my husband? The same one who is currently asleep in our bed, down the hall?
Yes, because I will see him briefly, tomorrow morning when I will be at my not-very-well-rested best, which isn't' very good even on a good day, and unlikely to remember to mention this.
Then I do what I should have done, and go to sleep.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Story of the Day 2/ 28/ 2012
My son called , today. the one in Israel.
Yes, it is another one of those stories. Although, without the mice.
My son called today and told me that he is moving. Aaron, the one who is living in a dorm in a yeshivah in Israel. The one who is coming home, soon for Passover.
He is moving?
"Where are you moving?"
"Across the street."
"Why are you moving across the street?"
"They are renovating the dorms."
This sounds good. Maybe they will renovate enough that the mice will move out.
"For two weeks, because then it will be time to fly home."
The school's timing seems a little off.
Aaron explains that across the street are " apartments". I am not exactly sure what this means, but if it has a bed, it will be fine. And if it has less mice, it will be wonderful.
"I heard the apartments are very nice."
Good, I think that means there actually are less mice.
But this raises a problem.
Aaron had asked about leaving things in the dorm over the break. Things like his sheets and towels, so he would no have to cram them into his luggage when he flies home, and then cram them back in his luggage, when he flies back to Israel. He had been told that he could leave them in the dorm room.
But now , the dorm will be undergoing renovations, and they cannot leave anything there. And they will not be returning to the apartments, after break, and he cannot leave things there.
I told him to ask, again, and ask what the impact of the new set up is. I cannot believe that Aaron is the only student in this situation. And it is not only sheets and towels, but books. Many of the students have a shelf of books, too heavy to pack. Especially with the new weight restrictions.
Even if they gave up wearing clean underwear and socks, which some of them seem ready to do, they couldn't' not manage to transport their books.
This is serious for some of the students, but only hypothetical, for my son, because Aaron is not sure that he wants to go back to the Yeshivah, after the break.
But, if he does, it would be nice to have sheets, and towels. And socks and underwear.
We do, after all, have vague hopes of someday being grandparents, which means getting past prospective daughter-in-laws' noses.
And mouse traps. The $53 worth of mouse traps that I mailed to him.
I wonder if they will let him store those somewhere.
If not, I bet he can find a family living nearby who would be happy to borrow them for a month. Especially with all of the renovations.
And, so you see, it is after all one of those stories about the mice.
Yes, it is another one of those stories. Although, without the mice.
My son called today and told me that he is moving. Aaron, the one who is living in a dorm in a yeshivah in Israel. The one who is coming home, soon for Passover.
He is moving?
"Where are you moving?"
"Across the street."
"Why are you moving across the street?"
"They are renovating the dorms."
This sounds good. Maybe they will renovate enough that the mice will move out.
"For two weeks, because then it will be time to fly home."
The school's timing seems a little off.
Aaron explains that across the street are " apartments". I am not exactly sure what this means, but if it has a bed, it will be fine. And if it has less mice, it will be wonderful.
"I heard the apartments are very nice."
Good, I think that means there actually are less mice.
But this raises a problem.
Aaron had asked about leaving things in the dorm over the break. Things like his sheets and towels, so he would no have to cram them into his luggage when he flies home, and then cram them back in his luggage, when he flies back to Israel. He had been told that he could leave them in the dorm room.
But now , the dorm will be undergoing renovations, and they cannot leave anything there. And they will not be returning to the apartments, after break, and he cannot leave things there.
I told him to ask, again, and ask what the impact of the new set up is. I cannot believe that Aaron is the only student in this situation. And it is not only sheets and towels, but books. Many of the students have a shelf of books, too heavy to pack. Especially with the new weight restrictions.
Even if they gave up wearing clean underwear and socks, which some of them seem ready to do, they couldn't' not manage to transport their books.
This is serious for some of the students, but only hypothetical, for my son, because Aaron is not sure that he wants to go back to the Yeshivah, after the break.
But, if he does, it would be nice to have sheets, and towels. And socks and underwear.
We do, after all, have vague hopes of someday being grandparents, which means getting past prospective daughter-in-laws' noses.
And mouse traps. The $53 worth of mouse traps that I mailed to him.
I wonder if they will let him store those somewhere.
If not, I bet he can find a family living nearby who would be happy to borrow them for a month. Especially with all of the renovations.
And, so you see, it is after all one of those stories about the mice.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Story of the Day 2/ 12/ 2012
Aaron called today, from Israel.
When he first arrived in Israel, after he had figured out the intricacies of using the calling card and the pay phone, we would get a few phone calls a week.
A few being somewhere around 5.
