“We are going to what?! Which columns?”

“Well. All of them. But really no big deal we’re a magazine this is what we do—”

“We are not a magazine!” shrieked Reva. “A magazine is a glossy periodical containing ads and articles and staples! I am a junior secretary! I don’t even write e-mails! I specialize in remembering coffee preferences and ordering lunch!”

“And I ” said Temi “am an hourly employee. Who is after hours Shifra.”

Shifra paced the room heels clicking with each syllable. “Now is the time for all good women to come to the aid of their employer! Ask not what your employer can do for you but what you can do for your employer! There is nothing to fear but fear itself!”

We all stared.

“Okay whatever. Let’s get started with the assignments. Reva you get the editorial.”

“I don’t even know what an editorial is ” Reva said her face white

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Shifra waved her hand breezily. “Take a recent media article, get mad at it, mix in some parshah, politics, or Reform Judaism. Oh, and big words. Don’t forget the big words.”

“I don’t even know any big words!” Reva’s face grew whiter. “I was hired to stock the Snapple machine! I skipped my English Regent!”

“Uh, Shifra?” I asked. Time for some reason. “Have you, you know, tried calling Mrs. Baron to see what she thinks?”

If looks could kill, we would have been dividing up slots for shemirah, not article assignments.

“Really,” Shifra said, every word dripping ice as she turned to glare at me. “I should bother my aunt in the hospital because you don’t want to give a little extra, after everything she’s—”

I lifted my hand in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

“Also, she’s getting anesthesia.”

“Um, right,” I said.

“I am not going to let her down, even if it kills me.”

“Or us,” Reva muttered.

“Or you,” Shifra agreed affably. “So, let’s see. As a frum magazine, our first priority is our readers’ neshamos. Reva, when you’re done with the editorial, cover the inspiration beat, okay?”

“Inspiration? Like, what? A parshah column or something?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Shifra agreed, then shot off a bunch of assignments, rapid-fire: the music column for our bookkeeper, personal essay for another secretary, a feature to a new girl in sales — until she got to me. “And Dini…”

I held my breath.

“…you cover the Bubbe Elka column. Temi, you’ll do politics. Etti, you’ll do a short story—”

Etti’s head snapped up from her phone. “But I just coordinate production! And I need to leave on time—”

“I want it gripping, think mildly offensive. A story that gets people mad enough to write letters, but not infuriated enough to cancel subscriptions.”

“I have an appointment—”

“Cancel it. Deadline is Thursday morning, folks. Get cracking.”

“So you mean, like, you’re forcing us to work overtime?” I asked. Bubbe Elka? I don’t even read the Jewish Zone columns half the time.

Shifra shook her head. “Not overtime.” She paused. “Overnight.”

6:30 p.m.

Dear Bubbe Elka.

I stared at the blank computer screen. An advice column?

“Politics? Is she kidding me?” From behind me, Temi slid into a chair and pulled it up next to mine. “I work in sales! I don’t have a clue about politics! Other than office ones.” She frowned. “And that time my brother-in-law opened his shoe store two blocks away from his uncle’s. That was bad. But government stuff? I have only one pair of Ivanka Trump shoes, and I don’t even own a Twitter.”

I shrugged. “You know what Russia is, you know what Muslims are. Just make something up. Maybe you need some grandmotherly advice for your family issues?”

“Oh, you got the advice column.” She thought a moment. “Okay, Dear Bubbe Elka, my mother-in-law hates me. When she visited the week after my baby was born, she bought my girls glitter glue. And after that, a 5,000-piece set of Perler beads. I’d give more examples but I have to go scrape glitter off the table, sweep up 4,000 teeny-tiny beads, and console my sobbing daughter, who will probably need therapy for all those times I didn’t iron her artwork fast enough.” Temi grimaced. “Please help before she buys us a drum set.”

Just then, my phone rang. It was Etti. “Okay, I have it. My fiction story idea.” Her voice was solemn. “So you have a shadchan, okay, she collects people’s resumes, okay. So she gets involved in identity theft, okay, ’cuz she has all this personal info on thousands of girls—” She paused. “Sounds good so far?”

