Introducing Clara

As promised, I would like to share with you the finale of our Mouse Saga.  After the long, arduous, and less-than-fruitful chase over the course of nearly a month, the story has indeed come to its end.  With its end comes a new beginning, which can be summed up nicely in the following statements:

Our new cat is home.

The mouse is gone.

The two statements are unrelated.

Before regaling you with the story of our newest addition, I'll start with the mouse's exit.  We came home with Clara and followed her around as she began sniffing and exploring her new environment.  As we wandered into the kitchen, Tomm heard a noise and wondered if it had come from Clara.  Noticing her silence, he looked instead to the shelving unit which has been the central focus of our mouse hunt and there, in the selfsame basket as the one which started the whole debacle, was the mouse stuck pitifully on a glue pad!

After Monday morning's near-catch, I put one of the month-old glue pads into the basket figuring at least it wouldn't be any less successful there.  The mouse had done a good job of avoiding them for the last month but hey, what the hell.  That morning just before leaving for the shelter, the exterminator came by and threw a few poison packets behind the refrigerator and stove and gave me a handful of large sticky pads.  I wasn't terribly keen on the idea of poison, but something had to be done.

So imagine our surprise when we returned early in the afternoon to find the mouse trapped of its own accord on a little plastic dish of goo that had been sitting in our kitchen for weeks!  This is quite possibly the most anti-climactic ending I could have envisioned for the story. 

It's probably a good thing the mouse found it's way out just as Clara found hers in, because with all the attention she's claiming for herself there'd be none left to bother with the mouse!  She is a four-year-old Russian Blue who has been in at least two shelters over the last couple months.  I don't know much of her story before that, but she is very comfortable with people and is making herself at home quite nicely.  I should also mention that neither Tomm nor I have ever had a cat before, so this is a brand new experience for both of us.  I just hope we do it right!

The shelter had named her Gracey for no particular reason, so we spent the train ride home trying to think of our own name for her.  I started by thinking categorically and considered composers' names.  There aren't a whole lot of well-known classical female composers, but the first to pop into my mind was Clara Schumann, the wife of Robert Schumann.  While I enjoy Clara's strikingly beautiful music, I've never listed her among my favorites (like Tchaikovsky, Shostakovitch, or Brahms) because I've never performed her works or studied it in great detail.  I held the name in the back of my mind as we explored other options, some cute and reasonable, others funny and downright embarrassing for a cat.  At one point on the train, I said "Tush!  We could name her Tush!" Tomm smiled and at that moment a young religious Jewish man sitting across from us said "You do know what that means, don't you?"  "Yes, we do," I laughed.  I tried to convince him I knew my way around Jewish vocabulary, but I don't think he was convinced either of us were members of the Tribe.  Oh well.  

By the time we arrived at home the name Clara had been repeated numerous times, bobbing up to the surface like a ball in a pool between every new ball we threw in.  Ultimately, we decided that the little terrified cat inside the box Tomm carried was, in fact, Clara.  The composer, however, was merely the inspiration and not the true eponym.

After cautiously crawling out of the box, she spent a lot of time sniffing and exploring in between hiding under the bed.  I don't blame her, really.  Later that afternoon Tomm had to leave for a night shift at work (the first night of a full month with that schedule), and a few hours later I left to audition for a community orchestra in Manhattan.  I was a little concerned about leaving Clara alone, but when I returned the apartment was just as I had left it, complete with Clara meowing loudly in the hallway.  I imagined her saying "Why did you leave me?!" over and over again, so I spent the next number of hours curled up with her on the bed while I finished a book.  She enjoyed pawing and kneading the crocheted afghan on the bed and even held it securely by her teeth as she worked her paws, stretching and extending the claws then curling up the paw, right then left then left.  I hope that blanket can survive the gentle but consistent abuse.

When I finally went to sleep, I hoped that Clara might stay with me throughout the night, but I seem to have forgotten that cats are very much nocturnal animals.  With Clara, that means jumping off the bed once every hour and meowing loudly for my attention.  As a new parent I woke up every time, sometimes following her into the living room before returning to the bed where she joined me, if only momentarily.  At some point I'm sure I'll learn to tune out her chitter chatter, but as I strive to understand what she's trying to tell me I'm afraid to miss a single word.

It's only been a day and already I'm in love with this cute and quirky cat of ours, and I wouldn't be surprised if she became a regular feature of this blog.  I hope you won't mind!

The Mouse That Lived

It all started about one month ago when I reached for a granola bar from the basket I'd put them in only to find that one had been nibbled on, wrapper and all.  A Nature Valley Chocolate Peanut Butter crunchy bar with a corner conspicuously missing.  I tossed it in the garbage and decided not to fuss.  Maybe it was a one-time thing, I reasoned.  Besides, Tomm had had a few consecutive rough days at work and I saw no need to bring up yet another issue.

The next morning I checked the basket and again I found the unmistakable marks of a small rodent with an appetite for chocolate peanut butter granola bars.  Alright, I decided, now it's worth fussing over.  I put the unchewed bars in a Ziploc bag and left the evidence for Tomm to see.

