When my son was still wrapped up like a burrito, every time there was a thunderstorm, I carried him outside to the worn wooden bench perched on our front stoop, and, together, we sat and listened to the boomers….
When Tech Support was a l’il dude, I found myself in the grocery store for the eleventy-seventh time that week. It was our turn to host the annual Jacobson family Hanukkah party that night, and twenty-four people were coming….
Back in May, Kevin Haggerty asked an intriguing question in a blog post: “If you could talk to the you of 5-10 years ago, what would you say to yourself?” (Both Leanne Shirtliffe and Jessica Buttram wrote a gorgeous letters to their 20-year selves. Kevin later went further back and wrote a letter to his 2-year old self.)
I, of course, had to go in a different direction.
Instead of talking to myself, I decided to write a letter to David Crosby in December of 1967.
In real life, I would have been 1 month old. But for the purposes of this exercise, I am going to ask you to suspend your disbelief and please pretend I am 21 years old. You know, so this doesn’t get any creepier than it already is.
• • •
Loved him then…
Hi David. I know that you have this thing for Joni Mitchell and everything, but the thing is that I have been crushing on you for a really long time. When you sing “Guinnevere,” I tremble.
Wait, you might not have written that song yet.
Let me check.
No, you didn’t write it until 1969.
But that’s good.
Because now I’m sure that when you sing about how Guinnevere has “green eyes, like yours / lady, like yours,” I am certain you have always been talking about me.
And when you wrote “Triad,” I know you didn’t really want to have a ménage a trois. You were just restless. You wanted out of the Byrds. You were just pushing the envelope. It was the era. Everyone was all about free love and stuff. I like to push the boundaries, too. Everyone once in a while I like to be naughty. Sometimes I sunbathe topless in my backyard or dance on tabletops in bars.
But that Joni? She’s just going to hurt you, David. She’s going to fool around with Graham Nash and Jackson Browne and a lot of other people, too. Because she’s a hot chick with a cool vibe and a guitar. And she is ambitious, David. She’s like a wild horse: beautiful — but you are not going to get that one to settle down.
I know that there are going to be some tough times for you. Unwelcome events like car wrecks which will leave you wanting to escape. I know you will want to pull away from everyone during these times. That you will seek comfort in needles. And being “Wasted on the Way” might work for a time, but I would follow you into the “Cathedral” and hold you while the demons swirl around us.
I know you love to sail. You have seen “The Southern Cross,” floated all along “The Lee Shore,” and have seen time stop on the “Delta.” I’m a Scorpio, a water sign: the most passionate sign in the horoscope. I love to write the way I imagine you love to compose music. I understand the magic of putting words together, how even cigarette smoke can smell beautiful sometimes – if you lay it down just so.
Oh, David, if you pick me, I would dance for you — the way I have since 1982.
So pick me, David.
Let me be your “Lady of the Island.”
Your “Dark Star.”
I’ll be “Helplessly Hoping” forever.
Love him now.
The last time I saw you perform, you recognized me. You waved, whispered to Graham, and then you dedicated “Guinnevere” to me.
“To the girl in white,” you said.
So I’m telling you, David, that I’ll be at CMAC on June 12th, wearing white – along with my magic beads — like I always do.
And when I smile, you’ll know it’s for you.
Only for you.
If you were going to write a letter to someone famous upon whom you’ve always crushed, to whom would you write? And what would you say?
Tweet this twit @rasjacobson
When my son was still wrapped up like a burrito, every time there was a thunderstorm, I carried him outside to the worn wooden bench perched on our front stoop, and, together, we sat and listened to the boomers.
As my burrito grew, he morphed into my l’il Monkey. Whenever we heard thunder or saw that first flick of lightning, we raced to the front door. He’d mastered deadbolts by then, and he turned the knob furiously as if the ice-cream truck were sitting in our driveway. Once outside, we piled on the old bench — my son sat on my lap, holding my hand with a combination of anticipation and fear while I counted: “One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…”
And when the world shook, we laughed, and he begged for another so we waited impatiently for the next thunder-clap to shake our world.
For years we watched the skies darken, the clouds quicken, felt the air grow heavy on our skin. We listened to water slap our sidewalk angrily, and we both came to see how it works: how storms can be furious and yet temporary. He learned that even the scariest storms pass.
