The Rabbi, The Lawyer, and the Redhead
It had to have been one of the strangest gatherings of dinner companions: 90-year old Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut- one of the leading rabbis of the 20thc and Rabbi Emeritus of Holy Blossom Temple, Robert (Bob) Smolkin, a middle-aged, dignified, very successful Bay St. lawyer and co-founder of the Out of the Cold program at Holy Blossom Temple, and me—a 30-year old mouthy redhead who called the Wheat Sheaf Tavern her second home.
Once a week, for two years, the three of us got together at Rabbi Plaut’s apartment for dinner.
It began after Rabbi Plaut’s wife, Elizabeth, needed to be relocated to Baycrest and Rabbi Plaut was alone. I had previously served as Rabbi Plaut’s research assistant in my 20s, and he had developed into a grandfather-figure for me. So, I decided that once a week I would visit him. We would play chess (where he would beat me soundly in minutes) or watch sports.
I met Bob Smolkin through the Out of the Cold program where I volunteered. One night, he approached me and asked how Rabbi Plaut was doing. I told him that he was doing OK under the circumstances, but that I wanted to do more. Bob suggested that he and I should have dinner with Rabbi Plaut to which I enthusiastically agreed. We planned to start the following Tuesday.
On Tuesday morning, Bob sent me an e-mail which went something along the lines of:
Dear Natalie: What were you planning to bring for dinner tonight with Rabbi Plaut? I think my wife, Sheila, has some leftovers in the fridge…some sort of potato item…please let me know your thoughts on this matter. Bob
Dear Bob: I don’t know how to cook. Now what? Natalie
We sheepishly decided the best idea was to procure a prepared chicken from the Loblaws across from Rabbi Plaut’s apartment and some sort of vegetable product that I would magically transfer into a salad, and knowing Rabbi Plaut’s fondness for chocolate, we got 3 brownies.
We brought our groceries up to Rabbi Plaut’s apartment and got to work trying to set up dinner. Of course, being of a certain age, they both thought I, the female, had this under control and were a little confused when I declared that the kitchen was really a foreign country. I eventually got to work making the salad and when I couldn’t find anything to mix it with, I used my hands to the absolute horror of these two refined gentlemen.
We decided to make it a weekly event. Bob would bring leftovers, I would do a Loblaws run and make a salad using proper tools. After dinner, we would watch baseball or tennis, and when Bob and I could convince Rabbi Plaut, we watched hockey. Sometimes, Bob would bring a movie that he thought Rabbi Plaut would enjoy. The one I remember most clearly was about Hank Greenberg and Bob and Rabbi Plaut would reminisce about past World Series and their heroes. Once, Bob organized a private dinner with us and Captain John from Captain John’s Harbour Restaurant and we all got a special tour of the boat.
But the best moments that Bob and I had with Rabbi Plaut were when he would tell us stories about living in Germany. We learned about his parents and his strict upbringing, about the rise of anti-semitism and when he saw Hitler up-close. He told us about his own athletic career which included notable achievements in soccer and tennis. Bob would then talk about his own childhood, his parents to whom he was devoted, his cottage, books he was reading, and of course, his children. Both Bob and Rabbi Plaut enjoyed listening to music from their respective generations which at first made me cringe. “Why can’t we listen to what I want to listen to?” I would ask in mock petulance. “Haven’t you guys ever heard of Echo and the Bunnymen? U2? “Sinead O’Conner?” Once, Bob found some old hats of Rabbi Plaut’s and he put one on and began to do a vaudeville routine. Rabbi Plaut joined in. And I just laughed.
Many times at dinner, I would ask them both questions, one right after another, trying to imagine what their lives had been like and what I could take from their experiences and apply them to my own. I know I drove them both crazy with my “like” after every few words and my “yeah right whatever.” But I was in complete awe of them and I remember feeling so very privileged that I had that quality of time with these two remarkable individuals.
In 2003, I had my first child and that put an end to our regular dinners. Bob continued to visit Rabbi Plaut with regularity even after Rabbi Plaut moved to Baycrest. My own visits with Rabbi Plaut were far less regular, and I did not see Bob for many years until Rabbi Plaut’s funeral in February 2012. This past Friday, I learned the sad news that Bob too had passed away.
I hope that the two of them have found each other somewhere and that they are having dinner together. Hopefully, the chef is better than me.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Guardian Rabbis
"The Guardian Rabbis" by Natalie Fingerhut
in Living Legacies edited by Liz Pearl (2011)
Dedicated to Raphael Marvin Fingerhut (1938 – 1982) and to the other three male guardians: the late Keith Bush who kicked me out of his Grade 10 Geography class and told me to come back when I was ready to learn, the late Professor Joseph Papaleo, writing teacher extraordinaire from Sarah Lawrence College and to Professor Howard Adelman, former Director of the Centre for Refugee Studies at York University, who proved to me over and over again that anything can be accomplished with will and a big personality.
My father, Raphael Marvin Fingerhut (or Ray as he was called) died in a canoe accident that I survived when I was 12-years-old. When Ray looked down at me from heaven − or from wherever they send Jeep-driving, fur coat-wearing, professional wrestling-loving Jewish lawyers − he saw a spunky, rebellious, self-centred smart-ass. As he puffed on his omnipresent pipe, Ray thought long and hard about who was going to be the male role model in his daughter’s life. Who was going to ensure that his daughter didn’t go down the wrong path?
Well, if she’s anything like me, she’s not going to listen to teachers and principals. I'd suggest the Canadian Armed Forces but that could be a threat to national security.
And then it hit him.
A rabbi! A rabbi can look after her! They are trained in this kind of thing, for God’s sake. And no one, not even my crazy kid, is going to mouth off to a rabbi.
Since his death in 1982, Ray made certain that I always had a guardian rabbi. In my teens, Rabbi Steven Garten, former Director of Education at Holy Blossom Temple took the job. In my 20s, there was W. Gunther Plaut, former Senior Rabbi of Holy Blossom Temple, and in my 30s, the current senior Rabbi at Holy Blossom Temple, John Moscowitz, got the call.
If Ray were alive today, he would have written a thank-you letter to these three unique rabbis.
This is that letter.
***
Dear Rabbi Steven Garten, Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut, Rabbi John Moscowitz:
Before I begin this letter thanking each of you for taking care of my daughter, Natalie, in my permanent absence, you need to know that while Steve called her Nat, Rabbi Plaut used the formal Miss Fingerhoot, and Rabbi M referred to her ironically as Miss Congeniality, to me, she was and will always be “Hut”.
She’s something else, my little Hut. Highly challenging, I believe is the phrase most often ascribed to her. As you know, she still challenges authority and thinks that rules are made for everyone but her. But thanks to each of you, she functions very well (most days) as a full-time editor, a part-time writer, an enthusiastic member of the downtown Toronto Jewish community, and a responsible member of civilized society.
Of all of you, Rabbi Garten, I think we were the most similar: fun-loving, irreverent, and lucky for Hut, very forgiving. I wasn’t sure how you were going to deal with the tri-coloured hair and multiple holes in her teenage ears, but you saw beyond the superficial and saw a bit of a kindred spirit. When she got sent down to your office for betraying her inebriation one too many times, you gave her another chance to stay on at Holy Blossom Temple. Clearly, you understood that after what she had been through, acting out by being drunk at religious school really meant that she needed a little understanding and compassion.
Besides showing understanding and compassion, you also explained to her many times that she needed to stop talking and start listening. While she didn’t have to agree with what people said to her, she had to listen to what they had to say first. No more Miss Know-it-All, no more Miss Smart-Ass. You should know that 25 years later, she remembers your message, especially in her job as an editor where listening to her authors’ ideas and opinions is part of her daily life. She often rolls her eyes – she is Hut after all-but because you reminded her often about the importance of listening, she listens.
Well, Rabbi Plaut, I am not sure what possessed you − an 80-year-old Order of Canada recipient; the author of a widely used commentary on the Torah; a great author, thinker, and leader − to hire my scrappy 21-year-old to research and edit some of your many acclaimed books. I can only guess that even though you both came from such different worlds − the cultural and intellectual centre of interwar Berlin versus the bars on College Street, you are both curious, highly disciplined, and have an off-beat sense of humour and mischief. The time you tricked her into a chugging a glass of vodka after telling her it was just water, I laughed so hard they heard me in hell.
But this is really what you need to know, Rabbi Plaut. This is what I have wanted to tell you for a very long time. After working with you for ten years and later becoming a sort of granddaughter, Hut could never just sit back and watch the world go by. You showed her by example that she had a moral obligation to make the world a better place. You told her that it was not enough for her to study or talk about a problem, she had to do something about it. Whether it was teaching English to victims of torture, or teaching writing to street kids, or sitting on the Board of Directors at the Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre, she hears your gruff, strict, voice every day reminding her that helping others has to be done. You taught her to do good, and so she does.
Now when Hut turned 30, she was doing alright. The scrappiness and rebelliousness still existed but she had matured. Besides, she had a nice, Jewish boy that she had recently married. She was actually pretty happy except for one big issue: she still hadn’t learned how to cope with the loss of her father. And that’s where you came in, Rabbi M. I gave you the tough job. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you were up to it. I mean, you are kind of quiet and reflective. I wasn’t sure how Hut was going to respond to your personality. However, at your Installation as Senior Rabbi, one of your colleagues noted that you “knew how to suffer (and that you wanted) desperately to be a rabbi so that (you could) teach and heal.” That clinched it for me.
Calmly though assertively, you explained to Hut that she needed to stop looking behind at her fractured past and look forward to a stable future. It was fine to think about what she had lost and reflect on it, but it was not fine to get mired in it. She had to toughen up or else she was going to wind up either writing bad Canadian fiction about being a morose fatherless daughter or being an emotional train wreck.
Toughening up was crucial, but more important was when you caught her using my death as an excuse to be ambivalent about her life. Rather than allowing her to get away with that attitude, you shifted her focus back to what was important: marriage, children, professional satisfaction, and writing. Her present and future had to be lived. Her past had to be compartmentalized. You told her that she needed to learn how to live with loss, so she learned to live with it.
To Listen, To Do, and To Live with Loss. Pretty valuable lessons, I’d say. Not bad for a bunch of rabbis. I thereby raise a glass of Chivas (you guys deserve the good stuff) and point my pipe down at you in respect and eternal thanks.
Give her a hug from me when you see her next.
Sincerely, Ray
Natalie Fingerhut received a BA from Sarah Lawrence College-a left-wing loony bin that Ray would have initially objected to but would have eventually admired. She also holds a Masters Degree in History from the University of Toronto and has completed the coursework for a PhD in Genocide Studies at Concordia University − a fact that is a guaranteed conversation stopper at cocktail parties. Currently, Natalie is history editor at the University of Toronto Press in Toronto and a part-time writer. Her work has appeared in Dropped Threads: Beyond the Small Circle, The Globe and Mail, and the Canadian Jewish News, as well as an upcoming short story in Broken Pencil. When she is not playing with words, she is playing with her two children, Raffi and Olivia, and her nice, Jewish boy, Rob Winters, often at the corner of Bloor and Spadina at the Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre where she proudly and happily sits as a member of the Board of Directors.
in Living Legacies edited by Liz Pearl (2011)
Dedicated to Raphael Marvin Fingerhut (1938 – 1982) and to the other three male guardians: the late Keith Bush who kicked me out of his Grade 10 Geography class and told me to come back when I was ready to learn, the late Professor Joseph Papaleo, writing teacher extraordinaire from Sarah Lawrence College and to Professor Howard Adelman, former Director of the Centre for Refugee Studies at York University, who proved to me over and over again that anything can be accomplished with will and a big personality.
My father, Raphael Marvin Fingerhut (or Ray as he was called) died in a canoe accident that I survived when I was 12-years-old. When Ray looked down at me from heaven − or from wherever they send Jeep-driving, fur coat-wearing, professional wrestling-loving Jewish lawyers − he saw a spunky, rebellious, self-centred smart-ass. As he puffed on his omnipresent pipe, Ray thought long and hard about who was going to be the male role model in his daughter’s life. Who was going to ensure that his daughter didn’t go down the wrong path?
Well, if she’s anything like me, she’s not going to listen to teachers and principals. I'd suggest the Canadian Armed Forces but that could be a threat to national security.
And then it hit him.
A rabbi! A rabbi can look after her! They are trained in this kind of thing, for God’s sake. And no one, not even my crazy kid, is going to mouth off to a rabbi.
Since his death in 1982, Ray made certain that I always had a guardian rabbi. In my teens, Rabbi Steven Garten, former Director of Education at Holy Blossom Temple took the job. In my 20s, there was W. Gunther Plaut, former Senior Rabbi of Holy Blossom Temple, and in my 30s, the current senior Rabbi at Holy Blossom Temple, John Moscowitz, got the call.
If Ray were alive today, he would have written a thank-you letter to these three unique rabbis.
This is that letter.
***
Dear Rabbi Steven Garten, Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut, Rabbi John Moscowitz:
Before I begin this letter thanking each of you for taking care of my daughter, Natalie, in my permanent absence, you need to know that while Steve called her Nat, Rabbi Plaut used the formal Miss Fingerhoot, and Rabbi M referred to her ironically as Miss Congeniality, to me, she was and will always be “Hut”.
She’s something else, my little Hut. Highly challenging, I believe is the phrase most often ascribed to her. As you know, she still challenges authority and thinks that rules are made for everyone but her. But thanks to each of you, she functions very well (most days) as a full-time editor, a part-time writer, an enthusiastic member of the downtown Toronto Jewish community, and a responsible member of civilized society.
Of all of you, Rabbi Garten, I think we were the most similar: fun-loving, irreverent, and lucky for Hut, very forgiving. I wasn’t sure how you were going to deal with the tri-coloured hair and multiple holes in her teenage ears, but you saw beyond the superficial and saw a bit of a kindred spirit. When she got sent down to your office for betraying her inebriation one too many times, you gave her another chance to stay on at Holy Blossom Temple. Clearly, you understood that after what she had been through, acting out by being drunk at religious school really meant that she needed a little understanding and compassion.
Besides showing understanding and compassion, you also explained to her many times that she needed to stop talking and start listening. While she didn’t have to agree with what people said to her, she had to listen to what they had to say first. No more Miss Know-it-All, no more Miss Smart-Ass. You should know that 25 years later, she remembers your message, especially in her job as an editor where listening to her authors’ ideas and opinions is part of her daily life. She often rolls her eyes – she is Hut after all-but because you reminded her often about the importance of listening, she listens.
Well, Rabbi Plaut, I am not sure what possessed you − an 80-year-old Order of Canada recipient; the author of a widely used commentary on the Torah; a great author, thinker, and leader − to hire my scrappy 21-year-old to research and edit some of your many acclaimed books. I can only guess that even though you both came from such different worlds − the cultural and intellectual centre of interwar Berlin versus the bars on College Street, you are both curious, highly disciplined, and have an off-beat sense of humour and mischief. The time you tricked her into a chugging a glass of vodka after telling her it was just water, I laughed so hard they heard me in hell.
But this is really what you need to know, Rabbi Plaut. This is what I have wanted to tell you for a very long time. After working with you for ten years and later becoming a sort of granddaughter, Hut could never just sit back and watch the world go by. You showed her by example that she had a moral obligation to make the world a better place. You told her that it was not enough for her to study or talk about a problem, she had to do something about it. Whether it was teaching English to victims of torture, or teaching writing to street kids, or sitting on the Board of Directors at the Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre, she hears your gruff, strict, voice every day reminding her that helping others has to be done. You taught her to do good, and so she does.
Now when Hut turned 30, she was doing alright. The scrappiness and rebelliousness still existed but she had matured. Besides, she had a nice, Jewish boy that she had recently married. She was actually pretty happy except for one big issue: she still hadn’t learned how to cope with the loss of her father. And that’s where you came in, Rabbi M. I gave you the tough job. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you were up to it. I mean, you are kind of quiet and reflective. I wasn’t sure how Hut was going to respond to your personality. However, at your Installation as Senior Rabbi, one of your colleagues noted that you “knew how to suffer (and that you wanted) desperately to be a rabbi so that (you could) teach and heal.” That clinched it for me.
Calmly though assertively, you explained to Hut that she needed to stop looking behind at her fractured past and look forward to a stable future. It was fine to think about what she had lost and reflect on it, but it was not fine to get mired in it. She had to toughen up or else she was going to wind up either writing bad Canadian fiction about being a morose fatherless daughter or being an emotional train wreck.
Toughening up was crucial, but more important was when you caught her using my death as an excuse to be ambivalent about her life. Rather than allowing her to get away with that attitude, you shifted her focus back to what was important: marriage, children, professional satisfaction, and writing. Her present and future had to be lived. Her past had to be compartmentalized. You told her that she needed to learn how to live with loss, so she learned to live with it.