Temi was still shaking her head. “I’m not kidding, those beads get everywhere. You know the Perler beads motto: ‘Hating Your Life Just Got Easier.’ ”

“Keep going,” I told Etti. Any other ideas? I mouthed. Temi shrugged, stood, and headed out.

“She justifies it, says the halachah is that she gets paid just to read the resumes, and then — well, I don’t know. Something happens.”

“Sounds excellent.”

“And someone should definitely be kidnapped. You have lip gloss I can borrow, by the way?”

“Vaseline okay?”

“Hmmm. Maybe. I’ll come get it soon.” We hung up. Thirty seconds later, she called back.

“I’ll call it ‘The Dabbler,’ ” she said darkly.

6:55 p.m.

Shifra wandered in, holding a sushi takeout container. “Reva, you got my—”

Reva waved her phone, fixing her with a glare. “Yes, I got your text. All six of them. How am I supposed to make a recipe edgy? Avant-garde?”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out. Work in the divorce crisis, maybe. Or gluten. That’s your job, not mine.”

“Well, maybe your job can include telling me how to fabricate letters to the editor. You know that’s not an actual section we make up, right?”

“Now it is. Seriously, is this so hard? Just write about a pet peeve you have. Or all of them. Plus the shidduch crisis and kids-at-risk and remember to follow up any critical letters with ones saying that our magazine saved your life. And try to speed this up a bit — my cousin told me she’ll do graphics, but she needs the files by 2 a.m.”

Shifra exited and Reva sighed, staring at her computer. “Okay, letters,” she said. “Dini! Is older singles one word or two?”

7:20 p.m.

“Okay, I have it. Are you ready?” Etti’s voice reverberated from my phone. “Okay, so there’s a shadchan, this really famous shadchan, she collects resumes, okay—”

“Another plot idea? This is sounding like the last one.”

“No, totally different genre, that was a mystery,” said Etti, unfazed. “So she’s on 13th Avenue, or maybe Avenue J, or Main Street — I’ll do Queens, I’m from Brooklyn and I don’t want people suspecting I wrote it — and there’s this huge gust of wind that blows away all her shidduch files and she’s chasing after the papers in kitten heels, but they’re flying all over and she ends up salvaging just two, one girl and one boy, so she decides, okay, this is totally bashert, right? So she redts the shidduch, they go out, and it’s a DOA! The end.”

I actually laughed out loud. “You had me there.”

“It’s the irony, you know?” Etti sounded smug. “Like the reader will totally think they’re gonna get engaged, but then last minute you flip things around. You have a brush I can borrow, by the way?”

“Um, yes,” I told her. We hung up.

Her text came through ten seconds later:

I’ll call it, “The Resume Collector.”

Just then, Temi rushed in again. “Dini, I’m clueless, you need to help me out!”

I sighed. “Here, read over the political columns, they’ll familiarize you with the jargon.” I threw her some copies of old Zones we’d had lying around, along with a few competitors’ magazines stashed in my drawer — call me a traitor, but I actually liked those better — and Temi started skimming them.

“Oh, yeah, like the Text Messages column,” she said thoughtfully. “I get it. Except I won’t do text messages, of course — okay, Dini, I’ll e-mail it over soon…”

She was still mumbling as she walked away.

So I totally get it: We need to build a wall to stop very bad hombres from entering illegally. But honestly, did Trump have to sign that order three months before we have to make Pesach? A frank interview with Maria, whom I share with my neighbor every other Wednesday.

My political columns are the best. I have the best ideas. I have the best words. They’re huge! Trust me.

Where’s the top place to buy discounted European children’s clothes? Who just made a kiddush like a schnorrer even though I happen to know they’re L-O-A-D-E-D? Whose niece just had her fifth child in four years and is really not managing, and who did I just meet on 13th Avenue who lost 50 pounds at least and I’m pretty sure she had a lap-band?

