A little Wisteria hysteria over at The Imperfect Blog.

Though I’m probably like the Fiddler on the Roof, striving to strike a balance and teetering on the edge between mothering and other things, I’m without the benefit of a exquisite musical talent and a cast singing and dancing around me in turn-of-the-century peasant finery. Therefore, I fancy myself more like my longtime crush whose musical serenades stir up many-a-starry-eyed fantasy. When J.T. is Up On The Roof in his jeans and flannel shirt, his feet firmly planted on steadfast ground, albeit at a high altitude, he’s gazing at the moon and the city and feeling rejuvenated in an oh-so-folksy rock kind of way. Yes, the music of James Taylor has always made me swoon. But that’s a post for another time. Sigh. In a G-rated blog post I’ll just say that listening to that music usually makes me feel good.

Whether I’m on the edge and teetering, or just escaping to my imaginary roof — the Walgreens around the corner — I wonder if the fact that I go and come back an hour later, leaves my children in a quandary and headed for years of therapy. I’m not going out for a beer and a smoke, I know that. I’m going out for tissues or tampons or a new mascara, but sometimes I just can’t go home too soon. I’m grateful my kids, alone or together can be home on their own. Otherwise I’d have to find a sitter and my sanity just might not keep long enough for that.

Last night it was the pitter patter of twelve paws just about made me scratch my eyes out. Considering it’s probably my best physical feature — hell, my only redeeming physical feature at my current state of overweightedness (my own word, yes) — I might as well leave them in tact and blue (or green sometimes) instead of red.

In the Walgreen’s parking lot I sat in the car and listened to a little Fire and Rain, skipping another song recorded for me by my ex at the end of our adolescence but the beginning of our courtship. Between songs I hoped no one I knew would see me relaxing in my SUV, but then I really didn’t care. Perhaps if they had two kids and three dogs they’d be drinking. I’m merely enjoying some music before scoping out the latest Halloween candy and nail polish shades without kids or dogs.

Then I took the long way home. It was a dark but crystal clear night with a crescent moon that hung low in the sky…and under other circumstances, perhaps on a roof somewhere, I’d have been content to sit and stare. But to avoid a car accident and eventually come full circle to home, I kept driving. And yes, I was singing.

Will my kids end up in therapy because when I did get home I locked myself in my room? I just need to take a bath, I told them. They appeared undaunted, although the dogs are a little more weary when I shoo them away. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.

Will they ask the doctor why their mom soaked in bubble baths when there were dishes soaking in the kitchen sink? As well as I can figure the dishes will always be there when I’m finished, but my peace of mind? Well, thats contingent on the bath, or the blogging, or the phone call or the rerun of Sex and the City.

Sometimes I just need to get away and since I have no where to go, I get away right here. Seems like a good compromise. I don’t run away, I don’t have a nervous breakdown…but I do lock the door. The kids know they can knock on the door, and they do. They know I’ll always answer. They seem to not take offense especially the times I’ve pointed out that they both go into their own rooms in search of solitude and only the sound of Nickelodeon or ESPN. The fact that I prefer HBO or Dixie Chicks or if I’m brave a rendition or two from Blessid Union of Souls or Eric Clapton if I’m not craving a little J.T.

I think they get it. I hope they get it, at least a little.

No matter the number of books or blogs I read on the emotional cellulite known as mommy guilt, I just can’t help it. I struggle with being the mother and father they need all the time. And I’ve got to tell you, as much as I think I’ll be paying for place in the front of the Zanax line when they leave the nest, is as much as I. can’t. wait.

After reading a phenomenal post by Her Bad Mother who is struggling with being a mom and then teaching where she has no links to her motherhood, I realized that I yearn for moments with no links to mothering.

As a new mother, and when my children were young, I revelled in motherhood and mommyness. I wanted to be known simply as Juan’s mommy or the mom that looked just like Pippiiee. I identified as a mother first and foremost and looked for nothing outside the home to break my stride. I was in my element and couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

Then, I leapt reluctantly, and then exhuberantly into the world of being single, where my hands-on mothering moments were lessened by eight nights per month. I actually had friends who didn’t know my children and had never known me married. I have memories of those times tucked safely away in box with a purple bow. It’s full of the almost three years I spent single with a live ex. Yep, those were the days.