To Listen, To Do, and To Live with Loss. Pretty valuable lessons, I’d say. Not bad for a bunch of rabbis. I thereby raise a glass of Chivas (you guys deserve the good stuff) and point my pipe down at you in respect and eternal thanks.
Give her a hug from me when you see her next.
Sincerely, Ray
Natalie Fingerhut received a BA from Sarah Lawrence College-a left-wing loony bin that Ray would have initially objected to but would have eventually admired. She also holds a Masters Degree in History from the University of Toronto and has completed the coursework for a PhD in Genocide Studies at Concordia University − a fact that is a guaranteed conversation stopper at cocktail parties. Currently, Natalie is history editor at the University of Toronto Press in Toronto and a part-time writer. Her work has appeared in Dropped Threads: Beyond the Small Circle, The Globe and Mail, and the Canadian Jewish News, as well as an upcoming short story in Broken Pencil. When she is not playing with words, she is playing with her two children, Raffi and Olivia, and her nice, Jewish boy, Rob Winters, often at the corner of Bloor and Spadina at the Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre where she proudly and happily sits as a member of the Board of Directors.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Kalamazoo Diaries: Medieval Medicine
Medieval Medicine
“I’d like to see your new book on Medieval Medicine.” The thin voice of a slight auburn-haired medievalist drifted into my ears which were still ringing from the nuns at the next booth shrieking their greetings.
“Sure. Here you go.” We had just published a 600 pager on medieval medicine which had garnered a lot of attention in these early hours.
She positioned herself right in front of my stand and did not move. A minute passed, then another.
Another medievalist tried to access my stand.
“’Scuse me, miss.” He was a southern medievalist who spoke but did not look like a character from David Simon’s Treme. “Ah’d like to buy this here book on medieval birds but you are in the way.”
She didn’t move.
“I can help you over here.” Said Anna.
“Ummmm. Hey. Miss. Can you take the book over to those chairs. You are most welcome to sit and take a look at it over there.”
Nothing. She was catatonic. Her gaze not moving from the chapter on medieval sedation.
“Are you allright, miss? Do you need a doctor?”
Suddenly, she slumped down in front of my stand, curled up in a fetal position.
“My pill box. My pill box. Can you get it for me. Quickly.”
“Where is it?”
“In my purse. Please. I haven’t much time.”
I find her pink purse and dump out the contents. Sure enough, there is a little pearl pill box. The clasp is easy to open and I present her with the pills. Gratefully, she take 2 and downs them. Slowly she gets up, but she is pale and unsteady….
“Listen bitch, give me the fucking book on medicine!”
Huh?
“Don’t just stand there looking at me, give the fucking book on medicine.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. Are you OK?”
“Shut the fuck up, OK, and give me the fucking book!”
“I can’t just give it to you. You need to pay for it.”
“How much is it...a buck, 4 bucks, a billion bucks...” she opened up her purse and dumped the contents out onto my stand. I noticed two full prescription bottles. Vicotin. Oxycontin.
We had a mad medievalist on our hands. A very high mad medievalist.
“It’s 40 dollars for the book.” I said calmly hoping she would just pay and leave the booth.
“I don’t have 40 bucks, bitch. I have 4 bucks. And that’s what I am giving you.”
Anna heard the commotion and came to the stand.
“What’s the problem, Nat.”
“Look Bitch, this bitch won’t give me the book on medieval medicine.”
“I am not a bitch.” Said Anna. “I referee basketball games with men whose scrotums weigh more than you.”
“Did you just say scrotum?” said a man who clearly had begun the evening mead hour in the early morning. “That reminds me of a little song that I learned at summer camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin.”
“Wait...” I said. “I went to camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Olin-Sang-Ruby. “
“You mean the ole kike camp on Lac LaBelle?” he slurred. “Nah, I’m a good Catholic boy. I went to all-boys camp across from the monestary.”
“Oh honey...don’t sing the Scrotum song. Please don’t sing...” said the high medievalist.
Scrotum, Scrotum,
It's my wrinkly, crinkly bag of skin.
Scrotum, Scrotum,
It's the thing I keep my testes in.
By now, all the medievalists in the Exhibits Hall were focused on our booth. All 3500 of them.
“OK, miss.”
“I am not a ‘miss’, bitch. This guy is my man!”
“OK. So, I can’t let you have the book. You need to pay me for it.”
“How much is it?” her husband asked.
“40 bucks.”
“40 bucks!!! For this? Not happening. C’mon honey, let’s go.”
“I am not leaving this fucking booth without the fucking book!”
“I think you are leaving this ‘fucking booth’ without your ‘fucking book’. Said Anna.
“The fuck I am.” She said and quick as a stoned medievalist can be, she reached into Anna’s breast pocket, grabbed the taser ring and slapped me across the cheek.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTT
“Motherfucker!!” I screamed.
ZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTTT
“Motherfucker!!” screamed Anna.
“Take that your scrotum sucking basketball headed bitches!” She grabbed the book and took off toward the exit, her husband stumbling after her.
“What is it my child?” said the steady even voice of Father Whattawaste who was rubbing his elbow and looking down at the fallen medievalist who had just crashed into him.
“I’m sorry for my wife, Father. She isn’t quite herself.” Apologized the husband. “I hope she didn’t hurt you.”
Father Whattawaste kneeled down beside the medievalist.
“Are you Ok?” The crazed look lifted from the medievalist as she looked into the handsome face of Father Whattawaste.
“Are you a movie star?” She asked.
“Nope. Just a former child actor. How can I help you, my child. You seem to have a bit of the devil in you.”
“She takes a lot of pills, Father. Lots and lots of pills. She says they make her happy.”
“There are other ways to be happy, my child.”
“Tell me, Father. Tell me how to be happy.”
“You need to give yourself to God, my child. You need to find the path to Jesus. Only He can save you.”
Anna whispered to me: “Can you believe this is happening.”
Father Whattawaste took her hand and announced to all assembled.
“This woman has strayed from the path of the Almighty. We need to pray for her forgiveness. Join me now outside at the Western Michigan University football field and together, we will pray for her.”
Father Whattawaste carried the medievalist in his arms. A line of medievalists fell into orderly step behind him.
“This is insane.” Said Anna.
“Madness.” I said.
“What do you want to do now?”
“Drink.”
So we did. Many, many times over. We passed out on the top of Mount Snorelson to the sounds of the medievalist being baptized in a pond filled with the feces from Canadian geese.
Oy Gevalt
Kalamazoo Diaries.
“I’d like to see your new book on Medieval Medicine.” The thin voice of a slight auburn-haired medievalist drifted into my ears which were still ringing from the nuns at the next booth shrieking their greetings.
“Sure. Here you go.” We had just published a 600 pager on medieval medicine which had garnered a lot of attention in these early hours.
She positioned herself right in front of my stand and did not move. A minute passed, then another.
Another medievalist tried to access my stand.
“’Scuse me, miss.” He was a southern medievalist who spoke but did not look like a character from David Simon’s Treme. “Ah’d like to buy this here book on medieval birds but you are in the way.”
She didn’t move.
“I can help you over here.” Said Anna.
“Ummmm. Hey. Miss. Can you take the book over to those chairs. You are most welcome to sit and take a look at it over there.”
Nothing. She was catatonic. Her gaze not moving from the chapter on medieval sedation.
“Are you allright, miss? Do you need a doctor?”
Suddenly, she slumped down in front of my stand, curled up in a fetal position.
“My pill box. My pill box. Can you get it for me. Quickly.”
“Where is it?”
“In my purse. Please. I haven’t much time.”
I find her pink purse and dump out the contents. Sure enough, there is a little pearl pill box. The clasp is easy to open and I present her with the pills. Gratefully, she take 2 and downs them. Slowly she gets up, but she is pale and unsteady….
“Listen bitch, give me the fucking book on medicine!”
Huh?
“Don’t just stand there looking at me, give the fucking book on medicine.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. Are you OK?”
“Shut the fuck up, OK, and give me the fucking book!”
“I can’t just give it to you. You need to pay for it.”
“How much is it...a buck, 4 bucks, a billion bucks...” she opened up her purse and dumped the contents out onto my stand. I noticed two full prescription bottles. Vicotin. Oxycontin.
We had a mad medievalist on our hands. A very high mad medievalist.
“It’s 40 dollars for the book.” I said calmly hoping she would just pay and leave the booth.
“I don’t have 40 bucks, bitch. I have 4 bucks. And that’s what I am giving you.”
Anna heard the commotion and came to the stand.
“What’s the problem, Nat.”
“Look Bitch, this bitch won’t give me the book on medieval medicine.”
“I am not a bitch.” Said Anna. “I referee basketball games with men whose scrotums weigh more than you.”
“Did you just say scrotum?” said a man who clearly had begun the evening mead hour in the early morning. “That reminds me of a little song that I learned at summer camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin.”
“Wait...” I said. “I went to camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Olin-Sang-Ruby. “
“You mean the ole kike camp on Lac LaBelle?” he slurred. “Nah, I’m a good Catholic boy. I went to all-boys camp across from the monestary.”
“Oh honey...don’t sing the Scrotum song. Please don’t sing...” said the high medievalist.
Scrotum, Scrotum,
It's my wrinkly, crinkly bag of skin.
Scrotum, Scrotum,
It's the thing I keep my testes in.
By now, all the medievalists in the Exhibits Hall were focused on our booth. All 3500 of them.
“OK, miss.”
“I am not a ‘miss’, bitch. This guy is my man!”
“OK. So, I can’t let you have the book. You need to pay me for it.”
“How much is it?” her husband asked.
“40 bucks.”
“40 bucks!!! For this? Not happening. C’mon honey, let’s go.”
“I am not leaving this fucking booth without the fucking book!”
“I think you are leaving this ‘fucking booth’ without your ‘fucking book’. Said Anna.
“The fuck I am.” She said and quick as a stoned medievalist can be, she reached into Anna’s breast pocket, grabbed the taser ring and slapped me across the cheek.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTT
“Motherfucker!!” I screamed.
ZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTTT
“Motherfucker!!” screamed Anna.
“Take that your scrotum sucking basketball headed bitches!” She grabbed the book and took off toward the exit, her husband stumbling after her.
“What is it my child?” said the steady even voice of Father Whattawaste who was rubbing his elbow and looking down at the fallen medievalist who had just crashed into him.
“I’m sorry for my wife, Father. She isn’t quite herself.” Apologized the husband. “I hope she didn’t hurt you.”
Father Whattawaste kneeled down beside the medievalist.
“Are you Ok?” The crazed look lifted from the medievalist as she looked into the handsome face of Father Whattawaste.
“Are you a movie star?” She asked.
“Nope. Just a former child actor. How can I help you, my child. You seem to have a bit of the devil in you.”
“She takes a lot of pills, Father. Lots and lots of pills. She says they make her happy.”
“There are other ways to be happy, my child.”
“Tell me, Father. Tell me how to be happy.”
“You need to give yourself to God, my child. You need to find the path to Jesus. Only He can save you.”
Anna whispered to me: “Can you believe this is happening.”
Father Whattawaste took her hand and announced to all assembled.
“This woman has strayed from the path of the Almighty. We need to pray for her forgiveness. Join me now outside at the Western Michigan University football field and together, we will pray for her.”
Father Whattawaste carried the medievalist in his arms. A line of medievalists fell into orderly step behind him.
“This is insane.” Said Anna.
“Madness.” I said.
“What do you want to do now?”
“Drink.”
So we did. Many, many times over. We passed out on the top of Mount Snorelson to the sounds of the medievalist being baptized in a pond filled with the feces from Canadian geese.
Oy Gevalt
Kalamazoo Diaries.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Kalamazoo Diaries: It Begins Anew
It Begins Anew
And then it was evening
And then it was morning
Kalamazoo 2010.
This year, Michelle decided that she would rather go to Montreal for another conference. She claimed that her husband had to interview a 7ft Mennonite guitar player who, according to the tenets of his religion, could play guitar but not dance.
“So, you are trading up Hell with me for La Belle Hell with your hubby?” I asked accusingly.
Michelle’s face was toward her computer screen and I didn’t notice her white headphones.
“I said, SO YOU ARE TRADING UP HELL WITH ME FOR LA BELLE HELL WITH YOUR HUBBY?”
Silence.
I walked into my boss’ office.
“Michael, if Michelle isn’t coming with me to Kalamazoo, then who is.”
“I am.” In walked Anna. “I’m going with you. And so help me God, Nat, you are going to behave this year.”
“She’s right.” Michael said. “I don’t want to hear stories about you and monks and Stephen J. Rose.”
Stephen J. Rose. Stephen J. Rose. The pose of the Rose. The tattoo on his exposed flank. K-Zoo 4 Ever. It is all coming back to me now. An entire year gone. A move, a renovation, my son learning to read, my daughter learning to dance, Rob learning how to pick up his clothes, me learning how to brown beef in a pan without setting off the fire alarm---tremendous milestones disintegrating before my eyes and appearing clearly in their stead, the tattoo on the exposed flank of Stephen J. Rose: K-zoo 4 Ever. I feel giddy and lightheaded; the manic giggling about to erupt from my throat.
“ZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTT”
“WTF!!!” I cried out rubbing my forearm. “WTF!!!”
Anna unfolded her fingers to reveal a tiny disc.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a gizmo that is designed to bring you back to earth. When you get that look in your eye, I just have to put this on your arm and it shocks you to your senses.”
“That is not fucking legal!”
“It’s for your own good.” Michael said soothingly. “Really, I asked my brother who deals with people with extreme mood disorders and this sort of mild electric shock therapy works wonder.”
“I’m calling Rob. There is no way that you can do that in this country.”
Michael and Anna looked at each other sheepishly.
“Rob’s on board with this, Natalie.” said Michael.
“There is no way this side of hell that my own husband would acquiesce to this...this...this...TORTURE!”
“Rob, Rob. You are not going to believe this. Michael and Anna are planning to taser me.” My iPhone is on speaker.
“Nat, it’s not tasering. It’s...what did Michael call it...mild electric shock therapy. I did some research on the interweb. It’s fine. In fact, if it works, I might consider...”
“Rob. Have you lost your fucking mind! You can’t taser your wife!”
I looked at Michael and Anna. “I quit!”
“Nat, Rob is yelling into the phone. “You can’t quit. We need the money. We just did a massive reno. Whose going to pay for the six element stove that you don’t know how to use? What about the French door fridge? The Arts and Crafts backsplash even though you don’t know what Arts and Crafts is...or a backsplash? Come on...you can’t quit.”
He’s right. I can’t quit. We need the money. For a moment, I think about a new career writing eloquent pornography, but this is not a realistic plan. What happens if my son sees first drafts all over my office?
“This is wrong.”
“It’s for your own good.” Said Michael. Anna nodded.
“Michelle said you were a mess last year. A mess even by your own unique standards.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” I say weakly.
“It was.” Said Michelle at the door of Michael’s office. “You were that bad. You should be grateful that it’s only mild electric shock therapy. I had suggested that they drug your morning Starbucks.”
Grateful, eh?
NOT!!
Kalamazoo Diaries.
And then it was evening
And then it was morning
Kalamazoo 2010.
This year, Michelle decided that she would rather go to Montreal for another conference. She claimed that her husband had to interview a 7ft Mennonite guitar player who, according to the tenets of his religion, could play guitar but not dance.
“So, you are trading up Hell with me for La Belle Hell with your hubby?” I asked accusingly.
Michelle’s face was toward her computer screen and I didn’t notice her white headphones.
“I said, SO YOU ARE TRADING UP HELL WITH ME FOR LA BELLE HELL WITH YOUR HUBBY?”
Silence.
I walked into my boss’ office.
“Michael, if Michelle isn’t coming with me to Kalamazoo, then who is.”
“I am.” In walked Anna. “I’m going with you. And so help me God, Nat, you are going to behave this year.”
“She’s right.” Michael said. “I don’t want to hear stories about you and monks and Stephen J. Rose.”
Stephen J. Rose. Stephen J. Rose. The pose of the Rose. The tattoo on his exposed flank. K-Zoo 4 Ever. It is all coming back to me now. An entire year gone. A move, a renovation, my son learning to read, my daughter learning to dance, Rob learning how to pick up his clothes, me learning how to brown beef in a pan without setting off the fire alarm---tremendous milestones disintegrating before my eyes and appearing clearly in their stead, the tattoo on the exposed flank of Stephen J. Rose: K-zoo 4 Ever. I feel giddy and lightheaded; the manic giggling about to erupt from my throat.
“ZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTT”
“WTF!!!” I cried out rubbing my forearm. “WTF!!!”
