pre passover

My third daughter finally came home from the States on the Thursday before Passover.  She had been selling these hologram wrist bands, made in China, for $30 apiece in the malls in Long Island and people were buying them like mad.  Although the energy thing did work when she tried it on me.  I couldn't figure it out. 

That weekend I went with my grump husband to the Ein Gedi youth hostel for a weekend with my spiritual community  - Nava Tehilla.  It was wonderful being with spiritually like-minded people, praying with them, learning with them and eating all together.  I was on a rare spiritual high.  But unfortunately reality hit me before I knew it on the drive back home.  A phone call from my son was enough to ruin it all.

"Could you order two pizzas because I'm STARVING and I could eat a whole one."

"I'm sorry but I can only order one.  Why can't you share with your two sisters?" 

"Okay so I'll pay for one and you'll pay for the other" 

Fair enough.  I did leave them for the weekend with a house full of food but there's never enough pizza around. 

I come home and there is my son sitting at the table guarding his pizza pie with his two arms over the box like a homeless savage.  My daughters are complaining.

"He won't even give us a piece."

"Didn't you order one for yourselves?"

Yes, and it's on its way but he's now pissed that I'm paying for theirs and not for his and he demands 20 shekels.  I don't give it to him and he is now taking out all the stuff we store in his room and putting it out in the hallway.  He says for just 20 shekels he'll put it all back, but we are spiritually strong from the weekend.  We can withstand crap from our kids like this.   I don't give him the 20 shekels and we take our files and store it in our storage room downstairs. 

And I wondered whether King David, who hid out in Ein Gedi too a few thousand years ago, also reminisced about being out in the beautiful desert when things got rough back home.

Cookie crumbles

Be careful who you start conversations with standing at bus stops.  It's not like people are dangerous here.  They aren't.  And it's easy to jump into a stranger's conversation.  The stranger who is talking usually looks around and talks to whoever is standing around.  Some are receptive and sometimes one can engage in fun conversation about all sorts of things while waiting for the bus.

So yesterday I jumped into a bus stop conversation about People.  Persian people and then Russian people.

"Not all of them are bad" said a woman to a man.

"You always get one bad apple in the tree" the man answered.

I interjected in Hebrew, "Well, what do you think about Canadians?"

Bad move on my part.  The man continued his tirade all throughout the 40 minute bus ride with me about his Canadian neighbor whose dog barked outside every day at 4:00 am. 

"I told her I was going to kill the dog."  He leered at me.  He clearly isn't too fond of Canadians.  Then he went on about putting talcum powder on the floor and I couldn't understand half of what he was saying.  I really just wanted to relax on the bus ride home and not talk to anyone. 

I got home and tried to make dinner.  The two men in the family began bickering.

"Who ate my cookies?" demanded Hubby.  Someone at work made chocolate chip cookies for me for my birthday  I brought them home and told Hubby that they were for him for HIS birthday this week.  He was so happy.  Before the cookies were eaten, that is. 

My son admitted to the crime. 

"There were only 10 left!"

"10!!!  YOU ATE ALL 10???? YOU PIG!!!" and a war of the words started, with name calling back and forth, which ended up with my son throwing Hubby's files out of our son's room, where they are kept, and then Hubby taking the computer monitor out of our son's room and putting it into our locked storage room.

And then I thought it is much easier dealing with strangers on the bus, who can talk the ass out of a turkey, than this.

Babysitters

It's been difficult for my daughter who is studying once a week to get someone to pick up her toddler from day care at 4:30.

My son is not dependable, and likes to do Michael Jackson-style babysitting, like holiding him over the railing or near the railing of our balcony. So I tell my daughter not to count on him. My youngest daughter is the same. She likes to take him to her friends' homes, and I don't really like her friends. I don't want them giving the kid a bottle filled with Red Bull and Vodka or worse... So that leaves myself, the Smasher (3rd daughter), and Hubby.

So grand-dad picked him up last week. I walked into the house an hour later to see them playing nicely with PlayDo. I looked at the shapes Hubby was making.

"Look familiar?" he asks and laughs that wicked laugh of his as he hands me a rather large, circumcised PlayDo mold.

"Jesuz Christ!" I look at him and try to stifle a laugh. "What the hell did you tell him THAT was?"

Yesterday evening they were making breasts with different colored nipples and putting them in a neat row on the floor.

I give up. It's just so difficult to find good babysitters.

New Year, New Men

I had the most wonderful spiritual experience at the Jewish Renewal service in Jerusalem on Sunday. I find that the people who attend the service has assorted spiritual seekers, misfits who can't fit into the normal ways of praying in regular synagogues (like myself), etc. The services were held in the courtyard of the beautiful Nature Museum underneath a tent, which was open on all four sides, reminiscent of biblical Abraham's tent. Of course, none of my family wanted to experience this type of tefillah (prayer) with me. They'd rather sit at home and watch tv. I wanted to talk to God with a group. We were asked to meditate for 7 minutes each on the past year, the present and the future, with each part separated by the call of the shofar. Dr. Kagan had this down to a perfect science. I had never heard a shofar being blown the way he did it - for zichronot (remembrances) section of the prayers, he did the sounds much like a siren. For the Priestly blessing, all those that wanted to bless others were outside the circle, and those that wanted to be blessed (that's me), were inside the circle, beneath a tallit. Yes, I too would have sat home to watch tv had Nava Tehilla not had services for Rosh Hashana. And I prayed that everyone in their family would go towards the correct path, which is correct for them, for healing, happiness with what we have and of course, money. I always pray for money.

