Tuesday, May 30

What Really Counts

I would make the best Chassid. I really would.

These are my reasons:
1- I love wearing black.
2- I love fur.
3- I love Rebbes.

Besides, the whole beard thing (which I'm sure would not please Mr. Kasamba) I think I would actually make a great chassid except for one problem: I couldn't stick to just one Rebbe.

This is because I am a non denominational Rebbe admirer.

I love all Rebbes from all branches of Chassidism. I adore their messages of Ahavas Yisroel and Simchas Chayim. The following is one of my 'Rebbe Stories'- that means - it happened to me.

It was good two weeks into the omer and a filling from one of my back teeth came out (a souvenir of the 70's) and I had to visit my lovely South African dentist. The Friday night before I went to see him a Rav came to me in dream. I woke up shabbos morning thinking the Rav of our shul (who is still alive and kicking) had come to see me to give me a message. "How nice," I thought, "I didn't know that he knew who I was!" The problem of course was that he didn't look exactly like the Rav in my dreams, he had no glasses in my dream and I had never seen him without them, so I just assumed it was him.
Anyhoo, I go to the dentist and...

He offered me his video goggles so I could watch a video during the procedure. He then asked me a profound question which was to have rather serious ramifications. He said, "Would you like to watch Fawlty Towers or the Lubavitche Rebbe's Fabrengin?"

Well you got to here, so you know the answer already. I opted for the Lubavitche Rebbe zt"l. As soon as he came on screen, I almost choked, it was HIM, the Rav from my dream! And as soon as I heard what he had to say, I knew that this fateful incident had to have been pre-ordained.

You see, a week prior to my dream, a friend had borrowed something very expensive of mine and returned it to me damaged. I was not a happy bunny. But I was more upset at my friend for not noticing that she had damaged it and then when I had showed her, not apologizing. I felt it was the principal of the matter. I didn't want to have a grudge against this woman, but I didn't know what to do to feel better about her.

So the Rebbe started talking to me, his eyes boring into me the message that I needed to hear,
it went something like this:

In this time of the omer, why are we busy counting our possessions? We count what we have and we count our money. But do we count our days?
More importantly, do we make our days count?

At the end of the day, how important is it that someone did something to something I own? I should be focusing on myself and my spirituality and making a difference in my family and the world.

And so, I removed the video goggles, blobby black mascara running down my face mingling with my tears and the dentist declared that it was the first time that someone was more overcome by the video, then they were the treatment.

We a a few days until Shavous, where all our Ruchnius will be determined for the entire year. Let's make these last few days count.

Better yet, let's make all our days count.

Have a happy and healthy Shavuos!!!!

Friday, May 26


Rebbetzin Jackie Wein A”H wife of Rabbi Berel Wein Shlita was just niftar.

I grew up in Rabbi Weins shul. Actually, I was practically born there. As soon as I learned how to walk my Daddy would take me to Rabbi Wein’s shul every week. Rabbi Wein was not only the Rav of my shul, he was my menahel, my Jewish history teacher, the Mesader Kedushin at my wedding. (The Weins only moved to Israel after I got married and moved away.)

But as much as I adored Rabbi Wein, Rebbetzin Wein was the heart and soul of our shul. Every week when I came to shul she’d be standing there looking lovely, with her daughters beside her.

I actually studied her because I sat several rows behind her.
To me she was the best example of an aidel, refined woman, someone of whom you could imagine Shlomo Hamelech having written Eishes Chayil about. She had the gentlest Midwestern accent and a smile that was as warm as the summer sun.
Every week she would say to me, “Kasamba, you’re a pleasure to look at.”
Even when I looked like chulent.

But there’s more, so much more.

Everything I am and everything I do, is due in part to Rebbetzin Wein.

You see when I was a girl, there were lots of girls and I was considered average. I was just one of many, I was never given a chance to shine.
It was Rebbetzin Wein who gave me that chance.

Every year in the shul the girls in the shul would put on a play that Rebbetzin Wein would write and direct. She was so talented and creative; her plays were so funny and cute. I was plotzing to be in it but there was a catch; you had to be Bas Mitzvah to join. Being a year and a bit away from Bas Mitzvah, I begged Rebbetzin Wein to let me be in the play. Of course, being the soft hearted person she was, she gave me a non speaking part, albeit one that required me to be on stage for the duration of the play. I was to be a doctor’s secretary on the right side of the stage, while all the action happened on the left side of the stage, which was the doctor’s office.
Rebbetzin Wein let me wing it.

