A Martini Toast

Rosh Hashanah, 2024

October 2, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Healing, Tragic Divorce

I’m not one to write twice in a week, but I think that will be the only way for me to get out of this darkness. Having just shared my blog with one of my young and beautiful colleagues, I watched her look at me with such shock and such grace. Her reaction mimicked those of so many who learn my story, perplexed how this person who shows up to life with energy and zeal is, in reality, so completely severed. The person and the vicissitude do not match up.

Today would be my dad’s 91st birthday, and, as I have written before, my life wouldn’t look like it does if my dad had been around. My dad was a warrior, not a coward; a peacekeeper, not an agitator. So aware of Jay’s gaslighting, even as the Alzheimer’s progressed with unsolicited velocity, I often wondered if he knew how much my sister hated me.

My birth announcement was a notecard, and on the front of the notecard, it said, “Lisa Has a Sister.” My name and information about me were on the inside, but, even back then, I didn’t have an identity. My parents’ world was completely about my sister and her feelings, and they willingly laid the lifelong path of eggshells on which they would walk around her.

It is not hyperbolic when I write that there was only one picture of me from when I was a baby. Growing up, it was customary to enlarge a baby picture for one’s Sweet Sixteen, as the guests would sign it and share their affectionate best wishes. Going through the pictures with my mother, it was a symphony of, “No, that’s Lisa. No, that’s your sister. Oh, here. Nope, that’s your sister again.” I have no idea if the one we did find is even me, but it looks so very much like my Zack that I’ll have to keep the faith that it is me.

My mother used to tell me how sickly I was as a baby, that I was yellow and needed gamma globulin shots. Who knows? Maybe that’s why there were no pictures of me, either that or because they didn’t want to upset Lisa.

Gosh, how Lisa would love when I got in trouble! Probably her happiest moments were when the belt would come for me, yet I would cringe when she would get in trouble. I would try to protect and defend her. She was my sister, and when the neighborhood kids picked on her, I was up in their faces, with my chubby hands on my chubby hips, imploring them to get away from her.

I can’t remember if I was 17 or 19, but my parents were away on vacation with another couple. It was summertime, Lisa was watching me, and we were both temping in the city. On the bus home, I had, what I didn’t know at the time, was a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe, and I felt like the walls were literally closing in on me. I told Lisa, and she took me to the hospital. Immediately confirming that it was indeed a panic attack, Lisa asked them to drug test me. She was so proud of herself for doing so, telling my parents the minute they got home. How disappointed she was when the test came back clean! I had never even done drugs, and still don’t, but she so desperately wanted to tell my parents that I had.

There is so much more to write about Lisa, and I will. From her hateful and harmful relationship with Jay, to the merging of their black souls in their effort to destroy me, I’ll write it. Her post at Rebecca’s college graduation, which was captioned, “So glad the whole family is here,” when I wasn’t there, immediately identifies who Lisa is. She never wanted me to succeed, to be happy, to have any of my parents’ attention (or money, but we’ll save that for another day).

For now, as the new year begins and Jewish people around the world head to synagogue to ask G-d to inscribe them in the Book of Life for another year, I’m doing it my way. I haven’t wronged anybody this year, and I really don’t need to apologize, and all of the magic of the holiday sadly no longer exists for me. But, for the first time in my life, I am standing up for myself, ready to begin sharing my book and my story. It’s the only way that I’ll be around to hopefully ask G-d in the traditional way to inscribe me in his book next year.

Shana Tova!

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Wake Me Up When September Ends

September 30, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Grace and Kindness

I am sitting in my classroom with my 8th grade Art of Writing dolls, and their prompt is to share about a time when they felt vulnerable. This prompt does not come from nowhere, as I just finished explaining to them about how vulnerable I was left at 2:45 this past Saturday. I was robbed at the blackjack table in Atlantic City, when somebody literally stole my purse right from under my feet.

We were at such a lovely table, with a dealer who couldn’t lose. His “joie de vivre” kept all of us there, even as he was turning his 15s into 21s so seamlessly. The other folks at the table were gracious and friendly folks who, like us, enjoyed every part of the game, even and perhaps especially the social aspect of it.

