Trivia host: Who painted the Sistine Madonna?
Me, to my friend: It's either Raphael or Piero. I don't remember the titles but they both have iconic Madonna paintings.
My Jewish friend: ...of the singer?
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Trivia host: Who painted the Sistine Madonna?
Me, to my friend: It's either Raphael or Piero. I don't remember the titles but they both have iconic Madonna paintings.
My Jewish friend: ...of the singer?
Visiting MTL and the meshichism here is so open. Large billboards with the Rebbe’s face with text reading “welcome moshiach with kindness and good deeds.” Yechi yarmulkes wherever you turn. Feels like I’m back in crown heights for a simchas beis with the yechi flags everywhere.
planning events with food you don't eat is such an interesting experience. i had to pick up items for a charcuterie board a while back and there was miscommunication during the order, so by the time i got to the shop for pick up, i had to reorder things. i had no idea how much deli meat to get. they asked me if i wanted prosciutto, i shrugged and said sure. i've never had prosciutto in my life. the fancy cheese they packaged for me was so stinky, yet not to be outdone by the other various types of treif meat they threw in for me.
the shop had a staff shortage so they offered me a discount if i bought the items and arrange the board myself. i said ok, thinking it'd be no big deal and my boss would be happy i stayed under budget. when it came time time to plate everything, i pulled on gloves and slapped on a face mask because the smell of cured pig made me nausated. luckily, my colleague had rachmanus on me and stepped in to assist.
the last event we did with a charcuterie board (that came with a $6000 price tag for some reason) was a cocktail party. guests walked up to food station, stumbling in heels and sloshing beer out of their pint glasses, to pick up what both smelled and looked like raw meat, and ate it directly with their fingers. paired with more fancy, stinky cheeses, i avoided that area of the party all night; though that didn't save me from when guests teetered over, a unique blend of gin (bombay sponsored us, after all), pig, and blue cheese leaving me in the sillage of the worst fragrance i've ever smelled. i ran into installation crew's workshop throughout the night, their abandoned bags of potato chips my only kosher refuge.
in our staff "holiday" party planning, where i nixed poinsettia centrepieces and red and green tablescapes as the only jew involved, another team member is responsible for the food. she has been sharing menus with us and i look only out of morbid curiosity, knowing i'll be bringing my own food. some menus include macaroni and cheese with a hot dog addition upgrade (somehow that's not a downgrade), pizza-wrapped hot dogs, and shrimp galore. not that i'll eat it anyway, but i tell her to amp up vegetarian options for the few team members who refrain from meat. selfishly, i push for this so i don't have to smell more charcuterie or hot dogs cooked in macaroni.
the wine is another issue, but more easily navigated as we often have spirits tucked away i can steal from for the staff toast before all our events. pre-event photos are taken with my team raising champagne flutes while i have a gin and tonic can in my hand. i wouldn't have it any other way.
i would like to throw hands with the clown who previously had my job. half the documents for sponsorship deals are saved as word docs with no fully executed version saved anywhere, so not only are there no dated signatures but often times dollar amounts meant to be filled in by the brand are missing. the other half of the time, only a scanned version of a physical copy of the fully executed agreement has been uploaded so i can't reuse the document or copy/paste from it. hate hate hate. how do you make it this far in your career to be signing off on deals with major brands and have the organizational skills of a child
many years ago, I invited friends over for a Shabbat dinner where I made all the food myself. this included thing like bastardizations (through dietification) of Shabbat classics but most importantly, black bean brownies. these were gluten free, sugar free, vegan, and lived up to their moniker. vegan halo top "ice cream" was served on the side. i didn't think anything of it.
about a year or two after that shabbat, i was talking with a friend about how i recently tried some old meals and snacks i used to eat when i was particularly struggling with restriction. i couldn't even finish most of what i used to rely on for nutrition because it was so gross or empty-tasting.
she laughed with me and brought up the black bean brownies. she said that while not inedible, they were one of the worst desserts she ever had mostly because their attempt at being healthy was just sad. a brownie should be a brownie.
i think of this whenever i see a new healthy recipe going viral, like sweet potato brownies.
