getting ready for xmas

Last week my cubemate was off serving the country in the reserves so I took the opportunity to play (read: BLAST) some xmas songs. My good friend Tim, download queen, gave me a bunch of xmas songs and I was rocking the open space with them (Thanks, Tim!). Most people (even those wearing kippers) didn't mind. Although they did joke that they would take my certificate away.

At home we've had the sparkly lights we got in Haifa last year on the tree. Its a real evergreen fir tree but its a bit of a stretch for it to aspire to be a xmas tree. Its branches are weak and droopy. The tree is about 3 foot tall. With the lights and the xmas songs playing it just about does the job.

I've had no mince pies, no carol singing, no xmas office parties, seen barely a sprig of tinsel.
The kids have been taught the true spirit of xmas. That means: tree, gifts, father christmas, and gifts, set to a soundtrack of Dean Martin, Bing Crosby, and Elvis. I know some people get all angry that xmas has become so commercialized and that people today miss the true spirit of the Lord Jesus Christ's birth. I remember being like that in my former incarnation as a practising catholic.

Today I am many many moons away. I want my kids to know that excited feeling of presents and stockings. The gifts are relatively small and not about what's the biggest next best thing. Tomorrow I am taking them back to England to try and capture a bit of the season for them. On the one hand I should have gone earlier as preXmas is always funner than postXmas. On the other hand, it was important for me that they light the hanukah candles with their grandmother and friends, and remember the miracle of the oil. Of the Maccabeans winning against Hellinism. I know all the words to O Come All Ye Faithful IN LATIN! but I can barely get through Surah Hoshech, Ner Li Ner Li or Sevivon Sov Sov Sov.

Yes, we are going for xmas. But I am going to pack a hanukiah. I call this coexistance.
For us this is about celebrating traditions.
Its hanuxmas my way. And I don't think you can judge me.

i swear to you my back is swollen

top 10 thoughts that crossed my mind on the massage table
1. That's my writing hand! Patti was going to kiss that!
2. Bending my leg like that...that's a departure to the norm...
3. What are these monks chanting?
4. Sounds like No Sacrifice by Elton John.
5. IT IS No Sacrifice by Elton John.
6. Monks chanting Elton John. That's just wrong!
7. Did you work for easterneuropeantorturors.com?
8. Do you hate your parents or something?
9. Did you just split up with your boyfriend?
10. Ou...ou...OUCH!

top 10 thoughts that crossed my mind on the massage table that didn't make it into the top 10
1. What's that bowl down there for?
2. Mm...that's nice.
3. I'm going to dribble...
4. ...ohhhhh that's what that bowl's for.
5. Wait, that's less nice.
6. That's unusua...OUCH!
7. Your elbow is in my buttock!
8. That is so going to bruise!
9. I don't think my legs were designed to be bent like that!
10. This manouvre...isn't this what Geena Davis did to put a deer out of its misery in the Long Kiss Goodnight?

december: early morning in petach tikva

we may be in THE EXPERIMENT, but we still have a pulse

Our offices are located in an industrial park which they are still building so there are an abundance of empty lots and scrub areas. It is for this reason THE EXPERIMENT gave us 2 in-house dining areas with consistently dire options and that's why we experimentees never get fed a decent meal (lack of healthy dining options) or leave the building during work (read, DAYLIGHT) hours. Some people ARE brave enough to risk losing clocked minutes and go for a walk around lunchtime just to break the monotony and to get some fresh air.

The other day I was having lunch with my esteemed colleague in the cafeteria when her cubemate came running in all bright eyed and bushy tailed. "There are two lesbians on that empty plot outside doing it on their lunch break!!" The man could hardly hide his bulging enthusiasm. "If anyone needs me…I'll be outside!" and off he ran.

After lunch today I got a call. The esteemed colleague's cubemate. "Too bad you didn't pick up earlier! The lesbians were back!" He then proceeded to explain their antics in such graphic detail that I don't doubt that he left breath condensation and a large drool smudge on their windscreen. "I'm going to take you tomorrow to show you!"

About 35 minutes later I got an email from my esteemed colleague. "I'm coming on your field trip tomorrow". Feels like we all need some fresh air.

not that i'm that great of a dresser, but...

I think we should talk about attire in the workplace. Although we all have days where we like to slob out, lets not forget that the workplace is where you spend most of your life's daylight hours, and looking your best should be prioritized in there along with making sure you eat lunch and not acting like a 12 year old. If not for anything else but to maintain some level of decorum.

