Having gotten myself to the rink early morning (Friday there’s no seder), I now need a ride home. Skating is fun, but hard work. After a few hours brushing up on outside edge stops, I’m looking forward to relaxing before greeting the Shabbos queen. Today is Erev Shabbos, so a piping hot potato kugel will be greeting me upon arrival; I can hardly wait.

Scanning the few skaters going round the rink, I spot a few likely candidates. Mostly the Flatbush version of soccer moms, these types fit into the Honda Odyssey, $3K sheitel, and $2 million home category. That’s OK with me- all I need is a ride home, and for the most part, they’re nice enough. As long as there aren’t any annoying questions peppering the way home. I get such queries often from the rink crowd; apparently, a yeshiva bochur at the rink doesn’t fit the profile.

Approaching a middle aged lady with a kind enough countenance, I ask her if my home address is on her way home. It is. Wonderful. She explains apologetically that she plans on leaving in just a few minutes. No problem. I’m exhausted anyway.  I hurriedly unlace my skates, sling them over my shoulder, and head out toward the parking lot, where I wait ten minutes for the lady to emerge, kids in tow. Another young man from the rink has also decided to chap a lift with this lady, and we both slide into the back seat of the lavender ’09 Sienna. We trade names and begin schmoozing quietly betwixt ourselves (yeah, I also love that word. Betwixt. Sounds like a witch hexed the word amongst). The fine lady pulls out of the lot, merges smoothly with traffic and heads home. Status check: so far, so good. Schmooze the  bochur next to me, ask the lady’s cute seven year old where he goes to yeshiva, get a grumble in reply, don’t ask the twelve year old girl where she goes to school, check Twitter, all is still well.

Then trouble begins. With a capital T that rhymes with R and that stands for Rink. Or ride. Either way. The kind lady driving us to our respective domiciles decides to commence Inquiries. Uh oh. She starts gently. First asks me about which yeshiva I learn in, then where I live/daven, and then moves on to the more serious stuff. Size of family, yeshiva history, etc. Before you know it, she wants to know if I’m back (from E”Y) for good, and if I’m going to Lakewood. I don’t like the direction of this conversation. Non-sequituring (Ha. And you thought that sequitur couldn’t be verbed. Well, there ‘ya go. Verb too, FYI), I answer her with a soliloquy on the relative merits of learning in Eretz Yisroel vs. the USA. She doesn’t take the bait. But she does explain why she wanted to know (have you guessed yet?).

She has a cousin.

Aha.

But wait. There’s more. The cousin ice skates. She is therefore, or perhaps just incidentally (this part wasn’t clear)-and I quote- “normal”. Ah. The blessed, sought after normal. Who wouldn’t want a normal girl?

We pull up to my house just in the nick of time. Saved by the bell and the honk of the impatient Lexus wielding driver behind us, I hastily bid the well-meaning amateur shadchante farewell, and race into the safety of Mommy’s kitchen. Mommy’s warm, heimishe, homey kitchen. Where potato kugels un a shiur make their residence on Erev Shabbos.

Snatching a heaping, steaming portion of kugel and settling myself into a kitchen chair, I dig in contentedly. After exactly one lone, solitary bite of pure pleasure, the phone rings. The kitchen is abnormally empty for this time of the day and week, so I heave my aching self out of the chair and pick up the handset. It’s my aunt calling from out-of-town.

“YG, you’ll never guess what I just thought of. The PERFECT shidduch.”

Sigh. Time to head back to the rink.

Dear Valued Employers,

We, [C.L.E.A.N.] (Cleaning Ladies Everywhere Against Neurotia), wish to inform our employers [M.O.M.] (Mobs of Mothers) that we have unanimously voted in the following resolution, hereby inscribed by our secretary. “B. Crock(er)”; Resolution #RUMe$HuGGa4148. It follows.

“Due to the continued proliferation of the seasonal madness known around the world to we, the undersigned [C.L.E.A.N.], we have decided to appeal the sensibilities of the Chosen People’s leaders and sages in an effort to stop this madness once and for all. In addition to the obvious psychosis demonstrated with regards to the financial decision of hiring numerous honored members of our association and then summarily dismissing them to light labor while they attack electric sockets with glee (and toothpicks), they have also exhibited multiple signs of what can only be clinically classified as temporary dementia. These signs may be but are not limited to;

1 ) Screaming at young children for eating healthy, nutritious breakfasts (e.g. Wheaties) in the main dining area.

2) Recleaning the same spot of carpet with borderline OCD level attention.

3) Ordering the H.H.’s (Harried Husbands) to the grocery store for unending refills of Comet, Fantastic, Wonderful, Astroid, and others.

