In an alternate reality right now I'd be putting on green.
In this reality I'm up late studying for finals and packing up to go home for Thanksgiving.
For the record...I finally believe that I picked the right reality.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Vote Hank Oreos for Congress
This past weekend I saw an emo-hipster Republican youth. I have to tell you, I didn't even know such a thing existed. I had volunteered to go canvassing for a Republican candidate in the suburbs and when the coordinator told me we were waiting on a volunteer from a local high school I imagined Hank the Republican from my high school.
Okay, that wasn't his real name. But we'll call him Hank, since I call everything Hank. Hank was my high school's token Republican. No, he wasn't the ONLY Republican in school, but he was definitely the only guy wearing a suit to school every day, complete with a symbolically red tie. This was, of course, Southern California, what I consider the most casual place in America, where people would sunbathe on top of their cars during breaks and lunch, where people couldn't be bothered to change out of last night's pajamas and instead just threw on some flipflops. And here Hank was, immaculately dressed in a fine suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together, accessorized by an American flag lapel pin and quite possibly the most perfect set of teeth I'd ever seen (until I came to college and met a guy who consumes flouride like a normal college kid would consume alcohol, and whose teeth actually turn pitch black in photo negatives). I guess the best word to describe Hank would be "groomed." The guy had made it clear from an early age that he intended to be president, and from what I can tell he'd been shaking hands like a pro since the age of eight. I'm guessing that if any of us at high school had had babies he would have been right there, kissing them. Ultimately what I remember about Hank was his sense of humor. During classes, no matter what the subject, he'd make witty remarks and clever jokes about Democrats. It didn't matter if we were studying history or trigonometry, he'd find a way to make a political joke. A friend and I took to calling him "Marmaduke," like the cartoon dog, because just as the cartoon's jokes were always about "Oh, Marmaduke, haha, you're such a DOG!" so too were Hank's jokes about "Oh Hank, haha, you're such a REPUBLICAN!"
Anyway, that was my idea of a high school Republican. But when this other kid we were to go canvassing with finally showed up....I almost burst out laughing. He was the skinniest thing I've ever seen, wearing tight, dark jeans. He had like rubber band-ish jewelry around his tiny wrists, and he was wearing a tight, dark t-shirt that said something about saving Darfur. His hair was pitch black, and it sorta swooped across his face, all emo-like. Oh man...
So anyway, we went door-to-door, handing out fliers and talking to people. Most people just didn't answer the door, either because they weren't there or because they saw we were holding fliers. Frankly, I wouldn't have opened the door to me either. Occasionally people would answer the door. I really liked it when we would start talking and the person who opened the door clearly had no idea what we were talking about. I enjoyed their half-embarrassed, half-confused expressions. I gotta admit, I only volunteered to do this because my life was pretty dull and I was hoping having some awkward encounters with neighbors would liven things up. Soon after I started I started feeling really bad for the people we were approaching. I felt kind of like this:
Ding dong!
"Hi, I'm ringing your doorbell and annoying the shit out of you on a Saturday afternoon on behalf of Hank Oreos. You are probably confused out of your mind since you most likely were not even aware that a primary was coming up. Can I hand you a flier while you stare blankly at me and wonder what the hell I'm talking about? Theeeeeeenks. Now I'm gonna talk for five minutes about irrelevant crap and political jargon that you don't really understand....but that's okay, because I don't really understand it either. Anyway, Hank Oreos is a strong Republican candidate, and I'm gonna tell you to vote for him in the primary, but you're probably not going to remember his name anyway, and let's face it, they're ALL Republicans in the primary, so you probably don't even give a shit. Oh, how cute, your dog has come up to say hello! And now it's barking incessantly, giving me the perfect opportunity to get the fuck out of your face, and for you to close the door, maybe give the flier another cursory glance, and then throw it away. Thanks so much for your time, have a wonderful day!"
Later on in the day an older gentleman opened the door. We started talking, and then he said very calmly, "Can you wait right here? I'll be right back..." If we were back in LA I would have screamed to my partner, "RUN! HE'S PROBABLY GETTING HIS GUN!!!!" but my partner didn't look the slightest bit concerned, so I kept my mouth shut. He came back and went off on a rant that started with, "Do you know what I just saw on the news?" and after a long rant about taxes, healthcare, homosexuals, Barney Frank impressions (he did a GREAT Barney Frank impression), the cost of a college education, unemployment, and war, ended with a warning that America is going to soon erupt into another civil war. At one point he asked me what I wanted to be. I said, "A teacher." And he said, "Good. So you can't ever get fired." I wanted to shoot back that that's not a proper reason for being a teacher, but my partner interrupted me at that moment.
During his long rant I was sort of nodding my head along to what he was saying (but only during the rare moments where I agreed with him), and at one point he snapped at my partner, "I don't get it, why is she nodding her head?!" And I was suddenly horribly embarrassed and stated the obvious, "Um....because I agree with you?"
In any case, everyone we encountered, minus this older gentleman, were amazingly NORMAL. You know, families and whatnot who are just chilling at home on a Saturday, with dogs and kids and whatever. And that was pretty cool to see.
Okay, that wasn't his real name. But we'll call him Hank, since I call everything Hank. Hank was my high school's token Republican. No, he wasn't the ONLY Republican in school, but he was definitely the only guy wearing a suit to school every day, complete with a symbolically red tie. This was, of course, Southern California, what I consider the most casual place in America, where people would sunbathe on top of their cars during breaks and lunch, where people couldn't be bothered to change out of last night's pajamas and instead just threw on some flipflops. And here Hank was, immaculately dressed in a fine suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together, accessorized by an American flag lapel pin and quite possibly the most perfect set of teeth I'd ever seen (until I came to college and met a guy who consumes flouride like a normal college kid would consume alcohol, and whose teeth actually turn pitch black in photo negatives). I guess the best word to describe Hank would be "groomed." The guy had made it clear from an early age that he intended to be president, and from what I can tell he'd been shaking hands like a pro since the age of eight. I'm guessing that if any of us at high school had had babies he would have been right there, kissing them. Ultimately what I remember about Hank was his sense of humor. During classes, no matter what the subject, he'd make witty remarks and clever jokes about Democrats. It didn't matter if we were studying history or trigonometry, he'd find a way to make a political joke. A friend and I took to calling him "Marmaduke," like the cartoon dog, because just as the cartoon's jokes were always about "Oh, Marmaduke, haha, you're such a DOG!" so too were Hank's jokes about "Oh Hank, haha, you're such a REPUBLICAN!"
Anyway, that was my idea of a high school Republican. But when this other kid we were to go canvassing with finally showed up....I almost burst out laughing. He was the skinniest thing I've ever seen, wearing tight, dark jeans. He had like rubber band-ish jewelry around his tiny wrists, and he was wearing a tight, dark t-shirt that said something about saving Darfur. His hair was pitch black, and it sorta swooped across his face, all emo-like. Oh man...
So anyway, we went door-to-door, handing out fliers and talking to people. Most people just didn't answer the door, either because they weren't there or because they saw we were holding fliers. Frankly, I wouldn't have opened the door to me either. Occasionally people would answer the door. I really liked it when we would start talking and the person who opened the door clearly had no idea what we were talking about. I enjoyed their half-embarrassed, half-confused expressions. I gotta admit, I only volunteered to do this because my life was pretty dull and I was hoping having some awkward encounters with neighbors would liven things up. Soon after I started I started feeling really bad for the people we were approaching. I felt kind of like this:
Ding dong!
"Hi, I'm ringing your doorbell and annoying the shit out of you on a Saturday afternoon on behalf of Hank Oreos. You are probably confused out of your mind since you most likely were not even aware that a primary was coming up. Can I hand you a flier while you stare blankly at me and wonder what the hell I'm talking about? Theeeeeeenks. Now I'm gonna talk for five minutes about irrelevant crap and political jargon that you don't really understand....but that's okay, because I don't really understand it either. Anyway, Hank Oreos is a strong Republican candidate, and I'm gonna tell you to vote for him in the primary, but you're probably not going to remember his name anyway, and let's face it, they're ALL Republicans in the primary, so you probably don't even give a shit. Oh, how cute, your dog has come up to say hello! And now it's barking incessantly, giving me the perfect opportunity to get the fuck out of your face, and for you to close the door, maybe give the flier another cursory glance, and then throw it away. Thanks so much for your time, have a wonderful day!"
Later on in the day an older gentleman opened the door. We started talking, and then he said very calmly, "Can you wait right here? I'll be right back..." If we were back in LA I would have screamed to my partner, "RUN! HE'S PROBABLY GETTING HIS GUN!!!!" but my partner didn't look the slightest bit concerned, so I kept my mouth shut. He came back and went off on a rant that started with, "Do you know what I just saw on the news?" and after a long rant about taxes, healthcare, homosexuals, Barney Frank impressions (he did a GREAT Barney Frank impression), the cost of a college education, unemployment, and war, ended with a warning that America is going to soon erupt into another civil war. At one point he asked me what I wanted to be. I said, "A teacher." And he said, "Good. So you can't ever get fired." I wanted to shoot back that that's not a proper reason for being a teacher, but my partner interrupted me at that moment.
During his long rant I was sort of nodding my head along to what he was saying (but only during the rare moments where I agreed with him), and at one point he snapped at my partner, "I don't get it, why is she nodding her head?!" And I was suddenly horribly embarrassed and stated the obvious, "Um....because I agree with you?"
In any case, everyone we encountered, minus this older gentleman, were amazingly NORMAL. You know, families and whatnot who are just chilling at home on a Saturday, with dogs and kids and whatever. And that was pretty cool to see.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
This side of that conversation.
Today I walked over to Sbarro to order me some spaghetti. I noticed a girl was sort of hovering around the area...you know, where she's not really in line, but she's clearly thinking about eating there and she's sort of weighing her options. You could tell she was concerned or confused about something, because she kept stepping like she was about to get into line, but then she'd sort of change her mind, step back into her hovering position and look even more flustered.
I didn't really think much of it, and walked over to the back of the line. As I grabbed a tray, I heard an accented voice say behind me,
"Excuse me?"
I turned around. It was that girl. I don't want to make fun of her, so I'm adjusting how/what she said to represent how a native speaker might express what she said. In reality it was very difficult to understand her, both because of her word choice/order and accent. So here's more or less what she said to me:
"Um...I'm new here...could you please explain how I order and what to order?" You could literally feel her embarrassment.
Oh boy, do I know what that feels like. I know what that flustered pacing feels like, when you really want to order food but you don't know how this place works or even how to pronounce what you want. When you don't get lettuce on your hamburger at Burger Bar because you can't remember the word for it. When you point at the word in the menu for you want because, even though you know what it is, you don't know how to actually pronounce the word. A lot of the time I would try to avoid this embarrassment by just buying food at the supermarket--you don't have to ask for things there. If you see something you want to eat, you just take it without ordering. The only thing you have to say is "No" when they ask you if you are part of the club or if you want to buy something from the sales. But ordering food at a restaurant or food court would turn me into a nervous wreck.
So I explained to this girl the process of ordering food at Sbarro. She asked me what I was getting, so I said spaghetti and meatballs. She asked me which dish that was, so I pointed at it. She said, "Okay, I'll get that too....but how do you pronounce this? (pointing at the card labeled 'spaghetti')" I told her, and then she quietly repeated to herself, "Spuhgeddi......spuhgeddi...spuhgeddi" so she wouldn't forget.
It really made me wonder why I didn't ask people for help in Israel. I guess it's because I'm shy in general, but also I was afraid of getting made fun of. But here I was on the other side of the conversation, and I have to tell you, there wasn't anything funny about it. I don't know if maybe my past experiences made this not funny to me, or if it's sort of a general thing that no one would make fun of another person for. My instinct is to say that an Israeli would have laughed at me for asking for help in this area, since I got made fun of for a lot of other things relating to language, but I guess I'll never know for sure since I never really asked an Israeli to help me with Hebrew at a restaurant.
At that point the man behind the counter handed me a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, then handed me a breadstick. The girl then looked confused all over again, and asked, "Please explain this to me."
Me: "The breadstick?"
Her: "....yes?"
Me: "Well...it's a bread....um......stick---uh, I guess it's just bread. But it's good. You should get it."
Eventually we both finished ordering, and as we parted ways we gave each other a smile and a thumbs up.
It was sort of like doing the immigrant full circle. I wanted to be like, "I've BEEN you before." In any case, I have to tell you...it feels REALLY good to be back on this side of that conversation.
I didn't really think much of it, and walked over to the back of the line. As I grabbed a tray, I heard an accented voice say behind me,
"Excuse me?"
I turned around. It was that girl. I don't want to make fun of her, so I'm adjusting how/what she said to represent how a native speaker might express what she said. In reality it was very difficult to understand her, both because of her word choice/order and accent. So here's more or less what she said to me:
"Um...I'm new here...could you please explain how I order and what to order?" You could literally feel her embarrassment.
Oh boy, do I know what that feels like. I know what that flustered pacing feels like, when you really want to order food but you don't know how this place works or even how to pronounce what you want. When you don't get lettuce on your hamburger at Burger Bar because you can't remember the word for it. When you point at the word in the menu for you want because, even though you know what it is, you don't know how to actually pronounce the word. A lot of the time I would try to avoid this embarrassment by just buying food at the supermarket--you don't have to ask for things there. If you see something you want to eat, you just take it without ordering. The only thing you have to say is "No" when they ask you if you are part of the club or if you want to buy something from the sales. But ordering food at a restaurant or food court would turn me into a nervous wreck.
So I explained to this girl the process of ordering food at Sbarro. She asked me what I was getting, so I said spaghetti and meatballs. She asked me which dish that was, so I pointed at it. She said, "Okay, I'll get that too....but how do you pronounce this? (pointing at the card labeled 'spaghetti')" I told her, and then she quietly repeated to herself, "Spuhgeddi......spuhgeddi...spuhgeddi" so she wouldn't forget.
It really made me wonder why I didn't ask people for help in Israel. I guess it's because I'm shy in general, but also I was afraid of getting made fun of. But here I was on the other side of the conversation, and I have to tell you, there wasn't anything funny about it. I don't know if maybe my past experiences made this not funny to me, or if it's sort of a general thing that no one would make fun of another person for. My instinct is to say that an Israeli would have laughed at me for asking for help in this area, since I got made fun of for a lot of other things relating to language, but I guess I'll never know for sure since I never really asked an Israeli to help me with Hebrew at a restaurant.
At that point the man behind the counter handed me a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, then handed me a breadstick. The girl then looked confused all over again, and asked, "Please explain this to me."
Me: "The breadstick?"
Her: "....yes?"
Me: "Well...it's a bread....um......stick---uh, I guess it's just bread. But it's good. You should get it."
Eventually we both finished ordering, and as we parted ways we gave each other a smile and a thumbs up.
It was sort of like doing the immigrant full circle. I wanted to be like, "I've BEEN you before." In any case, I have to tell you...it feels REALLY good to be back on this side of that conversation.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Aztec Curses
Say what you want about how important the cause of Zionism is, but some things just work better in the United States.
No, this isn't a reference to our democracy or our lack of dysfunctional government offices. I'm talking about swearing in Hebrew.
Back in Israel, if I swore in English people (even Israelis) would know I was making an attempt to be rude or vulgar, and they would understand immediately the vile or insulting thing I just said. The same goes for swearing in English in the US.
And swearing in Hebrew in Israel was...embarrassing to say the least. I didn't even really have to worry about offending someone by being vulgar. Mostly the problem was that my accent was not convincing to any resident of Israel. To fully appreciate what me swearing in Hebrew sounds like, try to imagine a Russian guy yelling in English, "Well, go shits yourselfs on your cousins, sisters-fachers!" Like, I couldn't come up with the correct combination of words and to top it off I mispronounced everything.
But swearing in Hebrew in America....is fantastic. So far I've sworn at strangers and police officers. Now I know how my nanny must have felt. I used to crack up whenever she would yell at people in English in her fits of road rage, "I DON LIKE YOU, MATHER FLOWERS!" She seemed so silly. But truly terrifying was when, having pulled her head back inside through the car window, she would then swear under her breath in Spanish. Long before I understood the full meaning of words like "pendejo" and "puta" and whatever, I understood that this was an angry woman. A woman not to be trifled with. There was something extremely powerful about swearing in a foreign language, under your breath, in a sort of growl.
Now I wield that power. Sure, any Israeli knows I have an accent....but your average American doesn't have to know. Today a girl was rude to me as we waited in line for our professor to answer questions for some stupid reason, and I just sort of glared at her. Without speaking a word of English, as I started to walk away I growled in Hebrew, "Whore..."
And oh man. The pay-off was wonderful. Just as I used to tense up and feel irrationally uncomfortable whenever my nanny would growl under her breath in Spanish, so too did this girl when I growled under my breath in Hebrew. All I did was call her a whore. Had I done this in English, a fight would have ensued and I would have been in trouble. But doing it in Hebrew, the girl feels like I've just uttered some horrible ancient Aztec curse at her, one which she doesn't understand and which she doesn't know how to fight about.
Damn it's gonna be a great year...
No, this isn't a reference to our democracy or our lack of dysfunctional government offices. I'm talking about swearing in Hebrew.
Back in Israel, if I swore in English people (even Israelis) would know I was making an attempt to be rude or vulgar, and they would understand immediately the vile or insulting thing I just said. The same goes for swearing in English in the US.
And swearing in Hebrew in Israel was...embarrassing to say the least. I didn't even really have to worry about offending someone by being vulgar. Mostly the problem was that my accent was not convincing to any resident of Israel. To fully appreciate what me swearing in Hebrew sounds like, try to imagine a Russian guy yelling in English, "Well, go shits yourselfs on your cousins, sisters-fachers!" Like, I couldn't come up with the correct combination of words and to top it off I mispronounced everything.
But swearing in Hebrew in America....is fantastic. So far I've sworn at strangers and police officers. Now I know how my nanny must have felt. I used to crack up whenever she would yell at people in English in her fits of road rage, "I DON LIKE YOU, MATHER FLOWERS!" She seemed so silly. But truly terrifying was when, having pulled her head back inside through the car window, she would then swear under her breath in Spanish. Long before I understood the full meaning of words like "pendejo" and "puta" and whatever, I understood that this was an angry woman. A woman not to be trifled with. There was something extremely powerful about swearing in a foreign language, under your breath, in a sort of growl.
Now I wield that power. Sure, any Israeli knows I have an accent....but your average American doesn't have to know. Today a girl was rude to me as we waited in line for our professor to answer questions for some stupid reason, and I just sort of glared at her. Without speaking a word of English, as I started to walk away I growled in Hebrew, "Whore..."
