no shvong

I haven't posted in more than a little while because I'm a big fat white blob on the couch, one with crumbs at the corner of my mouth and crusty milk stains on my chin, one who feels that watching the biggest loser will somehow rub off on me and let me lose 75 pounds in 12 weeks even without Bob or Jillian shouting obseneties in my face, or even without ever setting foot on a treadmill. Ya. I'll let you know how that one goes.

For a while I was able to get my friend come over for some big love. She is the only other person in the world who gets as excited as I do about mormons, polygamists, prairie dresses and the fbi in one short sweaty breathless sentance. She would block off an hour in her outlook calendar and come over to the den of unemployment to see how Bill and Barb and Nikki and Margene where doing. But life has been getting in the way a little too often lately, and my friend has had to not come over for reasons her end, my end, or just because she went to wisconsin on holiday. Silly little things like that.

And so I miss the mormons and was therefore REALLY HAPPY when Oprah went down to theYearning for Zion ranch in Texas. The sharper pencils in the box will happen to know that Oprah did that oh, in about february...but when you live the otherside of the world, you find fedex takes its time delivering Oprah reels to second world countries.

Most people on the YFZ ranch hadn't even heard of Oprah. She was just some random black lady come by to ask funny questions like have you ever heard of somebody called Cinderella and Shrek and Shrek too. And people, as I lay on the couch and revelled in the world of totally brainwashed teenage girls, I at last felt complete. Until the credits rolled.

So what's next? I'm googling mormon underwear and hopefully I'll get my kicks in new temple undergarments.

rondayvoo at the beehive house

You know what it's like when you watch too much porn? And all of a sudden the world is a wierd, clothed place? And when you go to the bank or the hospital, nobody starts stripping off? Which is probably just as well because none of em are buff at all. But all the same it's wierd because you entered a parallel universe for a while where every secretary does her boss (male or female) and where everyone sunbathes nude in the backyard of their villa?

Well, that's what its like when my friend Pats and I watch Big Love. Pats becomes my sisterwife. Pats and I work hard to do what we can to ensure that our family will please our heavenly father and guarantee our family has a large area to picnic in the celestial afterlife. Pats and I are on top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation that we find is the love that we've found ever since HBO started making a primetime series about polygamy. We expect the rest of the world to behave in the same terms. And it's wierd because there is no prairie dress fashion to speak of in Israel.

Last night I watched The Source do a piece about Daniel Ambash. I guess polygamy isn't so far away afterall.

some people stand in the darkness, afraid to step into the light

After 70 days of unemployment, today I made it to the beach for only the second time. Honestly, people, I don't know what the hell I have been doing. I should have been there all this time. Because the beach is sublime. Our corner of the med has crystal clear waters, long sandy beaches, tiny little crabs, and Little Egrets. Little Egrets are cool because they have yellow feet which I absolutely love. You can just imagine how that darwin conversation went... "Bill! I dig your shoes man, where'd you get them from?" And the rest is a whole different species.

There's one thing about our beaches that you might not find in any other beach in the world. And that's a long segregated section that's for women onlyonly on sundays, tuesdays and thursdays, and for men on mondays, wednesdays and fridays. (Nobody gets saturday because the beach is "not in the spirit of shabbat".) The segregated section is literally separated from the rest of the beach by aluminium sheets from the cliffs to about 10 meters into the sea SO THAT NO-ONE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX CAN SEE YOU.

Now, today's thursday, so I was able to complete my walk to the next town up the beach and back by walking through the segregated section. And here's what I noticed...apart from the fact that there is a male security guard at either end of the beach, and that Israel doesn't actually have the budget to employ Pamela Anderson, Yasmine Bleeth, or Erica Eleniak (i.e. all the lifeguards are also male)...well, the women bathing there are covered from head to toe. Swimming caps, huge long smocks, and people, I kid you not...TIGHTS! This hardly screams 'day at the beach' to me. And seriously, if any man wanted to get off looking at women, he wouldn't go anywhere NEAR the segregated swimming, he would go to the public section of the beach where the israeli women wear so little, I'm pretty sure they don't even have areas where the sun don't shine.

So, people, I got a good tan off of the glare of someone else's ass, and plan on going back again next week. Don't tell my husband but...I don't ever want to work again.

scooby snacks

You know that in some countries there are commonly known gestures you use when driving? Like in England, flashing your headlights to let someone go ahead of you, or in Israel, flashing your headlights to let someone know they're driving too slow? So tell me, what's the signal for "bloody bursting for the toilet so move out of the fucking way and let me pass"?

Ever had that happen to you? You're driving but you don't seem to actually be getting anywhere because in terms of your bladder, you're nowhere.



Your whole ride home is like an assault course or an arcade game...avoid the bus pulling out, avoid the learner driver, avoid the stopped taxi, the old guy in the saloon who's driving at 20 in a 60... You are so damned desperate for the loo that you're actually starting to believe that if you hit another red light, you're going to go right there in the driving seat.

Eventually you get to the home stretch, past the last lights, two turnings from home, when....you get behind another old guy. He's not going slow by normal standards, but by this time your bladder cockpit warning system is screaming DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! You can't turn left at the T-junction because some dumbass not-concentrating soccer-mom in her 4x4 is speaking on her cellphone and coming. And then there's the gate. You have to phone to open the gate. Call not going through, call not going through. GAAAAH! Finally!

Get in the house, up the stairs, pants down, bum on the bowl...OH NO! FORGOT TO CLOSE THE FRONT DOOR!

cured

your kid annoys me

What I am about to tell you is something that most people won't ever dare utter. That's because they are way too polite. Not me though, for I am applauded in certain (small) circles for my general intolerance of the human race.

So, people, let me tell you openly and honestly that some of my friend's kids and kid's friends just ANNOY THE BEJAYSUS OUT OF ME.

Offensive behaviour, part #1:
When I pick YOUR DAMNED KID up to bring her home to our house to play with my kids, YOUR DAMNED KID dawdles. YOUR DAMNED KID insists on walking along the wall and refuses to have their hand held even though they might fall, while my kids almost run into the street because they are not dawdling. When I tell YOUR DAMNED KID to get down off the wall and hurry the hell up, YOUR DAMNED KID throws itself on the pavement in a huff. My precious kids get run over.

Back at the house, YOUR DAMNED KID blocks my kids' path and won't let them pass. YOUR DAMNED KID says something mean and my makes my kids cry. No, my kids are not wusses. YOUR DAMNED KID was being mean. YOUR DAMNED KID snatches toys from my kids. YOUR DAMNED KID hits my kids. YOUR DAMNED KID rips the bow off Hello Kitty's head. YOUR DAMNED KID won't sit where she's told as she can annoy my kid far better if she takes her place instead. YOUR DAMNED KID wants to wear every single item in the dressing up box. One. After. Another.

Offensive behaviour, part #2:
When I pick up YOUR DAMNED KID to take her to the swimming pool, YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't listen to a word I say. YOUR DAMNED KID won't wear a swimming cap in the pool. YOUR DAMNED KID want's my kid's goggles and my kid's rubber ring. YOUR DAMNED KID tells me I have a fat stomach and ass. I don't care if your fucking kid is 4.

YOUR DAMNED KID is whining because she doesn't want the popcorn or the grisini or the strawberries or the grapes I brought from home. YOUR DAMNED KID wants me to buy her an ice cream. YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't want the "guest towel". YOUR DAMNED KID want's my kid's towel. YOUR DAMNED KID has taken my kid's towel! YOUR DAMNED KID is hitting my kid because he's trying to get his towel back.

YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't wait for me before running off back to the swimming pool. YOUR DAMNED KID refuses to get out when it's time to go. YOUR DAMNED KID then disappears because she decided she would get out after all, and go in the oppostie direction to where we were sitting.

YOUR DAMNED KID wants to climb on the gate to get out. YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't want to get off the gate. YOUR DAMNED KID runs through the car park. YOUR DAMNED KID wants to sit in the seat in the car WHERE MY KID IS ALREADY SITTING. YOUR DAMNED KID is shouting in the lifts. YOUR DAMNED KID wants to take my kid's tin of chocolates home with her. YOUR DAMNED KID is throwing a tantrum because you've arrived and have to go.