(A few days later, I also noticed a small hole chewed through the Ziploc housing a few half-emptied bags of chocolate chips I'd saved for baking.  Sure enough, the mouse had gotten all the way to the chocolate and had torn through those bags as well.)

Action had to be taken, but having never had a mouse in my kitchen before I didn't quite know what to do.   I hemmed and hawed for a day until one night when Tomm was on call.  I walked into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and saw a small, gray blur scurry along the floor to the safety of the stove.  Now, I will tell you with complete honesty and not a hint of hubris that a mouse - even the idea of a mouse - does not frighten me in the least.  It doesn't creep me out, unnerve me, or scare. It doesn't even repulse me.  But when something moves very quickly in a place where you expect silence and stillness, it can make a person jump.  Once my brain calmed my rapidly beating heart, I decided to investigate.  With a flashlight in hand I scanned the spaces around the oven - behind it, on the side by the wall, and underneath.  Nothing (except a significant deposit of crud from goodness knows how many tenants before us).  I looked at the door under the oven housing the broiler pan and, girding myself with resolve, I got down on the floor.  Preparing the flashlight, I opened it slowly.  There, caught in the beam, was a pair of tiny black eyes sunk into a fuzzy face.  We stared at one another for a few seconds.  I made the mistake of breaking contact first to look for something to catch it, and when I looked back a second later it had vanished swiftly into the night.  Or, more likely, into the wall.

I sat on the floor of the kitchen determined to catch it that night.  I had taken a long nap that day and as far as I was concerned nothing could deter me from keeping a night-long vigil.  I heard scratching sounds from the wall and thought certainly the mouse would try to come back and there I would be, ready and waiting for it to appear.  Of course, I also realized that a trap might work better than my own reflexes, so I looked up some ideas online and found a rather simple but ingenious (and humane) trap suggestion.  I set it up with some granola bar bits as bait and, confident it would work, went to sleep somewhere around 3:00 am.

As I'm sure you've guessed, the trap was worthless.  We tried it on a couple of other nights, and it was equally worthless every time.  So the next day we went to buy some "real" mouse traps.  Standing in the isle at the 99 cent store, we were faced with two main choices: spring-loaded killing machines, or sticky pads of punishment.  We decided to try out the sticky pads first, and we strategically placed four of them around the kitchen.  After a couple days, we hadn't caught a mouse but we also didn't see any signs of the mouse's presence.  Even if we weren't getting rid of the problem, we figured that the problem was rid of us and so we were placated.

Of course, this was only temporary.

Signs of the  mouse reappeared a week later in the form of bread and bagels gnawed on through their plastic bags.  We moved the sticky pads around, baited them a little, tried the trash can trap again, all to no avail.  One day I caught the mouse scurrying again.  The last straw, though, was when we set the table for dinner last week and noticed a few small and rather unsavory brown bits on the otherwise clean plates.  This mouse had to go.

I bought the spring loaded death machines the next day and set them with peanut butter around the kitchen.  Nothing.  I tried arranging it in the basket (which no longer held granola bars) with a slice of bread.  The mouse just ate half of the bread. And then last Friday as I was baking a cake for Shabbat dinner, I needed to get some ingredients from the shelf of the linen closet that we had reserved as a pantry space. I opened the door just in time to see the mouse sitting on the middle of the shelf amid bags of pasta, beans, flour, and sugar before it ran to the back and disappeared.  Oh goodness, the damage it had done.  It had found its way into all the pasta and, to my dismay, both of the bags of chocolate chips I had bought to replace the ones I had to throw out before.  It left behind partially-chewed remnants of packaging as well as its own little "gifts," all of which I cleaned out.  There was no sign of the mouse anywhere else in that closet, but I moved one of the death traps to that shelf (after putting all the food in a Rubbermaid container) and added a chocolate chip to the peanut butter that was still on the release from days earlier.  In fact, I sprinkled chocolate chips on and around the other two traps as well, thinking surely I would catch it this time.

The rest of that afternoon, the mouse started getting ballsy.  I would sit at the computer and see a slow movement out of the corner of my eye.  Was that a dust bunny that just blew in the corner?  Nope, that was the mouse's tail disappearing behind a box in the living room.  Moved the couch, and the mouse sprinted from it to the other wall.  Go to where it had gone and suddenly there was no sign of it.  Back to the computer.  A little later, I saw the mouse go into the kitchen.  Followed it.  Nothing.  All afternoon that mouse crept around the apartment, running mousy circles around me, taunting me with every pass from the pantry to the living room to the kitchen.  It was Hide and Go Seek, and the mouse was winning.  At one point I saw it sitting in the hallway in front of the entrance to the kitchen, looking at me.  I swear I caught it sneering at me before vanishing into the kitchen for the third time that afternoon.

I began to feel like the little, neurotic chef from Ratatouille, convinced I was seeing a rodent who was doing its very best to trick me into believing exactly the opposite.

