Hey 19

Even though I write anonymously, I don't post details about my children in this blog, out of respect to their privacy.

But my oldest son turns 19 today, and I must say, what a strange feeling that is for me.

I can still remember turning 19. I was living in San Diego, going to college. It was the first time I had lived away from family. I was living in a dorm with my roomate who was from a small town in Northern California. She had met only one other Jew in her life. I honestly think she was relieved to find no horns coming out of my head.

We had a great "roomy" relationship, though. We had our own friends and interests... coming and going, quietly respecting eachother's space and time.

My girlfriends baked a cake for me which read: "I can't believe I ate the whole thing, screamed Randi on her 19th birthday". I'd only been in San Diego a few short months, and had already earned that reputation.

We didn't need much in the way of material things. A good record player was mandatory, with lot's of Dave Mason, Bruce Springstein, Bob Dylan, and Bad Company playing over and over on it.

I worked hard in school, hoping to become a teacher, like my dad. I decided to spend one summer working in a pre-school to test the reality waters of this occupation.

After a 3 year old told me to F#*K OFF...I thought twice about pursuing a career with children.

Nonetheless, I continued to major in child development and minor in psychology. It would take me a few more years to figure out exactly what direction I would go in.

When I look in the mirror, the 19 year old is gone. I know that. And yet, I can still remember her, even though I am miles away from that person. At 19, your whole life lies ahead of you. The choices are endless.

31 years have gone by since my 19th birthday. And now I stare into the eyes of my son...this person who came from me...19 and his whole life ahead of him.

I hope when he is 50, he will have what I have. Married to a person who is his best friend and a couple of children who drive him crazy, because he loves them more than his own life.

The years between 19 and 50 are many. They pass in the blink of an eye.

You don't know that when you're 19, though. And maybe that's a good thing. Not knowing that, is what keeps you motivated to find yourself. You have all the time in the world...and you really do. You can dream and explore. Dylan's words "when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose" were never more appropriate.

I wonder if the next 31 years will go by as quickly. That would make me 81. Hopefully, if I'm still around, I'll look back at that "young" girl of 50, and know that both she and I had fulfilled the long ago dreams of a 19 year old.

One thing leads to another

My last post leads me to this new post.

I think I'm hysterical (funny, that is).

Look, there I am, not even walking, but I know the importance of laughter. (with a hairdo like that, you better learn to laugh at yourself, and quickly).

Some of you may think that's a bad thing. "How can she be so full of herself?", you may ask. I, on the other hand, look at it this way...if I can't make myself laugh, then what fun is it to live in my head?

And since I have to be here, in my head, about 100% of the time (give or take a few percentage points...always allow for error, you know) I might as well enjoy it.

Now, apparently, many of you out there in blogland and right here in my own home, don't seem to "get" just how hysterically funny I really am.

My own husband, who, interestingly enough, has the potential to be the next American Idol, wasn't able to decipher my last post and realize I was ONLY KIDDING PEOPLE!!!

But that brings me to my next point: are we really understanding and receiving the true meaning of what people post on their blogs? Here, I was well intentioned to write what I thought was a tongue in cheek post...while everyone reading it completely misunderstood what I was trying to say.

I like to make fun of myself. What's the point in going through this life, if one can't do that? Is this defensive behavior?...perhaps. Is it because I like to smile and know that maybe I had a hand in someone else's lips turning upward? (please don't read anything into that)...more likely.

It's fun to make people laugh. I think it just might be one of the most powerful things we can do for someone. It is a well known fact that laughter releases endorphins, which elevate mood. We know that laughter can help fight off illness.

Anyway, back to my point (not really sure what that was). Oh, yeah...so, how often is the written word misunderstood? How many times have you written a letter, sent an email, written a blog post knowing what you meant to say...but the receiver or receivers on the other end, totally misconstrue what you have written?

And whose responsibility is this anyway?...the writer or the receiver of the writing?

Did I really not make myself clear in my last post...or are you readers just a bit dense? (I'm only kidding, by the way...my millions of readers are all quite brilliant).

So, I challenge you to take a careful look at what you write. Be sure the message you are trying to convey, is actually the one you are conveying. Do not take this lightly, as it may make all the difference in how your reader perceives you.

(I hope you know this is all in good fun...although I really do mean the part about how hysterical I am. Oh, and the part about whether or not your writing is understood by your readers)

Thank you all for reading and commenting (seriously, I mean that).

