Mah Jongg Throng

By Ellen Simon Pifer,

Silicon Valley Community Newspapers January 11,2011

What do Chinese men in Shanghai and dozens of women at the Jewish Community Center in Los Gatos have in common? You might guess a heartfelt love for dim sum, but it goes beyond that.

In early December, 63 women (and one intrepid man) packed into the JCC with one thing in mind–an ancient game Chinese men have been playing for generations: mah jongg.

The Chinese invented mah jongg in 1847. The game, which is named for the Chinese word meaning “sparrow,” is played using domino-like tiles on a rack. It’s similar to the card game gin and requires a good deal of strategic thinking as players try to assemble a winning hand of tiles in specific patterns. Mix in a bit of financial risk and a touch of luck, and you have the makings of a very addictive game.

“We love it,” says Doris Katz while adjusting her mah jongg tile necklace and matching bracelet. Katz, originally from Brooklyn and now living in Saratoga, has played mah jongg for more than 50 years. Today, she teaches the game, with friend Karen Guggenheim. The two have taught mah jongg at the JCC for two years and were thrilled to coordinate the center’s second annual mah jongg tournament.

Businessman Joseph Babcock, who discovered the game while traveling through China in 1912, brought mah jongg to the United States. Once in the states, the game underwent a few changes and American mah jongg was born. Throughout the 1920s, the game became a popular craze and rules were codified with the establishment of The National Mah Jongg League.

No one really knows for certain how mah jongg became uniquely Jewish, though there are many theories. But few would deny that what bocce is to Italian men, mah jongg is to Jewish women.

“I have a theory that the Jewish women living on the lower East Side of New York would stroll their babies through nearby Chinatown and see their neighbors playing,” says Katz. “Maybe that’s how it caught on in the Jewish community.”

However it happened, there is no doubting that mah jongg took root in the Jewish community. “It definitely became a Jewish woman’s game,” says Katz. “It was played in the Catskills and in the cities and on the beaches.”

“I have clear memories as a child of hearing my mother and grandmother play,” says Hayley Charnow, one of the younger players in the tournament. “They would sit in the living room, and I would hear the clickety-click of the tiles.”

It’s a sweet memory for Charnow, who was excited to be at the JCC to play in her first mah jongg tournament. The tournament, which was open to “newbies and mavens” alike, was established to bring people in the community together.

“This is a social event more than a fundraiser,” says Arielle Hendel, chief development officer for the Jewish Federation, which sponsored the event. “We want people to understand who we are and become familiar with our campus and all that we offer.”

In addition to a fitness center, preschool and educational programming, the JCC now offers mah jongg tables for public use in its lobby. Pick-up games take place every Wednesday night and anyone can pop in to play a hand or two.

While the mah jongg tournament held at the JCC was not primarily a fundraiser, mah jongg and money enjoy a long history together. Gambling was an integral part of the original game played in China and it has retained the element of financial risk, though in American mah jongg the stakes are generally low.

“We could literally play all night for $5,” says Marcia Simon, who picked up the game after moving from New York to Florida. “That’s a lot of time for very little money. It’s definitely not about the money for me and my friends,” she says. “It’s about strategy and socializing.”

While some players may agree to take gambling completely out of the game, in Las Vegas tournaments some players play for up to 10 times the typical 25-cent ante.

“It really depends on the people playing,” adds Katz. “Some people take it very seriously, and other people get together to talk and take the game less seriously. It really depends on the people who are playing.”

“I’m here in training for a tournament in Florida,” adds Ron Schilling, an avid game player whose job as a teacher of strategic thinking at Stanford University may offer him an advantage at mah jongg. Schilling was the only man competing in the JCC tournament, though he says several of his friends play the game. “Next time I’ll have more men here with me,” he said. “Guaranteed.”

While mah jongg hasn’t changed much since the ’20s, it has gained wider appeal in recent years.

“For years young women have always fought against learning because their mothers played and we naturally don’t want to end up like our mothers,” Guggenheim says with a chuckle. It’s also a game that requires free time that younger women with children don’t always have, but the typical player may be changing.

“When we go to Las Vegas to play, we now see a lot more younger people playing,” says Katz. “They are younger, there are more men, and they aren’t all Jewish.”

“It’s very addictive and it’s very social,” says Guggenheim. “And that appeals to all kinds of people.” In fact, many mah jongg groups stay together for years and go through lifecycles together: births, the preschool years, bar mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. “At the start of each hand, when players are exchanging tiles, or even in between hands, there is time for chit chat.”

Perhaps mah jongg’s greatest power is its ability to bring people together. It’s done that for more than 100 years and is now working its magic here in Los Gatos.

An intermediate mah jongg class will meet Wednesdays from 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. beginning Jan. 12 at the Addison-Penzak JCC Levy Family Campus, 14855 Oka Road in Los Gatos. For more information, call 408.357.7492.

A recent press release I wrote that got picked up by several local publications.

Chef Makes The Cut As Bay Area Mohel

N.California, June 23, 2010 --When he was in culinary school, Moshe Trager never thought he’d end up a rabbi, much less a mohel. He is fast in the kitchen and his knife skills are impressive. In fact, watching Moshe Trager cook is like watching Bobby Fisher play chess; the movements are fast but you know there’s complex strategy behind them.

“Cooking just came naturally to me,” Trager says, in a deep voice laced with hints of Boston roots. “My Dad and uncle were both in the restaurant business, so I was always in the kitchen.” But while he met Julia Childs several times, Trager never reached celebrity chef status himself.

Today, Trager cooks less but cuts more. In addition to being a rabbi, he is a professional mohel working in the San Francisco Bay Area, which means he has been specifically trained to circumcise newborn baby boys according to a Jewish ritual that dates back to ancient times called “bris mila.”

