Tag Archives: Yiddish

When you make a match, you play with fire

playing with fireLately there have been a spate of single friends of mine getting acquainted with other single friends of mine. Sometimes, I’ve given the union a little … help.

But please, don’t think that I am just throwing any one who’s single at any one else who’s single. I think that’s only a recipe for disaster, and I am not one of those “couple” people that want to make sure she has other “couple” friends. In fact, since my boyfriend is frequently a social hermit, it’s actually easier for me to have single friends so that I don’t end up being the only one whose partner isn’t there.

But every once in awhile, I get a hunch.

All of a sudden, I’m looking at friends in a way that I (probably) haven’t look at before. Would I want to date them? What are their positives (those I probably know, because hey – they are my friends). What are their negatives? After listening to one person’s stories of dating failures and successes, do I think this other person would make them happy? Is he the kind of guy who would make sure to help you change a tire at 4 am? Would she be nice to his awful mother? Would she even be attracted to him? Is he going to be okay with her collection of stuffed animals? And then all of a sudden I’m taking people I love and putting them in leagues.  It’s awful.

Hooking friends up is so … exposing.

And then I am sure my friends are thinking to themselves “This? This is what she thinks I’d be attracted to?” or wanting to kill me because I forgot to mention some adorable quirk that would certainly be a deal-breaker.

“Oh? Did I not mention his blankie? Don’t worry – it’s great when you get cold! But did you see his awesome collection of vintage soda signs?“

I also tend to be an open book. Which means I tell funny stories about my friends, or I’ll vent about an issue or tell goofy stories about a night out, not thinking that in the future, I may want two people from disparate groups to meet. And then I get the brilliant force telling me “make a shidduch!” and the person I bring it up to inevitably says “Wait, isn’t that the same guy from that story where someone got left in a tree?”  There’s very often a point of no return from there.

It’s just not worth doing unless you are pretty sure it’s at least going to work or end up in a new friendship. Because the last thing I want is for some people to absolutely hate each other and then I have to worry about putting them in the same room for the next 50 or so years.

Inevitably, initially, there becomes “sides.” I mean, if you get the story equally from everyone, it’s just a disaster. And you can’t help but feel used or way over-involved. I tend to avoid this by not putting really close friends together so this way, it’s obvious where my loyalty will lie.

Then there’s also the risk of over-sharing.  Normally, I love over-sharing. But there are some things about my friends that I am pretty sure I really, really don’t want to know.

C’mon, like you didn’t know I would include a little Fiddler on the Roof?

New Year, No Change

What would a blog about my life and Yiddish be without a post about Rosh Hashana. Rosh Hashana is the Jewish New Year, and those of us who aren’t atheist/heathens go to temple/synagogue/shul. It’s one of the High Holy Days. You know how Christians have “Easter/Christmas Christians” or whatever that’s called? Jews have Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur as the equivalent. Rosh Hashana is one of my favorite Jewish holidays, because for my family – there are no prayers and the food requirements are essentially – sweet and round, if possible. This, I can handle. No fasting, no matzoh restrictions – just apples, honey and raisin-studded challah. No complaints.

The plan was to have the dinner at my mom’s house, because for some crazy reason she wanted to – but more importantly, Grandma really can’t host a meal any more – she won’t admit it, but it’s true. And it’s actually more work for all of us to do this at her house, plus she retains the right to yell at everyone even more than normal. On the invitee list: Me (of course), Frank (because he really can’t refuse), my friend Michelle (because she has a morbid fascination with my family and a really strong love of brisket), Grandma, and Grandma’s two friends. Frank’s parents were unable to attend, and my darling sister has flown to Rio de Janeiro for the weekend (no joke!) Total Jew Count? 3/7.

But – this because this is my life, nothing is that simple. I worked from home on Friday, so that I could make rugelach and go to my mom’s a little early. Everything was kind of on track – I wasn’t really accomplishing as much as I hoped on the work front, and while my new kitchen is fabulous and awesome, rugelach is one high-maintainence cookie.  The phone rings at about 3 (I was planning on leaving at about 4:30), and it’s my mom. Can I leave work early and go to Grandma’s house.  Apparently – she spilled chicken fat/gravy all over the floor and is danger of falling/has fallen/is freaking out/screaming. Oh, and can I bring Grandma over to her house when I come over?

