My neighbor calls me up. She's got seminary girls who need a meal and can I host them? And "Oh," she says, "When they heard that my neighbor is Riva Pomerantz, they REALLY wanted to go to you for a meal."

Well, that's encouraging. It's Thursday night. I have deadlines to meet, Shabbos cooking to finish, and I committed to giving a Friday night shiur for neighborhood women. But there are seminary girls coming and they "REALLY want to go to Riva Pomerantz for a meal."

I recently met a young woman--very sweet, very nice; we chatted together for a little while. Nothing special. Then, in the course of the conversation, she happens to mention that she is the daughter of a spiritual "celebrity" in the chareidi world. Bam! Presto Change-o! All of a sudden she's interesting, she sparkles, the conversation becomes animated and compelling! Of course, I could just about whack myself on the side of the head for this really inexcusable behavior. Is this girl the sum total of her well-known father?! Does the expectation instantly rise when I discover her fame? The astute observer will predict very quickly where this is going...

Am I the sum total of my writing? Is there an expectation of some brilliant wow factor that will immediately electrify the atmosphere of our Shabbos meal together as these seminary girls look on with awe? Will my kids behave like perfect little angels? Will my house be spotless? Will I serve a five-course gourmet meal and a complex, Rich's whip-laden confection for dessert? What expectations lie behind the words "When they heard that my neighbor is Riva Pomerantz, they REALLY wanted to go to you for a meal." Am I any different a person than BEFORE I became a writer? Ask my mother. I don't think so.

See this is where my mind becomes a dangerous neighborhood. There's a line that line that goes something like "I am the person you think I think you think I am". Who says these girls are expecting Perfectionville? Maybe these girls think writers are dirty, disorganized people (now we're approaching Reality city limits!), live in tiny, dank closets, and they beat their children with long, wooden pens. Maybe they think I'll have wrinkles and a toothless grin and I'll serve them a meager meal of dry, tasteless challah and a bit of chicken. Ya never know!

Or MAYBE they think I'm just a regular, normal mother-wife-daughter who happens to have a cool job and they have no expectations whatsover. Hmmmm....

Well guess what, guys--I just burned the gefilte fish. 

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