I know children who are terrified of thunder and lightning – kids who put their hands over their ears and cry or hide, but my son was raised up on late May storms: flashes of light and all that racket.
Maybe it’s because we imagined G-d taking a shower.
{The way my Monkey was starting to take showers.}
Maybe it’s because we imagined G-d needed to fill up the oceans.
{The way my Monkey was starting to have responsibilities.}
Maybe it’s because he imagined G-d stomping around looking for something He had misplaced.
{The way Monkey misplaced things and got all stompy and frustrated.}
Maybe it’s because he liked talking about G-d and trying to relate to Him.
“G-d makes rain. And rain makes the world grow, Mommy!” l’il Monkey told me as he stared at the yellow lilies, thirsty for a drink.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that with each summer storm, my summer-son was getting “growed up” too.
One May, I saw my son needed a new raincoat and boots for puddle stomping.
“I don’t need a coat. Or a ‘brella.” Monkey said as a matter-of-fact.
And he ran out into the downpour.
Unprotected.
Now I’m not saying it’s smart to go outside and run around on a lawn during an electrical storm, I’m just saying that we did.
We made up goofy dances, sang ridiculous songs, and chased each other around the yard in our bare feet until we were mud-spattered and drenched.
These days my little burrito is 13 years old.
We live in a different house with a less inviting front stoop. Plus, he’s gotten all teenager-ishy so we don’t really do the thunderstorm thing anymore.
One day, when I am an old woman and I hear the distant clatter of thunder, I will remember tiny yellow rain coats and tiny yellow rain-boots. I may not remember much else, but I will remember those little moments — perhaps as one long blurry moment — when the world turned chocolate pudding and everything was positively puddle wonderful.
What do you remember about thunderstorms? What little mommy-moments do you cherish?
We used to have the magnetic calendar featured above. Someone gave it to us when our son was around 4 years old, and I’m sure they thought it would be a good way for him to learn the months of the year, the days of the week, even his numbers. Secretly, I hoped it might help him develop some appreciation for the concept of time.
Recently, Tech Support and I did a big purge and we came across some of the leftover magnets that he’d deemed useless. I distinctly remember my 5-year-old son saying, “I’ll never use these,” and watching him throw them into a wicker basket along with a lot of other crap very important items.
Turns out, he was right.
For example:
We don’t need this magnet in Rochester, New York. Why? Because in general, the forecast looks like this:
In these parts, kids learn pretty quickly what clouds mean.
And these?
I can tell you that my boy does some serious flips. On the couches. Over the couches. Onto his bed. And he has some ridiculous dance moves. But we have managed to make it almost 13 years without magnets to remind us to do these things.
This one?
If my son is horking loogies or spewing chunks, the last thing I have ever thought about is whether or not I had the appropriate magnet.
Oh, and if we get one of these:
We are all outside doing this:
Also, I was a professional organizer for six years. So this magnet?
It’s kind of a given at Chez Jacobson.
In our house, we all have our own systems of organization. I possess an irrational love for binder clips and composition notebooks. We all hoard Scotch brand Magic tape, Post-It Notes and 3-ring binders. (Hubby’s are blue, Tech Support’s are black, and mine are pink & orange.) It’s terrifying fantastic. My son prefers Ticonderoga pencils. Hubby wants blue Bic pens. And I prefer pens with green or purple ink. Tech Support has a daily planner that was given to him at school. Hubby keeps his entire world on his cell phone. I have less faith in technology, so I keep the master calendar on the desk.
How do you teach your kids to organize themselves? And what is your favorite organizational toy or tip?
Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson
Somehow, on a Sunday night not long ago, everyone in my family was playing a game together. This is remarkable for many reasons, but mostly because my husband despises all games.
(Except golf.)
It could also be that I tend to get a little competitive.
Anyway, on this particular night we were all lying on the fluffy beige rug playing The Game of Life – the Twists and Turns version.
Now, this is not the old-fashioned version with the spinner you’d flick with your finger and you’d get a car and fill that car with pink or blue people.
Nay, in this new and supposedly improved version, an electronic gadget spins for you — after you have inserted your individual credit card and pressed a button that says SPIN on it.
So we’re all looking at this thing that looks like a UFO, listening to it beep, and watching it light up.
You learn a lot about your family when you play games.
For example, my 12-year-old (Tech Support) on marriage:
“It’s good to get LOVE out-of-the-way as soon as you can. It can be a pain.”
