She smiled and agreed with excitement to experience “out there” again, but also with the hesitation of a new mother.

He made the reservations.

She booked the babysitter.

He showered that morning while she washed bottles and breast pump accessories. He offered to come home thirty minutes early from work so that he could take care of the baby and and give her enough time to shower and get ready for their night out. Weeks ago, she had broken down and told him that she was living in “survival mode,” enabling him to understand how much a shower that lasted more than 90 seconds would mean to her.

That day, while taking care of their daughter, she also worked from home while the baby napped and did a load of laundry so that she would have something to wear that evening that wasn’t covered in spit-up or dry Enfamil. She thought about showering while the baby napped, but decided against it in case the baby woke up and began crying.

As promised, he arrived home thirty minutes earlier than usual and gave her and his baby daughter a big hug. Then, he proceeded to enter the bathroom, where he spent the next fifteen minutes doing his business and scrolling his phone.

She began to worry that there would be little time for her to get ready. And then, the anger set in, as she wondered how long it would have taken him in the bathroom if he had left his phone outside.

For 15 minutes, he savored all that he couldn’t enjoy at work, thanks to the open floor plan of an office that made it impossible for him to scroll his phone for more than a minute or two. He caught up on a few headlines, Googling the meaning of an adjective he didn’t recognize from a headline about freedom of expression. The Google search led him down a rabbit hole of fascinating Instagram reels. The dopamine bursts felt exquisite. In fact, they were the perfect complement to the smooth bowel movement.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, he had left her with fifteen minutes to shower, dry her hair, wear a spit up-free ensemble, and apply a little makeup. She spent ten of those minutes instructing the babysitter how to prepare the baby’s formula and how to use the nursery camera; the other five minutes were spent arguing with her husband, who continued to affirm, “I’m trying my best! Didn’t I come home half an hour early?!”

***

We all have our own way of inquiring from outside that door about the status of what was supposed to be someone’s routine visit to the bathroom.

There’s the gentle, “Hey, there! Uh, everything okay?”, offered passively from a few feet away.

The less subtle, “Can you finish? I’m gonna pee my pants!”, which often occurs if there is only one bathroom in the home/hotel/hovel.

And then, there’s the really less subtle, “When the ?!?! are you coming out?! You want me to order Uber Eats for you while you’re in there?!”

However the person says it (or is too reluctant to say it), here’s a promise: The person you are living with hates how much time you spend on the toilet scrolling your phone, even if they’re guilty of the same crime of theft.

Correct, theft. Some people steal designer bags from upscale department stores (we call that the year, 2021). Others steal time.

I know I’ve stolen time.

At exactly the moment when my husband needed my help with our children, I stayed in the bathroom five minutes longer than needed because I just had to read further on the list of “55 Amazing Things that Don’t Look Like They Came from Amazon.” Here’s a spoiler: They all look like they came from Amazon. And some, from Temu.

If we multiply those five minutes by six bathroom visits a day (I drink a lot of water during hotter months), I’ve robbed myself and others of 30 minutes each day.

By now, most of us know that we must be more careful scrolling our phones in front of our children and, I believe, other people’s children, because whether in a waiting room or supermarket checkout line, they’re watching us, too. But few are comfortable addressing the elephant in the room. More specifically, the elephant in the bathroom.

We use the bathroom as an escape, especially if we have young children and the door still has a working lock. And the worst part is that we have trained our brains to expect a few minutes of dopamine-elevating scrolling while we relieve ourselves, so that many of us probably have a hard time doing our business without a phone.

Today’s generations don’t require distinguishing labels: Boomers, Gen X, Millennials, Gen Z, etc. Now, there are only two generations: the one that remembers what it was like to sit on a toilet without a phone, and the one that doesn’t.

It’s that simple.

Today, a person is disciplined and a master of him/herself if he or she can simply sit somewhere and be still. But I believe that the wisest and most disciplined human in the world today is the one who can sit on a toilet bowl and stare at a wall.

Are our standards today so pathetically low that spending less time on the toilet scrolling a phone constitutes a radical act of respect and generosity?

Yes.

Give your family their time back with you. Give yourself that time back. Give your poor brain its executive functioning skills back. Unless your kids interrupt your thoughts, words, or actions every three minutes (the national average). Then your executive functioning will be compromised anyway.

There will be plenty of time to ignore ourselves and our loved ones by scrolling our phones without involving the bathroom: breakfast, lunch, dinner, the kids’ bedtime, meditation class, the school play, and, of course, driving on the freeway.

For a few minutes each day, give everyone, including yourself, the gift of attention, which French philosopher Simone Weil once called “the rarest and purest form of generosity.” She probably said something poignant after that, but I wasn’t paying attention.

And for what it’s worth, the only thing that brings luxury to your home and is also available on Amazon is a good, sturdy lock on an overly-permissive bathroom door.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and nostalgic sap who still remembers what it was like to enter a bathroom stall and feel enthralled by the profanities and phone numbers written inside on the door and the walls.

As an Iranian Jew, I have been blessed to attend many such celebrations, but until this year, I often left these lovely events feeling a little worse about myself than when I first entered.

Why was that?

Why do we, whether we are Iranian Jewish guests or not, spend so much time, effort, and money, on getting “simcha-ready,” only to begin feeling depleted halfway through the event, and completely ready to drown out our depletion with a dozen little pastries by the end of the night?

Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating life’s best moments?

For years, I have had some thoughts on the duality of such events, based on countless observations. The following is going to sound like a lot of complaining, but please remember that I possess so much love and gratitude to those who have invited me to their celebrations. I have also been blessed to host a few simchas of my own. And if you’ve ever seen me at someone’s simcha, you know that I am the first to continually run back and forth to the open bar to offer the bride/groom/bar or bat mitzvah stars of the night a fresh glass of water as they dance. I also write them Megillah-length greeting cards and give them big hugs.

Below are a few observations about why Iranian Jewish simchas can be a little depleting, followed by how to survive them physically and emotionally. Yes, physically and emotionally. Trust me.

From Beverly Hills to Baltimore, Great Neck to Atlanta, London to Milan, or Montreal to Hamburg, please share this with anyone who attended a beautiful Iranian Jewish simcha and left feeling a little shell-shocked.

Let’s start with some facts:

Fact One: Iranian Jews are some of the kindest, most hospitable people you will ever know. Your happiness and comfort means everything to us. If you have a disagreeable time at our event, we find it almost impossible to forgive ourselves. I love our kindness. We try really hard. Perhaps too hard.

Fact Two: Only four generations ago, Jews in Iran were relegated to squalid, disease-stricken ghettos all over Iran, before being afforded physical and educational liberation, in various forms, whether access to Alliance Israélite secular schools in Iran or college campuses in America. In essence, we broke free. And we’ve spent at least three generations trying to prove ourselves to others.

Fact Three: Again, I really love my community, but I am not sure that the Jewish ghettos ever completely left us, because our exhaustive prioritization of a) wealth and status, b) a carefully curated and well-maintained public image, and c) outer beauty is so magnified, particularly in the social media era, that it might be irreversible.

Fact Four: Iranian Jewish simchas, especially weddings, both uplift and challenge everything related to time, space and sensory experiences:

TIME: They start late. Too late. The kind of late that breeds confusion and regret, especially among the poor non-Iranian guests who showed up “on-time,” only to find that the wedding party hadn’t even arrived yet. And, if you recall, dinner is always served at 11:30 p.m. or later.

SENSORY: The amount of food is truly a blessing and a literal feast for the eyes. But it’s also overwhelming, especially if you have health considerations or difficulty setting boundaries around food. Or alcohol. Or both.

MORE SENSORY: Here’s a secret: Most Iranians, regardless of faith, don’t believe they have received their money’s worth if the band or DJ doesn’t blow out a few eardrums. So they ask for higher music volume, never less. That’s why your ears still ring for 5-7 days after attending one of these wonderful simchas.

SPACE AND SENSORY: Too many people. Too many crowds. And sometimes, not enough seats. One time, I waited 50 minutes in line at a simcha for a small piece of meat at the carving station. It was too crowded, and too many people, especially grown men who should have known better, kept cutting the line in front of me until I was forced to defend my space in the most disgruntled tone of Persian I have ever used.

VISUAL OVERLOAD AND IMPACTS ON SELF-ESTEEM: Remember how, before you left the house to attend the simcha, you thought you looked decent? Or perhaps really great?! But as soon you arrived and saw the equivalent of an Oscar red carpet fashion show, you felt like a toad in sequins?

Did you know that it was a completely normal feeling?

Even those cute shoes you were wearing, the ones you only bust out when you really want to look fabulous, now looked like two boats strapped around your ankles, in comparison to the incredible heels other guests were sporting, complete with designer names hanging off of the shoes, of course.

Photo: At my own wedding, over a decade ago. What a lovely night. And after it ended, I removed over 50 rigid bobby pins from my scalp and finally ate some dinner!

Given all of the aforementioned, and with love and gratitude for all hosts, I now present:

Practical Tools for Physically and Emotionally Surviving a Persian Jewish Simcha

First, change your thought patterns before you even leave the house. Open this Substack article and keep it open the entire day/night.

Before leaving the house, look into the mirror and say: “I like myself. I actually really like myself. I look good, and I tried my best, or the best that my time/budget/bandwidth allowed. It’s enough. No matter what anyone else looks like at this wedding (or other simcha), I am really and truly enough. The only person I’m competing with is myself (look down to ensure you shaved your legs), and outer beauty is absolutely NOT the metric of my highest value, because I am nice, kind, and truly at peace with myself.”