Israel is a much more relaxed work environment than most countries. I remember working for Vodafone back in England and they enforced a dress code for people who answer the phone. This was a place where people were closed in a room for 8 hour shifts and whose only responsibility was to answer the phone. Zero visual customer contact. And yet, jeans were not allowed. I had a friend working for Adecco who was forbidden from wearing bootleg trousers lest any job seeker or potential employer interpret the wideness of the bottom of their trousers as lack of professionalism.

Here are a few fashion violations that make my eyes sore on a daily basis:

• Tucking of sweatshirt into jeans
• Wearing socks with sandals
• Wearing white socks and black shoes. (If you grew up where I did, you SO know about this. I don't know why Guildford, Surrey was the cornerstone of sock-shoe etiquette, but we all knew the singsong "white socks, black shoes: KEVINNNNN!")
• Wearing trousers that are too short. Correct length has trouser falling onto shoe. No ankle flappers, please.
• Dressing like a granny when you aren't even 28.
• Looking like you couldn't quite make your mind up between beach and work and compromising by dressing for the beach and coming to work in Bermuda shorts.
• Trainers. Running shoes. Sneakers. Whatever you want to call them. If they aren't new, don't wear them to work!
• Animal print skin tight tops.
• Shorts or even ¾ length trousers.

There are a couple of people in my company who dress very well. Its always great to see what outfits they have put on. They are edgy. They are cool. There are other people who have a signature look. There's the guy who always wears a beret. David always wore Hawaiian shirts. The lady who always wears stilettos. She's the one who was really worried about the air vents when she heard they were going to be placed in the floor in the new building. Must be ok because we've been in the new building for a year and a half, and she's still wearing stilettos.

Then there's another guy who always dresses top to toe in one color. We see him everyday and his whole outfit is the same color. Even the shoes. I don't know about the underwear. My cube-mate asked me if he is a color specialist who is branding himself. So I asked around about the color thing and the only information I gleaned was that he likes big breasts. One morning he got into the lift with me so I broke protocol and offered "today the day is purple, ah?" The dude was very surprised that I (an almost stranger from another department!) had noticed that he has this thing! He confided that he has 22 colors that he wears in a rotation. The guy simply OCD-has to wear the same color. I happen to know that some days he breaks a little and will wear a striped shirt with MORE THAN ONE COLOR in it…gaah! One day I saw him and he was wearing blue. "Blue today", I said. "Light blue", he corrected me.

I quite like his color clothing peculiarity. Having your own signature is cool. But I can't abide by that sweatshirt tucked into those jeans. That's the signature of bad taste!

young man, are you listening to me?

Over the weekend I took the twins to the birthday party of two of their friends. I am obsessed with going to kids parties even though when I’m there I could rip off my ears from the noise and scratch my eyes out with boredom. No, I like going for one reason alone: I have to know that I throw the most kick-ass parties.

Parties are important to me. I always loved them when I was growing up and it is really important for me to create the best memories and Kodak moments for my kids.

I have a vigorous rating system used to judge other people’s parties on various categories:

Category 1: Strength of entertainment.

When I was growing up, having a clown was unheard of. It was all pass the parcel, pin the tail on the donkey, musical statues, musical chairs, and dead lions. I was great at dead lions because if there is one thing in life I can excel at its being still and not doing anything. I am champ at that. But now I live in Israel and there is no way on god’s sweet earth that I am going to attempt controlling a room full of rowdy 4 year olds with my Hebrew. I draw the line there and there must be a clown.

The clown has to be good and not at all annoying. I can’t stand that pulling a long piece of paper out of your mouth trick. Setting fire to that piece of paper and magically making it become sweets: that IS cool. You should be on whatever reality show has you becoming Uri Gellar’s next apprentice. Repeated use of “hamutziim” (pickles) in place of “hamudiim” (cuties) is also the sort of behaviour that will make me visualize myself performing matrix-style fight scene manouvers in slow motion at your head. Balloon hats go down well. Even better is when every kid gets a balloon sword or butterfly or whatever. I have found the best clown ever from the excellent recommendation of a friend, and I have mentioned before that I AM IN LOVE WITH HIM. He engages the kids, remembers all their names, he is funny (even for the parents), and he is the best clown I have seen. Ever. And he’s hot but we’ve already established this is the married woman in me talking. I already know that TimTam will do our party next year. And maybe my birthday too, not sure yet.

