A few months ago on this blog I wrote about a girl down the hall from me back at school screaming bloody murder alone in her room for an extended period of time. It was finals week and apparently the stress was a little too much for this girl to handle. Eventually the police were called and the girl was dragged off to an ambulance, and from there to psychological evaluations in a hospital.
Right now I identify 100 percent with that girl.
Now the army is telling me that I haven’t done my general doctor’s examination. Which I actually did back in August/July. In fact, last Monday when I turned in my blood test results I actually SAW in the hands of one of the soldiers the notes from that examination. But now apparently I haven’t done it.
I tried arguing with the girl on the phone that I had done it, and she just kept saying that according to the computer or my file or whatever that I had NOT done it. She was like, “Well obviously you HAVEN’T done it!” I really disliked her tone, which suggested that she couldn’t believe I was so stupid, so mistaken, that I could possibly think that I had undergone an examination when the computer said I hadn’t.
Look, I’m no computer, but I have a clear memory of sitting in my underpants in the medical exam room, and I remember carrying a cup of pee through a crowded building, and I remember getting a blood test in the army enlistment center. I’ve looked through the eye thing at the little farmhouse, and I’ve handed a fat Russian woman a doctor’s form. I wish I could tell the computer that…
I wanted to reach through the phone and throttle her, and yell, “WELL OBVIOUSLY YOUR FUCKING COMPUTER IS MISTAKEN, YOU RANCID BITCH!” But I didn’t. Not because of concerns of politeness, but rather because technology is not yet advanced enough to allow hands to go through the receiver to throttle the person on the other end of the line. So instead I just sort of pathetically pleaded that I had in fact already done the test. It actually got to the point where I was so frustrated that I couldn’t stop myself from reverting to my Los Angeles-born/bred self and ended up spewing out Hebrew mixed with “like”s instead of saying “Uh” or “Um” when thinking. “Aval ani like cvar asiti et col ha…like….bdikot! Zeh like mamash mtaskel!”
When I hung up the phone….I can’t even describe my frustration. I don’t even know if frustration would be the correct word. It was sort of an unholy combination of frustration, sadness, anger, fear, confusion, and indignation. Unfortunately, I don’t think English has a concise word for that emotion. All I know is, apparently the army got sick of finding new frustrating things for me to do, so they decided that having me re-do EVERYTHING would work just as well.
Whatever this emotion was, it made me sit on the floor crying like a baby…but an angry baby. A baby that had had enough and wanted to break things. I seriously just want to let loose a primeval scream, so loud that even the Jordanians will get shivers down their spines.
I then decided that I was so sick of people and dealing with their bureaucracies that I was simply going to run off into the mountains and live as a hermit.
Eventually I pulled myself together and remembered that the woman who came to speak to us in the absorption center about the army said that we should feel free to call her. She said she’d prefer that we try to deal with things directly with the army enlistment center hotline, but she said that if we ran into major problems that we should call her. And, well, I figured that being told test-by-test that I have to do everything over again was a sufficient reason to call her. So I did, and it turns out she’s out for a while, but someone else on the line said that I did NOT have to do the doctor exam over again…..
Which is reassuring, because now I don’t have to re-do things, but which kind of concerns me because I’m wondering how I can call two different people within the same hour and be told the exact opposite from each.
The nice girl on the other end of the line said she’d figure out what the problem is for me and then call me back. Hopefully she’s being honest….As of right now, I haven’t gotten a call back, but I only called 30 minutes ago. I’m still hopeful.
I was hoping to enlist immediately after ulpan, but now I’m concerned I won’t be in uniform even before the turn of the next century. I have a feeling that Moshiach will come before I enlist, and that Jesus has a better chance of coming back for Round 2 than I do of ever starting my army service.
I’m reluctant to start saying to myself, “Oh, this would never happen back in the U.S.”
But, let’s face it: it wouldn’t.
Any American friend I’ve related my saga to has said something to the effect of, “That would NEVER happen in the US Army! Basically all you have to do there is sign your name and you’re off to Iraq.” One American friend likened the difficulty of getting sent to Iraq by the US Army to that of sneezing. It is, however, completely optional as there is no draft in the US (at the moment).
Yet somehow with the Israeli army….they tell me I MUST serve for 2 years, but then they make me spend like 5 years simply finishing the fucking paperwork to get in. Which, in my opinion, is quite possibly the rudest thing you can do to someone. Why? Because meanwhile I can’t go back to school in Israel and can’t really do anything productive, because I’m constantly in a state of waiting for the fucking army. It’s just a rude fucking waste of my life. If you’re going to tell me that I HAVE to do the army for 2 years, which means that I can’t do anything important or long-term in Israel until after I finish those two years, could you please stop losing my forms/results/etc and just let me join ASAP?
Fucking hell…
Okay, so the woman called me back. Turns out I have to do 10 Blood Pressure Tests. Which no one told me about. Okay, whatever. I asked her, “Is this the LAST thing I have to do?” And she said that as long as there wasn’t something horribly wrong with my blood pressure that this would be the last thing. I hope she’s right.
This is really frustrating. My whole life, one of the few things that has NOT been a problem with my blood was blood pressure. Sure, I may have extra shit floating around in my blood that shouldn’t be there, but blood pressure? That’s maybe the one normal thing about me.
Who knows though…after all this shit from the army maybe now I have really high blood pressure. Every single time I interact with the army enlistment center I feel like an aneurysm waiting to happen.