"If people don't like you, how will you know if you like yourself?" ...as heard on Will and Grace

I'm just a lonely girl, lonely and blue

(Addendum: As it turns out, people are good, they are really, really good. Apparently, this post has been taken seriously, and people seem to care! The world famous writer, Neil Kramer of citizenofthemonth.com, as well as my own husband (you know, the delusional one), my son, and my life-long friend, all believed that I was truly and seriously feeling lonely and begging for comments. Yikes...I was KIDDING!!! While it would be great to get 20 comments (because, let's face it, comments are half the fun of blogging), I am happy with the response I have gotten for just 2 months of blogging. And...I am very happy being shallow...because when you come right down to it...what's more important...icecream or politics? I think I know the answer to that....DO YOU?)

Disclaimer: That picture? Not me...

But, it's certainly how I feel. I'm frustrated...just a little bit.

I'm really enjoying blogging. I am surprised that I've had so much to say. But, I realize that what I talk about is pretty unimportant in the scheme of life.

There are people talking about politics, war, and the plight of global warming.

All of this, while I talk about pulling my pants down at Sears, what pizza topping best represents your secret fantasies, and my incredibly good- looking, sensitive, bright ( although slightly out of touch) husband, thinking he's the next American Idol.

And yet, I must talk about what's in my heart and head...I can't be who I'm not. So, what I've come to realize through all of this blogging, is that who I am not, is someone who is cutting edge brilliant, informative and educational.

And so, I am forced to face reality. I'm a lowly, lonely blog writer...shallow enough that if you dive into my blog-pool, you will crack open your head and the contents of your brain will fall out.

And yet, I can't help but believe that out there in the big blogoshere, there aren't others of my kind.

Those that like to watch t.v. while eating ice cream from the carton.
Those that believe that American Idol and Dancing with the Stars will send your spirit soaring.
Those that know that pizza toppings are the true road to hidden fantasies and happiness.

Okay, it's true. I have written a few heartwarming entries, about my dad, my grandparent's furniture wrapped in plastic, and sitting on Santa's lap at the age of 7.

But still, I remain frustrated, knowing that I will not make a difference in the world of politics, wars or global warming.

I fear that this has led to a lack of comments. I see the blogs that rack up 20, 30 comments in one shot, and my heart sinks.

Oh, if that were me.

I want comments, yes it's true...I blog for me and I blog for comments.

I WANT MORE COMMENTS...I'M BEGGING FOR MORE COMMENTS...PLEASE!!!

(i'm guessing I'll be lucky if I grab 2 0r 3 comments from this post)

If you are of "my kind" out there in the blogoshere, please, I implore you to let me know. I don't know if I can take another weekend of frustration and lonliness.

In fact, if you are of "my kind" (you know, shallow, uninformative, and uneducational)...perhaps we can stand together, side by side, shallow but strong.

We will shout it to the world...WE EXIST, WE COUNT, and WE ARE COMMENT- WORTHY.

Thank you

You Should Be Dancing... with the stars, that is

Aaaaaaah...to be Gene Kelly.

"You Should Be Dancing" (by the Bee Gee's) from Saturday Night Fever, was blaring on my radio this morning...and I couldn't help but think about all the great dance scenes in movie history. Watching John Travolta glide across that disco dance floor was nothing short of brilliant.

Oh, to be a great dancer *sigh*...to float effortlessly across a dance floor with no inhibition. Gene Kelly, Ann Miller, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, to name a few of the greats, were born with dancing shoes on.

I, on the other hand, was born just plain bare-footed. Not only was I not born with dancing shoes on, I couldn't even pay someone to custom make me a pair.

My caliber of dance moves are that of Billy Crystal's description in "our" favorite movie "When Harry Met Sally"...I dance doing the "white man's overbite". And I'm not even a man.

If you watch a small child dance...they have yet to discover their inhibition. As a little girl, my mom sent me for the obligatory dance lessons...ballet and tap. I remember loving these classes...as I was yet unaware of my two left feet.

My first recital included two "numbers". The tap production was to that swingin' Disney tune "Whistle While You Work", first made famous by seven little white men, all, no doubt, with probable overbites. (notice me above, white gloves and professional tap shoes)

The second "number" was a ballet set to an Indian theme, costumes and all. At the risk of being accused of political incorrectness...those were the days before we knew the correct terminology, "Native American". Nevertheless, I had a cute little feather in my hair, and all seemed right with the world.

