My Shrapnel

Turkey Basters and Progeny

2012-01-02T22:53:00.005+02:00

I cannot speak for other countries, but here in Israel, it has become much more common and acceptable for a woman to decide to go ahead and have a child alone. I do not want to exaggerate; we are not talking huge numbers. It is not as though every other woman who hits 38 and has not yet gotten married immediately runs out to buy donor sperm and a turkey baster. First, most of us continue to be optimistic for several years past our 38th birthday and second, there is no need to buy the turkey baster because while one will need to buy the sperm (confirmed with single motherhood guru Ellie), the actual process of creating a baby from such sperm is covered by the national health service.

You know, now that I think of it, this might explain why, despite the increase in single mothers, I am still having a hell of a time finding a new turkey baster to replace the old and decrepit one I have now. I mean, in theory you would think that there would be an increase in demand and a corresponding increase in supply but since the insemination process is covered, the increase in single mothers has no impact at all on the turkey baster market. Which, in turn raises an obvious question: Gila, since you are now officially several years past your 38h birthday AND since you are looking to buy a new turkey baster, does this mean that you are planning on having a child on your own?

Which brings me to the actual subject of this post: things that are, one day, going to make me go postal. Here is my list of such things.

• People asking me if I have ever tried (or even heard of) internet dating.
• People asking me if I am going to have a child on my own.

If you ever pick up a newspaper and see a screaming headline about an accountant who totally lost it and brained a co-worker with the office coffee machine, you will know immediately that it was me and that said co-worker started to tell me about his neighbor’s cousin’s friend’s daughter who either 1) met someone on the internet and got married or 2) had a child on her own or 3) some variation thereof, like, say, she met someone on the internet and borrowed his sperm and turkey baster to have a child on her own. Because now that internet dating is ubiquitous and single motherhood has become more mainstream, everyone and his grandmother is falling over themselves to introduce me to the concepts.

I tell you, it is just a matter of time before that coffee maker flies. And it will be a crying shame because we waited so long, YEARS, for a proper coffee maker. And if I destroy this one, there is no way that the CEO is going to approve a replacement. But then, I have a french press in my office, so I do not really care, do I? Be warned, dear co-workers, be warned!

Right, so I am not going to get into the internet dating issue because that is its own, little, shrieking post. Let’s stick with the babies, shall we? And so, the answer is no, I do not want to have a child on my own. And yes, I am aware that 1) my biological clock is ticking (because I am not an idiot) and 2) I am over 40 (ditto) and 3) the cop who gave your sister-in-law a speeding ticket has a friend who had children on her own and is blissfully happy. Yes! I know everything! And no, I have nothing against single motherhood! I am totally cool with the concept. For other people. The turkey baster is for chicken. Totally innocent.

Rant over….

Jerusalem Night Run

2011-12-16T14:10:00.013+02:00

This week, Jerusalem hosted its first 10K Night Run. Ostensibly, the Night Run was supposed to get all of us runners pumped up and excited about the Jerusalem Marathon which is right around the corner. I think that this is nonsense. The Jerusalem Marathon is a full three months away. If you ask me, the real reason that Jerusalem decided to have a Night Run is because Jerusalem has a problem.

The problem is one of demographics. Young people, or at least young people with an interest in useful education and gainful employment, either do not come to Jerusalem at all or they come to study and then run away the moment they have their degree. And it is hard, HARD, to run a city when a staggering percentage of your citizenry does not work and does not pay taxes. So our fearless leaders are trying to address this. Apparently, they did some surveys and they came to the conclusion that the reason everyone keeps running away is not the lack of job opportunities and not the rock-hurling Haredim and not the ongoing war on women and not the rampant religious coercion and in short it is not that the city is well along its merry way to becoming a kosher version of Tehran or Kabul. No, the reason is image. Young people do not see Jerusalem as being cool. Jerusalem is not happening. So our leaders said to themselves—follow the logic here—if Tel Aviv had a Night Run and Tel Aviv is cool then if Jerusalem has a Night Run it will be cool too.

Genius, no?

Right, so our fearless leaders were possessed of a plan. All that was left was the minor issue of execution. Compare, if you will, the Night Run in Tel Aviv versus the Night Run in Jerusalem:

	Tel Aviv	Jerusalem
Scheduled in	October, when the Tel Aviv nights are still nice and warm, but no longer hot.	December, when the Jerusalem nights (and the days) are fucking freezing.
Sponsored by	Nike. The god of athletic wear.	Aminach. A mattress manufacturer. (WTF?)
Number of participants	About 15,000	About 1,000
Entertainment	Super-trendy world music stations all along the route	A couple college students with drums at Jaffa Gate.

The winner of the Jerusalem Night Run got a mattress. Runners-up got pillows. I do not know what Nike gave out in Tel Aviv, but somehow, I do not think their prize basket looked quite like ours.

God bless 'em, our fearless leaders. They try so hard.

Of course, I signed up. Because, hey, the Jerusalem Marathon (Half, for me) is right around the corner and I need to train. And I am a total sucker who is willing to pay NIS 90 to do a run I do every week anyway, for free. So I went, and I got my ugly-yet-very-functional running shirt and the route was super flat, for Jerusalem. But, sadly, a bit boring. And it was only sort of freezing. But I finished in what was, for me, very respectable time, 1:17. And then I went home and read articles about how women in Jerusalem are being forced to dress in religious garb if they want to visit the Clalit Health Plan main clinic, and how a Haredi rabbi justified segregation of women on the basis that “this is how it was done at Auschwitz”.

But yes, a Night Run is going to solve all of our problems.

Driving Directions

2011-12-04T21:07:00.009+02:00

This past weekend, a Tel Avivit friend and I made plans for her to come to Jerusalem on Saturday. Our plan was to go to the Old City, where we were going to cover up our whorish slacks with wrap-around skirts (dug out of my summer clothes stash for the occasion) and hop over to the the Kotel for a good pray. Once that was done, we would lose the skirts and move on to one of the non-Jewish quarters for lunch at a non-Kosher restaurant. My friend was excited about this itinerary because while Tel Aviv boasts countless non-Kosher restaurants, many of which are far better than the ones in Jerusalem, the ability to juxtapose a meal at a one with a trip to the holiest site in Judaism—on Shabbat no less—is a uniquely “Yerushalmi” treat. Alas, on her way out of Tel Aviv there was an unfortunate encounter between the back of her car and a dumpster so she had to cancel. I would chalk this up to G-d preventing her from engaging in improper behavior on Shabbat, but, given that her Tel Aviv alternative probably did not end up including anything more devout or wholesome than what we had planned, that would have been be an exercise in futility. Which I am sure G-d realized, seeing how He is omniscient. And why on earth would He want to waste His time?

Anyway, before the dumpster incident, I had sent her directions so she would not get lost on her way here. She liked them a great deal and suggested I share them on my blog, so that our weekend plans would not go completely to waste. Accordingly, I am happy to present “How to Get from Tel Aviv to Gan Hapaamon, in Jerusalem. With Commentary”

Take the Ayalon Freeway to Route 1. Do not go into spaced-out-freeway mode until you are safely on Route 1, or you are liable to end up in the wrong lane and find yourself going somewhere else entirely. Which is not necessarily bad, but there are no holy sites there and even if there are, I have the holy wraparound skirts. And I am in Jerusalem.
Stay on Route 1 until you pass the Lod and (I think) Route 6 exits. The Route 6 exit may be after the exit I want you to take, so if you pass it, you may or may not have gone too far.
Get off at the next (?) exit--Ben Shemen (443) This way, you get to avoid any potentially rioting Haredim who have apparently been amusing themselves near the center of Jerusalem or at the entrance to Jerusalem or somewhere (details have been fuzzy) by lobbing rocks at cars. Of course, 443 could also at include rocks thrown by Palestinians, but I do not believe it has recently. And it is flat and less twisting.
Is it just me or do you also find it rather odd that when a Palestinian throws rocks, the police toss him in jail for terrorism but if a Jew throws rocks, the police do nothing? My thought—throw them all in jail (call them terrorists, fanatics, whatever you want) give them all piles of rocks and let them throw rocks at each other while the rest of us go on with our lives without having to factor in rock throwing into our driving directions. Voila! Happiness all around!
Anyway, so, now you are on 443. Stay there. I mean, yes, keep driving, but keep going straight. Eventually, you will go through a checkpoint. You are now really close to Jerusalem. It is also around this point that the road becomes Sderot Menachem Begin.
Before the road was Sderot Menachem Begin it was a few other things. This is common in nature. Like... before a butterfly is a butterfly it is a pupa and then a caterpillar and then a full grown Sderot Menachem Begin. Anyway, I am not quite sure what it was, though I am reasonably certain that (a) it was neither a butterfly nor a pupa and (b) Golda Meir is in there somewhere, even though that sounds a bit obscene. Whatever. Do you care? I can look it up if you do.
Keep going straight. Do not take any exits. G-d knows where you will end up and then your only option will be to call me up for help and I will have to give you directions. And I am a tad dyslexic in these things. Really, this will not end well.
The last exit is Golumb; you have no choice but to take it. Damn it. Okay, wait, let me look at the map....I’m turning the phone so I can figure out what direction….yes… turn left here. G-d bless you iphone. It is so much easier turning your around than, let's say, a map. Or my computer screen.
One of the first lights after you turn is Pat Junction. One the right side, on the near corner, there is an ugly parking lot and on the far corner there is a Delek gas station. Turn right here.
Immediately get into the left hand lane. Turn left at the first light
The name of the street you are on starts as Yehuda Hanassi and then changes 75 times over the next kilometer. It’s all good—this provides employment for countless city clerks. Just keep going straight. You will pass through one light (my neighborhood) and two traffic circles.
After traffic circle # 2, you will come to a light. Go straight. You are now on Emek Refaim, land of a thousand restaurants, all of which are closed for Shabbat.
Go (get this!) straight! Toward the end of Emek Refaim, you will need to veer to your right (kind of a modest forky thing) because the Derech Beit Lechem has bitch-slapped Emek Refaim and has taken over. The park and the parking is immediately after this, on your left.
Look! I’m here! With the skirts!

Angela

2011-10-08T14:58:00.004+02:00

Angela Erickson Jandrew died a week ago, Saturday night. She was a friend of mine from high-school, one of a few I am in touch with today, some 23 years after graduation. “One of a few” both because of the impact of time and distance on relationships and because I never had that many high school friends to begin with. Back when my social and communication skills and ability to read social cues were seriously deficient as opposed to being slightly off; back when I was really and perhaps unpleasantly weird as opposed to a bit eccentric; back when my mantra was “you haven’t thrown a public temper tantrum since you were nine and that means you can progress” and back in the days before I could pass for normal, there existed a few people that liked me or were at least willing to tolerate my hanging around. Friends and non-actively-hostile acquaintances, I like to call them. Angela was one of the friends. She actually liked me. That was what I wrote her mother when I got the news of her passing. Thank you for raising such a person—that could look at someone who was unlikeable and somehow see a person to like. Because I do not know how I would have made it through high school without these people in my life. Those were truly dark days for me.

This is what I hate about myself. An amazingly good person has just died. She liked people. She was positive. She volunteered regularly and she kept it up for years as opposed to slacking off after a year or two. She went to church. She was inspired by her cancer to volunteer more and raise money for cancer research. In short, she was honest-to-goodness good. And instead of focusing on her life, I am turning her death into something all about me. Really, it disgusts me. This is especially true today, on Yom Kippur. And even more especially true when one considers that—at least of the date of this writing—I have been granted my second chance and Angela has not. It just is not right. I realize that this may not be the best time to say this, seeing how that this is the day when G-d is doing the accounting and is sealing my fate for the year and if I am not going to be in synagogue at the very least I should be trying to make nice, apologizing for my sins, thinking positive thoughts about Him, asking him for shit and so on, but really, sometimes you just have to ask “G-d, just what the FUCK are you THINKING?”

What can I say? My timing is bad. But you have to admit that the question applies.

Before anyone feels too bad for me, I should point out that it is not as though I have been a particularly close or a good friend. She has been ill for some time. Most of my “support” has been comprised of commenting on her Facebook statuses or ‘liking’ the more positive ones. I could have done more. I could have sent actual messages. I could have called. I could have sent her a care package from Israel to cheer her up. I did none of that. Now I cannot look at her Facebook page without wanting to cry, or actually crying. Because, you know, that is so helpful.

Anyway, the net result of all of this is that I have spent the last week in a state of emotional crisis with the overall theme being “maybe I made a mistake in leaving the States and maybe I should move back”. Because, if I were in the States, I could date non-Jews and then get married because Jewish guys clearly do not want me so I need to be somewhere with more of a mix so as to ensure success. Whereas if stay here I will stay alone for the rest of my life. Which means my life will have been wasted. My friends have been quick to point out the myriad holes in this theory: breathtakingly faulty logic, I love Israel, I have a good life here including good friends and a good job, my love life or lack of same is not the sole measurement of my success or lack of same, the US economy’s current place in the toilet, I am un-insurable in the States, relative vegetable quality, etc. At this point, I am coming around to their point of view. The vegetable argument is a strong one, as is the fact that seeing how I get horribly homesick for Israel if I am away for more than ten days actually moving to another country would probably be a spectacularly bad idea. So while I am still making vaguely threatening noises about moving to Los Angeles (do not ask me how that city got into my head—I have no clue) or AT LEAST Tel Aviv, I know that I am staying in Israel.

So now I am moving over to emotional crisis-stage two which is, if no less self-centered, at least a bit more conventional. What does death do, but to remind us of our mortality? I am 41 years old. What have I done so far? What could have I have done, had I focused and used my time wisely? What percentage of my life have I squandered? I dream of being a writing a book. I dream of writing many books. How many books could I have published so far had I been writing instead of mindlessly surfing the internet? Or writing instead of working 12 hour days? How many years have I promised myself to stop working crazy hours? I look at old pictures. I question previous decisions. I remind myself of every opportunity I have squandered, in every area of my life. If I had just stuck to that diet, I would be thin now. That nice guy in ulpan—if I had ignored the fact that he had a girlfriend in Hungary, maybe I would be married now. I promise myself that this will change. Everything will change. Maybe not this week, of course, this week being my week to be in a funk. But next week, for sure. I remind myself just how long it has been since I threw a public temper tantrum. How long it has been since I quit smoking. How long it has been that I have friends. How long it has been that I am seen as normal. You see, Gila, you can change.

The worst part? This will pass. As much as I am panicked now—ohmyGodlifeisshortandIhavenotdonewhatIwanttodosoImuststarttoday—the panic will pass. I will go back to my regularly scheduled procrastination. I will go back to my weekly passes over my 10 year plan, in which I journal my progress, noting little to no progress but somehow always justifying it. I will go back to my excuses. I will still tear up if I look at Angela’s Facebook page, but the urgency will have faded to a ghost. That scares me more than anything. Yes, you can change, but only if you do so in time. Eventually, you run out of time and you run out of chances. If I do not have the feeling of urgency to drive me, what will?

But before it passes, and while I still feel it, Angela, thank you for being a friend. I will miss you. The world is a better place for your having been here and a poorer place in your absence.

2011-08-23T23:26:00.002+03:00

So, my weekly blog post is now overdue and the problem is that I do not have a lot to write about. I am sitting here at Aroma with a journalist friend and just now we were discussing the matter. Of course, being a professional journalist, she has suggested any number of sensible, thoughtful, mature topics to write about while I came up with a fab idea which was none of the above. I would elaborate on my idea but the problem is that I have embarked on a mission to go on one blind date a week until such fine day when I meet that Special Someone with whom I go on two or three dates or even MORE dates with, in which case I shall be able to replace said number of weeks of blind dates with non-blind dates and wouldn’t that be nice? But anyway, on these blind dates I sometimes mention that I am the proud owner of a neglected blog and, inevitably, the blind date wants to know the name of the blog and sometimes he even reads it. In which case it would be an extraordinarily bad idea to write about what I was thinking about writing about because it would make a bad impression and then he will definitely not call me again and I am hardly going to get up to Date Two that way, am I? So, if you are my most recent blind date or an upcoming blind date and you are reading this and you want to know what my topic was, please note that:

This is simply not the type of matter I would ever even remotely consider discussing with a stranger on our first or second date (although it is, apparently, the type of matter I would seriously consider putting on my blog for everyone and his grandmother to see, assuming that his grandmother reads blogs)
Once we have gone out for at least 20 years, I can share this information with you. Said deadline is as per consultation with my friend, the professional journalist.
By said time, I will have no recollection of either the conversation or the blog post. If you are lucky, however, maybe the professional journalist will have taken notes. (Doubtful—she really disliked my idea—but you know, those journalist instincts are said to be powerful).

As a result of the above, I am left with nothing to write about apart from my “one-blind-date-a-week-mission”. The reason for the blind dates is so that I can meet Mr. Special Someone. The reason for having one blind date per week is so I can 1) keep up the momentum and 2) any more than one will render me insane. Which is also not likely to lead to Date Two.

Sweet Returns and Violent Ceramic Cows

2011-08-08T23:17:00.006+03:00

“Think of it as an investment”.

That is my response when people ask why I would throw a book swap to raise money for Alyn or a clothing swap to raise money for Alyn or do something else to raise money for Alyn. (Why Alyn? See here). Why do I not just take the money I would spend on supplies or cookie production raw materials or decorations or whatever, give that to Alyn, and call it a day? But if I do that, my contribution is limited to what I have available. If I invest wisely, my contribution can grow. My contribution can be equal to all of my contribution dollars, plus a bunch of yours. And you walk away with some books or cookies. Or both! Win win!

As a "what would ideally be a brief but will instead be a long-winded" digression, Israelis frequently ask that question and Anglos never do. This is not necessarily a point in favor of the one and against the other. Perhaps Anglos give more to charity than Israelis and have found creative ways to get people to give even more. Or perhaps Israelis are equally charitable, they just do not require incentives in order to give. Now, of course, as an Anglo, I secretly lean towards the former while giving public lip service to the latter. The lip service is necessary so that I do not come across as one of those horrid, judgmental Anglos who loves Israel but hates Israelis. (Did I not sound admirably reasonable and fair in the first section of this paragraph?) In general, one does not want to come across as judgmental because, unless one is judging: the Right, the Left, the Hilonim (seculars), the Haredim, Tel Avivim, Settlers, the people in favor of the demonstrations or the people against the demonstrations, judging is simply not okay. And it is particularly not okay on Tisha B’Av, and especially when it is Tisha B’Av and one is not fasting and/or doing anything else in honor of the day and so, in other words, one is at a point where topping it off with some bad-mouthing of my fellow Jews could well be the thing that just pushes G-d off that proverbial edge, so far as my fate is concerned. Which would be bad. In particular when I am trying to get back into the dating thing and thereby providing G-d with any number of excellent and entertaining opportunities to smite me with, I don’t know, another aging Sonny Bono gone to seed look-alike, like He did last year.

And now we are done digressing….

Anyway, one learns over time what works; which investments are profitable. Book swaps, for instance, if scheduled well, can do very well. The trick is to not go overboard on the refreshments and while you need to have a good supply of trading books, by no means should you allow your guests to go overboard on the book dumping. (Last year I was left with about six sacks and cases of old books to dispose of post-swap. This year, I am imposing a book cap). Clothing swaps on the other hand are nice on paper—everyone says “oh that sounds like fun” but in the end very few people show and it is not profitable.

And then there is the at-work cookie sale.

That goes well if you have a Yanay. Yanay is my co-worker. When I told him that my intent was to put out the cookies in the kitchen together with a piggy bank in the shape of a parti-colored cow and a note (Five NIS for Two Cookies! All Proceeds Go To Alyn!) he told me I was dead wrong, a horrible salesperson, and that was not the way to sell cookies. Instead, he grabbed the cow, had me fill some plates up with cookies and he proceeded to march from office to office with me in tow. I would start off with this wimpy spiel about how Alyn is a great cause (it is) and the cookies are really good (and they are; I do make some fine cookies) and please support this cause and blah blah blah and then Yanay would jump in and tell the person that no discussion was necessary, it's for charity, cough up the cash, he or she was going to buy cookies. Or else Yanay would brain them with the cow. Now, the cow would have only survived one braining (it only cost 25 sheks and I suspect that the ceramics may not be of the highest quality), so if Yanay had to make good on his threat, say, early on, when we were in R&D, we would have had nothing with which to intimidate QA, HR and the other departments. Fortunately, the fear factor was enough. In fact, we managed to achieve nearly 100% participation, including from those who 1) do not eat cookies and 2) are Haredi so they do not eat my cookies. In the end, I tripled my charity investment. Suffice it to say that I am way impressed with Yanay’s sale skills and am totally going to consult with him in respect to clothing swaps….

Here is Yanay, with his weapon of choice. I can safely say that, at least for today, Yanay is my absolute favorite Israeli in the whole, wide world.

(And a thanks to my office mates who bought nearly all the cookies! NIS 170 is now safely ensconced in Alyn’s coffers!)

Feeling jealous? You two would like to buy some virtual cookies? Sponsor me here!

Why I Should Probably Stop Watching CSI

2011-07-01T19:34:00.005+03:00

Some people should not date. Some people have brains which are so convoluted that they should just be consigned to a lifetime of solitary living with a passel of cats or, at the most, matched up with someone at random and told “Voila! You are married”. They and their brains not have to undergo the agony which is dating. More importantly others should not have to undergo the agony that is dating them.

Some people would be me. And if it weren’t for the fact that 1) I have a severe allergy to cats 2) calf-length skirts and those high-collared shirts look really horrible on me and 3) Shabbat observance would mean I would NEVER get my sewing class homework done, I would totally go the cat or Haredi route.

(You know, now that I think about it, I am kind of wondering if “some people” could be expanded to “accountants and others of a suspicious nature”. I mean, I have never done a survey. Maybe I should! And then I can publish it and make lots of passive income! I am thinking about passive income because I am taking a personal finance course and the instructor told us that we should focus on passive income as a way of increasing our total income. Except—and I could be wrong on this point—I strongly suspect that there is not a particularly large market for surveys dealing with the mating habits of accountants and others of a suspicious nature. Never mind then. Back to the post.)

Right, so here is the problem. I mean, the first date, I am fine. I mean, I do not know the guy and the date will probably suck and we will probably despise each other and then (please G-d) never see each other again so what is there to worry about? And normally the first date meets or even exceeds all expectations so there is no second date so that is fine as well. But sometimes, on rare occasions, I have a second date. And my poor, demented little brain goes bonkers. It spends virtually every second between date one and date two frantically careening between extremes. One moment it is planning the wedding and the next it is imagining a scene out of CSI (which, incidentally, I watch far too much of) in which a bunch of crime lab specialists crack jokes over my battered corpse which has been abandoned in the woods. And then we are cooing over our first child! And then WHAM smack over to the other side of the brain in which he turns out to be a pathological liar! Or abusive! Or unfaithful! Or a cad! Or a con man who is going to abscond with all of my savings! Granted, seeing how no one wants my survey the sums will be paltry, but still.

Exhausting does not begin to describe it. If he is someone in my circle (read “an Anglo” because if you are Anglo and you are in Israel, my friends and I can find someone who knows you) the situation is not so bad. Make a few phone calls and it is easy to confirm that the suitor is who is says he is, has the job he says he has and is not possessed of criminal tendencies. But without that—utter mental exhaustion.

Last week, for instance, I went on a first date on a Sunday. We decided to go on a second date. That was scheduled for Friday night. That means I had five whole days for my brain to completely go to town. By Friday I had managed to freak myself out to the point that I deposited a piece of paper with my date’s name and phone numbers with my friend Galia. If I turn up in a ditch somewhere, I told her, this is where to send the police. Her response was along the lines of “no problem, but if you manage to get yourself killed on Shabbat, be aware that I am not going to do anything until Motzei Shabbat”. Hey, that is cool. Motzei Shabbat is soon enough. I mean, the system worked out fine with the bombing—no reason to assume that it would not be sufficient here. And, hey, I would be dead, so what would be the rush?

I know, I know. Deranged. Sigh….. Hmmmm....maybe this is why I am not married?

Enhanced fish tanks

2011-06-11T13:16:00.011+03:00

Let’s start with a conversation I had with Kayla at Terem while waiting to have blood tests done:

Me: Hey, they added a fish tank!

Kayla: Yes! It’s nice.

Me: Yeah, lots of fish. That brown one with the spots is funky looking.

Kayla: I think that is a catfish.

Me: Aaaaahhhhh.

Me: You know, they are not eating each other.

Kayla: What?

Me: The fish are not eating each other. Not even the brown one, though I know he wants to. I can see it. Wouldn’t it be so much more entertaining if they would?

Kayla: Well, then you would have just one big fish.

Me: Well, once you run out of fish, you could always toss in the odd poorly behaved child. Or random excess cats from the neighborhood.

Kayla: Yeah, I don’t think so.

Now, clearly, Kayla is wrong. The tank, it is nice, but where is the action here? I decided to go straight to the Terem top: Dr. No.

Me: Hey Dr. No! You know the fish tank you have in the Katamon branch?

Dr. No.: [Looks at me with suspicion.] Yes….

Me: You need to add some carnivorous fish.

Dr. No: Why?

Me: Because it is boring. [You would think that this would be obvious, but apparently not.]

I then proceed to explain the concept—the fish wars, the annoying children, the cats.

Dr. No: Somehow, I do not think that we can do that.

Between you and me, he wants to. He just is afraid of the potential liability if parents take advantage of the tank to get rid of the non-annoying children as well. Insurance rates would skyrocket. It is a business, must be prudent. I get it.

Just so you can see my vision….

Standard fish tank:

Enhanced fish tank:

You see? I was right about the brown fish!

You no, maybe Dr. No is right. Leave the standard fish tank out in the waiting room to lull the unsuspecting populace. Then put the enhanced fish tank in with the phlebotomists. To get them in the mood.

(P.S.--if you click on the picture, you can see it nice and big. My enhanced fish looks wonderful enlarged).

Alyn Wheels of Love, Take Four

2011-06-04T10:53:00.006+03:00

For months, no, YEARS, I have been promising myself that I would start blogging again regularly. This is because my true goal in life to be a Writer. I know this because that is what it says in my Ten Year Plan. And if I blog, that means I am writing. Which means I am working towards my goal. I do so like working towards my goals; it gives me such a warm, fuzzy feeling of satisfaction. But, as a cursory review of my blog posts will reveal, I have not been writing. Every day I tell myself "Gila, from tomorrow, you will start to write every day" in the hope that one day I will wake up and it will be tomorrow already.

Part of the problem is that I really do not have anything to write about. (Do you really want to hear more about my adventures with Excel? I thought not.) Last night at Shabbat dinner I shared my troubles with my fellow guests. In a random fit of helpfulness, E offered to insult me so I would have something to write about. And he tried but he was off his game and so that did not work. (I was kind and reassured him that it was just old age and that incontinence and senility would follow).

So I guess that leaves me with Alyn.

This week I signed up for my fourth Alyn Hospital Wheels of Love charity bike ride. I did so even though I had sworn up and down that I was not, under any circumstances, going to do it this year. I was going to wait until next year so that I would have a year break in between rides. The training, the not training and then agonizing about it, the shnorring…it is so much work. Bu-uuuuut the route looks like fun and I want to see Practical Yael (because spending five months shnorring and training and not-training-but-agonizing is so much easier than driving the 1.5 hours to her house) and Alyn sent an email egging me on to sign up RIGHT NOW! ON THE FIRST DAY OF REGISTRATION! DO IT! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO BE IN THE TOP FIFTY! YOU. MUST. HAVE. THIS. I DARE YOU! I DOUBLE DARE YOU! and Roxie the Diet has come back and isn’t this a great way to get myself to exercise more? Multi-tasking! How efficient! If I am biking all the time I will lose the (now 17) extra kilos no problem. Though at this point I know my co-workers well enough to know that none of them are going to pimp me out but that is okay because, frankly, most of my time will probably be spent in not-training-but-agonizing mode which does not burn nearly as many calories.