Epilogue:
How did it go today, was she good?
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

summer time...and the living is easy

For a long time I was one of those people who moves somewhere and always dreams about going back to the motherland. I had my leaving speech for work all planned out. "I've always dreamed about going home...and now I am..." Then, about 3 years ago, we had the opportunity to move back. The husband was unusually gung ho about throwing our eggs into a basket and moving to England. The Emergency Exit was open. I could realise my dreams.

After some soul searching, I realised we were better off here. I reaslised. Not the husband. Me. Oh dear He-who-is-holy. The husband's assertations that he had actually improved my life, brought me into the fold of GOD'S CHOSEN PEOPLE, and had given me the coveted house-near-the-beach was all BLOODYMOTHERFUCKING true. (Pants.)

Which is why today, I get to drive 10 minutes down the road, park my car in the insider-knowledge car park, cross a bridge, and hey presto I am in Tel Aviv port.

Tel Aviv port is a really cool part of the city. Relatively new, and still developing, it went from being a dive of disused hangers and a couple of nightclubs, to a huge complex of restuarants, bars, hangers for events and weddings, shops, boutiques, ice cream joints, and most lovely of all, a huuuuge deck that they made emulate the rise and fall of the waves, and in the middle of which there is a huge sandpit. The deck is of course on the sea and if you stand at the right parts in the right weather, you can get showered in sea spray. Rocks.

This is the quality of life that you only get on holiday. Or if you live in LA. A carefree day spent between ice creams (and what ice creams! the best! apricot ameretto, halva-pistacio and melon-pineapple served over hot chocolate cake...) and the beach (yes, they have a couple of lil-beaches dotted about too). And as I look out on the twins jumping and frolicking in the surf with their friends, the water twinkling in the sunllight, no clouds spoiling any of it, I know that life is good. This is what we're here for. This is why we live in Israel with the bombs and the wars and the neighbours who don't like us so much. Its because we have a good life. The place gives you a hug, and you feel good. So good. Hell, I didn't even remember I was fired.

love...it hurts

so listen, these grandiose plans of mine, the ones to fuckin blog all the time...they are not working out as expected. Because the diary of the just-fired is a busy one. It's like preparation for retirement. I figure if I have ONE TASK to do in one day, that's enough to engage the WHOLE day. Got something at 12.00? Hell, there's no time to go to the pool beforehand, none at all.

This is DAY 3 of the unemployed.
Day 1, I was off doing something mysterious. I watched 4 feature-length films and two episodes of drama series's.
Day 2, I was supposed to go on a trip with the kindergarden, but the teacher nixed me at the last minute. A rage against this woman is long overdue, but I think it would be more productive to save it for city hall. This blog is my happy space! So instead, in the afternoon of day 2, I spent an hour discussing marital strife in front of a one-way mirror at Bar Ilan University. I told you, happy!

And then, somewhere on day 2, I happened to notice that when I lock my car, the driver's door ain't locking. This means a trip to the garage. A task for day 3!

There are some places where Israel differs so wildly from where I grew up that it really smacks me in the face. I mean, there are certain elements of living in Israel you get used to. Washing the dishes at 6pm when a blast rattles your windows. It could have been a bomb. Or a flyby. Either way, you just carry on. Having your car boot checked when you go into a parking lot or having your bag checked when you walk into just about every public place. Cars honking and drivers screaming at one another. These are wildly different to the Home Counties, but it's everywhere and I promise you you don't even notice it after a while.

Yes, I grew up a long way from here. In a different space and time. Which is why going to a garage in Pardes Katz is such an experience. If you live here, you'll already have an idea of what I mean. Because a garage is a garage in Israel. And you'll know Pardes Katz by reputation.

To be fair, I haven't been to any garages in England (that I can remember at least). But I'm pretty sure that they would comply with some basic minimum standards. Here, the garage is typically some kind of structure. Doesn't have to be a building. It might be corrugated iron built around a frame. There might be old road signs bent into shape to patch up a hole in the ceiling. They might have adapted the inside so there are a couple of nice-looking air-conditioned rooms, maybe there is just a kitchenette underneath some metal stairs. A ladder leads up to a room hiding behind someone's window blinds. In short, the place is a hotch potch of whatever materials came their way.

The head of the garage, Itzik, is Lord over all. He was not a wordy man. He removed the sidepanel of my door and diagnosed the "manoa" wasn't working. I probably should know the translation, but it made sense to me at the time. It looked like it might take some time so I went out to lunch with Gingy, my husband's best friend from High School. I haven't seen him in a while so it was a bit of a shock to see he now shaves off all his hair so there's actually not much point calling him "Gingy" any more. He's our insurance agent and he was facilitating my trip to the garage.

Gingy took me out to a pasta place down the road from the garage. This place also wouldn't exist where I grew up and . Plastic garden furniture chairs around plastic tables. Cheap cutlery washed by an apparantly cheap dishwasher. The building was also mostly a "structure". The pasta wasn't bad, but the place was crummy.

Back at the garage, Itzik and the hot mechanic are fiddling over my door-opening-device-box. (Hey, don't blame me for not speaking "garage"). It took them another hour6 hands to shave off a bit of plastic and to squeeze it back together. He got it working. I got going. Back to the safety of my luxury life where I actually have my own 4 walls and none of them are corrugated iron.

Yeow, I can't wait for Day 4.

going dental

First off, apologies for the suspension of services. We have been operating a British Rail style of Sunday Services and I closed the lines for a while while I have been ploughing through the 5 stages of GRIEF involved with change. Denial lasted a day, anger about 4 days, bargaining I wasn't too sure about, but now I am safely tucked in depression and enjoying the food immensely.

But that's not what this post is about.

As a young child, I went to a dentist in Aldershot called Mrs Bird. At least, I think that's what her name was. I remember her chin whiskers clearer than her name. She always said I had lovely teeth. When our family moved to Guildford, my mother found us a Polish dentist on the basis that anything Polish is by far superior. Dr Wilcienski was also a fan of my teeth. He lauded how I could be a poster child for british dentistry. Little did I know that the rest of the world scoffs loudly at british teeth, and that in fact we are well known for our dreadful teeth.

Dr Wilcienski never found anything wrong with my teeth. Even his wife, also a Polish dentist (who saw me one day when he was off) seemed to like my teeth, she might have gently chided me for eating too many kitkats but that was about it. X-rays that showed my wisdom teeth coming through had me off to an Australian dentist at the bottom of Farnham Road, but he didn't see the wisdom in taking them out and so I came to Israel with a full set of never-been-worked-on pearly whites.



3 months in and I went to a henne for some friends. I don't know if you've ever been to a henne, but they feature henna and sugared almonds. I cracked a tooth on one of the sugared almonds.

The husband took me to his father's private SUPER-DOOPER south african dentist in the poshest dental practice known to mankind. Nothing could have prepared me for the gasp that left his core before he had time to compose himself. He said that every single tooth in my mouth needed working on. His assistant concurred. His assistant also diagnosed receding gums. I think he was porking his assistant, but that was never proven and is slightly off-topic.

Lots of SUPER-DOOPER expensive tooth-work later, including root canal at his partner, Solly's, and I was ready to never see a dentist again.

But life isn't like that. A little while later, the wisdom teeth were coming through big time. By this time I was on Israeli healthcare and it was recommended by the mother-in-law to ditch SUPER-DOOPER and to move on to the more than adequate local healthcare.

It just so happened that the day my last two wisdoms were to be extracted there was a terrorist attack at a Pizza place in Jerusalem. Tooth removal collided with Israeli news-junkies. I spent a three-quarter hour appointment watching the same bloodied people wandering around and the same ambulance men shutting the door and banging it off to the hospital over and over. I thought I was going to die. No amount of prescribed mint ice-cream could make up for the trauma.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Time passed and the next tooth down cracked on something. I know what you're thinking but no. It can't have been another sugared almond because I wasn't at a henne since 1999, and haven't eaten any more sugared almonds since then. I had to get an emergency appointment and they are most receptive in Ramat Gan for those. The diagnosing dentist said the whole tooth would have to come out. I got another appointment for tooth extraction. After waiting for an hour after my appointment was supposed to be, a badass angry man in scrubs calls me into the dentist's chair. He had a score to settle. The battlefield: my mouth. He yelled at me more than once for shutting my jaw (you never can tell but you have a natural reflex to slowly close your jaw after flinging it wide open. Go figure.)