I can also imagine the conversation when I go into my health clinic tomorrow and ask to do 10 blood pressure tests (I have to go on 10 separate occasions), without a form from the army, and they’ll tell me something like, “You don’t have a form? What, you think you can just walk in here and do whatever blood pressure tests you want?”
At which point my blood pressure will spike as I scream, “JUST DO ME A GODDAMN FAVOR, YOU BUREAUCRATIC SHITBAGS!”
Just in case, I’ve made a playlist on my iTunes called “Blood Pressure.” I plan to listen to it every morning when I go get my blood pressure tested, and it will consist entirely of calming country music, slow Christian rock, acoustic classics, Enya, and also pretty much anything popular with stoners.
Hearing that I just had to do blood pressure tests made me cry. Because it’s something so fucking simple (except it takes 10 days at least), yet the millions of times I’ve called the army center in the past couple weeks, none of them told me to do it. It’s just been sort of a shit couple weeks in general, as I’ve also been upset about something totally unrelated, and so I guess adding everything up made me cry.
Oh fuck it, my roommate just came in and made some comment about the mess on my corner of the room. She doesn’t tell me to clean it up, but she says something about how it must bother ME and how it must be difficult for ME to live like that for 5 months. She says it with this sort of false air of concern for me. Bitch please, compared to how I live when I’m in a room of my own, this is NOTHING. Plus, I hate this tactic. If it bothers her, which I’m guessing it does, she should say so. I don’t like her telling me what bothers me. I know what bothers me, not her. And you know what? Mess doesn’t bother me. And secondly, it’s my fucking corner of the room, the one corner she hasn’t taken over with her own shit, and I feel that I should get to do whatever I like with it. I am, however, extremely neat in the kitchen and bathroom, which are 100 percent shared.
Normally I make some sort of apology and immediately jump up and at least make a show of sort of moving things around. Today I guess she expected the same of me…but today I didn’t really feel like making a show of trying to appease her. She waited in the doorway for me to jump up and do as I normally do, with this bossy and kind of nasty expression on her face, but after spending the last 30 minutes crying—and my roommate can see that my eyes are still red and puffy—I didn’t really feel like obliging anybody but myself, so I sat. At my computer. Without taking off my headphones. And gave her the stink eye. She maintained her eye contact. But I maintained my stink eye. And she retreated! VICTORY!!!
Oh G-d did it feel good.
I will say that I love having a good laugh after crying. After pondering the idea of Mess, I tried to think of the messiest/least hygienic thing I’ve ever done in my life, the thought of which made me laugh hysterically at how appalled my roommate would be. The winning act? During high school my best friend and I both forgot to pack lunch and were quite hungry. So we wandered around campus until we came across a piece of cake that had been abandoned, thrown on the ground, and trampled upon. My friend and I just looked at each other, and then together without a word sat down to eat the cake off the floor. WINNER!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Dreams
I’ve been thinking a lot about all the things I’ve wanted to do with my life and wondering how I got to where I am now.
One of the earliest things I can remember wanting to be when I grew up was a dragon. I think the magical thing about being 3 or 4 is that you have no concept of what is or is not possible. How many little kids say things like, “When I grow up I’m going to be a butterfly!” and expect it to happen? A lot.
For a couple years my dreams took a slightly more realistic turn. When I was 5 I decided I was going to be a taxi driver so I could meet a bunch of people, and when I was 6 and we got our dog I decided I was going to be a dog trainer. I tried practicing on our dog, but it turns out that I’m total shit at getting dogs to behave. When I was 8 and we started writing long stories in school, I decided I wanted to be an author, and that I was going to make millions writing children’s fiction about hamsters.
Sadly, these are the dreams in my life that have been “practical.” Unfortunately, my dreams of what I’ll do with my life seem to keep getting more ridiculous as I grow up.
At age 10 we learned about the Civil War in school, and I decided that I was going to be a Civil War historian/re-enactor. Actually, I didn’t want to be either—the truth was that I wanted to LIVE during the Civil War, but I guess the microscopically small practical part of my personality realized that this would be as close as I could get. It wasn’t that I particularly wanted to have anything to do with the gory battles, but rather I had fallen in love with the Union uniforms and liked “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” (Actually, I still do.)
When I was 11 I started making movies with friends about fake/ridiculous news stories, and then I also decided that in order to be a good filmmaker (my new dream) I had to be French. Somehow, I was going to be the first Professional French Person. I taught myself extremely basic French and then would go to the park and talk to random kids in what little French I knew, pretending that I didn’t understand English. One girl my age became very upset and asked her mother to find out if I really was French. So the mother asked me in French, “How are you?” And I responded in grammatically perfect French, “Very well, thank you. And how are you this evening?” And I heard the mother say to her daughter, “Yes, she’s French.”
Maybe the proudest moment of my life.
At age 12 we started learning Latin in school, at which point I decided that I was going to be a Latin scholar at Oxford University for the rest of my life. My parents asked me why Oxford, why not Cambridge? And I would go on this whole tirade about how Oxford is superior, when in fact the reason I preferred Oxford to Cambridge was that Michael Palin is an alumnus of Oxford whereas John Cleese is an alumnus of Cambridge. At this point I knew only extremely basic Latin, only a few words and such, so I would strut around my room repeating a sentence in Latin I had memorized from the beginning of our book, the first sentence we read in Latin. I would walk around my room as if I had a very serious matter to discuss, as if I were a very important person in a toga arguing something before the Roman Senate, and I would repeat constantly in Latin, “We are telling the story of Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Reader, pay attention and enjoy the story.”