If you were to go through this blog in its entirety, you would find that about once a year there is a post written in uneasy gratitude with shock and amusement about how far I've come and where I've ended up. They start out with reflections on frumkeit, how I went from a geirus student living OOT to making it "in-town", bemused with the stops I made along the way: seminary in a chareidi neighbourhood that didn't quite click for me and a chassidish neighbourhood in my new city. I talk about moving from the chassidish area to a yeshivish one, then to a modern orthodox area where I paid more in rent than my job on the sidelines of klei kodesh allowed. I was proud of living alone in a sky high building, holding down a job and managing a social life after years of treatment and discouraging psychiatrists telling me I'd always suffer from my eating disorder. The posts map out my career, from working in the office of a frum school to working in philanthropy and the pride I felt moving up the ladder, so to speak. I've since left for the art world and feel like another post is due as I open invitations to exclusive events and parties, addressed to the girl with the Yiddish name. I wear still mostly wear skirts and can't eat the charcuterie at parties; I hope my champagne flute of seltzer (something I'd never had pre-frumkeit) and lime passes as the treif wine I avoid all night as we clink glasses and say chin chin; I bring in kokosh cake to the office and talk about time spent in Eretz Yisroel as if it's the same as the curators I work with, who have lived in Berlin, Paris, Dubai; I wonder if I can get away with wearing tichels and pass them off as a style choice in this world if I ever get married; I carry all these remnants of my identity as I walk through galleries and museums with works exploring others' identities and realize we're all just a collection of our past experiences, past lives, and even when my FFB partner tells me he thinks I have the most interesting story, I know mine is not more colourful than any other's. If anything, it's painted in shades of darkness: black hats and tights and the grey of numbness and anxiety, highlighted by the stark white walls of hospitals and dietician offices. I lived in Jerusalem of gold, but what I carry with me is the dark sleet of her winter, mahogany leather bound seforim, and black ink written on klaf.
someone I met through a treatment program posted an fb status about being at a musical. I scrolled down more and two women from my old community where I used to spend all my shabbosim also posted an fb status about being at the same musical. two very distinct parts of my life, two people with no tangible overlap out at the same event. what a small world.
I am not the person to speak on this topic, but all the discussion surrounding Billy Eichner's movie Bros flopping at the box office and him blaming straight people for not showing up is such an interesting topic. I saw a take on ig where someone made a comment that a film about a white, gay, buff jock falling for another white, gay, slightly less buff jock is not the diversity win Eichner thinks it is.
As a white, privileged woman who has often felt "othered" due to non-physical aspects of myself or my life, I understand the struggle in not fitting in with the people we and society place on pedestals. I understand having a deep internalized sense of "otherness" that is difficult to articulate and pinpoint its source; I understand feeling like you don't quite fit in because of the way you dress, speak, or otherwise express yourself. But in the context of white, conventionally attractive people, I also understand my struggles with this is wildly different from that of a racialized person and/or members of other marginalized communities.
There is a long, intense dialogue regarding Mitski's Your Best American Girl and who can cover the song, use it in videos, claim it as their own. The song deals with race and the first generation experience in America. While reading various opinions, one of the most illuminating comments to me was that one that highlighted the difference between a brunette white girl who wishes she was blonde and an Asian girl who wishes she was white. The experiences are not comparable.
So I have empathy and hold space for Eichner. There is pain in wishing to be part of what you consider the upper echelon, to see yourself as the geeky, awkward kid and want to be with the adult version of the high school quarterback. But this isn't a new story, this is one that's been portrayed by white people in Hollywood for G-d knows how long. To add a gay storyline into the mix, when it isn't the crux of the narrative (my understanding is that the film is not a coming out story with internal or interpersonal conflict on the matter), that is also carried out by white, conventionally attractive men does not make it a shining example of diversity. I am not going to address the fact that Eichner is Jewish, as he himself has identified as a white gay man in regards to both his character in the film and his own personal identity, from which he drew inspiration.
In my therapy session yesterday, I worked on challenging negative core beliefs. My therapist asked if I think I'm pretty. I answered yes. He then asked if I think I'm ugly. I answered yes, and we laughed. I explained that while I can recognize myself as someone who is conventionally attractive, I struggle with seeing beauty in myself. I have the self-awareness and sensitivity to see recognize how others and society may perceive me. It's a skillset I think Eichner could benefit from before blaming straight people for not supporting his film.
