no shvong

I haven't posted in more than a little while because I'm a big fat white blob on the couch, one with crumbs at the corner of my mouth and crusty milk stains on my chin, one who feels that watching the biggest loser will somehow rub off on me and let me lose 75 pounds in 12 weeks even without Bob or Jillian shouting obseneties in my face, or even without ever setting foot on a treadmill. Ya. I'll let you know how that one goes.

For a while I was able to get my friend come over for some big love. She is the only other person in the world who gets as excited as I do about mormons, polygamists, prairie dresses and the fbi in one short sweaty breathless sentance. She would block off an hour in her outlook calendar and come over to the den of unemployment to see how Bill and Barb and Nikki and Margene where doing. But life has been getting in the way a little too often lately, and my friend has had to not come over for reasons her end, my end, or just because she went to wisconsin on holiday. Silly little things like that.

And so I miss the mormons and was therefore REALLY HAPPY when Oprah went down to theYearning for Zion ranch in Texas. The sharper pencils in the box will happen to know that Oprah did that oh, in about february...but when you live the otherside of the world, you find fedex takes its time delivering Oprah reels to second world countries.

Most people on the YFZ ranch hadn't even heard of Oprah. She was just some random black lady come by to ask funny questions like have you ever heard of somebody called Cinderella and Shrek and Shrek too. And people, as I lay on the couch and revelled in the world of totally brainwashed teenage girls, I at last felt complete. Until the credits rolled.

So what's next? I'm googling mormon underwear and hopefully I'll get my kicks in new temple undergarments.

rondayvoo at the beehive house

You know what it's like when you watch too much porn? And all of a sudden the world is a wierd, clothed place? And when you go to the bank or the hospital, nobody starts stripping off? Which is probably just as well because none of em are buff at all. But all the same it's wierd because you entered a parallel universe for a while where every secretary does her boss (male or female) and where everyone sunbathes nude in the backyard of their villa?

Well, that's what its like when my friend Pats and I watch Big Love. Pats becomes my sisterwife. Pats and I work hard to do what we can to ensure that our family will please our heavenly father and guarantee our family has a large area to picnic in the celestial afterlife. Pats and I are on top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation that we find is the love that we've found ever since HBO started making a primetime series about polygamy. We expect the rest of the world to behave in the same terms. And it's wierd because there is no prairie dress fashion to speak of in Israel.

Last night I watched The Source do a piece about Daniel Ambash. I guess polygamy isn't so far away afterall.

some people stand in the darkness, afraid to step into the light

After 70 days of unemployment, today I made it to the beach for only the second time. Honestly, people, I don't know what the hell I have been doing. I should have been there all this time. Because the beach is sublime. Our corner of the med has crystal clear waters, long sandy beaches, tiny little crabs, and Little Egrets. Little Egrets are cool because they have yellow feet which I absolutely love. You can just imagine how that darwin conversation went... "Bill! I dig your shoes man, where'd you get them from?" And the rest is a whole different species.

There's one thing about our beaches that you might not find in any other beach in the world. And that's a long segregated section that's for women onlyonly on sundays, tuesdays and thursdays, and for men on mondays, wednesdays and fridays. (Nobody gets saturday because the beach is "not in the spirit of shabbat".) The segregated section is literally separated from the rest of the beach by aluminium sheets from the cliffs to about 10 meters into the sea SO THAT NO-ONE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX CAN SEE YOU.

Now, today's thursday, so I was able to complete my walk to the next town up the beach and back by walking through the segregated section. And here's what I noticed...apart from the fact that there is a male security guard at either end of the beach, and that Israel doesn't actually have the budget to employ Pamela Anderson, Yasmine Bleeth, or Erica Eleniak (i.e. all the lifeguards are also male)...well, the women bathing there are covered from head to toe. Swimming caps, huge long smocks, and people, I kid you not...TIGHTS! This hardly screams 'day at the beach' to me. And seriously, if any man wanted to get off looking at women, he wouldn't go anywhere NEAR the segregated swimming, he would go to the public section of the beach where the israeli women wear so little, I'm pretty sure they don't even have areas where the sun don't shine.

So, people, I got a good tan off of the glare of someone else's ass, and plan on going back again next week. Don't tell my husband but...I don't ever want to work again.

scooby snacks

You know that in some countries there are commonly known gestures you use when driving? Like in England, flashing your headlights to let someone go ahead of you, or in Israel, flashing your headlights to let someone know they're driving too slow? So tell me, what's the signal for "bloody bursting for the toilet so move out of the fucking way and let me pass"?

Ever had that happen to you? You're driving but you don't seem to actually be getting anywhere because in terms of your bladder, you're nowhere.



Your whole ride home is like an assault course or an arcade game...avoid the bus pulling out, avoid the learner driver, avoid the stopped taxi, the old guy in the saloon who's driving at 20 in a 60... You are so damned desperate for the loo that you're actually starting to believe that if you hit another red light, you're going to go right there in the driving seat.

