What I Did Over My Summer Vacation

The mood to write doesn't strike me as often as I'd like. When I am overworked, stressed, or just plain tired after each day of hard work, I find I am simply uninterested in the prospect of sitting in front of my computer and doing anything productive.  I'd much rather sit back and enjoy mindless amusement in as passive a manner as possible.  And usually that's what I do.

This summer I have been working at a Jewish day camp for children ages 5 to 12 and Friday was our last day.  It has been an astonishing experience and I finally have the wherewithal to sit down and reflect on it.

The camp was located on Staten Island which, though technically part of New York City, has a fair share of roughly wooded areas that are home to a number of summer camps. Every day I took a yellow school bus full of young campers over the Verrazano and into a campground where instead of car horns and angry commuters I heard insects and laughing children. Every day I enjoyed escaping the right-angled city to a place with open-sided shelters and winding gravel paths, preferring the shade of trees to the shade of apartment buildings. I came home covered in bug bites, dirt, and tan lines, (although honestly, I think I've sustained more mosquito bites from the couple of mosquitoes living in our apartment than I did all summer at camp.) and I was happy.

My position at the camp was a Division Head, and I was in charge of all the campers and counselors in 2nd grade, known at camp as the Grapes Division. I developed and enforced systems and procedures used in our shelter, supervised and directed all the counselors in the division, responded to all parent questions and concerns, and worked closely with the directing staff to ensure a successful summer for everyone. I worked a great deal beyond the 7.5 hours we spent at camp five days a week, but although the hours were long I enjoyed the summer immensely.

Never before have I been in a supervisory or administrative position, and I am incredibly happy I took this opportunity. At first, I thought the most challenging aspect of the job would be working with parents and their anxieties. I was warned there would be crazy parents, kind parents, aggressive parents, and over-sensitive parents. It was true, I encountered all those types of parents, but what they didn't tell me that all most parents are looking for is to be assured and reassured that their child is receiving the best care possible when they aren't around to supervise. And once I was able to calm or assuage their concerns and fears, it was usually smooth sailing from that point forward.

What they didn't tell me was that the most challenging part would be supervising high school and college-aged counselors who are not as receptive to suggestion or reprimand as the average 2nd grader. While I am confident in my classroom and behavior management skills as an elementary school music teacher, I found that reminding a 20-year-old to hand in progress reports on time or reprimanding a slew of staff members for their poor attendance was not nearly so straightforward. I constantly wondered how I was doing: if I was too harsh or not harsh enough, too friendly, too standoffish, too accommodating, too forgiving. You name it, I considered it. I compared myself constantly to the other division heads whose personalities and supervising styles were so drastically different from my own. By the end of the summer I knew that my counselors liked me, but did they respect me? Was I effective?

Ultimately, I think the answer to that question is yes, I was effective, because the Grapes Division was among the most well-run on camp and had some of the happiest counselors. Still, I am already thinking of ways to change and improve for next year.

Unlike the other Division Heads, I had no prior experience at a day camp. When I was younger I attended an overnight camp for four weeks every summer, but the two camping experiences are drastically different in many ways. (In fact, I remember all of us campers dreading the week when the young kids from the affiliated day camp came to see what sleepaway camp was all about. I regret that we made fun of them mercilessly behind their backs. Day camp simply wasn't nearly as cool as sleepaway camp. We were clearly just obnoxious teenagers.) Not only have I never had experience at a day camp, but I had never so much as worked at a camp before this. I was truly jumping into the deep end with little more than a bachelor's, a teaching license, and ambition to keep me afloat. Now, at summer's end, I can honestly say that not only did I not sink, but I swam with the best of 'em.

While I'm sure Tomm would tell you a different story based on my occasional rants at home, I really did have a wonderful summer. Today I got so many hugs by campers and counselors alike, and my directors told me in no uncertain terms that they intend to see me next summer. I feel buoyed by the success of the summer, especially considering it was a job that required a very different set of skills than what I use during the school year. I was challenged, I learned, I taught, I guided, I planned. I used my skills and developed new ones. I grew. And so did my campers and counselors.

