The Good, the Bad and the Absurd

Searching for chocolate

2023-06-23T22:16:00.000-07:00

I'm in Ashdod. My uncle (my dad's younger brother) is visiting us from Montreal. My dad and his brother have just returned from a Mediterranean cruise and we're celebrating their homecoming with watermelon and pastries. 

As we enjoy our summer treats, the topic of chocolate comes up. And suddenly my mother is turning the kitchen upside down in an attempt to recover her favorite chocolate because she wants to introduce it to my uncle (Tony Chocolonely dark chocolate with salt and almonds, in case you were wondering). 

Why must she turn the kitchen upside down?

Glad you asked.

My mom hides chocolate in faraway places, to make it harder to get at. 

Only now she can't remember where she hid it. 

As we listen to the sound of her opening and closing cupboards, I tell my uncle that I do the same thing. And that every so often, I'll rediscover chocolate that I'd ferreted away 3 years earlier. 

My uncle chimes in, "Yeah, me too! I hide food from myself so that I won't be tempted by it. And then I forget about it."

"No, no," I tell him, "You don't understand. I don't hide the chocolate from myself. I hide the chocolate from my mother."

"And this is for you..."

2022-08-19T21:58:00.004-07:00

My father just returned from a short trip to Germany. 

After settling in, he unzipped his carry-on and presented us with a couple of big Toblerone bars: 

"Here, I thought you would like this." 

Toblerone with salted caramelized almonds! 
The man knows the way to our eternal allegiance.

Next, he took out a white and gold-polka-dotted plastic bag, and with a flourish, offered it to my mother: 

"And this is for you."

She took the bag gingerly, an expectant look on her face, opened it... and burst out laughing. 

"Laundry?" I asked. (I know my father).

"Yes! And I thought he'd bought me something special!" Still laughing. 

My mother is a great sport.

"When I remember..."

2020-06-05T00:21:00.003-07:00

Picture courtesy of Element5 Digital/Unsplash

Fortunately for me, I exercise routinely and I eat (and generally live) in a healthy manner.
Because here are two demonstrations of how I am, otherwise.

***

From a recent interaction with my new doctor (now that my dad has retired), who was in the midst of preparing a blood test request for me:

New doctor: "So, what else should we check?"

Me: "My iron was low last time."

New doctor: "Have you been taking your pills?"

Me: "... when I remember..."

New doctor, unamused: "Is that a yes or a no?"

Me, shamefacedly: "... that's a no..."

***

Yesterday morning, I went for the blood test.
I lined up outside, had my temperature taken prior to going into the clinic, took a number, waited a short while, and then went up to the receptionist.

Me: "I couldn't remember whether or not I was supposed to be fasting when I came for the blood test. So I prepared myself to fast, but then I forgot and I had a coffee this morning. So... um... was I supposed to come fasting?"

Lovely receptionist, kindly: "Yes. Shall we reschedule?"

***

I am constantly grateful for the patience of others.

Cheese!

2020-04-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

Our cities are shut down and we're on lockdown, or I would be celebrating the Passover seder with my parents in Ashdod. Instead, however, I am stranded in Jerusalem - granted, in a beautiful apartment with no one underfoot - and we just completed a mini-seder over WhatsApp.

My parents sent over a couple of pictures.

The first:

The ongoing battle to get my dad to smile in pictures:

We always try to get my dad to smile in pictures. And he always refuses. My dad thinks he has a crooked smile so he adopts a serious face whenever photographed. Personally, I think crooked smiles are THE BEST. Anyhow, my mom took this picture and she claims that he's finally smiling behind the mask. ("I can tell by his eyes.")

Knowing how much my dad enjoys trying to make us laugh (putting on the mask and waiting for my mom to notice, in this particular instance), he may very well be smiling.

At some point, my dad got up and went into the kitchen to bring some food - he'd cooked most of it, under my mom's supervision - and when he returned, his seat was occupied.

Pictured above is my beautiful baby, Charlie. He's 15 and a bit of a crotchety old man, but he'll always be my baby.

Wishing everyone a happy Passover.

Pssst... Want some eggs?

2020-04-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

Picture courtesy of Rawpixel

I buy a lot of milk. Because I drink a TON of coffee.

I buy my milk from the mini-market three doors down, and I always wonder what they must think of me.

("Hmmm... she sure does buy a lot of milk... Is she, like, drinking it, or something?")

Not drinking milk. Drinking coffee. Just to clarify.

Anyhow. Back to my story...

Tonight is the Passover seder, and I went to pick up some more milk just now, lest God forbid I should run out before Friday (two days from now), even though I have two full cartons in my fridge, and two in my freezer. While I was in the store, I glanced around to see whether there was anything else I might require. I even checked out the bananas. They were very green.

Speaking of milk, what would you call a fear of running out of milk? It's the opposite of galaphobia or lactophobia (both used for "fear of milk"). My friend Vivian, an actual poet, suggested "lackolactophobia". Personally, I think that's brilliant. Not for nothing is she a venerated wordsmith.