The rain poured down that morning, which was earlier than usual. Rains don't begin for another 2-3 weeks or so. So we all felt that the blessings will come earlier than usual - before their expected time.

A few days before the holiday my Wild Daughter, the youngest, showed me various expensive makeup she got from an admirer. The admirer was a dermatologist who has two clinics - one in Jerusalem and one up North. "You said I should find a doctor" she told me. Yes, I told her to find either a doctor, lawyer, professor-in-training, healer, accountant, dentist, even a student. Just someone with a future. But this guy wasn't Jewish. I don't know whether he was Moslem or Christian but he was definitely an Arab from the North of Israel. He came to fetch her on Thursday night. He was dressed very nicely, was very polite and quiet, and looked a bit like an Arab Clark Kent. Definitely not her type, but she obviously likes free makeup. And seeing him sitting there waiting for her to get ready, I felt sorry for him. She's definitely not like the girls in his part of the world. She'll torment him. I know. I had previous boyfriends call me up in agony, telling me in broken English "She not behave nice to me."

On Friday morning, I warned her - if you don't like him other than his giving you makeup, then I suggest you don't lead him on and don't see him again. Plesae don't break hearts before Rosh Hashana. The fact that he was from a different religion crossed my mind of course, but wasn't the main focus of my conversation with her.

She told me "He'd do anything for me. He'd even convert to Judaism for me." And I wondered what his family would think of that. But I let it go and asked God to give her direction. The right direction - whatever that may be.

My other loud complaining daughter (the third one) who runs around the house and smashes doors and cabinets - is now being nicknamed The Smasher. Well, I got a lift home with her on Sunday after her security guard shift was over. She warned me not to come to her work and talk "that language." What language, I asked her. "You know" she told me. I assumed either it was English peppered with "f" words, or Arabic. So I really didn't know. She tells me of this potential boyfriend, who is older than her usual choice of boyfriends. He's 27, Jewish and drives a Mercedes taxi. She tells me he likes our kind of music and not the Middle Eastern Israeli music all my kids listen to. He loves rock music.

She tells me, "he loves the group with the tongue. You know the tongue?"

I asked her "You mean Kiss?"

"No, the ones you like".

"Oh! The Rolling Stones!"

"Yes, that's it. He loves them."

I look at her. Sounds like a normal young man. Finally.

Court

My daughter's court date was pushed off to September, instead of it being in July. She was upset about prolonging the agony, but like they say in the old country, "you can't fight City Hall". If you remember, she was charged for something she did when she was 17, which was passing a dooby to a friend at a party. She was being charged as an adult for the crime of "distributing dangerous drugs to a minor". These are the times when I wish I were living in the Netherlands and my daughter would be record-free.

I met her on Sunday morning at the court house. She was sitting alone, angry at the lawyer for showing up late, not really giving a damn that he was stuck in traffic, but I was more worried because she looked like Amy Winehouse and this is not someone you want to look like when you're up against a drug charge. She wore no makeup and her black hair was matted and wild. I shoved her into the ladies room and offered my entire makeup collection to her, which is something I usually don't do. After the makeover, she looked better, less disheveled and we waited for the lawyer to show up.

And doesn't a mother's heart sink when you see that your daughter knows just about everyone in the fucking court? A couple of young guys with their lawyers said hello to her. I thought - this is just another neighborhood for her. Why does she have to know all these young criminals? We saw a couple of Arabs walking in handcuffs and chains. Then we saw kippa wearing Jewish kids also in handcuffs and chains. The father of one of the Jewish kids who was in handcuffs was agitated at not being allowed to speak to his son. I felt sorry for him - it's tough to see your kid in handcuffs and chains. Then another young dude in handcuffs and chains passes us and recognizes my daughter. They exchange greetings. I let out a big 'Oy' after he passed.

"Why do you have to know every criminal in this city? Why can't you hook up with students. At least they're working towards their future in a decent way!"

"Students? They're not my type. They're ch'nunim (Hebrew for nerds)."

"So what. They'll be rich nerds or nerds with a profession at least. Can't you learn to like them?"

She tsk'd at me.

The trial came, the judge meted out the punishment, which was 140 hours of community service and no drivers license (she doesn't drive!) for a year. And another punishment was that she will have to take a Law and Judgment course at the Hebrew University.

I tried not to laugh out loud inside the courtroom as they read the verdict. Going to Hebrew University is a punishment? Perhaps for my daughter it will be. She'll be introduced to another side of life she's never experienced. And maybe, if I'm really lucky, she'll fall in love with one of those student nerds.

Trust

I wish I could trust all of the members of my family. But I can't. No one trusts each other. They trust me because I can be trusted - most of the time. But the girls lock their closet doors because they steal clothing and makeup from each other. They don't ask to borrow - they steal.

And my unemployed daughter has unfortunately taken a liking to my clothing - especially my tops. I found her wearing my green tank top while she was headed out the door. Of course I tried to get her to take it off, but she whined to me, "but Mom, it matches perfectly with what I'm wearing."

I had loaned her an expensive tent on Passover, which she never returned. It's probably in tent heaven somewhere and I'm holding her financially responsible for it. But she hasn't worked since April, so she's unable to pay me back. I can't get water out of a stone. Moses did, but I can't.

Then I thought one of my mother-in-law's rings that she gave me went missing and for two weeks I frantically looked everywhere at home thinking it's lost because it fell out of my bag or something. I cleaned the house spotless while searching for this ring. Then at the beginning of this week I see the same daughter wearing something glistening on her fingers.