I am still a music teacher. I will still return to the public school in a few weeks to teach lessons on steady beat and dynamics and playing rhythm sticks. I am still dedicated to the pursuit of education through sound and song. But spending my NYC summers in a forest with sun and mosquitoes and smiling children doesn't seem so bad. 

Back to the blog

John Lennon once sang "Life is what happens to you when you're busy ignoring your blog."

Or, y'know, something like that.

In any case, it's been well over a month since I last wrote and you can generally assume that I haven't written because I've been busy.  First it was preparing for Passover (spring cleaning with a deadline, as my mom likes to describe it), complete with making my very first seder.  Then it was actually Passover, which was surprisingly busy. Then it was full-tilt concert preparation, hard core apartment hunting, New York State teacher's licencing tests, applying for graduate school, and a few other obligations.  Thankfully, most of the hard work of the last two months appears to be paying off.

Big news number 1: I made it through my first really, truly, honest-to-goodness, did-it-all-by-myself Pesach!  Passover is one of those holidays that requires so much work and has so many laws, traditions, and procedures associated with it that I avoided "making Pesach" whenever I could.  As a college student, I either went home for the holiday or stayed with my aunt and uncle. Even in my apartment last year I ate as many meals as I could elsewhere so I didn't actually have to buy new food, new dishes, or cover my countertops.  This year, however, I couldn't get out of it.  Not only that, but I was also making a small seder for three for the first night.  Thankfully I think I pulled it off, and it wasn't even quite as scary as I thought it might be.

Big news number 2: We found a new apartment!  Although our current apartment is a total steal in NYC and the hubby is a block away from work, the neighborhood leaves something to be desired. Since finding a synagogue and community that has yet to disappoint me, we started looking for an apartment closer to that neighborhood.  It was a long and arduous search, but I am happy to announce we found a place only a few blocks from shul and we're signing the lease on Tuesday.

Big news number 3: My spring concerts for the Pre-K through 3rd grade classes at my school has been a source of great stress for me the last few weeks, but after a few hours of very successful rehearsals on Friday, I'm actually looking quite forward to them.  The theme is "Music Through the Decades," and each class has a song to represent a particular genre and decade.  Early American folk, 30s swing, 60s R&B, 70s pop, 80s hard rock, you name it.  The kids have worked so hard, and after hearing them on stage I am extremely excited for the performances next week.  Admittedly, though, I'm not sure if I'm primarily excited for the concerts or for them to be done.  Either way, I'm looking forward to it.

Big news number 4: Applied for grad school.  Will hopefully get in.  Will keep you updated.

Tonight after Shabbat I had every intention of finally tackling some of the house chores that I have been putting off for the last two weeks, but somehow I'm sitting at the computer instead.  For the first time in two months I'm feeling like things are actually under control, and I am so chilled that even the piles of laundry on the floor aren't bothering me.  It'll all get done. The worst of it is over. And pretty soon, I'll be able to relax in a brand new place to call home.

Open Mic Night at the Tea Lounge

From the outside, it resembles any of the other establishments in Park Slope with its unspoken air of haughty snobbery. It's surrounded on all sides by yoga, sushi, and a food co-op. It's easy to pass by unless you know what you're looking for, with the exception of one innocuous piece of furniture by the entrance: the backseat of an old van where a bearded man sits smoking a cigarette. The sound of indie beats creeps under the crooked door which gives way to a nonconformist's wet dream. Subdued lighting obscures the individuals while highlighting the MacBooks, their emblazoned apples dotting the room like fireflies.

Tonight we are infiltrating a world to which we don't belong. Let's hope we go unnoticed so we can sip our Darjeeling and hot cocoa in peace.

It is a tea house/bar/cafe/artist's haven. On this particular night they are having an open mic and everyone has turned up to hear the singers and comedians perform. Scarves, knitted hats, and unnatural hair color fill the room like nametags at a hipster's convention. The attendees are mostly people in their 20s and 30s, plus a couple token old men who wish they were. Long-haired hippies and modern philosophers, feminists and people with a cause, vegans and vegetarians and the gluten free by choice, and a few straight-laced polo-wearing guys who are here to get their piece of the grungy homemade experience they can't get in pristine Park Slope. And us.