Next comes a blessing upon entering an Iranian Jewish simcha:

“G-d, thank you for the miracle of this event, and that I have the health, resources, and time to be here now. May this be such a fun, light, happy time, primarily because only I control my thoughts, and I choose positive ones. May any negative thoughts be carried off quickly by the breeze, like so much of the suffocating cologne and perfume that is already overwhelming my senses as I enter.”

A Blessing for the Recipients of the Simcha:

“May this bride and groom (or bar or bat mitzvah, baby, or anyone else) enjoy 120 years of physical and mental health, compassion, clarity, connection, holiness, and true inner peace.”

A Blessing for Seeing a Guest Who is So Inappropriately-Dressed That You Wish You Could Avert the Eyes of Small Children:

“This person is more than what they appear. They are a soul. May they find peace, wisdom, and always feel that they are enough. And so may I.”

A Blessing Upon Seeing People Who Are Spectacularly Wealthier Than You:

“I try my best, and G-d knows and gives me exactly what I need. There’s enough for everyone. May this person spend much of their wealth in acts of service and kindness, and in perfect health.”

A Blessing for the Buffet Tables and Flower Arrangements:

“G-d, THANK YOU for this unbelievable bounty. May my hosts always have the means to provide for others. May they never need to receive flowers or meals for any occasions other than happy ones. And may my zipper hold until I get home.”

A Blessing If You’re a Disgruntled Married Person at Someone Else’s Wedding:

“Everyone has their own journey. I release thoughts that leave me feeling inadequate. I have so many blessings, and things can always get better. I lack nothing, but I can definitely ruin tonight for myself with my own thoughts. I now choose joy, for myself, and for this beautiful couple.”

A Blessing If You’re a Worried Single Person at Someone Else’s Wedding:

“I am not forgotten. Somewhere, someone is growing toward their best for me, and I am growing toward my best for them. And at exactly the right time, we’ll meet like two branches. Until then, I choose a joyful life of self-refinement, over equating delay with suffering.”

A Blessing for Catching Someone Who Is Staring at You Shamelessly (whispered to yourself while looking the person straight in the eyes):

“May you judge everyone favorably! I really like myself and you have no power over me. Still, if you need me, I’ll be at the Mexican food station 200 feet away.”

Readers, I’m not here to problem-solve the practices of an entire lovely community. If you’re looking for practical suggestions for how our simchas can convey a few different values, perhaps I’ll write another Substack, then leave for a prolonged vacation before I’m tarred and feathered somewhere on a street in West Los Angeles.

Overall, the sad part of all this is that the original community itself, the one in Iran, has neither access to so much freedom and glamour, nor quite such an obsession with status (though status-chasing still exists among Jews in Iran, believe me).

Our grandparents and great-grandparents were married under simple tallit; the bride holding a bouquet of small garden roses. There’s an eternal beauty to that. As I’ve always said to people who never asked for my advice, “A wedding is like a door to a home.” You don’t need a shabby door, but at the end of the day, an adequately lovely door will do the job. The marriage is the home, and no one should spend more time and money on a door, rather than the home itself.

In sum, you can do it. You can physically and emotionally survive an Iranian Jewish simcha without returning home bloated and worried that you looked like Quasimodo in chiffon.

Enjoy your life. Enjoy every simcha.

Just don’t be an amateur and fill up on salads and dips before you’ve even approached the prime rib carving station.

If that happens, you’re on your own.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and Persian wedding expert who has utterly perfected the art of buzzing from one food station to another without getting full, like a contented little bee in pretty, but practical heels.

She was right, though cloud-walking proved slightly wobbly for the first few days.

Now, after years of wearing the Hokas, I need a respite from those $124 clouds. In fact, I really miss the old me back on miserable, blister-toed Earth.

In hindsight, I’ll never know how I spent a decade-and-a-half walking on the harsh cement sidewalks of Los Angeles in cheap flats with soles as thin as dollar bills.

How did I schlepp around the sprawling USC campus for two years of graduate school wearing adorably unsupportive ballet flats I had purchased at the old Top Shoes on Westwood Boulevard for $7.99?

Come to think of it, how did I arrive at my office job in toe-pinching, cheap leather high heels (thanks, Nine West) and happily leave the office each day to skip to Happy Hour?

Sometime in my thirties, during pregnancy and certainly after having children, I switched almost entirely to wearing sneakers. Perhaps I’m late to the game; today, I hardly see twenty-somethings wearing anything but sneakers. Unless I include last year’s visit to Wyoming. Cowgirl boots galore.

Teen girls even wear fashionable sneakers to prom. A lot has changed since I was in high school and Steve Madden Mary Janes were plentiful.

A decade ago, I dragged my aching feet to the mall and started with something reasonable: A pair of slender Sketchers. Somehow, they were still pleasant to the eye, enabling me to almost feel like myself. I knew that I was trading beauty for comfort, but it was time to offer my feet some support.

Eventually, I moved on to a pair of gray New Balance sneakers. The shoes almost demanded that I never sit down or rest, because they were practically made for hiking. I desperately needed them for walking outside on Shabbat, but they looked so dowdy with the dresses or skirts I wore. Nothing managed to kill a pretty pencil skirt like those shoes.

I began to lose a part of myself with those gray sneakers, but it was the big, black, floppy Hoka Cliftons that, in the words of Eliza Doolittle, truly “did me in.”

As soon as I tied them up and walked outside, I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window and almost swore I was walking on two frying pans.

Photo Credit: Nordstrom.com

Who was this person?

Goodbye, Happy Hour.

When had I traded bars for bunions and made accommodations in my life that ensured that absolutely everything, from my earrings to my keychains, had to be practical?

It could be argued that I ruined my feet in my twenties, setting myself up to be condemned to a lifetime of walking on the world’s ugliest clouds (yes, The Wall Street Journal once called Hokas “the ugly shoes now worth billions of dollars”). I remain so grateful to have been able to afford these shoes, but, in truth, they completely killed my joy.

Maybe I am in denial about getting older. Or maybe I long for the happier, carefree days of my twenties, without all of the maddening instability and confusing relationships.

Either way, reality finally caught up with me. I join over 200 million American adults that have experienced foot pain or foot problems, roughly 81 percent of the population. It’s no wonder that Hoka enjoyed a record annual revenue of $2.59 billion in 2026, increasing nearly 16 percent. If you’re an American, I bet your feet hurt.

It is also a verifiable fact that my lifestyle, complete with the miraculous blessing of children, can no longer accommodate silly ballet flats or toe-pinching high heels. But somewhere along the way, every single pair of shoes in my closet was replaced by practical, comfortable sneakers.

When you’re frying an omelette for one kid with your left hand and mixing tuna salad for another kid with your right, while arguing with your mother on speakerphone about why you look so haggard (and why you don’t need any bloodwork), there is simply no bandwidth for bunions. Sneakers win. Always.

But now, after a decade, comes la rébellion.

With immense gratitude for these Hokas, which I could never have afforded as a child patron of Payless ShoeSource, and with respect to all of the women (and men) who love these sneakers, I’ve had enough.

My feet and I are going rogue. If it takes all summer, I’m going to find one pair of espadrilles that don’t induce blisters or plantar fasciitis.

There used to be a spring to my step when I wore attractive shoes. And I distinctly recall a happier bounce to my, well, nevermind, when I wore less practical bras. I’ll leave that search for next summer.

Maybe, like all good things, the secret has remained hidden inside the whole time: Love yourself and you will feel fabulous wearing anything.

But something tells me that once I make my descent back to Earth, wearing less practical shoes with bows or wedged heels or (gasp) a strap, I’ll find it easier to outsource some of my self-love over to another sole.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and eternally grateful former child patron of Ross Dress for Less, Payless Shoes, and the faux Adidas sneaker stalls in downtown LA’s Santee Alley.

Titled “Unfiltered Voices: Jewish Women Shaping Hollywood,” the April 26 panel featured some of the brightest Jewish women in the industry, including producers, executives, and financiers.

I filled pages upon pages with notes during the event, as each panelist shared candid reflections on everything from identity to career trajectory, from the lens of a Jewish woman in Hollywood today.

But it was in the green room before the panel had even started that my heart melted during a simple conversation. It was there that I reconnected with panelist Debra Messing, whom I interviewed as part of a June 2023 cover story for the Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles that also featured the contributions of her best friend and fellow Jewish activist, Mandana Dayani.

Minutes before the program began, I asked Dayani how she and her family were doing, estimating that her daughter, Andy, must be nearing bat-mitzvah age (she was certainly an impressive nine-year-old when I first met her during that 2023 interview mentioned above). When I casually asked Dayani whether Andy had a bat mitzvah tutor, she smiled and pointed to Messing, who was seated nearby, waiting for her cue to enter the auditorium.

“Debra?!” I cried.

“Yes!” confirmed Dayani. “They sat down together and started with the Alef-Bet.”

As I said, I nearly melted.

It’s not every day that an internationally-beloved actress, activist, and Emmy award-winner can also add the title, “Bat Mitzvah Tutor” to her resume.

Yet somehow, I had a feeling that sitting down over Alef-Bets with Andy during her visits to Los Angeles (Messing lives in New York City) brought her as much joy and meaning as some of the lifetime achievements for which she is best known.

Last week, Messing confirmed that assumption.

“Teaching Andy Hebrew for her Bat Mitzvah was a very moving experience for me,” Messing said. “I’ve known Andy since she was tiny. To sit with her, this incredible human who is becoming a woman in the eyes of Judaism, I felt so privileged. It felt sacred. Knowing our people have been doing this for millennia and we are just one more link in the chain made me feel very proud.”