Introducing….

Bein Gavra L’gavra: New Parshah Column!

Dear Editor,

I was horrified at your recent article regarding [[???dini, pls help? i only read the recipes!!!]] as I believe such articles destroy the fabric of our society and the essence of who we are as a Jewish nation. Please do teshuvah immediately. Sincerely, Anonymous.

8:13 p.m.

“Hey, Dini!”

I looked up from where I was riffling through a thesaurus seeking big words for Reva — how do you use panegyric in a sentence? — and raised my eyebrows. It was Etti, again. Her skirt was wrinkled, her sweater coffee-stained.

Her face, though, was perfect. A rosy glow lit up her complexion, her sparkling eyes lined and shadowed in a way that they weren’t an hour ago. The sloppy bun from this morning had also disappeared; her hair now flowed softly past her shoulders.

I looked closer. Actually, her hair only flowed past her right shoulder in soft waves. It just barely made it past the left one. And she was holding what looked like a horse’s tail.

“Do you have hair extension clips I can borrow? Mine broke.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “Um. No. Like, absolutely no.” I pulled out my handbag. “I have Vaseline. I have a hairbrush. I have Post-Its and highlighters. I have a deadline. I do not have hair extensions. Not here. Not anywhere. Etti, are you—”

“Maybe the Post-Its? No, the adhesive’s probably a bit weak. Okay, I’ll lean against the wall so this side’s covered. You don’t have an eyelash curler either, right?”

I blinked. “Uh, no.”

“Well, thanks for the Vaseline and brush. I’ll get back to my novel now. I have like five plot options!” She grinned. “And a meeting with a shadchan at nine, but we’re gonna FaceTime instead. Wanna join?”

This time, I did choke, my coffee splattering my shirt exactly the way Shifra’s never did. Etti laughed, waved, and sailed out the door.

Her voice mail came through five minutes later.

“Okay, so there’s a guy, he’s got these huge lists, he finally agrees to go out with this supposedly amazing girl, he’s sitting in the dining room chatting with the parents, and they pour him a drink, and he’s really thirsty so he takes it. So he’s drinking, okay, and suddenly he notices the mother looking at him oddly, and there’s this green glow coming from her forehead like a third eye, and he’s thinking, hey, this seltzer tastes like bitter almonds…”

11:43 p.m.

Everyone already has their first draft, and all I have is a cursor blinking as futilely as a turn signal in New York. What kind of problems do real adults have, anyway? I scrolled through my mental Rolodex of neighbors.

Dear Bubbe Elka,

What are the rules regarding using third person for a high school teacher once you’ve graduated? We’re trained to say “Mrs. Stein told us,” instead of “You told us,” out of respect. But now I’m six years out of school and Mrs. Stein moved next door and it’s just awkward. “It’s not fair that Mrs. Stein’s car is sticking halfway into my driveway,” I told her once, but it sounds weird.

A possibility, but maybe a family issue would get more readers. Suddenly, my screen went dark.

“Hellloooooo!” Shifra’s manicured nails drummed on my desktop. “Do I have to turn off computer monitors to get help around here? Diiiii-ni.”

I gritted my teeth, swiveling to face her. “What now, Shifra?”

“I’m exhausted,” Shifra yawned. “Do me a favor. Hang on, it’s graphics — hi, yeah, no, I told you, yes, the long, flowing sheitel in the ad is fine, but photoshop out the face… Wait, no, just make it blue—”

I turned my monitor back on, my attention shifting to Mrs. Stein. Her kids are forever dropping Super Snack wrappers in our recyclables, too.

Shifra finally hung up. “Sorry about that. Dini, man the fort a couple hours, okay? I’m putting my head down for a bit. Just collect the pieces, do a quick once-over, remove obvious grammatical aberrations, send to graphics, approve the proofs, then send to print, okay?”

“You’re taking a nap? Now?”

“Just a short one, to reenergize. A power nap.”

I sighed. Covering for Shifra, as usual. “Remind me why we’re doing this again?”