“It’s a real blessing to be a part of this moment in people’s lives and I’ve done more than 3000 brisses in the 15 years I’ve been a mohel,” he says.

Trager was trained and certified by the world-renowned chief mohel of Israel at Jerusalen’s Shaare Tzedek Hospital.

“This was like learning to play guitar from Jimi Hendrix,” he says. “It was a really unusual opportunity for me and I jumped at it.”

His culinary training came in handy as Trager found he was able to complete the procedure with precision and speed. Where it could take a physician 10-15 minutes to complete a circumcision, Trager is able to do the same in seconds. It’s not surprising that many of his clients are the sons of surgeons, pediatricians and urologists.

“Doctors know that mohels are able to minimize the discomfort for the baby,” says Trager. “Instead of a cold hospital room, where the baby is strapped down, a bris is a kinder, gentler procedure that takes place in your home. The baby is placed on a pillow on his father or grandfather’s lap and is back in his mother’s arms in a matter of minutes.”

The bris isn’t exclusively for Jews anymore. The natural approach has gained popularity among non-Jewish parents and alternative couples.

“I get calls all the time from parents who just want a more holistic approach to circumcision,” Trager says.

Although there is on-going debate about the medical advantages of circumcision, many Americans request the procedure for their sons for reasons varying from religious to aesthetic.

“I’m honored to be a part of this joyful time in people’s lives,” says the chef turned mohel. “My restaurant customers joked that I really do everything from soup to nuts.”

# # # # #

If you’d like more information about Rabbi Moshe Trager, or would like to schedule an interview, please call Rabbi Trager at 415-366-6757 or email him at rabbitrager@comcast.net.

For more information, visit: http://www.calimohel.com

It's Time Marriage Checked Into Rehab

I’ve lost faith in men. I’ve lost faith in marriage. In fact, I’m coming to believe that men just aren’t cut out for fidelity. Face it ladies. Whether they have a penchant for white house interns, TV staffers, strippers, co-stars, models or just hookers in the back seat of a car (ala Hugh Grant), men just can’t seem to “keep it in their pants.” Even Fidel Castro, whose very name means faithful, was reputed to sleep with at least two women a day in his heyday.

It’s in the news everywhere you look. The cheaters club is growing by leaps and bounds. Recent inductees include: Hugh Grant, Bill Clinton, David Letterman, John Edwards, Jon Gosselin (of Jon & Kate fame), Tiger Woods, and most recently Jesse James. Membership is cheap; unless of course it costs you your marriage.

There’s no denying that cheating is ubiquitous. And like most everything we are bombarded with regularly, we become a bit numb to it. After all, what’s a guy to do when he commits a crime of chromosomes? Can he really be held accountable? The guy says he’s sorry, he made a mistake. The woman wonders if she ultimately caused his straying. The offender may seek counseling. And in extreme cases of “sexual addiction” (cough cough), the horny bastard, I mean cheater, may seek long term rehab (hats off to Tiger) But odds on, he will do it again.

A chronic male cheater I know put it this way. “If I can’t get a good meal at home, I can’t be faulted for going to Taco Bell, right? Same goes for sex.” Not surprisingly, after a good deal of “take-out taco” he was finally kicked-out of his home.

Many women wonder if monogamy is just not natural for men. Others, including famed sexpert Dr.Ruth, say that looking at infidelity rates among celebrities and public figures may not be an accurate representation of the real world. After all, politicians and celebrities are put in tempting situations more often. I for one, wonder if Lorena Bobbit got to the root of the problem when she cut off husband John’s offending part. Because as long as a man has a little head, it will at times rule his big head.

Famed cheater Woody Allen, who married his adopted daughter, claimed “The heart wants what it wants.” What a romantic. I guess the “I had a woody,” defense wouldn’t have flown.

Odds are you or someone you know has been betrayed. Whether it’s the nature of the beast or just your particular beast, realize that you are not alone. In fact, you’re in good company. Welcome to our Dicked Ova Club --an ever growing group of women that represents every walk of life. Most recent inductees include Elin Woods, Elizabeth Edwards and Sandra Bullock. You could be in worse company!

Remember…95% of men cheat in America. The rest cheat in Europe!

Of Pajama Pride & Predjudice

No one’s here tonight. Just me and the dog. So after a quickie dinner of yogurt and granola, it’s jammie time. It’s time to slip into something a bit more comfortable. Don’t cue the Barry White music yet. I’m not talking about a silky negligee. I’m not even talking about a cute knit nightie. I’m taking it to another level tonight. Wrapping myself in “for your eyes only” sleepwear --the softest, yummiest paper thin cotton nightgown imaginable. I save it for nights like this. This is the kind of ethereal sleepwear worn by fine English ladies who sip chamomile tea. Designed by Eileen West and Laura Ashley, these ladies are specialists when it comes to magical sleep-inducing fabrics that swath you in easy fitting…well let’s call a spade a spade, easy fitting tents.

My Mom introduced me to the world of pure cotton nightgowns when I was just a teen and she has graced me with a new one yearly. Mind you, these babies are first class, made of the kind of cottony goodness usually reserved for toilet paper and handkerchiefs. In fact, the cotton is so fine that it’s practically sheer. It is so pure, it’s almost always white. And it’s easily recognized at a glance. The look is pure innocence: a touch of eyelet, teensy flower-shaped buttons, the finest ribbons and delicate lace.