Being the frustrated thespian that I was, I brought an entire bag of props with me to use while I was sitting at the secretary’s desk. First I filed my nails and the crowd went wild when I lifted my foot onto the desk and pretended to start on my toenails. I sharpened pencils wiggling my entire body every time I rotated the pencil sharpener. I did so many more absolutely bizarre things that my Mom still cracks up when she thinks about it. Needless to say, hardly anyone watched the main play. They were too busy watching the action on my side of the stage.

I remember Rebbetzin Wein laughing so hard and telling me that I had ‘stolen the show’, which apparently I did.

Believe it or not, that kick-started my life.
Suddenly I wasn’t just Kasamba – child 0143, I was Kasamba- bearer of the weird and wonderful.
Suddenly I was able to get huge parts in plays.
Suddenly I was someone that people remembered (which much to my chagrin, they still do).

Suddenly I was a somebody.

When I heard that she passed away, I couldn’t see through the veil of tears I shed. She meant so much to me and was such an integral part of my childhood, but I didn’t recall telling her that.
As kids, we take, take, take, grow up, move away and don’t even give a backward glance. Why didn’t I ever mention it to her? Why did I wait?

What kind of person needs someone to pass away before they sit up and realise just how much they meant to them? But when I cried to my Daddy and lamented the fact that so much appreciation for Rebbetzin Wein went unexpressed, my lovely Daddy told me, “Kasamba, don’t feel bad. I told her how much you appreciated and valued her, every single time I saw her.”
Daddy, I can’t thank you enough for that.

I am going to Israel B’ezras Hashem on Sunday. Instead of introducing Rebbetzin Wein to my kids, I will be paying a shiva call to Rabbi Wein.

Some good will have come from this post if each of you picks up the phone to someone who had a Hashpoah on your life, and tell them how much they mean to you.
Before its too late.

Tuesday, May 23


The dynamics are changing in Casa Kasamba!

As you know every Jewish home is a bit of a fairy tale and here is mine;

Once upon a time, in the land of green and gold, there lived a young Merchant. The young Merchant took as his bride a lovely girl from the distant shores of the Americas, from up the hill, to be exact. Her name was Kasamba. They moved into a charming cottage on a woody lane, known as the money pit.

Soon afterwards, the Merchant and his bride Kasamba celebrated the birth of a much beloved and very yellow, son, called Artichoke.

That’s when the bride Kasamba became… Kasambamama.

Anyway, the Merchant sold many pieces of cloth to enable him to buy the necessities for his newly born son; like a scale electric racing set and video games.

It came to pass, when little Artichoke at nine months old, started to walk. And when the Merchant and Kasambamama saw their little boys tiny feet shuffling through the garden and they heard his delightfully high baby voice, they thought their hearts would burst with pride.

A lump came to Kasambamama’s throat… and she began to cry.

Little Artichoke was the light of everyone’s life, that is until the Merchant and his wife were blessed with the birth of an adorable baby girl.

And adorable she was, and she was adorable, and cute and…. I think you get the picture. Ahem! And they called her Asparagus. In his own special way Artichoke was really proud of his new sister, so much so, that every time someone complimented her… he banged her firmly on the head.

Soon little Artichoke surprised everyone with his first words, which were… “I’m Bored”

The birth of Radish followed Artichoke’s third birthday. Poor Radish, took notice of the fact that as Artichoke was a boy and Asparagus was a girl, he would have to be really special, in order to draw attention to himself. So he would play in traffic. It worked every time. Lo and behold, no matter what was going on in the house, everyone noticed him!

At this point in Artichoke’s life, Arsenal (the London soccer team) figured majorly in his existence. His obsession revealed itself through his décor: his walls were plastered with pictures of Arsenal players, and his dress: he wore the terribly chic (emphasis on terribly) polyester Arsenal T-shirt at every available opportunity. He also looked around him for role models, from whom to learn morals, virtues and behaviour. Artichoke seemed to found all of these rolled up, in one person. Much to the Merchant and Kasambamama’s chagrin, this person turned out to be none other than the virtuous Bart Simpson.
It was at this juncture that the Merchant chose to become ‘Travelling Merchant’.

The neighbours always knew when the merchant was planning a serious business trip because they would hear him shout,

“KASAMBA! Where are my swimming trunks?”

