It was only yesterday when S.S. told me “I know you gonna say it’s an ugly photo, because everybody else says it’s beautiful”.  So I refused to look at the photo.  When she made noises of offense, I said with a smile, “you already told the whole room what I’m going to think and say, why do I need to bother looking at it?  You decided all on your own what I’ll think.”  Needless to say, she didn’t like it.  I did.  And so did the others in the room, though only one did so vocally.  Sadly, I know the point didn’t get across.  Oh well.

This was the year in which I thanked friends and colleagues more than ever before, more than I can remember.  and it was all well deserved and more.  And this also is the year in which I deleted from my address book people I used to think of as friends but not anymore.

Luckily and amazingly for me, the good, loving, caring friendships surpass the bad ones in light years.  Thank you all; each and every one of you!

This is the year that I decided to eradicate passive-aggressiveness from my life as much as I possibly can.  Anyone who called to ask “why haven’t you called me” was welcome to talk to someone else.  I figured that the proper opening of a call, INSTEAD of the P-A opening quoted above, is to simply say “hi, I miss you; miss talking to you, what’s up?”  It did and does wonders to the conversation, to the friendship, to life.  Both of us smile and enjoy what follows.

This was the year of change, neither one, nor two.  Who’d imagine I’d last 7 months and counting of gym torture?  Who’d thought that I’ll get over a hopeless situation and the only frustration that lingers is the one regarding how long it took me to reach the insights that were there for me to learn from.  This is the year that I learned and shared a lot about my dad’s past.  Made him cry in the process, yet got to know so much more about him.  This is the first year EVER that I haven’t been to Israel, not even once.  Home, identity, roots, friends, being single and alone and learning to admit I hate it, career, this was an unbelievable year.  I’m so happy that 2011 has only a couple of hours of life left.  It’s a year to remember, but not to miss.

What do I wish for the New Year?  I don’t have any grandiose, greater than life wishes or resolutions.  More than making big NEW decisions, commitments, promises… I want to continue or end old ones.
Feel free to call me out if I fail to follow.  Seriously.

In this coming year, I wish for you and me,

• Do more ____________________ [GYM: more workout, more gym torture, increase frequency, do those intervals, they are good for you; home cooking; flossing; listening; processing…]
• Do less _____________________ [eating badly, talking, talking back, talking before thinking…]
• Be more ____________________ [patient, happy, considerate…]
• Stop [as much as you can]  _____________________ [teasing people who don’t get it, people who get it but don’t like it; procrastinating doing the things I don’t like doing…]
• Be more of the person and the friend I want to be, even when it’s hard, embarrassing, challenging
• Do better _____________________ [in the admin parts of life, from bills to tickets, moving those bags from the car to Goodwill, unpacking after a trip…]

And you know what, I don’t know how you will fill the blanks, but I can tell you one thing.  If I’ll manage to follow and execute on those humble 2012 goals and practices, it’ll be a wonderful year.

May you have the best year you wish for!

Three days later, at the dentist’s office, I heard about drilling into my jaw, titanium screws and implants.  A week later, Thanksgiving behind, I’m back to start what should be a 4-6 months dental reconstruction process.

Before I get to see the DDS, there’s that little form I need to read, initial, sign and be happy.  I start reading and my mood is quickly moving to red.  Apparently, the casually discussed process carries multiple risks, ranging from the harmless no drinking from straw for a few weeks to breaking or cracking parts of my jaw, “accidents” that will lead to additional surgeries at unknown cost, blood clots, prolonged pain…  all the way to killing a nerve that happens to reside in the neighborhood of the broken teeth.

Needless to say, NONE of those was mentioned by the nice dentist who came highly recommended by a good friend.  I refuse to sign the form without a serious discussion about all these delightful risks.  When I first express my concerns to the eager dentist, he dismisses the form as a standard requirement by the ADA.  “So are these risks non risks or real risks” I ask.  “Well, these are potential risks.”

“Why should I proceed with the process,” I question.  “Right now, I’m in no pain.  Lucky for me, unless I truly LoL with my mouth wide open, it’s unlikely that anyone will notice the broken teeth, and I can eat hot, cold whatever.  Why do anything?!”

“You have other options,” says the now a little less trusted dentist.  20 minutes of Q&A later, and much better educated, I know I have FOUR different options; all new three are of a lesser risk and potential complications, all at a lower cost.  Greedy, aren’t we?

Armed with this new knowledge, I ask the nice dentist, “So if I were your daughter, which of these options would you recommend?”  “I need to look deeper, to see the exact condition of the teeth’s remains, the gum.”

Interestingly enough, he didn’t need to look deeper to recommend the most invasive treatment for me.  I don’t explode, I don’t point out the demonstrated little care for what’s best for me.   The least invasive option, second to doing nothing, involves getting an orthodontist to pull out the remains of the teeth, and then drill a titanium screw into it [instead of the jaw], building the new fake teeth on it.

