The Way I See It

MY FINAL WORD

2007-05-05T23:51:00.000+01:00

Oooooh that ‘final’ bit sounds a bit daunting.

Well, it’s not like I am going to become a mute, live in seclusion at the top of a mountain, only to nod my toothless head in a knowing way when people climb up to ask me the meaning of life.
Nah, I need to be near restaurants.

How final is final anyway?
Any mother who is human, (Well, there are other life forms in the world you know) appreciates that her ‘final word’ can change with just one sideways glance from her liquid eyed offspring.

And besides, there are so many topics I didn’t get to write about!
Such as:

-Self appointed parking supervisors- If you are a woman then they’re out to get you. If you are a man, then you are probably one of them. They are the men who stand and watch woman park their cars and lose interest as soon as the females do a blooming good job parking their ten foot car in a seven foot space. BUT if the heavens decreed that the woman parking should not do such a great parking job…. These men are right there, watching….. judging….

-Visualisation- It’s very hard to go about day to day life remembering Olam Haemes and the fact that we all get there in the end. Well, when I ‘get to the other side’, I don’t want to be shocked about all the things I should have done in this world when I had the chance. So, I use a visualisation technique that keeps me on the straight and narrow.
I have my own cheering section.
Yes, you read correctly. I imagine about twelve Malachim on bleachers, each holding red and white pom-poms. When I do something wrong, they boo and hiss and throw (environmentally safe) rubbish at me, but when I do something good, they cheer like St Louis fans when the Cardinals won the 2006 World Series. My Malachim are really cute because they chant as well as doing the Mexican wave holding peach scented candles.
I really love when they’re happy with me.

-Gender Photos- Why is it that whenever girls take photos together they always huddle and scrunch down collectively, even if there’s an acre of room in the frame; while boys en masse stretch and take up as much room as possible????
Huh? Yeah, you in the white shirt! Why?????

-My neighbours- I looooove my neighbours. I always say that if the people we bought the house from would know just how much we adore our neighbours, they would have tripled the asking price, and we would have paid it. My neighbours are my best friends and my closest allies. I just hope that Bezras Hashem when Mashiach comes and we move to Israel, we can still live near them.

-Conformity- I believe there is great beauty in asserting one’s individuality while still conforming to the ideals of a group. We live in a day and age where you see people going to outrageous lengths just to stand out from the crowd. The irony is that that act of rebellion becomes a trend and then they have to find even more extreme methods just to be different. I mean, I see so many people with piercings all over their bodies, I imagine that the next step for them would to be to create string art, from stud to stud…

-The Great Conspiracy- Most fabulous women’s shoes are designed by men, ie, Charles Jourdan, Jimmy Choo, the great Loubitan. Think about it. It makes sense. If you ever had the good fortune to don one of their death defying heels, you will know that you can barely walk, let alone RUN. This keeps women in their place. Teetering, but in their place.
Ahem.
I rest my case.

-My Daughters Hair- Asparagus was blessed with blonde curly hair. Ever since she was little, people would stop her on the street and compliment her on her gorgeous hair. When she was thirteen she came to me and told me that she had decided to grow her hair for Zichron Menachem, a charity that makes wigs for children with cancer. She felt that as she had been blessed with beautiful hair, she should share it with those less fortunate than herself. Well, flash forward two years and her hair is nearly long enough to cut. All her friends are getting funky haircuts and bangs but not Asparagus. She ties it back, secure in the knowledge that her hairstyle is truly the most beautiful of all.

-Snippets of conversations I wanted to hear the rest of- Have you ever fleetingly heard one sentence that just made you want to hear the rest of the dialogue? It happens to me all the time. Here are a few examples:
“And then he took the entire filing cabinet and stood on the table…”
“I said, Mavis, you are going to sue that doctor for leaving that clamp inside you! You won’t EVER be able to go through an airport metal detector’!”
“But how DID you fit all those chickens in your SmartCar???”
“Hey, why is that weird woman listening into our conversation?”

-Whiney Women- I am so fed up with women moaning about how Yiddishkeit restricts women. I tell you now, I would never want to be a man and I couldn’t deal with the whole tzizis thing anyway. If you are one of those women who put on tefillin every morning, well bully for you, but that don’t curl my sheitel one bit. I am proud to be a woman, knowing that I have my own connection with time and spirituality in my own way without having to be a cheap facsimile of a man. I’d rather do the female thing really well than the male thing badly.

-War Wounds-My body is a physical testament to all Jewish holidays. In other words, I cook and I have the scars to prove it. Cooking for Rosh Hashanah gave me the Kaparah of two horizontal burns on my inner wrists that look like a botched suicide attempt.
This Pesach left me with a mere seven stitches on my left hand. Making Shissel Challah after Pesach left me with a gaping two inch burn on my right arm that took two weeks to close. And that’s just this year- so far.
My arms are starting to look like a relief map of the Indies.
I think I’d like to go away this Shavous….

Ah, well, so much left unsaid….

This past year has been an incredible, almost psychedelic journey. Through writing, I have discovered so many things about myself that it has proved to be the ultimate cathartic experience. I also learned that, boy…. am I opinionated! The best part was that while I’ve chronicled my observations, I made myself laugh all the while.

This past year saw me; send my son to Yeshiva Gedola, get ill, lose my first mentor, celebrate the birth of my brother’s first child, marry off my eldest niece and my favourite little Blueberry. Plus, I turned forty.

Boruch Hashem, you could say that it’s been a watershed year for me.
But the cherry on the cake is that my other sweet, adorable niece just got engaged and watching her and her Chusson together makes my heart swell with joy.
Isn’t that what life’s about?

I thank you for coming on my fabulous, marvellous, remarkable journey with me because without you, it wouldn’t have been what it was.
I love you all!

I particularly would like to thank; Kishmech, Karl, Jameel and
especially, mostly and positively TOWIK, who may be my birth cousin but who actually is my soul sister.
Towik; you are the best.

Lots and lots of (purely platonic, politically correct, shomer negiah) HUGS,
For the very last time,
Kasamba

Goodbye

2007-03-19T21:54:00.000Z

Goodbye Bloggers
Well, the time has come.
The second to last EVER post of Kasamba.
It’s been a year now, a journey that had its ups and pups, madness and mayhem.

I have enjoyed getting to know you, my readers and yes, even my lurkers. I started blogging because I had a lot to say and it seemed like an ideal forum where I would be judged on content rather than externalities. I loved the almost immediate feedback and enjoyed how I could spark off discussions between all of you.

BUT, I have always been aware that the blogashpere is not an alternate universe that people can behave according to their inner consciousness without any barriers. I actually don’t believe there is any place for that at ALL. In fact, as Jews, if we have bad thoughts, we are taught to replace them with good ones, not revel and salsa around in the mire of rotten reflections.
Yes, there is something to venting.
My blog posts are full of that.
But I would hope that I haven’t once cast members of Klal Yisroel in a bad light.

I believe that as bloggers, we have a responsibility that we can’t abandon just because we are anonymous. Once we say we are Jewish, we are accountable for every word we write, no matter if anyone knows who we are or not.

Whew!
Now that I got that off my chest, I can just tell you why I haven’t been going on your blogs or answering your wonderful comments.
Way back when I started blogging, I promised Hubby that I would only do it (all blogging activities) for one year and one year only. As soon as the year ended, he reminded me of my promise and he has kept me to it. And so, he has let me go blogging over the year only to post these final posts but not to visit everyone elses.
Well, who can blame him? He wants his wife back; as do my kids, and my commitments in RL (that’s Real Life for you lurkers!).
Blogging for Kasamba has come to an end. Finito. Full stop.
I will miss you all.

Well, not really, because the next post will be my last.

But I will forever be Kasamba.

Don't YOU be Passed Over This Passover

2007-03-15T21:57:00.000Z

Most women arrive at their Pesach seder looking like their passport photos.
I figured out that the reason why women are not required to lean is because if they did, they would just keel over.
After cleaning for weeks and replacing all the food in the house and then cooking, the Jewish female of the tribal species usually feels rather worse for wear by the time the pow-wow actually begins.
No, no not I. I will survive.
I refuse to be a dishpan handed wreck by seder night.
I want to happily leave Mitzraim, not say,
“Go on without me, I’m too tired”

Instead I want to sit upright at Magid and be‘with it’ as much as possible.
You might ask- Kasamba, how will you do that?
Well, that’s a mighty good question.

With the patented Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, you too can be as fresh faced as those who say Ma Nishtana instead of as flat and craggy as a matzah and about as bitter as marror.
So ladies, (no, that doesn’t mean you, even if you are feminine) roll up those sleeves, we’ve got work to do!

-The first step is elementary. If you are like me, during the course of the year you would have received numerous hand and body lotions. If you are also like me, they end up standing in your cupboard, like a regiment of French soldiers; basically doing nothing.

So, take samplings from a few of theses creams and rub profusely over your hands, then place under rubber gloves. So while you are scrubbing and scouring, your hands are being treated and pampered. In fact, according to the Kasamba Don't YOU be Passed Over This Passover Program, your lotions have more of a chance to really penetrate into your hands the more you plunge them in scalding, scorching, blistering water. So, get started.

-The second step; use Pre-Pesach to work on your core stability.
We at the Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program advocate what we call Passover Pilates. Pilates will help you work on strength, balance and mental focus; all of which any Jewish woman needs this time of year.
The fitter you get, the cleaner your house gets. It’s a win/win situation.
This particular exercise is call the ‘Working Like a Dog’
First, you perch on a chair, leaning towards the drawer you wish to clean, then dipping a Q-tip in Windex (or Windowlene on this side of the aquarium) point it at area of the drawer destined for crud removal and
-now-
PULSE *1*2*3 and HOLD 1*2*3: repeat sixty times.
Make sure to concentrate on your core.
For Your Information: your core is the area in the pit of your stomach that bleeds into your intestines whenever you think about Pesach.

-The third step is an opportunity for you to see to your face and your fridge/larder at the same time. All of us have expensive items of food that we feel are too good to throw out but are way too old/moldy to use. So, using the Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, you will learn how to clear these food items from your shelves while at the same time hydrating and nourishing your skin. We have it all in our Ingredients You Have Face Mask.
First, take all unused or half used items from all different food groups and line them up. Then starting with the yogurt, (including the green stuff on the top- it has curative properties; like antibiotics) you will schmear it all over your face. Then move on to the leftover avocado and spread over the yogurt layer. We all know about the medicinal properties of olive oil, so next, take the last of the chametz olive oil and apply it over the other two layers.
Don’t be afraid to go ethnic! Be heimishe and proud! Go on! Dollop on some of that herring your husband was saving but never actually ate. It's full of z complex minerals! Gehakta Leben is also chock full of protein!

Finally, for the coupe de ta; nuts. Nuts are an essential hydrating component of our Ingredients You Have Face Mask.
But you already know that it’s impossible to use all those nuts that you got over Purim any other way! The vitamins found in nuts are wholesome and vital for the collagen production in the skin, so be sure to be generous when applying.
Don’t worry; your face mask might burn a little, which is perfectly normal.
Leave on for 48 hours, making sure to avoid sunlight.

-Step four. We at the Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, believe in making the most of your cleaning time and that means doing things that you promised yourself you would; but you never did. Keeping in mind that in every Jewish woman there is an Imelda Marcus just waiting to burst out; take a walk to your shoe closet.

Look around. Just how many shoes do you own that are the weensiest, teensiest bit too small for you? Is it only one pair? Or are there five or more? Never fear, because, you will soon be able to wear those uncomfortably tight shoes and they will soon be as loose and as comfortable as a pair of slippers. The secret is this: put on those snug shoes and wear them while you clean. Yes, it’s that simple. Just teeter around in them while you rummage around your house looking for unleavened kryptonite and you will make your footwear as slack as Alfred Hitchcock’s jaw. This key to doing this is something called ‘pain redirection’. Our team of crack psychologists assure you that when you are pillaging your home, you become so highly focused that you will not notice that you are wearing six inch heels that are at least two sizes too small (because they were such a pretty colour and they were on sale and they were the only ones left).

-Step five; learn a new language.
So far we have worked on our outsides, but what of our MINDS????
We must toil and exert ourselves culturally as well as look amazing with terrific shoes while we dechometize our homes. Naturally, this is the best time to learn that foreign language that you always wanted to.

For the first time you will be able to read books in another tongue!
For the first time, you will be able to order without translation in exotic restaurants!
For the first time, you will be able to understand what your cleaning help says!
Be like Mordechai Hayehudi- choose from our Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program’s extensive collection of no less than seventy, yes- you read it right, seventy language tapes. It’s simple.
All you do is listen and repeat.
Can you say
‘is this a really old macaroni or is this a new form of wildlife?’
in Bulgarian?

So that’s it. The patented Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program won’t let you get washed down the drain with the filthy water this year! No this year, you would have worked out both body and mind to arrive at the Pesach juncture prepared to travel with the rest of Kllal Yisroel, just in better, more comfortable shoes.

After the five step Kasamba Don’t YOU be Passed Over this Passover Program, not only will your house be spotless but your hands will be as soft as Paroah’s belly, you will be as fit as an Eved shlepping rocks, your face will be as smooth as a Baitzah and you will speak as many languages as the Anshei Kneses Hagedola.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to blow torch clean my kid’s braces.
Ah, just one kid, just one kid

The Big Freeze

2007-03-08T03:25:00.000Z

Now that Purim is done and dusted, I beg the question; just what is the story with us and our freezers?

Out of all our appliances; why do we break down like a 1980’s Ford Escort when our freezers pack up?

I’ll tell you why, through a detailed analogy as follows;

A ship goes belly up and sinks, taking all its passengers with it.

Yup, that’s about it.

When your freezer dies, it has everything inside that you wanted to keep just in case you can't get to the shops.
After all, you never know when;
-Your car won’t start without warning
-Guests turn up without warning
-Armageddon arrives without warning

Most frum women I know have more than one freezer and these freezers are always full, yet there is never anything to eat in the house.

We females are so dependent on our freezers that our priority shows itself in the discourse we have with our peers.
Example:

Female #1: “I fell down and fractured my leg in fifteen different places. The doctors say I won’t be walking for months and when I do, I will have a noticeable limp.”

Female #2: That must be terribly inconveniencing for you. I wish you a refuah shlemah.

Now, notice the difference when the conversation concerns freezers.

Female #1: I had builders in the garage and they switched off all the power by mistake, so everything I had in the freezer defrosted and had to be thrown out.

Female #2: OH NO!!!! What are you going to do???? What a tragedy!!!! Hashem Yirachem!

This is obviously elementary, after all, once you’ve stood in your kitchen for hours and cooked food, the only place you want it to go is in peoples mouths: not in the gaping jaws of the local sanitation vehicle.

I would have to say that a freezers greatest enemy are children-in-search-of-ices. These children leave the freezer door open while they rummage around looking for the odd ice pop that might have fallen out of the now empty box. Or they try to freeze Evian bottles full of orange juice and need to check on their progress every two minutes.
Then, if leaving the freezer door wide open isn’t bad enough, the kiddies never close the door properly so the cold air escapes slowly and surely until everything that was once rigid with frost becomes completely damp and limp like fat men after a sauna.

Before a Simcha, freezing isn’t even a luxury, it’s a necessity. When a woman davens that everyone should be in good health and her guests should arrive with their luggage and that everything should work out, she will put in an extra bit about her freezers.
“Please Hashem, Master of the Universe, You who have given man the Daas to create electricity, please watch over my freezers so my Simcha can be complete.”
Amen, sister.

On the other hand, you can tell a lot about a person by what they store in their freezers.
-If you store food that is peppered with paprika and heavy on garlic, you are most likely Hungarian.
-If you store food that is perfumed with cinnamon and honey, you are most likely Sephardi.
-If the question isn’t what you have in your freezer, but rather WHO you have in your freezer, you are most likely a psychopath and I ain’t eating at your house.

My favourite freezer story is actually a classic in the Kasamba household. It involves a much beloved and adored Auntie and Hubby’s deceased grandmother.
It was a family get together, six months after the passing of Hubby’s paternal grandmother, Omi. Auntie, the daughter in-law of the departed, presented all assembled with a beautiful apple pie. Everyone had a piece and was marvelling over the lightness of the dough.
In response, Auntie said, “Well, it is Omi’s dough.”
“Oh”, her son elucidated, “You mean, you used Omi’s recipe to make the dough”
“No” Auntie replied, “It IS Omi’s dough.”
“Huh, what do you mean, it is Omi’s dough?”
“You know… from her freezer”

There was a deafening silence after the almighty ‘CLANK’ that was made when everyone threw down their cutlery.

In spite of everything, freezer or no freezer, a person’s food should never outlive them.

What’s with that term ‘freezer burn’ anyway?
Hello?
Freezer, brrr cold.
Burn, achhhh hot.
Go figure. Another thing I won’t ask Rabbi X.

Now before Pesach, I must delve into the depths of my freezer on my mission to either search (and devour) or destroy. Because of the aforementioned ‘freezer burn’, most of the time I must destroy, but even the act of throwing away the remnants of last Shavous’s cheesecake, brings back lovely memories. (Sound effect: birds chirping)

Whenever this time of year barrels along, I always feel like an intrepid explorer braving the sub artic conditions to forage through the icy depths to retrieve some ancient, fossilised prize. However, once the freezers are empty, I start to feel like my car’s gas gauge reads less than 1/10 full. Yup, I get nervous. Maybe it’s because I’m a gilgul of someone who went through the Irish Potato Famine or maybe it’s because I’m part Hungarian, I dunno, all I know is I just can’t rest until my freezers full again.

And so, the cycle continues.
Ah, the circle of life.

Is it Purim Yet?

2007-03-01T19:14:00.000Z

Boruch Hashem Cucumber is feeling a little better BUT because it is before Purim and she missed so much school, I feel I have to pick up the slack and teach her about the holiday myself.
The story went fine but the songs- eh, eh (hand swivel)
Apparently, my memory is worse than I thought.
I sang her the ‘Purim song’ as I remembered it, and it went something like this:

King Achashverosh liked nosh that smelled like feet
He begged his wife Vashti for some
She had many Corn Chips
A hundred at least
And said “I won’t give you even one!”

I knew something was up when my little girl looked up at me as if I was Tom Cruise jumping on her sofa. “Mummy” she said, “I don’t think it goes like that” and she sang me the real version, which I must admit makes much more sense.
Now I recall why I never became a teacher.
Never mind, it’s your kids loss.

Anyhoo, Purim is almost upon us and my theme is ready.
This year’s theme is theWizard of Oz.
I am the wicked witch, obviously.
Hubby is the scarecrow.
(Artichoke is in the US, spending time with my Favourite Fruits)
Cucumber is the good witch
Radish is a gladiator and Tomato is a Pirate- think poetic license or Venahafoch Hu
And Asparagus will be the Lion.
Asparagus HAD to be the lion because she is growing her naturally curly, stunning blonde hair for Zichron Menachem, who make wigs for children with cancer. Her hair is almost two feet long from scalp to end and with a mane like that, she HAD to be the lion!

Oh, I do adore Purim. After Sukkos, Purim is easily my favourite holiday.
Well, you can’t sit in a Shalach Manos for seven days, can you?
But before you lock me up, just know that there are others like me out there!
Yes, they do exist!
We are a secret society that actually enjoy THE most hectic day of the year. But then again, I also love making Pesach, but that’s another story…

My kids love the whole build up to Purim. In fact, they will start preparing next years Purim costumes, while sorting out their Purim nosh this year. And that’s another thing, Boruch Hashem that Pesach comes so soon after Purim, otherwise my kids would have authentic British teeth, if you catch my drift.

When I was younger, I was much more into the whole earth-mother-who-makes her-own-costumes thing. Well, it was the closest I will ever get to growing my own vegetables. Even though I tell myself not to feel guilty about that, apparently London fog and smog is only really good if you want to grow glow in the dark zucchinis. Anyhoo, I used to sew, and create costumes and find satisfaction in doing so. Nowadays, I get satisfaction if I remember to cut Tomato’s and Cucumber’s fingernails. So, it’s off the costume store for us.

I’m just grateful that costumes have evolved since the Stone Age, when I was a child. I used to hate those plastic masks with the rubber band that always came out of the staples. I also hated the way my face would get all hot and sweaty from breathing in my own air. I was always sure that those little tiny cut out mouths were meant for a goyta who was much more refined than I was and didn’t have nearly as large of a mouth.

We are having the seuda in our house but my lovely sisters in law are cooking everything and leaving me to do my favourite part: the dessert. I put out black tablecloths and assembled a yellow brick path winding over the tables. I also have all the accessories on the table; such as Toto in a basket, the emerald city in a vase, ruby red shoes, medal of bravery, etc..

The way it works is that my brother in law is the bouncer and gives out £1 charity vouchers to the collectors but allows the entertaining groups in who get the big bucks. No one in my family drinks much, so apart from the de rigour Purim L’chaim, BH there’s no vomit or drunken behaviour in my house.

So unless you behave yourself, and have a routine, you ain’t getting in.
But I might make an exception if you have corn chips.

Germs Invade Casa Kasamba

2007-02-27T20:02:00.000Z

As a mother and wife, I know that I can’t afford to be ill.
But for me it was always a toss up- which is worse; my husband getting sick or my kids….
That is until now.
(Drumroll please, maestro)

Hmm…
Let’s weigh things up:

If my husband gets ill (Chas Vesholom!):
- I must pander to his every need
- I must seem to be sympathetic
- I must pretend that I don’t mind that he can’t do carpool/help with homework/get fresh bread in the morning.

If my kids are unwell (Chas Vesholom!)
-I must clean up their ‘returning of semi-digested food’ (Ahem…)
-I must clean up their ‘rapidly digested food’ (Ahem, once again)
-I must pander to their every need
-I must hear, “I’m not weeeeeelllll” every two minutes on the clock
-I must advise them on exactly what they are allowed to eat as often as I hear the above
-I must sit through my mother’s lectures on how to make power drinks in the juicer to bring the kids back to health
-I must enjoy their presence as they stay home from school

Yup, hands down, it’s the kids.

And there is nothing more heartbreaking than children who were formally Tasmanian Devils turning into overcooked spaghetti.
Especially, if they miss something big, like a simcha or a party or a Yom Tov.

A day before Asparagus turned two, she got chicken pox and her birthday party had to be cancelled. This didn’t stop many well meaning and kind relatives and friends from giving her presents from a safe distance by the door. It’s just that one relative (yes, you know who you are!) who shall remain nameless, who gave Asparagus her favourite present which was; real Barbie makeup. Now, you do the math. Combine makeup and chicken pox and what do you get? A big sticky technicoloured mess.
Epilogue- she has a souvenir of that gift in the form of a scar on her left cheek, where the makeup got entrenched with the open chicken pox pustule.
Ah, a birthday present that lasts forever.

For the past two weeks, my little four year old Cucumber has been down and out. The first week, she had a severe case of gastroenteritis, which lasted for seven days until she went back to school on Friday. The treatment for that was easy because she wasn’t allowed to eat anything and she exists on air anyway, so it suited her fine. Then, Motzai Shabbos she came down with a fever of 102. In the beginning, she was so cute with it, with her cheeks all rosy and her eyes all glassy, but then she got all miserable. So, I called the doctor over to my house (you see? There ARE benefits to living here!) but he couldn’t find anything else sinister, so he just recommended that I give her over the counter medicine to bring the fever down.
Uh, I’m sorry.
What was that he said? Give her WHAT????

Let me explain: Cucumber is a ‘nil by mouth’ kind of girl. She barely eats, detests family favourite staples- such as pasta, pizza and potatoes and exists by the grace of G-d. She does NOT take medication. And so in spite of cajoling and begging and even bribing she refused to take anything until three days later (the totally white night before last) her fever spiked at 105 degrees. By then I just forced her to take a suppository and bathed her until the fever came down. The doctor came to see her again yesterday and saw that she has a full blown case of Tonsilitis and prescribed antibiotics, which he happened to have in his case, and mixed up the solution for me on the spot. (Take that, UK detractors!)
UH, wasn’t he listening???
Which part of ‘she-won’t-take medicine’ did he not get???

However, extreme times call for extreme measures, so I brought out the last gun in my arsenal: Diddles.

Diddles are the 2007 equivalent of Holly Hobby from the 70’s and Hello Kitty from the 80’s and 90’s. They are the stationary du jour for all the well stocked 4-7 year olds. They have cute pictures of frolicking mice in hot pinks and lavenders. Apparently, it’s all the rage to trade them at school. BUT, being as Cucumber is my fifth and youngest child, her pleas for Diddles actually went unheard and unheeded. Thank goodness I was so negligent in providing her with the accoutrements necessary for popularity in the nursery set, because now I had something to bargain with.

With the promise of Diddles, she finally took her antibiotics.
Then this tiny, feverish girl brought me her boots and her coat.
I said, “Cucumber, it’s okay, we can go tomorrow to get the Diddles, when you’re feeling better!”
“Uh, uh” She answered, “I want to go NOW.”
So I bundled her into my car and set off to the only stockist of Diddles in our area: Toys R US.

Now, you have to understand, Joan of Arc walking towards her fatal barbeque wasn’t half as much as a martyr as my little Cucumber. The image of my poor child shuffling down the aisle of the mammoth superstore in her pyjamas, dragging her booted feet behind her, is indelibly etched in mind.
Her skin was a shade of duck egg blue but she sported a determined look in her eye and when she saw her prize, she went in for the kill. She picked out a hot pink folder with a selection of notelets and then said,
“I’m not feeling weeelll. Can you carry me?”
Which I did.

School Never Ends

2007-02-26T21:42:00.000Z

An evil poem that redeems itself.

School Never Ends
To say I dislike school fundraising dinners and school shows
Would be a form of major understatement I suppose
Because you’d think giving a donation would be enough
But sitting through speaker after speaker- man that’s tough
Even though I know I must support my kids’ school
My eyes glaze over before I’m even seated as a rule.

Blahdi, blahdi, blah; education is the key, it is the core
Yeah, I sort of got the message eighty dinners before!

It is said that it is much better to give than to receive
If that’s true, we gave already- so why can’t we leave?
I think I just take umbrage at the whole phrasing
I mean, just who put ‘fun’ into the word ‘fundraising’?

And then comes the school shows which get the kids all excited
With all the hype- you’d think they were about to get knighted!
To get close to the school is a nightmare- parking is a real kafuffle
Then once you’re inside to get good seats, again you have to shuffle.

But as soon as my sweet treasures did what they had to do
Which usually entails them saying lines that are oh so few
I still must stay for another three hours, which is a whole day shot
It’s not like I’m interested in your sweet little darlins- I’m really not
But before all of you start jumping right down my throat
Don’t be all self righteous cuz we’re all in the same boat!
So calm down, count to ten and then take a breather
I know you’re not much interested in my kids either!

Wouldn’t it be so much better if the school was able
To come up with a precise schedule and timetable
So we could come on time to watch our own offspring
And then waltz home right after- not missing a thing!

Okay, okay I know I’m being a tad bit mean
After all, I know we’re all on the same team.
As Lady J says, all yiddisher kinder are ‘ours’ not ‘yours’ or ‘mine’
And the way she says it, you know that it’s not just a line.
So would it kill me a few times, for a few hours a year
To enjoy other peoples children that they hold so dear?

And to say that I can’t stand school dinners, I can’t really afford
Because my husband is the chairman of the school dinners board!

So I will go to both and I promise I will try to enjoy and smile
But I will be thinking about writing another evil poem all the while.

Give Them a Hand!

2007-02-24T19:31:00.000Z

Erev Shabbos in Jewish homes across the world (or at least in London), women such as myself, are busy playing ‘beat the clock’ before Shabbos comes in.
Not so in Monsey NY.

Erev Shabbos in Monsey finds the average Eshes Chayil in the nail salon.
On Friday afternoon, completely organised and relaxed knowing that they have Shabbos completely prepared at home. (Halevei of mir gezucht!)

In Monsey, there are as many nail salons as there are Minyanim. In spite of this, these ‘manicure havens’ are all really homogonous and their staff are literally interchangeable.