His story is worth telling, but it didn't need to be spun in the manner it was or at least not with the expectation that everyone would get and appreciate it in the context it was presented. Straight or not, I'm not sure the world needs to see another ugly duckling falls in love story. And certainly not when the ugly duckling looks like a cousin of his supposed unattainably hot, cool love interest.
Guess who got covid in 2022. So freaking lame. Right before RH and a week of opening celebrations at the gallery I work at 🙃
I’m working on my schedule at work to take time off for the chagim which is difficult because RH is the week of our exhibition opening, but it’s going to be fine. It makes me miss working for frum places. Until I talk with my gay 30 year old something boss about shopping, and respond to his comment about the store Cos with “it’s like The Row but for poor people” and he actually gets it and laughs. Then I don’t miss the frum places anymore lol. Reminds me of when I thought a bakery here had the same pronunciation as a French fashion house but it does not. And nobody thought it was funny like I did when I discovered the correct way to pronounce it.
I had been off Instagram for about a year until last month. I don't remember there having been a video feed the last time I was active, so I've kind of been sucked into watching reels, especially as someone who also gave up TikTok. This is my only access to addicting short form videos and while the algorithm isn't as impressive as TikTok's, it's doing a decent job at keeping me hooked.
From these reels, I've been introduced to various frum influencer accounts I had no idea existed. Okay, yes, I knew Chez Chaya and Raizy Fried but the more worldly Jewish bloggers like Lizzy Savetsky or Avital Chizik Goldberg, I had no idea about. Avital Chizik Goldberg's name is familiar from her writing, but I didn't realize she had an Instagram following where she shares killer outfits complete with Valentino rock studs. I fell into a deep dive of her writing and online presence last night.
She's really what I wanted to be when I first became frum. A strong, successful writer. Rebbetzin. Fashionably tznius, with a dark colour palette and outfits from top designers. Though when I first became frum, I dreamed of giving up my own last name for my future husband's. Forget the hyphen, I was going all the way and taking his.
I joked with friends that I wanted the most Jewish-sounding name to "make up" for my geirus and all the awkward conversations that follow my introductions. Goldberg would have been the bare minimum I'd accept; it's an unfortunate geirim can't marry kohanim because I would have killed for a name as easily identifiably Jewish as Cohen. Halfway through studying for my geirus, I met with a rabbi to discuss seminary options, who made mention of my Jewish father. This reminded me of when I met with another rabbi, who asked what my maiden name is. I explained to that first rabbi that I'm single, never married; my name is my own. He said he assumed I was converting for my husband, and that I'd already married a traditional Sephardi man.
After explaining to the seminary rabbi that my father is not Jewish, he asked where my family comes from. I told him the country and he grinned, asking which city. I named the city. With an even bigger smile than before, the rabbi told me that city was known as the Little Jerusalem of Greece and that my last name is a common Sephardi moniker. With some digging, it was revealed that my dad's heritage is that of Spanish Jews by way of Greece and our connection to Judaism was lost just with his grandparents and father. After coming to North America from Greece before the war, they gave up their Judaism to start anew.
When I finally made it to Israel, people recognized my Sephardi last name. I already had my heart set on a Yiddish name before discovering my heritage mid-geirus, so the Yiddish-Sephardi mashup confused people; especially since I have my mother's pale colouring. Even more confusing, my Ashkenazi beis din spelled my last name phonetically in Yiddish, which made notoriously hard Israeli paperwork even more difficult. But still, they heard my name and knew it was Jewish - and offered the traditional Hebrew spelling.
It wasn't enough for me. In my seminary circle of Ashkenazi baalei tshuva, my name was the odd one out. When I moved to a larger community in my home country, it stuck out even more as I entered yeshivish circles. I wanted a good old fashioned shtetl name from the alter heim and nothing less would do. I couldn't wait to shed my surname, the last remaining artifact of a non-Jewish life. This, coupled with an uneasy relationship with my father, had me agreeing to shidduch dates based on last name alone. Was it Jewish enough? Did it sound heimish? Tell him I said yes, not to the date, but to the chuppah.