And oh man. The pay-off was wonderful. Just as I used to tense up and feel irrationally uncomfortable whenever my nanny would growl under her breath in Spanish, so too did this girl when I growled under my breath in Hebrew. All I did was call her a whore. Had I done this in English, a fight would have ensued and I would have been in trouble. But doing it in Hebrew, the girl feels like I've just uttered some horrible ancient Aztec curse at her, one which she doesn't understand and which she doesn't know how to fight about.
Damn it's gonna be a great year...
Monday, October 5, 2009
Back to school...
I promise I'll actually write about something at some point. But for now I just want to say that I've realized that I never bother learning people's names. Just as all the Women of the Wash were ____ Bitch, so now are all of my professors.
Professor Grampa
Professor Pantene Pro-V Commercial (She has great hair)
Professor Mom
Professor Fish/Professor Ackbar (She looks like a fish/Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars)
Also appearing are:
TA Bathed Hugh Jackman
TA Tuberculosis (She's from South Africa I think, so obviously she has TB)
Some random students I might talk about:
Fat Guy in a Little Tie
Man-Girl
Girl-Man
The Bass Girl (the girl has a voice low enough to make males with a bass vocal range blush)
The Dude Who Always Calls Over Some Girl Named Jackie To Sit With Him.
Cleft-Palate Girl (She doesn't actually have one)
"How-The-Hell-Is-That-Guy-Married?" Guy
The Monolingual Retard (he asks the most blatantly idiotic questions during linguistics class about foreign language acquisition).
The Girl Born Without A Concept of Lateness.
The Bathroom Fornicator (the girl whose room is right next to the bathroom has loud sex that you can hear while you're peeing).
The Guy Who Always Asks For Two Burritos In The Dining Hall.
Professor Grampa
Professor Pantene Pro-V Commercial (She has great hair)
Professor Mom
Professor Fish/Professor Ackbar (She looks like a fish/Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars)
Also appearing are:
TA Bathed Hugh Jackman
TA Tuberculosis (She's from South Africa I think, so obviously she has TB)
Some random students I might talk about:
Fat Guy in a Little Tie
Man-Girl
Girl-Man
The Bass Girl (the girl has a voice low enough to make males with a bass vocal range blush)
The Dude Who Always Calls Over Some Girl Named Jackie To Sit With Him.
Cleft-Palate Girl (She doesn't actually have one)
"How-The-Hell-Is-That-Guy-Married?" Guy
The Monolingual Retard (he asks the most blatantly idiotic questions during linguistics class about foreign language acquisition).
The Girl Born Without A Concept of Lateness.
The Bathroom Fornicator (the girl whose room is right next to the bathroom has loud sex that you can hear while you're peeing).
The Guy Who Always Asks For Two Burritos In The Dining Hall.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tonight We Fly
Well, tonight I'm flying back to the US. A weekend in New York, then driving to Chicago, then flying back to LA. I'm excited about eating tacos out of trucks, about apologizing if someone knocks me over, and about seeing my puppy (though that won't happen until Tuesday...).
Today I bought a newspaper. I walked by a group of 40-something year old men sitting outside of a shop chatting. One called out to me, "Hey, can I have the sports section?"
I figured I wasn't going to read it, so why not. I walked over to him, and he seemed a bit surprised when I started trying to pull the sports section out. Finally I managed to get it out, and he thanked me. He then asked if I liked music. I said, yeah, of course. He then pointed to a nearby CD shop and said that he owned said store, and then from now on I'm welcome to come in whenever I want and get a bit of a discount on a permanent basis, since I was such a nice person (at least according to this guy's standards!). We exchanged names, shook hands, and I was on my way.
I walked away smiling, and then I realized....FUUUUUUUUCK....I'm leaving.
It kinda made me think of a fable we read in elementary school, about a beggar man standing in the cold who is given a warm coat from a passerby...and it turns out the beggar man was actually Jesus, so the passerby gets to go to heaven or something. I don't really remember the finer points of the story.
Okay, so maybe I didn't get promised a place in Heaven, but a permanent discount on CD's isn't so bad!
Later I ended up drinking so much water that I knew I wasn't going to make it home. I decided to stop into a restroom in a hotel near my house, but the security guard stopped me. She asked if I was a guest, and I said no. She then asked why I was going in...
I didn't really want to admit I had to pee. First off because no self-respecting hotel would just let random people in off the streets to pee in their lobby, and second because it's just embarrassing to announce to strangers that you have to pee--really really really badly.
So I whipped out a trick from my mom's playbook. "Well, I'm a travel agent back in the states, and I'd really like to just take a look around the lobby." It's actually true when my mom says it, but I figured that since I grew up in the industry I could pull it off convincingly.
The guard looked surprised for a second, then offered to have the manager show me around. I thanked her but told her I didn't have much time (aka I was seriously about to pee my pants), so a quick look around the lobby would be just fine.
SUCCESS!!!!
Today I bought a newspaper. I walked by a group of 40-something year old men sitting outside of a shop chatting. One called out to me, "Hey, can I have the sports section?"
I figured I wasn't going to read it, so why not. I walked over to him, and he seemed a bit surprised when I started trying to pull the sports section out. Finally I managed to get it out, and he thanked me. He then asked if I liked music. I said, yeah, of course. He then pointed to a nearby CD shop and said that he owned said store, and then from now on I'm welcome to come in whenever I want and get a bit of a discount on a permanent basis, since I was such a nice person (at least according to this guy's standards!). We exchanged names, shook hands, and I was on my way.
I walked away smiling, and then I realized....FUUUUUUUUCK....I'm leaving.
It kinda made me think of a fable we read in elementary school, about a beggar man standing in the cold who is given a warm coat from a passerby...and it turns out the beggar man was actually Jesus, so the passerby gets to go to heaven or something. I don't really remember the finer points of the story.
Okay, so maybe I didn't get promised a place in Heaven, but a permanent discount on CD's isn't so bad!
Later I ended up drinking so much water that I knew I wasn't going to make it home. I decided to stop into a restroom in a hotel near my house, but the security guard stopped me. She asked if I was a guest, and I said no. She then asked why I was going in...
I didn't really want to admit I had to pee. First off because no self-respecting hotel would just let random people in off the streets to pee in their lobby, and second because it's just embarrassing to announce to strangers that you have to pee--really really really badly.
So I whipped out a trick from my mom's playbook. "Well, I'm a travel agent back in the states, and I'd really like to just take a look around the lobby." It's actually true when my mom says it, but I figured that since I grew up in the industry I could pull it off convincingly.
The guard looked surprised for a second, then offered to have the manager show me around. I thanked her but told her I didn't have much time (aka I was seriously about to pee my pants), so a quick look around the lobby would be just fine.
SUCCESS!!!!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Bewitched
So lately I've been watching a lot of Bewitched to learn more about the person I'm named after. Yes, it's THAT Samantha. It's been interesting trying to figure out why, of all people, I was named after a TV witch. Apparently it was my mom's favorite show growing up, so I'm also trying to figure out what she liked about the show. I mean, I'm liking the show too, but I don't know if it's for the same reasons..... All in all, it's been an interesting experience.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wait, I didn't do anything this time!
I'm having another one of those moments where I'm just feeling completely indignant. So I have to see an Israeli lawyer about something (can't get into details here), so i called him for the first time last Sunday or something. He said he'd be out of town until Wednesday, so he'd call me on Thursday. So I patiently waited until Thursday....no call.....waiting through the weekend......on Sunday, still no call. So today, Monday, I decided I'd call him. So his secretary or whatever picks up, then there's a few seconds of silence, and then I hear the lawyer's voice as clear as day saying in Hebrew,
"[*grunt*] Again??? ALWAYS when I'm in the middle of something!!! Fiiiiiiine, pass her over to me."
And then he says in a very polite voice, as if I was only now connected to his phone line, "Hello, Samantha, how can I help you?"
Which left me feeling like, what the hell did I do? I've called this guy only once before, and I've given him over a week to call me when he isn't "in the middle of something."
Like, I KNOW when I'm being pestering and annoying and whatever. A few months ago the army enlistment center could have sworn loudly whenever I called. THAT would have been fair and called for. Some guy I called only once before a week ago, and who didn't return my call......not the same.
"[*grunt*] Again??? ALWAYS when I'm in the middle of something!!! Fiiiiiiine, pass her over to me."
And then he says in a very polite voice, as if I was only now connected to his phone line, "Hello, Samantha, how can I help you?"
Which left me feeling like, what the hell did I do? I've called this guy only once before, and I've given him over a week to call me when he isn't "in the middle of something."
Like, I KNOW when I'm being pestering and annoying and whatever. A few months ago the army enlistment center could have sworn loudly whenever I called. THAT would have been fair and called for. Some guy I called only once before a week ago, and who didn't return my call......not the same.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Just a glimpse of why i hate new york and new yorkers.
My Roommate (from a very small town in rural america) : Oh, I'll definitely have to see her when I'm back in town.
Guest from New York: Oh "in town," what a cute expression. It's so quaint!
My Roommate: What do you mean? Don't you say it?
Guest from New York: No no no, I'm from such a large city that we don't say it....New York is so big, it's not as if I can just bump into people when I'm "in town," hahaha, as you say.
Me: I say "in town" as well. It's not quaint or rural, everyone I know back home uses the expression, too.
Guest from New York: Fine, maybe your town uses it, but you're not from a city like New York!
Me: Um....you know I'm from LA, right?
Guest from New York: Yes.
Me: Um.... I don't know what kinda stuff you guys learn in east coast schools, but it's not like LA is some podunk town just off the freeway.
G-d, I just fucking hate New Yorkers. They talk like they come from the very seat of culture and civilization, like the rest of us are all simply blessed to be in the presence of someone from such a wonderful place. Well look, New Yorkers: I hate your city. I think it stinks--like, it literally smells bad. I think there are too many fucking people. And I really don't give a shit about it. So you can have your city, and I'll take LA and the rest of the US and our "quaint" and "rural" expressions like "in town." What a pretentious butthole, seriously...
Guest from New York: Oh "in town," what a cute expression. It's so quaint!
My Roommate: What do you mean? Don't you say it?
Guest from New York: No no no, I'm from such a large city that we don't say it....New York is so big, it's not as if I can just bump into people when I'm "in town," hahaha, as you say.
Me: I say "in town" as well. It's not quaint or rural, everyone I know back home uses the expression, too.
Guest from New York: Fine, maybe your town uses it, but you're not from a city like New York!
Me: Um....you know I'm from LA, right?
Guest from New York: Yes.
Me: Um.... I don't know what kinda stuff you guys learn in east coast schools, but it's not like LA is some podunk town just off the freeway.
G-d, I just fucking hate New Yorkers. They talk like they come from the very seat of culture and civilization, like the rest of us are all simply blessed to be in the presence of someone from such a wonderful place. Well look, New Yorkers: I hate your city. I think it stinks--like, it literally smells bad. I think there are too many fucking people. And I really don't give a shit about it. So you can have your city, and I'll take LA and the rest of the US and our "quaint" and "rural" expressions like "in town." What a pretentious butthole, seriously...
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
A Day in the Life
I've probably told this story a million times on this blog, but unfortunately for you readers....it never gets old for me, and I feel like the story is kind of like the Passover story. You know, a story that needs annual re-telling:
My brother (the Haredi one) used to sleep with headphones on. He was a musician, so he liked to cram as much music into his life as possible, even if he wasn't awake. One night he fell asleep listening to the Beatles. A couple tracks later he woke up to the scary noise in the song "A Day in the Life." You know, it's a terrifying sound to hear when you're awake. It sounds basically like how I imagine the apocalypse will sound. So anyway, my brother woke up when this horrifying noise started building and, being half-asleep, didn't realize that he was still wearing headphones. So it's pitch black, he hears this building, screeching noise that he doesn't know how to stop, and he is scared shitless and starts yelling. I just liked that after the fact he described the sensation to me as the feeling of being abducted by aliens.
Anyway, I was just listening to that song and of course I thought of this story..... For the record, since this happened (however many years ago this was) I have not been able to listen to the song without getting the giggles.
My brother (the Haredi one) used to sleep with headphones on. He was a musician, so he liked to cram as much music into his life as possible, even if he wasn't awake. One night he fell asleep listening to the Beatles. A couple tracks later he woke up to the scary noise in the song "A Day in the Life." You know, it's a terrifying sound to hear when you're awake. It sounds basically like how I imagine the apocalypse will sound. So anyway, my brother woke up when this horrifying noise started building and, being half-asleep, didn't realize that he was still wearing headphones. So it's pitch black, he hears this building, screeching noise that he doesn't know how to stop, and he is scared shitless and starts yelling. I just liked that after the fact he described the sensation to me as the feeling of being abducted by aliens.
Anyway, I was just listening to that song and of course I thought of this story..... For the record, since this happened (however many years ago this was) I have not been able to listen to the song without getting the giggles.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Smells.
Today my roommate and I were discussing the American sense of smell. You know, how Americans are always the ones who think foreign people are smelly. Americans are the ones on the Metro in Paris loudly making comments about how much French people smell, the ones wandering around the streets of Prague or St Petersburg with their noses scrunched up, saying in pathetic attempts at a whisper, “Oh dear….”
Well, Israel is no different. There have been a few times—okay, MANY times—in Israel when I’ve been on the bus or in a crowd, and someone smells like what can only be described as a walking fart. In fairness, there’s a severe water shortage in this country (and visiting/immigrant Americans alone have probably contributed more than their fair share to that with our obsession with showering…), and deodorant is relatively expensive. Just to give you an idea, deodorant costs about 35 shekels. To put that in perspective, that’s 10% of your monthly salary if you are a soldier (not a lone soldier). When you put it like that, buying deodorant doesn’t really seem worthwhile.
Anyway, my roommate and I were quietly wondering to ourselves if, coming from a country that seems to be obsessed with not smelling bad, maybe we were the only ones who noticed the sharp, sour scent that was coming from one of our neighbors on the bus. And that got me thinking….
How bad must people have smelled back in like Elizabethan England, when you maybe took a couple baths a year…if that. And then I started imagining Americans being transported back in time to various points in history. I can just imagine a fat guy in a football jersey and baseball cap, wandering around the Tower of London in 1599, tucking his nose and mouth under his shirt and gagging. Then I imagine a top Chicago lawyer in a business suit and a Bluetooth headset wandering around the filthy streets of medieval Paris, wrinkling his nose and saying, “[*sound of suppressed vomiting*] I’m going to have to call you back…ugh, it feels like someone shit in my nose….” And throughout every period in history I imagine girls from my high school running around, squawking, “OMG eeeew eeew eeew!!!!!!!”
Anyway, my bizarre train of thought was interrupted when a group of arsim-in-training got on the bus, and with them came a foul odor. It is the sort of odor one would expect if a bunch of people were walking around covered in fresh diarrhea. That is really, no exaggeration, what these guys smelled like.
And I just lost it. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to pee myself. I was laughing so hard that I actually started crying. People turned and looked at me, and I couldn’t stop. After about five minutes I got a grip on myself, but then I smelled it again….and lost it for another ten.
On a completely unrelated note…..the other day I saw an orthodox guy throw trash on the ground. I said to him in Hebrew, “Hey, are you just going to leave that there?!” And he turned around, looked at me, and told me to shut up. And then he just kept walking on.
I wish I could have thought fast enough, that I could have responded with something about how he’s a hypocrite for being orthodox and calling this the holy land, and then turning right around and throwing his shit on the ground of G-d’s own country. Instead though, I was just so shocked at being told to shut up that I just did exactly as he told me to do…
Sometimes though…I feel like Jews are the biggest hypocrites in the world.
Well, Israel is no different. There have been a few times—okay, MANY times—in Israel when I’ve been on the bus or in a crowd, and someone smells like what can only be described as a walking fart. In fairness, there’s a severe water shortage in this country (and visiting/immigrant Americans alone have probably contributed more than their fair share to that with our obsession with showering…), and deodorant is relatively expensive. Just to give you an idea, deodorant costs about 35 shekels. To put that in perspective, that’s 10% of your monthly salary if you are a soldier (not a lone soldier). When you put it like that, buying deodorant doesn’t really seem worthwhile.
Anyway, my roommate and I were quietly wondering to ourselves if, coming from a country that seems to be obsessed with not smelling bad, maybe we were the only ones who noticed the sharp, sour scent that was coming from one of our neighbors on the bus. And that got me thinking….
How bad must people have smelled back in like Elizabethan England, when you maybe took a couple baths a year…if that. And then I started imagining Americans being transported back in time to various points in history. I can just imagine a fat guy in a football jersey and baseball cap, wandering around the Tower of London in 1599, tucking his nose and mouth under his shirt and gagging. Then I imagine a top Chicago lawyer in a business suit and a Bluetooth headset wandering around the filthy streets of medieval Paris, wrinkling his nose and saying, “[*sound of suppressed vomiting*] I’m going to have to call you back…ugh, it feels like someone shit in my nose….” And throughout every period in history I imagine girls from my high school running around, squawking, “OMG eeeew eeew eeew!!!!!!!”
Anyway, my bizarre train of thought was interrupted when a group of arsim-in-training got on the bus, and with them came a foul odor. It is the sort of odor one would expect if a bunch of people were walking around covered in fresh diarrhea. That is really, no exaggeration, what these guys smelled like.
And I just lost it. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to pee myself. I was laughing so hard that I actually started crying. People turned and looked at me, and I couldn’t stop. After about five minutes I got a grip on myself, but then I smelled it again….and lost it for another ten.
On a completely unrelated note…..the other day I saw an orthodox guy throw trash on the ground. I said to him in Hebrew, “Hey, are you just going to leave that there?!” And he turned around, looked at me, and told me to shut up. And then he just kept walking on.
I wish I could have thought fast enough, that I could have responded with something about how he’s a hypocrite for being orthodox and calling this the holy land, and then turning right around and throwing his shit on the ground of G-d’s own country. Instead though, I was just so shocked at being told to shut up that I just did exactly as he told me to do…
Sometimes though…I feel like Jews are the biggest hypocrites in the world.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Why, Lord?
I just heard a recording of Laura Ingalls Wilder's voice. It's a short recording, just a clip of her saying "Almanzo," which the editor decided to put on a loop. But it's going to give me nightmares.
You have to understand, this moment--two seconds ago--was the first time I'd ever heard my childhood idol (aw hell, she's STILL my idol!) speak. Based on the fact that she apparently had a nice singing voice and based on her personality, I'd always imagined that she would have a sort of quiet voice, you know, sturdy and frontierish, but with a sweet quality to it....if that makes any sense. Instead it was harsh, loud and nasally. "AlmAAAAAnzo." Not "Almawnzo," as I always imagined it was pronounced, but "AlmAAAnzo," like she was a particularly annoying Midwesterner.