So I drove to the orthodontist.  With one X-Ray shot I brought with me, and some poking around, he said he could do it, and would l like, while he is at it, to straighten up some rebellious tooth residing in the neighborhood?  I said “yes, how much is that going to hurt?”

OK, so now it’s no longer a cheaper option, but it comes with serious benefits.  This is where I swallow my embarrassment, and admit that I took the orthodontics route twice before in my life.  2^nd-3^rd grade was a disaster that is best remembered in my family with my dad’s constant complaint that he is not sure why he pays for straightening the bath tub.  Yes, that was often where I “forgot” my retainer.  Can’t remember how many times I broke it while in my pocket, for whatever reason.  Eventually, my parents gave up, and I got a free ticket to crooked teeth.  It wasn’t until late high school that I asked my parents for a 2^nd chance.  I was denied a private dentist, but was welcome to go the HMO way.  And yes, I went to the army with a retainer.  This time, I was as committed as one could be, and it came with unpredictable fringe benefits.  Once a month I got an “after” to go visit my dentist and get the screws tightened.  What a nice break and a chance to visit home for an hour or two.  Unfortunately, even this treatment didn’t reach its happy ending.  As an army tour guide, I found myself lecturing to eager and not so eager soldiers about this Crusades site and this battlefield.  The whistling “sh” and “s” sounds that come with talking with a retainer in your mouth were good enough reason for me to take it out before talking.  On one such trip I lost it.  Never went back.

and it comes with color options

Fast forward to today, I get yet a third chance, at least for the lower jaw.

I see the orthodontist again a week later to get my mouth model [I thought it’s called a mold, but turned out I'm wrong].  I happily share my recent experience with dental consent forms, and casually mention to the nice DDs that I expect him to call out each and every potential risk, before we get to the part where I read a consent form in his waiting room and learn about multiple interesting risks.  “A medical due diligence” I say, “must be proactive.  I find it hard to trust a Dr. that hides behind a form.”  I definitely got his attention now.  He seats down and goes over all the risks, which I find reasonable.  He also instructs the receptionist to give me the consent form which is not due until our next appointment “to go.”

Next stop on this day is the C Dental X-Ray in San Mateo.  As the technician is getting ready to take the first head shot, the Doctor that doesn’t believe in proactive due diligence calls and offers to take the X-Rays in his clinic, thus reducing the cost.  Aha! My inner self is laughing.  You got an interesting call from the orthodontist, didn’t you?!

Turned out he can’t do it.  No worries, we’ll meet again when it’s time to slice my gum a bit.  And I will be asking a lot of questions.

Sometimes the right thing is to question the consent form.  Un-consenting is a real, good valid option.

 

 

art sources:

http://www.toonpool.com/user/2947/files/at_the_dentist_385005.jpg

http://nikkijenniferphotography.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/10-20-10-halloween-at-the-orthodontist.jpg

Eran, bored with beads, was going through my pile of catalogs awaiting its leap to the recycle bin, when he burst laughing out loud.  His audience of two gave him funny looks.  Then he started reading aloud: “The Most Important Gift Catalog in the World.”  Dramatic pause.  “Here it how it works:

You decide to donate a sheep in honor of your mother, who has always loved these gentle animals.”

It doesn’t say if your mom loves the sheep in her plate, as a source contributor to her scarf, or otherwise.

Eran read on: “your mother receives a holiday gift card from you, describing the generous contribution you’ve made in her honor.  Thanks to your gift, one more family is on the road to self-reliance.”

OK, with enough drama in one’s voice, you gotta laugh, independent of how warm and fuzzy the idea is.  Instead of getting your mom yet another gift she doesn’t really care for, you donate a real animal to real people who need it.

But WAIT, there’s more.  There’s no animal discrimination.  Sheep, goats, cows, pigs, a flock of chicks – all are donate-able and worthy of your mother’s love.  In Honduras, a trio of rabbits is welcome.  Honeybees are welcome from Uganda to El Salvador.

Artist: Jim Benton

A quick search later, it seems that this is the new trend in gifting.  Most frequently the living donation is four-legged, and the kind of gift that keeps on giving; milk, honey, manure.

What if you are concerned that your mom won’t appreciate the animal gift?  There are other organizations that offer gifts of service.  It costs $100 to restore the eyesight of a child.  Seeds for change is a $50 donation that will provide a Native family with organic heirloom seeds and tools to grow healthy food such as beans, corn and squash.

Back to the sheep, and it’s not a sheep named Dolly, it’s a real sheep that make immediate difference in people’s life.

Looking as the cartoon below earlier, this idea of animal and service gifting feels more right than ever.  Got so much to be thankful for that giving, instead of indulging, feels just right.

