Dear Ms. Ross,

Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed Manischewitz’s Matzo Ball Mix soup mix on Passover.  I am now a university student, and live far away from my home in Toronto, so I am not able to attend Seder anymore. I was quite happy to discover that it was easy to find the Matzo Ball Soup mix at my local grocery store, as Vancouver has a much smaller Jewish community.

I had never made the soup myself, but the first time it came out quite successful; the instructions were simple to follow, and both packets, to my recollection, were labelled clearly: one for the soup mix, and one for the matzo meal mix.

The second time that I purchased the Matzo Ball Mix, the two packets were not labelled, so I had to guess which was which.  The contents of both packages look and smell quite similar, and it is hard to differentiate between powdered matzo meal and powdered soup mix.

Annoyed, but confident enough that I could make the right choice, I selected a package and prepared what I thought to be the matzo mix as per instructions.  Upon mixing together the eggs, the vegetable oil, and the “matzo meal”, I noticed that the colour seemed incorrect for matzo balls.  I thought that maybe it was just because I was using extra virgin olive oil, instead of canola oil this time.  I soon realized that I had gotten the two packets mistaken for each other when I put added what I thought to be the “soup mix” to my pot of water.

I was left with a giant pot of inedible sludge that had to be flushed down the toilet, and subsequently followed by half a bottle of Drain-o to prevent clogging.  I was also disappointed, because I really do like matzo ball soup.

I figured that this was just some weird one-off fluke, and that the next time I purchased the Manishewitz Matzo Ball Mix, the packets would be labeled correctly; this was not the case.  This afternoon, I experienced the same problem, and once again, guessed incorrectly, even after asking both of my roommates for their input!

Manishewitz has been known as the quintessential company to purchase easy-to-make and tasty, traditional Kosher food for as long as anyone can remember, but the lack of labeling makes for a confusing and often wasteful use of foodstuffs.

I would recommend that Manishewitz labels both packets of the Matzo Ball Mix soup mix product, otherwise people like myself will not be able to enjoy your soups, as we once did.

Thank you,

Leora

….when life goes on.

I am back in Vancouver and feeling a lot better that I was before I left.  Toronto treated me better than it had in years.  I had forgotten about the bright lights; the lack of mountains; the ABYSMAL transit system; the bluntness of people that is interpreted as rudeness out west; the ignorance; the familiarity; the comfort of being in a place that is chaotic, not merely because of inter-personal relationships, but because the city is so damned chaotic.  This is not something negative.  This is home, and home does not necessarily mean the place where you hang your hat.  Home is where you feel like yourself in a most unrestricted manner.

Growing up in Toronto, you don’t exactly get a sense of how intense of a city it is, and you assume that people who don’t understand the city are hicks, or people who resent the self-appointed “centre of the universe”.  I have a love-hate relationship with the city, and may or may not move back one day when it is safe enough for me to do so.
I could write about the specifics of the trip, but that would take all day.  It was not the specifics, it was the fundamental qualities of the experiences that made it such a meaningful trip.

I had a great time.  I wish I could have seen more people.  I would like to thank everybody who was such a great friend, and so supportive of me during a time when I needed you more than anything.

I received this book on Friday . When I looked at it, the first thought that went through my head was “oh man, my dad would love this. This book is SO my dad.” I wanted to call him up and show him the book, cause I knew how stoked he would be.

Four years have passed, and sometimes I still forget. It’s strange to look at pictures, and have such clear memories only to be equally aware of the absence from your life of a person, while you are mystified by the absurdity of their sudden death.

It’s still so real . All those late-night talks over coffee; all those roadtrips; all those days spent at the recording studio; all those special in-jokes and catch phrases. The memories haven’t died when your heart has stopped beating, but the lack of exchanges makes it increasinly difficult to comprehend what happened on that hazy day.

I don’t know if I can say I wish that my dad would suddenly reappear in my life. He reappeared in that dream. The dream where he confirmed his self-imposed martyrdom to the family. The idea of someone being gone for so long only to reappear and to except that life will just go on without the heartbreak would be harder to accept than the death itself.

(edited)To whom it may concern:

As a new resident of Vancouver who moved here in September of 2006, I have been pleasantly surprised by the professionalism and punctuality displayed by your bus drivers. Unfortunately, today I had an experience with one such driver which has left me humiliated and disturbed. Therefore, I would like to make a complaint about said event.

I am a student at Capilano College and I live near Skeena and East 22nd . I have a bus-pass and a FastTrax sticker.

This morning, May 8, 2007, at 11:18 AM, I boarded an Eastbound 25 Brentwood bus at Skeena and East 22nd Avenue. The bus number was 7237. I was on my way to the Emergency Room at Burnaby General Hospital, as I had recently suffered a head injury which had developed complications.

I realize that it is only a short distance from 22nd and Skeena to the hospital, but as I was frightened and in pain, I did not feel it was safe to walk. I also cannot currently see out of my right eye, which is one of the complications, so walking is not easy for me at this time.

I did not want to miss my stop, so upon boarding the bus, I asked the driver to let me know when it got to the hospital. As I was saying that, I pulled out my bus pass. The driver said to me, referring to the zone change at Boundary Road, “it will cost you an extra 1$” . I apologized, and said I had a FastTrax sticker and went to retrieve it from my wallet. The bus driver replied to me snidely by saying ” why are you telling me that when you could have showed me your pass?” I apologized again and told him that I have a head injury, (which is quite evident to anybody who looks at my face; I have 15 stitches in my forehead.) I told him that I wasn’t really sure what was going on because I was upset and needed to go to the hospital. The bus driver’s response was “I don’t give a shit what the hell is wrong with you” and then said something about me being another crazy person on the bus.