My purse was on the floor, with my feet planted firmly on it. Yes, I turned around to get my glass of champagne from the waitress, but, to my knowledge, my feet were still on my bag. All of a sudden, I realized that the bag wasn’t there, and everything stopped as I ran to security. Nobody at the table had seen a thing, including the dealer and the pit boss, but it didn’t take long for the cameras to show the man who grabbed my bag so quickly and boorishly. He apparently ran to the back of the casino and pulled out my treasure trove of a wallet, taking the entire wallet and my bottle of medication.

My wallet, which was a Louis Vuitton wallet, had everything in it. Six credit cards, 2 bank cards, my driver’s license, and, probably worst of all, my social security card. Oh, let’s not forget the two blank checks. Security was helpful in quickly locking all of the credit cards, as the thief did not steal my phone. The police came and took all of the information, and there I stood, feeling so weak and violated.

Two weeks ago, it was the car accident that wrought such havoc for me. Then, the whole ordeal with BMW and the insurance company took over as the situation commandeering my palpitations. And, as I shared my story with my munchkins today, at least five said, “Why do bad things keep happening to you? You’re the nicest person.” What these kids don’t know, however, is that I’ve had far more than a purse stolen right from under my feet, so this, too, shall pass. And, my identity was taken a decade ago when everything that mattered the most to me was appropriated.

Stay safe, friends.

MJ

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What Does Lucky Actually Mean?

September 13, 2024

amartinitoast.com

The school year has begun, and, like I do every year, I concentrate on getting to know all of my students. As a 6th, 7th, and 8th grade teacher, and as the Gifted and Talented teacher, I do have some repeat customers. They are with me for all 3 years, and it is truly a gift that keeps on giving. Their curiosity is limitless, and their ability to reach higher is unbounded.

I also teach Art of Writing to all 3 grade levels. Though these children are not officially labeled “Gifted and Talented” like the others, they bring their own brand of magic and commitment. My goal is to make them love to write, the way I do, and perhaps help them appreciate and recognize the value of and in the written word.

Regardless of whether these charming chickens are my Art of Writing students or my Gifted and Talented students, the 6th graders are new to me every year. The day we meet, I am the hopeful and enraptured kid at my own birthday party, just waiting to see what is hidden inside of all of those “presents.” And, they are my presents.

I have a little 6th grade girl in my Art of Writing class, and as tiny as she is, her voice is tinier. Leaning in to hear and attend to her every word, she so quietly asked me if I have my own kids. Without hesitation, I told her that I have 3 adult children, and that my 2 girls each have 2 girls of their own. She responded so softly, “I think they’re lucky.”

I started thinking about luck, if it exists, if we play a role in it. The nature of the word implies that it’s completely random, but I do think that, whether by the face or the family we’re born into, or the charisma we cultivate, we do have some say in our circumstance.

I left school at 3:30 yesterday to go get a long-awaited massage. The place I go to a handful of times a year is so calming, and my masseur, John, almost makes my Xanax superfluous (the operative word is almost, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves here). A Keith Urban lookalike with a Dalai Lama temperament, he knows just what to do to loosen this chubby Jewish chick’s proverbial corset.

I pulled into a spot directly in front of the spa, but I was a tad early. Thinking I had time to go get gas, and knowing that I was only allowed to park in the spot for 90 minutes, I figured my timing would be perfect if I killed 10 minutes. I didn’t figure that somebody would slam into my car as I backed out of the spot.

As a degreed teacher of English, irony is never lost on me. It’s probably my favorite literary device. How ironic that I was going for a massage to relax, and I had a car accident instead. How ironic that I called my insurance agent earlier in the day to ask him why my car insurance is now $420 a month, when I have no accidents and no tickets. How ironic that my gentle and cherubic fledgling 6th grader thinks my kids are lucky, but they don’t.

I’m going away with one of my besties to see Jon Stewart this weekend. The first time we did a getaway, a man had a heart attack in front of us at the steakhouse where we were eating. The next time we did a getaway, a car was on fire on the opposite side of the road we were on. Something always seems to happen when Thelma and Louise head on one of their trips, and yesterday, this girl’s brand new BMW x3 was rear-ended so hard that the muffler and the catalytic converter aren’t even attached.