The next evening we checked the traps.  Nearly all the chocolate chips were gone, but the trap was otherwise untouched.  I blamed myself for not really sticking the chips into the peanut butter, so it must have been pretty easy for the mouse to grab without setting off the trap.  I reset them, this time truly embedding the chocolate chip, certain that now if the mouse wanted the chocolate, the act of wresting it out of the thick peanut butter would lead to its demise.

When we checked the traps again on Sunday night, we had decidedly reached the final final straw (all those other final straws were merely precursors).  Not only did the chocolate chip disappear from each trap, BUT THE PEANUT BUTTER WAS COMPLETELY GONE AS WELL!  The mouse had strategically gnawed, chewed, and licked the traps clean of all food, all without tripping the trigger on a single one.  Oh ho ho, little mousy.  Well done.  I'll give you that.

At this point Tomm and I decided we should invite the exterminator to take care of the problem professionally, but we don't have the direct number for our building's exterminator who comes twice a month, and the super wasn't around all day Sunday.  He didn't return my call on Monday, either.  But around 1:30 on Monday morning I was awoken from my slumber with sounds of a disturbance in the kitchen.  I thought I heard a SNAP, but then I heard a few more similar sounds and realized we simply didn't have that many traps set out.  I heard a little more rustling and went to investigate.

I turned the light on in the kitchen and nothing moved.  I checked all the spots I would normally see the mouse before it ran, and it wasn't anywhere.  I looked in the pantry and found nothing.  Back in the kitchen, I heard a rustling again and looked down to find the mouse desperately trying to hide behind the leg of a metal shelving unit with one of the old sticky traps on its back.  FINALLY!  I went toward it and held it down by the black plastic of the pad while it continued to try frantically to escape.  How would I actually get it, I wondered?  I couldn't pick it up with my bare hands, and I simply could not bring myself to squish it.  This mouse had caused trouble and eaten my food, sure, but it was still a living, breathing, terrified little creature and I didn't have the resolve to just kill it on my own.

I was shaken out of my existential crisis by the mouse who managed to pull away from me toward the back of the refrigerator.  The trap on its back kept it from moving away entirely, but it pulled and dislodged itself partially from the sticky pad, attached now only by its tail.  Oh no!  I had to find something to catch it with, hold it in, and when I went back to the mouse and tried pulling it toward me with the sticky pad, it pulled free completely and was gone.

I had practically held the mouse in the palm of my hand and it got away!  It left patches of fur on the sticky pad but it was alive and presumably still planning on returning.  I waited around in the kitchen for a while longer with a flashlight and a large bowl, hoping to trap it should I see it again, but my impatience and fatigue got the better of me and, defeated, I humbly sulked back to bed.

I'm still hoping to hear back from the super, but in the meantime we're getting a cat.  We're very excited about getting a pet and we're certainly not looking specifically for a mouser, but if this cat happens to gift me a lifeless rodent, I won't be disappointed.

Besides, I hear mousy heaven has plenty of chocolate chips.

Around the Shabbos [buffet] Table

I've mentioned before that I don't have any close friends or family who live here in New York, but Tomm does have a few and this week one of those friends invited us over for Shabbat dinner at his place on the Upper West Side.  It would be a bit of a schlep for us, and Tomm warned me that this friend of his (a former roommate from college) could sometimes take a little getting used to, but I was excited to do something outside the apartment and, what's more, with people my age.  That and it meant I would get a week off from cooking Shabbos dinner.  Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy cooking and I especially love preparing such an important meal, but sometimes it's nice to let someone else do it.  Of course, I couldn't go empty-handed so I baked a lemon olive oil Bundt cake for dessert, which turned out to be quite a crowd pleaser!

The journey would have taken about an hour by train had we planned it perfectly, but in reality it was closer to an hour and a half.  We didn't mind, and our host was utterly nonplussed at our tardiness, especially since we weren't nearly the last ones there.  All in all, there were around a dozen of us, all somehow friends with the host but many of us strangers to one another.  I felt good knowing that I wasn't the only one meeting new people, and what's more, I was in the company of very like-minded 20-somethings among whom the conversation flowed effortlessly and endlessly.

I quickly got into a conversation with an exceptionally kind woman who works as a linguist.  As it turns out, one of her primary second languages is French, in which I have a minor!  Though we didn't immediately switch to speaking in a language nobody else in the room would have understood, we did swap suggestions for French films and talk about how we absolutely must get together for home-cooked French food.  Her husband meandered over to Tomm at one point and commented on our sudden friendship, to which they both agreed "Now we just sit here quietly and let them talk."  Such understanding men we have!

The group as a whole was rather interested to hear about where I came from, and humorously impressed when I jokingly slipped into a thick Wisconsin accent.  I laughed when someone spoke of "the country" as a place where "there is dew on the grass," as opposed to my definition which involves cow excrement and bales of hay.  Yet even greater than our differences were our similarities, and I lost myself in the stories we told, forgetting that I was hearing them in a studio apartment just west of Central Park.  Still, I was thrilled by the opportunity to play the role of the small-town-girl-in-the-Big-City and to feel empowered by my experiences rather than dismissed for my naivete (the latter being a sentiment which I'm sure is internally, rather than externally motivated).  

