Purim/Pesach season is coming up so I won't be around blogger much over the next few weeks.
Y'know of course that I've got a lot of work to do, in preparation of the Purim2007 Suda I'm hosting at my blogspot. Most of you wouldn't typically attend a mixed celebration, but with all the costumes available in the vicinity, phhh, no problem at all! I can already see 'em coming, hundreds of bed-sheet-covered partygoers dressed up as Anonymous.
Naturally, I am casting a chusid as Purim Rav. Only a chusid knows how to fir a tish properly. I am sure I can find someone who knows how to bring about a storm, to act as Gabi. This is blogworld, after all. The Jewish Drama headquarters. Nailprint is the official fingerprint.
When you arrive to the party, make yourself at home. Find your niche, take out the coffee or chips you brought along and get the music goin'! If you're new to this, start by checking if your spouse/parent/children are here. Go over to the Australian Yeshiva Bochur and accuse him of being your neighbor on Fosse Court. Nice going, pal.
There is a fervent discussion on the crisis of the dating scene, or the shidduchim expenses in the chussid's version - next to the buffet. A Yiddish speaking geek explains to a long-wigged pregnant woman what the problem here is. His black glasses cover his eyes that look into no where, and he doesn't seem frazzled with the combination of English grammergoofs. The Satmar baldies are groping at the bookshelves for a sefar to prove to the red-faced frummy that he's wrong. Aha!! See? It seems so natural to see the Williamsburg lady sit cheek-to-jowl with a clean-shaven suit from the other side of the ocean, both arguing a gemera. A 21 year old chalat boy from Mondroe UTA puts his nose in, and walks away waving his hand. What do these people know? Mishigooim. They should hear what the Bayrach Moshe said! Nearby, an Isreali snood rebbetzin sits down on the bench, adjusts her long gathered skirt and tells a long story on topic. One commenter mentions 'judgementalism' and an army of outcasts storm the place firing off curse words.
A few 'special' winks are shot across the room and said parties escape us early, o'er to email. Pretend you didn't see.
An especially tall woman with a hairspray-stricken short sheitle shleps herself over to join the catfight. Her babbes on her stockings are untied and the shtrimp piled up at her ankles to reveal unshaven legs. In a flat ballplayer's voice she comments coyly to the petite female: "You're really a @#@%$ man, babe. Everybody knows. Stop lying already."
One table is particularly packed. There's a narrator there that's obviously keeping all others entertained with his multi-lingual accounts. He sits relaxed back in his chair, wears a pair of black pupuch on his knee-length socks, and thumps his cigarette into the ash-tray. He inhales again, ever so slowly, while scratching his balding head with his big black kapel. He thumbs the knip of his beard back up and goes on. From language to language he flips with such a straight face, all eager chassidim high-five each other. A chassidista looks on, listens in, and laughs loudly as if she got the joke too. She's left with her hand hanging in the air when she also tries to slap hands with one of the listeners, a colone-wrapped intellect that speaks an echta flisigeh yiddish.
Sirens and awful shrieks suddenly wail from the direction of the Link Room. Seems a bearded rebel with sunglasses is tearing at an English-speaking cotton-candy-bearded rebelle, both trying to cut each other's throat. Sigh. Yeah, the discussion over evolution didn't go so well. There have been some casualties.
Although the party is mixed, we still know our boundaries, so dancing is not. Or not really. The chassidim jump the horah up and down like springs, the litvaks kick their feet left and right into the air, and the "frum" guy waltzes in the middle of the circle with the rabbi, then they dip. Poor rabbi, he wanted to do it with the gartle! One clueless jewish grandma in pants dances along with the entire rekida of men.
See? This place rocks! Tol' you it's not all talk.
I get up to the bima next to the gefilta-fish-smelling Rabbi. I propose a toast. Clink, clink. I begin to thank you profusely for visiting my blog, the fun I'm having, and then I spend the next two hours wining about how my community made me wear this and that and that and this. By the time everyone is snoring I break down and holler. I fan myself to stop the crying. But then I burst out in bawls all over again. Blame my community.
"Cheers, Lechaim!" (sniff, sniff) (waaa!) (snore) (comment) (compliment) (snore) (attack) (nicey-nice) (mussar) (Lechaim!!)
There is no party and there will be no entertainment. I'm gonna be home filling my hamen tashen with jam, curling the ribbon, retelling the Leibel Veinshtuk version of Achashveryosh's party to the kids, and scaring my husband with the George Bush mask. I do so love yom tovim and will spend my time passing the spirit on to my next generation.
(In case I was gonna be missed, I think I just did away with that possibility.)