"What are you wearing?" I asked.

She giggles.

"Let me see what's on your hand."

More giggles.

I take a look at MY ring and yank it off her.

"You can't wear that! It's expensive. What if you lose it like you lost the tent!"

Bad enough she likes my clothing, but now my jewellery? Shit. What am I to do? I often have several pieces of my clothing disappear for a week or two and then reappear mysteriously back in my closet. I know it's her.

Hubby is no better. He goes into my purse to "borrow" cigarette money. Of course he doesn't tell me, but I wonder what happened to my 50 shekels and when I call him, he's like "oh yeah, I needed money and I didn't want to wake you." What a load of crap.

But one has to always be grateful for what I have. So what am I grateful for? I'm grateful to God that he's not a cross-dresser.

Green

I am trying to incorporate some "raw foods" recipes into my life. I took a class during the week to try out some of the funny-looking green drinks because they seem so healthy and quick to make. Quick to Make is the key here. In my busy life, it always seemed nearly impossible to cook healthy meals, so a quick - throw-everything-you-have-in-the-fridge - seemed like a good solution. Which is what I did and - lettuce, peppers, ginger, garlic, apples, pears, beets - even parsley went into the machine. I gave some to Hubby and he grimaced with a loud "Yuck". He anyways believes I'm trying to poison him in one way or another - so I wasn't surprised at his reaction.

One morning I had just finished one of my various Green Drinks, locked the door, and headed for the elevator on my way to work. As I was about to go into the elevator, two young hunky guys were looking around for something on my floor. I asked them what they wanted. They said they were looking for my daughter. THAT daughter - the one that's always getting into trouble with the police. They were investigators and wanted to investigate her about something, but they wouldn't tell me what that something is, because she's over 18 and they just wanted to talk to her. The good citizen that I am, I ran into her room, but she wasn't there. She probably slept over at a friend's house, which is something she does for about half the week. I didn't seem concerned about her whereabouts and told the guys that I'll have her get in touch with them today.

If I do sound pretty blase about this 'challenge' of a daughter - that's because I am. I'm still paying for her friggin' lawyer for her pot bust over two years ago and I'm not getting her any more lawyers. That's it. Finito. It's legal aid for her or I'm placing her with a Moslem family where they lock up their daughters until marriage and then the husband can do with her what he pleases. I've HAD IT!!!! There. I've vented. That felt good. My stress is now gone.

"And by the way" I added, "you made me miss my bus, so could you please drive me to the mall where I could pick it up after it makes its route all over the neighborhood?"

The least they could do is to get me to work on time.

I got on the bus at the Mall, and my married daughter who travels on that same bus each morning with me, was like,

"Oh my God! Your lips!"

"What's wrong with my lips?" I asked.

"You look like you were swimming in Shrek's bath. You're lips are totally green."

"Green"?

I was nervous that the investigators might now think that I ate all my daughter's marijuana - when the culprit was in fact the parsley, celery, carrot, apple drink.

The next day the daughter under investigation goes to the police headquarters and they grill her over whether she's smoking weed or not. She insists she isn't and tells them they could test her if they want to. They don't. Or at least she said they didn't. Time will tell of course if she's lying or not. I'll know within the year if she gets a letter from the court summoning her to yet another trial. But meanwhile, I'll just be drinking my drinks. It take the stress away. And that green is totally legal.

On the Last Day of Passover my true love gave to me...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Jewish men are supposed to buy their wives gifts for this major holiday, preferably jewellery. But my soul-mate hasn't a fucking clue about shopping for his wife - not even after 26 years. His contribution is plain, ol' simple income so that I don't get stressed out because of the cost of inviting dozens of guests for each meal. And this year, Thank the Good Lord, I did not get stressed. I spent 3,000 NIS for the entire holiday, which is about $750, if I did the math right. And he had the money this year, which is as good a gift as I can expect from him. May the $$ continue to come in.

Now my future son-in-law has set up camp inside my home with my daughter for about a month or so until he's out of the army. I asked whether any of his relatives speak English, because if not, Hubby will not be able to communicate when they meet us in two weeks. He said his mother's native language is French and it is very similar to English. I couldn't believe my ears when I heard that. I tried to tell him gently that only the alphabet is the same, but even a four letter word like "shit" bears no resemblance to the French equivalent, "merde". It won't work. There will be a communications barrier between his folks and Hubs.

My married daughter offered to host his brood when they come in two weeks.
Not a chance. You see, this girl's got not one, but TWO LCD's in her salon and bedroom, and her place is fully furnished. They'll think we're comfortable financially. I explained to my daughter that at least if they come to us, they'll see that we don't even have shower doors and we watch a stinking old 21" television, and see that there's a shabby, barely working computer in my son's room. "It'll be better that way." I told her. "This way, maybe they'll feel sorry for us, and won't make demands on us like we have to buy the couple an apartment or furnish it, or something horrible like that."

And tonight is the last night of the holiday, and man am I glad. I'm cooking slowly because my neck is stiff and I'm probably dehydrated, even though I have a bottle of water handy which I drink from during short breaks in the cooking. My newly married daughter and engaged one were very relieved to be invited to my oldest daughter's home for dinner tonight. You see, I invited two very nice couples, our age or a bit older, who live in the neighborhood, for dinner tonight. Together, we're a bunch of nostalgic ex-New Yorkers and the conversation hits everything from the Tappan Zee bridge, to Yankee Stadium, to Shea, to restaurants on the Lower East Side. They're normal people. They really are. But my kids shy away from an evening with my friends as if I've invited the plague into my home.