And when the tooth was out, I developed dry socket. I'd like to say it's the most painful thing EVER, but since then I've had an HSG, and that was BY FARRRRR the most painful thing EVER.
Still, the dry socket was pretty damn bad and caused me A LOT of trauma.

And so. I never go to the dentist unless something happens. Never go near the place. And, as could well be predicted for the poster girl of British teeth, in passover a wine gum married the corner of one of my fillings. So I had to bite the bullet and go. I booked an appointment and shared my terror with the receptionist. Oh yes, she says. I'll give you Dr Manor.

And when the time comes to meet Dr Manor, I am suprised to see he is a freshly shaven, dashing young dentist. The air fills with rousing music from the best romance film. He has to redo the filling. He understands my fear. He puts me at ease. I have 2 mirrors, 2 suctions and a drill going in my flung wide jaw, but I am calmed by his gentle breathing on my forehead. His hands are big and gentle, when he brushes my lips with his fingers or gently moves my jaw open a little wider, it's very sexy. He's drilling away but I'm thinking to myself that he must be good in bed. When he dries the filling, he leans forward and I can feel his chest on my head. I am filled with the fumes of his aftershave. He moves round and my elbow is leaning on his knee. *Le sigh*.

Too soon, it comes to an end. I'm trying to be cool about it, but I feel like a teenager. I've never had such a lovely dental experience. I must be the only person I know who has experienced stockholm syndrome with their dentist.

I'm going home now to check if we've got any wine gums left.

THE EXPERIMENT and its last ugly turn

Last week on Thursday the cubemate asked me if I wanted to get coffee. This is code for "lets talk about something secret". The cubemate told me that next week would be the end of his term. He was getting fired. Skeptical, I demanded evidence.

The cubemate had it all thought out. He'd made an erroneous error before passover and hadn't been called up on it even though everyone was mad. They only get mad at people who are in. When you're out, they don't care so much. Also, The Snake had sent him an email which only contained a screen capture of another one of his errors. And The Scientist had added him to Linked In.
He was out.

All day Thursday he nervously preceeded each phonecall with "It's THE CALL".

We got through Thursday and concluded that they would do it on Sunday.

On Sunday he was much calmer. He was already tasting life on the outside. Again, all day he was disappointed when he answered THE CALL and it was only The Co-ordinator.

I went home as usual. At 4.45 there was an invitation to a meeting at 9.30 the following morning. The title: "updates".

In big corporations, "updates" is code for someone got fired/some shit is going down. If you haven't been fired before the meeting, you're ok. Most of the time, of course.

The next morning, no-one is doing any work. Everyone is huddled around in threes and fours discussing "updates". No-one knows of anyone who was fired. It must affect us all. At 9.10 I get a call from a former employee who was apparantly-accidentally sent an email by The Scientist saying that he was fired. So maybe it doesn't affect us all. The Scitentist's salary alone could save the division! In the toilets there's a whole bunch of women discussing the 9.30.

In the meeting, we are wooed by our charismatic leader and the gum-chewing nutjob from Canada. Difficult market blah blah, affected by the recession blah blah, not the core focus of company strategy blah blah, tried everything we could blah blah, but left with no alternatives blah blah, closing the division. Lots of people ask questions pertaining to the "tried everything we could" part. We are reminded to come to work on Thursday. And to keep it quiet. Oops. I've already sms'd a live feed and have people in england who know about it by now.

The aftershock: everyone who had drunk the koolaid* is flabbergasted. How can this be? What went so wrong? After 29 years here, WHAT are they going to do now???

Not me though, I'm alright. I've been fantasing about this for months! I'll be able to do all the things I've been putting off for years. And get a base-tan, tan-tan, and an after-tan. And I can't WAIT to blog about the Israeli unemployment office!

Best of all, I'm free of the EXPERIMENT. I can go and join a new one. But first, lazy summer days at the beach.


*It has come to my attention that not everyone if familiar with this expression. If you're not, use the comments.

subtelties of cross-cultural animal sounds

A typical conversation around the dinner table:

AnguBogu: Look, I've got a frog.
Mummy: What do frogs say?
AnguBogu: Quack quack.
Mummy: Ducks say Quack. What do frogs say?
AnguBogu: Quack quack.
Mummy: No, thats what ducks say. Frogs say "ribbit ribbit".
AnguBogu: Quack quack.
Mummy: No, ribbit ribbit.
AnguBogu: Quack quack.
Mummy: Look boy, you're never going to make it in the real world if you go around saying frogs say quack. Thats Israeli. I'm trying to teach you things so you're not going to look stupid out there. Frogs say ribbit.
AnguBogu: Quack quack.
Mummy: [clenches teeth, lowers chin] ribbit ribbit.
AnguBogu: [clenches teeth, lowers chin, moves lips around trying to nail correct aggression level] Quack quack.
Mummy: RIBBIT RIBBIT!
AnguBogu: QUACK QUACK!
Mummy: Ribbit.
AnguBogu: Quack.
Mummy: Ribbit.
AnguBogu: Quack.
Mummy: RIBBIT.
AnguBogu: QUACK.
Mummy: Eat your food.

i eat too much

So I’ve been thinking about pedophiles. I think I can understand where they’re coming from. (If this alone is enough to inspire you into hate mail, please do leave a ranting comment).

I imagine it must work like this: They get an urge. Probably when they’re out at the park and see a little child playing or something. Then their brain gets to thinking. I want me some of that. Their brain doesn’t stop sending these thoughts. They can’t get them out of their head. The thoughts become all-consuming. Must. Have. A child’s ass. The thoughts and physical urge flood their veins and pervade every atom in their body. Maybe they try to control it by trying to focus themselves on something else. Ah but look at the ducks! Lovely ducks! Not as lovely as that 6 year old over there though. Doomed to failure, they can’t control it. It’s agony until they get what they want. Maybe they get it that day. Maybe they don’t. But they are overcome by the WANT to have it.

I know this because I feel the same way about food. Internet, I confess that My name’s zebra, and I’m an addict.

I like food. Not just any food. Don’t want none of that healthy salad shit. Legumes, be gone! Don’t be waving that lettuce leaf at me. I need some crap, and I want it now. I have to physically restrain myself from going and getting something crap to eat. To prevent myself from gorging between meals (the gorging becomes the meal). It might be crisps, it might be a marmite sandwich. It might be chocolate or biscuits. Or wine gums. Or mini eggs. Or a croissant. Or bread. Once I fix on something, its very hard to forget it. It taunts me. It calls to me.

I can totally identify with the pedophile. I suppose it’s the same for serial killers, druggies, and alcoholics. If they feel the way I do when I know I’ve got a packet of m&m peanuts stashed in the cupboard, the longing teeming through their veins, the way the thoughts of a sweet reward pervade every thought I have, making it impossible to concentrate, well…I’m get that. I do.

I am not a pedophile, a serial killer, or an alcoholic. But I get addiction.

where's zebra?

Next time I post, I hope to be answering this burning question.

feckin hilarious

"I once bought a very nice and special גמד גינה (garden gnome) in Amsterdam, and tied it to the olive tree with an iron chain…and he stayed there quietly for a few years until my boys played football in theחצר (yard) and decapitated it :-)"

talking of slough…

One brilliant sitcom to come out of the uk (one of many, obviously) is The Office. Class.

And then they took it to America and butchered it. I know Americans who love it. For me though, watching it is like having my eyelids forcibly pulled apart and stabbing dirty butter knives into my eyes.

And yet I now hear they intend to bring it to Israel and do an Israeli version. But there is no Israeli like Gareth. Everyone’s been in the army for a start. No-one has a company pub quiz night. No comic relief. And nobody here would ever put someone else’s stapler into jelly. Its doomed to fail already.

Having said that, there is plenty of material to make an extremely funny sitcom out of being a technical writer at a big American corporation in Israel. For example, a typical day starts like this:


Oh yes. I work in a department where the “start up” mentality reins supreme. Its all about fires, covering our asses, and damage control. Usually in documentation because I am the last pit stop.
Example: I pulled this off last year’s Stupidest Things Ever Said wall calendar:


This is exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about. The “oops shit, we’ve already programmed it and closed the application” thought. Quickly followed by “it’ll be ok, we’ll cover our asses in documentation”.