It was one of those evenings, and one of those groups, where there were at least five conversations going on independently at any given moment.  If there was a lull in your own it wasn't hard to jump into another and be welcomed immediately, so long as you had a good story to share.  The good food, good drink, and good company kept us there much later than either of us had intended, but it was all worth it and made for an excellent night's sleep.  

Though I'd never want to live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, it's good to know there are plenty of people there with wide smiles, good stories, and a couple extra seats around the Shabbos table.  Someday soon I hope to return the favor.

A bit o' writer's block

There were a couple times this week where I wanted to write something, or even began writing, but lost the energy, motivation, or creative spark to complete it.  I also sometimes felt that what I had to say was too mundane or uninteresting to really make it worth writing.  Still, I want to write, so I'll share a few of the interesting things that happened throughout the last week:

On Sunday, Tomm and I treated ourselves to dinner at a restaurant in the neighborhood.  I say we treated ourselves, but really a friend of the family treated us with a generous gift certificate to the establishment.  When we got there I asked if we could use the gift certificate and the man looked at it quizzically, looked at me, took the slip of paper, and mumbled some comment or question about where it came from.  I suppose they don't have many patrons using or even requesting gift certificates.  When I told him it was a gift from a friend back home, he said "Oh right!  She ordered it from... where was it..." "Wisconsin," I offered.  "Ah, yes."  It's a small world.

After Tomm ordered, the man looked at us and said "You know how I can tell you're not from around here?  You said 'please' three times."  Apparently we stick out like sore thumbs with our Midwestern sensibilities, but at least it makes for a good laugh.  And as far as identifying habits are concerned, being overly polite isn't such a bad one.

The week was predominantly lazy, and I treated myself a couple times with swimming laps at the pool, finishing books, making trips to the library, and even going out once.  I've become an amateur fan of Meetups, the website dedicated to social groups and their outings, and the site led me to a Yoga group that happened to be meeting on Tuesday in Manhattan.  The group leader was hosting a free class, and though I haven't done yoga for years I've been itching to get back to it so I felt this was the perfect opportunity.  The weather was pristine for an evening of outdoor yoga on a pier by South Street Seaport, a wonderful little corner of the city.  I was swept away with the carefree, lazy-summer-day nonchalance that tinted the air that evening.  The passersby strolled to and from little boutiques and restaurants, some of which were delightfully impermanent and made you feel that you had to experience it just once before it drifted away with the summer breeze.  I suppose that's seasonal capitalism at its best, but I prefer a more poetic outlook.

The yoga group consisted of less than ten people, a cozy group suitable for the patch of grass on the roof of a restaurant on the pier.  Nearly surrounded by water, with a vast blue sky and a perfect panoramic view of Brooklyn with its sandy browns and reds, I wouldn't have needed the yoga to relax.  But once we felt the entirety of the group had arrived we began by adjusting our posture and finding our breath, and for the next hour I followed the instructor's soft voice through poses that I surprised myself by still remembering.

Afterward, feeling sufficiently relaxed and appropriately chill, I popped into a shop offering "artisanal lemonade," and ordered a "Coolcumber" lemonade with cucumber and basil.  It seemed like just the sort of yuppy drink one should have following yoga, and it was incredibly refreshing.  I smiled all the way home.

Yesterday I had a final interview for a part-time job at a public school in Manhattan, and it was conducted as a group interview.  It went well, but even more importantly for my social life I made a friend!  At least that's what facebook tells me.  But between that and yoga the day before, I feel like I've had more legitimate conversations with otherwise strangers this week than I have since I arrived.  It felt good.

After the interview, I made my way back to Brooklyn to meet the sister of a family friend who lives there with her wife and (as of today) one-year-old son.  On my way there I stopped for a slice of $1 pizza - just my price!  When I ordered it the man behind the counter said "Just one?  Okay.  One million dollars."  He agreed to give it to me for just a dollar, with the promise that I'd have the million next time.  Oh, those cheeky New Yorkers.  Ever so generous!

I had a lovely afternoon with the friend's sister and her adorable son, as well as her cat and dog, and we chatted for hours about working in New York, pets (I've resolved to get a cat at some point), children, and neighborhoods around Brooklyn.  She loves being in New York and specifically in Brooklyn, and she had no lack of good things to say about various areas.  However, she admits that not every neighborhood exemplifies what she views as the most endearing aspects of the borough, and I wondered if perhaps it might be best for us to find a community a little more to our liking for next year.  But we'll see how the rest of the year turns out.

And now I have about four hours until Tomm and I leave for a Shabbat dinner hosted by a friend, which gives me plenty of time to finish up a few errands and chores.  For the first week since I got here, my only responsibility for Shabbat dinner is the cake (which I nearly destroyed getting out of the Bundt pan but I think it's salvageable), so I'm enjoying the relaxing afternoon and looking forward to Shabbat.

(P.S.  Sorry if this post seems a little disjointed.  I wrote it in between playing a game of "Hide and Go Seek" with the mouse in our apartment.  I think it's winning.)