So if you ever wonder where the hell the posts are, or where I am, on any given day that you check the blog and think, “oh geez, that Kvetch, she must be living it up over there in Mayberry,” chances are, I’m just around the corner at Walgreen’s.

But I’ll be wishing I was up on the roof.

See what I think…and make yourself heard…over at The Imperfect Blog.

What are the two words heard most at a Jewish High Holy Day service?

G-d and L-rd?

No.

Baruch Atah?

No-ope.

L’Shanah Tovah?

Wrong again.

Give up?

The two words heard most often at a Jewish High Holy Day service are…

PLEASE RISE.

That being said, I find holidays both exhilarating and exhausting. Between getting dressed up, which is a feat in itself in a house with three dogs, two kids and and my parents; cooking two big meals, and wearing brand new, non-broken-in, oh perhaps not-quite-wide-enough gray suede pumps; the weekend resulted in not only providing the makings for a refurbished soul and many meals of leftover brisket, but sore feet and aching legs.

Complaints aside, I’m striving to have these Days of Awe (the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur) comprised of less kvetching than usual. I found great comfort in the traditions of the holiday as well as in the inherent newness that comes with worshipping at our somewhat new Temple. I felt very much at home amidst many familiar faces and some of the people to whom I feel closest, even if their faces were lost among the hundreds.

I prayed fervently when I wasn’t daydreaming, and I listened intently when the Rabbi spoke, and when I could see around the 6′7″ man in front of me. I choose to believe that a Rabbi is going to say something worthwhile during a sermon, whether he or she flaps it in the breeze making it obvious, or requiring, rather hoping, that you read between the lines. I was not disappointed on either count.

So being the pensive gal that I am (moi? no!) I have been giving a lot of thought and have posed a question or two to my sister-friend, based on a tidbit from one of the Rabbi’s speeches.

Thousands of years ago Rabbi Hillel was asked to explain the entire Torah (Five Books of Moses) standing on one foot. Rabbi Hillel said, “Love your neighbor as yourself. The rest is commentary. Go study it.”

If Rabbi Hillel had a sense of humor, he is certain to have added an ancient version of “Ta-Dah!”

I’ve been thinking about loving my neighbor as myself; about doing unto others as I’d have them do unto me. I wonder, as obviously this is the basis of my religion, and others, how do I assess when enough is enough? Is it ever too much? Can one go overboard with neighborliness?

In general I believe that I do unto others as I would have them do unto me. No one is perfect, and I certainly have my moments. Oh face it, I have my weeks.

What I’m getting at is — if I’m treating someone as I’d like to be treated, but they are not treating me with the same respect or consideration, do I stop behaving nicely? Do I ignore them? Do I become ambivalent? Downright nasty? Cavalier? Am I supposed to turn the other cheek and travel the high road forever? I do not believe in redemption or being rewarded in an afterlife, so this. is. it. Sometimes people live and give in a currency unlike your own, and therefore it has no value. There are many ways to get nothing back.

And, while everything is not “all about me”, this is. This is not about asking someone else to change their behavior or even pointing out what they are doing or not doing. It’s not about bettering someone else in my own eyes or for their own good. It’s about my assimilating my personal beliefs and expectations with my own behaviors. It’s about deciding what’s worth it to me, and what’s not.

When you expend ample, positive energy and effort and do not get that back, it’s debilitating, because efforts beget energy which beget more effort.

Beget?

Perhaps I’m spending too much time at Temple.

Perhaps…life is not all wrapped-up neatly with a bow. Nor is it supposed to be.

Ever.

Fact is, there is no crystal clear answer. If there were, prophets and scholars and beggars and the likes of me would have nothing to ponder and deliberate and mull over. And over. And over.

And to me, THAT, became the point. To the sermon, to the lesson and to life.

To think. To control, to the best of my ability, my own actions and behaviors so that I’m ok with myself as much of the time as possible, even if it changes day by day.