Horrified, I couldn't move even to turn the recording off repeat. So I just sat there with my mouth open and drooling, staring at my computer, while a recording of Laura Ingalls Wilder's voice from decades ago just kept breaking my heart over and over again with, "AlmAAAnzo!" "AlmAAAnzo!" "AlmAAAnzo!"
It feels silly to get upset over something so stupid....but I know I'm going to have nightmares tonight.
Granted, it was only one word, a name, and taken completely out of context, and granted she was probably a little old lady when it was recorded. And for some reason little old ladies tend to get nasally. But still.
You have to understand, this moment--two seconds ago--was the first time I'd ever heard my childhood idol (aw hell, she's STILL my idol!) speak. Based on the fact that she apparently had a nice singing voice and based on her personality, I'd always imagined that she would have a sort of quiet voice, you know, sturdy and frontierish, but with a sweet quality to it....if that makes any sense. Instead it was harsh, loud and nasally. "AlmAAAAAnzo." Not "Almawnzo," as I always imagined it was pronounced, but "AlmAAAnzo," like she was a particularly annoying Midwesterner.
Horrified, I couldn't move even to turn the recording off repeat. So I just sat there with my mouth open and drooling, staring at my computer, while a recording of Laura Ingalls Wilder's voice from decades ago just kept breaking my heart over and over again with, "AlmAAAnzo!" "AlmAAAnzo!" "AlmAAAnzo!"
It feels silly to get upset over something so stupid....but I know I'm going to have nightmares tonight.
Granted, it was only one word, a name, and taken completely out of context, and granted she was probably a little old lady when it was recorded. And for some reason little old ladies tend to get nasally. But still.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Fashion Police
Okay, I keep trying to do a legit post, but....a shorter one will have to suffice:
Today at Malcha I saw tznius fashion taken to a place that dare not speak its name. I'm talking, of course, about a tight jean miniskirt layered over a long black skirt. Seriously, words cannot describe how strange this was. I had to sit and collect myself at Burger King after seeing this.
Also, in the bathrooms the woman next to me was peeing (well, this was a bathroom after all!)....and as she peed she was on the phone conducting business transactions in Hebrew. I actually had to stop peeing because I was so impressed. Like, THAT is dedication. And disgusting. Do you think the person on the other end of the line knew the woman was peeing? Maybe he couldn't hear her peeing, but surely he had to be able to hear the roar of 5 different toilets flushing at once and recognized the sound. Also...and maybe this is just me....when I'm peeing I find it difficult to have a meaningful conversation. Like, I have to either stop talking and finish peeing, or I have to stop peeing and finish what I was saying. This is why I hate going into bathrooms with other people. But this woman could multitask. Props!
Today at Malcha I saw tznius fashion taken to a place that dare not speak its name. I'm talking, of course, about a tight jean miniskirt layered over a long black skirt. Seriously, words cannot describe how strange this was. I had to sit and collect myself at Burger King after seeing this.
Also, in the bathrooms the woman next to me was peeing (well, this was a bathroom after all!)....and as she peed she was on the phone conducting business transactions in Hebrew. I actually had to stop peeing because I was so impressed. Like, THAT is dedication. And disgusting. Do you think the person on the other end of the line knew the woman was peeing? Maybe he couldn't hear her peeing, but surely he had to be able to hear the roar of 5 different toilets flushing at once and recognized the sound. Also...and maybe this is just me....when I'm peeing I find it difficult to have a meaningful conversation. Like, I have to either stop talking and finish peeing, or I have to stop peeing and finish what I was saying. This is why I hate going into bathrooms with other people. But this woman could multitask. Props!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
oh jesus oh jesus we have all these people over and im hiding in my room cos im all embarrassed about being all cry-y and shit.....
....and now i really have to pee. do i just stay in my room and pee in my pants or do i create an embarrassing scene by emerging from my room, crossing the apartment in front of all the guests, and heading toward the bathroom in all my puffy/snotty glory?
....and now i really have to pee. do i just stay in my room and pee in my pants or do i create an embarrassing scene by emerging from my room, crossing the apartment in front of all the guests, and heading toward the bathroom in all my puffy/snotty glory?
Dingo
So I was planning on putting up a silly post this morning when I woke up....but at 6 am I got a text from my dad saying that last night our dog, the dog we've had since I was six, died. He was very ill and very old and hadn't been doing well for a while, but I'm still sad obviously because he was like a member of the family. My dad addressed him as his "Dog Son."
Well now I don't really feel like being silly, and instead I've spent the last 5 hours crying, then drifting off to sleep, then dreaming that my other dog (the one that has not died) has run away, which makes me wake up and start crying even more. So, needless to say, I'm feeling like shit right now.
On the bright side, ever since I moved away for college/Israel I've been worried that he would die and they wouldn't tell me. So at least they told me that he died--which is more than can be said for when my granny died. So that's good I guess....
Well now I don't really feel like being silly, and instead I've spent the last 5 hours crying, then drifting off to sleep, then dreaming that my other dog (the one that has not died) has run away, which makes me wake up and start crying even more. So, needless to say, I'm feeling like shit right now.
On the bright side, ever since I moved away for college/Israel I've been worried that he would die and they wouldn't tell me. So at least they told me that he died--which is more than can be said for when my granny died. So that's good I guess....
Monday, July 6, 2009
Thursday
Today I was at the HOT counter in the mall talking about getting internet arranged. I had chickened out the night before and spoke in English because I hadn’t yet learned the words in Hebrew for things like modem (“modem”) and cables (“cabelim”). When I came back this morning the guy remembered me, so English it was.
At one point he asked for my address for the delivery, so I gave it to him. Unfortunately, I pronounced the street name in my English way. Just like how I say Jerusalem instead of the Hebrew “Yerushalayim” when I’m speaking English, or how in English I pronounce the Hebrew word challah without the throat scraping. The guy asked me to repeat it, and this time I tried to sound a little bit more Israeli when I said it, but the fact that I was speaking English still stood, so I wasn’t about to go all out.
The guy then laughed, and said, “Oh, I didn’t understand because you have such an accent.” The guy and his co-worker saw me blush bright red with embarrassment, and they both started laughing. The other guy said, “Beautiful accent, beautiful accent!” They giggled like little schoolgirls, and then the coworker repeated my street name in my accent quietly to himself, like he was quietly repeating the punchline of a good joke he heard.
Anyway, things moved on. We filled out forms, and the guy helping me refused to believe that I had an Israeli ID card. When I gave him my ID number he interrupted me with, “No no no no no, this is your American ID.” No sir, this is my Israeli ID. “No no no no no, but how can you have Israeli ID?” Because I’m Israeli. “No no no no no.” Yes yes yes yes yes.
A few minutes later I asked when they could install the internet. The co-worker told my guy in Hebrew, “Yom Chamishi…” and so the guy helping me out turned to me and TRIED to say in English, “Thursday.”
What came out instead was something like, “Fursday.” The guy then looked slightly embarrassed, and rolled his eyes upward as if he were trying to remember something difficult. And I saw him very deliberately place his tongue right behind his teeth, as if remembering how they learned to do the sound back in English class in 4th grade or whatever. And so he tried again.
What came out this time was an interesting combination: a raspberry + “ursday.”
At this point the guy looked as bright red as tan people can possibly get, and he said something like, “It is a difficult noise…Tursday.”
I just smiled and said, “That’s okay, it’s a hard sound to make.” But still pissed off about being made fun of for not being able to pronounce my own street name correctly, I looked the worker right in the eyes and added, “THanks for all your help!” as I drew out the TH as a special FUCK YOU to the worker.
Damn it felt good. I spent the rest of the day walking around in glowing smugness as I thought to myself, “Maybe I can’t say my street name correctly, but damnit, at least I can make a TH sound without blowing raspberries.” And I think I got the better end of the deal.
At one point he asked for my address for the delivery, so I gave it to him. Unfortunately, I pronounced the street name in my English way. Just like how I say Jerusalem instead of the Hebrew “Yerushalayim” when I’m speaking English, or how in English I pronounce the Hebrew word challah without the throat scraping. The guy asked me to repeat it, and this time I tried to sound a little bit more Israeli when I said it, but the fact that I was speaking English still stood, so I wasn’t about to go all out.
The guy then laughed, and said, “Oh, I didn’t understand because you have such an accent.” The guy and his co-worker saw me blush bright red with embarrassment, and they both started laughing. The other guy said, “Beautiful accent, beautiful accent!” They giggled like little schoolgirls, and then the coworker repeated my street name in my accent quietly to himself, like he was quietly repeating the punchline of a good joke he heard.
Anyway, things moved on. We filled out forms, and the guy helping me refused to believe that I had an Israeli ID card. When I gave him my ID number he interrupted me with, “No no no no no, this is your American ID.” No sir, this is my Israeli ID. “No no no no no, but how can you have Israeli ID?” Because I’m Israeli. “No no no no no.” Yes yes yes yes yes.
A few minutes later I asked when they could install the internet. The co-worker told my guy in Hebrew, “Yom Chamishi…” and so the guy helping me out turned to me and TRIED to say in English, “Thursday.”
What came out instead was something like, “Fursday.” The guy then looked slightly embarrassed, and rolled his eyes upward as if he were trying to remember something difficult. And I saw him very deliberately place his tongue right behind his teeth, as if remembering how they learned to do the sound back in English class in 4th grade or whatever. And so he tried again.
What came out this time was an interesting combination: a raspberry + “ursday.”
At this point the guy looked as bright red as tan people can possibly get, and he said something like, “It is a difficult noise…Tursday.”
I just smiled and said, “That’s okay, it’s a hard sound to make.” But still pissed off about being made fun of for not being able to pronounce my own street name correctly, I looked the worker right in the eyes and added, “THanks for all your help!” as I drew out the TH as a special FUCK YOU to the worker.
Damn it felt good. I spent the rest of the day walking around in glowing smugness as I thought to myself, “Maybe I can’t say my street name correctly, but damnit, at least I can make a TH sound without blowing raspberries.” And I think I got the better end of the deal.
latin
So right now I’m re-learning Latin and French. French is less of a challenge because as of a couple weeks ago I was living with a French person. But Latin….
Perhaps this is a bit of a stretch here, but re-learning Latin after over two years away from it is like getting hit in the head, going into a coma for two years, and then coming to with mild amnesia. And the love of your life visits you in your hospital, and you don’t really recognize him or remember his story, but you know—you can totally just feel it--that you loved this person and that you’re desperate to remember all about him. That’s kind of what relearning Latin feels like.
Seeing simple words like ardeo (I used to shout that one all the time in middle school), or puella, or bellum or whatever feels exactly like how I felt when I bumped into my old nanny/housekeeper right before I made aliyah. I hadn’t seen her in a couple years even though she had basically been a replacement mother from the time I was born until I was well into high school. I was overwhelmingly happy to see her and couldn’t believe I could go so long without talking to someone so important to me. That’s kind of what studying Latin again is like.
I feel like screaming, “Obstipescere, how have you been?!” And the infinitive will tell me, “I’m doing great, still hanging around in the Aeneid whenever Aeneas is surprised. What’s new with you? Last time I saw you was on the AP Latin exam back in 2006.”
Then I want to ask Obstipescere about all my old friends. “How the hell are Amicus and Oculus and….and….oh…I’ve forgotten some of their names…” I’ll then blush bright red as I stumble to remember the names of friends—friends since 7th grade until my freshman year of college.
I’m not sure why French doesn’t feel the same for me. Maybe it’s because the French program at my high school was more than twice as large as the Latin program. Meaning, the same people were in my Latin class from 8th grade all the way until 12th, whereas in French it was a slightly different mix every year. Maybe it’s because Latin’s harder, or I feel like I have a special mission in life to preserve Latin since so few people are learning it these days, whereas it seems like everyone and their mother speaks French. Maybe it’s because Latin’s kind of a party trick for me…or at least used to be. You know how everyone has kind of a weird thing they can show off? Like, some people are double jointed, or some people can burp the alphabet, you know? Well I could recite the first chapter of Caesar’s Gallic Wars in Latin. And the first 50 or so lines of the Aeneid…in Latin. But I can’t anymore. So now I have nothing.
Perhaps this is a bit of a stretch here, but re-learning Latin after over two years away from it is like getting hit in the head, going into a coma for two years, and then coming to with mild amnesia. And the love of your life visits you in your hospital, and you don’t really recognize him or remember his story, but you know—you can totally just feel it--that you loved this person and that you’re desperate to remember all about him. That’s kind of what relearning Latin feels like.
Seeing simple words like ardeo (I used to shout that one all the time in middle school), or puella, or bellum or whatever feels exactly like how I felt when I bumped into my old nanny/housekeeper right before I made aliyah. I hadn’t seen her in a couple years even though she had basically been a replacement mother from the time I was born until I was well into high school. I was overwhelmingly happy to see her and couldn’t believe I could go so long without talking to someone so important to me. That’s kind of what studying Latin again is like.
I feel like screaming, “Obstipescere, how have you been?!” And the infinitive will tell me, “I’m doing great, still hanging around in the Aeneid whenever Aeneas is surprised. What’s new with you? Last time I saw you was on the AP Latin exam back in 2006.”
Then I want to ask Obstipescere about all my old friends. “How the hell are Amicus and Oculus and….and….oh…I’ve forgotten some of their names…” I’ll then blush bright red as I stumble to remember the names of friends—friends since 7th grade until my freshman year of college.
I’m not sure why French doesn’t feel the same for me. Maybe it’s because the French program at my high school was more than twice as large as the Latin program. Meaning, the same people were in my Latin class from 8th grade all the way until 12th, whereas in French it was a slightly different mix every year. Maybe it’s because Latin’s harder, or I feel like I have a special mission in life to preserve Latin since so few people are learning it these days, whereas it seems like everyone and their mother speaks French. Maybe it’s because Latin’s kind of a party trick for me…or at least used to be. You know how everyone has kind of a weird thing they can show off? Like, some people are double jointed, or some people can burp the alphabet, you know? Well I could recite the first chapter of Caesar’s Gallic Wars in Latin. And the first 50 or so lines of the Aeneid…in Latin. But I can’t anymore. So now I have nothing.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Random Thoughts on Israelis, by an Israeli
I hate it when I emerge from my room in the morning and find that a stranger is sitting in my living room. It’s not so much that I hate strangers—and let’s be honest, I DO hate strangers—but more that I hate the look these particular strangers give me.
They stare at me, their eyes following me to the bathroom. Their eyes narrow and squint and their foreheads crease with annoyance as they seem to say, “What the hell are YOU doing here?”
Well, stranger, I haven’t peed in several hours so that seems like a good idea unless I feel like just taking a leak in my bed….oh, I’m sorry, did I need your permission?
What I find really confusing about this whole set-up is that usually said stranger is sitting with one of my roommates. Whether it was one of my roommates from college, or roommates from the kibbutz, or roommates from right now….I would come into the room and it would be completely obvious from the expression on my roommate’s face that they were not in the least bit concerned with my presence. So I’m not sure why the stranger would be so concerned with my sudden appearance. If my roommate doesn’t seem to be surprised or frightened of my appearance, there’s a finite number of possibilities as to my identity.
Next time someone gives me the “What are YOU doing here?” look I’m just going to snap back, “I pay rent here—just what the fuck is YOUR excuse for being here?”
Henyways, here are some random thoughts from the week:
1) Why do all Israeli girls, even the 8 year olds, sound like they’ve been smoking a pack a day since before they were born? Am I the only one who notices the very raspy quality to Israeli girls’ voices? Am I imagining it?
2) Israelis really need to get over the song “Jai Ho” from Slumdog Millionaire, and on that note, Israelis really need to get over the entire soundtrack from Slumdog Millionaire. I get it. We all liked the movie. Let’s move on.
3) I saw the Transformers 2 movie. It was weird that in Hebrew they’re called “Robotrikim” apparently….so that was strange. Anyway, during the entire movie a group of girls was chatting and shrieking and getting up and moving and generally pissing off everyone in the theater. Eventually ushers came in, stopped the film, and made the whole group of girls leave. What I’m really pissed off about though is that the girls also talked during the previews. And the new Harry Potter trailer was playing. It was the first time I had seen the trailer. I don’t think I even need to tell you, but I was really fucking excited. But of course, I couldn’t hear a thing because Efrat and Ofrat and Osnat and Liat and whoever were all shrieking and blabbering on—about something completely unrelated to Harry Potter.
Seriously, who the hell talks during a Harry Potter trailer? ISRAELIS. Seriously, the only sound you should hear during a Harry Potter trailer is the sound of everyone’s jaw simultaneously hitting the floor in amazement, and the occasional pit-pat of droplets of drool dripping to the floor.
4) Why do Israelis always think you’re cutting them in line? Certainly there’s something to be said for not being a sucker, for not getting cut in line…but nothing compares to how territorial Israelis can get with their spots in line. Israelis, I fear, are just one degree of sanity away from peeing on their spots in line. And I’m not just talking about the line for the bus, if you can even call it a “line.” Just last night I was in the supermarket and this Israeli woman abandoned her cart in the middle of an aisle, not too far from a check out line. Israelis have an interesting habit of doing that, of leaving their cart in line and then just disappearing for thirty minutes or a week. I happened to get in that same line, knowing that I’d be behind this woman should she ever decide to return from the epic solo journey that all Israelis seem to make while waiting to pay for groceries. I moved in a little closer to the counter though since I didn’t want to block the aisle. Big mistake. The woman came back and started freaking out, saying that she was here first and blahblahblah. I calmly explained that I knew, but that I simply didn’t want to stand in the middle of the “street” and be in the middle of everyone’s way. She kept freaking out at me as she moved her cart in front of me. She shut up for a while, but every time I moved my cart forward as the line progressed, she’d turn back around and give me an aggressive look, preparing to get out her elbows and everything should I even dare to try to cut her “again.” She actually reminded me of middle school PE when we played football. I was the quarterback and I distinctly remember seeing people playing defense for the opposing team, positioned exactly like she was.
There were about 10 distinct moments where I just wanted to scream at her, “FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, I KNOW YOU’RE IN FRONT OF ME, I’M NOT TRYING TO CUT YOU, YOU PSYCHO BITCH!”
5) There’s poop flying in Jerusalem. The Haredim are pissed because a parking lot in Jerusalem is open on Shabbat. I’m beginning to think I wasn’t raised Jewish at all, because I don’t recognize these Jews. The Jews I grew up with in Hebrew School did things like dance to the song “Pata Pata” (you might have to google it…) every Sunday, and sing songs about doing good deeds….and have “cheeseburger bar mitzvahs.” Sure, it probably wasn’t the best religious upbringing ever, but at least it would never occur to me to throw shit—actual shit--at cops because of a parking lot.
6) A couple days ago someone asked me if there was any dog that I’m afraid of. I quickly said no, but then I really thought about it. Is there a dog that I would cross the street to avoid? Finally I realized YES. One. Giant, full-sized poodles. There is something I find particularly terrifying about them.