Wouldn’t it be something if more A-list Jewish actors and creatives practiced the same beautiful combination of Jewish connection and individual humility?

USC Casden Institute panel (April 26, 2026). Photo Credit: Take One Productions

With Messing, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. The daughter of Jewish former lay leaders in Rhode Island, where she grew up, Messing loves being Jewish, both privately, as she lights her weekly Shabbat candles at home, and publicly, as she continues to advocate for our community with a kind of fierce confidence that is seldom seen in Hollywood.

Our 2023 interview was wonderful, but heavy, and as we sat and discussed antisemitism, little did we know the torment that would await us a few months later on October 7, 2023, and its unthinkable aftermath.

This time, I wanted to keep things light.

It’s spring, and we’re all excited to leap into new beginnings.

So I asked Messing four simple questions. I hope you enjoy her responses as much as I did.

Fast Takes with Debra Messing

Fill in the blank: Shabbat’s not Shabbat without...

Lighting the candles.

Favorite Yiddish insult or swear word?

Schmegegge.

(As a Mizrahi Jew from Iran, I had to look up this term, and I was delighted by the result. An American-Yiddish insult, most likely originating in the Lower East Side, it means “a contemptible, petty, or foolish person, or simply nonsense, hot air, and rubbish,” according to vocabulary.com

What would a persistent Israeli man have to say or do to earn a date with Debra Messing?

He’d have to make me laugh.

And finally, if Lucille Ball met you at the gates of heaven, what do you hope she would say?

I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s play!

Find Debra Messing @therealdebramessing and Mandana Dayani @mandanadayani on Instagram. Dayani’s Substack, “All of It,” may be found here.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and ever-growing Yiddish enthusiast. Follow her on X and Instagram @TabbyRefael

May you live to 120 years with a fully-working, resilient body and maddeningly sharp mental facilities for a 120-year-old. The kind of sharp mental facilities that enable you to one day describe in full detail what life was like in the early 21st century, when we (mostly) drove cars ourselves and hadn’t yet realized which world leaders were actually aliens from space.

May your teeth always work for you and never against you.

May you always pause three seconds before yelling at anyone. And if someone calls you an idiot, may you quietly ask yourself, “Did I have that coming?” followed by, “Yeah, I probably had that coming.”

If you were an idiot, as we all often are, may everyone have given you the benefit of the doubt.

May you never miss your Amazon return date window.

May you only have stomach aches from laughing too hard.

May evil forces always get distracted on their way to you until they can’t even remember why they were looking for you in the first place.

May the nano chip that will be implanted in your brain (and mine) in about 10 years always be in YOUR control, and never, ever, in your romantic partner’s perpetually underwhelmed hands.

May you always remember how to write a personal message inside a greeting card without needing AI to describe how much your mother means to you.

May your prayers be answered for the good and the sweet.

But does that mean a certain president had to threaten that "A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again,” if the mullahs didn’t cut a deal with him?

Strangely, the president’s social media post ended with, “God Bless the Great People of Iran!”

Alright.

Clarification No. 1: The mullahs do not represent Iranian and ancient Persian civilization.

Clarification No. 2: The mullahs and Iranian/Persian civilization are two distinct entities. The former is wretched; the latter is exceptional, but currently held hostage by fanatic ideologues with hefty weapons.

Clarification No. 3: As I have said for years, this regime is a pimple on the otherwise good face of a 3,000+ year-old civilization, one that began in 550 BCE with Cyrus the Great and the Achaemenid Empire/First Persian Empire.

So pop the pimple.

Save the face.

If you’re the American and/or Israeli army/air force/navy, prepare the metaphoric Clearasil or Noxema or calamine lotion (yes, I’m a product of the Nineties and its various acne products).

But save the darn face.

May all your crossings be auspicious, free, and in plain view of a trail of your defeated enemies behind you.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning Iranian American writer, speaker, and eternal fan of Neutrogena Oil-Free Acne Wash.

May you not stress-eat nine pounds of chametz, including pasta, chicken nuggets, and frozen bread, all in one day, and all in the holy name of getting rid of your chametz.

May you not yell at, torment, or foment resentment among anyone currently forced to live with you, so that you are certain that none of your so-called loved ones will want to sit next to you at the seder table in a few nights. And if you are an Iranian Jew who drove every single one of these good-for-nothing co-dwellers out of their minds as you tirelessly prepared for Passover while they were all in your way, you WILL be nearly blinded by these same people during the “Dayenu” recitation, the one that involves whacking each other with pungent, hefty scallions.

May you not fall down a two-hour rabbit hole of Amazon scrolling that began with searching for a pair of new salt and pepper shakers for the seder table, because after all that yelling and torment, you deserve a new set of salt and pepper shakers. And new, round cake pans. And new cookie sheets that won’t arrive until the second day of Passover, when you can’t even cook anymore. And a wool dryer ball. And after 90 more minutes of scrolling, a small head massager that looks pretty pointy. It might work well during “Dayenu,” you surmise.

May you not burn, scald, or scar any part of yourself or others. And if you do, there’s a new pair of ceramic chicken salt and pepper shakers waiting for you in the Amazon cart, because you truly deserve the best under $29.99.

May you not fall asleep in a heap of crumbly exhaustion and dream of Tin Foil land, where everything is one-dimensional, and where nothing will ever rip in a perfect, straight line, no matter how many different ways you hold it and cut yourself on that tiny, tiny saw.

May you be able to stand up straight until the fourth cup of wine, and may your knees allow you to bend down smoothly to pick up all the matzah crumbs you left behind in the closet when no one was looking and you excused yourself during the long seder to use the bathroom, but then secretly ran to the closet and ate half a jar of Nutella with matzah, more wine, and complete self-approval of your divinely-endowed, everyone-really-wants-to-blind-you perfectionism.

Chag Kasher v’Sameach.

Life is full of hard choices. Photo credit: Me.

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that women could display their hair publicly in any manner without being flogged…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that they could possess private satellite dishes without being detained…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that women could ride bicycles in public without being arrested…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that a man could hold his girlfriend’s hand in public without being harassed…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that they could post critiques of the government on social media without being hung from cranes in public squares…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that women could attend live sports matches without being arrested…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that they film themselves dancing on their rooftops without being tracked down and taken into custody…

If the people of Iran could only breathe, so that women who have been raped wouldn’t need to provide four male witnesses to bring the perpetrator to justice, or be charged with adultery for making such claims…

If the people of Iran could only breathe…

They would return to themselves.

To whom they were, and have always been, for thousands of years.

And utterly change the world.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning Iranian American writer and speaker who misses the kindness of the local baker in Tehran, the one who always used to send her home with extra butter alongside that glorious loaf of Barbari bread that was baked with so much love.

Credit: mahi.saray.shomal on Instagram

And the videos of Iranian street vendors in the diaspora selling kotlet (flat meat patties) to celebrate the end of some of the most evil men in the world were apt.

But the CENTCOM footage was unsettling.

Lately, U.S. Central Command has been releasing cockpit footage that shows American precision strikes on Iranian targets, whether concealed/underground or open. Most of the footage captures a few seconds leading up to an airstrike, followed by the launch itself and an explosion. The majority of the footage I viewed showed only one target: my birthplace, Tehran.

And while watching each video, something strange happened: My breathing grew shallow and I shifted uneasily in my chair.

It was almost primal.

I’ve built a career on highlighting the post-revolutionary Iranian regime’s miserable mark on the world in the past 47 years. As a humorist, I’ve even created the satirical Satan Series which fictionalizes the moment some of these men (and the terrorist proxy heads they support) arrive in hell and meet Satan (and his devoted assistant, Sergio).

But I felt uneasy watching the CENTCOM footage, and something primal from deep within compelled me to feel possessive—yes, possessive—over my birth city, which generations of my family also called home, despite the fact that for nearly 50 years, it has been the headquarters of the world’s largest state sponsor of terror.

In case I haven’t mentioned, it’s hard to be an Iranian American, and a Jewish one at that, right now.

With anxious gratitude, I recognize that I am currently not under missile fire, whether in Iran, Israel, or a dozen neighboring states.

But from Lalaland Los Angeles, where it was 64 degrees yesterday and will be 84 degrees tomorrow, I’m so helpless.

No one can get through to reach friends or family in Iran, and that includes me. At least friends and family in Israel respond to my texts from their bomb shelters. In their unbelievable kindness, they keep asking me if I am okay.

A few days ago, the refresh icon on my phone browser tab hung an “I quit” sign on my screen and left.

And I’m pretty sure the FBI is going to pay me a visit soon, due to my unending Google inquiries about who has joined Iranian sleeper cells in the U.S. (I promise I’m not interested in recruiting for myself).

My diet’s changed. I’m shedding hair everywhere. In the words of Jerry (channeling Kramer): Oh, I’m stressed.

So when friends wanted to visit a newly-opened dance studio called Exit 33, I decided to spend the night at home, begging forgiveness from the refresh icon. But once a friend excitedly told me that the get-together would feature something akin to “Persian Zumba,” I picked up all my hair from the kitchen floor, tied my sneakers, and decided to give it a try.

That night, our little group consisted of roughly 30 fellow mothers, most of them also Iranian Americans. Our instructor, who also owns the dance studio, was a glowing woman named Shantel Behroozan, who grew up in Long Island, New York, and named the studio after exit 33 off the Long Island Expressway.