Eventually you get to the home stretch, past the last lights, two turnings from home, when....you get behind another old guy. He's not going slow by normal standards, but by this time your bladder cockpit warning system is screaming DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! You can't turn left at the T-junction because some dumbass not-concentrating soccer-mom in her 4x4 is speaking on her cellphone and coming. And then there's the gate. You have to phone to open the gate. Call not going through, call not going through. GAAAAH! Finally!

Get in the house, up the stairs, pants down, bum on the bowl...OH NO! FORGOT TO CLOSE THE FRONT DOOR!

cured

your kid annoys me

What I am about to tell you is something that most people won't ever dare utter. That's because they are way too polite. Not me though, for I am applauded in certain (small) circles for my general intolerance of the human race.

So, people, let me tell you openly and honestly that some of my friend's kids and kid's friends just ANNOY THE BEJAYSUS OUT OF ME.

Offensive behaviour, part #1:
When I pick YOUR DAMNED KID up to bring her home to our house to play with my kids, YOUR DAMNED KID dawdles. YOUR DAMNED KID insists on walking along the wall and refuses to have their hand held even though they might fall, while my kids almost run into the street because they are not dawdling. When I tell YOUR DAMNED KID to get down off the wall and hurry the hell up, YOUR DAMNED KID throws itself on the pavement in a huff. My precious kids get run over.

Back at the house, YOUR DAMNED KID blocks my kids' path and won't let them pass. YOUR DAMNED KID says something mean and my makes my kids cry. No, my kids are not wusses. YOUR DAMNED KID was being mean. YOUR DAMNED KID snatches toys from my kids. YOUR DAMNED KID hits my kids. YOUR DAMNED KID rips the bow off Hello Kitty's head. YOUR DAMNED KID won't sit where she's told as she can annoy my kid far better if she takes her place instead. YOUR DAMNED KID wants to wear every single item in the dressing up box. One. After. Another.

Offensive behaviour, part #2:
When I pick up YOUR DAMNED KID to take her to the swimming pool, YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't listen to a word I say. YOUR DAMNED KID won't wear a swimming cap in the pool. YOUR DAMNED KID want's my kid's goggles and my kid's rubber ring. YOUR DAMNED KID tells me I have a fat stomach and ass. I don't care if your fucking kid is 4.

YOUR DAMNED KID is whining because she doesn't want the popcorn or the grisini or the strawberries or the grapes I brought from home. YOUR DAMNED KID wants me to buy her an ice cream. YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't want the "guest towel". YOUR DAMNED KID want's my kid's towel. YOUR DAMNED KID has taken my kid's towel! YOUR DAMNED KID is hitting my kid because he's trying to get his towel back.

YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't wait for me before running off back to the swimming pool. YOUR DAMNED KID refuses to get out when it's time to go. YOUR DAMNED KID then disappears because she decided she would get out after all, and go in the oppostie direction to where we were sitting.

YOUR DAMNED KID wants to climb on the gate to get out. YOUR DAMNED KID doesn't want to get off the gate. YOUR DAMNED KID runs through the car park. YOUR DAMNED KID wants to sit in the seat in the car WHERE MY KID IS ALREADY SITTING. YOUR DAMNED KID is shouting in the lifts. YOUR DAMNED KID wants to take my kid's tin of chocolates home with her. YOUR DAMNED KID is throwing a tantrum because you've arrived and have to go.

Epilogue:
How did it go today, was she good?
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summer time...and the living is easy

For a long time I was one of those people who moves somewhere and always dreams about going back to the motherland. I had my leaving speech for work all planned out. "I've always dreamed about going home...and now I am..." Then, about 3 years ago, we had the opportunity to move back. The husband was unusually gung ho about throwing our eggs into a basket and moving to England. The Emergency Exit was open. I could realise my dreams.

After some soul searching, I realised we were better off here. I reaslised. Not the husband. Me. Oh dear He-who-is-holy. The husband's assertations that he had actually improved my life, brought me into the fold of GOD'S CHOSEN PEOPLE, and had given me the coveted house-near-the-beach was all BLOODYMOTHERFUCKING true. (Pants.)

Which is why today, I get to drive 10 minutes down the road, park my car in the insider-knowledge car park, cross a bridge, and hey presto I am in Tel Aviv port.

Tel Aviv port is a really cool part of the city. Relatively new, and still developing, it went from being a dive of disused hangers and a couple of nightclubs, to a huge complex of restuarants, bars, hangers for events and weddings, shops, boutiques, ice cream joints, and most lovely of all, a huuuuge deck that they made emulate the rise and fall of the waves, and in the middle of which there is a huge sandpit. The deck is of course on the sea and if you stand at the right parts in the right weather, you can get showered in sea spray. Rocks.

This is the quality of life that you only get on holiday. Or if you live in LA. A carefree day spent between ice creams (and what ice creams! the best! apricot ameretto, halva-pistacio and melon-pineapple served over hot chocolate cake...) and the beach (yes, they have a couple of lil-beaches dotted about too). And as I look out on the twins jumping and frolicking in the surf with their friends, the water twinkling in the sunllight, no clouds spoiling any of it, I know that life is good. This is what we're here for. This is why we live in Israel with the bombs and the wars and the neighbours who don't like us so much. Its because we have a good life. The place gives you a hug, and you feel good. So good. Hell, I didn't even remember I was fired.