While the designer’s advertising evokes a unique sense of romance –think Dangerous Liaisons meets Madame Bovary, the catalog descriptions could cool even a porn star’s blood. “Scalloped lace and ribbon trim finish the sweetly feminine look of this pure cotton gown…a soft ruffle and a narrow ribbon tie detail the scooped neckline.” No, this isn’t the sleepwear of Carmen Electra and Pam-eh-la. But I am betting that Kate Winslet might have donned one of these Titanic-sized nighties for Leo. Because this is true womens wear, the undergarment of the upper crust, the lacy under thing of the 19th century. This is what the haughty (and naughty) broads are wearing. Quite simply, this is the stuff romance novels are made of.

That said, I know who romance novels are written for –women, only women. So some nights, when I am home alone, it’s a genuine joy to reach into the back of the drawer and pull out the jammies with the natural feather light feel and the “I don’t care if I look pregnant” silhouette. It’s a simple pleasure I learned from my Mom. Sweet dreams everyone.

Living In A Police State

Los Gatos and Monte Sereno enjoy a low crime rate. That is unless you count the delinquents like me. In the past few months I’ve had a few tussles with the law and managed to become public enemy number one. I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone. I got a ticket for having my front tires in a cross walk. I had Animal Control leave me multiple warnings for “allowing” my dog to jump our fence. Tonight, I almost ended up in the slammer.

I had to pick my son up from a friend’s house one mile from my home. My 12 year old was watching TV, his 5 year old brother napping beside him. I grabbed my cell phone and told my eldest I would be back in 10 minutes.

The play date went well and my 9 year old was telling me all about it when the flash of blue and red lights caught me by surprise. What in gods name did I do now? I thought to myself doing a quick inventory. The phone had wrung but I opened it “hands free” using the speaker phone. I wasn’t speeding. Ryan was sitting in the front seat (for the first time ever) but no way could the officer determine he was a half inch shy of the 4’9” requirement in the dark. The flashlight glared at me interrogation style as I rolled down the window.

“Can I see your license and registration,” he said.

I reached for my purse. It wasn’t there.

“Oh no, I left my purse on the kitchen counter,” I said. “I just live down this road if you could follow me for a minute?”

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“I do have my registration and proof of insurance,” I offered fumbling through the glove box and handing him the documents. “Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

“You’re registration sticker isn’t up to date,” he said.

“Oh, it really is,” I explained. “But I made a mistake and put it on the front plate instead of the back and haven’t moved it yet because I don’t have the proper wrench.”

He wasn’t interested in my registration sticker. He had bigger fish to fry. He went back to his car for a moment and when he returned said, “You aren’t a licensed California driver.”

“Yes, I am. I have the license in my wallet,” I said, mind racing.

“You aren’t in the computer system. And if you are driving without a license I will have to tow your car,” he said.

““We could resolve all this if you drove up the street with me,” I offered. And as he went to do another computer check, I explained that my son was home waiting for my return.

“How old is your son?” he asked.

“Twelve,” I replied.

“It’s illegal to leave a child under the age of 14 alone Ellen,” he said in that “Mighty Oz” tone. “It’s a misdemeanor and I could report you to Child Protective Services.”

“Twelve year olds babysit where I come from,” I offered.

“Well it’s against the law in the state of California,” he reiterated. “Penal code blah blah blah blah.”

At that point panic began to set in. My car was going to be towed. My unpaid cell phone ticket was going to land me in the slammer. My kids were going to be taken from me. And the lawyer bills would be mounting. I could feel the tears welling up inside me.

I called the kids father. He was a good 40 minute drive away. I called home and assured my responsible 12 year old that I would be home shortly.

The officer returned to my car window and handed me my paperwork. “You need to have your license on you at all times and you need to go home and take care of your children,” he advised me. “I’m going to let you go with a warning.”

I think I nodded. I don’t remember much other than the tears streaming down my face and the mix of fear and indignant anger burning inside me.

According to the local police department’s website, their officers “work hard to provide a full range of services often beyond what other communities are able to provide.” Perhaps a nice bank robbery, once in a while, would help put their world in perspective? Then again, that’s the thinking of a criminal mind and a neglectful mother.

Mind Your Own

There’s a law on the east coast that I never really appreciated or even consciously recognized until I moved out west. It’s an unspoken rule, a kind of social contract that everyone enters into “Thou shall mind thy own damn business.”

On the east coast we walk with our gaze fixed ahead of us, hands in pockets, with an “I’m on a mission” attitude that says without words “I got places to go and people to see. Don’t slow me down.” Don’t get me wrong, people are often friendly. We yield the right of way on the streets giving the mandatory wave; we smile at adorable babies and we nod empathetically at overwhelmed moms. But we don’t often offer our two cents. That’s not the case in California.

I first noticed it on the roads. And before you ask, I am a good driver with a clean license. I learned to drive in New York so I have no trouble asserting myself behind the wheel. But in California I found myself with an endless supply of backseat drivers, and they weren’t in my car. They were in the cars around me. Dozens of them. Pointing angrily at my front tires if they inched into the crosswalk. Waving disapprovingly if I answered my cell phone (and this before the cell ban law was passed.) And all too often flipping me the bird for whatever supposed infraction I’d committed.

Fourteen years in Philadelphia and I only recall being flipped the bird once. Yet in Cali, I’ve been told to “read between the lines” by a least a dozen civilian officers. Maybe living outside the city people feel they can “express themselves” without fear of being shot?

Where are the laid-back, bohemian, surfer, hippie types? They aren’t in the supermarkets either. Today in the P&W (not your warm and fuzzy Piggly Wiggly) with my three kids in tow, I got another dose of unsolicited advise. The market was empty, so I told the kids they could explore as long as they kept track of where I was. They ran off giggling and didn’t get down one aisle before an employee admonished them to “Stop running!” Ok, that was wise; I agreed. Not five minutes later, my little one ran up to plea for Twix yogurt, when a well-coiffed, silver-haired, schoolmarm asked me in semi-horror, “Are those your children?”