I do not recall what he said verbatim about my “craziness”, but he also said that I had probably been “crazy” before the injury as well. I found this inference to me being a drug addict or mentally disabled quite derogatory; I have relatives and friends who have suffered and overcome drug addiction and mental illnesses, and they are exponentially more personable and courteous than this bus driver.

I did not appreciate being verbally abused in front of the other passengers. I was humiliated and terribly upset. I did not do anything to provoke this driver, nor did I use any profane language. It was absolutely out of line, and his attitude was such that I was terrified that he would not allow me to ride the bus on account of him being an inconsiderate individual. When I was discharged from the hospital, I chose to walk home to avoid the risk of having the same bus driver. As I mentioned, I cannot see out of my right eye, so the walk home was unpleasant at best. I could not afford a cab home because, as I said, I am a student (with an un-crazy Grade Point Average of 4.0). This is why I have a bus pass and a FastTrax sticker which allows me to travel for the price of one zone in the first place.

I asked the bus driver for his name; he told me it was Steve and then asked me what mine was. I said my name didn’t matter and that I did not appreciate his attitude. I then told him I would write Translink about him. He yelled at me that “wow, your head injury sure improved quickly if you’re able to write.” Then he continued to yell and swear about me being crazy as I took my seat. While Steve is entitled to his opinion, he is not a doctor, and my head injury, as advised to me by the doctor at Burnaby General, does not appear to have left any neurological damage. So I am not “crazy” and was not at the time. Just injured. This is why I am perfectly capable of writing this complaint four hours after my encounter with your driver, Steve.

I do not have any further details at this time to add to this letter, however I would greatly appreciate a response from somebody at Translink. I do not imagine that this is the first time you have received a complaint about “Steve”, and so I would hope that he be disciplined properly.

Thank you for your time,

Leora

1) Meet a girl at a party.

2) Accuse her of being a lesbian

3) Make out with said girl; she is trying to prove that she is not a lesbian. She is not a lesbian.
4) Communicate occasionally with said girl. You go to school with her roommate, so you may cross paths now and then.

5) Run into girl on the beach at some wack-ass-ritualistic-hippy-dippy-goat-sacrificingly-primal “holiday”.

6) Flirt with girl; tell her you want to “make love” to her and whatnot.

7) Have girl come home with you; watch Ren and Stimpy briefly.

8.) Get a message from girl cause she thinks it’s funny that she got interviewed on the street, while looking like ass due to spending a night at the beach and then staying at someone else’s place. You see, telling a person who knows where you were the night before has more relevance than telling someone who just thinks you look rough shape. Makes sense, doesn’t it.

9) Get contacted by girl the next day. Just a little, inane comment or two. Those 30 seconds spent out of the 86 400 seconds in a day are clearly the result of a great deal of new-found devotion from that girl. The idea of communicating with someone EVER after they spend the night at your place is unfathomable. How creepy. Fucking creepy.

10) Send girl a message over the website Facebook.com saying “I just hope I’m not your new favourite past time Leora.”

Ever felt really, really insulted?

My favourite pastimes include chain smoking, sleeping all day, writing, mainlining Prozac, not cleaning my room, playing with my bunny, reading, preparing for the Apocalypse, watching Home Movies, quoting the Simpsons, playing Super Double Dragon (newfound pastime), hanging out with my roommates, watching hockey and stalking vainglorious art school students.

I tried to call my dying grandmother but the nursing home receptionist informed me sarcastically that I had no reached a switchboard.

My 90- something year old grandmother is dying.  She’s been dying for a while.  I have not seen her in about nine years, as I had decided a long time ago that I thought I hated her.  I don’t hate her.  I was very angry.  She did and said many things towards me when I was a kid that I upset me very much.  That aside, she was once a nice woman.  That aside, the amount of shock therapy and drugs she’s been given; the fucked up life she’s had, those have all messed her up and I guess she can’t be held 100% accountable for her behaviour.

Now she’s pumped full of fentanyl 24/7 and my mom has visited her in Belleville.  My mom told me that my Nana was asking about me, and that she was much nicer than usual.  It was the drugs.  She’s stoned as hell.  Nana wanted to talk to me.  So I decided to call her.. I debated it for a while.  Why should I call that miserable woman who never had the decency to apologize to me?

But she is dying, and she is in pain.  And so I called her.  And it took several tries to get through to her, because apparently if you don’t know your grandmother’s number, but you know the nursing home, the staff will not help you out.  Apparently saying “please, my grandmother is dying.  I just want to talk to her and I don’t know any other way to reach her,” is not sufficient.

But after quite some effort, I somehow ended up calling a nurse who happens to patrol the floor that my Nana “lives” on.  She told me she’d get Nana to call me back.. but I explained that I don’t think Nana is capable of dialing a phone.  So the nurse said she’d go up to Nana’s room and dial out for her, then hold the phone up to her head.

So I talked to my Nana.  Probably for the last time ever.  It was the nicest she had sounded since I was about 10 years old.  She told me she had been talking to my Auntie Rita about me.  My Auntie Rita committed suicide before I was born.  Nana said she was looking forward to me visiting her in the summer.  She is hoping I will fly out.  I just visited Ontario.  I’m not going back this summer.