You know what’s really ironic, however? It’s really ironic that, while I continue to be challenged and rear-ended in the literal AND figurative senses of the word, I still consider myself lucky. I’m lucky that nobody was hurt yesterday. Unlike the man who hit me yesterday whose wife just died, everybody important to me is healthy. I’m lucky that I get to teach in a school and in a town where children and adults are valued. I’m lucky that I have girlfriends who are my sisters. I’m lucky that I get to go away this weekend with people that I love.

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Letter to Melissa – Part Two

August 12, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Broken Heart, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis

Miss,

This is part two of the March 20th letter, where I referenced that I heard two songs on Country Radio. I told you about I Loved Her First, but now I need to tell you about Don’t Take the Girl. Don’t Take the Girl is Tim McGraw’s song about a relationship between a boy and a girl that began when the boy didn’t want his dad to take the neighborhood girl with them on the guys’ fishing trip. He asked his father to take any one of his friends, but to please not take the girl. The song continues ten years later, with the boy and the girl dating, only to be held up at gunpoint. Bargaining with the robber that he can have his watch and his money, he begs him please not to take the girl.

Miss, the end of the song, which is so sad and powerful and which takes your breath away in the awful meaning of the word, has the couple married and the woman in labor. The doctor comes out to tell the man that the baby is just fine, but the wife is going to die. He drops to his knees and begs God to take him, but to please not take the girl. I’ve been there.

Miss, I used to pray every night for God to inflict me with Marissa’s illness. Telling him how nobody deserved the pain less than Marissa, I bargained with him throughout every hospital stay, every flare-up, every blockage, and every surgery to have us trade places. The agony of seeing my little beauty suffering so was gut-wrenching, and the hours waiting for her to get out of every surgery were torturous. Mount Sinai had the names of those in surgery on a board in the waiting room, and one time, after about 7 hours, I no longer saw her name on the board. It had said her name all along, and then her name just disappeared. I ran as fast as I could until I found her, terrified that something had happened to her.

Miss, when Marissa’s colon was removed during her first surgery, and she woke up with an ostomy and a bag at the ripe old age of 20, it wasn’t easy for her (to say the least). For an entire year, until she could have a reversal, she would have bowel movements in a smelly bag attached to a stoma. This gorgeous and sweet child, who had been so emotionally strong, began to melt down. She was, understandably, horrified, and it didn’t get easier. I don’t want any accolades, but I was her cheerleader. I kept her going.

One of Marissa’s college roommates was celebrating her birthday down in Atlantic City about a month and a half after Marissa’s first surgery. We encouraged Marissa to go, and she picked up a friend from Marlboro on the way down. About an hour after she picked up her friend, while driving,her bag exploded all over her. It was a nightmare, and she didn’t have extra supplies with her. She called me hysterical, inconsolable, telling me she couldn’t do it anymore. I talked her through it, packed up her stuff, and, facing her father’s disapproval, raced down the parkway to meet her. She was a literal and figurative mess, but I helped her clean up (she had stopped at a local hospital), and I encouraged her to keep going. I ALWAYS encouraged her to keep going.

God didn’t take the girl from me literally, thank Goodness, but on February 24th, 2014, he took her figuratively. That was the day she walked out of my house for good. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.

I love you,

Me

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Letter to Melissa – Part One

August 12, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

My Sweet Miss,

It is all around me, in every place I go and everything I do. I was just driving home, and two beautiful songs came on the radio, back to back. As I listened closely to the lyrics on my favorite country station, back to the past I went. The first song was called I Loved Her First, by Heartland, and it was a dad singing to his new son-in-law at his daughter’s wedding. Throughout the song, he tells the man that, although he is now married to his daughter, he was the one who was there at the beginning, who was always her number one. He urges the young man to take care of her, and tells him how he fell in love with her the second she was born.

Miss, the day my girl was born was the happiest day of my life. My wedding was NOT the happiest day of my life, as the drama and the control were already beginning. I knew that I didn’t love him, and his mom and grandma were so unkind and unfriendly. The wedding was my mother’s show, and I was fine with that, even though the night before my wedding, my parents had had the biggest fight and said they were divorcing. My cousin, Gina, was up from Florida, and she and I had to leave my house because of how my parents were fighting over this guy, Armando, who was the new husband of one of my mother’s friends. Al felt he was a pompous ass, and Al never liked that. Maybe I didn’t feel well at my wedding because, unbeknownst to me, my little peanut was already growing inside of me.