In a nutshell, I have lost my mind.

Many fine shnorring posts (and emails, for those of you lucky enough to be in my contact list) to follow. Because from tomorrow, I am going to start writing every day.

And the winner is.....

2011-04-15T08:16:00.005+03:00

If you will recall, a few months ago I realized I had to decide what I was going to do for Pesach. Now that Pesach is, well, here, Midianite Mama asked me, "Nu, what did you decide?"

Right, I must alert my loyal readers! All six of them that are left, seeing how I never blog anymore! :)

Anyways, I am pleased to announce that the winner is:

HOLLAND!!!

And a tulip, because it is Holland.

Isn't it beautiful? It is probably the only tulip I am going to see because the real tulips are probably waiting for it to be warm for them to come out. As are the tourists with any sense. But no matter, I'm going. I'll visit a flower shop and see a tulip there.

(As you can see from the above, Excel is also excited, even though it does not get to go because I am not bringing my computer with me. I suspect it is happy it gets a vacation from me.)

I chose Holland because it is the type of place that allows one to do "adventure tourism"--in my case lots and lots of biking--without having to actually be adventurous or even put out too much effort. I mean, it's Europe. It's safe. Everyone speaks English-- probably better than I do. AAAAAAnd the country is flat as a pancake and, based on reports I have received to date, is basically one, enormous bike path. For someone used to biking in Jerusalem (one enormous hill, uphill all ways, share the bike paths with cars) this is so not adventurous. And yet despite this, I get full credit for being Someone Who Seeks Adventure! Like, I can put that on Jdate and everything!

Score!!!!!

Off to pack!

Roi Klein

2011-03-19T23:50:00.009+02:00

Last night I went to a Shabbat dinner.

You can tell already that this is not going to end well, can’t you. It never does.

Anyway, I was at this meal and we were talking about Japan and how selfless the guys trying to stop the nuclear crisis are. And how that is characteristic of Japanese society. And how we are not like that here. And then this guy—let’s call him E—at the table says: Roi Klein. The name rings a bell. Hey, I ask, isn’t that the war hero with the house that they want to tear down?

And…well…all hell breaks loose. You see, public opinion in respect to this case is that you cannot possibly tear down the house of a war hero. My hosts and fellow guests hold views in line with public opinion. I do not. My view—and I stated it— was that maybe, just maybe, there is something to be said for the rule of law in a society. And that no, the death of a soldier, even an extraordinarily selfless and heroic death, is not by definition reason to ignore the law. It may be. It may not be. It depends on the situation. But it is not a given. Suffice it to say that by the end of the meal I had been screamed at and branded as a demagogue by E.

Had I stayed a bit longer I suspect I could have collected a few other equally charming epithets. Instead, I made my escape and went home. I went to sleep. I woke up. And I was still pissed. But then I said, “Gila, what do you really know about this case apart from the sound bites you have heard on the news? Are you qualified to have an opinion? Go online and learn something”

So I did. And this is what I learned.

Roi Klein’s house is located in Hayovel, an illegal settlement in the West Bank.
In 2005, while a portion of the houses were still under construction, Peace Now filed suit claiming that the construction of 12 buildings on the site was illegal and the structures should be demolished.
The government responded that there was already a demolition order. That is, from day one the government has agreed with Peace Now that the construction was illegal.
In September 2005, Peace Now brought the case to the Supreme Court requesting that, if this if a demolition order exists, that the order be executed.
Rather than actually responding to and dealing with the issue, since the date the case was initially filed the government has requested 30 extensions.
In July 2006, Roi Klein was killed in action.
The case, therefore, preceded Roi Klein's death. His death did not change any of the issues raised (ie. legality of outpost/ ownership of land/ existence of permits).
Ergo, while what happened to him is indeed tragic, it is not relevant to the original suit. And that, contrary to public opinion, neither Peace Now nor the Supreme Court woke up one day and announced that it felt like persecuting widows and orphans, and by golly, the widow and orphans of Roi Klein would do just fine, thank you.
In July 2009 the Supreme Court handed down its decision. The government was to give the residents of the outpost a chance to present any final arguments and—barring any new evidence coming to light—was to demolish the outpost.

Most of the above information is taken from the Peace Now website. The reason for this is that theirs is the only website that provided actual information: documents, copies of filings, the Supreme Court decision and so on. I tried to balance this out with information from the right but an hour of searching yielded nothing but the the requisite pictures of Roi Klein in Happier Times (with or without the widow and children) and verbiage to the effect that either the Supreme Court, the government, Peace Now or some combination thereof were a bunch of evil anti-Semites with no respect for the contributions of the fallen. What can I say…not so useful if the goal is to develop an understanding of the underlying issues in a lawsuit.

What conclusion did I come to? That this is not even an issue of whether or not a fallen soldier should be outside the law because this has very little to do with Roi Klein.

I believe that the members of the general population who decry the destruction of his house are sincere. But the politicians, the Right, the settlement movement? I do not. For them, Roi Klein has been turned into a useful tool for the drumming up of emotions and public fervor to support something they might not have supported otherwise. Lots of Israelis do not support the Right, the settlement enterprise and the whole Greater Israel movement, but what Israeli will not support a heroic and conveniently dead soldier? איזה יופי! Fantastic! Let’s latch an entire neighborhood to his back!

You see, that’s the rub—the other 11 houses. Had these same parties voiced reactions along the lines of “okay, the Supreme Court ruled against us and we accept it but please, leave Roi’s house standing” that would be one thing. I might disagree—again, just because he died it does not necessarily follow that we can ignore the law—but I would respect that the sentiment was sincere and was driven by a genuine desire to honor a man who made the ultimate sacrifice and to look after his family. (In fact, that is what Peace Now suggested.) Instead what is happening here is that the Right/ government/ settlement lost the case and have resorted to using a dead soldier’s sacrifice as a means of avoiding implementation of the ruling in respect to the entire settlement. Of getting what they want.

It is the lack of honesty and candor that gets to me. The deception. The concealment of one’s true goals behind a wall of propaganda. That and the hijacking of someone else’s sacrifice and suffering as a means of furthering their goals. Even if the wife agrees…. It is not their story. It is his. Even if he is dead, it belongs to him.

E. has claimed that I expressed a view that one cannot compare Roi’s act to that of the Japanese who are risking their lives to solve the crisis in the nuclear reactors. Not at all. You certainly can compare them. The question is whether you can compare how society treats such acts in the two societies. If, G-d forbid, one of the Japanese workers were to die from radiation poisoning, will Japanese society then be treated to an episode in which a large group of people demand to be exempted from the law because he died?

Somehow, I doubt it.

Burn-out

2011-01-29T11:22:00.006+02:00

Hi! How are you?

Thanks to doing the crazy hours thing for over a year, complete with a ramp up into “life-blasting” hours levels over the last six months, I am now officially burned out. At this point, all I want to do is curl up in fetal position under a blanket and cry. I have not done so for two reasons. First, while my office does feature the beanbag I commandeered from my company’s beanbag room (now devoid of any beanbags thanks to everyone commandeering them for their offices and therefore more properly termed “the very ugly bomb shelter”), it does not have a blanket. And you know, it’s just not the same without the blanket.

To illustrate, using excel:

With blanket:

Without blanket:

Second, even according to my admittedly shockingly lax standards, engaging in either one of the above at the office would be really unprofessional.

As a result, I have had no other option but to continue working, though I do spice it up with grouchiness, self-pity and projecting a general atmosphere of doom , gloom and clinical depression.

I feel bad for my co-workers.

On the bright side, see the boots I am wearing in the above pictures? They are new! Aren’t they nice? They—together with the other three pairs of boots I bought this winter—are the one light in my life right now. Excel would be a light in my life but for the fact that it was being very naughty this week when I was trying to create some graphs. Things are still not 100% between us. It happens.

All Vows

2011-01-03T22:25:00.009+02:00

Hello! Happy January! Do you know January means? January means that it is time for me to start obsessing about what I am going to do for Pesach.

Perhaps you are confused. Perhaps you are saying to yourself “what is Pesach?” “Pesach” is Passover, otherwise known as the time we Jews all go stark raving mad and eat crackers for a week. Or perhaps you are saying to yourself “Nu, I know what Pesach is! And that Pesach is MONTHS away!” Well, yes! Exactly! I have to escape. And to escape I have to buy a ticket. And given that approximately 70% of the country chooses to observe Pesach by fleeing from the country (an act which actually has more in common with our ancestors' flight from Egypt than does sitting on our asses and eating massive amounts of food…but I digress), I have to figure out where the hell I am fleeing to and I have to buy my ticket right now. Because otherwise the only tickets left will be for places like Egypt. And as wonderfully ironic as that destination might be, if local crazies denouncing and attacking one another over religious and racial differences is what I am looking for, I really do not need to travel.

But travel I must because I have to escape. I have to escape because I took an oath to do so last summer, as part of a dating seminar. I took an oath because the seminar people made me. As part of the seminar, in addition to having to close our eyes and listen to happy clappy mantras accompanied by a guitar, we were also required to set a deadline, as in: I will be engaged by XYZ date. My XYZ date was Pesach. I chose Pesach because:

they made me choose a date—they really and truly would not take no for an answer;
at that time Pesach was sufficiently far away that my expecting that engagement could happen was more or less credible and
I absolutely loathe Pesach and thought that getting engaged might make the holiday slightly less odious.

But at the same time, as my friends pointed out, what if I got engaged and/or married some asshole JUST in order to meet that deadline? Now, I know I am going to come across as a snarky and bitter spinster here. But, for fuck's sake--I have made it to 40 without doing anything quite so stupid and deranged as getting married just to meet an arbitrary societal or personal deadline. Is this really a risk factor? But, whatever. To defend myself and the holiday from any potential debilitating weakness of character, I set up two parallel goals. The goals look like this:

(See? Beautifully parallel, no? I did this in excel. Isn’t excel great? I adore excel.)

Anyway, so, here we are, four months before Pesach and I am not dating. This makes the chances that I am going to be engaged by Pesach rather low. So I thought “well, sign up for the Two Oceans Half Marathon and book your ticket for South Africa”. But then I thought “But Gila, you are already registered for the Jerusalem Half Marathon. Do you really want to do another marathon?” And the answer is “well, no, not really". So now I have to find something else to do.

Decisions, decisions....

Blind Date Question Survey

2010-07-23T19:46:00.003+03:00

First dates are awkward. BLIND first dates can be a little slice of hell. Unless, of course, one can find a way to liven things up a bit. And, you know, make the evening that much less torturous for all concerned.

That is where these questions come in. Forget about "do you have siblings" or "are you the oldest or the youngest in your family" or "why did you make aliyah" or "why did you decide to become an actuary?" All of us who have found ourself going the blind date route have asked and been asked those questions a bazillion times (well maybe not the actuary one). Not only are we all sick of asking and answering them but...really...tell me, do you care about the answer? No, you do not. Nor does anyone else. Maybe the first date or two or three. But now? Not a chance. Each date just blends in with the next.

So...I would like to reject the standard questions. I want different questions. Questions that would make you smile, if someone asked you that on a date. Silly questions. Quirky questions. Interesting questions. Questions that might (gasp) reveal your personality. Questions that will put you both sufficiently at ease that each of you will be able to assess "do I like this person" and "do I like this person enough to go out with them again and ask the questions we 'should' be asking on date one".

Because--and I realize I should not be saying this because I am an accountant and you know what they say about people in glass houses but nonetheless--I think it is fair to say that if you spend more than 15 seconds discussing being an actuary, the answer to the above questions is likely to be no.

And...you know...we go on so many of these dates. Is it really so heretical, so unthinkable that they might be made...fun

Results--assuming I get a decent number--will be posted on this blog.

Link to the survey page.

Killing the ג'וק

2010-07-12T23:23:00.004+03:00

First, a Hebrew lesson: a ג'וק (juk) is a cockroach and ג'וקים בראש (jukim b'rosh)—cockroaches in the head is…. Oh, how the hell do you translate it? Like, ummm, bees in the bonnet. But not.

Second, an update. I went to the reunion. There were a few odd moments. Like the one in which a fellow alum waved his arm in the direction of the collection of small children in attendance and announced “look what we have accomplished in nine years”. There was also, as expected, the wry description of how “X corrects my Hebrew all the time”. But, nonetheless, I had a nice time. I caught up with people I have not seen in years. I tickled small children. I even had the opportunity to chat with X, who is a most pleasant child. He corrected my Hebrew.

Third, my actual post. I do not know if anyone really caught this amidst the whining, but in my last post I mentioned that I asked a guy out. Did you note that? No? Well, then let us try this again. I asked a man out on a date.

Great—so now that we are all on the same page, it is time to discuss. Now, a experienced person, a discerning person, a person who is a Woman of the World…say…my friend Ellie, might see my asking a guy out as a very bad idea, or at least an ineffective one. "גבר שרוצה, עושה", “A man who wants, does”, is one of her favorite mantras. If he wanted you, he would go after you. He does not go, he does not want. Very simple, very easy.

I agree with Ellie. I agree with her 100%. Up to the age of…say…19? 20? 21? (whatever age they stop being afraid of women) go ahead and ask him out. He will be profoundly grateful. Because you (and pretty much every other woman) scare the living shit out of him. But after that? He may be flattered, but if he were interested…he would have already called you.

The next question is pretty obvious: if this is what I believe why on earth did I ask a man out? The answer: because I expected him to say no.

(The guy I asked out also found this quite confusing, when I was explaining it to him the other day. “Wait...let me get this straight. You asked me out because you thought I would say no?”)

Really—and as I tried to explain to the guy—it is all very logical. If you have a ג'וק בראש , kill it.

Say you like a guy. Now, there are two possible scenarios. One—the guy likes you back. Two—he does not. If he likes you back, eventually, he may ask you out on a date and all will be hunky dory until you discover that really, wow, you cannot stand him. However, if he does not like you back, you will continue to moon over the guy for a year or two or three, painting him in your head as Prince Fucking Charming, and dreaming of the day that he will look at you and see the Love of His Life.

This is not going to happen. I mean, this is SO not going to happen. As such, this is NOT a good use of your time or your brain power. Perhaps you are also making a spectacle of yourself with (really sad and ineffectual) flirting? And you are all but throwing yourself at the guy? And you are doing this in front of other people? No no no…this cannot continue. It is imperative— you must kill that juk. All you have to do is ask the guy out on a date. He may or may not be gracious in his response. He may or may not act weird around you for the rest of time. But he will say no. And then you will have your answer and will be able to go on with your life and find someone else to obsess about.

Unless he says “yes”.

This confuses matters immensely.

For instance, you may find yourself, on a date, trying to explain to someone that you do not actually think he is a cockroach. And that yes, even though you did sort of compare him to one, you would not say no if he were to call you for another date.

(Really, I swear, normally this process works just like I said it does.)

Ulpan Reunion

2010-07-09T09:03:00.003+03:00

Today is Friday, July 09, 2010. The time is 8:00 AM. Five hours from now, I am slated to go to a reunion of my Ulpan Etzion class. These are the people who, like me, made aliyah (immigration to Israel) in July 2001 and started off their adventure with the five month Ulpan Etzion Hebrew immersion program complete with residency in the Ulpan Etzion dormitories. Since the program ended and we each left the dormitories, we have scattered all over the country. Recently, one of the group sent out an email. “Hey guys, it has been nine years! Let’s celebrate”. And I, without thinking, immediately responded ‘count me in’.

Or out, as the case may be. Because I am still not sure I am going to show up.

Background. At least back in 2001, the Ulpan Etzion dormitories were limited to single olim (immigrants) between the ages of 20 and 35. Let’s do some math. I am an accountant. We like math, yes? So, let us say you start with a group of single 20-35 year olds. If you add 9 years, you should end up with a bunch of married 29-44 year old parents, correct? And, indeed, that is what happened. Except for in my case. No husband. No kids. Not even any long-term relationships; my dating record is shockingly, laughingly, sparse. Hell—I was supposed to go on a date last night and got stood up. And the only reason I had a date to get stood up on is because I asked the guy out myself.

Truly. Pathetic.

So how can I go? How can I go and see everyone and their spouses and their kids? How can I go and listen to everyone talk about their lives, their homes, their spouses, their children? How can I listen to them talk and compare notes and as they do so, check off the milestones of a life lived in Israel? The trips each one took with his or her spouse before he or she was a spouse. What the children are doing. This one is now in Bnei Akivah; that one starts gan next week; the three year old that corrects the parent’s Hebrew. What they do for the hagim.

This is the life I wanted. This is the life I did not get. This is the life I missed out on.

How can I go and feel myself surrounded by pity mixed with a good dose of contempt. “Well, of course Gila is still single”. Because even if they really and truly are not thinking that—even if it would never occur to anyone to think that—even if everyone is genuinely surprised to find that I am still single, I will know that they are really thinking “yeah, no surprise there”.

Nine years gone. What do I have to show for it? Yes, I have had some success professionally. I am happy about this. However, without trying to discount either my achievements or the hard work that went into them, I strongly doubt that my fellow alumni are clearing tables. At this point, I am guessing that pretty much everyone has found his professional niche.

But, one could argue, I was in a bombing!

Because that, of course, is such an accomplishment.

The time is now 9:00 AM. I still do not know if I am going to the reunion.

Conversation at Shabbat Lunch

2010-06-21T07:01:00.004+03:00

You know, every time I have one of these conversations at a Shabbat lunch, it seems to end badly. You would think that I would learn. But I never do.

Me: I just signed up for the Alyn Ride!

Friend: That is great!

Me: Yeah....round number three. This year should be better than the last one. I learned stuff.

Friend: Such as?

Me: One—train. Doing a five day bike ride when you are not in shape is no fun. Two—do not go down hills on your face.

Friend: Those are good things to know.

Me: AAAAAAAND….the moment we get to Jerusalem on the last day of the ride—go straight home. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not go to the celebratory closing ceremony at the hospital. Giant shofars, tearjerking and melodrama. Not my idea of a good time. Vile.

Friend: Ahhh….the closing ceremony. That is where they roll out the kids with the wheelchairs? Parade them around a bit?

Me: Yeah, exactly. AWFUL! Of course, a lot of the riders visit the hospital and all that. I do not. I do not volunteer there. I have not even done the tour. . I figure—I am raising money all summer—that should be enough.

Friend: I get it. I mean, you do not want to actually have to see them.

Me: No…it is not like that. It is just…difficult.

Friend: No, I understand! They should keep them locked up. Away from us normal people. Where we cannot see them. And get grossed out by the cripples.

Me: AAAAAEEEEEIIIIII!!!!! Stop! Stop! I admit it! I am a horrible person.

Of course, he did not stop. I mean, this was far too good to let go. No, he just continued on in this vein for the next few minutes.

Right then, so my tour of Alyn is this Tuesday morning. Set it up first thing Sunday morning. After which I promptly sent the friend an email to let him know that his guilt trip had worked. Bastard. I bet his kids are all, like, traumatized and all that. They just seem happy and well-adjusted.

Oh, and I realize that morally, I am pretty much on the level of Hitler. But if despite this, you want to sponsor me, you can do so here.

So THAT'S why she never sets me up

2010-05-23T00:29:00.007+03:00

Conversation with my stepmother (who I love dearly, BUT...well, you will see)

Me: I went out with a friend today. She is a amazing photographer and took some shots of me. Once she sends them to me, I am going to give Jdate another try. Maybe this time I will actually score a date with a nice guy. [Read: decent, normal, interesting, intelligent, age appropriate, gainfully employed, attractive, not a what's-his-story or some other problematic variety of male, does not sport a combover or a bald-in-front-mullet-in-back hairstyle and so on and so forth].

Stepmother: Well, you will go out with a nice guy and then you will decide that there is something wrong with him.

Me: Umm...why do you think this? When have I done this? [Having heard this multiple times in the past I am curious as to why she has this impression of me. I mean, I get so few dates--it is not like I am flush with chances to dump nice guys].

Stepmother: Well, there was that lawyer. From Newark.

Me: [Baffled--lawyer? From Newark? No...she can't possibly mean X. But I have not dated any other lawyers. I guess she does.] You mean the one from Philadelphia?

Stepmother: Maybe it was Philadelphia.

Me: You mean the one I dated 20 years ago? When I was 20?

Stepmother: Oh, has it been 20 years?

Me: Even if I was picky and capricious in breaking up with him--which I wasn't--that was 20 years ago! And he did not want to date me anymore either.

Stepmother: Oh. Okay then.

And, for what it is worth--rather than wait with me for the AAA truck, this paragon of male virtues left me by myself in a parking lot late at night when it turned out my car battery was dead and I needed a charge. So...not so nice.

Praying for Strength

2010-05-10T12:11:00.003+03:00

Recent conversation with a close friend:

Me: I think I am going to services Friday night.

Friend: (well aware of my profound allergy to synagogues) מה פתאום!? What’s up with that!?

Me: Well, this is going to sound stupid…but I need to ask G-d for help.

Friend: That does not sound stupid at all.

Or maybe it does. Maybe this is my version of snake oil. But I am desperate.

The problem is that my eating is out of control. One day I eat normally, the next day I binge. This has been the case for me for literally as long as I can remember. I go through periods—sometimes very long periods— where things calm down—where my eating is “normal”— but it always comes back. At some point I will find myself surreptitiously downing boxes of cookies, slice after slice of bread and butter or bread and honey, or massive quantities of G-d knows what else, and promising myself that “this is the last time” and “tomorrow I will give up sugar and white flour for real”.

This is a stupid, insane, ridiculous way to live. The major difference between me and an alcoholic or drug addict is that I can still drive after getting another hit. (Hell, I can drive while taking a hit, so long as the food item only requires one hand). I neither want nor intend to spend the rest of my life like this. There is no way that any food item can possibly be worth the pain of addiction. So I try to get off the crazy train. I have a rallying cry: fall seven times, stand up eight. I try and fail, try and fail and try yet again. I am a weeble wobble, falling and rising. I am Don Quixote, tilting at windmills. I am fighting a war, losing battle after battle and getting up the next day to fight again. And lose, again. My friends and co-workers find it either amusing or sad, my constant dieting. I understand them. They do not understand. Unless you have gone through it (and I know that many have, which helps enormously) how can you possibly understand?

(It is like this. I hate this feeling of being in thrall…to a candy bar. To an obsession. I hate the feeling of my brain being on fire. Must. Have. Sugar. Now. I want peace. I want mental quiet already. I want to let this go.

It is like this. I do not enjoy most of the food while I am eating it. The first few bites, the first few cookies, sure. But after that? Pure primal, animal gorging. Except that the average animal probably has enough sense to stop eating when it is full. I eat when I am not hungry. I eat when I do not want to eat.

It is like this. I LOVE the way I feel and my body feels when I eat well. I love the feeling of lightness. I love the energy. I love the sense of order, the feeling of mental and physical health and the mental calmness I have when I am not chasing after a drug. Even if I do not always like the food as much—let’s face it, carrot cake with extra cream-cheese icing is a hell of a lot tastier than a melon—I could live with that. It is worth it. I know it is worth it.

It is like this. This is a matter of life and death. I have to win this war. If I do not win, if I do not kill this, eventually it is going to kill me. I think of that, when I am binging on bread and butter. What is this doing to my arteries? How many more times can I do this before they end up blocked completely? How long before I drop dead of a massive heart attack? I really should get them checked out, but honestly, I am afraid to. I do not want to know how bad it is, and how much damage I have already done. How much I have already screwed myself over.)

What I need, what I lack, is strength. I need the strength to get through the withdrawal symptoms (similar to the ones I suffered when I quit smoking 11 years ago). I need the strength to see bread and sweets and to not eat them. I need the strength to stand up against my yetzer ha’ra when it says “Gila, you had such a long day. Don’t you want a packet of TimTams for the ride home?” or “עוד אחד ודאי” “One more time, and then that’s it.” Or “you are starting your diet tomorrow, so you really should binge today because otherwise, you will never be able to eat this or that or the other again”. I need the strength to deal with the day-after-day, the strength not to get lazy and not to get complacent and to not slip into bad habits six months down the road. I need strength to not be afraid. A future without sugar? Never have chocolate again? No more carrot cake? Ever?????

(Just now, writing that, my insides literally knotted up).

I need strength, and G-d has it. He can give me some, if He chooses. He can get rid of the withdrawal symptoms, if He chooses. I will not say “all I have to do is ask”, because sometimes the answer is “no”. Both G-d and I know that He has given me that answer more than once—my perennial single status is proof of that. But sometimes it is yes. So why not ask? What do I have to lose? Friday night, I went to synagogue and I prayed. I told G-d I cannot do this on my own. I told Him I was tired. I told Him I understand that I have to do the work—I am not asking for an easy out or a quick fix—just some hizuk, some strength that will help me to do the work that must be done. I told Him I was desperate. I told Him that, apparently, I cannot do this on my own. I told Him I needed Him.

Saturday morning I woke up early. I went to one of my favorite blogs and checked in on his miracles. Baruch Hashem, they are still going strong. I visited Aish’s website and found, waiting for me, an article about prayer. I had done my grocery shopping on Thursday night. Before I went to the store, I broke out the menus from the diet program I was on last year, the one that helped me to lose 12 kilo (10 still off) and to clean up my eating habits…before I got off track again. I bought accordingly. My refrigerator is crammed with the light bread, the chicken breasts, the cottage cheese and the vegetables the diet calls for. Saturday morning I started the diet again, from week one, day one.

All I need now is His answer.

Mea Shearim is the new [insert favorite bad neighborhood here], Part II

2010-05-08T10:52:00.008+03:00

Shortly after I posted my last post “Mea Shearim is the New Harlem”, I had a conversation with a gentleman of my acquaintance. I gave him a summary of the post. He disagreed. To compare Jews and Arabs is wrong. A Jew throwing a rock is different than an Arab throwing a rock.

That—in a nutshell—sums up most of the comments. “It is not okay to say this about Jews”. An Arab can be a terrorist. A Jew cannot. (Unless, of course, he is a left-wing Jew, in which case he is probably not only a terrorist, but also a traitor deserving of the death penalty).

Let us examine this theory, shall we? We will start with some helpful definitions

From the Random House College Dictionary I received as a Bat Mitzvah present:

Terrorism–1) the use of terrorizing methods; 2) the state of fear and submission so produced; 3) a terroristic method of governing or of resisting a government

Terrorize—1) to fill or overcome with terror; 2) to dominate or coerce by intimidation.

And from Merriam-Webster online:

Terrorism –The systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion.

Terror–1) a state of intense fear; 2 )a) one that inspires fear/scourge; b) a frightening aspect ; c) a cause of anxiety/ worry ; d) an appalling person or thing; especially : brat; 3 ) reign of terror; 4 ) violent or destructive acts (as bombing) committed by groups in order to intimidate a population or government into granting their demands

You will note that the above definitions do not include many things.

1) They do not exclude those who latch on to their lunacy through boredom, poverty or unemployment. They do not care why you became a terrorist, only that you are one.

