On a site rating Helen Fielding's new book Mad About the Boy, I came across a terse comment: 'Not a great read.' I would have to agree. It's not a great read – it's totally brilliant. Bridget Jones is back – she of the calorie-counting obsession and the pounds gained/lost fetish, older, not wiser, more or less coping with kids' lice and challenging digestive systems, and homework that gets lost. She's also a widow – the divine Mark Darcy has been blown apart on assignment in some war-torn area of the world. The “not great” comment made me wonder whether only widows (terrible, horrible word) can appreciate the hilariousness of this book, and the poignancy.... Oy, try laughing hysterically in bed alone, and crying at the same time; not the No. 1 most lovely way to spend an evening. Bridget falls apart in the late hours, when it's quiet, and she calls to herself, “Mark! Mark!!” and I read to myself, “Mart! Mart!!” She cries out loud, as she tries to cope alone, “Mark, help me!” and I imagine shouting, “Mart, help me!” as a cockroach buzzes in the bedroom and I look over to the other side of the bed to see why my handsome husband isn't dealing with it. And then, to pull myself together, I play my favorite game: trying to find something, anything, one teeny little positive thing about the fact that my husband is dead. If Pollyanna could see the good in not being able to walk ever again, I have to be able to find one even minuscule advantage in my current situation. It was a challenge, but I finally came up with it. Being a widow means I don't have to cover my hair anymore, no matter how religious the shul I am in for a wedding or bar mitzva. I hate wearing hats; I always feel there is a foreign body perched on my head, and even Kate Middleton's perky bonnets just don't do it for me. True, there were not many occasions in my life where I had to plonk some sort of material contraption on my head for reasons of modesty, but it did happen every now and then. So, yay! At least no more hats. This is not as entirely frivolous a matter as you may think: Some women actually choose to hat up or otherwise cover their locks (think wigs, turbans or colorful scarves) every day of their (married) lives. In our book Three Ladies, Three Lattes, published last week by Renana Publishers here in Israel, my co-writers and I devote a whole chapter to the way we dress, including how we dress our heads. Danit, the born-again haredi woman in our band, describes the trauma of first imprisoning her bouncy red curls under wraps, while Tzippi, the national- religious member of our gang, feels empowered by her (very lovely) sheitel. I, for the life of me, simply can't see how wearing a wig that is sexier than one's own hair can be more modest; our book examines these explosive issues one by one. How we dress. Why we live in Israel. Why we send/don't send our kids to the army, or to get a core education. Why teenage cuddling is good/a sin... unless the teenagers are married and on to the making of the first of a multitude of kids. These issues are tearing our little country apart – and the three of us, from disparate sides of the religious divide, decided to tackle them full-on, not pulling any punches. The book is incendiary. I wonder out loud whether I'd prefer my daughters to marry out of the faith rather than come home with haredi husbands who would expect me (or my daughter) to support their yeshiva habit. One of Tzippi's readers was so outraged by my views that she proclaimed that not even all the water in the Kinneret could cleanse her from the filth of my vitriol; Danit at times became breathless from indignation as she clung to her worldview that women actually thrive in an environment where their names don't even appear on their daughters' wedding invitations. (It goes, “By the blessing of God, Mr. Cohen and his wife take pleasure in inviting you, etc.”) It's a complicated country, that's for sure. Even the cover of the book was contentious – a gorgeous shot of the three of us drinking coffee convivially was axed, and not because of my bare arms or my uncovered hair. The objection was a woman's face on show for the world to see – out of the question for the more religious of our team. My suggestion to blot out a face with a large X was nixed as condescending. I hadn't meant to mock; after all, women voluntarily choose to belong to a world which seems to me to erase them as much as possible – why wouldn't the same women let us publicize their position? We conceived of this project as an exercise in kiruv levavot, a meeting of hearts, but it soon became apparent that we could hardly agree on a single subject – except that we all enjoy coffee, preferably accompanied by a sticky bun. We sought answers and compromises and methods of erasing our differences, but go find a compromise when one side agrees that women should not sing when men are in earshot, and another side believes that this excessive “purity” is driving those very men around the bend. Yet despite our irate phone calls that went on for hours and ended, often, in despair, and despite our emails that smoked right off the screen, somehow Tzip, Danit and I still managed to reach out arms to each other – some naked from the shoulder down, some swathed until below the wrists, and some demurely wrapped till the elbows. And we kept munching away at (always kosher) cookies and slurping our lattes as we worked. Tzippi, Danit and I are about to start a round of book launches in Israel, discussing the most contentious issues that span different religious sensibilities. I am a fairly intrepid speaker, usually, but I have to admit a certain amount of trepidation as we jump into this conversation. Boring, it won't be. We are hoping to open hearts and minds to the possibility of dialogue across difference – religious, secular, Muslim, Jewish, Christian, married, divorced, widowed and single women, and all those in between. In the meantime I leave you with a book list: Mad About the Boy by Fielding; Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter (even if you've read it 10 times before), and then our Three Ladies, Three Lattes (just heat up lots of water for a shower before you start). And let me add for the record: In truth, I'd rather cover my head all the time, for 40 more years, in wire mesh or with a cardboard box, even when I sleep, even when I shower, if it could mean growing old with my husband at my side. Dearie, dearie me. The writer lectures at IDC and Beit Berl. peledpam@gmail.com
