Saturday with the gang

I ran into the bank on Friday - thrilled because Hubby had gotten a few hundred bucks for a Museum job he did months ago, and they finally paid him. Whatever was left to cover the overdraft, I used to buy food - less than $100, but it did the job for the weekend. I have the very unpleasant task of telling my rich daughters that they have to help pay some small bills otherwise if they don't - we won't have gas for the stove top cooking and everything will have to be baked - including eggs - in the electric oven. They were terribly upset when I did tell them. "Tell dad no more Coca Cola and cigarettes. I don't want my money going for these things." Rightfully so, my dahling chickpeas.

When I walked into the bank, the heavily made-up teller looked at me like her poorer gypsy sister - "LEAH. You have to fix your hair. You used to come in here looking good." I wondered if I had deposited several thousand dollars that day, would she be insulting me like this? I wanted to tell her if the thieves in the bank would give me back some of the interest they have taken from me over the years, I could be able to afford to come into the bank "looking good" with my roots newly done. Scoundrels.

Our normally peaceful shabbat dinner was interrupted by a good episode of Fear Factor. The teenage daughters were marvelling at the rather pumped up mammary glands of some of the female participants. My almost-13-year old son believes a "boob job" means pumping your breasts up with air, much like you do with the wheels of a bicycle. I love it. It's a great idea.

He was playing role reversal that night, as I fell asleep on the couch watching the E! channel. I woke up momentarily to feel him placing a blanket over me, plus a pillow which he gently put underneath my head. What a wonderful kid - at times.

He sure knows how to get to his mother's heart. The following morning, he asked me if he could make me some hot chocolate with REAL chocolate bars, instead of cocoa. And he boiled up the milk perfectly and handed me this perfectly made hot chocolate, on a terribly stormy, hailstone-ridden Saturday in Jerusalem.

Son, you will make a great husband, one day.