These nail salons are all owned and operated by Koreans although to the untrained Monsey eye, they all look Chinese. It is always run by the one Korean ‘Mamasan’ (okay, that’s Japanese. Sue me.) who can speak ‘Engrish’ so she can translate to the rest of her workforce that do not. Ironically, although they can’t say a full English sentence, they all have nametags with monikers stolen straight from an All-American cheerleader squad. You can have your nails done by Jenny, Jessica or Tiffany. They all smile at you sweetly, then yell at each other in Korean (which the Monseyiites would swear is Chinese) then smile at you sweetly again. They won’t understand any of the bright, witty, remarks and observations you make. Although they will laugh politely. Quite possibly at you.
What a waste of good material.

They grab the hand they need to work on and tap your rings to show that you must remove them. Then before they remove polish your nails, they say the only three words in English they know, “You pay now”. Which of course you do, making sure to tip them well so they don’t spit in your polish. You choose from a selection of nail polishes with names like; Moda Skooda, Ador-a ball, Raisinuts, Prima Ballerina and Limo Scene.

When you are done they deposit you by a huge table covered with nail dryers. They then carefully move your sheitel to the side (knowing that it is just a tug away from coming off) and proceed to massage your neck. After around one minute of bliss, they take their tiny fists and start to rhythmically beat you on the back until you thank them profusely or scream, “Mercy!”
In vibrato.

But all of that is ‘de rigour’.
What I find so interesting on my Erev Shabbos Monsey expeditions are my fellow seekers in search of the perfect set of nails. Many moons ago, when I grew up in Monsey, Monsey was run primarily by the ‘Sensible Women Brigade’. You know, the type; sensible shoes, sensible hair, and mix and match clothes. In the good old days, these women would never be caught alive, doing something as vain as getting their nails done.
Not so anymore!
The Sensible Woman Brigade sits alongside the pretty and the pampered and make sure their nails are beautifully shaped and lacquered.
I say good on them!

And what is even better is the achdus the nail-drying tables facilitate. You have double decker women (sheitels and hats) wearing bullet proof tights and sitting beside women wearing very long sheitels with sheer tights, and women who wear no sheitels and no tights at all.
This bizarre gathering of interspecies creates an opportunity for instantaneous bonding where deep, meaningful conversations can take place.
My personal favourite debate is; is it correct to bring a baby to non family Chuppah?

Not once do they discuss kugels or chicken soup.
As I said earlier, these superwomen are super organised. Their food is ready and waiting for them to be warmed up and served. All that’s left for them is to be indulged and improved. After all, you wouldn’t want to greet the Shabbos Queen with mangy nails. These Nashim Tzidkanios look down on their gleaming fingernails as they light candles and bring light into the world and they feel great.
This promotes Sholom Bayis.
I guess that makes Jessica, Jennifer and co. the most unlikely shlichim.
Viva La Difference!

The Kasambamama Helpline

2007-02-22T08:50:00.000Z

My kids are needy.

They always need something from me.
This makes me tired.
How can I be a good mother when I am oh, so, very tired? Huh?

Hence, using 21 century technology, I have devised a method of dealing with requirements from my five children, while still retaining my last vestige of reason.

So, voila!
It is my pleasure to welcome to
the Mommy Helpline Voicemail

If you would like to know what’s for supper, please press 1.
*
-If you want milky, press 1
-If you want meaty, press 2
-If you have suddenly become a vegetarian, please move out.

If you have lost something, please press 2.
*
-If you lost your schoolbag press 1
-If you lost your homework, press 2
-If you have lost your shoes, press 3
-If you lost your pet, use the intercom. Now.

If you have a report due tomorrow press 3
*
-If your report is on English subject, press 1
-If your report is on a Jewish subject, press 2
-If your report requires two months of research in one evening, dream on.

If you are being bullied, press 4
*
-If you are being bullied in school, press 1
-If you are being bullied on the bus, press 2
-If you are being bullied by a sibling, press 3
-If you are being bullied by the cleaner, get off the phone and clean up your mess!

If you need an item of clothing that is in the laundry, press 5
*
-If you need your dirty gym clothes, press 1
-If you ran out of clean tzitzis, press 2
-If you want to wear your favourite pair of knickers even though they are so filthy they could walk into the washing machine… forget about it.

If your sibling is bothering you, press 6
*
-If your sibling is touching things in your room, press 1
-If your sibling is imitating your every move and word, press 2
-If your sibling read your diary, press 3
-If sibling found your hidden stash of nosh, it’s so gross that you had food in your room; it serves you right.

If you need to buy anything, press 7
*
-If you need to buy new shoes, press 1
-If you need to buy a new football, press 2
-If you need to buy new Polly Pocket dolls, press 3
-If you need to buy a refrigerator in your room….uh, rethink your needs.

If you can’t sleep, press 8
*
-If you need a drink, press 1
-If you need the bathroom, press 2
-If you need to do your homework, press 3
-If you need to call all your friends, hand telephone back to me. For good.

If you are not feeling well, press 9
*
-If you are throwing up, press 1
-If you have a gaping wound, press 2
-If your throat is ‘killing’ you, press 3
-If you have fever, press 4
-If you are dizzy, press 5
-If you have all of the above, hang up. You are 100% faking.

If you feel that you can’t go to school tomorrow, press 0
*
-please listen to mishnah tapes while your call is being processed….

Still being processed…

Citizen Kasamba and the Police

2007-02-20T15:49:00.000Z

I love the London Police.
I know they love me too.
In fact, we have a symbiotic law enforcement/citizen relationship.
Just check out my correspondences with these
'men in blue'.

Dear Mrs Kasamba

I am writing to you regarding the theft of your 6 ft. American flag from the flowerpot outside your home [Case # VB9372A].
Although we appreciate your help in apprehending the perpetrators of this crime, the small trails of dirt from your flowerpot to the street can not be tested for DNA as per your request.

We also feel that this episode, while most unfortunate and difficult for you, is NOT an ‘International Incident’ and does not necessitate the involvement of the American Embassy. Nor does this incident constitute a ‘Hate Crime’.

You can be sure that we are doing our utmost in solving this theft, however in the meantime please avail yourself of our criminal victims support therapy group sessions. You can phone freephone 0800 566 7872 to find a support group closest to you.

The Golders Green Police force is proud to have the lowest crime rate in the borough of Barnet. We take theft very seriously and we will do our best to bring you a satisfactory result.

Whilst we are happy to hear that you have purchased a new flag, we can not guarantee its safety with around the clock police guard.
May we suggest placing it in a higher place?

Sincerely,
Inspector Herbert Blakely
Golders Green Police Station
Finchley Road
London
NW110QE

Dear Mrs Kasamba

Enclosed you will find an official report for you to relay the details of the double decker bus driver whom you feel to be a menace to society.

When filling out the forms, please use explanatory adjectives.
Rather than describing the bus driver as a ‘beady eyed troll’ I would find it easier if you could just describe his general demeanour in as much detail as possible along with the exact date and time you witnessed his reckless driving. Please refrain from using the Indie 500 as an illuminating feature.

Mrs Kasamba, I feel that I must reiterate what I said to you on the phone, that writing that you could hear his evil laugh right through to your car, will only make it more difficult for my colleagues to take your report seriously.

Thank you for your concern with public safety.

Sincerely,
Superintendent Ian Marcy
Commercial Vehicle Unit
Traffic OCU HQ 6th Floor
Empress State Building
Lillie Road
Earls Court, London
SW61TR

Dear Mrs Kasamba

On behalf of the entire Golders Green police station we would like to take this opportunity to thank you for single-handedly removing the gypsy problem from our streets.

People just do not realise that by giving these travellers money, they are encouraging soliciting and the harassment that often accompanies this. By calling us every time you saw them begging, we were able to mobilize our units and consistently collect them and take them to the edge of town.

It is my understanding from our many chats together on this subject, that it is the fact that they take their many babies begging with them, subjecting them to all kinds of inclement weather, that bothers you. However Mrs Kasamba, opening up a gypsy creche facility would not stop the problem and might possibly exacerbate it as well.

It is also not possible to remove one of their many gold teeth to sell, in order to provide sustenance for the entire group.

Once again we thank you for your tireless efforts on behalf of the community and I regard it as an honour to be on your speed dial.

Sincerely,
Sergeant Thomas Fielding
Golders Green Police Station
Finchley Road
London
NW110QE

Rabbi X and the Gilgul Cat

2007-02-05T23:22:00.000Z

I was so excited when Rabbi X moved into the vicinity.
I read every one of his books and he had answered questions that I had since I was a child.
One day, I was driving with Asparagus and I spotted Rabbi X walking on the street. I was so overcome to see the great man himself that I shrieked, “Look, Asparagus! There’s Rabbi X!”
Asparagus was very perturbed and cried out,
“Ma, what do you want me to do?”

It all stems from my hero worship.
You see to me, Rabbi X is the biggest celebrity there is.
Living in London, I see people the secular world considers to be the brightest stars and it doesn’t curl my sheitel one bit.
I have seen Madonna, Nicole Kidman, Elizabeth Hurley, Kate Moss, sharon Stone, Richard Gere, Courtney Cox, and Tom Cruise to name a few.
They do nothing for me and I have no problem talking to them and asking them to move if they are in my way.

But then there’s Rabbi X, the man who is privy to the mysteries and enigmas of the world. To me he is the real icon, the absolute higher form of being that everyone can look up to for inspiration.

Then one fine day, Rabbi X and his family moved in bang across the street from me!

Well, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it took me two whole years to get up the courage to speak to him. My kids knew about this and would shout, “Ma, Rabbi X is outside!” to which I’d respond by looking out the nearest window.
Even watching him take out the rubbish was spiritually uplifting. BH, his wife has got to be the nicest person in the whole world, otherwise she would've taken an injunction out on me, for sure. She knows that I am in awe and that I revere her husband as one of the 36 tzaddikim and she also knows that I’m a bit, well, mad (in the deranged sense, not in the angry one).

One of my other neighbours told me that she woke up in the middle of the night on Shavous and looked outside her window and saw the most bizarre scene. Rabbi X’s house was well lit and the entire roof was covered with pigeons. But, here’s the kicker; no one else’s roofs had even one!
(cue theme from Twilight Zone)
Ummmmm…

It’s great having Rabbi X across the street because:

1- If I run out of his tapes while I am cooking, I can run across the street (in my cooking tiara, naturally) and get some new ones. I actually told Rebbetzin X that she is so lucky that I am so considerate that I listen to Rabbi X’s tapes instead of forcing him to stand in my kitchen and talk while I cook.

2- I can ask him any question.
Of course there are a few I would never ask, such as: Why do socks disappear? Why doesn't anyone name their children ‘Adom’ and yet there are loads of Chavas? (Thanks E!) Why do airlines trust passengers to only take their own luggage? Why can’t I keep my lips closed when I put on mascara? Why is it called ‘right’ when we go the opposite of ‘left’- does that mean left is ‘wrong’?

3- My kids have a great role model.

4- I feel like my whole street is protected by the Torah he learns day and night.

And then, there’s his cat.
Rabbi X’s cat is a gilgul cat.

That cat is a well travelled soul in the body of a mangy, fat feline.

Apparently the cat choose Rabbi X’s family and not the other way around.

He is not a normal cat.
A normal cat runs from you when you try to swat it with a broom.
A normal cat doesn’t win a staring contest.
A normal cat doesn’t give you ‘attitude’ when sitting on your car.

Yes, this cat has been around this way before. Most likely he committed sins so heinous as to require him to itch at fleas and pick at other people’s (namely mine!) garbage. I know that when ensconced in the bodies of animals, recycled souls retain memories of past lives. Every so often I tell him (okay, shriek at him) “Ich bein moychel zein!” three times, to which he just looks at me like a drunken sailor; which he probably was.

I wait for my words to take effect and hope that he will drop dead and move into the light. But alas, it is not I who must offer reparations to this creature, but someone else.
I think it was definitely the master plan to have this cat’s lack of middos addressed to by Rabbi X.

In the meantime I back out of my driveway at the crusty calico’s peril.

Go on stupid cat.... make my day.

Some Day My Prince Will Come

2007-02-02T10:44:00.000Z

When I was 19, I bought the most exquisite shoes.

They were Italian made, black leather with a spiked four inch heel.

They were Ma Rabu maasecha Hashem, for only Hashem could have imparted the knowledge of how to create such a design.
They were truly breathtaking.

I felt they deserved a spectular debut, so I decided to save them for a special occasion, which presented itself in the form of my cousin’s 25 wedding anniversary party in Staten Island.
(Okay, so I was desperate to wear them already.)
On the ride home, Kasamba Papa noticed that one of the car doors was opened. So on the highway, we all open and shut our doors.
Everything was fine….or was it?
No it was….NOT!

One of my beautiful, magnificent shoes had flown out the door right onto the Palisades Highway.

I felt sick with loss.
Later that night, as I hobbled back into my parent’s home, I thought,
“I was not meant to be parted from such beauty!”
I took my lovely lonely abandoned and newly single shoe and said “My darling shoe, you will see your mate again, for when I find my true love, you will be reunited with your one and only”
I then placed the shoe in a Lucite box upon my shelf, awaiting my Prince who would bring me my missing shoe.

That summer my parents and I went to LA.
In front of a kosher restaurant I spied the most beautiful automobile known to mankind. It was a silver white cloud Rolls Royce convertible.

I was SURE that my shoe was in that car.

Now, my parents are not easy to embarrass. In fact that whole vacation was spent with my mother introducing herself to celebrities as if they should know who she is. She’d say “Don’t you remember me? I’m Kasambas Mama!” Okayyyy. Get the picture?

So when I went up to the Rollers chauffer and insisted that my shoe was in that car, my parents were….
So proud.

They were cracking up when I was arguing with the poor driver that "Yes, I know that the owner is in the restaurant, but my shoe really is in that car!”

The guy got more flustered when I insisted that the owner was single (he was) and that although the owner had never met me (he hadn’t) my shoe had magically ended up in his car. Finally, I put the guy out of his misery by saying that I would ask the owner of the Fabmobile himself.

When I went inside the restaurant, I saw the Roller’s owner immediately; because he was the only one sitting there. As soon as I saw him I decided that building a Bayis Neeman with someone on the basis of their car was not such a good idea. Really, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the guy was pushing seventy. As sure as I had been that my shoe was in that car, I knew then that it was not to be.

And so, I went back home, sans shoe, and more importantly
sans Prince.

When I met Mr. Kasamba, I told him about my missing shoe and asked him if he had it. He responded the response that went straight to my heart. He said,
“It’s only a stupid shoe.
I’ll buy you plenty of shoes!”

And bless him, he has.

(All together now; ‘Awwww’)
Sigh.

The Fashion Police

2007-01-31T13:23:00.000Z

When I was younger, I would always bristle at what I considered to be fashion faux pas.
I took them as a personal affront to me and my good taste.

Here a few cardinal regulations that I felt were inexcusable to break:

*You all know how I feel about fur- I love it.
I always think of the happy animal souls floating upon high, secure in the knowledge that their sacrifice is keeping a Mitzvah loving Jew warm. It’s a win/win situation except, and here comes the Kasamba policy:
A fur coat should never be larger than the animal it was ripped off of.

*Then there are two things I never wanted to see on men, unless they are channelling Carmen Miranda and going to sing any song by Judy Garland. These two things are jewellery and long hair. I’m afraid that men with hoops in their ears always forced me to resist the compulsion to tug and see what happens. To me, rings, bracelets and necklaces make a man look like a pirate at a dress up party. And about the long hair- the problem is, men with hair past their shoulders, require them to follow strict hygiene rituals, which I really think is an unmasculine pursuit. And what’s with the pony tail? Eww, gross. All that does is make me want to find an inkwell to dip it in.
Why can’t a man be a man and get a normal fuss free haircut?

*Now here’s a fashion no-no that would be simple to correct, had the perpetrator invested in another mirror. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about -people who look fine from the front but from the back they look like they are sausages bursting out of their wrappers- in other words, their poor overworked clothes are busting at the seams. Most of the time this offence is committed by pregnant women who are so enthralled by the shape of their bumps that they wear poured on clothes (do I really want to know if they have ‘innie’ or ‘outie’ belly buttons?) not realizing that they also regale the viewer with every ounce of freshly acquired cellulite visible from the rear.
Yup, way too much information.

I would walk along my merry way thinking:
(This is interactive- you have to fill in the blanks)
“Hey ___________ called, they want their ___________ back”
Sonny & Cher .............................fuzzy vest
Seventies ....................................Afro
Eighties ......................................shoulderpads
Tevye ...........................................tatty hat
Ringling Bros. ...........................clown makeup
Diana Ross ................................sequined monstrosity

Then it came to a point where I appointed myself, self proclaimed ‘Fashion Police’. I don't think there would've been enough forests in the world to produce the paper necessary for all the tickets I would've been handing out, because every fashion offence would deserve its own penalty and punishment.

Small offences like dressing for summer in the height of winter or dressing thirty years too old or too young for your age would get a £20 fine.

Larger offences such as wearing more than six designer obvious prints at once, or overaccessorising would be punishable by a £100 fine.

Heinous offences such as ill fitting suits with sleeves up to the wrist and pants to the ankles would be a felony requiring clamping.
This would entail immobilising said perpetrator, until someone else can bring him suitable clothes.

Of course, any Tznius crime would require enforcing the felon to take a one way trip to the care of the Mullahs in Saudi Arabia where they put immodest people in burlap sacks and beat them round the head with dried salamis.

I think I would have run out of citations.

Then one day, I saw the most interesting woman in a department store. She was wearing a purple and orange ensemble, with co-ordinating purple and orange accessories.
Her blouse was a bright tangerine orange, offset by her choker and earrings of purple plastic. Her deep purple slacks (they were definitely ‘slacks’ as in ‘leisure suit’ slacks) had an orange belt, and a matching purse.
Even her lipstick was orange.
I was riveted.
She was a vision.
I had never seen anything quite like it before and I doubt that I ever will again. “My goodness”, I thought, “What was she thinking when she got dressed this morning? Or was she thinking at all? Ha! Snort!”
Then something strange happened top me, I noticed the obvious care and attention this woman had put into her outfit. All that effort just to find exactly the right shades of purples and oranges.
Why, she thought she looked great!
I then took notice of her evident pride in her demeanour and I felt duly chastened.

Um, exactly who had made me the Fashion police?
Why did I have the urge to point out what I perceive to be other people’s fashion failures?
Looking deep in myself, I realised that in order for my way to be right, someone else’s must be wrong.

Like playing see-saw, I would have put her down so that I could have felt up.
We all do the same thing in one way or another.
We condescend to other people because they don’t share our vision of the way we think things should be.

Relaxing standards can be very frightening because we are taught at an early age that life is black and white. Something is either ‘good’ or it is ‘bad’, someone is either ‘right’ or he is ‘wrong’.
It’s only as we mature that we recognise the shades of grey.

As Jews, not only do we have to learn not to condemn differences, we must actually learn to embrace them, because to do otherwise is to exclude other Jews and we cannot afford to that, even those shades of grey don’t match what they’re wearing.

The Tell Tale Tart

2007-01-23T21:04:00.000Z

Every year when my birthday rolls around, I always think fondly of Edgar Allen Poe.

We have many things in common, me and old Edgar;
1-We both have a warped sense of humour.
2- We both hate photos.
3- We share the same birthday together with Dolly Parton and General Robert E Lee.

The only difference being that he is dead and I am, well… not.
So with mucho apologios to the Poe estate, I have taken Ed’s (do you think I can call him Ed?) famous short story the Tell Tale Heart and tweaked it a tiny, eensy, weeny, bit. (I'm winking at you TOWIK)

The Tell Tale Tart
EMES!
nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am meshuggah? The hunger had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the kitchen and in the fridge. I heard many things in the basement.

How then am I meshuggah? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved that puff pastry apple tart. It had never wronged me. It had never given me indigestion. However for its calories and fat content I had no desire. I think it was the dough! Yes, it was this! The dough was as flaky as dried autumnal leaves. Whenever it’s smell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to put the apple tart away, and thus rid myself of the temptation for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me meshuggah. Meshugganas know gurnisht. I say gurnisht!!!
But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work!

I was never more carelful to an apple tart than during the whole week before I hid it. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of the fridge door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark flashlight all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the condiments on the side compartment.

It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see the apple tart with its vanilla icing drizzling down the sides.
Ha! would a mehugganah have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the fridge, I undid the flashlight cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously, I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the pastry. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for being meshuggah is but over-acuteness of the senses?

now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a chocolate wrapper makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the puff pastry apple tart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the flashlight motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the dough. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the tart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well?

I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the tart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The pastry’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the flashlight and leaped into the sub zero refrigerator and placed a ziplock baggie over the pastry.

I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the tart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the aluminium wall. At length it ceased. I placed my hand upon the tart and held it there many minutes. The dough would trouble me no more.

If still you think me meshuggah, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the tart. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye—could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no crumbs whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered my offspring returning from school.

A pastry had been smelled by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of hidden pastries had been aroused; and they (the children) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the children welcome.
The smell, I said, was my own. I took my inquisitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length. I showed them all my treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the puff pastry tart.

The children were satisfied.
My MANNER had convinced them.
I was singularly at ease.
They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, my stomach rumbled, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness—until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND—MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A CHOCOLATE WRAPPER MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON.

I gasped for breath, and yet the youngsters heard it not.
I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles and other desserts, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased.
Why WOULD they not be gone?

I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the children, but the noise steadily increased.
Oy vey! what COULD I do? I foamed—I raved!
I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased.
It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the children chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Uch und vey! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision!
I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now—again—hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --

“Rasho’im!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of this luscious apple tart !”

THE END

It’s My Party!

2007-01-19T10:09:00.000Z

When I was young, I thought that anyone over the age of 20 was old. Every year since then, I have raised the bar accordingly.
Now I think 80 is old, but I know that I won’t think that way in twenty years time. Then it will be the new ‘middle age’ because I will never believe that I am getting on. I am just way too young and way too immature for that.
I want to grow old disgracefully.

Today I am turning the big four-oh. (Gasp!)
I don’t like that term ‘turning’; it feels like I should be metamorphosising into something else. I don't even want to think about what it is that I am turning into.

It is with some trepidation that I approach this milestone in my life. I am appreciative that I made it thus far and have done so much, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that I am terrified of getting old. I don’t want to look like it and I definitely don’t want to act like it, but it sure beats the alternative.

In my circles it has become the ‘in’ thing to make surprise parties for those of us lucky enough to make it to this landmark number.
But alas and alack, I am a control freak and there are certain elements of my life that I am loathe relinquishing, namely my big bash.

And so, I have sent out invitations to those whom I adore, to invite them to my surprise party.
Yes, you heard correctly, (IYH everyone should be healthy spit, spit spit)
I am making myself a surprise party.
It will be a women’s only Karaoke party, all in the best of taste, I assure you. (wink)
The invitation, which is black swirly writing on silver card, reads as follows:

SURPRISE ME!
You are cordially invited to my 40th Surprise Party
Bo Bayom (it’s on my Hebrew birthday)
Motzai Shabbos, January 27, 2007
8:30pm prompt - Don’t ruin the surprise (well, I will be making an entrance!)
My House
Shhhhh… Please park down the road so I don’t see your car
Love,
Kasamba
PS If I knew about this, I’d look forward to seeing you!

You see, I have been planning this shin-dig for years, there is no way I’d let someone else do it for me.

Like I told you, my birthday is actually today, but I wanted my party to be on my Hebrew birthday which just happened to be on a Motzai Shabbos. How abba-solutely convenient.
I call the days in between my English birthday and my Hebrew birthday;
Chol Hamoed.

At first, I thought I would walk into my surprise party, fresh from a massive Botox injection. I thought I could walk into my living room with all my guests assembled to surprise me and I would react by …
not reacting.

I thought I would be resplendent in my ageless, preternaturally still face. I would just be a model of sophistication by not being my usual self and squishing up my facial muscles, with excitement and hyperactivity.

But then, I went to a Botox luncheon held by Emunah, in some fancy hotel in town. They had a famous Doctor who specialises in Botox, ,talk about the drug. He gave a talk about the benefits of injecting botulism into one's face and then dropped the bombshell;
He, himself, has regular Botox injections.
No duh.

The guy looked like a Madame Tussaud wax figure, save for the blue vein running down the length of his forehead. And when he smiled, his nose crinkled up and parts that shouldn’t crease, creased. His nose looked more ruffled than a potato chip. He didn’t look young, he just look shiny and odd, like someone had taken varnish to his face.
I have since decided that every laugh line I have is because I have laughed for forty years.
Every age line I have is because I have lived for forty years.

So that was the end of my Botox dream, instead I have deemed that chocolate shall be my poison of choice.
Bring on the wrinkles.

Back at the ranch, I am still planning my surprise party sans facial immobilisers. I am of course creating my own cake, in three tiers and it will have all the candles I deserve standing proudly like a regiment of soldiers, each one attesting to a year spent, well, in insanity.
I will also have a fire extinguisher on hand, just in case.

I will only serve food I like; such as sushi and…more sushi. I will also have a cappuccino machine paying homage to those caffeine addicts like me. My friends are making a ‘Who Knows Kasamba best?’ quiz which will afford the people who really paid attention to me to be acknowledged and rewarded accordingly.

I am planning my entrance by blowing up a baby photo of myself and putting it on a great big piece of white paper. When the pre-recorded drumroll finishes with a great big BOOM;
I will rip through the paper and step forward; symbolically giving birth to myself as a forty year old woman.

I have one friend who is a real Tzadekes. She never wants anyone to spend money on her as she’d rather the money go to Tzedakah. She gives out ‘money has been donated in your name to charity’ cards instead of gifts.
She is a good person.
I, on the other hand would like a good gift and feel very guilty hoping that I don’t get one of her cards.
One friend already told me that she is buying me a goat in Uzbekistan and I will get a certificate and photos in the post. I can’t imagine anyone beating that.

The way I figure it is that I’m at the stage in my life where I can do what I like and I like parties. I have already purchased a brand new tiara just for this occasion.

As the great Bill Cosby once said,
"If you can find humor in anything, you can survive it."

Shehchianu Vekiamanu Vehigiyanu Lazmaan Hezeh!
Party on!

UPDATE:
Boruch Hashem my party was better than I could have ever hoped!!!

After my grand entrance, I was presented with a giant box and told that it's a kitchen appliance and out burst.... my mother! It was the very same woman who told me not to make her feel guilty for not coming to my big bash because she wasn't well!

She had spent the entire Shabbos cooped up in my mother in law's house, together with my sister in law who surprised me by coming in from Vienna!

And the surprises kept on coming!
Asparagus sang me the most FABULOUS song, written by TOWIK (the handout coppies were decorated by Sarah-thank you!)
My best friend (and neighbour) and my daughter made me a fantastic video (edited by Kishmech- thank you!) and another friend said a speech and my two sister in laws sang gramen. If that wasn't enough, another close friend and neighbour, made me a giant signing board using the only photo of myself that I ever liked!

Then another amazingly close friend of mine dedicated 'wind beneath my wings' to me and we all swayed with tealights in our hands! Another group of friends dedicated a song to Mr Kasamba (who was not there naturally, because it was a woman only event!) which was ' hey big
spender'!

My three teired birthday cake was a big hit and was more of an engeneering project to accomplish. We finally closed up shop at 2:30 am when Mr Kasamba decided he wanted a go on the Kareoke machine!!!

I know I made my own party, but I never felt so loved in my life!
I adored every minute!!!

The More the Merrier

2007-01-16T09:06:00.000Z

It’s getting late Kasamboys and Kasambettes!
So, make yourself a hot cup of cocoa, curl up under a warm duvet; it’s time for a bedtime story!
(clear throat)

The More the Merrier

I had too many things to do, too much was on my head,
And then I heard a strange voice, a strange voice that said:

‘Kasamba, one of you is not enough, so I’ll make my offer now,
Just say the word and they’re yours, one word and than ‘kapow’!’
‘Just what is it that you offer?’ I asked that strange, strange voice,
It said, ‘I’ll tell you what they are, and then you make the choice’,
‘Okay, fine!’ I said ‘but hurry up! I can’t stand here all day!’
But I leaned forward to hear just what that voice would say.

The voice said it fast, the voice said it clear,
And said the things a frum woman wants to hear;
‘Too much is on your head, you have so much to do,
So I propose to help you out and make a few of you!’

'Is this a joke?' I screamed out loud,
But I must admit that I was wowed,
The wonderful idea of more of me,
Was something I would die to see!
(Well, not actually die, it must be said,
You can’t see anything, when you’re dead)

The voice started to explain that they were loans,
Why would I complain when it meant clones?
‘More of me?’ I thought, how great, how grand!
Instead of one, I will have a triple helping hand!

