p.s. i can't get kelly clarkson out of my brainspace this morning.
you gotta pieeeeeece of meeeeee...
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
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...
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...
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, March 9, 2009
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.
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.
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