Shul Shopping, Part II

As I mentioned last week, I had the intention of checking out the fourth and final synagogue on my list on Saturday morning.  Before I left I double-checked the list I had written, based on the recommendations of the Jewish chaplain at the hospital where Tomm works.  He told me the street and closest cross street of each synagogue, and this one he said was "Between 14th and 15th."  So, I headed in that direction.

Upon crossing 14th, I started looking for the shul.  Surrounding me were Jewish men in shtreimels (fur hats) and long, black, silk bekeshes (coats or robes) - definitely not the type of dress one would typically find in a modern orthodox synagogue.  And I did find a couple synagogues, but none of them featured the name I had written down or bore any resemblance to the kind of shul I was expecting.  Considering I didn't see a single woman near the entrances of any of these synagogues (keeping in mind that many orthodox women - especially the most strictly observant - do not attend synagogue services), I decided to forgo the quest of the Shul #4 and turn instead to Shul #3 which was right around the corner.

This time I sat in the lower women's section next to the men, separated by a wooden mechitza designed in such a way that I really had a decent view of what was going on.  I heard a bit better, though the person leading services this week was definitely not a vocally trained chazzan and I can't imagine I would have heard anything at all had I been sitting in the balcony.  The service was uneventful and afterward there was still no kiddush, so I didn't have much of an excuse or opportunity to strike up a conversation with any of the congregants.  Since I was sitting in a different area nobody seemed to recognize me, so after services I filed out along with everyone else and went silently on my way.

When I told Tomm about my experience and mentioned that they were looking for sponsors for a monthly kiddush, he offhandedly suggested we sponsor one.  Depending on what kind of kiddush they might be expecting, that's actually a rather brilliant idea.  It would certainly be a wonderful way to make ourselves known in the community and might help us meet our neighbors.  Then again, if I'm not 100% sure about dedicating myself to this shul, even for only a year, it might be a little disingenuous and I would surely be struck with unbearable Jewish guilt if I decided not to become a member.  Still, it's definitely an idea worthy of consideration and after the High Holy Days I'll give it more thought.

The Shul Shopping experience has given me a lot to think about in terms of Orthodox Judaism, where I fall along the spectrum of religious observance, and how I relate to others in the Jewish community.  It has also led me to do some cursory research into the perspectives of other religious Jewish woman as portrayed in blogs and articles on the Internet.  What I'm finding is very interesting for a lot of reasons, and my reactions to it will require their own blog post - so stay tuned!

Oh, and by the way, I looked up Shul #4 online and finally found it on the map -- a block further than I was told.  Maybe I'll try it out later, but Tomm has off next Saturday so I think I'll bring him to Shul #3 to see what he thinks.

And grass grew in the street

I have grown up privileged.

All my life I was surrounded by grass.  Not always green grass, mind you, nor in overwhelming quantities, but it was grass nonetheless.  Grass in front of my house, behind my house, and to the side.  Grass in my neighbors' yards - front, back, and side.  Grass marking the distance between the sidewalk and the street where trees grew at intervals.  Grass in the parks, the school yards, the memorials.  Grass that thrived openly and freely without fences to dictate its borders.

With the grass came other joys.  The smell of it freshly cut, the childhood delight of whispering the seeds off dandelions, the feel of it beneath one's bare feet, and all the other equally and overly poeticized activities associated with it.

I wasn't raised a country gal, but I took grass for granted.

In New York City, things are different.  Grass is harder to come by and has been replaced by stone, steel, and glass.  I walked through a neighborhood the other day where there was actually grass in front of the tightly-packed row of homes and I thought aloud "These must be the rich people."  Grass is found in the parks, where it is lush and green and manicured and contained, orderly and appropriately mindful of its place in the concrete jungle.

Today I ventured to the Lower East Side of Manhattan for a job interview (yay!).  On my way back to the train afterward I decided to wander a bit because it was a beautiful day out and I really didn't have anywhere I needed to be.  So I strolled through NoHo along Lafayette and rather enjoyed eyeing up the small shops and trendy restaurants surrounding grand buildings like The Public Theater.  It was just the right mix of classic and contemporary that made me smile and feel good about the day.

And then, as I crossed an old cobblestone street whose uneven crags and crevices were an unexpected but welcome challenge for my short and uncomfortable heels, I noticed something peaking between the smooth, worn stones.  There, unobtrusive and unassuming, were the bright green slivers of grass growing outside its mandated boundaries imposed by the New York Department of Parks and Recreation.  I considered it and smiled as I walked along, slowing my pace just enough to observe it fully but careful to make it to the other side of the intersection before the red hand stopped blinking.

A tree grows in Brooklyn while grass grows in NoHo.

I may not be in my comfort zone and I may feel overwhelmed at times by my new surroundings, but if a few blades of young grass can make it in the most unlikely of places, then so can I.