It's been a few years now. I've made peace with my Sephardi last name and the fact that it comes from my father. I laugh easily with the juxtaposition of a Yiddish first name followed by Sephardi heritage. I don't want to give it up anymore, I don't want my identity to be shrouded by my husband's. I remember reading an article recently about a prominent female politician I grew up admiring. When I was in high school (and had different political views than I do now), I was inspired by her trailblazing positions and work. She's since been married and tacked on her husband's last name to hers. In the news, she is initially introduced by her first name, maiden name, and husband's name. All subsequent mentions are shortened to her husband's name.
What happened to her achievements before marriage, to the name she made for herself? Her husband's takes precedence.
Until then, I'd always been on the fence about hyphenating my future husband's name with my own. Seeing this politician I grew up admiring go from her own name to her husband's flipped the switch for me. I want to remain my own.
So as I discover Avital Chizik Goldberg, I'm reminded of my feelings on last names and the precedence for changing them post-marriage. As far as I understand it, there is no source for Jewish women to take on their husband's name. I'm impressed by the women who, in these communities, make their own choices in a rare situation where halacha does not govern such a personal, meaningful decision; whether they hyphenate or not, or forgo it all together.
I'm not quite ready for marriage, so none of this is particularly relevant for me at the moment. I can't help but laugh, though, that while my partner is not a Cohen, his last name is just as Jewishly identifiable and with Sephardi heritage to boot. It may be time for me to learn some Ladino and find the equivalent of der mensch tracht, un G-tt lacht.
I’m so embarrassed I got her name wrong it’s Goldschmidt not Goldberg LOL
I had been off Instagram for about a year until last month. I don't remember there having been a video feed the last time I was active, so I've kind of been sucked into watching reels, especially as someone who also gave up TikTok. This is my only access to addicting short form videos and while the algorithm isn't as impressive as TikTok's, it's doing a decent job at keeping me hooked.
From these reels, I've been introduced to various frum influencer accounts I had no idea existed. Okay, yes, I knew Chez Chaya and Raizy Fried but the more worldly Jewish bloggers like Lizzy Savetsky or Avital Chizik Goldberg, I had no idea about. Avital Chizik Goldberg's name is familiar from her writing, but I didn't realize she had an Instagram following where she shares killer outfits complete with Valentino rock studs. I fell into a deep dive of her writing and online presence last night.
She's really what I wanted to be when I first became frum. A strong, successful writer. Rebbetzin. Fashionably tznius, with a dark colour palette and outfits from top designers. Though when I first became frum, I dreamed of giving up my own last name for my future husband's. Forget the hyphen, I was going all the way and taking his.
I joked with friends that I wanted the most Jewish-sounding name to "make up" for my geirus and all the awkward conversations that follow my introductions. Goldberg would have been the bare minimum I'd accept; it's an unfortunate geirim can't marry kohanim because I would have killed for a name as easily identifiably Jewish as Cohen. Halfway through studying for my geirus, I met with a rabbi to discuss seminary options, who made mention of my Jewish father. This reminded me of when I met with another rabbi, who asked what my maiden name is. I explained to that first rabbi that I'm single, never married; my name is my own. He said he assumed I was converting for my husband, and that I'd already married a traditional Sephardi man.
After explaining to the seminary rabbi that my father is not Jewish, he asked where my family comes from. I told him the country and he grinned, asking which city. I named the city. With an even bigger smile than before, the rabbi told me that city was known as the Little Jerusalem of Greece and that my last name is a common Sephardi moniker. With some digging, it was revealed that my dad's heritage is that of Spanish Jews by way of Greece and our connection to Judaism was lost just with his grandparents and father. After coming to North America from Greece before the war, they gave up their Judaism to start anew.
When I finally made it to Israel, people recognized my Sephardi last name. I already had my heart set on a Yiddish name before discovering my heritage mid-geirus, so the Yiddish-Sephardi mashup confused people; especially since I have my mother's pale colouring. Even more confusing, my Ashkenazi beis din spelled my last name phonetically in Yiddish, which made notoriously hard Israeli paperwork even more difficult. But still, they heard my name and knew it was Jewish - and offered the traditional Hebrew spelling.