On having children:
“You shouldn’t have kids until after you’ve LIVED a little. I’ve tried that and it always ends badly.”
On money:
“Life is expensive. You tend to lose money when you LIVE.”
My husband on finances:
“I have no money, but that’s okay because I helped someone to make his dreams come true, and I think that counts for something.”
Later, my husband got rich and greedy. Tech Support and I both heard husband say:
“I want a mansion. Gimmee the biggest, sweetest mansion.”
and
“How can I have this totally awesome house and not have an awesome car? LIFE makes no sense.”
I couldn’t believe it, but I found myself whining about education:
“This is taking forever! I need to get another degree so that I can be an Executive Chef!”
Meanwhile, that game is clearly confused. I don’t want to be an Executive Chef.
I want to hire an executive chef.
Whatever, I eventually earned my degree and got my $400,000 salary.
Oh and did I mention, I won?
Duh.
(This might explain why Hubby doesn’t like to play games with me.)
What have you unintentionally learned about your family while playing games?
UPDATE 3/29: And speaking of games: Today Clay Morgan opens the polls in his 2nd Annual March Movie Madness (#MMM2) Contest for Best Protagonist of All-Time. Amazingly, my boy, Ferris Bueller has made it to the Final Four. If you can find it in your heart to vote to SAVE FERRIS (again), I would appreciate it. He’s up against Westley from The Princess Bride. Methinks I’m going to need a lot of help here. So after 1 pm, click on Educlaytion and SAVE FERRIS.
I’m closing comments here today, but I promise I’ll respond to you from Alabama. 😉
The grinding groan of the landing gear signaled our descent into the New Orleans Airport. It also woke my sleeping husband long enough for him interrogate me.
“Are you still planning to meet that Internet stranger while we’re here?”
“She’s not a stranger,” I said. “She’s The Lucky Mom.” I paused. “The person who won the bracelet giveaway on my blog?”
My husband stared at me without the tiniest spark of recognition. “When they find you dead in an attic, I will come and identify your parts.”
On the day Lisha and I agreed to meet, New Orleans experienced a cold front. It was like my husband and I had packed Arctic air in our suitcases. As I pulled one turtleneck sweater over another turtle neck sweater, I wished I’d brought mittens. I pulled on the coat my husband had teased me for packing and took the elevator down to the lobby to wait.
Lisha told me she’d be driving her husband’s green Prius, and I think I jumped into her car before she actually came to a full stop. Once inside, we squeeeeeeed and hugged like old friends.
{Or like people who have never actually spoken but only communicated via comments’ boxes on blogs and Facebook pages.}
“Hi Lisha!” I said, all confident.
And that is when I learned I had been pronouncing Lisha’s name wrong in my head for months.
It isn’t Lisha. {Like I just caught a FISH-a. Or I just broke a DISH-a.}
It’s Leeee-sha. {Like I have to PEE-sha.}
I made the necessary mental adjustment.
“I’ve gotta get a hat,” I told Leeeeeeeeesha. “It’s freezing outside!”
“Let’s go down to the Market,” Lisha said in her awesome raspy, super sexy Southern drawl.
I hadn’t been to the French Market in a decade, but some things never change. If a person wants two Saints tee shirts for $15, that’s still the place to go. You can find hand-painted scarves and voodoo dolls and magnets, feather boas and feather masks, and anything with a fleur-de-lis.
I just needed a hat.
As we walked and talked, I realized I was creating a blog post in my head.
So here are 5Things To Make Sure of Before You Meet a Blogger In Real Life based solely on my day with Lisha.
1) Make Sure To Dress Alike. On the day we met, both Lisha and I wore orange coats. It’s not like Lisha called to say: “I’m going to wear orange. Do you have anything orange?” It just happened. If you took a poll, I’m guessing one in fifty people might have an orange coat, but he would probably be in jail. That said, it was cool and we look excellent in our photos since we are color coordinated.
2) Make sure one of you knows where you are going. When I lived in New Orleans, I always got lost. This is because I was born without any internal GPS system. Meanwhile, Lisha was born with a Garmin implant or something. We went all over the place and she never got lost.
Lisha brought me to the Lower 9th ward where things are still in pretty bad shape, but she didn’t complain when I got a little trespasser-ishy.