Each wall is a different color, as if every time they had to repaint they only had enough for one can of whatever color was on clearance. The floor is uneven and unfinished, and the furniture makes it look like the sofa section of St. Vincent de Paul's. Somehow, underground Bedouin chic works for this place and the people lounging on every available cushion.

First up: classical Spanish guitar meets Snoop Dogg. It's a Latino with a sweet voice and a classical guitar singing Nelly mashups.

Between acts: "What's your favorite sport?" asks the MC. "Meditation" yells the girl next to me.

Next act: a small, uncertain Asian man standing at the mic with an iPod and an iPad. He sings a song about the subway that makes you wonder if you should laugh at the candor or listen in silent admiration at his belting bluesy voice with the telltale accent of a reformed Midwestern. Sure enough, he's from Ohio.

Third: middle aged man with a turtle neck and Dockers, singing about online dating.

Fourth: a guy approaches the mic with a mbira. Singing and playing thumb piano. Pretty cool, actually. Impressive. Next song he gets a little more traditional with a folk guitar.

In between each set the MC works his comedy on the apathetic crowd. I begin to wonder if laughter is too mainstream. At some point he starts speaking solely to the few people sitting immediately stageside.

Next up: keys and drums duo where the sound feels a little too big for the space and I can't be sure the two are entirely in sync. But they're having fun and it reminds me of the jam sessions I used to have with an amateur band in Israel. Not meant for anyone's pleasure but their own, and in a space like this that's ok.

Sixth: a vocal duo comprised of a black guy wearing a ridiculous ill-fitting winter hat, a busty white girl with thick-rimmed glasses, and one beautiful blend of voices serenading the diminishing crowd.

Seventh: the hip hop freestyler wearing a button up shirt and tie with a black scarf draped around his neck.

Number eight: Jamaican hip hop artist trying to infuse a little more excitement in the room than we have, but we go along with it.

Nine: a bald man who reminds me of James Taylor with folksy lyrics, an easy voice, and six steel strings. A far cry from the performer who proceeded him but a change of pace that feels normal in this hodgepodge home of rebels and dreamers.

Last: like the last performer, but 20 years younger with a sound 20 years newer.

The one thing each performer has in common is the complete and total honesty with which they approach the stage, ready and willing to share their passion with a roomful of critical strangers. This open mic is bringing out some impressive talent - timid people with big voices and big dreams, probably confined in their own lives until they get to the microphone and set their voices free.

As for the audience, I know I'm being harsh on this crowd of strangers, but it really is fascinating to observe this particular side of Brooklyn in a large group. The fact of the matter is, though, Tomm and I are probably not as far removed from them as we'd like to make ourselves believe.

Shul Shopping, Part III

The Holiday Season is in full swing and along with it come plenty of opportunities to go to the synagogue.  We began with Rosh Hashanah two weeks ago, then last Saturday many of us spent a good portion of 25 hours in the synagogue and not eating.  Just four days later we commenced the celebration of Sukkot, that bizarre Jewish holiday in which Jews suddenly become carpenters and build strange huts in their yards topped with bamboo sticks, tree branches, or corn stalks.  Oh, and we also say a blessing while holding onto the trimmed branches of three different trees (date palm, willow, and myrtle) plus an Israeli citrus fruit called an etrog and shake them all around.  It's all very symbolic.  Take my word for it.  

Here are some pictures if you have no idea what I'm talking about:

A traditional sukkah
Source: The Mendel Sukkah, sukkot.com

The Lulav and Etrog
Source: Blueenayim, dreamstime.com

With all these opportunities to go to the synagogue, it can be a bit of a challenge to get in the holiday spirit if you aren't enjoying the congregation with which you're spending so much time.  I spent all of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at Shul #3 which, although it was the best of the three I tried out, still lacked much of what I was looking for.  By the powerful concluding service of the holiest day of the year, culminating with one long blast of the shofar (ram's horn), I knew I needed to start looking for another shul to call home.  I've already written at length about my dissatisfaction in my own neighborhood so it shouldn't surprise you that I needed to look a little further.