I’m on life’s learning curve — a continuous cycle of thoughts and events, comings and goings, people and places, mistakes and misgivings, sadness and joy, and of loving my neighbor as myself –whatever that means to me today.

And all of it…

the aching arches, the kugels, the whining children, the prayers, the friendships, the traditions, the frustrations, the surprises, the rejuvenation of spirit and the unspoken promise of a brighter tomorrow - heck - of any tomorrow…

is a gift.

I was doling out little square orange cheesey crackers at preschool the other day. When everyone started screaming for more we reminded them of the three magic things they could all say, that we’d talked about the day before.

Please, thank you and excuse me.

Pink Dress and Pigtails: More!!
Me: What do you say?
Pink Dress and Pigtails: Please!
Me: There you go…
Pink Dress and Pigtails: Thank you.
Me: You’re welcome!

Red and Blue Paint Covered Sleeves: Can I have more please?
Me: Thanks for asking so nicely, here you are!

Big Brown Eyes: Please!
Me: Absolutely!

Blonde Bowl Haircut: I want more.
Me: What do you say?

And then, without missing a beat, BBH exclaims…

EXCUSE ME!

He’s three.

It totally works.

[Update: A little about being a Jewish kid in Mayberry over at The Imperfect Blog.]

The season of Jewish high holy days is upon us.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, marking the start of 5767 (we’ve been around a long time), begins this Friday night at sundown.

To me, Rosh Hashanah means that my parents come to visit from Philly and that I put on my apron and kerchief (figuratively folks, don’t get all fa-pitzed) and turn from Orthotic Contessa into the Blonde Balabusta with the meanest brisket in Mayberry. It also means I get to wear some great new Fall fashions and, some orgasmic new shoes. Big. Sigh.

It’s also a time of year I take very seriously, Joan & David’s notwithstanding. This being the era of introspection in the land of Kvetch, I find I contemplate my role as a Jewish mother and Jewish single woman way more than I’d like to admit. But what better time to do that, than now, at 42, when hell, oops, I mean, heck, I don’t have too much else going on? I might as well figure out my rightful place in a 6,000 year old heritage, religion and culture, don’t ya think?

Mishegas (craziness) aside, ushering in the new year Judaism-style doesn’t mean hats and horns and staying up ’til midnight. No ball-dropping unless it’s matzah balls. And while the food tends to be laden with fat, it is a holiday laden with the responsibility of reflection and reassessment as well as joy. It is the time to think about the year past, and the year ahead, because on October 1st, the Matriarch of all Jewish holidays, Yom Kippur begins. Not only is the Book of Life closed until the following year, but Jews get their “last chance” to pray for forgiveness for their sins of the past year. Many choose to follow tradition and fast for 24 hours, thereby adding even more credence to their sorrow. Thousands of years of tradition, a lot of praying to G-d, and a little Jewish guilt thrown in — all topped off at the end of the day with lox and bagels.

But seriously folks…

Inherent in Judaism is personal responsibility and the high holy days are no different. We are expected, if not required, to ask for forgiveness from those we have wronged or led astray. We are also expected to ask our own personal G-d for forgiveness for sins against ourselves or humanity.

But Judaism also honors the right of one to question, to ask. So, I offer you, dear blogosphere, my questions this holiday season. They are many.

What if I feel no remorse for, let’s say, gossiping or even coveting? What if I’m not sorry for something I’ve done that I know, on paper — on parchment, for sake of a religious argument — is wrong.

Do I apologize? And if so, to whom? Do I say I’m sorry that I’m not sorry? Is that like giving G-d the run-around and making a mockery of true repentance?

I feel deeply rooted in Judaism. Jewish is what I am. Therefore, it makes me sad to think I am having a fundamental problem with the concept of Jewish repentence.

I can’t apologize for sometimes having thoughts that are not above-board when it comes to certain people or the situation of my life or for sometimes saying or doing things that are not. very. nice. I can’t apologize for actions or feelings or words that I’d repeat, even if I know that most people would disagree with them.

When I believe in a Higher Power, which is a lot of the time, though sometimes not at all, I have to believe that He, or She, truly just wants me to work it through, whatever it is, while being a fundamentally good person.

