….Then My Life Would Be Complete

I’m on a quest to find the perfect white shirt.

All you girls know exactly what I’m talking about.

This white shirt has a good collar, not too small that you look like a dweeb with a pocket protector ,or big, like Henry VII ruff.

This white shirt should have nice cuffs to stick out a bit from sweater sleeves, maybe French ones, or at least double buttons.

This white shirt should fit properly, has a little lycra to give you shape, but not too much to make you slutty.  

This white shirt is crisp and pure and makes you chic and not frummy.

But most of all, this white shirt doesn’t tell everyone that I applied the Tweety tattoo I got in the 25 cents machine: not see through. I don’t want to have to put a full blown Linda Leal underneath, because that is just extra layers to make me look fat.

If you find one let me know.

(I have a budget though, should I forget about it [the budget, not shirt]?)

The Futility of Secrets

There are Lamed Vav tzadikim nistarim; what happened to the women?

 This question was typical of the many very deep and philosophical conversations I have with my husband over dinner.

 We though quietly for moment and then decided we couldn’t speak for previous generations, but in today’s day it’s impossible to be a tzadekes nisteres (If that’s the right word for it)

 This is for the few simple reasons; let me edify you.

 With today’s shidduch crisis, if you’re a girl, and you have a good quality, you better broadcast in on Primetime TV (primetime? TV? What’s that?), not even to get an edge over other girls, but to be in contention at all. So even if you pride yourself on your clandestine charity work, I don’t suggest that you do so in this critical stage in life.

 Then if by rare chance, you made it though shidduchim without revealing your tzadekes status, getting your child into school will.

 You thought shidduchim competition was bad? Forget about it. Take any pride you may have had, get down on your hands and knees, beg, and grovel for your child to be accepted to your third choice school.

 If you don’t let them know what a beautiful, amazing, phenomenal person you and your husband are, how solid your yiddishkeit is, how Torah is the cornerstone of home, and that your chinuch is exactly on par with whatever the schools ideology is, short of performing miracles (on second though, performing miracles is not a bad idea) dream on about your child’s formal Jewish education.

 If on even the slim to nil chance you still did not have to reveal your lofty status….your children are back in shidduchim and you’re on display again…azoy geit dus.

 I’m sure there are some of you out there who may be insisting that you were able to maintain your covert charity. All I say to you is, You’re a Narcissistic Benefactor, a contradiction in terms, if there ever was one.

Marital Fued (food)

I love pizza, yogurt, tacos, coffee, onions, hot pepper, cumin and tomatoes. My husband likes pizza and can tolerate yogurt (in theory) everything else on the aforementioned list is nuclear waste to him: dangerous and garbage.

It’s really normal for people to have different palates and preferences when comes to taste (and smell, we all know the chazal), and I’m not complaining about that…what I am complaining about, well not complaining, but raising a point. Why do I, and most women cook for their husbands taste and not their own?

Yes, of course we want to please out husbands and make them happy. Keep them contented and full, but seriously, I can’t remember the last supper I made with me as top priority. I’d like kid myself that I am just that giving of a wife, but honestly I’m not.

Maybe, I suppose it’s easier to make sacrifices on your own part then expect someone else to do it for you. (Yes, food is a big sacrifice)

I mentioned this to my husband, he heard my point and encouraged me to make supper for myself, this very night.

“Tacos?” I suggested brightly.

“Whatever you want,” he chided.

I perked up, wow, this was beautiful martial giving at work, I knew I married a great guy! “I’m not gonna be home for supper tonight, R’s sheva brachos, remember.” He finished.

Maybe it’s really just that the old adage is right, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” and deep down we instinctively know it’s true, and follow through accordingly.

Whatever the psychology is, I’m having cereal and milk for supper tonight.