A quick search on Google Maps for "Modern Orthodox Synagogue Brooklyn" provided a couple other options.  I'm sure there are more synagogues than appeared in the search results, but any synagogue that has an Internet presence is probably closer to what I'm looking for anyway.  To my dismay, the next closest synagogue was three miles away, which wouldn't be so bad if I weren't planning on walking to shul every Shabbat.  But I'll get to that later.

I walked to the synagogue on Thursday morning and entered to find that although I was fifteen minutes late for the service, they hadn't yet begun.  I actually took this as a good sign.  There's this thing known as "Jewish Standard Time" in which everything starts later than expected, and I'm very used to that way of doing things in a synagogue.  The building was a bit smaller than the other three I had been to, but the sanctuary was bright, open, and featured a single curtained mechitza down the center of the room.  This barrier was designed as sectioned frames on wheels so they can be moved and manipulated as necessary, and even removed entirely for an event in which they'll allow a mixed crowd.  There were no pews; instead, there were rows of chairs set up, again making for a very convertible space.  The ceiling featured a domed skylight, and the morning sun poured freely into the space.

The service featured a great deal of singing, much of which was accomplished by the untrained voices of the congregation, a small but delightfully boisterous bunch.  Unlike the other synagogues in which most people seemed to sit back and let the leaders do their job, I felt that the members of this congregation were more personally involved with the service and with one another.  I especially smiled when one paragraph was read out loud in English by an old man in the back - the same paragraph that my Dad has had the honor of reading in our synagogue for years.  We use a different translation, but the message was the same: we want you to pray with us, and we want you to understand it.  Let's face it.  It can get really easy to forget what's actually being said when you're praying in another language.

By the end of the service, there were maybe 30 people in attendance (a high estimate, perhaps), and most of us went to the sukkah for the kiddush reception.  By the way, it was a single kiddush, with a single table.  Finally!  A kiddush for the men and women together!  At the kiddush, I could tell that people were friendly, but nobody really approached me to say hello.  I was a little dismayed until I decided to leave and the rabbi stopped me at the door.

"Hello.  You're new here.  Where are you from?"
"I just moved to Borough Park."
"Oh?  And what are you doing all the way over here?"
"Well, I didn't like any of the shuls in my neighborhood, so I came here."

We spoke a bit longer, he invited me to lunch, and I politely declined because I told him I had to get back to have lunch with my fiance.  So he invited both of us for the following day.  Before leaving, I told him:

"Y'know, of all the shuls I've been to around here, you're the only rabbi who has spoken to me.  Thank you.  I really appreciate that."

He seemed stunned.

The  next day I convinced Tomm to come with me, and after services we were approached and welcomed by the president of the congregation, the Rabbi (who wished us mazel tov on our engagement and confirmed our acceptance for his lunch invitation), and the old man who read the paragraph in English.  Additionally, I was invited to lunch by the rabbi's wife who I didn't realize was the rabbi's wife, so I declined only to find that it was her food I was eating an hour later.  At kiddush, someone helped us when he realized we hadn't managed to get a bit of the wine after the blessing was made, and when kiddush seemed to be ending and we had lost track of the rabbi, the old man from before said "Oh we'll get you to that lunch!  Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Music to my ears.

The lunch table was graced by many of the congregants and the rabbi's 20 children (okay, maybe there were only 12), and I managed to get into pleasant conversations with a few other people.  After a fabulous meal replete with salads, fish, chicken schnitzel (Tomm's favorite), potatoes, vegetables, and a scrumptious dessert, we had to take our leave early because of Tomm's work schedule.  The best part for him?  Not a single person raised an eyebrow or protested about the fact that he was working on Shabbat.  Instead, everyone treated him with the respect owed to a hardworking doctor, recognizing that there is no greater mitzvah (commandment or good deed) than to save a life, even if it means working on Shabbat.