Judging by the response to "Dancing with the Stars", now in it's second season...I'm not the only one who feels this way about dance. I'm sure the popularity of this show has to do with the vicarious thrill of watching people who might not otherwise have such an opportunity (just like you and me...well maybe not you, but certainly me).

But part of the problem with any of these "talent" reality shows is that those of us at home become seemingly delusional.

Now, I can sit in the comfort of my home, watching and enjoying the young talent persevering toward fame, and that's where it ends for me.

My husband, on the other hand, who has been forcibally made to watch American Idol since season 2... now thinks he actually has a chance of becoming the next American Idol.

Since the new season started up...he walks around the house in a daze, repeating over and over: You know...I could be the next American Idol...no, wait...I am the next American Idol. His eyes have been glossed over and foam has been gently pouring from his mouth for the better part of a week.

"If only they would raise the age limit a few meesly years from 28 to 55...I just know I have the "it" factor that all of America is waiting for".

You see what I mean? All this reality stuff has a 54 year old guy, who has never sung a note a day in his life...actually believing that he too, could live the dream. After all, it worked for William Hung, right?

I guess, in a way, it's the age old story of beauty versus beast. We all love to watch the beauty glide across the movie or t.v. screen. But at the same time, we root for the beast, the underdog, the everyday Joe, that represents you or me.

We watch and we fantasize...maybe I could be Gene Kelly, or John Travolta. Maybe I could be Kelly Clarkson or Fantasia.

But probably not. I'm still that little girl with the two left feet. And my poor husband?...well, I'll just keep wiping the foam from his mouth until this season of American Idol is over.

In the meantime, he can get his overbite ready for season 3 of Dancing with the Stars.

A Royal Flush

When I was 8 years old, my dad took my brother, my cousin and myself on a shopping expedition to Sears.

Boy, what fun we had...exploring the various departments, through the tools, men's underwear, kid's shoes...you name it, we shopped it.

Toward the end of our trip, we ended up in the bathroom appliance section, to contemplate all of the beautiful porcelin accessories...tubs, sinks, and oh yes, toilets.

Now, for those of you have an 8 year old girl, or have been an 8 year old girl...you know that 8 year old girls have to go to the bathroom...OFTEN.

I'm not really sure why this occurs. (Any doctor who has the answer, feel free to chime in). Perhaps the size of the eight year old female bladder has not fully developed (although, any of you who are women, know this is a situation that does not improve with time...we just learn to cope with our lot, by convincing a friend to come along whenever we have to go).

So, I guess what I'm saying is, when a girl's gotta go, a girl's gotta go (Right girls?....RIGHT). Well, naturally, I had to go.

Being the resourceful child that I was...I looked around and figured, hey...what could be better than having 10 brand new toilets to choose from.

And choose I did.

I walked right over to one of those beautiful porcelin toilets, and proceeded to pull my pants down.

Thank goodness my father decided to turn around at that very moment...swoop me up...and save me from what could have been a humiliating exhibition.

For years I have searched my psyche to understand what would make a seemingly shy and proper 8 year old girl, think that tinkling in clear view of Sears customers would be the right thing to do. I have examined and reviewed this scene over and over in my head, but quite frankly, to no avail.

So I try to accept and move on.

As it is... to this day...I start to twitch, and get a funny urge to strip and pee, whenever I walk through a Sears dept. store...but something inside me always screams... "NO", "don't do it...grab a friend and run to the nearest bathroom".

"Hold the pepperoni, please!"

On a local radio talk show today, there was discussion on how the type of pizza topping you choose, reflects the type of person you are.

I would like to take this one step further...could it be that the pizza topping might also represent a secret desire or longing, if you will?

I happen to like goat cheese on my pizza...perhaps this is an expression of my secret desire to run away to a nunnery, climb to the top of the Alps and sing "The Hills are Alive".

Or could it simply mean I like tasty cheese.

Or maybe, just maybe...it means I am a person who likes to be a little different, even daring...I don't just go for the mundane mozzarella. And you know what? It's true about me...I've never been one to blindly follow the crowd just to conform.

So...I'm curious...what is your favorite pizza topping and what do you think this says about you?

(Now I know this seems rather silly and whimsical...but we might be onto something here...so, please, just go with it).

This is an addendum: I notice that not one man has responded to this post...now I know there are at least 1 or 2 men who saunter by here periodically...I realize the topic is not political, or sexy, or doesn't have to do with heavy machinery...but come on...isn't there a guy out there who can fess up to his secret longings and desires or personality traits?