2) They do not specify what the demands must be. It does not exempt certain groups of demands from the definition. “Yeah, normally doing xyz in order to enforce compliance with your demands would be terrorism, but since we agree with your demands, it's not.”

3) While Merriam does offer ‘bombing’ as an example of terrorism, neither it nor Random House specify means of coercion. For example, neither source says “up to and including rocks, sticks and body parts –hoodlums and/or bored youth, unless the perpetrator is an Arab, in which case it is terrorism. Knives and up—terrorism. Unless committed by Jews, in which case nothing is terrorism. Unless said Jew is a member of the left wing.”

4) And most importantly: they do not specify what race or religion one must be in order to be a terrorist. They do not distinguish between Arab and Jew.

As such, according to Merriam Webster, Random House, and me: you can be a Jew; you can be a devout Jew; you can use violence –the cultivation of terror—as a means of enforcing compliance with your version of religious law. And if you do, you are a terrorist. And if you are a terrorist, I have every right to be afraid of you. I have no obligation to wait until the first murder of a teenager at the hands of a Ramat Beit Shemesh mob, the first time a grenade is thrown instead of a chair at the Kotel or the first time a bombing replaces riots and rocks. No, I can be afraid of you right now.

Many commenters, even those who agreed with me that violence was becoming a problem, further took exception with my stated fear of Haredi areas and anxiety when running past a large number of Haredi men. They took this to mean that I believe that all Haredim, every last one, is violent. It is okay to be afraid of the violent ones, but not the non-violent ones. I am not sure whether to find this amusing or pathetic. To say that an area is “bad” or “dangerous” does not mean, nor has it ever meant, that every last person living there is dangerous, any more than a State Department alert about a given country means that the US government has come to the conclusion (which it is now ready to make extremely public) that every last person living in said country is interested in causing Americans harm. Rather, it means that the quantity of dangerous people, of radicals, of people willing and able to use violence, has increased. Increased significantly. Increased to the extent that the number of short sticks waiting to be drawn has also increased. And with it, your risk in visiting said area. Because, and this is the tricky part so pay close attention: terrorists look just like non-terrorists! Take my bombing, for example. Had my terrorist looked any different from any non-terrorist, all of us would have said “Look! A terrorist! Run away!” And we would have run away! And if this is true of Arabs and Arab areas, it is all the more so in Haredi areas, where the men all dress identically.

And if I may draw one more analogy from my own bombing--shit happens, and sometimes it happens to you.

I do owe one apology. The readers of Dov Bear’s site were shocked and horrified that I would cite Harlem as an example of a bad neighborhood. Harlem has now become gentrified! People—men and women, young and old, all races— can wander all around Harlem, day and night, without fear! As such, to the upwardly mobile residents of the new, improved, gentrified Harlem, I am so sorry for trashing your neighborhood. I am willing to correct it, but I need your help. You see, I do not live in New York and like most non-New Yorkers, have no particular interest in New York. (Shocking, I know. And yet true). “Harlem” is, for me, something of a symbol. However, even if the symbolism is no longer accurate this does not mean that there is no “Harlem” in New York. The economically disadvantaged populations—complete with the thugs-out-of-boredom-and-frustration elements— they moved somewhere else, yes? To another neighborhood, yes? Because, they are not living next door to you, right? I mean, WHAT would that do to the property values? Anyway, I should have referred to that neighborhood. And if one of you would be so kind as to provide me with the updated reference, I will correct my original post accordingly.

Mea Shearim is the new Harlem

2010-04-09T14:03:00.003+03:00

A few days ago, I went running with a friend in Gan Sacher, a public park in the heart of Jerusalem. Gan Sacher is a great place to run--well maintained, ample running paths, big enough that you can actually get a decent run in and largely (blessedly) flat. Is it the new Central Park? No. But, it does the job.

So, there we were, running along...and all of a sudden we passed a large cluster of Haredi (ultra-orthodox) men. And then another. And another. Apparently, some yeshiva or another picked this day and place for its annual Yom Kef (Fun Day). And we run and run and keep on passing more Haredim, and all I could think was: thank G-d I am not running alone. Thank G-d I am with a man. Someone to protect me.

This fear is not new. I have felt it for a while. It has been building. It has influenced my actions. In the past, I used to shop in Meah Shearim, a large Haredi neighborhood near the center of town and I worked in Bayit Vegan, another Haredi neighborhood. Today, I avoid Meah Shearim and the other Jerusalem Haredi neighborhoods the way that Washingtonians avoid Anacostia and New Yorkers know not to go to Harlem.

How do I decide where I can and cannot go? Rule of thumb: if I feel that I would have to change my clothes first, put on something more concealing (like, say, a burka) I do not go. Suffice it to say that there are large swaths of Jerusalem that are now off limits. However sometimes, by accident or unavoidable circumstance, I find myself in one of the Haredi enclaves. There was the time I had to pick up something in Ramot and started to panic when I realized it was 1) a Haredi neighborhood and 2) I was not wearing Haredi attire. And there was the time last summer when I got lost while driving a friend to the Central Bus Station and found myself driving through Meah Shearim. At night. In a short-sleeved shirt. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was nearly in hysterics by the time we finally got the hell out of there.

Am I the only one who feels this way? And if not, do others feel it to the same extent? Do others feel, as I feel, uncomfortable if they find themselves in an elevator with a Haredi man? Not any man, mind you. Not stam a religious man, a orthodox Jew. Rather, a Haredi man. Do others get nervous, as I do, driving in or near Haredi neighborhoods?

Do others brace themselves, waiting for a rock to come through the window?

I am not just afraid. I am also angry. Do others feel the anger I feel when approached by Haredi panhandlers? Oh—you will attack women on the buses when it suits you, at the Kotel when it suits you and on the street when it suits you. You will tell us how we must dress and how we must act and what we can and cannot do. You will deface pictures of women—any pictures, of any women. You would erase us. You would throw us to the back of the bus, to the other side of the street, to the other days of the week. But our money, a woman’s money? Well, that you like just fine. Yeah, well, fuck you. Go beg money off a man.

I am angry because the government is doing nothing to deal with the increased violence. Now, instead of just being afraid of Arabs, I have to be afraid of both Arabs and Jews, and more afraid of the latter than the former. The government takes violence perpetrated by Arabs seriously. Arabs are subject to punishment and reprisals for any violent actions. Violence by Jews, on the other hand, is no big deal and the Haredim are not held accountable. If the Arab residents of East Jerusalem were to riot as the Haredim do, to burn trash cans as the Haredim do, to attack women on buses as the Haredim do, to throw rocks as the Haredim do...everyone would be out screaming "Intifada!" and “Terrorist!” and the police and/or the army would be out there in force, and quite possibly with live ammunition. * But let it be a Haredi Jew doing the attacking, the screaming, the burning and the stone-throwing and the matter will end with concessions…to the Haredim. “Please please please…do not riot anymore. We will give you whatever you want.”

I can guess what the automatic response will be: nu, spend a Shabbat in a Haredi neighborhood and you will see how nice the Haredim are. And to that, I have only one response: no. I have no doubt that Haredim can be nice when one is in their world, dressed in a way they approve of and acting in a way that they approve of. The question is whether the Haredim can be nice in my world. Can they function in the workforce, on the street and on a bus? Can they handle interactions with women? A female superior at work or a female instructor at school? (And if so, why do they need Frauen-rein divisions in the Army? Why the emphasis on setting up companies where men and women are segregated completely? Why the separate seating on the buses? ) Can they accept the rule of law, even when said law is being enforced against one of their own? Can they respect that other people do things—including Judaism—differently than they do?

Do I have to be afraid if I run past a group of Haredi men in the park?

Because until the answer to all of the above is “yes”, how nice you are to G-d on Shabbat, well, it really does not matter.

* Of course, this all begs the question—if rubber and/or live ammunition is the proper way to deal with a riot, why not use it on Jews as well? And if not, why are we applying it to a group that has, unlike the Haredim who have a say in government, very limited means of public expression? This double standard thing—it is getting old.

Wine

2010-04-04T13:00:00.005+03:00

I meant to only start posting after the holiday, but a matter of urgency just came up and I must share.

Today, I had to buy wine.

Buying wine is a task I avoid whenever possible. I hate wine. To my oh-so-distinguishing palete, all wines taste approximately the same: bad. As such, having me choose the wine for a meal is to beg and plead for disaster. When I am hosting a meal, I avoid said disaster by farming out the wine buying duties to one of my guests—preferably one who likes wine. I instruct the appointed wine bearer that they should buy whatever they like that goes with chicken. When I am invited out, I will offer to bring something else: challot, a side dish, appetizer salads, world peace—anything but wine. If the host insists, I will bring a wine bottle from the stash I keep of “wine brought by my guests that we never got to”. If someone else brought it, there is a fighting chance that it is actually a good wine.

But sometimes, sadly, it cannot be avoided. Sometimes my wine stash is empty. Or there are days like today, where my wine stash is not empty, but all of it is plain kosher, and not kosher l’Pesach kosher. To tell the truth, I am not 100% sure if wine has to be kosher l’Pesach or not. However, given that the local super has been offering piles and piles of kosher l’Pesach sponges, aluminum foil, plastic wrap and cleaning fluid—all of which are liable to be fatal if ingested—there is no way that wine, which is merely unpleasant when ingested, has managed to get off scot free.

Out of necessity, over the years I have developed a set of simple rules which can help to steer me in the right direction when purchasing wine.

1) No wine with screw tops. Screw tops are bad.
2) Do not get the cheapest wine. That means it is bad. But do not get the most expensive wine either (because, quite frankly, I like you, but not that much). Pick a wine in the mid-range—say about 25-30 shekels. If it is mid-range, it is probably good.
3) Muscats are for dessert! They do not go with chicken!
4) White wine goes with white food and red wine goes with red food. Or it is the other way around.
5) King David Sweet Concord Wine (local version of Manishevetz) is unspeakably vile and should never, ever be purchased. But it has a screw top, so you already knew this!
6) The prettier the bottle, the better the wine.

The last rule is the most important. Once one manages to winnow out the screw tops and muscats and the super cheap wines, one is left with a wide selection of bottles from which to pick. At this point, one picks based on the bottle. Generally, this is easy. Today it was not. All the bottles…I don’t know…they were so…blah! Plain! Here a few flowers, there some nice scenery…but nothing special. Nothing that made me say “wow, that wine must be really tasty to those who do not think that wine tastes like battery acid”. Then, suddenly, I saw it: the most beautiful bottles EVER. Look for yourself. Gorgeous, no?

And the price was perfect-29 shekels! Score! But wait…what is this?

A screw top? !

On a wine bottle with a pretty label?!

WTF?????? Those bastards! To make a gorgeous label and then add a screw top so I cannot buy it.

AAAAIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

I spent a good twenty minutes staring at the wine section and trying to decided what on earth to buy. In the end, out of desperation and a burning desire to go home, like, today, I said screw it, grabbed a couple bottles of Teva, and headed for the check out.

Teva labels:

Not so exciting, but the colors are nice, no? I bought a green label (white wine-goes with chicken) and a red label (blush wine—goes with the mutant spawn that one gets from cross-breeding chickens and cows).

Buon Appetito!

2010-01-16T22:02:00.005+02:00

This week, my brain got it into it’s head I wanted, nay, NEEDED to cook Italian. Where this came from, I do not know. I am not Italian. I have never been to Italy. I am not planning a trip to Italy. I own no Italian clothing. Apart from pizza, tomato sauce and lasagna, I have never cooked any Italian dishes. And seeing how Roxie the Diet is still around (and doing quite well—12 kilo down so far) it is not as though I have been eating much Italian food. (Roxie, she does not like the pasta). Nonetheless, somehow, from out of nowhere, the obsession emerged. Must. Cook. Italian.

Okay, I can go with this. Unlike the other nonsense my brain comes up with (running half-marathons, knitting sweaters), this could even be fun! Then, I looked over my schedule and realized that, nope, my brain had done it again. I had absolutely no time to do a meal. I tried to reason with my brain—immediately post-year- end is just not the right time for an accountant to be entertaining. Perhaps when things are a bit more calm? Like after I retire? My brain was having none of it. Must. Cook. Italian. it repeated. What’s a girl to do? I gave in. I invited some friends over for Shabbat dinner (“why waste perfectly good guinea pigs or rats when you have friends to test shit on”, that is my motto) and started to plan a menu.

My menu planning requirements were as follows:
1) All recipes had to be kosher or kosher-convertible.
2) As one of my guests is a vegetarian, it had to include vegetarian-friendly dishes.
3) The food had to be stuff that I could eat during the week without killing my diet.
4) No minestrone soup. I do not care how authentically Italian minestrone soup is. I hate it.

I was assisted in my menu planning by another one of my guests, Lydia. Lydia lived in Italy for a year back when she was a student. As such, Lyvia had eaten actual Italian food, cooked by Italians, in Italy. This makes her an expert. Between help from Lyvia, my beloved Moosewood cookbook , the Web and some random but useful suggestions, I decided on the following line-up:

First Course: Antipasti and Hallah (I was going to make focaccia as well, but seeing how I had a grand total of four hours to prepare everything, I realized that this was not going to happen).

Second course: Roasted Red Pepper Soup

Third course: Salad

Fourth course: Chicken Cacciatore, Eggplant Marsala, Pasta and Green beans

Fifth course: Tea and cookies

Why so many courses? Because that is how it is done in Italy. Each meal lasts approximately a year. That…and every single dish includes bottles and bottles of alcohol. I suspect that Italians go through life in a state of constant feeding and mild inebriation. Sounds fun, no?

There were a few preparation snafus. Mid-chicken cacciatore preparation I discovered that the white wine I had in my cabinet was a muscat, and not the dry white wine the recipe called for. I ran to the mercolet (mini-market) downstairs where I found them about to close. Fortunately the register was still open and they had semi-dry white wine in stock. I figured that would work. Then, the eggplant marsala had me worried. After I added the sherry, the dish took on a distinctly unappetizing aroma. I was in a panic. What was I going to feed the rabbit? Had Moosewood steered me wrong? As per the recipe instructions, I waited until the very end to add the garlic and, like magic, the dish started to smell like something one would actually want to eat. Finally, the whole wheat spaghetti I prepared was not so tasty to begin with. Then it proceeded to dry out on the plata (electric hotplate one uses to keep food warm during Shabbat) and as its grand finale, just as I was about to serve it, the Pyrex exploded. Apparently, “do not put a hot Pyrex dish directly on a marble counter top” is a good rule to live by. Alternatively, the rule could be “do not try to serve happy-clappy, new-age and rather disgusting whole wheat pasta at an Italian meal, lest one anger the gods of Italian cooking and they aim a divine lightning bolt at your kitchen”.

In the end, I have to say that the meal was quite a success. My trusty lab rats and I stuffed ourselves silly after which we lolled about on my couches, munched on cookies and tried to explain to one guest how, exactly, a guy keeps a woman’s feet warm. In the end, we decided that we would wait a few years until he was a bit older, and then Lyvia, as the elder of the group, would sit him down for a conversation about the birds and the bees.

********

Of everything I prepared, the red pepper soup was the only item made from a recipe billed as low calorie. Despite this, it was tasty. The original recipe is here; my enlarged, meat-meal-ready, and annotated version is below.

Roasted Red Pepper Soup

Ingredients
12 red bell peppers
8 black peppercorns
Whatever amount of dried thyme you think translates into four sprigs of thyme. Because you forgot to buy it.
2 bay leaves
3 teaspoons olive oil
3 cups diced onion (or however many cups one gets from two large onions)
Quantity of minced fresh garlic that can only be described as “I am not planning on getting to close to anyone for the foreseeable future, and perhaps even the next year”.
5 cups parve chicken broth
4 tablespoons white wine vinegar
Random number of shakes of Tabasco.
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 container of unflavored soy milk
2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives

Directions
Preheat broiler.

Cut bell peppers in half lengthwise; discard seeds and membranes. Place pepper halves, skin sides up, on a foil-lined baking sheet; flatten with hand. Broil for 15 minutes or until blackened. Place in a zip-top plastic bag; seal. Let stand for 15 minutes or until you finish prepping the chicken cacciatore (about 40 minutes). Whichever comes first. Peel and chop. Curse the Italians for their deranged obsession with peeling tomatoes and bell peppers—vegetables that G-d clearly did not intend to be peeled.

Place peppercorns, thyme, and bay leaves into a little metal tea thingy because you do not have cheesecloth, and, to be perfectly honest, are not entirely sure what cheesecloth is.

Return to the recipe. Ask yourself “do I have a Dutch oven”? Do I know what one is? Determine that the answer to both questions is “no”. Give up on the Dutch oven thing, and heat oil in a big metal pot over medium heat. Add onion and garlic; cook 15 minutes or until onion is lightly browned, stirring occasionally. Add bell peppers, metal thingy, broth, vinegar, salt and pepper and hot pepper sauce to pan. Increase heat to medium-high, and bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 20 minutes. Taste. My G-d, but this is vile. Did you add too much vinegar? Apparently you did! Dump in the soy milk in a desperate attempt to tone down the flavor. Realize that you added the salt and pepper at the beginning of the recipe instead of waiting for the proper time, which is now. Following directions is not your forte. This is probably why you are not married.

You cannot place the bell pepper mixture in a blender because your blender is dairy and if you use it, than the soup will be dairy and then everyone will go to hell because you have served them milk and meat together. And that would be bad. Instead, dump it (in installments) into a food processer and set it to liquefy. Repeat procedure with remaining soup. Pour pureed mixture into your soup tureen (deemed “posh” by your British guest). Forget to add the chives when serving.

No. More. Autism. Websites.

2010-01-04T15:46:00.003+02:00

I think that one of my New Year's Resolutions is going to be to never, ever, EVER look at another website having to do with autism.

The story goes like this. Last week I had a chat with a woman who is acquainted both with my perennial single and dateless status and my diagnosis as being on the autism spectrum (PDD-NOS). Of course, this could describe virtually anyone who knows me, and quite a few random people who do not, but who have happened upon the relevant posts in my blog. No matter. Anyway, THIS particular person is also well-acquainted with autism spectrum disorders in general, and as such, it occurred to her to put both tidbits of information together. You know, she said, it could very well be that the dating woes are linked to the autism spectrum disorder. Perhaps I might be helped by cognitive therapy. Had I considered that?

The truth is that I had not considered that. This is due, in no small part, to my having not the foggiest idea of what the hell "cognitive therapy" is. (I Googled it. From what I can see, it is coaching. I love coaching—like a shrink, but practical.) But it is also due to our having very different perceptions of the PDD-NOS. She views it as something I have. I view it as something I had.

As in, I do not have it anymore.

I was fucked up. Now, I am normal. Granted, I am a bit eccentric. But apart from that (and really, eccentricity can be quite nice, no?) perfectly normal. And well adjusted. And a productive member of society. With friends and everything.

But, admittedly, without a love life. And now that she had mentioned it, I supposed she might be onto something. Maybe I was having problems making connections or reading signals or something. Why not give this a try? I made an appointment with the cognitive therapist she recommended. And then, just to get the therapy ball rolling, I decided to read up a bit on autism spectrum disorders, so as to get a feel for where I am falling short. I pulled out my medical records from the Center and read over and marveled (for the zillionth time) just how badly screwed up I was at the time I was admitted. Then I entered the official diagnosis into Google: Atypical Pervasive Developmental Disorder. A list of websites popped up. I started to read.

I read over the symptoms, compared them to my life and evaluated which ones could be applied to me. People with my disorder have troubles fitting in. We act differently; we seem to lack social skills. We have trouble connecting to others and establishing relationships. We are detached from the feelings of others and find it difficult to "read" people. The reading and transmission of non-verbal communication and body language are not our fortes. We do not know how to handle feelings of anxiety or anger; we will go off if frustrated. We are obsessive and have a profound attachment to schedules, routines and order.* In short, we are weirdoes. Loners. Clueless. And (this is key) many of us do not succeed in finding a partner or establishing a family. We are the ultimate dateless wonders.

Suffice it to say that by the time I was done reading, I had managed to convince myself that I was still suffering from the disorder, was not cured at all, was a complete social misfit, hopelessly disabled and a good candidate for a sheltered care facility. Finally, and most importantly, I was doomed to be single.

Saturday evening, I finally shut off the computer and went to a party at a friend's house.The guest list included several million people I did not know, all of whom arrived with spouses and children. I did not enjoy this party. Based on the day's reading, I attributed my lack of enjoyment to the PDD-NOS. Had I been normal, I told myself, even though I did not know and (apparently) did not have a lot in common with anyone there, I would have had a swell time. I would have been wandering the room, striking up conversations and getting to know everyone and their children. Instead, I spent most of my time hiding out in the corner by the popcorn, nursing a killer headache, and biding my time until I figured I had been there long enough that I could leave without causing offense.

So that was the weekend. Sunday was no better. I spent the day fighting off gloom and envisioning my sad and loveless future. I wrote off ever having a husband. Really Gila, can you handle a relationship? Would that not be just too much for your fragile psyche? Are you not just too…well…different to ever get a guy? And children? Oh, out of the question. Completely.

Families are for normal people. I am not normal. I am on the autism spectrum. We do not have families and relationships. Therefore, I will not have a family.

This went on ALL DAY. I sat in my office, working on the Report From Hell, imagining my desolate future, envying the Normal People, and trying not to cry. Finally, at 8:30 PM (did I mention it was the Report From Hell?), as I was leaving the office, a rather irritated voice popped up inside your head.

Oh for fuck's sake**, Gila, have you lost your mind? You read the websites, yes? How many of the things that you have done were you "supposed" to have done, based on the websites? You did them because no one ever told you that you couldn't, and you just assumed you could, if you worked hard enough and long enough. Now some random website is saying "oh, people with autism spectrum disorders rarely end up in relationships", and you are buying that? Yes, it is probable that the woman is correct and the disorder has handicapped you in respect to dating. It makes a lot of sense, fits the facts and is even good to know; you do not have to continue beat yourself up over your failure. But, self-pity? Despair? This is helping? Knowing the cause of a problem means you have a chance at solving it. Cut the crap, go to the cognitive therapist or a coach or whatever, fix whatever the hell needs fixing—all these skills can be learned—and gamarnu. Nu, get OVER yourself, already!

Ahem. My brain, she has a tendency towards crankiness. She does not handle irritating situations well. I think she is a bit disturbed.

Right, so, I am off the websites.

*My order includes a daily ritual in which I toss a pile of clothes on the floor every night and toss them back on my bed in the morning, at which point I promise myself that, really, from tonight, I am going to start putting my clothes away after I am done wearing them. I do this every day but Saturday. On Saturday morning I put the clothes away. Saturday night, I start a new pile. In my opinion, this counts as order.

**New profanity, picked up from my friend Natalie. Is it not the best profanity ever???

Go Prudie!

2009-12-25T23:22:00.003+02:00

I fully expected a PC response about how her boyfriend should open up to the wonders of a secular Christmas--the general line fed to us by the media. I was pleasantly surprised by her response. She gets it. Christmas is a Christian religious holiday. And if you want Jewish kids, you raise them in a Jewish house--celebrating Jewish religious holidays.

There is also the issue of disrespect to Christians. Having had a few devout Christian friends over the years, and having spent a year living with a very devout Christian, I cannot help but think that if I were Christian I would find this practice of non-Christians appropriating Christmas as a non-religious holiday a bit offensive. Think about it. Christmas is the the day in which believers celebrate the birth of Christ and the birth of their faith, a new era and so on. This is one of the holiest days in the Christian calendar, no? How can it possibly be respectful to effectively say "Yeah, well, I think your religion and your version of G-d is so much bullshit, but hey, I'll take the tree. And the gifts."

Something just seems....off....

Ray, If I Had A Vote, I Would Give It To You

2009-12-01T22:49:00.005+02:00

I stumbled across Ray Hanania's campaign for a Two State Solution and the Presidency of the Palestinian State while on Facebook (where else?). Intrigued, I followed link after link until I finally arrived at the Source--the Yalla Peace Website. Where I found outlined, in orderly bullet-point form, Hanania's Platform. How to divide up the land. What to do with the Palestinian refugees and the refugee camps. What to do with the settlers and the settlements. The payment of reparations to Palestinian and Jewish refugees. Apologies...by both sides. Cooperation...by both sides.

Peace.

Do I agree with everything in the Platform? No. Do I believe the Platform to be feasible? For all that the remaining bit of optimist in me says "well, why not?", my more dominant cynical and pessimistic self says "f**k no--the ______ will never allow it". (The blank can be filled in with any number of Israeli and Palestinian groups I believe to be obstacles to peace).

Do I believe the Platform to to be a most sane and most reasonable starting point than anything I have read in years? A proposal that actually takes the needs of both sides and the current reality (we are here, they are here, no one is going to disappear any time soon) into account? Yes. Without a doubt.

Mr. Hanania, I suspect that an endorsement from me, a Jewish and proudly Zionist Israeli, will do you more harm than good. (Not so much harm, as neither I nor my blog are particularly important. But, whatever.) Nonetheless, kol ha kavod, more power to you. I hope you win, because if you do, we all do.

Travails of a Non-Traveller

2009-11-17T16:16:00.002+02:00

One of my items on my to-do list for my vacation (because I do not do anything, even go on vacation without a to-do list and goals and all that) is to finish writing up and mapping my ten-year plan. I have been working on the Plan for close to a year now and really, this is getting ridiculous. “Gila” I told myself “at this rate you are going to spend the next ten years just planning the Plan. Dai kvar. Enough already. You are going to finish mapping over vacation and as soon as you are home, you are going straight into implementation mode.”

So, it is now day three of my vacation and while I have actually written anything down, I have been working mentally, you know, thinking about it. And I think I am going to have to change a part of the plan. The part that deals with travel.

You see, my 10-year plan includes a fair amount of travel. This is because I have always thought it would be great to be one of those cool, interesting people who just pick up and jet off to Barcelona for the weekend. Who can toss their passport, a laptop and a change of underwear in a bag and be ready for a month-long trek to Thailand. “You too can be one of those adventurous people,” I told myself. “Just put it in your ten-year plan. Make it happen!”

Sadly, I now see that this is not going to happen. I am just not a traveler. In fact, it is entirely possible that I am the worst traveler ever.

You see, I am one of those nervous, high-strung travelers. The type whose mental circuits are completely overwhelmed by the mere prospect of dealing with an airport. I fret. Days, WEEKS ahead of any trip are spent worrying that: I will not get to the airport on time; that I will forget my passport; that I will forget my e-ticket; that the airport people will not let me on the plane; that the airport people will not let my luggage on the plane; that I will miss the damn plane. My preparations for this trip included emails and phone calls to the US embassy, the German embassy and Lufthansa all to ensure that my luggage and I would be allowed to board the plane.

It should be noted that all of this is before I even get on the plane, at which point I could theoretically start worrying that the plane will crash. However, oddly or ironically enough, that does not worry me at all. Not that I think it cannot happen. Of course it can. Rather, if the plane goes down, I am most likely going to die and there is not a damn thing I can do about it. So why worry?

But…back to why I am not relaxed about. I am a bad packer. Even though I know I should, I do not travel light. How not light? It goes without saying that I travel much heavier than my sister, a seasoned world traveler. But, if my father is to be believed, I travel heavier than he and my stepmother combined. Should he be believed? Probably not. No matter—either way is that the truth is that I do not travel light. But, you know…I need this and I need that and I can hardly do without that…and I pack and repack at least five times and by the time I am done, I have managed to cram approximately a zillion pounds of stuff I need into my suitcase. Which I then have to somehow maneuver to and through the damn airport and convince the airport people to please please please allow me to put it on the plane.