At age 13 I decided I was going to become a Crusader when I left school. I wanted to learn sword fighting, I wanted a huge shield with a cross, etc etc. I wanted to find the Holy Grail, and I decided I was Anglican. It honestly never occurred to me that I was Jewish. I mean, I knew I was Jewish, but it didn’t occur to me that this was a contradiction. I was too set on deciding how to bring about the new Round Table, and how to achieve purity of heart/soul/whatever and all that shit. Part of me actually really misses this period in my life, because at this age the answer to every moral question seemed perfectly obvious. I miss how dedicated I was during this time to being a good person, and how being good didn’t seem as difficult as it seems now.
At 14 I became a vegetarian (and would be for the next 4 ½ years), and I decided that I was going to dedicate my life to opening a vegan bowling alley in a town called Bangor in Wales. It was going to be awesome. All vegan food, pleather bowling shoes, and totally awesome TV screens at the end of each lane—which has nothing to do with being vegan, but is cool all the same.
At 15, or maybe 16, I decided that I was going to lead the Welsh people in a revolt against the English. We’d restore Wales as an independent kingdom and revive the Welsh language. At 17 I wrote my high school senior thesis on why Wales should be independent, and I pasted things like the words to the Welsh national anthem on my wall, next to a copy of a poster that called from the Welsh people not to fight in England’s army. I taught myself just enough Welsh to write the title of my thesis in Welsh, in the infinitely small chance that it would be selected for binding and the principal would have to read the title in front of the entire school assembly.
In college, while on the run from accidental membership in three different Christian groups, I decided that I was going to open up a nightclub that played only European dance music, and the lighting would be awesome, and there’d be TV’s and HOLY FUCK IT’D BE SO COOL. And to top it off, I was going to start a Swedish pop group, the next ABBA.
And this isn’t even everything. I’ve also wanted to be a World War I flying ace, an expert on Tudor England, a bass player, a speaker of all world languages, a spy, a soccer player, a lighting designer, a soccer commentator, an army psychiatrist, an all cheese restaurant owner, a chef, a politician, a teacher, a Disneyland costumed employee, a historic costume designer, a Mexican, and Robin Hood.
And, well, I still want to do ALL of these things with my life, as well as a million other dreams. Maybe I should be embarrassed by what a ridiculous person all this makes me…but I’m not. I still want to be a Latin scholar, but I also want to make movies about Latin classics. I want to train dogs in French, and take back the Holy Land from the infidels (of which I am one!), and then have a toast to my success in my European nightclub. After a toast in the nightclub, I want to drive people in my taxi to my vegan bowling alley.
And, fuck it, I still want to be a dragon.
One of the earliest things I can remember wanting to be when I grew up was a dragon. I think the magical thing about being 3 or 4 is that you have no concept of what is or is not possible. How many little kids say things like, “When I grow up I’m going to be a butterfly!” and expect it to happen? A lot.
For a couple years my dreams took a slightly more realistic turn. When I was 5 I decided I was going to be a taxi driver so I could meet a bunch of people, and when I was 6 and we got our dog I decided I was going to be a dog trainer. I tried practicing on our dog, but it turns out that I’m total shit at getting dogs to behave. When I was 8 and we started writing long stories in school, I decided I wanted to be an author, and that I was going to make millions writing children’s fiction about hamsters.
Sadly, these are the dreams in my life that have been “practical.” Unfortunately, my dreams of what I’ll do with my life seem to keep getting more ridiculous as I grow up.
At age 10 we learned about the Civil War in school, and I decided that I was going to be a Civil War historian/re-enactor. Actually, I didn’t want to be either—the truth was that I wanted to LIVE during the Civil War, but I guess the microscopically small practical part of my personality realized that this would be as close as I could get. It wasn’t that I particularly wanted to have anything to do with the gory battles, but rather I had fallen in love with the Union uniforms and liked “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” (Actually, I still do.)
When I was 11 I started making movies with friends about fake/ridiculous news stories, and then I also decided that in order to be a good filmmaker (my new dream) I had to be French. Somehow, I was going to be the first Professional French Person. I taught myself extremely basic French and then would go to the park and talk to random kids in what little French I knew, pretending that I didn’t understand English. One girl my age became very upset and asked her mother to find out if I really was French. So the mother asked me in French, “How are you?” And I responded in grammatically perfect French, “Very well, thank you. And how are you this evening?” And I heard the mother say to her daughter, “Yes, she’s French.”
Maybe the proudest moment of my life.
At age 12 we started learning Latin in school, at which point I decided that I was going to be a Latin scholar at Oxford University for the rest of my life. My parents asked me why Oxford, why not Cambridge? And I would go on this whole tirade about how Oxford is superior, when in fact the reason I preferred Oxford to Cambridge was that Michael Palin is an alumnus of Oxford whereas John Cleese is an alumnus of Cambridge. At this point I knew only extremely basic Latin, only a few words and such, so I would strut around my room repeating a sentence in Latin I had memorized from the beginning of our book, the first sentence we read in Latin. I would walk around my room as if I had a very serious matter to discuss, as if I were a very important person in a toga arguing something before the Roman Senate, and I would repeat constantly in Latin, “We are telling the story of Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Reader, pay attention and enjoy the story.”