Wonderful. I jumped in the shower, explained the situation to my boss who, because he is used to my life being a low-rated soap opera, believed me and wished me luck.  Frank takes over rugelach-baking and I hightail it to Grandma’s. By the time I get there, she has managed to clean up the floor with every towel she ever owned and vinegar. Now she is freaking out about her lost glasses. I find the glasses and instead of rushing, she is schpatziring in a bra and slip, doing her make-up and kvetching about her roommate for my cousin’s Bat Miztvah in two months (hint – it’s Aunt Dot – that post is going to write itself.)

I get her, the 14 pound turkey, an emergency gravy boat, two extra bottles of wine (convinced her to leave the scotch) and what’s left of my sanity into the car and sit in traffic for a half hour on my way to mom’s. In the meantime, now Michelle has to come from Long Island and go pick up Frank.

Mom set a beautiful table. So pretty, it’s worth sharing.

Table Setting

Mom, Grandma and I finish preparing the meal, setting the table, fighting and rearranging the contents of a stove. I have never missed my little sister so much.

A turkey, suffering gross indignities at the hands of Flo

A turkey, suffering gross indignities at the hands of Flo

The meal itself went very well. Grandma’s friends were lovely, brought flowers, some transliterated prayers (promptly put aside, never to be read), more wine and generally kept her entertained.  She regaled them of stories about how I went to Paris one year and came back with braided hair (apparently, a scandal) and they discussed her talents in art class.

Mom’s cooking was absolutely fantasic, and it goes without saying that there was way, way, way too much of it. Each guest got a little care package.  In addition to snackies before the meal, there was matzoh ball soup, two briskets, the aforementioned turkey, challah, asparagus, some sort of string bean dish, bean salad,  sweet potatoes with marshmallow (yay!), stuffing, potaoes and carrots in the brisket sauce, apple cake, noodle kugel and I am sure I am forgetting something else. Dessert was honey cake, ice cream, italian wedding cookies, rugelach, clementines, a fruit platter and a tiramisu cake and key lime cake that an upstairs neighbor brought down.

No one should leave hungry

No one should leave hungry

We all survived and a new year was ushered in. The picture below is my favorite. Frank is of course sharing his true feelings, and I believe I captured the look on Michelle’s face when she first realized that although she was lured in by brisket, she has to stay until the end of the meal.

Rosh Hashana 2009 010

Fangirls, Steak and Yiddish

My first piece of excitement to share with my loyal readers is a cute article in the NY Times called “Yiddish Resurfaces as City’s 2nd Political Language” Nothing earthshattering, but I wanted to share. Did you know Colin Powell speaks a little Yiddish?

The second piece is about my awesome dinner tonight. It’s Restaurant Week in NYC which means fancy restaurants only charge $35 for a 3-course meal. I went with some of the coolest girls ever (some friends I met at work) to Delmonico’s on the advice of our boss. Delmonico’s is famous for being ancient (opened in 1835), having the most interesting clientele and is credited with inventing Eggs Benedict, Lobster Newburg, and Baked Alaska.

As we walked up to the restaurant (not too far from our office) I saw a familiar looking figure go up the stairs right before us. Big guy, glasses, wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It looked a little bit like … no … it couldn’t be. Oh my god, but it was. Kevin Smith. And he was holding the door for us.

Let me explain. I have lived in NYC my whole life. I have bumped into tons of celebrities, seem them on the street. We all pretend to be too cool for school here, so I never really got too excited, or made a big deal. Except – Kevin Smith! I have always loved him, and I won’t pretend that I didn’t have a crazy crush on him in the early years.  I have never marked out or been so excited before. I had no idea what to do.  I kind of just stared at him, as he held the door – trying to confirm in my head that it was him. I got a little ridiculous and just kind of stared deeply at him and was all “Thank You. Very Much.”KevSmith

I mean – what do you do? I wasn’t even sure it was him until the last second and then even if I was – I didn’t want to make a big deal out of anything. The poor guy is just going out to dinner and what could I say? Anything would just seem trite. It’s not like he changed my life, or saved me from jumping off a bridge. I just think he is funny and adorable and ohmygod, it’s Kevin Smith!  So, I didn’t say anything, other than an overly emphatic thanks for holding the door.

First we had drinks at the bar (I needed to calm the hell down). The bar was great, the bartenders were funny and adorable and both Jill and I ordered stuff we would never have ordered, because Carolann ordered such an adult drink (she even knew what gin she wanted!) – we were obviously outclassed.  We gossiped, had a great time and about an hour later, agreed to sit down.  Of course, Carolann asked the maitre’d to seat me next to ohmygodkevinsmith.