But what about the non-travel part of travelling? The being places part of travelling? I do like being places, but I also hate being away from home. I get homesick easily. I miss my morning regime: 5% gvina levana (a white cheese with the consistency of sour cream) over chopped vegetables with a teaspoon of olive oil and dashes of hot paprika and zahatar. For the last three days, I have been eating fruit yogurt instead. It is tasty—do not get me wrong. My dad, he is good at the yogurt selection. Still…it is not the same. I miss my bed. I miss my apartment. I spend much time worrying about what is happening at the office. I miss my friends. I miss my life.

Sigh….

Okay….out you go then. One less section to map, at least.

Jennifer and the Wicked Bitch

2009-10-29T08:00:00.000+02:00

Once upon a time, long ago, in a land far away…. I was an extremely odd, socially backwards little girl, and then a pre-teen and then a teenager. I was called Jennifer, in those days. In that same distant place and time also lived another little girl who also became a pre-teen and then a teenager. Let us call her the Wicked Bitch, shall we? We will call her that because she went out of her way to make my life miserable. School, summer camp…you name it, the Wicked Bitch was there with taunts and cruel nicknames.

Yesterday, the Wicked Bitch sent me a friend request on Facebook.

To say that this came as a shock is an understatement.

I knew she was on Facebook. My 20 year high-school reunion was this year, and the organizers set up a Facebook page. I saw her picture (and those of her associate Wicked Bitches) and thought to myself "Oh my, it is the Wicked Bitch! Man, but I do hope she is having a terrible life!"

Mature reaction? No. Understandable? Yes.

I considered contacting her. Not to be her friend, of course. I wanted to tell her off. To tell her that she is evil. To remind her how mean she was to me. To make her acknowledge the pain she caused me. To make damn sure that if the day ever comes that one of her children runs home crying because someone was mean to him or her…that she will remember that back in the day, she was the one causing pain. I thought about giving back some of the pain she caused me. Let it eat at her a bit.

In the end, I refrained. There were several reasons for this. First and foremost—it would have been stupid and immature. I did have a disorder and I was weird and I did have major social issues. Had the roles been reversed, would I have been nicer? Perhaps…but probably not by much. Children are children and teens are teens. What, if I had been normal I would have been the Mother Theresa type? I doubt it. "Gila" I told myself "be honest here. Okay, maybe you would not have tormented you, but you would not have been friends with you either".

But no less important is that for all that her name is the same, and her face is the same, the Wicked Bitch I knew and loathed simply does not exist anymore. The Wicked Bitch was a child and then a pre-teen and then a teenager. An entirely different person, an adult who has spent the last 20 years growing and learning and living and maturing, now occupies the corporeal space that the Wicked Bitch used to occupy. This new person may be just as cruel as the Wicked Bitch was…but she may also be a wonderful person. A good person. A tolerant person. A person I would be happy to have as a friend...if only I could bear the contact.

I have changed. I took, and still do take, great pride in having transformed myself so thoroughly. It would be a devastating experience to find people relating to me as the person I was then. And other people change, too and other people are happy to keep the past in the past. I keep on telling myself this. "Grow up, Gila. That statute of limitations ran out years ago. Whether or not she has used it, she is entitled to her second chance, her fresh start. Even from you. And besides, you do not think it is just a little bit ridiculous to tell off a 39 year-old woman for shit she did when she was 12?"

Sometimes I talk back to myself. Because this is not fair. How could it possibly be right, and just, that she could do wrong and never pay for it? My arguments never go far. Mah la'asot? What are you going to do? In my heart and in my mind I know that life is not fair and justice is not always right. In this case silence is correct. I cannot say anything to the Wicked Bitch because she is no longer there to tell.

My pain is mine. There is no giving it away. Eventually I will learn to forget and I will learn to let it go. And eventually I will forget who and what I was, and everything I went through and everything I missed out on because of who and what I was not. Or, if I do not forget, at least I will let that go. The pain, the regrets, the "what if's" and the "if only's" will all be silenced.

In the meantime, the friend request sits, unanswered, in my inbox. I will continue to ignore it. Eventually, it too will disappear.

2009-10-26T06:38:00.001+02:00

Damn, but these folks are brilliant....

Obama To Enter Diplomatic Talks With Raging Wildfire

On the Subject of Air Travel....

2009-10-19T08:23:00.002+02:00

On Saturday night I was listening to Reshet Bet when the announcer broke in with a special report on a dramatic saga currently gripping the United States: that of the balloon boy. An Israeli living in the US had been drafted to provide the update. As of the time of his report, the balloon had recently landed. The boy was not inside. There were reports of a portion of the balloon disengaging and plummeting to the earth. Millions of Americans had watched the drama live and were praying for a miracle. The announcer solemnly thanked the guest reporter and added her own prayer for a positive resolution. And now, back to the music.

The song they chose to follow up the report? Fly Away Fly Away Fly Away. (Happy-clappy version from the 70's which does not appear to be on Youtube).

Gotta love Israeli radio. I changed the station. One, that was bad taste even for Israeli radio and two, I hate the song.

In other flight related news, I am coming to the States! I have a ticket and everything--November 13-28. Philly, Maryland and Florida...here I come!

A Sad Day for Afgani Women

2009-10-09T08:20:00.005+02:00

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091009/ap_on_go_pr_wh/us_us_afghanistan

I simply cannot believe it. I read this article in something of a state of shock.

"The administration is prepared to accept some Taliban role in parts of Afghanistan, the official said. That could mean paving the way for Taliban members willing to renounce violence to participate in a central government — the kind of peace talks advocated by Afghan President Hamid Karzai to little receptiveness from the Taliban. It might even mean ceding some regions of the country to the Taliban."

In those regions of the country--a country far away, so no one has to care about it, really--what is going to happen to the women living there? Obama wants to work with 'moderates' in the Taliban. Moderates in what way? Where do the women stand?

Well, here. Or here, if you will.

Do I support a US war in Afganistan? Honestly, I do not follow US news enough to know at this point. But the thought of millions of women being tossed to the wolves as part of an exit strategy is both horrifying and heartbreaking. There is right and there is wrong...this cannot possibly be right.

Let's face it--apart from (often very brave) human-rights activists, pretty much no one gave a rats ass about the women under Taliban rule until 9-11. Not the Right and not the Left. The Afgani women suffered alone. But 9-11 did happen, and the word did get out and (I thought) people started to pay attention, and to care.

What sort of policy is this? Stay away from our buildings, and you can do whatever you want to your womenfolk?

Oh G-d, no. What sort of America is this? I will not give credit to Bush where it is not due--he also cared nothing about Afgani women, until 9-11. But all of you who voted for Obama in the hope that he would signal a more just America, a more caring America and a more peaceful America...will you be silent now? Is this peace? Is this caring? Is this justice?

Some things are worth fighting for.

2009-09-22T20:53:00.003+03:00

And the result of the summit? As follows: President Obama has exhorted us quarrelsome folks in the Middle East to finally sit down and make peace.

Wow. Now that was helpful. I feel better already. Because, of course everyone around here--the local crazy right wings, the local crazy left wings, the rock throwers, the suicide bombers, the rioters....yes EVERYONE--has been just sitting around and waiting for Obama's instructions. "How will President Obama instruct us? What great wisdom will he impart?"

And now he has issued instructions! Start negotiations! Yes indeed. Clearly, peace is now just around the corner.

(Is it just me, or does his great wisdom 'stop talking and get this moving' sound suspiciously like Bush's great wisdom on this particular topic?)

If you will excuse me, I am going to go bang my head on my keyboard for a little while. And stock up on canned goods and a few lead vests.

שנה טובה! Happy New Year!

2009-09-22T08:40:00.002+03:00

Every fall, millions of Israelis stop what they are doing (aka "working") and spend several weeks watching and sending Shana Tova (Happy New Year) greetings to one another. This can sometimes be frustrating for those in the outside world. So as to encourage understanding, I thought I would post a small selection of my favorites.

First--a video that my co-worker has aptly described as "the best Shana Tova EVER".

Second--pleasantly demented. Do make sure to watch the credits.

Finally, an oldie but goodie.

If you are b'hul (outside of Israel) and trying to conduct business with people b'aretz (in Israel)...this is what we are doing instead of 1) responding to your emails 2) responding to your phone calls 3) taking care of your account 4) anything else vaguely business related. I am sure that you will have no choice but to agree that the above videos are a hell of a lot more interesting than whatever you had in mind.

And for those of you b'aretz, happy to have helped you blow another 15 minutes or so.

And a minor change

2009-09-14T17:31:00.002+03:00

The time has come to retire the puppet. At least for now.

One last look....

The Hike, Part III. At last.

2009-09-14T07:23:00.002+03:00

Part I

Part II

After a short bus trip, we arrive at our next destination: a crater in the Golan. The guide has given us an explanation but I only sort of hear it. We all file out of the bus and walk to the crater. Look! A big cliff! With trees! Which, as it turns out, we are not going to visit because we have more important things to do.

Coaching. The type of activity best done one-on-one and over a long period of time. Now available in a generic, mass-produced, quickie version.

G-d, I admit it. I am going hiking on Shabbat. But still…your response…it is not a tad severe? The bit with the underwear was not enough?

Apparently not, because the Life Coach does not magically disappear in a puff of smoke. Instead, he starts to talk. The problem with us, he explains, is that we want stuff that is not good for us. We are attracted to one type of person, even though, if were to try to live with that person, it would probably end with both of us single, one of us six feet under and the other doing 40-to-life in a maximum security prison. THIS is the problem. THIS is why we are single! How does he know this? One—because he is the all-knowing life coach. Two—because that is HIS problem. And if that is his problem, well, obviously, that is mine as well.

Clearly, the next stage is to solve the problem. How to do this? We are to break up into groups of four—two men and two women. Each of us is supposed to share with the other members of the group 1) what type we are attacted to and 2) why this is bad. Umm….okay. Twenty sets of four nice, reasonably attractive people sit down. And each person manages to convince the others—in the space of a half hour—that he or she is completely fucked up, and not worth dating.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why anyone would feel that incorporating this type of activity into a singles event is even remotely appropriate. Meeting someone in this type of environment seems to me to be akin to meeting someone at your shrink’s office. Sure, everyone is fucked up, but do you really want to know just HOW fucked up before the first date? No! That is for date number four, at least.

Coaching has its place. Its place is not here.

*****

Marks for the day:

Hike: A
Life Coach: F
Value for money: C

Suggestion: Ditch the self-help drivel and replace it with something fun that will encourage us to get to know each other without being too painfully obvious that this is what you are trying to do. Think-another hike, a visit to a druze village with tea and coffee or a breaking us up to do arts and crafts with random items we find on the ground.

2009-09-03T08:08:00.006+03:00

At Stitch n' Bitch last night Safranit was discussing a project she had worked on. She received a skein of this fancy, organic, 100% wool yarn that is not sold in Israel. She made a sock, but only had enough yarn for ONE sock. And not even a particularly large sock. Unlike Christianity, which conveniently works the one sock motif into Christmas, we Jews do not have any occassions for which a single sock is called for. So, like, what was she to do?

Member A--Pull it out and make a headband.

Member B--No, you cannot use that yarn for a headband. It is too scratchy. It has plant stuff in it.

????? Plant life? In wool? Must be my hearing--that cannot be right. I must inquire. I turn to my neighbor, Erica.

Me--What was that about the wool?

Erica--It is organic, 100% wool. So sometimes it has little sticks in it. From when the sheep get branches and such caught in their wool.

Me--Is this like kosher chickens in the States where they leave a shitload of feathers on the birds as proof that the bird is kosher? Just here, they are leaving plant material? This is no yuppie, gentrified, processed wool! No! That is for sissies! This is REAL, honest, organic wool! With genuine sticks in it!

Erica--Exactly.

So, if you would like to be one with the sheep, there is a wool out there for you.

The Hike, Part II of III. Because there is only so much even I can drag this out.

2009-09-03T07:36:00.007+03:00

For Part I, see here.

10:15 AM Still on the bus. A part of today’s activities are being run by a life coach. Why a life coach as opposed to, say, a tour guide? Because this is a singles event! And if we are single, it means we are fucked up and in need of fixing. A tour guide is just not qualified to take this on. To translate this into terms the more observant among you will understand, if this were a religious event, we would have a rabbi (bonus points if he is also a shrink), a pious matron and/or a shadchan (matchmaker). And they would give speeches on how you are single because you are showing too many fleshy bits or lack emunah (faith) or bad midot (character traits), which includes being too picky. Also, if this were a religious event, it would not be happening on Shabbat. And if it were a hard-core observant religious event, it would be single sex--either all men or all women. Which raises ALL sorts of interesting questions. But never mind that--religious or secular—a good singles event requires that there are qualified people on hand to give a speech explaining to you why you, personally, are single. Even though they do not know you, personally.

And to think that people are distressed about the religious-secular divide. If this does not show unity of belief, I do not know what does.

What does the Life Coach think is wrong with us? Time will tell….

10:20 One by one, people are being called to the front of the bus to introduce themselves. They are then asked to select a tarot card and say what it means to them. The Life Coach then gives his own interpretation. “This means that you are X and you have to do/ stop doing XYZ”. The problem is that not only is the microphone terrible, but the Life Coach is speaking right into it, so that everything he says and most of what the other people are saying sounds rather like the grown-ups in Peanuts cartoon specials. Really not getting too much out of this particular exercise.

It should be emphasized that the tarot card bit would not happen at a religious singles event. Tarot is SO avodah zarah (witchcraft). No, the rabbi would just LOOK at you and tell you how and why you are fucked up, in his professional opinion. I suppose, in certain circles, he could have you randomly pick a page from a book of letters written by this or that rabbi, with the letter you chose ~~magically~~ miraculously containing the answer to why you are single.

10:30 Ooooo ooooo oooo!!!! They called me! They called me! Well, no. I actually went up to the front of the bus and suggested to the Life Coach that he leave a bit of space between his mouth and the microphone so that things would be a bit less garbled. And since I was there anyway, he called on me. I introduce myself as Gila Weiss, accountant and blogger. See? I am interesting! And I am from Jerusalem. And I have a hearing loss, so if I ask you to repeat yourself twelve times, please be patient. And and and….well, nothing else. Smile.

My tarot card has a rich guy holding a set of scales giving money to one beggar and ignoring another. My interpretation is, admittedly, weak. Ummm…there are scales. And I am a Libra. And there is money. And I am an accountant. Life Coach interpretation: you have and live by a strong sense of justice and think you are always right. But sometimes being right is not an advantage.

Well then. Glad to have that all cleared up. I expect to be married by next Tuesday. No. Living in sin. Marriage involves planning a wedding--which is something I have absolutely no desire to do. And I simply have no time to go to Cyprus this week.

10:45 Hearing aid+ hearing loss + bus full of people=exercise in futility.

Note to self—going forward, singles events that include significant bus time may need to be in the same category as are singles events at bars and loud parties.

11:15 Tour guide tells us about where we are going. I do not hear her. No matter, I will see it soon enough.

11:30 We are Here! Okay. Time to divide my stuff between under the bus and on the bus. Pack my bag. No. Unpack it. Pack it again. Nononono! Unpack it. Pack it again. Fuck it. EVERYTHING under the bus.

11:45 Everyone into the water! Now that we are all out in the open, I am happy to see that my outfit is no weirder than anyone else’s. Because I am, of course, checking out the competition’s clothes. Because that is what one DOES. Wait—should I have worn a bathing suit? No, no….shorts are fine. Thank G-d.

12:00 They have organized us into a circle. There is much splashing going on. Life Coach wants to hold his activity here but...no...tour guide appears to have shot that down. There are many other people here. Normal, married people. And small children. We do not want to frighten them. This might not be the best place. Later on….

12:30 This hike rocks! Cool water, climbing over rocks and a sunny day. Not only is the hike fun in and of itself, but it is also an inspired choice for a singles event. Nothing encourages interaction quite like trying to scramble uphill in running water without falling and bashing your head in on some of the picturesque rocks below. Lots of chatting, encouragement and helping hands. Gal gets full points for this part of the day.

13:15 Am at top of the waterfall, chilling. Oh! Right next to me is the good-looking guy I was eyeing on the bus. Hmmm…how about I try to start up a conversation.

13:16 Shot down. Immediately.

13:17 Yeah. Well. I bet he is terrible in bed.

Not sour grapes. Just an honest, unbiased observation here.

14:00 Back at the bus now. The water hike was loads of fun. Am now changing into my gentle walk hike outfit and have discovered (to my horror) that my extra pair of underwear ended up in my “I do not need this for the hike” bag. Which is in my car. I have no choice but to put my new shorts over drenched underwear. Kind of a faux-explorer-with-an-incontinence-problem look.

G-d has a sense of humor. Who knew?

The Hike, Part I of a indeterminate number

2009-08-26T07:23:00.007+03:00

FRIDAY

Today, I spent two hours at the mall searching for functional yet attractive hiking gear. Several hundred shekels later, I am sorted. I then proceed home, where my next task is to design my outfit. Which t-shirt to pair with the shorts for the water hike? Maybe my shirt from the Alyn bike ride? So people will think I am sporty? Oh…but that shirt is so baggy! Not flattering at all! No, no. It has to be closer fitting…. Perhaps I should go sleeveless? No—am sure to get burned to a crisp if I do. And besides, my upper arms are still on the flabby side. And what hat? Or perhaps I should wear one of my sports bandanas?

I finally come up with two outfits, one for the water hike and one for the gentle walk hike. For the water hike I am going to wear knit, bermuda-length red shorts, a close-fitting, cut up t-shirt from Croatia and a sports bandanna. For the gentle walk hike, I am going to wear tan, long shorts (? is that the technical term here) from Golf, paired with a fitted blue t-shirt and a straw hat from Eddie Bauer. Kind of a faux-explorer type look, you know?

Am I the only one who ended up spending THREE HOURS sorting out outfits for a one-day hike? With people I do not even fucking know? Please tell me that I am not.

At least I did not bring makeup.

SATURDAY

07:15 AM Just realized that even though I brought my MP3 player and the USB charger and the thingy so I could use the USB charger with a normal outlet (which does not seem to work, but brought, just in case it MIGHT work) AND I even charged the MP3 player off of Ellie’s computer, yesterday…I did not bring the headphones. Not a good sign, this.

7:40 AM I have dumped my extra stuff in my car and am walking to the pick-up point. I planned on buying coffee en route but…WTF? Café Café is not open yet? Café Henrietta is not open yet? Café Hillel went kosher and is closed for Shabbat??? Hello!!! Tel Aviv! עיר ללא הפסקה (a city that never stops) my ass. If you guys want to compare yourself to Manhattan, or even DC—first things first—coffee houses open at six. If not earlier. EVERY day.

This tiyul had better include coffee breaks, or I am going to die.

8:00 AM Found the bus. Getting on feels rather like the first day at a new school. But worse. Everyone was giving me the once over. The women appear to be particularly hostile. This is a serious business, I see.

But good news! I am not the grandma! I am also not the fattest.

08:15 AM Gal, the trip organizer, is making announcements. There will be a coffee stop. Thank G-d.

Decision. If anyone asks why I am writing, I will introduce myself as a blogger.

And then everyone will think I am cool.

08:25 AM Break out the book? Hmmm…what would friends say? Right. Book stays in bag.

08:40 AM Every few minutes, we hit another collection point. The bus is slowly but surely filling up. Have had one conversation. Erez, a friendly guy from Petach Tikvah.

08:45 AM Just passed a wall with coffee cups painted on it. G-d is taunting me. Bastard.

09:15 AM Another woman, Liya, has joined my and Erez’s conversation. We are discussing internet dating.

EDUCATIONAL MOMENT

Courtesy of Liya

האם את ספונטנית? Are you spontaneous?

I always thought that this question—which I get now and again from guys off of dating websites—is a sign of laziness. A sign of a guy who cannot pull himself together and cannot manage a schedule enough to manage calling one up in advance and setting a proper date. Asking ‘are you spontaneous’ is his way of finding out whether or not you are the type that is accommodating of such character traits. Which I am not. At all.

Liya set me straight.

Liya: No, no—‘are you spontaneous’ has nothing to do with spontaneity. What it means is ‘do you want to meet for sex right now?’

Me: But… I thought ‘do you want a cup of coffee’ means ‘do you want to meet for sex right now’.

Liya: It does. But so does ‘are you spontaneous’.

Erez confirms Liya’s translation. Wow. Who knew? Well, apparently, Liya. And most likely everyone else on the planet but me. No wonder I get so little action.

09:45 AM Stopped at ArcCafé. One humongous coffee and a Roxie-friendly salad later, and I am ready to roll. At Liya’s suggestion, I also buy a sandwich. Because while I remembered to bring: water, sunscreen, a hat, water shoes, a change of clothes, my MP3 player, a notebook, a pen, an extra pen in case the first dies, another extra pen in case the first two die, Sarah’s camera, a book, extra glasses in case something happens to the pair I am wearing and earplugs…I forgot to bring lunch.

2009-08-23T23:02:00.003+03:00

I know I have to write about the hike. And I am going to write about the hike. But right now, I am cleaning, see? My house is vile. Because I was not here this weekend, and did not clean it. And because I did not clean it last weekend either, even though I was here. Because I was busy varnishing my table. And because I loathe cleaning. As does, apparently, the Urge. But today, Shimon the Kablan came today to take out the radiators which eat up so much wall space and he and his crew of four saw my dirty, dirty house. How embarrassing! And Tuesday, they are coming back, to spackle and plaster the bits now radiator-free wall and paint over them. It must be clean! Because G-d forbid that Shimon and his crew, who I have never met and am not likely to meet again, think I am a poor housekeeper.

So I am cleaning. Mind you, I do not have time to clean everything. Because I keep on stopping to surf the net. Which eats up much time. So, I am cleaning the bits he and his crew are likely to see. The shower? Not so likely. The bathroom sink? Men never notice such things. That can stay all gross for another day or two. The floor, the kitchen counter and the coffee table, however, are just OUT there. So they have been cleaned.

Incidentally, these are also the bits of house that will require cleaning, after the work on my walls is done.

Sometimes, I am not so smart.

אני פשוט בהלם

2009-08-21T09:17:00.003+03:00

You know it is bad when even your closest friends refuse to listen to you whine. It used to be just my life-coach* who would brush off my moans about my non-existent love life with a "that is because you are not doing anything about it". Now even my closest friends have gotten into it and brush off my complaints with a "I do not want to hear it". I am seen as One Who Has Brought This on Herself. As One Who Refuses to Even Try.

There is, admittedly, some truth to this.

I hate blind dating.
I hate singles events, and in particular those in Jerusalem.
I hate loud parties.
I hate bars.
I have given up on the dating websites.
My idea of expanding myself socially consists of stuff like joining Safranit's Stitch n' Bitch group.

So, yes, my friends have a point. I admit it. I know I should do more. Fine, I do not sell well on the dating websites and I do not like bars and parties or other loud events, but there are activities I do enjoy that would provide me with ample opportunities to meet new people, including those of the single male variety. I can go on Mosaic or SPNI hikes. I could sign up for Groopy bike rides. I could take swing dancing lessons in Tel Aviv. I could take a cooking course. Do these activities not sound like lots of fun? Indeed, they do! Even Roxie approves--though not so much of the cooking course. And I really and truly have been meaning to do all of these things, but somehow I just don't.

So, no. I am not trying.

But it is not really my fault, you see. All of these activities....they all require work, yes? Work and effort. For instance, I may have to get up early. And prepare stuff. And put the stuff in my knapsack. And drive somewhere. Perhaps even with my bike loaded on my car. (That alone takes AT LEAST fifteen minutes). And get to where I am going on time. And some of these events take a whole day. Or even a whole weekend! During which I cannot do the other things that I mean to do, but probably will not do.

Really...it is all just so....exhausting. Even thinking about it tires me.

Whatever. In short, all of these activities, require me to get the fuck out of my living room. Which is, thanks to my squishy couches and my blue accent table, even more attractive a place to be. In fact and in appearance, man!**

Recently, I determined I had to make a change. As you might imagine, one of my more outspoken friends was involved in the decision-making process. No matter. I resolved that I was going to sign up for an event. And, barring death or serious illness, I was not going to cancel. I was going to go on that event. The only question was what.

Look4Love is one of the dating websites I am registered with. The site regularly puts together events for members. Every so often, I receive an email from Gal, the site owner, describing upcoming events. Unlike Jdate events, which tend to sound vile AND be hideously pricey (a'la: You too can come spend a week trapped on a cruise ship with 100's of other desperate singles!), these events sound like...fun. Yes, there are the standard hideous parties, but there are also normal, Israeli-style hikes. And pool parties. And cool shit like that. And reasonable prices.

Anyway, shortly after I (or rather, my friend) decreed that my slug period was going to end on or before August 20, 2009, I received yet another email from Gal, advertising three events. "זה משמיים!" I thought to myself. This is a sign from G-d. "Yahala--sign up". And after a false start in which I registered for an event which was scheduled to take place the same night as my couch-warming party, I am signed up for a hike. For tomorrow. And what is more, this afternoon I am going to Tel Aviv. I will stay with Ellie-oise. I will be away from my house and my couches a full 36 hours.

This is enormous. My friends are impressed. Gila is actually doing something!

And I am not cancelling. Even though I want to. All week, I have wanted to. This is why.

1) I do not know anyone on the hike. I would ask a friend to go, but the hike is on Shabbat and most of my friends are shomrei Shabbat...so that is not going to happen. ***

2) I will be with this group ALL DAY.

3) What if they do not like me?

4) What if I do not like them?

5) What if I am the oldest woman on the hike? And all of the other women are years younger and a zillion times better looking?

6) It involves my spending most of my weekend away from home. And not doing the various things I should be doing. Which, admittedly, I might not have done even if I were here. But it is the principle that counts.

7) It is just SO much easier to do nothing.

I. Am. Not. Canceling.

Yesterday was awful. I spent a good chunk of the day with my belly in a knot. "Nu, די כבר," my belly told me. Enough already. "You know you do not want to do this. How can it possibly be good for you to do something you do not want to do?" I had to admit that my belly was making a lot of sense. Why not bail on the hike? And then I could go to a local Katamon Konnections kiddush. Or rather, I could plan on going and then not go. Because I loathe singles events, and in particular Jerusalem ones. No matter--cancelling would open up such a range of possibilities.

I decided to call Kayla to discuss this.

Kayla: It will be fun!

Me: But I do not know anyone.

Kayla: You will meet them. Besides, that is the great thing about hiking. You do not have to talk all the time.

Me: But it is ALL DAY.

Kayla: So?

Me: And what if it is terrible?

Kayla: So you write about it on your blog.

Me: (general whiney sounds)

Kayla: Listen, you will have your MP3 player with you. You can listen to that. You will be fine.

Me: (in a small voice) And...and I am bringing a notebook and a pen with me. So I can write, if it is really awful. And Sarah is lending me her digital camera. So I can take pictures.

Kayla: There, you see? It will be fine. And I guarantee you--on the way back, everyone will be sleeping.

Me: But my stomach hurts!

Kayla: That is because you are getting out of your comfort zone. This is good for you. You have to do this.

Me: oooooohhhhkkkkkaaay.....

Okay. I am doing this.

* Highly recommended! I was in a professional/personal rut a few years ago and she really helped me get out of it.