The Merchant was truly a super traveller; able to fill out immigration cards with his eyes closed and open kosher meals (and recycle the plastic!) in less than thirty seconds flat. In fact, he travelled so often that the concierge in his favourite hotel always welcomed him ‘home’, while his kids started to call his bedroom ‘the guest room’.
Little Tomato was born when Artichoke was nine years old and the Merchant was home on hiatus. Tomato was a very cute baby and at the tender age of two knew and recognised the entire alphabet.

In the meantime, Artichoke was like yeast, he grew and grew and grew, causing Kasambamama.to hide all the protein in the house, but he found it anyway, because then he grew some more. He also took a cue from the oven. Artichoke was soon called the ‘pyrolitic kid’. He thought that if he ran around and got hot enough…
he’d self-clean.

One of Artichokes teachers wondered where he got his energy and exuberance from, so one fine day, he surreptitiously passed by the charming cottage bought by the Merchant.
He witnessed Kasambamama setting out a six foot American flag in the flowerpot, and the Merchant compacting the rubbish by standing in the dustbin wearing moon boots.

“Aha!”, he thought.

Then one day, everyone noticed that Kasambamama.was very tearful.
She cried when she was sad, when she was happy, when she was hungry, and when she was full, when it was nighttime, when it was daytime…
(You catch the drift??) Boruch Hashem, a few months later, little Cucumber was the result.

It came to pass, that Artichoke at seventeen years of age, is going to Yeshiva.

And when the Merchant and Kasambamama saw their big boys massive feet, shuffling up to the passport office and they heard his delightfully deep voice say his name, they thought their hearts would burst with pride. A lump came to Kasambamama’s throat and she began to cry…. again.

The End.
Goodbye Artichoke!!!
We will miss you!

Friday, May 19

The Only Man In England Who WORKS

Hello Y'all!

Living in the UK as long as I have, affords me the opportunity to observe and analyse the British way of life. I look at it as a huge sociological experiment with me at the microscope studying the British, as one would study an amoeba.

Ahhhh you say, but surely the English are more interesting than a one cell organism with pseudopods?????

And so they are.
Today boys and girls we are going to learn about : (Drum roll please….)

The Only Man in England Who Works.

Most people do not work in England. They go to the pub and talk about how hard life is and then they go home, make teas and watch football on the telly.

The only man in England who works is the Cone Man. You know him, he is the person who puts out all the orange cones on roads. You never actually see the Cone Man but you know he’s been there because he has lined up all his sweet orange cones-literally roping off highways and byways, streets and passageways.

I imagine that he is hideously ugly, a cross between Quasimodo and the weirdo in Phantom of the Opera. He takes pride in his work though, because his little conies are always arranged just so, meticulously spread apart. Some days, you can see that life is not so good for Cone Man, either he’s upset or he’s been drinking because then the cones are willy-nilly and scattered about.
It is then I feel sad for Cone Man.

But it is then I feel sad for me too, a resident of this dismal isle.
Because Cone Man works and no one else does;

Cone Man will take a four lane highway and cone it off into one lane. This causes what I like to call ‘The Funnel Effect’, where only the fastest, largest, most obnoxious cars get through. (I won’t tell you what category my car goes into).

Therefore, construction never ceases because it never bloomin’ starts!!!!

Ahh well, I wonder, does Cone Man treat his cones like family?
Does he wash them lovingly after their sojourn on the streets?
Do you think he knows that I have three of them in my garage?

But all those questions are for nought- the main thing we learn from this is that;

The Cone Man has a laudable work ethic.

Much to our distress.
(Amoeba’s don’t much care about traffic)


Tuesday, May 16

The Post That THANKS You!

First I would like to wish you all a very happy Lag B’Omer!!! (I’ll tell you my exciting plans later- or maybe not at all!)

Now that that’s out of the way, did anyone notice that I blog a lot? A real lot. You might think that I don’t have a life. (And that’s a good guess!) Well, there is another reason. Basically, blogging is the only thing I have strength for. You see boychiks and maidels, my thyroid packed up, went south and didn’t even send me a postcard. I am the proud owner of the title of hypothyroid woman. Now for those of you who read my Marvellous Magnificent MeMe, you’d know that one of my phobias is getting fat. I have gained 7 lbs from air, because I hardly eat but since the thyroid controls metabolism, I ain’t burning nothin’ off! I have reoccurring nightmares where the fire brigade has to remove the side wall of my house and remove me with a crane because I am too fat to leave the house on my own. (Shudder)

I usually live on adrenalin. I used to give the Energizer Bunny a run for his money. In fact, he was eating my dust. Now, I have no energy left, there is no adrenalin.
In other words:

My get up and go had got up and gone.
I have lost my mojo.
Elvis has left the building.