Feels so right that I am going to do something I’ve never done before.  I urge you to join me in giving a sheep [or two].   Heifer, whose catalog’s intro provided the laughs described earlier will be the vehicle for it.

The gift of sheep is $120.  I think that together we could easily raise two.

As little as $10 will get you a share of the sheep, and the honor card to mail to your mother, daughter or whomever.

Interested?  Ready to give your share of the sheep?  About a sheep donation page awaits you.  Think giving.

Art sources:

“When I say jump, you say how high

I ain’t never seen nobody-ody get so high

Like a bird, like a plane, this party-arty insane

This party-arty insane, so jump jump jump jump!”

In the past six months, I spent at least half of my time in pain.  Simple, basic physical pain in which my body sends pain messages when I get up, sit down, walk, climb the stairs.  Muscles and ligaments protest, I hurt, and they call it progress.

It started with Eran’s gift of gym membership and a set of personal torture sessions.  “Guilt” says Eran, “is just like potential.  If you don’t use it, it goes to waste.”  How could I not use a gift that cares for my physical well-being?  Can’t.

It was sheer luck that the Marine-style torturer Eran and I picked from the list wasn’t available.  Instead, a week later, Eric was offered as a good fit.

In our intro meeting, Eric’s first question was, “what are your goals coming to the gym?”  I gave him the kind of look that questions one’s basic intelligence.  “This is a gym, people come here to suffer, I got a gift, I am here to use it” I said, omitting the “you gotta be kidding.”  Yet, he insisted; “now that you are here, what are your goals?”

“well, if you insist, my goals would be

• Unhate the gym
• Stop wishing that no one talks to me in my first 5 minutes in the office – so they won’t notice my short breath after climbing the stairs
• Get in a better shape.”

To his credit, he didn’t flinch too much with the “unhate the gym.”

And so our torturer–tortured affair started.  My 1^st task was to teach him the true meaning of PT, i.e. Personal Torturer.  I also had to teach him some basic English.  1^st English lesson: in proper English “today we are going to have some fun” is translated to “today i’m gonna make you hurt.  Expect no fun.”  Through our first month, while Eric was learning English, my muscles were learning pain.  Who’d imagine that getting off your seat can be such a painful experience?

One extra painful session I told Eric that if I’m suffering he has to work too.  “Counting in Hebrew” I argued, “would make my suffering more tolerable, friendlier, as I’d suffer to the sounds of my native language.” Since he already mastered his English, now it was time for Hebrew. By now, Eric’s Hebrew vocabulary includes: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, left, right, please/you’re welcome, thank you, stop, more.  All put to painful use regularly!

harder and hurter than it looks

Another session, hating & hurting the endurance torture of side plank, I asked Eric to sing for as long as he wants me to endure.  He did.  Still does.  I can’t help laughing every time this goes on.  Laughing takes the pain away.  Sometimes however, the musical choice is less than great.

With time, more and more gym torturers were informed of their correct job title.  All accepted the title with a smile.  Some returned the favor, encouraging Eric to push me further; torture is as torturer does.

It was three months before I recognized a change I was willing to admit.  You see, gym is not the place for one to lose weight.  It’s the place to replace fat with muscle.  Over one session, as I was explaining the Pareto principle, I got in return Eric’s Pareto gym version.  “You work out for one hour day; you got 23 hours to eat [destroy] its benefits.”

I didn’t end the torture sessions once Eran’s gift expired.  How could I end something which contributes to my benefit and health?  Am I saying it’s a bad gift?  Guilt kicks in, and I’m at the gym.

The exercise bike that occupies too much space in my living room gets used regularly now.  I got no endorphins rush nor addiction; I don’t think I ever will.  What I got is an amazing torturer that keeps it interesting, entertaining, accommodating.  And some results + commitment and guilt.

Few weeks ago, the day’s torture was a series of exercises, involving do 15 X, do treadmill, do 20 Y, back to treadmill, do 15 Z, back to treadmill.  I thought that Eric long ago made peace with my NO RUNNING veto.  And yet he tried again.  Running veto means that I’m happy with 3.8 mi/hr walking, regardless of incline.  “I want you to go up to 4.5 m/h” asked Eric.