3) Make sure the blogger is Southern. I forced Lisha to go with me to look for a hat. And a voodoo doll. And a bunch of other stuff. Lisha was brimming with Southern hospitality, so she probably would have let me shop all day, but our hands were freezing. And because Lisha is from the South, she was beyond generous. She paid for our parking, our lunch, and all the gas we used driving around the city. I’m not sure I said thank you enough. {Thank you, Lee}.
4) Make sure the blogger is sassy. Some dude followed us to the River where we planned to sit and chat for a while. He tried to get us to fall for one of the oldest gags in the New Orleans book of tricks. He asked: “You wanna bet $5 I kin tell where you got yo shoes at?” Lisha looked the man right in the eye and politely said, “I’m from here.” She wasn’t rude or anything. She allowed the man his dignity. But she set her boundary. And seriously, that is the oldest trick in the book. See the * if you don’t know the answer.
5) Make sure the blogger will give 100% of herself to you. If our interaction was representative of the kind of person Lisha is in real life, I can tell you she is a patient, devoted friend. We bloggers tend to be plugged-in sorts. But for five hours, we ignored the cell phone bings and pings and push notifications to enjoy the other person’s company: To listen. To laugh. To look into each other’s eyes.
The more I listened to Lisha, I realized she’s got it backwards. Sure, her blog may be called The Lucky Mom, but really, the people who have her in their lives are the lucky ones. This is the woman who lights up when she talks about her husband and her three sons; the woman who served as a full-time caregiver to her mother for years until she passed away; the woman who is planning to have her eightysomething-year-old mother-in-law move in right after Mardi Gras. How many people open their arms that wide? And that often?
Lisha was apologetic about having to leave me on a corner four blocks from my hotel. I’m sure she felt she was being rude, but she had to leave me there because it is Mardi Gras season: a parade was a-comin’, and there was no way to cross the route. After having lived in New Orleans for many years, I promised her I knew the drill. We pressed our faces close to each other and hugged goodbye.
We took this picture ourselves. Can you tell?
As I made my way back to the hotel, stopping to catch flying beads, plastic cups and doubloons, I felt like I’d gotten lucky.
Not only had I not been chopped up into tiny pieces like my husband had predicted, but I think that — quite possibly — I had the best blind date. Ever.
I met a wonderful blogger {and person} — in real life in my favorite city in the world.
Oh, and I found that hat.
Click HERE to read Lisha’s account of our meeting.
Color-coordinated. With hat.
If you could pick a blogger to spend 5 hours with, who would you want to meet?
* “Yo shoes are on yo feet. That’ll be $5.”
Tweet This Twit @rasjacobson
My grandma had an awesome chunky, clunky charm bracelet.
It had sixty-five bajillion charms on it, and it clanked whenever she shook her wrist.
She died in 1982, while I was at summer camp.
I don’t know to whom her charm bracelet was willed, but I never saw — or heard — it again.
Fast forward three years. My senior year of high school, two friends of mine and I fancied ourselves jewelry makers and set up shop stringing rainbow-colored beads onto tiny black fishing lures.
Our plan?
To become famous jewelry makers.
Or maybe to earn just enough money to see the next Grateful Dead Show.
{Or maybe that was just my plan.}
Anyway, after school and on weekends, we bought miniscule black fishing lures and itsy-bitsy multi-colored seed beads and transformed these cheap components into semi-hideous totally fabulous earrings, bracelets and necklaces.
We hawked our wares during periods 5, 6 and 7 lunch and sold everything for under $5.
And then my left thumbnail split in two.
And that was it; we were out of business.
Still, it was good while it lasted.
While our little business was booming, I got to table together with two friends. And as we slumped over flat surfaces sorting beads and determining color schemes, we talked about our lives: the boys we liked, what we thought we might do after college, where we might eventually land.
Our stuff was not fancy, but people seemed to like it. And it was wonderful to see someone delight in wearing something that we had made.
Recently, I saw these really adorable bracelets.
They don’t call ’em cutey for nothin’!
I immediately liked the colorful bead combinations, especially one bracelet with a whimsical heart-drop dangle featuring two people smooching.
I like that bauble a lot.
I like to roll the round smooth beads between my fingers and see if I can guess which one is which just by the way it feels.
Even though this bracelet is nothing like the junk kind my friends and I created in high school — nor is it like the one my grandmother wore — the clinking sounds strangely familiar.
So now I jingle a bit, and — happily — it reminds me of old friends.
