My husband was wandering around Yerushalayim (Jerusalem) today, looking for a certain street, and he met up with some yeshivah bochurim (students) who helped him find his way.

"What's your name?" they asked him, friendly-like.

"Joel Pomerantz," said he.

"Oh," they said, "The only Pomerantz we know is the writer."

My husband proceeded to tell them that "the writer" is his wife, at which point they allegedly professed their undying and open enthusiasm for Green Fences.

When I wrote this serial I never in my wildest dreams imagined that it would be something that would appeal to yeshivah guys. But the truth is, why wouldn't it? Soon enough, they'll be married, and the concept of dealing with female relationships, envy, and navigating the waters of shalom bayis (harmony in the home) is one they probably like to chew on every once in awhile. Cute anecdote, no? :-)

I have long observed an interesting phenomenon which my Shabbos guests, who are such wonderfully giving people, further drove home for me yesterday. I have seen fantastically wealthy people who dole out dollar-store gifts with all the joy of suffering a root canal. And then there are those people with very little money in the bank who are just so generous, they're falling all over themselves giving to others.

When Chazal (our Sages) say, "Aizehu ashir, hasameach b'chelko", "Who is wealthy? The one who is satisfied with his portion", they were touching on this intriguing phenomenon. Because money is a mindset. You can have a lot of it and be afflicted with an equally enormous scarcity mentality, and boom! There goes your money! You just can't enjoy it, can't spend it, certainly can't share it, because there just isn't enough! And conversely, you can have a modest amount but feel like the richest person in the world, imbued with the ability to share that wealth with others.

It occurs to me that probably the factor that lies at the root of the two perspectives is faith vs. fear. The generous person has faith that s/he will continue to be blessed with sustenance from G-d's plentiful bounty and therefore s/he can afford to share. The stingy person has fear that s/he will be left without enough for even the basic necessities; or that if they give to one or two people, a hundred more will come knocking and there goes the entire bank account.

I have found faith v. fear the most long-running case in my mental Supreme Court--about 31 years and counting, and it promises to be a spectacular showdown. Thing is, I'm not sure who's the prosecution and who's the defense. All I know is that seeing the generosity of our Shabbos guests gives me a wealth of food for thought to chomp on.

Nestled amongst the glowing bottles of canola oil in the supermarket today was a member of a genus that I find quite...horrifying. It starts with a "C", although its nickname begins with "R" and it rhymes (more handily if you're spelling its slang name) with the word "coach". Dead. Not something I want to reach over as I select my canola oil.

Happily, one of the members of the store's industrious cleaning crew happened to saunter by at just that moment. This is the ensuing convermotion (conversation + frantic hand motions):

Me (in hebrew): There's something you need to take care of! (Motioning frantically in direction of box.)

[Note: The gentleman's mother-tongue is probably Amharic]

Him (broken Hebrew): What?

Me: Look!!! Look!! (Punctuated by further frantic motions.

Him: Take away box?

Me: (Make the motion of a crawling insect, through dexterous finger movements. Try my luck by switching to English) Bug!! Bug!!

Him: (He's a nice guy--you can tell he wants to help out.) Where? Take away box?

So finally I overcome my squeamishness and point directly to the crumpled corpse, so utterly close that I feel a need to autoclave my pointer finger afterward. He leans in for a closer look. And then...precious! The dawning light of comprehension! Eureka! We have successfully reached the pinancle of communication. He beams. I beam. He rushes off to get his garbage bag. I rush off to get my barf bag. Veni. Vidi. Vici.

Have you ever noticed that two people can be communicating but they're not speaking the same language? Even if they're both speaking the same language. Communication is such an art. As for me, I think I should have been awarded some sort of prize for saving other customers from the trauma of happening upon El Roacho. I'd settle for a free canola oil.

 

As a confirmed and registered member of the female species, I do feel significant shame and guilt in making the following confession, but honesty and weary contempt compel me to do so at great risk to my self-esteem: I hate shopping. Yes--hate. I know, it's a big, bad word, and it would be better to temper it with something less, well, hateful, like "dislike", "don't really like" or "prefer not to", but I will stick with my original sentiment. For me, shopping is second only to doing algebra. Okay, maybe not that bad.