Speaking of working on Shabbat:  Many of us - regardless of our faith background - are familiar with the precept to "do no work" on the Sabbath.  It is, after all, the reason many Christian establishments are closed on Sundays.  Throughout the Jewish community this commandment is observed to varying degrees depending on the individual's  level of religiosity (wow, that's actually a word?).  However on the Orthodox side of the spectrum there is a very little room for debate; the 39 categories of labor that define "work" are clearly delineated and avoided on Shabbat.  They go beyond the commonly understood definition of "performing a service in exchange for money" and extend into such activities as building, baking, and lighting a fire.  These categories provide the framework for the myriad of rules that observant Jews follow in order to create and experience a holy, joyous holiday every single week.

While I do my best to observe the Sabbath, I do so in a way that is comfortable for me, a way is constantly in flux.  I haven't reached the point where I strictly follow all the laws of Shabbat and I am still trying to figure out what works for me to make the day holy.  There are a few things I do my best to avoid, such as spending money, working (I refuse to work at a job for which I am paid on the Sabbath), and driving.  I have my own excuses for certain things, like using the phone in order to stay connected to my family on Shabbat and thereby make my experience more enjoyable, and while that may change with time it suits me for now.  As for driving, that is something I definitely try to avoid, especially driving to the synagogue.  But when the synagogue is three miles and a full hour each way by foot - potentially through pouring rain, snow, extreme temperatures, and other cumbersome natural phenomena - driving or riding on the bus becomes a much more appealing option.  For example, today, when I was just plain tired and didn't want to get up early enough to make the trek.  Had I resigned myself to taking the bus I could've cut the commute in half and felt much more willing to go.  But I was lazy, so I didn't attend services today.

I want to walk, I really do.  But I may have to consider what's really important in terms of my Jewish practice and experience.  If avoiding transportation means not going to shul and missing out on the positive experiences of participation in a community, then am I really making Shabbat holy?  I realize that for the more observant Jews out there, this is a non-issue.  This isn't even a discussion.  But the spirit of the law means just as much to me, if not more than, the letter of the law, and I may need to seriously consider what is important to me at this point in my life.

As for the shul, this one might not be the end of my search.  I still want to see what else Brooklyn has to offer, to make sure I find the place and the people that make me the happiest.  In the meantime, I'm just glad I've found a place that makes me smile and is willing to invite me for a meal.

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.)

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.

Independence

As we all know, the 4th of July is a day to celebrate our freedom, to spend time with family and friends, to dine on hot dogs and potato salad, and to decorate your new apartment.

It's amazing how much you can get done when both people living in the apartment have the day off - thank you national holidays!

For those who don't know, I've moved to Brooklyn for one reason and one reason only: my fiance.  He graduated from medical school a few months ago and moved here to do his residency at a local hospital.  Since he has to be here for at least the next five years, I figured I'd join him because let's face it, long distance sucks.  For the purposes of this blog, let's call him "Tomm." (It's a thing he came up with. Just go with it.)

So Tomm, by some glorious and miraculous flash of good fortune, was granted off for the 4th of July.  This made me excited for two reasons:  One, I got to see him during daylight hours.  Two, he got to help me finish setting up the apartment.  There's a lot I can do on my own, but I felt he should be around to help pick out an air conditioner and window treatments.

So we shopped.  We got that air conditioner, the curtain rods and curtains, and all the miscellaneous things our apartment was lacking.  We also went on a massive grocery shopping spree to fill our barren kitchen because nothing says "welcome home" like a fully-stocked fridge.

Early in the day we had talked about what we wanted to do to celebrate the Fourth.  We agreed that a fireworks show was the way to go, but in researching the various options it looked like the only fireworks show going on was the Macy's show on the west side of Manhattan along the Hudson.  Discussion wasn't even necessary to decide that we weren't going to travel into and out of Manhattan that late at night to be pushed around by a million people, so I looked into alternative options.  As it turns out, there's a park not too far away that happens to be the highest natural point in Brooklyn which, according to the website, made it a wonderful place to watch the Manhattan fireworks show.  Sure, it'd be a little far away, but it would also be significantly less chaotic and easier to get home afterward.

Well, all the errands took longer than expected and by 8:00, only an hour before the show, we realized it just wasn't going to happen.  That's when Tomm was struck by a brilliant idea: why don't we go to the 10-story apartment building next door and try to watch the fireworks from there?