Anna unfolded her fingers to reveal a tiny disc.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a gizmo that is designed to bring you back to earth. When you get that look in your eye, I just have to put this on your arm and it shocks you to your senses.”
“That is not fucking legal!”
“It’s for your own good.” Michael said soothingly. “Really, I asked my brother who deals with people with extreme mood disorders and this sort of mild electric shock therapy works wonder.”
“I’m calling Rob. There is no way that you can do that in this country.”
Michael and Anna looked at each other sheepishly.
“Rob’s on board with this, Natalie.” said Michael.
“There is no way this side of hell that my own husband would acquiesce to this...this...this...TORTURE!”
“Rob, Rob. You are not going to believe this. Michael and Anna are planning to taser me.” My iPhone is on speaker.
“Nat, it’s not tasering. It’s...what did Michael call it...mild electric shock therapy. I did some research on the interweb. It’s fine. In fact, if it works, I might consider...”
“Rob. Have you lost your fucking mind! You can’t taser your wife!”
I looked at Michael and Anna. “I quit!”
“Nat, Rob is yelling into the phone. “You can’t quit. We need the money. We just did a massive reno. Whose going to pay for the six element stove that you don’t know how to use? What about the French door fridge? The Arts and Crafts backsplash even though you don’t know what Arts and Crafts is...or a backsplash? Come on...you can’t quit.”
He’s right. I can’t quit. We need the money. For a moment, I think about a new career writing eloquent pornography, but this is not a realistic plan. What happens if my son sees first drafts all over my office?
“This is wrong.”
“It’s for your own good.” Said Michael. Anna nodded.
“Michelle said you were a mess last year. A mess even by your own unique standards.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” I say weakly.
“It was.” Said Michelle at the door of Michael’s office. “You were that bad. You should be grateful that it’s only mild electric shock therapy. I had suggested that they drug your morning Starbucks.”
Grateful, eh?
NOT!!
Kalamazoo Diaries.
Monday, April 19, 2010
An Open Letter to Overparents
Dear OverParents:
I am leaving your ranks.
Your compulsive need to hover over your children is destructive. More important, it is boring.
You have taken the fun out of parenting.
For six years now, I have watched you behave. I have witnessed your hurling invective at soccer games to an innocent coach who has volunteered their time to help your child have fun. I have watched you reduce underpaid nursery school teachers to tears because your 3-year-old wasn’t reading properly. I have seen you shell out money for a tutor so that your toddler can be ahead of my toddler by the time they hit Grade 1. I see you proudly holding up your child’s mastery of fractions at the age of 5, and I also see in your face the cost of that mastery. I see your tight smile, your hurried walk, your impatience as you talk to your child, your scheduling of endless programs and playdates as you try and create the perfect child that you can live vicariously through.
Yes, my former parent pals, that is the sad source of your overparenting. Rather than live your own life, you have chosen to live through your child’s life and that is not good for him. Your child was not put on this earth to make you happy. He is not the receptacle of your insecurity and unfulfilled dreams.
You realize, of course, that I am speaking from experience. After all, I was once you. I overparented the hell out of my firstborn — applications for private school once the ultrasound was in hand, mountains of baby Einstein CDs, private speech therapy, you name it. And man was I miserable.
When I actually took a breath from all the expensive baby classes and thought about why I was so unhappy, the answer came clearly: I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Each of my pre-baby jobs was more unsatisfying than the next. I had dropped out of a Ph.D program in genocide studies. I had been a technical writer, a management consultant, a university administrator. None of these jobs satisfied. I was completely unfulfilled professionally.
Rather than dealing with that problem, I had thrown myself into my kid’s life. If I couldn’t be successful in the work force, then damn it, I was going to succeed as a parent. All of my energy - some positive much negative - went into my son to no one’s benefit. After a year of this misery, I went to a career counselor and after a few months, figured out that I wanted to be an editor. I went back to school and when my son was 18 months old, I started working again and have been doing so ever since. Rather than overparent, I now underparent, and my kids are better off for it. Sure I find being a working parent to be a tough gig, but it’s my gig and when I succeed, it’s my success and when I screw up, it’s my failure.
So OverParents, here’s the bottom line: You need to back off your kids. Instead of focusing on them, which is easy, you need to focus on you, which is infinitely harder. Are you happy? What will make you happy? Once you have answers to these questions, go out and hire whatever career counselor, shrink, marriage therapist that will put you back on the road to personal fulfillment.
Leave your kids alone. Get a life. Your own life.
Love, Natalie
Women's Post Online: March 2010
I am leaving your ranks.
Your compulsive need to hover over your children is destructive. More important, it is boring.
You have taken the fun out of parenting.
For six years now, I have watched you behave. I have witnessed your hurling invective at soccer games to an innocent coach who has volunteered their time to help your child have fun. I have watched you reduce underpaid nursery school teachers to tears because your 3-year-old wasn’t reading properly. I have seen you shell out money for a tutor so that your toddler can be ahead of my toddler by the time they hit Grade 1. I see you proudly holding up your child’s mastery of fractions at the age of 5, and I also see in your face the cost of that mastery. I see your tight smile, your hurried walk, your impatience as you talk to your child, your scheduling of endless programs and playdates as you try and create the perfect child that you can live vicariously through.
Yes, my former parent pals, that is the sad source of your overparenting. Rather than live your own life, you have chosen to live through your child’s life and that is not good for him. Your child was not put on this earth to make you happy. He is not the receptacle of your insecurity and unfulfilled dreams.
You realize, of course, that I am speaking from experience. After all, I was once you. I overparented the hell out of my firstborn — applications for private school once the ultrasound was in hand, mountains of baby Einstein CDs, private speech therapy, you name it. And man was I miserable.
When I actually took a breath from all the expensive baby classes and thought about why I was so unhappy, the answer came clearly: I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Each of my pre-baby jobs was more unsatisfying than the next. I had dropped out of a Ph.D program in genocide studies. I had been a technical writer, a management consultant, a university administrator. None of these jobs satisfied. I was completely unfulfilled professionally.
Rather than dealing with that problem, I had thrown myself into my kid’s life. If I couldn’t be successful in the work force, then damn it, I was going to succeed as a parent. All of my energy - some positive much negative - went into my son to no one’s benefit. After a year of this misery, I went to a career counselor and after a few months, figured out that I wanted to be an editor. I went back to school and when my son was 18 months old, I started working again and have been doing so ever since. Rather than overparent, I now underparent, and my kids are better off for it. Sure I find being a working parent to be a tough gig, but it’s my gig and when I succeed, it’s my success and when I screw up, it’s my failure.
So OverParents, here’s the bottom line: You need to back off your kids. Instead of focusing on them, which is easy, you need to focus on you, which is infinitely harder. Are you happy? What will make you happy? Once you have answers to these questions, go out and hire whatever career counselor, shrink, marriage therapist that will put you back on the road to personal fulfillment.
Leave your kids alone. Get a life. Your own life.
Love, Natalie
Women's Post Online: March 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
"Hockey: It's MY Game Too"
Hockey: It’s MY Game Too.
When I was a kid growing up in the suburbs of Toronto, nice Jewish girls did not play hockey. They figure skated in pink body suits with little skirts and matching furry skate covers and had coaches who were extras on Stars on Ice. As I suffered through endless practices for competitions I had no desire to win, I would stare at the boys lacing up their black sharp skates without their wimpy toe picks and fight back the desire to grab their equipment and pad up with them. Sidney Crosby and I had something in common in those days: we both got up at 4:00am and headed to the rink. There the similarities between us ended. He learned how to skate, shoot and score. I learned the far less exciting figure eights.
I talked axels but dreamed slapshots. At the age of 10, I got a Borje Salming Leafs jersey for Chanukah. On Saturday nights, I watched Hockey Night in Canada religiously. After my parents were asleep, I grabbed the sports section and retired to my walk-in closet to study statistics by flashlight. That was as close as I got to hockey.
Sure it was Canada’s game, but only half its population could access it. None of my gal pals were living Roch Carrierre’s The Hockey Sweater . Even if we secretly wanted to, no one was ‘fessing up.
I lived vicariously through men who played pick-up on Sunday afternoons or in informal leagues across Toronto. I was jealous of their bruised knees and aching quads and the occasional cut on the face from being too cool to wear a helmet.
“Yeah, it was a tough game last night. I got slammed into the boards and my neck is killing me.” I would hear a group of middle-aged Jewish guys kvetching on Monday mornings at the JCC in downtown Toronto.
“You coming out tonight? We’re short on D.”
“Can I come?” I once asked. “I’ve never played before but I used to figure skate. And I’ve watched a lot of hockey. I bet I could pick it up pretty quickly.”
“Sorry. This is intermediate level. No women.”
In my mid-30s, I had the privilege of interviewing the multi-medal winning captain of the Canadian Women’s Olympic Hockey Team, Hayley Wickenheiser, for an article in The Women’s Post. Wickenheiser told me—and the rest of the Canadian female population- that hockey was our game too. “You have the right to play this game,” said the greatest female Canadian hockey player.
In the winter of my 39th year, I walked into Newsome’s Bikes and Skates and traded in my white figure skates for a new pair of Bauer black hockey skates, a helmet, and hockey gloves. Soon after, I stood in the equipment room at Dufferin Grove Rink for my 10:00pm Learn to Play Shinny class. Coach Dan, an actor in his real life, selected a hockey stick from the pile.
“What side to you shoot from?”
“Uhhhh...I dunno. I’ve never held a stick before.”
He held the stick out in front of mine. “Grab it.”
I instinctively took it with my right hand and put my left hand half way down.
“You shoot left.” He winked.
I’d like to say that I got onto the ice that night and scored a natural hat trick, but this did not happen. Instead, I fell on my knee (which I happily complained about for weeks after) after attempting the same backward crosscuts I had done endlessly as a kid.
“When you fall, it’s because you are trying something new,” said Dan.
“It’s not really new. I used to figure skate...”
“This is not figure skating. This is hockey.” He helped me up.
“You’re doing fine. What is most important is that you are not afraid of the puck. You go after it instead of going away from it. Not all new players do that.”
Dan was right. I pursued that puck relentlessly not caring which of the eighteen male or four female players was in my way-although after being smacked around a few times, I figured out which gender was responsible for a given hit by how much it hurt the next morning. Determined to make up for all those years of watching men chase pucks, I skated and fell for four months.
Who cared that I was a black and blue mess . Who cared that I had to crawl on all fours up the stairs to shower after games? Who cared that a U of T law student had to help me across Queen’s Park en route to Women’s College hospital to have my knee x-rayed after one of my male teammates tripped me. Who cared that after a late game, I needed to drink at least two shots of vodka to get my adrenaline low enough to sleep.
Finally, it was MY game too.
When I was a kid growing up in the suburbs of Toronto, nice Jewish girls did not play hockey. They figure skated in pink body suits with little skirts and matching furry skate covers and had coaches who were extras on Stars on Ice. As I suffered through endless practices for competitions I had no desire to win, I would stare at the boys lacing up their black sharp skates without their wimpy toe picks and fight back the desire to grab their equipment and pad up with them. Sidney Crosby and I had something in common in those days: we both got up at 4:00am and headed to the rink. There the similarities between us ended. He learned how to skate, shoot and score. I learned the far less exciting figure eights.
I talked axels but dreamed slapshots. At the age of 10, I got a Borje Salming Leafs jersey for Chanukah. On Saturday nights, I watched Hockey Night in Canada religiously. After my parents were asleep, I grabbed the sports section and retired to my walk-in closet to study statistics by flashlight. That was as close as I got to hockey.
Sure it was Canada’s game, but only half its population could access it. None of my gal pals were living Roch Carrierre’s The Hockey Sweater . Even if we secretly wanted to, no one was ‘fessing up.
I lived vicariously through men who played pick-up on Sunday afternoons or in informal leagues across Toronto. I was jealous of their bruised knees and aching quads and the occasional cut on the face from being too cool to wear a helmet.
“Yeah, it was a tough game last night. I got slammed into the boards and my neck is killing me.” I would hear a group of middle-aged Jewish guys kvetching on Monday mornings at the JCC in downtown Toronto.
“You coming out tonight? We’re short on D.”
“Can I come?” I once asked. “I’ve never played before but I used to figure skate. And I’ve watched a lot of hockey. I bet I could pick it up pretty quickly.”
“Sorry. This is intermediate level. No women.”
In my mid-30s, I had the privilege of interviewing the multi-medal winning captain of the Canadian Women’s Olympic Hockey Team, Hayley Wickenheiser, for an article in The Women’s Post. Wickenheiser told me—and the rest of the Canadian female population- that hockey was our game too. “You have the right to play this game,” said the greatest female Canadian hockey player.
In the winter of my 39th year, I walked into Newsome’s Bikes and Skates and traded in my white figure skates for a new pair of Bauer black hockey skates, a helmet, and hockey gloves. Soon after, I stood in the equipment room at Dufferin Grove Rink for my 10:00pm Learn to Play Shinny class. Coach Dan, an actor in his real life, selected a hockey stick from the pile.
“What side to you shoot from?”
“Uhhhh...I dunno. I’ve never held a stick before.”
He held the stick out in front of mine. “Grab it.”
I instinctively took it with my right hand and put my left hand half way down.
“You shoot left.” He winked.
I’d like to say that I got onto the ice that night and scored a natural hat trick, but this did not happen. Instead, I fell on my knee (which I happily complained about for weeks after) after attempting the same backward crosscuts I had done endlessly as a kid.
“When you fall, it’s because you are trying something new,” said Dan.
“It’s not really new. I used to figure skate...”
“This is not figure skating. This is hockey.” He helped me up.
“You’re doing fine. What is most important is that you are not afraid of the puck. You go after it instead of going away from it. Not all new players do that.”
Dan was right. I pursued that puck relentlessly not caring which of the eighteen male or four female players was in my way-although after being smacked around a few times, I figured out which gender was responsible for a given hit by how much it hurt the next morning. Determined to make up for all those years of watching men chase pucks, I skated and fell for four months.
Who cared that I was a black and blue mess . Who cared that I had to crawl on all fours up the stairs to shower after games? Who cared that a U of T law student had to help me across Queen’s Park en route to Women’s College hospital to have my knee x-rayed after one of my male teammates tripped me. Who cared that after a late game, I needed to drink at least two shots of vodka to get my adrenaline low enough to sleep.
Finally, it was MY game too.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Nice Thing to Say about Israel #3
Below is my Letter to the Editor of the Canadian Jewish News concerning the lack of Jewish leadership in Toronto re: Countering Anti-Semitism at University of Toronto. I have attached links to articles on similar subjects. Even if you are critical of Israel (and I would hope you would feel similarily critical of Saudi Arabia, Iran, Myannmar and the list goes on...), I would hope that you would agree that Israel Apartheid Week needs to be challenged.
________________________
Where is the Outrage?
Dear Leaders of the Toronto Jewish Community:
I had an unpleasant experience today. As I was walking to a meeting at Sidney Smith Hall at the downtown campus at University of Toronto, a young guy plunked a splashy leaflet into my hands, looked deep into my eyes, and said: “Please, let me invite you to Israel Apartheid Week.”
It took me all of about a nanosecond to look deep into his eyes and pronounce quite loudly: “You are DISGUSTING!” I turned and walked away. No one joined me in my fuss. That the student world of U of T remained glued to their iPhones isn’t shocking. But what is shocking is the seeming lack of any meaningful Jewish protest. I mean really, where are all of you? What were you doing this afternoon as this Anti-Semitic incitement occurs in our publically funded university?
You all know, you rabbis and scholars and community leaders, you know deep in your learned hearts and minds that Israel Apartheid week is not about dialogue or discussion or anti-Zionism whatever the heck that is. It is Anti Semitism and it is directed at you and it is directed at me and at our kids and at our community.
So where were all of you this afternoon? Why when I looked across the street at the Hillel was there no protest being organized? Why weren’t half of you camped out at King’s College Circle in front of the U of T President’s Office demanding that David Naylor ban this week’s activities from his campus. Why weren’t the other half of you on the corner of Harbord and St. George exercising the same freedom of speech that David Naylor gave to the organizers of Israeli Apartheid Week?
Why didn’t you all get together and organize a march down Bathurst St. unleashing your thousands of congregants and community centre members and Hillels and get all of us to stand in front of Sidney Smith Hall to sing Hatikvah and then get angry.
Are you that disorganized? Are you that divided? Are you that....afraid?
You implore us every Shabbat and on every holiday to pray for Israel, to be good to Israel, to remember those who have fallen in Israel, but when time came to defend Israel on the streets of Toronto, you are all silent.
Where is the outrage, you guys. Please tell me, where is the outrage.