**Accountants--get it???? Fact and appearance??? HILARIOUS! I kill myself, really I do.

***Can a hike scheduled for Shabbat really be considered to be m'shamayim? Discuss.

An Urge

2009-08-15T21:00:00.004+03:00

Last Saturday, I got an urge.

Do allow me to explain. As is my wont, this will take a bit of time. First, background. Three weeks ago, at long last, I bought couches. And not just any couches. Expensive, squishy leather couches. In a lovely shade of …ochre? Whatever—a really nice, warm brown with a bit of orange in it. So they were delivered to my apartment and I played musical furniture—turned my TV stand into a coffee table and my night table into a TV stand (which is what it used to be before it was a night table) and my ratty plastic shelves into a night table (which is what they used to be before they were my coffee table). And voila! I was set— couches and tables and stands in all the right places.

But then…disaster struck. The coffee table? It is not so nice. It is from Ikea. It is unfinished pine wood. It just…well…you know…it just does not go with my luxurious squishy couches. It is …oh…what word am I looking for? Ugly? So then I thought to myself "Remember that gorgeous blue set of drawers at Mia the Ima's? Why don't you paint your table blue? Then it will be an accent piece. Think how nice and stylish that would be! People will come and comment on your gorgeous table and wherever did you get it you will be able to say 'oh, that? Picked it up at Ikea and painted it'. Like, instead of being a boring accountant you will be this sophisticated, cool type that buys furniture and then refinishes it and shit. And who has an accent piece in her living room."

I liked this idea so much that I immediately called my friends to tell them about it. Sadly, I am famous for starting projects and never finishing them or meaning to start projects and never starting them. There are the two half-done baby blankets that I started when friend's babies were born, three years ago. There are the lovely blue wine bottles that have been sitting on my counter for the last six months, waiting for me to remove the labels and turn them into water bottles. There are the various beads and nylon thread that I have carting around with me for the last 20 years, for when I learn to make beaded jewelry. Best of all, there is the beautiful painting of a hamsa that I started eight years ago, when I made aliyah, and still have not finished. When I was injured, this painting of mine was a point of some melodrama. Would I ever see well enough to finish it? Once my vision was back, I thought about finishing the painting and then donating rights to the picture to Hadassah. They could sell prints, to raise money for the wonderful hospital that saved my eyesight. Seven years later, vision is fine, painting is still not finished. I am so pathetic.

So anyway, I am telling everyone about my plan to paint my table and everyone knew KNEW that this table was never going to be painted blue. Even I knew that this table was never going to be painted blue. I would plan on painting it blue. The table would plan on becoming blue. But it would never actually be blue.

Except, now it is blue.

Two weeks ago, I went to the friendly neighborhood paint store. I was completely overwhelmed, and left. A few days later, I went back to the store. "This time" I told myself "you are not leaving without paint". I chose my color—a tasteful, muted blue-breen. I bought a paintbrush. I bought sandpaper. I brought everything home. Everything was in place for me to put the supplies aside and intend to get around to painting for a couple years. I was content. Life was good.

But then, two days later, as I said, I got this urge. "Go paint the table" Urge ordered. Like a zombie, I pulled out the table and the paint. Urge screamed at me "No! Imbecile! Do it כמו שצריך! Properly! Sand it first!" So I dragged the whole thing outside. And I sanded it. And then I dragged it back in and painted it. And then I dragged it back outside and sanded it again. And dragged it back it and painted it again. And at the end of the day, I had a blue table. Of course, the tasteful, muted blue-green turned out to be a not-so-tasteful, extremely loud shade of turquoise. But no matter—the table was blue. I was happy. Table was happy. Urge had also forced me to finally took time to go through and get rid of nearly all of my cassettes as sophisticates with accent pieces do not have several hundred cassettes lying around their living rooms). So now my friends were happy too. They do so like to see me enter the twenty-first century.

Urge, however, was not yet happy. Yesterday, I had to go back and buy varnish and last night—yes, the same day— I started applying coats of varnish, a task I continued today. I even called my boss to ask if it would be okay if I give him a report a day late so I would not have to work on Saturday. So I would have time to varnish and sand and varnish some more. And clean my squishy couches. And dust. And finish a crocheting project (not the blankets—a shawl. But still!) And cook lots of Roxie-friendly nutritious food. And turn those goddamned bottles into water bottles.

As of this writing, so far as I know, until Urge informs me otherwise, the table is done. I got lucky—the varnish which was supposed to be 'clear' in reality was a 'light yellow-brown'. I applied it anyway—and it knocked a few shades of the turquoise. Now that the table is squared away, I am curious to see how Urge feels about the 12 skeins of yarn I bought from Livya yarns so I can make a nice, fluffy afgan for my squishy couch. Right now, they are resting peacefully in my yarn basket. Will they stay there? Or will Urge rear its taskmaster head again? Time will tell.

A Very Special Treat for Members of the IACPA

2009-08-10T11:14:00.003+03:00

Shortly after my phone call to the Lishkat Roai Heshbon, I received an invitation to a seminar on a finance-related subject. The subject was interesting and relevant. Even more important, the seminar would give me four hours of CPE! For free! And lunch! Not an opportunity to be missed, this. I signed right up.

Theoretically, this seminar could also serve as a good time to network. However my response to large crowds of people I do not know is to wander around aimlessly, preferably with a cup of coffee in hand, trying to look as though, really, I am enjoying myself immensely when in fact I am desperately awaiting for whatever it is to be over. As much as I might like to pretend to myself that in attending this seminar I would be developing valuable professional connections, in my heart of hearts, I knew that that networking was just not going to happen. I would have to be satisfied with the CPE and lunch.

Indeed, apart from the aforementioned networking component, I enjoyed the seminar. The presentations were interesting. The subject matter was useful. The food (shockingly) was good. (Roxie was not too happy about this). They even had real coffee*, to make my "networking" meanderings more pleasant. And, best of all, for my entertainment, they had photographers.

LOTS of photographers. Photographing us oh-so-stylin' accountants and lawyers. Demographics=mostly men, lots of nebbishy looking ones and fair percentage of middle-aged. As is my wont, I sat in the front row, immediately in front of the podium. Even with my hearing aid, these types of events can be a challenge. I like to maximize my chances of actually hearing what is going on. Unfortunately, every few minutes, my view would be blocked by some intrepid photographer dashing in to grab a shot of the speaker as he made a particularly impressive point or a joke. The last portion of the seminar was a roundtable made up of a lawyer, a finance guy and about five hi-tech guys (looked about the same as us accountants, if you catch my drift). The effect on the photographers was not unlike hot oil on popcorn kernels. Photographers were bouncing up and down all around the podium. Look! That one is speaking-grab that shot! And he is smiling and looking interested. And…oh—GREAT pensive look—hold it baby, yes-BEAUTIFUL!

Bet THAT is a good photo spread. Wow. The readers of Lishkat newsletter are going to get a great read this month.

Seriously—why? Why? That is all I want to know.

*For those overseas, the standard at these events is instant coffee. Generally one finds the Nescafe powder (vile) but sometimes, if it is a higher end sort of place, the Elite Red Mug freeze dried stuff (also vile, but not quite as much). The same is true of most workplaces, though the more magnanimous employers will splurge on Tasters Choice. Me—I keep a French press and a supply of ground coffee at the office. My klitah (absorption into Israeli society) only goes so far, you know?

Verbal Typos*

2009-08-01T22:01:00.005+03:00

The Scene:
A large, well-appointed Shabbat dinner at the home of an observant Jewish couple in Jerusalem. Sixteen people are seated around a table, eating. Apart from one person who is speaking, the room is quiet.

The Characters:
Host, a respected author who writes about religious topics and who is a regular lecturer at Aish Hatorah.

Hostess, an equally respected journalist and activist.

Guests which include: a local builder; a US biochemist in Israel on vacation; a US Jewish educator in Israel on a study fellowship; the rabbi of a large and prestigious US congregation and his wife (also an educator); the executive director of the Hadassah Organization's office in Israel; the Host and Hostesses' ultra-orthodox daughter and her husband and an Modern Orthodox couple with their three young, impressionable children.

Me.

We can all see the disaster coming, no?

Before I even tell you what happened, I must say that, honestly, up until this point, I was on my best, most charming behavior. I was pleasant. I made polite conversation. I asked people about themselves. One of the guests was not only single, but he was seated next to me and I did not torment him at all. ** I asked the man about his hobbies. I realize that those of you who either know me or are frequent readers of this blog may not believe me, but honestly--I did not deserve this.

Right, so now what happened.

Hostess asked us to introduce ourselves to the table. It was my turn. So there I was, you know, speaking in a charming manner and telling a charming anecdote... about the bombing. (Said bombing not brought up by me, just so you know). Anyway, I got to a point where I had to describe my behavior at a certain point in time. With a big smile, a dramatic eye-roll and my usual "I-am-hard-of-hearing-and-assume-you-are-too" volume I announced:

"I was being a complete twat!"

Faces morph from pleasant smiles into frozen stunned expressions. Stunned with a touch of horror. I realize what I said. And in front of whom I said it. FUCK!

"Twit! I meant twit!"

Nervous laughter. Further down the table, the Executive Director repeated my explanation to the Rabbi. "She meant to say 'twit'".

Not one of my better moments. ..

Why why WHY do these things happen to me?

*Many thanks to the aformentioned Jewish educator in Israel on fellowship for coining this phrase.

**Galia is going to be very bitter when she hears about this. I am NEVER so nice to her guests.

Will You Marry Me? No? Fuck. Have to Go Shopping Then.

2009-07-19T21:53:00.003+03:00

For some time now—in fact, ever since I moved into my apartment in December—I have been trying to buy a couch. Despite the fact that I have a good job and despite the fact that I have money that I put aside to buy furniture and despite the fact that I live spitting distance from approximately five trillion furniture stores, I have not yet managed to do so.

This is not my fault. This is my stupid brain's fault.

I mean, I have tried to deal with the situation. I have tried to go shopping. The problem is that the moment I enter the furniture store, my brain starts to go apeshit. "Oy gevalt! Gila, these prices are so high! You can get a perfectly good couch second-hand. Look at Sarah's couches! Gorgeous! And she only paid NIS 2000! And you are going to pay NIS 6000 for a new couch? Are you insane? You think money grows on trees?"

My brain is right. Of course I should be buying second hand! So I leave the store and go home and log onto Yad Stayim or Janglo and do a search for couches and come up with a bazillion listings. At which point I am immediately freaked out by the very prospect of having to call all these people up and make appointments to see all of their couches and then drive all over Jerusalem checking out all their couches and then having to decide what couch to buy and then having to arrange for a mover to transport the couch and coordinate with the buyer to pick it up. And so on and so forth So then I tell myself "Gila, what do you need a couch for? You have Kayla's old chair and your rocking chair. Both are comfortable. You are one person. How many comfortable places to sit does one person need? This is an awful lot of work. Do you really want to do this much work? Do you have time to do this much work? Is this really that urgent? Can this wait a week or two?" And, of course, the answers to the last four questions are: no, no, no and hell yes. So I log off and tell myself that I will start to look next week. If I have time.

This has been going on for eight months now. And while I continue to be fine with my current seating arrangements (one person can do quite well with two comfortable places to sit) my friends—who have been waiting for eight months now for me to finally pull myself together enough to buy a fucking couch—are starting to complain. While they might not agree on an exact number for "how many comfortable places to sit does one person need", it would appear that the number is more than two.

But there is still the problem of my brain's aversion to fiscal irresponsibility and my own aversion to work. Acquiring a couch while keeping everyone happy is not easy task (as evidenced by the fact that I have not managed to do so yet). I have tried to be creative. At first, I planned to buy Katrina "Exercise Nazi" Yellow's couch when she went back to South Africa in October. Good couch, cheaper than new, no shopping AND knowing that I was helping out a friend. Yes, I would have to wait some months for it, but really, what a small price to pay. But then she decided to take her couch back with her to South Africa. So that idea is down. Then another friend asked me if I would be willing to baby-sit a futon couch for a few months. Granted, not a long-term solution, but an excellent delaying tactic. Kayla nixed that idea. "We are grown-ups now, remember? We do real couches. Not futons. Go shopping already!" I did not clarify the matter with her (because I was not sure I wanted to hear her response), but I am pretty sure that WE especially do not do couches which are currently being stored in the foyer of said friend's apartment building, because he does not have room in his apartment.

Finally, this Friday, I had a brilliant idea. I was visiting a friend who not only owns an entire set of couches—but also an apartment. "If I marry him", I thought, "then not only do not have to go shopping for a couch, but I do not have to go shopping for an apartment." On the down side, his couches are not really squishy enough for my taste. But then, marriage is all about compromise, no? And even thinking about the whole apartment buying and apartment renovation process is enough to send me straight into panic attack mode. Like the couch-buying process, just a thousand times worse. Would not the non-squishy couch would be a small price to pay for avoiding that particular little corner of Dante's hell? So I proposed, and he said "no" and I am back at square one again.

You know how they say that you miss your family in times of crisis? Completely true! It is times like this—my time of crisis— that I wish my hyper-organized, perfect sister lived close by. Unlike me, predictably, my sister has the whole home-ownership and home-furnishing routine down pat. If she were here, I would just hand her some money and she would do the Research Couches thing and the Visiting Couch Stores and Used Couches thing and the Making a Sensible Decision Based on the Data thing and the Purchase thing and Transport of Couch thing. And before you know it, there would be a couch in my apartment! And it would be tasteful! And in good condition! Because my sister does not do tacky crap. It would be like magic!

Umm…Mer? Wanna visit?

But if the Accountants Were Nude, on the Other Hand...

2009-06-29T22:55:00.004+03:00

Nearly five years ago, when I first received my Israeli CPA (certification as an accountant), I also applied for, and received, membership in the Lishkat Roai Heshbon, a professional society for accountants. I did this because: 1) they offered continuing education seminars and 2) I was just so over the moon at having survived the process of becoming an Israeli CPA that of course I had to have the matching professional society membership. After two years, during which time 1) I did not attend a single seminar and 2) I got over myself, I let my membership lapse.

Or at least, I thought I let it lapse.

In the States, non-payment of any given organization’s annual dues will result in an end to one’s financial obligations to said organization. Yes, you will be subject to a a never-ending stream of letters trying to convince you that your life will be so much better if you would just come back to the fold but that is it, really. Here, as it turns out, the matter is not so simple. The Lishkat continued to bill me for two more years, and when I did not pay, they (finally) revoked my membership. But –and here is the rub—the 2006 and 2007 annual dues are still out there, lurking.

Anyway, up until about a year ago I was working for a Big Accounting Firm that provided me with loads and loads of continuing professional education. Now that I am working for a company, I have to arrange my own continuing professional education. Recently, I got it into my mind that “gosh, if I were to join the Lishkat Roai Heshbon again, I could go to their seminars. And conferences. And that would be my continuing education! Plus, I could network with other accountants! How fun!” This was such an exciting prospect that I immediately called the Lishkat to find out how I could re-activate my membership. I was referred to Nir, a very nice man who handles membership services.

Me: So, I was told I would have to pay all the prior year annual dues in order to renew my membership.

Nir: Yes, that is correct. You have annual dues for 2006 and 2007 outstanding.

Me: But I did not do anything with the Lishkat during that time.

Nir: Those are the rules. If you want to cancel your membership, you have to write in and cancel it—it is not automatic.

Me: Well, is there any other option? Can I just pay a non-member rate for seminars and materials?

Nir: No, the seminars, conferences and materials are for members only. Oh--wait, actually, there is another option.

Me: What is that?

Nir: We have a non-membership option. The annual fee is 500 a year and you receive the monthly accounting newsletter.

Me: (Interested, but wary) Ummm…is this a newsletter about accountancy or about accountants? Like, does it have articles about tax laws and accounting pronouncements and that sort of stuff or articles about accountants?

Nir: About accountants.

Me: (Am so appalled that I am speechless. For a few seconds).

Me: Nir, out of curiosity, are you an accountant?

Nir: No.

Me: Tell me, honestly….would you want to read a magazine about accountants? With articles about accountants? And photos of accountants? Accountants giving lectures…. Accountants shooting the shit with other accountants…. Accountants thinking deep thoughts. Accountants standing in groups and smiling.

Nir: (trying hard not to laugh because he really is very nice and very professional).

Me: We are boring! We are anal-retentive! We are dorks! We dress badly! I mean, I would know--I am one.

Nir: (Has given up the battle and is laughing his head off).

Me: Who in the name of God would want to read about accountants? Okay, the guys who actually appear in the magazine, maybe. But anyone else? Honestly, I think this is one of the levels of Dante’s Hell—a magazine all about accountants.

Nir: I see your point.

Me: Yes, well, thanks anyway!

Nir: No problem!

No seminars for me, it would seem. sigh....

Ein Bissel Torah (A Little Torah)

2009-06-27T08:53:00.003+03:00

Shabbat lunch last week. Host is telling a joke based on the halacha of kiddushin (betrothal)–or how a man acquires a woman to be his wife. Joke goes over my head. Hostess kindly provides background.

Hostess: There are three ways the man can acquire a wife. The first way is pay for her—to give her money. Today we give a ring. The second way is to sign a contract—that is the ketubah.

Me: Okay…. (So far this is all familiar).

Hostess: The third way is to have sex with her.

Me: You break it, you buy it?

Hostess: Exactly.

Now, if I understood Hostess correctly, if a Jewish man has sex with a Jewish woman, he has bought her. They are married. Maybe it is just me, but that is a bit worrying. What happens when our friendly neighborhood Jewish Taliban picks up on this, and starts to demand strict application of this particular bit of halacha? At least in my neighborhood, to do so would mean that the number of children deemed mamzerim would increase exponentially. Because while there certainly are people who do not have sex before marriage (the official kind of marriage), there are also quite a few who have engaged in payment-option number three long before they ever made it to the chuppah. And with people other than their eventual chuppah partner.

On the other hand, one does have to admit that a strict application would do wonders for solving the singles crisis in the Jewish community.

Hello? Are you a Bookkeeper?

2009-06-17T10:04:00.002+03:00

Are you a bookkeeper? Yes? Good. This is for you. You know when you call me up? Because according to your books we owe you money? Or at least you think we owe you money? Because the last two times you called, it turned out we did not owe you money--you had not properly applied the payment? And according to our books, we do not owe you any money? But anyway, this time, you are pretty sure we owe you money?

You recognize the situation, yes?

Anyway.... when said situation occurs, I beg of you, I PLEAD of you....make sure you have the relevant invoice numbers ready BEFORE YOU CALL. Because I can assure you that, no matter how annoying you are and no matter how many times you call (and I realize that this may come as a surprise), I am not going to say Walla! We owe you money! and write you a check on the basis of some vague story about how you think we owe you money. Or even on the basis that this will make you go away. As tempting as that option may be at times.

And especially not, given your track record with misapplied payments.

And no, I am not going to spend half an hour sitting on the phone while you start going through your general ledger, mumbling to yourself, and trying to figure out what invoice is unpaid, as per your (crap) records. I will ask you to call me back, once you have a clue.

I thank you in advance for your consideration. Even though I know that, at some point, probably in the next half hour, you will call me AGAIN. And you still will not have any invoice numbers.

A Modest Vignette

2009-06-16T21:59:00.003+03:00

Kat The Exercise Nazi and I got together tonight for our Torture Training* session. Each session includes a strength training workout and a cardio workout. The strength training bit is not too bad but the cardio portion is positively vile. The cardio workout looks something like this:

1) Walk five minutes (I actually like this part)

2) Run really, really fast for one minute

3) Die for two minutes.

4) Run really, really fast for one minute

4) Die for two minutes.

And more of the same, until the program decides it is done toying with you and allows you to stagger home.

Anyway, so Kat and I were in the middle of one of the dying bits when the buzzer on her stopwatch went off, indicating it was time to start running really, really fast. Instead of resetting her watch and running, Kat continued walking. Downhill.

Me: Ummm....isn't it time to run?

Kat: We are going to walk to the bus stop and start running from there.

Me: But the bus stop is further down the hill.

Kat: Yes.

Me: Which means we will have to run up the hill.

Kat: Yes! Last time, by the time we finished running the road had flattened out.

Me: And...there is something wrong with that?

Kat: Excuse me, Ms. Snackcident? How many rugellach ** did you end up eating the other day? Yes there is something wrong with that. Uphill!

Me: whinewhinewhine.

Kat: Stop whining. Think of Elmer.

Me: whinewhinewhine.

Kat: If you don't stop whining, I am going to scream "Think of Elmer's ass" really loud. (It should be noted that she did not say "Elmer". She said Elmer's name.)

Now that is a dirty trick. But I still stopped whining.

Note to self: must find exercise nazi who does not read blogs.

*The program is actually called "turbulence training". But I was speaking with my friend, Pnina, and she accidentally replaced the 'turbulence' with 'torture'. Somehow, inexplicably, the name stuck.

** I fought the rugellach. The rugellach won.

Zeh LO Bishvilech!

2009-06-14T07:11:00.003+03:00

First, a Hebrew lesson.

Phrase number one: גם זה לטוב pr. gam zeh l'tov. "This is also for the good". This is the phrase used by an excessively happy-clappy person to describe the bad shit that happens to someone else. Everything, EVERYTHING is a gift from G-d. Oh, your cat just peed all over your chocolate supply? And your child is on drugs? And you are up five kilo? Gam zeh le tov!

Phrase number two: זה לא בשבילך pr. zeh lo bishvilech. "This is not for you". My diet group leader's mantra. This mantra applies to any food product which you like and which you might believe should be for you, but which contains more calories per square inch than the number of coffee shops per Tel Aviv square mile (rough estimate = a lot). So really, this food is not for you.

You will nee the above phrases for this post.

On Friday, I went to the shuk. I had invited myself over to Practical Yael's house for dinner and she asked me to bring rugelach from the Marzipan bakery. The Marzipan bakery has pretty much the best rugelach in the world. In fact, its rugelach are much, much better than the rugelach than those of the bakery on the other side of the shuk, where I was injured. Had I gone to the Marzipan bakery instead of that bakery, I may have avoided the bombing altogether. But then, this blog would have never come to be. And you would have been bored. So gam ze l'tov! (See how the phrase is used? Isn't it so clever?) Besides, the bus stop itself is still by the first bakery. And I was blown up at the bus stop, and not at the bakery. So, really, the source of my rugelach did not matter. I would have been blown up either way.

But I digress.

Anyway, so I went to the shuk where I spent my time buying enough vegetables for a family of four for like, a year. If anyone ever tells you that the shuk is good for people on a budget (and they will, because people always say that), please be aware that they are lying. What happens is that you go and all of a sudden you realize that you need five butternut squash. And four eggplants. And half a dozen cucumbers. Even though when you were at home and looking at what you already had in your fridge, you did not think you needed them at all. The reason for this is because the moment you get near the shuk little shuk viruses enter your brain and eat it and turn you into some creepy zombie thing that runs around the shuk buying outrageous quantities of vegetables.

The other thing I did at the shuk was to try to stick to my diet. I did so by making extensive use of the diet group leader's mantra. Every time I passed a falafel place, a shipudia (specializes in meat skewered on an iron spit and grilled--my favorite is Sima), a bakery or any place selling prepared foods I sternly reminded myself "zeh lo bishvilech". And you know, it worked! Even when I was at the Marzipan bakery itself! Though I did notice that I was receiving a lot of strange looks. Note to self: next time, I should say this silently. And without wagging my finger in my face.

So all would be well and good, were it not for the extra rugelach. A co-worker is putting together an office event and I, like an idiot, volunteered the fact that I was going to the shuk and offered to pick up a couple kilos of rugelach and bring them to the office on Sunday. Unlike the rugelach which I bought for Practical Yael, and which are now safely ensconced at her house (or to be more accurate, safely making their way through the digestive systems of her five children), these rugelach are in my freezer. And they are taunting me. They want me to eat them. But I cannot do that. I promised the co-worker that I would bring them to the office. How bad would it look if I were to show up with 1.5 kilos of rugelach instead of two? And besides I must stick to my diet.

Suffice it to say, it has not been pretty.

For the last 36 hours I have endured periodic outbursts in which run I to the freezer, open the door, scream "zeh lo bishvilech! zeh lo bishvilech!" at the rugelach and then slam the freezer door shut. Then I run to a corner where I spend 10 minutes crouched, sobbing and poking myself in the belly.

All I can say about this is that it is a good thing that I am not married. My husband would have called the men in the white coats hours ago and had me committed hours ago. So gam zeh le tov that I am single.

One more hour and the god-forsaken rugelach are out of my house.

2009-06-14T07:02:00.002+03:00

The scheduled post will be posted when and if Google ever allows "cut and paste" to start working again in Blogger.

:(

Not a good way to start a week.

2009-06-04T00:25:00.002+03:00

Oh, and another thing.... Iran's has a nutcase President. We have a fascist foreign minister. BOTH of them run around saying vile and hateful things. So how come Iran's diplomats are now getting invited to barbeques, while we are getting slammed for being not nice?

If I start running around saying vile and hateful things, will you invite me to a barbeque? Please? I like barbeques.

Right--time for me to go to sleep.

He didn't just say what I think he did...did he?

2009-06-04T00:01:00.005+03:00

This is going to be a short post. I am making it short because I am tired. I have been working far too many hours. And I just cleaned my apartment. I really, really should not be posting now. But I have not posted in forever, so I must.

And besides, I cannot be the only blogger in Israel who does not comment on Obama's stretching out of the hands toward the Muslim world. And his "understanding" Iran's deep desire to obtain nuclear weapon capabilities. (This understanding, no doubt, being completely unrelated to the hand stretching and not at all intended to curry favor with said stretchees).

Ahem. So here it is. My deep thoughts:

"PEACE FOR OUR TIME"

Don't know the reference? Google it.

As for me, I am going to figure out where the hell my building's bomb shelter is. And stock up on tuna.

HELLO Katamon Konnections!

2009-05-21T22:04:00.002+03:00

Hello! Can I have your attention please? Yes, you: the well-dressed, well-mannered and generally civilized looking Singles who took part in the Katamon Konnections Jerusalem Day Walking Tour tonight. Do you remember when you were walking down Shai Agnon Street from Historical point A to Historical point B? And some chubby chick in a tight tank top and spandex shorts (admittedly, not the most flattering of looks for her) ran by you? Well, not exactly running. More like a perky stagger. And she was wheezing and sweating buckets and had a face like a tomato? And she was muttering something about someone named Elmer? You remember her, yes?

Yes, well that was me. And I just wanted to let you know that I am available. Isn’t that exciting? Do feel free to get in touch!

I am pretty sure that this is not what people have in mind when they tell me to try going to more singles events. That’s okay. Because this was sure as hell not what I had in mind when I said that I hoped that getting in shape would help me get noticed by the opposite sex.

Oy. Just Oy.

The Inspiring Ass of Elmer

2009-05-21T08:25:00.004+03:00

First, a disclaimer. Elmer does not exist. No—that is not right. Elmer does exist. He is just not Elmer. “Elmer” is what I am calling Elmer in place of using Elmer’s name. This is so that you will not know who Elmer is. So if you know an actual Elmer—and in particular if you know one in Jerusalem—and you read this post and you think “is she BLIND???? Elmer’s ass is butt ugly!”, please note the following:

1) I am not talking about Elmer.
2) I do not even know Elmer.
3) I completely agree with you about Elmer’s ass. An ass that large is a Crime Against Nature. Or Humanity. Or both.

I hope that this clarifies matters.