Hand in hand with entertainment and on the strength of yesterday’s party, I think I should add a category especially for use of music:
Witch Doctor = 20 points
YMCA = 100 points
The birdie song = –90 points
…with actions = –20000 points.
I must say I was very pleased to see use of the village people at a 4 year old’s party. Great to see the Y and M in action, less so to see the C and A then sort of become a heartless flap to the right then to the left.

Category 2: Food.
The food is a good measure for how well people can host a party. Pizzas smack of taking the “throw money at it” option. Hot dogs smack of “all kids eat hot dogs, right?” lack of creative thinking. Not to mention that its well known that hot dogs are full of crap and you have to slice them into 2 or preferably 4 lengthways in order not to choke on them, yes even in 4 year olds. I have a friend who worked at the children’s hospital and this is a conversation for another time but believe me, she KNOWS. Food for the parents is also important. We are still at the age where the parents hang around and they expect food. Good food. Shakshuka and quiche score. Dry cake, big X.

Category 3: The Cake.
The final test is the cake. Baking a cake in a tin foil case and putting a shop-bought piece of sugar paper on it looks so tacky. Shop-bought cakes go back to the “throw money at it” option. No, in order to out do me, you are going to have to CONSTRUCT your cake and make it into something totally imaginative and at the same time wildly appetizing. In other words, a pirate ship and a princess castle.

Avoid avoid avoid:
Now, the worst thing of all to do at a party would be to set a powerpoint presentation of all your baby photos to some heavy arty music and make your guests endure 5 minutes of you thinking that your child is the most adorable thing in the universe. This is hard enough to sit through at the bar mitzvah. GOD FORBID but it might be ok at the funeral. Frankly I’d rather watch a powerpoint set to celine dion with pictures of puppies and bunnies, followed by taking a gun and blowing my brains out.

The party yesterday has a good rating, even though there were various violations of badass party etiquette. The balloon decorations scored extra points.

Best of all though, the party nursed my ego because hevrei (people)…I still kick party ass!

in my job, rhyming is essential

Martin, reading over my shoulder: "Welcome to the (comapny name/product name) bonanza." Bonanza?
Me: Its just a filler. Don’t you want to write me some marketing fluff to go in there?
Martin: No, I think you’ve got enough material to go on.
Me: OK, but can I still use the word bonanza?
Martin: No. (pause) It doesn’t rhyme with anything.

not to be trifled with

In the summer we were at the morasha junction and some weathered dude in a sleeveless Tshirt was offering us figs or prickly pears or some fruit and I admired his stamina out loud to my husband. These guys...and they are at every junction...walk through the traffic when the light's red offering their wares all day long. Its hot, sweaty, exhaust fume work. And you're lucky if you get one punter per red light. And its well known that in Israel their pitch is protected by the mafia. So you can't just start selling or even begging at a junction without the protexia of Israel's underworld. Otherwise they would come by and beat you up and steal your strawberries. So they probably have to sell 10 punnets to get money for 5. Anyway, on that day my husband boasted that he is exempt from the need for mafia protection and he could tout his berries at any junction he wanted. Oh yeah? I say. Hows that? I have connections he said. (Note that "connections" was said in a tone laced with mystery and intrigue.) I have connections. 15 kilometers of "I better not tell you", "You're better off not knowing", and "I can't tell you...for your own protection" later, and he finally admits that he might have gone to high school with someone who might have grown up to be in some outer ring of the mafia. This reminds me of the time after we got married and he had me going for 2 days about his shady past in the mossad.

Yesterday afternoon I got a call from the ganenet* (kindergarden teacher) to say that a kid had hit amit and he has a scratch near his eye. I said yes I know, this happened last week. She said I know it’s the same kid and he’s been punished. I said What, you mean this happened again? Yes, and I have to tell you because its near his eye but he’s perfectly fine. But last week it was also near his eye and you didn’t call. Yes well we didn’t really see what happened and he didn’t cry or anything.

Give me a break. This is Amit we are talking about. He’ll cry inconsolably for 10 minutes because you drained the (cold) water out of the bath. He’ll cry because some other kid who has come over to play has the audacity to pick up one of his sister’s toys. He’ll cry because Daddy not Mummy is showering off his midnight pee. He’ll cry because there is a lump in his hummus. And that’s all just in the last week. He’ll cry for anything. I find it highly unlikely that some kid hits him and he’d just suck it.

My husband is better at homeland security than I am. I put it down to a playground fight and move on. He starts to stalk the offender. I can’t publish here how he reacted when an unidentified neighbour dumped their bucket of cinema popcorn on my car for fear of prosecution. (Although let it be noted, nobody has dumped their popcorn on my car since!) So I wasn’t surprised when he called me this morning asking for names, dates, and places. I told him to go and unleash his fury on the ganenet because a) I don’t like her anyway and b) he will get the point across far better than me.