Life just ain't a Fairy tale

It's usually fraught with disappointments. Aside from yesterday's Obama winning, of course. I'll start with these positive moments. I had attended a PeaceXPeace book launch of "60 Years, 60 Voices" featuring a lovely hardcover coffee table book covering the stories of 30 Palestinian and 30 Israeli women. All my peace activist friends were there. One guy there was telling me how the election of Obama is making the entire country friendlier.

"People are happier, everyone's talking to each other in the streets. In fact, I bet in the Palestinian territories, they're handing out sweets right now instead of burning American flags."

I agreed. That was the day's high point.

We laughed about how you can tell who is a Democrat and who is a Republican by the way they dress.

"I'm quite a Democrat then, aren't I?" I asked him. I was wearing straight green pants and a white Indian shirt with a green woolen shawl. Republicans don't wear Indian clothing and hippie green shawls.

But during the day I was very anxious about Hubby not having worked in nearly two months and not having any contingency back up. I'm delaying food shopping until some cash flows in.

And yesterday my son's teacher called me. He was suspended from school for two days because he called the teacher a "zoobie". I had no idea what that meant, so at lunchtime I asked my Israeli co-workers who nearly spit out their drinks when I said "zoobie." I was totally amused. The brave ones informed me that it meant "dick." "He called the teacher a 'dick'", they said.

Then my daughter was in tears because the place where she wanted to get married didn't allow fireworks (sparklers shooting from the floor) and confetti during the traditional secular Jewish wedding slow dance after the wedding ceremony. She was totally in tears.

They did allow bubbles. I told her I thought bubbles blowing around the newlyweds, while the spotlight is on them would be beautiful.

"BUT MOM!!!" she said, her face getting red and splotchy. "The photographs never look good with bubbles. It looks just gorgeous with confetti. Just gorgeous. Now I'm not so sure I want to get married there. I wanted a fairy tale wedding. I wanted everything to look perfect!"

I put my motherly arm around her and explained to her the facts of life.

"Listen sweetie. Life isn't like that. It just isn't perfect, no matter how much you plan, or want it to be. Like when I met your dad, he had a fabulous job. He was only 23 and was a graphic artist earning a great salary. But a few days after our wedding they laid him off, and it's been hell ever since."

I looked at her sadly.

She looked at me, stunned, unbelieving at me, like some young child who had just heard that there really is no Santa Claus and there is no such thing as a tooth fairy.

Happy Holidays

Happy Rosh Hashana and Eid Mubarak. It's great to have the two holidays together. I'm so not a synagogue-goer. Reading from a prayer book just does not do it for me. I did my duty somewhat by hearing the call of the "shofar" from the synagogue across the street. Even on the 8th floor, the sound carried.

My more joyful moments, as usual, center around food.

We were invited to my daughter's fiancee's family on the first night of the holiday. I was happy to be invited out, avoiding the rush-to-get-things-done on the first night, the way most people are stressed out.

Their family insists that the mother of the groom is of Polish/ashkenazi descent. Looking at her and listening to her, there are no physical nor other traces of this ashkenazi lineage. It just can't be. My daughter and I were wondering if she was in fact a kidnapped Yemenite child from the late 1940s. Her personality is too warm and she served way too much food. Her sister looks like Israeli actress Gila Almagor. I ate a tablespoon of everything being served and still I was stuffed by the end of the meal.

Later that evening we laughed as we took a look at their older brother, a huge hulk of a handsome man, who resembled Christopher Reeve. My son said he was waiting for him to open up his shirt to reveal the big "S" sign.

And because of the amount of guests there, the groom's mother told me she hired her "Filipino" to wash the dishes during and after the meal. I expected to, in fact, see a person from the Philippines. Instead, some friendly short guy from Sri Lanka walked in.

"Is this your Filipino" I asked the groom's mother.

She nodded proudly. She loves her Filipino.

"But he's from Sri Lanka! Sri Lanka is nowhere close to the Philippines." I tried to explain to her.

I don't think she understood.

Getting Ready for Paul

I'm listening to Galaatz radio this afternoon - the music Hubby was listening to on the television (MTV) was getting on my nerves. Every hour the same new thing, the same new thing, the same new thing. I switched stations and they were playing McCartney stuff. Good thing I live on the 8th floor. I was singing loud and dancing all over the kitchen/dining/living room while cooking.

The radio blasted out Oh Darling, I Will, Sgt. Pepper, and I didn't have a care in the world, as I looked out at the fantastic view of the Judean and Jordanian mountains out my window.

Then my son sneered at me,

"That's McCartney?"

"Yes. Shhhh!!!" I hissed at him. I hate being interrupted while I'm singing along with Paul. I love knowing all the words too to his stuff.

He rudely continued, "For THAT you paid almost 1,000 shekels for two tickets?"

Baby You Can Drive My Car was playing in the background.

and this was my answer to him - Beep Beep um Beep Beep YEAH!~

filled with stupid people

That is what the world is filled with.

I don't know who was stupid. Me or the high school. They sent a notice about a parents' teachers evening with the date 17/9/08 on it. That was yesterday, which I had marked on my calendar. I was all set to go. I was happy, for a change, because my son is actually doing well this year. I hurry and do my shopping list, go to the getting-crowded supermarket, shop for the week, arrange for delivery, call a cab to first pick up Hubby who reluctantly decided to move from his couch/bed/tv to come with me and then the taxi rushes to the school and it's dark. The place is fucking dark.

