Ram hash. Home of smiling children, strawberries, and daleks.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
looking hot when you're as frazzled as the bacon in a greasy spoon breakfast
The other night I was invited to the home of one of the other-mothers-from-the-kindergarten who was having an other-mothers-from-the-kindergarten evening. And here's the thing about my neighbourhood: the men are ugly but rich enough to sponsor a trophy wife.
Most women in my neighbourhood are faltzani frechot trophy wives which loosely translated means nouveau-riche tart trophy wives. I am not a trophy wife. For starters, I am too tall and lollop in comparison to all the little tight-ass skinny bitches that strut around here. Also, I am proportionally larger. OK, I'm FAT. Too fat for the skin-tight low-cut midriff baring clothes that are sold around here. I'm a fake blond but I don't make it straw-shade or fan it every other day. Besides, my husband says my hair looks like a bush. My fingernails do not pass the ends of my fingers. And I have a job. No self-respecting trophy wife would work! Even worse, I work full-time and have a permanently ragged look about me. I wear one uniform outfit all the time. (And it's black!). For the trophy wife, it's all about pedicures, manicures, hairdressers, massages, facials, gyms, and lying in bed when your kids get home while your full time babysitter tends to their needs. And yet I have a complex that I am looked at as if I should be a trophy wife. I am what my husband brought back from overseas! Imported product! I should be better than the rest of the trophy wives because I am the foreign trophy wife. But my trophy wife career was nixed on my first trip to Israel. I am not an agile dancer. Mr. Zebra-to-be's friend's girlfriend noticed this to the soundtrack of It's Raining Men on my second night and told her gagging-for-it friend that he was fair game. Gagging-for-it made a point of sitting between us at the 5am coffee shop stop. Friend's girlfriend has not stopped paying since.
But, I digress.
So I went to the evening with the following attendees:
A.M. Normal.
A.S. Along the path to the fiery pits of faltzanidom hell. Has one of those minature white is-it-a-dog-is-it-a-rug? dogs. But sweet, funny, and chatty. Has a nicely decorated apartment and puts on a good spread.
M. Wears big sunglasses. Indoors. At 9pm.
I. Thin. Wears leather trousers. Summer holidays on a yacht off Croatia.
Absent was R. who is so far away from the pits of nouveau riche hell that she is off the charts. Her kid gets HAND ME DOWN CLOTHING for godsakes and even I turn my nose up at that. The evening was her idea and I probably wouldn't have gone except for occasionally I discipline myself that jedi mothers also need to socialize and that going to bed at 9pm does make me a bit of a Norman no-mates hermit.
And so, I knew ahead of time that it wouldn't be the most riveting evening of my life. But I like A.M. and A.S., and think that M. is quite humorous. I. was very reasonable at her son's birthday party when a total bitch trophy wife told me I should look after my daughter as she was trashing I.'s house. I. said not to worry, the most important thing was to enjoy the party.
Despite that when I arrived I saw Celine Dion in concert in the living room, the evening went well. We made a pact to sign our kids to the same gan next year. (Do my children know I am divining the course of their lives by choosing their friends behind their backs?? Who cares!). We bitched about the teacher and how stupid she is. What with classic lines such as…"I'm glad your kid got hurt on my day off! I wouldn't have known what to do with him what with all that blood gushing everywhere"…we had a lot to go on.
Everyone shared something. It was about bread rolls, Dudu being on his second marriage, bitching about the country club owners (you see, nouveau-riche. Not only are you a member of a country club, you are posh enough to bitch about the owner!) and I. locking her kids in the yacht every evening on holiday and going out drinking in Croatia.
You know, bitch-troll-skinny-bitch-nouveau-riche-tart-trophy-wives are ok when you break them down for an evening. They lose their evilness and move down the scale and become ok. It helps that sitting down there is no strutting. I will never be a trophy wife. I'm lucky if I get to the hairdresser once a year. I'm not allowed to give up my job. Nop, I am not a trophy wife. But then I will never lock my kids on a yacht for a Croatian martini either.
Most women in my neighbourhood are faltzani frechot trophy wives which loosely translated means nouveau-riche tart trophy wives. I am not a trophy wife. For starters, I am too tall and lollop in comparison to all the little tight-ass skinny bitches that strut around here. Also, I am proportionally larger. OK, I'm FAT. Too fat for the skin-tight low-cut midriff baring clothes that are sold around here. I'm a fake blond but I don't make it straw-shade or fan it every other day. Besides, my husband says my hair looks like a bush. My fingernails do not pass the ends of my fingers. And I have a job. No self-respecting trophy wife would work! Even worse, I work full-time and have a permanently ragged look about me. I wear one uniform outfit all the time. (And it's black!). For the trophy wife, it's all about pedicures, manicures, hairdressers, massages, facials, gyms, and lying in bed when your kids get home while your full time babysitter tends to their needs. And yet I have a complex that I am looked at as if I should be a trophy wife. I am what my husband brought back from overseas! Imported product! I should be better than the rest of the trophy wives because I am the foreign trophy wife. But my trophy wife career was nixed on my first trip to Israel. I am not an agile dancer. Mr. Zebra-to-be's friend's girlfriend noticed this to the soundtrack of It's Raining Men on my second night and told her gagging-for-it friend that he was fair game. Gagging-for-it made a point of sitting between us at the 5am coffee shop stop. Friend's girlfriend has not stopped paying since.