Shantel is also Iranian American. At age 36, she was diagnosed with breast cancer while raising three children with her husband, Dan. A lifelong dancer (by way of a hobby), she promised herself that she would still dance each day while battling breast cancer. Once healed, she quit her longtime career in finance and devoted herself entirely to dance (she’s an amazing dancer).

Her space was bustling with an indescribable sense of joie de vivre and energy. Shantel told me that before final renovations on the studio, she asked students to write hundreds of love letters, which were sealed into every wall before it was closed.

The walls of Exit 33 are literally filled with love.

That night, Shantel led a group of excited, but undoubtedly tired moms in the kind of uninhibited, joyful dancing one does at home, in the shower, with the doors locked (but her dancing offered actual choreography). Her moves were scorchingly fun, and we, her students, tried to follow. Some attendees stood right up front, confident and graceful. Others stood near the back and danced happily, but shyly.

As for me, I stood shamelessly close behind Shantel, in the presence of the better dancers (with whom I did not belong), and moved with an unabashed joy I haven’t felt in years. It was a pure release, and each time I caught a glimpse of myself, in all my uncoordinated glory, in the wall-to-wall mirrors, I saw that I was smiling from ear-to-ear. I didn’t care what I looked like; I cared how I felt, and I felt good. Really good.

And none of it would have been possible without the closed blinds of the dance studio!

Exit 33 Photo Credit: Yelp

The music set me free. Shantel played pulsating tunes from around the world, but the magnetic Persian music seemed to activate a part of me that has not seen the light of day for nearly two weeks. And then, unknowingly, she played my song.

Titled “Diar,” or “Homeland,” it was first released by exiled Iranian pop star Shahram Shabpareh (one of my favorite singers). He left Iran shortly before the 1979 revolution and, unable to return home, recorded the song in Los Angeles in 1980, before I was even born. Growing up as a little girl in Iran, that song meant everything to me for two reasons:

First, it was featured on one of our precious bootleg cassette tapes that were illegal to possess after the revolution. And second, the song, which has a beautiful and catchy melody, is devoted to missing one’s homeland and specifically, Tehran, and Iran.

As the speakers offered a heart-pounding, newer version of “Diar” (with the original vocals), for the first time in years, I felt a convergence between my pain and my freedom. “Diar” is the ultimate encapsulation of my refugee experience, and the fact that I wanted to sing it everyday back in Iran as a little six-year-old infuriated me when I arrived in America and learned that my peers here were singing songs by Madonna, Michael Jackson, and George Michael.

But this modern version of “Diar” was different, and I was now listening to it from the freedom of a dance studio, where I had arrived with only one mission: to move my body (and, let’s face it, enjoy 5% alcoholic beverages with trusted friends who had brought them as a treat).

I began to involuntarily move my feet faster, which was quite a feat, given that I’ve been called a human sloth.

I began throwing my arms in the air. I breathed deeply because I didn’t have a choice, given all the movement.

As a break from choreographed dancing, Shantel asked us to form a “Soul Train”-style dance line and, with a partner, dance any way we liked. Oh, the poor woman who was stuck with me.

When I heard Shabpareh’s words (in Persian), “I swear, I miss beautiful Tehran,” countless images of cockpit footage and kotlet and memes finally left my mind.

To put it bluntly, I let it all out.

My body had stopped taking instructions from my brain, which, until then, had ordered it to tighten every muscle, take in suffocatingly shallow breaths, and shed a lot of hair. Something happened. My body went fantastically rogue. My brain went outside for a drink.

Later that night, I realized what was happening: I was crying with my feet.

I can’t return to my homeland, not even for a visit. To make matters worse, that homeland and the eternal homeland of my soul are currently at war. My heart is in the East, but my body (and the convenience of Costco) is in the West.

In 1965, after marching with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel famously said, “In Selma, Alabama, I learned to pray with my feet.”

I thank all of the wonderful women this week who gave me the freedom and access to quiet my brain, thank G-d for my freedom, and yes, to cry with my feet.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and near-expert in the art of pretending to twist lightbulbs with her hands as part of Persian dancing.

Your redemptive land of refuge is allied with your eternal homeland to strike at the heart of those who have hijacked your former homeland.

It’s not a matter of weeks, but days.

Frankly, I haven’t been this worried about a full-blown war between America and Israel, versus Iran, since yesterday.

And whether online or in person, I am currently receiving two questions from average Americans:

First, do I know anyone from the cast of the new Bravo TV series, “The Valley: Persian Style”?

And second, is there going to be war between America and Iran?

The order of these questions highlights this wonderful country’s priorities.

So what do you do when you and thousands of others have so much at stake in all three countries, especially given that one-third of your family is in America, one-third in Israel, and the other third is still stuck in…Iran?

Stress-eating is always a good start.

But since I recently failed two cholesterol tests, that’s no longer an option.

Refreshing reliable news sites and following reliable social media sources used to help.

But the news offers a scourge of unrelenting anxiety, and headlines won’t do justice to what we are about to witness.

I wonder how many Americans understand that the fate of 92 million people’s access to basic freedom and human rights is at stake from this week to the next (though this war will take weeks, at least).

Or that the safety of 10 million people in Israel, who are crammed into 8,600 measly square miles, is also on the line.

On the one hand, officials in Iran (and their relatives) have never funneled so much money out of the country before to protect themselves. They know something.

But on the other hand, the regime is not going out without a fight. And if you were Hezbollah, who receives a nifty $1 billion annually from the mullahs, would you let your precious sponsors go easily?

They also know something, though Hezbollah won’t be accepting any pagers from Ayatollah Khamenei this month.

Of course, Donald Trump and Bibi Netanyahu (and their inner circles) know something, too, specifically, whether Khamenei is about to serve as a mullah-in-residence in Moscow, or end up as a flat Persian patty called a kotlet.

And then, there is the exiled Iranian Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi, whom I have had the honor to interview twice in the past few years. He knows something, too, as evidenced in the fact that more than ever, he is now calling on regime officials and military officers to defect internally, in assurance of not being wiped out after the country is (hopefully) free. Don’t mistake this for kindness; it’s a grim warning about the fall of the regime of the highest order.

Kotlet goes best with fresh herbs, salad, and chips (homemade fries), though I am not, repeat NOT encouraging anyone to consume non-edible kotlet made out of anything but meat, potatoes, or herbs.

But back to the tangled disaster known as my nervous system.

At least I’ve had some prior experience with Iran and Israel attacking each other, as witnessed both in October 2024 and during the Twelve Day War of this past June. It was a hideous time, when I worried for innocents in Iran and tried to track down my loved ones there, and then feared for millions of Israelis and immediately tried to reach my loved ones in bomb shelters there.

I truly believe my stress-induced cholesterol skyrocketed to irreversible levels after the last conflict in June. I’m going to bill the regime (and by extension, Hezbollah), for the astronomically-expensive bloodwork the endocrinologist has ordered (California health insurance, ladies and gentlemen).

Perhaps encoded somewhere deep within my 2,700-year-old DNA as a Jew from Iran (and Persia/the Persian empire) is even more prior experience, albeit ancient, with regards to Persian leaders laying the groundwork for annihilating Jews. Something about all of this feels very familiar.

Perhaps that is why a chill always runs down my back during the initial recitation of the Purim megillah each year. That, and the fact that the synagogue is extremely liberal in its use of air conditioning.

I will conclude with three irritating words: Expect something soon.

How’s that for covering-all-my-bases fortune telling?

And whether Khamenei is about to become a patty, a cookie, or experience the warmth of Russia in winter, I want you to enjoy a fattening meal for me and remember: Aya-told-ya.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and desperate seeker of cholesterol-free macaroni & cheese.

A few customers even looked over my shoulder to see what I was writing. I wonder if some of them worried that I was writing a manifesto (in reality, I was completing a “clean my mind” book exercise by creating a list of limiting messages I had been taught in childhood, whether from family, peers, or others).

After lunch, I posted what I thought was a mildly endearing ode (in the form of an Instagram reel) to those of us who can tolerate sitting alone at a cafe or restaurant (or movie or park bench). I called the brief video, “Things I Do to Scare People in LA,” and it featured frightening practices such as reading a book at the doctor’s office (after eventually putting away my phone) and making eye contact with pedestrians.

Here’s a secret: As I prepared and posted the video, I was filled with guilt and fear: Guilt that I wasn’t posting about the hideous violence the regime in Iran—the one I had fled—had perpetrated against innocent Iranians. And fear that my followers, especially Iranians, would view me as a fair weather activist.

After all, who posts a gratuitous video praising the virtues of eating alone after nearly 40,000 people in their former country have been slaughtered?

In January, I constantly posted about the situation in Iran, especially during the first few days of the historic protests. But perhaps my own nervous system hit a wall (you should have seen some of the special comments that called me everything from a Nazi to a “neckbeard” (an insult against Middle Easterners, I’m assuming?). For the record, I don’t have a beard or even that much hair on my neck; the mustache is really the problem, just as it has been since I was eight.

Yes, last month, I made post after post about Iran because my heart couldn’t take the carnage against protestors, and because I believed this was the moment my former homeland of 92 million would finally be able to take back their own country.

But I couldn’t keep the pace. I was called out of town for nearly 10 days, often with shabby WiFi; later, the flu made a spectacular appearance in our home; and most sensitive of all, I was now dealing with deeply personal worries on the ground, namely, trying to connect with my loved ones back in Iran, who like other citizens, were enduring weeks of internet blackouts.

I put the posts aside for a while.