At age 13 I decided I was going to become a Crusader when I left school. I wanted to learn sword fighting, I wanted a huge shield with a cross, etc etc. I wanted to find the Holy Grail, and I decided I was Anglican. It honestly never occurred to me that I was Jewish. I mean, I knew I was Jewish, but it didn’t occur to me that this was a contradiction. I was too set on deciding how to bring about the new Round Table, and how to achieve purity of heart/soul/whatever and all that shit. Part of me actually really misses this period in my life, because at this age the answer to every moral question seemed perfectly obvious. I miss how dedicated I was during this time to being a good person, and how being good didn’t seem as difficult as it seems now.
At 14 I became a vegetarian (and would be for the next 4 ½ years), and I decided that I was going to dedicate my life to opening a vegan bowling alley in a town called Bangor in Wales. It was going to be awesome. All vegan food, pleather bowling shoes, and totally awesome TV screens at the end of each lane—which has nothing to do with being vegan, but is cool all the same.
At 15, or maybe 16, I decided that I was going to lead the Welsh people in a revolt against the English. We’d restore Wales as an independent kingdom and revive the Welsh language. At 17 I wrote my high school senior thesis on why Wales should be independent, and I pasted things like the words to the Welsh national anthem on my wall, next to a copy of a poster that called from the Welsh people not to fight in England’s army. I taught myself just enough Welsh to write the title of my thesis in Welsh, in the infinitely small chance that it would be selected for binding and the principal would have to read the title in front of the entire school assembly.
In college, while on the run from accidental membership in three different Christian groups, I decided that I was going to open up a nightclub that played only European dance music, and the lighting would be awesome, and there’d be TV’s and HOLY FUCK IT’D BE SO COOL. And to top it off, I was going to start a Swedish pop group, the next ABBA.
And this isn’t even everything. I’ve also wanted to be a World War I flying ace, an expert on Tudor England, a bass player, a speaker of all world languages, a spy, a soccer player, a lighting designer, a soccer commentator, an army psychiatrist, an all cheese restaurant owner, a chef, a politician, a teacher, a Disneyland costumed employee, a historic costume designer, a Mexican, and Robin Hood.
And, well, I still want to do ALL of these things with my life, as well as a million other dreams. Maybe I should be embarrassed by what a ridiculous person all this makes me…but I’m not. I still want to be a Latin scholar, but I also want to make movies about Latin classics. I want to train dogs in French, and take back the Holy Land from the infidels (of which I am one!), and then have a toast to my success in my European nightclub. After a toast in the nightclub, I want to drive people in my taxi to my vegan bowling alley.
And, fuck it, I still want to be a dragon.
Reflections from yesterday on McDonald's, jobs, and the like
So today my roommate asked me if I still wasn’t working. When I said no, she pushed the issue. Granted, I’m pretty ashamed of myself for being so fucking lazy, and I’m embarrassed that in two months I’ve had time to watch almost every single movie in my rather large collection, and speaking practically I’m going to want some extra money soon because now that I actually have friends at this place I’m going to want to go out more than I have been. So yeah, her criticism of my not working is a valid criticism that I myself share. But I don’t see how the hell it’s any business of hers, and the only person besides myself who has the right to raise that sort of criticism is either my mother or father, because they raised me and have the right to make me feel ashamed of myself. No one else has that right, especially not someone I met two months ago. Grr, it totally pissed me off.
So then, totally pissed off, I went out into the world to look for a job. The problem is that I’m really really shy, and I feel awkward talking to people my age about jobs, so I have to walk around town until I find a “Help Wanted” (in Hebrew though, duh) sign paired with an old man behind the store counter. This really limits my options.
I ended up going into this touristy Judaica store. The nice old man asked me several questions, including what I did back in the states. I said I was a student, and he asked me what I studied. Which, for those of you who’ve kept track, is a difficult question to answer. Film? Languages? Theater? What the fuck DID I study? In the end I settled on theater because I figured that’s where I feel most like an expert. Lighting design, I explained to him, except I explained it using a bizarre construction in Hebrew since I couldn’t remember how to say “design.” I told him I worked a bit in this for pay back in the states (true story….and actually the ONLY paying job I’ve had in the states besides lemonade stands when I was little, which I don’t think really count when you’re an adult looking for a job in a Judaica store). I also figured that since theater is the only field I have actual work experience in and is the most out-going extroverted subject I’ve studied, I should go with that, even though I could also argue that I studied Judaism at school (though not officially).
The nice old man started on this whole speech about how the art of selling is very much like theater, and it’s all about putting on a face even when the going gets tough and all about presentation and blahblahblah. I smiled because I thought, “This is great! I don’t even have to make some lame explanation about how my theater experience is relevant to selling tchatchkes in downtown Jerusalem, because he’s doing it for me!”
But then he started saying though that, since I unfortunately didn’t have any selling experience, that the job was probably a no-go unless no one else came along or whatever.
Wait, so what was that whole speech he just made about??? There’s NO way I misunderstood what he was saying, I understood every single word! “I’m going to talk for 5 minutes about how your experiences are perfect for this job, and without taking a breath I’m going to end by saying that your experiences don’t fit this job.” Oh man, people are so weird.
So how, pray tell, does one acquire a job with no experience? Actually, I do have work experience. I have experience designing lights in small theaters, and I have experience babysitting/tutoring three Israeli girls and their brother in English. Does this count for anything?
Oh yeah, and I can fold towels like nobody else.