But sadly, wardrobes don't update themselves, and personal shoppers are so hard to come by, so the deed had to be done. I duly shlepped in to Yerushalayim (Jerusalem) to embark upon the dread mission. I will spare you the gory details of pushy salespeople, a dizzying selection of merchandise that seems to only come in the size I am not, and other such delights of this hallowed (by some) pastime. Instead, I want to propose a theory of shopping. Perhaps it will become a law one day. I would name it something original, like The Riva Law of Shopping.

Anyway, right this way to the theory--fourth aisle, second shelf, hanging on a rack, of course. The theory is this: the reason why shopping is so frustrating is because it calls into play the need to make decisions that are not only financial and social, but also emotional and even existential. I will illustrate this with an example:

That sweater, over there, the purplish one with a kind of mottled pattern, is really cute. Okay, how much does it cost? (Financial) Gosh, well, I guess I could splurge. But wait! Will it make me look fat? (Emotional) Is this what people are wearing these days? (Social) But...hold on a second: what will this purple sweater DO for me? Is it me? Is it the person I want to be me? Is it someone else who I'd like to incorporate into my me-ness? Will it give me the air and attitude that the shirt conjures up in all its mottled glory? (Existential)

Okay, maybe I'm just weird and my mind chases its tail with so frivolous a thing as a purple sweater. But maybe I'm not.

I have to say, however, that the worst part about shopping is the empty feeling I get after the temporary high wears off. Maybe you can relate.

Having read this week's parshah (Torah portion) about the tragic slander spoken by the Spies about the Land of Israel, I felt compelled to post about how much I LOVE living here. As in L-O-V-E. Having made aliyah from the States, where we lived in a four-floor house with two cars (now that I've falsely conjured up images of luxury, let me just date the cars as '88 and '92; as for the house...no comment!) I will be the first to say that life here is not as easy as it is in America. But what you get here in terms of emotional and spiritual fulfilment is unmatched anywhere else in the world.

Maybe it's my quirky personality but I just love meeting the colorful characters that freely inhabit Eretz Yisrael. They're fellow Jews and they are just the best. No one says it like it is like an Israeli, and my shopping experience on Wednesday really left me laughing. This is one of those "Only in Israel" stories. I went over to the produce guy to ask him to choose a watermelon for me. While I was at it, I asked if he could sell me just a half (Y'know how you have this huge watermelon that you've paid for so all of a sudden it's watermelon sorbet, watermelon quiche, watermelon cookies, and watermelon smoothies for, like, a week!). So the guy kind of looks down at the floor and mumbles, "Weeeeell, we really don't sell halves except...Except to pregnant women. So...."

It took me a small moment to realize that he was trying to ask if I was expecting in order to determine whether he could sell me a half a watermelon. I was way too flustered to ask what the watermelon-pregnancy connection is when Produce proceeded to add that he had a horrifying experience the other day. A woman asked for half-a-watermelon; he refused not noticing that she was expecting (!) but immediately afterward he happened to, er, make the connection, and he apologized profusely and immediately ran to get her a juicy half.

Something about the produce man being next-to-know after my mother and the OB/GYN is just too funny to me. It almost tops overhearing the saleswoman in the clothing store telling a customer, "You're way too heavy for that skirt!" But it's the same "say it like it is" that compels the bus driver to wish you an easy birth, a random woman on the bus telling you your baby isn't wrapped up properly, and the cleaning lady who calls you the Morroccan equivalent of "sweetie" which is actually "Mammy"!

It's very real, it's very heimish (homey), and I love every minute. Thank You, Hashem, (G-d), for the gift of living in this wonderful Land.