"it doesn't look like there's any parents/teachers evening tonight." says the wise cab driver who is of course gonna charge me a fortune for a round-trip trip.

I plow through my bag full of stuff trying to find the paper that tells the date.

"Here it is" I show the cab driver and Hubby, who is getting totally irritated. "The date is the 17/9/08."

"But it says 'Sunday' says the wise old cab driver.

So should I have ignored the date, and read the entire thing in Hebrew? The numbers were easier for me because anyone can understand numbers. The school put the wrong date on and the right day. How was I to know?

But my son of course was like "How should I know?" when I came home furious that I wasted time, effort and cab fare for this. He kind-of-knew that there was something going on on Sunday but wasn't sure it was for his class.

Then he told me his teacher tried to call us all day.

"But darling, I had my phone with me the entire day. I would have known if she was calling. She didn't call."

"Yes. She tried all day on our house phone."

"WHAT HOUSE PHONE?" said Hubby and I in unison (for a change)

We hadn't had a house phone since June 2007.

"I gave her your cell phone. I told her we don't have a house phone."

Yup, the house phone she was trying to call us on, which is still listed in the phone book. I'm not gonna even bother trying to tell the phone company to unlist that ghost number.

This afternoon my daughter calls me.

"Someone called from Maariv L'noar (a teen magazine) and said they had been sending us a gift subscription for a year and would we be interested in renewing. I told them 'What gift subscription?' We never got any magazine. And then they told me where they sent it to. I told them 'we haven't lived there for 10 years already.'"

I vaguely recall filling out a form - with my correct address - a year ago when my son began his orthodontic treatment. But somehow, these fools managed to dig up my very old address. I once called them to tell them we weren't receiving it and then they said 'ok, ok' and I never heard from them again, and never had the patience to pursue a free gift.

Gift giving

My daughter's boyfriend's parents went to Morocco during the summer and brought back what she said were "tons of leather bags" and necklaces, from which they asked her to pick. She picked a brown beaded and silver necklace and orange bag with a lovely Moroccan-style stitching design. For me. I promptly felt I "had" to wear the necklace the next day at work. It was lovely, even if I have 100 brown stone necklaces. The bag is beautiful, and large enough for me to fit in all my junk. The only problem is that it stinks like camel urine or something similar - some leather smells great, and some stinks horribly. This has a stench. Enough to put me off leather goods for a while. But I put all my stuff in it and took it to work. I met my daughter yesterday and she remarked, "Oh you're wearing it?" which I'm sure made her feel grateful that I don't shun her gifts.

I don't shun any gifts. Gifts are gifts.

Hubby, on the other hand, doesn't think like I do. If he doesn't like a gift, even from a loved one, he will discard it like a two-bit whore.

Same daughter brought us a house plant for inside our home. The wooden strangely-shaped thing it was in, wasn't my style or color, but it was a gift, and I proudly displayed it in the living room. On Friday my daughter's future in-laws were meeting us for the first time. Hubby put the plant in the bathroom, well out of view of guests.

This produced an argument.

"Why is this in the bathroom?" I asked

"Because it's a piece of shit."

That makes sense. Pieces of shit certainly belong in the bathroom, but this "piece" was from my daughter. It didn't.

After some loud words were exchanged, I won (YAY!) and the plant remained in the livingroom but on the other side, on the side of the couch, where it wouldn't show so prominently.


He did the same thing with this hideous brown metal clock my son-in-law got for us before he became our son-in-law. After a few months Hubby took it out of our living room and placed it in the storage room. I argued with him about it, but not as vehemently as I would had he been my own son.

When my daughter's future in-laws arrived at our home Friday night, we felt like royalty as each one beared some sort of gift in their hands - the father held a bottle of champagne, the mother - a dozen long-stemmed roses, the husband-to-be - a giant caramel cake and the brother - a giant basket filled to the brim with assorted high-quality chocolates and wine.

I snickered to Hubby - "Bet you're not taking THAT into the storage room.."

Those @$%&# Israelis

Many immigrants to Israel have said or thought the very same thing. The culture shock.

We were invited to a party Thursday evening by a old school chum of mine. The party was called for 8:00 pm, but we wanted to get there when everything was already in full swing.

I went shopping when I got home from work. The groceries were delivered to me at 8:00, and the delivery guy looked at me sadly.

"We left your refrigerated stuff by mistake; we'll come back in 1/2 hour to bring it to you."

I thought how nice of them to let me know instead of me discovering this myself, after they've already gone. I had bought quite a lot of meat and dairy.

Well, according to simple math, 1/2 hour after 8:00 = 8:30 pm. Am I correct? I gave them "Israeli time" leeway, which is another 1/2 hour. If an Israeli tell you 5 minutes, they mean 10 minutes; if they tell you a job will take 3 weeks to complete, know that it'll be 6 weeks; if they say they'll delivery that fridge to you in 10 days, think 20.

But I'm not happy when people go over their Israeli time limit. So by 9:15 I was antsy. I call up the store.

"Where is my food that YOU left in the store?"

Store manager - "The driver is on his way to you."

"Right, I know that, but when?"

"As soon as possible."

Fine. I hung up. Hubby was getting highly agitated. It is now 9:25 pm.
We were supposed to be at the party an hour late, not 2 hours late. He calls the store:

"Where's our fucking food?"

Manager hangs up on him.

I call back. "Look, if the guy can't come in 5 minutes, we have to leave. Why don't you take it back, and put it back in the fridge and bring it to us in the morning."

"OK, I'll call the driver."