But, I digress.
So I went to the evening with the following attendees:
A.M. Normal.
A.S. Along the path to the fiery pits of faltzanidom hell. Has one of those minature white is-it-a-dog-is-it-a-rug? dogs. But sweet, funny, and chatty. Has a nicely decorated apartment and puts on a good spread.
M. Wears big sunglasses. Indoors. At 9pm.
I. Thin. Wears leather trousers. Summer holidays on a yacht off Croatia.
Absent was R. who is so far away from the pits of nouveau riche hell that she is off the charts. Her kid gets HAND ME DOWN CLOTHING for godsakes and even I turn my nose up at that. The evening was her idea and I probably wouldn't have gone except for occasionally I discipline myself that jedi mothers also need to socialize and that going to bed at 9pm does make me a bit of a Norman no-mates hermit.
And so, I knew ahead of time that it wouldn't be the most riveting evening of my life. But I like A.M. and A.S., and think that M. is quite humorous. I. was very reasonable at her son's birthday party when a total bitch trophy wife told me I should look after my daughter as she was trashing I.'s house. I. said not to worry, the most important thing was to enjoy the party.
Despite that when I arrived I saw Celine Dion in concert in the living room, the evening went well. We made a pact to sign our kids to the same gan next year. (Do my children know I am divining the course of their lives by choosing their friends behind their backs?? Who cares!). We bitched about the teacher and how stupid she is. What with classic lines such as…"I'm glad your kid got hurt on my day off! I wouldn't have known what to do with him what with all that blood gushing everywhere"…we had a lot to go on.
Everyone shared something. It was about bread rolls, Dudu being on his second marriage, bitching about the country club owners (you see, nouveau-riche. Not only are you a member of a country club, you are posh enough to bitch about the owner!) and I. locking her kids in the yacht every evening on holiday and going out drinking in Croatia.
You know, bitch-troll-skinny-bitch-nouveau-riche-tart-trophy-wives are ok when you break them down for an evening. They lose their evilness and move down the scale and become ok. It helps that sitting down there is no strutting. I will never be a trophy wife. I'm lucky if I get to the hairdresser once a year. I'm not allowed to give up my job. Nop, I am not a trophy wife. But then I will never lock my kids on a yacht for a Croatian martini either.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
welcome, cilaprex googlers!
Maybe its time to invite all those people who google Cilaprex into the blog. Quite a lot of you come here. And from all over the world. Even arab nations! (beware, you might self-combust because you are reading something coming out of Israel! You have been warned! Avert your eyes!!). My doctor prescribed me Cilaprex because I went to her complaining that I am always stressed out and evil.
Honestly, I didn't really take much Cilaprex so I can't give you much guidance. I prefer to take denial and then watch the side-effects wreak havoc on my homelife due to stress triggered by my day job and useless husband. Was he shouted at because he was useless, or useless because I shouted at him? Chicken. Egg. Useless I tell you.
The best cure is laughter. And I've been laughing today. Out loud! Here's some laughs I wanted to share with you:
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2005/11/searching-for-salvation-or-salivation.html
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2006/07/searching-far-and-wide.html
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2008/10/searching-for-big-bird.html
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.com/2009/01/crap-i-drank-yesterday.html
(these are the kind of blog posts that are so good, they encourage me to curl up into a ball under a rock and die in a minute dust cloud of unworthiness). Hats off to you, Johnny Virgil!
Then there's the news I've been looking at:
Do "men" realize they rolled up a Viking into that ball?
And the news I was fed in an expat newsletter:
I'd be confused! I once slowed down to speed limit for a cardboard cutout police car. But we've already established I'm a criminal (see here).
For the person who has everything. But do they have a moss bathmat grown with their own roll off body water??
There's something about the "it has emerged" ... did the illegal immigrants suddenly emerge from some wheelie bins outside Acton Town Pizza Hut?!
And the last thing that made me laugh was myself!
In response to an article written by a man who was headed back to the States after not finding a job 5 years after he came to Israel:
He was probably one of those people you see at STC conventions with wild eyebrows, a nervous tick, and his pants belted in tightly under his manboobs.