We ate our lox and bagel on the way (happy birthday, America!) and found an open window near the entrance to the roof.  We were cautious about going onto the roof for fear that it might get us in trouble, especially since it wasn't our building, so we resolved to stay at the window.  We weren't facing Manhattan, but we did have a beautiful view of Coney Island, the Verrazano Bridge, and at least three separate fireworks shows going on within our view.  It was lovely.

After a few minutes a man who may have been the super came up the stairs and asked if we had been on the roof.  We dutifully said no.  "Did you see anyone else?"  "Nope, nada, no one, sir."  "Alright then.  Come with me," he said as he opened the door to the roof.

Wow.

From every point on the top of the building, walking around in a full circle, we could see fireworks.  Staten Island, Coney Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan....there were fireworks going off in every direction.  We didn't know where to focus our attention!  Some were close enough to really enjoy, others were further in the distance and provided just a hint of colorful light on the skyline.  Around 9:30 we saw some finales beginning with unstoppable streams of fireworks, one after the other in robust, glowing grandeur.  From what looked like the heart of Manhattan we saw a glorious display of red, white, and blue explosions that were probably perfectly timed with music, blaring over the voices of a million spectators.  We didn't hear the music; instead I heard a soft breeze and the occasional sweet nothing whispered into my ear.

We tried to count how many shows we could see and figured that 20 was probably a low estimate.  Neither of us had ever seen anything like it, and we both agreed that it was way better than anything we would have witnessed from the park.  What's more, since we could see so many we were there for a full hour and left while some shows were still going - much longer than the 25 minute performance Macy's would have given us.

While watching the fireworks, I thought about this Independence Day.  Quite honestly, this may be the most independent Independence Day I have ever celebrated.  Installing an air conditioner and putting up curtains may not be quite what the Founding Fathers thought of as statements of freedom, but it certainly is for me.  And as Tomm and I stood upon that rooftop with fireworks lighting up the sky in every direction, I felt assured that we can make it work in this big, scary city with so much to offer.  I just need to right vantage point to see it.

I'm back...and in Brooklyn

Whelp, so much for trying to keep a blog throughout my first year of teaching.  Blame it on fatigue, stress, business, or sheer complacency, but after a full month of not writing I realized it just wasn't going to happen.  But this time I'm back, and hopefully here to stay for a little while longer as I explore this new territory called The Big City, a.k.a. Brooklyn, a.k.a. My New Home.

My move isn't 100% official yet, but I just got my Brooklyn Public Library card so I'd say it's close enough.  I'll be going back to my small town home once more before moving here for good, but in the meantime I'm doing my best to make my new apartment and my new neighborhood feel as close to home as I can.  Though I've gotta tell you something: it's hard.

You see, I grew up in a small town with a population well under 50,000.  I'm used to wide streets and big backyards, two-story houses with separate two-car garages. I'm used to a 15-minute round trip to drop off a book at the library, free and ample parking spaces and giant lots, and something like the Cheers theme song, where everybody knows your name.

I'm also used to pretty much one language and one accent (though thickness varies) throughout the city, one widely accepted set of traditions (though I typically did not share them), one primary religion (not that I was a part of it).  I'm certain I'm not giving my home town nearly enough credit for the diversity that does exist there, but by New York standards I come from a pretty cookie-cutter Wonderbread kind of place.

Okay, okay, so I did go to college in a big city.  Well, in the context of my own state, anyway.  New Yorkers don't even recognize the city when I mention it.  But even there I didn't feel the city was overwhelming or multitudinous.  Actually, all things considered, I really enjoyed living there.  I'm a bit sad to have left.

So here I am, a small town Jew in a giant metropolis where people live on top of one another, where languages, ethnicities, traditions, and dress codes bump and shove and glide and mix with one another like splatters of color in a Jackson Pollack painting.  Beautiful to some, jarring and uncomfortably chaotic to others.

With this change comes a shift in the purpose of my blog.  This time 'round, I think I'll need this space as a way to process everything I'm experiencing and to share it with all the people who can't be here with me in person.  This is the biggest, grandest, most terrifying adventure upon which I've ever embarked, and this blog might just be the one thing that keeps my head together.

Join me, won't you?