What a bunch of light-weights.

"I'll have what she's having!"

When Harry Met Sally...the movie that seems to show up on the "favorite movies" list of almost every female blogger.

GUILTY!

I love this movie.

I have watched this movie at least
20 times (not in it's entirety, but everytime I pass by it on t.v., I can't help but watch again).

I think the writing is hilarious and sweet and touching.

And so true to what men and women think and want.

Even the music selection is brilliant.

But I'm just curious...why do so many other women include this movie in their favorites?

What is it that brings you back to these characters again and again?

Men, feel free to answer as well. (My husband loves this movie too, but don't tell him I told you, please)

Win?...why, just being nominated is an honor!

So, I'm shallow.

If you've read the tag-line under my heading "Cruisin-mom" and the "about me", that shouldn't surprise you.

And part of being shallow means loving award shows. Tis the season. Award shows abound. Even though the amount of award shows has seemingly gotten out of hand, there are still a few that catch my attention and loyalty.

(Hey, do you think it's a coincidence that the J-Blog awards are going on right now, too?)

Starting this Monday with the Golden Globes, I will be glued to my t.v. to watch the awards.
Do I really care who wins? Heck no. Do I really care what the stars are wearing? You bet!

Let's face it...the stars deserve our respect and admiration...afterall, weeks, if not months, are spent preparing bodies, hair, clothing, and jewelry for this very occasion.

Think of all the gainful employment that ensues during the award frenzie.

Exercise trainers are hired to quickly pull bodies into shape.

Beverly Hills plastic surgeons can be found on the front lines, botoxing, enhancing, nipping, and tucking.

Top chefs are tirelessly cooking low-carb, high protein, low-fat, no-taste meals to be delivered throughout the fair city of Hollywood.

Stylists are frantically scouring the city to find dresses and tux's to make their star the most memorable on the red carpet.

Hairdressers and make-up artists will spend hours preparing natural looking faces and hairdos that resemble the "windblown look". Do you think it's easy to replicate the "I just rolled out of bed" hairdo so popular among the women stars? No, I don't think it is.

Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo shoes will be crippling (oops, I mean) "dolling up" the likes of Teri Hatcher and Reese Witherspoon.

I am so thankful that the stars are appreciated and recognized in a manner they so deserve. They will receive gift baskets worth something like $100,000. Afterall, some of the stars might not ever get a chance to experience teeth whitening, vacations, ipods, and the diamond jewelry bestowed upon the presenters in their baskets.

Thank goodness for Joan and Melissa, who so faithfully kick-off the red carpet festivities. Although, I guess the now svelte Star Jones has replaced them at the head of the red carpet catwalk. Afterall, who better to kiss the tight and fit asses of the stars than those three highly qualified journalists? I, for one, can't think of another to fit that bill.

Let's face it, how on earth would we know which t.v. shows and movies to spend our time watching if it weren't for award shows? When you lead a full life of watching t.v. and eating icecream... you really do need a guide on how to spend that time wisely. So I'm thankful these award shows exist to show me the way.

I can hardly wait for the Oscars...I love John Stewart, and I'm truly hoping he can pull off the hosting gig in a big way.

If he messes up, well, who cares... afterall, the only thing that really matters is what the stars will be wearing.

De Plane, De Plane

My God! {slaps self on forehead with palm of hand}
I can't believe I didn't think this up myself.

Tonight while driving home, I heard an ad on the radio for a group of doctors who perform laser tattoo removal. While tattoo removal is nothing new, what I found intriguing is, that's all they do...remove tattoos. Their practice is even called something like "The Office for Laser Tattoo Removal".

BRILLIANT!

Just think of it...all the people who've been getting tattoos over the last 15 years, will need to have them removed eventually (I will explain in a moment). This will go on for years. Beautiful! Finally, we can safely tell our children to become doctors again...there will be work in the future.

Now, while a tattoo is not something I would ever want for myself, or even really understand the need for...I don't begrudge someone else making the decision to do so (other than my own children of course).

I can almost admire tattooing as creative artistic expression that one feels compelled to make.

That being said...it's inevitable that the future of tattoo removal is about to explode and flourish.

Imagine the little "rosebud" an 18 year old college girl has tattooed on her, shall we say...breast... to express her new found independence. Now imagine that same tattoo when she hits 50...suddenly that sweet little rosebud could better be described as a "hanging garden".

The 25 year old navy man tattoos a ship on the small of his back to commemorate his time at sea. Sexy, no? By the time he hits 55, we're looking at the Titanic.