Miss, I was in back labor all weekend with Marissa. I actually went into false labor on Friday night, and we were sent home with the promise that I would have the baby by the end of the weekend. Jay wouldn’t let me tell my parents or my sister that I was in labor. He didn’t want them worrying, or involved, and he just wanted the control. He wanted to send the message to them that he was in charge now. (My mother told me she sensed from my voice that I was having contractions).

I went into the hospital late Sunday night when the contractions were 5 minutes apart. I would go 4 minutes and then 4 minutes and then 3 minutes and then 6 minutes, but Jay wouldn’t let me call the doctor because that wasn’t a consistent 5 minutes apart. When we left for the hospital, I wanted to call Bobby and Al and Lisa, but Jay wouldn’t let me. So, when 4 centimeters refused to become 10, and when I was taken into the delivery room for my C-section, Jay still wouldn’t call them. He said he would let them know when the baby was born.

At 7:21 on a Monday morning, Marissa came into the world. I was so in love, and she was so beautiful. Life made sense finally. All of the mistakes I made all along were somehow validated because I had this bundle of joy and blessing and heart. I just wanted to see my mom though, because I needed to know that I was still somebody’s baby. The thing was though, because Jay wouldn’t call them earlier, my mom had left for school minutes before Marissa was born. So, he called my dad, who, in all of his excitement, heard 19 inches as 9 pounds, 10 ounces.

When Al finally got hold of my mother at school, 45 minutes later, Bobby nearly stroked out thinking that somebody my size had tried to deliver nearly a 10 pound baby. She, of course, got right back into her car, and she raced to New Jersey from Staten Island. I kept asking where she was, but, because she had such a long drive and because she didn’t find out until Marissa was an hour or so old because she was en route to Staten Island, I didn’t see my mom for hours. But, when she came into the room, I let out such a sob of relief and joy.

I loved her first, Miss. I loved her first.

Me

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J.D. Vance

August 12, 2024

Abandonment, Grace and Kindness, Healing, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis

When Donald Trump chose J.D. Vance to be his running mate, I was frightened. The only thing more scary than a madman making draconic and ferocious threats is having somebody by his side to carry those threats out. What is it called when the devil makes a deal with the devil?

J.D. Vance made some very unkind, untrue, and ungracious remarks about women who don’t have children. He called them cat ladies, purporting that their goal was to make everybody else miserable. For those out there who don’t have children, I apologize on his behalf. And, I apologize to ALL of you, unlike his wife, who said that he only meant it about those who actively made the choice not to procreate. Truth be told, I could almost hear him and Trump hurling classless insults and appearance jabs at women who never married. “Who would marry or tap into that? Who would want to make a kid with that?”

I have 3 children, but they don’t speak to me. Am I childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? What about the moms who face tragedy far worse than mine and have to bury children? Are they childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? Is the mom who delivers a stillborn childless? What about the woman who selflessly gives her baby up for adoption? Is she childless? What about the surrogate who so munificently agrees to carry a couple’s child because they can’t conceive on their own? Oh, wait, that wouldn’t even be an option if Mr. Trump and Mr. Vance were elected.

My oldest, Marissa, went through hell and back with such advanced Ulcerative Colitis, eventually losing her colon. All of the details are here – www.marissasurgery.wordpress.com. It was such a real and tangible possibility that having children for her would be nearly impossible, but, with the help of IVF, she is now a mom to two beautiful daughters. I’ve never seen them, not even a picture, but I know that they’re beautiful. I know that they’re beautiful because their mom is positively gorgeous.

Mr. Vance, just stop. Stop with the toxic vitriol. Stop with the name calling. Stop with the unsupported speculations. Whatever the reason for a woman not having children in her life, she is hurting. And, it hurts enough without you augmenting, exacerbating, and compounding the pain.

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Vera Bradley Bag

July 29, 2024

Grace and Kindness

Dear Emma and Gorgeous Girl,

Before I begin, I must explain why I am not referring to you, Emma’s beautiful sister, by name. I don’t know your name, baby, so please forgive me.

