October 31st, 2008


Here is a Halloween joke for you.

A cabbie picks up a Nun. She gets into the cab, and notices that the VERY handsome cab driver won't stop staring at her.

She asks him why he is staring. He replies: 'I have a question to ask, but I don't want to offend you.'

She answers, 'My son, you cannot offend me. When you're as old as I am and have been a nun as long as I have, you get a chance to see and hear just about everything. I'm sure that there's nothing you could say or ask that I would find offensive.'

'Well, I've always had a fantasy to have a nun kiss me.'

She responds, 'Well, let's see what we can do about that: #1, you have to be single and #2, you must be Catholic.'

The cab driver is very excited an d says, 'Yes, I'm single and Catholic!'

'OK' the nun says. 'Pull into the next alley.'

The nun fulfills his fantasy with a kiss that would make a hooker blush.

But when they get back on the road, the cab driver starts crying.

'My dear child,' said the nun, 'Why are you crying?'

'Forgive me but I've sinned. I lied and I must confess; I'm married and I'm Jewish.'

The nun says, 'That's OK. My name is Kevin and I'm going to a Halloween party.'

Шаббат шалом

Avital's article finally published.

Талечка порадовала публикацией статьи в The Jewish Week. В нашем городе газета появится только завтра, поэтому перепечатка из сети:

Over Tea And Sunflower Seeds
by Avital Chizhik

It’s funny. Sometimes the uneven street of little White Lake, N.Y., seems smoother than the wide, modern avenues of the New Jersey suburbs. Maybe it is the summer sun that caresses the asphalt or the little feet of children playing that make the surface less sharp. Or maybe the village men’s cigarette smoke melts it or the smell of baking kulyebakas and frying blintzes softens the road.

It was on this little road that so many of my childhood memories formed. Seven years ago my mother decided it was high time we children had a dacha, a summer cottage, just like she did in Ukraine. A month in the mountains would give us just enough fresh country air to last us the year; if
we looked at enough greenery our eyes would become brighter and the sun would make our skin golden.

And so we found a private bungalow in the Catskill Mountains — just around the corner from the lake and crowded Russian colonies, giving us both a social life and some relative privacy. The rather spacious two-bedroom cottage, which we would return to every year, with a large kitchen and lovely deck to the side, at first seemed small, compared to the suburban proportions we were used to.

And it wasn’t just the bungalow that was strange; at first we felt like we were dropped onto an alien planet. We had seen these loud babushkas and their Gucci-parading daughters on trips to Brighton Beach, but never in such large doses. Mornings, we were awakened by the eccentric Russian sculptor’s rooster crowing from across the street. Evenings were spent gossiping over tea and sunflower seeds and listening to the latest imported pop from Moscow.
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