And while you may snigger, I see this and feel the TW’s pain. This is what they’re doing while they’re professionally massaging the text so that it resembles some sort of sane and logical grammatically correct English: …mumble mumble…This is sooooo stupid…mumble mumble…ruining our reputation…mumble mumble…gonna look like fools…mumble mumble…FOOLS, I tell you! …mumble mumble…Feckin IDIOTS…mumble mumble…Bunch of fucking fuckwits…

And later, getting a coffee while PDFing the offensive document: …mumble mumble…IDIOTS!!!!

For more material, remind me next time to tell you all about Israel’s technical writing conventions!!!!

she has a nice ass...

t5

For the observant among you, I have been away. I went back to the motherland for what I'd call a weekend. Someone from work called it a honeymoon. In that case I'd call it a rip off.

So here you are, a Twitteresque feed of the flight home:
19.38 check in. You have to do it by computer. Fumble around looking for booking ref, BA frequent flyer card.
19.45 fast bag drop. Not fast. Bag, no! ~the lady was lovely@! And the drop more like strained thump. Bag is 28 kilos. 25 pounds please.
19.50 queuing up to pay for excess baggage. At least BA then take it off your hands. My therapist makes me take it home with me.
19.55 still queuing. Arab mother and daughter who speak no English can’t work out what they’re doing. Keith behind desk having a problem with the airlock chute.
20.00 all ok. Decide to enter duty free lounge from the other end. After a long walk, realize other entrance is for first class only. It’s like you’re back at school and been rejected by all your peers. You’re just not good enough. Did you think you were good enough?
20.10 Back down at the plebs end, long queue.
20.20 After queue jumping a large Chinese family to passport control, now waiting in line for x-ray.
20.35 Everybody else’s cosmetics are in a plastic bag. Mine were checked luggage. Everyone else has taken off and are carrying their high heels. My shoes are still on foot. I am not a lady.
20.36 It occurs to me that actually I have overpaid for a second ticket on this flight, one which we are not using since my husband preferred a Malev to Budapest, and that in fact, BA OWE ME!!!! Or at least I should have a free seat next to me. I am such a MUG!
20.40 Felt up by security after beeping through. When I asked her if it was good for her, she doesn’t laugh. She must get that a lot. Cringe.
20.50 I’ve bought 2 books (one chick lit and one on mormon polygamy) (i love mormon polygamy!), chocolate, water, and a sandwich.
20.51 Find the comfy sofas and read til its time to board the flight.
22.00 Boarding. Find seat. Look at lady in front of me who is wearing a bandanna weirdly. That bitch has the empty seat that belongs to my husband next to her!
22.10 My neighbour arrives. I look up briefly. That woman in front is holding a dead long-haired rat in the safety information card. Confused. Back to Marian Keyes.
22.30 We’re in the air. I look down at London (well, more possibly, Slough). It looks gorgeous. Don’t know when I’ll be back here again. Feel my guts wrenched out of me and falling away to the ground below.
22.31 Shut eyes. Sleep.
05.05 Frantic rubbing of arm. Through blur can see non-gay air steward. SEAT. BACK. UPRIGHT.
05.10 As soon as you can make out Reading, you can work out where everything else is. EXCEPT FOR I HAVE THE WING BLOCKING EVERYTHING IN MY VIEW. And we’re coming in slightly further south than other landings. We fly over Ramat Gan.
05.15 Landed. Everybody up (this is Israel! We never wait until the aircraft is safely docked at the gate!) Woman in front is WEARING her long haired rat. Oh, so she’s religious.
05.38 After a long hike, arrive at passport control which is typically heaving BUT OF COURSE NOT TODAY because I finally did the hand identification passport control on the way out to save myself the queue….AND THERE IS NO BLOODY QUEUE!
05.39 Brain can't work out how to do the hand press. Eventually get it on 4th attempt: one must squeeze one's fingers together.
05.45 Collecting the duty free we bought on the way out. Cigarettes, check. Hair straighteners, check. Bug box, check. What the hell was in that bug box? Its covered in ladybirds and Amit will later ask me if the box is full of ladybirds. Yes, dear, your father and I thought it would be best to buy a box of ladybirds.
06.00 Taxi home. I am quiet. Taxi driver has the urge to talk. Taxi driver explains that he has to work a 14 hour shift in order to put food on his table. The first 8 hours he works he doesn’t actually make any money on. Compare it to a black cab, he says, he charges a third of the price. He blames the government. I really care. He gets a 5 shekel tip.
06.20 Key in lock. Home.

my life would suck without you

p.s. i can't get kelly clarkson out of my brainspace this morning.

you gotta pieeeeeece of meeeeee...

i reaslise if i were a man, a dodgy wrist would produce titters from my peeps

My friend Ora has been hitted by some carpel tunnel in her wrists and for the last couple of days, I have too. Although with me, its unlikely to be the repetitive typing or the sitting at the computer for hours on end. Mine can be blamed on:
1. Lifting Le Cruesset with your left hand
2. Performing front support in Pilates
3. Being a dumbass

Its a serious disability. I am unable to do CTRL+T, CTRL+E, or even any work that doesn't involve surfing.

And so, I am off to the .uk tonight to get off of my wrist. And there, I will complain about the cold and how its affecting my joints. You can take the girl out of Britain...

it's just another manic sunday

Reading the post of my friend’s drive to work has inspired me to describe my own journey from duvet to cube…

5.30 Alarm goes off. Try to get out of bed as quickly as possible to shut it up. Trip over small body entwined in my arms and the covers, and the slippers on the floor while the alarm, which is in my phone on the other side of the room to save my brain from night radiation (by order of the husband) is getting progressively louder and singing Mr Big Stuff…who do you think you are?

5.31 Alarm on snooze, phone radiating next to my head. NOT taking chances again.

5.31 Turn around and look at bed. No room to get back in as the small body is now taking up my half of the bed.

5.32 After moving small body to center, get in the side but by this time there isn’t enough of the duvet to cover my backside. Shiver.

5.39 Snoozed alarm strikes again. On a normal day, it would be shut up again. Today I have to work as long as possible before leaving early so I get up.

5.40 Stumble into bathroom. Relieve myself. Bring into focus heap of clothes on floor. Other small person obviously wet the bed.

5.42 Stumble into the washing machine. Literally. Stub toe. Cram in duvet, sheet, pjamas. Put on the hold cycle.

5.44-5.46 Bathroom stuff (contact lenses).

5.46-5.55 Standing in wardrobe trying to figure out costume for the day. Look for a particular jumper. Come across a different jumper bought at the beginning of winter that I forgot the existence of. Decide it’s too thin. Keep looking for clothes.

5.57 Start ignition in car. Drive round to gate. Fumble around for phone. Call the gate. Gate pretends it can’t see or hear me. Phone pretends it hasn’t got enough reception to make the call. Vvvvvvvvv down the window. Wave phone at the outside world. Call goes through; gate opens.

Left out of the parking ramp. Next left at newly landscaped central reservation of entrance to neighbourhood. Nice flowers and pebbles. Do I see them? No, I’m on mission: get to work. Also, it’s still nautical dawn.

Right at the bottom. Quick look left to check no-one’s coming. Arguably, that should have been done first. Next traffic lights are red. This early, there’s no reason for them to be. La la la, wait for no-one coming from the other direction to cross our side of the road. They don’t. The lights go green and I floor it.

Pass the dragon petrol station (realizing I have an eighth of a tank, I’ll fill up later) and right onto road 5. Weeeeeeeeee going down the ramp and coming up to cruising altitude of 130kph.

Notice that the skies are beautiful: a ribbon of golden light between the hills above Qasam village and where the clouds start (since the sun hasn’t risen yet).

Break suddenly when I notice the police. But they’re not noticing me so its ok. (Are they reversing on a motorway?! If I get fired, I am applying to the force.)