Shifra shuddered. “Oh, don’t remind me! It was crazy! Even the tech guy said he’d never seen anything like it.”

“Tech guy? Avi hasn’t been here since—”

“No, not him.” Shifra rolled her eyes. “The guy from Microsoft who called this afternoon to check our servers… Five minutes into the most basic check, my whole computer was messed up!”

“What guy from Microsoft?”

“The Indian one.”

I froze.

Well. Maybe Bubbe Elka had intercultural advice for dealing with foreign hackers.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again.

“You know what, Shifra?” I finally said. “There’s a couch in Mrs. Baron’s office. Go take your nap. Just go.” I regretted the next few words even as they were still semi-formed syllables stuck in my larynx. “I’ll deal with everything.”

First task: change all passwords.

I was still blinking in shock when Reva entered. “She’s really something, no? Here’s an iced coffee… from the best of our archives. Think it’s bad if I run a reprint?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Probably not, ’cuz there’s a good chance we’ll be going out of business any day now. Pass the caffeine. I’m taking over, and you’re all gonna need to e-mail the completed files to me. Call everyone for an emergency meeting, okay?”

Feverishly, we set to work.

***

2017: In the aftermath of 2016’s rocky elections, many Americans have concerns about the role America will play on the international stage, which it turns out is just a figure of speech and not an actual physical platform at the UN, in case any readers did not know that. This writer went undercover in Yeshiva World’s Coffee Room to find the inside scoop on everything from travel bans to the Shoe Palace fiasco.

[note to eds!! or was it Nordstrom? pls check!!]

***

Dear Editor,

I’d like to bring up an issue. When I receive a text, I believe it’s important to text an acknowledgment that I’ve read the message. Such as, “ok.” Or, “kkk.” Or, “Ya.” However, some people take it too far. Consider the following series of messages I recently exchanged with my sister-in-law:

sil: count on u 2 make ur nish-nosh salad again 4 purim?

Me: ok

sil: thx!

Me: np

sil:

Me:

sil:

It’s currently 2:12 a.m., and we’re each too scared of offending the other one by dropping the conversation. And so we’re still going at it, flashlights beneath the covers.

Enough already!!!!

Signed,

***

You sink your teeth into a Juicy Steak Burger with all the trimmings, schmaltz oozing with each gluttonous, heavenly bite, yet crave the softness of a fresh Kaiser roll, warm from the oven, alongside. You sip a hot coffee, inhaling the aroma of fresh hazelnut and Styrofoam, yet your mouth tingles with the primal urge for a luscious chocolate brownie melded with light flavorful peanut butter with hints of marshmallow.

Tackling Our Carbs Codependency: 5 New Carbohydrate-Free, Calorie-Free Recipes!!

***

Follow David and David as they blast into space and explore the wilds of Neptune’s most hidden landforms [note to eds!!: does Neptune have landforms, if not, change to Venus!!], searching for life, a long-lost link to the Jewish People, and an alliterative lesson on shechitah.

***

LIFE CIRCLES: How I overcame my dysfunctional childhood, rocky marriage, and cockroach phobia with the help of a revolutionary parenting technique, cognitive behavioral therapy, and MagnaTiles.

***

StartNote: The Story Behind the Song

Song: “Pizza Is Delicious, My Favorite Food Around”

Composer: Uncle Moishy

Readers worldwide recognize the endearing oy-yoy-yoy-yoy-yoy-oy-oy-oy characterizing this song’s chorus, but they may not know what inspired its uplifting lyrics. An obvious reminder of man’s foibles and frailty, its overt lesson is heightened by the inclusion of “lots of extra cheese,” and the quick one-two, one-two tempo melody change. We caught up with the famous Uncle Moishy — yes, the famous Uncle Moishy, who teaches Jewish boys and girls aaaaaallll about Torah and mitzvos! — to learn more about the inspiration behind his 2000 classic.

***

[DINI!!!! need to go!!! pls fix and add to earlier column!!]