It wasn't enough for me. In my seminary circle of Ashkenazi baalei tshuva, my name was the odd one out. When I moved to a larger community in my home country, it stuck out even more as I entered yeshivish circles. I wanted a good old fashioned shtetl name from the alter heim and nothing less would do. I couldn't wait to shed my surname, the last remaining artifact of a non-Jewish life. This, coupled with an uneasy relationship with my father, had me agreeing to shidduch dates based on last name alone. Was it Jewish enough? Did it sound heimish? Tell him I said yes, not to the date, but to the chuppah.
It's been a few years now. I've made peace with my Sephardi last name and the fact that it comes from my father. I laugh easily with the juxtaposition of a Yiddish first name followed by Sephardi heritage. I don't want to give it up anymore, I don't want my identity to be shrouded by my husband's. I remember reading an article recently about a prominent female politician I grew up admiring. When I was in high school (and had different political views than I do now), I was inspired by her trailblazing positions and work. She's since been married and tacked on her husband's last name to hers. In the news, she is initially introduced by her first name, maiden name, and husband's name. All subsequent mentions are shortened to her husband's name.
What happened to her achievements before marriage, to the name she made for herself? Her husband's takes precedence.
Until then, I'd always been on the fence about hyphenating my future husband's name with my own. Seeing this politician I grew up admiring go from her own name to her husband's flipped the switch for me. I want to remain my own.
So as I discover Avital Chizik Goldberg, I'm reminded of my feelings on last names and the precedence for changing them post-marriage. As far as I understand it, there is no source for Jewish women to take on their husband's name. I'm impressed by the women who, in these communities, make their own choices in a rare situation where halacha does not govern such a personal, meaningful decision; whether they hyphenate or not, or forgo it all together.
I'm not quite ready for marriage, so none of this is particularly relevant for me at the moment. I can't help but laugh, though, that while my partner is not a Cohen, his last name is just as Jewishly identifiable and with Sephardi heritage to boot. It may be time for me to learn some Ladino and find the equivalent of der mensch tracht, un G-tt lacht.
It's my boyfriend's birthday this Shabbat and I wanted to treat him to a special Shabbat dinner. My issue is that I basically turned myself vegan under the guise of restrictive eating habits (thank you, eating disorder) and have now developed a severe aversion to raw meat. So my simple plan was to order takeout, but apparently takeout for a Shabbat meal for 2 is $70 before tax and delivery. And it doesn't even include 3 challahs, just 2 bilkes, and no full sized dessert! What are we supposed to have for breakfast Shabbat morning?
I figured I can buy groceries for that price instead, and head to a frum grocery store with a deli counter. I ask for 4 pieces of grilled chicken legs and meander into the produce section. Of course, being a frum grocery store, there are no heads of lettuce to be found. Anything resembling a leafy green comes in piddly little packages (serving size: meant for a bird with a stomach ache) at Costco bulk prices, prechecked and washed for your expensive convenience. And of course, the only options are romaine and iceberg lettuce and various types of slaw. Have frum people ever heard of butter lettuce? Is nappa cabbage treif? Why are we eating the worst types of leafy greens? I would settle for endives.
So I take my two dimebags of greens, swing by the bakery for challah, and walk to the checkout with my grilled chicken and a piece of deli roll as well. I'm not really paying attention to the cashier as she scans my items because instead of calculating the price, I'm calculating my risk of getting covid as the only person wearing a mask in the store, and probably one of the few vaccinated patrons. More embarrassing than not knowing how to cook meat at 26 would be catching covid in 2022. Please. That's so 2020.
When the cashier tells me my total is $64, which is what I paid yesterday at the non-frum grocery store for the entirety of my other Shabbat groceries (vegetables for salad, sans the elusive nappa cabbage they ran out of; meringue nests and pareve whipping creams, thanks to the real vegans of the world, I no longer am relegated to frozen Rich's Whip; and more Shabbat snacks), I nearly start to laugh. I realize the chicken alone is $32, which is almost the cost of one catered meal I laughed at and dismissed for being too pricey. Of course, it's too late out for a catered Shabbat menu and I'm stuck a shmuck, paying double digits for a food I don't even particularly like and probably won't even reheat well.