And in fairness, my dear roommate, I’ve actually been constantly on the look out for one job in particular. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself for this, but I’m not: every single week that I’ve been in Israel so far, I’ve walked by the McDonald’s closest to my apartment to see if they were looking for employees. And they’re not. And it breaks my heart. I seriously seriously seriously want to work at McDonald’s, because I bet employees get a discount on fries and McNuggets, and that would just make my life so wonderful. I want to be a nugget-based life form. I want to get so fat on Chicken McNuggets that my rickety Jewish Agency-provided bed snaps in half. When I cough, I want fries to come out. I want to inject ketchup and the admittedly nasty McDonald’s orange juice into my veins. I want to eat soft-serve until I vomit McFlurries, and eat Egg McMuffins like they’re Mentos. And maybe if you’re reading this you’ll think, “Wow, maybe you shouldn’t work in McDonald’s cos a fat bitch like you is gonna eat everything and there will be nothing left for the customers.” No, see, that’s just it. I want to spread the gospel. I want everyone to eat McDonald’s. I want tourists looking over maps and planning their adventures over a Big Mac. I want locals laughing about a fun night out as they eat the Filet-O-Fish or whatever. I want details of peace treaties hammered out over a large order of fries, and then in the end I want the peace treaties to fail because Hamas took the last fry and this pissed off everyone else. Yes. Yes. This is my vision for the world. In every country I’ve been to in the world, I’ve eaten at a McDonald’s there, and I consider this my contribution to McDonald’s quest for world domination. When I hear people say they hate McDonald’s for exactly this reason, for its “conquest,” I want to strangle them to silence the opposition.
After the t-shirt job didn’t work out, my dad gave me some advice: “Why don’t you look for a job in a place you’d be passionate about? Like a bookstore?”
Or maybe McDonald’s.
Well, if anyone from McDonald’s Israel is reading this…I’m your girl.
So then, totally pissed off, I went out into the world to look for a job. The problem is that I’m really really shy, and I feel awkward talking to people my age about jobs, so I have to walk around town until I find a “Help Wanted” (in Hebrew though, duh) sign paired with an old man behind the store counter. This really limits my options.
I ended up going into this touristy Judaica store. The nice old man asked me several questions, including what I did back in the states. I said I was a student, and he asked me what I studied. Which, for those of you who’ve kept track, is a difficult question to answer. Film? Languages? Theater? What the fuck DID I study? In the end I settled on theater because I figured that’s where I feel most like an expert. Lighting design, I explained to him, except I explained it using a bizarre construction in Hebrew since I couldn’t remember how to say “design.” I told him I worked a bit in this for pay back in the states (true story….and actually the ONLY paying job I’ve had in the states besides lemonade stands when I was little, which I don’t think really count when you’re an adult looking for a job in a Judaica store). I also figured that since theater is the only field I have actual work experience in and is the most out-going extroverted subject I’ve studied, I should go with that, even though I could also argue that I studied Judaism at school (though not officially).
The nice old man started on this whole speech about how the art of selling is very much like theater, and it’s all about putting on a face even when the going gets tough and all about presentation and blahblahblah. I smiled because I thought, “This is great! I don’t even have to make some lame explanation about how my theater experience is relevant to selling tchatchkes in downtown Jerusalem, because he’s doing it for me!”
But then he started saying though that, since I unfortunately didn’t have any selling experience, that the job was probably a no-go unless no one else came along or whatever.
Wait, so what was that whole speech he just made about??? There’s NO way I misunderstood what he was saying, I understood every single word! “I’m going to talk for 5 minutes about how your experiences are perfect for this job, and without taking a breath I’m going to end by saying that your experiences don’t fit this job.” Oh man, people are so weird.
So how, pray tell, does one acquire a job with no experience? Actually, I do have work experience. I have experience designing lights in small theaters, and I have experience babysitting/tutoring three Israeli girls and their brother in English. Does this count for anything?
Oh yeah, and I can fold towels like nobody else.
And in fairness, my dear roommate, I’ve actually been constantly on the look out for one job in particular. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself for this, but I’m not: every single week that I’ve been in Israel so far, I’ve walked by the McDonald’s closest to my apartment to see if they were looking for employees. And they’re not. And it breaks my heart. I seriously seriously seriously want to work at McDonald’s, because I bet employees get a discount on fries and McNuggets, and that would just make my life so wonderful. I want to be a nugget-based life form. I want to get so fat on Chicken McNuggets that my rickety Jewish Agency-provided bed snaps in half. When I cough, I want fries to come out. I want to inject ketchup and the admittedly nasty McDonald’s orange juice into my veins. I want to eat soft-serve until I vomit McFlurries, and eat Egg McMuffins like they’re Mentos. And maybe if you’re reading this you’ll think, “Wow, maybe you shouldn’t work in McDonald’s cos a fat bitch like you is gonna eat everything and there will be nothing left for the customers.” No, see, that’s just it. I want to spread the gospel. I want everyone to eat McDonald’s. I want tourists looking over maps and planning their adventures over a Big Mac. I want locals laughing about a fun night out as they eat the Filet-O-Fish or whatever. I want details of peace treaties hammered out over a large order of fries, and then in the end I want the peace treaties to fail because Hamas took the last fry and this pissed off everyone else. Yes. Yes. This is my vision for the world. In every country I’ve been to in the world, I’ve eaten at a McDonald’s there, and I consider this my contribution to McDonald’s quest for world domination. When I hear people say they hate McDonald’s for exactly this reason, for its “conquest,” I want to strangle them to silence the opposition.
After the t-shirt job didn’t work out, my dad gave me some advice: “Why don’t you look for a job in a place you’d be passionate about? Like a bookstore?”
Or maybe McDonald’s.
Well, if anyone from McDonald’s Israel is reading this…I’m your girl.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
more army fun...
