Frum N' Flipping

Lots of things make me happy. Watching waves crash on the shore. Feeling the sunshine on my cheek. Falling into a steady rhythm as I cut through the water at the swimming pool. Seeing my nephew break into a smile, as the wind up train I bought him chugs around plastic tracks. Sitting with friends at a café and catching up on each other's lives. Writing the last line of a chapter I'm pleased with. The feeling is so good I want to bottle it up, keep it forever. Purim doesn't make me happy. Purim makes me sad. When Adar rolls around, and loudspeakers burst out with "Mishenichnas Adar"s, inside me I want to run away, to somewhere where there are no Purims, or perhaps hide out at home, until the worst has passed. When I try to speak of it, it sounds odd, peculiar, loner-like and spoilsport-ish. Who doesn't like Purim, the year's official day of happiness? I used to like Purim, once. When I was a kid, and planned my costume all year. Probably in ninth an

"Mother's, take note. Don't allow your teenage daughters to shop without you! It is also vital to accompany kallahs . They are young and inexperienced and can't see how fitted clothes are alluring." I put down this week's Hamodia. "But it's not logical." I wonder out loud. "She's saying these girls are old enough to be brides, and choose their own husbands, but not old enough to choose their own clothes?" Surely if they are responsible enough to get married, they can be trusted to go shopping on their own? "Ah, but who's to say the brides choose their own husbands?" My mother points out the flaw in my logic. Oh. Good point. Well that makes sense then. Obviously if you carefully select a teenage girl's husband for her, you should be watching over her shopping too. As the letter writer points out, the Satan lurks in every store, and every item of clothing needs careful inspection by a mature woman of exper

I used to pray, that my father live to see my wedding. I calculated the extra years he'd need, to make it, to be there. For getting married is entering a new stage, a new phase; I wanted him to see me at it, see me reach it, see me grown up. I wanted him to be pleased, and proud. But some things are not to be. He hasn't been around for a while, my dad. And even if he had been, so far he wouldn't have gotten to see that day.I'm still in the same stage I was then; same family status, same title before my name. Nothing's changed. Yet it has. I may not be a married woman, but I have grown up, nonetheless. I come home from work and run for my slippers and sweatshirt, rush to shed the constraining clothes of the day. He used to do the same. I thought it was funny, amusing, then. I attend the Shiurs that he used to love, that I used to find boring. I enjoy them now. I read his favorite books and columns. I appreciate his taste. I wish we could discuss them togeth

I have a secret life. I can't speak of it in public. I can't mention it in polite society. "Where were you last night?" they ask. "Somewhere", I say. "I heard this funny story from…Someone." I pronounce. "I need to leave early" I tell my boss. "I need to do..Something." "We are learning about Rabbi __" my niece says. "Ooh, I went out with his grandson" I almost blurt out. I bite my tongue. "Why are you so busy?" they ask. "Why don't we ever see you anymore?" "Well I am working," I say. "And studying." "And dating!" I want to yell. ""Hours upon hours of dates. Huge portions of my week, my time, my energy." But I don't. Dozens of boys, hundreds of dates, thousands of hours, spent on an activity that must be kept under wraps, except with close friends and relatives. Phone calls and decisions and dilemmas; all unmentionabl

"I'm slow" I tell him. "It takes me time to process things" "Oh come on" he says. "Really" I say. "You always want to have serious discussions when we are walking. But the stuff you tell me only sinks in a few hours later, when I'm already back home. I'm slow. I'm no good at on the spot debates." A while later he tries to tell me a joke. I guess the ending while he's half way through. "And you say you're slow. You always know what I'm going to say before I've even said it", he teases me. It's true, I do have an annoying tendency of completing people's sentences for them. "Ok, I'm not slow when it comes to understanding" I admit "It's only when it comes to feelings, opinions. Then I need to let in sink it before I can respond. I'm a bad arguer too. By the time I realize I'm upset, a good few hours have passed, it's all over. So I just get o

The boys wait in the wings. Their fathers stand beside them, wearing the same hats and suits, indistinguishable aside for the beards they sport. Their mothers are also there, even though they won't be joining their sons and husbands on the stage, for the obvious Tznius reasons. Still, the women are needed, and often only with their nod, spotted on the sidelines, can the deal proceed, be finalized. For who can know a boy's true worth, if not his mother? The Rosh Yeshiva stands behind the podium. He welcomes the middle ages couples, spanning the rows of the auditorium. He doesn't mention the girls, sitting there too. Really the Rosh Yeshiva would prefer the parents came alone, without their daughters. He finds something a tad immodest, about the single girls examining the single boys from afar, as they are led on stage. The transaction should be about Torah, and Torah's value, not about looks. However, he has given up fighting that battle. The funds raised are sorely ne