And when I was ready to return, a part of me wanted to return to the other, more frivolous world of funny videos I love to create, many about being Iranian, some about being a woman, and now, one about taking my rear end to a cafe to sit alone and scare customers while reading or staring at the wall as I ate.

I haven’t felt this way since the months following October 7, 2023. There were many days when I (and perhaps some of you) wanted to post a hilarious meme or share excitement over a new movie, or simply exercise my G-d-given right as an American to post what I knew was an AI-generated video of a moose sneaking into someone’s rural back yard and jumping on the trampoline. But it didn’t feel right.

I know I wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable sharing frivolous posts after October 7. And now, I feel really uncomfortable posting about anything else other than the massacre/nightmare that has been unleashed against Iranians, especially because most of the world doesn’t seem to care.

There’s no solution or easy answer. Some social media users only post about one or two issues, and they do so with passion and knowledge (hopefully). I rely on many of these people.

But others, like me, haven’t made this commitment. And part of the reason is due to the fact that I know that in life, we all have pain, whether physical, emotional, spiritual, or all three.

Perhaps, for now, I am choosing to lighten the pain, even slightly, for myself and others, one cafe, video, or fake, bouncy moose at a time.

I recognize the blessing: From my comforts in the West, I’m able to write that I feel guilty over my posts, while back in Iran, the suffering is indescribable. I am spoiled, perhaps even whiny. And I am truly blessed.

I know I’ll soon return to the Iran posts. I love to imagine the day when I can post that the country is finally free. Imperfect, but free. Just as the day I was able to post that the last Israeli hostage was finally home.

Thanks for hanging on with me through the cycle.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, aspiring author, and only once actually believed that a bear and a few raccoons were caught on a Ring camera enjoying a trampoline late at night.

She soon learned that YULA High School Boys’ Division, which is located close to her home, had been evacuated due to a bomb threat. At 6:30 p.m. a rabbi at YULA, an Orthodox Jewish high school, had heard a voicemail in which a caller claimed multiple pipe bombs had been placed on campus, as well as the presence of a person wearing a suicide vest and armed with an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle. The school and surrounding area, including parking lots, were immediately shut down.

As police swept the campus, teens, parents, and faculty who were present for a JV and varsity basketball game between YULA High School Girls’ Division and AGBU, an Armenian-American private high school located in the San Fernando Valley, were forced to wait outside on one of the coldest nights Angelenos had experienced during the past few weeks.

Soon after the evacuation, Daphna’s friend, a YULA administrator, reached out to her and asked if she could borrow sweaters for the evacuees, who had nowhere to go.

But Daphna and her husband, Michael, who hold the Jewish value of Hachnasat Orchim, or welcoming/hospitality to guests, close to their hearts, offered something better.

Daphna asked her friend whether the group, which was anxious and shivering outside the YULA campus, and unable to drive home due to police closure of parking lots and roads, wanted to wait at her home.

“My friend told me it would be too many people,” said Daphna, “because it was both teams and their parents and coaches, but I knew they were very cold, so it was no question.” That night, Daphna and her husband invited the tired group, including Jewish and non-Jewish parents) to their home, and as soon as they entered, Michael quickly turned on the heat. “He [Michael] welcomed them with open arms,” said Daphna. “He really did more than me! I can’t take credit for anything.”

YULA ordered 20 kosher pizzas to be delivered to the home, and that night, the good deeds of a kind Jewish family and a remarkable Jewish school sheltered many from both the cold and the unknown of police activity on campus (in the end, LAPD did not find bombs nor identify any suspects, though the investigation is ongoing).

I asked Daphna how the non-Jewish parents and coaches, specifically, responded to her family’s warm hospitality, especially given that they had hours to speak with one another. First, she recounted, they expressed appreciation to the [Jewish] community “for opening its doors to them,” she said. Then, the parents asked Daphna and other Jewish parents if evacuations due to bomb threats and armed persons were typical at Jewish schools.

Sadly, for many Jews worldwide, such occurrences are typical; they occurred even before the horrific October 7 Hamas attacks and the explosion of antisemitism worldwide. Last year, the ADL reported a record-high in threats against Jewish institutions, including schools.

Art Credit (above): chabad.org

Finally, the group of curious non-Jews asked Daphna if such an open door policy as the one she and her family practiced were also typical among Jews.

She responded that for her family, “there was no hesitation,” adding, “Just to know that the school felt comfortable enough to reach out to a Jewish family that was close by was enough. We’re a community of openness and warmth, and whether or not you’re Jewish, we want to be here for you.”

Embracing hospitality to guests was one of the primary reasons why Daphna and Michael chose to live in their Beverlywood-adjacent neighborhood. “We wanted to be in a central neighborhood so people can always come over and we can always have guests,” said Daphna. For their part, the non-Jewish families at their home that night may have found that “slightly crazy,” she quipped.

Daphna’s parents, who were born in Tehran, made aliyah to Israel as children before the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran. Michael’s parents are Ashkenazi; his mother is the daughter of Holocaust survivors. I also asked Daphna, who is an Israeli-Iranian American, how her Judaism as well as her Iranian traditions have informed her practice of hospitality.

“It is everything,” she answered simply. “I’m grateful to YULA for giving me the opportunity to help.”

Michael reflected, “It felt good to be helpful, considering that they were standing outside in the cold. It was not a big deal at all. It was a great opportunity to perform a Kiddush Hashem (elevation/sanctification of G-d’s name).”

The family embraces hospitality so much that they even named their oldest son Avraham (Abraham), in honor of the Jewish patriarch who embodied the highest levels of Hachnasat Orchim and Chesed (lovingkindness).

“We love that part of Judaism,” reflected Daphna, who also hoped her family’s hospitality served as a Kiddush Hashem. “This was such a beautiful and easy opportunity to bring a little light into a time when Jews are unfortunately viewed in a dark way.”

As far as how her Iranian roots affect her embrace of hospitality, “that just comes with the territory,” she said.

After a two-hour stay, the family’s guests were finally able to retrieve their cars and return home. New and unlikely friendships were made. And Daphna, Michael, and their children, were left with a few remarkable takeaways from the special evening: “When G-d gives you an opportunity that’s so obvious, don’t let the opportunity slip,” suggested Daphna. “Take it.”

She then added, “Everything is from Hashem. My house is Hashem’s house. My ability to buy my house was from Hashem. So what does it mean if I have it and I don’t use it?”

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and aspiring author. Instagram & Twitter: tabbyrefael

The last folding chair at the President’s Residence in Jerusalem was finally closed and put away.

Here in Los Angeles, the Jewish Federation finally removed its yellow ribbon, the largest in the country, from the west side of its building.

He was only 24. He came home in remains, rather than alive; in national respect, rather than national celebration. But he is home.

Photo Credit: Oded Balilty/Associated Press

His rescuers performed a triple mitzvah: They returned him back to his grieving, but relieved family; they allowed a nation to breathe again after two years of hideous trauma; and they enabled him to be buried in a Jewish cemetery (still in his police uniform, he had been buried in a Muslim cemetery in Gaza so no one would suspect where to find him).

And now, what are we supposed to do with our little, yellow hostage pins?

I decided to ask a few voices.

The Trauma said: Hide it. Cover it. Wrap it in something, then hide it beneath a pile of items you never use, like your vitamins or those fabric softener sheets. We’ve been through too much, and the rapid antisemitism is still there, ever increasing, ever being normalized. Put the pin away from eyesight so you can pretend to move on.

The Anger said: Keep it at close range. You’ll need it again. This one, miserable chapter, the one in which all the hostages, dead or alive, in Gaza since 2014, have been returned, is over. But the book hasn’t ended, and there’s still another chapter. What can a “Peace Board” possibly do to wipe away the loathing darkness of antisemites who steal bodies to use as bargaining chips? It’s like trying to clean a filthy chimney with a billion-dollar Clorox wipe. So keep the pin right next to your ring and your watch. You’ll see. Something is coming. And you’ll need it. Again.

The Realist said: It’s over. Breathe. But don’t breathe too much. Remember your former country, Iran? The one where your family lived and died for over 2,700 years? Up to 40,000 may have been slaughtered there this month, including tens of thousands over the course of just two days. What grieving Iranian parents would give to have their government care as much about the remains of their loved ones as Israel did in never relenting on finding Ran Gvili, z”l. But how could they? After all, their government in Tehran annihilated their own citizens in the first place. Eventually, ambulances couldn’t hold all the body bags, so eighteen-wheeler trucks were brought in to deal with the disposal.

Two countries. One does everything to unearth the remains of every last of its own at the hands of merciless enemies. The other destroys its own, then does absolutely everything to conceal the systematic carnage. Is there such a thing as a red, white, and green (lion emblem) lapel pin? asked the Realist.

The Ancestor said: Oh, child, you survived and endured the kind of pain that bonds you with our generations of persecution and survival. But do not let the pain define you, and do not let it be the primary tie between us in the past and you in the present. Our generational bond with you is built on teaching our values with loving pride; on Jewish continuity; and on good, old-fashioned miracles. Don’t let survival be the only tie; there is truly so much more.

The Wise Soul said: We’ve been here before. Thousands of years ago, the ancient Israelites did something seemingly strange upon leaving the misery of Egypt after hundreds of years of bondage and trauma: They stopped to dig up the centuries-old bones of the patriarch, Joseph, in Egypt, carefully carry his remains with them, and transport them once they arrived in the Land of Israel after 40 years. Joseph carried the values, teachings, and legacies of generations of Jews past (and present), and, per his request, his bones were finally carried to where they rightly belonged.