In the elevator, my very frustrated Hubby is swearing left, right and center about "those fucking Israelis," as a woman from the 4th floor gets onto the elevator just as he's saying "fucking Israelis." He smiles at her, and I turn my face to the back of the elevator, highly embarrassed. Wonder what she thinks of him.

9:50 pm the driver calls me.

"We just came to your house. No one is in."

Obviously the manager didn't call the driver.

"Duh! You guys were supposed to take it back and deliver it tomorrow morning."

"We're very sorry, but we're already out of the building. We've left it in front of your door."

"The food will go bad," I tell him. He apologizes.

We are in the middle of a terrible heatwave. I'm furious.

Thankfully, the party was a respite from all the chaos; the hostess had a music party, 3 musicians were playing Beatles tunes and the entire Rubber Soul album front to back - while me, the hostess and another guest sang until it hurt. We three all have tickets to see Sir Paul McCartney the end of the month.

Hostess tells me, "We gotta do this again in September, before the concert. We have to 'practice!'"

"what practice? We need to save our voices for the concert because we'll be singing our lungs out."

The party was still going on at midnight, and I called my daughter, whose car we borrowed to tell her I'd like to stay at the party longer, and could I return the car to her early in the morning. Talk about role reversal.

So my fucking Israeli daughter growls into the telephone...."You get that fucking car to me in 1/2 hour. We're waiting up for you."

Next morning I hear same daughter swearing about these other "fucking Israelis." Seems she is paying $10 a month for something that was advertised on her Visa bill that promises a free gift every month- just pay for delivery and it's yours! What a deal, right? But during the past two months she got a delivery of an Mp3 gift without the Mp3 in the box, and the vegetable cutter was missing several parts. She continues to swear and tells me "I'm starting to sound like dad, aren't I?"

The grocery store accepted our returned refrigerated foodstuffs graciously, I filled up my cart with whatever I returned, while the manager had me bypass the cashier and trusted that I took exactly what I had bought the night before. He even threw in a free newspaper and a package of chocolates. And with that gift of chocolate, he redeemed himself completely.

Empty Nest Syndrome

I spent a wonderful weekend with my second oldest daughter who just got engaged a week ago. She hadn't been home in weeks, only popping in for Friday night dinner with her destined one. Wanting him to do well on his exams without any distraction, she decided to spend the weekend with her long-lost family.

Friday morning her fiancee treated me and my son to an amazing breakfast at Jerusalem's Foccacia restaurant on Rabbi Akiva Street.

"You can't come to this restaurant without ordering focaccia," my daughter warned me, and I thought the focaccia would be another thick piece of bread with a little bit of seasoning here and there, as it is in most restaurants here. I was happily surprised when I saw what the waitress brought to us - the softest, thinnest, biggest foccacia I had ever seen and tasted, drizzled with olive oil and seasoned with fresh garlic cloves and sage leaves. Well worth the extra 9 NIS ($2.50) on the bill.


Foccacia at Foccacia Restaurant

Saturday was peaceful and I happily helped my daughter go through the maze at the US consulate's website so she can apply for a US passport. I thought I'd get AdSense put on this blog and it took me hours to figure out how - and I went around in cyber circles with this thing.

That evening, my daughter went back to her guy and I suddenly felt so sad, so miserable. I'm so happy for her getting a real nice guy who treats her like a queen. But I miss those fun girlie evenings we have over the past few years. I fondly remembered before my oldest daughter got married how we'd watch scary movies on Friday night after dinner. We'd squeeze all together on the couch with popcorn and blankets during the winter months,and laugh and scream simultaneously at the scary and gory parts. And now my house is getting empty.

I wiped away a couple of tears and headed for my special treat that I bought for myself this weekend - blueberries (which I only buy once a year because they are extremely expensive for the tiny box).


Expensive Israeli blueberries

I consoled myself with a nash from my own childhood - blueberries and sour cream - only this time I added ricotta cheese to the treat.

The next morning at my office I just burst into tears as I told my co-workers that I was having an Empty Nest Syndrome Attack.

My friend tells me, "Of course you feel terrible. Because you know that after they're gone, you're just left with HIM," which made me cry even more.

Then the sex-or-no-sex-with-our-husbands conversation began and I told them I had spent the entire afternoon trying to put Google ads on my blog.

"So you'd rather Google than Schmoogle," said one of my friends.

Yeah.

how do they know???

My daughter, who has too much time on her hands, has decided we are good fodder for Israeli TV. She called me up and tried expaining to me that one of the producers for Israeli reality shows called her and wanted to interview us for the "wife swap" or "mother swap" program - whatever it's called. When I told my other kids, they were hysterical.

"Those ratings will go sky high with this dysfunctional family."

"Yeah, we don't even have to act."

I was thinking that perhaps someone told somebody I was making disgusting healthy food like brown rice and tempeh and tofu, and they probably thought, "Hey! Let's put her with some Moroccan family who are used to eating heavy meat meals each and every day with 15 courses for each meal and see what it'll be like for that family to eat wholesome yucky food - one course per meal."

I imagine they'd also want me to do homework with their bratty kids. Right. I can help with English homework but that's about it.

And cleaning? That's another horror story that will cause whichever family I would be swapped to - to cry out in grief (and appreciate their own mother).

Like when I notice Hubby staring out the window at the neighbor across from us. She's always cleaning and it makes him sick. I don't know why, but he's always complaining that she's always cleaning and yelling at the kids. He loves a neat house. So why complain? Is it because he's jealous because I barely clean and he has to do all the cruddy work? I honestly don't know.