The Doc says that I have to be patient for a few more weeks until the meds kick in. Bezras Hashem it will. In the meantime, I’m bloated and lethargic. Kasamba with no ‘samba’. My exercise sessions are far cries from the manic outlet they used to be. There is no more kick in my kickboxing, I prefer my pillow to Pilates and I’m using my cross trainer as more of a Zimmer frame.

Every day is the same, I keep thinking that today is the day I will feel good, but it isn’t. It’s hard on Hubby and the kiddies because it’s not like I have the bubonic plague or anything discernable that they could see (like boils and such). They just have to take my word for how I’m feeling. But I think they are suspicious…

However through it all, and excuse me here because I am getting a little emotional, you have been here for me, writing wonderful blogs and leaving lovely comments on mine. I felt like a virtual human!!! (Get it- virtual?) I just wanted to thank all of you for being here when I needed you. Sniff.
All of you write so well that I feel sincerely humbled. I almost feel like smashing my computer keyboard and using the keys as scrabble pieces.

If I never blogrolled you or put up links to you, it’s because I am technically challenged and I don’t know how. (Does that show my age?)
Come on give me a group hug!!!

Therefore in your honour, I have written and dedicated a poem especially for all of you:

If my bathtub were full of ink
And all my makeup brushes- pens,
I wouldn’t have sufficient supplies with which to THANK YOU enough,

If all Hubbys air miles were good wishes
And all the hotel soaps in his suitcase- appreciation,
I wouldn’t have sufficient vibes with which to THANK YOU enough,

And if all my discarded chocolate wrappers were roses
And my blog posts- orchids
I wouldn’t have sufficient fauna with which to THANK YOU enough.

I really mean it.

You’re the best!

(Oh no, maybe my hormones have gone as well…)

Friday, May 12

And Kasamba and Presumptua Walk into the Sunset….

The previous post was only one tact I took to attack my ego. The other one was, ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’. I don’t know if you noticed, but I never referred to my ego as my Yezer Harah, because it really isn’t. Okay, so it’s the part of a person that feels good in a new outfit or a flashy car, and it prefers to travel first class. But it’s also that part of a person that feels really good when they’ve done a Chessed and accomplished when they’ve done a mitzvah, and even proud when it resists the lure of the Yetzer Harah. Ah ha! I had discovered that Presumtua could be channelled! But in order to do that my ego had to acknowledge the existence of other people. Like you and you! Of course I knew other people existed, but I don’t think they deserve to be number two in my consciousness. For instance, how many times would I listen to someone while mentally running through my shopping list?

And then after I broke my hip, I opened the closet and fractured my jaw
Me: “Oh really”
(I must buy eggs and yeast, I need more yeast..)
“Then I tripped on the cat and sent it flying into the frying pan causing my entire kitchen to set fire”
Me: “Oh really”
(Mmm, I wonder if they have any of that good cheese left?)
“The fire spread and I lost all my worldly possessions and now I live out of a box”
Me: “It’s been great to talk to you- must dash!”
(Did I put my wallet in this handbag or is it still in the other one…)

Once I became sensitive to the realisation that I had never really listened to someone with my entire being, I was given a gift. The gift was to be able to truly share with others in way I never dreamed possible. It took all my relationships to another level. Suddenly, after listening, but really, listening, I could no longer be as judgemental. How could I be annoyed with my friend for being late, if she was going through a tough time with her baby? All sorts of situations that were potential eruptions were diffused because I had taken the time to find out what was going on in other people’s lives. I understood them better. I think I got tremendously shocked to become conscious of just how much pain is out there. I never knew. I had been so busy with my self, my feelings, my needs, my wants, that when I saw the sheer courage and bravery that people go through on a day to day basis, I could not thank Hashem enough for granting me all that He had.

I still have to ketch myself not to feel too big for my britches, and when I do, I just have to look around me; at the people in my town who can’t afford to make Shabbos, the people in Ertez Yisroel who are going through the worst yessurim possible, the people who in various ways are being tested by ill health, and I see that I have the ability to ease their suffering if only to really listen to them. And then comes the responsibility, and this is where Presumptua really comes into the picture. Once I knew what was lacking in someone’s life, once I was privy to their pain and suffering, only I was in a position to know what they need and then I could provide it! I was put in an opportune place to provide Chessed!

Presumtua loves this, she feels all yummy and good.