They stare at me, their eyes following me to the bathroom. Their eyes narrow and squint and their foreheads crease with annoyance as they seem to say, “What the hell are YOU doing here?”
Well, stranger, I haven’t peed in several hours so that seems like a good idea unless I feel like just taking a leak in my bed….oh, I’m sorry, did I need your permission?
What I find really confusing about this whole set-up is that usually said stranger is sitting with one of my roommates. Whether it was one of my roommates from college, or roommates from the kibbutz, or roommates from right now….I would come into the room and it would be completely obvious from the expression on my roommate’s face that they were not in the least bit concerned with my presence. So I’m not sure why the stranger would be so concerned with my sudden appearance. If my roommate doesn’t seem to be surprised or frightened of my appearance, there’s a finite number of possibilities as to my identity.
Next time someone gives me the “What are YOU doing here?” look I’m just going to snap back, “I pay rent here—just what the fuck is YOUR excuse for being here?”
Henyways, here are some random thoughts from the week:
1) Why do all Israeli girls, even the 8 year olds, sound like they’ve been smoking a pack a day since before they were born? Am I the only one who notices the very raspy quality to Israeli girls’ voices? Am I imagining it?
2) Israelis really need to get over the song “Jai Ho” from Slumdog Millionaire, and on that note, Israelis really need to get over the entire soundtrack from Slumdog Millionaire. I get it. We all liked the movie. Let’s move on.
3) I saw the Transformers 2 movie. It was weird that in Hebrew they’re called “Robotrikim” apparently….so that was strange. Anyway, during the entire movie a group of girls was chatting and shrieking and getting up and moving and generally pissing off everyone in the theater. Eventually ushers came in, stopped the film, and made the whole group of girls leave. What I’m really pissed off about though is that the girls also talked during the previews. And the new Harry Potter trailer was playing. It was the first time I had seen the trailer. I don’t think I even need to tell you, but I was really fucking excited. But of course, I couldn’t hear a thing because Efrat and Ofrat and Osnat and Liat and whoever were all shrieking and blabbering on—about something completely unrelated to Harry Potter.
Seriously, who the hell talks during a Harry Potter trailer? ISRAELIS. Seriously, the only sound you should hear during a Harry Potter trailer is the sound of everyone’s jaw simultaneously hitting the floor in amazement, and the occasional pit-pat of droplets of drool dripping to the floor.
4) Why do Israelis always think you’re cutting them in line? Certainly there’s something to be said for not being a sucker, for not getting cut in line…but nothing compares to how territorial Israelis can get with their spots in line. Israelis, I fear, are just one degree of sanity away from peeing on their spots in line. And I’m not just talking about the line for the bus, if you can even call it a “line.” Just last night I was in the supermarket and this Israeli woman abandoned her cart in the middle of an aisle, not too far from a check out line. Israelis have an interesting habit of doing that, of leaving their cart in line and then just disappearing for thirty minutes or a week. I happened to get in that same line, knowing that I’d be behind this woman should she ever decide to return from the epic solo journey that all Israelis seem to make while waiting to pay for groceries. I moved in a little closer to the counter though since I didn’t want to block the aisle. Big mistake. The woman came back and started freaking out, saying that she was here first and blahblahblah. I calmly explained that I knew, but that I simply didn’t want to stand in the middle of the “street” and be in the middle of everyone’s way. She kept freaking out at me as she moved her cart in front of me. She shut up for a while, but every time I moved my cart forward as the line progressed, she’d turn back around and give me an aggressive look, preparing to get out her elbows and everything should I even dare to try to cut her “again.” She actually reminded me of middle school PE when we played football. I was the quarterback and I distinctly remember seeing people playing defense for the opposing team, positioned exactly like she was.
There were about 10 distinct moments where I just wanted to scream at her, “FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, I KNOW YOU’RE IN FRONT OF ME, I’M NOT TRYING TO CUT YOU, YOU PSYCHO BITCH!”
5) There’s poop flying in Jerusalem. The Haredim are pissed because a parking lot in Jerusalem is open on Shabbat. I’m beginning to think I wasn’t raised Jewish at all, because I don’t recognize these Jews. The Jews I grew up with in Hebrew School did things like dance to the song “Pata Pata” (you might have to google it…) every Sunday, and sing songs about doing good deeds….and have “cheeseburger bar mitzvahs.” Sure, it probably wasn’t the best religious upbringing ever, but at least it would never occur to me to throw shit—actual shit--at cops because of a parking lot.
6) A couple days ago someone asked me if there was any dog that I’m afraid of. I quickly said no, but then I really thought about it. Is there a dog that I would cross the street to avoid? Finally I realized YES. One. Giant, full-sized poodles. There is something I find particularly terrifying about them.
Justin Timberlake Memories
Tonight in a bar some Justin Timberlake song came on. I wish I could tell you the title, but I know it only as “that song that embarrasses the shit out of me.”
Back in 9th grade, 14 year old me took a dance class at school. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it on this blog. Anyway, I wish I could make my dear loyal readers proud (at last count there are three of you that I know of….but you never know who I might bump into next at some Shabbat dinner!); I wish I could tell you that I’m a great dancer.
And, wish fulfilled, I’m going to tell you that I am indeed a great dancer. A fantastic dancer.
In my room.
At home, by myself, I am the greatest dancer the world has ever seen. My moves range from the smooth to the silly to the obscene. The problem is that the second anyone else can see me, I can’t dance. I freeze up. I’m embarrassed to even tap my feet to the beat in public. People who might not know me as well would say that I don’t like dancing, based on how they see me freeze up in clubs or at dances. This is a lie. Secretly, deep down, I have to stop myself from jumping on tables and going all out when I hear music in public. Especially if it’s a Mika song. Maybe it’s because I’ve done lighting/stage managing for too many musicals, but I even find myself struggling to refrain from dancing to the PA music in seemingly innocent places, like on the bus or at a pizza parlor or at Aroma. Basically, I’m a closeted Breslover, except with a larger arsenal of dance moves involving my ass.
So anyway, I thought taking this dance class would teach me some basic stuff so that I wouldn’t totally freeze up when I’m around other people. I’d still probably never fulfill my (current) dream of breaking out into a song and dance number in the middle of the bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, but I figured that there was some kind of healthy compromise I could reach. I figured a Level One class would be filled with beginners, like me, who had never taken a class before and who knew nothing about dance.
Boy, was I an idiot. The people in that class…. Let me put it like this: it was like being in a Level One French class with only native Parisians.
“Beginning Dance” consisted of me, my two friends, and apparently the entire cast of the film “Center Stage.” And my two friends, those fucking traitors, turned out to be halfway decent.
I’ve blocked out most memories of that class from my head, but when I cringe in utter humiliation at the mere thought of being in a dance class as an awkward teenager, clear moments of extreme embarrassment come to the front of my mind. I remember doing an interpretive dance about the creation of the universe (complete with dialogue: “Expand…expand……revolve revolve revolve….wither….wither….wither……..apocalypse. The End.”) I remember doing an exercise with the entire class that involved leaping like graceful gazelle across the wild grasses of the Serengeti. Okay, that’s what it was supposed to look like, and somehow everyone else in the class actually managed to pull it off. I on the other hand managed to look like a polio-crippled elephant jumping up and down in frustration.
I also remember bar exercises that were nearly impossible for inflexible people like me, and I remember doing yoga…..which seemed to induce gas, because I remember letting out farts completely involuntarily every time the teacher walked by. If they were audible, sometimes I would turn and look at the teacher with a look of absolute disgust, hoping I could maybe confuse her into thinking that she was the one who had just ripped one.
But the worst part by far was the Justin Timberlake dance. This was what the teacher really focused on. A dance to a Justin Timberlake song. Needless to say, I was terrible at it. For one thing, I couldn’t remember all the steps—sure, remembering long passages of epic Roman poetry in its original Latin was a cinch for me, but the second you try to get my feet to remember anything besides how to walk…well, you’re in for trouble. And even when I could remember the steps, I couldn’t pull them off. A lot of the moves involved trying to look, for lack of a better word, “sexy.” You know, for example, you can’t just move your ass from Point A to Point B in a straight, efficient line, but rather you gotta put some attitude into it. Or something. Don’t ask me, I’ve never really understood this stuff.
Frankly, the mere thought of me trying to act sexy is appalling enough to turn even the straightest of men gay. As a favor to the general public (and to the one guy in the class…whose later switch to homosexuality I’m gonna go ahead and take personal credit for), I decided that the best thing I could do for the dance would be to do try to be as unsexy as possible. I tried imagining that I was dancing in a church. And also that I was a nun. I’m not sure which church would have played a Justin Timberlake song in the middle of services, but oh well. This is what got me through dance class.
So anyway, every time I hear that song, my head always goes back to 9th grade dance class. That song was the background to all those memories.
When it came on in the bar, I realized that the song would now also be the background to the memories of this night. This song is what I heard when I was interacting with people.
It made me start comparing the two experiences. Here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I stumble my way through dance class way back when. And here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I interact with people in a bar setting. Justin Timberlake and Me, the dancer. Justin Timberlake and Me, the person interacting with other humans.
I gotta say, of the two ……I’m a much better dancer.
Back in 9th grade, 14 year old me took a dance class at school. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it on this blog. Anyway, I wish I could make my dear loyal readers proud (at last count there are three of you that I know of….but you never know who I might bump into next at some Shabbat dinner!); I wish I could tell you that I’m a great dancer.
And, wish fulfilled, I’m going to tell you that I am indeed a great dancer. A fantastic dancer.
In my room.
At home, by myself, I am the greatest dancer the world has ever seen. My moves range from the smooth to the silly to the obscene. The problem is that the second anyone else can see me, I can’t dance. I freeze up. I’m embarrassed to even tap my feet to the beat in public. People who might not know me as well would say that I don’t like dancing, based on how they see me freeze up in clubs or at dances. This is a lie. Secretly, deep down, I have to stop myself from jumping on tables and going all out when I hear music in public. Especially if it’s a Mika song. Maybe it’s because I’ve done lighting/stage managing for too many musicals, but I even find myself struggling to refrain from dancing to the PA music in seemingly innocent places, like on the bus or at a pizza parlor or at Aroma. Basically, I’m a closeted Breslover, except with a larger arsenal of dance moves involving my ass.
So anyway, I thought taking this dance class would teach me some basic stuff so that I wouldn’t totally freeze up when I’m around other people. I’d still probably never fulfill my (current) dream of breaking out into a song and dance number in the middle of the bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, but I figured that there was some kind of healthy compromise I could reach. I figured a Level One class would be filled with beginners, like me, who had never taken a class before and who knew nothing about dance.
Boy, was I an idiot. The people in that class…. Let me put it like this: it was like being in a Level One French class with only native Parisians.
“Beginning Dance” consisted of me, my two friends, and apparently the entire cast of the film “Center Stage.” And my two friends, those fucking traitors, turned out to be halfway decent.
I’ve blocked out most memories of that class from my head, but when I cringe in utter humiliation at the mere thought of being in a dance class as an awkward teenager, clear moments of extreme embarrassment come to the front of my mind. I remember doing an interpretive dance about the creation of the universe (complete with dialogue: “Expand…expand……revolve revolve revolve….wither….wither….wither……..apocalypse. The End.”) I remember doing an exercise with the entire class that involved leaping like graceful gazelle across the wild grasses of the Serengeti. Okay, that’s what it was supposed to look like, and somehow everyone else in the class actually managed to pull it off. I on the other hand managed to look like a polio-crippled elephant jumping up and down in frustration.
I also remember bar exercises that were nearly impossible for inflexible people like me, and I remember doing yoga…..which seemed to induce gas, because I remember letting out farts completely involuntarily every time the teacher walked by. If they were audible, sometimes I would turn and look at the teacher with a look of absolute disgust, hoping I could maybe confuse her into thinking that she was the one who had just ripped one.
But the worst part by far was the Justin Timberlake dance. This was what the teacher really focused on. A dance to a Justin Timberlake song. Needless to say, I was terrible at it. For one thing, I couldn’t remember all the steps—sure, remembering long passages of epic Roman poetry in its original Latin was a cinch for me, but the second you try to get my feet to remember anything besides how to walk…well, you’re in for trouble. And even when I could remember the steps, I couldn’t pull them off. A lot of the moves involved trying to look, for lack of a better word, “sexy.” You know, for example, you can’t just move your ass from Point A to Point B in a straight, efficient line, but rather you gotta put some attitude into it. Or something. Don’t ask me, I’ve never really understood this stuff.
Frankly, the mere thought of me trying to act sexy is appalling enough to turn even the straightest of men gay. As a favor to the general public (and to the one guy in the class…whose later switch to homosexuality I’m gonna go ahead and take personal credit for), I decided that the best thing I could do for the dance would be to do try to be as unsexy as possible. I tried imagining that I was dancing in a church. And also that I was a nun. I’m not sure which church would have played a Justin Timberlake song in the middle of services, but oh well. This is what got me through dance class.
So anyway, every time I hear that song, my head always goes back to 9th grade dance class. That song was the background to all those memories.
When it came on in the bar, I realized that the song would now also be the background to the memories of this night. This song is what I heard when I was interacting with people.
It made me start comparing the two experiences. Here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I stumble my way through dance class way back when. And here’s Justin Timberlake singing as I interact with people in a bar setting. Justin Timberlake and Me, the dancer. Justin Timberlake and Me, the person interacting with other humans.
I gotta say, of the two ……I’m a much better dancer.
Monday, June 29, 2009
So a true post will probably follow tonight, but I just wanted to give a little snippet today of something that happened yesterday.
Yesterday my Australian roomie from the kibbutz called me to wish me happy birthday. It was actually rather surprising because I wasn't expecting her to be in Israel until July, but I guess she came earlier. I started talking to her a bit, and she stops me and goes, "Wow man, you sounded so American right there!"
...well....yeah....what else would I sound like?
Yesterday my Australian roomie from the kibbutz called me to wish me happy birthday. It was actually rather surprising because I wasn't expecting her to be in Israel until July, but I guess she came earlier. I started talking to her a bit, and she stops me and goes, "Wow man, you sounded so American right there!"
...well....yeah....what else would I sound like?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
DJ ET
So last night at 3.30 am I was woken by…..
A trance remix of the film E.T.
Blasting. Just blasting. I have no idea from where. It was the sort of thing that the entire neighborhood could hear perfectly—each booming bass thud, each line from the movie….
As far as things I’ve been woken up by throughout my life go (alarms, Mom yelling, someone farting in my face, an earthquake, getting baptized by my friends at my 9th birthday, my French roommate screaming in her sleep), this one was kinda neat. It was the sort of thing that actually would have been awesome if it hadn’t been happening in the wee hours of the morning.
At first I was pissed off that I was woken up—because it takes A LOT to wake me up. But then I just sort of sat in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening. Who the hell comes up with these things? Is this a full time job? Why ET?
A trance remix of the film E.T.
Blasting. Just blasting. I have no idea from where. It was the sort of thing that the entire neighborhood could hear perfectly—each booming bass thud, each line from the movie….
As far as things I’ve been woken up by throughout my life go (alarms, Mom yelling, someone farting in my face, an earthquake, getting baptized by my friends at my 9th birthday, my French roommate screaming in her sleep), this one was kinda neat. It was the sort of thing that actually would have been awesome if it hadn’t been happening in the wee hours of the morning.
At first I was pissed off that I was woken up—because it takes A LOT to wake me up. But then I just sort of sat in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening. Who the hell comes up with these things? Is this a full time job? Why ET?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Little Road Trip On The Prairie:
So I’m planning a road trip with my mom. It’ll be me flying/driving solo from NY to Chicago, staying in Chicago for about a week, and then my mom meeting me in Chicago for the 2000 mile trek home to LA.
The thought of it is making me homesick. Unbearably homesick.
Probably the only thing I absolutely hate about Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel (as opposed to the state or people), is that there are practically no places in the country where you are just…alone.
Maybe it’s the introvert in me rearing its ugly head right here, but what I love about the US is that for large stretches of the country you can be barreling down the highway and not see a soul. You can safely travel at Mach 3, and as you set cruise control you can peer out the window. Just miles and miles of emptiness. Either flat empty prairies or cornfields or canyons or mountains, but no people. It’s just you and, if you’ve got one, your co-pilot. And the two of you can put the windows down and scream the words to your favorite Brad Paisley song at the top of your lungs—and not a single person will hear you.
When you do come across civilization, you come to places like “Carhenge” or the hometown of Paul Bunyan or a place that boasts of being the birthplace of something called “corn salad,” or town named (for some inexplicable reason) Parachute.
And the people. There’s no guy in Israel like the guy from small-town Northern California who told us that if we don’t eat mountain lions then they will eat all our babies. Sure, Israel has some crazy people (just check out the average Israeli driving a car, and I DARE you to tell me they’re not crazy!), but Israel doesn’t have that particularly horrible blend of rural craziness that you find in the US. Israel has boring, obnoxious Haredim, but it doesn’t have Evangelical Christians, or people like the Duggars. I’m so homesick right now that I miss even that!
The problem with the land of Israel is that even in the rural areas you can still see the lights of a small village on a not-too-distant hilltop. Everyone lives in a fucking apartment because there’s no space for people to even have an LA-sized backyard, and so something like an entire cornfield for a backyard (like in Iowa) is a lost cause.
The thought of all this makes me wish Israel were more imperialistic. I would LOVE this country even more if we had control over the entire Middle East. Not for any political reasons, but just so I could drive through it and not be bothered by civilization.
What really got me thinking was when I saw Star Trek a couple days ago. It was just me and an American father and his Israeli children. The kids were probably only a couple years younger than me, probably just about to go into the army. The dad reminded me of my father—he clearly lived and breathed Star Trek. My dad watches Star Trek EVERY NIGHT, unless Beetlejuice or Ghostbusters is on, and has dragged our family to see every Star Trek movie. Star Trek isn’t exactly something I personally choose to watch, but because it’s so important to my dad, I’ve just sort of absorbed it. And I feel like most kids in America could recognize Spock or Kirk, just because they’re cultural icons. Like, if an American kid (regardless of whether or not their father is as big of a nerd as my dad) sees Leonard Nimoy wearing pointy ears and a bowl cut, they know it’s Spock. It’s just common knowledge. Just like everyone knows what Darth Vader looks like, or what George Washington looked like.
But this American dad’s Israeli children didn’t know. They didn’t know who Spock was, or what he looked like. They didn’t know who William Shatner was. They didn’t know anything. Before the movie started, the American dad was trying desperately to cram a lifetime’s worth of Star Trek knowledge into five minutes. He was telling them about who was who, what was what, what the basic premise of the series is. The way he spoke as if all the characters were real, like they were old friends of his, with reverence in his voice let me know that this guy clearly LOVED Star Trek like my dad does.