That cute little heart the 22 year old had tattooed just below her belly button?...by 60...it's a "bleeding" heart.

What was once a sweet little butterfly, is now a Boeing 707 making a landing on the swollen ankle of that 70 year old grandma.

Well, you get my drift. No doubt, tattoo removal is the wave of the future. If only I had thought of it {can't resist slapping forehead with palm of hand again}.

It's too late for me personally, but parents everywhere, tell your children...the future of private medical practice is alive and well.

It was 40 years ago today...

"God needs another teacher in heaven".


Those were the words that preceeded the most life-changing news of my life, 40 years ago today.

My mother took me into the bedroom of my grandparents home, where I had spent the night, to tell me that my dad had died. I was 10. And shocked. It was as if a giant wave had engulfed me, and at that moment, I began swimming for dear life.

Those are words a child should never hear. Those are words a 35 year old mother of two, should never have to utter to her children.

But those were the words my young mother, who had married at the age of 19, had to figure out how to articulate to my brother and myself, so long ago.

At the age of 41, my dad had lost his 31/2 year battle with leukemia.

He was my hero. After all, I was only ten. To me he was perfect...he was handsome, athletic, a school teacher loved by everyone who crossed his path. He made me feel special and pretty and smart. It's not easy for a young girl to lose the man who makes you feel that way. The man who helps a little girl become a self-confident woman.

Now don't get me wrong, he was not without flaws. He could yell like there was no tomorrow (apparently a gene that I have inherited). But I always knew just what to do to break up the yelling and make him laugh.

As the years went by, I would learn that he was not perfect. He had insecurities and dreams that he would never attain.

But there were many things I learned from him in those 10 short years, that had already been integrated into the person I would become.

From him, I learned about loyalty. As a friend, a family man, and teacher...he was loyal to the end.

From him, I learned about humor. He had a sense of humor that touched many.

From him, I learned about men. He was around just long enough to teach me about what kind of man to marry.

From him, I learned about pride. He didn't want people to know about his illness, as to not be treated differently.

I look just like him. I secretly loved when family and friends would tell me that. It was my way of holding onto him . I could look in the mirror, and know he was looking back.

By nature, I was always a shy little girl, and I suppose that the death of my dad did not help. For years I would sit silently, watching other kids become popular and speak up in class. All the while, I felt like I had a giant secret. I was different from everyone.
(this was a time when divorce was basically non-existent, so there were no other kids from single parent homes).

I often wonder how different I'd be had he lived. No way to know. None of us know how one event can change the course of a life. We can only imagine.

There were so many things to mourn along the way. When you experience the death of a parent as a child, you must remourn at each stage of life you go through. You must mourn for the particular loss and grief you feel at the time.

First date, first kiss, high school and college graduation, the birth of his grandchildren... all without my dad.

I did not have my dad to walk me down the aisle. As I was overcome by tears of joy, my mom and my big brother literally held me up, as I approached the man becoming my husband. The man who would reflect all the goodness that I had missed in my dad.

I am grateful to my mother and brother. My mother did all she could to raise us with love and dignity. She stood close, while my life unfolded. My brother took the role of protector and nurturer, and to this day he is my close friend. He is the one person who shares with me the grief of losing our dad. It's an ache that will forever be a part of our hearts.

I think the biggest regret a child has when a parent dies, is not knowing them as an adult. Would he be proud of me? Would we like eachother? Having served in the Navy during WWII, would he support the war in Iraq? I'll never know.

When I began blogging last month, I had no idea that 4 out my first 17 posts would include my dad. My hands begin typing, and out come the words. I suppose this day has been on my mind. After all, it is quite astounding to realize a person has been gone nearly as long as he was alive.

I suspect I will not feel compelled to write about him for awhile after the passing of this day.

But I write this, not because I am bitter or angry for my life. I am only one in millions who have had a parent die. I am not special that way.

I write this because my dad deserves to not be forgotten. He would be 81 years old had he lived. In my mind he will always be that handsome 41 year old with a smile to melt your heart.

A few years ago, I was mailing a package to my brother. When the postal worker saw the last name, she quickly and proudly exclaimed, "I once knew a person with that last name (also revealing his first name)...he was my 5th grade teacher...he was the best teacher I ever had. He was so handsome, and I will never forget him." When I had finally picked my jaw up off the counter, I explained..."that teacher was my dad!". She and I began to cry.