They are only 23. They are coming back from India, becoming students and waitresses, living life step by step, vaguely thinking of plans for the future. They are still young. I'm 23 already. I should be married, should be a mother; should have settled down, moved on. I shouldn't be in this position. I'm an older single. You suggest evenings for single girls, events arranged specially for those left on the shelf. I tried them. I went to Shiurim, organized for girls "in my situation". It felt like stepping back in time, back to my schooldays. I'm used to boardrooms and conferences now, not classrooms where we sit in rows, like good little girls, and are lectured to on why we should be brave, have faith, on how there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It felt like a quasi support group, where all that united us was our unmarried status. There's more to me, than being single. There's more to life, than waiting to get married. So I'm 23. I

My universe has shrunken. It happened gradually, without me noticing. Parties, trips, Shabbatons with friends, all are distant memories. Shopping in the mall, praying at the Kotel, I do them alone, now. Theoretically, I do have friends. There is even one hour each day, a sixty minute gap before their husbands get home from Kollel, when I can actually see them. The rest of the time, they are "phone friends". Great for giving as references, ever ready to gush about how close we are, but not much use for my social life. "I don't need new friends," I tell myself. "I just need to get married, and I'll be back on the sane terrain as them." But I've been saying that line for a few years now. It's not enough, any more. I want a world, I want to be part of society again. I try going to Shiurim, to the gym and the pool. To Melava Malkas and Kidduses. Everywhere I'm the only bare head, surrounded by scarves and Sheitels. No best friend

'I don't trust you when you drag in the stars,' she said. 'If you were quite true, it wouldn't be necessary to be so far-fetched.' (Ursula, Women In Love) It was worth reading the whole book, just for that line. Because it's exactly how I feel, when men start going all romantic on me. How about you?

Excerpted from the Complete Siddur for the Bas Yisroel. To be recited in Shema Koleinu or before Yehiyu LeRatzon: ( For those of you who missed seeing my guest-post over at FrumSatire ) Blessed be you our God and God of our foremothers. May you have mercy on me [ insert name ] daughter of [ insert mother's name ] and spare me from another date with [ insert date's name ] son of [ insert your hopefully-not-to-be-mother-in-law's name ]. Please, God, let me not find favor in his eyes. For the thought of another date with him doth not appeal. It is true, O Lord that he is a rightful servant of your name, and he doth be all that is good and eligible. Moreover, there be no man without failings, as is written 'There is no Tzaddik in the land who does not sin'. Yet though I do travail, there doth be no click, no connection. And though I labor to know him, to like him, it doth be of no avail. And I don't know what to do. And I do fear for my name and reputa

I don't know much about my little brother. I don't know anything at all, in fact. You see, he wasn't born, wasn't conceived, doesn't exist. I'm the youngest. But I do know one thing about him. And that's that if I had one, he'd be getting married now. Yes, right about now my little brother would be announcing his engagement to the world. What makes me so sure? Well that's what little brothers do, apparently. It's all that my friends' little brothers have been doing, the whole flock of them. "Isn't he 18?" I ask, when I heard of yet another engagement. She looks insulted. "No, he's 19. His birthday was ages ago." "Oh." I say. "I'm sorry. I still think of him as 5, and getting in the way when we played house". They are mainly 19. A few of them, the older ones, have waited it out till the ripe old age of 20. They span across society, from National-Religious to Litvak to Chassidic.

"She should be Tznius, and have Yirat Shamayim, and encourage me to excel spiritually, and push me to learn torah" Karen closed the tab. It sounded like he was looking for a rabbi, not a wife. "Looking for a chilled girl, who likes to have fun, and enjoys a good movie" She closed that tab too. He sounded like he wanted a permanent version of a girl friend, a party girl. It was funny; really she was all those things they'd described. Really she was Tznius, and did work on her faith, and also did like to chill and have fun sometimes. But the guys who said they were looking for that in a wife; that warned her off them. She supposed it was a question of priorities. They were showing what was most important to them. And what they didn't care about, not that much. Karen had it figured out by now, how to read between the lines, how to sort the wheat from the chaff. She had a method, how to search their profiles, how to skim descriptions, picking out k

I'm old fashioned. I was brought up to believe that you don't chase men; they've got to go after you. And if that guy of your dreams doesn't? Then he's just not that into you. Forget about him, baby. Move on. My high school years revolved around crushes on guys who barely knew I existed. I learned my lesson. Take what you can get, don't chase stars. If he really liked you, he'd show it. The most that us weaker sex can do is reciprocate. Subtly show we are interested, show the admiration is mutual. Hope he'll be encouraged, will work up the courage to ask us out. The only problem is, I still haven't quite figured out how to do that. Flirting isn't something we were taught in Bais Yaacov. My 'subtle' is probably another girl's 'get lost'. And what if he's shy, nervous, scared? Or he thinks some insurmountable hurdle stands in the way, an issue you don't even care about? Or he simply never thought about you that way