Ran Gvili’s colleagues carried him out of Gaza; his country saluted him on the roads and paths, and back to the Land. His pallbearers carried his body to its resting place; our kind and good deeds carry and hold his soul in the Next World.

And so, the Wise Soul instructed, don’t hide the pin (and your pain), and don’t leave it within vigilant eyesight; store it away physically in dignity and somber gratitude, but carry it with you in that desperately hopeful, but aching heart of yours.

Lift it out of the darkness, the Wise Soul said. And carry it to a better place.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and aspiring author. Instagram & Twitter: tabbyrefael

Every few decades, let us remember Richard Falk’s infamous op-ed in The New York Times, headlined, “Trusting Khomeini,” which was published on Feb. 16, 1979, exactly one month after the secular, Westernizing Shah Mohammad Pahlavi fled Iran, and roughly two weeks before Khomeini, in all his, er, liberating, modernizing glory, returned to Iran after a fifteen-year exile.

First, Falk described the future Supreme Leader’s entourage, whom he met in Paris (along with Khomeini himself) as “moderate, progressive individuals.”

You read that correctly.

Next, Falk assured Americans that Khomeini seemed like a genuine, honest man.

Yes, Khomeini was wholly honest, especially when he promised free oil money, electricity, and gas (are you listening, Mr. Mamdani?).

Falk then observed that an Islamic Republic, in place of the Shah’s secular monarchy, would offer “humane governance.” As we know, neither “humane” nor real “governance” ever made it to the Iranian people, whether 47 years ago during the Islamic Revolution, three weeks ago, when the Iranian rial finally crashed, or today, when at least 12,000 unarmed protestors have been gunned down, some by Iraqi militias or Hezbollah who have been brought into the country to mow down protestors.

In Falk’s defense, he always claimed he didn’t choose the headline, though, in 2014, he stood by his belief that only “visionary politics,” even those pursued by a man like Khomeini, could bring hope to the future.

Are you laughing or crying (or both)?

Now, to Iran today. Do you know what Iranians loathe more than almost anything else in the world (even more than tepid tea)?

Fanaticism.

Religious fanaticism. Political fanaticism. Societal fanaticism.

These are the people of Rumi and Ferdowsi; the only things Iranians will ever be fanatic about are love/passion, their ancient history, and their divinely-endowed freedom.

That probably explains why they’re confronting random, mostly white, pro-Hamas protestors at their Western rallies against the fanaticism of the Islamic Republic like lions who have spotted intruding hyenas.

Frankly, I haven’t seen anything so satisfying in decades.

There they are, rage-filled, passionate Iranians in cities across the U.S., Canada, and Europe, begging, shouting, and demanding an end to a regime that has hanged so many people on cranes that it, well, eventually ran out of cranes.

And there they come, angry, non-Iranian, keffiyeh-clad Western activists whom, the Iranian protestors know, wouldn’t last a day in the Middle East, except for in Israel, where they would be offered sandwiches, but not big ones, because harmful people on flotillas don’t deserve big sandwiches.

Photo: Anti-ICE activists shouting “Free Palestine” clashed with anti-Islamic Republic protestors in Washington, D.C. on Jan. 11. (Credit: X/@choeshow)

When the latter group confronts anti-mullah protestors, the anti-mullah folks lose it, because they know something the world may still ignore: Whether or not they know it, anti-Israel protestors are propping up the same hideous, repressive system under which Iranians have suffered mercilessly since 1979. And the worst part is that they prop up such bigoted repression while they enjoy unending freedoms in the West.

Whether in London’s Kilburn area, where, on Jan. 12, anti-mullah protestors clashed outside the Islamic Centre with those waving Palestinian (and Islamic Republic) flags, or in Washington, D.C. or Bellevue (lovely Washington State) last weekend, when anti-ICE protestors chanting pro-Palestinian slogans (WHY?!) clashed with anti-regime protestors carrying flags of pre-revolutionary Iran and Israel.

For years, no one outside of my circle of alarmed Iranian Jews in the U.S. seemed to understand the fanatically violent threat of anti-Israel activists, the kind my community experienced (and eventually escaped from) back in post-revolutionary Iran, where, after the revolution, Zionism became a crime punishable by death. If your synagogue or Jewish youth group threw a Yom Ha’atzmaut party, you would be executed (remember that the next time you skip such events in your American city because you found something good to watch on Netflix).

But now, my people—Iranians—have been unleashed against these propagandizing, brainwashed fanatics who live in the West, and who loathe the West, and the results are glorious.

Isn’t it amazing? Exiled Iranians in the Diaspora, rather than those who were actually born in the West, are the ones pushing back against regime-supporting Westerners. Ideally, Westerners would push back against these people themselves, but we’re not there yet (Australia, anyone?).

For example, Goldie Ghamari, a former Canadian MP who fled Iran as a child, recently held her own against three regime soundbite-spewing “commentators” on CNN. The segment was unbelievable.

But the real heroes are on the ground in Iran. And do you know whom they hate almost as much as Ali Khamenei?

They despise Hamas, Hezbollah, and anyone else who has crushed their lives and literally taken food out of their mouths on behalf of the Palestinian cause.

It’s simple math: The regime sends at least $700 million annually to Hezbollah in Lebanon, and up to $100 million to Hamas, while, back home, the cost of diapers rose 140%, forcing some Iranian families to spend half of their annual income on diapers.

Before the 1979 revolution, Iranians didn’t align with the Palestinian cause. Something seemed out of place about the former de-facto Israeli Embassy in Tehran being replaced with official PLO headquarters after Khomeini arrived. Iranians scratched their heads when Yasser Afafat became the first foreign “dignitary” to visit the country after the revolution. In the last two decades, average Iranians have cared even less about Palestinians. No one can blame them.

Photo: A tender moment in 1979 between two men who unleashed half a century of terror upon the Middle East (Source: Associated Press).

Maybe those who are unabashedly supporting a free Iran, and those who have always known that Israel is fighting the West’s dirty ideological (and literal) war, are standing alone.

But something reaffirms what I always knew, based on an ancient bond that preceded the mullahs by thousands of years:

This time, we’re standing alone, together.

-Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and avid opponent of tepid tea. Instagram & Twitter: tabbyrefael

As you may know, I was born and spent a tumultuous part of my childhood in the peace and harmony capital of the world, Tehran, and I write and speak often on matters related to Iran. So it won’t come as a surprise that I haven’t slept in 13 days since historic protests first erupted throughout the country after a) the collapse of the Iranian rial at a miserable 0.0000010 to the U.S. dollar and b) a directive by exiled Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi, asking the people of Iran to take to the streets against the regime.

Like my thoughts on the best cuts of meat for Persian stew, I have a lot to say about the current courageous revolt that is sweeping my former country of 90+ million, a land where my ancestors lived for 2,700 years. Here are 12 of those thoughts, in helpful one-liners:

1. Don’t believe everything you read, and if you need a reliable source, follow Iranians on the ground in Instagram and read/refresh Iran International (your browser should immediately offer to translate the page to English on Iran International).

2. In Iran and in the Diaspora, many are backing Mr. Pahlavi, who lives outside Washington, D.C., because he is an educated, Westernized secularist who has told me and others repeatedly that he wants to lead a transition, then leave it to the people to elect a leader through a national referendum.

3. American officials, whether past or present, are confused about whom to support as a viable alternative to the regime, especially some Democratic and Republican members of Congress who have been paid exorbitant amounts of money by the MEK, or Mojahedin-e-Khalq, a violent Iranian opposition group that lobbies leaders worldwide, and vehemently opposes Pahlavi, despite the MEK having formerly been on the U.S. designated terror list.

4. At the end of the day, the regime has a much greater chance of collapsing if President Trump decides that he cannot live without a framed photograph of himself bringing Reza Pahlavi and Bibi Netanyahu together at the White House to sign The Cyrus Accords, and enjoying the ensuing Nobel Peace Prize.

5. The regime has unleashed Iraqi militias and even Hezbollah against unarmed protestors in the streets, then shut down the internet and in some areas, land lines and electricity. so when we beg you to post and speak up for the people of Iran, we really mean it.

Credit: Iran International

6. Speaking of Hezbollah, Israel really, REALLY wants to attack the Lebanon-based terrorist organization again, but knows that doing so now will divert attention, especially among potential partners in the Middle East, from the critical events in Iran.

7. Never forget the selectively bigoted outrage of those worldwide who immediately posted “All Eyes on Rafah” without verifying anything or even being able to locate Gaza on a map, but who, today, have NOTHING to say on Iran and the unarmed young people who are being shot at point blank range, the latest occurring in the holy city of Mashhad.

8. What happens in Iran affects and will affect everything, including the safety and security of Americans far beyond the Middle East.

9. In truth, I experienced visceral envy last weekend when I heard that jubilant Venezuelans were celebrating Maduro’s capture, until I gratefully remembered that Venezuelan leaders, like those in post-Saddam Iraq, post-Qaddafi Libya, or post-Assad Syria, are still intolerable, but Iranians, thank goodness, actually have a real alternative and a humane human in Pahlavi.

10. Even if these revolts do not result in wholescale regime collapse, it’s already too late; the water is boiling over, and no matter how often the regime tightens the lid, at this point, a boilover is inevitable.

11. Russia and China will be inconsolable if they lose their repugnant ties with both Venezuela and Iran in one month, though, if I were Khamenei, I would immediately order a Persian-Russian dictionary for myself and hundreds of my closest friends.