I was so proud to know that my father's life had truly touched this woman. She would forever remember her 5th grade teacher who had meant something to her 35 years prior. He would not go unforgotten.

Afterall, isn't that what each of us really want in the end? To know that we had somehow touched a life or two.

My dad did that.

I will not go to his grave today. He is not there.

But, I will look in the mirror, and see him looking back...hopefully he would be proud... and he would know, that his daughter has never forgotten him.

Tagged

Pearl has tagged me for one of those thingies, so here goes:

Four jobs I've had in my life: marketing research, gift-wrap girl, pharmaceutical sales rep, therapist.
Four movies I could watch over and over: When Harry Met Sally, Shawshank Redemption, It's a Wonderful Life, Roman Holiday
Four places I've lived - Los Angeles, San Diego, Los Angeles, Los Angeles
Four TV Shows I love to watch - ER, The Apprentice, (now don't laugh) American Idol,
Grey's Anatomy(love Patrick Dempsey and his great hair)
Four places I've been on vacation - Japan, New York, parts of Europe, Hawaii
Four websites I visit daily -all listed on my links
Four of my favorite foods - ice cream, ice cream, ice cream, and oh yeah, ice cream
Four places I'd rather be - I kinda like it right here...but if I have to answer, then: a beach, the mountains, a restaurant, shopping
Four books I'll read over and over again - Don't mean to sound illiterate but, I don't read books over and over again.

Anyone else who wants to, feel free to do your own.

it's only you and me, and we just disagree

As I go around to the various blogs I read, I sometimes wonder what I'm doing here. So many of them are so far from my political beliefs and values that my head begins to spin.

What first drew me in , were the differences...I find it fascinating to hear varying opinions and try to keep an open mind to other points of view.

But lately, I have found the differences almost painful. The divide between "the liberals" (whatever that means, anyway...as if people can only think one way and have no diversity) and "conservatives" is so great, that hostility seems to be all that's left in the middle.

I find it difficult to swallow. I want to keep reading the various blogs I read, but frankly have a hard time when the topics become filled with hatred and loathing.

It is a dilemma, because there are parts of these blogs that I so enjoy. I will not mention names, because there are far too many to count...I could not even narrow it down.

I wonder if this is a problem I alone experience, or if it is true for others as well.

Just wondering.

and the award goes to...

So what's the deal?...I'm not Jewish enough to be nominated for a J-Blog award?

I realize I'm new to all of this...but I noticed there IS an award for best new blogger.

All the blogs I read are busy boasting their nominations for the J-Blog awards.

When and where are these awards being held, anyway? Will Joan Rivers be "doing" the redcarpet? Do I need to buy a gown (and be prepared to tell Joan "who I'm wearing")?

When I created this as a fake blog last June (you know, so I could go around the blogoshere giving my 2 cents), I had no idea that I would end up in the company of mostly Orthodox Jews.

It all started when I began reading Robert Avrech's beautifully written Seraphicpress.com. He began by writing about the death of his wonderful son, Ariel. His honest and mesmorizing writings had me hooked immediately. Robert's blog has since turned into a forum for many things...the "screenplay-like" love story of he and his wife, as well as many political postings, which... well, as Robert knows...we just won't go there!

From there, I was introduced to TorontoPearl, who kindly befriended and guided me into this unknown territory of blogging. She has been my mentor, teaching me about the life and many traditions of Orthodox Jews. And, just like the commercial..."you tell two friends, and so on and so on..." I suddenly found myself immersed in a world I had no prior knowledge of upon entering the world of blogs.

Now I'm about as far away from being an Orthodox Jew as they come...so you can imagine how eye-opening it has been for me to see another way of life, within my own religion.
(Thank goodness for Neil Kramer and Danny Miller...who remind me everyday, there are still Jews out there like me...not so religious, but definitely bound by culture).

Of course, Psychotoddler and Dr. Bean have taught me that you can be a really funny, heartwarming and politically aware Orthodox Jew...something I hadn't known before.

And so, although I'm new to all of this, I really thought that perhaps my writings had already begun to overwhelm you, hook you in, teach you great lessons in life, and just prove that, although not Orthodox... I can be a really funny, heartwarmimg, and politically aware (okay, maybe not so much political) Jew too!

To all the nominees...break a leg...afterall, just being NOMINATED is an honor, right?

As soon as anyone can tell me where and when these awards are being held...PLEASE, let me know...

I have the perfect " little black Calvin Klein number" on hold at Nordstrom's.