And of my grandmother.
Pieces of my life’s history in metal and beads.
Who could have known that this little bracelet would bring me such sweet memories?
Tell me about a favorite piece of symbolic jewelry.
tweet me @rasjacobson
In the middle of December, I pilfered some of my son’s leftover Halloween candy; I had been craving sweets, and his box of purple NERDS looked strangely enticing. I dumped the entire box in my mouth and proceeded to chomp down on the little pellets, which turned out to be grape-flavored rocks in disguise.
Seriously, those things were friggin’ ridiculous.
I had hoped for sweetness – and initially, they were sweet — but I was utterly unprepared for the unyielding, rock-hardness of those tiny artificially flavored stones.
I felt my teeth crunch against something unnaturally hard, but my sweet tooth was unrelenting.
At some point, it occurred to me that my particular pack of NERDS had come from somebody’s leftover Halloween candy from one maybe two years ago, and I just so happened to be the unlucky recipient of that box.
Nevertheless, I kept chewing until every last bit of tart purple goodness had been devoured.
Later, my husband came home after an unseasonably warm day. The world was clearly confused. There was no snow. The sky was blue and tiny flowers were trying to bloom in my garden.
My husband asked me if I had heard that The Pretty People had separated.
I hadn’t heard.
photo by Jordan Gillespie @flickr.com
I opened my mouth but there were no words.
“What’s wrong with your teeth?” he asked.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my teeth, or rather, the now missing parts: the pieces that had been there but that had disappeared at some point along the way without my even noticing it.
I started to weep.
Partly for my broken teeth, but mostly because of The Pretty People.
Early the next day, I made an appointment. I couldn’t wait to see my dentist so he could get his gloved hands all up in there and make things right again; it didn’t seem like it would be too hard.
But it was.
My appointment lasted over an hour during which time I lay back in the chair and listened to the dental assistant go on about another employee whose dog had recently run away, how devastated she was to have had him unexpectedly wander out of her life.
When the dentist finished shaping and bonding, I had two new teeth: nearly as good as the originals – but not exactly the same. I kept looking at them.
“Will they last forever?” I asked my dentist when he finished.
“They’ll be good for a while,” he said, “but once something has broken… well, all fixes are temporary.”
I thought of The Pretty People.
I’ve always assumed every marriage has cracks and weak spots, but that these minor imperfections are things we can excuse in our spouses. Short of infidelity or abuse, I’ve believed most grievances are petty things that we can forgive in each other because we all possess our own heinous fault lines.
I mean, on any given Thursday I want to strangle my husband after I have punched him in the throat and given him a Super-Atomic wedgie.
But Lord knows, my husband is a patient man.
It is January now, and I can’t stop thinking about the impermanence of things.
I can’t stop thinking of friends who are wrestling with health related issues; another friend whose son had to be airlifted from Bolivia to Miami to receive treatment for something doctors have not yet diagnosed. I am thinking about the dental office worker whose puppy ran away. And I am thinking about the Pretty People – their children, their home, their lives.
An eternal optimist, I’m hoping the best for all of them. I’m praying that a Divine Spirit will cure my friend’s tumors, that my friend’s son will miraculously turn around so that his father can stop worrying about diarrhea and measuring urine output. I’m hoping that The Pretty People will rediscover what they once saw in each other after a little time away from their daily routine. I’m hoping that dental assistant’s puppy will find his way home.
Also, I’m hoping that my new teeth will hold.
I know nothing is solid, but I suppose in matters of the heart I prefer the illusion to reality.
Up until that December day, my biggest worry had been getting my sugar fix.
Who knew I had it so sweet?
What has rocked your world lately?
Interested in entering the Create Your Own Super Hero Contest? Details HERE.
Dear L’il Niece and Nephew:
As you may or may not know, I absolutely hate to shop, but this year I went out and actually found cool stuff for both of you! L’il Niece, I got you that unicorn that you wanted and Nephew I was almost able to get that cool guy that you love from that awesome YouTube video to come to your house, but instead I ended up getting you a unicorn, too.
They were having a buy one/get one thing, and I figured if your sister was going to have one, what’s one more unicorn in the barn? I mean, they eat rainbows, right? So it’s not like they cost very much or anything. Anyway, I was really psyched about having completed my holiday shopping early because not only was I done in time which we all know is rare (like unicorns), but I also knew I was mailing everything with plenty of time for everything to get there in time for all the festivities.