06.07 Drive into the still dark underground parking to take my usual spot. Yay! Nobody’s taking it today!

06.08 Clock in. Go up to the 5th floor.

06.09 Put the kettle and lights on.

06.10 Arrive at cubicle. Another week has begun.

Is life beautiful? Yes, because its monotonous, predictable, and nobody will notice I was 8 minutes late.

trust me on the sunscreen

good toes, naughty toes

My daughter was in danger of getting KICKED OUT of ballet class at age 4 and a half, which is quite a record for our family to be getting kicked out of something. The charges: disturbing the peace and being a public nusiance. And so, I was requested to go down for a lesson to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't get up to any mischief.

When I was her age, I was also taking ballet lessons. For all the good it did me. I think I was the least uncoordinated ballet dancer in the history of bad ballet dancers. I failed my grade one ballet and never went back, much to Mrs Demerick's disappointement. I was crap but she had great hopes for me. In the exam, the school hall roof was leaking and I was placed next to the bucket. I didn't kick the bucket although I did slip on the wet floor a few times. I know it sounds like an excuse, but honestly, I would have been brilliant if it wasn't for rain that day.

Watching Shaili today, I can see the striking family resemblance. She can't bend over and touch her toes, she can't sit with her legs stretched in front of her and fold her top half down on her legs. Her first position is alright, but they get increasingly dodgy from there... Don't ask about the arabesque.

However, she was really very well behaved. I was impressed at her trying. And she's really good at point and flex, which I know as good toes and naughty toes. Maybe she won't be the next Darcy Bussel, and most likely she won't be in any west end chorus, but good for her for trying and not getting kicked out!

le vent

This morning I was late into work. We’ve already discussed my fondness for being just plain lazy, so I am sure you can appreciate that when the alarm goes off every molecule in my body presses itself with all its might as far downwards as it can go, ensuring that the gravity on my body is about 300 times the strength of normal gravity, rendering me unable to get up.

My good friend from the third floor and I, we go way back as early morning arrivers. We aim for 6. She usually makes it. I usually don’t (not in the winter anyway). Its not because we hold a masochistic bone in our bodies. It’s not because we love our jobs THAT MUCH. It’s because we have a condition. It’s called FEAR OF TRAFFIC.

Its not that we are frightened of the lunatics on the road, although there are certainly enough of those about. The statistics in Israel have road accident deaths higher than the numbers killed in wars. The number of times I have had a near-death-experience because of a dumbass is uncountable. Well, it’s probably once that I came REALLY near to death. All other times I would have merely enjoyed a nice prolonged stay in the hospital. But no, its not really because of that at all. Its because we can't stand getting stuck behind some slow mofu or being second at the lights. My girl and me, we like to drive fast!

Another advantage of getting in early to work is that the parking lot is god’s chocolate box and you get first pick! I don’t even have to be awake to throw a swing to the left, a swing to the right and then ta-da! I am in the perfect spot with my head pointing the right way, close to the lifts and yet first row for minimal fuss at getting out again at the end of the day. It totally rocks. But come in a bit later and…you forfeit the right to a good spot.

So this morning, I was only a little late, but most of the drive-in good spots had already been taken. As luck would have it, my regular spot was free! I couldn’t drive in in the normal way because I had already gone down the lane that would get me in from the other side, and besides, some dork had parked his car in the spot to the rear. So, I started to position myself for a reverse-in maneuver which is not easy when you have posts directly opposite the spot. That was when I noticed I had an audience. There, off to my right, was a lurking car. Stopped. Engine running. Dark figure at the wheel. I am not a champion parker but if there’s one thing that will definitely throw off my game it’s an audience. So in order to get a better angle and to let the lurker pass, I pulled into the disabled spot diagonally opposite the target.

I could see him thinking “stupid woman driver” as he lurks past. But then he stops just past the target spot. WTF? There are no more spots around here! Very strange. As I start to reverse towards my target, I see that he is also attempting to reverse in a 90° angle into MY TARGET SPOT! WTF!!!! I stop and I hand gesture to him that I am going in that spot. He vvvvvmms down his passenger window. “What?” he asks me oh-so-innocently.

SHEESH!

I shouted that it was really not nice, not nice at all. But he didn’t think so and continued reversing. Asshole.

I decided to cut my losses. After all, we get paid from the time we clock in, not from the time we spend fighting over a parking spot in the car park. Not to mention that such childish behaviour is way below the likes of me! So I went around, got another spot (further away from the lifts, but still front row). Even with the extra 10 metres I made it into the lifts before him because by this time he had complicated his parking what with his 90° attempt and the opposite posts. Stupid man driver.

His smelly car was still in MY spot when I left for the day and so I scrawled YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE in big lipstick letters on his windscreen and haven't stopped feeling good about it since.

by the pricking of my thumbs...

…I feel a post coming on! Today is Purim, the Jewish festival of costumes and of doing the exact opposite of what you usually do. Not unlike Hallowe’en, it has morphed into a dressing up day and nobody can really remember why. Hey, that’s not true. Half this country is filled with religious folks who take the reading of the gospel according to Esther muy seriously. Just not me.

Like any self-respecting heebie-jeebie holiday, this is about triumph over adversity and kicking the pants off of ancient nazi oppressors. This time there was some Persian dude who wanted all the Jews dead. We celebrate him by eating OZNAI AMAN, which the cleaners put out in the coffee corners of each floor on brightly colored tablecloths for a time window of 1 hour 15 minutes. At 11.15, the ears are gone and the tablecloths are neatly folded away ready for next year. As I’ve hinted, OZNAI AMAN are, translated, “ears of amman”. Not eating all the ears in the capital of Jordon, no. Aman was literally the dude’s name. The capital of Jordon may well have been named after him, I don’t know, and you can verify the yay or nay of it over on Wikipedia. So these oznai aman, they are the dude’s ears, as represented by some thick triangle of pastry wrapped around poppy-seed jam. Woah. That is some serious ear-wax, dude!

Warning: May contain a dead dude's ear wax.

This morning as I was eating an ear and idly procrastinating about doing some work (yeah, I wasn’t very good at doing the opposite of what I normally do, I admit), I received this on my mobile phone from a number that is not in my phone book:


I had to squint a bit but that’s got a striking resemblance to my daughter. As the policecop in me rose to the surface (those black tracksuit bottoms were at the top of her bottoms pile in her drawer yesterday, so it would make perfect sense that her daddy dressed her in them today, so yes that definitely is my daughter…), I started to be alarmed. Has somebody kidnapped my daughter and is sending me a proof of life photo? Are they demanding a huge lump sum due to be left at the end of a long deserted driveway in the middle of a dark and stormy night? Are they intending to pull off her toenails if I don’t cough up? I’m also worried about the background. As in, “We’ve got a bouncy castle full of zoo animals, and we’re not afraid to use it!” Is she about to be stomped to death by an inflatable zebra?

I calmed down when I got this one:

~ at least her brother’s with her.

Another way of celebrating is by drinking until you can no longer distinguish between the phrases, arur aman ("Cursed is aman") and baruch mordechai ("blessed is mordecai"). Pass the port, dear, the kids won’t be home tonight!

living in a post-funeral fuzz

The blog hiatus was in part due to lack of inspiration. There’s something about winter that makes me want to crawl under a duvet and sleep. Spring, summer, and autumn too, come to think of it. The animals do it and its called “hibernation”. For humans it’s called “just plain lazy”. Anyway, any moment I am not under my duvet I am actively angry about not being there, wishing I was there, and making telepathic love connections with my pillow (Rrrrrr).

The other part was that I took an unscheduled trip back to England for my grandmother’s funeral. Travelling there through Tilford, Runfold, and Crooksbury Hill was a weird time warp because that was my stomping ground around age 4. It all looks same-same but different. I didn’t remember that I remembered swimming in the River Wey at Tilford. The river looked cold.

I’ve gotten used to Israeli burials so a half hour service at Aldershot crematorium was…different. I think it probably would have been a good scene in a film if I hadn’t been directly involved.