A few weeks ago, in an effort to resuscitate Roxie, my by-then neglected and depressed-to-the-point-of-suicidal-thoughts diet, I joined a diet support group. Last week, the group leader gave us an assignment. Each of us was to come up with positive mantras about NOT eating that we could use to counter-act the negative mantras we use to justify eating. So, for example, if you tell yourself “I need this” to justify eating chocolate, you start saying “I do not need this”. Clever, no? Anyway, I thought and thought and thought, and eventually I came up with two mantras of my very own. The first one is “it’s only six months”, because the group ends in six months. And then I can eat whatever I want. The second one is “if you lose weight, and become really hot, maybe you will have the opportunity to become better acquainted with Elmer’s ass”. Elmer being, in my humble opinion, the owner of what may be the best ass in Jerusalem.

[As an aside--just in case any of you have any concerns in respect to my virtue, you will be happy to note that my virtue, such as it may be, is perfectly safe. Unfortunately.]

Right, so those are my mantras, and I am quite pleased with them. I decided to share them with my friend Katrina Yellow (AKA Kat, the exercise Nazi). Not surprisingly, she was not particularly enthused with mantra number one. “DUDE! This is a lifetime change! Not just six months! Otherwise you are just going to get fat again!” The second mantra, however, she likes very much. In fact, she likes it so much that she has taken to screaming it at me, at the top of her lungs, while we are running. “PUSH IT! THINK ABOUT ELMER’S ASS!” And try as I might, I cannot get her to stop. What Kat does not seem to understand is just how small Jerusalem is. Those of you not familiar with Jerusalem, might think that it is a big city. We have half a million inhabitants. But as anyone who has lived here can tell you, Jerusalem is really a small town. Think of it as a Kibbutz whose steroid use has gone terribly, terribly wrong. Everyone seems to know or know of everyone else. So it is only a matter of time before someone who knows Elmer hears us and then goes back to Elmer and tells him that some madwoman in the San Simon park was running around and hollering about his ass. And then I will have to die of embarrassment. And if that is going to be my end, I may as well have the chocolate, no?

Ahhh well...it is only six months.

So, Yes, I Ran a 5K

2009-05-04T06:38:00.002+03:00

For those alert and/or bored readers who read the comments to my last post, and are at all put out that I did not mention the my under-40 minute time in the 5K, please know that I really and truly was going to tell you all about it. But I was going to do it stages, see? Suspense like. First, start with the down post and then WHAMMO! Hit you with the 5K. But now the cat is out of the bag and the element of surprise is lost. I swear, I love my friends to death, but I ask you—how would Hitchcock have managed with friends like mine? Imagine—there you would be, watching Psycho, and instead of having that buildup of suspense, around the time that Janet Leigh was approaching the creepy house, one of Hitchcock's friends would have popped up on the screen. "Hey Hey Hey FAT Albert! Dude! You are going to tell the viewers that she gets killed, right? In the shower?" And then the suspense would have been lost and the movie would have been an utter failure and Hitchcock's creative legacy would have been spoiled.

Sigh…..

So yes, last Friday morning, my friend Sarah and I did our long-awaited 5K run. That we did it was was thanks to our friend, Kat. Perhaps you have a friend like this? The type that gets you to do stuff you normally would not do? My friend like that is Kat. Every so often, Kat sends me vaguely threatening messages:

"Hi! Check out the fat-burning fitness program on this website! You and I are starting it on Tuesday!"

Or:

"Dude! What goal are you picking for Kat's 10-day challenge?"

I would tell her no, but I do not dare. I am not quite sure what would happen if I were to do so, but I am sure I do not want to find out. I suspect that it might involve being left alone for extended periods with her infant son, while he is teething. If Kat is believed, this is a fate only slightly preferable to death. So, I just smile, and go along. Which is how I find myself doing things like running a 5K, agreeing to commit to a three-month fitness program and cutting back my internet time to 30 minutes a day for ten days.

Anyway, so I did the run, and I did not die and my time was 37:55—significantly better than my target time of an hour. I am also proud to note that I did not come in last. I managed, with great effort, to come in ahead of a few senior citizens (not all—just a few of the really pokey ones) and a guy who appeared to have cerebral palsy or some other disability and who was pretty much running with one functioning leg. The latter gave me some serious competition (I swear this is the truth). I was behind him the first half of the run, but I think he may have rested a bit at the water break, and that allowed me to pull ahead.

Sarah whipped my ass. This was not unexpected, seeing how she actually trained. Kat, however, did not come. She conveniently developed a seriously ill baby the night before the race and bagged on us.

My next 5K (because Kat has decided there WILL be another 5K) is in June. I will make sure to keep you all informed on the details of my exclusive training program, in which I plan to do lots of running, and instead end up goofing off at home. On the bright side, thanks to the 10-day challenge, instead of goofing off on the net, I am now goofing off by crocheting various unidentifiable items. Clearly, a more productive use of my time.

Haveil Havelim #215--the One Topic Edition

2009-05-02T21:16:00.003+03:00

First, it’s May!

Happy Birthday Israel!

Before we can celebrate, we must remember. Lion of Zion discovered memorials to Frum Fighters in the Haganah. Several bloggers quantified the cost of our independence. How to be Israeli describes the feeling of Yom Hazikaron—kashe. Israelity remembers those he knows who have paid the price of our independence. Beneath the Wings shared the fears—and the lessons—inspired by Yom Hazikaron. The Velveteen Rabbi remembers from afar, and wonders if this season will ever be free of fresh reasons to mourn.

Yom Haatzmaut provides time for reflection. Jewish Israel entreats us to stand together. For Zion’s Sake remembers the 2000 years of waiting and the last 61 years of our wait being fulfilled. Lion of Zion discusses the value saying Hallel on Yom Haatzmaut, as opposed to ongoing, more substantial measures of appreciation for State of Israel. (The say or not say the Hallel debate is also here). Torat Yisrael provides us with an analysis as to whether Jerusalem really is the capital of Israel (well-written, but even if it were not, worth reading even if only for seeing a right wing blog use Yossi Beilin’s Geneva Initiative as support for his argument). Benji and I’ll Call Baila shared 61 things and the 61st thing, respectively, they love about Israel.

Elms in the Yard photographed some of the festivities, as did Jacob Richman. I’ll Call Baila and her family shared photographs as well—they celebrated at the beach. Coffee and Chemo celebrated with her friends and family. MyPanim celebrated in Australia. Our Shiputzim celebrated at Latrun. Achas L’Maala celebrated in Kochav Hashachar. Dr Savta explains how to mangal and Esser Aguroth analyses said festivities from a (sorta) Halachic perspective. How to be Israeli enjoyed the festivities…but received an unpleasant reminder that Israel has far to go in the area of race relations.

I myself am thoroughly ‘mangaled’—two mangals in two days. My Yom Haatzmaut is to be considered a success.

In other news (yes, the world has continued to spin)—Religion and State in Israel gives us a summary of this week’s developments in the aliyah industry.

Finally, and always fun—a few only in Israel moments from Torat Yisrael, Snoopy the Goon , A Time of the Signs and a lovely birthday greeting from Cosmic X.

Jewish community

For everything there is a season…but what happens when the season ends? Shira Salamone and her community have had a rough winter, but the spring seems to be highlighting the losses, as opposed to providing relief or heralding new growth. To look at the problem from another angle, the Rebbetzin’s Husband asks why synagogues do not make enough of an effort to harvest the low hanging fruit in their communities. Could this provide some measure of relief to dwindling shul memberships? Letters of Thought visited a very different Jewish community—that in Uman. ProfK discusses the vast—and at times inexplicable—differences between the Holocaust generation and subsequent generations. And Shtetl Fabulous—looking at the Orthodox Jewish community—is inspired to ask “what happens to an off the derech-Mormon”?

In Washington, however, May has opened up with good news for the two Aipac employees charged with espionage.

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

Funny—I looked and looked but could not find a clip of this song featuring nutcase dictators. Educational television FAIL!

In Iran, Ahmedinejad’s is still obsessed (as per Judeopundit). (We get a humorous take on Iran from The Israel Situation). Daled Amos brings us a review of PA violations of Oslo.

[A question—and this really is a question and not a snarky remark. Have we Israelis acted in accordance with Oslo? I ask because I would guess that the establishment of new settlements and expansion of existing settlements in the West Bank would have been banned by the Accords. If this is not a problem, and Israel is in compliance, the outrage makes sense. If not, and if the whole Oslo process is pretty much dead and buried, Jewish/Israeli condemnation of PA acts on the basis that “they are violating Oslo”, as opposed to on the basis that the actions are those of murderous, violent thugs, is not only hypocritical, but also wildly unproductive, insofar as the argument can be pretty well shot down in thirty seconds or less.]

Snoopy the Goon suggests a creative and peaceful means of bringing an end to all of the conflict.

Judaism

Frum Satire suggests add-on features to make kosher phone cards and kosher cell phones even more kosher. (Hesh—you forgot to add an tase blast if you speak Lashon Hara.) Ashi and Rami give us a Parshah for Parenting and HomeShuling explains why she sends her children to Jewish Day School. Shorty’s Adventure and takes on the parsha—the prohibition on tattoos. Both the Velveteen Rabbi and Harry-er than them all are inspired by the parsha to discuss the issue of boundaries—the first directly and the latter indirectly. Torah Lab gives us guidelines on what to do and not to do during the Sefira. A Simple Jew gives us a lesson in Hassidus—overcoming Nitzachon. (I know you submitted another post—but this one was really special so I substituted it).

…And Just Plain Old Living

Cosmic X got to deal with a dead cat. Mish Weiss is preparing for battle. Benji discovers the pestilent side of Twitter and explores Israeli eyewear and Israelity encourages us to visit Tel Aviv Bauhauses. The Real Shaliach is doing something rather inexplicable with Winnie the Pooh. Beneath the Wings had an encounter with the flying beasties and Me-ander had an undesired visitor. The National Jewish Sports Hall of Fame inducted seven new members (from Sportsbiz). The Israel Chronicles shares a story that touches the heart. And as for me? Things are up and down....

2009-05-01T16:48:00.002+03:00

I do not know if you have picked up on this from my posts, but I have been rather down on myself recently. There are just so many things that I want to do, that I mean to do or that I NEED to do…and yet, somehow, I never actually do. It makes it very frustrating to live with myself. I spend a fair amount of my time lecturing myself on the evils of procrastination. Sadly—predictably—I never listen. My parents appear to have been on to something, when they claimed that talking to me is like talking to a wall.

But lest I paint too bleak a picture (which is a sure way incur the wrath of certain of my friends) I should point out that a few weeks ago, after meaning to go for like, a year, I finally went to Safranit's stitch and bitch meeting. It was a lot of fun and I made good progress on a project I am working on—a blanket for my friend's baby. Not only did I add a few inches to it, but Safranit helpfully pointed out that if I stopped referring to it as a baby blanket and instead called it a lap rug (for covering up Baby in the stroller) I could just wrap the damn thing up right now and move on with my life. SCORE! This is all very good, and my joy is only slightly marred by the fact that said Baby has grown since I started this project. Not only is he no longer using a stroller, but he is about to start college. No matter! I am sure that the lap rug will be a big hit in the dorm. He and his roommates can use it to cover the bong.

Alas, this breakthrough aside, things have been feeling rather stalled around here and the self-frustration levels have risen to truly desperate levels. I have begged and pleaded with myself. I have promised treats—new kitchen toys or an MP3 player. I have threatened all sorts of punishments—loss of internet privileges, grounding or never ever dating again because I am overweight, and as my mother told me fifty zillion times, no one gets a boyfriend if they are overweight. All of this has been to no avail. My Self just laughs, gives me the finger and goes on doing what it pleases—that being normally comprised of such constructive activities as eating mounds of Pringles and Magnum Desire ice cream bars and surfing the net for information on the life of Laura Ingalls Wilder and "what ever happened to Karen", the little girl with CP that I read about when I was in grade school. Critical shit like that.

Sigh…..

And to add to the collection....

2009-04-24T06:56:00.002+03:00

My sister gave me an REI gift certificate over 1 1/2 years ago. I kept on meaning to use it. Every time Kayla went to the States, she would remind me to that I have this gift certificate, and why don't I use it already, and have the stuff sent to her parents so she could bring it back?Every single time, I never quite got around to it. Once, I got so far as to look at the REI website at Kayla's house, on Kayla's computer with Kayla there to give me her parents' address. So close...and yet so far.

Today--miracle of miracles--I actually 1) went on line 2) picked stuff out 3) put it in my shopping cart and (this is the critical step I normally manage to miss) 4) ordered it. Bezrat Hashem, when Kayla comes home, she will bring me my REI goodies.

Lest you write this off as a minor acheivement, I should point out that it took me a full 90 minutes to pick out what I wanted. This has less to do with the abundance of choices on the REI site (though there is an abundance) and more to do with the fact that I really do not need anything. In the end, I bought a huge hydration pack and a purple balance ball. (The color is does not add any features but seeing how I love purple, I thought I would tell you about it). Anyway, the hydration pack is for the hikes I never go on and the balance ball is for the fitness program that I never quite get around to starting. I think you will agree with me that these are a fine addition to my theoretical running program and my ornamental work-out clothes collection.

On a related note, can I tell you that Kayla (aka-"disgustingly organized and together friend") is much better at watching Roxie the Diet than I am? She is even having me bring a Roxie-friendly dessert to Shabbat lunch. For my part, I have been neglecting Roxie to an outrageous extent and Roxie has informed me that she would like to go live with Kayla, because Kayla is nicer than I am. Sadly, I had to break it to Roxie that disgustingly organized and together friends do not need diets, because they stay in shape. As you might imagine, Roxie is simply devastated.

Yom HaShoah

2009-04-20T23:30:00.005+03:00

Saturday night, I went with friends to see Defiance. After the movie ended, the four of us left the theater. Three of us raved both about the movie and the story behind it. How the hell did the Bielski brothers manage to pull this off? It is simply mind-boggling. The fourth member of our group was silent. Finally, she spoke. "I just found it difficult. You know, here we are, comfortable, safe…and watching a movie about the Holocaust. They really suffered…."

I know what she means. At least I think I know what she means. Oh hell, I do not know what she means. All I know is what I mean and what I feel, when I find myself wanting to say what she said. A movie about the Holocaust—the movie itself—is fiction. People do not die in the making of the movie. But the events on which the movies are based are not fiction. People suffered, horribly. People died, horribly. The world was quite simply wiped off the face of the earth. And now, some sixty-four years later, here I sit—well-fed, cosseted and protected—in my comfortable chair in my comfortable city in my comfortable life. In which, any time I want, I can choose to go to our quite elegant Cinemateque, where these events, the living, breathing hell that is the Holocaust, will graciously provide me with …entertainment?

Or is that too strong a word? The movie, after all, was not a documentary. Yes, the story instructs and yes it inspires and yes, it should be told but at the same time…they stuck Daniel Craig and his gorgeous blue eyes in there for a reason.

So I feel guilty. But it is not only that. I also feel very, very fragile.

I know a Holocaust can happen here. I know a Holocaust may happen here. I know this even without watching movies about the Holocaust. The movies just remind me. And honestly, I would rather not be reminded. I would rather not walk around for days and days with this knowledge in the front of my mind instead of at the back of my mind, where I normally try to keep it. I would rather have this be a sort of "theoretical" knowledge. As opposed to imagining my well-developed country, with its lovely buildings and smooth roads and full supermarkets, turned into a pile of rubble. As opposed to imagining myself desperately trying to hide from enemies and fighting some other starving soul for a scrap of bread. Telling myself that I would be noble and share when, in truth, I would probably just turn into an animal, like most everyone else. Do I really need that level of detail? Is it contributing anything to anything?

Is it not sufficient for me to just know, really accept, that it can happen here?

They did not accept it could happen in Europe. There is a scene in Defiance where Tuvia Bielski asks another refugee "what were you doing before the war"? "Studying" is the reply. "What were you studying?" "Music", she says, with a wry smile. They thought they were living in the type of world where studying music made sense.

We here in Israel are living in that type of world, but who knows for how long? Stability is a mirage. Safety is a mirage. It can change in an instant—the amount of time it takes for a nuclear warhead to fall. That is especially true in this part of the world, where so many of our neighbors want nothing more than to wipe us out. Can we depend on the rest of the world to defend us? The answer is to be found in actions. Sixty four years after the end of the Holocaust, davka on Israel's annual Holocaust Memorial Day, a brazen Holocaust-denier who has called for the destruction of the State of Israel was invited to give the opening address of the United Nations Anti-Racism Conference. In his speech, he once again called for our eradication.

That sounds like a resounding "you are on your own" to me.

How long can we hold the wolves off? How many close misses will there be before something hits?

I should point out that am not afraid. This is not to say that I am brave. Not at all. Apparently, surviving a bombing does not result in a better grasp of reality and/or statistics and I am just as stupid as the average Joe in my assumption that of course I would survive the deluge. I choose to allow myself this luxury of delusion. It allows me to survive the waiting—the constant gnawing knowledge that the veneer may be scraped off at any moment—without losing my mind and without living in fear. It allows me to accept reality, to the fullest extent that my mind can handle. It just...is.

And besides, I would still rather be here. I simply love living in Israel. I will enjoy living here as long as I can. I hope that this is the rest of my life. I hope my life, and Israel's life, is long. I will do what I can to try to prevent the worst from happening. But if it does come to the worst, I would rather go down fighting (even if my "fighting" is just being here) rather than sit crying, in my comfortable and safe armchair, far, far away.

If it happens again—and I know it can happen again—I will not be entertained by it.

Two Random Bits

2009-04-18T20:17:00.002+03:00

One

I, probably like many of you, have watched Susan Boyle's performance on Youtube multiple times. Now, I have only one question. It is a rather mean and snarky question, but seeing how it has been tormenting my brain the past several nights, I feel that I have no choice but to share. As follows:

What the fuck is up with Simon Cowell's teeth? Am I the only one who find them to be a bit scary? Are they for real? Does he take them out at night? Does he paint them with white, Day-Glo paint before he goes out in the morning?

Thank G-d that this is off my chest! I feel so much better!

Two

Conversation with Ellie, in which she tries to convince me to give online dating another shot. At this point, the closest I get is signing up on sites and then ignoring them, on the basis that I hate blind dating--to the extent that even thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. Even I have to admit that this is not the most effective method.

Ellie: It is not going to happen unless you try.

Me: I have tried—everything. Nothing happened. No one was interested in me.

Ellie: But that was before. You have the blog now. I keep telling you—it has put you in another place. (ed: I can confirm that she keeps telling me this. But then, she also insists that she had no idea I was funny until she started reading my blog.)

Me: I am the same person I was before!

Ellie: Okay, so maybe you had inner self-confidence, but ever since you started the blog, you have outer self-confidence. That is sexy. Think of it like…sexy underwear.

Me: My blog as sexy underwear. Very creative!

Ellie: Feel free to post it!

And who is this Doug Weiss fellow?

2009-04-12T20:33:00.004+03:00

Today, I went on a group tiyul (tour) of the archeological park at Caesarea and the detention-turned-transit camp at Atlit. There I saw something curious. In a corner of the main hall of the park--a building which served then as a receiving center--a glass-encased rectangular board hung on the wall. Names --grafitti style--were etched on the board. A sign next to the board explained that the board had been restored. It was displayed in honor of the people who passed through the hall.

Some of the names were in Hebrew. Some of the names were in this or another European language. Refugees--the remnants of European Jewry--caught as they tried to escape the graveyard that Europe had become.

But one of the names was completely different. "Doug Weiss. NJ (?), U.S.A.". Not European. Not a refugee. But distinctly carved into the board, nonetheless.

How and why did a nice Jewish-American boy with a nice, first-generation, born-in-the-United-States, Jewish-American name end up scratching up the walls of a British detention camp in Mandate Palestine? Half of me wonders if this were later, random vandalism. The rest of me thinks that there has got to be a great story in there, somewhere.

Mish Weiss

2009-04-11T22:44:00.001+03:00

BUMPED...because you really should visit Mish's blog. And leave comments. But no nasty comments, please.

I do not know if I have mentioned this, but I LOATHE the chagim. Knowing myself as I do, and in particular knowing how much I do love to bitch, I have no doubt that I have brought it up at some point or another. But I am too lazy to look for the links. And besides, I do not have time--I have to clean my house for f**king Pesach. Which starts tomorrow.

I have despised the chagim for some years now. Thanks to my years of experience, I have the whole hating-thing down to a science. First, starting the month before the festive day, I go into moderate moodiness and/or depression mode. Over the course of the month, this slowly but surely escalates to "halfway-to-suicidal". I maintain the halfway-to-suicidal level of depression for the duration of the holiday season, punctuated here and there with random teariness and automatic jealousy of everyone I know who is in a relationship. Starting a few years ago, I added "skipping festive meals and services" to my despising-the-chagim routine. To spice things up a bit. And because I hate them too. As does Roxie, my diet.

Yes indeedy, a true beacon of light am I....

Right--so Pesach, as I mentioned above, starts tomorrow. I spent the day today being moody, short-tempered and feeling sorry for myself because pretty much everyone I work with is either married or in a relationship, and here I am alone and old enough and passed over enough that I no longer even bother to think "B'ezrat Hashem, next year, I will have a seder in my house with my husband". Because, how many times can you wish that, and then find yourself in the exact same position the following year, without feeling like a complete freier (sucker)?

Right, so I went through the day like this and then I thought to myself, "Gila, why are you sitting around feeling sorry for yourself? Nu, why not call up your friends, and let them help you feel sorry for yourself?" Is that not what friends are for? So I called one and it turns out that said friend was having the type of crisis that makes one say "Damn! Thank G-d I am single!" Which is a lovely sentiment, but--and you must agree with me-- clearly of no use whatsoever if one is looking to wallow in self-pity. Then I called CK, from Jewlicious. Who proceeds to tell me about another blogger, Mish Weiss. She was orphaned at age 12, has very little in the way of family, and now, at age 28, is battling leukemia. And therefore, from his point of view, I have no right to feel sorry for myself, because my situation is so much better. At this point I proceeded to chew him a new asshole because I hate when people go down that path. (My friends do that at times with me--"oh, I cannot complain because you have had it tougher than me". And that helps you how, exactly? )

Still...my curiousity was piqued. I swear to G-d, when CK described this to me, I thought it had to be a hoax. An orphan? A teenage mother who gave up her child for adoption? Stricken with particularly virulent leukemia? And all this to one person? Sounded like a soap opera.

As soon as I got home, I looked up her blog. Not a fake.

I do not get the impression that Mish is a big fan of sympathy, but prayers do appear to be appreciated. Please do send some up. From what I read on the blog, Mish needs a miracle to pull through this. But sometimes miracles do come. Ask for one.

Happy Bombing Anniversary to Meeeeee!!!!

2009-04-10T09:27:00.008+03:00

I cannot believe it. So, here I am, puttering around this morning after my session of "pretend I am running but really am walking with some fast bits thrown in", and I realized "Hey, it is bombing anniversary season"! Kind of like Wabbit Season, but without Elmer Fudd. And without Bugs Bunny.

But that is easy enough to fix.

You see? Very simple, very easy.

So now that we are all sorted, I can get back to the original topic. Anyway, April 12th and Bombing Anniversary number seven are just around the corner and I have not yet started to plan my bombing anniversary celebration! Scandalous, no? If I do not show my appreciation, perhaps G-d will decide to take the anniversary back? Of course, given my form of showing said appreciation in prior years, from G-d's point of view, ignoring the day might represent a distinct improvement. Alas, from MY point of view, that would be no fun.

I am now off to scheme. And do my shopping. The two may or may not be related.

And I Should Care About This...Why, Exactly?

2009-04-06T22:58:00.005+03:00

Hey there!

This is how Dana, the (apparently) extremely perky PR rep opened up her email to me. You know, as if we knew each other. I have no doubt that she sent a similar email with a similar opening to every other Jewish blogger on the planet. As if she knew them.

So, why was Dana the Perky PR'ist writing me an email? Because some big Hollywood players, for reasons known only to themselves, have taken it upon themselves to determine who are the biggest rabbinical players and the most vibrant Jewish communities in the US. * And I am supposed to be so excited about this that I will want to gush on about it in my blog.

Apparently, it escaped her notice that I am 1) Israeli 2) have been for some years now 3) have yet to write anything about the Jewish community in the US (because I do not live there and have only the vaguest of ideas of what is going on there) and 4) spend most of my time writing about bombings, life in Israel, Roxie the Diet , my Shabbat and other adventures and whatever other nonsense suits me. What can I say--blogging is how I relax. Cheaper than an alchohol addiction and less likely to result in body odor.

Moral: PR reps...please, do your homework.

Update: I cannot believe I did not think to add a link to this post, which is the ultimate in cautionary tales and should be required reading for any PR/advertising type who is thinking of using blogs as an advertising medium. (To clarify--I do not agree with a large chunk of Mo-ha-med's views, but I do love his blog. The man can write. And he thinks.)

*Knee-jerk reaction to this: Movie moguls crowning the rabbis and communities? In all seriousness, apart from the fact that they have money and success and we Jews tend to respect people with money and success...what is it about making movies that that makes them qualified to determine who is influential and which communities are vibrant? Is this the same type of logic that says that, because I went through a bombing, I should be listened to when pontificating on the security situation? I am talking out my ass, just like pretty much everyone else. Really, the only difference is that my ass is a bit more scarred.

Hints from Ellie-oise: Ellie's Guide to the Jewish Male

2009-04-05T09:46:00.005+03:00

I preface with a correction. In an earlier post, I explained my basis for considering my friend Ellie to be A Woman of the World. As follows:

However, not only did Ellie live in Manhattan for many years, she also owns at least one pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes—the same type of shoes favored by the women of Sex and The City.

Ellie has since pointed out to me some serious errors in the above statement. First, she owns not one, but several pairs of Manolos. She also owns a few pairs of Jimmy Choos and a lot of Prada. So she is truly a woman of the world—she just wanted to make sure that her qualifications were properly established.

Last week, I published the post: Male, Female and What's-His-Story He Created Them, in which I described a fascinating (if highly irritating) third gender found wherever there are Jewish singles. In the comments to the post, a few men suggested that my account was, shall we say…a bit one-sided? And that there might be a female version of this creature—a What's-Her-Story, if you will. I suggested that perhaps one of the men would be so kind as to serve as a guest blogger, and elaborate on their theory.

So far, none of the men have taken me up on my offer. Ellie, however, did. In her case, she was worried that my account was not detailed enough. The What's-His-Story is only one of the many Jewish male varieties. The Jewish female needs a lot more information in order to safely navigate the dating world. Ellie has nobly offered to share her hard-earned wisdom, the theories she has developed over years of Living in the World, with the masses. Accordingly, we present yet another public service announcement: Ellie's Guide to the Jewish Male.

1) Jewish Gay: Not really gay and possibly not really male. Definitely Jewish. His male organs are strictly window dressing. Admit it—you know the type. He's got millions of women 'just-friends'. He never seems to have a girlfriend. He never seems to ask anyone on a date and if he does, it is a just-friends date. [Definition is 1) no touching, EVER and 2) they go dutch]. He has an extraordinary ability to squeal and giggle.

As an illustrative example, Ellie described to me a series of outings she once had—over the course of a few months— with a man she knew from shul. The meetings were often mid-day and on several occasions, the man brought another female friend with him. They always split the check and the entire relationship was strictly platonic. Ellie, naturally, assumed that they were just friends. It was only after she started dating another man, and the first man disappeared off the face of the Earth, that she realized that, in his mind, they were dating.