And Kasamba and Presumptua Walk into the Sunset….
(Although Presumptua is bound by chains.
Which she doesn’t mind because they are made of diamonds.)

Tuesday, May 9

Lego My Ego

Welcome Back Kasambettes and Kasamboys!

I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce you to my ego, her name is Presumptua. It is because of her that I am writing this down, and it is because of her that I wrote all the nice flattering things about myself. She feels that more credit should be given to her. She wants to be appreciated. She feels that other people do not respect her as much as she deserves. She wants everyone to look at her and admire her. She wants constant compliments. She wants everyone to leave lovely messages on her blog. She thinks that she’s a real Tzadekes and if she does anything wrong, it’s not her fault. She judges people and automatically assumes the worst. She is me.

When she is around, there is no room for anyone else, except for her. She is the whole world and everything revolves around her. She has learned early on to concede with a false smile every time she was meant to share and give up credit and attention. But she wanted it and resented everyone who denied it to her. She took up a lot of space in the cranial hard drive. No, with her around there would be no room for anyone else, and that included HaKodosh Baruchu. How could there be? How can you be an Eved Hashem and concede all your desires and needs in order to do for Him, if your ego tells you that you should be doing for yourself? How can you truly appreciate all that He does for you if you feel that you deserve it anyway? As soon as I recognised that until now, my ego had effectively overthrown my Neshama and was residing as king of my mind and my emotions, I came up with a plan to stage a counter coup and usurp her regime.
(Drumroll, please…)

I started going to Shiurim. Not just a few, but many. Besides, now that I wasn’t gossiping my telephone time had decreased substantially, opening up vast amounts of free time windows in my day. I also started listening to Torah tapes. Constantly. I found that the more I immersed myself in Torah and Torah thoughts, Presumptua (my ego, remember?) wasn’t such a strong figure in my brain. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I still had evil thoughts about people and would smile that ‘you don’t know what I’m thinking’ smile.
But at the same time that I would allow Presumptua her moment of triumph, the rest of me that had been absorbing all the timeless messages from all the amazing people that I had been learning from would prevail.

So, meet the G-D SQUAD: Rabbi Berel Wein, Rabbi Akiva Tatz, Rabbi Shimon Wiengarten, Rabbi Joseph Perlamn, Rabbi Yissochar Frand, Rabbi Pesach Krohn, Mrs. Yocheved Kahan, Rebbbetzin Joanne Dove and Mrs. Chana Juravel

Yeah, I had my evil delicious thought, but then I had my arsenal of Torah thoughts there to combat them. I could give you a million examples, but don’t worry I won’t! Soon I noticed that the time between Presumtua’s first thought and the voice of my Neshama’s arguing Torah thoughts was getting shorter and shorter.
Oh, I haven’t eradicated all bad thoughts entirely, but I am trying and I do notice that if find myself in a situation sometimes I don’t react at all, which I’ll only notice later.

But is that the end of Presumptua?
Will she ever return to full strength?
Is Hillary Clinton really a man?

All these questions will be answered… next time on
La, la, la, la la, laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
(Fade out)

Friday, May 5

The Game Is Up- But I'm Still Playing

Well, Ladies and Loons, the game is up!!! Most people in North West London know who I AM. Oh boo hoo. The question is, do I care??? Good question. But there are still a few things I still want to share before I go off into the lonely abyss..
I HAVE SO MUCH TO GIVE!!! Sigh. Sniff. Snort.
But even if you know me, do you really care? So you have the teensiest glimpse into my psyche and then you see me in Kosher Kingdom- big deal. What do you with this knowledge? Do you run around telling all and sunder 'Ooh did you know XXX has a blog?' Have I really said anything detrimental to my family and my kids future shidduchim?
(Won't you laugh when they publish this as a book under my real name. HA!)

But for now,I still want to talk about my foray into Shmiras Halashon.
Now, where was I?
Oh yeah, I had just opened my spanking new, never before touched, ‘Lesson a Day’.
Knowing that I could never go ‘cold turkey’, I decided to go for abstaining from Loshon Horah for one hour a day. Sounds simple, huh? Yeah, right. It was the hardest, most difficult thing I ever did in my entire life. The hour I chose to keep everyday was ten until eleven a.m. As I recall, I didn’t want to feel like a ‘wus’ by taking on an easy hour (like two until three in the morning). I really wanted to see where it would take me. In order to give myself an added incentive, I did the hour in the zchuss for my two single brothers to get married. Every time the phone rang, my palms would sweat and I would hear my pulse racing in my head. Sometimes I would let it ring and I wouldn’t answer it at all. I spent all hour looking at the clock in abject fear that I wouldn’t be able to control what came out of my mouth.