Girls, tucked into a special box that I have for you, is my purple Vera Bradley bag, all washed and folded. I only recently retired it, and I’d like to tell you about it. The Language Arts teacher in me wants to tell you that it symbolizes incomparable strength, warrior spirit, and irreplicable grace (but not mine).

By the time you can read this and fully understand it, I’m sure you will know about your mom’s surgeries. You’ll have heard it from her, and, when it’s time, you can read about it on the blog that I wrote throughout her heroic journey. It’s important that you know how much she went through, how courageous and valiant she has always been, and how her body both endured torture AND created miracles.

Your mom had her own Vera Bradley bag that was all-too-often packed for her hospital stays. What should have only been a bag for fun overnights with friends or with your dad turned into luggage for surgeries, blockages, and never knowing what was ahead. From high school to college to P.A. school, that bag traveled to St. Barnabas, Morristown, and, most often, Mount Sinai.

Not too long after your mom’s first hospital stay, I got my own Vera Bradley bag. Sadly, I needed my own hospital bag, so I thought, “Why not ‘sort of’ match Roo’s bag?” Easy to carry and colorful and festive, those bags got way too much use.

Girls, you are marvels in so many ways, including that your mom was able to carry you and bring you safely into the world. She and your dad were able to create you through love, through hope, through faith (your mom’s middle name, which I had no idea would serve her so well), and through science. Part of the wonder of this world is that there are methods and processes where a woman can experience pregnancy and experience her yearnings become reality. May it remain that way, for the both of you, for your cousins, and for every woman who deserves her choice and her voice.

So, sweet girls, what seems like just a two decades old, slightly faded, and somewhat worn-out duffle is really so much more. It’s proof that when resilience, sturdiness, and hardiness meet fragility, magic happens.

I love you both so very much,

Grandma

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The Lottery

March 27, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

The Powerball and the Mega Millions, as of last night, were collectively worth over 2 billion dollars. Chances of winning one of these jackpots were 1 in 300 million, but somebody did win. Somebody in New Jersey actually won, but people haven’t even checked their tickets yet and nobody even knows where the ticket was sold. Could it have been me?

The odds of what happened to me, in terms of losing my kids, were greater than 1 in 300 million. People are convicted of murder, corruption, extortion, drug dealing, sex trafficking, embezzlement, robbery, and many other heinous crimes, yet their kids still talk to them. I didn’t do any of those things (though Jay probably told them I multitasked and did every one of them on a weekly basis), and I have been given a lifelong sentence of suffering and agony that mutilates and incapacitates my entire stamp.

My mother abandoned me when all of the vicissitude began, so afraid of being jettisoned herself. But, one of the last things she said to me was, “Any other family … If it was any other family, this would never have happened.” Though seemingly ambiguous, I somewhat understood what she was saying. My sister threatened her, controlled her, scared her, and basically ordered my mother to have nothing to do with me. The once powerful and independent Barbara Starsky became a pathetic pawn on my sister’s toxic and monochromatic black chessboard.

My mother had also twice mentioned, “Even a criminal would have been pardoned by now.” She knew how deeply I was hurting, and I don’t think she ever fully understood (who can?) why I was eliminated from the hearts of the kids I loved and still love so completely. She was a coward, and, whether her hand was forced or not, she did make a choice – Sophie’s Choice.

After Zack left me so suddenly, my mom reached out to him. Always the softest of my 3, his behavior puzzled her the most. Aware that Jay’s attorney had told my attorney that my divorce wasn’t progressing because Zack still talked to me, and recognizing that Jay’s lawyer confidently and contemptuously added, “But it won’t be for too much longer,” my mother did, supposedly, reach out to Zack. And, after he did abruptly discard me and she did call him, her words to me were, “I swear to G-d, he has been brainwashed.” (I would sit for a polygraph to attest to the validity of this conversation and the words that still permeate and pierce my vandalized heart).

What will they tell my grandchildren? Will they say I’m dead (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m crazy and that I’m away in some sort of facility (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m in prison (I guess I am in some sort of proverbial prison).