My question to Ellie: what differentiates the Jewish Gay from a What's-His-Story? Her answer: not too much. The key difference is that the latter gives off the impression of being interested in you. They flirt and so on—they just never follow up. Jewish Gays really are just friends.

2) Jewish Really Gay: He is really gay but he is really in the closet. We all know some.

Ellie does wish to emphasize that the "Jewish Gay" and the "Jewish Really Gay" should not be confused with normal, well-adjusted Jewish men who happen to be homosexual and who are secure in their identities and all that.

3) Commitment-Phobe: Just what it sounds like…but with one caveat. Even the most commitment-phobe man might have an epiphany somewhere between the ages of 38-41…generally 39-40. The trigger is the big four-oh. At that point, he might decide to put his bullshit on the back burner long enough to meet a woman, fall in love, get married and have a couple children. However, if he cannot get his act together, forget it. He is done. He may or may not spend the next five to six years whining about how he cannot meet the right girl, but really, he is done.

To clarify—the type whining Ellie is referring to here is what she calls "Seinfield-whining". For the non-TV savvy (like myself) Ellie defines Seinfeld-whining as: "stupid shit". For example, "she doesn't chew her food well" or "she doesn't use the right toothbrush". In short, the man breaks up with her for no reason at all. Here as well, Ellie provided an illustrative example. A man she knew broke up with a woman after a 10 month relationship. The reason? He decided that he did not like the way she smiled.

4) The Cohen: Commitment phobia with a twist. Like the standard Commitment-phobe, the Cohen's shelf-life is also until about age 40. However, unlike the run-of-the-mill, non-priestly Commitment-phobes, the Cohen does not have to fall back on Seinfeld-whining to justify his lack of staying power. His commitment phobia is all for the sake of a Higher Power. For those of you who are not Cohen-savvy, a Cohen—a member of the priestly class—cannot marry a divorcee, a convert or a fallen woman who has had sexual relations with a non-Jew. Unfortunately for the Cohen who misses the moment of epiphany, he really and truly may find himself shit out of luck because the older a man gets, the harder it is to find a woman who meets the standards. (Per Ellie, some of these men institute a "don't ask don't tell" policy in respect to the non-Jew boinking).

Please note that these limitations do not stop the Cohen from dating these ineligible women. He will enjoy their feminine charms, all the while proclaiming that he just cannot seal the deal. To his credit, Ellie reports that the Cohen tends to be very upfront and honest about this. (This is as per Ellie's interactions with Cohanim, though she has not actually dated any). The problem is that we women want a Hollywood ending and choose to believe that of course he will change his mind about this once he falls madly in love with us. He can't, and he won't. Moral: if he says he cannot marry you, believe him.

5) The Pathological Liar: The Cohen's evil twin. Unlike the Cohen, who is honest about his intentions, the Pathological Liar will lead you down the garden path. He says he can, he will and he wants to…but then has no follow up. I asked Ellie if this were not the same as the Commitment-Phobe? Her response: not exactly. A Pathological Liar has to be, by definition, a Commitment-Phobe, but a Commitment-Phobe is not necessarily a Pathological Liar. Put differently, the Pathological Liar has a PhD in fucked-up-ness while the Commitment-Phobe only has an MA.

[For those interested in this track, the Open University is now accepting applications for the fall semester].

So, with all this fucked-up-ness running rampant, how does one recognize a good man?

ALL those men are good men…just with a fatal flaw. Because—and Ellie asked me to emphasize this—she does not believe that all men are assholes and jerks. Apart from the Jewish Gay series, who never start at all, both the fucked-up good men and the non-fucked-up good men start off great. The difference is that, while the non-fucked-up good man has staying power, the others, due to their tragic fucked-upedness, simply cannot keep it up. And in this case, Viagra simply will not help.

So remember Ladies: It really is them, and not you.

And Gentlemen: Since I believe in equal time, my offer to host a male guest blogger who can present the male point of view remains open.

Revising My Goals

2009-04-04T19:41:00.003+03:00

Remember my New Year resolutions? Well, I am having a problem with one of them.

As some background, I should explain my goal-setting method. Any goal must fit certain criteria to make it onto my list of resolutions. As follows:

1) The goal must be clear and identifiable. This is harder than it sounds. We all have general, amorphous goals: being a better person, being a better friend and so on. But …what does that mean? If you do not know where you are going, it is pretty hard to get there.
2) The path has to be tangible. What specific things can I do to get from A to B? Sometimes, the answer is "not a damn thing—you are fucked". In such cases, saying "I want to achieve X" does not constitute a goal. Rather, it is a wish.
3) The goal must include a time frame. Otherwise, there is nothing to stop me from just eternally procrastinating on making any progress towards reaching the goal. I mean, I will do that in any case. But with a time frame, I will feel guilty, as I should.
4) There must be a way to measure progress and ultimate achievement of the goal.
5) Finally, and most importantly, the goal must be achievable. Challenging myself is fine. Setting myself up for failure is less fine.

Anyway, I have been doing some heavy thinking recently and have come to the conclusion that I have a problem with goal number four: "Get in Shape/Make Myself Hot". Just so you know, this goal is a subsidiary goal to the larger "Have a Proper Mid-Life Crisis" goal.

What, you might ask, could possibly be the problem with this goal? Let us evaluate it, shall we?

1) The goal is identifiable. To me, getting in shape and making myself hot primarily entails losing a shitload of weight.
2) The path is tangible. If I eat less, eat healthier and/or lower calorie foods and work out more, I will drop the poundage.
3) I have a specific time frame. My midlife-crisis is scheduled for when I hit 40, September 2010. So I definitely have to be in shape and a hottie by then. (As an aside, can I tell you how much I hate the word "hottie"? Especially when it is used by ostensibly heterosexual, grown men to refer to themselves? What the fuck is up with that?)
4) Progress is measurable. Interim progress is measured as pounds dropped. Final goal achievement—achieving hotness—is measured by all the men that I ever liked and that ever passed me over in favor of my friends and/or other women (roughly defined as 99.99% of the men I have ever liked) being filled with regret and crushing despair because they missed on such a great opportunity.

The problem, of course is that the ultimate goal is not that achievable. Out of the pool of men described above….

1) Some are complete what's-his-stories
2) A few have since come out of the closet
3) Several are married. Even if they WERE stricken with regret, they can hardly tell me about it. And if they cannot tell me, well then, it is hardly measurable, is it?
4) A good number of them live in the US and it would require an inordinate amount work to track them down and visit them so that they could properly appreciate just how hot I have become. Especially when one considers that many of these guys may well fall into categories one, two and three.

In short, I realized that I needed to do some tweaking. So I have. Interim progress is still measured as pounds dropped. Final goal achievement—achieving hotness—is measured by being able to wear completely age-inappropriate clothing. (And no, wearing age-inappropriate clothing is not something I can do now. As my friend put it, when I was looking at one of her shirts that would qualify as such "I think one of your boobs would fit in there").

I must say—and I do believe that you will agree with me on this--that when it comes to setting goals, I completely rock. Not only is my new measurement factor EMINENTLY achievable (especially in this country, tacky, age-inappropriate clothing central), it also ties in beautifully with the "Have a Proper Mid-Life Crisis" parent goal AND with my wish to make up for all the wildness I did not engage in during my youth.

I will make sure to keep you posted on my progress.

Ladies in Waiting

2009-04-02T08:19:00.003+03:00

What if I wake up someday and find myself 39 and single? I asked myself that question in a piece I wrote almost five years ago. I apologize for the melodrama in the piece. I decided not to edit it—in part because of laziness and in part because this is who I was five years ago.

***

I am one of the ladies-in-waiting. Who are we? We are the ones who are waiting for our Prince Charming to arrive. We are in our 30’s or 40’s, and much of what we do and much of our decision-making processes are based on the premise that we are going to get married. What social activities should I be doing? Activities where I can meet men, of course. What clothing should I wear? Clothes that will attract men! Clothes that might not find favor in the eyes of men, be it for reasons of religion, society or simple esthetics, are to be shunned. I am still living with roommates at 35? That's okay, any day now the right guy is going to come along and I will go to live with him. I have a dead-end job that does not pay much? No problem, because when I get married we will have two incomes. Besides, everyone knows that men do not want a woman who is too career-oriented. In the meantime, and to the extent each one of us allows herself before marriage, we live our lives, move forward, we dream and we wait.

We are waiting for…but we are also waiting on. Many an eligible bachelor has one or more ladies-in-waiting of his very own. These women are his close friends and take a proprietary interest in him. They will invite him for Shabbat, include him in their activities and plans, and listen to his tales of dating woes. They will not sleep with him (they are just friends), but they will provide all of the emotional support that he would normally get from a wife. Such a lady may ask herself "when is he going to awaken and open his eyes to me?" Why should he? She is already giving him everything he really needs. For his part, one cannot help but wonder: does he realize that each of these women, his friends are waiting for the day that he realize how foolish he has been and beg for her hand?

And yet, this is not as completely one-sided as it sounds. These men serve a certain purpose. While you certainly do not need a specific Prince Charming in order to be a lady-in-waiting—one can be, and many are content to wait for the mysterious, unnamed One—it does help to have a face to picture in the mind's eye. Having someone specific and concrete to wait for is somehow less frustrating than having nothing. Over the years, I myself have rarely been without a "one I yearn for"; the only thing that has changed has been the face I see in my mind’s eye when I daydream. Sadly, this sort of romantic fantasy is realized only rarely. What normally happens is that one fine day, the man meets some cute young thing ten years his junior, and his ladies-in-waiting dance at his wedding to celebrate their being replaced. (The new wife, of course, will frown on future close contact).

The first time I really considered the long-term ramifications of the role I was playing was when I went to a Shabbaton and spent a weekend in the close company of several older ladies-in-waiting. They scared me. They were in their late 30’s or early 40’s and still dressing in their comfortable loose, flowing dresses—the type of clothing that make young girls look fragile and innocent and anyone over 30 look dowdy and neglected. They were perfect companions to the men there: attentive, interested, smiling and very agreeable. Here and there two women would compete for a particular man's attentions, but it was discrete. (Heaven forbid a man think you aggressive). One woman appeared to be the lady-in-waiting of one of the men there and she put up a fierce defense of her turf. Her speech was peppered with references. Remember when we went to this place, Dan? Do you remember when we cooked that meal? I think I was allowed to speak with him once…or maybe twice. On Saturday night we all went home. I was in a state of trauma. For weeks and months afterward, I said to myself: "I will not be like those women".

But what if I am like those women? What if I wake up someday and find myself 39 and single? In some ways, this is a concept almost too bizarre to consider. Of course I will get married! From my earliest childhood, I have assumed that I would get married. Virtually all women grow up with this assumption. Marriage is the center of our existence, even before we are old enough to date. Our parents, our friends, our culture and our faith teach us to believe both in the inevitability and the necessity of marriage. Marriage will make me whole, marriage will make me a real woman, and marriage will bring me joy. Although the promises society makes are too sweeping to be considered reality, I really do believe in the institution of marriage. The whole Jewish concept of two halves of the same soul being re-connected under the chuppah, the wedding canopy, strikes me as beautiful, romantic and true. I would love to meet a nice guy and settle down. But again, what if I do not meet someone? It is a demographic fact that there are more single women than single men. It is inevitable that some of us are going to lose the dating game. What if I am one of the losers?

Fortunately, I do have positive role models. There is my friend Stephanie, who at 38, decided to have a child alone. There is my friend Gabi, who has neither husband nor children, but who has had a career full of travel all over the world. Now in her 60's, she has friends everywhere and more style than the average woman 30 years her junior.

My most important role model is my Aunt Pearl. She did it all and she did it with flair. She supported both herself and her mother, was an accountant when women were not accountants, and lived on her own when nice women did not do that. She spent weekends managing vacation ranches in the Catskills because she liked horses and spent her winters on ski vacations in Europe because she loved to ski. When I was growing up and I would see Aunt Pearl at family gatherings, she was always doing something: planning a trip, going off to her vacation house, volunteering with Hadassah or acting in community theater. She never had kids of her own, so she adopted everyone else's, and now, at 75, she is the accepted family matriarch. Aunt Pearl’s act—that of the successful career woman with diverse interests— is the one I am most likely to follow, and in fact am already following. In some ways, this is a tragic fate. People love to criticize successful single women. If I never marry, I know that I will spend the rest of my life being condemned as cold, unfeminine, selfish and self-absorbed. That is pretty rough. However, it is much better than the alternative. The alternative is to remain a lady-in-waiting and to spend my life waiting for a man to start it for me.

In the wake of that disastrous weekend and my subsequent resolution that I did not want to be one of those ladies, I made up a motto for myself to get myself going. Change your fate, and if you cannot, than change your mind. Accept your fate, whatever it is, and decide that it is not the worst. This may sound really good, but I have to admit that putting it into practice has been brutally difficult. Changing my mind is equivalent to accepting, really accepting, that I may not get married. Not just saying the words, not just crying to my girlfriends but really accepting and believing that I may spend the rest of my life alone. I may never stand under the chuppah. I may never find a man who loves me. Often I find myself stuck for months at a time. I cannot let the dream go. Then I get angry with myself, and plagued with guilt. With the bombing, I was given a second chance at life. G-d could have killed me off right then. He did not. How can I, having received such an enormous gift, then possibly choose to live my life in a way that makes me miserable? How can I not choose joy? Unfortunately, I can beat myself up for days, weeks or months, but guilt will never get me going. What finally does the trick is fear. I go back to that weekend. Do you want to be like those women? No? Then you have got to let it go.

Let it go. I will not spend my life waiting. I will not wait for a man to come and support me; I will make sure I can support myself. I will not wait for a man to buy me a house; I will save my pennies and buy one myself. I will not choose my activities based on the number of men there; I will do those things which I enjoy. I will not sit around and let my ovaries rot; I will have a child myself. Most of all, I will not hang around any man I am secretly in love with, waiting for him to wake up and want me. If I cannot let go of my romantic yearnings then I will let go of the man. If he wants my emotional support, let him marry me. That is what a wife is for. (Forget about sex—it is not about sex).

At the same time, I am aware of the pitfalls. I see myself as similar to a recovering alcoholic, who must decide each and every day not to drink, and for whom each day the decision is slightly different. My drink of choice is longing, and my decision not to drink it down is very different today at age 33, when there is still a chance that maybe something will happen, than it will be if I really never do find anyone, and age 70 finds me still alone. How will I make the decision not to be sad when I am, in some ways, a failure? How will I stay strong when faced with this truth: out of all the women in the world, I am one that no one could fall in love with? I do not know how. I can only hope that if it comes to that, I will be wiser and stronger by then.

For now, at least, slowly but surely, my mind is changing. I am not giving up but I am going on. If G-d decides, after all this time, to send me my beschert, my intended one, I will be joyful beyond words. But if not, I will also be joyous. As it is written in the wedding blessings: joy, singing, pleasure and delight. גילה, רינה, דיצה וחדווה . I can and will have these too. I am a lady waiting no longer.

***

Thirty-nine is now six months away. I am still single. What can I say for myself? I do not have roommates. I have a full complement of kitchen toys. I have a good job—though the truth is that I had one then, as well. While I do have the occasional obsessions about this or that What's-His-Story, for the most part, I am not waiting on anyone in particular. I live where I do and do the things I do based on what I want out of life and what I want to do—what pleases me—and not based on where I can meet men. I did consider having a child on my own, but finally decided against it. There are many reasons, but the key one is that I simply do not want children badly enough. So this is all good.

What is less good? I still get sad, at times. It would be more, but I keep the emotions in check by studiously avoiding dating sites and anything else that will force me to think about the whole issue of rejection. (Hard to tell if this should be considered healthy behavior or self-defeating).

And finally, I am (alas) one of those dowdy spinsters. No flowing dresses, but I do have lots of extra pounds.

But THAT is something I can do something about. Roxie the Diet has been making a comeback….

Male Female and What's-His-Story He Created Them

2009-03-28T23:35:00.005+03:00

I have been trying to write about this for a while but kept putting it off. You know, it is hard to write about such things without being snarky. As in, too snarky even for me. And then, last night, yet another friend got her heart and emotions tromped on by another one of these creatures. Accordingly, I consider the following to be a public service announcement and as such, the snarkiness is totally justified.

Or maybe not, and I am going to hell.

Right then. Onwards!

So, imagine, if you will, the following scenario…. You are a single woman, mid-to-late 30’s and up. One Saturday night, you go to a party. There, you meet a single man. He is your age. He is attractive. He is both intelligent and interesting. Said man pursues a conversation with you. The conversation is deep and meaningful. Furthermore, the man is flirtatious and appears to be quite taken with you. Perhaps he even asks for your number. The next day he looks you up on Facebook or sends you a text message. Over the course of the next few weeks, he continues to correspond and to flirt. You run into him at a Shabbat meal and he seems delighted to see you. You find yourself getting a bit excited. A nice man! Interested in you! You keep on waiting for him to make a move. It never happens. You are confused. He is a grown man—not a 20 year old. He is clearly not shy. You are giving off the “I am interested” signals. What is the hold-up?

You want answers. You call up the hostess of that original party.

“So….what’s his story?” you ask.

“Well….” And then she pauses, and you know what the answer is going to be. Indeed, instead of the answer being: ‘a great guy’, ‘single’, ‘dating’, ‘gay’, ‘too young/old for you’, ‘too religious/secular for you’, ‘a loser’, ‘a commitment-phobe’, ‘has major issue-im’ (Hebrish for “issues”), “will not be able to put up with your major issue-im”, ‘looking for a Barbie doll’, ‘looking for a mother’, ‘a player’ or any other description that one can apply to a heterosexual male…the answer is: “I have no idea.”

Allow me, Ladies and Gentlemen, to introduce you to the third gender: the What’s-His-Story. Unlike male and female, which flourish everywhere, the what’s-his-story are more likely to be found in areas with active Jewish dating pools. The what’s-his-story may or may not be heterosexual. The what’s-his-story may or may not be homosexual. The what’s-his-story may or may not be asexual.

Confused? Yes, well, we all are. That is the point.

The savvy reader, the reader who has spent some time in the world of Jewish singles, will immediately ask: what is the difference between the what’s-his-story and ‘the player’ and ‘the commitment-phobe’? There are two key differences—two things that the commitment-phobe and the player have that the what’s-his-story does not. The first is empirical data—a track record. Unlike the player or the commitment-phobe, both of whom are known for their love ‘em and leave ‘em approach to dating, no one has ever known the what’s-his-story to have loved or left anyone. The what’s-his-story may have vague stories about this or that relationship …but…strangely enough, even within the gossip-rich swamp that is the Jewish singles community, no one has ever known the what’s-his-story to be in an actual relationship with anyone, of any sex. No one has ever seen or heard of what’s-his-story being even remotely physically intimate with anyone, of any sex. Apart from the flirting, the what’s-his-story never displays any romantic interest in anyone, of any sex.

The second thing missing is passion. Both the player and the commitment phobe gives off vibes—straight or gay as per his orientation. But what’s-his-story gives off no vibes. No straight vibes. No gay vibes. No blended gay/straight vibes (a’la the bi- or metro-sexual). There is no passion, no hunger. Even when the what’s-his-story flirts, the exchanges are superficial, as if a mask is being donned and a role played.

You see? Nu, what the fuck is his story?

Everyone has their pet theory. I polled some of my friends—here is what they came up with.

They are gay and are extremely closeted.
They are gay and in some serious denial.
They really are asexual and are in serious denial about that.
They have such serious commitment issues that even the idea of hitting date number two is traumatic for them.
Freaked out by the thought of growing older, they have decided to deny the passing of the years by continuing to act like 20 year olds in their relations with the opposite sex. (This arrested development may or may not extend to other areas of their lives). (courtesy of Teddy)
They are serial killers who prefer to have anonymous sex with sex-workers, who they then kill and eat. (courtesy of katrinayellow)

So, as you can see, there are no easy answers. Hell, there are no answers at all. All I can offer is a warning. Women (and in particular women who are sex workers) beware!

And as for you, the what’s-his-story…. Please, give us women a break. The dating world is tough enough. Our emotions are raw enough. As much as you might wish to deny the passing of the years, the truth is that you not “guys”. You are not 20. Like it or not, you are grown men and as such, your behavior is neither appropriate nor charming. Enough! Figure out what you are and what, if anything, you want to screw and/or have a relationship with, and then go flirt with that.

And More on the "Iska"

2009-03-17T22:20:00.005+02:00

The government released the names of the terrorists they are refusing to free. To my eyes, this is a smart move. Not only does this explain the government position, but it also forces those who would like to ignore the price of the deal to confront it. I find it hard to believe that someone in our government could actually be so sensible. Nonetheless, the proof is right there in front of me, in black and white. Someone with a brain is running around in there! Do not worry, I am sure that he or she will be tracked down and run out soon enough.

So, of course, I decided to do a bit of googling to find out if any of "my" terrorists were included in the list. Not the actual bomber, of course. The last I heard, she was still dead. Rather, her handlers. You see, of course the government is claiming that we will not release them, but (let us be real) at some point in the not-so-distant-future, the government will cave and do just that.

Well, they are not listed. Of course, this means nothing. They may be dead. They may be at large. They may be in the okay-to-trade list. They may have already been traded.

This means nothing at all.

This is what I want to know. We strike a deal. We make a trade. Six months later, one of the okay-to-trade guys manages to blow up a bus. What does Noam Shalit intend to say to the parents of the victims?

Has he thought of that at all? Okay, he is a parent--he cannot be expected to. But our government can. And it should.

*****************************

As an addendum, a frequent claim of those who support Hamas's stance (this is not the same as those who support bringing Gilad home at any price) is that "most of the prisoners are political prisoners who are guilty of no crime". Let us assume you are right. Fine. But these guys, the guys on the list, are not. These are the guys who set up attacks like the one I went through, at Machane Yehuda. How can you justify this? And will you continue to justify it when you or one of your children is caught in a suicide bombing?

Willfull Blindness

2009-03-15T16:15:00.018+02:00

Haaretz correspondent Gideon Levy is too radical-left "Israeli=Bad and Palestinian=Good" for my taste. So I was surprised when I clicked on one of his articles today. I fully expected to hate it and him; instead I found myself actually nodding and agreeing with the man.

Only one banner needs to be raised reading "release 1,000 terrorists." That banner shouldn't be put up outside the Prime Minister's Residence but outside the Hadarim Prison where Palestinian prisoners are held. How many of the thousands of activists who support Shalit's release are willing to do that? Just like other crucial matters like, say, peace, we are all in favor - but at what price? That's another matter. Let's not get into it. It's enough to say we favor a two-state solution. When exactly? Why not now? What about the Jewish settlements in the West Bank? Let's not quarrel over trifles and spoil everything.

As is their wont, Israelis demand to fly business class but pay with bonus points. Peace for peace, Shalit for Shalit. They want to have their cake and eat it too; for Shalit to be released without releasing Palestinians. The media fan the flames, crying that the prisoners have "blood on their hands;" politicians preach that we should stay quiet "lest the price rises." But the price has not risen or fallen, nor will it fall in the future. But how many of Shalit's supporters even debate that issue?

In respect to Gilad Shalit, I have had mixed feelings about the "bring him home" campaign for some time. In respect to Levy's take on the Israeli mentality, I have noted and despaired of such tendencies myself. For example, there is the oh-so-popular school of thought that goes something like this:

1) Israel gets to keep all of the 1967 territories.
2) Arabs living in the 1967 territories do not receive citizenship or the right to vote.
3) Said Arabs are expected to act like good, happy Arabs and accept this situation forever and ever.

Hello! Are you freaking insane? Would you accept this? I do not believe in violence and certainly cannot see myself ever becoming a suicide bomber, but you can damn well believe I would be engaged in some serious non-violent protests against such treatment.

Everything has a price.

Maintaining a Jewish majority in Israel has its price: giving up land in exchange for the Palestinians being the citizens of some other country. Maintaining control over the West Bank has its price: the sacrifice of a Jewish state in favor of a bi-national one as the current situation in which we get land and the Arabs get squat being untenable in the long run. (Hell, it is not particularly tenable in the short run; a situation maintained only through the exertion of force is not what one would call "stable"). I am also not a huge fan of Avigdor Lieberman (too radical-right, rather fascist etc) but based on his pet proposal to redraw borders to leave the Jewish populations in the Jewish State and the Arab populations in the Palestinian State (ie. giving up control of land) I do have to admit that he seems to understand this concept.

Getting Gilad back has a price: the release of terrorists. And yes, keeping the terrorists in prison has its own price: not getting back Gilad. It is possible to argue that we could send in commandos to rescue him. But that also has a potential price, in the form of dead soldiers. How many dead soldiers is one live one worth, when all of the soldiers are from our side? Take, for instance A Soldier's Mother. She has a son in the Army. Would she consider her son being killed or injured a reasonable price to pay in order to get Gilad home?

This is not a mean question. It is a real one. It is a question that needs to be asked, and answered.

There is a price for anything and everything we might wish for ourselves and for our country. We know, or we should know, what that price is. The only question is whether we are willing to pay it. And once we know, are we brave enough to own our beliefs, to stand up and say that price aloud.

So, am I willing to trade terrorists, and the lives of their future victims, for Shalit? If the roles were reversed, if I were the one in captivity, would the price be reasonable? No. I am sorry. But, no.

OOOOOOKLAHOMA

2009-03-11T23:33:00.006+02:00

I must tell you...I am facing a crisis of unparalleled dimensions. Oklahoma!—one of my fave musicals—is being put on by a local theater group. And I am not in it.

I have loved Oklahoma ever since I saw a high school production of it (featuring my sister) some gazillion years ago. At this point, I know a respectable portion of the score and I have seen the movie several times, though I always fast forward through the dream sequence. (What the fuck is UP with that bit?) Back before I moved to Israel, I held an Oklahoma party. I bought a copy of the score, made lots of photocopies, rented the movie and then invited my friends over for a party in which we watched Oklahoma and sang along. I sang “I Cain’t Say No” at a karaoke bar in The Middle Of Nowhere, West Virginia. My performance was so inspiring, so…real…that a shockingly drunk local tried to pick me up.

And now, I am missing out on my chance to achieve the next level of ! To ride in that surry with the fringe! Out of my dreams and onto the stage I long to fly, baby!

So why am I not in the play? Simple. The auditions were in January. I only heard about them today. In March. At 4’ish. A tad late.

But perhaps not too late?

I mean, all I want to be is a rock. There are rocks in Oklahoma, no? So I could dress up in something gray and bulky—say a trash bag—and crouch down on the side and play a nice, friendly, singing rock. You know—the type of rock that sits there, does not participate in any dance numbers (because these require not missing two months of rehearsals) and does not have any lines (natch) but that does sing along with ALL the songs. Because it knows them.

Of course, I can also do that from the audience.

That might even be more fun. I could bring along my copy of the score. And, come in costume. (Not as a rock—as Laurie or Ado Annie). That would be like....Oklahoma meets the Rocky Horror Picture Show. YES!

Anyone want to come with?

More Shabbos Adventuring

2009-03-07T23:14:00.003+02:00

Last night, my friend Galia had me over once again for Shabbat dinner. There was only one other guest. Her husband (who was probably not trying to set me up) had invited one of his friends. A nice, normal, Modern Orthodox British guy. I like British guys. They tend to come complete with a manners and a sense of a propriety. It makes them that much more fun to play with.