Where is the page taken out in the Globe and Mail signed by all of you protesting this Week? Where are you on CBC, on The Agenda, on CP24? Where is the sit-in of all the Jewish professors and Jewish students and sympathethizers? Where is the Facebook group that says: Join the Protest against Israel Apartheid Week with a link to a rally that commences with all of you addressing us in front of Convocation Hall calling this poison for exactly what it is and not hiding behind intellectual jargon and infighting.
Surely you know that no one is in love with the Jews these days, so why be quiet. Why not make some noise. At the very least, we can get some of our self-respect back.
Israel Apartheid Week is an outrage that is allowed to happen because we have become mute. As leaders of our fragmented and bored community, you need to get with the program and show some gumption, some spine, some pride. Because right now, I am thinking that the whole lot of you are pathetic. And trust me, I am not alone.
We need you.
Do something.
http://www.jpost.com/International/Article.aspx?id=168320: “Police Probe “Kill Jews” Oxford Chant”
http://www.jpost.com/International/Article.aspx?id=168199 “Michael Oren Heckled at US College”
http://www.jpost.com/Cooperations/Google/Default.aspx?q=israel%20on%20campus “Away with Campus Timidity”
Natalie Fingerhut
Toronto
________________________
Where is the Outrage?
Dear Leaders of the Toronto Jewish Community:
I had an unpleasant experience today. As I was walking to a meeting at Sidney Smith Hall at the downtown campus at University of Toronto, a young guy plunked a splashy leaflet into my hands, looked deep into my eyes, and said: “Please, let me invite you to Israel Apartheid Week.”
It took me all of about a nanosecond to look deep into his eyes and pronounce quite loudly: “You are DISGUSTING!” I turned and walked away. No one joined me in my fuss. That the student world of U of T remained glued to their iPhones isn’t shocking. But what is shocking is the seeming lack of any meaningful Jewish protest. I mean really, where are all of you? What were you doing this afternoon as this Anti-Semitic incitement occurs in our publically funded university?
You all know, you rabbis and scholars and community leaders, you know deep in your learned hearts and minds that Israel Apartheid week is not about dialogue or discussion or anti-Zionism whatever the heck that is. It is Anti Semitism and it is directed at you and it is directed at me and at our kids and at our community.
So where were all of you this afternoon? Why when I looked across the street at the Hillel was there no protest being organized? Why weren’t half of you camped out at King’s College Circle in front of the U of T President’s Office demanding that David Naylor ban this week’s activities from his campus. Why weren’t the other half of you on the corner of Harbord and St. George exercising the same freedom of speech that David Naylor gave to the organizers of Israeli Apartheid Week?
Why didn’t you all get together and organize a march down Bathurst St. unleashing your thousands of congregants and community centre members and Hillels and get all of us to stand in front of Sidney Smith Hall to sing Hatikvah and then get angry.
Are you that disorganized? Are you that divided? Are you that....afraid?
You implore us every Shabbat and on every holiday to pray for Israel, to be good to Israel, to remember those who have fallen in Israel, but when time came to defend Israel on the streets of Toronto, you are all silent.
Where is the outrage, you guys. Please tell me, where is the outrage.
Where is the page taken out in the Globe and Mail signed by all of you protesting this Week? Where are you on CBC, on The Agenda, on CP24? Where is the sit-in of all the Jewish professors and Jewish students and sympathethizers? Where is the Facebook group that says: Join the Protest against Israel Apartheid Week with a link to a rally that commences with all of you addressing us in front of Convocation Hall calling this poison for exactly what it is and not hiding behind intellectual jargon and infighting.
Surely you know that no one is in love with the Jews these days, so why be quiet. Why not make some noise. At the very least, we can get some of our self-respect back.
Israel Apartheid Week is an outrage that is allowed to happen because we have become mute. As leaders of our fragmented and bored community, you need to get with the program and show some gumption, some spine, some pride. Because right now, I am thinking that the whole lot of you are pathetic. And trust me, I am not alone.
We need you.
Do something.
http://www.jpost.com/International/Article.aspx?id=168320: “Police Probe “Kill Jews” Oxford Chant”
http://www.jpost.com/International/Article.aspx?id=168199 “Michael Oren Heckled at US College”
http://www.jpost.com/Cooperations/Google/Default.aspx?q=israel%20on%20campus “Away with Campus Timidity”
Natalie Fingerhut
Toronto
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Nice Thing to Say about Israel #3
Israel Sets up Sophisticated Hospital In Haiti
www.youtube.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yz44iZKUMng
www.youtube.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yz44iZKUMng
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Nice Things to Say about Israel #2
On Friday, El Al and IDF planes came into Haiti , carrying 250 medical personnel -- doctors, nurses, lab and x-ray technicians and even a psychiatrist -- and supplies for a mobile hospital, including a pharmacy, a surgical unit, and a maternity ward.
You can see footage of an IDF rescue team at work in Haiti here:
http://www.jpost. com/servlet/ Satellite? pagename= JPost/Page/ VideoPlayer&cid=1194419829128&videoId=12631479050 94
Members of ZAKA, the Israeli ultra-Orthodox volunteer rescue organization, were on the scene as well. Yesterday, on Shabbat, they labored, digging in the rubble of a collapsed multi-story university building, where cries were heard. After hours of effort, they succeeded in pulling eight students from that rubble, alive.
These ZAKA members then took time, in the midst of the chaos, to wrap themselves in their tallitot (prayer shawls) and recite their Shabbat prayers. Undoubtedly most if not all of the Haitians on the scene had never seen such a sight.
When the men had finished praying, a crowd of people gathered around them and kissed their tallitot.
You can see footage of an IDF rescue team at work in Haiti here:
http://www.jpost. com/servlet/ Satellite? pagename= JPost/Page/ VideoPlayer&cid=1194419829128&videoId=12631479050 94
Members of ZAKA, the Israeli ultra-Orthodox volunteer rescue organization, were on the scene as well. Yesterday, on Shabbat, they labored, digging in the rubble of a collapsed multi-story university building, where cries were heard. After hours of effort, they succeeded in pulling eight students from that rubble, alive.
These ZAKA members then took time, in the midst of the chaos, to wrap themselves in their tallitot (prayer shawls) and recite their Shabbat prayers. Undoubtedly most if not all of the Haitians on the scene had never seen such a sight.
When the men had finished praying, a crowd of people gathered around them and kissed their tallitot.
Nice Thing to Say about Israel #1
NYTimes..........Monday, Jan. 18, 2010
“Meanwhile, Col. Cormi Bartal, a doctor in the Israeli Army’s newly established field hospital here, pulled back the flap of a tent serving as the hospital’s pediatric section and pointed to a woman, Guerlande Jean Michel, 24. She identified a sleeping newborn on her cot, one of the first born in the city after the earthquake, and spoke in a halting voice. “This is my child,” said Ms. Jean Michel, a primary school teacher. “His name is Israel .”
“Meanwhile, Col. Cormi Bartal, a doctor in the Israeli Army’s newly established field hospital here, pulled back the flap of a tent serving as the hospital’s pediatric section and pointed to a woman, Guerlande Jean Michel, 24. She identified a sleeping newborn on her cot, one of the first born in the city after the earthquake, and spoke in a halting voice. “This is my child,” said Ms. Jean Michel, a primary school teacher. “His name is Israel .”
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut
Of God and Plumbing
It’s 10:00 on Monday morning. I am hungover after playing a drinking game with Rob during Mad Men that involves taking a swig of vodka every time someone lights a cigarette.
The banging downstairs hasn’t stopped in over two hours. Normally, the carpenter will saw some plywood and then hammer it in somewhere and take a break. But not this morning. This morning, there are two carpenters and they are going at it double time. At our status meeting last Thursday, Le Bruce mentioned that they were going to build us new stairs.
“What’s wrong with the old ones?” I asked.
Rob shows me the plans for the umpteenth time. “We are going to put a sink where the old stairs are. They are taking those stairs out and putting new stairs over here. He points to where the fridge used to be.
“Wow,” I said, clearly impressed. “You can remove stairs and build new ones? How do you do that? Do you get in a big huge truck and use dynamite and one of those string things with the heavy ball?” I was getting excited.
“Actually, two carpenters can do the trick. They simply saw the stairs out and then build new ones?”
“What do you build stairs from?”
Le Bruce and Rob were so happy that I was taking an interest in this project that they both answered at once:
WOOD!
“No fucking way?” I said. “You mean, under all that paint or carpet or..what’s that word that always sounds vaguely pornographic...linoleum... there is just, wood?”
“Yup,” said Le Bruce. “Just wood. Just some dead trees.”
“That is very cool.”
LeBruce and Rob looked at each other. They were clearly pleased with my reactions.
“That is very very cool.” I said again.
And, you know, it was cool. When I was sober. But now that I had a raging headache, it was far less so.
I called Rob.
“Can I stop the renovation?”
Rob took me off speaker phone.
“No, Natalie. You can’t stop a renovation.”
“But I have a hangover. My head hurts. I’m tired. I need quiet and chamomile tea.”
“Then go to the coffee shop on the corner. You can hang out with all the other hungover college kids and talk about social networking.”
“I don’t want to go to the coffee shop. I need to work you know. Someone has to pay for all of this.”
My salary is about 1/10 of Rob’s. Sometimes he reminds me of this fact and sometimes he doesn’t. Today, he declined comment.
“OK. What do you want to do? Do you want to come down to my office and work?”
The idea of showering, dressing for Bay St., getting on the subway and taking the elevator to Rob’s office on the 4000th floor of a skyscraper is beyond me.
“Nah. I’ll stay here and suffer.”
“Well, don’t martyr yourself. You can come here if you need to.”
I feel like martyr though and wonder what sort of music a martyr would listen to. Clearly, the soundtrack from Yentl.
The soothing voice of Barbra Streisand eases the pounding downstairs and I go back to work reading about economic relations in 500 CE Rome.
Papa, Can you hear me? Someone is singing in the bathroom. Then I hear drilling.
Papa, Can you see me? More singing. Then drilling.
Papa, Can you feel me? The drilling drowns him out.
I go into the bathroom where a young child with a Montreal Canadian hat is taking apart my sink.
“Excuse me. What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
The child with the Montreal Canadians hat does not look at me. He looks slightly to my right.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I am the plumber. I need to take out the sink. You have a leak that is dripping onto the drywall downstairs.”
Two weeks ago, I would have had to ask what drywall is, but since there is quite a bit of it in my former dining room, I feel I know enough.
“How do you know there is a leak in the sink. I don’t see water anywhere.” I surveyed the bathroom floor.
“Well, it’s leaking into the wall. If we were to open up the wall, you would see a lot of dampness.”
“You can’t open up a wall. It’s a wall. If you open it up, the house will fall in.”
The child looks at me. Actually, he looks around me. I move into his line of sight and he shifts his gaze left.
“I’m sorry Miss. But you have a leak in your sink and I need to patch it before it drips into the new walls that are being built downstairs. That is what is being built down there, you know. New walls.
I choose to ignore him.
“Where is your father? Is it “Take Your Son to Work Day?”
“He’s at home with my wife and twins. Why?”
I pause for a rare moment of stunned silence.
The child removes his hat and wipes his forehead.
With the cascading down of his brown forelocks and revelation of a small kippah, the morning’s mystery is solved.
“Shalom.” I say politiely holding out my hand.
“Shalom.” He replied, just as politely, but his right hand remains at his side.
“Oh. You are that kind of Jew.”
“Yes. Yes. I am that kind of Jew.”
I sit down on the bathtub step.
“And you are a plumber?”
“I am a plumber’s apprentice to be precise.”
“How does your father feel about that?”
“Well, at first he wanted me to be a rabbi. And then, he wanted me to be a lawyer. And then, he wanted me to go to Eretz Yisroel and get into the tech industry.”
“But you wanted to fix toilets?”
“I wanted a job. I wanted to marry Aliza. I wanted a family, and I wanted a house and I didn’t feel like spending years going to school and working at a big place and having to wear one of those smart phones and having to check it during Shabbas.”
“Do you like it though? Is it fun?”
“Work is not fun. Work is work. Reading is fun. Studying is fun. Playing catch with my 6 year old is fun. Work is about making money to have fun. But yes, I like this job. I have to solve problems. I make people happy. I go home at 5:00 and don’t think about it until the next day. What’s there not to like?”
I think about Rob who comes home and doesn’t get a half an hour’s peace from his BlackBerry.
“And I’ll always be employed, you know. Always. As long as people have to pish, I’ll have a job.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“24”.
“You are 24 and you are married with 2 kids?”
“No, I am 24 and I have 4 kids. A 6 year old, a 5 year old, and a set of girl twin two year olds.”
“Oh my God. You are so young. I am 16 years older than you and I have a 6 year old and a 2 year old.
“I wanted to see my grandchildren and hopefully my great grandchildren. Who has time to waste? As I said, I wanted to marry Aliza and I wanted children and I wanted a house. So, I became a plumber and now I have everything I want. Why did you wait so long?”
I thought for a minute.
“I didn’t know what I wanted. I thought I wanted to be a professor, then I wanted to be a lawyer, then I wanted to be a rabbi…”
“You can’t be a rabbi.”
“I realized that when I told the director of admissions at Hebrew Union College Rabbinical School that I was an atheist.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you are an atheist or not. You are a woman and you can’t be a rabbi. And if this Hebrew Union whatever whatever even considered that you could be a rabbi, then it is not a House of HaShem.”
“Your sort of Jew isn’t very tolerant is it?”
“It’s not my sort of Jew. It is Jew.”
“How can you say that with such conviction.”
“Because I have conviction. Because I believe in something. You don’t believe so you twist a bit in the wind. You are not grounded. The Torah said Marry a Woman, I married a woman. The Torah said Multiply. I multiply. The Torah said don’t work on the Sabbath. I don’t work on the Sabbath. My life is simple but I’m happy. My uncle Moshe was like you as a kid. Restless. Wandering. He went to Woodstock and got high and the Lord came into his life and grounded him. Now, he is married with kids and has a big business in New York. HaShem works in strange ways, does he not?”
“I once saw God when I was playing hockey. It was midnight and we played in a snowstorm. Some little 25 year old gay guy tripped me and I fell on the ice. I looked up at the snowing sky and the stars and saw God.
“ You don’t know your place.” He sighed.
I went back to my office and digested the plumber’s words, but before I could get very far, Le Bruce called me downstairs.
“You look a little miffed.” Said Le Bruce. “What’s going on. Did someone unfriend you on Facebook?”
“I just got a lecture from the plumber. Apparently, I don’t know my place.”
“Well, I could have told you that, Princess Pee Pee.” Bruce thought.
“You can say what you think. It’s just us here.” I said.
Le Bruce looked a little sheepish. “Oh. Sorry. What about not knowing your place?”
“He thinks I should become religious and respectful.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Some days it seems easier.”
“An unexamined life is always an easier life.” Le Bruce said philosophically.
“That’s what I thought. But there are moments when I think the plumber is right.”
“Do you want to spend your days with your hands in someone else’s shitter?”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
“Take a load off, Natalie. Go get yourself a Pork soup. And before you go, use the can, we are turning the plumbing off again.”
I went upstairs and removed my Urinelle from its hiding spot between the maxi pads, realized I was broke, took 5 bucks from Raffi’s piggy bank and went to find lunch.
It’s 10:00 on Monday morning. I am hungover after playing a drinking game with Rob during Mad Men that involves taking a swig of vodka every time someone lights a cigarette.
The banging downstairs hasn’t stopped in over two hours. Normally, the carpenter will saw some plywood and then hammer it in somewhere and take a break. But not this morning. This morning, there are two carpenters and they are going at it double time. At our status meeting last Thursday, Le Bruce mentioned that they were going to build us new stairs.
“What’s wrong with the old ones?” I asked.
Rob shows me the plans for the umpteenth time. “We are going to put a sink where the old stairs are. They are taking those stairs out and putting new stairs over here. He points to where the fridge used to be.
“Wow,” I said, clearly impressed. “You can remove stairs and build new ones? How do you do that? Do you get in a big huge truck and use dynamite and one of those string things with the heavy ball?” I was getting excited.
“Actually, two carpenters can do the trick. They simply saw the stairs out and then build new ones?”
“What do you build stairs from?”
Le Bruce and Rob were so happy that I was taking an interest in this project that they both answered at once:
WOOD!
“No fucking way?” I said. “You mean, under all that paint or carpet or..what’s that word that always sounds vaguely pornographic...linoleum... there is just, wood?”
“Yup,” said Le Bruce. “Just wood. Just some dead trees.”
“That is very cool.”
LeBruce and Rob looked at each other. They were clearly pleased with my reactions.
“That is very very cool.” I said again.
And, you know, it was cool. When I was sober. But now that I had a raging headache, it was far less so.
