Gruuuuuuu-el!!!!!

Some days I can’t decide whether I live in the orphanage from Oliver Twist or whether I live in a tool shed. Other days, I know I live in the tool shed in the orphanage from Oliver Twist. Today was one of those days.

I left work 30 minutes early. I just decided I was done. Cold Bitch saw me just walk right on out and right on home. I’m so sick of folding shit. After this stint in folding, the only thing I will allow myself to fold is the clothing of any children I might have in the future. And they’re gonna learn how to fold their own fucking clothing at the age of three, because there’s only so much more of this shit I can take.

Cold Bitch still doesn’t know my name. First of all, only FOUR new people have worked in the laundry room since I got here, and two have since left. So it’s not like there’s that many new faces to remember. Second of all, I’ve been here for over a month. Jesus Christ, she’s like Mr. Burns!

This week I have to go do something with airport security. They’re doing some kind of drill and apparently the ulpan director read the security people a list of the ulpan participants’ names, and my name and the Indian guy’s name got picked out as the two least Jewish-sounding and therefore more useful for whatever kind of drill they’re doing. So that’ll be fun. Whatever they have me do, it’ll be better than folding towels.

Today I was in the laundry room alone, jamming to that song “Hine Ani Ba.” It’s kind of the main song in the trailer for the new Adam Sandler movie (which, by the way, is not coming out in this fucking country. How????) Anyway, I’m having a fucking ‘chaval al hazman,’ if you want to phrase it like how the Women of the Wash phrase it, when suddenly Naomi Bitch enters and decides that I’m too happy. With absolute horror in my eyes, I see her hand go to touch the radio dial and I hear:

“Hine ani---CE-LE-BRATE GOOD TIMES, COME ON!!!!”

Yes, Kool and The Gang. “Celebration.” Or whatever it’s called.

And Naomi Bitch decides that “deafening” isn’t loud enough. Oh no. We had to make sure that even the Syrians knew that we were listening to “CEEEEEE-LE-BRATE GOOD TIMES, COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So instead of jamming to something cool in Hebrew, it’s suddenly like the fucking 70’s in the laundry room. Apparently Naomi Bitch decided that we had to up the Bar Mitzvah Factor in the laundry room. Maybe I should be more forgiving. Maybe it’s a law in Israel that at all times all locations must have a Bar Mitzvah Factor of at least 2.5 (measured in unites of inflatable clown shoes). If it falls below 2.5, you are required by law to put on Bar Mitzvah music or flag down a passing uncomfortable and confused Christian teenage friend of yours to join in an awkward conga line. If this hypothesis of mine is true, that would explain why the radio we listen to here plays stuff that was popular when I was in middle school. Hell, I sit alone all day at my folding table, I guess you could say I’m the wallflower at the middle school dance.
But why have such a law? Maybe Israel’s invisible and non-existent defense shield that has protected the state for the past 60 years is powered by the Essence of Bar Mitzvah. If there aren’t enough men in yarmulkes in a single location or if there isn’t enough musical awkwardness polluting the air in one room, maybe Israel’s defenses will fail and The Barbarians will invade. So I guess I should be thanking Naomi Bitch.

Maybe if the Bar Mitzvah Factor gets really low, the Ministry of Defense will order us to take a break from folding to do “The Limbo.”

Or something.

(By the way, I called my parents last night. I told them I have my first citizenship meeting on Thursday. I tried to ease into the whole army requirement thing, so I said, “So. I think I might CHOOSE to do the army after I get citizenship.” And they flipped the fuck out, and they also insisted that I don’t even commit to citizenship yet—and they say this even with the belief that I won’t be required to do the army once I get citizenship. Sooooo, it’s gonna be really interesting when the truth finally comes out.

But hey—I said it earlier, and maybe this is horrible of me to repeat it considering that these are my parents, but anyway: I have the freedom of being 8,000 miles away! I’m gonna do what I want!)