Since he couldn't call on Shabbat ( our Sabbath), and since we are occasionally not home, this meant he was calling daily.
This tapered off.
Rather quickly.
I was not sure if it tapered off because he was busy, because he was less homesick or because he didn't' want to be perceived as not being cool. But since we were still getting calls about twice a week, I didn't' worry about it. After all, what could have happened?
I mean other than having , G-d forbid, gotten some sort of disease spread by the mice running through the dorm, or, perhaps........
Recently, however, he has started calling with that old , much longed for ( by his lonely and worried old mother) frequency.
This is because he learned that his roommate, Aaron- the other Aaron who is also from Indiana, calls home every day.
Well, except for Shabbat.
And the other Aaron is cool. At least, he is relatively cool, since he is already done with his university education at Hebrew University and with the army. And he is even abel to grow something that resembles a beard
So, now that calling home can be equated with someone who has some cool characteristics, Aaron, my Aaron, has resumed this habit, relieving his mother of worrying that he might have been carted off to the hospital, or have fallen into coma from starvation, or.......
Anyhow, Aaron called home, today.
Since I speak with him almost daily there are a limited number of topics.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"What did you do for Shabbat ( which was yesterday, meaning we haven't' spoken for an entire 48 hours.)? Did you eat at the yeshivah or did you go eat at a family?"
"I ate at a family."
"Friday dinner and Saturday lunch?"
"Yes, both of them."
"The same family or different families?"
"The same family."
"Did you eat well?"
(Can you tell that I am a Jewish mother? I mean, in addition to my other minor worrying attributes?)
"Yes, very well. But I keep meaning to stay at the yeshivah for Shabbat."
"Why?"
"Well, they spend a long time singing. But I feel bad saying I won't go, when they invite me. But they spend a long time singing."
Singing is not my son's strong point.
Unless they want to sing "Happy Birthday", which is usually not on the list of Shabbat songs.
Unless it is someone's birthday.
And , since he can't make out what people are singing ( it is much harder than figuring out words in a sentence, because the timing, the break between words and the tonality throw the decoding off, when you are deaf), he is usually just plain lost.
And also, being deaf, not the most appreciative audience.
"Well, and they were not just taking a long time singing, they were being all fancy about it. They were doing fancy vocal things; and I was bored , so I decided to wave my arms around."
For a moment, I thought he meant he was signing something.
" You know, conducting."
Ahhhhh...
"But they didn't' appreciate my doing that."
I wondered if they think he appreciates their singing, but I probably should not tell him my thought, in case he might say that.
And not get invited back again.
Although, since he would really rather just stay at the yeshivah, maybe I should allow him to copy his socially innappropriate mother's lead.....since I would have said it.
When he first arrived in Israel, after he had figured out the intricacies of using the calling card and the pay phone, we would get a few phone calls a week.
A few being somewhere around 5.
Since he couldn't call on Shabbat ( our Sabbath), and since we are occasionally not home, this meant he was calling daily.
This tapered off.
Rather quickly.
I was not sure if it tapered off because he was busy, because he was less homesick or because he didn't' want to be perceived as not being cool. But since we were still getting calls about twice a week, I didn't' worry about it. After all, what could have happened?
I mean other than having , G-d forbid, gotten some sort of disease spread by the mice running through the dorm, or, perhaps........
Recently, however, he has started calling with that old , much longed for ( by his lonely and worried old mother) frequency.
This is because he learned that his roommate, Aaron- the other Aaron who is also from Indiana, calls home every day.
Well, except for Shabbat.
And the other Aaron is cool. At least, he is relatively cool, since he is already done with his university education at Hebrew University and with the army. And he is even abel to grow something that resembles a beard
So, now that calling home can be equated with someone who has some cool characteristics, Aaron, my Aaron, has resumed this habit, relieving his mother of worrying that he might have been carted off to the hospital, or have fallen into coma from starvation, or.......
Anyhow, Aaron called home, today.
Since I speak with him almost daily there are a limited number of topics.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"What did you do for Shabbat ( which was yesterday, meaning we haven't' spoken for an entire 48 hours.)? Did you eat at the yeshivah or did you go eat at a family?"
"I ate at a family."
"Friday dinner and Saturday lunch?"
"Yes, both of them."
"The same family or different families?"
"The same family."
"Did you eat well?"
(Can you tell that I am a Jewish mother? I mean, in addition to my other minor worrying attributes?)
"Yes, very well. But I keep meaning to stay at the yeshivah for Shabbat."
"Why?"
"Well, they spend a long time singing. But I feel bad saying I won't go, when they invite me. But they spend a long time singing."