I called Rob.
“Can I stop the renovation?”
Rob took me off speaker phone.
“No, Natalie. You can’t stop a renovation.”
“But I have a hangover. My head hurts. I’m tired. I need quiet and chamomile tea.”
“Then go to the coffee shop on the corner. You can hang out with all the other hungover college kids and talk about social networking.”
“I don’t want to go to the coffee shop. I need to work you know. Someone has to pay for all of this.”
My salary is about 1/10 of Rob’s. Sometimes he reminds me of this fact and sometimes he doesn’t. Today, he declined comment.
“OK. What do you want to do? Do you want to come down to my office and work?”
The idea of showering, dressing for Bay St., getting on the subway and taking the elevator to Rob’s office on the 4000th floor of a skyscraper is beyond me.
“Nah. I’ll stay here and suffer.”
“Well, don’t martyr yourself. You can come here if you need to.”
I feel like martyr though and wonder what sort of music a martyr would listen to. Clearly, the soundtrack from Yentl.
The soothing voice of Barbra Streisand eases the pounding downstairs and I go back to work reading about economic relations in 500 CE Rome.
Papa, Can you hear me? Someone is singing in the bathroom. Then I hear drilling.
Papa, Can you see me? More singing. Then drilling.
Papa, Can you feel me? The drilling drowns him out.
I go into the bathroom where a young child with a Montreal Canadian hat is taking apart my sink.
“Excuse me. What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
The child with the Montreal Canadians hat does not look at me. He looks slightly to my right.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I am the plumber. I need to take out the sink. You have a leak that is dripping onto the drywall downstairs.”
Two weeks ago, I would have had to ask what drywall is, but since there is quite a bit of it in my former dining room, I feel I know enough.
“How do you know there is a leak in the sink. I don’t see water anywhere.” I surveyed the bathroom floor.
“Well, it’s leaking into the wall. If we were to open up the wall, you would see a lot of dampness.”
“You can’t open up a wall. It’s a wall. If you open it up, the house will fall in.”
The child looks at me. Actually, he looks around me. I move into his line of sight and he shifts his gaze left.
“I’m sorry Miss. But you have a leak in your sink and I need to patch it before it drips into the new walls that are being built downstairs. That is what is being built down there, you know. New walls.
I choose to ignore him.
“Where is your father? Is it “Take Your Son to Work Day?”
“He’s at home with my wife and twins. Why?”
I pause for a rare moment of stunned silence.
The child removes his hat and wipes his forehead.
With the cascading down of his brown forelocks and revelation of a small kippah, the morning’s mystery is solved.
“Shalom.” I say politiely holding out my hand.
“Shalom.” He replied, just as politely, but his right hand remains at his side.
“Oh. You are that kind of Jew.”
“Yes. Yes. I am that kind of Jew.”
I sit down on the bathtub step.
“And you are a plumber?”
“I am a plumber’s apprentice to be precise.”
“How does your father feel about that?”
“Well, at first he wanted me to be a rabbi. And then, he wanted me to be a lawyer. And then, he wanted me to go to Eretz Yisroel and get into the tech industry.”
“But you wanted to fix toilets?”
“I wanted a job. I wanted to marry Aliza. I wanted a family, and I wanted a house and I didn’t feel like spending years going to school and working at a big place and having to wear one of those smart phones and having to check it during Shabbas.”
“Do you like it though? Is it fun?”
“Work is not fun. Work is work. Reading is fun. Studying is fun. Playing catch with my 6 year old is fun. Work is about making money to have fun. But yes, I like this job. I have to solve problems. I make people happy. I go home at 5:00 and don’t think about it until the next day. What’s there not to like?”
I think about Rob who comes home and doesn’t get a half an hour’s peace from his BlackBerry.
“And I’ll always be employed, you know. Always. As long as people have to pish, I’ll have a job.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“24”.
“You are 24 and you are married with 2 kids?”
“No, I am 24 and I have 4 kids. A 6 year old, a 5 year old, and a set of girl twin two year olds.”
“Oh my God. You are so young. I am 16 years older than you and I have a 6 year old and a 2 year old.
“I wanted to see my grandchildren and hopefully my great grandchildren. Who has time to waste? As I said, I wanted to marry Aliza and I wanted children and I wanted a house. So, I became a plumber and now I have everything I want. Why did you wait so long?”
I thought for a minute.
“I didn’t know what I wanted. I thought I wanted to be a professor, then I wanted to be a lawyer, then I wanted to be a rabbi…”
“You can’t be a rabbi.”
“I realized that when I told the director of admissions at Hebrew Union College Rabbinical School that I was an atheist.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you are an atheist or not. You are a woman and you can’t be a rabbi. And if this Hebrew Union whatever whatever even considered that you could be a rabbi, then it is not a House of HaShem.”
“Your sort of Jew isn’t very tolerant is it?”
“It’s not my sort of Jew. It is Jew.”
“How can you say that with such conviction.”
“Because I have conviction. Because I believe in something. You don’t believe so you twist a bit in the wind. You are not grounded. The Torah said Marry a Woman, I married a woman. The Torah said Multiply. I multiply. The Torah said don’t work on the Sabbath. I don’t work on the Sabbath. My life is simple but I’m happy. My uncle Moshe was like you as a kid. Restless. Wandering. He went to Woodstock and got high and the Lord came into his life and grounded him. Now, he is married with kids and has a big business in New York. HaShem works in strange ways, does he not?”
“I once saw God when I was playing hockey. It was midnight and we played in a snowstorm. Some little 25 year old gay guy tripped me and I fell on the ice. I looked up at the snowing sky and the stars and saw God.
“ You don’t know your place.” He sighed.
I went back to my office and digested the plumber’s words, but before I could get very far, Le Bruce called me downstairs.
“You look a little miffed.” Said Le Bruce. “What’s going on. Did someone unfriend you on Facebook?”
“I just got a lecture from the plumber. Apparently, I don’t know my place.”
“Well, I could have told you that, Princess Pee Pee.” Bruce thought.
“You can say what you think. It’s just us here.” I said.
Le Bruce looked a little sheepish. “Oh. Sorry. What about not knowing your place?”
“He thinks I should become religious and respectful.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Some days it seems easier.”
“An unexamined life is always an easier life.” Le Bruce said philosophically.
“That’s what I thought. But there are moments when I think the plumber is right.”
“Do you want to spend your days with your hands in someone else’s shitter?”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
“Take a load off, Natalie. Go get yourself a Pork soup. And before you go, use the can, we are turning the plumbing off again.”
I went upstairs and removed my Urinelle from its hiding spot between the maxi pads, realized I was broke, took 5 bucks from Raffi’s piggy bank and went to find lunch.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut
The Five Constipated Men in the Bible
Rob is in a strange place between heaven and hell. Heaven is the place straight in front of us in the outskirts of Toronto where you can find stores that house huge sheets of granite which we are currently the market for. Hell is the place behind us—downtown Toronto where Rob is chained by his BlackBerry. Right now, we are somewhere in the middle: sitting with the kids in Tim Hortons eating Timbits and drinking French Vanilla cappuccino.
I need to say something first about French Vanilla cappuccino. When I was a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence College, I would buy these tins of French Vanilla cappuccino powder that when mixed with hot water would create a most delicious beverage of sugar and caffeine. I would drink at least four of them before my first class and about 20 over the course of the day. By dinnertime, I had caffeine induced Tourette’s Syndrome and no one would eat dinner with me...I was wired yet peaceful in my solitude...
“Nat, I gotta deal with this call. It’s my client out in Flin Flon."
“Are you fucking serious? I thought we were here to look at granite for Scarajevo?”
“I gotta go. Sorry. This deal is worth millions of dollars.” Rob goes outside and gets on his BlackBerry. I am inside the Tim Hortons with two kids.
“Mama..I don’t feel well. I think I have swine flu.” Says Raffi.
I take a swig of the French Vanilla cappuccino.
“You don’t have swine flu.”
“I do have swine flu...I really do, Mom, really. I am fucking serious.”
“I am fucking serious too.” Chimes in my 2.5 year old daughter, Olivia.
I take another swig and motion to the Tim Bitch behind the counter to make me another.
“Guys. We don’t swear in public.”
“But you just did, Mom. You just swore at Daddy.”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“If you can swear, I can swear.” Six year olds are beyond aggravating.
“Well, you can’t swear and neither can I.”
Olivia is up on the chair. “I am fucking serious.” She announces.
I down the remnants of the first cup of coffee and then proceed to the second. My vision has turned double and I now see four kids in front of me.
At moments like these, a mother has two choices. You can either put your head down on the table and wait for the moment to pass or you can channel other moments in your life when you have been in similar positions. I chose the latter.
“OK, you guys, ready.” I stood up on my chair with Raffi on one side and Olivia on the other and began to sing:
Me: "There were five."
Olivia: "Five"
Me: "Constipated Men in the Bible."
Raffi: "In the Bible."
Me: "Well, there were five, five, constipated men in the Five Books of Moses."
Raffi: "Well the first."
Olivia: "First"
Me: "Constipated Man was Cain"
Raffi: "He wasn’t Abel."
Me: "And the second"
Olivia: "Second"
Me: "Constipated Man was Noah"
Raffi: "He had an arkful."
Me: "And the Third"
Olivia: "Third"
Me: "Constipated Man was Moses"
RAffi: "He took two tablets."
Me: "And the fourth"
Olivia: "Fourth."
Me: "Constipated Man was Samson"
Raffi: "He brought the House down."
Me: "And the fifth"
Everyone in Tim Hortons: "FIFTH"
Me: "Constipated Man was Baal"
Raffi was confused. “Whose Baal?”
Another mother stood up on her chair:
“He had a Movement!” she sang.
And then me, the unknown mother, and the rest of Tim Horton’s stood on our chairs to sing the finale
There were Five, Five Constipated Men in the Bible, in the Bible
Yes, there were Five, Five Constipated Men in the
Five
Books
Of
Mooooosssseesss.We all clapped for each other and sat down.
Rob came back into the Tim Hortons.
“You guys OK?”
“Fine.” I said
“I’m sorry Nat. I am really sorry about this.”
I gave him a kiss. “Don’t worry. We’re cool. Seriously, don’t even think about it anymore.”
“But are you fucking serious?” asked Raffi.
“RAFFI!!” said Raffi’s parents.
“I AM FUCKING SERIOUS!” said Olivia.
The Tim Bitch came over.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Some of the other customers are getting upset with all the profanity. You need to leave.”
I decided not to argue thinking that my family getting kicked out of Tim Hortons for profanity was the perfect Facebook status update. Which indeed, it was.
Rob is in a strange place between heaven and hell. Heaven is the place straight in front of us in the outskirts of Toronto where you can find stores that house huge sheets of granite which we are currently the market for. Hell is the place behind us—downtown Toronto where Rob is chained by his BlackBerry. Right now, we are somewhere in the middle: sitting with the kids in Tim Hortons eating Timbits and drinking French Vanilla cappuccino.
I need to say something first about French Vanilla cappuccino. When I was a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence College, I would buy these tins of French Vanilla cappuccino powder that when mixed with hot water would create a most delicious beverage of sugar and caffeine. I would drink at least four of them before my first class and about 20 over the course of the day. By dinnertime, I had caffeine induced Tourette’s Syndrome and no one would eat dinner with me...I was wired yet peaceful in my solitude...
“Nat, I gotta deal with this call. It’s my client out in Flin Flon."
“Are you fucking serious? I thought we were here to look at granite for Scarajevo?”
“I gotta go. Sorry. This deal is worth millions of dollars.” Rob goes outside and gets on his BlackBerry. I am inside the Tim Hortons with two kids.
“Mama..I don’t feel well. I think I have swine flu.” Says Raffi.
I take a swig of the French Vanilla cappuccino.
“You don’t have swine flu.”
“I do have swine flu...I really do, Mom, really. I am fucking serious.”
“I am fucking serious too.” Chimes in my 2.5 year old daughter, Olivia.
I take another swig and motion to the Tim Bitch behind the counter to make me another.
“Guys. We don’t swear in public.”
“But you just did, Mom. You just swore at Daddy.”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“If you can swear, I can swear.” Six year olds are beyond aggravating.
“Well, you can’t swear and neither can I.”
Olivia is up on the chair. “I am fucking serious.” She announces.
I down the remnants of the first cup of coffee and then proceed to the second. My vision has turned double and I now see four kids in front of me.
At moments like these, a mother has two choices. You can either put your head down on the table and wait for the moment to pass or you can channel other moments in your life when you have been in similar positions. I chose the latter.
“OK, you guys, ready.” I stood up on my chair with Raffi on one side and Olivia on the other and began to sing:
Me: "There were five."
Olivia: "Five"
Me: "Constipated Men in the Bible."
Raffi: "In the Bible."
Me: "Well, there were five, five, constipated men in the Five Books of Moses."
Raffi: "Well the first."
Olivia: "First"
Me: "Constipated Man was Cain"
Raffi: "He wasn’t Abel."
Me: "And the second"
Olivia: "Second"
Me: "Constipated Man was Noah"
Raffi: "He had an arkful."
Me: "And the Third"
Olivia: "Third"
Me: "Constipated Man was Moses"
RAffi: "He took two tablets."
Me: "And the fourth"
Olivia: "Fourth."
Me: "Constipated Man was Samson"
Raffi: "He brought the House down."
Me: "And the fifth"
Everyone in Tim Hortons: "FIFTH"
Me: "Constipated Man was Baal"
Raffi was confused. “Whose Baal?”
Another mother stood up on her chair:
“He had a Movement!” she sang.
And then me, the unknown mother, and the rest of Tim Horton’s stood on our chairs to sing the finale
There were Five, Five Constipated Men in the Bible, in the Bible
Yes, there were Five, Five Constipated Men in the
Five
Books
Of
Mooooosssseesss.We all clapped for each other and sat down.
Rob came back into the Tim Hortons.
“You guys OK?”
“Fine.” I said
“I’m sorry Nat. I am really sorry about this.”
I gave him a kiss. “Don’t worry. We’re cool. Seriously, don’t even think about it anymore.”
“But are you fucking serious?” asked Raffi.
“RAFFI!!” said Raffi’s parents.
“I AM FUCKING SERIOUS!” said Olivia.
The Tim Bitch came over.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Some of the other customers are getting upset with all the profanity. You need to leave.”
I decided not to argue thinking that my family getting kicked out of Tim Hortons for profanity was the perfect Facebook status update. Which indeed, it was.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut
Microwave
I do not microwave.
I do not microwave because I think it is unsafe.
I do not microwave because I think it is unsafe and causes cancer.
Prior to this morning, I was the only person in the whole world who believed this to be the truth.
After this morning, there are now three people in the whole world who believe this to be the truth.
_________________
Every Thursday morning, Le Bruce, Rob and I meet in Scarajevo for a status meeting. This is when we are meant to bring out the SmartBuild spreadsheet and make sure that we are on time and on budget. Since we don’t have a SmartBuild spreadsheet, this exercise is moot. However, Rob prepares a list of items that he wants to raise with Le Bruce and this is how we spend an hour. An hour that once passed can never be retrieved. It is gone forever...
“It is gone forever, I guess. My dream of having a French door fridge.” Rob is trying to reconcile the fact that we don’t have space for a French door fridge. Apparently, we are about 4 inches short.
“Well not really.” Le Bruce said. “I have a French Door fridge at my place and we are a few inches short as well. All that happens is that you can’t open the bottom door all the way.”
“It seems a bit strange that for all this money that we are spending, we won’t have a functional fridge.” Rob and I said in unison.
“It will be functional. It just means you can’t keep a BBQ chicken in the bottom drawer.”
Oh my God. I’m starving.
Didn’t I just watch you eat an entire bowl of granola and yogurt?
“It’s low fat. My personal trainer....”
Le Bruce stops me mid-thought: “Oh, Princess Pee Pee has her own personal trainer now, does she?”
“Princess Pee Pee works full time and has two kids. Princess Pee Pee has no time to go to Spin Classes like you and your little slice of non-Kosher pie.”
“Her name is Tovah...she’s Israeli. And my mother raised four boys and has the Order of Canada for her contribution to medicine.”
“Really...that is interesting. What did she research?”
“The impact of microwaves on people’s health.”
I looked at Bruce. “Really?” I mouthed.
“Yes, you can’t keep a BBQ chicken in the bottom drawer.” Bruce answered and winked at me.
Not that, you beefcake, I mean the microwave.”
Oh that...well, she was investigating whether microwaves cause cancer.”
Oh my God. I believe that too. Rob thinks I’m nuts. What did your mom conclude?
She died before she could prove it definitively. But not of cancer, lupus.