He called later with the following update: I told her not to let that kid get near Amit again. He’s not allowed to play with my son. Furthermore, if anything like this ever happens again I will teach Amit what my parents taught me. I will teach Amit to break a chair on that kids face.

And with my husband, you know he’s only half kidding. He's got connections.

ode to torgovnik

I love this shot taken in Rwanda by Jonathan Togovnik.

The story is that the older daughter, the one she's hugging, is from her marriage. The daughter born of love.

The second daughter, the one in the background, was born after Valentine was raped by militia.

"he put a spear in my leg, he pierced my leg and forced me to be apart and he ruthlessly raped me for four hours. I stayed in that place being raped every night for six days. Why I love the first daughter more is because I gave birth to her as a result of love. The father was my husband. The second girl is a result of unwanted circumstance"

I think the photo captures the mood so well.


Check out http://www.torgovnik.com/, he has many great shots, including a series on the reserve soldiers...check out Dr Riba who is Shaili's pigeon toes doctor.

generally speaking, where i'm involved at least...its best to avoid the subject entirely

Last week I was riding the lift (this does not sound good. Delete. It’s a fusion of American and the proper way to speak. Had I said riding the elevator I could have gotten away with it, but elevator is a butcher of the correct term, lift. And riding in proper English has connotations I certainly don’t want to get to in a public glass lift).

Last week I was in the lift and one of my colleagues alighted. Not famed for his tact, perception, or delivery, he looked at my stomach and said “What? Are you pregnant too?”. I told him—No, and it isn’t polite to ask. He said “Actually no, I think it’s a beautiful question to ask.” “Noooooooooo, you are implying I am fat.” He said “I’m not implying anything. You are taking it where you want to go”. Sensing the man was an ape and the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, I left it.

Yesterday somebody else congratulated me. A woman. I told her no, I am not up the duff. This morning she asked me if I was cross with her. Not cross, no. But I was bummed for the rest of the day yesterday. I even told my friend about it 8 hours later and I had only called her to wish her a happy birthday, not to drown my sorrows at the bottom of a beer glass. So I told this woman No, I just put on some weight thats all. Ah, she says, so you’re just fat?

there's just no way to write about arabs without coming off as a rascist snobby bitch.

Yesterday we drove up north and passed places called Baqa Al-Gharbiyye, pronounced "back-a al- jab-ee-yeah" and Umm Al- Fahm, pronounced "Um, let's fuckem".

We visited our dear arab friends who have just moved to Nazareth Elite. Yes, that's not the low down commoner's Nazareth, its the posh elite part. It's 80% Jewish up there but they think highly of themselves and rightly so. They are the best kind of people.

My friend took me off to Al-Tabune to buy some delicious rotisserie chicken on onions on bread for the rest of the people who had gathered at her house. Insider knowledge is everything. On the way she took me through the area where she grew up, which is worlds and worlds apart from the place I grew up even though we were born only 3 months apart. Her hood is an arab area and it shows. If you've ever been anywhere arab you will know what I'm talking about. Its a different level of affluence and a different mentality and different things are beautiful to their eyes. I saw large sparse shops which sell pastries (good pastries). I saw small packed shops full of chinese toys. I saw beggars and women beggars and child beggars. I saw cars packed with teenagers windows rolled down, arab pop music blaring out. Which I know about because I listen to sama-fm and it hasn't even launched yet. That's how cosmopolitan I am.

Their idea of xmas decorations just wouldn't fly back home. Plastic, plastic, and flashing plastic. And yet you feel the pulse of the place, very much alive and happening. The people in the areas we drove through are poorer than we are. Their priorities are different. But if an inflatable chinese-looking santa makes their xmas, who am I to judge?

We came to my friend's road and she told me "when I was growing up, we all lived down there: cousins, uncles, the works. I come from a very small family. Only 150."

I might even get one of those chinese santas. Ho ho ho.

december sunset over haifa and nazereth

I wish to apologise, people!

When moving the xmas tree table to find the plug for the xmas tree lights the other night, I *might* have mumbled something vague and incoherent about the xmas tree table being wedged to the wall by the sofa and the sofa being wedged to the xmas tree table by the fisher price garage and the fisher price garage being wedged to the sofa by the dining room table, henceforth when you try to plug in the lights you are faced with moving a train of furniture 5 times your body weight 4 centimeters. Just to plug in the xmas tree lights. And I just *may* have insinuated that I place the blame for all this wedging business firmly in the hands of my mother in law and *maybe maybe* I even took her name in vain. But I was facing moving a train of furniture 5 times my body weight 4 centimeters!