To be fair, the service was quite pretty. My aunt and I had been all over the Surrey & Hampshire countryside clipping bits of pussy willow, catkins, and rosemary for the flowers which my aunt arranged in 3 oasii from Forest Lodge Garden Centre to go on the top of the coffin. (If there’s one thing Surrey is proud of, it’s garden centres!) My aunt can kick the asses of most florists. I was there for the creation of the order of service so I knew what was coming. My cousin held her own reading from John. I studied John at school so I know all about the way the truth and the life. Too bad I became a Jew so now I’m forced to stick my fingers in my ears and go la-la-la when I hear the mention of the lord Jesus Christ who died for our sins and to make sure we get a place in heaven. (Looks like I should la-la-la louder, ah?) My Dad cracked during his address and there was not a dry eye in the house.

But all that wouldn’t cut it in Hollywood, no. What would cut it would be the stuttering, paper-shuffling, in-his-eighties vicar. That was pretty good because I couldn’t really understand what he was saying, apart from when he repeated the reading my cousin just did. But the best bit, the highlight of his audition, was undoubtedly the way he pressed the button for the (cheesy, faded, ugly) curtains to close on the coffin, and then held up his hand to wave her off. Randy would have been down with the dawg. Paula would have thought he was beautiful. Simon’s only criticism that he had not chirped “Coo-ee, Nana (see you on the other side)!”

My relationship with my grandmother could have been better. But I was young, my father was a son, my mother didn’t like her in-laws, and my brothers and I had a healthy interest in the sport of taking the piss. But we can’t regret the past now. My Dad said it’s a different country. And my visa’s expired.

And when I got back home, the husband was asking why Nana was cremated. I couldn’t come up with anything better than “because everyone does it”. Is burial so expensive? Then I started to think that maybe I’ll be the only family member with a commemorative stone in the world. Just please make sure I’m really dead first. So that I didn’t watch The Vanishing (original Dutch version) for nothing.

most of them speak for themselves...

Undoubtedly the best email I received recently was this one full of reading suggestions:



I have to admit, I don't really get this one. Dora isn't famous for being a slut and while there is an insect fanfare after every level, I've never seen a baby in that backpack. Oh well.


Actually I don't get this one either. I debated leaving it out. Maybe its an amerian book and americans will scream with laughter. Maybe.



Well put.




True enough.




An important lesson inside.

two bars of chocolate and a packet of crisps

A while ago I started a diet. I didn’t want to, but my waistline said otherwise. So I made a commitment to follow a well-known diet for a month. It went well and I pushed on for another month. But inevitably the other shoe dropped. Momma got bored of watching what she ate. Momma’s weight went the wrong way one week. Momma got depressed about it and let all hell break loose. Momma wanted chocolate, Momma got chocolate. Momma wanted peanuts, Momma got peanuts.

At the end of that week, Momma forced herself to face the NAKED TRUTH and stepped up on the scales to assess the damage. Momma set the conditions so that the best possible case scenario would be reflected on the scales: first thing in the morning, naked, and AFTER pee-pee. Momma exhaled and stood on the scales. No. Change. No change! I gorged myself for a week, and…de nada! Wow that feels good! So good I feel like grabbing Mottle’s hand and running dancing into the woods out back of Anatevka…wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles!

This week I am definitely going to be good. The little god of bathroom scales has granted me a second chance. A chance to put things right and make good with my life. I daren’t let him down because otherwise next week he will definitely shout at me.

you're going on the naughty step

I watch a lot of little angels and supernanny shows. It never fails to make you feel better about being a parent. The people they have on that show are DISASTERS at being parents! Their kids run riot and scream and destroy things and the parents have no clue. No control. They don't see that their whole household is run by their 2 year old. Mine isn't, so I'm doing good.

But when the telly goes off, things are far from perfect. Why are there toys scattered over every bit of floor space in the apartment? Why is there an ikea igloo where the coffee table should be? Why are four and a half year olds still not dressing themselves and drinking out of sippy cups? Ooooooops.

Thats the problem with our generation. Our parents were brought up strictly. They brought us up more relaxedly. And we just want to be friends with ours. We need to be taught how to parent. Also, where women burned bras to free them from the confines of running the household and pushing us into equality in the workplace (not that that ever fully worked out), they actually burned us here 50 years down the line. Because society has shifted, you need 2 incomes to maintain a decent quality of life. But men are still perceived as the breadwinners and women are still supposed to take care of the kids, mostly after working a full day of work. You come home ragged and getting through the evening with tired kids can be a real shlep.

Supernanny's mantra is simple (so the voiceover guy says): punish the bad behaviour and reward the good.

Yeah, I try that. I'm probably better at the punishing than the praising. I think that I've successfully implemented only one thing from watching supernanny. Yes, at least they wipe their own asses. I'm in a post-modernist nirvana.

if he hadn't been waiting for his ride, he never would have stopped at the bakery. and then my day in food wouldn't be a complete write off

My cubemate is an evil little mofu. It all started yesterday when he brought in some chocolate chip cookies from Inglish Keik (they don’t spell it like that. On their behalf, I do. They pronounce it like that, and you’d never find a Victoria sponge in there). I caved and had a chocolate chip cookie before lunch. Yeah, I have long known that I have no self-control whatsoever.
Then after lunch, FOR SURE I was going to have another one for dessert. It would be rude not to! And you know, the one just wasn’t enough…

I managed to hold myself in the rest of the afternoon at the mall, but as soon as I walked through the door at 6pm, I was ravenous. Like a nervous addict, I approached the fridge. The salami got it. I opened the cupboard. The cashews were too salty so the peanuts took a big bashing. I must have had about three hundred THOUSAND peanuts. And at this point, I must confess, I knew that the food was on its way! The husband was out slaying a noodle mammoth. The husband came home to find a baseball bat in his face and was mugged and robbed and stripped of all consumables before he had even put the key in the lock. I left him in the hallway for the neighbours to take care of. I was busy ripping the sellotape off my VEGVEG and smoothing my chopsticks. I gorged. One gyoza and half the VEGVEG later, I was done. Satisfied.

Until I remembered the mother in law had left a home-made chocolate cake…

dum de dum nothing to do

I went shopping yesterday. Killing time, really. Now that the babysitter is firmly in place giving me free time, I’m actually at a loss as to WHAT EXACTLY to do with the extra time. Sure, there are a gazillion things I could do, but most of them involve being at home and in bed. And definitely not things to squeeze into an hour.

So I dragged my sorry ass around the mall. Devoid of actually needing anything, I wandered aimlessly as a cloud. I checked out skirts for baby girl zebra. I checked out books for baby boy zebra. I checked out Fox’s new summer collection. It looks like they have given up any hope of winter actually coming at all this year and have decided to push on through to strappy tops and shorts. I actually heard the shop assistant breezily insisting to a man (obviously a man) that three-quarter length trousers could be worn day to day even now. Outside it was very windy and rather chilly. And I’m significantly more laissez-faire than most Jewish mothers and never have my kids wear vests.

I left the mall with a clean car, hair clips, and spongebob squarepants toothpaste. And I still had 45 minutes left to kill. I’m going to have to be a lot more inventive on Thursday because we sure as hell won’t need any more toothpaste.

busy day at the polls

Yesterday we went to the polls. We were confronted with this:
(source)
One of 31 parties or a white slip. If you read hebrew you'll be able to tell that you had the option to vote for the PUTZ party or even the FUCK(H) party.

It took me at least 5 minutes to locate the paper slip I’d decided on. Some people felt that I would be better suited to use this:


And at the end of the day…it was the most useless election ever. Nobody to vote for and nobody won. And certainly not the people I voted for. They didn’t get ANY seats. I think it would have been easier had we had an african american candidate.

At least we got the day off work. We went to see Madagascar 2. Except here it’s pronounced "Mad-gas-car Shty-mm". And with that you get "pop-koren". Oh! The injustice of watching animation starring the vocal talents of Ben Stiller, Chris Rock, Jada Pinkett Smith, David Schwimmer, Sacha Baron Cohen, Cedric the Entertainer, Bernie Mac, and Alec Baldwin cut out in favour of some Hebrew no-namers! I’ve had to check on the IMDB today to see what funny bits I missed. They don’t even sing “I like to move it move it”. They sing “I move my bottom bottom”. Yes they do. You can’t make this stuff up!

I wanted to watch Bolt but it was vetoed. Incidentally, that's pronounced “Boll-et”.

exterminate! exterminate!