"Too much time on my hands"

It's a darn good thing Jews don't subscribe to the concept of the Seven Deadly Sins, because if we did I would undoubtedly be guilty of sloth.  I certainly wouldn't want my watching an entire season of a show on Netflix over the course of a few days to be the cause of some Divine wrath.  Besides, I don't think our renters insurance would cover the couch if it were mysteriously struck by lightening on a perfectly sunny day.

Since I was 15, I have always had a job or been a full-time student, and sometimes both concurrently.  Every summer I have had at least a part-time job, typically working between 20 and 35 hours a week which is just enough to keep one occupied.  This summer, for the first time, I am unoccupied.  Sure, moving was a big deal and the weeks surrounding the  move were hectic and busy, but now that everything is unpacked, organized, filed away, and set in its appropriate place, I find myself without a whole lot to do.

"But it's New York!" you implore.  Yes, yes. New York City, center of the universe (bonus points if you can identify the song I just alluded to), but I seem to be suffering from the same malady which affects so many of today's youth:  "I'm booooorrred.  There's nothing to DO.  Ugh."

It's hot and sticky again outside and quite frankly I'd much rather hang out on the couch in front of a fan or the air conditioning instead of venturing to the subway where the stagnant heat is amplified to an impressive impersonation of a warm oven.  And sure, it might be a small price to pay for the reward of lounging in a library or a coffee shop or under a shaded tree in the park, but it always comes back to the same old excuse - that I simply don't want to.

Don't get me wrong, I have things to do around here, and I've been doing them.  Laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, cooking, more grocery shopping, more cooking.  I'm actually finding that I kind of enjoy participating in these very domestic activities.  They're comforting.  Making a home feel like a home is comforting.  Walking out to brush shoulders with silent strangers is not quite as comforting.

I keep hoping this is a temporary thing, but my job hunt over the past couple months has, so far, been disheartening.  The application-to-response ratio is less than ideal, and the application-to-interview ratio is even worse.  Being a young and relatively inexperienced teacher is challenging enough as it is when everyone seems to want "Two years of experience, required," but being a young, inexperienced teacher in a field that is rapidly dissipating in public schools is even worse.  I want to be a music teacher.  Specifically, I want to be a strings teacher for a school orchestra.  Not only are there an aggravatingly small  number of jobs in that field, but they're disappearing before our eyes as schools are forced to focus more on the core subjects of math and English Language Arts (ELA).

This could be a rant about the state of music education in today's schools, but I'll leave that for another day.  For the moment I'm just frustrated at my lack of occupation and afraid of how long this may continue.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find another TV series to get hooked on.

Shul Shopping

Three weeks.  Three shuls.  One neighborhood.  Oy.

I'll admit, this is a vastly different scenario than anything I've previously experienced.  Back home, I never had so many choices.  There's a longstanding joke among Jews about the two Jewish men on an island who build three synagogues: "One for me, one for you, and the one we never go to."  But at home we only had one shul for our small but dedicated community.  In college I had a few more options, but even in my neighborhood I was limited to two: the one I went to and the one I never stepped foot in.

Before moving I wondered what I might find in terms of a shul and a community.  The fact that I was moving to the Mecca of orthodox Judaism was of no consolation, since it wasn't exactly my favorite flavor of Jewish observance.  My mom suggested I start my search with a simple search through Google Maps in order to at least make a list of my opportunities.  A smart idea, to be sure, and one which I had already done.  The results?  A map dotted in red like sprinkles on a child's ice cream.  So  many from which to choose!  Right?  Eh....

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, I'm looking for a very specific brand of Judaism which is a little hard to come by in this particular part of Brooklyn.  Ultimately, based on suggestions and a little research, I was able to make a list of four synagogues to try out.  I'd like to document some of my experiences thus far, categorized and turned into a game as only a good, slightly obsessive analysis should be:

The Space
Each synagogue I've attended in the last three weeks has been bigger and grander than the last.  The first one I went to was old.  And squeaky.  It was a little dark, a little musty, but in many ways not so far removed from what I've grown to know.  Last week the place was larger, the sanctuary brighter, and everything a little more impressive.  I was astonished then when I walked into the women's gallery at the shul this week.  The sanctuary was actually a little breathtaking.  The large domed ceiling with a Star of David in lights at its apex, the Ark with its filigree and intricately carved designs, the exceptionally tall stained glass windows lining both sides...it was impressive.  I'm not suggesting that the beauty of a space is the most important - or even a substantial - element in picking a place of worship, but it does give some insight into the community that maintains it.  In this category, Shuls #2 and #3 are in a tie: both beautiful, #3 slightly more beautiful, but the larger space made it a little harder to hear because of the echoing.  

The Mechitza
As I mentioned in a previous post, the women in Orthodox synagogues sit separately from the men.  This is a longstanding tradition going back to the times of the Temple and, according to some sources, the Bible, and is typically explained as a means to keep the men from being distracted from their prayer.  This is a tradition that my family has upheld even when we're in a synagogue that doesn't require such a separation, so I'm all for it.  There are a number of ways of maintaining this separation or partition, known as the mechitza.  At the synagogue where I was first introduced to the concept, the men and women were separated by a curtain running through the middle down the length of the room.  In other synagogues, women sit behind the men with a similar curtain separating the sections.  Still others have the women in a balcony or mezzanine seated slightly above the men either to the side or behind (not always a full floor above), usually with a curtain, opaque glass, or two-way mirrors to obscure the men's view of the women.  