And then there they were; me but yet not quite me,
I could not, I would not, have dreamed this could be!

But then they smiled, my ever so charming smile,
I was so glad to see that they had such great style.

And so it was that I got thrice as much done,
Three Kasambas! Three times as much fun!
Fairly soon I managed to finish my never-ending list ,
We were the speedy Kasambas- well, you get the gist!

My expedience left all of my peers in the dust,
They didn’t know I had clones? Ha, they must!

But we would never be at the same place at one time,
To show my husband I had it easy would be a crime,
Hey, let me at least get credit where the credit is due,
All those things my clones did, means I did them too!

Purim was done by Chanukah, Pesach was done by Jan,
And kids’ homework needed more than just one wo-man!
We cooked five course meals on every single night,
Between us there was never one spec of dust in sight.
We did four different carpools, with nary a complaint,
My friends and family started to think I was a saint!

Then of course, the voice returned to me, one night late,
This time, to hear what it would say I knew I could wait.
It said, ‘Kasamba, listen, I have something to say',
‘Oh no’ I thought, ‘it can’t take my ‘me’s away!’
‘Yes,’ it said, ‘I’m afraid your clones must go back,
And you’ll just have to try to get your life on track.’

And then with a puff of the prettiest pink smoke,
My clones were gone as quick as my Diet Coke.

Now I’m alone to do, so I do what I must,
I do what I can without getting too fussed.
So every now and again if you catch me standing still,
Know that I’m simply listening out to hear what I will.

For far too much is on my head
And I have too many things to do,
I just want my beautiful clones back;
Because I am better as a few.

Of Cleanliness and Kabbalists

2007-01-13T18:35:00.000Z

Before y’all start jumping to conclusions I just want to pre-empt your natural assumptions by saying that my house is clean.
It’s really very clean.
I just don’t do it myself, that’s all.
In fact, every time I see something requiring elbow grease, I hear a voice shrieking,
“Kasamba! Step away from the filth! NOW”
I do my best to listen to that voice.

The way I look at it, is that I am definitely overqualified to wash, scrub and scour.
When I first got married, I thought nothing of dumping my handbag and coat on the kitchen counter in case I would need it later, or the next day. Mr Kasamba took this lack of tidiness as a personal affront to him and his entire bloodline. Therefore, I did train myself to pander to his peculiar need, but as far as the rest, well it didn’t mean that much to me.
The way I explained it to him was,
“Hey, ya want it clean, but I ain’t gonna do it so I guess you is gonna have to hire someone, huh?”
I know, I know I am just so…refined.

I love my cleaning help.
I have them in mind every time I light Shabbos candles.
I love how I can cook like Hurricane Katrina and the kitchen will be spotless before you can say, 'damaged drinking water'.
So you could say I’m relaxed in the cleaning area.

Now for the Kabbalist part.
As you already know, I am a Rebbe follower and I love the idea of going to get Brochos from people who are many steps closer to Hashem than I am. So, when I saw an ad in the local paper about a Rav who specialised in the Kabalistic art of Chachmas Hayad, (reading hands) I thought,
“Oh, yeeeeeaaaah! Gotto go to him!”
I immediately called up and booked an appointment. Then, I forced poor Mr Kasamba after a long day at work to take me to North London, where this Kabbalah guy was temporarily based.

Knowing that Kabbalists see you more as a spiritual entity rather than a physical one, I tried to cleanse myself of bad thoughts and busied myself saying Tehillim before I met him. Now, Mr Kasamba doesn’t go in for all of this stuff. He believes, as my father does, that we can approach the Almighty when and wherever we want, but he indulges my meshugassim. So we shlepped into the bowels of North London where we were ushered into a decrepit tiny room with a bed and a sink.
“Ooooh,” I thought (See? I'm always thinking!),
“An Anav! You don’t see many of those these days!”
Then I met him, the man who with his gift of special sight, would look into my hand and tell me what I need to know.
I was gurgling with anticipation.
Well, not actually gurgling, but I just like that word. Gurgling.
Gur-ga- ling.
The Rav then instructed me to sit across from him and asked to see my hand. He looked at my hand for a long time. I looked over at my better half who had his arms folded in incredulity and I gave him a look that said, “You see? This guy is the real deal!”

Just then the Rav looked up at me and started to regale me about secrets of my life.
He told me that my quiet kids were loud and that my easy kids were difficult.
Wha???

But what cinched it was when he said that I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that manifests itself in cleanliness.
He said that I am so extremely spotless that my family and kids suffer and especially my husband.
He said that having a spic and span house is not the true measure of an Eishes Chayil.
He said that I must learn how to relax my standards in order for me to have Sholom Bayis.
By this time Mr Kasamba was physically holding his sides in pain from withholding gales of laughter.

My first thought was that maybe my hands were dirty and that’s why the Rav misread my signals and thought I was somebody else.

But then he went on to ask me if I knew of any rich people in Golders Green who would be interested in his expertise.
Ah, huh. Yeah right.
Beam me up Scottie.
Fast.

Boruch Hashem, I have had the zchus of meeting amazing Rebbeim who beyond doubt have Sight and true clarity of vision.
This guy was obviously not one of them.
Or maybe…. I was meant to be a neat freak.

Wait a Minute Mr Postman

2007-01-09T20:59:00.000Z

If I had to think of the most stressful jobs, I wouldn’t put Postmen at the top of the list.
Instead, these are the professions I think would be the most stress inducing:
1- Doctors- they are never off duty.
As soon as someone asks what they do, they know that they are in for a ‘why does it hurts me right here when I cough?’ question.

2- Telemarketers- you know, the people who call you and ask you who handles your insurance; just when you have one kid in the bath, something that needs to be taken out of the oven and someone ringing on the doorbell.
The abuse those poor, innocent people get! Nebech.

3- Staff at Walmart- for heaven’s sake, you know the higher ups were just begging for trouble when they put ‘How can I help you?’ on the back of the staff t-shirts.
Well, how would you feel if you couldn’t speak any English and people are constantly bombarding you with queries like ‘where are the 12 gauge shotguns’?

4- Waiters at any Jewish establishment- we Jews don’t go in for ambience. We don’t go out to eat for the company.
We already talked in the car.
When we go out to eat, we want our food and we want it… fast.

But when I look at my Postman (or mailman to you on the other side of the puddle) I see someone who does things in their own time at their own pace in their own style.
And yet these are people who live this close (my forefinger and thumb are very close together- trust me) to the proverbial edge of reason.
For some odd reason, when a Postman loses it, he goes all out.

So, I have dedicated an entire post to figure out;
Why do Postmen go insane?

Could it be their uniforms?
Why is it that postal services all over the world dress their employees like Uumpa Loompas? With their cute shorts and knee socks, they look more like Munchkins than they do civil servants.
I know life is not a catwalk but it ain’t a walk in a lunatic asylum either. (And it can’t help that their vans resemble the vehicles used by Barnum and Bailey to stuff all those clowns in.)

Could it be the animals?
I would think the Postman’s worst enemy is a householder’s dog.
A dog is supposed to protect and guard his master’s abode.
If you think of it from his point of view, he sees a strangely garbed human walking with a sheaf of envelopes. Now poor doggy doesn’t know if he is going to set them alight and torch the place. Or this strange stranger could be using that bunch of envelopes to whack his master over the head leaving doggy with no Purina Dog Chow which is great tasting and tailored to his specific dietary needs.
I know I’d be upset.
And so the dog reacts, the way any of us would really, and tries to chomp the heck out of our Postman.

Could it be the catalogues?
Darn, those things are heavy.
I don’t think they would mind delivering them that much if they were appreciated. But don’t think Mr Postman doesn’t see piles of the ghastly things sitting in your recycling bin! He sees every single one, knows that they are recent and knows that his back breaking labour was for nought. He knows there are hardly any forests left and the whole ozone is falling down as a result and yet you can’t be bothered to read the catalogues.
Shame on you.

In the US could it be because of the extra four digit zip codes?
In the UK could it be because the numbers of the houses don’t follow up normally?

Do you think they cram all the mail into the post box, until they resemble Oliver North’s documents, on purpose?
Could it be because of braving the elements?
Too much exposure to sunlight or car fumes?

Is the pressure just too much?
Is that why they end up at the top of a watchtower shooting up all and sundry?

Here in the UK, a person making a simcha doesn’t even have to send out invitations. All they have to do is call up people a week before the shin-dig and ask them if they received the invitation. People will assume that the invites got lost in the post, which happens here all the time. In fact, last year the Hendon and Finchley Times reported that most of the mail from my area ended up in a nearby lake because the mail carrier couldn’t be bothered to deliver it. Okay, so that guy was prosecuted but in his wake we got a guy who gives my post to other people and gives me their stuff.
Growing up in the States also afforded me plenty of opportunities to sing the requiem that is ‘missing mail’.

They don’t say, “Your check is in the post” for nothing, ya know: Because it’s a 50/50 chance whether it will ever arrive or not.
Most likely, your check is not in the post, but rather ;
‘your post is in the Czech’.

I couldn’t tell you why Postmen go insane.
I can only tell you that they don’t contribute an awful lot to the mental health of society.
Well, at least not to mine.

The Right Shoes

2007-01-07T11:40:00.000Z

I am an extremist.
Surprise!
Whatever I do, I end up doing to the nth degree.
So nine years ago, when Mr Kasamba bought me a treadmill, I couldn’t stop running. Thank goodness it was stationary, because with the amount I ran, I would have ended up on another continent. I’d start out by saying that I’d run for a half an hour and two hours later I’d still be on it. After a few months, I started noticing that I had pain in my shins, so what would a normal person do?
I couldn’t tell you, I can only tell you what I did.
I would take painkillers before I ran so the pain was bearable. BTW, I have a very high pain threshold, so things have to break down before I see to them. Soon enough, the pain crossed the threshold of normality and I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I couldn’t even stand anymore.
So I shlepped myself to the doctor who x-rayed my legs and told me with an awed expression that I had shin splints. He was awed, because you can only get shin splints if you are an athlete and over do it. Mine were so bad that both of my shinbones were covered with minute fractures and it hurt just to stand on them. The doc also said that it was really important to wear the right shoes. I thought, (ding!)
" He is sooo right! I must go shopping!"

Part of my treatment was to have physiotherapy, to stretch the stranglehold my calf muscles had around my shin bones to alleviate the pain and the pressure from them.

One fine day, I walked into LA Fitness on Golders Green Road, to go to see my physiotherapist. She wasn’t there but the front desk told me that her stand in was excellent. I sure hoped so.

I walked into the treatment room and was face to face with a stunning blonde girl with a friendly smile. As she was beating me up, we started talking. Somehow the conversation shifted to the Jewish Learning Exchange, which is a division of Or Sameach that happens to share the same building as LA Fitness. I told her what an amazing place it is and she asked me what association I had with them. So I informed her that I tutored there every Tuesday evening. She got all excited and asked if I would tutor her as well.

Now, there was no way I would have ever known this girl was Jewish, so I got quite a shock. I told her that as I had the same learning partner for years that would be impossible for me to learn with her on Tuesday nights at the JLE, but that she should call the JLE and arrange to have another tutor learn with her. She was adamant that I was the only person that she would want to learn with. I asked her why she felt that strongly about me when I could easily be the most rubbish teacher ever.

I will never forget what she said. With confidence as she pointed to my things in the corner of that little room, she said
“Anyone who wears shoes like that, has got to know what they are talking about!”

Impressed (and flattered!) with her tenacity, I agreed to start learning with her on Monday afternoons at my home.
She always showed up on time and soaked up whatever I taught her. Her enthusiasm was infectious and she became a greater source of chizuk to me than I’m sure I was to her. I remember that I t was right before Purim and she was overjoyed to learn about Esther and her plight. At the end of our session, she told me that was going to Israel the next week and would call me to continue upon her return.
She never called.
Pesach came and went that year and I hadn’t heard from her, so I just assumed that she had had enough. I thought,
“You win some, you lose some.”

Years flew by with no word from her.
In the interim, I had had another child and married off my regular learning partner. Soon after the birth of Cucumber, I found myself once more in the JLE on Tuesday nights.
I was standing at reception schmoozing with the secretary waiting for my new learning partner to arrive when I saw her.

At first I didn’t recognise her because whereas before, I couldn’t tell whether or not this girl was Jewish at all, now there was no mistaking that aidelkeit and the refined deportment that said ‘I’m frum’.

She looked as magnificent as ever. She rushed over to me, her gusto as evident as always, and embraced me in a huge hug. She said in her animated way, “Kasamba! I’m so excited to see you! I wanted to call you so much but I had lost your number! When I left you to go to Israel all those years ago, I enrolled myself in a seminary and I’ve been there ever since! Don’t you see? You inspired me so much, I wanted to learn everything!” Tears stung at my eyes as she continued, “And now I’m here visiting and I’m teaching someone myself!” Hearing this, I knew in my heart that she had surpassed her teacher.
Her existence now would be an undiluted, pure life of Torah.

I knew that I was just the tiny spark that ignited her ‘Pintele Yid’ and caused it to burst into flames.
And THAT’s why it’s so important to wear the right shoes.

My Favourite Fruits

2007-01-03T14:31:00.000Z

When I was single and went out on a date, I would whip out a photo of three gorgeous smiling little girls and say,
“I just want you to know, I come with kids.”
I can’t say it was a terrific marketing ploy, but it didn’t really scare Mr Kasamba away because he knew that I had not bore them, rather I just felt that they were mine.

I first arrived into the lives of my three girls not more than a child myself at the tender age of sixteen. I was in Israel at the time and my mother sent a suitcase with the Seeded Fruit family for me (by the way, never tell my mother you are going anywhere, she is sure to know someone she needs to send something to wherever you’re going). I waited for this family, strangers to me except for my mother’s constant raving about how cute the kids were. Finally, they came out; two parents, one babysitter and eight adorable children. And the luggage! From far the luggage looked like a mountain as all the cases were piled sky high. Of course, my case was on the tippy top. They fell on the drinks I had bought for them, famished from their long trip from New York.

That summer on hiatus from seminary, I worked as their babysitter. It was then that I fell in love with my girls. At the grand old age of three, the oldest Guava, was the leader of the bunch. She would tell me that she wanted ‘checkup on her pasghetti’. The second in line Kiwi, would pick up her dimpled little two year old hands and say ‘huggame’. But it was the littlest one that I lost my heart to.

Blueberry was just a little baby with soft round cheeks and a little pink tongue that would stick out whenever she smiled. She had the biggest, bluest eyes I had ever seen, and she smelled like baby lotion. I wanted to eat her. I couldn’t bear to away from her and I would have Blueberry attacks, where I felt that would just die if I couldn’t smush her immediately, so I would have to go to her toot sweet.

The dynamics shifted shortly after I came back after my second year of Sem and I needed my girls. I would pick them up and shlep them everywhere. They were always dressed identically, in the most amazing outfits, like little dolls. I would take them food shopping and put all three in the trolley and they would chant together whatever it was that I was supposed to buy. I still can’t buy apple juice without hearing them chant, ‘app-le juice, app-le juice, app-le juice’. Then I would take them clothing shopping and all three would sit on the floor of the changing room and give me their verdict of what outfit worked or not.
They had very good taste.

Soon enough, I forged a friendship with their mother Mango that has strengthened and deepened over the years so much that I can’t even remember my life before she was a part of it.
She is the sister I should have had.

Subsequently, when the girls were in school and I was in college, I would find myself keeping neat freak Mango company while she colour coordinated her daughters' Barbies' (massive) wardrobes. She has always been my best audience, and she used to crack up when I would whine that Barbie’s life was so much better than mine at the time; Barbie had great clothes, a fantastic car and such a good looking (albeit effeminate) boyfriend.

Then Mango and I would take Mama Kasamba and shlep out to the far reaches of New York State. We called these trips Road Trips. As the years wore on, whenever I come in from London, Mango’s oldest daughter Apple joins us as well as Guava, Kiwi and Blueberry. Soon, I expect my very own Asparagus to be included in this right of passage.

There are rules for the Road Trip.
The first being that as soon as you enter the car, you have to say whether or not you ate or not and whether or not you want to be on a diet. This is so when we stop at the last gas station before the George Washington Bridge, we will know what nosh to buy all assembled.

The next thing one must do is decide where to eat when we arrive at whatever Borough (usually Boro Park) or city that is our destination. Most of the time the Road Trip will try and defer eating until later, but this usually proves fruitless and we give in.

The Road Trip also requires laughing so hard that everyone must then yell at Mango to retain control of the wheel.

You might be inclined to ask, ‘why now, Kasamba? Why mention the family of the Seeded Fruits NOW?’
Well, I’ll tell you.

My youngest, my ittle, wittle, cutie, patootie, Blueberry has gotten engaged.

She has grown up to be every bit as wonderful as her babyhood promised. She has a heart of solid gold, a smile to melt glaciers and a sense of humor to rival mine. In other words, she’s perfect (spit all over her and wrap her in red string).

I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that Guava and Kiwi have two kids each.
And now Blueberry is getting married and I shall have a new son-in-law of sorts.
My baby is growing up.
Oy.

Six Special Things about Me

2007-01-01T09:39:00.000Z

As you know, I don’t take instruction well.
Even if I get a recipe, I always do my own thing. So when Sara with no H tagged me for this meme, I thought, why not? But, Sara forgive me, I’m not going to follow the rules stipulated in your lovely post. If someone wants the rules then they can click on your link on the side of my blog because I don’t know how to link in the post. Plus, I don’t like the word weird, I like the word special, especially with a Spanish accent so it sounds so ‘thepthial’.

Six special things about me:
1- I am Bentchaphobic.
I adore eating bread and the like, but if it means that I have to bentch… well, you get the idea. I will pass over every sandwich or other type of food that has to made Hamotzei over. So, I only eat Challah on Shabbos and then hope that it’s not Shabbos Rosh Chodesh and have to say Yaalei Veyavo. The worst is when Rosh Chodesh falls on Shabbos Chanukah and then I feel like I’ve been bentching for years. It’s funny because I don’t usually mind davening, it’s just I like to eat and run, which you can’t do when you have to bentch. Anyways phobias are supposed to be irrational.

2- I am Fleishaphobic.
I can’t stand being fleishig.
I love eating chicken and other cute fuzzy animals once their souls are properly dispatched to the Afterlife, but I feel nauseous knowing that I won’t be able to have milchigs for another five hours and 1 minute. I was so excited to marry Mr Kasamba because he only waited three hours between meat and milk. But then, he decided to take on five hours and one minute so that he would be waiting within the sixth hour. How frum. How inconsiderate to me. My minhag from home was to wait six hours so you have to trust me that his three hours waiting time was a big selling point. Well, at least I got to reduce the wait for 59 minutes. So, I will only eat meat on Shabbos or if it’s already too late for me to visit my favourite therapists; Ben & Jerrys.

3- I am Magiphobic.
I hate magic and the people that call themselves magicians.
I break out in a cold sweat and start to shake when anyone asks me to choose a card, any card. Grrrrr. It all started when I was but a mere child and I only witnessed the first half of a program on the tumah box in my friends home. It was an episode of the Brady Bunch that dealt with one of the children trying their hand at magic and making someone disappear and then getting freaked out because they never reappeared. Because I had to leave in the middle and I didn’t have a TV at home, I never got to see what happened at the end and have had this irrational fear as a result. I guess that’s why my grandfather called TV a ‘Time Vaster’.

4- I am Directionally Challenged
I have absolutely no sense of direction.
I can’t find my way out of a paper bag. With this challenge, comes a gift; the gift of obstinacy. So, I go the wrong way, 100% sure that I am going the right way, that is, until I reach another county or another country. Knowing this Mr Kasamba, bought me a satellite navigational device. But that doesn’t work either. I just don’t trust her.
She tells me to go right, I take a left. I also don’t remember landmarks and places I’ve visited a thousand times. And I have no memory for names of roads either. One of Mr Kasamba’s party tricks is asking me to tell him where a certain road is.
Of course I can not and it causes much mirth and hilarity because the street he named is usually two blocks away.
Oh, ha, ha, ha. I’m killing myself laughing. Not.
It’s okay, I get my retribution whenever I get lost and I call my Husband for directions. He asks me, “Where are you?” and I say,
“I’m next to a tree and a lamppost”.

5- I am an Embarrassing Mother
My kids never realised how embarrassing I was until they noticed that other mothers don’t behave like I do.
Other mothers don’t:
A- Bring pom-poms to cheer at their kids’ school sports events.
B- Leave lipstick kisses all over their kids’ schoolwork.
C- Cook wearing a tiara.
D- Hang eight foot American flags outside their windows.
E- Make everything into a song.
F- Speak really loudly in public so the kids will stop asking things.
G- Dress their kids in the wackiest clothing until they’re able to complain.
H- Show photos of their kids as babies cavorting with the opposite sex.
In the bath.

6- My Brain has no Off Button
I can’t turn my brain off. It’s running the entire time.
I am so petrified to lose a thought that I keep a notebook with me all the time. If I don’t get all my ideas out I’m scared I might self combust and there would be pieces of brain matter everywhere. Shabbos is always very difficult for me because then I’m always afraid I won’t recall whatever brilliant idea I come up with on Shabbos after Shabbos ends. I even keep a notebook next to my bed so I can wake up and jot down whatever comes to me. Because of this, I can’t fall asleep so rapidly, instead I am always running on ‘high speed’. I actually have to wait until my brain has been purged and ‘downloaded’ of all its notions and only then can I ‘hybernate’.
But it seems I can never ‘log off’.

As far as tagging, Kasamba runs after no one-
unless they holding bars of chocolate.

But you're all ‘thpethial’ to me!

Meet You in Miami

2006-12-29T09:06:00.000Z

Before we started our annual winter pilgrimage to Switzerland, we used to go to Miami, Florida.
Mr Kasamba and I will always be partial to Miami because we met there.
It’s so nice to go on vacation and meet new people.

Sixteen years ago, when Artichoke was not yet two and Asparagus was only a few months old we journeyed south to that place of the turquoise architecture for winter break. Being as we wanted some semblance of a vacation (as much as one can have with two babies in tow) we shlepped along a lovely Bais Yaakov girl who was to help us diaper, burp and feed the little ones. That particular vacation did not have a good start. Our flight was delayed so long that we only arrived at the (now defunct) Kosher hotel at two in the morning. Now here is where things got interesting.

I remember climbing out of the cab, absolutely exhausted, with one arm holding Asparagus and her baby bag and the other arm holding Artichokes little hand. Mr Kasamba was at the back of the car helping the driver to unload our suitcases. Suddenly, two black youths (isn’t that how they always describe them in the paper?) jumped out at us and started grabbing at our luggage. It all happened so fast but at one point when one of the ‘youths’ wrestled with me for Asparagus’s baby bag, we locked eyes. His pupils were so dilated it was like looking into two empty dryer drums.

Our lovely Bais Yaakov maidel reacted in a way that would have made Soro Schneirer proud.
She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Hashem, Hashem” over and over again; except it sounded more like
“ Haaa- SHHHem, Haaa- SHHHem”.
I was so pleased she was there, because there’s nothing like a good G-d fearing girl to help in a crisis.

The criminals, who probably never had a chance and were never given love or education, grabbed what they could and ran into a waiting car.
By the time Mr Kasamba got in the hotel and called the police, they were already in ‘hot pursuit’ of said vehicle. The Fuzz arrived to the hotel within minutes and said that as me and my cohort had gotten a good look at the ‘perps’ we would have to identify them where they were being detained. So they asked us to go in the back seat of the police car. I must say that I was a little disappointed that they didn’t help me to get in by pushing my head in. I thought things were a little weird when we were given a three car escort, but as the Miami Dade police gently explained to me, there are certain areas in Miami that the police do not venture with less than four cars, full of gun toting cops.

We arrived to a scene reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno. There were bunches of tall nondescript apartment buildings with what looked like thousands of people, hanging out of every available window and door. They were using language loudly that was not at all complimentary, but I had to give them points for creativity. I was so happy that Miss Bais Yaakov could not understand what the throbbing masses were screaming. We had to leave the safe confines of the police car, (Goodness, those things are squashy) in order to get a good look at the guys who robbed us. I recognised the guy with the black eyes right away, but neither BY girl or I could be 100% sure about the other guy. The cops kept trying to help us make unbiased decision by saying, "Doesn’t he look guilty to you?” and “Maybe try looking closer?”. But, since neither of us was certain, we couldn’t in good faith have him locked away for something he might not have done. Like children giving up ice cream cones, the Law very, very reluctantly, let him go.

Then the police drove BY girl back to the hotel to help Mr Kasamba with the kids and I was driven to the station to give a statement and to get our luggage back. The Miami Dade police station is really nice and not grimy or slimy at all. As far as the people who pass through it, well, you can guess for yourselves.

Apparently, they had caught the driver of the runaway car while the two guys ran away. She was a fourteen year old girl called Shawanda. I kid you not, that was really her name. Anyhoo, because she was a juvvie, they were not allowed to put her in the main holding cell with all the older criminals so they had to keep her on the main floor of the police station. It was surreal because plunked in the center of the room was a round cage where Shawanda was kept. She was a scrappy, skinny black girl with a head full of braids. Sitting on the aluminium folding chair in the center of this barred enclosure, she looked like a scared little child. I even felt sorry for her when the Fuzz teased her relentlessly by saying things like, “Hey Shawanda, why did you want to hurt this nice lady?” (Wow, I don’t recall ever having been called a ‘lady’ before!) and “Shawanda, how did your legs reach the gas pedals?” Nebech.

I then gave a statement and was taken to another room to identify and retrieve my stolen items. Two bags were untouched, but the baby bag, my lovely pink beribboned baby bag was covered in blood. The officer who gave it to me looked sheepish as he tried to wipe away some of the blood with his sleeve. It seems that the good officers of Miami Dade used an age old program of theft deterrent, called ‘Brute Force’. (Remember, this was before Rodney King made every passer-by into a documentary film maker.)
I love cops, they are so manly. When the police drove me home they explained to me that the Miami District Attorney would be contacting me to discuss the charges against my assailant.

Over the next few months I forged a very close relationship with the Miami DA because she had to prosecute for me by proxy as we only stayed in Miami for ten days. She won both the criminal and civil suits, by the end of which we were on first name basis. She called me ‘Kasamba’ and I called her ‘Janet’, short for Janet Reno, before she became the US Attorney General.
Yes, it was she- pre the wacko Wako disaster.

My convicted assailant owes me the neat sum of $3,000, which he’s never paid.
Thank goodness I’m didn’t hold my breath, because I would have been out of it along time ago.
Never mind, at least I widened my social circle and met new people.
Ah, a vacation to remember…

Skiing Next Door

2006-12-24T16:22:00.000Z

It is a European tradition that on the two week Chanukah vacation afforded the euro-kiddies, that there is a mass exodus to go, as they call it, ‘on holiday’.
So, we too fall in line with the masses and go away as well.
If you remember (see? You never know when I’m going to give a pop quiz!) that Vienna is practically in Britain’s back yard, Switzerland is like going next door.
Yup, you got it, we go skiing.

It should be simple enough; you pack, you step on an airplane, you arrive, you ski.
But nothing is ever that simple is it?

1-Packing
Packing should be easy because you just plunk everything you think you require, for yourself and the kids, in as many suitcases as needed and voila! Done.
Yeah, I wish. Mr Kasamba has a fear of taking too much luggage. If it was up to him, we’d wear all our clothes plus our ski gear on the plane and just take hand luggage. So, he goes around inspecting and inquiring about every single item, “Are you sure you need this?” To which the answer most usually is, “Yes Dad, I need underwear!” to which he inevitably replies, “Okay, just checking, we don’t want to take too much, you know!” Then on the day we leave comes the weigh in. I don’t care what diets you’ve ever been on, this is by far the scariest weigh in ever. We all stand around and hold our breaths while Mr Kasamba estimates the weight of each case before he puts it on the scale. Then the moment of truth arrives as he tells each of us if we’ve passed the weight challenge. If a case weighs more than Oprah, then he will ask the offending packer to open up their case to see if he can spot something that he feels is unnecessary, like shoes or slippers.