Ram hash. Home of smiling children, strawberries, and daleks.

looking hot when you're as frazzled as the bacon in a greasy spoon breakfast

The other night I was invited to the home of one of the other-mothers-from-the-kindergarten who was having an other-mothers-from-the-kindergarten evening. And here's the thing about my neighbourhood: the men are ugly but rich enough to sponsor a trophy wife.

Most women in my neighbourhood are faltzani frechot trophy wives which loosely translated means nouveau-riche tart trophy wives. I am not a trophy wife. For starters, I am too tall and lollop in comparison to all the little tight-ass skinny bitches that strut around here. Also, I am proportionally larger. OK, I'm FAT. Too fat for the skin-tight low-cut midriff baring clothes that are sold around here. I'm a fake blond but I don't make it straw-shade or fan it every other day. Besides, my husband says my hair looks like a bush. My fingernails do not pass the ends of my fingers. And I have a job. No self-respecting trophy wife would work! Even worse, I work full-time and have a permanently ragged look about me. I wear one uniform outfit all the time. (And it's black!). For the trophy wife, it's all about pedicures, manicures, hairdressers, massages, facials, gyms, and lying in bed when your kids get home while your full time babysitter tends to their needs. And yet I have a complex that I am looked at as if I should be a trophy wife. I am what my husband brought back from overseas! Imported product! I should be better than the rest of the trophy wives because I am the foreign trophy wife. But my trophy wife career was nixed on my first trip to Israel. I am not an agile dancer. Mr. Zebra-to-be's friend's girlfriend noticed this to the soundtrack of It's Raining Men on my second night and told her gagging-for-it friend that he was fair game. Gagging-for-it made a point of sitting between us at the 5am coffee shop stop. Friend's girlfriend has not stopped paying since.

But, I digress.

So I went to the evening with the following attendees:
A.M. Normal.
A.S. Along the path to the fiery pits of faltzanidom hell. Has one of those minature white is-it-a-dog-is-it-a-rug? dogs. But sweet, funny, and chatty. Has a nicely decorated apartment and puts on a good spread.
M. Wears big sunglasses. Indoors. At 9pm.
I. Thin. Wears leather trousers. Summer holidays on a yacht off Croatia.
Absent was R. who is so far away from the pits of nouveau riche hell that she is off the charts. Her kid gets HAND ME DOWN CLOTHING for godsakes and even I turn my nose up at that. The evening was her idea and I probably wouldn't have gone except for occasionally I discipline myself that jedi mothers also need to socialize and that going to bed at 9pm does make me a bit of a Norman no-mates hermit.

And so, I knew ahead of time that it wouldn't be the most riveting evening of my life. But I like A.M. and A.S., and think that M. is quite humorous. I. was very reasonable at her son's birthday party when a total bitch trophy wife told me I should look after my daughter as she was trashing I.'s house. I. said not to worry, the most important thing was to enjoy the party.

Despite that when I arrived I saw Celine Dion in concert in the living room, the evening went well. We made a pact to sign our kids to the same gan next year. (Do my children know I am divining the course of their lives by choosing their friends behind their backs?? Who cares!). We bitched about the teacher and how stupid she is. What with classic lines such as…"I'm glad your kid got hurt on my day off! I wouldn't have known what to do with him what with all that blood gushing everywhere"…we had a lot to go on.

Everyone shared something. It was about bread rolls, Dudu being on his second marriage, bitching about the country club owners (you see, nouveau-riche. Not only are you a member of a country club, you are posh enough to bitch about the owner!) and I. locking her kids in the yacht every evening on holiday and going out drinking in Croatia.

You know, bitch-troll-skinny-bitch-nouveau-riche-tart-trophy-wives are ok when you break them down for an evening. They lose their evilness and move down the scale and become ok. It helps that sitting down there is no strutting. I will never be a trophy wife. I'm lucky if I get to the hairdresser once a year. I'm not allowed to give up my job. Nop, I am not a trophy wife. But then I will never lock my kids on a yacht for a Croatian martini either.

welcome, cilaprex googlers!

Maybe its time to invite all those people who google Cilaprex into the blog. Quite a lot of you come here. And from all over the world. Even arab nations! (beware, you might self-combust because you are reading something coming out of Israel! You have been warned! Avert your eyes!!). My doctor prescribed me Cilaprex because I went to her complaining that I am always stressed out and evil.

Honestly, I didn't really take much Cilaprex so I can't give you much guidance. I prefer to take denial and then watch the side-effects wreak havoc on my homelife due to stress triggered by my day job and useless husband. Was he shouted at because he was useless, or useless because I shouted at him? Chicken. Egg. Useless I tell you.

The best cure is laughter. And I've been laughing today. Out loud! Here's some laughs I wanted to share with you:
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2005/11/searching-for-salvation-or-salivation.html
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2006/07/searching-far-and-wide.html
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2008/10/searching-for-big-bird.html
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2009/01/crap-i-drank-yesterday.html

(these are the kind of blog posts that are so good, they encourage me to curl up into a ball under a rock and die in a minute dust cloud of unworthiness). Hats off to you, Johnny Virgil!

Then there's the news I've been looking at:
Do "men" realize they rolled up a Viking into that ball?

And the news I was fed in an expat newsletter:

I'd be confused! I once slowed down to speed limit for a cardboard cutout police car. But we've already established I'm a criminal (see here).


For the person who has everything. But do they have a moss bathmat grown with their own roll off body water??


There's something about the "it has emerged" ... did the illegal immigrants suddenly emerge from some wheelie bins outside Acton Town Pizza Hut?!

And the last thing that made me laugh was myself!
In response to an article written by a man who was headed back to the States after not finding a job 5 years after he came to Israel:
He was probably one of those people you see at STC conventions with wild eyebrows, a nervous tick, and his pants belted in tightly under his manboobs.
The thing that makes me laugh is that I don't make myself laugh until someone writes back a ROFL and then I read it back to myself and guffaw so hard it makes Eduardo ask me why I'm crying.

gordon

Tel Aviv, 3rd February 2009

although she lives with 7 other men...she's not easy

I wish I was 4 and a half years old! I could get up early, demand choco-milk, and watch a full feature-length disney film before 7am. Then, someone would dress me and take me with my freshly and lovingly prepared breakfast to a room full of 23 of my closest friends. I can show off my new crown, not take it off all day while I run and scribble and play! I can have someone spend 2 hours looking after all my needs and giving me piggy back rides and eat a freshly prepared supper and have a bath and splash the whole bathroom wet but I don't care because someone else will clean it and then I can put on my Stephanie nightdress and robe and super-soft socks and crown and spend the last 20 minutes of my day watching Shrek.

keep out of reach and sight of children

There is some really dire film starring Jennifer Lopez and Ben Afflek called Gigli or something, probably from the Bennifer days when them popping into Baja Fresh for a burrito was still BREAKING NEWS on E! News, and they team up to half-kidnap some retarded chap for money or something. As I say, it was a terrible film and not worth watching excpet for the retard who JUST HAS TO read something. Anything. And you know, I totally get that. I do. Because when I'm having a crap, I totally need to read something too.

Oh come on! Men do it all the time!

Usually when you're in the bathroom you don't get much of anything to read. The downstairs toilet in my house is considered the "boys toilet" and there is plenty of reading material in there. But I am a girl so I use the girls toilet which is the bathroom. I don't really need anything long, just something to take my mind off passing the poo. So I find myself grabbing the nearest thing and wrapping my tongue around the long ingredients of bathroom items. Did you know there's Tetrachlorohydrex GLY in my deodorant? And Sodium Diethylenetriamine Pentamethylene Phosphonate in my shampoo?

This morning I read the headlice treatment I brought back from england. I threw away the box when we were in england so the ingredients are lost to me. I had to entertain myself with the CAUTIONs. Do not smoke while using this product. Just the image of me (or anyone) treating my kids for headlice with a fag hanging out of the corner of my mouth made me laugh out loud!

And splash, I was done.

this is what is considered "public art"

Petach Tikva, January

Somebody made a killing doing sculptures for the city of Petach Tikva.

caught red handed

Gah! I am a criminal in my own bank! They have sophisticated ways of getting to you these days. Here I am, innocently trying to book something online when it tells me I need a securecode. A securewhat?! I put in the detaiils it asks me but it refuses to grant me a secure code. I call up the bank. He asks me some questions. Name, date of birth. First and fourth number of my internet bank code. I don't know, I never usually call you up! What are the 9 numbers at the bottom of the card? This is not going well. My mouth gets dry. I don't have the card on me! Its at home! All I have are the usual numbers I need to get stuff from amazon!So stupid! I panic and hang up the phone acting like anyone who's stolen the card details might.