12. To the few lovely Americans who wish to display Iranian flags on social media and at protests in solidarity with the people: You mean well, but for the love of all that is good, display the flag with the lion, not the post-revolutionary one with a religious chant written 22 times on it, because, as we know, separation between religion and state is (ironically) one of the holiest principles Americans know and cherish.

-Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and hopeless dreamer. Instagram & Twitter: tabbyrefael

Like clockwork, each year, during the last week of December, radio stations review the best songs of the year. Only this year, to celebrate the end of the first quarter of the twenty-first century, we are also now being forced to “celebrate the best songs of this century.”

Why?

Nearly all of the good songs were made in the last century.

If that makes me sound laughably old, I’ll remind readers that I am old; I peaked during the 1990s, an era in which dad spent too much time in the bathroom because he was reading a newspaper and mom looked up the phone numbers of plumbers in a massive book called The Yellow Pages. She also invited our friends to birthday parties by mailing paper invitations. Sense a theme?

Speaking of friends, trying to categorize the best music of this century is like losing all of your former best friends in a tidal wave, then sitting on a deserted island and counting the one or two friendly coconuts that you have found nearby on the sand.

I’m not going to name names, but the artists on some of these recent “best of the century” lists don’t hold a candle to the legends who have given us some of the best modern music of all time. In 1985, the world’s greatest pop singer was Madonna; in 1995, it was Mariah Carey.

In 2025, it was all about some guy named Benson Boon.

Alright, that sounded really old.

But I can’t help it. Why are we being forced to celebrate the music of the past 25 years when 75 percent of the century still lies ahead of us?

It’s too soon.

Would anyone have celebrated the best of the twentieth century in 1925? Before Sinatra or Fitzgerald? Or The Beatles? Or Springsteen? Or the advent of rap and hip hop?

The most celebrated songs of the early 1900s included, “Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?”, “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and “Mary’s a Grand Old Name.”

Too many “grands,” if you ask me. And does anyone know if Bailey finally came home?

It wasn’t exactly a happy time, as evidenced in the fact that some of the top country/folk standards included titles such as, “The Prisoner’s Song,” “Wreck of the Old 97” and “St. Louis Blues” (though I could never disparage the incomparable Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong).

I’ll spare you the names of some of 2025’s top songs because I live and write in Los Angeles and will probably wait in line at the DMV behind one of these artists in 2026, but there is at least one song title that did resonate with me and every single married woman in America who watched helplessly as her partner walked toward the bathroom holding their phone 45 minutes ago: Raye’s dance/electronic hit, “Where is My Husband?”

I think I’ve made my point. We need to stop with the forced celebrations of the past 25 years. Between terrorist attacks, mental illness-inducing smartphones and merciless bullies on social media, a full-blown pandemic, and the utter hell of “Gangnam Style,” I think we can all agree that we should wait a little longer to celebrate.

Though, if we wait much longer, the best songs of 2025-2050 will all be written, produced, and performed by a bunch of AI “artists.”

I take it all back.

Bring on the Boon.

-Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker, and Red Hot Chili Pepper’s fan. IG & Twitter: tabbyrefael

You will be hard-pressed to find anyone who loves their fellow Jews more than a Chabad rabbi or rebbetzin. Among other responsibilities, Chabad rebbetzins oversee Shabbat and holiday meals for hundreds, and sometimes, thousands of people at a time, especially on campus or at popular travel destinations. Chabad rabbis love and embrace Jews on the street who have more tattoos than body hair; they don’t judge; and for roughly six weeks in November and December, they ask nearly every mall Santa Claus whether he is Jewish and then proceed to help him lay tefillin. The sight of an all-too human Santa, his upper arm exposed beneath all that red polyester, engaged in a 3,000-year-old positive commandment for Jewish men, is as timeless as it is endearing.

In this capacity, Chabad emissaries exude a kind of Jewish love, unshakable trust in G-d’s will, and joy that most of us often struggle to emulate. And that is why, though every Jewish life that is brutally cut short in an antisemitic attack is hideous, the loss of Chabad emissaries can be extra hard to process.

Last week’s horrifying antisemitic attack at Sydney’s Bondi Beach was traumatic, but I was especially disturbed by one thought: Minutes before he was targeted and shot, Rabbi Eli Schlanger was helping joyful attendees lay tefillin and pray. I couldn’t sleep, surmising that the monstrous shooters were already aiming for him because he was the main organizer; that this special man already had a target on his back and was singled out for being a Chabad shaliach, or emissary/messenger. Chabad Rabbi Yaakov Levitan, who also planned the event, was also murdered. Together, they left behind nine children.

And then, there is this thought, which always leaves me inconsolable: In their roles, Chabad emmisaries LEAD Jewish life in their communities. In their devastating absence, who will bless their children at the weekly Shabbat dinner table; or lead a community-wide annual seder for both Jewish locals and visitors; or simply offer to buy a Jew who believes he or she is irreversibly disconnected from Judaism a cup of coffee and simply sit and listen?

Rabbi Schlanger, z”l, and his family. Not pictured: Their two-month-old son. Credit: Chabad.org

I hold my breath when I remember that, at times, Chabad has made the ultimate sacrifice. And I want you to remember the selfless, amazing Chabad staff our global Jewish community has lost in the nearly last two decades. Whether you’re Orthodox or an atheist, please have them in mind the next time you act kindly with someone when you want to be cruel, give a little to charity, or hold your tongue when you really want to gossip behind someone’s back. You will be better for it. And the souls of these incomparable people will be better for it as well.

Let us honor the memories of:

-Rabbi Eli Schlanger, age 41, and Rabbi Yaakov Levitan, age 39, who were killed during a “Chanukah by the Sea” gathering at Bondi Beach, Sydney. Rabbi Schlanger was a chaplain for a Sydney hospital and a correctional services facility; Rabbi Levitan was the COO of Chabad of Bondi and secretary of the Sydney rabbinical court (Bet Din).

-Rabbi Zvi Kogan, age 28, who was targeted in Abu Dhabi (United Arab Emirates) in November 2024. Thanks to him and other devoted staff, Jewish life was beginning to take hold in the UAE.

-Rabbi Moshe Krivitski, who ran a Chabad soup kitchen in Beersheba (Israel). He perished in March 2022 during a car-ramming/stabbing.

-Lori Gilbert-Kaye, age 60, who didn’t officially work for Chabad, but nonetheless was a founding member of Chabad of Poway. She was murdered in 2019, on the last day of Passover.

-Rabbi Gavriel Holtzberg, age 29, and his wife, Rivka Holtzberg, age 28 (she was pregnant), who ran Chabad of Mumbai, and who, to the horror of the Jewish world, were slain at the Nariman Chabad House along with four others in November 2008.

-And finally, Ari Halberstam, who was a 16-year-old Chabad student. In 1994, he was in a van with other Jewish teens on the Brooklyn Bridge when a terrorist opened fire.

May their memories be for a blessing. And may we be enveloped in peace, protection, and growth each time we strive to express our faith.

Naturally, this includes my family. Not only do we have time off from school and work, but the whole day is dedicated to three key concepts that we know quite well: food, gratitude, and nationalism. Iranian refugees and immigrants in particular know a thing or two about these ideals, though some of us are slightly liberal in filling in the blanks of missing information with regards to early American history.

During our first November in the U.S. in 1989, I asked my mother a simple question: “Who was the founder of America?” (Note that the following conversation occurred in Persian, of course).

“I’m not sure,” she replied while standing at the kitchen counter and grinding some onions for Persian dolmeh (stuffed grape leaves). “But I think there was more than one.”

“Did they do it with the sword?” I wondered.

Persian history is embedded with violence and entire provinces being conquered by the sword, or more accurately, a massive, terrifying, curved sword (shamshir) which makes a regular sword look like a fountain pen.

“I don’t think so,” my mother responded, “but they probably came from Europe or somewhere with English speakers, because Americans speak English. You’ve never heard of Christopher Columbus, Tabby?”

“Who?!” I cried, half-annoyed that my mother, who couldn’t understand the English instructions on the vacuum cleaner manual, seemed to know more about America than I did.

“Columbus was the founder of America,” my mother clarified. “He was from Spain.”

“Do they speak English in Spain?” I wondered.

“No, they speak Spanish there.”

“So,” I prodded, “How can Americans speak English if the founder came from Spain?!”

This stumped my mother.

“Well, what did your teacher tell you?”

“Maman, I don’t know. I can’t understand her when she speaks, but she keeps pointing to pictures of booghalamoon in class.”

Booghalamoon is the Persian word for “turkey.” It sounds as funny as it reads.

“Booghalamoon?! Why would you be learning about booghalamoon??” Maman immediately called my father over, interrupting his cheese, cucumber, and watermelon snacking hour.

“What is it?” Baba asked while peeling another Persian cucumber.

“Tabby says she’s learning about booghalamoon in class,” declared Maman. “Why? She’s in first grade; she should be learning how to divide numbers by now, not about farm animals.” Post-revolutionary Iran may have been mortifyingly backwards in terms of human rights, but its math curriculum was far more advanced than America’s.

“What month is this?” Baba asked aloud to himself. “Is it the booghalamoon month?”

And that is how November came to be known in my family as “Booghalamoon Month.”

“And they’re called ‘turkey’ in English,” my father clarified for my mother and me.

“Yes!” I confirmed. “My teacher kept saying something about ‘turkey’ this and ‘turkey’ that. It sounds like she was talking about the Turks.”

Little Persian kids are exceptionally adept at knowing the peoples and geography of the Middle East and neighboring countries. By the time I was seven, I already knew about Turks, Azeris, Kazakhs, and Armenians.