Meanwhile, I haven't given my daughter an answer whether we are gonna do this show or not.

But it sure is giving me the laughs just thinking about it.

Coming of Age

It can be scary, this coming of age thing. In my case, it's a coming of old age. I'll give you an example. I woke up this morning at 6:10 a.m. I sat on the toilet and realized just in time that I still had my underwear on. Horrifying. Then if that wasn't all, I took a shower, forgetting that the window to the bathroom was WIDE OPEN. There I was in all my naked glory, showering in front of everyone in the new neighborhood of my town. Just what will my neighbors think? Everyone is new here and getting to know one another and now they get to see their relatively new/old neighborh showering naked - had they looked out their window early this morning.

So now that I got this off my chest, let's go to another coming of age happening in my family.

I sat a couple of weeks ago with my friend from Texas who shared with me her trials and tribulations of living with a 16 year old male teen.

She remarked to me, "I know he jacks off all the time, 'cos he's always taking showers. Even a few times a day!" She seemed so happy that she has a normal son.

On the way home that day, I started to worry. My 16 year old son hardly showers. Maybe once or twice a week, but he's not a daily showerer. I began to wonder where his teenage sexual tension is going, or if he has any at all. He doesn't have a girlfriend, so what the fuck is going on?

Over the weekend I hear Hubby berating my son.

"Every day you change your bed sheets!!! Is this normal?? I can't stand doing these sheets every day in the laundry!!!!"

I walked over to Hubby...

"Shhh. If he 'needs' to change his sheets every day, then let him be. Please!" I pleaded with him. I continued, "It must be his age."

And Hubby stopped his rant, and I was able to sigh - a sigh of relief.

What a day...

Right now it is quiet. There is no one at home, and I am sitting by the computer grateful to God for giving me a chance to catch my breathe from a crazy week. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were particularly awful days. My son was suspended from school on Wednesday for not listening to his teachers, playing on his cellphone and not giving it to them when they asked for it, not wearing his uniform (sweatshirt with the school name on it) and generally acting as he does in my home. He can't come to school until I go with him one morning for the same ol' same ol' with his teacher. Trouble is, I have to be at work at 7:30 am most of the week this week and can't make it to his school except for Monday morning.

The whole trouble began because my son wanted me to order this expensive cable tv station which showed live games from his favorite soccer team - Betar of Jerusalem. Being that this month was a tough crunch financially, my cable tv payment bounced and I tried to explain this logically to this nearly-16-year-old. But he doesn't do logic. I should have known. Besides, everyone knows that Betar fans are a bunch of football hooligans. And he is certainly one of them right now. He warned me he was gonna create havoc in his school and that he did. In turn, he ain't gonna see any Betar on TV, not live anyways, until the end of the school season, IF he turns it around for himself.

So since things go in spirals and angry thoughts beget angry thoughts and angry thoughts turn your life upside down, this is how it was for me for the end of the week.

Hubby in Toronto is telling me everything is groovy in the Great White North, but his brother is writing me heartbreaking tales and I sense quite a bit of jealousy and feeling threatened over their mom's attention and love. Like Jacob and Esau. I tried to calm "Esau" down (even though in this story, he is the youngest, but he always was the mom's "pride and joy"), telling them all to go to family therapy. I chuckled to myself thinking what would have happened to all those Bible stories had Esau and Jacob and Sarah, Hagar and Abraham, and countless other biblical characters gone to family therapy.

Back in Israel, I took a different bus back home Wednesday evening. Going a different route, the bus went through the ultra-orthodox neighborhoods where billboards are plastered with all sorts of notices - to avoid this transgression, to avoid that transgression, a rabbi's talk, a 'kosher' advertisement, and death notices. And I see the name of my sister's husband's mother on one of the death notices. No one in my family calls me about it, of course. At nearly 52 years old, I'm the baby in the family and perhaps no one wanted to upset the baby. But I called my sister the next day, told her how I found out and blamed her "over-65-year-old" status for her forgetfulness. And I forgave her and went to pay a shiva (condolence) call at the family's Jerusalem home on Thursday.

Afterwards I thought I'd get some shopping done. I pile my cart high with food for the week, go through checkout, try to write a post-dated check, as Hubby is late in sending me some $$ and the check doesn't go through. My credit cards are not equipped with enough credit to handle $125 worth of groceries and I leave the Russian cashier to deal with cancelling my order and unravelling the groceries. She is not happy.

I'm waiting at the bus stop and some idiot is trying to small-talk me (they appear out of nowhere when you're in the rottenest of moods, don't they?). My daughter calls to tell me her hubby is in the mall. I tell her what happened, and she comes to the rescue with their charge card. I, in turn, go back to the supermarket and rescue my groceries which are still sitting prettily in the cart. No one touched them.

A bit ashamed at having my daughter having to pay for my goods, I go home and continue to ignore my son, who is walking around me in circles, venting about how none of this would have happened had I gotten him the cable tv station he wanted. I pretend that there is this giant, hairy orangutan in my house and I'm just gonna pretend he's not there.

Friday, my unemployed daughter loans me 100 NIS ($25) for more food for Shabbat. Everyone and their boyfriends/husband will be by me for Friday night dinner - which is alot of people - and I'm pressed for time.

I really wanted to go on the "silent walk" in Jerusalem on Friday, put on by the Middle Way who were hosting Jack Kornfield, a famous American Buddhist, and for which I tried to get permits for a few of my Palestinian friends to be able to go on this walk. But I got out of bed at 9:00 am and my head was heavy. I didn't leave the house until the "heaviness" subsided around 11:00 am. I did my shopping, and should have known it was gonna continue to be a bad day when the local bookstore ran out of the Herald Tribute at 11:15 am.