4) Peering into a small volume authored by some fellow named Bloom’s Camp Guide to Pesach for hours on end.

5) Disattaching light fixtures and dusting and washing them.

6) Prying off each individual key of the keyboard and washing the cap and Air-Offing the interior of said keyboard.

7) Washing ceilings.

Cleaning shoe soles.

We therefore respectfully request that the leaders of the Chosen People attempt with any and all powers at their disposal to treat this malady for once and for all. Before we go mad ourselves.

Yours,

C.L.E.A.N.

“All that I am, or ever hope to be, I owe to my Angel Mother”.

–A Lincoln

As I’ve mentioned before, I love going home for Bein Hazmanim. I also love Dira life. No, there isn’t a paradox here. These two forms of living, which live at opposite ends of the life spectrum, can and do co-exist nicely for many of us. True, there are the occasional guys who can’t take life at home or life in the dira, but for most of us, it’s a blast in the dira, and home is good too.

One of the many maalehs (for me, at least) of going home is a one word entity that is expressed perfectly as: Mommy. A doting, caring mother who cares for me, cares about me, cooks for me, etc. is always welcome. Well, not always. I’ll get to that in a minute. But first let me finish the disclaimer stuff. Meals with my favorite dishes are always welcome. Inquiries concerning my day, while not the norm in the dira, are strangely comforting. Auto-laundry service is nothing short of impressive. And the knowledge that a being that unconditionally loves me is just a short distance away is nothing less than a matzav godol (don’t tell anyone I said this; I’m be’etzem a very tough guy- an island and all that jazz). These benefits and more are all part of the being home, and a part of the Mommy experience.

And then there are the downsides. You see, every mother believes, or at least desires to believe, that her bochur’l is perfect. A Yirei Shamyaim, Masmid, well-rounded, handsome, etc. Aleh maalehs. And I do have them. But sometimes, especially during Bein Hazmanim, there exists this disconnect between reality and fantasy. I call this the “Mommy Vekker” syndrome. It’s what occurs when the sharp, unimpressive reality of our shfeilus clashes with the olam hadimyon of our Angel Mothers. Case in point…

According to Halacha, I have a chiyuv to wake up at time X to lein Krias Shema. And I must daven before time Y. The immutability of these times (unless you’re Chassidish) doesn’t typically leave Yidden with potential for “sleeping in”. A shame, I know. But this is the way He set it up. Because of this, I don’t have that much fudge room in my schedule. So when I come home Pesach Bein Hazmanim, and zman K”S happens to be at 10AM (second zman, yes, but who’s counting?), please, please, let me enjoy my beauty sleep. You see, dear mother, sleeping late in the dira is just not an option. Alarm clocks, construction workers, various inexplicable sharp noises, and annoying roommates with penchants for partying to piercing music early morning all conspire to prevent any possible extra poofing time.

I realize that you think I should be more productive; that I should pop out of bed bright and early at 7AM every day Bein Hazmanim. I know that you think that if Totty can do it at 5:30 for the daf, etc., then I certainly should be able to (never mind the vast differential in our respective bedtimes). But you see, Mommy, I don’t feel this way. Neither, as it happens, does the Mishna Berurah or Shulchan Aruch. Certainly, it’s a wonderful thing to be mashkim for tefillah and learning, but really Ma- give me some time (pardon the terrible pun). When I’ll be a Rosh Yeshiva, Rav, or Rebbe, I’ll have plenty of time for that. Until then, Ma, can you just shtell a shtickel slhuf?

Thanks, and Goodnight.

(Photo Credit to louhamilton)

“Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till earth and sky stand presently at God’s great Judgement seat”.

– Rudyard Kipling

They met this past Shabbos. In a small shteibl in the small space of approximately 6 sq. feet, East and West met and converged, overlapping, taking another look at the other, and at least for one direction’s part, were impressed with the other.

Rolling into shul Shabbos morning on time only a half hour late, I grab the closest available seat and commence praying. As it happens, this seat is a likely spot, nestled in the shul’s back right corner in close proximity to the Halacha seforim shrank. Which, as it happens, works out well, since I’m a firm believer that Halacha is one of the most matim limudim for those mid-davening breaks. You’d be amazed at how many simanim you can pound down in those few minutes. Soon, a friend from the block chaps the seat next to me, and before you know it, an hour has gone by and the oilam is holding by leining.

At this point, the Odd Couple (two local baalebatim in their low 30’s, Ploni and Almoni) sidle in. Nudging each other and guffawing all the while, they are here to schmooze, not to pray. Making a beeline for our spot, they seat themselves in the two empty chairs to our immediate left, and commence what will be a two hour marathon run of straight schmoozerai, interrupted only for a couple minutes devoted to the amidah. Thank G-d for small miracles. Basically, we ignore them, and they ignore Him. Five minutes later during bein gavra l’gavra, however, Ploni  touches my arm, and asks me for a favor.