So, we sat. About a table away from Kevin, his gorgeous wife, his kid and some older couples. Maybe family. While the girls were awesome and trying to get me to say something to him, I wouldn’t do that. Not with his whole family there. If he was just with a friend, maybe I would have sent over a drink or something, but this was just going to have to do. I am sure my constant leaning over and staring at him was flattery/terrifying enough.

Oh, the food? I had Lobster Bisque, the filet mignon and dessert and a glass of a really nice Cabernet. The lobster bisque was delicious, but not very hearty. Tiny portion but delicious flavor. The filet was perfect. I ordered it medium-rare, but I think I got Carolann’s rare, and I will never order it medium again. For dessert, instead of the brownie or cheesecake that was advertised, we were offered some sort of yogurt panna cotta or a a “Yankee Doodle” cake. We went for the Doodle, which was stale and uninspiring and a Baked Alaska to split – which was delicious.  Then we guilted the adorable Croatian waiter into giving us a brownie, which was even better, and had marshmallows on top. We had a blast, and I can’t wait to go out with these ladies again, but the night will always be “The Night Kevin Smith Held The Door For Me.”

Schvitzing and Schlepping

It occurred to me that I haven’t given a Yiddish lesson in awhile. And since summer is upon us, and I will hopefully be moving soon, the two most-likely-to-be-uttered words are going to be “schvitzing” and “schlepping.” So that you can follow along with my exciting travels, a brief lesson may be in order.

Schvitz Essentially, “sweat.” But it’s so much more than sweat. You can be schvitzing after a good workout, or just stand outside and schvitz, especially if it’s hot out. Since Jews aren’t really known for their athletic prowess (apologies to Sandy Koufax), generally – we just schvitz if the air conditioner isn’t working. I assume the Orthodox Jews are always schvitzing with the big black hats and the caftans.  Also, you can go take a schvitz. Old people don’t pretend to go to fancy spas and “infuse therapeutic oils into virgin cedar.” They go take a schvitz with the boys. Personally, I hate to schvitz. I will do almost anything to avoid it and yet – in the summer? I pretty much melt.

simpsonshvitz

Schlep Thanks to “The Great Schlep,” I think Sarah Silverman may have gotten this one covered, but because it’s one of my most-oft used words (“oy” excluded). By definition it means “to lug” but it’s so much more fun to say. I can schlep stuff up stairs, I can schlep myself to work in the morning, and sometimes – I can even look like a schlep. I am somewhat struggling on how to describe this state of being. A person can look like a schlep and be a “a schlepper” if they kinda look like a sack of potatoes, or that they are just schlepping themselves along. Sometimes, if I am just schlepping around town, doing errands – or maybe going to the beach (can’t avoid schvitzing there!) and need to carry everything, I will grab a “schlep bag” – some kind of “blah” bag to carry all my stuff. It probably has a bit of schmutz on it.

Bonus points if any non-native speakers can add these words to their vocabulary. And hopefully soon (too nervous to blog about it until the lease is signed) I will be able to write endlessly about my new apartment, and how annoying it is to schlep everything around by myself until Frank gets home, and how schvitzy I am going to be, moving at the end of August.

I’m a Yenta

I am a yenta, it’s true. It’s something I am not always proud of, but is almost undeniable.

For the purposes of this post, I am going to define “yenta” as a gossip or busybody. i think everyone has a little yenta in them – even guys or people who pretend to not care what’s going on with your friends, I believe – secretly do. Just a little bit. It’s part of our voyeurism.  Gossip helps build social ties, and sometimes the fear of gossip keeps us from doing things we know we shouldn’t (unfortunately, that works the other way too.)

I like hearing whats going on with people, and what they are thinking or doing. And despite its negative connotation, not all gossip is mean-spirited. I relish (most) people’s accomplishments and good news as much as the bad. Also, to try to salvage my reputation, just because I like getting the goods, doesn’t mean I always share. Especially if I am asked not to divulge. Trust really is important to me.

But who people are dating (or not), what’s going on at work, who did what to whom? Awesome!  And there is so much gossip out there – sometimes I really have to make sure I am not overdosing.  Celebrity rags (TMZ, Perez Hilton), political gossip (Politico) and just well, my entire blog roll (and Google Reader). I sometimes think I am bad, but really – aren’t blogs, facebook profiles and statuses and tweets just representations of gossip? People want to share (and if they don’t, brush up on your google-fu), and people want to know the minutae of our lives and our thoughts on opinions on everything from politics to the best brand of dental floss.  Is everyone who participates in social networking/media really just gossiping?