What won’t they tell my grandchildren? They probably won’t tell them that I’m a respected and beloved teacher. They probably won’t tell them that I am funny, kind, benevolent, charitable, concerned, and so deeply passionate and compassionate. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were growing up, my talons would automatically sharpen if anybody or anything ever hurt them. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were sick, I was always there, never letting them be alone and scared. They probably won’t tell them that I called them my heart, my soul, and my lungs. They probably won’t tell them that I loved them so much that I stayed in a marriage that didn’t make me happy. And, they probably won’t tell them that I loved them more than I loved myself. I still do.

May we all win the lottery, whatever the lottery looks like to us. Whether it’s the Powerball, the Mega Millions, or our children and grandchildren’s presence in our lives, may that winning ticket be in our reach.

Marla

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Danke Schoen

January 8, 2024

Forgiveness

Dear Germany,

You and I just officially met for the first time. Sure, I have driven a BMW for the last 9 years, and sure, I was so madly in love with Rob Timmermann, the stunning Aryan from Little Neck, whom I met in college. But, to me, you were a place of horror, a place where one man soullessly and successfully rallied the masses to annihilate an entire race of people – MY PEOPLE. I pre-judged you, and now, after experiencing six days in your historic, structured, and compunctious capital city, I’d like to apologize.

Everything I had read about Adolf Hitler was the truth, though I’m not sure I buy into the notion that the trajectory of his life would have played out differently had he been accepted into art school. Somebody who derived such joy from brainwashing, torturing, and gaslighting would not have been tempered by Tempera, calmed by Crayola, or placated by pastels. No, this man was nefarious, iniquitous, wicked, and depraved, yet nobody stopped him. Germany, you, too, were pulverized by him, and the damage is far deeper than the bullet holes on the Victory Column.

We were on a tour of the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, and the weather was cold. My earmuffs and gloves aesthetically paired well with my leather jacket, but I found myself wishing I had brought my Michael Kors winter coat and my hat from Iceland. The heaviness of what was to come and what we would see also added to the chill, I’m sure.

Our dimpled tour guide from Dublin used a giant textured map to give us the lay of the land, and one was immediately disgusted by the pristine care that was taken of the SS. Their needs were paramount, their every desire fulfilled. Spectators to bodies burning alive, they were cowards who were all too willing to carry out the psychotic demands of a madman. The mental manipulation, such as promises of survival or extra food, with no intent to deliver on either, was oftentimes worse than the physical torture.

We learned that the prisoners wore very thin pajamas, with no warmth and protection from the elements. There would be roll call every day, and the prisoners would freeze. For giggles, sometimes the leader would decide to roll call all day long, leaving the prisoners to die in the cold or become gravely ill. I guess the ones who just keeled over got off easy, as their torture ended more swiftly, and, I suppose, with more dignity.

Needless to say, my feelings of frostiness fled fast …

Germany, you’re somewhat stoic and robotic, but you’re also respectful and apologetic. I felt so safe within your borders, safer than I feel in my own country. In your country, learning about the Holocaust is mandatory at a young age. Here, the naysayers are becoming too prevalent, and I fear that it won’t be too long before all Holocaust literature is removed from most curriculum.

I reflect on New Year’s Eve and how police begged the public not to throw fireworks at them. New Year’s Eve 2023 had brought chaos and havoc, and law enforcement did not want a repeat of the tumult. We stayed local, near our hotel, as we were told to be careful. Never ones to go to Times Square for the dropping of the ball, it made little sense that we would brave the enormous crowd at the Brandenburg Gate. But, as midnight arrived and we stepped into the street, the fireworks were everywhere and the Roman candles presented too close for comfort. Colorful and thunderous and tossed out of cars and off of rooftops, one understood that the lifting of this city’s stringent rules, even for a mere 24 hours, was liberating.

I’ll take fireworks over firearms any day. I’ll take my gummy bears without CBD and without dyes any day. I’ll take a country that understands that we must study and learn even the most sensitive history, assuring that we don’t repeat it. I’ll take a country that takes responsibility, shows remorse, and says, “I’m sorry.”