“What’s in it for me” I asked without blushing.  I rejected the first proposal; accepted the one of two home-baked breads; zucchini and banana.  Treadmill setting went to 4.5, and my guilt for getting such a great bargain brought me back to the gym the following day to walk 1.5 miles @ 4.5 m/h to make it a fair deal.  To my astonishment, not only I got the breads, but the recipes were altered to reduce the fat, cholesterol and calorie intake involved.  That’s commitment.
Still here?  I had no idea I have so much to be thankful for.   So what’s with the jump?  Other than the no running veto, I vetoed the rope jumping/skipping.  I have no good justification for vetoing jumps. Still, I won’t.  Meanwhile, six months into reforming my habits, Eric earned his very own ringtone.  in case you didn’t yet guess, it’s a cut of Flo Rida’s Jump.  Well deserved.  Thank you, Eric.

sources:

Sausalito, Oct. 30, 11

Later, Edna and I sit on a bench, enjoying an amazing day.  Edna is to teach me few stitches to enrich my knowledge of one stitch only.  I watch and practice stitch #1, watch and practice stitch #2…  Eran is either kindling or absorbing sun, and I learn.  Practice makes perfect.

As I struggle with the canvas and the needle, I notice the Muslim grandma who slows to a stop as she observes us.  One grandson [3 months] is asleep in his trolley, another [7 YO] is watching us with open curiosity.  I dare “body shuff?” I ask w/my non-existing Arabic [want see?].  granny was just waiting for this invitation.  She watches my struggle.  I can tell she is not happy with my performance.  Do you want to sit down” i ask as my manners catch on.  “yes!” is the prompt answer.  I move our bags to the grass and granny sits down.  Sleeping grandson is left to sleep; senior grandchild is observing with keen attention.

From nowhere the question pops out of my mouth, “do you want to stitch,” I ask granny.  “Yes!”

There’s an advantage to the middle-eastern directness.  You know what one wants.  I hand over the canvas, and Edna, grandson and I concentrate watching.  I try to a “normal” conversation.

“Where are you from?”

“Jordan.”

“We are from Israel.”

“I was born in Haifa.”

“I was born in Haifa too,” Edna injects.

“Where in Haifa, downtown,” my inquiring self wants to know.

“I don’t know, I was 6 YO when we left.”  I decide not to ask in what year.  I’m trying to calculate in my head.  How old is granny?  Did they leave in 1948?  Earlier?

Meanwhile she is stitching.

This is when we notice the son-on-law who is watching us from the next bench over.  More smiles are exchanged.  My embroidery practice exercise becomes an act of peace.

“You must be the daughter,” I turn to the younger woman who joins us with yet another grandson.  She is laughing as she takes in the scene.  We are all laughing.  “Yes, she wants a granddaughter.  She has no one to teach” says the daughter in a matter of an apology to us and more so to her mom.

Grandson #2 is 3.5 YO he is willing to admit as he tries to show it with his fingers.  We run into difficulties how to represent the half year without breaking a finger in two.

We don’t have coffee or food to share, and reluctantly granny gets up. And they walk away.  Edna inspects the stitches and I am smiling, running the scene in my head.  Who in Israel would picnic without coffee I wonder.  Nobody.

We didn’t exchange phone numbers; heck, we don’t even know each other’s name.  And yet, in this Saturday afternoon sun, we shared great moments of apolitical peace.

Now I’ll have to finish this practice canvas for the symbolic value if nothing else.

Not quite like this. Source: http://www.chinasprout.com

Try their vision for a change

“Me? I’m objective, open-minded, I see things as they are,” “Me? “before passing judgment on someone else, I check my own behavior, assumptions…”  “i am my least forgiving objective judge, most demanding critique.”  Yes, sure, it’s all true.  In theory.

The truth is that we love being right.  The fact that we may be wrong is the last one we’d consider.

First, it was this great TED Talk delivered by Kathryn Schultz.  Remember #183-fallor ergo sum?  From the “mental templates” that dictate what we perceive and how we process our experiences all the way to the “it’s not me, it’s never me, it’s you, you, you.”

You think I exaggerate?  Think again.

Here’s a story I heard at my hair dresser.  Speaker is an Israeli mom, relatively new to the US.  “My son was invited to a birthday party for the first time, at a classmate’s home.  I was happy and a bit concerned.  What kind of gift should we buy?  How much money are you suppose to spend?  What is expected?  Acceptable?  We bought a gift.

The party went well, all was good and finally we got to the part of opening the gifts.  “Wait,” called out the Birthday mother.  “Wait a minute.”  She run and came back with a pen and a notepad, and as the gifts were open, she was taking notes.  I was taken aback.

Yes, I know of all those who keep a track of what x gave to them for Passover, wedding, holiday… who sent shanna tova card/ecard…  but that’s adults’ world.  I couldn’t believe they start it here, in the US, so early.  My son is not even 6 YO and the compete, compare, record is already taking place?!  Not a good start to our settling down here.  That night we had a talk with our kids, telling them that the culture here is different, we need to adjust, get used to it…  we may find of it very different, and that’s OK.

Within the week, a thank you note arrived.  My son’s gift was mentioned, as was how special it was…  and I blushed in shame.  How was I to know that the doting mother was taking notes for thanks?!”

tell me your blindness and i'll tell you what you are

One vision lead to discomfort, concern, offense…  unhappy time.  A different vision would have saved that mother lots of heart ache over “what have I done, what kind of place did I bring my family to?”