Then I realised that ostracizing myself was not the answer. If I was going to integrate Shmiras Haloshon into my unfortunately already dead set and unmovable inadaptable personality, I was going to have to learn more of the rules stating what I could or could not say. So, I went out and bought every book on the subject and devoured them all. I discovered that ever since I had learned to talk, I had been saying or accepting Loshon Horah. Oh, great. That’s just dandy. I had always had a (if I may say so myself) a very quick wit and wicked sense of humour. It was indeed wicked, and sometimes people whom I cared about enormously were hurt by my (very funny) slingshots. But most of the time I was a coward. I wouldn’t say things in front of my victims but rather I would save my barbs for other people to hear and savour. I was also non confrontational in the juvenile sense. Similar to a toddler who runs to his Mommy crying that some other child hurt him, I too never confronted people who caused me pain. Instead, I would run to my support network of people who would, naturally, agree with whatever I was saying and say what I wanted to hear. Oh boy, was that going to have to change!

What was it that Hillel said? I think it was something like ‘so much to do, so little time?’ Well, back to my very frightening hour, from ten until eleven a.m., that felt like it was composed of sixty microwave minutes. In other words, it felt like eternity. Slowly I started testing the waters by allowing myself to be social during my hour. I would give everyone I met and spoke to on the phone an immediate “hello, please don’t say anything not nice, I’m in my hour.” People were very understanding, confused that it was coming from me, but understanding nevertheless. It was when I went from keeping one hour to keeping three hours that people started recommending therapy. One hour they could deal with, but three? That would mean waiting three whole hours just to tell you a really juicy tidbit? Uh, yeah. That’s the idea. Some people gave up talking to me entirely. I don’t remember minding that they gave up on me, because I was so relieved that I didn’t have to fight with them when they tried to assure me that what they had to say was most definitely not Loshon Horah.

Something interesting happened along the way, I developed a sensitivity to evil speech. It had become foul and the air that the sound waves had travelled through was almost tainted by its stench. I couldn’t take it anymore. I almost felt like, “Oh, I should eat non kosher later?” I wouldn’t do it with Kashrus and I didn’t want to compromise on Shmiras Haloshon either. So I took on the entire kit and caboodle, the whole hog, from alpha to omega. I decided to extend my three hour Shmiras Haloshon stint to twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Yup, I now tried all the time. By now I really felt like a Tzadekes. But there was one problem I just did not reckon on. I forgot about my ego.

Dum, Da, Dum, Dum, Duuum.
To be continued... don't touch that dial!

Tuesday, May 2

MoMMa Mia it’s MY MeME

Thank you J-cop for being the first to tag me!!!

So here we go-

Kasamba's A-Z MeMe

Accent; A very refined, clipped, New Yawk squawk.

Booze: Definitely Advocaat (egg liquor) Yum!

Chore I hate: Being seated next to needy, whiney people at Simchas.

Dogs/Cats: I love cats…. They taste just like chicken.

Essential Electronics: A pacemaker. (B”H not for me!)

Favourite Perfume/Cologne: My little girl’s neck.

Gold/Silver: No, no, no, only platinum, Dahling.

Hometown: Top of the Big Apple.

Insomnia: There is no rest for the wicked.

Job Title: Martha Stewart Wannabe.

Kids: A handful and they are a handful.

Living Arrangements: One up, one down, and one in between.

Most Admired Trait:
Knowing a lot but not repeating it.

Number of SP’s: One, thank you very much!

Overnight Hospital Stays: Each baby, three premature labours, two premature births, and one errant gall bladder removal.

Phobia: Getting fat and magicians.

Quote: “Ignorance can be fixed but stupidity is forever.” (From Kasamba’s Daddy)

Religion: Born again FFB Jew.

Siblings: 2 supporting acts.

Time I usually wake up: 7:00am.

Unusual Talent: Thinking out of the box.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: Sunny von Bulow… Nebach.

Worst Habit: Laughing too loud.

X-Rays: Oh, so that’s where I put my keys!

Yummy Foods I make: Anything baked. I looove baking!

Zodiac: Capricorn on the cusp of Aquarius.
(I guess that makes me a swimming goat.)

Okay, so who wants to be tagged next?

My blog is worth $12,419.88.
How much is your blog worth?

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