“Yes, they are. Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Well they are climbing the boxes in the detergent aisle!” she explained, lips pursed.

“I will take care of that,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.”

I turned to walk away, thinking that would suffice but it didn’t.

“You would think you could maintain some degree of control,” she went on.

I was rather floored. “Didn’t I just say I would take care of?” I replied.

“I would hope so,” she said.

That was it. I’d had had it. My default position is to be polite but when strangers stick their nose in my business –especially as it relates to my children, it just presses my buttons.

“Thanks for the input Grandma,” I sneered and walked off to gather my kids, who were enjoying an innocent game of hide and seek among the toilet paper packages.

Despite their laid back, sunny reputations, not all Californians model the “live and let live” lifestyle. In fact, I’m thinking the whole Silicon Valley could use a nice heaping portion of good ole East Coast “Mind Your Own Damn Business!”

Mind Your Own

There’s a law on the east coast that I never really appreciated or even consciously recognized until I moved out west. It’s an unspoken rule, a kind of social contract that everyone enters into ‑‑“Thou shall mind thy own damn business.”

On the east coast we walk with our gaze fixed ahead of us, hands in pockets, with an “I’m on a mission” attitude that says without words “I got places to go and people to see. Don’t slow me down.” Don’t get me wrong, people are often friendly. We yield the right of way on the streets giving the mandatory wave; we smile at adorable babies and we nod empathetically at overwhelmed moms. But we don’t often offer our two cents. That’s not the case in California.

I first noticed it on the roads. And before you ask, I am a good driver with a clean license. I learned to drive in New York so I have no trouble asserting myself behind the wheel. But in California I found myself with an endless supply of backseat drivers, and they weren’t in my car. They were in the cars around me. Dozens of them. Pointing angrily at my front tires if they inched into the crosswalk. Waving disapprovingly if I answered my cell phone (and this before the cell ban law was passed.) And all too often flipping me the bird for whatever supposed infraction I’d committed.

Fourteen years in Philadelphia and I only recall being flipped the bird once. Yet in Cali, I’ve been told to “read between the lines” by a least a dozen good-doers. Maybe living outside the city people feel they can “express themselves” without fear of being shot?

Where are the laid back, bohemian, surfer, hippie types? They aren’t in the supermarkets either. Today in the P&W with my three kids (not your warm and fuzzy Piggly Wiggly) I got another dose of unsolicited advise. The market was empty, so I told the kids they could explore as long as they kept track of where I was and met me at check-out. They ran off giggling and didn’t get down one aisle before an employee admonished them to “Stop running!” Ok, that was wise. I agree. Not five minutes later, my little one ran up to plea for Twix yogurt when a silver haired, well-coiffed, schoolmarm asked me in an irritated tone, “Are those your children?”

“Yes, they are. Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Well they are climbing the boxes in the detergent aisle!” she explained, lips pursed.

“Oh, well I will take care of that,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.” I turned to walk away, thinking that would suffice but it didn’t.

“You would think you could maintain some degree of control…” she went on. I was rather floored.

“Didn’t I just say I would take care of?” I replied.

“I would hope so!” she said.

That was it. I’d had it. My default position is to be polite but when strangers stick their nose in my business but when it relates to my children --that presses my buttons.

“Thanks for the input Grandma,” I sneered and walked off to gather my kids, who were enjoying an innocent game of hide and seek among the toilet paper packages.

I thought Californians were supposed to be laid-back? Chill. Relaxed. Boho. Live and let live. Not so in the Silicon Valley where I think they could use a nice heaping dose of “Mind Your Own Damn Business!”

The Key to Romance (or Kiss My Ass Naked Butt Man)

Chuck’s marriage had lost its spice. He felt the connection he once had with his wife disappearing. So, he brought home a magnetic poetry kit that had an assortment of romantic and erotic words. Chuck imagined he and his wife could leave tantalizing musings for each other on the refrigerator to rekindle their connection. Day one he awoke to this message from his wife: "kiss my ass naked butt man."

Despite rumors to the contrary, romance isn’t dead. An online study conducted by Yankelovich in February 2008, explored ways of connecting among 1001 couples. The study found that American couples are lacking ze romance and they want more! In fact, 76% of those surveyed said they wish they could add more romance to their relationship.

So, what exactly is romance? The dictionary says it’s “the ardent emotional attachment between people.” Romance is almost as hard to define as love. Professor Richard Wiseman conducted a survey among 6500 men and women all over the world in July 2009. He found that there is a huge rift between what men and women believe is romantic.

“Contrary to what many men believe, you do not have to spend large sums of money to woo a woman -it really is the thought that counts,” Wiseman said.

Men mistakenly believe women value expensive gifts or sexy lingerie as the ultimate in romance. But that is not the case. Women, in fact, prefer little loving touches, such as a morning cup coffee in bed or a gentle foot rub or a relaxing hot bath. And these romantic gestures cost little to nothing.

In the Yankelovich study, people said what was lacking most from their relationships was intimate conversations (41%) and time together (40%) and sex (45%.) Even with all of the communication technology options available today, many people feel less connected than they would like to be with their significant other. One possible solution is to bring on the romance because romance fuels connection.

So, what’s a romance-starved nudnik to do? Dr. Wiseman had women rank romantic gestures and the top ten may surprise you.