Singing is not my son's strong point.
Unless they want to sing "Happy Birthday", which is usually not on the list of Shabbat songs.
Unless it is someone's birthday.
And , since he can't make out what people are singing ( it is much harder than figuring out words in a sentence, because the timing, the break between words and the tonality throw the decoding off, when you are deaf), he is usually just plain lost.
And also, being deaf, not the most appreciative audience.
"Well, and they were not just taking a long time singing, they were being all fancy about it. They were doing fancy vocal things; and I was bored , so I decided to wave my arms around."
For a moment, I thought he meant he was signing something.
" You know, conducting."
Ahhhhh...
"But they didn't' appreciate my doing that."
I wondered if they think he appreciates their singing, but I probably should not tell him my thought, in case he might say that.
And not get invited back again.
Although, since he would really rather just stay at the yeshivah, maybe I should allow him to copy his socially innappropriate mother's lead.....since I would have said it.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Story of the Day 2/ 3 / 2012
Story of the Day 2/ 3/ 2012 is really a kind of addendum to Stories of the Day 1/ 8, 1/9 and 1/15. That is because Sarah is enrolled in a filmmaking and animation class, and making YoMama - while not for the class- was not the only video she has to make , this semester.
So, Sarah's newest video, the one with the Legos, is finished.
We survived separating and sorting thousands and thousands of Legos.
We survived techinical non-support, I mean support and we survived the music.
Music?
Well, Sarah had edited her video, and then she said to me, "I need some music or Hearing people will be bored watching it."
Since Hearing people describes her teachers and all of her fellow students in the film class, music is probably a good idea.
A few minutes later Sarah asked me to listen to a sound track she found on the internet.
Sarah likes humming.
She cannot hear music, but she likes humming and pretending she can hum, because she knows that she can make that "mmmm-mmmm-hmmm-mmmm" vibration in her throat, just like Hearing people. You know, the vibration called humming that is...music.
So Sarah has located some humming. A sound track of it.
I listen to it.
Something is wrong.
I tell her it won't work.
She clicks on another soundtrack of humming and plays it for me.
I realize what the problem is.
"Sarah, that is machine humming, like a refrigerator or a truck idling."
Sarah is surprised.
Who knew there were so many kinds of humming.
Well, she does know that there is more than one meaning to the word, humming, but how can she find what she wants?
She tries to think of another word that would describe what she wants.
Melody.
She types "melody" into the search engine.
A long list of possible sounds comes up.
She immediately focuses in on one of them.
"I want that one!"
"Um, Sarah, I am not sure harp music is exactly what you want for your video......" I hate to be a wet blanket, but.....harp music?
"Yes it is. I love harp music!"
"Sarah, you have never heard any harp music, or any music at all. Why do you say you love harp music?"
"Because they used it in Harry Potter to put the dog to sleep."
How can I argue with this logic.
So, now Sarah's film has harp music for the background.
And , you know what? It works.
So, Sarah's newest video, the one with the Legos, is finished.
We survived separating and sorting thousands and thousands of Legos.
We survived techinical non-support, I mean support and we survived the music.
Music?
Well, Sarah had edited her video, and then she said to me, "I need some music or Hearing people will be bored watching it."
Since Hearing people describes her teachers and all of her fellow students in the film class, music is probably a good idea.
A few minutes later Sarah asked me to listen to a sound track she found on the internet.
Sarah likes humming.
She cannot hear music, but she likes humming and pretending she can hum, because she knows that she can make that "mmmm-mmmm-hmmm-mmmm" vibration in her throat, just like Hearing people. You know, the vibration called humming that is...music.
So Sarah has located some humming. A sound track of it.
I listen to it.
Something is wrong.
I tell her it won't work.
She clicks on another soundtrack of humming and plays it for me.
I realize what the problem is.
"Sarah, that is machine humming, like a refrigerator or a truck idling."
Sarah is surprised.
Who knew there were so many kinds of humming.
Well, she does know that there is more than one meaning to the word, humming, but how can she find what she wants?
She tries to think of another word that would describe what she wants.
Melody.
She types "melody" into the search engine.
A long list of possible sounds comes up.
She immediately focuses in on one of them.
"I want that one!"
"Um, Sarah, I am not sure harp music is exactly what you want for your video......" I hate to be a wet blanket, but.....harp music?
"Yes it is. I love harp music!"
"Sarah, you have never heard any harp music, or any music at all. Why do you say you love harp music?"
"Because they used it in Harry Potter to put the dog to sleep."
How can I argue with this logic.
So, now Sarah's film has harp music for the background.
And , you know what? It works.
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