Anyhow. Back to my story...

As I was standing in line to pay for two more milk cartons (bringing the fridge total to 4 fresh milks and 2 frozen), the owner of the mini-market sidled up to me, surreptitiously, much in the manner of a drug dealer, and said quietly...

"Tell me, Jennifer... do you need any eggs?"

And this is what I LOVE about Israel.

The country has had a run on eggs for a few days now. (At Passover, Jews need eggs. No, I can't explain it.) The government had supposedly arranged to fly in eggs from Europe for before Passover, but they are still nigh impossible to find at the moment. And the stores are going to be closed as of 3:00 PM today until Friday morning.

So Sam, the mini-market owner, had set aside whatever eggs he possessed for his good customers. And even though I didn't ask him, he saw me and quietly offered me that precious commodity.

My heart melted at his care and concern.

Where else in the world would you find that???

(Don't answer that! I want to believe this is solely an Israel-thing, to make up for all the challenges involved in living here.)

Going bananas

2020-04-04T11:26:00.000-07:00

Picture courtesy of Aleksandar Pasaric/Unsplash

I feel like I can laugh at my stupidity because, though I exhibit it more often than I'd like, I do have enough wins in life.

So here's another "Jennifer story"...

*****

Everyone was panicking at the whole "Will we be homebound? Will there be enough food?"

So I bought bananas.

I don't particularly like bananas... but that was the fruit they had in abundance in the mini-market three doors down.

And the next time I went to the mini-market, I bought more bananas.

And of course, the next time I went to the mini-market, I bought even more bananas.

(At this point, my banana collection was probably around 15-20 bananas.)

I ate one banana and it was mushy, so I did not eat any more bananas.

Days went by and the bananas did what bananas do... they got black. And bizarrely, they attracted teeny, tiny jumping/flying ants which overran my kitchen. Fruit flies, you might expect. But jumping ants?

To get rid of the ants, I put the bananas in the fridge. And to get rid of some bananas, I decided to make banana bread. (That, I do like!)

Picture courtesy of Jeff Siepman/Unsplash

I made the batter, which, I noticed, was thicker than usual, and put it in the oven.

Five minutes later, I realized I'd forgotten the buttermilk.

The cake had started to rise, or I would have tried to mix it in anyhow.

Because there wasn't enough liquid, the baking time was less, but I wasn't sure by how much.

So needless to say, I burned the cake.

I burned the bottom of the cake. I burned the top of the cake.

But the inside was delicious!

I just finished the last piece.

I'm going to make it again.

And now I'm sitting here, trying to decide how to make it.

With or without the buttermilk?

Shhh... I'm drinking

2020-03-08T22:20:00.000-07:00

Picture courtesy of Nathan Dumlao/Unsplash

Do you ever get home after an exhaustingly long day and an exhaustingly long drive, dying to go to sleep and think to yourself...

"What I really need right now is a cup of coffee?"

*****

Shhhh... I'm drinking.

How to Make Brown Butter

2019-10-31T04:08:00.000-07:00

I have documented my previous kitchen escapades here, here and here. And trust me, there are many more undocumented kitchen stories I will be taking to my grave.

On a recent day off, I was puttering around the apartment a bit distractedly, multitasking through my various household chores. Around lunchtime, I realized I was hungry, and I decided to make some scrambled eggs...

And that was how I made the following discovery: brown butter is delicious.

Here's my recipe for it.

How to make brown butter:

1) Put butter in pan and set to a high heat.

2) Promptly forget about butter (I don't know how you will manage that, but somehow I did) and go do laundry.

3) Strip bed and put sheets in the washing machine.

4) Walk back into hallway and wonder what that wonderful smell is, and from which neighbor's house it is emanating.

5) Wander back into the kitchen to empty a bag into the garbage, and let your gaze fall upon the stove.

6) Discover brown blobs on your pan.

Congratulations! You've made brown butter!

***

Erring on the side of adventure rather than caution, I reasoned that what smelled so good couldn't possibly taste bad. And so, despite the unappealing appearance of the brown butter, I used it to fry my eggs. They were delicious.

Playing favorites

2019-07-17T09:26:00.004-07:00

My most terrifying bag and the two hats that match it

The second-to-last decision I make before leaving my home every morning is: Which purse shall I choose? The last decision I make is: Which hat? (I have quite the selection of both purses and hats. Speaking of which, aren’t these ones pretty? They have SEQUINS in them!)

This morning, after first deciding on my most terrifying purse (leopard print, pictured above), I tried on both hats. And even though, in my heart of hearts, I really wanted to wear the camel-coloured hat, my critical eye told me to go with the black one.

I placed the rejected hat down gently, and apologized to it.

“Shhhh,” I whispered at it, in my head, “Don’t tell your brother, but I love you more.”

It was at this juncture that I realized... I’ve picked up some really horrifying parenting skills from my mother.

***

Allow me to expand on this.