“Well, I would like the flexibility of putting a BBQ chicken in the fridge.” Said Rob.
“You can, Rob, you can.” Le Bruce was getting edgy. “Just not in the bottom drawer.”
“What happens if we lose the microwave and give that space to the fridge?” I offered.
Rob looked at me. “Natalie, we have talked about this a billion times. We are getting a microwave. We have not had one in a decade. It is ridiculous. Everyone has a microwave. They are fantastic. Think about when we visit my mom in Winnipeg and we microwave hotdogs for the kids. They have lunch in 30 seconds. It’s a total time saver.
“And you don’t have any time, right Princess Pee Pee. So what’s it going to be: a microwave so you can attend Spin Class like the rest of us plebs?”
“It’s a plebe, you moron. From “plebeian” meaning “common people.”
“Why don’t you run up to your so-called office where you do your so-called work and check on your fancy lap top that your husband bought you so you could spend your days on Facebook with the friends that you met at your fancy Jewish day school and your fancy Jewish camp?”
I whipped out my iPhone and googled “Plebs.”
“What are you doing, Nat. We need to solve the problem of the fridge. We are short about 4 inches and I don’t know where they are going to come from?”
“Sorry, I’m just checking the standard sizing of a French Door Fridge to confirm the measurement.” I said without understanding a word of what I had just uttered.
Motherfucker!
Told you.
Ok. Plebs. Fine.
“Natalie. I know the measurement of the fridge. We have to find 4 inches. It’s that simple.” Said Rob.
“Well, I think we should forget about the microwave and use the extra space for the fridge.”
“Not happening.” Said Rob.
“Then I don’t know what to tell you. If you aren’t willing to trade off a cancer-causing instrument of death for fridge flexibility then we have a problem.”
We both looked at Le Bruce. Le Bruce looked at us. He opened his mouth to speak but just before a word came out, You owe me Princess Pee Pee drifted over.
“You know, Rob, she’s right. I don’t have a microwave and I raised a kid without one. My mother raised 4 kids and had the Order of Canada for medicine and didn’t have a microwave. She actually did research on the effects of microwaves on people’s health.”
“And what did she conclude?” asked Rob.
“She died before she could determine anything conclusive. But not of cancer, lupus.”
Rob sat down on the pumpkin that we had bought for Halloween and thought.
Can you hear what he is thinking?” Le Bruce asked.
“Nah. Sometime I think I can tell what Rob is thinking like right now, he is about to ask you what you think we should do.”
“So what would you do, Bruce. You’ve been doing this for a long time. You have seen plenty of kitchens.”
“I’d lose the microwave, Rob. Really I would. Food tastes like shit when its been microwaved. Those hotdogs turn into shrivelled mystery meat when they have been in the microwave and I always find that microwaved milk tastes metallic.....
Rob put his head in his hands: metallic milk....flexible fridge...metallic milk...flexible fridge.
Is he OK?”
Yeah, he’s fine. He just needs to say it a few more times and then he’ll agree with you.”
“OK. OK. Lose the microwave.” Rob said sadly.
YES!!! I jumped up. Bruce gave me a warning look.
“That was not an appropriate response.”“
What you so excited about?” asked Rob.
“Oh nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just glad that we solved the problem and can return to marital bliss.”
You really need to get better at keeping your thoughts to yourself. Chided Le Bruce.
Rob, Le Bruce, and I left Scarajevo together with a fragile truce between us.
I do not microwave.
I do not microwave because I think it is unsafe.
I do not microwave because I think it is unsafe and causes cancer.
Prior to this morning, I was the only person in the whole world who believed this to be the truth.
After this morning, there are now three people in the whole world who believe this to be the truth.
_________________
Every Thursday morning, Le Bruce, Rob and I meet in Scarajevo for a status meeting. This is when we are meant to bring out the SmartBuild spreadsheet and make sure that we are on time and on budget. Since we don’t have a SmartBuild spreadsheet, this exercise is moot. However, Rob prepares a list of items that he wants to raise with Le Bruce and this is how we spend an hour. An hour that once passed can never be retrieved. It is gone forever...
“It is gone forever, I guess. My dream of having a French door fridge.” Rob is trying to reconcile the fact that we don’t have space for a French door fridge. Apparently, we are about 4 inches short.
“Well not really.” Le Bruce said. “I have a French Door fridge at my place and we are a few inches short as well. All that happens is that you can’t open the bottom door all the way.”
“It seems a bit strange that for all this money that we are spending, we won’t have a functional fridge.” Rob and I said in unison.
“It will be functional. It just means you can’t keep a BBQ chicken in the bottom drawer.”
Oh my God. I’m starving.
Didn’t I just watch you eat an entire bowl of granola and yogurt?
“It’s low fat. My personal trainer....”
Le Bruce stops me mid-thought: “Oh, Princess Pee Pee has her own personal trainer now, does she?”
“Princess Pee Pee works full time and has two kids. Princess Pee Pee has no time to go to Spin Classes like you and your little slice of non-Kosher pie.”
“Her name is Tovah...she’s Israeli. And my mother raised four boys and has the Order of Canada for her contribution to medicine.”
“Really...that is interesting. What did she research?”
“The impact of microwaves on people’s health.”
I looked at Bruce. “Really?” I mouthed.
“Yes, you can’t keep a BBQ chicken in the bottom drawer.” Bruce answered and winked at me.
Not that, you beefcake, I mean the microwave.”
Oh that...well, she was investigating whether microwaves cause cancer.”
Oh my God. I believe that too. Rob thinks I’m nuts. What did your mom conclude?
She died before she could prove it definitively. But not of cancer, lupus.
“Well, I would like the flexibility of putting a BBQ chicken in the fridge.” Said Rob.
“You can, Rob, you can.” Le Bruce was getting edgy. “Just not in the bottom drawer.”
“What happens if we lose the microwave and give that space to the fridge?” I offered.
Rob looked at me. “Natalie, we have talked about this a billion times. We are getting a microwave. We have not had one in a decade. It is ridiculous. Everyone has a microwave. They are fantastic. Think about when we visit my mom in Winnipeg and we microwave hotdogs for the kids. They have lunch in 30 seconds. It’s a total time saver.
“And you don’t have any time, right Princess Pee Pee. So what’s it going to be: a microwave so you can attend Spin Class like the rest of us plebs?”
“It’s a plebe, you moron. From “plebeian” meaning “common people.”
“Why don’t you run up to your so-called office where you do your so-called work and check on your fancy lap top that your husband bought you so you could spend your days on Facebook with the friends that you met at your fancy Jewish day school and your fancy Jewish camp?”
I whipped out my iPhone and googled “Plebs.”
“What are you doing, Nat. We need to solve the problem of the fridge. We are short about 4 inches and I don’t know where they are going to come from?”
“Sorry, I’m just checking the standard sizing of a French Door Fridge to confirm the measurement.” I said without understanding a word of what I had just uttered.
Motherfucker!
Told you.
Ok. Plebs. Fine.
“Natalie. I know the measurement of the fridge. We have to find 4 inches. It’s that simple.” Said Rob.
“Well, I think we should forget about the microwave and use the extra space for the fridge.”
“Not happening.” Said Rob.
“Then I don’t know what to tell you. If you aren’t willing to trade off a cancer-causing instrument of death for fridge flexibility then we have a problem.”
We both looked at Le Bruce. Le Bruce looked at us. He opened his mouth to speak but just before a word came out, You owe me Princess Pee Pee drifted over.
“You know, Rob, she’s right. I don’t have a microwave and I raised a kid without one. My mother raised 4 kids and had the Order of Canada for medicine and didn’t have a microwave. She actually did research on the effects of microwaves on people’s health.”
“And what did she conclude?” asked Rob.
“She died before she could determine anything conclusive. But not of cancer, lupus.”
Rob sat down on the pumpkin that we had bought for Halloween and thought.
Can you hear what he is thinking?” Le Bruce asked.
“Nah. Sometime I think I can tell what Rob is thinking like right now, he is about to ask you what you think we should do.”
“So what would you do, Bruce. You’ve been doing this for a long time. You have seen plenty of kitchens.”
“I’d lose the microwave, Rob. Really I would. Food tastes like shit when its been microwaved. Those hotdogs turn into shrivelled mystery meat when they have been in the microwave and I always find that microwaved milk tastes metallic.....
Rob put his head in his hands: metallic milk....flexible fridge...metallic milk...flexible fridge.
Is he OK?”
Yeah, he’s fine. He just needs to say it a few more times and then he’ll agree with you.”
“OK. OK. Lose the microwave.” Rob said sadly.
YES!!! I jumped up. Bruce gave me a warning look.
“That was not an appropriate response.”“
What you so excited about?” asked Rob.
“Oh nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just glad that we solved the problem and can return to marital bliss.”
You really need to get better at keeping your thoughts to yourself. Chided Le Bruce.
Rob, Le Bruce, and I left Scarajevo together with a fragile truce between us.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut-a saga in 16 week parts
I have to go Pee
“The plumber is turning off the water, Natalie. If you have to go to the bathroom, go now.” Said Le Bruce two weeks into the renovation.
“No problem. Thanks for letting me know.” I am trying to be more civil toward Le Bruce.
I go back to reading about the history of technology. A minute passes. Another minute passes.
Shit.
I have to go Pee.
Women who have never gone through the human rights violation known as childbirth cannot relate to the following but those who have will completely understand. It’s called incontinence and it is gross and vile and unbecoming of hip 40-somethings who can still wear low-rise jeans.
I go downstairs. Le Bruce is talking to the plumber about moving the drain pipe.
“The copper pipe is the pipe that brings you water; the black pipe is the pipe that drains the water.” Bruce explained to me.
“That is really interesting.” I said meaning it. “Where does the water come from?”
“What do you mean where does it come from?”
“Where do we get the water from?”
“The ground.” How can she know where Pyongyang is but not know where she gets her water from?
“Yah, I know it comes from the ground, but where does the ground get it from?”
“There is a lake due south of here called Lake Ontario. Perhaps you have heard of it.”
“Right, of course, Lake Ontario. Interesting. See, I’m learning something here.”
“Glad I could be of help.” Said Le Bruce.
“Actually, Bruce, I have a real problem. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Well, now is not a good time. We are moving a pipe and turned off the water. Didn’t I mention that about 5 minutes ago?
“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. But I have to go the can.”
Le Bruce thought for a moment. He does this by putting his arms over his washboard stomach.
“I have a solution.” He said. “There is a Port O Potty outside. You can use that.” Take that Princess. He looked deep into my eyes.
I am not a princess. I looked back into his eyes.
Then use the outhouse. C’mon. You can do it. Think of all those workers’ hairy asses that have been squatting on it for the last week.
Trying to keep a straight face while not retching is harder than you think.
The electrician is cute and looks like he practices basic hygiene...the carpenter washes once a week...
The Demo crew, Natalie. Think Demo crew. I can tell you that at least one of them recently got out of jail and the other lives in a halfway house. Bruce returns my stare.
“To the outhouse.” I sang. “Thanks for the suggestion.” I walk out my front door and gingerly open the turquoise door of the Port o Potty.
The smell knocks me out and it is only by the hand of God that I am prevented from falling into the hole to certain death or at the very least, succumbing to a sonic shower at the nearby hospital. I tumble out of the outhouse. Le Bruce is watching me and giggling. I give him the thumbs up and go in again, but again I am rendered unconscious and fall back against the door and out into the fresh air.
Le Bruce holds his nose and points back to the Port O Potty. Clearly, he is enjoying himself. I go back in and hold my nose. But I don’t sit down. Instead, I stand there with my nose plugged for 2 minutes hoping that this a male’s perception of how long it takes a woman to urinate.
When I come out, and take a deep breath, the parting scent of the outhouse drifts out of my olfactory nerve. I have not vomited and for this I am grateful.
Le Bruce opens my front door and claps. “See, not so bad. Princess.”
“Yup. No biggie. Just had to get used to it.” I go back up to my office. I am in pain. For the umpteenth time, I wish I was a male. A male who had no compunction about pissing into a bottle. My roommate Greg Hite did this when we lived together at Oxford. He would pee in Coke bottles and line them up under his bed. Once a week, he would empty them and start over. My mother turned visibly green when she visited me and saw the bottles under the bed. Today, I yearned for such bottles and for the physical component that would allow me to fill them.
“Oh well,” I thought to myself knowing that Le Bruce was too far away to hear my thoughts.” I guess I’ll have to go up to the Korean Pork Bone soup joint and use their can.
I went back downstairs. “See ya Bruce.” I called. “Want me to get you some pork bone soup?”
“Nope. Kosher. My mother would roll over in her grave if I ate pork soup.”
"Pork BONE soup." I corrected him.
Whatever. Its not good for you. It will give you the shits and then you will have to use the Port o Potty again....” Le Bruce crossed his arms over his washboard stomach.
Are you patronizing me? I inquired politely.
Well, someone needs to look after you. Clearly, you are not very good at it. Le Bruce thought smugly.
“OK. Just thought I’d ask. Trying to be polite and all.”
“Enjoy, Enjoy.” Le Bruce turned to walk back into Scarajevo.
I grabbed my keys and then I had a Eureka moment. The same kind that Hugh Laurie has on every single episode of House and yet after 5 years, it still does not bore me.
“MOTHER!!!”
I ran down Bloor Street clutching my mom’s housekeys. Dufferin, Gladstone, Havelock, that street after Havelock that I never remember...Ossington. Thank God you are only 5 streets away!!
I ran down Ossington to number 119 ½ (I’m not kidding...it really is 119 ½), opened the door, felt the first sad little tinkle down my leg, ripped the zipper on my only pair of jeans, and relieved myself. I sat there for a minute letting the pain of the experience slowly ebb. Then I stood up, flushed, washed my hands, and came outside.
“Hello, Hello, whose there. Is there a burgler there. Who is in the house. I have a baseball bat you know.” My mother, who is known to all simply as Bev, flew down the stairs in her mauve bathrobe carrying a child’s baseball bat.
“Oh its you, Natalie. Come in, come in. Would you like some tea, I have some organic toast and soy milk.”
“Thanks Mom. Thank you so much. But I am actually en route to get some Pork Bone soup. I just needed to use your can.”
“Why can’t you use your bathroom? Oy, its that renovation again. So hard on you, sweetie.” She pats my hair. I’m 40 years old and yet I appreciate the gesture.
“It is really hard on me, Bev. I have to tell you. I thought I could handle it being a former camper and all, but I’m too old for this.”
“I know I know. Can I tell you something, I am 67 and I still can’t shit in other people’s toilets.”
“So what do you do...you can’t hold it in forever.”
“I take Imodium.”
“Seriously. Imodium? Wow. I never thought of that.”
“It’s great. If you take one, you won’t shit for a week.”
“Oh my God. What a relief. Do you have some kicking around.”
“Of course. I have a closet full.” And she did. Literally. One one side was her Imodium. On the other, ExLax. I helped myself to a few packets.
“So now, what you do is, take an Imodium, then get the Pork Bone Soup and you won’t shit it out until this time next week. You can then plan to come here and use the bathroom. It’s terrific for organizing your time.”
“Oh Bev. You are a saint among women. Now answer me this: what about when you need to make a Number One.”
“Oh that’s easy. She showed me under her burgundy bed skirt. There, lined up were several Coke bottles. “Your roommate from Oxford taught me this trick.” If I am going somewhere, I just slip one of these into my handbag. I often take the Prada in such a circumstance so as not to arouse suspicions."
“But how do you do it? How do you pee though the small opening?”
She produced an adorable pink funnel. "Its called a Urinelle. I picked one up in Paris. The French are so functional, n’est-ce pas? Here. Take it. You can use it for the renovation.”
“Thanks Bev. You are the best!” I gave her a big hug and went back home. So excited was I to try my Urinelle that I forgot about the Pork Bone Soup.
“Where’s the Pork Soup?” Asked Le Bruce as he peered at me through Scarajevo.
“Uhhhh...I forgot it.” I said skipping up the stairs to the third floor bathroom where I would be far away to think and pee in private.
Ah Hah....Princess Pee Pee...I saw your Urinelle!!
Whathefuck...how do you know about Urinelles?
I make it my personal business to know how the female body works...in all its miraculous ways....
But I was out of range and his thinking never reached me. I went into the bathroom on the third floor and put the Urinelle in a safe place between two packages of Stayfree Maxi Pads. I went back downstairs, popped an Imodium, and set back out to get my Pork Bone soup.
Princess Pee Pee. I looked at him. Really, can’t you do better than that. My 6 year old is more creative.I slammed the door before he could think of a response.
“The plumber is turning off the water, Natalie. If you have to go to the bathroom, go now.” Said Le Bruce two weeks into the renovation.