That was waaay back on December 9, 2011.
And then, right before Christmas, your mom called me and told me that neither unicorn had arrived.
I had a bad feeling because I didn’t insure anything this year.
Anyway, as K$sha would say, I’m pretty sure I’m on the family $hit list.
And I just wanted you all to know that I apologize.
I have learned my lesson.
In the future, presents will be sent in November and from here on out, everything will be insured.
And don’t worry, your gifts will get way more interesting.
I’m thinking packs of pencils or bags of rocks.
Or both.
Anyway, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and a great New Year.
I love you both and hope you can forgive the United States Postal Service even though they really $uck.
Because I think we all know someone who probably deserved a lump of coal is totally loving those unicorns right now.
Any post office horror stories? Misery loves company.
When my son was a l’il dude, I tried not to bring him to the grocery store if I could avoid it. But one year, it was our turn to host the annual family Hanukkah party and twenty-four people were coming over that night, so I found myself in the grocery store for the eleventy-seventh time that week.
As a result of poor planning, I had to bring the l’il dude along.
As I zoomed down the aisles – grabbing applesauce and sour cream for the latkes — we rushed past rolls of wrapping paper featuring snowflakes, ornaments in every shape and color, lighted-reindeer for the yard, artificial garlands and wreaths, tree skirts; boxes of 100-count multi-color lights; enormous platters embossed with angels sporting sparkling halos; floppy red, velvet hats with fluffy white pom-poms at the ends; pillar candles in red and green and gold; Godiva chocolates wrapped in boxes with bows and six-packs of chocolate Santas wrapped in silver foil.
It was full-blown Christmas in that grocery store.
My 4-year old – who had spent the last 18 months of his life at a Jewish Community pre-school surrounded by other children who did the same things in their homes that we did in ours — sat trapped inside the grocery cart. He eyed the Christmas fixins with curiosity; his head whipped from side to side, taking it all in.
“Know what’s weird?” my son started tentatively.
I heard his words, but I didn’t.
I needed to find the tuna fish.
And another carton of eggs for the egg salad.
I needed jelly filled donuts.
And I needed more oil. More oil for the latkes.
“What’s weird is that there is so much Christmas stuff because almost nobody celebrates it.”
I stopped pushing the cart.
I looked at my sweet, innocent son.
I thought:
How do I explain that Jews make up 0.2% of the world population?
That in the United States we comprise 1.7% of the population.
That when he starts kindergarten in September, he will likely be the only Jewish kid in his class.
That people might not like him because he is Jewish.
That, once, store owners wouldn’t allow me to clean my clothes in their laundromat because I was Jewish.
That millions of people have been killed throughout history because of their love of Torah. Because of their desire to preserve generations of religious and cultural traditions.
I rubbed my son’s spiky crew cut and I told him this:
“There are many people in this big world and you will find that people celebrate things in lots of ways. Hopefully, when you get older, you will have friends who will invite you to their houses to celebrate Christmas. And a hundred other holidays that you don’t even know about yet. Because there are a eleventy-million-bajillion ways to celebrate what is close to our hearts. And each way is wonderful. Hanukkah is just one way. But it’s ours.”
My son smiled.
And like the wish that it was, it has come to pass.
My l’il dude is now 12 years old. And he has celebrated Christmas with friends. And Kwanzaa. And Eid. And Diwali. He loves being invited to experience how his friends celebrate their assorted religious and cultural traditions. He feels proud to have tasted everything from stollen to chickpea curry. He has sampled poori, spicy khaja, and sweet and nutty desserts like atte ka seera. My boy’s ears have heard many dialects, and he is fluent in laughter. He can understand a smile in any language. He has learned the stories behind why people do what they do, and he understands their beliefs are as right and precious to his friends and their families as ours are to us.
He has sampled many different ways to be.
But he has never wanted to be anything other than what he is.
I would like to thank Streit’s and Doni Zasloff Thomas a.k.a.Mama Doni, the lead singer/songwriter of The Mama Doni Band for providing each of the 16 bloggers involved in #HanukkahHoopla with a little cyberswag.
Click on the button below to be connected to the other bloggers involved in the #HanukkahHoopla project!
Anyway, on this particular night we were all lying on the fluffy beige rug playing The Game of Life – the Twists and Turns version.
