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Fear and Yoga in New Jersey, by Debra Galant
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Nina Gettleman-Summer, a New Jersey yoga teacher, should be calmly guiding her high powered students through their savasanas and their chakras. Instead she is worried about...everything: her new meditation fountain overflowed causing one of her more litigious students to slip and fall; her husband Michael's job was outsourced to the Phillipines; and a hurricane is bearing down on her parents home in Florida. The last thing Nina needs is her suspicious mother around, wailing about the weather and asking questions about Michael's job. To complicate matters, her teenage son Adam is showing an interest in having a Bar Mitzvah―even though Nina, never a fan of her Jewish heritage, signed the family up at the local Unitarian Church. The Gettleman-Summers are poised for an awakening which, when it arrives, is deftly portrayed in Galant's classic screwball style.
- Sales Rank: #3666744 in Books
- Published on: 2009-03-17
- Released on: 2009-03-17
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .61" w x 5.50" l, .80 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 272 pages
From Publishers Weekly
Galant follows up her colorful debut, Rattled, with another funny suburban family satire. Nina Gettleman's new yoga studio on the swank side of an old, unnamed Essex County town floods when her poorly placed waiting-room chakra-meditation fountain leaks. One of Nina's students threatens to sue, and she's unable to get solace from her husband, Michael, who has been laid off from his job as a meteorologist at Newark Airport. Meanwhile, puberty-age son Adam has decided he's tired of being a lapsed Jew and wants to have a platinum bar mitzvah. The straw that breaks the familial camel's back is the arrival of Nina's hypercritical mother and elderly father, who take refuge in the family's home to escape a Florida hurricane. And then Michael gets into some serious trouble with the law. Galant has a lock on upper-middle–class suburban skewerings and makes ribald fun of overbearing Jewish mothers and terrorism crackdowns gone awry. But loose ends, an overextended midsection, a rushed ending and a protagonist who never really evolves make this sophomore effort fall short of enlightenment. (Mar.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
About the Author
Debra Galant is the author of Rattled and the creator of the popular blog Baristanet.com. She lives in Glen Ridge, New Jersey.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Nina was in the middle of yoga nidra with her nine o’clock intermediate class when Debby Jacobs from the ten-thirty beginners ran in. Interrupting yoga nidra, as everyone knew, was a major breach of yoga etiquette. Even a beginner should know better. Nina closed her eyes and allowed herself a deep, long exhalation before deciding how to handle the intrusion. Ginseng candles were lit, Gaelic flute music floated up from the speakers of a portable CD player, and all seven members of the class lay flat on their backs as they imitated corpses. If there was one thing that distinguished Nina’s classes from the dozens of other yoga classes available locally, it was the hard-wrought serenity achieved during yoga nidra—the practice of complete relaxation—which took up the last five minutes of each class. Nina was strict about no giggling or whispering—even in the classes filled with writers, who never wanted to shut up, ever. It was a time of rest and regeneration. But there she was, Debby Jacobs, bringing all her Russell terrier energy into the studio and positively gyrating with excitement.
Nina placed a silencing finger on her lips. Already Anita Banschek had popped open a curious eye.
In an exaggerated pretense of civility, or else her interpretation of Marcel Marceau imitating a burglar, Debby tiptoed over. "I really didn’t want to interrupt," she said. "I knew you’d be mad. But"—she lowered her voice and made the universal gesture for waves, or a snake, maybe—"there’s a flood in the waiting room."
It had been barely three weeks since Nina moved into her new yoga studio, in the swankest part of town, where brick crosswalks set in a herringbone pattern provided safe pedestrian passage for the blond wives and children of the rich men who took off for New York every morning on the 5:58, the 6:27, and the 7:03 to move massive amounts of other people’s money around.
The shopping district was in one of the older Essex County towns, where, with the exception of a few gaucheries like Dunkin’ Donuts, things looked pretty much as they had for decades: parking meters, alleyways between Tudoresque buildings, a movie theater whose old-fashioned marquee was protected by a historic preservation commission, and street planters carefully tended by a committee of shopkeepers. The timeless effect was reinforced by a towering verdigris-edged public clock, the old-fashioned analog kind with hands that swept around in a circle as they counted off the dull suburban hours, paid for by a local jeweler in business for three generations and now part of the township’s official logo.
The commerce, in this part of town anyway, tended toward goods and services that pampered and cosseted. Except for the contents of one hardware store (specializing in brass house numbers and Ralph Lauren paints) and one deli, there was nothing for sale that anyone could possibly consider a necessity. If, on the other hand, you were looking for candlesticks in the shape of fez-wearing monkeys and were willing to pay $183, you’d come to the right place. But for the occasional thirtyish male with shaved head and tiny glasses tapping away on a screenplay in Starbucks, the district might be a sorority composed of women twenty-five and up. The younger ones jogged after infants perched in special aerodynamically designed chariots. Women a bit older held the tiny peanut butter–smeared hands of toddlers who had known only toys made of wood and natural fibers. Women in their thirties or forties, wearing impossibly small jeans and talking on cell phones, darted into hair salons and therapist offices, running hard to accomplish whatever they could before three o’clock, when they turned into taxi services for lacrosse-playing, karate-chopping, Irish step-dancing, back-talking offspring. Women old enough to have grown children emerged from expensive German cars, bearing shopping bags almost always destined for return.