So I called the army place to clear up what the deal was.
First one guy said that I didn't turn in my blood test results. I was ready to flip out and scream, "I'VE NOW FAXED THEM TWICE AND TURNED THEM IN IN PERSON...HOW THE HELL DO YOU STILL NOT HAVE THEM? AND FOR THE RECORD, ACCORDING TO MY DOCTOR AND THESE TEST RESULTS, I
STILL
DON'T HAVE THE SERIOUS BLOOD CONDITION THAT Y'ALL THINK I HAVE, SO FOR THE LOVE OF G-D WILL YOU JUST LET ME JOIN YOUR FUCKING ARMY ALREADY???!"
But instead I just said calmly in Hebrew, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, "Could you please check again? I came to the enlistment center on Monday and turned them in."
He called up to the medical unit/section/whatever to check it out for me, and a couple minutes later he came back on the line and said no one was picking up.
Having been in that room several times, I can tell you why no one was picking up: because all the 18 year old soldiers are too busy fucking playing solitaire on their computers and blasting Eyal fucking Golan from their cell phones.
He said to call back in a half and hour to clear up whether or not I still needed to come in.
So half an hour later I called back and the person on the other line barked at me that I don't need to come in after all but that I have to wait. I'm not really sure what I'm waiting for.
urgh....I'm just tired. I just want them to tell me, "This is exactly what's going on, here's what you need to be doing, end of story." Instead I have to resort to calling several times, because each time I get a different answer, and I hate myself for it because I hate being pushy and bothering people, especially people who don't particularly want to but HAVE to be in an army for 2/3 years....
First one guy said that I didn't turn in my blood test results. I was ready to flip out and scream, "I'VE NOW FAXED THEM TWICE AND TURNED THEM IN IN PERSON...HOW THE HELL DO YOU STILL NOT HAVE THEM? AND FOR THE RECORD, ACCORDING TO MY DOCTOR AND THESE TEST RESULTS, I
STILL
DON'T HAVE THE SERIOUS BLOOD CONDITION THAT Y'ALL THINK I HAVE, SO FOR THE LOVE OF G-D WILL YOU JUST LET ME JOIN YOUR FUCKING ARMY ALREADY???!"
But instead I just said calmly in Hebrew, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, "Could you please check again? I came to the enlistment center on Monday and turned them in."
He called up to the medical unit/section/whatever to check it out for me, and a couple minutes later he came back on the line and said no one was picking up.
Having been in that room several times, I can tell you why no one was picking up: because all the 18 year old soldiers are too busy fucking playing solitaire on their computers and blasting Eyal fucking Golan from their cell phones.
He said to call back in a half and hour to clear up whether or not I still needed to come in.
So half an hour later I called back and the person on the other line barked at me that I don't need to come in after all but that I have to wait. I'm not really sure what I'm waiting for.
urgh....I'm just tired. I just want them to tell me, "This is exactly what's going on, here's what you need to be doing, end of story." Instead I have to resort to calling several times, because each time I get a different answer, and I hate myself for it because I hate being pushy and bothering people, especially people who don't particularly want to but HAVE to be in an army for 2/3 years....
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Purim Escapades.
FROM YESTERDAY
So during Purim it’s quite common for little kids to run around throwing these little things that make a banging noise. You get used to hearing the noise, and it’s obvious to you that the banging noise you hear is annoying but harmless. It sounds like two fingers snapping very loudly.
Today I wandered around the shuk to see if I could come up with a more interesting Purim costume, and holy fuck was it crowded. I mean, it’s always crowded, but today it was like a sea of people. I ended up wandering into one of the covered areas, and it was even more ridiculously crowded than the open place. And all of the sudden we hear a
BLAM!
Holy fuck. A deafening noise that sounded like a gunshot. A few people screamed, many people ducked, others instinctively grabbed hold of tables or counters, and I would wager that most people—including myself--had minor heart attacks.
For a couple seconds it seemed like the world had frozen, but then we realized it was just a particularly loud firecracker or cap or something, and then some men started yelling, “WHO DID THAT!??!?!?” Everyone was still shaking (mind you, it’s a terribly crowded area, already the victim of several terrorist attacks, a week after a terrorist attack in Jerusalem, and this week Jerusalem is on high alert because of Purim), and now that everyone realized they were not in danger, people were PISSED. Men kept calling out, “WHO DID THAT???!?” I can only hope for their sake that the culprits ran off very quickly, because the atmosphere in the marketplace was that of a lynch mob.
I understand it’s Purim, but what kind of misbehaving little shit sets off a firecracker in the middle of a crowded marketplace in the Middle East? Seriously….
(Note: Later on in the evening, on crowded streets like Ben Yehuda, where there were hundreds of people out for a party and it looked like a mass zombie take-over was occurring, there were pops and bangs and explosions all the time. This was not scary because it was constant since pretty much since the start of the evening. Early in the morning though, lighting a sudden firecracker in the middle of the marketplace when no other loud explosions are going on can be quite startling and it’s hard to remember that it’s Purim when it’s just one loud sudden explosion. Anyway……)
Anyway, my plan for Purim was to just get drunk and then drunk dial different government offices. Actually, this wasn’t much of a plan, more of a prediction.
I ended up going to a party at my absorption center. At the last minute I decided to dress as basically every woman in Jerusalem, so I dressed like an orthodox married woman. Everyone who knows me and knows that I’m quite secular and never caught in skirts thought this was very funny, and couldn’t believe that I even own a skirt. To people who knew me, it was OBVIOUSLY a costume.