The movie started, and the Israeli children kept leaning into their dad to ask questions, and he kept trying to (quite desperately) explain Star Trek to them. Eventually during the hafsaka they left.
This utterly broke my heart. The man clearly loved Star Trek. But his Israeli children, because they didn’t grow up in a society where it is a cultural icon, didn’t get it. They couldn’t even follow the film, they were so confused.
I’m afraid of that happening to me if I stay. My children (should I have any) won’t understand Star Trek, or what it’s like to have a backyard instead of a balcony, or what it is to drive through the middle of nowhere—truly the middle of nowhere—and to enjoy the scenery, or what country music is, or what it’s like to go to school in the US, or….everything. I’m not even talking about LIKING here because I won’t be too bothered if my kids don’t end up liking half the stuff I like, I’m talking about UNDERSTANDING. I’m afraid that if I have kids here, I’m going to be raising foreigners. It’d be weird raising kids as Israeli scouts instead of as Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, and not seeing baseball games over the summer with them (or—even worse—having to explain baseball to them!), and….everything. Absolutely everything would be different. Everything about childhood is different here—the games, the books, the songs, the mentality.
I know it seems ridiculous to get so worked up over something that is probably years and years away from happening (if indeed I end up having kids at all) and it’s especially ridiculous since it was triggered from watching Star Trek….
But at the same time, the thought of having to explain things like, “Beam me up!” or what a phaser is or what the hell a Vulcan is….just appalls the shit out of me.
Okay, I gotta say I’m feeling a little bit better. I’m playing my iTunes library right now, and playing stuff that reminds me of the US is upsetting me at the moment, as is stuff that makes me think of Israel. So instead I put on the song “You Know My Name” (the Bond theme song for Casino Royale), and I instantly burst into laughter. A couple weeks ago I promised myself that if I do end up serving in “Collection of Field Intelligence,” then I would allow myself to hum any and all Bond themes as well as the song “Secret Agent Man” to myself at all times and in all places during my three years of service, even if it annoys the crap out of people, be they friends, bunkmates or random people on the bus. This, I figure, would be my right.
That alone is reason enough to stay in Israel!
The thought of it is making me homesick. Unbearably homesick.
Probably the only thing I absolutely hate about Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel (as opposed to the state or people), is that there are practically no places in the country where you are just…alone.
Maybe it’s the introvert in me rearing its ugly head right here, but what I love about the US is that for large stretches of the country you can be barreling down the highway and not see a soul. You can safely travel at Mach 3, and as you set cruise control you can peer out the window. Just miles and miles of emptiness. Either flat empty prairies or cornfields or canyons or mountains, but no people. It’s just you and, if you’ve got one, your co-pilot. And the two of you can put the windows down and scream the words to your favorite Brad Paisley song at the top of your lungs—and not a single person will hear you.
When you do come across civilization, you come to places like “Carhenge” or the hometown of Paul Bunyan or a place that boasts of being the birthplace of something called “corn salad,” or town named (for some inexplicable reason) Parachute.
And the people. There’s no guy in Israel like the guy from small-town Northern California who told us that if we don’t eat mountain lions then they will eat all our babies. Sure, Israel has some crazy people (just check out the average Israeli driving a car, and I DARE you to tell me they’re not crazy!), but Israel doesn’t have that particularly horrible blend of rural craziness that you find in the US. Israel has boring, obnoxious Haredim, but it doesn’t have Evangelical Christians, or people like the Duggars. I’m so homesick right now that I miss even that!
The problem with the land of Israel is that even in the rural areas you can still see the lights of a small village on a not-too-distant hilltop. Everyone lives in a fucking apartment because there’s no space for people to even have an LA-sized backyard, and so something like an entire cornfield for a backyard (like in Iowa) is a lost cause.
The thought of all this makes me wish Israel were more imperialistic. I would LOVE this country even more if we had control over the entire Middle East. Not for any political reasons, but just so I could drive through it and not be bothered by civilization.
What really got me thinking was when I saw Star Trek a couple days ago. It was just me and an American father and his Israeli children. The kids were probably only a couple years younger than me, probably just about to go into the army. The dad reminded me of my father—he clearly lived and breathed Star Trek. My dad watches Star Trek EVERY NIGHT, unless Beetlejuice or Ghostbusters is on, and has dragged our family to see every Star Trek movie. Star Trek isn’t exactly something I personally choose to watch, but because it’s so important to my dad, I’ve just sort of absorbed it. And I feel like most kids in America could recognize Spock or Kirk, just because they’re cultural icons. Like, if an American kid (regardless of whether or not their father is as big of a nerd as my dad) sees Leonard Nimoy wearing pointy ears and a bowl cut, they know it’s Spock. It’s just common knowledge. Just like everyone knows what Darth Vader looks like, or what George Washington looked like.
But this American dad’s Israeli children didn’t know. They didn’t know who Spock was, or what he looked like. They didn’t know who William Shatner was. They didn’t know anything. Before the movie started, the American dad was trying desperately to cram a lifetime’s worth of Star Trek knowledge into five minutes. He was telling them about who was who, what was what, what the basic premise of the series is. The way he spoke as if all the characters were real, like they were old friends of his, with reverence in his voice let me know that this guy clearly LOVED Star Trek like my dad does.
The movie started, and the Israeli children kept leaning into their dad to ask questions, and he kept trying to (quite desperately) explain Star Trek to them. Eventually during the hafsaka they left.
This utterly broke my heart. The man clearly loved Star Trek. But his Israeli children, because they didn’t grow up in a society where it is a cultural icon, didn’t get it. They couldn’t even follow the film, they were so confused.
I’m afraid of that happening to me if I stay. My children (should I have any) won’t understand Star Trek, or what it’s like to have a backyard instead of a balcony, or what it is to drive through the middle of nowhere—truly the middle of nowhere—and to enjoy the scenery, or what country music is, or what it’s like to go to school in the US, or….everything. I’m not even talking about LIKING here because I won’t be too bothered if my kids don’t end up liking half the stuff I like, I’m talking about UNDERSTANDING. I’m afraid that if I have kids here, I’m going to be raising foreigners. It’d be weird raising kids as Israeli scouts instead of as Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, and not seeing baseball games over the summer with them (or—even worse—having to explain baseball to them!), and….everything. Absolutely everything would be different. Everything about childhood is different here—the games, the books, the songs, the mentality.
I know it seems ridiculous to get so worked up over something that is probably years and years away from happening (if indeed I end up having kids at all) and it’s especially ridiculous since it was triggered from watching Star Trek….
But at the same time, the thought of having to explain things like, “Beam me up!” or what a phaser is or what the hell a Vulcan is….just appalls the shit out of me.
Okay, I gotta say I’m feeling a little bit better. I’m playing my iTunes library right now, and playing stuff that reminds me of the US is upsetting me at the moment, as is stuff that makes me think of Israel. So instead I put on the song “You Know My Name” (the Bond theme song for Casino Royale), and I instantly burst into laughter. A couple weeks ago I promised myself that if I do end up serving in “Collection of Field Intelligence,” then I would allow myself to hum any and all Bond themes as well as the song “Secret Agent Man” to myself at all times and in all places during my three years of service, even if it annoys the crap out of people, be they friends, bunkmates or random people on the bus. This, I figure, would be my right.
That alone is reason enough to stay in Israel!
Monday, June 22, 2009
Hokey Pokey Army
Probably the worst thing about the enlistment process is the fact that at any given moment you have no idea what’s going on. I feel like most of the process involves being buffeted helplessly from station to station, from interview to interview, from test to test…it’s a bit like being Aeneas, except at the end of the process you don’t get to establish the foundations of Ancient Rome. You just get some boring two-year job.
What can you expect? You can expect, on several occasions, to get calls from random army human resources divisions (they’ll introduce themselves immediately after you say, “hello,” and they’ll speak so quickly that you have no idea what their name is or what division they work for). They’ll then quickly tell you that you have to be at X spot on Y date—they’ll say this information so quickly that it’s more like vomiting than speaking. You’ll ask specifically what it’s for, and you’ll get the same vague, generic answer: “It’s connected to your army placement.”
Well what the hell does that mean? The pee test I did in the army enlistment center was connected to my army placement, as was the mile I had to run at the combat gibush, as were the computer tests I took at the jobnik test day. So how the hell am I supposed to prepare for this latest labor? Should I assume it’ll be a three-for-one test, and prepare to pee, run and test my brains all in the same day?
Today was one such mystery task “connected to my army placement.” All I knew was that I had to be in a specific building in a specific city at a specific time. And I was told, “G-d help you if you are late!”
So I got there about ten minutes before my scheduled appointment time. I rang a bell on a door, and after a few minutes a non-descript man answered the door. Really, the best way I can describe this guy is to say that there wasn’t anything about him worth describing. Bland features, bland voice….whatever. He ushered me into the waiting room and then told me that he would be with me in 30 minutes. So much for “G-d help you if you are late!”
And so I was left completely alone in this waiting room. Kind of freaked out and still not entirely sure what I was going to have to do at this latest army task, I cautiously made my way to one of 13 enormous chairs. I sat, completely alone in this enormous waiting room, filled with empty chairs, and started looking around. The walls were absolutely white—not just white, but a harsh white that, when combined with the harsh fluorescent lighting from the ceiling, made me feel like my eyes were about to shrivel up and die. “I’m melting! What a world, what a world….” It gave the room a sort of sterile, hospital-like feeling, minus the unsanitary fact that on each of the unoccupied chairs there were hairs and footprints and flakes of dead skin. This proof of the existence of other people in my shoes was both comforting and disgusting at the same time.
I settled down in my seat and tried to wait patiently. In complete silence. I swear, the color white makes a sound. So I’m sitting there, the walls are droning on in the background, saying, “WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE.” And the air conditioning is humming quietly, and the loudest thing in the room, drowning out the white walls and the AC, is my breathing. Deafening. It sounded like the breathing you hear in trailers for horror films. Like, “BREATHE…..Is the monster gone? BREATHE…..BREATHE…..Aaaaaaaa!!!!!!!” If that makes any sense.
After about 10 minutes of complete boredom I got the idea that maybe sitting in this oppressively white, abandoned and bare room was in itself the test. I tried to slyly look for hidden camera, but after about five minutes of looking I realized that I’m probably not interesting enough to the army to be subjected to weird tests like this. So I made a mental note to not pick my nose, just in case, but stopped looking for hidden cameras.
As I’ve mentioned before on this blog….when I get nervous, I pee. A lot. So obviously while waiting in this room it dawned on me that I needed to pee before going into my latest army task. Normally I’d ask permission to use a private office’s private bathroom…but in this case there was no one to ask. I was completely alone in this large waiting room. The exit door was locked, as was the door to what I figured was the main office. I turned a corner, passing through an extremely bare kitchen (just a sink and four small jars of coffee/cocoa powder—no spoons or even cups!), and came into a tiny toilet closet. I did my business, then flushed….and
WOOOOOOOSH
A deafening roar comes out of the toilet. Like, not a flush, but a noise that lets you know that you have done something irreversibly horrible to the toilet. The toilet growls, like it’s angry for revenge or something. I spend the next 10 minutes standing next to the screaming toilet, with my finger to my lips as I whisper, “Shhhhhh!” like it’s an upset baby instead of a toilet noisily demanding justice. I keep quietly repeating to myself, “All I did was pee! Shhhhh! Shhhh!”
Finally, over the angry growl of the toilet I heard the guy in charge start to come out of his office, so I rushed out to the waiting area to act as if I had been there the entire time. He doesn’t seem to notice the sonic boom coming out of the toilet…
Once inside the office (almost as bare as the waiting room—just a plain desk, two chairs, a telephone, a wilting plant, a pen, and a binder) , he asks me about some of my details. What is my name? What is my ID number? What is my phone number? I answer all these questions, and then he explains to me what this day is. It’s basically just another interview where he’s going to ask me about myself, and he’s going to ask about jobs in the army, and if there’s something I want to ask for I can do it now. And so the interview starts:
“Tell me about yourself.”
How the hell am I supposed to answer that? What does he want to know about me? Does he want facts about me? Like a biography or something? Does he want to know my philosophical beliefs? How detailed am I supposed to be?
Instead of answering, I just sort of cough and fidget uncomfortably, saying, “Ummmmm,” quite a bit, hoping that this will encourage him to follow up with a more specific question. But I get nothing. So then I said something like, “Look, I’m fine with telling you about anything, but I just don’t know what specifically you want to know.” This made the interviewer reflect for a moment, and then he issued a new demand:
“Okay. Tell me about school.”
Again I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and wondered what I was supposed to tell him. Did he want to know about my grades? What subjects I liked? My social life? My extracurricular activities? My huge crush on a guy who in senior year turned out to be gay?
But as I tried to form the right kind of answer in my head, I looked up at the interviewer. Big mistake.
This guy brought eye contact to a new level. This was not normal eye contact; this was a staring contest that the guy didn’t seem to realize I had already forfeited. I thought to myself that this must be what it’s like for Cyclops from X-Men to look at you without his protective glasses. It was that same intense burning sensation. I thought maybe he was trying to achieve some kind of telepathy with me, and I wanted to tell him, “Sir, no matter how hard you stare, you’re still not going to be able to read my mind.”
Anyway, somehow I got past the fact that apparently the interviewer didn’t need to blink like most humans do, and I found it a little bit easier to open up to his questions.
It did get really confusing though because I mentioned that I like to write stories about people I encounter. When he asked me to explain how I saw myself, how I would write about myself in one of these stories, and I said that I’m not all that exciting, I’m just an observer. He asked what I meant, and I said that I personally am quite boring, but my life just happens to intersect with the lives of interesting people, and I like to write about them. He asked for an example, and I brought up the Hokey Pokey Man.
The Hokey Pokey Man is a man that became sort of a legend of my childhood. I was a little girl, standing outside the White House with my family, waiting to go inside for a tour. It was freezing, we had been waiting for hours, and we were all miserable, when suddenly and completely out of the blue, we hear a loud voice singing the Hokey Pokey. We all looked around for the source of this sound, and down the street we found him. The Hokey Pokey Man. A man who dressed 100% like the respectable businessman or lawyer or whatever that he was, but who also wore enormous, bright yellow DJ headphones. I could say he was running down the street, but I think the word “prancing” would be more fitting. So this man pranced down the street in his sharp business suit, belting the Hokey Pokey at the top of his lungs, and flinging his arms into the air in time with the music. As all eyes waiting in line at the White House turned towards the Hokey Pokey Man, he seemed to be completely oblivious….still skipping and twirling down the street in his immaculately kept business suit and singing and dancing to the Hokey Pokey. And off he danced into the distance, like some kind of flamboyantly gay cowboy riding off into the rhinestone sunset.
The interviewer asked me how this story shows how I am, and I explained my telling him this story in itself is telling him about myself. While my family may only vaguely remember the Hokey Pokey Man, I’m the only one who is going to keep telling the story, who’s going to write about it, and who is going to spend great chunks of time for the rest of her life wondering what ever became of him, wondering if he’s still dancing the Hokey Pokey down the street in DC or if he’s made to a different state or different song by now.
What can you expect? You can expect, on several occasions, to get calls from random army human resources divisions (they’ll introduce themselves immediately after you say, “hello,” and they’ll speak so quickly that you have no idea what their name is or what division they work for). They’ll then quickly tell you that you have to be at X spot on Y date—they’ll say this information so quickly that it’s more like vomiting than speaking. You’ll ask specifically what it’s for, and you’ll get the same vague, generic answer: “It’s connected to your army placement.”
Well what the hell does that mean? The pee test I did in the army enlistment center was connected to my army placement, as was the mile I had to run at the combat gibush, as were the computer tests I took at the jobnik test day. So how the hell am I supposed to prepare for this latest labor? Should I assume it’ll be a three-for-one test, and prepare to pee, run and test my brains all in the same day?
Today was one such mystery task “connected to my army placement.” All I knew was that I had to be in a specific building in a specific city at a specific time. And I was told, “G-d help you if you are late!”
So I got there about ten minutes before my scheduled appointment time. I rang a bell on a door, and after a few minutes a non-descript man answered the door. Really, the best way I can describe this guy is to say that there wasn’t anything about him worth describing. Bland features, bland voice….whatever. He ushered me into the waiting room and then told me that he would be with me in 30 minutes. So much for “G-d help you if you are late!”
And so I was left completely alone in this waiting room. Kind of freaked out and still not entirely sure what I was going to have to do at this latest army task, I cautiously made my way to one of 13 enormous chairs. I sat, completely alone in this enormous waiting room, filled with empty chairs, and started looking around. The walls were absolutely white—not just white, but a harsh white that, when combined with the harsh fluorescent lighting from the ceiling, made me feel like my eyes were about to shrivel up and die. “I’m melting! What a world, what a world….” It gave the room a sort of sterile, hospital-like feeling, minus the unsanitary fact that on each of the unoccupied chairs there were hairs and footprints and flakes of dead skin. This proof of the existence of other people in my shoes was both comforting and disgusting at the same time.
I settled down in my seat and tried to wait patiently. In complete silence. I swear, the color white makes a sound. So I’m sitting there, the walls are droning on in the background, saying, “WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE.” And the air conditioning is humming quietly, and the loudest thing in the room, drowning out the white walls and the AC, is my breathing. Deafening. It sounded like the breathing you hear in trailers for horror films. Like, “BREATHE…..Is the monster gone? BREATHE…..BREATHE…..Aaaaaaaa!!!!!!!” If that makes any sense.
After about 10 minutes of complete boredom I got the idea that maybe sitting in this oppressively white, abandoned and bare room was in itself the test. I tried to slyly look for hidden camera, but after about five minutes of looking I realized that I’m probably not interesting enough to the army to be subjected to weird tests like this. So I made a mental note to not pick my nose, just in case, but stopped looking for hidden cameras.
As I’ve mentioned before on this blog….when I get nervous, I pee. A lot. So obviously while waiting in this room it dawned on me that I needed to pee before going into my latest army task. Normally I’d ask permission to use a private office’s private bathroom…but in this case there was no one to ask. I was completely alone in this large waiting room. The exit door was locked, as was the door to what I figured was the main office. I turned a corner, passing through an extremely bare kitchen (just a sink and four small jars of coffee/cocoa powder—no spoons or even cups!), and came into a tiny toilet closet. I did my business, then flushed….and
WOOOOOOOSH
A deafening roar comes out of the toilet. Like, not a flush, but a noise that lets you know that you have done something irreversibly horrible to the toilet. The toilet growls, like it’s angry for revenge or something. I spend the next 10 minutes standing next to the screaming toilet, with my finger to my lips as I whisper, “Shhhhhh!” like it’s an upset baby instead of a toilet noisily demanding justice. I keep quietly repeating to myself, “All I did was pee! Shhhhh! Shhhh!”
