Shira is my sister-in-law. She's a lovely woman. She's a born-and-bred Flatbush (that's Brooklyn for you non-Jews, Stealth or otherwise) girl. She's frum, and also tidy and well put together. I have never seen a hair out of place. I have never seen her hem fall down. Even her children fall into line.
Once her older girl and Munchkin went on an outing together with my husband, after Gnome was born. Munchkin's cousin was wearing a navy blue dress with a red trim. And navy tights. And navy shoes. With a matching red trim.
There was more organisation in that child's outfit than exists in my entire body.
Munchkin, for the record, was wearing a bright pink jersey dress (ebayed), rainbow tights, pink off-brand crocs with lights in the heels, and a blue sweatshirt her Zayde brought her from Israel -- it said PRINCESS in sparkles across the front.
Anyway. Last night, at three in the morning, I got a not uncharacteristic powerful desire for chocolate. After rummaging around for at least twenty minutes, I found half a pack of candies I had hidden, heaven knows from whom, behind the yeast cultures in the kitchen.
And as I sat there in the dark, munching away, I had that thought again: This kind of escapade? I bet Shira never does this.
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