“No problem. Thanks for letting me know.” I am trying to be more civil toward Le Bruce.
I go back to reading about the history of technology. A minute passes. Another minute passes.
Shit.
I have to go Pee.
Women who have never gone through the human rights violation known as childbirth cannot relate to the following but those who have will completely understand. It’s called incontinence and it is gross and vile and unbecoming of hip 40-somethings who can still wear low-rise jeans.
I go downstairs. Le Bruce is talking to the plumber about moving the drain pipe.
“The copper pipe is the pipe that brings you water; the black pipe is the pipe that drains the water.” Bruce explained to me.
“That is really interesting.” I said meaning it. “Where does the water come from?”
“What do you mean where does it come from?”
“Where do we get the water from?”
“The ground.” How can she know where Pyongyang is but not know where she gets her water from?
“Yah, I know it comes from the ground, but where does the ground get it from?”
“There is a lake due south of here called Lake Ontario. Perhaps you have heard of it.”
“Right, of course, Lake Ontario. Interesting. See, I’m learning something here.”
“Glad I could be of help.” Said Le Bruce.
“Actually, Bruce, I have a real problem. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Well, now is not a good time. We are moving a pipe and turned off the water. Didn’t I mention that about 5 minutes ago?
“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. But I have to go the can.”
Le Bruce thought for a moment. He does this by putting his arms over his washboard stomach.
“I have a solution.” He said. “There is a Port O Potty outside. You can use that.” Take that Princess. He looked deep into my eyes.
I am not a princess. I looked back into his eyes.
Then use the outhouse. C’mon. You can do it. Think of all those workers’ hairy asses that have been squatting on it for the last week.
Trying to keep a straight face while not retching is harder than you think.
The electrician is cute and looks like he practices basic hygiene...the carpenter washes once a week...
The Demo crew, Natalie. Think Demo crew. I can tell you that at least one of them recently got out of jail and the other lives in a halfway house. Bruce returns my stare.
“To the outhouse.” I sang. “Thanks for the suggestion.” I walk out my front door and gingerly open the turquoise door of the Port o Potty.
The smell knocks me out and it is only by the hand of God that I am prevented from falling into the hole to certain death or at the very least, succumbing to a sonic shower at the nearby hospital. I tumble out of the outhouse. Le Bruce is watching me and giggling. I give him the thumbs up and go in again, but again I am rendered unconscious and fall back against the door and out into the fresh air.
Le Bruce holds his nose and points back to the Port O Potty. Clearly, he is enjoying himself. I go back in and hold my nose. But I don’t sit down. Instead, I stand there with my nose plugged for 2 minutes hoping that this a male’s perception of how long it takes a woman to urinate.
When I come out, and take a deep breath, the parting scent of the outhouse drifts out of my olfactory nerve. I have not vomited and for this I am grateful.
Le Bruce opens my front door and claps. “See, not so bad. Princess.”
“Yup. No biggie. Just had to get used to it.” I go back up to my office. I am in pain. For the umpteenth time, I wish I was a male. A male who had no compunction about pissing into a bottle. My roommate Greg Hite did this when we lived together at Oxford. He would pee in Coke bottles and line them up under his bed. Once a week, he would empty them and start over. My mother turned visibly green when she visited me and saw the bottles under the bed. Today, I yearned for such bottles and for the physical component that would allow me to fill them.
“Oh well,” I thought to myself knowing that Le Bruce was too far away to hear my thoughts.” I guess I’ll have to go up to the Korean Pork Bone soup joint and use their can.
I went back downstairs. “See ya Bruce.” I called. “Want me to get you some pork bone soup?”
“Nope. Kosher. My mother would roll over in her grave if I ate pork soup.”
"Pork BONE soup." I corrected him.
Whatever. Its not good for you. It will give you the shits and then you will have to use the Port o Potty again....” Le Bruce crossed his arms over his washboard stomach.
Are you patronizing me? I inquired politely.
Well, someone needs to look after you. Clearly, you are not very good at it. Le Bruce thought smugly.
“OK. Just thought I’d ask. Trying to be polite and all.”
“Enjoy, Enjoy.” Le Bruce turned to walk back into Scarajevo.
I grabbed my keys and then I had a Eureka moment. The same kind that Hugh Laurie has on every single episode of House and yet after 5 years, it still does not bore me.
“MOTHER!!!”
I ran down Bloor Street clutching my mom’s housekeys. Dufferin, Gladstone, Havelock, that street after Havelock that I never remember...Ossington. Thank God you are only 5 streets away!!
I ran down Ossington to number 119 ½ (I’m not kidding...it really is 119 ½), opened the door, felt the first sad little tinkle down my leg, ripped the zipper on my only pair of jeans, and relieved myself. I sat there for a minute letting the pain of the experience slowly ebb. Then I stood up, flushed, washed my hands, and came outside.
“Hello, Hello, whose there. Is there a burgler there. Who is in the house. I have a baseball bat you know.” My mother, who is known to all simply as Bev, flew down the stairs in her mauve bathrobe carrying a child’s baseball bat.
“Oh its you, Natalie. Come in, come in. Would you like some tea, I have some organic toast and soy milk.”
“Thanks Mom. Thank you so much. But I am actually en route to get some Pork Bone soup. I just needed to use your can.”
“Why can’t you use your bathroom? Oy, its that renovation again. So hard on you, sweetie.” She pats my hair. I’m 40 years old and yet I appreciate the gesture.
“It is really hard on me, Bev. I have to tell you. I thought I could handle it being a former camper and all, but I’m too old for this.”
“I know I know. Can I tell you something, I am 67 and I still can’t shit in other people’s toilets.”
“So what do you do...you can’t hold it in forever.”
“I take Imodium.”
“Seriously. Imodium? Wow. I never thought of that.”
“It’s great. If you take one, you won’t shit for a week.”
“Oh my God. What a relief. Do you have some kicking around.”
“Of course. I have a closet full.” And she did. Literally. One one side was her Imodium. On the other, ExLax. I helped myself to a few packets.
“So now, what you do is, take an Imodium, then get the Pork Bone Soup and you won’t shit it out until this time next week. You can then plan to come here and use the bathroom. It’s terrific for organizing your time.”
“Oh Bev. You are a saint among women. Now answer me this: what about when you need to make a Number One.”
“Oh that’s easy. She showed me under her burgundy bed skirt. There, lined up were several Coke bottles. “Your roommate from Oxford taught me this trick.” If I am going somewhere, I just slip one of these into my handbag. I often take the Prada in such a circumstance so as not to arouse suspicions."
“But how do you do it? How do you pee though the small opening?”
She produced an adorable pink funnel. "Its called a Urinelle. I picked one up in Paris. The French are so functional, n’est-ce pas? Here. Take it. You can use it for the renovation.”
“Thanks Bev. You are the best!” I gave her a big hug and went back home. So excited was I to try my Urinelle that I forgot about the Pork Bone Soup.
“Where’s the Pork Soup?” Asked Le Bruce as he peered at me through Scarajevo.
“Uhhhh...I forgot it.” I said skipping up the stairs to the third floor bathroom where I would be far away to think and pee in private.
Ah Hah....Princess Pee Pee...I saw your Urinelle!!
Whathefuck...how do you know about Urinelles?
I make it my personal business to know how the female body works...in all its miraculous ways....
But I was out of range and his thinking never reached me. I went into the bathroom on the third floor and put the Urinelle in a safe place between two packages of Stayfree Maxi Pads. I went back downstairs, popped an Imodium, and set back out to get my Pork Bone soup.
Princess Pee Pee. I looked at him. Really, can’t you do better than that. My 6 year old is more creative.I slammed the door before he could think of a response.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Renovating The Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Scarajevo
16 weeks. 16 weeks. 16 weeks, we will cook in a kitchen the size of a solitary confinement cell. 16 Monday mornings, we will make coffee in a shower stall. 16 Shabbat dinners the chicken soup will be poised on a closed toilet seat.
Welcome to Scarajevo.
****
When the demolition of our kitchen began, we still had not gone from 0- 60. We did not know how much the renovation was going to cost, we did not have a SmartBuild spreadsheet with line items. When we asked how long the renovation was going to take, we were told breezily, 16 weeks.
Like Management Consulting, SmartBuild was a scam.
“No it isn’t.” LeBruce was inspecting the brickwork on our former wall where the fridge used to be.
Rob came home and put his nose against the plastic door that separated the first world of our front foyer from the third world.
“Holy Shit…it looks like.,..like….!”
“London after the Blitz!” I shouted
“How come she knows about the London Blitz.” Bruce thought. “My girlfriend thinks the Blitz is something you get at Dairy Queen.”
“Ah…don’t worry about it, Sprucy, she’s probably better in bed than I am.”
Bruce looked at me for a minute. “Yeah, she is probably is.”
“Glad we got that settled.” I thought.
“Greenwich Village after 9/11!!” Rob yelped.
“Pyongyang after…after…the nuclear reactor overreacted!” I shouted.
“Is it better to have a girlfriend who can used the word “Pyongyang” in a sentence or to have a girlfriend who is good in bed?” Bruce wondered.
“In your case, the latter. Definitely the latter.” I reassured him.
“No…it’s Sarajevo.” Rob said softly.
We all stood in silence in our naked kitchen with the wires scattered in piles in each corner and the windows covered in plastic.
“Sarajevo.” I repeated reverentially.
“Sarajevo.” Intoned Le Bruce.
A moment of silence.
“Nah,” said Rob. It’s not Sarajevo. It’s Scarajevo!!”
And it was. Emes.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Going from Zero to Sixty with Le Bruce
“I’m going to take you from Zero to Sixty.” Le Bruce repeated.
“What do you mean ‘Zero to Sixty'? Rob asked.
“He means that we are feeling relaxed and now he is going to tell us how much this is going to cost so that we can both have simultaneous heart attacks.” I said. “Duhhh.”
“Yes, but just think about the simultaneous orga…”
“We don’t have sex in the kitchen, Bruce. We just cook in it.” I was having a very clear visual of Le Bruce and his 25 year old slice of non-Kosher cutie pie in my kitchen and it was getting in the way of my going from Zero to Sixty.
“Ok Ok. So, take us from Zero to Sixty.” Rob said with a little more confidence then I think he felt.
Le Bruce took out his calculator from his man purse. He started a fresh Excel sheet and began filling in items:
1. Fix existing knob and tube.
“What’s knob and tube.” I asked
“It’s wiring. It carries electricity.” Rob said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“What’s wrong with wiring that carries electricity. That sounds very necessary in a house.”
“Jewish Princess.” I heard Bruce think.
“Oh please. I’m sure 99% of the female population regardless of religious affiliation has no clue what knob and tube is. Quite frankly, it sounds like a euphemism for getting one’s tubes tied.” I telepethied back.
“It’s ‘irregardless’, not’ regardless’.”
“Oh no it ain’t. I might be a Jewish Princess, but at least I’m literate.”
Rob explained. “Because knob and tube is more exposed than other wiring, it is considered a fire hazard.”
“FIRE HAZARD!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. WE BOUGHT A HOUSE WITH KNOB AND TUBE!! ARE YOU INSANE!! WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME!!
Calmly, Le Bruce said. “That’s why we are going to fix it. So that you won’t have live in a fire hazard. This is all part of going from Zero to Sixty. You thought we were just doing a kitchen renovation, but we are going to do all kinds of things.”
2. Air Conditioning“Well thank God. I have an asthmatic condition you know.” I said.
“An asthmatic condition, not just plain old regular asthma?” asked Le Bruce.
“It’s like asthma but not as serious.” I explained. “I just have an inhaler, no Epipens although once when I was a counsellor at a nice Jewish camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, I once stole one of my camper’s Epipens and stuck it through my thigh just to see what would happen. It was a total rush but not nearly as much fun as taking their Ritalin.”
Rob’s Blackberry is bleeping out of control, but Rob is in another world—a world of gleaming 36 inch stoves and French door fridges and granite countertops. He is excited and terrified all at the same time. And while I cannot share his enthusiasm, I promise to make more of an effort. But not right now. It’s enough. Really, it is absolutely enough.
“I can only digest these things in small chunks.” I declare to Le Bruce. “I know you want to take us from Zero to Sixty, but could we call this Zero to 4”?
Le Bruce looks at me. “Fine. I appreciate that it’s a lot of information.”
“When you say ‘fine’ does it mean ‘fuck you’? because that’s what it means when I say it.”
“You got it, dear.”
“Do not call me dear or I will call you a Poutine Lovin’ Panty Waist.”
“Poor Rob.”
“No, poor you. Your stuck with me for…how long?”
“I’m going to take you from Zero to Sixty.” Le Bruce repeated.
“What do you mean ‘Zero to Sixty'? Rob asked.
“He means that we are feeling relaxed and now he is going to tell us how much this is going to cost so that we can both have simultaneous heart attacks.” I said. “Duhhh.”
“Yes, but just think about the simultaneous orga…”
“We don’t have sex in the kitchen, Bruce. We just cook in it.” I was having a very clear visual of Le Bruce and his 25 year old slice of non-Kosher cutie pie in my kitchen and it was getting in the way of my going from Zero to Sixty.
“Ok Ok. So, take us from Zero to Sixty.” Rob said with a little more confidence then I think he felt.
Le Bruce took out his calculator from his man purse. He started a fresh Excel sheet and began filling in items:
1. Fix existing knob and tube.
“What’s knob and tube.” I asked
“It’s wiring. It carries electricity.” Rob said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“What’s wrong with wiring that carries electricity. That sounds very necessary in a house.”
“Jewish Princess.” I heard Bruce think.
“Oh please. I’m sure 99% of the female population regardless of religious affiliation has no clue what knob and tube is. Quite frankly, it sounds like a euphemism for getting one’s tubes tied.” I telepethied back.
“It’s ‘irregardless’, not’ regardless’.”
“Oh no it ain’t. I might be a Jewish Princess, but at least I’m literate.”
Rob explained. “Because knob and tube is more exposed than other wiring, it is considered a fire hazard.”
“FIRE HAZARD!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. WE BOUGHT A HOUSE WITH KNOB AND TUBE!! ARE YOU INSANE!! WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME!!
Calmly, Le Bruce said. “That’s why we are going to fix it. So that you won’t have live in a fire hazard. This is all part of going from Zero to Sixty. You thought we were just doing a kitchen renovation, but we are going to do all kinds of things.”
2. Air Conditioning“Well thank God. I have an asthmatic condition you know.” I said.
“An asthmatic condition, not just plain old regular asthma?” asked Le Bruce.
“It’s like asthma but not as serious.” I explained. “I just have an inhaler, no Epipens although once when I was a counsellor at a nice Jewish camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, I once stole one of my camper’s Epipens and stuck it through my thigh just to see what would happen. It was a total rush but not nearly as much fun as taking their Ritalin.”
Rob’s Blackberry is bleeping out of control, but Rob is in another world—a world of gleaming 36 inch stoves and French door fridges and granite countertops. He is excited and terrified all at the same time. And while I cannot share his enthusiasm, I promise to make more of an effort. But not right now. It’s enough. Really, it is absolutely enough.
“I can only digest these things in small chunks.” I declare to Le Bruce. “I know you want to take us from Zero to Sixty, but could we call this Zero to 4”?
Le Bruce looks at me. “Fine. I appreciate that it’s a lot of information.”
“When you say ‘fine’ does it mean ‘fuck you’? because that’s what it means when I say it.”
“You got it, dear.”
“Do not call me dear or I will call you a Poutine Lovin’ Panty Waist.”
“Poor Rob.”
“No, poor you. Your stuck with me for…how long?”
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Le Bruce and his SmartBuild
Rob and I looked at the Excel spreadsheet. Every detail of a kitchen renovation had been given its own line with a dollar figure next to it.
“Wow,” I said it complete awe. “That seems so logical. I feel like I’ve seen something like it before.” I thought very hard. “Wait, I do this kind of budget every single day to create a new book. We have to do it. We are accountable to it.”
Le Bruce looked at me anew. I heard him thinking: “Maybe she’s not a little Jewish Princess after all. Maybe she actually has a brain.” I mental telepathied back at him: “True dat.”
“Natalie is right.” Le Bruce folded his hands over his washboard stomach—one of several clues that he was divorced and dating someone younger. “This is what keeps me accountable to you. I lay out every line item on this spreadsheet and put a dollar figure and a time limit and we stick to the plan. We have never gone over budget and we are never late. Ever.
“Emes.” I asked.
“Emes.” He responded.
“Well, you can’t argue with him if he says Emes.” I looked at Rob. Ah what the heck, even an Emes needs to be questioned once in awhile.
“OK Bruce,” I said. “If this keeps renovations on time and on budget, why don’t more people do it?”
“Good question, Natalie. I don’t know the answer.”