Finally, over the angry growl of the toilet I heard the guy in charge start to come out of his office, so I rushed out to the waiting area to act as if I had been there the entire time. He doesn’t seem to notice the sonic boom coming out of the toilet…
Once inside the office (almost as bare as the waiting room—just a plain desk, two chairs, a telephone, a wilting plant, a pen, and a binder) , he asks me about some of my details. What is my name? What is my ID number? What is my phone number? I answer all these questions, and then he explains to me what this day is. It’s basically just another interview where he’s going to ask me about myself, and he’s going to ask about jobs in the army, and if there’s something I want to ask for I can do it now. And so the interview starts:
“Tell me about yourself.”
How the hell am I supposed to answer that? What does he want to know about me? Does he want facts about me? Like a biography or something? Does he want to know my philosophical beliefs? How detailed am I supposed to be?
Instead of answering, I just sort of cough and fidget uncomfortably, saying, “Ummmmm,” quite a bit, hoping that this will encourage him to follow up with a more specific question. But I get nothing. So then I said something like, “Look, I’m fine with telling you about anything, but I just don’t know what specifically you want to know.” This made the interviewer reflect for a moment, and then he issued a new demand:
“Okay. Tell me about school.”
Again I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and wondered what I was supposed to tell him. Did he want to know about my grades? What subjects I liked? My social life? My extracurricular activities? My huge crush on a guy who in senior year turned out to be gay?
But as I tried to form the right kind of answer in my head, I looked up at the interviewer. Big mistake.
This guy brought eye contact to a new level. This was not normal eye contact; this was a staring contest that the guy didn’t seem to realize I had already forfeited. I thought to myself that this must be what it’s like for Cyclops from X-Men to look at you without his protective glasses. It was that same intense burning sensation. I thought maybe he was trying to achieve some kind of telepathy with me, and I wanted to tell him, “Sir, no matter how hard you stare, you’re still not going to be able to read my mind.”
Anyway, somehow I got past the fact that apparently the interviewer didn’t need to blink like most humans do, and I found it a little bit easier to open up to his questions.
It did get really confusing though because I mentioned that I like to write stories about people I encounter. When he asked me to explain how I saw myself, how I would write about myself in one of these stories, and I said that I’m not all that exciting, I’m just an observer. He asked what I meant, and I said that I personally am quite boring, but my life just happens to intersect with the lives of interesting people, and I like to write about them. He asked for an example, and I brought up the Hokey Pokey Man.
The Hokey Pokey Man is a man that became sort of a legend of my childhood. I was a little girl, standing outside the White House with my family, waiting to go inside for a tour. It was freezing, we had been waiting for hours, and we were all miserable, when suddenly and completely out of the blue, we hear a loud voice singing the Hokey Pokey. We all looked around for the source of this sound, and down the street we found him. The Hokey Pokey Man. A man who dressed 100% like the respectable businessman or lawyer or whatever that he was, but who also wore enormous, bright yellow DJ headphones. I could say he was running down the street, but I think the word “prancing” would be more fitting. So this man pranced down the street in his sharp business suit, belting the Hokey Pokey at the top of his lungs, and flinging his arms into the air in time with the music. As all eyes waiting in line at the White House turned towards the Hokey Pokey Man, he seemed to be completely oblivious….still skipping and twirling down the street in his immaculately kept business suit and singing and dancing to the Hokey Pokey. And off he danced into the distance, like some kind of flamboyantly gay cowboy riding off into the rhinestone sunset.
The interviewer asked me how this story shows how I am, and I explained my telling him this story in itself is telling him about myself. While my family may only vaguely remember the Hokey Pokey Man, I’m the only one who is going to keep telling the story, who’s going to write about it, and who is going to spend great chunks of time for the rest of her life wondering what ever became of him, wondering if he’s still dancing the Hokey Pokey down the street in DC or if he’s made to a different state or different song by now.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
So this guy from the kibbutz who keeps asking about my "fiance" (on facebook I'm married to a character from Ancient Roman epic poetry....), and finally, months later, after yet ANOTHER question about my fiance (which I kept trying to avoid answering) I just said:
"Do yourself a favor and google 'Pius Aeneas.' "
Urgh. People who don't study Latin are retarded.
"Do yourself a favor and google 'Pius Aeneas.' "
Urgh. People who don't study Latin are retarded.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Tourism and a random Zohan quote
Community Watch Guy: “I’m terrified right now, totally terrified. ‘Shitting my pants’ doesn’t come close to describing it. I wish I WAS shitting my pants, that’s how I feel.”
Zohan: It’s just a patrol.
Community Watch Guy: “What if something goes down? I don’t know if I have the courage to do something about it. What if something goes down and I didn’t do something and someone got killed? I would have to live with that. I mean, that’s….I’d…I’d be happier shitting my pants. Much happier.”
--You Don’t Mess With The Zohan.
Two tourists at a bus stop. A short man in a baseball cap, high Thorlo socks, shorts and button down shirt kept nervously glancing at the sign with all the bus numbers, then glancing back down at his map while groaning with frustration.
His wife, wearing a long flowy skirt with sandals and an old lady tank top tried to calm him down. “Marvin…the man said to take the 18.”
This seemed to irritate Marvin for some reason. “Well, damnit Maggie, do you SEE an 18 on the sign?”
“Don’t get snippy with me,” Maggie said very quietly, “I’m only telling you what the man said…”
Marvin just let out a frustrated groan, paused for a bit, then took another wild glance at the sign. “Well, you’re not a lot of help.”
Maggie let out a quiet sigh and said, “I’m sorry, I’m just a little bit turned around.”
“Turned around.” Not lost, but simply turned around. The phrase reminds me of my parents. Well, not my dad. My dad doesn’t get lost. Drop the man blindfolded in deserted outer Siberia or in the Amazon, and within minutes he’ll be able to tell you EXACTLY how to get to the nearest luxury hotel, or (if he’s hungry) the nearest McDonald’s that is still serving breakfast.
But my mom….the woman has no sense of direction, and whenever you call her out on it (“Mom, our house is down the street, how do you not know where we are???”) she lets out a quiet sigh and says, “I’m just…just a bit turned around.”
No, ‘lost’ would imply that the woman is a blind idiot when it comes to directions and surroundings, but ‘turned around”……It’s passive, like my mother had no control over the situation, but what is the active agent?
‘Turned around.” Like my mother was at a birthday party playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey or swinging at a piñata, and an adult blindfolded her, spun her around several times, and THEN told her to move towards the target. That is ‘turned around.’ So when my mother is lost in the middle of New York, or England, or even within our own neighborhood in Los Angeles, and she sighs and says that she’s ‘turned around,’ she’s implying that some kind of outside, malevolent spirit has blindfolded her, turned her around, and THEN told her to find our destination, so OF COURSE she can’t find it. Like evil fairies have come out of the woods for the sole purpose of turning my mother around and getting her lost. Which explains the sigh that always accompanies the expression, “I’m turned around.” The sigh is my mother’s way of saying, “Oh great, not again, those fucking assholes turned me around again. Great, just my luck.”
Aw….I miss my parents….
Zohan: It’s just a patrol.
Community Watch Guy: “What if something goes down? I don’t know if I have the courage to do something about it. What if something goes down and I didn’t do something and someone got killed? I would have to live with that. I mean, that’s….I’d…I’d be happier shitting my pants. Much happier.”
--You Don’t Mess With The Zohan.
Two tourists at a bus stop. A short man in a baseball cap, high Thorlo socks, shorts and button down shirt kept nervously glancing at the sign with all the bus numbers, then glancing back down at his map while groaning with frustration.
His wife, wearing a long flowy skirt with sandals and an old lady tank top tried to calm him down. “Marvin…the man said to take the 18.”
This seemed to irritate Marvin for some reason. “Well, damnit Maggie, do you SEE an 18 on the sign?”
“Don’t get snippy with me,” Maggie said very quietly, “I’m only telling you what the man said…”
Marvin just let out a frustrated groan, paused for a bit, then took another wild glance at the sign. “Well, you’re not a lot of help.”
Maggie let out a quiet sigh and said, “I’m sorry, I’m just a little bit turned around.”
“Turned around.” Not lost, but simply turned around. The phrase reminds me of my parents. Well, not my dad. My dad doesn’t get lost. Drop the man blindfolded in deserted outer Siberia or in the Amazon, and within minutes he’ll be able to tell you EXACTLY how to get to the nearest luxury hotel, or (if he’s hungry) the nearest McDonald’s that is still serving breakfast.
But my mom….the woman has no sense of direction, and whenever you call her out on it (“Mom, our house is down the street, how do you not know where we are???”) she lets out a quiet sigh and says, “I’m just…just a bit turned around.”
No, ‘lost’ would imply that the woman is a blind idiot when it comes to directions and surroundings, but ‘turned around”……It’s passive, like my mother had no control over the situation, but what is the active agent?
‘Turned around.” Like my mother was at a birthday party playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey or swinging at a piñata, and an adult blindfolded her, spun her around several times, and THEN told her to move towards the target. That is ‘turned around.’ So when my mother is lost in the middle of New York, or England, or even within our own neighborhood in Los Angeles, and she sighs and says that she’s ‘turned around,’ she’s implying that some kind of outside, malevolent spirit has blindfolded her, turned her around, and THEN told her to find our destination, so OF COURSE she can’t find it. Like evil fairies have come out of the woods for the sole purpose of turning my mother around and getting her lost. Which explains the sigh that always accompanies the expression, “I’m turned around.” The sigh is my mother’s way of saying, “Oh great, not again, those fucking assholes turned me around again. Great, just my luck.”
Aw….I miss my parents….
Saturday, June 6, 2009
.....Haven't written much lately....Basically I've been really busy between reading the Twilight series and going to America
I think I'll properly update sometime this week. In the meantime, here's some big news: I got my official answer from the army. I am going in in November and that's final. No moving it to July or whatever.
I've decided that won't be so bad. I guess I can travel a lot afterwards before going to university..... I'm thinking maybe I'll go to Australia.....but I guess I don't really have to start planning yet.
I think I'll properly update sometime this week. In the meantime, here's some big news: I got my official answer from the army. I am going in in November and that's final. No moving it to July or whatever.
I've decided that won't be so bad. I guess I can travel a lot afterwards before going to university..... I'm thinking maybe I'll go to Australia.....but I guess I don't really have to start planning yet.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Why can't you make up your mind?
So tomorrow I’m going to New York/New Jersey for a week. A surprise from my mother to surprise my brother for his graduation. Yayyyy…. Time to stock up on GAP clothes, DVDs, and country music.
I ended up going to the Misrad Hapnim, the stuff of nightmares, being denied expedited “passport” services (I can’t leave Israel on an American passport anymore), and then bursting into tears. The manager felt so uncomfortable that she hurriedly told me that I should come back tomorrow and it would be ready. Get out, get out, she said to the sobbing mass that was me.
Before I started crying she was screaming at me that I was ridiculous for coming in here and demanding a Teudat Maavar almost immediately, and yelling that this was a government office and not an office for mothers who want to surprise brothers. She then (Oh G-d…) caught sight of my American passport in my hand, which was kind of like waving a red flag in front of a bull. She suddenly got inexplicably furious, threw an angry finger pointing in the direction of this apparently disgusting passport and she just kept asking me if I had any idea how long it took to get my American passport (and therefore how could I expect to get my Israeli one in one day?), and I just kept telling her that the last time I got a passport I was a minor and therefore my parents took care of it. In response she started yelling, repeating herself, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG IT TOOK TO GET THIS PASSPORT??!” So I started getting upset and yelled back that I just told her, I was a kid, a little girl, my parents took care of it. She just kept yelling, “DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK TO GET YOUR PASSPORT???” At this point I burst into tears, and started crying and saying that I was like 6 when I got my American passport for the first time, that my parents did it, that I didn’t remember. I continued sobbing hysterically that I just wanted to see my family, and that my mother didn’t know when she surprised me (on Monday.) that I couldn’t use my American passport to leave Israel.
Suddenly the woman goes, “It takes three months for American passports. B’seder, come back tomorrow and you’ll get your Teudat Maavar. Just go. Get out, get out.”
I’m a little scared because a week is just long enough to feel like, “Yay, I’m happy to be speaking English, I’m happy I get to see my family, etc etc etc” but not long enough to really want to go back to Israel. In recognition of that, I’d like to say two things about Israel that make me laugh:
1) Yesterday I was getting on a bus with friends to go see a movie (Angels and Demons---seriously, Dan Brown, you have a vendetta against the Catholic church). My last friend to get on the bus let out a sort of yelp of pain, and then asked the bus driver in Hebrew, “Why did you close the door on my foot???”
And then bus driver yells at her, “Why can’t you make up your mind???” Which causes me to start laughing uncontrollably. As my friends and I make our way to the back of the bus, I hear the bus driver muttering (quite loudly) to himself, “Jeez, are you getting on the bus or not? Make up your mind……Fuck!….”
Which I just loved. You know that in the US the bus driver would have apologized without even thinking twice about it, but in Israel if the bus driver closes the door on you, it’s your own damn fault for not getting on the fucking bus immediately.
2) I love the Israeli equivalent of “Enjoy your meal.” Except in the US the only person who would wish you something like, “Enjoy your meal” would be your waiter. Here, if anyone in a 50 ft radius sees that you are eating something, they tell you to enjoy it. On the kibbutz, as I walked through the dining hall with a lunch/dinner tray to a table, every other table I passed would without fail wish me a good meal. Today I grabbed a croissant as on-the-go breakfast and sat down on some low wall to eat it. There I was, crumbs all over my shirt and face, and no less than five complete strangers who walked by told me Bon Appetit in Hebrew.
So although I love America for its country music, it’s easy to understand government, and for my native language, at least Israel has angry bus drivers closing doors on people and people wishing you an enjoyable meal.
I ended up going to the Misrad Hapnim, the stuff of nightmares, being denied expedited “passport” services (I can’t leave Israel on an American passport anymore), and then bursting into tears. The manager felt so uncomfortable that she hurriedly told me that I should come back tomorrow and it would be ready. Get out, get out, she said to the sobbing mass that was me.
Before I started crying she was screaming at me that I was ridiculous for coming in here and demanding a Teudat Maavar almost immediately, and yelling that this was a government office and not an office for mothers who want to surprise brothers. She then (Oh G-d…) caught sight of my American passport in my hand, which was kind of like waving a red flag in front of a bull. She suddenly got inexplicably furious, threw an angry finger pointing in the direction of this apparently disgusting passport and she just kept asking me if I had any idea how long it took to get my American passport (and therefore how could I expect to get my Israeli one in one day?), and I just kept telling her that the last time I got a passport I was a minor and therefore my parents took care of it. In response she started yelling, repeating herself, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG IT TOOK TO GET THIS PASSPORT??!” So I started getting upset and yelled back that I just told her, I was a kid, a little girl, my parents took care of it. She just kept yelling, “DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK TO GET YOUR PASSPORT???” At this point I burst into tears, and started crying and saying that I was like 6 when I got my American passport for the first time, that my parents did it, that I didn’t remember. I continued sobbing hysterically that I just wanted to see my family, and that my mother didn’t know when she surprised me (on Monday.) that I couldn’t use my American passport to leave Israel.
Suddenly the woman goes, “It takes three months for American passports. B’seder, come back tomorrow and you’ll get your Teudat Maavar. Just go. Get out, get out.”
I’m a little scared because a week is just long enough to feel like, “Yay, I’m happy to be speaking English, I’m happy I get to see my family, etc etc etc” but not long enough to really want to go back to Israel. In recognition of that, I’d like to say two things about Israel that make me laugh:
1) Yesterday I was getting on a bus with friends to go see a movie (Angels and Demons---seriously, Dan Brown, you have a vendetta against the Catholic church). My last friend to get on the bus let out a sort of yelp of pain, and then asked the bus driver in Hebrew, “Why did you close the door on my foot???”
And then bus driver yells at her, “Why can’t you make up your mind???” Which causes me to start laughing uncontrollably. As my friends and I make our way to the back of the bus, I hear the bus driver muttering (quite loudly) to himself, “Jeez, are you getting on the bus or not? Make up your mind……Fuck!….”
Which I just loved. You know that in the US the bus driver would have apologized without even thinking twice about it, but in Israel if the bus driver closes the door on you, it’s your own damn fault for not getting on the fucking bus immediately.
2) I love the Israeli equivalent of “Enjoy your meal.” Except in the US the only person who would wish you something like, “Enjoy your meal” would be your waiter. Here, if anyone in a 50 ft radius sees that you are eating something, they tell you to enjoy it. On the kibbutz, as I walked through the dining hall with a lunch/dinner tray to a table, every other table I passed would without fail wish me a good meal. Today I grabbed a croissant as on-the-go breakfast and sat down on some low wall to eat it. There I was, crumbs all over my shirt and face, and no less than five complete strangers who walked by told me Bon Appetit in Hebrew.
So although I love America for its country music, it’s easy to understand government, and for my native language, at least Israel has angry bus drivers closing doors on people and people wishing you an enjoyable meal.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Sam the furrner
We almost just had a riot on our hands. The non-Jewish kitchen staff accidentally put out milk plates for a meat meal, and Oh G-d, by the way the religious kids were acting you would have thought that the apocalypse had come early.
Look, I understand that it’s frustrating and that re-koshering the kitchen and throwing out some ceramic plates is all going to be a hassle. But that’s not an excuse for dramatically striding across the room, giving a nasty look to the kitchen workers, and growling, “Zeh lo tov” (this is not good), and then storming out of the room. It’s not an excuse for throwing a hysterical fit and having loud arguments with the other religious residents about what we have to be doing to save the kitchen. Why?
Because it was just an honest fucking mistake.
It made me miserable to see the looks on the kitchen staff’s faces, because they just looked so humiliated, and I was embarrassed to be ethnically/religiously related to people who could make other people feel as ashamed as this over an accidental mistake. I counted a grand total of one religious person who managed to keep a serene expression on his face, who assured the kitchen staff that everything would be okay, and who quickly and calmly tried to contain the “contamination” to minimize the hassle of making the kitchen kosher again. Meanwhile, most of the religious residents just stood around looking pissed off or verbally expressed their displeasure to the kitchen staff.
Frankly, I would classify today as a day when I was embarrassed to be part of the Jewish people. Most of us just stand around whining about things, making others feel like shit, and only a small fraction of a percent of us ever actually do anything to fix the problem.