The thing that makes me laugh is that I don't make myself laugh until someone writes back a ROFL and then I read it back to myself and guffaw so hard it makes Eduardo ask me why I'm crying.
Honestly, I didn't really take much Cilaprex so I can't give you much guidance. I prefer to take denial and then watch the side-effects wreak havoc on my homelife due to stress triggered by my day job and useless husband. Was he shouted at because he was useless, or useless because I shouted at him? Chicken. Egg. Useless I tell you.
The best cure is laughter. And I've been laughing today. Out loud! Here's some laughs I wanted to share with you:
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.
http://15minutelunch.blogspot.
(these are the kind of blog posts that are so good, they encourage me to curl up into a ball under a rock and die in a minute dust cloud of unworthiness). Hats off to you, Johnny Virgil!
Then there's the news I've been looking at:
Do "men" realize they rolled up a Viking into that ball?
And the news I was fed in an expat newsletter:
I'd be confused! I once slowed down to speed limit for a cardboard cutout police car. But we've already established I'm a criminal (see here).
For the person who has everything. But do they have a moss bathmat grown with their own roll off body water??
There's something about the "it has emerged" ... did the illegal immigrants suddenly emerge from some wheelie bins outside Acton Town Pizza Hut?!
And the last thing that made me laugh was myself!
In response to an article written by a man who was headed back to the States after not finding a job 5 years after he came to Israel:
He was probably one of those people you see at STC conventions with wild eyebrows, a nervous tick, and his pants belted in tightly under his manboobs.
The thing that makes me laugh is that I don't make myself laugh until someone writes back a ROFL and then I read it back to myself and guffaw so hard it makes Eduardo ask me why I'm crying.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
although she lives with 7 other men...she's not easy
I wish I was 4 and a half years old! I could get up early, demand choco-milk, and watch a full feature-length disney film before 7am. Then, someone would dress me and take me with my freshly and lovingly prepared breakfast to a room full of 23 of my closest friends. I can show off my new crown, not take it off all day while I run and scribble and play! I can have someone spend 2 hours looking after all my needs and giving me piggy back rides and eat a freshly prepared supper and have a bath and splash the whole bathroom wet but I don't care because someone else will clean it and then I can put on my Stephanie nightdress and robe and super-soft socks and crown and spend the last 20 minutes of my day watching Shrek.
Friday, January 30, 2009
keep out of reach and sight of children
There is some really dire film starring Jennifer Lopez and Ben Afflek called Gigli or something, probably from the Bennifer days when them popping into Baja Fresh for a burrito was still BREAKING NEWS on E! News, and they team up to half-kidnap some retarded chap for money or something. As I say, it was a terrible film and not worth watching excpet for the retard who JUST HAS TO read something. Anything. And you know, I totally get that. I do. Because when I'm having a crap, I totally need to read something too.
Oh come on! Men do it all the time!
Usually when you're in the bathroom you don't get much of anything to read. The downstairs toilet in my house is considered the "boys toilet" and there is plenty of reading material in there. But I am a girl so I use the girls toilet which is the bathroom. I don't really need anything long, just something to take my mind off passing the poo. So I find myself grabbing the nearest thing and wrapping my tongue around the long ingredients of bathroom items. Did you know there's Tetrachlorohydrex GLY in my deodorant? And Sodium Diethylenetriamine Pentamethylene Phosphonate in my shampoo?
This morning I read the headlice treatment I brought back from england. I threw away the box when we were in england so the ingredients are lost to me. I had to entertain myself with the CAUTIONs. Do not smoke while using this product. Just the image of me (or anyone) treating my kids for headlice with a fag hanging out of the corner of my mouth made me laugh out loud!
And splash, I was done.
Oh come on! Men do it all the time!
Usually when you're in the bathroom you don't get much of anything to read. The downstairs toilet in my house is considered the "boys toilet" and there is plenty of reading material in there. But I am a girl so I use the girls toilet which is the bathroom. I don't really need anything long, just something to take my mind off passing the poo. So I find myself grabbing the nearest thing and wrapping my tongue around the long ingredients of bathroom items. Did you know there's Tetrachlorohydrex GLY in my deodorant? And Sodium Diethylenetriamine Pentamethylene Phosphonate in my shampoo?
This morning I read the headlice treatment I brought back from england. I threw away the box when we were in england so the ingredients are lost to me. I had to entertain myself with the CAUTIONs. Do not smoke while using this product. Just the image of me (or anyone) treating my kids for headlice with a fag hanging out of the corner of my mouth made me laugh out loud!
And splash, I was done.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
this is what is considered "public art"
Petach Tikva, January
Somebody made a killing doing sculptures for the city of Petach Tikva.
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