This wasn’t Nina’s milieu, not exactly, though it was comfortable enough. It did make her a bit self-conscious of her peasant ancestry, of the fact that her hair was black and coarse and puffed up at the slightest hint of humidity and that, no matter how much yoga she did, her body tended toward the zaftig. In fact, the neighborhood was kind of a WASP version of the Long Island town where she’d grown up—although she liked to think she’d outgrown all that and arrived at a more enlightened place. She’d been raised in Princess territory, bred to marry a dentist like her father, and had been bestowed with a Bloomingdale’s card, her very own name embossed and capitalized across the bottom, at her sweet sixteen party—equipment for honing the shopping skills critical to the Long Island Jewish matriarchy to which she was supposed to aspire.
Alas, those aspirations were dashed in twelve short weeks during her sophomore year at Brandeis, when she took a life-altering women’s studies class. It all started with Anna Mae Babcock, a pioneer woman who’d lost two children to whooping cough in the summer of 1817, whose diary was assigned as an example of the rare primary source that recorded "herstory" rather than "history." Nina had known, of course, about the tragically high rate of child mortality, but she’d assumed that there hadn’t been too much grief, because such deaths were so common. Anna Mae’s diary put an end to that misconception. Then she read stories of Chilean women whose husbands had been taken in the middle of the night by the henchmen of Augusto Pinochet. As Nina read of their terror and their bravery, their fearless demands for answers as they sought their husbands’ remains, Nina began to see her own life for the silly two-dimensional cartoon that it was.
When she came home that year for winter break, Nina was determined to interview her bubbe about the pogroms in Russia. But Nina’s mother dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand. "Who wants to remember all that?" she said. "Please, she gets agitated." Later, when Nina saw her mother’s cleaning woman, a Guatemalan named Feliz, down on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, she tried to liberate her on the spot. "You don’t have to clean rich people’s houses just because you’re of color!" Nina said. "You should go back to school, get a degree." But Feliz’s command of English was marginal. "You want colors done? Laundry?" she asked, running upstairs to Nina’s hamper to put in a dark wash.
Nina shopped for new clothes during that break, haunting thrift shops and adopting a new uniform of long skirts, gauze blouses, man-style work boots. She stopped wearing gold, which broke her mother’s heart, preferring instead chunky jewelry made of silver and turquoise. After college, she moved to a Brooklyn neighborhood her parents found menacing, worked at jobs they considered dead-end, and decorated her rooms with a series of parental castoffs that otherwise would have gone to Feliz.
The migration from Brooklyn to New Jersey, a few years after marrying Michael, wasn’t so unusual. It was a well-established route, trod by many earlier pioneers, so she was reassured that there would be organic food co-ops and used book stores when she got there. It helped that the town was a shade-dappled place with fine wraparound porches and old-fashioned rose-covered trellises, much sought after by filmmakers and people who made TV commercials, and unlike the suburb she grew up in, her adopted town had black people. The integration of the public schools was almost
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Fear and Yoga in New Jersey
By Eva Cornwell
A modern, upbeat, story with twists that will keep you interested. Easy to enjoy! The main character has a little bit of everyone you know!
10 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
Mired in the 60s
By BabsD
I grew up in New Jersey and, although I don't live in the there anymore, I remember it well. For me the book tried, in a stale and exaggerated way, to hit the same old targets of over-the-top bat (bar) mitzvahs (self-hating Jew, anyone?), loud and comical Jewish family members, and the same tired and old I May Have Enough Money to Live Here But I Am Not Of Here writing. I will say--worth the second star---that the writer makes everyone ridiculous, too. But the vision of the protagonist, holding a wan bowl of ambrosia at the Unitarian dinner, just doesn't have the same stereotypic sting as the Oy Oy Oy other situations and characters. I understand that it's a satire, but the main character is so incredibly unsympathetic and clueless that any attempts at subtlety, empathy, or understanding are completely squashed.
4 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Classic screwball comedy
By Reviewer Dr. Beth
I was mainly attracted to this book because of the title: I grew up in New Jersey (although South Jersey, fairly distant from the suburban New York setting featured here), and I practice yoga regularly. The plot features about a week in the life of yoga instructor Nina Gettleman-Summer and her family. Nina has just open a beautiful new yoga studio, but to her dismay, she discovers that it has bad karma. With extraordinarily bad timing, her husband's job as a meteorologist is outsourced, their son Adam decides that he wants to embrace his previously unclaimed Jewish heritage in order to have a bar mitzvah, and Nina's parents decide to evacuate their hurricane-threatened home in Florida to come stay with their daughter and her family.
What follows is a zany comedy in the tradition of such old movie classics as It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Nina struggles to use Feng Shui to clear the bad karma from both of her studio and her home, her husband Michael gets in trouble with Homeland Security, her son Adam pays a visit to fringe rabbis, and both of her parents are suspected of being crazy. It's a wild--and sometimes implausible--ride, but of course, everything comes together at the end. Overall, this was a quick, fun read, and I'd recommend it in particular to fans of offbeat comedy.
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