On a happier note? I love how protective certain people in the army get of people like me, aka foreign people. At the gibush for combat jobs, I remember how any time someone learned that I was foreign they immediately tried to be as helpful as possible to me. Though it annoyed me, several girls in my squad kept trying to be helpful and translate things into English for me…even stuff I understood perfectly. I remember as I was leaving to go back to Jerusalem, my commander tried to make absolutely sure that I knew how to get home (outside of the bigger cities sometimes it’s hard to find reliable bus information in English), and I remember as one unit gave a presentation on what the unit does—in extremely fast Hebrew—the commander interrupted and said something like, “Speak a little slower so that Sam can understand everything, too.”
At the army thing the other day, I had to take a 300 question questionnaire that was only available in Hebrew. When an officer who was interviewing me found out that I was foreign and that I had to do the questionnaire in Hebrew, he suddenly became extremely concerned for my welfare. He said that if it was too difficult for me to do in Hebrew he would personally arrange for someone to sit with me and say every question in English for me.
The best part of that day was the interview. The officer (soooo good looking!) asked a couple details, like about my name/birthday/parents’ names/etc. After asking about my parents, he said, “And where do you (plural) live?” And I said, “What do you mean, where do I live or where do they live?”
“YOU MEAN YOU MADE ALIYAH ALONE???”
As I confirmed this, he immediately stopped taking notes, turned over his folder, and started asking questions about how I could possibly make aliyah alone, and all that hoopla. He was totally freaking out, “But…but…but….you can make so much more money in the US! It’s so much safer there!!!” But then every couple seconds he’d say, “Col HaCavod!”
Eventually we had to continue the interview, so he turned back over his notes, but every couple of minutes he would let out a noise of disbelief and be like, “Wow, I still can’t believe you made aliyah alone,” followed by the phrase, “Col HaCavod….” After a few more minutes the officer formally ended the interview. As I stood up and began to head back to the testing room, he stopped me and said something like, “On a personal level, not as an officer interviewing you, I want to say that the story of your aliyah has really moved me.”
I MOVED SOMEONE! Haha, awesome.
I wanted to be like, “And your sexiness has really moved me.” But instead I just blushed and scurried back to my tests. Hopefully once I’m actually in the army the idea of a man in uniform will lose its appeal, otherwise I’m going to be swooning every ten seconds.
But wow, I never thought aliyah could be an ego booster. I feel like every five seconds someone is telling me how great I am for giving up “everything” in order to come to Israel, etc etc.
Also, as I’ve mentioned before, a girl keeps trying to name me in a synagogue. She was really pushing for me to do it this very weekend. She keeps telling me that it’s weird/stupid for me to go around in Israel with such a foreign name and that I should choose a nice Hebrew name, because that’s actually what G-d wants. She says that especially in the army I’m going to want an Israeli name.
But in my limited experience with the army, I actually much prefer having an English name in a sea of “Avi”s or “Lior”s or “Shoshi”s or whatevers. I like that when my name gets called in the Lishkat Giyus, I’m the only one who stands up, unlike with some Hebrew names. I like that at the gibush I was the only girl in the group whose name the commander and all the other girls remembered, because it was foreign and I was foreign. I liked that at the army interview yesterday several of the soldiers remembered that I was “Samantha,” yet couldn’t tell you the names of any of the other girls in the room.
My whole life in the US I was one of many Sam’s or Samantha’s or Sammy’s, and now when I finally get the chance to be the only one I’m supposed to change my name?
Look, I understand that it’s frustrating and that re-koshering the kitchen and throwing out some ceramic plates is all going to be a hassle. But that’s not an excuse for dramatically striding across the room, giving a nasty look to the kitchen workers, and growling, “Zeh lo tov” (this is not good), and then storming out of the room. It’s not an excuse for throwing a hysterical fit and having loud arguments with the other religious residents about what we have to be doing to save the kitchen. Why?
Because it was just an honest fucking mistake.
It made me miserable to see the looks on the kitchen staff’s faces, because they just looked so humiliated, and I was embarrassed to be ethnically/religiously related to people who could make other people feel as ashamed as this over an accidental mistake. I counted a grand total of one religious person who managed to keep a serene expression on his face, who assured the kitchen staff that everything would be okay, and who quickly and calmly tried to contain the “contamination” to minimize the hassle of making the kitchen kosher again. Meanwhile, most of the religious residents just stood around looking pissed off or verbally expressed their displeasure to the kitchen staff.
Frankly, I would classify today as a day when I was embarrassed to be part of the Jewish people. Most of us just stand around whining about things, making others feel like shit, and only a small fraction of a percent of us ever actually do anything to fix the problem.
On a happier note? I love how protective certain people in the army get of people like me, aka foreign people. At the gibush for combat jobs, I remember how any time someone learned that I was foreign they immediately tried to be as helpful as possible to me. Though it annoyed me, several girls in my squad kept trying to be helpful and translate things into English for me…even stuff I understood perfectly. I remember as I was leaving to go back to Jerusalem, my commander tried to make absolutely sure that I knew how to get home (outside of the bigger cities sometimes it’s hard to find reliable bus information in English), and I remember as one unit gave a presentation on what the unit does—in extremely fast Hebrew—the commander interrupted and said something like, “Speak a little slower so that Sam can understand everything, too.”
At the army thing the other day, I had to take a 300 question questionnaire that was only available in Hebrew. When an officer who was interviewing me found out that I was foreign and that I had to do the questionnaire in Hebrew, he suddenly became extremely concerned for my welfare. He said that if it was too difficult for me to do in Hebrew he would personally arrange for someone to sit with me and say every question in English for me.
The best part of that day was the interview. The officer (soooo good looking!) asked a couple details, like about my name/birthday/parents’ names/etc. After asking about my parents, he said, “And where do you (plural) live?” And I said, “What do you mean, where do I live or where do they live?”
“YOU MEAN YOU MADE ALIYAH ALONE???”
As I confirmed this, he immediately stopped taking notes, turned over his folder, and started asking questions about how I could possibly make aliyah alone, and all that hoopla. He was totally freaking out, “But…but…but….you can make so much more money in the US! It’s so much safer there!!!” But then every couple seconds he’d say, “Col HaCavod!”
Eventually we had to continue the interview, so he turned back over his notes, but every couple of minutes he would let out a noise of disbelief and be like, “Wow, I still can’t believe you made aliyah alone,” followed by the phrase, “Col HaCavod….” After a few more minutes the officer formally ended the interview. As I stood up and began to head back to the testing room, he stopped me and said something like, “On a personal level, not as an officer interviewing you, I want to say that the story of your aliyah has really moved me.”
I MOVED SOMEONE! Haha, awesome.
I wanted to be like, “And your sexiness has really moved me.” But instead I just blushed and scurried back to my tests. Hopefully once I’m actually in the army the idea of a man in uniform will lose its appeal, otherwise I’m going to be swooning every ten seconds.
But wow, I never thought aliyah could be an ego booster. I feel like every five seconds someone is telling me how great I am for giving up “everything” in order to come to Israel, etc etc.
Also, as I’ve mentioned before, a girl keeps trying to name me in a synagogue. She was really pushing for me to do it this very weekend. She keeps telling me that it’s weird/stupid for me to go around in Israel with such a foreign name and that I should choose a nice Hebrew name, because that’s actually what G-d wants. She says that especially in the army I’m going to want an Israeli name.
But in my limited experience with the army, I actually much prefer having an English name in a sea of “Avi”s or “Lior”s or “Shoshi”s or whatevers. I like that when my name gets called in the Lishkat Giyus, I’m the only one who stands up, unlike with some Hebrew names. I like that at the gibush I was the only girl in the group whose name the commander and all the other girls remembered, because it was foreign and I was foreign. I liked that at the army interview yesterday several of the soldiers remembered that I was “Samantha,” yet couldn’t tell you the names of any of the other girls in the room.
My whole life in the US I was one of many Sam’s or Samantha’s or Sammy’s, and now when I finally get the chance to be the only one I’m supposed to change my name?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Shoulder Soldiers and Arab Radio
Okay, not going to lie…I love the Eurovision song that won. Which is embarrassing. But whatever.
Yesterday in Beer Sheva? Hot as a bat’s ass. But then again, it was also boiling in Jerusalem. Granted, it was a little hotter in Beer Sheva, but I feel like after you reach a certain point of discomfort, a few degrees doesn’t make a difference. Okay, maybe I had 6-inch pit stains when I would have only had 5-inch ones in Jerusalem, whatever.
Oh, the other night my roommate screamed in her sleep…nothing new…but this time she did it in Hebrew! She only started learning Hebrew in January, and already she can scream in her sleep in grammatically correct Hebrew! I wanted to wake her up and congratulate her.
Speaking of French, yesterday stepping off a bus in Beer Sheva I completely ate pavement. Just, BAM, on the floor. It was really embarrassing. The woman getting off the bus with me looked at me with a look of concern and said to me in Hebrew, “Tizahari…” (“Be careful”), but for some reason (the fact that I’m deaf and also a complete space cadet) I thought she was speaking French and had said, “Desolée” (“Sorry”). I thought she thought that she had caused my fall. So then I started explaining to her in French that it wasn’t her fault…..at which point I finally realized that the woman hadn’t been speaking French at all. The woman just kind of looked at me funny and then crossed the street very quickly to get away from me.
Anyway, getting on the bus to Beer Sheva (not the one I fell off of), I arrived just seconds before the bus was to leave. Consequently, there was only one seat left, in the back row, sandwiched between a bunch of sleeping soldiers. A couple minutes into the ride, the soldier on my left decided he wasn’t comfortable leaning on the window and sort of shifted his head a little more towards my direction. Slowly but surely, as he got deeper and deeper into sleep, his head found his way to my shoulder. I hate when this happens to me, even if it’s someone I know, but I felt bad because soldiers are notoriously sleepy so I didn’t want to wake him. I figured I’d probably end up sleeping on a stranger on a bus at some point during my army service and I would appreciate it if said member of the public allowed me to continue to sleep. So I said nothing. But at the very moment when he had finished transferring the full weight of his head onto my shoulder, he woke up very suddenly, with a strong jolt that the entire row of soldiers next to me could feel, completely mortified that he was now sleeping on a stranger.
The soldier, now with a bright red face, tried sleeping upright, and I ended up shaking from silent laughter. After a few minutes the soldier had forgotten his embarrassment and had dozed off again. Once more, his head began a gradual migration to my shoulder. It’s hard to describe what happened next in words instead of simply demonstrating it in person, but let me try: When his head finally rested on my shoulder, instead of jerking back in surprise and embarrassment like he did last time, he actually grabbed my shoulder and moved it to more comfortable position for him. He tugged my shoulder down a bit, then pushed it a little farther away, and then settled his head back down on it again. All very sleepily and with his eyes closed, mind you. It was a bit like he was fluffing a pillow, except I’m person. A person this guy doesn’t know. By this point I was dying of laughter inside. I took a look over at his beret and shoulder tag (which, before the soldier shifted MY body position, had been hidden from me), and it turns out…he’s was wearing the exact same beret and tag that I would be wearing! Haha….Oh man…..
Also, I got a new phone today (yeah, I dropped my phone in a toilet while brushing my hair….luckily the toilet was clean at the time….), and this phone has radio capabilities. Unfortunately, when I’m in my building I only pick up signals to the east of the building. It just so happens that I live over the Green Line, meaning that “East” is basically Arab central. So, without exaggeration, the only radio I have access to is a single station--in Arabic. I just heard them advertising a store and then the name of the city Amman, so it may very well be Jordanian radio that I’m picking up.
This bizarre song in Arabic came on advertising McDonald’s chicken gourmet, and I think I just shat my pants laughing.
Yesterday in Beer Sheva? Hot as a bat’s ass. But then again, it was also boiling in Jerusalem. Granted, it was a little hotter in Beer Sheva, but I feel like after you reach a certain point of discomfort, a few degrees doesn’t make a difference. Okay, maybe I had 6-inch pit stains when I would have only had 5-inch ones in Jerusalem, whatever.
Oh, the other night my roommate screamed in her sleep…nothing new…but this time she did it in Hebrew! She only started learning Hebrew in January, and already she can scream in her sleep in grammatically correct Hebrew! I wanted to wake her up and congratulate her.
Speaking of French, yesterday stepping off a bus in Beer Sheva I completely ate pavement. Just, BAM, on the floor. It was really embarrassing. The woman getting off the bus with me looked at me with a look of concern and said to me in Hebrew, “Tizahari…” (“Be careful”), but for some reason (the fact that I’m deaf and also a complete space cadet) I thought she was speaking French and had said, “Desolée” (“Sorry”). I thought she thought that she had caused my fall. So then I started explaining to her in French that it wasn’t her fault…..at which point I finally realized that the woman hadn’t been speaking French at all. The woman just kind of looked at me funny and then crossed the street very quickly to get away from me.
Anyway, getting on the bus to Beer Sheva (not the one I fell off of), I arrived just seconds before the bus was to leave. Consequently, there was only one seat left, in the back row, sandwiched between a bunch of sleeping soldiers. A couple minutes into the ride, the soldier on my left decided he wasn’t comfortable leaning on the window and sort of shifted his head a little more towards my direction. Slowly but surely, as he got deeper and deeper into sleep, his head found his way to my shoulder. I hate when this happens to me, even if it’s someone I know, but I felt bad because soldiers are notoriously sleepy so I didn’t want to wake him. I figured I’d probably end up sleeping on a stranger on a bus at some point during my army service and I would appreciate it if said member of the public allowed me to continue to sleep. So I said nothing. But at the very moment when he had finished transferring the full weight of his head onto my shoulder, he woke up very suddenly, with a strong jolt that the entire row of soldiers next to me could feel, completely mortified that he was now sleeping on a stranger.
The soldier, now with a bright red face, tried sleeping upright, and I ended up shaking from silent laughter. After a few minutes the soldier had forgotten his embarrassment and had dozed off again. Once more, his head began a gradual migration to my shoulder. It’s hard to describe what happened next in words instead of simply demonstrating it in person, but let me try: When his head finally rested on my shoulder, instead of jerking back in surprise and embarrassment like he did last time, he actually grabbed my shoulder and moved it to more comfortable position for him. He tugged my shoulder down a bit, then pushed it a little farther away, and then settled his head back down on it again. All very sleepily and with his eyes closed, mind you. It was a bit like he was fluffing a pillow, except I’m person. A person this guy doesn’t know. By this point I was dying of laughter inside. I took a look over at his beret and shoulder tag (which, before the soldier shifted MY body position, had been hidden from me), and it turns out…he’s was wearing the exact same beret and tag that I would be wearing! Haha….Oh man…..
Also, I got a new phone today (yeah, I dropped my phone in a toilet while brushing my hair….luckily the toilet was clean at the time….), and this phone has radio capabilities. Unfortunately, when I’m in my building I only pick up signals to the east of the building. It just so happens that I live over the Green Line, meaning that “East” is basically Arab central. So, without exaggeration, the only radio I have access to is a single station--in Arabic. I just heard them advertising a store and then the name of the city Amman, so it may very well be Jordanian radio that I’m picking up.
This bizarre song in Arabic came on advertising McDonald’s chicken gourmet, and I think I just shat my pants laughing.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Farts and Intelligence
So is ripping loud farts not vulgar in certain cultures? Cos I was just sitting in the public common room in my absorption center and there was this one guy chatting on Skype (no headphones…), and every couple of minutes he’d rip a loud mid-sentence fart. Totally nonchalant. My friend and I, on the other hand, were about to have aneurysms trying not to laugh.
So anyway, the good news is that I passed the “exam” for combat soldier positions in general. The bad news is that for this particular job that I’ve been accepted into (Field Intelligence, or Field Intelligence Collecting), I have to undergo a security interview thing. I was talking to a friend who interviewed for a job at the Israeli embassy, and who therefore underwent a strenuous security interview, and he tried to give me some kind of an idea of what questions they’ll ask me. Among other more boring questions, he said they’ll probably give me some shit about my dad being Christian, they’ll ask about any medical problems, and they’ll ask about political beliefs and about any activism I’ve been a part of.
And of course they ask about any drug use.
Let’s be pretty honest here, kids: I’m pretty straightedge. But the honest answer is that, yes, I have smoked weed on a few occasions over the past few years. Is the amount of times I’ve done that really low though? Yes. Have I done that in the past year? No. Do I plan on using drugs of any kind in the near future? No. I asked my friend if I should just be honest, and he told me to just lie.
My problem is that I’m a terrible liar. Usually when I tell lies I’m so bad at it that it doesn’t even get to the point where people actually believe me. On the rare occasions when I actually do get someone to believe my lie, I’m so pleased with myself for finally succeeding that I end up smiling uncontrollably, almost like a smirk of, “I can’t believe I got away with it,” which instantly dashes my success away.
So my thought here is that if I choose to lie, I won’t be able to lie convincingly, meaning the interviewer will think that in addition to being a drug user (and who knows how many times!!! Maybe she’s high right now!!!), I’m also a tremendous liar. My idea is that if I just tell the truth, it might be less harmful. Still not exactly a positive point of my interview, but less harmful than telling a lie. It’s like one of those bizarre things my mother told me a lot when I was younger:
“If you’re on trial for murder and your honest alibi is that you were shoplifting at the time of the murder…just go ahead and tell them you were shoplifting.”
Sure, it’s not as catchy as some homey sayings you might find in Little House on the Prairie, like “Waste not, want not” or “Marry in black and you’ll wish yourself back,” but this is the wisdom of my mother. And I think she makes a fair point.
So anyway, the good news is that I passed the “exam” for combat soldier positions in general. The bad news is that for this particular job that I’ve been accepted into (Field Intelligence, or Field Intelligence Collecting), I have to undergo a security interview thing. I was talking to a friend who interviewed for a job at the Israeli embassy, and who therefore underwent a strenuous security interview, and he tried to give me some kind of an idea of what questions they’ll ask me. Among other more boring questions, he said they’ll probably give me some shit about my dad being Christian, they’ll ask about any medical problems, and they’ll ask about political beliefs and about any activism I’ve been a part of.
And of course they ask about any drug use.
Let’s be pretty honest here, kids: I’m pretty straightedge. But the honest answer is that, yes, I have smoked weed on a few occasions over the past few years. Is the amount of times I’ve done that really low though? Yes. Have I done that in the past year? No. Do I plan on using drugs of any kind in the near future? No. I asked my friend if I should just be honest, and he told me to just lie.
My problem is that I’m a terrible liar. Usually when I tell lies I’m so bad at it that it doesn’t even get to the point where people actually believe me. On the rare occasions when I actually do get someone to believe my lie, I’m so pleased with myself for finally succeeding that I end up smiling uncontrollably, almost like a smirk of, “I can’t believe I got away with it,” which instantly dashes my success away.
So my thought here is that if I choose to lie, I won’t be able to lie convincingly, meaning the interviewer will think that in addition to being a drug user (and who knows how many times!!! Maybe she’s high right now!!!), I’m also a tremendous liar. My idea is that if I just tell the truth, it might be less harmful. Still not exactly a positive point of my interview, but less harmful than telling a lie. It’s like one of those bizarre things my mother told me a lot when I was younger:
“If you’re on trial for murder and your honest alibi is that you were shoplifting at the time of the murder…just go ahead and tell them you were shoplifting.”