And I think I’ve got that covered.

I’ve come to a point in my life where I try to be honest with myself 100% of the time, even if I’m not that honest with everyone else. Like Suebob said so eloquently, I self-edit around others. Big time. But I hide nothing from one very important person in particular. Me. And thinking I’m hiding anything from any G-d I may believe in, is just plain, well, silly. I think it would be a very misguided thing to say I’m sorry for something I’m not sorry for. That would be like lying to myself and trying to pull the wool over the eyes of the person (the power) that made the sheep that made the wool in the first place.

And that would not be a good way to kick off 5767.

When I look back on 5766, I can’t believe it when I say “it’s been a good year.” It was the year things came around to our own sense of normalcy once again. It was the year my kids laughed more than they cried. It was the year I made a very dear friend, or two. It was the year I started writing again. It was the year I fell in love again…with life and the possibilities therein — that I too often forget yet always ache to remember.

So here’s to the new year, and to being the best Kvetch, Contessa, Balabusta, Mom,…Amy…that I can be…even if I’m not perfect, and even if I’m not always sorry that I’m not.

I don’t want to start off the new year being sad about the past. I want to introspect, and I want to learn, but I’ve come too far to have regrets. My foremost belief is that we only get one trip around the block, and that every experience, every action, every feeling, is worthy. That striving for happiness and inner-peace is our right, as long as we don’t kick the chopped liver out of someone to get it.

The G-d I believe exists, when I do believe, knows that I’m trying my best to not just survive, but to thrive; and that I’m trying to be a good person, a good mom, and a good Jew. To me, that latter encompasses the former.

Whatever you believe, or don’t, I want to wish you a sweet new year.

Your collective involvement, whether I know you in real life or not, in this somewhat new part of my life, has given me strength through solidarity and offered me solace through many a silent embrace. Your words have made me cry and laugh, and by allowing me into your own corners of heaven, or by sharing your personal tribulations, you have broadened my world.

Like I said…it was a very good year.

L’shanah tovah tikatevu v’techatemu!
May you and your loved ones be inscribed and sealed for a year of health, peace, happiness, and prosperity.

This will be a disappointment to those looking for belly-warming fall homestyle cooking ideas or a fast and friendly recipe. Although the weather has already shifted ’round these parts and the autumnal equinox is merely days away, this post has nothing to do with eating, other than offering food for thought.

When I have a beef, I stew.

You?

I simmer slowly then escalate to a rolling boil. The heat can be turned down but it doesn’t take more than a little wind on my flame to get me rolling again. Double-entendre nonwithstanding, if I’m not careful I can indeed bubble over and make a big mess. My goal is to cook up evenly…a little savory, a little sweet. I seem to operate like a crock pot (which has connotations of its own) where everything just simmers together for a long long time. But then, when I take the lid off to finally release some steam and check on things, everything has meshed, the flavors have married (as we like to say) - and whether delicious or not, it’s always filling.

I’m working on being microwaveable, but so far, I always come out just a little too-hot-to-handle.

[Karen published an essay of mine about being a writer mom, over at Write Stuff today. If you’re still hungry, go take a bite!]

If you have time to read blogs on the weekend you have time to check out my latest post at the Imperfect Blog!

And hell, I’m not judging what you do on your weekends - I spent my day folding laundry and bathing dogs and writing blog posts. I am not one to judge.

But I am one to beg! So if you do head over (oh please, please do!), would you let me know what you think while you’re there?

Thanks!

My ex-husband kissed me good-bye, on my forehead, as he left for the gym at 5 a.m. A peck hello, good-bye and good-night was part of marital therapy. It was acknowledgement and supposed reinforcement of working toward a common goal. To me, it only reinforced the charade in which I participated.

I never said I knew he wouldn’t be there alone.

Keeping quiet was my biggest mistake.