This was all kindly recorded for me by my angelic little daughter, who did not waste any time the following morning before telling the mother in law that mummy hates it when she touches things in the house and makes mummy a balagan* and touches mummy's things. I am not sure exactly what she said because I wasn’t there and have now heard the story 3 times and the things that were revealed to my mother in law by the holy truth according to my angelic little daughter changed each time.

But the message to my mother in law was as clear as a fog horn. And I have been reprimanded by the supreme court of in law injustice.

So, I would like to issue this PUBLIC apology on the internet which can be accessed by anyone and everyone and probably not ever my mother in law because she can’t read English and wouldn’t know what a blog was if it came up and bit her on the ass and that’s fine with me because the universe will know that I apologized publically and will ignore the fact that I can't face broaching the issue and grovelling on my hands and knees to beg her for forgiveness. Mother in law, I hereby apologize for mentioning that the way you tidy my house is anything less than perfect, and I really do appreciate you making order in the wild chaos of my home. Especially since my roommates are really fucking messy.

*balagan=mess/chaos
Note to self: watch more closely how you swear when the short people are around.

Today I...

What I wrote:

Hold down Alt and roll the mouse over the trash icon. The icon changes to the grim reaper to indicate that you are about to permanently delete the image.

What I wanted to write:

Hold down Alt and roll the mouse over the trash icon. The icon changes to the grim reaper apparently standing in a cauldron for no discernable reason other than perhaps to reinforce his evil image with some witchery to indicate that you are about to permanently delete the image. AND EVIL CACKLES COMING FROM SOMEWHERE OVER YOUR SHOULDER RESONATE AROUND THE ROOM. MWAHAHAHAHAHAH!

morning chest, tel aviv

all i want for christmas is my two front teeth. And other silly christmas songs.

Today I cracked open the advent calendars, put the flashing lights on the tree, and listened to the worst collection of xmas songs ever: "CHILDREN's XMAS PARTY". Why children should massacre Wizzard's I wish it could be xmas everyday with their bastard angelic voices is a crime I will never wrap my head around. As far as the music industry's concerned, it falls somewhere between American Idol and Mariah Carey's dress sense. Hell, its more worthy of going to court over than George Michael wincing out of his contract with Sony, but when was there ever sweet justice in this world?

Anyway, the singing kids started on butchering little donkey. Not literally of course. For those of you unfamiliar or rusty on your carols, the hymn is a dedication to the donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem. The song idolises the little donkey, and gives it encouragement to keep plodding on the road (don't give up now little donkey!). One line even goes so far as to say little donkey little donkey had a heavy day.

Now I know that the distance between Nazareth and Bethlehem is not to be sniffed at, but EXCUSE ME?!?!?! Little donkey had a heavy day! Awww, poor little donkey. Plodding along a dusty road! With a heavy load! Probably like every day of his damned miserable life in -1BC. Or are you implying that Mary rather packed on the pounds during pregnancy? Did the songwriter ever stop for a moment to think about Mary? 9 months pregnant, has to travel to a far off town for a stupid census?! On a donkey! Have you ever stopped to think how hard that must've been? There was no cvish 6* back then, baby! That woman deserves a medal! Where's her song?

Then I got me to thinking...how many carols are actually about Mary? Where's Mary's giving birth in a barn with no epidural hymn? Why does good king Wencelas get a song for looking out of the bloody window and Mary gets nothing for pushing the son of God down her birth canal?! Even mummy, the slut with an old fat man fetish got a carol when she was seen kissing santa claus underneath the mistletoe. Not to mention frosty the snowman, rudolph the red nose reindeer, or the three kings of orient are, what ever that means. They all got their 15 minutes.

But not Mary. The best she got was being called "mild" (Once in Royal David's City). Mild! It's just not right by Mary. Now, I have no musical talent to speak of, but I'm sure someone can rustle something up for poor old Mary. Something to the tune of Ding Dong Merrily on High perhaps:
Puu-U-u-u-u-u-U-u-u-u-u-u-U-u-u-u-u-u-U-u-u-u-u-u-U-u-u-u-u-u-U-uu-sh! The baby's head is crown-ing!


*cvish 6: Israel's super-fast toll road. You get on there and its like a time tunnel. Vooooom! 20 minutes and you're in Afula.