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.