While a lot of the upcoming news is totally known and predictable and all adults totally understand it, many Americans have concerns about Trump’s relationship with Iran/Iraq [eds!! which country has bomb thingy???]. Because the leaders in Iran/Iraq [eds: ????] are serious megalomaniacs like Trump, just with more nuclear weapons and less hair.

***

“Okay, so there’s this great guy, he has a mother who’s a dragon, she nixes every girl who’s redt, then one day, okay, the mother gets inhabited by a dybbuk…”

7 a.m.

And seven hours later, we were done.

Exhausted, I clicked the submit button to let the printer know the files were ready. We made it. We made it.

A feeling of relief — and maybe pride? — spread through me. I made it.

There had been grumbling from the staff when I’d taken the lead, but mostly everyone came through. Except Shifra, of course. I hadn’t seen her since midnight. And me, actually. I never got a chance to finish Bubbe Elka, between edits and brainstorming sessions, but okay. The rest of the columns made up for it.

I left my cubicle. Reva, Etti, and a few others were bundling up in their coats, bleary-eyed. Temi had left at 3 a.m.; her husband had called 14 times since bedtime and she finally left after he told her the kids were on their 43rd round of drinks.

“Submitted,” I told them wearily. “Thanks, guys. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Then I headed to Mrs. Baron’s office, where Shifra was apparently still hibernating.

The room was empty. Couch pillows were strewn on the floor, and a tablecloth — a makeshift blanket, I guess — crumpled nearby. An empty sushi container and napkins littered Mrs. Baron’s desk, near her computer. But Shifra wasn’t there.

A flash drive was, though, near the mouse pad, atop a Post-It with something scribbled on it. I leaned closer to read.

Jewish Zone 474 BACKUP.

My heart started to pound.

Hands shaking, I stuck it into the USB port, waited for it to load, and clicked open.

Files. File after file. Letters, parshah, Bubbe Elka — she was advising someone with out-of-control online shopping habits, I noted — all the columns were there.

I am going to kill Shifra.

And then I’m going to get her fired.

I sprang into action. Okay, it was 7:15 a.m. We could still make it. I’d contact the printers, tell them to hold off, we’d do a fast switcheroo back to the originals…

But first — where was Shifra?

I grabbed the flash drive and stalked out. I found her awake and alert in the staff bathroom adjusting her sheitel, her makeup bag spread out over the sink area.

“Good morning, Dini!” Shifra chirped. “Files submitted, right?”

“Um, yes, but—”

“Fabulous! I knew we could do it!”

“Well, actually, I found—”

“Dini, you’re a sweetie, but I need to go.” Shifra swept her cosmetics into her bag and smiled.

“But Shifra—”

“Any issues, I have full confidence you can handle them. I have a family emergency I need to deal with now, I don’t have time for this.”

I gaped. “Another family emergen— Is Mrs. Baron okay? Did something—”

“No, no, the rhinoplasty went smoothly, but my cousin just e-mailed, she’s stranded in Cyprus and needs me to wire money for a ticket home. Also, there’s an issue with an inheritance — excuse me, Dini, I really need to go.”

She slung her Louis Vuitton over her shoulder, gave me an air-kiss, and fumbled for her coat. Something hairy flew out and settled in her bag, but she didn’t notice.

“But—”

“Dini,” Shifra said, “I don’t have time for this.”

I opened my mouth. And closed it.

I hadn’t slept in 24 hours. My hair was a mess, my clothing disheveled, my contact lenses killing me. My body was screaming for a hot shower and a bed and I didn’t want to see a computer or coffee or Shifra ever again.

Dear Bubbe Elka, What do you do when you’ve been someone’s doormat for ten months and you bail them out of every shenanigan they dig themselves into and you’ve had enough?!

“Okay,” I said finally. “Safe travels.”

I watched Shifra’s receding back as she rushed down the corridor, Etti’s hair extensions waving behind her in the wind.

I pulled the flash drive out of my pocket.

And tossed it into the wastebasket.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 651)