2-Stepping on an airplane
This year proved the most difficult of all for this task. But before I go into the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’, I must preface things with a short observation about the United Kingdom: The UK is one of the most woosiest and sisiest of all countries. They are given to a state of hysteria every two minutes, and it’s always about the weather. If it snows a light snowfall of dandruff flakes, they close all the roads and schools down. If there is too much rain there are flood alerts and once again, everything gets shut down. If there is too much sun, they put a ‘hosepipe ban’ into effect and cry about drought. I’m telling you if Great Britain would be a woman, she’d be having ‘the vapours’.

This time, we had fog. Okay, it was a pretty dense fog. It was so thick that I half expected Celine Dion to step onto my patio and start singing. But still, I know planes are equipped with instruments to allow them to fly in the fog. Uh huh, not in the UK, in the UK they cancel hundreds of flights, forcing people to wait around the airport for hours and then go home dejected. Our first flight was cancelled but Mr Kasamba managed to get us on a later one, which in spite of the inevitable delays, was really fortuitous.

Then came airport security. That entire liquid ban is a joke. You are allowed to take any liquids that fit into a ziplock bag. Since the line was so long, I took the opportunity to grill, oops, I mean ask, an airline security official about the state of affairs as it stands in airport security.

I asked him if airline officials were checking the gel inserts that look like chicken fillets that women sometimes use to enhance their upper regional areas. I asked him if they are checking pregnant women stomachs to make sure they are real and not just a hidden chamber storing sticks of dynamite and heaven forbid, Evian. I asked him about concealed tubes hidden in baby milk bottles. I also asked him about the fact that 80% of our bodies are made up of water.
What’s next? Dehumidifying chambers? HUH???
I won’t repeat what he said because you will not feel very safe boarding a flight if I did.

3- Arriving
Well, Boruch Hashem we arrived but… sans Asparagus’s luggage. She was not too gutted as it was the small one that had all the contraband that was weighing her suitcase down like a Mafia victim; in other words, her school books. This year poor Asparagus is taking her GCSE’s which are the British state exams. She has a tremendous mount of revision that she must do while she’s away. When just that one piece of luggage did not arrive, she took that as a sign from the Almighty that she deserves a break. I’m sure that will go down a treat with her examiners.

4- Skiing
Skiing is a very interesting sport, where the ungainly and ungraceful in real life are given a chance to look like gliding swans. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. My kids and husband are content enough to throw themselves off of mountains, but I think I have more of a connection to this world than they do.
Put it this way, I’d really like to live.

In the beginning of my non skiing career, I had an instructor who tried to make me go down a particularly steep ninety degree mountain. I told her that I would just wait there for spring thaw and then I could just walk down. She didn’t budge. I told her that she should just go and save herself, but that didn’t make her budge either. Suddenly, she came and gave me a huge push and off I went careening towards the abyss.

Finally at the end of this impossible run, I was so exhausted that all I wanted to do was collapse. Finally I saw a huge bank of the whitest, fluffiest snow ever, so I manoeuvred myself to plough right into it, which I did. Except instead of the ‘whoosh’ expected of falling into soft snow, I heard a ‘bonk’ as I smashed right into a snow covered generator. What made this discovery even more special was the fact that it was witnessed by an entire café of Swiss people who were waiting for this moment their entire lives.
Anti-Semites.

BTW, it was at this juncture that I also discovered what the ski poles are for. Some people would have you believe that their purpose is to help one’s balance.
Attention K-mart shoppers: this is patently NOT TRUE!
The ski poles are there to use against snow boarders. The snow boarders come shooting out from all angles, like wildebeest with no rhyme or reason, and so the poles become a disciplining tool. And as you know, it is so very important to have the proper equipment.

It has been a few years since I gave up conventional skiing and I took up what they call here, Lange Laufing- cross country skiing. I like it because I find it all very civilised with no plunging descents. The only thing that I can say that I find disconcerting is the zeal with which my fellow lange lauffers pursue their sport. In their slim cross country ski suits the men and the women look androgynous, like they came off the same assembly line with the same expressions on their faces as well.

They all have this smile that says so much.
It says: I am so healthy because I am outdoors.
It says: I love the scenery, it is so lovely.
It says: I am so happy because I have a Swiss passport.
It also says: I don’t even care that I don’t know if I am male or female.
I always hope it is not catchy.

One thing I can tell you is that the one thing that is simple; Apres Ski.
The hot chocolate back at the hotel is simply the best!

Uh, oh. I think I feel a smile coming on.

Tomato, Come Light the Menorah

2006-12-20T09:20:00.000Z

Tomato, is a very special boy.
Eight years ago, he almost arrived in the world on Yom Kippur but then changed his mind. He next tried to make an appearance the following Shabbos but then got shy. He was finally born the first night of Sukkos having forced his Daddy to drive on three mega holy days. We were this close to calling him ‘Mechallel’ and his middle names were going to be, ‘Shabbos and Yom Tov’.

He is the least demanding and easiest of my children, therefore, I find that I have to remind myself to spend some alone time with him. This Chanukah afforded me the opportunity to spend some real ‘Mommy and Me’ time with him because he came to me with a request to help him with a Chanukah project; to which of course I immediately acquiesced.

FYI, I happen to be the Project Queen.
It’s not that I’m not humble, it’s just that I appreciate and cherish the gift that Hashem gave me even when it means that I’m doing my neighbours Shabbos table shoebox diarama at two o’clock in the morning.
Okay, maybe I’m not humble.
Sue me.

It is actually very interesting that I’m so good with what teachers call ‘technical’ skills because I’m really lousy with what I think is really the technical stuff. In fact, you could call me ‘technically impaired’. It’s serious and it’s sad. I can’t program my car radio buttons so I end up scanning and listening to the same gardening radio show, over and over again. I can now mulch and compost with the best of them. It is amazing that I can type this and it’s a real miracle that I can turn this computer on at all.

Anyhoo, I have been excelling at kids school projects since I learned how wield scissors. My brothers always capitalized on this as did my mom’s friends and then mine which then extended my friends kids. What can I say?
They recognised greatness when they saw it.

So when Tomato told me he had to do a project for school, I thought ‘Oh, good’. When he told me it was a competition, I thought ‘Oh, FABULOUS’!!!!! Now, as you know, I’m not a competitive person per se, only when it comes to having the nicest Sukkah and the best darn school projects.

The project assigned was to create a Menorah from disposable goods.
This was on Tuesday, so I asked Tomato when the project was due and he said on Friday. On Friday!!!! That left us so little time! How was I to collect all the toilet rolls from inside the toilet paper? How does one (uh, hum) encourage family members to go more often and use more paper?
Never you mind, a teensy bit more fibre in their diets and we shall we say, managed.

Then Tomato and I sat down and cut half moon shapes from the bottom of each of the nine toilet rolls and stuck them on the two paper towel rolls, which I had no problem collecting considering we go through paper towels like Condoleza Rice goes through Helmet Head Hairspray.
For the Shamas, we added another half of a toilet roll to make it higher and then we put another toilet roll underneath the paper towel rolls and attached it to a tissue box which we taped and glued into submission. Then we taped up the holes at the top of the toilet rolls and put Evian bottle caps as candle holders.

The final touch was when we spray painted it silver and the wind shifted and Tomato ended up with silver tipped school shoes.
I actually think they make quite a style statement.

The entire Menorah was finished by Thursday night. We had made the deadline! Then Tomato dropped the bombshell; sheepishly with a sly smile on his face he said to me, “Actually Mums, (well, he is British you know!) It’s due for NEXT Friday, I just wanted it done ahead of time!” Aha. I thought back to all that sweating and rushing and I came to the conclusion that he is a very bright boy indeed because he knew that I would only do it last minute anyway.

Anyway, on the allotted correct Friday, which was this past Friday, I drove Tomato to school, because he didn’t want his beloved Menorah, which we had all bonded with (well, it was sitting around the house an awfully long time) to get squashed by well meaning boisterous boys on the school bus.

He came home in awe of the other projects and thought there was one good contender; a boy had made his Menorah out of sweets, but apparently, when he wasn’t looking the rest of the class helped themselves and so by the end of the day there were very few sweets remaining on it.
Come on, let me hear a big, ‘AWWWW’…..
But Tomato assured me that it still looked okay.

The final judging was on Tuesday after his Chanukah Show.

I must say that even though the parking is murder and the school hall is jammed packed like the Harrods sale, I always look forward to Tomato’s Chanukah shows. Tomato got such a treat because the infamous travelin’ man Mr Kasamba came as well. When Tomato saw both of us sitting in the audience he grinned from ear to ear. The show was adorable and hearing Tomato sing his solos was a shtikel Gan Eden. I can’t imagine the Leviim in the Bais Hamikdash would have made me feel any more blissful then I felt at that show. It was a real nachasfest.

Soon enough the moment arrived, the results of the menorah competition were in! The lady sitting on my right leaned over and said to me, “I helped my son make the most amazing menorah!”
I answered, “Well, we’ll see, won’t we, my pretty…”
and then I laughed an evil laugh, “Whaaa, ha, ha Whaaa haaa haa….”
Actually, I didn’t really say that out loud, I just thought it.
At full volume.
What actually happened was that I turned to her and said,
“How nice.”

Then it was announced, (drumroll please…)
Tomato had won the competition!
Oh, yeah, oh yeah, we’re the best oh, yeah, oh yeah!
After Tomato collected his prize, and I gave high fives and cigars all around, I very maturely explained to Tomato that winning isn’t everything and that it’s just as important to have tried your best. And as he looked up at me with his earnest blue eyes, I was hoping that he couldn’t tell that I didn’t mean a word.

Oh, BTW the sweetie menorah won second place and that lady’s kid didn’t win at all.
Never mind, as I said before, winning’s not everything.
Yeah, right.

Chanukah is Here!

2006-12-17T00:18:00.000Z

YAY!
It’s Chanukah!

Chanukah is here! The ‘Festival of Lights’!
As a kid, before Monsey was homogenously Jewish, there were loads of people who celebrated the Other Holiday and they had loads more lights than we did. Their homes were bedecked with twinkly lit baubles in all different shapes and colours with huge illuminated figurines of reindeers, candy canes, and fat men in red suits that made the electric company rub their greedy hands with glee. I mistakenly thought they were celebrating the ‘Festival of Lights’.

It was only as I grew older that I was able to look at the Chanukah candles and appreciate their quiet sophistication imparting their ancient message and feel that I was not missing out on the garish commercialism that now characterises the Other Holiday.

Besides, there are so many differences between Chanukah and the Other Holiday:

#1- Our legendary men might be overweight, and they probably would have beards but there is no way any self respecting Jew would hurl himself down a soot covered chimney to deliver presents. Lehavdil a million Havdalos, our undead is very civilised; after all, we open the door and welcome in our white bearded man. (Plus, there’s no milk and cookies for our man- we offer ours a huge cup of wine.) Not only that, but I don’t know any Jews worth their borscht who own chimneys at all.

Now, before I get inundated with mail from ‘Jews for Chimneys’ I would just like to say that I’m generalising for a purpose here.
Gotit? Anyway, if you do have a chimney and like to sit in front of cozy fires in the winter, my guess is that you chop the wood by yourself and have shelaqued bagels with painted scenes hanging on your walls. If that’s so, I have nothing to say because you are in a different category of Jew altogether. Anyone who has to take down their artwork for Pesach, is just well, different.

#2- Cooking doesn’t scare us. In most magazines, the big talk is about cooking for the big meal on the Other Holiday. They dictate to their readers how to prepare menus, give them shopping lists for ingredients and organise their cooking schedules. This is because it’s soooo very difficult to arrange a five course meal, isn’t it?
HA! NOT!
We do it every Friday night.
Big whooping deal.
The only extra thing we do on Chanukah, is make Latkes and donuts, but we don’t have to take a Valium to ‘get through it’.

#3- We have fewer songs about Chanukah. In the beginning of Chanukah, I always think ‘I Have a Little Dreidel’ is the sweetest song my little ones could ever sing, so much so that I just want to thank the person that composed that cute little ditty. By the end of Chanukah, I have had enough of that clay dreidel and all I want to do to the composer is throttle him.
Never mind, Nachas comes with a price.

The Other Holiday has so many songs, some of them really terrific.
The only problem I have with them is that I can’t seem to get them out of my head. I know this is genetic.
I have a clear recollection of shopping with my Mother and wanting the earth to swallow me up when she sang, ‘I’m Dreaming of a White…’ out LOUD in a Hungarian accent, in a Chassidishe Mocher Seforim. Apparently, I tend to act similarly because my kids are forever telling me to ‘Shush!’ when we go to Jewish stores at this time of year.
It must be a subconscious thing.

Chanukah is really a holiday about Us vs. Them.
I find it fascinating that even the name ‘Chanukah’ separates Us from Them.
Unless you are Scottish or Swiss (hey, maybe they’re the lost tribes?) or an Arab (they don’t count- they’re cousins), only a Heimishe can pronounce the ‘Cha’ in Chanukah.

Here is a Chanukah synopsis;

They wanted us to act like Greeks
They didn’t want us to practise as Jews.
We fought them.
We won.
We couldn’t find oil.
We found oil.
Let’s eat.

Have a Fabulous Chanukah!!!!

This Post is Smokin’

2006-12-14T08:52:00.000Z

Whoever invented smoking should be shot.
Oh, it’s too late, they’ve already rotted centuries ago with lungs that probably looked like my first attempt at pottery in a too hot kiln.

I don’t think I would mind people smoking if they didn’t exhale. It always seems to me that people take two puffs from their cigarette and then hold the cigarette away from them, allowing the fumes to creep up on me and ruin whichever sheitel I was unlucky enough to be donning.
Oh, didn’t you know?
Smoking Kills…. Sheitels.
They don’t write that on the package do they?
Apparently, it didn’t occur to the Surgeon General to put that as a warning to the public. Apparently my purchased hair means nothing to him, or the smokers themselves. But, to be fair; if smokers don’t care about their own unborn babies, they certainly won’t give a fig about my poor wig.

When exposed to smoke, the sheitel hair swells up; absorbing the smoke and the smell, removing whatever shine the hair had. Too much exposure will leave it lifeless and frizzy, which incidentally is exactly happens to the smokers themselves, as they too become lifeless and frizzy.

Have you ever seen the before and after photos of lungs pre and post smoking? The virgin lungs are pristine and a healthy shade of pink, while the smokers lungs look like a lump of coal that was excavated from the Great Fire of London. I’m not even going to mention nicotine staining on teeth and fingers and the fact that a die-hard smoker (hah! Get it?) has the skin comparable to a bark of a tree. When a smoker talks, they rasp and rattle when they breathe.
So, that should make one think, ‘do the filters work?’
Huh?

But as for the rest us, victims of the addicted, what happens to us, besides stinky sheitels? Every time I go to Paris where the meal costs more than the ticket to go there, as soon as someone inevitably lights up, everything tastes the same; ash.
Tres expensive ash.
I actually came across a T-shirt that said ‘Quit smoking- find out what food tastes like’.
The icing on the crème brulee is that we come home smelling like a cannibal’s hors douvres; completely smoked and tenderised. This is despite my best efforts in trying to halt the smokers’ quest to pollute my air. I try to appeal to their human kindness; that special place in their soul that makes them weep when hearing about suffering llamas in Argentina. So, I start off hemming and hawing and move on to hocking and broching and coughing so loud that even the Parisian taxi drivers outside are awakened from their trance like stupors. Mr Kasamba finds my behaviour excruciating because all it does is make the Frenchies stare, lips pursed while their cigarettes continue to perfume my world.

What I can’t understand is, what is so wonderful about smoking that makes people put their enjoyment before the health and welfare of the rest of us? The sad thing is that it’s not just the non smokers who come into random contact with smokers who suffer, but the vulnerable ones condemned by fate to be around smokers most of the time.
The poor innocent children.

Now, as a eminent warbler once sang, ‘I believe that children are our future’. Just what kind of future do children of smokers have? I have seen people smoke a foot away from their newborn baby, and I have seen them smoke while propping their children on their knee. When I was last in the airport I witnessed a set of parents wheel their tiny baby into the smoking section provided by Heathrow. I could barely believe my eyes. Evidently, they did not want to leave their child just outside of the enclosure, because it wouldn’t be safe.
Sure, that makes sense.

Have you ever seen the smoking section at Heathrow? It looks like a see through stand up coffin with clear panels so you can watch people kill themselves slowly. At the time the concerned parents stepped in there, there was so much smoke I was waiting for Sherlock Holmes and Watson to step out from the mist. It disturbed me so much that I went up to the nearest airport representative and asked her if she could say something to these 'parents of the year'. She obviously said that she couldn’t but that the smoking section would soon be a thing of the past as smoking will banned from public places in England altogether. Yee ha!

The only positive side that I can say about smoking is; if you do smoke in your car, you never have to pay extra for tinted windows.

I will leave you with the words of the great philosopher Rosanne Barr,
“Be nice to smokers, they don’t have long to live.”

The Land Of the Rising High Rises Part Two

2006-12-10T15:16:00.000Z

(continued)

They also have this service thing down to a ‘T’.
They fuss all over you and you can tell that that they really enjoy it. This is in stark contrast to the Philapinos, who will serve you and call you, “M’am’ with unconcealed hatred. They will also spit in your coffee at every available opportunity.

Not so in HK. There they stand over you and wait with baited breath for your approval. I imagine that this is the subject of many a dinner table conversation in Chinese homes:
“So Ling Ling, how was work today?”
“Very good, honoured Father, western lady praise me for coffee well made.”
“Well done Ling Ling! Now go get your Mother in from rice patty!”
Just joking, in Hong Kong there are no rice patties, there’s just no room for any.

And that’s another thing.
In HK you have six million people living on an island roughly the size of a postage stamp. Since they couldn’t build out, they had to build up and build up they did. I think they must have been high on Slivovitz when they stuck huge skyscrapers on every available inch of land. The buildings are so close to each other that when the sun shines, barely any of it filters down to the streets below. Plus, because this island is full of hills you can be on the ground floor of one building and look straight into the living room of someone on the fourteenth floor of another building. You really can look into people’s living rooms because no one there closes their curtains. I figure that it’s because they are either exhibitionists or narcissists; they either want people to watch them or they are just not interested in anyone’s lives but their own.
Either way, it makes for interesting viewing.

The markets though, are the most fun.
I have never seen so much junk in one place.
That I feel compelled to own.

The people in the market stalls scream, “Missy, prease, Missy! Copy handbag, copy watch!” Which I buy even though it says ‘Mio Mio’ instead of ‘Miu Miu’ and the watch is 1/3 smaller than the original. On the flight back all these metziahs start to disintegrate, so that by the time I unpack, all I’m left with are bits of metal and leather. Which is not really suprising.

What is surprising is the large Jewish contingent there.
On the Central side of Hong Kong there are three shuls and there are two on the Kowloon side. All visiting Jews ask the same question, “Are you on this side or the other side?” They make it sound like they are challenging you to tap into your psychic powers.

There are quite a few kosher restaurants as well; actually there are more kosher restaurants in Hong Kong than there are in Vienna. Chabad have a large presence there and their Hachnasas Orchim is second to none. Rabbi Avtzon and his posse (on the Central side) are incredible. Mr Kasamba feels that many people take what they do for granted and he feels that people should leave donations when they leave. Personally, I am very grateful for the good care they take of Mr Kasamba every time he goes there.

Shabbos in Hong Kong affords you the opportunity of meeting the most fascinating Jews from all over the world. It is a melting pot of Jews who all come together to daven and eat. We met a fabulous couple with three adorable kids from Melbourne Australia. They run a Pesach program there in an Australian resort. If you are interested you can go to www.ozkoshergetaways.com.

Sunday is a holiday of sorts in that it is the Phillapinos day off. It is a plethora of Phillapinos. Thousands of them drape the streets sitting on blankets and newspapers to meet their friends to compare copy handbags and compete for the title of who has ‘the most evil employer’.

My favourite pastime is watching two Chinese people yell at each other.
The name of the game is to try to figure out what they are saying.
A sample translated conversation might be:
“I tell you Szechuan, you are wrong! You must always iron overcoat on bias!”
“What??? Are you Dim Sum? Did your father feed you too much eel? You know nothing! I say, nothing!”
(Arm gestures and lots of spit)

All in all, I love Hong Kong and I always feel a bit sad to leave.
I have a genuine affection for the happy miniature people there and I would have stuffed as many of them as possible into my new Mio Mio handbag, but not one wanted go.
Go figure.

The Land Of the Rising High Rises Part One

2006-12-06T09:56:00.000Z

Aloha Blogger-sans!
Okay, so maybe Aloha is not Chinese.
And maybe it’s the Japanese and not the Chinese that say that whole ‘san’ business.
So, I can’t speak Chinese.
Oh, big deal. Sue me.

I write to you just having come back from the Land of the Rising High Rises.
Yes that’s right, I was in Hong Kong.

Every so often Mr Kasamba takes me on one of his many, many, many fun, oops! I mean, business trips.

I love Hong Kong.
I love the smell of soy that pervades the air.
I love the energy, the hustle bustle and of course, the people.
The exuberance and friendliness of the Hong Konganese can be found no where else. They are always smiling and their enthusiasm is infectious. They are like Disney characters on steroids.
They are positively perky.

To me they all look similar and I know this is a sore point to them. You see, us Caucasians look different because of our varying hair colour, hair texture, eye colour, facial features and height. However, most Chinese can be physically interchangeable. Because of this they go to outrageous lengths to assert their individuality. They will dye and perm their beautifully natural black, poker straight hair until it resembles an Edward Scissorhands creation and wear outlandish fashions on their fabulously whippet thin bodies, in a bid to stick out from the crowd. Ironically, their nonconformity makes them look that much more alike and indistinguishable.

Let’s go back to the whippet thin bodies they have. They are all so thin. I don’t recall ever having seen any fat people there unless they hide them from the public eye like they do in Beverly Hills. The largest size they carry in most stores is an American size four, so most westerners coming to Hong Kong have to pray that their suitcases don’t get lost in transit. Heaven forbid if western women do indeed find themselves in need of new garments, they can ask for their size (which on the odd occasion they will have in stock) only to have the Sales assistant yell at her associate in Cantonese, “Hey, Chow Min, bring out the Bedouin tents!”

I think I know why they are so thin:
1- The food that they sell is squirmy.
If you walk past the food stalls, they are full of wriggly, squishy, slimy things that are either covered in sauce or au natural. Most of the time, they are still alive. Put it this way, what they call food is when I would call the exterminators.
It’s enough to put Pavarotti right off his spaghetti.

2- They eat with their mouths open.
If you have ever had the pleasure of watching Chinese people eat, you might like to arm yourself with a cocktail umbrella to shield yourself from the food fallout. Whether it is rice or dried fish (the smellier, grosser choice) whatever they chew, as fast as they chew, it’s flying all over the place, left right and centre.
Hence, they are so thin because so little remains in their mouths.

Hey, you know this is not the end, I still have so much more to say!
It is only the;

End of Part One

Siyonara!
(Okay, okay, I know that's not Chinese either- oh, give me a break)
Chinese/ Japanese/Iceberg/Goldberg; it's all the same.
Sue me.

Love me, Love my Laryngitis

2006-11-28T15:07:00.000Z

At first it was nothing, really nothing much
It was just a little sore, really just a touch.
Soon enough it began hurt for me to swallow
And sure enough I knew what was to follow
When I extended my mouth wide in the mirror I saw
That my throat was completely red, it was completely raw
After a few days of living with my throat like that
I could no longer keep my condition under my hat

My voice changed and became beautifully husky and deep
Such a rich baritone that would have made Sinatra weep
Now, I can just imagine what you’d be wont to say
What normal woman would want to sound that way?
But you would have understood, had you been there
Then you would have twigged why I would care
Because as soon as there was no one home anymore
Could I belt out ballads that were too deep for me before
Oh, how I loved that stage, but it didn’t last all that long
I wasn’t meant to retain that lovely timbre, I was wrong

Because before I knew it, the next thing I knew, lo and behold
My voice went from smooth butter to butter covered in mold
I sounded like I smoked sixty packs of cigarettes a day
And forty pipes, fifty cigars and hookahs from Bombay
That scratchy sound swiftly turned into a croak
Bringing to mind a rusty door hinge when I spoke
But the worst part was, I feel I really must assert
There was no more singing and my throat really hurt!

(How could I know there would be more thrill to this ride?
Ah, my friends I tell you the rest, then you can decide.)

Soon I had absolutely no voice, yes no voice at all
And the kids and the husband had become enthralled
No nagging, no yelling, not even one single squeak
‘Ooh’ they thought ‘life’s good when Mum can’t speak’
But then when things unexpectedly took a turn for the worse
What they thought was a blessing just have been a curse!

Because I had no voice, I could not answer the phone
And all I could do was shrug when my kids would moan
To help them with homework I now had to take a backseat
While Husband read them bedtime stories, I put up my feet
I could now discipline with just one sharp look in my eye
(It works twice as well as shrieking, I can now testify!)
I was more relaxed than I had been in years, almost nonchalant
I just pointed at something, and everyone had to guess what I want!

Alas, I knew it couldn’t go on and I knew the game was up
When the teas started pouring in, cup after cup after cup
And Husband booked a doctors appointment for the next day
Now I’m just looking for any excuse for this trip to delay
You see, I know antibiotics would work and heal me I bet
I would like my voice back sometime, but not quite just yet.

Thanksgiving

2006-11-22T15:05:00.000Z

Growing up in the US, I always loved Thanksgiving.

I loved the parade in Manhattan, and the whole abundant autumnal harvest theme. I loved that there was no school and that my Dad would bring a huge turkey (dead, thank G-d) home from work. I still think that it was so nice for the fortune 500 company that my dad worked for to make sure that its kosher employees got kosher chickens even thought they cost thirty times as much.

I loved the entire build up to Thanksgiving, and that is one of the things I miss about being away from the USA.
Therefore, because I am Chutz LeAretz, I keep TWO days of Thanksgiving.
We have turkey shnitzels on Thursday night and then I have all my in-laws over on Friday night for a big festive feast on Isru Chag.
I serve a huge stuffed Turkey (which for some odd reason I feel compelled to name every year. Bezras Hashem, this year we will be serving Bertha) and sweet potatoes, and other harvest type foods. I always make two desserts, one being pumpkin pie and the other something chocolaty because no one besides me eats the pumpkin pie. But one must eat the pumpkin pie, it’s like eating tzimus on Rosh Hashana:
it is tradition. I can be as stuffed as Bertha, and yet I will make sure to shovel some pumpkin pie into my mouth. (Hey, is that why they call it pie-hole?)

Here’s a rendition of Thanksgiving past:
Must…..eat…. pumpkin….pie….

It’s not only the food that attracts me to this holiday.
I just love the idea that an entire country pauses to show Hakaras Hatov to a higher power.
I firmly believe that it is the concept of Hakaras Hatov that makes us better Ovdei Hashem and makes us into better people.

Besides that, I can’t really deal with atheists.
I can’t manipulate them at all.
When you can’t ‘put the fear of G-d’ in someone they will not respond well to guilt.
Why should they? All they have to look forward to is worms.

Anyhoo,
Every year at some point during the Friday night Thanksgiving meal I try to get my assorted in-laws to hold hands and say what they are thankful for.
Every year I get the same response.
Or should I say non response.
Or should I say ignored completely.
Never mind, it just means my food’s good.

So, in honour of this auspicious holiday (but it’s not really a holy-day is it?) I have decided to recount to you, my friends, my readers, my captive audience (I’ll take the handcuffs off when you finish) exactly, what I, Kasamba, am thankful for.

10 Obvious Things I am grateful for:
1- I am grateful for my husband and kids
2- I am grateful for my parents and in-laws
3- I am grateful for my wonderful supportive friends, family and neighbours
4- I am grateful for good health (for all above)
5- I am grateful for Shalom Bayis
6- I am grateful for my spirituality
7- I am grateful to have Parnassah
8- I am grateful for my talent
9- I am grateful for the ability to help others
10- I am grateful Israel is in our hands

10 Not So Obvious Things I am Grateful For:
1- I am grateful that I don’t live in _________ (fill in blank for any eastern European country, North African country, and any Moslem ruled country)
2- I am grateful that fundraising dinners end.
3- I am grateful for the washing instruction tags on my clothes.
4- I am grateful for indoor plumbing.
5- I am really grateful for Sushi
6- I am grateful for doorknobs
7- I am grateful for my Bentching pen
8- I am grateful for Pepto Bismol
9- I am grateful that the ozone has not fallen down on me
10- I am grateful that there are rarely snow off-school days in England

Well, there are so many more things I could list, like the fact that Bertha is giving up her life for our enjoyment. But because I am a believer, I really do think that Bertha's Turkey soul will rise higher because she was part of our Shabbos/Thanksgiving meal. And if she was a gilgul, then I’m sure she would have had her Tikun. (That’s why I always make sure to offer mechilah to any food that was once alive and kicking)

But there is sooooo much to be appreciative to Hakodosh Boruchu so this is me reflecting and saying Thank You to Him and to YOU as well, my lovely, fabiola, marvelosa readers.
Have a very HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Okay, you can go now.