1) Cover her eyes and lead her to a lovely surprise.
2) Whisk her away somewhere exciting for the weekend.
3) Write a song or poem about her.
4) Tell her that she is most wonderful woman that you have ever met.
5) Run her a relaxing bath after she has had a bad day at work.
6) Send her a romantic text or email, or leave a note around the house.
7) Wake her up with breakfast in bed.
8) Offer her a coat when she is cold.
9) Send her a large bouquet of flowers, or box of chocolates, at her workplace.
10) Make her a compilation of her favorite music.

Now with all this research data in mind, men –it’s time to draw the bath, ply your woman with compliments, bring on the chocolate truffles and rustle up some va va voom.

Bagel With a Smear

I come from New York which, second to Israel, is the most Jew-packed place in the world. I raised my kids in Philadelphia, where neighbors go sukkah-hopping in the fall. My life as a Jew has never been closeted. I grew up worried I would be made fun of for my braces or my pimples or my father --who had a penchant for walking around the house in his tidy whities with his undershirt tucked in and his black socks pulled up nice and high. But being Jewish was never a source of angst for me. On the East Coast, no one stood out for being Jewish. Things are different on the left coast.

Birds of a feather do tend to stick together. So when we relocated to Northern California, I was careful to find a town with all the signs of a robust Jewish Community. There is a large reform synagogue and an impressive Jewish Community Center. Yet, despite these signs, finding a box of egg matzo at Passover time is like discovering the Holy Grail. Explaining to the cashier at the posh supermarket that you want a loaf of chhhalllah for Friday night dinner (not “ch”allah) is like speaking Greek.

The Jews of Northern California seem anemic if not invisible compared to the Jews I know. There is a lot less “shhhhh” in their “shmear.” In fact, the menu at Noah’s Bagels out here reads “smear of cream cheese.” This invisibility is particularly evident at holiday time when the classrooms are filled with Christmas-themed decorations; the stores are dripping with Christmas-messages, Main Street is bursting with Christmas lights, and from November 27th on, everything is “beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” Only Christmas.

It’s surprising too, because Northern California truly is a melting pot of cultures. The classrooms are more diverse with students of Chinese, Korean, Indian, Japanese and other backgrounds. But, where on the East Coast, the schools acknowledged Chanukah and Kwanza in their holiday parties, here no one seems to bother. Perhaps the Jews of Northern California have assimilated to the point of being unrecognizable (at least to me!)

Don’t misunderstand; I’m all about holiday spirit. But now I realize growing up Jewish on the East Coast was a very different experience for me than it will be for my kids here on the West Coast. This realization is a wake-up call for me. It means I will have to work harder. I have to run the Hanukah table at the classroom parties (which I did.) I have to put up extra Hanukah decorations (not one electric menorah but two!) I have to give my kids the tools to fight the self-consciousness they now feel about standing out for being Jewish. In fact, I have to take that self-consciousness and massage it into understanding and pride.

Happy Cholidays everyone!

Mom, You are Smokin’!

My 12 year old son Ethan is learning about drugs in school as part of a drug awareness and prevention program. The goal of the program is to ensure our children understand the damaging affects drugs and alcohol can have on your mind and body, so they never abuse them despite social pressures. Sounds good, huh? But it’s clearly difficult to explain the difference between “use” and “abuse” to kids who are perfectly comfy in a world of absolutes where the good guys always do what’s right and the bad guys always do what’s wrong. Last night, I think I tarnished my good guy image in my son’s mind when he asked me straight up, “Mom, have you ever tried pot?” and I stopped for only a moment before saying, “Yes.”

Ethan is very passionate about his opinions on drug --an of course, tobacco is considered a very dangerous drug. When he sees a person smoking he is apt to say “Look at that dumb guy smoking! How gross!” When he was younger he did this without any self-editing. Now, that he is older, he realizes expressing his utter dismay this could hurt a smoker’s feelings. But despite not screaming it in stranger’s faces, he still feels a sense of shock and horror. I’m sure I must be part of the reason he is so anti-smoking biased. I’m not a smoker and I sure don’t want my kids to partake in this deadly and dirty habit. So, with the school as my partner, I’ve taught my son that smoking is a bad choice. And I stand by that.

Unfortunately, as a side effect, when it comes to smokers Ethan sees things as black and white. “Why does your friend Carolyn smoke?” he’s asked. “Is she stupid?!” And so, I’ve set out to teach him that making bad decisions doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person who made a bad decision. And it’s likely that most smokers regret ever starting the habit because it is a very hard habit to break. So, while it’s okay to dislike smoking, it’s not okay to dislike smokers. If anything, he should feel badly for them.

At the tender age of 12 he is more comfy seeing things as cut and dry. I was reminded of this when he was done giving me his Drug Awareness Inventory Test. He seemed a smidgen impressed that I scored 100%. I knew that smoking pot does not make you drive better and that drinking too much alcohol can be deadly. I was better prepared for the test than for Ethan’s question about my own drug use.

When he asked me if I liked it pot, I also told him the truth. “I hated the feeling of the hot smoke in my lungs.” When he asked me if I felt happy when I was high, I told him, “No, I never got high. I just got the munchies, which made me eat more.” Another truth.

He was clearly confused, running head on into a “Do as I say and not as I do” moment. There is a difference between drug use and drug abuse and I tried to explain this to him. “I was very curious and decided to try it,” I said. “If you decide to try it one day, it won’t make you a bad person either, Ethan.” He shook his head, “Well, I’m not going to!” Interestingly his 9-year old brother who is my mini-Quentin Tarantino, ball of creative energy, found the whole thing rather absurd. He didn’t get the big deal at all and said he was sure he would give it a try one day. (Note to self: Keep an eye on the midget in the Bob Marley t-shirt.)