My mother, as any good mother would, has always loved and treated her children equally. Unfortunately, this included telling each of us - separately - that she loved us more than our sibling... and she instructed us to keep that information confidential.

I, aged approximately 10, was burdened and horrified by the knowledge of this secret favoritism.

Thankfully, it was not a burden I would carry for long.

One day, shortly after this unpleasant revelation, my brother and I were fighting. Having reached the end of all logical reasoning, my brother pulled out his trump card. Gloating, he said, "Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because Mummy loves me more!"

I, appalled by my mother's duplicitousness, screamed out, "WHAT?!? She said she loved ME more!!!"

At which point, we both went off to resolve the issue, stomping our feet and screaming "MUMMY! MUMMY!..."

She laughed that we had found her out, and confessed.

Decades later, I reminded her of that story. I asked her what on earth she'd been thinking, engaging in such dubious methods of child-rearing? She answered that she'd just wanted to make each of us feel special. (I can't blame her for that, but it's not a technique I would recommend.)

Beware the Butterfly Brigade

2019-03-23T03:55:00.001-07:00

Painted lady butterly

Warning: This is not a post for vegans. Or nature lovers. Or anyone easily grossed out.

I am so whole-heartedly overcome with disgust right now...

***

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, and my parents and I took full advantage of it to roam around one of the Ashdod beaches. We walked on the boardwalk and observed the people in their Purim costumes. We enjoyed the fresh air, the sun, the sea. We noted the unusual bounty of butterflies fluttering by.

It seems that every few years, painted lady butterflies migrate en masse from Saudi Arabia to Greece, their peregrination route taking them through Israel. One report had them passing through the country at a rate of 25,000 butterflies per hour. It's a fascinating occurrence, especially since no one knows what provokes this phenomenon.

As we meandered back from the beach, through a park, and some parked cars, I happened to notice one car in particular. The front (vertical) part of its hood was covered in orange-y yellow splotches.

"Hmmm," I thought, "... not birds. A tree?... but how are the splotches primarily on the vertical part of the hood instead of uniformly scattered around the horizontal parts of the car, as when goo* is dropped by trees?"

Just call me Sherlock Holmes. (Although unlike Sherlock, I promptly put it out of my mind.)

***

Today, I drove back to Jerusalem, through the flowering fields of the Shfela ("Lowlands") and the blooming hills of Jerusalem. Driving in Israel, as I have chronicled before is not for the faint of heart. Especially today. Because ALL throughout my drive, I was hitting butterflies.

"Splotch," went one big yellow mass on my windshield. I wiped it away. "Smash," went another one. I wiped that one away. "Splat," went yet another butterfly... That was my drive home. In addition to the ones striking the windshield, I heard the constant "tick-ticking" of the butterflies hitting the body of the car, and was sick to my stomach with each and every one. I was so relieved to finally reach my home.

According to the New York Times, "When the painted ladies smash into a windshield, the result is a glob of yellow, butter-like ooze. That’s the result of the butterfly’s stored fat, used to make the long journey north."

***

It's just one of those things, that as a native speaker you often tend not to question the language or think of its etymology.

But now I know why they're called butterflies.

* I don't know the proper term. It may not surprise you to discover that plant sciences was one of my weakest subjects while studying for my Bachelor of Science.

My body has a mind of its own...

2019-03-07T20:58:00.000-08:00

Notice the hand of the marionette is a puppet itself. So who is manipulating who?

I like to think of my body as a separate entity from myself. Here are just a few examples I can give you to demonstrate.

My body and I have had an agreement for the past 4 years: I wake it up very (very!) early in the morning, get it caffeinated, dressed in workout clothes and then position it in front of a Jessica Smith YouTube exercise video (my body loves her!) to do exercise. My body decides what it's up for. Sometimes it has the energy for a high-powered kickboxing workout, and sometimes all it can handle is a long, intense bout of stretching. As a result, my body has very generously slightly slowed my aging process (not the slowly wrinkling skin, unfortunately, but the rest of me. I won't be a hunched over 70-year-old woman with trouble climbing the stairs. Thanks, body!... What's that? I hear my body's reply... "It's a symbiosis, so thank you, Jennifer." You're welcome, body.)

It's an arrangement that works well for us.

Lately my body has quite viciously taken to waking me before my alarm clock. This has happened almost every day this week and I keep thinking it's a one-off. (Body to Jennifer: "You're very naive if you think this is going to stop anytime soon.")

It's one thing to wake up before your alarm on a work day. It even lulls you into a false sense of pep and efficiency... until you crash and burn at 3 PM because your body hasn't gotten enough sleep and now it's affecting your mind. But do you know how disconcerting it is to wake up early on a Friday morning when you can actually sleep in?!

Another example: I have a horrid tendency to put on weight in winter. I easily fluctuate 20 pounds between my lowest and heaviest weight. (I can actually fluctuate 30 pounds, but that one takes immense effort, both the putting on of the weight, and the taking it off.) The winter, the constant cold (in Israel, it's cold inside buildings!*)... causes non-stop carb-craving. And sugar. And once you start with the sugar, your body cries out like Cookie Monster: "More sugar!"