Let's Play a Game!

2006-11-19T00:11:00.000Z

Hey boys and girls, want to play a game??
It’s called the Compare Game!

The rules are simple: we will take the nicest mall in the NY-NJ state area and the nicest mall in ohhhh, say London and compare them.
Sounds fun, right?

Let’s get started then!!!

Stipulation;
Because London is about 50 years behind the US when it comes to retailing, we won’t choose the lovely Short Hills mall to go up against London’s finest, which is Brent Cross. Instead we will go a few notches down (for fairness sake) and compare Brent Cross to the Garden State Plaza mall.

Point One: FROM FAR

From far, the Garden State Plaza, looks like an oasis, a Valhalla of pretty windows and enticing mannequins, beckoning one inside.

From far, Brent Cross looks like a manufacturing plant for something mundane, like … rivets.

Point Two: INSIDE

Once you go into the Garden State Plaza, the streams of sunlight and assorted potted plants make you feel like you are frolicking in a rainforest. The air is perfumed and you feel invigorated, ready to shop.

As soon as you go inside Brent Cross, you start to suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. The lack of natural light gives you the impression of being in Gotham City, a cave or a crate in your basement. You are immediately bombarded with the sensation of an overflow of CO2 and lack of O2. I have always suspected Brent Cross of hiring people to suck out the air with straws, because I can’t imagine how else you could recreate the feeling of a pressurised cabin in such a large space. You feel depleted and decrepit, and hope you can leave soon.

Point Three: STAFF

In the Garden State Plaza, all sales assistants look like Malibu Barbie, healthy, with the sparkling white teeth of a Colgate advertisement and hair like the Breck girls of yore. They are as enthusiastic as cheerleaders and they don’t walk, they bounce. They fuss over you and tell you that they love what you are wearing, you have such pretty eyes, and they ask you where you got your shoes.

In Brent Cross, the staff resemble the sketchings of the British during the Great Plague. They look severely anaemic and have teeth that look like they’ve been braided. They will tell you that you have to wait to be served, even it the person they’re busy with has been trying on blushers for the past 40 minutes. They are lethargic and depressed and they don’t even care if you buy anything or not, because the world is ending anyway.

Point Four: CONSUMERS

Most of the people in the Garden State Plaza are young mothers and Ladies Who Lunch. They all look great from their expertly done hair til their manicured fingernails. They look like they are clearly enjoying themselves and there are barely any male shoppers to be seen.

The irony of Brent Cross, is that it caters for people who do not look like they can afford tissues, let alone luxury items. They look downtrodden and there are loads of men milling about. These men are either on the dole, shopping on the taxpayer’s expense or construction workers who refuse to finish their already started projects, leaving people with no roof until they feel like finishing. Later, they will go down to the pub and complain about how crowded Brent Cross is.

Point Five: SHOPPING:

In the Garden State Plaza, everything is lit with an almost serene, spiritual white light. Everything screams, “Buy me!” and when you do purchase these items, you feel warm and cosseted, almost cherished, as you did in the womb. You end up buying things that you will never use, but every time you spy your onion flower maker or your watermelon shaped handbag or your skirt with Marilyn Monroe’s lips all over it, you feel great all over again.

In Brent Cross, everything feels drab and dreary, which in turn makes you tired and weary. This is so much so, that even if you are standing in front of the object you came to Brent Cross to buy, you WILL NOT purchase it. What’s the use? The world’s gonna end anyway.

Point Six: AFTEREFFECTS

After you come home from the Garden State Plaza, laden with packages, you don’t even notice the welts from where the bags cut into your wrists because you are still on a retail high!!! As you excitedly unpack your new goods, you relive your time in paradise and you feel youthful and great.
Verdict: Like spending a day in a spa.

After you come home from Brent Cross, you feel severely dehydrated and jet lagged and you know that it will take you 48 hours to recover. Your skin has aged 5 years, but you don’t worry because you know it’s only temporary. You feel sick and take to your bed, knowing that you didn’t even get what you supposed to, meaning that another trip is necessary.
Verdict: Like sticking your head in an oven.

So, how do they rate up?
Hmmm, let’s see…
Garden State Plaza: 6/6
Brent Cross: 0/6

Well, that was fun wasn’t it???
Maybe next time, we’ll compare governments!

Until next time….
Happy Chanukah shopping wherever you are!

This is Kasamba signing off!
Cue theme tune; la, la, la, la, deed a, dum de, la, la la, laaa

HAIR TODAY, SHEITEL TOMMOROW

2006-11-14T15:47:00.000Z

I always looked foward to covering my hair. For me it was a right of passage that meant I was in the big leagues.
It meant I was married.
Sadie the Married Lady.

When I first got hitched, I was so excited that I didn't have to pachka with my hair every morning and I could just dump on my purchased hair.

Yeah, that feeling lasted for about a month until I discovered that although sheitels look great when they are just done; that great look only lasts until you get in your car. Unless of course you spray them into submission, which will only them look more like a helmet from World War 2 or something you purchased in a Disney shop.

How your hair looks under a sheitel is a fundamental component to looking normal:
(re; like a person wearing hair instead of something that died.
In a cage.
In a zoo.)

-If your own hair is too thick and curly your sheitels will sort of hover above your head resembling the Jackson five before their haircuts.

-If your hair is too long and you put it up in a ponytail, you will end up with a bump at the back of your head making you look like an alien from the planet Zork.

But if you were blessed with rubbishy thin hair, you will look amazing in a sheitel.

I think that’s just the universe evening the score for all the women who cried that their hair was too thin while the rest of us with our thick medusa tresses flicked it in their faces. It is the ultimate cosmic joke.
Yeah, you can guess what hair I have.
Oh lucky me. Not.

I always say that good sheitels are Hidur Mitzvah, similar to a beautiful esrog except of course, you don’t have to pay to have an esrog washed and set and jam made out of hair is just gross.

I adore Chani, my Sheitel Macher.
I have the best time choosing my wigs because she lets me try on everything.
Which I do.
She actually has a website: www.sheitel.com

I love it that us Sheitel wearers can peg each other after just one glance.
It’s almost as if we have a secret club.

A few years after I was married I went to a women’s symposium. Anyone could ask any question on any subject to the panel. One woman stood up and asked, “Aren’t the sheitels nowadays too glamorous? Don’t they go against what sheitels stand for?” The panel proceeded to call glamorous sheitels untznuis for attracting attention. Hearing this, I couldn’t stay quiet anymore (surprised?) so I stood up and said,

“With all due respect to the esteemed panel (I had to shmear them a little bit.), I feel that since it may have been some time (we’re talking the ice age) since the panel has had to put a sheitel on for the first time, they might have forgotten what it feels like for a newlywed to put one on initially. Maybe they have forgotten the wish to use anything available (forks, chopsticks, twigs) to alleviate the itching.” I went on to say, “I think before you judge people who wear fancy wigs, think of this: when the wind is blowing through your natural hair, you look gorgeous and feel great. When the wind blows through your sheitel, you hold on for dear life.

It's not always easy to do this mitzvah, therefore there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look your best while you do it.” By then the room descended into utter chaos, all semblance of civility gone with the wind of my comments.

Every Sheitel wearer has good Sheitel days. Mine came when a Lubavitch woman carrying candlesticks approached me in the mall and asked me if I was Jewish. I beamed as I pointed to my head and shrieked, “Sheitel!” to which she replied, “Wow, that’s a good one”. I was on a high for months.

I crack up when people ask me “Is that your hair?”
I say, “Of course it is, I paid for it!”

And on the plus side;
I never have to worry how my hair’s going to look the next day,
I just look across the room and there it is!

Oy Vy Vayera

2006-11-10T13:59:00.000Z

Warning: Politically Incorrect Post.

I usually don’t cover the Sedra, nor do I dip my cute little toesies into racially biased waters, but today, I shall.

For me, Parshas Vayera answers many questions, none of which are about missing socks and the dryer.
That’s another post entirerly.

I have always felt that the stories related in the Torah are not mere folklore like Aesop’s Fables, but rather a factual guide to show us our potential as Jews; our strengths and gifts as well as our weaknesses. In short, I believe that they were real people illustrated by the Torah to show us what is in our DNA; so we can learn from our designer genes.
They serve as a reflection of what was in order to shape us for what will be.

Well that’s a load of malarkey, you might be saying.
Oh, what?
I’m not allowed to have a deep thought once in a while?
Oh, get over it.

Anyhoo, back to my barkings.
Now, where was I?
Oh, yeah. Vayera.

Here we have the saga of two mothers, both vying for the position of mother to the nation of Israel, both representing diametrically opposed characteristics of motherhood.

On one side, you have Sara;
longstanding wife of Avraham.
Knowing she was barren, she was altruistic enough to voluntarily offer to raise another woman’s child as her own in order to fulfil her husband’s destiny. She knew she was destined to be mother of Israel, and didn’t mind if the child wasn’t genetically hers. She was a prophetess, who had such clear vision that even Hashem had to tell Avraham to listen to her.

On the other corner, sits Hagar;
Pharaoh’s daughter and Sara’s maidservant. Upon her subsequent marriage to Avraham and immediate pregnancy, she demeaned Sara and became very condescending towards her, in her mistaken and arrogant belief that she was greater than Sara because of her ability to conceive Avraham’s child.

Sara, realising that Yishamael, the offspring of Hagar was a bad influence on her son Yitzchak, sent Hagar away.

We can learn a lot of the power of this gift of clarity that Sara had. It is well known that Sara had her name changed from Sarai to Sara. And many schoolchildren learn that the yud that was removed from Sara’s name went before the Almighty and complained about its expulsion from a righteous woman’s name. Hashem then responded to him that he would have the Zchuss to be the first letter in a Tzaddiks name, to change Hosheya to Yehoshua.

Dayan Simons tells us that the time that Moshe bestowed the yud to Yehoshua’s name is also significant. Moshe gave it to him right before Yehoshua was set to go with the other spies to scout out the Land of Israel. This shows us that even the yud of Sara’s name contained clarity and lucidity that Yehoshua needed in order to resist peer pressure and ascertain the truth about the Holy Land.

This gift of clarity is something Sara infused in each and every mother among us.
This gift makes us Jewish mothers who know just what is best for their children.

Okay, you waited long enough, here’s the controversial bit:
(Pause for effect)

Hagar, on the other hand is another kettle of fish and a stinky one at that.
She and her son Yishmael get chucked out of Avraham’s house, with enough food and drink for the journey.
On the way, Yishmael gets sick and there is only enough water left for one person.
What should she do?
What did she do?
Well, she takes her sick child, and like a sem girl’s used wad of chewing gum, dumps him under a tree and runs from him like a tourist at Pamplona. She thinks he might die so she takes the last bit of water with her. After all, it would shame to waste good water if he’s gonna die, isn’t it?
After all, dead people don’t drink do they?

That is a ‘mother’?

So, here’s my point:
In the same way that the Jewish mother knows what is best for her children and nurtures them until the soul is forced from her body, is the same way there is something intrincally wrong with the maternal instinct of the Arab woman.

They will nurture their offspring, love them, and look after them, to a point.
Then they will strap explosives on them and point them in our direction.

And this my dears, is my point.

Don’t Move to Boca!

2006-11-07T00:20:00.000Z

The passage of time is strange.
The beautiful people that you once looked up to as the pinnacle for all things youthful and virile are still beautiful but a little… off kilter.
Gravity has taken its toll as everything has shifted slightly south.
The little kids I once babysat now have kids of their own and I could swear that Chassanim and Kallahs are Bar Mitzvah boys marrying Sweet 16 girls.

Now there is no denying that my parents are getting old, they have just purchased an apartment in Boca Raton.

To most the housing unit for the aged is called ‘Century Village’, probably because most people who inhabit it recall the American Civil War -first hand. I, on the other hand call it ‘Cemetery Village’ sort of like
G-d’s waiting room or
‘Hotel California’- once you check in you can never check out.

My Dad loves the whole, ‘I’m retired so I can do and say whatever I want’ thing. This is so much so, that he actually enjoys the daily scrimmage for seats at the ‘All You Can Eat Breakfast’ for $2.50 available in the village.
According to legend, these places employ bouncers to keep the old age pensioners from coming to blows with each other over who was first in line.

I say good for them because it gives their lives PURPOSE.
Everyone should have a PURPOSE.

But NOT MY PARENTS!!!!!!

Even with her old country accent, my mothers always been young at heart and has never come to terms with aging. She would go nuts in Boca where the most popular sports are: comparing ailments, comparing medications and comparing doctors.

My Dad on the other hand, loves all of that.
He’s waited his whole life and looked forward to ….. getting old.
Well, I guess it does beat the alternative.

My Dad showed me the photo of his new apartment and there was a person lying on the sofa. I screamed in horror, “Dad! Couldn’t they have removed the body BEFORE you bought the apartment?” My Dad rolled his eyes and told me that it was just the real estate agent who happens to be my cousin, which explains his level of comfort in my parent’s new abode. However, it also explains the lethargy that sets in when people enter Boca.

At one point my Dad talked about selling his home, (my birthplace!) in Monsey and moving to Boca permanently.

Even though I live in London, I still need to know that my home still exists! I told my Dad that he might as well stick a bottle of liquor in my hand (preferably egg, or coffee’s good too- yum!), drop me off at the Bowery and call me homeless.

My parents are vibrant, youthful people. I can’t let them willingly become part of the old age brigade!!!!

I don’t mind if they spend winters in Boca Raton, I just feel that they just need to be around young people the rest of the time.

So please join me in petitioning my father and write to:

papadontmovetoboca@hotmail.com

I thank you for your support in these trying times.

The Traffic War-Dons

2006-11-03T09:23:00.000Z

It is said that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and as I stared into the cold dark eyes of the Traffic Warden, all I saw was: Joy, glee, gladness.

Jubilation that he had nabbed another punter, put another notch on his uniform belt, and snared another unsuspecting bug into his web of bureaucratic legal penalties.

Do I blame him?
No.
Ever since time immemorial, the British Traffic Wardens have been vilified for doing their job with enthusiasm.
Do I malign and disparage them?
No, I do not.

For I, Kasamba, know something that most people do not.
Lucky for you I will share the inside story with you.
Yes, once again, I Kasamba, am the bearer of the TRUTH.

You see my cyber-bloggy buddies, in the UK the traffic wardens are not trained to be sadistic… they are born that way.
Yes, my friends, it is shocking but true.

Back in the glory days, when Britain ruled the world and the sun shone from every British backside, the British had conquered numerous lands and isles. However, unbeknownst to most, one of those islands still belongs to Britain.

This island located in the Caribbean is called Antagonigua and it is there that you will find the colony of the Traffic Wardens.

There, children are raised to go a step beyond apathy. There they learn shaudenfreude; which is the glee found in someone else’s misery, the pleasure found in another’s misfortune, and then some. They are taught that their personal reward is directly parallel to someone else’s distress.

Therefore, where our children are innocent, giving, loving children; their children are trained to wipe out any remnant of that nature in order for them to become Traffic Wardens.

Once they are shipped to England, the poor Traffic Wardens start doing their job.
But what of their social life?
Is there a place in society for people for whom someone’s anguish means job satisfaction?
Obviously not.

After all, who could bring a Traffic Warden home to mother?

Therefore, the British Government has set up secret social mixers for the aforementioned Traffic Wardens to allow them to socialise and mix with people who are as disturbed as they are. The only other sect of society they could possibly mix with are Wheel Clampers, but that is another post entirely.

One thing I feel I must warn you, my darlings, my most dearest dumplings:
Be very careful and wary NOT to smile, make eye contact or be pleasant to any Traffic Wardens, EVER……
Because it just might short circuit their wiring.

The Debut

2006-10-30T08:19:00.000Z

There is certain order to proceedings in the frum world.
We know how events should run and we know what to do and how to do it. This is why we never need rehearsal dinners, hello! Every frummer and frummie knows how the first Sheva Brochos is supposed to go. After all, it has been passed down from generation to generation. But isn’t that a bit booooring?
Why can’t we just shake things up a bit??

So, in light of this new found need to revolutionize, I confidently suggested that instead of the regular Chusson-Kallah-Show-Up-After-Everyone-Else thing, my niece and new husband should actually be standing in the centre of the room covered by a festively decorated box. Then when everyone is seated the band could start playing music and announce, “For the very second time (the first being the wedding, duh!) appearing as husband and wife; Mr and Mrs Rhubarb!”
And then VOILA!
The box would be removed and much merriment would ensue.

I thought my proposal had gone down a treat until they adjusted the straps on my straightjacket (lined in satin, dahling) and sent me back into the rubber room with no corners.

But back to the Sheva Brochos.
I think the first Sheva Brochos should be called, ‘The Unveiling’ for it is then that the new Kallah debuts and reveals… her new sheitel.

First Sheva Brochos are indeed excruciating for a Kallah because of the whole sheitel business. I remember turning up to my Sheva Brochos looking like a frightened French poodle. I can’t even use the eighties for an excuse.

Usually, the poor bride walks in and assorted siblings and in-laws ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ over her wig while simultaneously poking and prodding it, in order to “just fix this stray hair”

Usually, the Kallah, sporting a few Ukrainian milkmaids hair if she’s lucky (cuz if she ain’t, then her wig probably looks like she stole it from Barbie), feels like she is balancing road kill on her head

Usually, this pathetic creature can be found looking longingly at the cutlery to figure out which would be better to stick underneath her wig to alleviate the itching; the knife or the fork?

And everyone at the first Sheva Brochos, is watching her every move, every nuance, every emotion that crosses her face.

Not so my niece, Celery.
She showed up at her first Sheva Brochos in a wig that looked like her hair had done the day before and all her self confidence in tact.
It was a pleasure to look at her.
Which I did.

That is, I looked at her until Glinda the Good showed up, and then my attention swiftly moved so I could gawk at her. It’s not my fault I was compelled to stare at her, she’s just so darn sparkly.

This particular evening found her wearing a necklace of south sea pearls the size of golf balls interspersed with diamond balls of equal size. It looked so heavy, I don’t know how she held her head upright. She accessorized this with matching earrings bracelets, assorted rings and a flower shaped diamond encrusted watch that was a large as one of Wonder Woman’s cuffs.

It was like looking at the sun.
I was just itching to go up to her and beg to be adopted.
But I didn’t.

Darn, these straps are tight.

Dancing on the Viennese Table

2006-10-26T17:45:00.000+01:00

After the chuppah, we all went back to the hotel, where we all removed our hats; the men their standard black ones and us women, our fabulous be-jeweled, be-feathered, be-autiful hats.
(When I become Prime Minister of England, I will make a law requiring all women in the United Kingdom, to wear spectacular hats.
At all times.
With at least one feather.)

The dinner shinding took place that evening in the hotel hall.

Besides the gorgeous flowers, great music, and fabulous bride and groom, I found it heart warming to see my kids, all squeaky clean and gussied up, get into the swing of things. The image of Asparagus and Cucumber dancing with their cousin, the Kallah, will stay with me forever.

What happened on the mens side with my three boys I had to (poke, prod) glean from Mr Kasamba because the darn mechitza was as thick as the Badeken cloth.

There was this one woman who didn’t walk into the hall, she wafted. A flawlessly preserved older woman with perfectly coifed blonde hair, she looked like Glinda the Good when she landed in Munchkin land in her huge mobile soap bubble. But it wasn’t even her aura which channelled old Hollywood, it wasn’t even the twelve inch long cigarette holder perched between her immaculately manicured fingers, (heck, she made smoking look so good, I was inches close to starting the habit myself) it was her jewels.

Now, I don’t know how many of you have been to see the crown jewels in the Tower of London. There, you have to queue for two hours to stand on a treadmill to get a two minute view of jewellery that might just be rhinestones. Plus, if you walk backwards on the moving walkway, the people behind you get really cross. Well, on this dame, I had my own showing of gems that were real and I could stare as long as wanted. (Okay, so she did get uncomfortable at one point.)

I’m sure she would have forgiven me, because until I saw her, I had never seen jewels of that calibre on a human before. The woman was like a walking JAR exhibition. Her necklace, earrings, bracelet, ring and brooch housed the most enormous emeralds I have ever had the pleasure of dreaming about. They were so large, I could have ice skated on any one of them.
We’re talking triple axle room here.

She was also wearing a stunning gown, but let’s be honest;
with rocks like those, who needs clothes?

But enough about that, back to Celery and Rhubarb, the happy couple at their wedding dinner.

In Europe, we have speeches during Chasunas. Let me tell you, there is an art in having a discussion with your neighbour without being spotted by the top table.
I would make an excellent ventriloquist.

In between speeches, there was dancing, and it was incredibly leibedik. My niece is a natural born dancer and stole the show with her fancy footwork.

The Mitzvah Tanse was very emotional, as I don’t think the whole giving-up-my-daughter- thing sunk into my brother-in-law until then. My sister-in-law, on the other hand, had been sick about the whole thing for ages. After all, you don’t raise such a great kid only to say, ‘bye’ without a backwards glance! My sister-in-law had a lump in throat for weeks prior to this momentous occasion and lost packs of weight because she couldn’t eat. Thank goodness the wedding wasn’t the next week, because she would have disappeared by then.

By the way, the happiest words said at a Mitzvah Tanse are, “Er geit, er geit”.

Then the Cusson and Kallah danced together.

And so the wedding ended.
The first child in our family to get married, my niece has all our hopes, prayers and dreams infused in her wedding ring. And when we saw her bidding everyone a ‘Guten Abend’ with her hand clutching her new husbands for dear life, we all knew that all is good with the world.

There is nothing like a family simcha to make you appreciate what a terrific family you have.

The Chalice in the Palace

2006-10-24T16:49:00.000+01:00

And so, the beautiful Princess ‘mit allah malles’, Celery (well, she is tall) married her darling Prince Rubarb ‘the top-top-top-learner’ and they live happily ever after.

But in my haste, I am running myself over (ouch).

So, to continue from my last post, we finally left the Vienna airport to go to our hotel. The taxi driver, although looking quite austere and not speaking one word of English had a thing for cheesy good old fashioned American music. Now I like John Denver as much as my next Loubitan clad sister, but even I think that hearing ‘Country Road’ four times in a row is just a bit excessive.

As in most European hotels, they write English like they speak German.
It is a real hoot.
On the elevators they had a sign proclaiming
‘Do Not Use In Case of Fire’.
Had I been a few diet cokes short of a six pack, I would have felt compelled to use the stairs.

Ya. It is so.
(Never mind what my teachers said, I am proficient in foreign languages.)

The chuppah was in a palace that was drop dead stunning and had seen many centuries and many of its inhabitants drop dead as well. Both the building and the garden looked like they were plucked straight out of Versailles, except for one thing: The artwork.

Apparently when one makes a simcha, the sight of pre-Raphaelite females in their birthday suits is a big no-no.
So, get this, they strategically covered all the offending artistry.
The statues were draped in cloth while the paintings had paper fans tastefully stuck to their naughty bits.
I just assume that what London does for slits, Vienna does for art.
Oh, to be Jewish and modest!

BUT once my niece walked in, all thoughts of art were promptly forgotten. Celery looked ethereal in a dress of off white lace and chiffon. She looked more Grace Kelly than Grace herself. There was nary a dry eye in the palace when Rhubarb arrived for the Badeken, except for one thing:
The Badeken cloth was so thick that she could easily have been a Challah instead of a Kallah.
And takeh, when they gave the Brochos under the chuppah they said, “Mesameach Chusson im HACHALLOH”
You see, even they couldn’t tell the difference!

Then the Chuppah started to billow and sway and I thought the weather had turned, but it hadn’t, it was just the Chusson shuckling at forty miles per hour and davening with his eyes closed. I mean, this guy, my new nephew Rhubarb, was so engrossed in his discourse with our Creator (Probably thanking Him for such a fabulous bride) I almost felt like an intruder on such a private conversation.
Anyway, he created a nice breeze.

(Coming up next: The wedding dinner)

Vienna Waits For Me

2006-10-20T11:17:00.000+01:00

As I write this, I’m shining my storm trooper boots, practising my goosestep and trying to assemble my features into the most Aryan-like countenance.

Where am I going, you might ask?
Well, if the title wasn’t enough for you, I’m off with my spousal unit, my parental units and my bunch of dependents, to Vienna, Austria, birthplace of the Evil Moustached One. Don’t be too impressed, it’s only a hop, skip and a jump away from London. A flight from NY to Miami is about an hour longer. So you could say Vienna is practically in my back yard.
Sure, you could say that.

I’ve actually been there before because said spousal unit’s sister lives there with her Hubby and Kiddies. Why she lives in a place where a yarmulke is like a 6 inch bull’s-eye is beyond me; but she’s happy. Anyhoo, her first born child, the first ever grandchild, the veritable princess of our family is getting married. YAY!!!

Right now, our flight to Vienna has been delayed for forty five minutes and my father has gone and done the unthinkable. He has taken off his ‘I-am-a-Jew-trying-not-to-look-like-a-Jew’ hat and is sitting behind me with his Yarmulke du jour; a huge soup bowl number in assorted shades of crimson (which I am slowly turning).
I am pretending I don’t know him.
All the rest of the passengers are looking at him as if they can’t believe there are any of his kind left.

Oh, darn, Dad has blown my cover. Arghhh!

The truth is my cover was blown already because of the quantity of sandwiches and nosh that have been whipped out two seconds after we boarded.
Before we even reached our seats.

My mother, who is sitting next to Kasamba Papa is hissing at me because she knows that I am writing this instead of writing the prerequisite gramen necessary for a functional Sheva Brochos.
Boy, she can be scary sometimes.

Meanwhile, my offspring are the ultimate in British refinement and deportment as they cruch their Bamba and shout out with their mouths full to their cousins who are also on board this flight 740 to Vienna, Austria.
Ahhh. Such nachas.

Finally we take off, just to be greeted a few minutes later by a bit of turbulence which sees mini cans of soda flying about with assorted foodstuffs. The pilot has just announced that we can’t fly under the turbulence because the clear air-paths underneath us are occupied.
Antisemites.

Okay, now the ping has announced the removal of the ‘fasten your seatbelts’ sign; there is a mass exodus towards the toilets situated in the rear of the aircraft.
Oh my, I hope the plane doesn’t tilt.

It didn’t and we arrived safely.
Upon arrival In Austria, we were welcomed by an immigration officer, who if she wasn’t named Helga by her parents should immediately dash to change her name by deed pole, tout sweet. She really looked like a Helga; built like a piece of furniture with an expression to match.
I don’t even want to think what she does in her spare time.

Now as opposed to the British who enjoy queuing (lining up in a line or a line like lining up), the Austrians take their queuing very seriously. So much so, that even a line to go to the ladies room is as quiet as library. Where, if you so much talk to your sister in law, who is also on line; everyone looks at you as if you just announced that the Fuehrer wore women’s undergarments.

And no one smiles.
Maybe it’s because of defective dental work- but maybe not.
Maybe it’s because their teeth are fluorescent yellow from smoking like chimneys- but maybe not.
Maybe it’s because there may not be anything to smile about in Austria- I think we might be onto a winner here.

But then again I might just be jumping the gun because we haven’t
left the airport yet.

(Okay, Mom, I’m writing the gramen now.)

The Kiddie Never Sleeps

2006-10-16T10:25:00.000+01:00

Somehow, none of my kids were ever big into taking naps.

It’s not surprising considering that before I became ancient, I too could never sleep in the daytime. I vividly recall, (eeringly as if it was yesterday) naptime in my kindergarten days and how all my peers would doze off into la-la land while I would toss and turn this way and that and count the pitted holes in the ceiling tiles.
It was pure torture.
Because of all my twitching I was never zoyche to be the ‘wake up fairy’ and wake all the children up with the special wand designated for such a purpose.

The problem with not taking a nap in the middle of the day means that most likely, the child in question will not be able to stay awake into the evening.
Umm, not necessarily.