Later, I call them back with my card in my hand. But its too late. My account has RED ALERT written all over it. They won't let me do anything over the phone and are in the process of dispatching a SECURITY PACK to my house. The man on his headset is from yorkshire and I don't like the way he's pronouncing my name. It's going to take a few good weeks to get the pack here and back and get me a securecode. Darn it! Cutting internet shopping privileges...why, that's behaviour worthy of THE EXPERIMENT!

while you go about your daily life, its always there lurking behind a corner...

I had a good chat today with one of my readers who was going through the archives and came across the one about THE EXPERIMENT. A manager was standing in the cube just then which is ALSO PART OF THE EXPERIMENT. So I sat and listened to him tell me how suddenly the clouds parted, the sun shone through, and it all became clear to him. He likened the experience to the level of nirvana he achieved watching the Matrix. Holy compliments, Batman! Glad to help.
I experienced THE EXPERIMENT firsthand this morning. I tell you, some people I interact with are either victims of the experiment, or perpetrators. Or could well be both!

Here are some other facets of THE EXPERIMENT that I have identified recently:

• Put walnuts in the chocolate cookies and insist that they ALWAYS had walnuts in there.
• My mouse now makes a distinctive deep plastic click when I click.
• Tell me I have a new dotted boss
• Tell me unofficially that I have to justify my job for the next year (mention out-sourcing)
• Tell me not to tell anyone (no worries, just the whole internet)
• Tell me you are thinking XML is great for my cv and that's about it
• Take away my right to print in color for the 3rd or 4th time in as many months.
• Set up an employee event and as usual block my access to sign up. Let me in on the 50th attempt only to reveal that the event involves paying to clean up a beach.
  

from the camera phone

HaYarkon River by night, January 2009

it's good to talk

Last week I was in no mood to post here. It was a hard week and I had the yuppie disease for oh at least 3 days of it. I was struck quite hard and did a lot of sleeping. I think I might still have it, at least during office hours. You try staying awake for more than 5 minutes straight and see how you fare. It was a depressing week in THE EXPERIMENT, with firings and ch-ch-changes in the air. I think the only time I really laughed was having an instant messenger conversation on Tuesday applauding the genius of the name STIFFROD.
Having said that, the week was not a total write off, and we did manage to get the ball rolling on 2 projects for this year. And I got to do what I enjoy the most in the world…connect with people. Very British Telecom and Nokia, I know. After last week where two family members declared they never want to see us ever again, things turned around and I managed to meet up with an old friend, develop a relatively new friendship, meet up with a bunch of old friends over delicious food!, speak with a few other mothers from the kindergarten and bond, AND the husband cooked a lovely dinner for our friends.
I love connecting with people. There's nothing finer in life than sitting down with someone and really feeling that you're on the same page as them. It is so liberating to feel validated. Smiles and laughter abound and you feel loved and appreciated. Life is good.
We also went to another birthday party with TimTam. Could any clown possibly be cuter? He gave us his new dvd containing a free poster. I managed to nab that before the kids saw! The poster is now in its new home under my pillow. I hug the poster tight in bed all night long. Not sure who's going to watch the dvd more; the kids, or myself…

so outta here

Somebody big left last week (voluntarily) (we think). There is a certain etiquette in leaving that is often not observed by leavers. Here's what you should do if you are leaving your place of work:

1. Money collection. You want to leave with a good present. The present is going to be the trophy of your time at the company so if you get something you're not into, its going to mean you had a bad employment experience. Make sure you get somebody good to collect your money. Ideally, someone who liked you, and is dedicated to the cause (i.e. will send out 2 if not 3 email reminders—maybe even walk around the office with a chink-chink of change, will tell people who ask what the "going rate" is the highest amount given, and most importantly who will ask you what you want). Don't be wishy washy about what you want. Aim high.
   
2. Drink. Schedule a half hour. Nobody is going to diss off work for an hour for you. You're outta here. Timing is important: a 10.30 am late breakfast on the day you leave is optimal. The drink is more than a drink. It's your way of saying: this is who I am and why you're going to miss me. That's why serving dark chocolate cake and strawberries looks good. And why serving in-house catering looks nasty. Extra brownie points for homemade stuff.
3. Speech. Hopefully you've had good bosses who will give you a good speech. If not, they might drone on forever about the company and then give you some formula of thanks for all your hard work. Avoid making everyone in the room say something about you. Not a good look. Then it's your turn. Almost every speech I hear inspires me to mentally start writing my own. Mine has changed over the years, but it would have been so great to leave about 100 times and used every draft. Most people give the saccharin speech: I've learnt so much from all of you, this is a really great place to work. BARF! Two great speeches I've attended stand out in my mind. One chap gave his guidelines for getting by in the workplace, eg. smile at everyone (and mean it!) and sing out loud. The other girl gave a list of things from THE EXPERIMENT that had prompted her decision to leave. EG. "They took away the swap shop--I'm leaving!" "They took away my room--I'm leaving!" We were all pissing ourselves!
   
4. Final email. This tool is often used in place of the drink by people who got fired. It tends to be a soppy "farewell, my friends" email. It is also used by people leaving of their own accord as a here are my new contact details email. Only the best ones will contain phrases like "great springboard to world domination", "leaving to pursue my dream as a (well-known airline) pilot", references to Elton John, and "I won't miss you. Die, suckers!"

there's an elephant in my blogroom too, but I keep stubbing my toe on it

In our company we have a library that serves the company. I've been there for 5.5 years and never needed the library. When it moved location, they did a grand reopening. I hear 4 people turned up, and 2 of them work in the library.

Slash slash slash!

The sound of layoffs is in the air. 30 people go home. Your friends. Your colleagues. Good people. Long-serving people. Management are huddled in the conference room with the good chairs. They've gone past the fat and are cutting the meat. Groups of two and three have "corridor conversations". Meetings are entitled "updates". Everyone looks grave (except for some people who must work for finance who still find the mood to play ping pong). Why this one and not that one? Why me and not them? How much longer do I have? My boss advises us to keep our powder dry. I'm not sure if he means gun powder or foot powder because the advice follows a story about his nephew the soldier who was holed up in Gaza and didn't change his socks for 12 days.

The library is still safe. They say that the librarians will be the ones to lock the front door after we all leave.

at my desk...all the pencils are sharp

There comes a time in my job, once or twice a year, where the projects dry up and you slowly find yourself s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g out everything you need to do, doing the admin work you never usually have time for (backing up all of your files, for example), and wondering how you are going to fill in the next 8.5 hours on the clock.

Nobody likes to not work. Especially when they are being paid to work. Especially when management is casting for a new line up on soon-to-be-ex-employees. A time when being caught chatting on facebook is not a good look. A time when it simply isn't wise to run up to your boss with your tongue flapping asking for some new projects. This will certainly get you on the list. You have to appear to be so busy that you are indispensible. At least for this round (at the current rate, firing rounds are every 3 months, next one rumoured for next week).

Right now I am busy on squat diddly. I've made a to do list and realised I have 2 open cases and both those are dependant on other people pulling their finger out. I've archived all my jobs from the last 6 months. (Apart from 2 projects that were shelved and one that I can't find but think it was a document they gave to a non writer and it begins "In 1929…") and I've muda'd my desk. (A few years ago we had a tidy up the office drive and called it muda. Its supposed to be Japanese.)

I even wrote to support to see if they fancied making up a user tip which is usually something they bug me to do when I have no time.
- Do you have some tips or something for me to do??
- Not really, But I can scrape something together , why?
- Bored.
- Shhhhuush Not so loud. I have some very angry turks writing us letter, but a bit sensitive. Very funny probably to someone from outside support.
- Give me whatever you have and regale me with tales of anything interesting.
- No.
- pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease
[no response]

Oh well, back to facebook. No change in the last 5 minutes. It's obviously all part of THE EXPERIMENT.