What was really amusing though was when we left our building and went out into public. First we went to some Israeli house party, filled with Israelis my age who I’ve never seen before in my life, and then we went to this massive street party filled with even more Israelis I’ve never seen before on my life, and these Israelis were dancing on roofs and trucks. I think what I thoroughly enjoyed about my costume was that strangers we met along the way couldn’t tell whether or not it was in fact a costume, which is my favorite kind of costume. It was actually so much fun to be mistaken for something that I’m not that I’m considering dressing like an orthodox married woman just for the hell of it, just because it was interesting.
One friend of a friend who joined our group said (in Hebrew! YES!) as he pointed at my hair covering, “Are you married?” And I laughed and said, “No, it’s just a costume.” And he chuckled and said, “Oh, so the costume is that you’re married?” And I laughed and said, “No, the costume is that I’m RELIGIOUS and married.” At which point it totally blew this person’s mind that I wasn’t religious, and he almost didn’t believe me. “No way! No way! You’re religious!” Am I really such a convincing orthodox person? Hahaha, oh man, I love the power of a long skirt. And I also love the power of the realistic costume, as opposed to obvious devil ears or fairy wings or whatever that say, “WARNING: I AM NOT ACTUALLLY A DEVIL OR FAIRY.”
We tried to go to this bar in Jerusalem where there was an immigrant party…but I got stopped for being 20. I tried to do the “go on without me!” thing, but they all refused (what nice people I was with!), so we ended up walking for quite some time until we came to a massive street party, which I don’t think an immigrant party could have topped.
I don’t really think words can do justice to this party, so I’ll try to upload a quick video clip. (As of right now, it's ain't happening because the internet is too slow here)
So during Purim it’s quite common for little kids to run around throwing these little things that make a banging noise. You get used to hearing the noise, and it’s obvious to you that the banging noise you hear is annoying but harmless. It sounds like two fingers snapping very loudly.
Today I wandered around the shuk to see if I could come up with a more interesting Purim costume, and holy fuck was it crowded. I mean, it’s always crowded, but today it was like a sea of people. I ended up wandering into one of the covered areas, and it was even more ridiculously crowded than the open place. And all of the sudden we hear a
BLAM!
Holy fuck. A deafening noise that sounded like a gunshot. A few people screamed, many people ducked, others instinctively grabbed hold of tables or counters, and I would wager that most people—including myself--had minor heart attacks.
For a couple seconds it seemed like the world had frozen, but then we realized it was just a particularly loud firecracker or cap or something, and then some men started yelling, “WHO DID THAT!??!?!?” Everyone was still shaking (mind you, it’s a terribly crowded area, already the victim of several terrorist attacks, a week after a terrorist attack in Jerusalem, and this week Jerusalem is on high alert because of Purim), and now that everyone realized they were not in danger, people were PISSED. Men kept calling out, “WHO DID THAT???!?” I can only hope for their sake that the culprits ran off very quickly, because the atmosphere in the marketplace was that of a lynch mob.
I understand it’s Purim, but what kind of misbehaving little shit sets off a firecracker in the middle of a crowded marketplace in the Middle East? Seriously….
(Note: Later on in the evening, on crowded streets like Ben Yehuda, where there were hundreds of people out for a party and it looked like a mass zombie take-over was occurring, there were pops and bangs and explosions all the time. This was not scary because it was constant since pretty much since the start of the evening. Early in the morning though, lighting a sudden firecracker in the middle of the marketplace when no other loud explosions are going on can be quite startling and it’s hard to remember that it’s Purim when it’s just one loud sudden explosion. Anyway……)
Anyway, my plan for Purim was to just get drunk and then drunk dial different government offices. Actually, this wasn’t much of a plan, more of a prediction.
I ended up going to a party at my absorption center. At the last minute I decided to dress as basically every woman in Jerusalem, so I dressed like an orthodox married woman. Everyone who knows me and knows that I’m quite secular and never caught in skirts thought this was very funny, and couldn’t believe that I even own a skirt. To people who knew me, it was OBVIOUSLY a costume.
What was really amusing though was when we left our building and went out into public. First we went to some Israeli house party, filled with Israelis my age who I’ve never seen before in my life, and then we went to this massive street party filled with even more Israelis I’ve never seen before on my life, and these Israelis were dancing on roofs and trucks. I think what I thoroughly enjoyed about my costume was that strangers we met along the way couldn’t tell whether or not it was in fact a costume, which is my favorite kind of costume. It was actually so much fun to be mistaken for something that I’m not that I’m considering dressing like an orthodox married woman just for the hell of it, just because it was interesting.
One friend of a friend who joined our group said (in Hebrew! YES!) as he pointed at my hair covering, “Are you married?” And I laughed and said, “No, it’s just a costume.” And he chuckled and said, “Oh, so the costume is that you’re married?” And I laughed and said, “No, the costume is that I’m RELIGIOUS and married.” At which point it totally blew this person’s mind that I wasn’t religious, and he almost didn’t believe me. “No way! No way! You’re religious!” Am I really such a convincing orthodox person? Hahaha, oh man, I love the power of a long skirt. And I also love the power of the realistic costume, as opposed to obvious devil ears or fairy wings or whatever that say, “WARNING: I AM NOT ACTUALLLY A DEVIL OR FAIRY.”
We tried to go to this bar in Jerusalem where there was an immigrant party…but I got stopped for being 20. I tried to do the “go on without me!” thing, but they all refused (what nice people I was with!), so we ended up walking for quite some time until we came to a massive street party, which I don’t think an immigrant party could have topped.