My youngest child, my 4 year old, Cucumber, follows the pattern of the children who preceded her. A perfect example stands out of her MO this Simchas Torah. My parents and my favourite Uncle came to spend the second days of Sukkos with us in sunny London.

My mother begged me not to take Cucumber to Motzai Shabbos Hakafos, saying that Cucumber was so exhausted that she couldn’t see properly. She takeh looked as sleep deprived as a junior doctor and in as good of a mood. Ah, but I knew my child and shlepped her with me anyway.

As soon as the time rolled around for her normal bedtime, she flourished. Her pallid cheeks suddenly sprouted rosy colour. The dark circles under her eyes rapidly gave way to sparkling eyes. Her metamorphosis was nothing short of miraculous!

Yes, she had reached her ‘second wind’. She was in her element, gathering all shapes and sizes of sweets while running up and down the stairs and giggling with her little friends. But the time had come when I had to go home to make sure everything was ready for that evenings meal, so I asked Cucumber if she wanted to go home with me, she looked at me with her eyes slightly dilated from her sugar high and said, “I’ll go home with Daddy, hello!”

(Oh, by the way, Cucumber ends all of her sentences with ‘hello!’ as if you’re supposed to know what she says, before she says it. That way whenever she speaks she’s just stating the obvious:
“Mum, I need a spoon, hello!”
“That dress itches me, hello!”
“I already ate breakfast, hello!”)

So she came home with her Daddy; bouncing in, still raring to go, at 11:00 at night.

Every evening when the time comes for her to go to sleep, she becomes cuter than any child could hope to be. She brings every song and every dance in her repertoire out for my viewing pleasure. She insists on being read a book and then proceeds to weigh the books in her hands to see which one is the heaviest. (Knowing this, I only buy books with about three words per page.)
She then needs; a drink, the bathroom, to tell something to one of her siblings, to do her homework (wha?) anything, but go to sleep.

Then the worst part is, she goes into a deep-rhythm breathing state where you think she is fast asleep. So you move to leave her bedside, and she sits up as suddenly as the villain in an old horror flick that you think has been killed. And my reaction is quite similar, because I always jump from shock.

I do the whole, ‘winding down’ thing, only soft lighting, no voices above a whisper, relaxing bath time etc… but it never works. She seems to be as wound up as a politician awaiting the limelight. I think she thinks she’s missing out on something if she sleeps. That’s the only explanation I can think of because it also accounts for the fact that she wakes up at the crack of dawn, regardless of what time she goes to sleep.

Who knows, I might even change her name to ‘Caffeine’.

But then, when I look at her long eyelashes at long last resting on her cherubic cheeks and her gorgeous little form finally in the deepest of sleep, I think,
‘Now what was all that fuss about, hello?’

The Sukkos Stakes

2006-10-12T00:20:00.000+01:00

I do not think of myself as a competitive person.
But there is something about this holiday that brings out a fierce competitiveness that apparently lays dormant in my nature for 52 weeks a year. Suddenly, Sukkos will role around and I become as cut-throat and bloodthirsty as Genghis Kahn in order to win the Sukkos Stakes.

Now let me make this clear, the Sukkos Stakes are different for men than they are for women. For men they are as simple as having the nicest esrog or remembering the most Ushpizim by heart.

For me, it’s not so simple.
On Sukkos, somehow I seem to need validation that I am the BEST.

Here in London the little kiddies go Sukkah hopping to each and every Sukkah accompanied by an adult. They will then look around the Sukkah and give the Sukkah a rating of one out of ten. Ten being the highest and most bestest score one could ever get.

Oh, the plight of these poor, innocent, gullible youngsters!

Do they not realise that I place the sweetest, most colourful and additive loaded nosh in the Sukkah in order to manipulate their sugar addled brains into giving my Sukkah a ten out of ten????

Do I have no shame when I foist ziplocked bags full of tooth putrefying junk food into their greedy, sticky little hands knowing full well that their eeny weeny teeth are decomposing as they are walking home????
Apparently not.

Every year I stoop to a new low as I get my ten out of ten rating.
Because nothing less will do.

Now here’s the second category of the Sukkos Stakes and this is the one with the fiercest competition. This is called the ‘Who Had the Best and Most Interesting Chol Hamoed Trip’.I don’t always win this one and some years, I have to admit, I don’t even make it to the finals!
But, I try.
They know up Above that I try.

Throughout all the years of shlepping to Legoland, Thorpe Park, Windsor Safari Park, London Zoo, boating on the Thames, indoor skiing, and open air ice skating, there remains the one outing that I just adored. It was different, it was unique and it bordered on the bizarre. It was my all time favourite jaunt which allowed me to waltz away with the title of:
‘Sukkah Queen 2003’.

It was an unseasonably sunny day for Chol Hamoed when I packed up my kids, assorted nieces and nephews and one sister-in-law into my tank and set off into the heart of London. We headed to Tower Bridge, where the famous magician David Blaine was being suspended in a glass box overlooking the River Thames. By this time he was already as starved as an attention crazed debutante because he sort of didn’t take any food with him into his temporary glass home.
(Hey, temporary home- Sukkos- co-inky-dink ya think? Naa)

Anyhoo, we arrived and I immediately saw David, clear as day, raise his famished hand and wave to ME. He picked me, Kasamba, out from the crowd and he waved at ME.
I was so overcome by my emotion and his good sense that I screamed at the top of my lungs, “I LOVE YOU DAVID!” to which he feebly waved at me again.

It was only then I noticed the silence.
And when I whipped around I saw my kids groaning in embarrassment, my sister-in-law rolling her eyes and my nieces and nephews laughing their heads off.
I also noticed the throngs of Chassidim that were staring at me as if I had just taken a roasted pig on a spit out of my handbag.
They stared at me for a full five seconds (microwave seconds- loooong seconds) and then resumed giving their kids Bissli while watching the hungry man in the glass box.

Okay, so it wasn’t a completely original idea but seeing as most Chassidim don’t enter the Sukkos Stakes (because their Rebbe would probably frown upon it) –
I WON!!!!!
(Jumpstart Mexican wave and Aborigine victory dance)
Yeah, that felt good.

But unlike the Nicest Sukkah Competition where you get your mark right away, with Best Sukkos Trips you will never really know just how amazing your Sukkos outings were in this world. But lucky for us Jews, evidently after our 120 years are up, videos of our lives will be viewed by us and everyone who knows us in the afterlife (sans popcorn). It is only then that I’ll know if I indeed had the coolest Chol Hamoed excursions by how many ‘Oooohhhhs’ and ‘Ahhhhhhs’ I’ll hear.

In the meantime, I just do what I must.

Enjoy the rest of Sukkos!

Sukkos in Casa Kasamba

2006-10-08T22:24:00.000+01:00

As soon as I woke up to wind that whipped the hardy British evergreens into teetering bobble headed frenzies, I knew I not in Kansas anymore- Sukkos was coming.
Yeah!
Hoo Ya!

Sitting in huts in pseudo-tornado winds and torrential rain just to show how hardy and tough we are, Heaven Forbid we should have it unproblematic and pleasant and enjoy Sukkos out under the spring skies- oh no! We have to show that we do the Sukkah thing even when it’s not easy.
Tell me about it.

After all, wouldn’t it be just fabby-abulous to celebrate Sukkos at the same time as Pesach when it really happened, and then we could have all the matzoh mess out back in the Sukkah.
It would just be so much simpler.

When I was first married, we lived in a house with a built in Sukkah roof in the kitchen. It sounds like it should have been easy but it wasn’t because it was situated right by the oven, so that every time we needed to open the oven, everyone had to stand up and move the table. So, we started to build a proper outdoor Sukkah every year.

Now here is my issue:
Because the laws of England have been made by a bunch of inbred alcoholics, apparently people can move into any empty building and claim ‘squatters rights’. Therefore, every Sukkos morning I require one of my kids to open the Sukkah door for fear of finding a family of Armenians claiming ‘squatters rights’ in my Sukkah.

Every year I used to decorate my Sukkah with different themes. Not one of those themes ever included any one of Mrs. Santa’s dangly earrings, as I like to call the brightly coloured tinsel decorations. Anyhoo, as our family got bigger and our guest list expanded accordingly, we built a Sukkah that could accommodate a maximum of eighteen people.

The theme I chose for this Sukkah was the Far East.
I did this because Chazal tell us that after Avraham Avinu gave everything he had to Yitzchak, he again bestowed gifts on the children of Kesura. If Avraham gave everything he had to Yitzchak, how could he still have something to give to Kesuras offspring? The answer is of course, that knowledge is the only thing you can keep giving away. So the children of Kesura took this wisdom of Avraham’s and set out to the Far East.
And so, my Sukkah commemorates this.

Nah, not really- but it did sound good didn’t it?

Remember how I told you how Mr Kasamba travels to the Far East ALL THE TIME???
Well, I made all the decorations far Eastern because I just want him to feel comfortable in his Sukkah!
And you know what??? I never have to change the theme because the joke never gets old! (snort!)

So what that I have décor that might say,
‘Buddah loves me’?
It just compliments all seven hundred ‘Mizrach’ signs that my kids have brought home from school all these years!
Well, east is east!

Remember; Confucius says
‘He who sleeps in open Sukkah in London, sure to get wet’

Yesterday

2006-10-03T09:55:00.000+01:00

Erev Yom Kippur, doing Kapparos with ever civilised money, I was shlepped down memory lane….
Shlep,
Shlep,
Down,
Down
Down
(Cue smoke machines for flashback)

There I was, all of sixteen years of age.
Naïve, fabulous, but most of all… vain.
I would wake up at the crack of dawn to blow dry my naturally curly very long hair into the perfect coif that would make Dynasty cast members cry with envy. It didn’t take much, just a hair dryer and a half a can of gravity defying hairspray (well, it was the eighties!).

So, there I was, my hairspray standing at attention at my side and my hairdryer poised in my left hand to begin my daily ritual. All was at it should it be until… I turned the hairdryer on. Suddenly, it started to make noises as if it was being strangulated and then it started to sputter and cough. The last thing I saw as it burst into flames were feathers, (I kid you not) singed feathers, spewing forth from my now toasted hairdryer. Then I knew, I knew who the culprit was as surely as my shoulder pads were six inches high.
I screamed, “MAAAAAAAA” and my mother came a running, a guilty look on her face.

You see, my Hungarian mother had acclimated herself to the American way of life, except there were some things she missed from the old country, especially when it came to the ritual of doing Kaparos. My mother, felt that it wasn’t the ‘real deal’ and therefore skipped over to New Square every year to buy herself a live chicken just clucking to give away its life for my mothers sins.

According to Mom, that year they gave her a particularly dirty chicken that my mother felt was just too dirty to shlug Kaparos with. So, and get this, she put the funky chicken in the sink and washed it using my favourite shampoo and then she used my hairdryer to blow dry it.

She tried to explain that the chicken looked amazing and all fluffy and she didn’t realise that the feathers had got stuck in my hairdryer but I was too busy moaning, ”Nooooooooooooooooooo”. So that morning I went off to school looking more vague than Vogue, but my mother shlugged Kaparos with a gorgeous looking chicken.

So every year, my mother goes into Yom Kippur having swung a chicken over her head like a voodoo high priestess.

And the men in my shul, in their Kittels and canvas sneakers with their collective halitosis that could fell a forest, were like angels yesterday and all was as it should be.

The Impossible Bream

2006-09-29T09:32:00.000+01:00

Does anyone besides me think it’s bizarre that for every minyan in any metropolitan Jewish community there is at least one sushi restaurant? Even here in London, with all the new places opening up; we have sushi coming out of our ears.
Don’t get me wrong- I love sushi as much as the next Yankel or Shprintze, but somehow I can’t picture Yoko or Ichiro partaking from a jellified piece of gefilte fish.
Jackie Mason once joked that sushi was created by a Jew who wanted to open a restaurant without having to cook anything in the kitchen.

I remember vividly when sushi came into fashion and it was served at the first Heimishe simcha. It was considered so avant-guard. I recall coming home, having tried my first piece of raw salmon just to have my sons hide their goldfish from me.

You might ask why am I talking about fish, now, today???
Because it is at this time of year that we’re busy with fish:
*We use it’s head as a Siman on Rosh Hashana so the kids can have creepy dreams.
*We go to river and chuck bread to try to choke the little critters right in midstream.
*We stuff ourselves with it on Erev Yom Kippur so we won’t ever want to eat again.
*We read about Yona, who was swallowed by Big Mouth Billy Bass and then by Nemo.
*And we’re supposed to break our fasts on bony ones so we don’t inhale all the food at once, like Lucianno Pavarotti.

I read an article by Rabbi Yaakov Sinclair, who says that we’re so enamoured with fish on these Yomim Noraim because of what the fish symbolise.
Fish start off in water and die in water; they never diverge from their source. In the same way at this time of year, especially Yom Kippur we try to be as one with our source. By eating fish we express our instinctive desire to return to Hashem, our ultimate source.

And my Chiddush is this; the same way that fish have short term memories is the same way we should deal with other people. When it comes to grudges, we should have a short term memory as well.

I don’t mean to carp, but maybe this way, we can tip the scales and be let off the hook! Well, they don’t call it Yom Kipper for nothing.

G’mar Chasima tova to all of you and have an easy fast!!
(And remember, I’m from Monsey and our fish speaks for itself.)

.

Tequila in Tishrei

2006-09-25T21:19:00.000+01:00

I bet you we had the most fun at our shul this Rosh Hashana.
Because, according to my four year old, we had
‘Tequila Gedola’.
(Then again, she makes me sing her, ‘HaMohel Hagoel’ every night.)

It’s amazing how I’ve adapted to this tiny British shtiebel.
The shul I grew up in was nusach Ashkenaz and the women’s section had a clear birds eye view of the men’s section. In my adopted shul, the nusach is Sefard and the men’s section is completely cosseted from view.
The first time I davened there as a newlywed, I recall almost having a coronary when they blew shofar in the middle of Shmonei Esrei.

Now, after eighteen years I’m well prepared and I even know all the chassideshe nigunim they sing. It’s bizarre that after all these years there is always the same little boy’s voice that repeats everything the Kehillah says, always four seconds after everyone has finished. He has never aged and his voice never broke. But then again, how would I know? I’ve never actually seen the mens section in action.

And while we’re on that subject, I used to know when to stand up and sit down from watching the men. But in the shtiebel, that doesn’t work, so for years I would watch the Rebbetzin. She sat, I sat. She stood, I stood. She adjusted her skirt, I adjusted my skirt. It was like ‘simon says’ or ‘monkey see, monkey do’.

Nowadays, since I’ve been a shtiebel regular for years; I set the standard for the newcomers to the shul.
It’s always fun to add in some extra moves, just to keep them on their toes.

Every year on the High Holy Days someone faints.
Boruch Hashem, they are always fine but it always serves to fuel ‘The Great Air-Con Debate’.
Since the shul air conditioning was purchased, the old guard fight against the younger generation about whether or not to turn on the air-con or not. Each and every year.

Most visitors to the shul prepare themselves by wearing removable layers in case the more mature members insist on fresh air and open all the windows and have the air-con turned off. In these instances the ladies section has been known to simulate a sauna.

It is then that all the younger women end up with free facials, every pore pried open by the pseudo-Sahara heat. Last year, the oldies won and the air conditioning was turned off plus all the windows were shut. So when the annual fainting spell occurred, the stuffy conditions and lack of cool air were blamed.

As a result, this year we revelled in the comfortable conditions of modern air conditioning until once again, someone fainted. So the air-con was again made redundant as the seasonably warm air was welcomed into the shul by the window flinging older ladies.
It’s always a lose/lose situation.

Initially, in the first few years I davened Rosh Hashana in this shul, I used to hem and haw as the shofar was blown. Instead of the great bellow I was used to from the shofar in my old shul, in this one I was greeted by a veritable squeak. When I asked my husband who blew the shofar, he told me it was the Rav of the shtiebel. I couldn’t believe it, and pined for the good old days.

It was only over the years, as I came to appreciate the the Rav as the Tzaddik he is, did I come to understand that as old and frail as he is, he puts all his Koach into blowing that shofar.

And it’s only as I got older that I came to realise that a squeak from his shofar is worth a hundred bellows from a stronger man.

So, whether you had Tekiya or tequila, here’s hoping that all our Tefillos were answered!
G'mar Chasima Tova!

Don’t Judge This Post by This Title

2006-09-21T21:11:00.000+01:00

The American Indians have a saying, “Never judge a man until you walk a mile in his moccasins.” According to my friend Uri (who really does know everything) this is because Indians moccasins are made from very thin leather soles and provide almost no protection from the road. When moccasins wear out, you might as well be shoeless because you can feel every pebble and grit that’s on the ground. Therefore, unless you walk in another person’s moccasins and feel how worn they are, you won’t know what that person is feeling at that space in time.

Hillel said in Mishna Avos, “Don’t judge your neighbour until you’ve been in his place.” So, unless you can honestly say that you were in exactly the same situation and had the same frame of mind as that other person, can you judge him/her.
We’re supposed to give everyone the benefit of the doubt even when circumstances dictate otherwise.
We must try to be ‘Dan Lekaf Zcuss’.

AHA!!!!
Why am I writing this, you might ask?
I will tell you.

I am having a hard time at the moment with giving certain people the benefit of the doubt and I have one more day before Rosh Hashana to work it out so there you go.
Now I, Kasmaba, will try to walk a mile in someone else’s moccasins, loafers, high heels, platforms, flip-flops, crocs or whatever.
(Drum roll please….)
Hey, wait a second, I seem to be the only one wearing my sparkly, sequin encrusted, spandex tightrope bodysuit ensemble!!! I’m not doing this on my own, you know!
You better go and get yours -tout suite- because we’re going out on a wire here!!!!
Go on!!!
Sheesh, how long does it take you to get dressed?
Okay, that’s better, you look great, now we can get started.
(Drum roll again, please….)
The aim of the following exercise is to help you and me to open up to an entirely new way of looking at people. We will try to change our perspective. We will train ourselves to look at the flip side of every person’s situation and not to take everything at face value.
.
Here’s the key- think “What’s their Story?
Every time we will think of someone who is annoying, hurtful or just plain wicked, we will think “What’s their story?”

We’re going to have to be very creative. It’s going to take a very heartbreaking story in order for our feelings of anger and annoyance to turn to pity. Keeping that sad scenario in the front of our thoughts every time that person begins to drive us up the wall, will hopefully help us to excuse them and not judge them.

Example #1:
A relative of your next door neighbour always parks in front of your drive, causing you to have to manoeuvre for seven point three seconds to get out of your own driveway.

Sad story:
This man has been abandoned by his parents and was raised by wolves. The poor blighter never received human love until he was rescued at age nine, whence it was already too late to teach him manners.

Example 2:
Every time you see this person they always manage to smile and say something to you in front of others, which is highly insulting and embarrassing. If you dare to take offence and complain to them, they then claim that you are too sensitive.

Sad story:
When this person was but a mere child, he had a huge mole on the end of his nose. His peers (and his Mum and Dad) teased him and tormented him mercilessly, calling him, “Holey Moley”. When he was in fifth grade his mole sprouted hair. Once, when he fell asleep in Biology he awoke to find the entire class (and the teacher) crowded around him laughing because someone had braided his mole hair and stuck a bead on the end. He had the mole removed at 17, but he’s been bitter ever since.

Example 3:
Nosy friend wants to know what you’ve been up to, who’ve you’ve been with and what you bought. Whenever she calls you, you feel as if you are being interrogated (and your eyes hurt you from the bright lights she shines on them to see if you are telling the truth). She wants to know everything so much that you end up hiding things from her, which in turn makes her hungrier to know what you’re hiding.

Sad story:
She grew up in house where everyone kept secrets from her. Even her siblings spoke ‘Ubby Dubby’ language that she could not possibly understand. She only found out her own name when she was five. Her parents told her she was getting married but they didn’t tell her to whom. Since no one told her anything, she made it her life’s work to find out everything about everyone else.
Poor dear.

Example #4:
He never stops talking about how much money he has, the car he drives or the vacations he goes on. And he does. Go on and on and on.

Sad story:
He was forced to live under the stairs in his Aunt and Uncles house. Two wizards came to save him and shlepped him to wizarding school. Then his father figure went behind a curtain and died and then his headmaster was killed by his teacher.

Heartbreaking, isn’t it???
Well done my kasambuddies!
I think you got the gist so you can change out of your sparkly bodysuits now!
A lot of people walk around with so much residual childhood pain, that it affects their characters and their interpersonal relationships. The same way I don’t want the Almighty to judge me harshly is the same way I have to work on myself STAT to accept people warts, moles et all and hopefully I won’t judge or G-d forbid condemn them.

I wish you all a K’asiva Vechasima Tova and a Gut Genbenshed Yur.
May this New Year bring us only Nachas, happiness, good health and peace!!!

Kasamba’s Papa and Moshiach’s Yarmulke

2006-09-17T00:13:00.000+01:00

My Dad is an equal opportunity Jew lover.
To him a Jew is a Jew in the same way as Shakespeare’s rose is still a rose by any other name. No matter what you wear on your head, or if you wear nothing on your head; if you are Jewish, he loves you.

My Dad will wear whatever yarmulke he finds in his drawer.
Soup bowl velvet, or penny crotched, it’s all the same to him.
On the odd occasion he has been known to wear a satin yarmulke with a gold inscription proclaiming it to be from ‘Lisa and Stanley’s wedding’.
Like I said, it’s all the same to him.

My Dad also likes to wear hats.
Being that my Dad is, shall we say, ‘folliclely challenged’ (okay, he’s bald) he likes hats because they keep his head warm in the winter, and on those sunny days, hats keep his forehead from turning lobster red. (My Dad gets a lot of mileage from baldness: ie. he says G-d made only so many perfect heads and the rest he covered with hair.)

Anyhoo, one day, my mother sent my father to the hat store to buy a new standard yeshivish black hat to wear to a very heimish wedding he was to attend. My Dad, being my Dad, comes back with a Hamberg. For those of you who do not know what a Hamberg is, suffice it to say that it is a black hat similar to the regular Borselino hats but taller…. and worn by certain Chassidim.
Well, my dad sets off to this Chasuna and he looks like the Real Deal.
(Oh, didn’t I mention that my father has a beard?
Yeah, he has a beard because:
1- It makes him look distinguished and
2- He wants to have hair on one side of his head.)

The entire night he wondered why everyone talked to him in Yiddish and called him ‘Reb this’ and ‘Reb that’. It was only after he got the most mechubadik mitzvah tanse that my Mom explained to him what kind of a hat he had bought.
The next morning my Dad returned the Hamberg and came home with a new hat…. a white straw one.

So, when I saw my friend’s father wearing an amazing Yalmulke, I knew that my dad would just love it. It was a like a pizza pie with each slice representing a different type of Yarmulke worn by different sects of Jews. One segment was velvet, the other was crotched, another one was suede etc...

I was so impressed with what that Yarmulke represented that I told my friend about my Dad and how he would appreciate the message more than anyone. The next thing I know, my friend called me round her house and told me that her father had only three of those Yarmulkes made but he wanted to send one to my Dad. She then presented me one of them and I in turn sent it on to my father in the US.

My Dad was overawed and immediately wrote to my friend’s father to thank him for this most special gift.
To my Dad it has always been about what is inside your soul that’s important and not what’s on your head.
Achdus is what it’s all about.

And that’s why when Moshiach will come tomorrow, you’ll see he is wearing my Dad’s Yarmulke.

PAPA KASAMBA

2006-09-13T08:17:00.000+01:00

My Dad.
My Dad is a born and bred New Yorker. He was a captain in the US army and is a Korean War veteran. The two things the army gave him are health benefits and the voice of Drill Sargeant. My Dad has the best stories about what it was like to be a frum Jew in the secular army. After he was honourably discharged, he married my Mom and before retired, he worked as an engineer and architect.

Everything in my Dads world requires plans.
Even the plans need plans.
If you want to get from point A to point B, you’re gonna need a map, a plan for how to get there. If you want to build something or fix something you’re gonna need a plan for that as well.
This means in my parent’s home not much ever gets done.

I would say my Dad’s hobbies are woodworking, painting, photography, talking about me and hoarding.
My Dad believes that his home is his castle and all he owns are his subjects.
I guess he figures that he’d be less a king with less of an empire if he would throw anything away- so he just doesn’t. He also thinks that anything that’s sitting around could be used for alternate purposes. (Ie. A broken toaster can be used to cut Lucite) My mother, being his Ezer Kenegdo, tries to throw most of his stuff away when he’s not home, only to find him later, rummaging around in the garbage for his precious goods.

My Dad loves Costco.
Costco was made for him. Not only does he buy everything in bulk, each item he purchases looks like it was created for the Land of the Giants.
Yes, it is cheaper to buy ten lb cans of tuna, but once you open a can you have to finish the entire ten pounds in three days to avoid salmonella. Not that my Dad believes in all that at all. He thinks that if food turns green, you can just scrape it off and eat what’s left.
Waste not, want not.

My father is also the creator of the innovative ‘Papa Kasamba Anti Theft Program’ which is a scheme involving theft deterrent. His patented method involves leaving a vehicle, in his case a car, in the driveway, thereby screaming out to the would-be-burglar, ‘caution, do not enter; this house is occupied’! The sheer genius of this method means that he can leave all the windows and doors of his home open 24/7 without fear. And the best part about it is that the vehicle in question does not even need to work!
It just needs to BE THERE.

Lately, because my father feels the world has become a more dangerous place to live he has added a new component to his antitheft scheme. This involves closing all the lights in front of the house plunging it into a satanic darkness and rendering the steps out in front a veritable obstacle course. The icing on the top of this cake is the garden hose that is placed like a snake strategically on the aforementioned darkened front steps. Any intruder that dares to enter my Dads home has great odds of tripping and breaking his neck, cuz if the stairs don’t get him, the hose surely will.
Unfortunately this also includes family and friends who decide to visit Chez Kasamba Papa after nightfall.

My Dad has always been inordinately and disproportionately delighted with me and everything I do. He has always encouraged me and made me believe that I was capable of anything. Whenever I would do a project for school he would notice whatever I did well and that compliment would stay with me always. I always loved my reflection as seen through my father’s eyes and have always strived to be as wonderful as my father thinks I am.

As a child I always imagined that my father was some sort of superhero and was secretly working for the CIA or the FBI on top secret projects. In my mind he has always been supremely capable and wise above all others.
Now that I’m much older I realise that he couldn’t have worked as hard as he did, spend so much time with me and have had time to save the world afterwards.
Besides, if my Dad would have set his mind to saving the world, the plans would surely have been ready by now.

TRAVELLING with the Yanks

2006-09-10T00:21:00.000+01:00

When it comes to air travel, the only thing I share with my fellow Americans is my passport.
I do not share their attitude and I certainly do not share their dress sense.

But before any of you get all bent out of shape, I not referring to YOU, my brothers and sisters of the chosen tribe, I am referring instead to the run of the mill, shop at sears, Budweiser guzzling, toolbox in the trunk, WASP American.
And that’s just the women.

Anyhoo, let’s start with the menfolk.
The average American guy who travels during the summer months looks completely out of proportion. He wears baggy shorts until his knees and his belt is secured around his hips just to accommodate his protruding gut, so he ends up looking like, ‘Torso Man’.
If aliens (interplanetary, not Mexicans- they’re here already) would land on our planet and take a gander at these guys, they would assume it was their physiology. But then, they’d look at the women and be confounded completely.

The average American woman travelling in the summer months, also wears shorts however hers are cinched in at the waist, begging the question ‘is she pregnant?’
9 times out of 10, when the woman in question is either 8 or 80 the question itself becomes moot.

What does matter, though, is that these people look strange in their shorts with their white socks (or worse- no socks) and they are just screaming for someone to photograph them for the ‘what not to wear’ section of a fashion rag.

You’re going to have to trust me on this guys, I really did a lot of research.

Then there is their attitude to air travel.
Once the average Joe or Jo-Ann gets their boarding pass with their seat number on it, the seat is officially THEIRS. They OWN that seat. When the flight ends, they would actually rip it out of the floor and shlep it with them if they could.

The reason why this is so bizarre is because in their everyday non-travelling lives , these people are NICE people!

They bake cakes for their church cake sales, they lobby congress to give equal rights to Schnauzers, and they sew wheelchairs slipcovers for the handicapped.
And that’s just the men.

