soul elevation

A few weeks ago I commemorated the 10th anniversary of my father passing away. As is custom in my faith on the evening before the date and the morning and afternoon of the actual date special prayers are said that supposedly elevate the soul of the deceased. In order to say these prayers ten men over the age of thirteen have to be present to hear and answer these prayers.
Last time I checked ten men don't live under our roof and I am the only permanent male resident there who has witnessed his teens, albeit many eons ago. So the logical place to find ten men who will answer your prayers is at the local synagogue. So on a Monday after work, Tuesday morning early, before work and then later in the afternoon that same day I trudged off to my place of worship and duly found others looking for prayers , a few answers and some comfort. I did what I had to do because I had the utmost respect and admiration for my late father and if I can play a small part in elevating his soul then that contributes greatly as pay back for all he did for me when I was growing up.

When I came home from praying for my father the first night I also lit a remembrance candle at home that burns for 25 hours covering the entire anniversary of his death. As is customary I said my father's name as the candle burst into flame and chanted a memorial prayer out loud that focuses on the deceased's resting place in the next world. My kids weren't at home at the time as they were engrossed in their after school activities ranging from ice hockey to tennis. My apartment was void of other humans and peaceful and this moment of tranquility gave me the perfect opportunity to reflect on both my father's life and the legacy he left to his children and grand children. This brought a rare glimpse of a smile to my face as during the organized prayers I was quite solemn and melancholic.
The peace and quiet was suddenly interrupted by a stampede of children and accompanying adults , and the noise levels reached such a crescendo that I was worried that the flame on the candle would be overwhelmed by the explosion of sound, thus extinguishing my father's memory forever. I managed to persuade everyone to lower the tempo a touch without going into detail and was successful in reducing the decibel level to something reasonable. For the rest of the evening no one paid any attention to the candle or where I had been as the normal routine of dinner, homework, showers and reading took prominence over any flickering ambers.

The next evening I returned home from the last of the services where my late father was remembered, emotionally and physically exhausted from the whole experience. This time my apartment was overflowing with people, most of whom I knew well. Everyone seemed to have a play date, including the babysitter. My wife had friends over as did my two daughters. I walked into the kitchen to find my youngest son, aged seven, standing over the dimly flickering remembrance candle, playing with the melted wax. I told him not to do that as it was disrespectful to my father's memory. He gave me a vacant stare and replied that he had no clue what I was talking about. I sat him down at the dining room table and explained to him that once a year I have to go to synagogue three times in a 24 hour period and attend services and say special prayers as well as lighting this candle at home.
After a brief pause in the conversation he lifted up his head and looked straight into my eyes and said, "Daddy, when you die I am not going to do any of this. It sounds really boring." He got up and walked away before I could answer him. I guess my soul will be hovering somewhere near ground level during my eternal rest.

Please can I have a name?

I had the gross misfortune of turning on the televised local news last night. There were a couple of ten second previews of what was going to appear on the news the next night. I never quite understand how New York News programs always seem to have the news for tomorrow, today. If I knew what they know, I could retire.
So Thursday night into Friday of this week New York City is expecting the mother of all snow storms. The headline was "Hurricane snow storm" expected in the Metropolitan area. I feel terribly sorry for this hurricane. It is an unnamed anonymous storm. It is worthy of pre storm headlines but not important enough to name it like all the other storms that pass over the shores of this great country i.e.: Katrina and Hugo. It will eventually be known as "The Late February 2010 Storm" or the " North East Hurricane Snow Storm." This future storm would be remembered better if it had a name so I am suggesting "Hurricane Snow Storm Fiona." The F in Fiona is for ferocious, for fierce, for feisty and for fictitious. It is named after an ex girlfriend of mine Fiona who was all of the above. And judging by the weathermen's previous predictions in 2010 for Manhattan snow accumulation it would be named correctly

lost mortgage payment mayhem

The reason why so many financial institutions are in trouble has nothing to do with the sub-prime mortgage crisis. It also has very little to do with people not paying their mortgages on time and being delinquent. It has everything to do with people like myself paying their mortgages on time................and the company with whom you have the mortgage with then losing the funds. Just last week I got three phone calls from E trade mortgage regarding a missed payment. I had no idea that my mortgage was with E trade. That was my first surprise. I pay electronically each month through my bank. I haven't opened up a mortgage payment envelope in 6 years. I looked up my checking account to see if payment had been sent out and to see if the check had been cashed. It was and it had. Phew!! So I picked up the phone and called E trade. What a debacle.
I first listened to the menu of options and typed in my social security number into the phone to verify who I was. It wouldn't take the number. I was then diverted to another menu which needed my account number that I didn't know. I was lost in self help, self dial, self kill oneself mode. I said the word representative six times . Eventually the electronic voice asked me if I wanted to speak to a representative. I was so frustrated that I said, " no, I want to speak to someone who can help me please." The machine just understood the word "no" and so I was reverted to yet another electronic menu.
When in doubt just hit the zero button over and over again. This finally worked . I eventually got put through to a representative 20 miles north of Calcutta, some 9,000 miles away from the property concerned.
The very nice lady told me that I had not paid my mortgage. I told her I had. We went back and forth six times until I said that I have proof and did a nah nah nah nah nah. She didn't like that very much. She asked me what proof I had and I informed her of the proof of payment that I had from my bank that I could print off and fax to her. That wasn't possible. She didn't work in the fax receivable department. She then transferred me by phone to them.

I then spoke to a lovely lady in Tampa, Florida. She gave me the fax number. I asked her name but she told me that she couldn't give me her name. I asked her what her employee number was. She couldn't give me that either. I asked her what her work number was. Nope. Not possible. She asked me my address. I wouldn't give it to her. She said that she couldn't do anything further for me unless I gave her my address so that she could update the file.I told her we can swap information. She needed it for my non payment payment and I needed her information because I needed to follow up when and if everything had been resolved. No deal. She wouldn't do it. So there we were at a stalemate. And so I told her I was hanging up, which I did. I know I have paid so I don't care. we shall see what happens!

chinese new year

All i wanted to do was eat a piece of steamed fish and some rice and read my book. my family were all away skiing and i was left behind to fend for myself. i walked into the restaurant and sat at the bar and started reading my book, waiting to order .
out of nowhere a fake tiger appeared underneath which were two men. drums started playing and the tiger started to gyrate in ways real tigers would never be seen dead doing. the barman suddenly thrust a small red envelope into my private space. i looked at him in a "what on earth are you doing?" kind of way. " it's for the tiger."
i paused briefly and then listed those i tip regularly: cab drivers, the man who cuts my hair, waiters, doormen, supers, barmen( providing they are not annoying). BUT NOT FAKE TIGERS.
i refused to tip the tiger and got booed by the other customers and staff of the restaurant. i got up and left, without having eaten or drunk anything. i guess its another place i can't go back to and i really like it there.