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and the matching skirt? Do you think I could borrow it for Roger’s bar mitzvah?
    Sam: But it’s way too big for you.
    Raisin: My mom could shorten it.
    Sam: (looking very annoyed) Whatever. Just don’t tell anyone about Sid and we’ll call it even.
    Raisin: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
    Â 
Comments:
    Logged in at 11:07 PM, EST
    kweenclaudia: nice work, raymond. blackmailing your step-relatives? couldn’t have done a better job myself.
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Logged in at 11:14 PM, EST
    PiaBallerina: I’m so glad you called Roger. I can’t wait to hear all about his party. (I especially can’t wait to hear about the rock band whose identity is to be kept secret.)
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Logged in at 11:16 PM, EST
    PiaBallerina: I mean, not including the kiss, which goes without mentioning.

Sunday, November 28
    11:55 AM, EST
    Shalom, Kitties,
    Shalom—what an interesting word. The Torah, the Hebrew Old Testament, teaches us that this beautiful word has three meanings: “peace,” “hello,” and “goodbye.”
    We learned this from a speech given by Rabbi Benjamin H. Levy to Roger Morris on his bar mitzvah day. One should take Rabbi Levy’s lesson to heart. For not only is he a rabbi, he also wears a harmonica on his head and pronounces the ch sound in Chanukah the real way—like he’s going to cough up a hair ball.
    But not all of the word’s meanings are relevant to all people at all times. Take one Raisin Rodriguez, for instance. For young Raisin, the word shalom means only one thing. Not “hello.” And not “peace.” But the third meaning. The saddest and loneliest of all—“goodbye.”
    So long . . . farewell . . . auf wiedersehen . . .
    Goodbye.
    What can I say? It all started out so promising. When my mother dropped me off at the Spectrum, I looked beautiful. I know this because my mom said, “Raisin, you look beautiful.” I couldn’t wait for CJ to see me.
    Don’t judge me for preening. Seven minutes from now, you’ll have nothing but that potato salad feeling in the back of your throat for me. And that’s before you’ll have even found out that Galenka Popodakolis was wearing the same dress as me . . .
    The Spectrum was the biggest building I’d ever seen. Imagine the basement where Krishna Ginsberg had his confirmation ceremony and multiply it by twenty thousand.
    As I walked toward the entrance of the building, a long red carpet was laid out. I walked it just like a real celebrity. A guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a fishing hat even asked me for my autograph.
    When I got to the door, there was a blond lady in an evening gown waiting for me.
    â€œAnd who are you wearing?” she asked, poking a microphone at me. There was a man standing behind her with a camera.
    â€œIt’s Samantha’s. But she said I could,” I answered.
    â€œCut the camera,” the lady said to the guy behind her. Then she bent down to my level and put a hand on my shoulder. “Listen,” she whispered, “we’re making this video as a gift for Roger. The theme of the bar mitzvah is Hollywood Award Show. So how ’bout we play a little bit? You know, have some fun.”
    If you ask me, she was the one who needed to be told to “have some fun.”
    â€œTake two,” the lady said to the camera guy. It made me feel like a real celebrity.
    â€œHi, Roger,” I began. “Um . . . the dress I’m wearing is a Giselle’s original. And the shoes . . .” I had to stop and take off one of the shoes to check the sole. “The name is rubbed out, but I can find out when I get home and tell you tomorrow. Um . . . happy bar mitzvah.”
    When I got inside, another lady in a different evening gown asked me my name. When I gave it to her, she handed me a gold statuette. It looked like the kind they hand out at awards shows, but instead of a bald man or an angel or a phonograph, it was in the