I’ve noticed that keeping quiet is a pervasive theme in society today, whether it’s contemplating standing idly by as a crime is committed, not helping someone who has fallen on the sidewalk or not voicing an opinion for fear of offending a neighbor. Any time we let the world happen around us without getting too involved, stay to ourselves without expressing our thoughts and feelings to save face, because it takes work, perseverance or fortitude, we’re keeping quiet. It doesn’t have to be global unawareness or apathy, it can be very private and personal and seemingly very small.

Keeping quiet isn’t always easy, but it’s always easier than not.

In many instances keeping quiet can be selfish and effect others. Sometimes keeping quiet effects only ourselves, although I believe that a ripple effect occurs when we foolishly believe that personal actions do not have far reaching effects.

I grew up keeping my thoughts to myself. It was never easy for me to speak my mind or express myself, at least to others. And while I do not have endless mental footage from my childhood, I feel very strongly that I had, and have, wonderful parents who love me unconditionally. That being said, it was a childhood of yelling whispers and sweeping things under the rug. It was parenting by assumption and denial. I guess I was supposed to learn by osmosis, and some things, of course, I did. Communicating was not one of them.

When I did open my mouth to share my thoughts, I did not have great skill. I believed that thoughts were meant to held inside and dealt with internally, not shared unless written. So that’s what I did. When I had something to say I put pen to paper whether someone was across the room or across the country. No one told me that verbal communication was a skill I should acquire, or that I should require that I be heard.

I spent many years being complacent and accepting what was given to me — from friends, in my family, in relationships, in jobs — without outwardly questioning anything. With the written word I flourished, but spoken communication was my downfall. I could not come to grips with my own thoughts about myself or my life — ever. I wanted no confrontation and therefore had none. I was not aware my own thoughts and feelings had value. No one told me they didn’t, but no one told me they did.

Those are things I didn’t learn it on my own or in four years of college. That took the $140 an hour personal therapy at 37. Better late than never.

I understand now, that when it came to a relationship where communication should have been the cornerstone, why I do not have to stretch very far to see how it crumbled.

I always say that I got exactly what I asked for from my ex-husband. Nothing. And partially it’s true. While silence does not give one carte blanche to take advantage of someone else, it also gives you no signals by which to gauge your actions.

That mistake, that keeping quiet, is my biggest regret. Not because speaking up would have saved my marriage or changed my ex, but because it would have released and brought to life the real me long before age 37. And I’ll never know what she, what I, could have accomplished or what any one shared thought or idea would have spurred. I didn’t know that you were supposed to be saying how you felt and what you were thinking and that someone was to supposed to care, and react. It sounds inane, but I really didn’t know.

Yes, in retrospect I realize how unhealthy and underdeveloped it all was. But I’m glad I know now that when you keep everything to yourself, you learn much less, because you get no feedback. Opinions are life’s bounty. If we don’t get them, we starve. No matter how good we are at looking at all sides of an issue, or playing our own devil’s advocate, nothing compares to the words and wisdom — or even the idiocy — of someone you trust or admire or simply like.

My mistake led to my hardest and best lesson ever learned. That speaking up, and being heard, is my right. And if someone isn’t willing to, or can’t listen, then he or she is the one who is unworthy, not I. While I do not intentionally hurt someone, I will also never intentionally hurt myself by saying nothing.

I now live a much noisier, busier, and interactive life — even if much of that interaction is right here with all of you. Whether it’s on in-person or online my life is filled with input and output, many questions and many answers, and thankfully, much laughter. I know there are those who will always listen. I am lucky.

Though initially the antithesis of my innate silent nature, this lesson of learning to speak up and to value and hear my own voice, was the saving grace that made me whole.

So now, I live my life by not by keeping quiet, but quite the opposite. So I suppose I’m… keeping loud.

[This is my version of Living Out Loud as perfectly described by both Izzy and Ruth Dyanamite. This topic has been buzzing around in my head for ages (with so much else) and just needed the push of their inspiring posts and Write Stuff’s Creative Carnival to get me going. Thanks to all of you for being my collective muse!]

It was a very heavy day in the blogosphere, to say the least.

So, to entertain your not-so-literary sensibilities and insensitive sides, and to give you a reprieve from thinking or crying, I humbly offer some bad Japanese poetry.

Ya with me folks?