This winter, I gained more weight than usual. I honestly didn't know how I was going to take it off. I tried and tried. Finally, my body took pity on me. It decided it had had enough of the surplus weight, the back pain, the extra belly fat, the lack of variety in my "fat clothes". And it decided to tamp down my hunger levels. Such a relief, I lost about 9 pounds in 3 weeks, no effort, no joke. I can't even explain how, other than that my body decided it had had enough being heavier. (Now to lose the rest...)

Maybe some people reading this will identify with me in all this. If so, tell me how you and your body manage to co-exist in the same space!

But if you're reading this thinking I'm crazy, please don't say anything; my body might hear you and take offense. I really can't be responsible for how it would respond. (I did take a few lessons in Krav Maga, you know.)

*Israel can put a shuttle on the moon, but we can't figure out insulation!?

Fire! Fire!

2019-02-20T00:59:00.000-08:00

With such a name, I think it only fair she be a red-head, no?

Photo credit: Štefan Štefančík on Unsplash

While I don't normally pay much attention to Facebook posts requiring me to do completely pointless mental gymnastics, somehow the following post bypassed my usual defenses and enticed me into working it out in my head:

As my mother is called Phyllis, and as she designated me Jennifer - I realized that if I had a daughter and named her according to this little game, her name would be "Phyer" (pronounced "Fire", obviously). Of course, I would need to spell her name "Fyer", which is SO much cooler than the "Ph" spelling.

Time would pass and this daughter of mine, Fyer, would grow up to be a teenager. She would have friends, as teenage girls do. And perhaps, one evening, they might go out to see a movie. If she's my daughter (and we've established that she is), she would need to use the bathroom A LOT, so she might conceivably get separated from her friends on one of her powder room pilgrimages. Returning from the restroom, upon entering the hall, she would crane her neck and search high and low for her friends.

Her friends, already seated, would spot her looking for them. They would wave, and loudly call her over: "FYER! FYER!"...

... And everyone around them would panic and stampede out of the theater.

Then Fyer and her friends could watch the movie in their own personal empty theater.

... But I think there might be a law against that.

The things that occur in an Israeli supermarket...

2019-02-13T10:28:00.001-08:00

After nearly everyone at the office had been sick, it appeared it was my turn. I was sick for one week, and proceeded to make a glacier-slow recovery. The sickness not only weakened my body, but my mind, as well.

On my way home from work one day, brain still enveloped by the fog of sickness, I popped into my lucky supermarket. "Lucky", because it's the only place I still occasionally manage to find the fabric softener I love and have used faithfully for 27 years (it seems to have been discontinued). It's also one of the only places I've found antibiotic- and hormone-free chicken on sale.

Speaking of sales... is there anything more transiently joyful than finding one of your routine purchases unexpectedly on sale, at the very moment you need it?

That day, my soul was permeated with an ephemeral burst of joy caused by the sales tags on the chicken, and I filled a couple of bags. (Sadly, no fabric softener.) I made my way to the cash, and noticed that my favorite gum was also on sale. My fleeting elation knew no bounds! I laid my bags of chicken on the broken* conveyor belt and then added 6 little plastic bottles of gum to my soon-to-be property (the special on the gum being for 2 bottles, logic intimated that I should acquire an even number).

Waiting for the cashier to check out the customer before me, I noticed the woman behind me fondling one of my bottles of gum. It is considered normal behavior in Israel for other customers to pick your items off the conveyor belt and examine them minutely. It's also considered normal for cashiers to ask you how you use certain products, and why you're buying them. The first I find oddly invasive; the second, oddly endearing. (Ask me anything, but get your paws off my stuff.) What is considered unorthodox behavior... even for Israel... is for other customers to pinch your items.

I paid for my groceries and slowly lumbered home with the heavy parcels. Upon arrival, I emptied the bags and put everything away. I set aside 5 little bottles of gum. I counted them again. Where was the sixth? My gratification at the gum deal was dulled somewhat (a shame to have paid for 6 items and only to have received 5), I looked around some more and then checked my bill.

It turns out I had only paid for 5 bottles of gum. My mind searched back to the supermarket line and I recalled the woman fondling my gum. Examining my items is one thing, but this is the first time someone's actually pinched one of them.** At least I hadn't paid for it.

And then I looked even more closely at the bill and noticed...

They'd charged me full price for the 5 bottles of gum.***

I had to laugh.

---------------------------

Update from a few weeks later...

I popped into my lucky supermarket again, just to see whether there was anything of interest on offer. There was nothing particularly exciting. But since there wasn't much of a line, I decided to pick up some more gum. (All the sales signs had disappeared, and I naturally assumed the sale was over.)

Of course, when the cashier informed me how much I owed, it amounted to the sale price from almost a month earlier. (I believe I already explained this one.***)

* The conveyor belt has been broken for a very long time. They have not fixed it yet. They might fix it in a year. Or they might not. It's an Israeli supermarket... I hope that clarifies things.