Sure, it’s not as catchy as some homey sayings you might find in Little House on the Prairie, like “Waste not, want not” or “Marry in black and you’ll wish yourself back,” but this is the wisdom of my mother. And I think she makes a fair point.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
oh jeez
I love being sick. Not because it’s particularly nice to have snot dribbling out of your nose like it’s some kind of leaky faucet, and not because it’s pleasant feeling like your body aged 60 years overnight….but because sometimes it’s nice having an excuse to lie in bed all day.
Sure, I’m living on my own so I can pretty much lie in bed as long as I want even when I’m in perfect health…theoretically. Unfortunately, years of living in my mother’s house has conditioned me to be really bad at sleeping in. That is, my natural desire is to want to sleep all day, but every few minutes after 8 am I keep waking up expecting my mother to barge in and start scolding me for being lazy. Of course, my mother is now 8000 miles away and is probably not going to be barging in every few minutes in the morning yelling at me to wake up, but old habits die hard. I feel guilty when I sleep in.
I think this was my mother’s way of trying to prevent me from becoming her. My mother, like every normal human being I suppose, LOVES sleeping in. And the woman is a Master of The Nap. At about 2 pm she might crawl into bed, telling anyone who will listen, “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a for minutes, I swear, just for a couple minutes.” And for us kids, we know that this means that we’ll be eating Chinese food or pizza for dinner tonight, because at 9 pm or so she’ll wake up and groggily ask what time it is and…”Oh G-d! Is it really??? Oh jeez….well what should we do about dinner?”
The best though was when my mom would come barging in to wake me up, and I’d weakly say, “I don’t feel good.” And boom. Immediately my mom’s voice would change from a scolding yell to a soothing whisper. From that point on I would be allowed to lie in bed for as long as I wanted, whether it was till noon or until next Wednesday. Periodically my mom would come in to wake me, but this time offering orange juice (or Sprite if I were suffering from some kind of stomach ailment).
So this weekend I’ve been sick. Meaning I’ve been lying in bed all day and not feeling in the slightest bit guilty or lazy. All I need now is someone to bring me some OJ…
Last night I saw “Twilight” for the first time….oh man….I’m so embarrassed to admit that I liked it. Am I turning back into a preteen girl? What a horrible thought. Christ…. Luckily I was the youngest girl in the room watching the movie, so I guess it was slightly less lame for me to be enjoying the movie. Only slightly. All I know is that from the amount of squealing and swooning and gushing going on in the room, I felt like I was at some 7th grade slumber party. But in the awesomest sense possible.
Girl One: “OH MY GAAAD, HE’S IN HER ROOM!!!”
Girl Two: “I’m going to start leaving my window open at night and hope that a hot vampire guy comes in while I’m sleeping.”
Girl Three: “Well it couldn’t hurt. …Unless he eats you.”
So, completely unrelated, there’s this girl in my class who clearly doesn’t like paying attention to the teacher. She’s constantly bored and uninterested and fidgety. Which I can totally relate to, because I am also bored during class. It’s difficult to sit through grammar class for several hours every day, and to top it off the teacher is strange and boring. But when it comes down to it, class is optional, a gift from the government. But this girl…she squirms like someone is holding her down, forcing her to be in class. It’s like she’s struggling desperately to get out of her chair, unbearably bored yet unable to just get up off her ass and leave the classroom. She constantly lets out exasperated sighs, and says, “This is so boring,” or “I can’t stand this,” or “No, I can’t sit here any longer.” Which I don’t really understand. That’s not to say that class is always a joy for me, but at least I just shut up about it. Okay, I’m bored, so I’ll doodle in the margins of my notes. Or I’ll keep a tally of how many times the teacher says “Okayyyyyyyyyyy,” or I’ll daydream. I don’t really understand the need for constantly announcing how horrible the class is. Just leave or shut up. It’s driving me crazy. Once she tried to take a nap during class—using my shoulder as a pillow—and I nearly lost it. I wanted to smack her and yell, “GROW THE FUCK UP ALREADY!” but instead I just sort of shrugged my shoulders until she took the hint that I wasn’t a pillow. What’s really frustrating is that this girl—or woman actually—is a college graduate, and not just a worker but a “professional.” She’s several years older than me. And I’m a college drop-out, the youngest in the class by several years. And yet…who knows how to behave herself?
Sure, I’m living on my own so I can pretty much lie in bed as long as I want even when I’m in perfect health…theoretically. Unfortunately, years of living in my mother’s house has conditioned me to be really bad at sleeping in. That is, my natural desire is to want to sleep all day, but every few minutes after 8 am I keep waking up expecting my mother to barge in and start scolding me for being lazy. Of course, my mother is now 8000 miles away and is probably not going to be barging in every few minutes in the morning yelling at me to wake up, but old habits die hard. I feel guilty when I sleep in.
I think this was my mother’s way of trying to prevent me from becoming her. My mother, like every normal human being I suppose, LOVES sleeping in. And the woman is a Master of The Nap. At about 2 pm she might crawl into bed, telling anyone who will listen, “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a for minutes, I swear, just for a couple minutes.” And for us kids, we know that this means that we’ll be eating Chinese food or pizza for dinner tonight, because at 9 pm or so she’ll wake up and groggily ask what time it is and…”Oh G-d! Is it really??? Oh jeez….well what should we do about dinner?”
The best though was when my mom would come barging in to wake me up, and I’d weakly say, “I don’t feel good.” And boom. Immediately my mom’s voice would change from a scolding yell to a soothing whisper. From that point on I would be allowed to lie in bed for as long as I wanted, whether it was till noon or until next Wednesday. Periodically my mom would come in to wake me, but this time offering orange juice (or Sprite if I were suffering from some kind of stomach ailment).
So this weekend I’ve been sick. Meaning I’ve been lying in bed all day and not feeling in the slightest bit guilty or lazy. All I need now is someone to bring me some OJ…
Last night I saw “Twilight” for the first time….oh man….I’m so embarrassed to admit that I liked it. Am I turning back into a preteen girl? What a horrible thought. Christ…. Luckily I was the youngest girl in the room watching the movie, so I guess it was slightly less lame for me to be enjoying the movie. Only slightly. All I know is that from the amount of squealing and swooning and gushing going on in the room, I felt like I was at some 7th grade slumber party. But in the awesomest sense possible.
Girl One: “OH MY GAAAD, HE’S IN HER ROOM!!!”
Girl Two: “I’m going to start leaving my window open at night and hope that a hot vampire guy comes in while I’m sleeping.”
Girl Three: “Well it couldn’t hurt. …Unless he eats you.”
So, completely unrelated, there’s this girl in my class who clearly doesn’t like paying attention to the teacher. She’s constantly bored and uninterested and fidgety. Which I can totally relate to, because I am also bored during class. It’s difficult to sit through grammar class for several hours every day, and to top it off the teacher is strange and boring. But when it comes down to it, class is optional, a gift from the government. But this girl…she squirms like someone is holding her down, forcing her to be in class. It’s like she’s struggling desperately to get out of her chair, unbearably bored yet unable to just get up off her ass and leave the classroom. She constantly lets out exasperated sighs, and says, “This is so boring,” or “I can’t stand this,” or “No, I can’t sit here any longer.” Which I don’t really understand. That’s not to say that class is always a joy for me, but at least I just shut up about it. Okay, I’m bored, so I’ll doodle in the margins of my notes. Or I’ll keep a tally of how many times the teacher says “Okayyyyyyyyyyy,” or I’ll daydream. I don’t really understand the need for constantly announcing how horrible the class is. Just leave or shut up. It’s driving me crazy. Once she tried to take a nap during class—using my shoulder as a pillow—and I nearly lost it. I wanted to smack her and yell, “GROW THE FUCK UP ALREADY!” but instead I just sort of shrugged my shoulders until she took the hint that I wasn’t a pillow. What’s really frustrating is that this girl—or woman actually—is a college graduate, and not just a worker but a “professional.” She’s several years older than me. And I’m a college drop-out, the youngest in the class by several years. And yet…who knows how to behave herself?
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Atonement
A couple nights ago I had a fantastic dream. Every friend from every stage in my life that I had fallen out with or that I had simply grown apart from was there. Basically it was everyone I wanted to see again but that I wouldn’t see in real life, even if I were still in the same country.
How did the dream start? By some mysterious figure I was ushered to some nondescript building next to what looked like a futuristic version of Haifa’s Carmelit. Except this time it wasn’t underground, but rather aboveground encased in glass tunnels. Anyway, I came into this building, a one-room building, and in the one room it was kind of dark and mysterious. Kind of Indian design. And there were tables with packets of papers and books and so forth. Just paper EVERYWHERE.
Hearing me come in, all the people in the room looked up. “Holy shit,” I thought to myself within the dream, “it’s everyone I ever fought with and never made up with….and some other people I haven’t seen in years!” There was a temporary moment of awkward hesitance, and then everyone burst forth offering apologies, whether for something they had done to me or for not keeping in touch. Basically, in my dream, every person gave me exactly the kind of apology I would have wanted in real life. Exactly. 100 percent.
I forgave them all, and then asked forgiveness for everything I had done to them. I wondered out loud why we hadn’t done this sooner, and then everyone told me, “We would have done it sooner, but we wanted to first find a way to make everything up to you. We decided the best thing to do would be to edit everything you ever wrote and compile it for you.” WHAT?? AWESOME.
All laughing together happily, me and my crowd exited the room…which had now become a bizarre kind of gypsy/circus tent on the outside. Somehow we had been transported back to my elementary school, and we wandered out to the traffic circle (in elementary school it was sort of like this forbidden “jungle” that we all would die to play on), still talking and catching up. I looked around and saw that there were Christmas decorations everywhere. Pretty much, everything was awesome.
One person, with whom I have been more recently fighting/growing apart from, decided that the group apology wasn’t enough, and so we separated from the group and got back on the futuristic Carmelite. We were just about to start our conversation when suddenly I woke up.
Fuck. Still confused and half asleep I hear someone screaming in French, “WHY DID YOU TAKE MY THING?”
Dammit. Dammit.
Waking up was maybe the worst feeling ever. To feel like every fight with every friend I’ve ever fallen out with was finally resolved…and then suddenly to realize that NOTHING happened. …just shit!
How did the dream start? By some mysterious figure I was ushered to some nondescript building next to what looked like a futuristic version of Haifa’s Carmelit. Except this time it wasn’t underground, but rather aboveground encased in glass tunnels. Anyway, I came into this building, a one-room building, and in the one room it was kind of dark and mysterious. Kind of Indian design. And there were tables with packets of papers and books and so forth. Just paper EVERYWHERE.
Hearing me come in, all the people in the room looked up. “Holy shit,” I thought to myself within the dream, “it’s everyone I ever fought with and never made up with….and some other people I haven’t seen in years!” There was a temporary moment of awkward hesitance, and then everyone burst forth offering apologies, whether for something they had done to me or for not keeping in touch. Basically, in my dream, every person gave me exactly the kind of apology I would have wanted in real life. Exactly. 100 percent.
I forgave them all, and then asked forgiveness for everything I had done to them. I wondered out loud why we hadn’t done this sooner, and then everyone told me, “We would have done it sooner, but we wanted to first find a way to make everything up to you. We decided the best thing to do would be to edit everything you ever wrote and compile it for you.” WHAT?? AWESOME.
All laughing together happily, me and my crowd exited the room…which had now become a bizarre kind of gypsy/circus tent on the outside. Somehow we had been transported back to my elementary school, and we wandered out to the traffic circle (in elementary school it was sort of like this forbidden “jungle” that we all would die to play on), still talking and catching up. I looked around and saw that there were Christmas decorations everywhere. Pretty much, everything was awesome.
One person, with whom I have been more recently fighting/growing apart from, decided that the group apology wasn’t enough, and so we separated from the group and got back on the futuristic Carmelite. We were just about to start our conversation when suddenly I woke up.
Fuck. Still confused and half asleep I hear someone screaming in French, “WHY DID YOU TAKE MY THING?”
Dammit. Dammit.
Waking up was maybe the worst feeling ever. To feel like every fight with every friend I’ve ever fallen out with was finally resolved…and then suddenly to realize that NOTHING happened. …just shit!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Semite Fight
My Australian roommate back on the kibbutz used to tell me frequently that you should never insult a Middle Easterner’s mother, because no one gets insulted by that sort of thing like these people do. I used to laugh and playfully tease her, “What, do you know of an ethnicity whose people LIKE having their mother insulted?”
Anyway, during work the boss told me to fill up the refrigerator in front with soft drinks from the back. So after taking a couple minutes to make a note of what was missing up front, I headed to the back room. I had to squeeze by because the boss seemed to be arguing with one of the other workers, telling him to be more respectful to another worker…but I wasn’t really paying attention. I had my back to the whole thing while I grabbed myself a crate, and as I turned back around to start filling it up I noticed that one coworker was holding back another coworker. For the sake of clarity, I’ll tell you that the coworker being held back was Arab. I then took a second look and saw that the boss was holding a Jewish coworker back. The Jew and the Arab kept trying to lunge at the other, and kept screaming at each other. I couldn’t tell exactly who or what started the fight, but apparently mothers on both sides had been insulted, and so both were screaming things like, “Don’t you talk about my mother!”
“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY MOTHER???”
“WHAT DOES MY MOTHER HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?”
Part of me wanted to run to the Arab’s aid, because he’s the only coworker who hasn’t made a nasty comment about my weight, and is just generally very nice, and also because he’s sort of a kindred spirit—his Hebrew is very good, much better than mine, but it’s still not his language of comfort and so he sometimes feels sort of out of the loop just like me. The non-Israeli part of me felt that it was unfair that the Jew got to yell at this guy and fight back in his native tongue, whereas the Arab had to do it in a foreign language. To top it off, for various reasons I don’t like this particular Jew. So basically—and I say this as a loyal Zionist and Jew—I was rooting for the Arab to beat the shit out of this Jew.
But I just sort of stood there dumbfounded. Clearly it would be inappropriate for me to continue filling up my crate with soft drinks in this tiny back room filled with screaming and thrashing foreigners. But what was I supposed to do? I didn’t know if I should grab a pizza cutter to protect myself or if I should start singing some kind of peaceful Jesus or Kumbaya song in hopes that everyone would stop fighting and instead hold hands and join together in song. Maybe even make s’mores. And part of me considered turning the sink hose on them.
Instead I decided to just stand there with my mouth partially open, looking like a total retard.
The lunging got more aggressive, and the shouting got more frightening. What was particularly terrifying about the whole situation was that I didn’t fully understand what was going on because of the language barrier, but it was perfectly obvious that things were gonna get UGLY. “Oh G-d,” I thought to myself, “this is the part where people start blowing up.” Were we going to have to call in the American Army?
The boss, struggling to hold back the lunging Jew, caught sight of me standing agape like some kind of feminine and obese version of Aeneas (“obstipescere”) and shouted for me to leave the room and close the door. So I weaved my way through a sea of thrashing Jews and an Arab, and closed the door. Customers kept curiously glancing towards the door to the back room, because you could still hear people screaming at each other, and you could hear the aggressive shuffling of lunging feet. So I just turned up the volume to the song “Don’t Stop” by the Rolling Stones and hoped for the best….
Actually, the song “Don’t Stop” felt appropriately aggressive. I think it could have been worse if I had tried to cover up the sounds to Middle Easterners screaming at each other with something like the song “MMMBop” by Hanson or “Downtown” by Petula Clark. Or “Dancing Queen.” Now that would have just been disturbing…
Anyway, during work the boss told me to fill up the refrigerator in front with soft drinks from the back. So after taking a couple minutes to make a note of what was missing up front, I headed to the back room. I had to squeeze by because the boss seemed to be arguing with one of the other workers, telling him to be more respectful to another worker…but I wasn’t really paying attention. I had my back to the whole thing while I grabbed myself a crate, and as I turned back around to start filling it up I noticed that one coworker was holding back another coworker. For the sake of clarity, I’ll tell you that the coworker being held back was Arab. I then took a second look and saw that the boss was holding a Jewish coworker back. The Jew and the Arab kept trying to lunge at the other, and kept screaming at each other. I couldn’t tell exactly who or what started the fight, but apparently mothers on both sides had been insulted, and so both were screaming things like, “Don’t you talk about my mother!”
“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY MOTHER???”
“WHAT DOES MY MOTHER HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?”
Part of me wanted to run to the Arab’s aid, because he’s the only coworker who hasn’t made a nasty comment about my weight, and is just generally very nice, and also because he’s sort of a kindred spirit—his Hebrew is very good, much better than mine, but it’s still not his language of comfort and so he sometimes feels sort of out of the loop just like me. The non-Israeli part of me felt that it was unfair that the Jew got to yell at this guy and fight back in his native tongue, whereas the Arab had to do it in a foreign language. To top it off, for various reasons I don’t like this particular Jew. So basically—and I say this as a loyal Zionist and Jew—I was rooting for the Arab to beat the shit out of this Jew.
But I just sort of stood there dumbfounded. Clearly it would be inappropriate for me to continue filling up my crate with soft drinks in this tiny back room filled with screaming and thrashing foreigners. But what was I supposed to do? I didn’t know if I should grab a pizza cutter to protect myself or if I should start singing some kind of peaceful Jesus or Kumbaya song in hopes that everyone would stop fighting and instead hold hands and join together in song. Maybe even make s’mores. And part of me considered turning the sink hose on them.
Instead I decided to just stand there with my mouth partially open, looking like a total retard.
The lunging got more aggressive, and the shouting got more frightening. What was particularly terrifying about the whole situation was that I didn’t fully understand what was going on because of the language barrier, but it was perfectly obvious that things were gonna get UGLY. “Oh G-d,” I thought to myself, “this is the part where people start blowing up.” Were we going to have to call in the American Army?
The boss, struggling to hold back the lunging Jew, caught sight of me standing agape like some kind of feminine and obese version of Aeneas (“obstipescere”) and shouted for me to leave the room and close the door. So I weaved my way through a sea of thrashing Jews and an Arab, and closed the door. Customers kept curiously glancing towards the door to the back room, because you could still hear people screaming at each other, and you could hear the aggressive shuffling of lunging feet. So I just turned up the volume to the song “Don’t Stop” by the Rolling Stones and hoped for the best….
Actually, the song “Don’t Stop” felt appropriately aggressive. I think it could have been worse if I had tried to cover up the sounds to Middle Easterners screaming at each other with something like the song “MMMBop” by Hanson or “Downtown” by Petula Clark. Or “Dancing Queen.” Now that would have just been disturbing…
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