Check out a cute, little piece on Aish.com:
http://www.aish.com/literacy/mitzvahs/Surveillance.asp

I remember a lecture I once attended (astonishing, since my memory is practically non-existent). I think it was Rabbi Dovid Kaplan, who's extremely wise and funny--a great combination!--who told this story (of course, I'm re-telling it in my own words. Hope you don't mind!):

Yankel calls up Shmerel, says, "Tell me something--but be really, really honest with me. Okay?"
"Kay."
"Okay, tell me: Am I a jerk?"
"Uh, no."
"Am I rude, incorrigible, argumentative, rough-around-the-edges, annoying, and abrasive?"
"Uh, not really."
"Am I demeaning, contemptuous, mean, nasty, and insulting?"
"Gosh, I really don't think so."
"Phew," sighed the friend. "That's all, then."
"Uh, would you mind giving just a tiny little explanation?"
"No, not at all. Y'see, I just encountered a person who had the worst character in the entire world. He was, well, many of the things that I just described to you. And I really was taken aback by him. I thought, 'How can it be that a person can behave this way?' And almost immediately, the thought dawned on me: 'Maybe he doesn't realize that that's the way he acts!' So I immediately decided to call a good friend and check myself out--maybe I also act that way, unbeknownst to myself!!"

Great story, huh? Well, I'd just like to add one more facet. Our Sages teach that bad middos (character traits) are a choli hanefesh, a spiritual illness. And thinking about character defects in that way is so much more comforting and do-able! I recently encountered a person who, shall we say, also seems to fit most of the adjectives listed above. I kid you not. This person always exudes--oozes--contempt and distaste, and it is really kind of sad. So as I walked home, licking my fresh wounds from the very overt put-downs, I suddenly had a startling realization: This person is sick! Nebbach! Spiritually ill, as i! People struggle with all sorts of things in life--financial problems, difficult kids, stringy hair, and bad character traits are just one more challenge, albeit one that causes a great deal more distress to others than, like, stringy hair.

It really depersonalized the insult; my empathy over her problem effectively blocked out the sting of her put-down. Better than wallowing in self-pity and resentment. I prayed for her--sick people need prayers, right?

This is a real, actual, unedited conversation overheard on the bus. I will give you my take on it at the end, allowing you to swish it around in your mental wine glass and savor the aromas for yourself first.

Boy 1 (Sadly): "Yeah, I was all shtarked out and then I went home and I came back and I just lost it."
Boy 2: "Yeah, you had really shtarked out. Crazy. What happened to you?"
Boy 1: "Yeah, I was really shtark. I dunno...I..."
Boisterous, Noisy Girl #25 of a group of about 40 to Boy 1: "Excuse me, where did you get your yarmulke?"
Boy 1: "I had it custom-made."
BNG #25/40: "Oh...cuz, like, my brother really wants one like that..."
Boy 1 shrugs. A possible firtation attempt has just been foiled. Or maybe she really wanted to get an identical kippah for her brother.
Boy 2 begins a complex and meandering conversation on his cellphone.
Boy 2: "Listen, he's going to have a really hard time taking this. Are you okay with me kind of hinting to him that it's going to break up? I mean, he's very sensitive, and I don't want him to take it too hard. Yeah, I know. I'll just tell him that I overheard you saying to your friend that it's not going to work out and you still wanna be friends and everything, but it's the distance. Y'know, the regular stuff you say."
Conversation continues for several more minutes. Boy 2 continues to make very heartfelt and sincere offers to break the news of the breakup to poor, unawares Roomate. He is obviously talking to Roomate's Soon-to-be-Former Girlfriend. He finally concludes the conversation with chivalrous aplomb.
Boy 2 to Boy 1: "I heard them laughing. It's so mean--I mean, they're not trying ot be mean or anything, but...He's such a great guy. This is gonna kill him. He's obssessed with her. I hope he doesn't hit me when I tell him. He's a pretty strong guy. I bought some vodka, so he can drink afterwards..."

Gulp.

It took every ounce of restraint not to turn around to Mr. Chivalrous and give him the following piece of sound advice: Remember this golden acronym: M-Y-O-B! Mind Your Own Business, dude! Words to live by. Let Girlfriend do her own dirty work!" Unless he was trying to ally with her thinking he could step in after she dumps Roomie with his tactful assistance, but I'd rather not even go there.

It's conversations and realities like these that really make me wonder who, deep-down in the most inner realm of Self, actually thinks that casual guy-girl dating is healthy. And he was so shtarked out before he went home...