The first synagogue I attended here had the women's section above and to the side of the men, with a tall wooden barrier obscuring not only the men's view of me, but mine of the service.  Last week, the women were seated in an upstairs gallery behind the men, but there was also a tall curtain affixed to extend the height of the barrier.  I could see a little and I heard better than the previous week, but only by a small margin.  I wasn't even able to see when Tomm was given an honor at one point in the service.  True to Jewish form, he has made me feel appropriately guilty.  Also true to Jewish form, I'm convinced I deserve the guilt.  Many thanks to my mother and mother-in-law for successfully passing on that little tradition.

In the shul I attended today, the women's gallery was exceptionally expansive.  The balcony was three-sided, plus there was a women's section alongside the men's separated by a wooden mechitza.  There was no additional curtain in the balcony, just the regular railing one might expect, so my view of the service was unobstructed.  Shul #3 wins this round, hands down.

The Service
In Judaism, a service is a service.  It has an order that everyone follows.  Within Orthodoxy, there is usually very little variation.  Maybe a little more song here, faster speaking there, and there are a few places for a community's individual expression, but typically you know what to expect.  The difference, to me, is all in the sense of community.  At the first synagogue I felt very little community.  The second and third, slightly more.  The last two weeks have been almost identical in terms of the service: I felt equally comfortable during certain parts, and equally lost during others (like at the start of the Torah service when I was fumbling to find exactly where we were starting and to listen to the person reading whose voice, because of the large space and the speed at which they were reading, got muddled and lost before it reached my ears).  That's something I could get used to, though.

The other part of the sense of community is in its participation.  In some congregations, they're content to just be there, doing their thing, while someone with a better (read: louder) voice takes care of business up front.  Then there are others where it's a true community effort with everyone singing, taking turns, helping out, and basically making it feel like a community.  That's what I grew up with.  It's where I come from, and it's what I rely on.  In Shul #1, the chazzan (cantor or prayer leader) was perhaps more a leader than a singer.  In Shul #3, the chazzan was skilled but solitary in his singing.  In Shul #2, the chazzan had a beautiful, powerful, resounding voice which carried the melodies skillfully throughout the space and made the golden walls seem just a little brighter.  I could hear that there were also congregants with similar talents; during a few uniquely melodious parts of the service I heard the men join with him in harmony.

Unfortunately, in every shul the women did not join in.  Whether this was because of an adherence to a custom that married women shouldn't sing in mixed company or because they simply don't consider themselves singers is beyond me.  Either way, I was not entirely encouraged to join in, but because music is such an integral part to my Jewish experience, I couldn't stop myself from singing countermelodies and harmonies under my breath when I could.

Shul #2: you win this one, in spite of the women's silence.

The People
I've written about my experiences with the people at the first shul, so you're already familiar with my not-so-great impressions of that community.  Last week the women were much friendlier and more inviting, especially at the kiddush after services.  They were warm and excitedly wished me gut shabbos while encouraging me to come again, and when I introduced them to Tomm they were thrilled about the kallah and chosson (bride and groom) in their midst.  This week, I didn't have much of an opportunity to really speak to anyone since they didn't host a kiddush afterwards (odd...), but there were a few women who wished me gut shabbos and overall they seemed pretty welcoming.  I'd have to go back and speak to them more to get a better idea.  Shul #2 would win except that a negative interaction Tomm had with a congregant makes me hesitant to give them the award for this round.  So for now, this round has no clear winner.

In Conclusion, it's pretty plain to see that Shul #1 is simply out of the running.  It's not their fault, really; I just have high expectations.  I was fairly content at Shul #2 but Tomm wasn't quite as pleased, so it's not at the top of my list.  Shul #3 was also very nice but I'd have to go again or speak with some people there to get a better idea of the community.  I still have one more on my list which I'll attend next week, and I'll update you with the results of the contest.

Settling in

I never would have guessed, but a laundromat is actually a rathter pleasant place to write.  I don't have a WiFi connection here so Facebook and Gmail have no hope of distracting me from this document.  The gentle hum of the dryers sends a subtle but noticeable tremor though the chair, and the sloshing churn of the washing machines has a calming effect with its promise of clean laundry.  Surely, there are few pleasures in life more simple than clean laundry: warm sheets, clean shirts, fresh starts.

It's been more than a week since my dad and I landed at La Guardia airport.  I don't know what's changed, but unlike the last time I was here when after a week I wanted nothing more than to be rid of this place, I'm actually feeling rather comfortable this time around.  Dare I say...happy?  Optimistic?  Over the last week I have been fairly productive around the apartment, putting things away and organizing and arranging and making it homey.  I have found a laundromat with inexpensive machines and nice people.  I have gotten into at least one surprisingly pleasant conversation with a couple wonderfully nice strangers and also taken their advice about checking out a nearby free public pool (which features Olympic-length lanes for swimming laps - YAY!  Also - pain).  I have cooked a few really tasty meals for Tomm, including Shabbat dinner last Friday with cholent for lunch on Saturday. 