** If it were to happen anywhere, it would happen here. Because things like that happen in Israel... I hope that clarifies things.

*** Advertised sales prices do not necessarily coincide with the price that is registered in the computer of an Israeli supermarket... I hope that clarifies things.

Second-worst set-up EVER

2018-12-31T09:23:00.000-08:00

My beloved city of Ashdod

I was driving through Ashdod the other day, passing through Alef*, an area I hadn't driven through in many years. It brought back memories. Alef is where my best friend in high school used to live, and I spent a lot of time in her home... It's where my driving instructor brought me so I could practice overriding my natural instinct of speeding up at pedestrian crosswalks... It's where the mall at which I purchased some of my all-time favorite sandals (pretty, comfortable AND high!) stood, though the mall has since closed and the sandals are long gone...

But it was one memory in particular that floated back to me from my ancient past as I drove by: the memory of the second-worst set-up I've ever had to endure.

The catalyst in this story was my state of unemployment. I had finished the lab research for my Masters thesis and was in the process of pulling it all together, analyzing the data and writing it down methodically. I had given up my student apartment in Rehovot and moved back my parents' home to write my thesis. My mom was of the opinion that I needed an additional occupation, to get me out of the house. (In her mind, staying at home is one of the worst possible disasters to befall a person.) And so she set about trying to find me other activities.

One deceivingly innocuous day, I accompanied my parents to the shuk in Bet, a slummy, disreputable area of Ashdod. This was by design. (There is nothing innocent in this story, except me.) After making our purchases, my dad went off on a brief house-call to a patient who lived in the area, and my mom expressed a sudden interest in meeting a woman who worked for a non-profit organization, as her office "happened" to be right there. This organization (Joint Israel, still in existence) recruits volunteers whom they send out to teach underprivileged children.

Sensing a trap, I tried to resist. But I was promised that the purpose of the visit was solely for my mom to obtain information about volunteering for herself (lie #1) and that I wouldn't be forced to do anything I didn't want to do (lie #2).

And so I was lured in...

We entered the small Joint office, where we were received by an attractive, well-put-together, middle-aged Moroccan woman, so incongruent with her poverty-stricken surroundings. She was very energetic and very pushy as she sold us her spiel. She certainly appeared to believed in her mission; and if I'm completely objective, I will concede it was a noble cause. This woman, though, could have sold snow to Eskimos. And somehow... entirely against my will (I cannot stress this enough)... this whole thing metamorphosed from my mother obtaining information for herself to me being roped into teaching English to an underprivileged Ethiopian girl who did not have any particular desire to learn English.

* Would that this were the end of the story. *

This woman took a liking to me and flattered me shamelessly. (I was embarrassed.) She would call me up at random to see how I was doing - not to ask about my student - and would issue invitations to her house for Shabbat lunch. She mentioned her son a few times, an apparently brilliant man a few years older than I who was working on his doctorate in computer programming. I side-stepped her invitations until it became uncomfortable.

And finally, one day, having run out of excuses, I cracked.

"How bad could it be?" I thought, as I succumbed.

On the appointed day, I drove to her apartment in Alef. I parked my car, and was approaching the entrance when I noticed a tall man, in a track suit and slippers, walking a little dog. He had glasses and stringy, greasy hair and was hunched over, more from a lack of confidence than any apparent physical ailment.

I thought, "With my luck, that's her son." I immediately corrected myself: "Why are you so negative? That's not her son! He's way too old, anyhow."

Slightly comforted, I walked up to the apartment and knocked on the door. The woman opened it and welcomed me warmly. She introduced me to her husband and then added, "My son will be joining us shortly. He just went out to walk the dog."

* Would that this were the end of the story. *

I sat down and chatted with the husband. We clicked. He was engaging and entertaining and clearly a people-person. He had worked at the Ashdod port for many years and had many amusing stories to tell. Speaking with him was probably the best part of the entire ordeal.

We sat down to eat.

I've never encountered so many different foods at one family's table before. There was so much food - so much! My plate was heaped full (and not by me). And when I thought that was the end of it... she brought out more!

I don't think I said two words to the son. As engaging as the father was, and as dynamic as the mother was, the son was the complete opposite. He was quiet, severely introverted and didn't making eye contact. He mumbled some words to his parents, barely looking at them, but said not a word to me, his intended bride-to-be. (Have no doubt, that's why his mom pursued me.) Looking back now, I'd venture to say he was afflicted with Aspergers.

It was a thoroughly, thoroughly uncomfortable experience.

It's been about a decade, and driving through Alef brought it all back vividly. Reflecting on it, I wonder to myself... Is it too late to report my mom to Child Protective Services?

* Ashdod is the first planned city in Israel. As a result, the different areas have all been named in descending order of the Alef-Bet. So there's Alef, Bet, Gimmel, Daled... all the way through to Tet-Vav.