I go into the health food store with my packages, check out the organic foodstuffs which I'm not buying this week and noticed that my bags are gone. But some other woman who went to the same stores as I did left her stuff in the store. I peeked into her bags and decided my stuff is far more interesting. But I worried, because this stuff was bought on borrowed money and credit card payments (which went through because of the smaller amount of money this time). Not only did I worry, but I burst into loud tears in the store and the young girl at the cashier set about calling the store owners trying to find out the identity of the woman who walked out with my bags. The neighboring store owner came in to get a bill changed, and saw me sobbing. He looked at me. "Why are you crying?" I told him, but he still was totally uncomfortable with seeing me in this state. I just had thoughts of the woman throwing her stuff (really my stuff) into her car and driving three hours to the North of the country and I'd be stuck without my things... Finally, thank God for credit cards sometimes, the cashier called the number on the slip and got the hubby who told her that his wife had gone to Jerusalem but would deliver the food to my home.

I walked out of the health food store and called my daughter.

"I can't talk now I'm in Terem" which is the emergency medical clinic where we live, about a 5 minute walk (at fast pace) from the health food store. I hurry there and my grandson is on an inhaler, and my daughter is crying.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Nothing" she said. But she calmed down enough to tell me that the baby had a very bad cough and the doctor here said if he's not on an inhaler, he could come down with pneumonia. And that scared the shit out of her.

The baby was squirming and crying with that thing on his face and stopped for a moment to smile at grandma.

I looked at her and told her to get him off the dairy formula and put him on soy formula.

"That will relieve his congestion." I felt like a wise owl grandma giving sound advice.

Yes folks. I'm back in control.

I get home, open the door for the upset lady who took my bags, and began cooking. The house is upside down, but I don't care - at least not until 5:30 pm, when I enlisted some of my kids to help me before dinner. And it all came together.

Hubby skyped me at 10:15 pm. I had fallen asleep on the couch but woke up to hear him talking to my son. I walk into the room and tell him of my awful week. By the time I got to the tale of the woman who took my bags, he's like..

"Why the fuck are you telling me all this??"

And I say to him - "You know what? If you're not going to be sympathetic, I'm gonna say goodbye now." And with that, I walked out of the room, knowing he can't follow me around the house because he's in Canada.

And maybe, just maybe, my son will become a fan of some calmer sport - like baseball.

Men

My son called me frantically yesterday morning from school.

"MOM! I'm sick!!! Please hurry and pick me up from school NOW!"

Of course, just then, some real estate people rang the doorbell and wanted me to show them the house we are renting. Fortunately, these people had seen the house on their own already and were haggling with the agent about it. I excused myself meanwhile and then a second call came in.

"MOMMMM! Are you coming? PLEASE HURRY, I'M SICK."

"What's wrong"

"I don't know"

This is such a guy thing, lemme tell you. I'd have these exact conversations with Hubby. He'd tell me over the phone he's sick and not know what's wrong. I mean what the fuck? Is it your throat? Your head? Fever? Legs? Arms? Brains? Teeth?

They don't know.

I got to the school gate and my son was clearly very uncomfortable. He seemed to have something stuck in his throat which he was trying to cough out. I took him to the emergency clinic. The doctor thought it was some kind of allergic reaction after taking a chest x-ray and seeing nothing. He was on sn inhaler for 10 minutes. I took him home afterwards and then went to the pharmacy to get him inhalers. He calls me after I've already bought them.

"Don't buy me medicine. I'm ok now - hear?"

"Yeah, alright. Are you sure?" And I go back to the pharmacist who gives me a credit on my purchase.

Later on my daughter found a bee sitting on the kitchen floor.

"There's a bee here, Mom! Can you get rid of it?"

"No honey, that's what men are for. HONEY!!!" I screamed at Hubby who was glued to the couch. "Please get up and do that Manly thing of yours and get rid of this bug - please!"

He gave me a look that Al Bundy of Married with Children gives his wife when she asks for sex - and forced himself off the couch. To do that manly thing.

A girlfriend for my son

For the past couple of months my son has been telling me he has a girlfriend. He is turning 15 next month and girls had never really been on his mind. Just computers and icq and soccer. But his teen mind is expanding and although I never met the girl formally (he never brought her home), he shows me messages they write each other, which I think is sweet.

But then he tells me she isn't that good-looking and there are prettier girls than this one.

"So why are you going out with her?"

"She ran after me. She's the one who wants to go out with me."

Oh, I see.

"What do you talk about when you go out?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

I guess talking isn't what he's into. They probably just walk alongside each other with nothing to say. I can see it. Two computer geeks have found each other.

He pointed her out to me in the supermarket last Friday.

"Right, she's not pretty?" he asked me.

I thought she was really pretty. Long dark hair, nice features but they didn't speak to each other, just a shy "hi" when they passed each other. Perhaps it was she was with her Argentinian father. Perhaps she's not ready to meet the folks of his yet either.

Later that evening, we teased him for being shy with her in the supermarket and the fact that they don't have these verbal conversations.

But I see him "chatting" away until the wee hours of the morning on ICQ. With her. She types and he types. And if they ever get married, they'll send each other typed messages and SMS's when they want to tell each other something - like pick up the kids this afternoon or buy some milk and bread when you come back from work.

But it looks like they won't be speaking much to each other soon.

Not those two computer geeks.