Since arriving I've had no shortage of free time.  In fact, this is the longest period of time I've gone without being employed since I was in high school (not counting the 5 month Ulpan where I worked part time, even if it wasn't employment, per se).  I've been wondering what will happen come September when teachers and students fill the schools once again.  Will I be among them?  I have sent my resume to dozens of schools and educational programs in response to their job postings, and so far I have only had a couple interviews.  Very few of the postings are for full-time positions, which seems to be the way music education is going these days.  I have no choice but to remain optimistic, yet every so often reality pushes its way into my psyche and reminds me that getting a job as a music teacher, especially as an orchestra teacher, is among the harder things to achieve in today's educational climate and economy.

But it's only the beginning of August, so I still have at least two weeks before I REALLY have to freak out.  Until then, I'll just enjoy having the time to do things around the apartment, go swimming, and cook tasty meals for Tomm.

Brooklyn, Baby!

Well, it's official.  Brooklyn is my new home.  I know this because, as I said before, home is where the bear is and I have photo evidence to prove it: 

Bear enjoyed the flight.

I flew in on Tuesday with my dad and around 250 lbs worth of stuff to finalize the move. I wondered why this move seemed to involve more stuff than any previous move, and then it occurred to me that all previous moves were less than an hour away and allowed me to make multiple trips to pick up the random odds and ends I needed.  This move, on the other hand, does not really give me the freedom to leave important possessions behind, and so I am incredibly thankful for Southwest Airlines' generous baggage policy.

My dad had never really had an opportunity to sight-see around New York, so after dropping off everything at the apartment and indulging in pastrami sandwiches at a Kosher restaurant we took the train to Times Square.  Tomm took me there on one of our first nights in New York so naturally, this being my second time, I was a seasoned pro (which does not explain how we both got swindled out of a few dollars...a lesson well-learned).  We marveled at the advertisements, the buildings, the people, the old naked woman with the crazy hair and the guitar not-so-strategically positioned.  We took pictures of everything (except the naked woman - sorry folks) and acted thoroughly touristy.  

Times Square, where
people watching gets
seriously meta.

As far as I can tell, if you're not shopping around there really isn't terribly much to do around Times Square except people watch.  After a fair amount of people watching we made our way to the Empire State Building.  We chose not to spend a ridiculous amount of money to stand in a line and ride an elevator, so we took pictures in the lobby then stopped at a Starbucks in the building and went to the basement instead.  

Ok, I'll admit, seeing Lady Liberty up close
was pretty cool.

The next day we went to the Statue of Liberty.  We didn't plan that one far enough in advance so we didn't even have a prayer of going up to the crown, though I'm told that we should consider ourselves lucky since there is no elevator in Lady Liberty and walking up those stairs in July would have made us wish the French had never given us the statue in the first place.  Thankfully, we maintained our goodwill toward the French by staying at the ground level, walking around the island, and taking pictures.  Once back in Manhattan, we considered walking to the new One World Trade Center, colloquially known as "Freedom Tower."  However it was hot, our feet hurt, I was dehydrated, and we wouldn't have had time to get lunch and make the trek.  Between walking and food, there was a clear winner.  We were in the business district so we weren't exactly surrounded by cute, quaint cafes, but the fruit vendor on the corner had particularly appetizing fare.  Our lunch ended up being fresh fruit from the vendor plus yogurt, coffee, and a pastry from Starbucks, eaten in front of a fountain in a pleasantly shady Bowling Green.

Alas, it was time to go back to the apartment and get ready to take my dad to the airport.  I successfully managed to drive us to La Guardia without inciting too much hatred or ennui in my fellow drivers.  I think I only got honked at once!  

One of the most interesting things about spending a few days in  New York with my dad was that I realized how drastically different some of our experiences were, and all because of our perspectives.  My first time in New York I was bitter.  The people offended my sensibilities and the city offended my senses.  The tall buildings felt imposing and oppressive.  The endless stream of advertisements in Times Square felt like an unwelcome barrage of demands by corporations to Go There! Do This! Buy That!  Conversely, he was impressed and excited, optimistic about everything he experienced.  He stood in awe of the impressive architecture, the beautiful vista of the Manhattan skyline, the wealth and variety of people.  Times Square fascinated him with its sensational displays of people and products.  To him, a man with an artistic photographer's eye, everything was a colorful portrait of life in The City with a brush stroke for every person running past in their own pursuits.  

Looking through the lens of my little camera, there were moments when I, too, saw that beauty.  Every so often a building or a scene would catch my eye and my breath, though I still preferred to behold it from a distance instead of in its midst.  In the last couple days, there were a few people whose kindness was suddenly apparent whereas before I'd found it hard to appreciate.  By the end of the day, I was happy to be back in my apartment with Tomm, feeling perhaps for the first time that I was home.