So, I’m a parent who makes choices –good ones and bad ones. In this case, I chose to tell the truth. I could have gone the Bill Clinton route and waffled ala “I didn’t inhale.” But my gut told me that in the long run Ethan would respect my George Washington-like honesty. That said, his next question, which was screamed from down the hallway, took me a bit off-guard.

”Hey Mom, what’s this big blue plastic penis doing in your nightstand?!”

I didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“Ohhhhhh, that?! That was a joke gift my girlfriends gave me for my birthday, honey. Don't touch it!”

I’m just not ready for that discussion. In fact, I think I need a joint.

Who the hell am I?

When I first fell in love, I did what every future bride does with her groom to be. I checked if our names were compatible. Mrs. Ellen Stephanie S-k-y-w-a-l-k-e-r. It rolled off the tongue at the time. And when I double checked our destiny with AEIOU/12345 test (remember that?), I knew Luke was my future. Unfortunately, my beloved at 12 had other plans for himself --like kissing his sister and saving the galaxy—so I never did become Ellen Skywalker.

At 27, I did decide to go all out traditional and change my name when I got married. My grandmother did. My mother did. And, as I wanted nothing more than to meld my life with my then fiancée, I decided to do the same. The notion was a charming one. And I wasn’t alone in my thinking. Even today, some 70 percent of the respondents in a study conducted by the Center for Survey Research at Indiana University, felt they should take their spouse’s surname - and 50 percent said that it should be a legal requirement for a woman to take her spouse’s last name. Rush Limbaugh can do the happy dance.

It sounded simple enough but actually taking on another name and using it day to day kind of flipped me out. If after 27 years, I was no longer Ellen Stephanie Simon, who was I? Names are a big deal in Judaism. We name our kids after deceased love ones in the hopes that they will be imbued with that person’s positive traits. I was named after my great grandmother Esther, who was considered a very strong woman. I’d been told that my last name, Simon, was originally Siminovitz but it was hastily shortened by some lazy scribe at Ellis Island.

My name had meaning to me. If something that was such a big part of my identity, could be changed so easily (“sign right here”), who was I? I reasoned that nothing important was changing. It was just a label. And I started to think of myself, not as Ellen Stephanie Simon or Ellen Stephanie Pifer or Ellen Stephanie Simon Pifer or even Ellen Simon Pifer, though I tried them all on for size. I started to think of myself as simply “Ellen.” I figured, I’d follow in the footsteps of a long line of powerhouse women like Cleopatra, Cher, Madonna and Pink. Did they even have last names? Or did they change them seasonally?

Now with the dissolution of my marriage, I have the opportunity to change my name yet again and I find myself craving old me, wanting to shed this now ill-fitting name. It might be nice to symbolically slam the door on life as Ellen Pifer. But, as with most decisions there are other issues at play. Three big ones. My three sons have their father’s last name and I wonder how reclaiming my maiden name might affect them. I would never want them to feel I was leaving our family or rejecting them in any way. And Lord knows, I’m no longer a “maiden”. So, I’ve got a lot to think about in the coming weeks. And in the meantime, I’ll just be imagining my name up in lights “Ellen” On second thought, I’m shortening it to the much hipper “Elle”... Elle Skywalker. Yeah, I like the sound of that for my next great adventure …This is Red 5, I’m goin’ in.

Cage Fighting Mama

I read a great little inspiring article about a heavyweight cage fighter down on his luck. Patrick Berry was living on rice and ketchup before the cage fight that landed him a $120,000 prize. He credits his win to in no small part his being “hungry” –figuratively and literally. So, this got me thinking. I’m betting every motivated mother has a short list (ok, maybe a long one) of people they would love to beat the crap out of for a nice cash infusion. There’s the brat who told my son his cold sore made him look like a leper --that brought him to tears. There’s the parent who told my verbally advanced child that he was a bad influence on her pristine kid. There’s the “concerned” neighbor who called Animal Control when my dog jumped the fence. Not to mention the soccer coach who ostracized my son Ryan and made him feel like a total loser for the soccer season. In fact, I’d do the Knockout of the Night for free when it comes to Ryan’s soccer “coach.”

I put the word coach in quotes because this guy doesn’t deserve the title. He’s just a bad one-time bully. We put Ryan in a recreation league so he could have some fun and get some exercise. We had no Beckham-like illusions (I’m as likely to look like Victoria Beckham as Ryan is to play soccer like her hubby.) The first day of practice we had a bad feeling. The coach, who was no more than 25, decided to start things off with a nice game of keep away --him against all the kids. He whooped their 9-year old butts and clearly felt the better man for it. He followed that up with a nice race around the field so he could see who his fastest runners were, separating the men from the boys right off the bat. So much for teamwork; it was downhill from there. And Ryan hated it. So after way too many tears and being convinced that the experience was not an overall positive one, we pulled Ryan from soccer. The “coach” caught wind of our decision and sent me an email.

From: K (Asshole Coach Name Withheld)
Sent: Wednesday, October 28, 2009 6:52 PM
To: ellenpifer@comcast.net
Subject: Ryan

Hello Ellen, May I ask why you pulled Ryan from soccer? Anytime a boy quits I wonder what I could have done to make it a better experience for him. Is there anything you could suggest to either myself or my co-coach in the future?

Thanks and Best wishes,
K (aka Asshole Coach Name Withheld)


So, I wrote back and I was very careful to NOT point fingers or give ANY constructive criticism because my instincts told me his request was like his coaching –insincere.