At least this blindness was short lived, very temporary.  That’s easy.  What about the more serious blindness by our vision which is part of our life that we don’t know about, until it explodes in our face or becomes too late to fix?

Few months ago, I read one of my blog posts at the Art Extravaganza.  Seeing people faces and body language as I share pieces of my world is a great experience, in more than the predictable ones.  To my surprise, one of the listeners, an acquaintance of mine, approached me post reading and said that he is happy he got a chance to hear me, as it showed him a side of me he didn’t think existed.  Skipping the [probably negative] urge to dwell of what his previous perception was, I fully enjoyed the fact that here’s a guy that is willing to dismiss one perception upon receiving additional information, and replace it with a better one.  Definitely not blinded.

I have a dear friend, which I love very much.  She came to my life with great credentials, so my vision was all happy and positive.  Unfortunately, her vision didn’t include be prepared to be teased note.  Accepting teasing as a sign of friendship, caring, liking, even when delivered with straight face was totally out of her expectations.  unbeknown to me.

Two years into our knowing each other, after a delicious dinner she [and her husband] cooked, with the friend that introduced us present, it turned out that for the longest time she was POSITIVE that I didn’t really like her.  Every teasing was received literally instead of getting first turned around 180⁰, and then processed.  In her life vision, those who tease me must dislike me, think low or bad of me.

My vision, on the other hand, includes, I like you, think good of you, we are friends, I can tease you; you can and should tease me back…

When the perceptual blindness was brought to light it was awkward first, embarrassing second, and laughing at last.  Still is.  The hard learning I got from this?  I cannot [should not!] assume that one’s endearing acts are always received this way.  Be careful!

The most dangerous, most costly blindness is the “it’s about me” blindness.  The ability to remove self from the center of an event processing gives one an amazing ability to see an event closer to reality, as it really was.

someteims a CARPET is more than a carpet

Years ago, I organized a wine tasting course in the company I was working for.  For five weeks, every Thursday night, 12 of us gathered at the company’s best conference room, and enjoyed the teaching, tasting, and pairing, delivered by Barry Saslov.  The course, which was my first serious attempt to appreciate wine beyond I like you, I like you not, was a great success.  On one such Thursday night, a wine bottle broke, its rich red content spilling all over the carpet.  As the organizer, it was my duty to alert the facility manager to the accident.  His overreaction took me by surprise, as he was the nicest guy, calm, cheerful, and always great to work with.  Fortunately, as I was getting ready to lash and express my opinion of the importance of cleanliness of rugs vs. the wellbeing and moral of employees, i found myself thinking of the world from his point of view.  For a second there, my vision/perception blindness was lifted.  And with it came the insight.  My success was measured, among other things, by the moral of my peers, their wellbeing and how it’s cared for by the company.  His success, on the other hand, was measured by the wellbeing of the facility, including the conference room’s rug.  My mocking him of getting so upset about a stupid rug would have destroyed our relationship, making it hard for us to collaborate on my next project.  Much more importantly, it would have meant that I disrespect his job and responsibilities, which wasn’t even remotely the case.

It was a very long apology, with a firm commitment to be more careful in the future.

Can I claim that my vision never blinds me?  Of course not; no one can!  We have beliefs about ourselves and the world that often blind us from seeing things as they are, as we want to maintain our perceptions.  We hate change, and that includes changing your opinion of me, my perception of you.  What you, I, anyone can do is to try and open our eyes, inner eyes included, to the events as they roll, maybe replay them later, from the POV of the other.  A belated apology is an experience of amazing learning, cleansing and building.  As one who’ve done it once or twice, it brings peace.

[Sadly, some people will rather stick to their vision, refuse to test it, adjust it…accept your apology.  for them, being right and blind supersedes being open, may it  be eyes, mind, perception, and vision.   Such is life, it’s not about you, you know]

Set your vision free of your desired and chosen blindness!

Blinded Vision. source: http://www.gedsalazargarcia.com/2011/06/blinded-chaos.html

related reading, for inspiration if you will, may be found HERE.

a year ago, for yom Kippur, i had my very own slicha project, clearing my conscious of stuff i regretted and wanted to wash off my slate. i shared it with you in chapter #162.

a year had gone by; a year that was hard on me in many ways, and is ending with my birthday, the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, all lumped close together.  all of which  force me to do my annual bookkeeping, accounting, balance sheet… all too soon. and there’s no break.

i don’t feel the need for a major slicha project this year.  and it’s not that i think for a single moment that i was [remotely] perfect.  i was human.  i was wrong, i said things that could have remained unsaid… i was good, i was bad… i was sad.

it's a balancing act.