I don’t really think words can do justice to this party, so I’ll try to upload a quick video clip. (As of right now, it's ain't happening because the internet is too slow here)
Monday, March 9, 2009
Profile בבקשה
Today I had a thrilling moment where I dropped my cell phone on a bus and then out loud, without trying, muttered something in Hebrew like, “Now where did it disappear to?” Being able to just unconsciously spew out Hebrew as opposed to English was thrilling, especially when you consider that earlier in the bus ride I asked for a pass thusly: “ כרטיסיה please.” Followed by my smacking my head with my hand and saying, “Wait, shit!” I was focusing so hard on the word for the 10-ride bus pass, which I just recently figured out, that I simply forgot to say please in Hebrew rather than English…great.
So today I called the health clinic and all the test results were in, so I said that I’d come by in a few minutes to pick them up and take them to the army center myself. After a 20 minute hike up the mountain (I took the speedy but extremely steep route) I got to the clinic and told the receptionist I was here to pick up documents from the doctor. And the receptionist told me I had to wait in a line of like 5 sick people waiting to be examined. It was fucking ridiculous. I had to wait like 45 minutes just to pick up a fucking sheet of paper. I seriously sometimes do not understand this healthcare system.
P.S. How weird it is that the doctor is a woman and the receptionist is a man? What a country….
Also, when I called the other day to ask about my results, the receptionist asked me who took my blood. And the nurse who took my blood was male, so I didn’t want to call him the word for nurse in Hebrew, which literally means “sister.” So I referred to him as a “doctor.” Oh my G-d, did that not go over well with the receptionist. He sounded furious, and snapped at me, “He’s a ‘brother’ not a doctor!!!” Jesus Christ man, and you’re a psychopath not a receptionist, chill the fuck out….
Anyway, I took the forms to the army center, they took them, and the soldier told me that I should have my health profile in like two weeks. Fuck. NOW. I want now! About an hour and a half or so later I called the information line to ask when I would know my health profile, cos I figured if I’m as annoying as humanly possibly maybe things will go correctly, as opposed to my last few encounters with the army center in which I acted like a shy person who didn’t want to bother anybody and everything seemed to go horribly wrong and people forgot to tell me major things like the fact that I had to have a fucking BLOOD TEST. The soldier said something about how I’m going to get a “summons” or something in the mail, a word which I didn’t know exactly until I looked it up on my cell phone dictionary but which has the same root as “invitation.” …….but I don’t really know what that means…does that mean I have to go back to the army center again to do more tests? When the fuck will it end??? I asked the soldier if that meant that I had more tests that I had to do with the doctor, and she snapped at me, “I don’t know, you just have to wait!”
So wait I shall.
…until maybe tomorrow.
In the meantime, if any of my dear readers can confirm or deny that a “zimoon” is simply a letter the army sends you that says that you have to come to the army center to do something, that would be greatly appreciated. But I don’t expect either of you two to be able to confirm/deny. So I guess I’ll just wait and see.
So today I called the health clinic and all the test results were in, so I said that I’d come by in a few minutes to pick them up and take them to the army center myself. After a 20 minute hike up the mountain (I took the speedy but extremely steep route) I got to the clinic and told the receptionist I was here to pick up documents from the doctor. And the receptionist told me I had to wait in a line of like 5 sick people waiting to be examined. It was fucking ridiculous. I had to wait like 45 minutes just to pick up a fucking sheet of paper. I seriously sometimes do not understand this healthcare system.
P.S. How weird it is that the doctor is a woman and the receptionist is a man? What a country….
Also, when I called the other day to ask about my results, the receptionist asked me who took my blood. And the nurse who took my blood was male, so I didn’t want to call him the word for nurse in Hebrew, which literally means “sister.” So I referred to him as a “doctor.” Oh my G-d, did that not go over well with the receptionist. He sounded furious, and snapped at me, “He’s a ‘brother’ not a doctor!!!” Jesus Christ man, and you’re a psychopath not a receptionist, chill the fuck out….
Anyway, I took the forms to the army center, they took them, and the soldier told me that I should have my health profile in like two weeks. Fuck. NOW. I want now! About an hour and a half or so later I called the information line to ask when I would know my health profile, cos I figured if I’m as annoying as humanly possibly maybe things will go correctly, as opposed to my last few encounters with the army center in which I acted like a shy person who didn’t want to bother anybody and everything seemed to go horribly wrong and people forgot to tell me major things like the fact that I had to have a fucking BLOOD TEST. The soldier said something about how I’m going to get a “summons” or something in the mail, a word which I didn’t know exactly until I looked it up on my cell phone dictionary but which has the same root as “invitation.” …….but I don’t really know what that means…does that mean I have to go back to the army center again to do more tests? When the fuck will it end??? I asked the soldier if that meant that I had more tests that I had to do with the doctor, and she snapped at me, “I don’t know, you just have to wait!”
So wait I shall.
…until maybe tomorrow.
In the meantime, if any of my dear readers can confirm or deny that a “zimoon” is simply a letter the army sends you that says that you have to come to the army center to do something, that would be greatly appreciated. But I don’t expect either of you two to be able to confirm/deny. So I guess I’ll just wait and see.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Minarets are Charlie Brown Characters
Also, can we just talk about the fact that the voice coming out minarets sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher if she were singing?
WAW WAW WAAAAW WAAW......
WAW WAW WAAAAW WAAW......
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