Bad behavior

2018-12-28T11:08:00.000-08:00

Public Service Announcement:
This traffic infraction is punishable by a fine of 1000 NIS.

As previously mentioned in this space, my dad has been volunteering with the traffic police for about a decade. And as recorded here, the traffic police have devised a particularly successful sting operation in which they are still engaged. (To sum up, a policeman in civilian clothes stands at the traffic island of a big junction - for hours - and at the first sight of an infraction, he radios ahead to the policemen laying in wait up ahead, hidden from sight. Simple... but effective.)

The policemen seem to get a real kick out of their undercover wardrobe possibilities (the most infamous of them being the leopard print leggings and red jacket), and this particular day was no different. The policeman in question stood at his post, bright orange hat atop his head. Upon spotting a driver holding his cellphone (note: not "using", not "looking down at"; just "holding"), he radioed the concealed police car up ahead. My dad and his partner happened to be the policemen on duty. They waved the car over and wrote out the 1000 NIS fine, which the driver did not take well.

He stormed and yelled and tantrum-ed:

"You're taking money away from my business!... You're damaging my living!... You're taking bread out of the mouths of my children!"

... And with that, he hurled his phone violently at the road.

Without saying a word, my father bent down and picked it up. He examined it surreptitiously to assess the damage (not a scratch) and then handed it back to the driver, silently.

The man took the phone, called someone, and then drove off.

*******

To answer your first question (and my dad's!):
Samsung

To answer my first question:
Moroccan, according to his last name (I knew it!)
And now you understand his behavior.*

* Elucidation for my non-Israeli readers: Moroccans have the reputation of being among the most hot-tempered of Israelis.

What do you mean "No butter"...?

2018-11-23T22:26:00.001-08:00

See the disappointed look on his face? I can only assume it's because he's just discovered that the pie set before him is parve, made with margarine instead of butter.

I decided to take a patisserie course. I did my homework, researching the different culinary schools in Jerusalem. One place, very conveniently located in the center of town, offered a 3.5-month course. Another school had a 10-month program, which was more of a commitment than I liked. There was a third, which came so highly recommended ("Go to Tel Aviv. But if you're not going to study in Tel Aviv, this is the only serious culinary institute in Jerusalem."), that even though it's an Orthodox school in a very Orthodox area (Givat Shaul), I considered it.

I called up this last school and asked whether I could come visit them before the course began. Our exchange went something a little like this:

Me: "Can I come see your school tomorrow morning?"

Receptionist at the very religious school: "Well... We have a men's class at that time. We have separate classes for men and women."

Me: "Oh, it's ok, I just want to see the premises."

"But..." she reiterated, "the men's class takes place at that time... There will be men there..."

"I realize that," [especially since you've hammered it home three times] "I don't want to join the class; I don't even want to observe it. I just want to come and see the school."

"Ohhh-kay... so long as you realize that there will be men there... Wear 'respectful' clothing."

In the end, I gave up. I reasoned that our brief conversation was indicative of a particular mindset too much at odds with my own, "respectful" though I might try to be and as much as I might try to adapt to it.

So I opted for the patisserie course at the culinary institution in the center of town. That course takes place over 3 and a half months for a total of 15 weekly classes with a pastry chef; each meeting is approximately 3 hours. Needless to say, it's not cheap. The people in the class were people interested in learning the principles of baking and pastry-making. Some were already quite experienced (one girl mentioned her success with macarons in passing), while others were complete newbies (a very nice, very nerdy be-spectacled 15-year old boy was among the students). My own experience lies somewhere in-between. And whatever first-hand experience I lack, I usually have knowledge about. (That means I've watched YouTube videos.)

During the introduction, we were informed that the kitchen is also used for cooking classes, where they work with meat. Therefore, in order to keep kosher, this class would be parve (dairy-free). Yes, that means no butter, milk or cream. (NO BUTTER!!!) I almost fell off my stool.

It had never even occurred to me to verify this beforehand. (Because who teaches a patisserie class in a parve kitchen without butter?) I briefly toyed with the idea of getting up and leaving, but ultimately decided to stay and give it a chance. The chef told us it was actually harder to work with margarine than butter, and that everything we did would be comparable to working with butter. Ok. My inner panic was (temporarily) assuaged and I remained.

Every week, the chef tackles a different topic, and the topic of that class was pies. Specifically, pies made from pate sablee. The chef instructed us to weigh out the flour and the margarine. The recipe also called for 3 tablespoons of powdered sugar. We embarked on a fruitless hunt for the measuring spoons and cups... but they had none (!), and so we were told to never mind and to use regular soup spoons, heaped. Instead of a measuring cup of 250 ml, we were to use disposable plastic cups (180 ml). I was horrified. Really, truly horrified.