if i offended you, hurt you in any way, I’m truly sorry.  unintended.  really.  a blog’s slicha isn’t very personal you may say, feeling you are entitled to more.  sorry.  it ain’t coming.  this is my annual slicha.  this is it.  i need to balance it with the load of things i have to forgive; things i WANT to forgive and forget, and it’s a heavy enough load as it is.

playing back the year in my mind, reminiscing, the clearest, brightest emotion i hold for it is todah – thank you.  this was the year in which true friends came forward, often offering more than i asked for, more than i expected.  this year i had some amazing shoulders to lean on and i thank you with every bit of love, respect, joy, and friendship moments we shared.

thanking you for participating in my life is not a trivial act for me. i greatly value my friendships, and don’t ever take them lightly.  given that this is also the year in which i found myself telling a few that i recognize that we are no longer friends and that’s perfectly OK, meant accepting that some friendships come with an expiration date.  this makes the living friendships more meaningful, valued.thank you for everything you brought and added to my life this year, from getting me to submit to gym tortures, through moving some speech patterns from second nature to perfect stranger, all the way to practicing some silence and active listening.  thank you for allowing me to be me and yet calling my attention to when i should take me by the ear elsewhere.  thank you for lending me your time, ears, support, care.  thank you for sharing yours with me, thank you for the value you added to my life and for allowing me to contribute to yours.  your friendship is indeed the club i want a lifetime membership in.

TODAH!!! Gmar Hatima Tova!

clipart

I love water.  It’s the best drink there is.  Period.

Never got into carbonated drinks; can’t find anything soft in them.  Coffee is a whole different story, but we are in cold, refreshing land tonight.

There’s nothing in the world that tastes as great as a glass of cold fresh water, sans ice.  But not all water is born taste-equal.  There’s the kind with a metal aftertaste, there’s the kind with an overdose of chlorine, some plastic aftertaste.  There’s the kind that just tastes awful, so awful as a matter of fact, that it takes acid to wash it off; real lemony acid.   This is how it all started.

I love lemons too.

When there’s no coffee around, and no tea is to be found I’d be happy with hot water w/lemon.

Lemon is predictable [OK the Meyer lemons are amazingly sweet].   Sour is what you get, and I’m ok with that.

Then of course there’s the unavoidable “but why three” question.

Think about it: when ordering water, there are multiple variables one has to take into account.  For example:

which glass is it?

• Glass size
• Lemon slice size
• Taste of water

One slice is never enough.  Two may be just right, but not if the glass is on the large side, nor if the slices are on the thin side.  Three, unless it’s the tiny decorative slices should always work.

I used to say that 80% of waiters can’t count.  Obviously, when asked for three, about 80% of them fail to deliver three.  It got better, or maybe I learned to request better.

Recently, over lunch @ Oran’s Hummus Shop we discussed it, again.  We even engaged Lior, our great waiter, asking for his view of the matter.

There are many reasons why a waiter may fail to deliver lemons.

My assumption always was that it’s about the “auto pilot listening.”  Waiter listens to key words, totally dismisses everything else, assuming he KNOWS what you gonna ask for.  Wrong.

Well, it’s not that simple.  Stress level, how busy the restaurant is factor in.  It also matters where the lemons are coming from.  Getting three lemon slices from the bar is easier than getting them from the kitchen, where it’s received as a more removed request.  The bar however, tends to have thinner slices.

And there’s the personal preference component.  If the waiter thinks two slices to be just right, that’s what I’ll get.  Until I ask again.

So if it’s a test, Martin persists, what it is really testing.  It’s a reflection of the quality of service of the restaurant I argue.  Not the quality of the food, not how clean it is, but how accommodating it is. Is it’s acceptable to ask for the sauce on the side, to eliminate the onion of the salad, and to substitute the rice with steamed vegetables, it’s OK to ask for three slices of lemon.

You could say that it tests the attentiveness level of the waiter/waitress, but that doesn’t factor in how accommodating is the staff that needs to slice the lemon and hand it to the waiter… or if asked for “three”, how it is processed, which brings me back to the notion that it’s about the quality of service the restaurant is able to deliver.

No one can say that lemon slices are an extreme use case.  Now get me those slices please.

clipart

Glasses: http://www.inspiritation.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/glasses-of-water1.jpg

Lemons:

1. http://www.barsontherun.com/assets/images/header_index.jpg
2. http://itechpaper.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/lemonjuice.jpg

Service:  http://www.cartoonstock.com/lowres/jby0229l.jpg

the joy of pulke?

given the importance that a pulke played in my life [see #194] the following clip is too hard to resist.  i know that most jokes about Jews and chickens focus on the cure-for-all chicken soup.  but i go for the pulke.  extra crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside.

i grew up on chicken meat.  wasn’t a big fan of beef until i tasted my first GOOD bloody steak, Argentinian of course.  later, it was followed with a rich  hard to resist roast.  tongue was and is out.

therefore, until late into my teen years, the pulke was MY piece of meat.  it wasn’t until shai and guy graduated from having bits of boneless meat put in their plates that i had to move up into the adult portions of the chicken.  oh well.

like so many kids, regardless of how hungry and harsh their parents’ life had been, i too had to listen to the inevitable “do you know how the starving kids in Biafra [in Nigeria, suffered horrible drought through my childhood] would be happy to have your XXX?” until today the logic escapes me.

