Punky Brewster, The Challenger Space Shuttle and 1980's child scare tactics

It all began innocently. An overheated friend, who will go by her B-Girl name Tastic, mid-schvitz and still acclimating to New York City summer, commented offhandedly, " I want to climb into my freezer."

And for whatever reason, it flashed me back to an episode of the short lived and hugely important '80's sitcom, "Punky Brewster." The premise of the show- and by the way every 7 year old girl's fantasy- was that Punky was abandoned in a shopping mall by her mother, had no father in the picture to save her and so she is orphaned. I can't explain why the desertion fantasy is so attractive but there's enough examples- Annie, the girls from Facts of Life, the boys from Different Strokes and if you really want to get obscure about it, remember, "Rags to Riches"? to prove it. Developmentally, maybe that's when kids just want to be their own people and think that's only possible with dead parents.

But anyway, Punky gets adopted by a carmudgeonly old guy, with a soft spot for Punky and her equally orphaned dog, Brandon. She makes friends with the kids in her building- a sweet, slightly derelict bunch of neighborhood 8 years olds. Her best friend is Cherie, a gal who's all sass and if I remember correctly had a tough talking city judge for a mother upstairs. Enough back story, I know, but as I recall it, all these stupid details that have been locked in a fault in my brain since 1985 come rushing back.

The story of the episode that sent me back to a panicked, cold sweat kind of flashback was when Cherie got stuck and locked into a refrigerator put out in the trash. No one knew she was trapped. Her air supply was running short. WOULD THEY FIND CHERIE IN TIME?

Of course, they did. A cute little girl with corn rose suffocating in a kitchen appliance surely would have ended the Punky craze.

But this whole memory got me thinking about all a whole series of these cautionary/scare tactic episodes of sitcoms and experiences from my youth.

Remember when on, "Webster" Ma'am was pregnant and fairly graphically lost the baby ? I'll never forget it, the image of her crawling across the floor in agony, in her signature silky pink robe, calling out for George and Webster.

How about when Arnold was molested on, "Different Strokes"?

Or when Tootie almost got sold into prostitution on that very special trip to NYC episode of, "Facts of Life"?

I'm pretty sure somebody got molested on, "Silver Spoons" too, but don't quote me on that.

I really could go on and on here.

The point is the 1980's was Code Orange for kids.

And let's not forget the ultimate scare your children senseless moment, when we all were rounded up by our elementary school teachers to watch the Challenger Space Shuttle take off on TV.

I remember the excitement, "Look kids, this teacher is from New Hampshire! She's the first elementary teacher to go to space!" said Mrs. Simpson, my third grade teacher. I can see still her perfectly feathered, frosted and sprayed bangs, moving in one monolithic piece.

"Let's count down together!"

And all of us, the Punky Brewsters, The Annie's, The Arnolds counted down.

"Three, Two, One. Blast off!" We cheered! So exciting! New England teachers in space!

And then of course, not even after 10 seconds, the whole shuttle blew into a million little bits in front of our 8 year old eyes. No one cried, I think, except the teachers and we were shuffled quickly out of the classroom.

I think, in a way, that was the JFK moment of my childhood.

Anyway, I wonder if other folks went through this. Perhaps I'll start a support group or a book club. More to follow.

Three Rabbis and an Adult Jewish Baby

It's been awhile since I've had a convert nightmare. I had a series of these germares, or Jewish night terrors, in the lead up to my date with the mikveh.

Conversion was stressful. First, there were the "J-SATS", a series of mostly unanswerable essay questions given to me by my rabbi given beforehand about taking on the yoke of the mitvoth, my relationship to Israel and why I wanted to be Jewish in the first place. I say unanswerable because the only truthful answers led to more questions. Luckily, my questions-with-questions approach passed.

It's not that you can fail really, short of professing Jesus Christ is your saviour, while simultaneously eating bacon wrapped shrimp and denying the Holocaust.

The talk had with my Beit Din (a court of rabbis assembled), the day of my big dip was, much to my relief, fine. No one was there to grill me on whether Kangaroo was kosher or whether I recite the Pirkei Avot while jumping rope.

The actual dip, supervised by a mikveh lady named Gita, was, if nothing else, surreal. If you had told me in the year 2000 I would someday be speaking Hebrew naked whilst dunking in a ritual bath with three rabbis on the other side of the door listening to make sure it's kosher, I would have, well, I don't know what I would have done.

But back to the germare I had two nights ago. The first one since I took the name Elisheva and began my life as a Jewish lady.

The dream began quite innocently, as many horrible dreams do. It was Shabbat. My husband I were hosting 3 very important and pious rabbis and their sheitled wives. Everyone was gathered around the table and I was busy in the kitchen, nervously preparing to bring out the meal. In the other room, I could hear the rabbis deliberating, handing down religious rulings of some kind.

"That can't be right," I thought. "You can't do that on Shabbat." Then my heart began to race. "Can you?"

At this point it's important to mention that I, for some reason, had made a Mexican themed meal, which as I brought it out to the table seemed even to me a weird choice. As I approached with a gigantic steaming bowl of beans, rice and corn, I realized, "Omigod, these rabbis are so pious, they don't eat Kitniyot, even when it's not Passover."

For those, who just got lost on that last paragraph, Kitniyot is a special group of foods (including beans and rice and yes, corn) that are deemed not-kosher-for-Passover for Ashkenzi Jews.

At this point in the dream, I was so horrified, I just shook myself awake. It was just too unbearable, my Kitniyot humiliation.

I have theories on this one but I'll save it for later.

no sleep til midwood

 

Highly influential

Happy Birthday Sesame Street

Ger-mare

A brand new series of nightmares have been added to my fall psychic prime time schedule. And to be honest, since bad dreams are par for the course, having some fresh things to prevent restful sleep, is better than syndication.

Last night in a dream, I found myself in the kitchen on Shabbat morning. I hadn't made challah bread, which in waking life, is not my habit so who cares. But in the dream, making the braided eggy double manna was my weekly routine. Somehow I had forgotten. The horror.

I was that amazing combination of panicked and paralyzed. Again, awake, I think, who cares? That's what the Zomick's fairy is for.

For what felt like hours and hours, I sat looking at the stove, pondering if I should make it. Weighing the decision. No one was home to witness me break the prohibition and use the oven. Only I would know. But everyone coming to lunch would surely notice if we were sans challah. You can't do shabbat with challah and you can't do challah without heat.

Was it more important, I obsessed, to make the challah or keep the Sabbath.

I don't know if this a specially convertcentric dream or not, but I will file it under ger-mare. Undoubtedly more to follow.

The Way Life Should Be?

Upon entering the state of Maine, there is a sign on the side of the turnpike, which has befuddled me pretty much all my life.

WELCOME TO MAINE

The way life should be

Huh?

I challenge you to find a more loaded sign. It implies some sort of utopian blueberry picking cross country skiing ideal. A world of tanned Thoreauish utilitarian pragmatists, L.L. Bean boot wearing types, who can preserves for the winter and dine on lobster in the brief summer.

Or you can play the Method actor game with it:

The WAY life should be

The way LIFE should be

The way life SHOULD be

The reality of course is quite different. Not that there aren't truly charming parts of Maine. Eventually, I will write about a childhood that can be best described as growing up inside a Norman Rockwell painting, but not today.

This morning I'm embarrassed. My home state had a chance to make history for marriage equality, but will go down as just another example of what happens when the majority votes on the minority.

I understand that change, the real, lasting kind takes time. But this country didn't desegregate because we voted it so. So this morning, I understand the sign with sadness.

Civil rights is the way life should be, but even in the 21st century, not the way it is.