But all that changes when they step on a plane.
It’s almost as if the cabin pressure goes straight to their heads.

Suddenly they become possessive. It is their seat and their overhead locker space and heaven forbid if you request them to shift or move.

*They don’t care if you are separated from your four year old.
*They don’t care if your kid needs to use the facilities every five minutes.
*They don’t care if you have had two replacement knee surgeries due to gangster related gunshot wounds which are turning sceptic and therefore need an aisle seat.
They ain’t movin’.

As far as their attitude to travelling with kids, it’s very simple:
The very same people who would ordinarily rip out their own kidneys with their bare hands and give it to you should you need it (Chas Vesholom) would sooner have your guts for garters if they hear one tiny ‘peep’ from your kids on an airplane.

Then there is the armrest issue.
Armrest is appropriately named because it is etymologically derived from the words; arm and wrest. This is because arm-wresting is what you end up doing whenever you travel economy or cargo class with the rest of the sardines in the back of the plane. If your seatmate is a guy with sweaty arms and arm hair like an afghan you will relinquish control of the armrest, albeit grudgingly. Unfortunately, that seems never to be enough for these guys and they slowly try to spread and spread with each breath (cue theme tune to Jaws; ta dum, ta dum, ta dum dum dum ) until they are halfway in your seat as well.

I have a tried and true method in dealing with this.
I look backwards at my experience as a Monsey Jew and think,” “Travelling, Monsey….. Monsey Bus!!!” That’s right- I recall my experiences on the infamous Monsey Bus and I erect a Mechitza!
I take the in-flight magazine and I put it upright by my armrest and push on it until the evil invading arm recedes with its thumb between its fingers.

If that doesn’t work, I resort to plan ‘B’: Sharp objects.

My dear, fabulous, lovely Americans- hear me loud and hear me clear:
You want your seat, that's fine.
You’re just not getting’ mine too.

The Empire Strikes Back

2006-09-05T11:59:00.000+01:00

My husband and I sat down one fine day
To tell our son we had something to say
We braced ourselves and as gently as we could
Explained his summer plans until he understood
We could see he got the gist when his eyes turned damp
“Oh, so you are abandoning me to sleep away camp?”
We thought we had clarified it well enough- when
He asked us, “Why can’t I go to day camp- again?”

And so the summer came quicker than we thought
It was time to see the fruits of the battle we fought
“I’m going to HATE it” he said as we dropped him off
“Oh, come on- give it a chance!” I answered with a scoff
And so I left my son in camp with a long backwards wave
My stomach dropped with the sorrowful look that he gave
Actually I really thought he’d be fine as soon as I left
I tried as hard as I could not to think of him bereft

But then the phone calls started the very next morn
With every word he said my soul felt absolutely torn
“I HATE IT HERE!” my son said in utmost haste
“What a stupid camp, so expensive- what a waste!”
To which I responded, “You didn’t even give it a whole day!”
“What’s the use”, he said, “tomorrow I’ll feel the same way!”
And so he did, everyday pleading to come back home
He had a long list of complaints on that he’d moan:

The food was so bad -my son said with a flourish
All junk food- so he was becoming malnourished
The portions of this bad food were so big and large
That he said he was now roughly the size of a barge
There’s no security so my son’s scared for his very life
Anyone can come into the bunkhouse with an axe or a knife
They do the laundry so bad that everything shrinks
And they don’t use detergent so everything stinks
The sports are so dangerous- balls flying everywhere
But his counsellor hates him, he doesn’t even care
The learning groups were boring my son to tears
What was one hour of learning to him felt like years
The worst was how they kept him up late every night
Now he has black under his eyes-it just wasn’t right!

Every single day when I would hang up the phone
I’d picture my poor baby abandoned and all alone
I felt horribly guilty and wretched like no other
And felt I must be the worlds worst mother
I sent him packages and everyday would hope
Would he finally enjoy being at camp? ...nope
Because the phone calls- they kept on coming
Reminding me of how my son was slumming
With all his talk about days left ‘til liberation day’
I felt like I had sent him to Guantanamo Bay
I walked around everyday feeling like dreck
I couldn’t even smile because I was such a wreck

Then camp visiting day had finally arrived
And we were to visit the son we had deprived
We arrived at visiting day- my Hubby and I
And then our beloved son I tried hard to spy
But as hard as we tried neither of us just could find
A fat tired kid with shrunken clothes or his kind
Instead I saw my boy- healthy, tan, well rested and lean
And his clothes looked like they fit and they were clean!
I tried to take this all in but it took me a while
When I recalled what he had told- to reconcile

But the most puzzling was what his counsellor said
And this is the bit that really messed up my head
He said, “I’m telling you Mrs. Kasamba, this is all true
He’s smiling and happy when he gets off the phone with you!
I don’t know exactly what your son told you last
But your son is having AN ABSOLUTE BLAST!”
And then I saw him laughing with his new friends- my son
The boy who made me feel like dirt- was HAVING FUN!!!

I could not believe I could have been THAT wrong
I may be blonde but I’m not dumb- at least not for long
In this crazy world there are just so many fools
I didn’t want to one of them so I changed the rules
Now that I had this new information- this new fact
I decided to try a different more challenging tact
So for the second part of camp when I answered his call
I only said, “Miss you, love you, no time to talk at all!”

Soon it was over- my son had stuck it out!
He said he wouldn’t return he had no doubt
But I didn’t start to beg nor did I start to plead
Instead I turned to him and wholeheartedly agreed
“No”, I said, “that camp you went to is no good”
And he looked at me in shock- as I knew he would
“Don’t worry!” I elucidated, “That camp is history!”
(By now he looked as thrilled as thrilled could be)
“I found all your complaints so utterly reprehensible
So I found you a camp that is much more sensible!

It’s called Camp Shrecklach and it offers so much
It exactly suited for you with just the right touch
Since your stomach is sensitive- junk food makes you sick
There they only serve whole grain foods – all organic!
And where your other camps security was so very dire
This camp is surrounded by armed guards and barbed wire
There about the laundry you don’t have to quiver
There you do your own laundry down by the river!
In this camp there are no dangerous sports- nothing taxing
Instead they have therapy groups which are far more relaxing!
Your counsellor won’t hate you- they’re trained in Pai-Wan
This is a form of brotherly bonding created in Taiwan
But the best part is the learning, it’s not boring in any way
In fact Uncle Moishe sings the lessons for four hours a day!
And since to go to sleep every night you can’t wait
Don’t worry- at Camp Shrecklach its lights out at eight!
For this perfect camp I had to search high and low
You’ll be so happy at this new camp- I just know!”

Well by now all the colour had drained from his face
“Actually” he said “my camp wasn’t such a bad place…”
He then told me the camps good points and explained
That he didn’t really mean it when he had complained!
“Are you sure?” I asked him “Because you were so sad”
He answered “No I promise Ma, it wasn’t even so bad!”

That whole sorry long saga happened only last year
This summer he shipped off to camp with nary a tear
So to all mothers and fathers out there I say ‘stay strong!’
Your kids will put you through hoops to prove you wrong
Always remember there is absolutely nothing to discuss
It has always been and will always be ‘them against us’

But just let me leave you readers with the final score
My son might have won the battle- but I won the war!

Summer of Katie

2006-09-02T23:40:00.000+01:00

Oh boy did I miss all you Maidlach and Menschen these past few weeks!
Thank you for all your comments and e-mails!

Well now that summer is but all but a distant memory with sunburns all healed and the kids camp laundry fumigated, as we speak my parents are recovering from our five week descent onto parental terra firma. My mother always says that I make her happy twice: once when I come and once when I go. She enjoys us but as she is also wont to say, “Chocolate cake is great eaten slice by slice, but you don’t want the whole darn thing rammed down your throat at once.” Thanks Mom.

It’s a shame really, because I really would like to have stayed for the party she threw when we left.

But if you ask me about my summer there is just one image in my head and it belongs to the cutest most magnificent baby on earth, my new niece Katie, my baby brother’s first baby.

There is something very special about having a new baby from my side of family, where I can recognise family traits and characteristics. (And I have heard it said that we have very strong DNA) When I saw her for the first time I just about fell in love! At six and a half pounds her perfectly round head had not a squash mark to be seen, suffice it to say that wholesome roundness didn’t come free: ahem, ouch.

And Baby Katie even has cheekies!!!!! She has my brother’s big blue eyes and my gorgeous sister in laws full pouty lips and when she’s wrapped in a receiving blanket she looks like the most adorable, delicious burrito in the world. Yum.

She is just so perfect Beli Ayin Hara that I just want to wrap her in red string and spit all over her.

I think the scene that gave me the biggest lump in my throat and clumps in my mascara was seeing my brother, who is six foot and built like a lumberjack (he pumps iron) cuddle his new dainty, petite. feminine daughter. He’s already changed her diapers and I think it’s a hoot that this tiny pink bundle has her strapping daddy wrapped around her itty bitty finger. (You go girl!)

I was so thrilled to have been there for this birth story.
My brother and his fabulous wife came for Shabbos to my parents house in Monsey where I was staying with three of my kids- two having gone to sleep away camp and hubby languishing in London (he joined us the next week). Anyhoo, we spent the entire Shabbos examining my sister in law’s bump. She carried like a movie star with who swallowed a beach ball where her washboard stomach had been. We stared and stared at her very high bump and were convinced that her doctor was correct in saying that she’d probably go another two to three weeks. My youngest kiddies, Tomato and Cucumber used this time to bond with their future cousin by shouting at the unborn baby to make sure it heard them. They found the whole baby incubating thing just fascinating.

They were even more fascinated to learn that my sister in law’s waters broke on Motzai Shabbos and that my brother had to drive her to the hospital STAT. Putting them in the car to the hospital was like the farewell scene from the Love Boat sans all the confetti. We all spent the entire Sunday on shplikes waiting for the good news which came in at seven in the evening. In the meantime, every time the phone rang both of my nachases told everyone (my uncle, the Shul Gabbai, the insurance salesman) about their aunt’s waters breaking and her trip to the hospital.

The new parents named her Chaya and they called her Katie Faye.
(I was quite partial to the name ‘Conseula’ but for some odd reason, no one asked me. Go figure.)

I looooove the name Katie.
Katie was the name of my best friend when I was a little girl. My friend Katie was a year older than I was and she always made me feel special because she would only talk to her family…. and me. So if Katie’s teacher would want to know something urgently they would pull me out of class so she could whisper in my ear and I could say what she wanted. I thought it was a great arrangement. I never thought it was weird, until much later.
I really liked Katie.

Now about the Faye part; did I ever mention that my brother and sister in law live in Dayton, Ohio? Wha? I know, I know. If my brother oversleeps, there’s no minyin. Now I’ve never had the good fortune of going to Dayton but my guess is they called her Katie Faye to stop people calling her ‘Katie-Jo’ or ‘Katie- Bob’.
But I could be wrong.

I am absolutely doo-laaly over my new niecy-pie and I couldn’t love her more than if I gave birth to her myself. (And I’m quite happy I didn’t have to!)
Hey! This must be what having grandkids feels like!!!!!
OOOHHH I can’t wait!
But I’ll just have to until my kids outgrow their teens.
Oh well.
But it doesn’t matter because I’m just obsessed with my new marvellous, magnificent, miracle of a niece; the one, the only- KATIE.

Summer Swan Song

2006-07-24T08:36:00.000+01:00

Tho’ it’s time to say goodbye for the summer,
Bloggers- I promise you this
I’ll send out a dove
Although pigeon might be better
Each time I eat a knish…

Yes, boys and girls, it’s that time of the year.
The time of the year when the sun is shining and the people in the British Isles are no longer allowed to use their hosepipes to water their parched gardens or cool down their overheated children, and so we find ourselves at casa Kasamba getting ready to do our annual pilgrimage to Momma and Papa in the good ole US of A.

Unfortunately, my parent’s internet access is dodgy and unreliable; therefore I am going to shut down my blog for the summer. I might visit every now and again, but I won’t be able to post until I come back. I will miss reading all your blogs too, but alas and alack, one must do what one must do.

In the meantime, I leave you with my swan song, my goodbye hymn to all my friends out there in Blogsville. After Tisha B’av (and I wish all of you an easy fast!) I want you to go to your keyboard and play a little bass nova and maybe a ka-samba and get the rhythm in your souls and then you may sing the Bad Date song.

Disclaimer: As with all things written by myself, it is a trifle wicked.

The Bad Date Song

And that’s why Borselino hats are the best. Don’t you agree?
Oh, of course- (I’m lying)
Yes it is quite fascinating
Absolutely- (I’m really lying)

How did it start? Oh, yeah I remember, the phone call…
I have a faaaaabulous shidduch for your daughter…
Mom, who is that-
Shhhh… what’s his name, is he tall?
Never mind tall, he gorgeous, he’s smart, he wears a hat
Ohhh, so it must be basherte…
Shh… be quiet! Uh, what were you saying? Give me his name and I’ll make my enquiries and I’ll call you back.
Mom…
Shh… ah, huh, ah, huh, ah, huh, thank you so much Shprintze, you just have a knack.
Mom.. I don’t know….
Ahhhh, Shaifele, remember this, always…..

Every time you go out, I bake a cake
Yes, every time you leave the house, with a boy who could be the one
A cake…. I make.
After all, if he’s the one, then a few more dates… and cakes and the vort is done!
But if he’s not the one, by any means
And you come home looking like you want to scream
Keep in mind my dear sweet child,

Each bad date is just another cake for the freezer
Each one means the vort is closer at hand
You see, each bad date means the freezers getting fuller
And we’re one step closer to choosing the band!

But when your basherte comes, make no mistake…
He’ll thaw out your heart, and I’ll thaw out the cakes!

(Oh, where was I? Uh, oh, he asked me a question…)
Well, what do you think?
Hmm, oh, I totally agree…
(He looks confused, what did I say?
I must have answered wrong or he wouldn’t look that way
Like a dead cow in a field, surrounded with flies
Who doesn’t know he’s dead or why, there are so many flies…)

But what about ironing socks? My mother always irons my socks. Even when I was in Yeshiva, I would send my mother my socks and she’d iron them for me. I like ironed socks. I think they just feel better on my feet.
Ummm… (His feet! Do I really want to think about his feet?)

I knew from the moment I saw him that this –would- not- go –well
From the second I stepped into my living room and saw him
I could tell
That it would not go well

There he was, this black hatted guy, just standing there,
Not knowing just how many hours I spent on my hair
Or how I how I’d fussed over what to wear
Not that he’d care, it just wasn’t fair

But it’s not that I’m only attracted to tall
It’s just that he was really very small
Which, unfortunately doesn’t do me at all
I kept looking behind him to see
If his other half would join him eventually…
But it never did

I believe that chulent is the key to Sholom Bayis…
Mmmm…. I never thought of that
(He’s smiling and he has something in his teeth
Ewww. It’s green. We’re not even eating out. This is a hotel lobby. The last time he must have had something to munch….
Must’ve been lunch. Ewww.)
How much longer will this last?
When can I put this in my past?
But just then my mothers words come to haunt me.
She said;

Each bad date is just another cake for the freezer
Each one means the vort is closer at hand
You see, each bad date means the freezers getting fuller
And we’re one step closer to choosing the band!

But when your bashert comes, make no mistake…
He’ll thaw out your heart, and I’ll thaw out the cakes!

Never mind that we have five freezers and counting
And that the electricity bills are mounting
And although for Mr Right I absolutely, positively yearn
By the time he arrives
All the cakes will have severe freezer burn

So, I’m sitting here in my nicest dress
With the lovely pin on my lapel
Talking about socks and chulent,
Though I could care less
Feeling quite… distressed

And so the time arrives- he takes me home
I’m home! I’m home! I’m home at last!
I thank him for what I don’t really know
One thing for sure- I won’t miss the little gnome
With his slightly crossed eyes and green bits in his teeth
But never mind he’s in the past
After all;

Each bad date is just another cake for the freezer
Each one means the vort is closer at hand
You see, each bad date means the freezers getting fuller
And we’re one step closer to choosing the band!

But when my bashert comes, make no mistake…
He’ll thaw out my heart, and Mom’ll thaw out the cakes!

Nebech, mom is waiting at the kitchen table
She looks at me with questioning eyes
Her hopes and dreams and all they imply
And I hold back as much as I’m able
As I stare at a beautifully high hazelnut torte
And tell her that just yet- there'll be no vort

La, la, la, la dee da, la, la la dee da, laaaaaaaa!

Have a GREAT summer!!!!

UTOPIA

2006-07-20T15:14:00.000+01:00

Baruch Hashem, each one my kids is a character in their own right.
And what character that is.
Only the other day, Mr Kasamba and I were discussing our children’s idea of utopia; the perfect world.

Let’s start with Cucumber, the youngest. Already at four years of age, Cucumber has recently decided that she doesn’t like the names that Mr Kasamba and I have chosen for her siblings. Surprising, huh? So, she renamed them. Even our great Rabbis don’t escape Cucumber’s renaming; as the Chofetz Chaim is now the Chofetz ‘Lion’. So her idea of a perfect world is where people could be named according to her whim and mood. That’s easy enough because she does it anyway.

Then there’s Tomato, our precocious seven year old who would like nothing more than to spend every day in pyjamas, playing game boy and playstation ; going to sleep if he wants, and then being allowed to sleep in as long as he wants.

Asparagus, our darling fifteen year old, would be quite happy if Harry Potter was required reading for … well, everyone. And JK Rowling would be appointed Supreme Ruler of England.

Artichoke at seventeen years old has simple requirements; all he wants is to own the White House Restaurant….. and keep it in his bedroom.

Well, that’s normal isn’t it? Now here’s where it starts getting interesting. Radish our thirteen year old, has always had a different perspective of the world. When he was five, he insisted that we buy a horse to keep in the garden shed, and when we nixed that idea, he asked for a cow that could live in the shed so we could have fresh milk every day.
But his selling point was this; after we tire of the cow, we could always shecht it and have a lovely meal.
Rigggght.

As he grows older, he comes up with schemes and ideas on a daily basis, which would make any entrepreneur, turn green with envy. Although one would need access to the Mir space station and other accoutrements from NASA and the pentagon to accommodate his proposals.

So, Radish’s idea of a perfect world would be one where there would be no constraints on the imagination. That merely thinking about something would be enough to bring into a tangible reality. Where if you wanted to, you could walk on the ceiling and you could learn how to drive just from playing Nintendo. Anything and everything is possible.

Well, in a way that is the truth. As Jews we are a tiny nation. We were enslaved by the most powerful empire on earth, were freed, literally walked through a sea, survived in a barren desert and were finally chosen to receive the treasure that is the Torah. We are still around thousands of years later after having survived the most torturous persecutions imaginable.

BUT WE ARE STILL HERE!
Nissim and Nifloas are possible.
Anything and everything is possible!

But we are not schooled to think that way. It is easier to teach students not to expect too much so they won’t be disappointed. I hope those constraints don’t harness my sons desire to soar and reach for the impossible. I hope that Radish will use the gifts that Hakodush Baruchu gave to him. With Torah as his guide he should use the imagination and creativity that he has and then his eyes can stay open to see that everything and anything is possible!

In these troubled times, I wish we all could do that; then we might be able to realise and recognize Melech Hamoshiach and then all of us will finally see our perfect world.

Lingo With Kasamba’s Ma (Part 2)

2006-07-18T08:38:00.000+01:00

I speak English. Plain English, as I learned it.
My mother on the other hand, does not.
No, she is far more creative, because she has taken the English language and she has made it …. Exclusively hers.

My mother is the original Mrs Malaprop and commits no end of malapropisms. That combined with a Hungarian accent is a lethal combination, I assure you!

I remember once I asked her where my boots were, she answered me, saying, "I don’t know where your bootses are.” I said, “Ma, you don’t say bootses, you say boots!” “Oh”, answered my mother, “I vas just trying to say it plurial.”

I used to cringe when I went shopping with her. She asked for animal paint when she wanted enamel paint. She’d shout, “Look there’s Clarence!” and when I’d say, “Who’s Clarence?” I would see she was pointing to the clearance section.

There was this one time she asked a salesman for terminal underwear. The clerk said, “wha?” so she repeated, “do you have terminal undervear”. So the guy says, “You mean the kind that blows up after a certain time? No. We don’t have it.” Finally, I clarified it for the poor slob who thought he was a comedian. “Excuse me” I said, “My mother meant thermal underwear.” Whereupon my mother said, “That’s vat I said, terminal undervear!”

She is also creative with names. I once had a dentist called Dr Capinegro, my mother called him Dr Cappuccino. When he corrected her he said, “Actually, my name is Dr Capinegro,” my mother said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m always sinking of food!”

When I left to go to seminary, she made me a welfare party.
She also told me to precipitate in class. I told her, it’d be difficult, but I’d try.

And the classic line when she brought in a bowl of grapes, “Vant grep?”

Instead of splenda in her coffee, she asks for placenta.

When I went to college, I majored in marketing; she told everyone I majored in shopping. She always said, “Marketing – shopping, same sing.”

A DVD is PVD, MPT, TVT, basically, any three letters except for DVD.

Marks and Spencer is Max Factor.
The exclusive London Restaurant Kaifeng is... K-mart.

Many years ago, my mother found herself in Lord and Taylor after having shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue, when she lost her Saks Fifth Avenue bag. She searched for it high and low asking people for help along the way. She couldn’t understand why people were looking at her like she was insane until her friend heard her asking people if they saw her ‘seks bag’.

She doesn't just create new words, she also sees words she wants to see:
My parents have quite a bit of stock in Pfizer, the pharmaceutical company. Every time one of their products is in the news, the stock goes up. Well, every time my parents see the word ‘viagra’ in the news, they celebrate, visualising their sky rocketing stocks. A few months ago, I was on the phone to my mother who was leafing through the Jewish Press. Suddenly she shouted excitedly into the phone, “I don’t believe it! Even the Jewish Press is writing about Viagra and in huge letters!” Then she stopped and said, “Oh, I made a mistake…it said Vayikra!”

There are so many more stories about my mother that there’s no way I could ever repeat half of them.
One thing I can tell you, her English is music to my ears!

KASAMBA’S MA (part one)

2006-07-14T08:24:00.000+01:00

Contrary to popular belief, I- being Kasamba, was not created in a Petri dish in a mad scientist’s lab.

No, I have PARENTS.

Real people who raised me and helped me become who I am.
Scary, huh?

This post, as you can gather, is about my mother.
My Mom.
My, “Maaaaa, where are my socks??”

My mother is one of the funniest women alive. Born in Hungary and raised in Israel, she combines old Europe with good cooking and lots of attitude!

She was a stunning girl, who was always mistaken for Natalie Wood, until she had children. Once she had her kiddies, my Dad sort of doubled his investment.
Yup, she gained weight.
Until then, according to my Mom, all she needed to get by was to smile and the world bent over backwards to accommodate her. Suddenly, with her movie star looks covered by a bit of padding, she needed…. a personality. And so, she developed the funniest, most charming personas known to mankind.
Which, of course, she passed over to me.

Every so often, she does lose weight, which makes her look and feel great, but somehow it keeps creeping up again. She says the only disease she would ever wish on herself is anorexia, but even then she says, it would take years to diagnose. About bulimia, she says that she got the first part down; it’s just the second she can’t quite manage.
Oh well, now there’s just more of her to love.

My Mom says what she thinks should be said. She is always the one pointing out the elephant in the room, while everyone else is pretending it is just a potted plant. But she does this in the most endearing way. She has legions of fans spread out throughout the world, and anyone she meets becomes a member of her fan club immediately. You could say she is constantly recruiting.

She gives Heterim. When I stopped putting makeup on, on Shabbos, the woman practically made Kriya. She said to me, “Hashem wants you to be beautiful on Shabbos, go and put some lipstick on; it’s okay, it’s on me!” Everything is ‘on her’.

She can fall asleep anywhere. Standing, sitting- you name it. She is afraid to sit tin the front row of a shiur because she will fall asleep right under the speakers nose.
Which she did to Rabbi Berel Wein.
Twice.

She lives for her kids, especially me. She helps me with my children, forever watching them if I go away with Hubby. I once asked her, “Ma, how can I repay you?” She said, “It’s simple, you do what I do for your kids!” Which of course, G-d willing, I will.

She can diffuse any situation with humour. She comes out with the best lines and can take a potentially traumatic event and turn into a joyous occasion with just a few well placed words.

She is the best cook who creates amazing concoctions but never uses measurements. If you ask her for a recipe, it’s always, “a handful of this and half a handful of that, until it looks ready.” Suuuuuuure. She thinks it’s her duty to feed the world, which is great for me because when she is around I don’t have to feed my family and she does it according to each members specification. Whichever kitchen she’s in becomes a world class restaurant where requests are taken and served promptly.

She is very honest, brutally honest with me and that has always made me strive towards perfection.
I know she’s proud of me and all my achievements,
but not half as proud as I am of her.

THE GREEN GREEN GRASS

2006-07-11T01:16:00.000+01:00

Another evil poem by Kasamba.

Self-righteous comments to evil poems will always be welcomed-
and promptly discarded.

And so I begin. (clear throat)

They say the grass is always greener on the other side
In this case I’d have to agree with all that implied
You see, my neighbor had an offspring -the perfect child
Strangely calm, preternaturally serene and never wild.
I watched my neighbor’s child with undisguised awe
And witnessed the most impeccable manners I ever saw
This was a creature I had never encountered before
More disturbing in real life than in legend and folklore.

His mother took all the credit she was insufferably haughty
She was so condescending because my boys were so naughty.

Something was wrong here, yes indeed very wrong
His behavior way too good, his credentials way too long
And so two of my boys paid this child a visit one afternoon,
After all, someone needed to burst his perfect round balloon
They said, “We know the way you act is the way you think is right,
But we’re afraid there may have been just one small oversight
Now we’d just like to say this nicely without making a fuss,
Your perfect behavior is making it harder on the rest of us!”

As his flawlessly clean stunned little jaw hit the floor
My boys jumped in for the kill and went and said more.
“But it’s not just us, think of what your poor parents must miss,
I don’t think they’ve ever been inside the headmaster’s office!
Think of their humiliation, their suffering, their ultimate shame,
When they can’t share war stories when other parents complain!

Hence, we took it upon ourselves to create a new life for you,
So, we’ve compiled a list of things that you should really do!

Now pay attention closely, there’s absolutely no time to waste,
There’s so much for you to learn so we’ll try to make haste.
We know you love karate and practice will make you the best
So practice on your sisters, you mustn’t keep talent suppressed!
And then, why go on time to school; try your best to be late,
But on the off chance that you’re early you must make sure to wait!
Life is not worth living unless you make your parents shout,
So if they tell you to tuck in your shirt, by all means leave it out!

Why clean up your things, if your mother will just get bored
Let her clean up after you, that’s what mothers are for!
It’s important to consistently give all your teachers a fright,
You must answer back, remember that you are always right!
Learn these lessons well and try to cause trouble and strife,
We know that you’ll want to thank us much later in life!

And so that perfect young child reacted as they knew he would
And shook each of their hands and said that he understood.

Everything’s changed since this child took his lesson to heart,
He proved to be the best student ever as he did his part.
As his hidden nature became unleashed like never before,
He whipped his world up into a frenzy; like a crazed matador.
Now his poor mother appears drained, haggard and weary
And she gives me looks that are more than a little leery.

She wants to know what happened to make him change
From one day to the next, isn’t it just a wee bit strange?

Now my boys have calmed down and one is going away
But she’s stuck with a kid that’s making her sheitel turn grey
But at least my neighbor’s child is now true to his inner self
With a mischievous gleam in his eye and dead frogs on his shelf
And one day when his mothers now daily shouting had begun
He whispered, “Aren’t I doing just great?” to my younger son
Who gave him a thumbs up and then thumbs up to me as well
As IF I could, as IF I would, scheme such a thing, but I’ll never tell…

And every now and then when I feel all guilty and very wrong,
I just think, “Hey- but she had it good for so darn long!”
Because ever since I sent my Nachas to speak to boy next door,
The grass ain’t quite so green on the other side any more.

SUPERSU; The Supersonic Midwife

2006-07-06T10:01:00.000+01:00

My friend Susie is a midwife. She is an incredible midwife, who has helped me to give birth to Cucumber. She is sort of a superhero in my mind, and this is dedicated to her.