Rob’s eyes which had lost their characteristic sparkle in recent days became bright again.
“I like this Bruce. I like it very much. Everyone complains about their general contractor’s being full of shit but this seems very honest and clear.”
“It is Rob. Really, I could do a sales job on you, but I don’t have to. SmartBuild speaks for itself.”
“What do you think, Natalie.” Rob asked.
“I’m feeling good about this. I’m feeling relaxed and ready to go.”
“OK. Now that you are relaxed, I am going to take you from Zero to Sixty.”
Rob and I looked at the Excel spreadsheet. Every detail of a kitchen renovation had been given its own line with a dollar figure next to it.
“Wow,” I said it complete awe. “That seems so logical. I feel like I’ve seen something like it before.” I thought very hard. “Wait, I do this kind of budget every single day to create a new book. We have to do it. We are accountable to it.”
Le Bruce looked at me anew. I heard him thinking: “Maybe she’s not a little Jewish Princess after all. Maybe she actually has a brain.” I mental telepathied back at him: “True dat.”
“Natalie is right.” Le Bruce folded his hands over his washboard stomach—one of several clues that he was divorced and dating someone younger. “This is what keeps me accountable to you. I lay out every line item on this spreadsheet and put a dollar figure and a time limit and we stick to the plan. We have never gone over budget and we are never late. Ever.
“Emes.” I asked.
“Emes.” He responded.
“Well, you can’t argue with him if he says Emes.” I looked at Rob. Ah what the heck, even an Emes needs to be questioned once in awhile.
“OK Bruce,” I said. “If this keeps renovations on time and on budget, why don’t more people do it?”
“Good question, Natalie. I don’t know the answer.”
Rob’s eyes which had lost their characteristic sparkle in recent days became bright again.
“I like this Bruce. I like it very much. Everyone complains about their general contractor’s being full of shit but this seems very honest and clear.”
“It is Rob. Really, I could do a sales job on you, but I don’t have to. SmartBuild speaks for itself.”
“What do you think, Natalie.” Rob asked.
“I’m feeling good about this. I’m feeling relaxed and ready to go.”
“OK. Now that you are relaxed, I am going to take you from Zero to Sixty.”
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
The Arrival of Le Bruce
The phone rang. Tina advised that during a renovation, you should only pick up the phone every third time your spouse call. This was only the second time, so I let it go to voice mail. A peaceful hour went by and I happily read about the medieval monestaries. Then the phone rang again.
“Hey...what’s up?”
“Are you busy tomorrow morning?” Rob asked with some excitement in his voice.
“I’m not moving to Winnipeg.”
“No no no...I know. Neither am I. You know what the problem with moving to Winnipeg is?”
I could name about 400,000 problems in the space of a minute.
“Even though you live in a mansion, when you go outside, you are still in Winnipeg.”
“And you will die of cancer.Everyone who lives in Winnipeg dies of cancer. Winnipeg has the highest incidence of cancer anywhere in the world. That’s because you get no Vitamin D and the air is sprayed every summer with toxic chemicals to keep the hordes of mosquitos which plague their 2 week summer.”
Rob sighed. “OK, listen. Tomorrow a guy named Bruce Danner...”
“Didn’t he play the Incredible Hulk?”
“Not Bruce Banner...Bruce Danner. He’s coming over tomorrow to talk to us about his process.”
“Bruce Danner was a working man...He used to load that Econoline van. A sparkle was in his eye. But his life was in his hands.” I started to sing.
“Nat...for godsake, give it a rest.” But I was too far gone to stop. I grabbed my hockey stick and belted:
“TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT....DUM DUM DUM DUM....TONIGHTS THE NIGHT.”
“OK. Are you done yet.”
“Yup, I’m good. Ok, so we are going to talk about process. What process?”
“The process for making us a new kitchen.”
“Process...that sounds kind of serious. Is this going to be a big job?”
“Nat, don’t you want a new kitchen. Don’t you want a beautiful space to cook in. Don’t you think that if you have a clean, big kitchen with lots of cabinets and a big fridge and a stove that even you can understand how to use, don’t you think you would cook more...maybe even better. We could get you a little recipe holder where you could follow directions...”
“Not happening. This I promise you.”
“I bet when you see it, you’ll change your mind.”
“Not happening. Emes.” I said. “You can’t argue when I say Emes.”
“Ok. But can you at least try and participate. Can you try and proffer an opinion.”
“For you, I will do this.” I promised.
****
Bruce Danner arrived exactly on time. He wore pressed blue jeans, a blue button down with no white undershirt underneath. His socks were blue and he had on brown penny loafers.
Bruce Danner was either gay or a Jew from Montreal-it was hard to know which since they are often confused, but I required him to turn to the side and check his profile to know which.
“Wow, Those are beautiful!” He said turning his head to look at the stained glass on our bathroom window.”
Montreal Jew.
“Should we get started?” He asked. We sat down in our dining room.
“Hey, look at this. This lesbian I went to Sarah Lawrence College with is now marrying a guy. A Jewish guy. And a doctor. Wow. She totally scored.” I am going through the Wedding Announcements in the New York Times. Le Bruce is not amused.
“Natalie,” he says. “Aren’t you interested in what your kitchen is going to look like. Doesn’t this mean something to you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Because you cook. And once I create a nice kitchen for you, you will have a nice place to cook.”
“I don’t cook.”
“What do you mean you don’t cook.”
“I don’t cook. I hate it actually. Rob does most of the cooking.“
Le Bruce looked confused. “Rob, I thought you were a lawyer.”
“Yes, he’s a lawyer that cooks. The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“ Enough. Nat, remember last night. Remember what you promised.”
“Ohhhhh Kayyyy,” I whined.
Bruce opened up his man-purse and took out an Excel spreadsheet.
“You know how everyone complains about renovations..how they take too long and go over budget, yada yada.”
“We know.” We responded in unison.
“Well, let me introduce you to SmartBuild
The phone rang. Tina advised that during a renovation, you should only pick up the phone every third time your spouse call. This was only the second time, so I let it go to voice mail. A peaceful hour went by and I happily read about the medieval monestaries. Then the phone rang again.
“Hey...what’s up?”
“Are you busy tomorrow morning?” Rob asked with some excitement in his voice.
“I’m not moving to Winnipeg.”
“No no no...I know. Neither am I. You know what the problem with moving to Winnipeg is?”
I could name about 400,000 problems in the space of a minute.
“Even though you live in a mansion, when you go outside, you are still in Winnipeg.”
“And you will die of cancer.Everyone who lives in Winnipeg dies of cancer. Winnipeg has the highest incidence of cancer anywhere in the world. That’s because you get no Vitamin D and the air is sprayed every summer with toxic chemicals to keep the hordes of mosquitos which plague their 2 week summer.”
Rob sighed. “OK, listen. Tomorrow a guy named Bruce Danner...”
“Didn’t he play the Incredible Hulk?”
“Not Bruce Banner...Bruce Danner. He’s coming over tomorrow to talk to us about his process.”
“Bruce Danner was a working man...He used to load that Econoline van. A sparkle was in his eye. But his life was in his hands.” I started to sing.
“Nat...for godsake, give it a rest.” But I was too far gone to stop. I grabbed my hockey stick and belted:
“TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT....DUM DUM DUM DUM....TONIGHTS THE NIGHT.”
“OK. Are you done yet.”
“Yup, I’m good. Ok, so we are going to talk about process. What process?”
“The process for making us a new kitchen.”
“Process...that sounds kind of serious. Is this going to be a big job?”
“Nat, don’t you want a new kitchen. Don’t you want a beautiful space to cook in. Don’t you think that if you have a clean, big kitchen with lots of cabinets and a big fridge and a stove that even you can understand how to use, don’t you think you would cook more...maybe even better. We could get you a little recipe holder where you could follow directions...”
“Not happening. This I promise you.”
“I bet when you see it, you’ll change your mind.”
“Not happening. Emes.” I said. “You can’t argue when I say Emes.”
“Ok. But can you at least try and participate. Can you try and proffer an opinion.”
“For you, I will do this.” I promised.
****
Bruce Danner arrived exactly on time. He wore pressed blue jeans, a blue button down with no white undershirt underneath. His socks were blue and he had on brown penny loafers.
Bruce Danner was either gay or a Jew from Montreal-it was hard to know which since they are often confused, but I required him to turn to the side and check his profile to know which.
“Wow, Those are beautiful!” He said turning his head to look at the stained glass on our bathroom window.”
Montreal Jew.
“Should we get started?” He asked. We sat down in our dining room.
“Hey, look at this. This lesbian I went to Sarah Lawrence College with is now marrying a guy. A Jewish guy. And a doctor. Wow. She totally scored.” I am going through the Wedding Announcements in the New York Times. Le Bruce is not amused.
“Natalie,” he says. “Aren’t you interested in what your kitchen is going to look like. Doesn’t this mean something to you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Because you cook. And once I create a nice kitchen for you, you will have a nice place to cook.”
“I don’t cook.”
“What do you mean you don’t cook.”
“I don’t cook. I hate it actually. Rob does most of the cooking.“
Le Bruce looked confused. “Rob, I thought you were a lawyer.”
“Yes, he’s a lawyer that cooks. The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“ Enough. Nat, remember last night. Remember what you promised.”
“Ohhhhh Kayyyy,” I whined.
Bruce opened up his man-purse and took out an Excel spreadsheet.
“You know how everyone complains about renovations..how they take too long and go over budget, yada yada.”
“We know.” We responded in unison.
“Well, let me introduce you to SmartBuild
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Abandon every hope, ye who enter here
“My husband and I don’t renovate.” Stacy said in the changing room of the JCC after spin class.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because our marriage couldn’t take it.” She said matter of factly.
“After we gutted our house, I went into labour 3 weeks early. The doctor said it was because of the stress.” Tina added. “I was trying to breastfeed and talk to the painters at the same time.”
“Rob wants a dream kitchen. Better than a dream girl.
“Have you tried telling him that you will commit to reaching the national average of number of times having sex per week if he forgets the whole thing? asked Stacey.
“Have you told him that you won’t have sex if goes ahead?” giggled Tina.
“It’s that bad, eh?” I asked knowing the answer.
“It’s worse.” They said in unison.
“You see, “ said Monique-our fabulous French designer. “You see…you will put ze new wall here and the table it will go ici and on it you will put ze champagne so that you can be romantic at night.”
Rob just looked at me. I knew that he was ready to scream.
“OK, Monique. That sounds fantastique. We’ll be in touch.” I said showing her la porte.
“I can’t….” Rob started.
“I know, I know. We’ll fire her tomorrow.”
After Monique came Cowboy Nigel.
“Would you like to see some plans before you tell us you can do the work?” Rob asked.
“Don’t need no plans. Nigel been doing this shit for 30 years. Plans are for pussies, you get me. We’ll just move this wall here, put the table here, put up some cupboards here and move the fridge. Sis boom bah… designer kitchen!!
“How much do you think that will cost?” I asked.
“Hard to say, miss, hard to say. Can’t know until you start..old house like yours going to have surprises.”
“OK,” Rob sighed. “We’ll be in touch.”
After Nigel left, Rob sat down sadly.
“I’m 39 years old. I spend most of my day at a job dealing with assholes and sosnovitches. All I ask is to come home to a nice kitchen. I want enough prep space so that I can properly rub my meat and then I want a space designated for my meat to rest. And then I need somewhere to unpack my groceries and then I need a dishwasher that works for left handed people...”
I patted his shoulder. “If they can put a man on the moon, they can make you a kitchen.”
He looked up. “Maybe we should just move to...”
“Nuh Uh Uh. I’m not moving to Winnipeg. Not for anything, not even a big kitchen.”
“But we could have a kitchen the size of this entire main floor. I could bring home an entire pig and roast it in my restaurant-sized oven. I could smoke an entire brisket...a brisket Nat. We could eat it for weeks. And....” he paused for a minute. “I could learn how to bake. I could bake challah to go with the roast pig and we could eat it for Shabbat dinner....”
I have to admit that I did allow the thought to cross my mind, but once it had crossed, I dismissed it forever.
“Not happening.” I kissed his head and left for work. He sat at the two crates which served as our table with his head in his hands. Just as I closed the door, I heard him mutter, Winnipeg...kitchen....Winnipeg...kitchen.
“My husband and I don’t renovate.” Stacy said in the changing room of the JCC after spin class.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because our marriage couldn’t take it.” She said matter of factly.
“After we gutted our house, I went into labour 3 weeks early. The doctor said it was because of the stress.” Tina added. “I was trying to breastfeed and talk to the painters at the same time.”
“Rob wants a dream kitchen. Better than a dream girl.
“Have you tried telling him that you will commit to reaching the national average of number of times having sex per week if he forgets the whole thing? asked Stacey.
“Have you told him that you won’t have sex if goes ahead?” giggled Tina.
“It’s that bad, eh?” I asked knowing the answer.
“It’s worse.” They said in unison.
“You see, “ said Monique-our fabulous French designer. “You see…you will put ze new wall here and the table it will go ici and on it you will put ze champagne so that you can be romantic at night.”
Rob just looked at me. I knew that he was ready to scream.
“OK, Monique. That sounds fantastique. We’ll be in touch.” I said showing her la porte.
“I can’t….” Rob started.
“I know, I know. We’ll fire her tomorrow.”
After Monique came Cowboy Nigel.
“Would you like to see some plans before you tell us you can do the work?” Rob asked.
“Don’t need no plans. Nigel been doing this shit for 30 years. Plans are for pussies, you get me. We’ll just move this wall here, put the table here, put up some cupboards here and move the fridge. Sis boom bah… designer kitchen!!
“How much do you think that will cost?” I asked.
“Hard to say, miss, hard to say. Can’t know until you start..old house like yours going to have surprises.”
“OK,” Rob sighed. “We’ll be in touch.”
After Nigel left, Rob sat down sadly.
“I’m 39 years old. I spend most of my day at a job dealing with assholes and sosnovitches. All I ask is to come home to a nice kitchen. I want enough prep space so that I can properly rub my meat and then I want a space designated for my meat to rest. And then I need somewhere to unpack my groceries and then I need a dishwasher that works for left handed people...”
I patted his shoulder. “If they can put a man on the moon, they can make you a kitchen.”
He looked up. “Maybe we should just move to...”
“Nuh Uh Uh. I’m not moving to Winnipeg. Not for anything, not even a big kitchen.”
“But we could have a kitchen the size of this entire main floor. I could bring home an entire pig and roast it in my restaurant-sized oven. I could smoke an entire brisket...a brisket Nat. We could eat it for weeks. And....” he paused for a minute. “I could learn how to bake. I could bake challah to go with the roast pig and we could eat it for Shabbat dinner....”
I have to admit that I did allow the thought to cross my mind, but once it had crossed, I dismissed it forever.
“Not happening.” I kissed his head and left for work. He sat at the two crates which served as our table with his head in his hands. Just as I closed the door, I heard him mutter, Winnipeg...kitchen....Winnipeg...kitchen.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Scene #5: Jewish Day School - The Musical
When Karen Blatt was 17 years old, she received a very unpleasant letter in the mail. Despite her 4.01 average from a prestigious New York City Jewish Day School, a brief stint in the New York Philharmonic at age 10 as a solo flautist, and a top ten national ranking in trampoline, Karen did not get into Princeton. Her Baba and Zaida had sweat blood on the Lower East Side to get her father into Princeton. Her Bubby and Tata had sweat blood on the Lower West Side to get her mother into Princeton. Her brothers had gone to Princeton but Karen...Karen was going to have to make do with Yale. She vowed that day that any offspring that sprung from her loins would go to Princeton.
This was the song she sung to herself as she dropped off 3-year old Tali to Grade 2 and 6-year old Tal to Grade 7, at that very same Jewish Day School.
(Karen dressed in black pants with an orange Princeton hoodie comes to the centre of the darkened stage. Mournfully, with her guitar, she sings to the tune of Edelweiss):
Princeton
Princeton
Every morning you taunt me
No P-ton orange and black, only Yale blue and white
Why oh why did you reject me?
Please Ha-Shem, let my children go
Go and succeed forever
Princeton, Princeton
Accept my children early decision
This was the song she sung to herself as she dropped off 3-year old Tali to Grade 2 and 6-year old Tal to Grade 7, at that very same Jewish Day School.
(Karen dressed in black pants with an orange Princeton hoodie comes to the centre of the darkened stage. Mournfully, with her guitar, she sings to the tune of Edelweiss):
Princeton
Princeton
Every morning you taunt me
No P-ton orange and black, only Yale blue and white
Why oh why did you reject me?
Please Ha-Shem, let my children go
Go and succeed forever
Princeton, Princeton
Accept my children early decision
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