To recap, this was a pastry-making course with:
No butter
No cream
No measuring spoons
No measuring cups
And also: artificial vanilla and artificial maple syrup

We made the pate sablee, and I was pleased to get some hands-on experience with pie dough (as opposed to just YouTube viewing experience). The chef was very knowledgable and helpful in demonstrating precisely how to mix the dough without overworking it, how to fill the pie crusts with beans and blind-bake them, and how to gently place the rolled dough into the pie tins properly, and press it in, before filling it. The class was fun and informative, despite the aforementioned drawbacks (did I mention no butter?). There was a really wonderful sense of camaraderie as we labored together to make the pies.

Our apple, chocolate and pecan pies came out of the oven, looking and smelling wonderful. The instructor cut pieces of the chocolate pie for us to taste (I was afraid it would be unpalatable so I didn't take any, for fear I'd take a bite and then need to surreptitiously get rid of the rest of it). Then we cut all the pies and divvied them up to take home. We all took home a generous slice of each pie, and a mini pie.

I got home, absolutely dying of curiosity. What would these beautiful margarine-infused pies taste like? Could they possibly be better than expected? I laid the pies down on my kitchen counter and took a sharp knife from the drawer. The moment of truth was upon me...

The apple pie: tasted quite rightly as though the dough had been made with margarine; the apple filling had the unpleasant rubbery texture of desiccated apples, but good flavor (we used lots of cinnamon).
The chocolate pie: looked like chocolate, but tasted like burnt charcoal, no joke. (I hadn't expected it to be quite so bad and tasted it a second time to verify... yup, charcoal.)
The pecan pie: was the best of them; it tasted like very, very mediocre pecan pie.

After sampling the desserts, it was time to weigh the pros and cons, and decide whether or not to continue with the course (they had very kindly allowed me to pay for and participate in the first class on a trial basis). I don't like the parve desserts served at kosher meat restaurants, hotels and various kosher events. No one with functional tastebuds does. Not only that, but I have zero respect for the Israeli dessert industry, dairy desserts included. (We do food pretty well, in Israel; desserts, not so much.) So why on earth would I want to learn to bake from an Israeli pastry chef?

I concluded that despite the chef's vast knowledge in working with pastry (I may not have liked the results, or her recipes, but her technique was mostly legitimate), despite the companionship I'd enjoyed with the other students, it just wasn't worth my time or my money. Ultimately, I'd be better off learning and practicing on my own with YouTube, using butter and better-quality ingredients.

So... what to do with the pieces of pie I took home from the class? I seriously considered throwing them in the garbage. But I decided to bring them to work in order to demonstrate to my colleagues just how bad pie can be. (Also, I'm aware that some of my colleagues are slightly less discriminating.)

It was all eaten within the day.

Plumbing the depths of different cultures... part 2

2018-10-25T12:53:00.003-07:00

This is the continuation of the story which began here.

The plumber finally arrived (as previously mentioned, late), diagnosed the situation, and then scheduled a time to return and actually fix the problem. (Is there an unwritten law preventing tradesmen from solving problems on the spot so as to make clients all the more grateful when the problem is finally resolved?)

For the next week, I continued to turn the hot water valve on before a shower, shut it off afterwards... turn the hot water valve on before a shower, shut it off afterwards... turn the hot water valve on before a shower, shut it off afterwards...

Finally the appointed time came and the plumber arrived with his side-kick. The plumber was a Muslim Arab, and while he was very professional, he was also the unattractive, rough, oily type of man I would normally cross the street to avoid. His employee was also a Muslim Arab, although the complete opposite in terms of personality and person: gentle, soft-spoken, well-mannered, good-looking.

They worked together for about an hour and a half, drilling into my wall and then feeding a smaller rubber hose into the original, bigger leaking one. Problem solved.

Out of curiosity, I asked him how much he would bill my insurance (answer: about 1600-1700 NIS).

Little aside, here: If you're currently considering a career change, might I suggest plumbing? Or - since plumbers clearly have money to burn - they'd probably appreciate someone inventing a pair of pants that will prevent this...

I know I would.

The job completed, I offered them coffee. We drank and chatted. Conversationally, the plumber asked me about the size of my apartment, and made it clear it was much too small for him. He told me about his new home in Ramallah; his second one... where he had recently installed his second wife.

Second wife.

This was, of course, in addition to his apartment in Jerusalem, where his first wife and their kids reside. (Like I said, you might want to consider plumbing as a career.)

I was probably more taken aback than I should have been (and I probably shouldn't have shown it as much), but he was the first bigamist I'd ever met. At a bit of a loss, I inquired as to whether the plumber's assistant also had a second wife.

"No," he replied, "one is enough!" and he gestured with his hands to underscore his words. (I expressed my VERY emphatic agreement.) He went on to say, "I have one wife, I raised 4 kids and now I have grandchildren. I've done my duty, and that's what life is all about."

The plumber disagreed with us, proclaiming: "I'd have four wives if I could afford it!" and he opened his arms wide as if to embrace these additional women.

I have no doubt he meant it.

