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By Chana Perman She has a sign on her wall, much like The Writing on Wall saying (as she’s praying): This too shall pass
By Chana Perman Who in their right mind would opt for the toddler upgrade? I wonder aloud. To which the travel agent smugly replies: Do you have a child under the age of two and a half? I answer affirmatively. Then (aha!) you already have opted for the Toddler ...
By Chana Perman I need to throw out more stuff. Tug of heartstrings. What if my children want to see my doodles from Grade Eight? More importantly, what if I want to see their doodles from age two? There are no easy answers...
By Chana Perman This cloud I sense does not speak, it only weeps. This cloud is enormous and has been shedding every Jewish tear from the beginning of time . . .
By Chana Perman Being as I don’t want to be assigned to the loony bin, my shout is carefully manufactured—existing in dimensions no greater than two feet long and two feet wide. The Carefully Manufactured Shout is tied with twine—and, by most metaphysical ...
By Chana Perman i might drag my feet for a minute -- or month because these things are big, you know and who can say what crossing over feels or looks like
By Chana Perman Tell me. Who are you on the playground?
By Chana Perman Don't you dare mistake this three dimensional work of art in progress for a heap of peculiar garbage. You chance to deeply offend its architect...
By Chana Perman People are busy rifling through the – dare I say it - junk. I must run. Run before I become entangled in that huge mess of possessions, aptly called "gar(b)age sale."
By Chana Perman My dear friend Edith treats my challah like an esteemed, albeit mercurial, family member. She often tells me that she can taste the energy and love I pour into my baking...
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