“Tabby, let’s play a geography game. Do you know why they eat so much in Turkey?” My father bent down, offered me some watermelon, and asked.

“Was there a famine?” I responded.

I was serious. Again, little Persian kids probably know more about the geopolitical, agricultural, and generally esoteric topics than most others their age.

“No! They eat so much in Turkey because they are Hungary!” My father laughed so much at his own joke until a watermelon seed almost came out of his nose.

Not knowing what Hungary was because it wasn’t located in the Middle East, I offered a sympathetic chuckle and turned away to leave the conversation, only to see my mother crying.

“Maman! What are you crying?!” I gasped.

My father responded in her place, “She’s crying because they kill so many turkeys in this country right around this time. Millions and millions of them so that--”

“ALL of them?!” I shouted.

“Well, there are probably a few that remain, but they’re killed later for the spring holidays and--”

“So you’re saying that they round them all up and shoot them?!” I began to cry between bites of crispy watermelon.

“Don’t cry, Tabby! They don’t shoot them! They probably do the same thing to them as they do to chickens when--”

Knowing that he was drifting closer and closer to raising a vegetarian, my father immediately ceased talking and asked my mother if she needed any help. Maman only began to cry harder.

“Don’t tell me you’re crying over the fate of the booghalamoon, too! You watched more animals be dismembered back in Iran at the butcher than anyone!” my father cried.

“No, don’t cry!” I comforted my mother. “Baba said they don’t shoot them in the head!”

We were so darn Iranian.

Suddenly, my mother stopped her grinding and looked up. Unbeknownst to us, she had not paid attention to a single word from the end of our conversation. Maman simply wiped her eyes on her sleeves and scolded, “What’s wrong with the two of you? And why is nobody helping me? These onions are stinging my eyes like the Ayatollah sobbing in a sermon.”

Happy Thanksgiving.

Goodnight, Ayatollah

In the great green bunker

There was a telephone (with a secure line)

And a red balloon

And a picture of —

the missile flying over the moon

And there were three armed guards outside in the yard

And two little pagers

Which we would wager

are indefinitely turned off.

And a little toy warhead

And a small bed

And a bowl full of fissile material

And a comb and a beard brush

And a quiet old man, who was whispering, “Hush”

Goodnight bunker

Goodnight moon

Goodnight missile flying over the moon

Goodnight guards

And goodnight yard

Goodnight pagers

Goodnight warheads

Goodnight fissile material

Goodnight plutonium-239

Goodnight flies

Goodnight spies

Goodnight miscalculated fanaticism

Goodnight disingenuous alliance with socialism

Goodnight clocks

Goodnight locks

Goodnight nobody

Goodnight beard brush

And goodnight to the quiet old man who was whispering, “Hush”

Goodnight stars

Goodnight polluted air

Goodnight plotting spies everywhere.

It seems that at no other point in history have parents demanded that children tolerate boredom, while also serving as the number one reason why children are never bored.

Parents today are killing boredom…for everyone.

We overschedule our children’s lives so that boredom itself dies. And when we don’t overschedule, we fear children’s idleness and hand them a device, and go about our lives as the unpaid child sitter (the device) obliterates our kids’ sense of wonder and human connection, like a booger extractor shoved into a runny nose.

Perhaps one can argue that overscheduling children keeps them away from time on screens. But the point is not to completely avoid devices; it’s to raise children who possess boredom tolerance so they don’t measure every person and every action’s worth by how entertaining it is. We’re venturing toward a world in which the innocuous cat sleeping on the living room couch will be left outside if it doesn’t get enough likes.

In hindsight, one of the best (and at the time, most irritating) aspects of being raised by two Iranian refugee parents in America was that they had neither the time nor the funds to allay my boredom, so that for all of my adolescence, I believed that finding something to do on my own was completely normal (see list below of “How I Would Pass the Time as a Kid in the Nineties”).

Also, as far as my mother was concerned, the chores she mandated to my sister and me constituted extracurriculars. My exciting extracurricular activities included pounding stubborn walnuts open on the dining room table, and slicing off the delicate scales from a dead trout with a sharp paring knife, while watching TV and learning English from guests on “The Sally Jessy Raphael Show.”

I never even considered informing my mother that I was bored because I knew she would hand me another dead trout.

For what it’s worth, I did these chores by myself. Perhaps that explains why, as an adult, I am comfortable when I’m alone, though I prefer to be with others. I can eat at a restaurant by myself, sit on a park bench by myself (sometimes, I scare the multitude of nannies), and pound several pounds of walnuts, all without needing to watch or listen to something. Perhaps it’s a curse. Perhaps it’s a blessing. But whatever it is, it’s a dying art.

My children are often confused by me because when they enter a room, I am sitting and staring at a wall or out a window.

Little do they know that my most creative thoughts and compassionate observations about others, including my own family, visit me in moments that can otherwise be described as mundane boredom.

My devotion to putting down my phone lends itself beautifully to social experimentation. I frighten phone-clad patients at waiting rooms, the self-serve checkout counter, and anyone standing in line at the bank. It’s been one of the greatest thrills of my life to sit in a room and simply watch my surroundings, while simultaneously scaring the living snot out of everyone else who is scrolling on their phones. Their electronic booger extractor (mentioned above) always ensures they never see or hear anything around them. But I can tell I make them uncomfortable.

Excellent.

Great thinkers have been devoting works to boredom long before I started receiving strange looks from others at Wells Fargo, from Bertrand Russell (“In Praise of Idleness”/1935) to Tom Hodgkinson (“How to Be Idle”/2004) to Oscar Wilde, who insisted that “To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual.”

If you want to assess whether you have a normal, healthy relationship with your phone, study your thoughts and behaviors the next time you worry you’ve lost it (your phone, not your sanity). If your heart beats fast, you enter fight-or-flight-mode, or almost invite a panic attack, it’s probably time to treat the phone as a convenient device, rather than a cherished family member.

The last time I thought I had lost my phone for good, my heart raced as though I had lost a limb.

What will we do for our phones?

In April, a man was airlifted from the peak of Mount Fuji after suffering altitude sickness, which can be dangerous. But he forgot his phone on the mountain.

Four days later, he tried climbing Mount Fuji again, this time, to retrieve his phone. And again, he fell sick and was rescued after another climber found him unable to move. According to CBS News, “It was not known whether he was able to find his phone in the end, local media reported.” If that man ever proposes to his phone, he has a right to declare, “I climbed a mountain for you.” Twice, in fact.

I don’t entirely fault parents, especially because one of my kids only suffered through a recent orthodontist procedure involving a circle saw (yes, a circle saw) by watching “Aladdin” on my phone. Like everything else in life, moderation matters, and moderation is human.

I also know that parents of neurodivergent kids need extra tools and extra help. Many of them have told me that on more than one occasion, a device had more or less saved the day.

But something’s wrong. The last time I entered a doctor’s office, I saw a mother who was wearing earplugs stare intently at her phone; her seemingly seven-year-old son seated next to her stare at his phone; and her seemingly three-year-old son playing a video game on his tablet. The corny posters on the walls of doctors’ offices I used to stare at as a kid must want to end it all as a result of gross neglect.

Yesterday, I watched a woman push a toddler in a wagon through an incredible garden. The child was holding the woman’s phone and watching a show. Nothing, not the clouds, nor the majestic trees, nor a magical sunflower, nor an aerial dog fight involving enemy jets could have prompted the toddler to lift his gaze.

Earlier, I declared that parents (and caretakers of kids) are killing boredom.

Now, I also hold them partly responsible for creating boring people.

Frankly, I’m not sure I want to meet a toddler who thinks there’s nothing special about fluffy clouds or tall sunflowers.

Photo: Gen Z will never appreciate the lost art of talking into a table fan and breathing in all of the dust when you got really, REALLY bored.

I want to leave readers with some of the ways I would pass the time as a kid in the 1990s, before the internet, mass-produced mobile phones, and music/shows/food on demand. In hindsight, my childhood boredom was such a gift because there was nothing to do but to sit somewhere and think creatively.

Please share this list with children and amused teenagers as a snapshot into the lives of people who lived in the late 1900s. Let them know there was a time when the most on-demand service we celebrated was a pizza that was miraculously delivered in 30 minutes or less.

How I Would Pass the Time as a Kid in the Nineties

-Stand in front of a table fan and talk so I would sound like a robot.

-Press the tip of my finger on my parents’ blue, drug store “touch lamp” shade until it turned off. Then on. Then off. And then on again. I did this for at least half an hour.

-Sit outside on the front steps of our apartment building and watch passersby. Back then, people walked their dogs. That was all they did when taking their dogs on a walk. They walked. No phones. And sometimes, they talked to other dog owners, or to my parents (if you count being politely asked to get off of our front lawn as talking to my parents).

-Stare at a wall.

-Rewind half a dozen cassette tapes with a pencil. It was a labor of love.

-Doodle the mysterious “S” symbol I had mistaken for the Stüssy brand over and over again in my notebook.

-Stare at a wall.

-Stab my rectangular, pink eraser with the sharp tip of my No. 2 pencil until I had something resembling a Swiss cheese eraser. Then complain that none of my erasers worked.

-Sit at the dining room table and cut old, paper grocery bags to make yet another brown book cover that I would inevitably cover with misshapen “S” symbols (see above).

-Stare at a wall.

-Peel the glue that was stuck around the top of a bottle of Elmer’s white glue. It was so satisfying, especially when it came off in one nice, dried ribbon.

-Stare at a wall…and develop a lifelong appreciation for lead-free paint.