1. i am not happy with this.
2. you tell me other kids will be.
3. go give these kids the undesirable load you put in my plate.
4. make everybody happy.
5. Extra benefit – i won’t have to work so hard on snicking it to our dog under the table, accumulate an inventory in my mouth that have to be emptied later…  you can make them and me happy.

i’d say go for it.  but my mom never did.

so here’s to all the hungry kids of the world that wanted our meals and never got them.

on a more serious note, i’d like to recommend TWO DEGREES.  this small company truly does good.  not only they make great food bars, all tried and tested, but they also help feed hungry children around the world. for every bar we buy, they give a nutrition pack to a hungry child.  i call it win-win.  their goal?  to feed 200 million hungry children.  buying and eating their healthy great bars brings them and us closer to achieving this goal.  why “two degrees?”  ’cause it’s only two degrees of separation between you and i and that hungry child.  so while i’ll never tell a kid that a hungry child somewhere would love to have his or her meal, I’d happily offer this kid one of these gluten free, vegan, low sodium, no trans fat bars.

order on line or search for a store.  whole foods carry them of course.

Two Degrees of goodness

This is part III of the following:

#160 – My dad’s name isn’t Jakob Wagner

#190 – my grandpa was Moshe Wagner [AKA My dad’s name isn’t Jakob Wagner part II]

[dictionary: saba- grandpa, aba - dad, pulke - chicken drumstick]

Last I left you waiting, my parents sitting in their “home office” and me all ears, ready to hear how my grandfather became my grandfather.

“What is your best saba memory,” I asked my mom.  “Saba riding his bicycle, with two baskets, apples on one side, and sweets on the other side,” she says.  “He always brought the best apples.”  Her voice sounds a bit dreamy.  “I don’t remember apples,” I am a bit annoyed.  “Watermelons too,” my mom still muses.  “I remember that,” I say and can’t help the wide smile that springs to my face. “I remember how in Yom Kippur War, when aba was in the army, he went all over the place looking for milk for Guy [youngest brother, 7 months old at the time].”  A long sad sigh clearly sounds on both ends of this Skype call.

“So, where did saba and savta meet,” I ask.  “In Germany? In Vlademritz?  Where?”

“In 1944,” my dad begins, “the War was over.”

“No,” I counter, it was over in 1945.”

“Ukraine was released by the Russians by the end of 1944, and this is when we left the forest [I have yet to complete this part of the story].  We settled in one of the empty Jewish homes.  I started going to school. I remember German bombers still dropping bombs on us.  The War was completely over in May 1945.”

He continues.  “In the winter of 1945, we moved from the Ukraine to Poland; to Lodz.  From Lodz we moved to WALBRZICH [See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wa%C5%82brzych].

“In between, we also spent a few weeks in Czechoslovakia,” he adds.  “This is getting to be really confusing,” I sigh.  For one, I don’t completely trust his memory.  Then, given that he was only a kid, how can one remember all this after so many years of denial and repressing.  [Checking the maps however, reveals that WALBRZICH  was located 10 KM from the Czech border]

“Then it was Austria.  We moved around.  It was the fall of 1946, maybe September…”

“Then we made it to Germany.  In the winter of 1946, we settled down in Wetzlar.  We got a one room apartment on the 3^rd floor.  It was the three of us and saba’s brother, Jonas.  It was the top floor.  And there was a staircase to the roof.  In the staircases that lead to the roof I had a goat. It was my pet.  I named her KuzuKuzu. She followed me around like a dog.  I would tie a rope to her neck and she would pull me on by bicycle.”  I can’t help laughing.  The image I have in my mind is too funny.

Saba brought her to me as a gift… she was tiny and he carried her home under his coat.  Every evening I had to carry her up the three floors.”

“Why did you call it kuzukuzu,” I ask.

“Well, koza means goat in Polish.”  I verified it with my very own personal Polish interpreter and was satisfied with the explanation.

“Wait,” I stop.  “You had nothing, it’s after the war.  What do you mean kuzukuzu pulled you around the camp?”

I don’t need to be in the room to see the “you are so stupid” look I know he has all over his face.