I remember the baseball cap I put on this morning, which I almost left behind for two reasons. One, it makes me look married. Two, the three little words on this hat are not aidel and probably was the cause of some strange looks in this Chassidish enclave; more than my short sleeves and short skirt. The hat reads, I DON'T CARE and I try to embody that cheeky message as I hand over my credit card and wonder who else is stupid enough to come here for Shabbat takeout. I think there was a reason the only other people waiting at the deli counter were bareheaded men or pants-clad women. The real frummies are in the know.
I leave the store, wondering if it's time to overcome my fear of raw meat or fully impose my quasi-veganism on my boyfriend who grew up with a kosher caterer father, and has sat through many a lentil-stuffed baked sweet potato Shabbat meals with an appreciation for my time and effort, but definite longing for the schmaltzy aroma of Shabbosim he grew up with.
There is a chabadnik on the bus that I take to the subway when I go into the office who always talks to the bus driver and increasingly more each time. I think one day he’s going to ask if he’s Jewish and if he has time to lay tefillin
I think blogging about work in detail is petty and unprofessional but let me be a hypocrite for a second. sometimes people from other art galleries will contact me to rent our space out for their own artists' exhibitions with the most flowery, kind and complimentary language saying how they admire our gallery but like if you actually knew anything about us you'd know we have exhibits up for the dates you're requesting (it's plastered all over our digital channels) and we don't host other artists' work like this. lol.
I feel like BH I’m finally in a good mental health space but the world around me is collapsing. Women losing access to healthcare, unbearable inflation, global warming burning the planet and people alive, children being slaughtered in schools….the country I’m living in isn’t facing even all of those problems I mentioned, but still, how can I go about my day knowing my sisters south of the border lost fundamental rights last month? That women are refusing to have families due to the fear of felonies if they miscarry? I’m heartbroken for couples who are considering not having children, lest they send them to school one day and have them return only in a casket. The heat here is scary and yes I’m privileged in my air conditioned apartment and office, but it’s physically painful to be outside for long stretches of time; this is lucky compared to the temperatures in Europe and elsewhere and it makes me anxious thinking of the people and animals there. Grocery shopping used to stress me out because my eating disorder wouldn’t allow me to shop or eat normally; I’d spend hours comparing nutrition labels on cans of beans and legumes, debating the calorie difference between oat and almond milk. I would fill a cart with binge food, only to be back the next day and start all over again. Now, I can shop with peace of mind and pick the right foods for my body but the sticker shock of seeing a dozen eggs priced at $3.99 (on sale!) ruins the whole experience for me. I’m filled with dread by the time I go to the check out; some produce, milk, yoghurt, and a 6 pack of buns is somehow $50.
I just don’t see things getting better. On the news, financial experts say if things continue, they will be irreversible. The national bank is toying around with interest rates but as a non-homeowner, what does that mean for me? They adjust the rates in an attempt to help with inflation while admitting this doesn’t do much for daily expenses for many people. Am I going to have to spend $4 on eggs for the rest of my life? They used to be $1.99 not long ago.
In the past, I felt stuck in my own head with the weight of everything that I’ve ever suffered. The best way I could explain it was comparing it to being stuck in a room. In this room, there is an overhead light that never goes out. Sometimes it’s fluorescent and blinding; it’s all I can focus on. Sometimes it’s dim and I can enjoy my time in the room, but I could never escape it. Now I feel like I’ve left that room for the first time in years. The door is still open, and sometimes I’m pushed back into it, blinding light and all, but most of the time I’m away from that damn light. I’ve escaped my own trappings but what does the free world have to offer me? Expensive groceries, a 30% increase in my bills, a world where my sex is losing rights, and a planet literally on fire?
I’ve made so much progress, from having wasted away in my bedroom for years, alone and uninterested in anything that wasn’t food or lack of it. I lost out on so many opportunities because of being in treatment or because I was otherwise afraid, thanks to my anxiety. I’ve finally outgrown everything that was holding me back; I’m ready to join the world I hid from for so many years. But it doesn’t seem like the world has much to offer me anymore, and maybe I’ve missed my chance. I just don’t know how we can continue in this way and I’m so angry at what’s happening.