From: ellenpifer@comcast.net
To: (Asshole Coach Name Withheld)
Subject: RE: Ryan Date: Tue, 3 Nov 2009 08:36:12 -0800

K: To be honest, Ryan's experience has not be a positive one. This was not his first soccer experience. He participated in a league back in Philly and then in the department of recreation league here in Los Gatos. Both these experiences were good ones and Ryan was a contributing member of the team. But for some reason, Ryan really never felt a part of your team. He seemed to have a hard time understanding the various positions and where he should be playing. While other kids seemed to aggressively attack the ball, Ryan avoided it. We tried to encourage him and assure him the game was for exercise and fun. It was more about working as a team than winning. But, that wasn't the message he was getting. And when he would run off the field he would ask us hoping it was almost over "How much longer?" When we would tell him its time for practice he would give us a hard time about going. He didn't connect with any of the other kids. Altogether, it just has not been a positive experience for our son. Ironically, he really enjoys playing soccer with his Dad and brothers. We signed him up to help him build confidence and we are pulling him out because it’s doing just the opposite.
Thanks,
Ellen

And HERE is what I got in response.

From: (Asshole Coach Name Withheld)
Sent: Tuesday, November 03, 2009 10:27 AM
To: ellenpifer@comcast.net
Subject: RE: Ryan

Ellen it seems all of your main concersn could have been simply addressed by bringing Ryan to practice with a good attitude. To be totally honest I did not appreciate the way your husband or you treated us and the fact that you held Ryan out of practices is the reason he never felt part of the team. Those kids spent three days a week with each other and grew together. You can't just show up on game day and expect magic to happen. I could go on, but in the future bring your kid to practice and put a smile on your face. The season isn't over, the next 2 weeks as a reward to the kids we are playing any game they want to play. Ryan is still welcome, but don't even attempt to show up to another game without bringing him to practice first.


Parenting often feels like Cage Fighting. Many days we are locked in the cage and left to use everything at our disposal to fight for our kids. We kick, punch, choke, bite and use every tool at our disposal to get them a good education, have them treated lovingly, ensure they feel good about themselves and grow into well adjusted, happy, adults. Some days it feels like a team effort but other days you really feel like the odds are against you. And those days, it sure would be nice to beat the crap out of someone and get $120,000 for it!

The Soccer Mom Phenom

I’m new to this. The truth is I’ve managed to skillfully dodge the soccer mom bullet for a good few years. My kids did give soccer a shot back when they were 6 and 9, and bursting with Beckham-like potential. But after one season, the boys decided to trade in the Pele-path for more practical pursuits and set out to become Bruce Lee. I thought it was a wise decision. At least kung-fu might keep you from getting a swift butt-kickin’ on the playground. Now we are living on the left-coast and apparently soccer is mandatory. The logic goes like this. It gets the kids exercising. It gets them outside in the sunshine. It teaches them a versatile sport that requires nothing but a ball. It teaches them teamwork. Ok. I buy off on all that. Let’s assume it’s a good thing for the kids. I still hate soccer.

As I baked in the glaring sun yesterday on a field that hosted five simultaneous soccer games, I was quite the newbie. I was proud that I remembered to sunscreen my son and myself. I even had a bottle of water with me. Still, I was woefully unprepared. I didn’t have my folding chair, my visor, or my cooler overflowing with organic snacks. And worse than all that, I didn’t have a genuine interest in the game.

While other parents were screaming from the sidelines, my heart was aching for my 8 year old son, who clearly does not know how to play soccer (because of his neglectful parents no doubt.) He made it his job to stay as far from the ball as humanly possible. And as I watched him, I could feel his anxiety as if it were my own --remembering that horrible feeling of incompetence, not fitting in, being clueless and sticking out for it. He came off the field at half-time fighting back tears. “I don’t want to do this Mom,” he said. “The other kids are yelling at me and the coach is not nice. It’s just not fun.” I know, I said thinking, “I don’t want to do it either.” Of course, I didn’t say that. Instead, I handed him the bottled water and called in reinforcements –Dad.

Fortunately, Dad is a full-fledged graduate of sons who suffer soccer academy. In fact, he claims he could have qualified for a soccer scholarship had he not gotten completely burnt out on the sport. “Most soccer coaches suck,” he said. “But it’s just a game and he’ll get the hang of it. I’ll spend some time teaching him about the positions.” That brought me some relief as did the realization that we only have nine weeks left of soccer.

My distaste for soccer goes beyond my Jack Kerouac desire to be a creative rebel. It even goes beyond my hate for “shlepping” back and forth and back and forth. It’s rooted in a genuine global, socio-economic concern for our world . There actually are many reasons soccer sucks.

Kiddie soccer is big business and a financial burden. Leagues charge anywhere from $250 to $1000+ for an 11-week season. That doesn’t include equipment, uniforms, team sign, photos, snacks, etc. The better your kid is at soccer, the more you pay. If your son makes a competitive travel team, expect to shell out big bucks for hotel and travel expenses. To give you a sense of the depth of the investment, I have a friend who told me he was only able to afford to finally leave his wife, because his son took the season off from soccer!

Soccer speaks its own language. The first soccer glossary I found had over 300 entries from assist and banana kick to wingers and zone. I rather use my brain cells to master Spanish (at least then I might have a shot at getting the landscaper to haul out the dead branch in the backyard.)

Soccer is making us more dependent on Middle East oil. The sport requires relentless practice. For me, there are four practices a week plus two games. We have a soccer activity 5-6 days a week. Every practice and game requires a drive to a faraway field (younger siblings in tow.) Simply put, soccer guzzles gas.

Soccer is un-American.It just never caught on as a professional sport in the states. Maybe the rejection is rooted in Britain, which exported the game to its colonies some 150 years ago but any way you cut it, it’s never really caught on here.