What worries me is when I reflexively check the blogs or statuses of people I don’t even like. I don’t know if I just enjoy their failures (Paging Ms. Schadenfreude!) or if its just more useless info to fill my brain. Either way, I am going to make a conscious effort to stop. My first step was not checking celebrity junk as much – for example, I have no idea who Whitney Port is, or who she is dating. My second step was removing a lot of people from my daily reading/friend list/twitter feed. I want to fill my thoughts with things that are more productive, and make more room for the people I genuinely care about, or can learn from.

I wonder if being a yenta has anything to do with wanting to be a consultant, or an advice columnist. Or a reviewer? Hm. I think this may be all related and kind of the ultimate in Yenta-ness. Finding out what’s going on in someone’s business and then having the added bonus of giving your opinion? Heaven!

“If you don’t have anything nice to say about anyone, come sit by me .” – Dorothy Parker (or Alice Roosevelt)

Famous Yentas

Yiddish

Oy, do I love Yiddish! I didn’t grow up speaking Yiddish and neither of my grandmothers are really “bubbehs” but every once in awhile a few Yiddish terms or phrases would sneak in.  Lately, I have been trying to write down the words I don’t remember often hearing. My family is Jewish, but in reality – a better description would be that we are Yiddish. Religion? Feh! But the language, customs and guilt? All us. I think people probably call it secular Jewry, or culturally Jewish, but I think Yiddish is probably a better term.

Yiddish as a language? It’s just awesome. I sometimes think I want to take classes and learn how to speak Yiddish so that I can have full conversations, but I am not sure I want that. I like just peppering my every day speech with Yiddish. Yiddish is all about intonation. For example, and I know this sounds crazy, but in my mind – the name of this blog is Yiddish.  You have to say it like an old woman, with one hand on her chest, futzing with her locket. “Oy gevalt, you should only know …”

Living in New York, it’s hard to remember that Yiddish is a dying language. I use and hear so many terms that I had no idea were Yiddish until I read them in a Yiddish dictionary (which by the way, is in my opinion, an impossible way to learn Yiddish. Yiddish must be heard, and preferably, heard in context.) Words like shmuck, shmooze, shmear, klutz – who knew they were Yiddish? (NB: If you find yourself phrasing everything as a rhetorical question – you may be speaking Yiddish. Or are a Valley Girl. It’s a fine line.)

There are just some words that are better in Yiddish. “Nu?” instead of “so…/yeah, and?”, “shvitz” instead of sweat, “schlemiel/schlemizel” instead of jerk or loser, “gatkes” instead of granny panties or bloomers.

Then there are words that are just more descriptive or concise than their English counterparts. A “mensch” is an all-around good guy. The kind of guy that will help you move on a rainy day and calls their grandma every Sunday. A “balebusteh” is a female ball-breaker. A “macha” is the big guy. The guy that knows everyone and is like the mayor, unofficially. Some of this terms are even better when they are used sarcastically. “Him? He thinks he’s such a big macha, but after he was caught shtupping the butcher’s wife? He’s just a little pisher.”

Or one of my favorites is “Hak mir nit kayn chainik” which translates to “Stop banging on the tea kettle” or “leave me alone already, stop nagging.” It’s just such a great image.

There are words that I just don’t have a good equivalent for in English. My grandma always tells me keep to keep a knippeleh (oh, by the way – adding “eh” to the end of pretty much any Yiddish word denotes the dimunitive.) A knippel is a little money on the side. Because a knippel is the knot you make in a handkerchief – picture a hobo’s hankerchief with the knippel-knot. You keep your money inside that, just for a rainy day or to buy a little something for yourself.  While writing this post, I have discovered that knippel also means virginity. I may have disappointed Grandma.

I could list all the words I use on a frequent basis, and words and phrases that I wish I used more often, but that could get old. So, I will recommend a few good books, should maybe you want to learn a little more?

How to Talk Jewish – Jackie Mason

The Joys of Yiddish – Leo Rosten

Yiddish with Dick and Jane – Ellis Weiner

And, 40 Yiddish words you should know.

I am going to aim for a few Yiddish min-lessons on the blog every once in awhile. Got any good ones that you think I should know?

The true homeland of Yiddish

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