Danke Schoen,

A Loyal Fan

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Israel, Hamas, and Gaslighting

October 9, 2023

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Healing, Parental Alienation, PTSD, Shana Tova

I am a Jewish woman. Traditionally, culturally, and spiritually, I identify as an Ashkenazi Jew. Though I no longer practice due to an ex-husband who used religion to control my children and me, one doesn’t need my Ancestry and Me chart to figure out that I am a Jew. My voice is the precise combination of The Nanny and The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (or, as I call myself, The Marvelous Mrs. Nasal). And, my dark curls, my curvy booty, and my overwhelming sense of fear and guilt just further seal the “I am a Jew” deal.

I don’t believe that any formal religious involvement and familiarity entitles a person to be unkind or manipulative towards others. Spending time in a pew, on a bimah, or gently beating oneself in the chest during the Viddui prayer on Yom Kippur does not make somebody a mensch. It is said that, “We beat our chests out of contrition and also as a kind of Jewish defibrillation—we are trying to awaken our better selves.” I don’t buy it, not when so many walk out of synagogue, like my ex-husband did last week, and plot their next attack.

My divorce went on for so long, and, in reality, it still does. He took the children from me, my adult children, and he terrorized me in ways that were illegal, immoral, and inhumane. I wanted to leave when they were small, and, in a voice that could only be described as threatening and admonitory, he announced, “I’ll take those kids from you.” When I informed him that he wouldn’t find a judge in the world who would take the kids from me, he asseverated in the most sinister and chilling tone, “Oh, I’ll find one.” It scared the life out of me, and I stayed.

“Those kids” was what he said. He didn’t say Marissa, Rebecca, or Zachary. He just said, “those kids,” because they were pawns to him. Yes, he loved them, and I will always give him fair dues that he was an involved and caring dad. Were his rules unreasonable and stifling, especially when it came to synagogue and the laws of kashrut? You can bet your gefilte fish they were. But, as I tell my students, two things can exist at the same time, and not everything is black and white.

I didn’t receive my alimony for October. Normally, I receive the money via Zelle, and I do receive it. The bonus money that is due me in a check on June 1st is another story, and Jay has taken those games to a new low. Crumpling the envelope to an unrecognizable state, dating the check with last year’s date, or just plain not sending it have been part of his wheelhouse, but the alimony was, for the most part, reliable. I guess that became boring for him, so it was time to gaslight me again.

I would think that, for a religious man, it would be more disparaged to play games at the start of the Jewish New Year. I guess Jay was feeling particularly untouched and impudent, so he hit the ground running. Shana Tova to me!

I saw that the money had not been transferred, and I reached out to my lawyer. He assured me that he would handle it first thing on Monday morning. It was around 11 a.m. when I received a text from Jay, informing me that he had received a notice from his bank (which is the same as my bank). The notice said the payment could not be completed, that I had unenrolled from Zelle. Nothing could be more ridiculous or untrue, and calls to my bank and a successful Zelle payment sent to me by a dear friend proved that Gaslight 307 had left the launchpad and was heading straight towards me.

It’s important to note that Jay sent the notices from his bank to my lawyer. The notices said nothing about the payments not being completed successfully. The notices said, “We’ve canceled your payment to Marla. We’ve canceled your Chase QuickPay^® with Zelle^® payment to Marla sent on October 1, 2023.” Why? What more does he want? He has EVERYTHING, everything I’ve ever wanted. He has Marissa, Rebecca, and Zachary, and he has their kids and their hearts. He gets to feel soft little fingers and smell Dreft and baby powder. I get to feel the all-too-familiar torture and smell the rat who has been gaslighting me for decades.

Jay will, as he should, be condemning the actions of Hamas. He will sit in synagogue on Saturday, and he will listen to the rabbi castigate the vile actions of this heinous Palestinian military movement. He will, justifiably, be horrified, angry, seething, wrathful, and every other appropriate emotion for these odious and monstrous measures. But, come November, will he repeat what he did with my alimony last week? Will he mastermind Gaslight 308, continuing his destruction of somebody whom he has already destroyed?

And so, I plead to Israel to stay strong and to stay safe. Stay united, and understand that our Jewish world is fragile right now. Protect each other, love each other, don’t abandon and turn on each other, and stay true to who we profess to be. Chizku ve’imtzu!

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