I'm just watching Marley and Me and it brings back a few memories. I've starred in a few episodes of "When Bad Pets Happen to Good People" myself with my dog Mojo, but actually the film brought me back to a dog we had in my childhood who was called Max.
I was 6 so I can't remember what type he was. He was brown. We got him from the RSPCA in Chobham.
Max was a rascal. Most of my memories are located in the family holiday beach house in West Sussex. One time he came home with a rabbit slung over his shoulder. Another time he helped me clean up the milk when I smashed a bottle on the way home from Bracklesham Bay Post Office and general store (come to think of it, I was 6!! What kind of slave labour is that! Sending a 6 year old a mile to buy 2 glass bottles of milk!). Another time he flew over a breakwater and landed on someone sitting in their deckchair.
But the funniest by far was this. Picture the scene. The Great British Seaside. Half an hour of hot July sun. The early eighties. Someone with her terribly fashionable mullet and bikini lathering herself up with sunoil on a great eighties deckchair. Her skin glistening in the sun. She slides into a comfortable reclined bathing position.
Dude is on his rounds. Dude is marking his territory. Dude levels with sunbather. Dude picks up his hind leg. Dude shoots. He scores!
Sunbather now glistening for a new reason.
Mullet struggles to get up from her reclined position, choking and arms and legs a-flailing. Dude has drenched her left side.
He he he.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Thursday, August 13, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 13, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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!
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!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 27, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
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 :-)"
Monday, April 6, 2009
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!!!!
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:
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!!!!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
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...
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...
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...
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