Apart from a little ranting by me about Mordechai and my opinion of him (not so high) I made it through the meal without disaster. Until dessert. During dessert we started talking about certain gods of British television: Dr. Who and Monty Python. And Galia –and I do want to emphasize that it was she who mentioned this , and she has known me long enough than to give me quite this wide an opening—mentioned that she had recently seen a Dr. Who spinoff—Torchwood—which she found interesting, if rather risqué. If I understood her correctly, the show is basically comprised of the Torchwood team, headed by Captain Jack Harkness, travelling through time, adventuring, fighting crime or whatever it is that they do and having sex with everything that moves. Men, women, aliens—does not matter. Everyone’s sexuality is quite unclear.

If G-d did not want me to use this opening, He would not have directed Galia to provide it.

Me: Wow! That sounds a lot like Katamon!

Everyone looked confused. I decide to explain.

Me: You know—the whole wacked out gender/sexuality thing. Around here, we seem to have three genders. Male, Female and …neuter? Asexual?

Now, I would have continued to build upon this point, were it not for Galia making frantic hand motions as a means of communicating to me that I was to stop Right Now. And I did, until after dinner. Galia, British-Guy-Guest and I were standing in the kitchen and I decided that, seeing that we were no longer seated at a Shabbos Table, it was a good time to bring the matter up again. I pointed out that Data from Star Trek was asexual (androids are by definition, no?) and the Torchwood gang probably would have no problem sleeping with Data—so does asexual then count as a sort of sexuality? I asked him if men have the same conversations about women and their sexuality or lack of same that we women have in respect to men. I think it is fair to say that he was thoroughly traumatized by the time he left and will require a night of heavy drinking to get back to normal. But Baruch Hashem, Purim is right around the corner; he should be right as rain in no time. In fact, I would not be a bit surprised if, thanks to our conversation, he drinks even more than usual and really and truly gets to the point where he cannot differentiate between Mordechai and Haman . If that happens, it means that I performed a mitzvah and that means I get divine brownie points. Do you suppose that G-d will let me cash them in for that friend-with-benefits I asked Him for at Rosh Hashana?

Yeah. You are right. Probably not.

In a related note, Galia is now swearing that she is not going to have me over any more, because I scare all her guests. And that she is going to find some nice, demure friends. She is bluffing. I mean—how boring would that be?

2009-03-07T22:50:00.003+02:00

The Answer To All My Problems

2009-03-05T00:27:00.006+02:00

Tonight, I spoke with one of my friends back in the Old Country. In the course of our conversation, I got updates on what all the people I used to know were up to. I like to do this every so often as the quantity of random details I can collect via Facebook about people I have been out of contact with for a decade or more is woefully insufficient. I mean, I need that detail. In particular, I need the catty gossip and snarky commentary that, for some odd reason, people generally do not include in their status updates. I mean, Carrie might report in her status how happy she is that her brother got married, but will she also report that she hates her new sister-in-law because the sister-in-law is a controlling twat? Of COURSE not! For that, you need to talk to Carrie or one of her friends.

Anyway, one person I used to know just got married. Rudimentary details were on Facebook.

Old Friend: She must be gorgeous.

Me: From what I can see, she is normal. I mean, pretty, but not like a model.

Old Friend: Really??!! (Rather shocked because said person is 1) hot 2) smart and 3) very aware of his market value)

Me: Oh, but she is a professional dancer. (This I had learned from Old Friend #2). So she has the whole, exotic lifestyle/ glamorous career thing going on. That gives her major points—she does not have to be nearly as attractive. Fuck, she can look, sound and smell like Jabba the Hut and get a guy. Because she is not some ordinary shmo. She is a dancer. An artist.

Old Friend: [reverently] An aaaarrrrtist.

And that is when it hit me! I am single because I am an accountant. Do not get me wrong, I love my job, but even I have to admit that it is scores rather low on the "glamour" scale. Based on the above equation, in order to offset my profession's high "boring" rating and the associated negative points, I need to be drop-dead gorgeous in order to get a guy. And I'm…well…not.

It is a problem. But it is a problem that can be solved.

All I have to do is to enter a more glamorous profession. Something with enough bonus points to make me attractive overall. At first, I thought about how I could do this with my current profession—you know, make accounting more creative—but could not come up with anything that would not involve heavy penalties and jail time. Then, it came to me: Gila, you write!

Well then, that is easy enough. I am going to write a book. This will solve all of my problems.

My book will be a literary masterpiece. It will have two covers and loads of pages with words on them. On the back cover or maybe one of the final pages—I have not decided yet—there will be a photo of me looking intelligent and sexy and writer-like and a brief biography which will highlight my creative, glamorous, artistic, bohemian spirit. I even have a name for my book: The Amazing Adventures of Roxie the Diet. It will feature such titillating and dramatic chapters as: The Birth of Roxie, Roxie Cooks, Roxie Goes Jogging and Roxie's Revenge. It will have an end, in which I take Roxie out and smash her with a hammer. Or smother her with some pastries from Naaman.

A writer. An author. An aaaarrrrtist.

I am SO excited! Glamour points are all within reach.

Do not worry. When I am a glamorous, exciting author pursued by zillions of eligible men, I will remember you, the little people, who got me started.

To All the Lurkers Out There (Reprise)

2009-03-03T17:06:00.003+02:00

About a year ago, I put out a note asking all lurkers to check in and let me know where you were lurking from. The results were so cool that I decided to do it again.

Though I am going to feel like a jackass if no one comments. :)

So please, check in! And...hmmmm...good random piece of information....what you would like me to write about. I need subject material. I'm bored. Give me something to do.

2009-03-02T23:06:00.003+02:00

I do not know how you have been doing lately, but I have been sick with a urinary tract infection. For those of you not in the know (aka-anyone who is not female), a urinary tract infection is when the various bits and pieces making up the digestive system get it into their heads that, ‘my, wouldn’t it be really cool to shove a kidney out through the urethra’. The rest of the body is then forced—against its will— to run to the bathroom every five minutes so that the abdominal part of the body can try again and make you piss a kidney. ‘I think it moved that time! Give it another push—harder!’ This process continues until you give said organs a major slapdown in the form of antibiotics. ‘PUT THE KIDNEY DOWN. YES, YOU. PUT IT DOWN. RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT. DON’T MAKE ME COME OVER THERE’.

Anyway, at this point, the drugs are taking effect, the digestive system bits and pieces have been ordered to their rooms, where they are to think about their behavior, and my kidneys are all whiney, because why are they the ones who always get picked on.

Fun times.

I do not want to go around tossing accusations, but I suspect that Roxie may have given my organs this idea. We had just gotten through another weekend and, as usual, she was feeling neglected. As though I were eating just about everything without concern for her welfare. I now consider myself warned.

On a related note, does anyone else remember the time that one could go to the neighborhood pharmacy to fill a prescription without the pharmacy or the pharmacist trying to sell you some oh-so-fantastic related product? No? I did not think so. Just thought I would check, out of curiosity. I mean, there I was, dying, desperately in need of drugs and a bathroom (since it had been a full six minutes since my last visit—long past time for my mischievous organs to give the kidneys another shove) and some monster in a white jacket was trying was convince me to buy 1) dried cranberries 2) powder to clean my system and 3) capsules which would replace the good bacteria that is getting killed along with the bad bacteria. (Are you shitting me? You want me to willingly ingest more bacteria? Fuck no—kill them all! אין חיידקים, אין שירותים. ) I finally bought the powder, just so that she would give me my drugs and let me go. Mind you, I have not used the powder. According to the usage instructions, common side effects include diarrhea, which is when the various bits and pieces making up the digestive system try to shove your small intestine out through your anus. Not exactly what I need right now, when here I am trying to teach my organs good behavior and all that.

2009-03-01T20:13:00.003+02:00

The update cord thingy for my Palm Pilot is dead (again). Rather than replace it, I decided to buy a simple planner and just copy stuff out from Outlook as need be. Last week, I popped into a stationary store where I found a planner with daily pages, a pink cover and a cute cartoon cow. I like cows. Bought the planner, left the store...and then it hit me.

I am 38. Nearly 40. I just bought a planner meant for a 12 year old.

I am turning into one of Those Women. Eventually, I will buy a poodle, dress it in precious little sweaters and start talking to it using baby language. "Is my dawling pwecious hungwy?"

Right. Let's try to head this off. I am keeping the cow. But if you see me with any Hello Kitty products, please, just shoot me. Just put all of us out of our misery.

New blog for your attention

2009-02-26T17:39:00.002+02:00

Written by a woman who is watching her mother die of cancer: Daughter of Cancer.

In her most recent post, the blogger lists all the things that people say that just make things worse. I found myself nodding as I read. Because sometimes, there is nothing to say. Sometimes, the best thing to do is just shut up, and listen.

So please head on over, shut up, and listen to her.

2009-02-26T07:10:00.003+02:00

It is official. My friends and I have decided to do a 5K run on May first. This would make me a Runner. Like any good runner, I have a training program. I designed it all by myself. It goes something like this:

Get up in the morning. Before I do anything else—take my Eltroxin, drink coffee, whatever—I put on sweatpants, the Uniboober bra, a t-shirt and running shoes.
Actually, the above is not entirely correct. The very first thing I do is to brush my teeth. I cannot do anything in the morning until I have brushed my teeth. If I were to wake up one night and find my house burning down around me, I am pretty sure I would make a mad dash to the bathroom to clean the pearly whites before I got around to escaping the house.
Drink coffee and eat a banana.
Prepare my food for the day
Spend an hour putzing around: reading one of the fifty books I have lying about; surfing the net; doing household chores which I normally hate doing—but if they get me out of exercise, sababa! and many other random time-wasters.
Look at the time. My! Is it that time already?
I have no time to go running now!
I have to go to work!
What a shame!
Take off the running gear, shower, get ready for work, and go.

Call me a pessimist if you will, but I suspect that this may not be the most effective training plan out there.

2009-02-25T15:03:00.005+02:00

A friend is undergoing fertility treatments. Today, she was to pick up the donor sperm. I offered her a lift to the hospital. On the way there, we passed an agricultural school. I (of course) thought it was the hospital and started to turn in there; my friend corrected me and we continued on our way. We then proceeded to have the following exchange:

Friend: I could get goat sperm there.

Me: Cool! Then you could have a freaky goat baby! And you could sell it! And use the money to buy an apartment!

Friend: starts laughing hysterically.

Of course, on the way back from the hospital, Friend kept the container with the donor sperm as far away from me as was humanly possible. I think she was worried that my weirdness DNA might infect the sperm DNA by osmosis. I am no medical doctor, but I am pretty sure that is not how the whole DNA-sharing thing plays out.

Anyway, just thought I would toss that idea out there, in case one of you is looking to take advantage of plummeting real-estate prices, but is short on capital. I do not know how much a goat-human baby would go for, but as one of my co-workers noted, you could probably make a killing on Ebay. Then again, while waiting for Friend at the hospital I saw a woman who I would swear is half-woman and half-fish. I would not pay anything for her. FRIGHTENING!

***UPDATE***

I ran my cunning plan past another co-worker. Her response: I need a vacation. Crazy woman! What I need is a surrogate mother and some goat sperm. And then I will become a real estate tycoon! Yahahaha! Power and wealth is all within reach!

2009-02-25T09:06:00.002+02:00

At what point did "you've lost weight" cease to be an observation made based on empirical data (namely, person has lost weight and is thinner) and start to be a standard greeting? Every time I see some of my friends, they greet me with a pleasantly surpised "you've lost weight!" If this were actually the case, by this point I would be hospitalized for aneorexia. Instead, I have gained about a million kilos.

Confusing, indeed.

Am I missing something here?

2009-02-23T19:07:00.003+02:00

Just received this from Saw You At Sinai:

This Purim, send your Basherte a beautiful Purim basket from PurimBaskets.com Choose from an assorted array of elegant Purim baskets at affordable prices. Picture the joy when he or she receives this basket from PurimBaskets.com. You can also take this opportunity to show your appreciation to your matchmaker (shadchan). These Purim baskets will surely make them keep you in their minds. Shipping to USA, Canada and Israel.

Ummm...forgive me for pointing out the blindingly obvious, but if I had a Bascherte to send shit too, I would not be on the Saw You at Sinai mailing list.

And as for trying to cozy up to the shadchan...let me see if I have this straight. My personality, my brains, my neshama, my appearance etc....none of that is enough to make me noteworthy. But a Purim Basket...now THAT is enough to lurch me into the stratosphere of Eligible Bachelorettes?

Oy!

2009-02-14T19:25:00.004+02:00

For me, one of the down-sides of growing up and now living with an Autism Spectrum Disorder (in my case, PDD NOS) has been missing out on some of the coming-of-age events, phases of development and life cycle events that the people around me, the normal people, have experienced. I mean, I have milestones. They have tended to be rather different than those of say, my sister. Compare if you will, the following:

Sister at 13: Flawlessly executed Bat Mitzvah attended by beaming family members and scads of friends

Me at 13: On August 21, 1983, after a two-year stay, released from the National Children’s Rehabilitation Center (now Graydon Manor). This milestone was quickly succeeded by weeks in which I begged to be sent back to the Center, as I came to the conclusion the people were nicer there and the real world sucked big time.

Sister at 16: Went off to the Junior Prom!

Me at 16: Finally kicked the obsessive shoplifting habit!

Sister at 18: Graduated second in her class from High School! Jetted off to the Rice University, the Harvard of the West where she enjoyed a fantastic, storybook, college existence. (Or not. I mean, I never really asked her. I am just assuming.)

Me at 18: Graduated High School! Moved out of the house and started working the midnight shift at Dunkin Donuts! Enrolled in and then flunked out of Community College! Avoided become a pothead or a single mother only because my social skills were still so pathetic that even the potheads did not want to hang out with me and not too many men wanted to sleep with me.

So yeah, I missed out a bit. Every so often, I go through phases where I mourn over what I lost. I moon about, feeling all sorry for myself. When talking to friends, at random intervals, and without any connection to anything we are actually talking about, I will spout some melodramatic drivel about how they experienced x, y or z and that I did not. Because of the PDD-NOS. And how now I will never, never, ever experience it because My Youth Was Wasted on Mental Illness. That Ship Has Sailed. I am forever deprived. And then I sigh. Loudly.

Anyway, now that I too am one of the normal people and everything, I have decided that the time has come to stop my whining and take matters into my own hands. Missed Opportunities? Hello! Is that not what a midlife crisis is for? To relive and improve upon one’s now vanished (and probably misspent) youth? Hell yes! If a 40 year old man with a combover and a potbelly can go out and buy himself a muscle car and a trophy wife so he can make up for being a loser in High School, is it not just and right that I should also be able to make up for some of my own lost time? Of course it does! Accordingly, I decided to ditch my mature, responsible, thoughtful nature and become what, in a normal, non-PDD NOS existence, I would have been 20 years ago.

A slut.

Alright, not really a slut. Just sort of. You know what I am talking about, right? You go off to college, go to frat parties or a pub, get drunk and have random sex with some guy or some girl you met at the party or one that you knew before and kinda had a crush on and were too shy to do anything about it but, hey, now you are drunk! The next morning, you wake up and shriek (or groan, if you are a guy) “Oh my GOD! I cannot believe I slept with him/her! Man! I was, like, SOOO drunk!” At this point, your friends, will nod vociferously and agree that , Man, you were, like, SOOO drunk. The next week, you do the same thing over again.

I completely, totally missed out on this part of the college experience. By the time I finally went to college, I was 22. I still had no social skills to speak of, and to top it off I had become a sanctimonious bore. I had been on my own for four years, was working my way through school and considered myself to be far more mature and serious than my fellow students who were (clearly) all spoiled and immature and unappreciative of how lucky they were to have everything handed to them on a silver platter. Unless you count Rabbi Eliezer Sneiderman and his wife Ronnie Sarah of the University of Delaware Chabad House, I had virtually no friends. And if the truth be told, the Sneidermans were probably nice to me more out of a sense of religious obligation than actually enjoying my company. Given this, that and the other, frat parties and drinking games and nights of wild abandon were in rather short supply.

But that was then, and this is now. I am normal now and gosh darn it— I want my wild and crazy Animal House experience! The only question left how to achieve it. Midlife crisis or no, I simply cannot see myself crashing a frat party at this point in my life. (I am old enough to be the mother of an 18 year old; the thought of shacking up with one simply does not do it for me). For guidance, I decided to hit up my friend Ellie. Ellie is NOT a slut. However, not only did Ellie live in Manhattan for many years, she also owns at least one pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes—the same type of shoes favored by the women of Sex and The City. In my eyes, these two factors are enough to qualify Ellie as A Woman of the World. Over breakfast a few weeks ago, I shared my dream with Ellie. To reclaim my lost youth and to live the wild life I should have had in my 20’s.

Ellie: You want to be a what?

Me: A slut. You know. Wild and crazy and all that.

Ellie: Okay, I get it. Some women go through that in their 20’s; some women go through that in their 40’s. I am with you.

Me: Exactly! So…how does one go about doing this?

Ellie: I do not think you will like it. You would have to go to bars.

Me: Oh. I do not like bars.

Ellie: I know.

Me: Would I have to drink?

Ellie: Of course. That is an essential part of it.

Me: Aaaahhhh right. The alcohol is the Get Out of Jail Free Card. You can do anything, so long as you have a drink in you.

Ellie: (Nodding) And you would have to wear Fuck Me shoes.

Me: What are those?

Ellie: Shut! Up! You do not know what Fuck Me shoes are???

Me: (embarrassed) ummmm…no.

Ellie: Really high heels with pointed toes.

Me: I cannot wear pointed toes. I have wide feet.

Ellie: So they do not have to be pointed. They do have to be high though.

Me: (A bit discouraged by this point). Anything else?

Ellie: You need to wear makeup. Vamp it up. Liquid black eyeliner and red lipstick.

Wow. I could see that this was going to be a lot more difficult than I had expected.

Rather than quit, I decided to start with the easy part—the makeup. On my way home, I bought a tub of liquid black eyeliner. That night I put it on. My eyes started tearing up. I was allergic.

Right, scratch the slut bit. Back to the drawing board.

I bet my stupid sister can wear black eyeliner. Sigh……

Election Calculus

2009-02-10T10:59:00.003+02:00

First, a disclaimer. I just got contact lenses (or in my case, one contact lens). I am in the “wear it for a few hours to get used to it” stage. At least in my case, this is the stage where you spend as much time to get the lens in your eye as you do actually wearing it. After about an hour of effort, I finally got the lens in. And now I can barely read my computer—even with the text magnified to 120%. I am not sure if this is because my eye is adjusting, the prescription is off or I put the damn thing in backward. (Correcting the last item would require I take the contact out and put it back in again. And I do not have an extra hour). Whatever the cause, please forgive me if there is an abundance of typos.

And now….the elections.

Last week, a friend and I discussed the elections. She told me that her husband is voting for Lieberman. She is not particularly happy about this.

Me: Wow! Is he that right wing?

Friend: No, he is not. But he says that, if you want the government to move slightly right, vote far right.

Welcome to the world of Election Calculus, where one’s vote is based on pretty much everything BUT the issues.

Who do you not want to see in office? Which ethnic, socio-economic and religious group would you like to either support or screw royally? Whose influence do you want to block? Who is likely to end up forming or being included in the majority coalition? And, most importantly, who is everyone else voting for? You might switch your vote from Meretz to Kadima if you feel that enough people are going to vote for Livne (Kadima) to allow her to form the government. Alternatively, if you feel that Bibi (Likud) has this election sewed up, you might vote Meretz, in order to ensure a more solidly left opposition. Worried that Livne might outstrip Bibi? Leiberman (Israel Beytenu) is willing to sit with Livne or Bibi; a vote for him will ensure a right-wing slant to government no matter who is on top. Alternatively, switch your vote from Lieberman to Bibi—give Likud that extra edge. Perhaps you are not particularly impressed with Bibi or Livne, but really want to see Barak (Labor) as Defense Minister. Vote for him—if they get enough seats, they will join the coalition, and Barak has already said he would take the Defense Minister portfolio if Labor gets 20 seats. Bibi already expressed interest in having him.

You adore Moshe Feiglin? Pissed off at Bibi for pushing him back in the lists? Stick it to Bibi—vote for Ichud Leumi or Habayit Hayehudi or Leiberman. Lieberman is a good choice if you are pissed off at Arab-Israelis for supporting Gaza in the last war and looking for a day of reckoning. He might also be a good choice if you have had it up to HERE with the Haredim not serving and with the ultra-Orthodox community in general…but only if Shas is not in the government. And what are the chances of that happening? No, that was not a theoretical question. Seriously, what are the chances? How many people are expected to vote Shas? Is Shas willing to sit in a government with Lieberman? Is Lieberman willing to sit in a government with Shas? How many votes will the other parties get? Perhaps enough to form a coalition without Shas? Gosh, when you look at it that way, I mean, you normally are not a supporter, but still, maybe you should vote for Shas. To offset Leiberman and protect the religious—make sure that Shas is big enough that it cannot be left out in the cold. Alternatively, you could vote Hadash. Lord knows, you are hardly a big fan of Arabs, but still...a loyalty oath? That is a slippery slope, my friend. That is a slope we cannot go down.

How many people are expected to vote for Party X? Suppose you are a big supporter of one of the smaller, boutique parties. Say, Hayerukim-Meimad. You feel that their positions on the issues are spot on. The leadership shows integrity. You would vote for them…if only you knew for sure that they would pass the threshold. And if you knew for sure that not only would they pass the threshold, but that they would get enough seats to have some clout and be able to accomplish something. And if you were not worried that a vote for them and one less vote for a big party would lead to an unstable government. But then, at the rate things are going, the government is going to be unstable anyway. And lots of people—25-30% according to the media polls and about 90% according to a poll of your friends and acquaintances—are still undecided. Perhaps your little party can be the new Gimlai’im, the surprise win. And, let’s face it—all of the big names have had their day. They are all failures. Why do any of them deserve your vote? Fuck that! Make your vote a protest vote!

And besides, would it not be nice to vote based on the issues?

Because we have issues. Lots of them. Rampant government and societal corruption and incompetence–we are a nation of scofflaws whose national motto should be לי, מותר (for me this is permissable). An economic meltdown. A terrible water shortage and general environmental crisis. A crumbling educational system. Discrimination against and abuse of various religious, ethnic and socio-economic groups; who gets screwed depends on where one is and who is and who is not in control there. A moribund peace process. The security situation.

But how many people are going to vote based on the issues? How many people are going to vote at all? We have so many problems that we should be voting in droves. Instead, I suspect that many voters will share the sentiment I overhead the other day in a waiting room: there is nothing I can do. The candidates are all shit. They are all corrupt and self-serving. My vote will not change that, so why bother?

G-d, where is our Obama? Where is our reason to believe? Our reason to have hope? Why is it that the people who generate excitement in this country tend to be fascists of one stripe or another? Can we not elect a government based on what we want to accomplish as opposed to whom we wish to destroy?

It is now 10:30 AM on election day. I have read websites. I did the election compass. I have been listening to news radio every day on the way to work. I still have not decided who I am voting for.

Another fun link

2009-02-08T21:48:00.003+02:00

This week's menu is up at Give Peas A Chance.

Links

2009-02-08T07:14:00.002+02:00

First, Fern Chasida has some words from the wise to the foolish, or at least the well-meaning but clueless. Please do read and pass on.

Teacher Lady has posted some lovely recipes up at Give Peas a Chance (my joint blog).

Thanks to Ya'aqov for including me in Haveil Haveilim.

2009-02-06T07:51:00.005+02:00

This week, I went to a wedding. I loathe weddings. In addition to weddings being really rough on diets--Roxie hates weddings almost as much as she hates weekends--and being bad places for the hearing impaired, weddings cause me to go slightly insane. I arrive at the wedding normal enough but within a short period of time I am halfway to suicidal.

This wedding was no exception and the depression hit hard. As I do at nearly all weddings, I started calling up all of my friends, from the huppa (wedding ceremony) to cry to them that I am old and decrepit and single and that I am never going to have sex again. Since my more savvy friends have learned to avoid my phone calls at these times, I had taken the precaution of not telling anyone in advance that I was going to a wedding. There you were, Friend, minding your own business, and all of a sudden the phone rang and it was me, calling from a wedding and generally a sodden mess (though a sober one--G-d forbid that this particular mess include any alcohol because I drove and the wedding was in the middle of nowhere and because I have no head for alchohol), tearfully asking you to please say something to cheer me up. At times like this, I ask you to remember one thing: my kick-ass oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe. Oh—and another thing. If in the past, apart from agreeing with me that G-d is an inconsiderate bastard, there was nothing to say, this week Kayla finally found that elusive Something To Say. When I called her to whine, she responded with two words: "blog material". Genius! The rest of the evening I was happily occupied with hounding my fellow guests to help me come up with stuff I could put on my blog. Unfortunately, apart from the guy with the unnaturally small head (looked rather like Beatlejuice after his encounter with the witch doctor) there was nothing to write about. But no matter. Maybe the next wedding I go to will be chock-full of entertaining disasters.

As fun as that might be, avoiding the wedding is still preferable. Indeed, in the best interests of my sanity and that of my friends, I avoid weddings whenever possible. To clarify, this does not preclude me from being offended when I am not invited to a wedding that I feel that I should have been invited to. Suppose, for example, we are not friends and have never even had a proper conversation but we do have many friends in common and are part of the same "circle". Or I am friendly with the bride, who knows how much I hate gong to weddings because I have called her up in the past to enlist her advice regarding how to get out of going to a wedding of a mutual friend. Or perhaps I invited the bride or the groom to one of my mass-invite fundraising parties. Or perhaps they had me over for a meal over the hagim, because I was staying with yet another mutual friend and the mutual friend asked if she could bring me. Or maybe three years ago I had the groom over for a dinner at my house--an bona fide invitation-- at which time I discovered he was an obnoxious twit and I hated him and never invited him again. Or something like that. You must agree with me--in such circumstances, do I not deserve to receive an invitation to decline? Scandalous!

But sometimes I get an invitation and (like this week) cannot safely decline it. The deleterious effects of weddings linger long after the event itself. Take this week, for instance. In the last two days, I have signed up for four (4) dating sites: Jdate, SawYouAtSinai, Dosidate and Look4Love. This can only end badly. Either no one will contact me, and I will be depressed because no one contacted me and that means I am ugly and pathetic and the dateless wonder or someone WILL contact me and I will have to go out on a blind date. I hate blind dates as much as I hate weddings.

Why, why WHY do I do this to myself?

Whatever. I have done this to myself. And I need your help. I need to choose my SawYouAtSinai Shadchanim (matchmakers) and I am looking for recommendations—in both directions. What better place to start looking than on my blog? As an incentive, allow me to remind you that blind dates are frequently a source of good blog material. That means fun for me and (hopefully) fun for you. Remember that Shabbat dinner when my friend tried to set me up? Wasn't that fun? Yes? Good. Now, I realize that self-interest demands that you hook me up with really horrible matchmakers, in order to guarantee entertaining blog posts. Allow me to assure you that there is no need for that. I have already gone the Rogue Shadchan Route and I have a respectable collection of blind-dates-from-hell. (To summarize—it appears that many shadchanim believe that a poor sad heroic victim of terror is damaged goods, and is properly matched with the unemployed, the hopeless, the mentally ill and men with comb-overs. So yeah, I have material.)

Hmmmm….maybe I should have you guys help me write my dating site profile?