We’re impeding soccer’s growth. The more soccer remains the sport of middle/upper-class suburbanites, the less likely it will become a part of popular culture. In order for a sport to gain popularity, it needs to appeal to all classes. Rich men’s folly, like lacrosse, will never make it big here. Think stickball and urban basketball courts. Perhaps I am hurting the sport by letting my kids play.

So, with Socratic sass, I think I’ve systematically proven there is no reason for me to be a Soccer Slave, I mean “Soccer Mom.” Are you with me or agin’ me?!

p.s. Bruce Lee would kick David Beckham’s pretty boy butt.

SPF 100 = Super Parent Factor

My 12 year old son Ethan was blessed with his mother’s peaches and cream coloring. And while this pale palette of milky white skin and crystalline blue eyes might offer a vampire advantage, it doesn’t defend very well against the constant California sunshine.

So, with horrible childhood memories of my own sunburns, I looked over the cherry red skin on Ethan’s chest, shoulders, and back and felt horrible pangs of empathy pain. This was the kind of burn that makes anyone who has experienced it shudder. It hurt him too much for me to waste time discussing why he didn’t reapply sunscreen. I was certain that the pain would be his teacher. So, I was his sympathetic fair-skinned mom and doctor. I pulled out everything in my bag of tricks.

First line of defense: Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and white vinegar --a trick I learned from a wise Mexican waiter one painful summer when I fried the tops of my ears to a nacho crisp. The waiter tucked vinegar soaked cotton balls behind my ears and while I smelled like a salad, I could feel the heat being drawn away. Ethan felt it too. Mexican magic. But the affect didn’t last long. When he still complained of pain on day two, I brought out the big gun -- fresh aloe vera, which I scraped directly from an aloe vera plant.

Getting the aloe vera plant leaves, which house a well respected healing and moisturizing agent, entailed driving 25 minutes to the pediatrician’s office. Mind you, I didn’t actually see the pediatrician, but I did steal two huge aloe leaves from the plants that line his parking lot. People looked me sideways, and the kids were concerned I was breaking a law somewhere. But, I whipped out my knife with the confident entitlement of a ranger who knows the power of healing herbs and a patient who has invested enough co-pays to earn two aloe leaves. Heck, I’m a brazen east-coaster who believes it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. And more than that, I am a mother whose son was in pain. So, with two precious leaves in tow, I headed home where I peeled the leaves, smashed the pulp and spread the gelatinous magical healing liquid across Ethan’s skin. He felt better and slept on day two.

Day three is where things went out of control. Ethan was still a glowing orb and he decided to smash another aloe leaf himself and spread it across his chest. A few minutes later he seemed to have some sudden allergic reaction. His chest was itching horribly and because of the urn he could not scratch it. This wasn’t annoying itch, this was tortuous, won’t let up itch. The kind of itch that causes you to draw blood. So, I practically threw him in the shower and lathered him up with a moisturizing wash. I told him he could use the tips of his fingers to ease the itchiness and let the water ease his discomfort. It didn’t. The itching seemed to get worse. Ethan was now crying in the shower. I gave him a dose of ibuprofen, an ice pack, and left him for a moment to call his dad, who happens to be a doctor. His dad advised me to give him a dose of Benadryl and wait a bit. The waiting was torture. Ethan was now inconsolable as the itchiness seemed to get worse and worse with each minute.

“Help me Mom,” he cried. “Please, make it stop!”

Nothing we did seemed to help. And as he rubbed his infernally itchy chest, it reddened with Dante’s inferno like pain. Scratching raw sunburn is never a good thing. After consulting again with Dad, I decided to take Ethan to the Emergency Room. It was after 5pm, the pediatrician’s office was closed and I had nothing left in my bag of tricks. So, I packed up the siblings and headed off to the ER.

If you’ve ever brought your car to the mechanic to finally have that troublesome clunking fixed, you know where this story is going. Deciding to go to the ER is never easy. ERs are filled with long lines, sick people, irritable/jaded/overworked staff and germs. They are a great place to get sick and not one of my favorite places to bring my three kids.

We got into the ER and as the triage nurse questioned Ethan, I realized he wasn’t crying any more. In fact, his eyes didn’t even look red. When she asked him to rate his pain on a scale of 1 to 10, he said about a 3. The nurse looked at me curiously.

“He was dying just 15 minutes ago,” I said.

Ethan was taken back and seen by the ER doctor who asked the same series of questions and gave me the same curious look. Now I was feeling defensive. I’m not a novice here. I am an experience mother of three. I don’t overreact as a rule. It takes a lot to get me shaken and even more to get me to the ER.

“He was hysterical in the shower,” I added.

The doctor didn’t even look back at me.

Do you think I came here because I wanted to? Do you think I enjoy having to keep my other two kids from using your cot as a skateboard? Do you think I wanted to shell out a $50 co-pay?!

All these thoughts raced through my head as I said calmly, “I’m not a histrionic mom.”

He stopped for a moment and looked at me as if to say “This is what I went to medical school for?” But he actually didn’t say anything, which was worse. He just asked the nurse to get Ethan another Benadryl and then explained to me very slowly like that reactions to things you put on your skin are never life-threatening. Ethan could not have gone into anaphylactic shock. If I had waited 15 more minutes, the Benedryl would have taken effect. Then Dr.Smartie Pants left. I felt like a total fool. And I was almost angry at Ethan for feeling better!

As I sat in the car ready to drive my three healthy monsters home, I texted a close friend who said, “Your son is ok and that is a happy ending. Don’t care what anyone else thinks. You are a great Mom.” I read that a few times and then thought to myself taking it to heart would protect me --almost as much as the SPF 100 sunscreen I would be buying Ethan would protect him from future burns.