“I had a bicycle.  Saba had a pair too.  Both pairs made it to Israel with us.  And your cousins got my pair.  These bicycles were made PRIOR to WWII.”  I remember my saba’s bike.  Very solid.  And he took great care of them.  Bike that was made in the late forties and survived until 1978 or so.  Impressive.

There’s no stopping now.

“Once, she run away, with the rope tied to her neck.  Her rope got caught in the fence that separated between the Jewish camp and the American Army camp.  The Jewish Wetzlar camp was split to East and West.  It neighbored with an American Military camp.  I looked for her all over, running through the camp calling kuzukuzu…

Hearing my calls, she started beh-ing.

Before we left Wetzlar, on our way to France, we got one of the locals to butcher her. We got her back preserved and canned.  She traveled with us to France… got on the boat and made it to Israel.   we still ate her when we got to Israel, but not much, only when we had to.  I couldn’t.”

“Stop,” I burst as I keep typing trying to capture what he says..  “WHEN did saba enter your life?  This is what I asked about.  Kuzukuzu can wait.”  Weeks later I’m finally ready to admit that in a childish way, the story angered me.  And for multiple reasons.  Growing with a dad that won’t talk about his past, hide it, lie by omission about it….  And then plain refuse to share, visibly choke when you get him to share…  my assumption was that it was all bad, horrible, unbearable part of his life.  To have a pat, to have a bicycle doesn’t fit into this visualization of misery, having lost everything you own, your own father included.  Why wouldn’t he share these stories with us?  why didn’t he?  My saba was already part of his life, there was no risk of revealing the big Schwartzblatt secret, and yet he didn’t.  and I’m angry, was angry and now am getting over it, ready to share and continue.

My grandparents met in 1946, not sure in which of the displaced persons locations my aba went through since the war was over.  most likely it was in WALBRZICH.

here’s the story of how my saba become my saba:

“Grandma had to support herself since a very young age, as she was orphaned and depended on the favors of relatives.”

Post war, responsible for herself and my dad, she said no to no job, took upon herself whatever it took to support them two, started looking for a job as soon as they arrived anywhere. That independence, the resourcefulness and determination were admired by men [not clear of at that point she already knew if her husband perished in the war or not].  One guy was more proactive, more persistent than the others.  I didn’t like him.  He didn’t like me.

“I was a spoiled kid,” my dad admits.  “It was a Friday night and mom made a Shabbat dinner.  The suitor came for our Shabbat dinner.   I was expecting the pulke – it was MY part of the chicken.   To my surprise, disappointment, anger the suitor got the pulke, and I got the wing.  I remember it as if it was today.  That was his end.  No one can have my pulke!!! [and my mother too]“

My dad was about 7-8 years old at the time.

“what was his name,” I ask.  “Menashe, I think.”

“I guess menashe pulke is how he’ll be named from now on,” I say.

“Then your saba started chasing mom.  He spoiled me.  I was THE ONE.

I know he was married before the war; his wife delivered a baby boy, most likely he never saw his son.  Then he was recruited to the red army; his wife was sent to a concentration camp with the baby.  He served in the srudavoya armia.  At the end of the war he went AWOL and made it to WALBRZICH.”

In response to my question, my aba says impatiently, “I don’t know how many people were there.  Grandma was looking for a job, anywhere, anything… always a survivor.”

“Saba was not only courting mom, but he was also dating me.  He took me to the zoo, , brought me sweets…

When other men visited I didn’t talk to them, kept my mouth tight, no conversation.

They got married without me. I wasn’t at the wedding.  It wasn’t a real wedding.  Maybe they registered.  I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”

“And at this point, are you Schwartzblatt or a Wagner,” I challenge.  There’s a brief pause.

“There wasn’t a ceremony.  While we were on the boat they changed the names.  I remember saba asking me, ‘Vous vilste, Schwartzblatt or Wagner?’ [in Yiddish, what do you want Schwartzblatt or Wagner?”

And I chose Wagner

But I never called him “dad”. I called him Uncle.

I am shocked.  And somehow I vividly recall that my dad would always tease him, “Mr. Wagner”, Moshe Wagner”…  I truly can’t recall even once when he said “aba”.  It was saba said this, saba said that…  how good are we kids in repressing what we don’t want to know; what may hurt us, break our illusion of perfection, they way things need to be…

Everyone knew he is a stepfather, my dad adds, meaning in Israel.  But we didn’t.  And no one said a word.

My mom intervenes “uncle” in Yiddish is “feter”.  Close enough in sound to father…  I keep quiet.

How do you make sense of your ignorance, of finding out, so many years later, that what you thought, what you knew and what you didn’t want to know were all there, in front of you, and yet…  I saw nothing.

And so I say it again, with sadness and longing that never seem to fade, I loved my saba more than the three other grandparents; he was the perfect kind of a saba.  Thank you!