“Sure, what’s up?”, I respond. Ever the gracious type, I’m known far and wide for my ability to handle all sorts of customers with charm and wit. As you can tell, I’ve performed up to my usual standard in this case as well.

“Well”, he says with a sheepish grin, “my buddy and I were kinda hoping you could vacate your seats and switch with us. Those seats are our makom kavuah”. This last he says with a not-bad yeshivish ha’avarah, betrayed only by his handling of the last syllable of the second word. Aside from the grin, you’d think he was serious about what he said. I lift an eyebrow at him.

“Makom kavuah?”, I repeat back to him, in an astounded tone. (They’ve spent more time talking than davening in the few minutes since they have been in the shul). “Yes, we really sit here every week, and you know, you’re supposed to sit where…”, his voice trails off as my left eyebrow starts heading for space. I can barely believe what I’m hearing. Still he asked in a polite tone, was not aggressive, and I honestly didn’t mind… too much. My friend and I switch with Ploni and Almoni.

As we’re changing places, I hear chaver Almoni complaining to Ploni underneath his breath. He’s upset that Ploni made us go through the hassle of switching, minor though it was- a sentiment I can identify with. To which Ploni explains that the truth was that he really preferred the corner spot for comfort reasons; no shaychis makom kavuah. Apparently the acoustics are better for low-level schmoozing there.

This gets me ticked off. Deserting my place during the next aliyah change, I head for the closest Shulchan Aruch. A few minutes of browsing later, I have the relevant Magen Avraham open before me. After waiting until the next leining break, I slide the tome over to Ploni and Almoni, and tell them to take a look at M”A 38. Almoni stares at me blankly. Ploni gives the amud a quick glance, and then turns to me. “Ah. It’s about makom kavuah”. A wise fellow, this one.  Again, I urge him to look at the M”A, 38. He peers intently at the small letters for a minute, and then looks up. “So what does he say”? Sigh. I take a deep breath, gathering the strength to explain a seven word halacha to what is no doubt a pair of highly uninterested baalebatim. And then Almoni interjects…

Leaning forward in his seat, he looks directly at me, and says in a truly eager voice, “Really, tell us the halacha. What does he say?” Well, you coulda knocked me over with an e-siddur. Whatever reaction I had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Upon translating the M”A into English for them* and explaining the svarah behind his amendment to the Mechaber, they both thank me in ehrnste (serious, non-facetious) tones.

Late? Check. Schmoozing? Check. Am Ha’aratzim? Check.

Desire to learn Torah and understand what Hashem wants from them? Check.

And that, ladies and gents, is why Klal Yisroel is still around. IY”H, all Jews, from all directions, East, West, North and South will soon be zoche to travel to that ultimate East.

Amen.

*The Magen Avraham (O”C, Siman    ,  , ) explains that the din of makom kavuah has a shiur of 4 amos, being that one can ever sit in the precise same place as he did yesterday anyway.

For so many things. Some of the specific things I have in mind at the moment are:

Starbucks – even the Coffee Bean on Yaffo doesn’t come close to the homey, heimishe mahogany svivah that Starbucks shtells. Not to mention the terrific coffee.

Aviator Rink – a local ice rink. For $8 I can skate out my heart, and feet, in an Olympic size rink. wOOt! In E”Y, btw, it’s closer to $10—per hour!!

Juice Drinks – Naked or Odwalla. These things are not shayich. They k’seder keep me going for an entire skating session. Placebo effect matzav? Perhaps. Still works.

Pomegranate – I’ve been told this is similar to a Whole Foods, minus the organic-only component. Regardless, it’s mamish a mechayah to shop here. Not to mention the cheeses. Oh the cheeses!

Cars – Massive, gargantuan, comfortable vehicles. At last, I can transport myself. In style. As opposed to cramping myself up in a minuscule Skoda.

Clothing – I need a new wardrobe. From socks and shoes to yarmulke and hat. Here, I can get one without A) breaking the bank, and B) emerging from the haberdashery dressed like some metamorphosed caterpillar cocooned in pink silk that threatens to pop off of me with the slightest motion.

English – My native tongue. What can I say, I prefer a country not running on a Zionist’s purposeful changeup of our Holy Language.

Donuts – Even Brooklyn Bakery doesn’t do it, like, say, the Donut Man.

Sushi – Yes, it exists there, but at 1AM? I think not.

Road Trips – Come on, what kind of a trip can you take in a country that only stretches 8 hours from tip to tip. you gotta get lost, man!