Our story unfolds when we meet Susie, a slightly gawky youngster with dreams that extend way past her mere five years of life. When learning about the women enslaved in Mitzraim who gave birth to six children at a time, Suzie wants details…
As she slowly, slowly, slowly, matured, Susie found that her morbid curiosity had noble purpose. She can smell pregnancy, and when she does…stand back:
Susie is transformed into…

Look, up in the sky!

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

No, it’s

Supersu!

Faster than a C-section, more powerful than motorised forceps, able to catch babies in a single bound, Supersu is dedicated to the never-ending battle that is prenatal care.
She stands for truth, justice and the NHS way!

With her rousing cry of, “Stand and deliver!” Supersu’s superpowers include being able to monitor foetal heartbeats with her supersonic hearing, and her ability to calm a distressed mother to be with her hypnotic laser eyes. But her most valuable and famous superpower is, of course, Supersu’s voice.

And now we begin our story:
One fateful morning on her regular six minute one hundred and eighty mile drive to Hospital, Supersu’s supersonic nose picks up the scent of a pregnant woman in transitionary dilatory distress… two miles back.
Supersu reverses back and spies a heavily pregnant Albanian woman, screaming

“OW, OW” in Albanian.

Our heroine, (no, not that heroine!) tries to placate the immigrant woman with her hypnotic laser vision, and finds that the woman is impervious to her super vision power. Supersu proceeds to utilise her most valuable of all her superpowers, her voice.

She uses soothing words, telling her, “You’re okay” and
“So, you think you’re the first person to ever have a baby?”

With those comforting thoughts, Supersu whisks the Albanian woman into her Susiemobile. Supersu stamps on the accelerator of the Susiemobile, her car door trapping the ignored and unnoticed Albanian Father-to-be by the corner of his shirt. As she reaches a comfortable cruising speed of 130 miles per hour, she is only a streak of light, bypassing all the speed cameras on the way. As the Adrenaline slowly clears her supersonic ears, she hears the Albanian father- to-be shouting,

“Aclama, aclama” which Supersu interprets to mean, ”Faster, Faster”,

but which actually means, “My legs, my legs!”

Upon arrival at the Hospital, Supersu lifts the writhing woman and slams her down onto a waiting gurney. Supersu then instructs the senior Doctor and the other mere mortal midwives to wheel the Albanian pregnant woman into the labour ward and await further instructions, until she hears the cry,

“Supersu, Supersu, we need you!” Supersu turns around to see mere mortal midwife Showanda, a three hundred pound woman, shuffling towards Supersu. Supersu rushes into the labour ward where the Albaninan mother to be is hyperventilating into a paper bag.

“What do we do, Supersu?”, asks the consultant specialist Doctor above all Doctors. “ Well,” Supersu says, “First things first!” and she proceeds to press a hidden button on her midwife watch, which produces a concealed panel from behind the wall.

On it are an array of Supersu’s own pain-relieving devices

(only available through Supersu herself or on the Home Shopping Network at 08880 232-45556, that’s 08880 232-45556, Don’t delay, keep pain at bay, call today!).

Anyway, Supersu pulls out her favourite pain relieving device, a metal ball on a chain covered with spikes, called, ‘The Tickler’ and the Albanian woman eyes bulge with what Supersu takes as a sign of approval. Suddenly, Supersu’s supersonic hearing picks up the raised heartbeats of the unborn Albanian infant. She pushes away her panel of pain-relieving devices

(available through Supersu herself or the Home Shopping Network at 08880 232-45556, that’s 08880 232-45556 Call now! Calls are charged at Fifty two pounds every two minutes. You must be over childbearing age to call.)

and shouts “It’s time, the baby must come out NOW!!!” All the mortal midwives and the Top, top, top Doctor, stand back and let Supersu do her stuff.

Supersu goes over to the heaving woman and very gently and very calmly takes her hand in hers, looks her in the eyes and says in her smallest most delicate of all voices,

“PUSH!!!!!!”

Will Susperu manage to catch the baby?

Will Paul McCartney and Heather Mills ever get back together?

Will Mr Kasamba remove all internet access from Kasamba’s home?

Find out next time on Supersu- The supersonic midwife.

“If I Can’t Eat the Whole Cake, I Won’t Have a Slice”

2006-07-04T08:45:00.000+01:00

Shmiras Halashon is scary.

Scarier than Tammy Faye Bakers eyelashes in a dark alley. I
n addition to being scary, there is such a vast amount of Dinim to commit to, that in itself can paralyse anyone with good intentions.
There is so much to learn and do, that it just seems easier to be like Tony Blair and do nothing at all.
But that’s not the smart thing, actually it’s quite dumb.

I’ll give you an example why:

Donald Trump sees you on the street and recognises you as the wonderful person that you are. He says to you, “You look like such a nice person that I’m going to give you four hours in Bergdorf Goodman to get as many things as you want…for FREE.” So, you amble down to Bergdorf Goodman, and look at the vastness of the store. Then you turn to The Donald and say, “Thanks very much Donald, but the store is too big and there are too may floors and it means so much schlepping up and down, and there is no way that I can take everything in the store, so I think I’ll give it a miss.”
You wouldn’t do that, would you? No way!

What you would do, is organise yourself and figure out your priorities.
Then in a systematic manner, you would set about getting as many goods as you can, especially from Valentino and Oscar De La Renta. Okay, so it means schlepping, and you can’t completely empty the store. But you would try. G-d knows I would!
Let’s look at what you would have accomplished. You would have enough of a wardrobe to last you and your friends and family for the next five years.
(Or maybe two years- things go out of fashion, you know.)
Whoa.

The same thing holds true for the Dinim of Shmiras Halashon, or indeed the Torah itself. The labour is tedious, and there is no way you can accomplish everything, but by setting about it systematically you can accomplish a tremendous amount, and the reward is enormous.

By the way, never let it be said that I am in any way denigrating the benefit of retail therapy, especially at Donald Trump’s expense,
however the ‘high’ of shopping is unsustainable. (Test me, test me!)
At best, it requires feeding. (Feed me, feed me!)

Once you get used to what you bought, you have to go out and purchase something new.

It is always emptying and refilling.
Torah is not like that at all.
The ‘high’ that you get is forever.
It builds on itself and makes you that much higher.

Rather than being what you have, it becomes who you are.

Don’t Bother Me, I’m QUEING

2006-06-30T08:17:00.000+01:00

I love London.
London loves me.
However I have to say yet again, that I just do not get the mentality of the British people.
They are content to receive whatever the ‘powers that be’ dish out to them.
I like to think of it as ‘serf mentality’.

You see Kasamboys and Kasambettes, the peasants in the middle ages had to rely on the good will of the landholders. Whatever the landholder dished out, he would receive undying ‘thanks m’Lord’ from the poor serfs. Then the peasants would line up in an organized fashion in order to receive whatever bounty (like day old chicken scrapings) the landholder felt like bequeathing.

This phenomenon of lining up was called ‘queuing’ as in standing in a ‘queue’.

Not much has changed from the middle ages.
The common folk in Britain, direct descendants from the aforementioned serfs, still have this peasant mentality. They wait happily in line, content that they are continuing the time honoured tradition of their forbearers.

There is the issue of not disturbing the deep meditation that is queuing; which means that there could be an entire line of people that snakes its way out of the store, but heaven forbid if you ask someone to open up another register.
Your fellow queue-ers will be horrified.

The best example I could give would be the time when I went to Marks and Spencer to buy yet another baby in the USA the famously indestructible Marks and Sparks underwear. As I stood on the ever lengthening line, I noticed there were only two people working in an eight person cash register bay. Then I noticed that one of the cashiers wasn’t checking anyone out at all. All she was doing was hanging up bales of clothing returned by the last costumer.

I was getting really restless.
I looked around to ask a shop assistant to open another register, but to no avail. I started the old New York ‘hemming and hawing’, first under my breath and then louder to the tune of, “Bloody hell, if they go any slower they’ll be going backwards!”
Only to receive a multitude of disgusted looks as a reward.

Finally after fifteen minutes of this charade, I took out my mobile phone and called the store. Finally, after another five minutes of being transferred, I was put through to the Marks and Spencer Store Manager. When I told her what was going on and how many people were standing waiting, she was aghast. She apologized profusely, asked me for my name and proceeded to THANK me for reporting this because NO ONE EVER DOES.
And if no one complains, then how can they set the problem right?

Within the span of three minutes, the Store Manager replete with her medallions and managerial attitude, came marching through the throngs of people with another six shop assistants keeping pace behind her. I could almost swear I could hear the ‘union label’ music floating through the air. She quickly and efficiently placed each of the shop assistants at registers and yelled at the moron (who was still hanging up returned clothes) to get back to checking people out.

Then in a loud voice she said, “Is there a Mrs. Kasamba here?” to which I meekly (okay, maybe not so meekly) said, “Here!” She continuing in her booming voice she said to me, “On behalf of the entire Marks and Spencer company, I would like to apologize and thank you for bringing this delay to our attention. Therefore, we would like to offer you these gift certificates for the sum of ONE HUNDRED POUNDS!”

I graciously accepted the gift certificates with a short but sweet acceptance speech (well, it is the closest thing I’ll ever get to an Oscar) and after she stomped off to whip another one of her employees, I turned to my fellow queue-ers and noting how absolutely shocked they looked, I told them, “What is wrong with all of you? Why are you content to stand here for ages without complaining???? Next time you’d be better off opening your mouths.”

To which no one answered because it was my turn to pay.

Picasso’s Revenge

2006-06-28T10:50:00.000+01:00

Ola my Sweeties!
Did anyone miss me?
On second thought, don’t tell me. Presumptua (my ego) is feeling a little fragile today. Read on to discover why….

Hubby, the ‘Travelin’ Man’, surprised me this weekend by whisking me away to accompany him on one of his numerous business trips. On Sunday, we flew to sunny Barcelona, which was my first time in Spain.

But what of the kiddies you might ask?
Well, they know where the fridge is and they have enough comic books to keep them busy for several months, so they were fine.

-Hold on here, for those of you not yet used to the Kasamba sarcasm, I was joking. My mom was in town, so she watched my prodigious progeny. She said the kids were fine and she only got a few scars, nothing that will show. (Joking again!)

Anyhoo, we arrived on Sunday evening to THE most stunning hotel, whereupon Hubby declared, “Enjoy it while you can because I have a lot of plans for us”. I thought that it was such a shame because I wanted to lap up the luxury. So, if you learn anything at all from this tale; remember,
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.

On Monday evening after an action packed day of following Hubby from one appointment to the next; I got food poisoning. So until we left, I was stuck in the luxury suite, driving the ultra-modern porcelain bus. I have this thing about regurgitation, unlike the Casablanca models, I am a firm believer that once food goes in, it should stay in, until gravity does its job. My mantra is: It’s not supposed to came out the way it came in.

Because I was in Spain, I liked to think of my affliction as ‘Picassos Revenge’. Don’t get me wrong, I adore his paintings, but I imagine my illness is similar in nature to the reaction Picasso’s models had when they looked at the disjointed, painted reflections of themselves by the misogynistic master. Yes, Picasso is laughing away somewhere and I honestly felt that like every one of my body parts was attached peculiarly and precariously, much like his most famous expressions of art.

Tuesday, we were supposed to take tours to see the sites, including the gaudy works of Gaudi. But alas and alack, that was not to be….

But for the 24 hours I was out and about, I did make some observations about the Barcelonans. Here they are:

#1- Good looks are a prerequisite for employment.
Everywhere I went the staff looked like the cast of the Bold and the Beautiful.

#2- They talk funny.
They all sound like they went to ‘The Sylvester School of Speech Therapy’. Pronounced, ‘The Thylvethter Thcool of Thpeetsh Therapy.

#3- There are no Jews in Barthelona.
No kosher restaurants- nothing. No wonder one is forced to bring ones own food and possibly become ill…

#4- They aren’t anti-American or anti-Semitic, like the French are.
Whenever I go to Paris, the undercurrent of hatred is such that it does tend to float to the surface. “Excuse Madame, I weel get these for you in your seeze, ah I see you are une Amiricane and you are a Jeweesh. Would you just hold this unpinned grenade, sil vous plait?”
In Barcelona, there are tons of Yanks and no one minds. As far as Jews are concerned, the smoke from the inquisition has cleared up so long ago that they probably forgot what we look like.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear Picasso laughing again…

KIDSPEAK

2006-06-22T08:09:00.001+01:00

Recently, I stumbled across of few of my kids diaries. “Hey”, I thought to myself, “ they can write!”. Then, deciding that since my children are an extension of myself, and therefore there is no Inyon of invasion of privacy, I decided to see what they did write.

The first diary I happened to find was Asparagus’s. I chanced upon it under her mattress, covered in a shoe bag, wrapped in a pyjama top, and bound with ribbon which I had to cut in order to release it. I opened it to the date of March 7th, a Tuesday. It read as follows:

Dearest Diary,
Today in school, all my friends decided to make a birthday party for my very good friend, Strawberry. I was so excited that when I came home, I made Daddy buy me a whole load of nosh. Then do you know what Artichoke did? The chutzpah, he actually helped himself to some of it! So naturally, I screamed and screamed. So do you know what he did? The chutzpah, he poked me sooooo hard, I actually thought I was going to faint! I bet I have a black and blue mark, but I’m too scared to check!
Diary, who will marry me now?
Anyway it all ended up okay, because Artichoke got in really big trouble, so I feel much better.
On a different note, Mummy is still blogging away. I think it’s so wonderful!
Till tomorrow my dearest diary, goodbye!
Love,
Asparagus

The next diary I found was Artichoke’s, hidden under a drawer full of empty crisp packets. Once again, I opened it to Tuesday, March 7th to see his version of events. This is what he wrote:

Diary, Oh yeah, Hello.
Today I went to school. Big deal. Boooring. Blah, Blah Blah. Then I came home and found out that Asparagus has another birthday party. Another party!! She has parties every two seconds!
Those girls would make a birthday party every time a new animal is born in London Zoo.
Then she goes with Daddy and gets a truckload of nosh. So, I took one measly packet, and she goes all mental and ballistic! Then she starts screaming that I poked her. I didn’t even touch her! I always get in trouble for things I didn’t do!
But it’s okay, when Asparagus wasn’t looking , I went into her room and touched everything.

By the way, Mum’s so busy blogging, I can’t even talk her properly, not that I’d want to anyway!
Whatever. Who cares. Bye.
Artichoke

The last diary I found was Cucumber’s; my little, tiny girl who is in nursery. Hers was a bit more difficult to find, because I had to search through several months worth of Barbie magazine’s to find it. The strange thing was not only the diary itself, but, the other book that was hidden alongside it. It was a copy of Stephen Hawkings book, ‘A Brief History of Time’. Stranger still, it was worn out. So, I opened her diary and checked out the date of March 7th, and this is what I found.

Salutations Diary!
Once again I found myself enduring the ceaselessly repetitive school system. In order to preserve my façade, yet still retain my intellect, I sat through story time doing mental exercises in quantum physics.
I can’t seem to fathom why the populace has yet to detect the vast extent of my brilliance.

Today my siblings have provided me with much mirth and amusement. The Artichoke – Asparagus dance never fails to delight me. One can always be certain that life in our house is never dull. It is so gratifying to take part in such a stimulating sociological experiment.

To digress, my maternal unit is obsessed with a relatively recent phenomenon called ‘blogging’. She does not know that I see her fingers itching to return to her computer and record her thoughts.
I think she is in dire need of therapy.
Farewell, until next time,
Cucumber

Then I noticed in small letters at the bottom of the page,
P.S. It was I who poked Asparagus!

The Constance Gardner

2006-06-19T08:24:00.000+01:00

We live in very busy noisy world.
We create for ourselves environments surrounded by cacophony.
Think about it, what is the first thing you do when you go into the car? If you’re like me, you put on the radio. At home there are many other varieties of noise available. In addition to the good old radio, there is the CD, the tape recorder, the phone, and the noisiest of all; my kids.

This background and foreground noise has its place in my life, in that it enables me to do monotonous chores without having to focus exclusively on them, as well as the sheer pleasure of listening to something good. However this ‘noise’ also serves another purpose and that is escapism. For every moment that I engage sound merely for company, there is another moment where I allow sound to take my mind off of what I don’t want to be thinking about. And when I do that, I ignore the messages from my conscious.

You’ve met Presumptua my ego; now meet my conscious, Constance. She’s very patient and tries very hard to communicate with me. This is an example of how hard she tries to get through to me:

Constance: Kasamba, you should really go and visit that old lady down the block.

Kasamba: Oh, is that the phone ringing? No? Oh, I thought I heard the phone
ringing, never mind. I’ll just turn on the blender. There, that’s better.

Constance: Kasamba, you haven’t said Tehillim for that sick man yet, have you?
You should really do it now before you forget!

Kasamba: I really should get that door fixed, it makes such a racket! All I have is
olive oil, I wonder if that’ll work? I’ll do that later anyway, for some odd
reason I just really feel like vacuuming. Yeah, that’s good.

Constance: KASAMBA, YOU AREN’T LISTENING TO ME, ARE YOU?????

Kasamba: (Fingers in ears)La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,
I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!!!!!

One day I came upon the realization that the most frightening part of noise pollution is how accustomed I have become to it. This epiphany came when a well-meaning person gave my toddler at the time, Tomato, a particularly loud toy with which he could play with, on a flight from New York to London. Needless to say, I was panicked by the thought of him activating this obnoxious toy during the flight. My mind was awash with images of this blaring toy shrieking its ear-splitting mantra, “I WANT A HUG!” over and over again, while flight attendants ran to and fro trying to shut it up.

But no matter what I did (plead), or what I offered (the contents of my purse and my credit card), my little boy refused to hand over his new treasure. When the plane finally took off, my son decided that he was ready to regale the other passengers with a deafening rendition of “I WANT A HUG!” and he turned his toy on. I waited and waited, but all we could hear was a small almost non-discernible “I want a hug”. I was so relieved, and I realised then just how noisy the aeroplane really was. Remember, on land this toy’s volume could have been measured by the Richter scale, and now it was barely audible over the plane’s engine!

That is exactly what happened to me in my daily life.
I had grown accustomed to my level of noise and I became desensitised to it.
I forgot what the world around me should sound like.

So I did all the things possible to fill up the audio space around me and fool myself into thinking that I was not physically alone. But I was. And as much as I tried to escape from my thoughts, Constance was waiting for me, like a patient burglar waiting for the occupants of the house to fall asleep. She had tried to communicate with me through dreams and the occasional anxiety attack, but I remained steadfast in ignoring her. The more I tried to suppress her, the more physical symptoms I had, such as stomach problems, migraines, etc.…

Rabbi Dr. Akiva Tatz once said that although our souls are thoroughly attached to our bodies, the spiritual with the physical, they both have different wants and needs. For the most part they are diametrically opposed and very rarely do they share the same desires. Every sin that we do is because we’ve listened to our physical wants instead of our spiritual wants. Taking this idea even further, noise can be described as yet another tranquilliser our body uses to move us away from spiritual self-awareness. Therefore, the basic idea is to use solitary time of stillness as a time to hear our inner voice, that of our Neshama.

I have since learned to put aside time to hear what Constance has to say. This Cheshbon Hanefesh time for me is in the evening, right before I start my Shmiras Halashon learning. It doesn’t take a long time, a few minutes maximum, but it affords me the opportunity to be introspective and know what it is that I have to do and what I have to correct in order to grow spiritually.

Oh, I still have some days that I just want stuff a sock in Constance’s mouth and tell where to go.
But I am truly grateful to her, because if she hadn’t knocked hard enough on my thick skull, I would still be running around in complete denial of what I am meant to do.

ODE TO THE DRAMA QUEEN

2006-06-15T09:20:00.000+01:00

This post is dedicated to the many Drama Queens in my life. It is an amalgamation of all of them. Since I am not able to say anything about them in Real Life, I choose to do so here. Just know that I really do love them all, but they can drive me mad.

It is a bit evil, so if it offends you, please feel free to throw tomatoes at your computer.

ODE TO THE DRAMA QUEEN

She came to see me only the other week
To have a coffee, perchance to speak
With tears hovering behind her eyes
She had something to tell me; surprise, surprise.

She waved her hands around her head and declared
That she might have something that would leave her impaired
She said, “In my head I have so much PAIN”
And I said, “Well dear, it sounds like a migraine”

“No”, she said, without a trace of humour
I’m afraid it might be a BRAIN TUMOUR
She said she’s going for tests: MRI’s, cat scan and CBC
To ascertain just how sinister this pain can be

Then the phone calls come from the busy bees
The yentas who make me want to hack at their knees
“Nebech” they say, “However will she cope?”
I think to myself, “Two aspirins I hope”

But I keep my tongue firmly in its sheath
And I agree with them through gritted teeth

The phone call came the following afternoon
A very happy voice said she was, “over the moon”
She said, “This is what you’ve been waiting to hear
Boruch Hashem all my tests came back 100% clear!

“Oh wow”, I said, “That’s wonderful, that’s great”
“So you have a little time before you become ‘The Late’”
In a hushed voice she said, “It was serious, I’m telling you
I was a hairsbreadth from death, my hours were few”

“Well then, you must so grateful”, I say
“But” she says, “Wait ‘til I tell you what happened TODAY”

We all have crises of varying degrees
But hers requires professional hypotheses
Every little thing gets blown up out of proportion
Every little thing gets twisted by distortion

A few drops of water from her ceiling is a flood
A haemorrhage is when she sees a tiny bit of blood
A sleepless night and she’s got ME
A few coughs and her child has TB
A funny look from a stranger and she’s got a stalker
A sprained ankle and she needs a walker

So to all of that, I make the appropriate noise
But you know that I might just lose my poise
So this is fervent wish to the One up on high
And I send this prayer straight up to the sky

Please keep her safe, and give me the patience of a saint
Because Heaven help her, if I hear one more complaint.

THIS CUP RUNNETH OVER

2006-06-12T08:13:00.000+01:00

My dear Kasambuddies, as much as I try to ignore it, I just can’t. Because it’s come upon us once again, as it will every four years until Moshiach comes and releases the preternatural hold football has on every male homo sapient in the supposedly civilised British Isles.

Yes it’s the World Cup.

Well for me, being the proverbial American who grew up on apple pie and baseball; this country’s obsession with football (that’s soccer to you over the pond), is downright weird.

You have people who grow up in concrete monstrosities called ‘council estates’ who can’t even afford shampoo (never mind deodorant) yet make sure to put every hard earned farthing into season tickets to see their favourite team. Yes they say, but the footballers themselves started out under just as ignominious beginnings as their supporters.
Hello? Earth calling England? IS THERE ANYONE THERE?

Yes, most of the footballers started out as paupers, but once they became princes of the media, earning more than a third world country’s national deficit- do they give back to the community?
NO, of course not. They say to their cigarette chomping, hairnet encased mothers, “Cheerio, Mum!” and off they go to spend their gazillions of pounds on their new anorexic girlfriends who compete with each other for most inflatable body parts.

So why does the average Brit live, eat and breathe football? It’s self evident why they call themselves supporters, after all football fans do support their team in the same way a father might support his son or son-in-law in Kollel. But it’s supposed to be a GAME, not life itself! Here you have grown men running up and down a psychedelically green field that looks like it was stolen from the set of a Teletubbies episode in shorts that would make Pinocchio proud, plus polyester shirts designed to maximise manly shvitz. Then after the game is over; the average losing team supporters get to go home, get drunk and beat their wives; while the winning team supporters get to go to the pub, get drunk, beat their wives and then tease any losing team supporters until the next game. It’s such an honourable pastime.

Of course I am excluding Hubby and Artichoke from that description, because for them the game is more than that. For them the game is a spiritual experience that transcends time and especially meaning. Boruch Hashem Mr Kasamba can afford his season ticket to Arsenal, but I know what it cost so I’ll just say that his Zen costs a lot of yen.

So, back to the World Cup. To me this cup is half empty. England has been whipped up into this World Cup frenzy. Apparently it is imperative to watch bizarre countries that you never knew existed play each other. I myself had never heard of Toga for instance. Apparently, this Thursday Hashem willing, between the hours of 4:30 until 7:00pm every Englishman worth his lager will be sat in front of a telly watching HIS team, the almighty England team, lose their gotchkes as they always do.

But for football widows like me, it is surreal to go shopping in a man-free environment. Going to the Brent Cross mall feels like those old movies where Amazonian women have taken over the earth, leaving one man alive locked in a shed for procreation purposes.
It would be an amazing opportunity for someone to rob a bank, because the only security guards available would be either females or just plain feminine.

So, do I wish England luck? Like heck I do.
Football is a cruel ‘other woman’ to contend with and if she loses, I just might get my Hubby back.

THERE’S NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN

2006-06-08T08:09:00.000+01:00

I’ve managed to catch forty winks, so now I feel fresh as a daisy, fit as a fiddle, and bright eyed and bushy tailed. Thus, without further ado, and without beating around the bush, I’d like to bend your ears, and I will try not to babble like a brook.

Although everything has already been said before, I’d like to give Mr Kasamba some food for thought.

Hubby, this one’s for you!

Hubby, you’ve always known that time and tide waits for no man. But between you, me and the lamppost, I think I hit the nail on the head when I say that you seem to have your feet firmly on the ground, and that’s half the battle!
The fact of the matter remains that the only fly in the ointment is that you are no longer free as a bird, footloose and fancy free. So consider this a word to the wise, old age is a whole new ball of wax. You must take the bitter with the sweet.
Remember; forwarned is forarmed.

It goes without saying that I think that you are worth your weight in gold, and I thank Hashem we get along like a house on fire. No one can come between us anyway, because two’s company, three’s a crowd, and too many cooks spoil the broth.

You are the apple of my eye, the icing on my cake, the luckshon in my kugel. And even though you travel so much- its okay because distance lends itself to enchantment.

At the end of the day Hubby, no one can hold a candle to you, your heart is as big as the great outdoors. For what it’s worth, I wish you all the mazal, happiness and love under the sun.
May your birthday bring Moschiach Bemeherah Byamenu Amen!

And there you have it, from beginning to end.
From alpha to omega, from head to toe.
The whole kit and kaboodle.

Happy Birthday Hubby!!!
(47 clichés were used in the making of this post.)

(They were not tested on animals)

WHAT A TRIP!

2006-06-05T12:13:00.000+01:00

Having just spent Shavous in the Holy Land is no mean feat. By that, I don’t mean packing all the suitcases, or arranging the house so it doesn’t look the the Amytiville Horror when we come back. No, not at all. What I mean is this: since I didn’t feel Pesach (remember?) I was technically still in Egypt and therefore unprepared to go to get the Torah from Sinai.

Lo and behold, Hubby brought forth tickets and we flew with wings to our ultimate final destination. It was a real Aliyah LeRegel.
Therefore, Shavous was AMAZING!

Everywhere people were discussing cheescakes and going to the Kotel (that was for you PP;) and with being in Jeruaselm and a few good sheurim under my belt, I really felt the energy of the Chag. Maybe I’m just biased but I feel that everything in Jerusalem is stunning; from the melting pot of people to the scenery, to the food. My bones will retain the heat of the sun and my high will surely make the transition of the yeridah back home easier.

I will just keep replaying the video in my minds eye of my little one by the Kotel repeating Tehilim after me with her little dimpled hand clutching the ancient stone. I had to talk her out of collecting all the little notes that were spilling out of the wall and explain that each one was a Tefillah in itself. She walked away from the the Kotel backwards, accepting that we don’t turn our backs on the Shechina.

So young, yet it made sense to her. Sometimes it’s so clear to see recognition of what the Malach taught us in utero. The younger someone is, the closer they are to that truth. It is only age that sometimes brings with it opacity and cynicism.

I have so much Hakaras Hotov to have been able to be in H’aair Hakodosh Yerushalyim for this wonderful Chag.
B’ezras Hashem may we all be Zoche to ALL our Yom Tovim there!

What Really Counts

2006-05-30T07:24:00.000+01:00

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!!!!

TEARS FOR A RIGHTOUS WOMAN

2006-05-26T08:48:00.000+01:00

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.

ONCE UPON KASAMBA'S HOUSE

2006-05-23T08:48:00.000+01:00

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!

The Only Man In England Who WORKS

2006-05-19T00:15:00.000+01:00

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;
THE STREETS STAY ROPED OFF FOREVER!!!

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)

-

The Post That THANKS You!

2006-05-16T07:54:00.000+01:00

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…)