Plumbing the depths of different cultures... part 1

2018-10-22T12:03:00.001-07:00

I am the recipient of a most bizarre combination of fortune and misfortune.
Please allow me to demonstrate:

Exhibit A
Misfortune: About 9 months ago, the protective duct hose that envelopes my hot water supply hose (located in the laundry room of my 4-year-old apartment) filled with water, and began gently leaking water from the top, running out of the water cupboard and onto the floor.
Fortune: Coincidentally, this happened on a day I had taken off from work. The leak was discovered while I was searching for a lost sock. Had I not taken the day off work, I would have come home to a gently flooded apartment. Had I not had occasion to look for the lost sock, even though I was home, I would have discovered the leak only after it had first flooded my laundry room, and then the surrounding area. (In other good news, I found the lost sock.)

Exhibit B
Misfortune: A few weeks ago, the metal water hose under my bathroom sink got corroded to the point that water was violently spraying out of it (even though the faucet was turned off), giving my bathroom a good, all-round soak.
Fortune: Coincidentally, this, too, occurred while I was home. I heard the noise... and eventually went to check it out... and shut the valve under the sink. Had I not been home when the spraying began, I would have returned home to a completely flooded apartment, and my downstairs neighbor would have been none too happy with me.

Exhibit C
Misfortune: Coincidentally, at the Very Same Time as Exhibit B was occurring, the Very Same Duct Hose from Exhibit A began slowly filling with water, again.
Fortune: The corroded violently-spraying hose from Exhibit B caused me paranoia to a degree that - even though I had already shut the valve under the sink - I went to shut off the hot water valve from the water cupboard... and it was while doing so that I discovered the return of the problem from Exhibit A.

My water cupboard. This is what pipes look like in Israel. Beautiful, aren't they?

The hose from Exhibit B was easily replaced by my father. However, the recurring problem from Exhibits A and C, respectively, required the aid of a licensed plumber. As I had done 9 months prior, I called my insurance company and requested that they send me a plumber (specifying, "not the same plumber as before".

So we set a time and a day, and after waiting the entire morning for him, the plumber arrived late, of course). He came, he saw, he made plans to come again.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Did you think I was finished? I certainly did! I was set to publish this, but then Exhibit D transpired...

Exhibit D

Misfortune: I awoke yesterday morning to a very slight, very slow dripping from my water heater. As innocuous as a slight drip might appear to be, the water heater needed to be replaced before exploding.

Fortune: I noticed this dripping immediately. I had the opportunity to stay home from work while the man came to install the heater, and since it was through my contractor friend, he gave me a very good rate. (I will confess: having observed the way this "luxury" apartment was built, and the quality of the materials used, I've been looking forward to the day it would be time to change the water heater. I'll sleep much better now, knowing my water heater isn't going to randomly burst.)

* All joking of misfortunes aside, I want to give credit to the One who's always looking out for me.

TO BE CONTINUED... REALLY

Never a dull moment...

2018-10-17T11:50:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, I joined some of my beloved coworkers and a particularly entertaining friend of theirs for lunch. My coworkers' friend, A., brought up the matter of the more eccentric Israel-loving Christians who come to Israel, and their occasionally odd customs. These well-meaning people tend to be so enamored of Israel and of Jews that they take things just a little bit too far, adopting various ceremonial biblical practices and bastardizing them.

One wine vendor had noticed some of these eccentricities and asked A. about it: "Why are all these foreigners buying shofars and blowing them all the time?!? We blow them twice, and then that's it for the year!" (Well spotted, wine vendor, and good question.)

A. also mentioned the multitude of foreign Christian women walking around Jerusalem in white wedding gowns (they are "married to the Lord") and pondered the impression this must leave with the average Israeli. (He's not wrong to be concerned about this.)

Naturally, I thought to myself... Where are these women, and why haven't I seen them?!?

Well... I wasn't disappointed for long!

Today, I was sitting at my desk and a woman I'd never seen before, dressed in a white satin top and a long white satin skirt (her white wedding attire was sadly marred by a colored sweater), walked into our building and asked to use the library. (No one who's worked here for any length of time would have been surprised that our library was her destination.)

I was very gratified.

Ah... Jerusalem... Jerusalem...

Thank you for the constant entertainment.

Israeli Bureaucracy for Dummies

2018-07-25T11:14:00.004-07:00

Part of my job involves obtaining visas for staff members and volunteers. This 2-step process involves first going to the Department of Christian Affairs to obtain a recommendation for the applicant. (The recommendation is a sort of stamp of approval that the applicant has been vetted by the Department and that it's ok for the Ministry of Interior to give the visa.) Once we have the recommendation, I fill in the visa application form and gather all the necessary paperwork. I then go to the Ministry of Interior (affectionately nicknamed "The Center of Darkness" by a former colleague of mine), the second step, and pray that the clerk I intend to see is in a good mood. And no, I'm not joking about that last part.

The Ministry of Interior is a very interesting place. The really fun part is that every so often, they will surprise you with new requirements. For example: a few weeks before your applicant is set to land in Israel, you might arrive at your appointment only to discover that they suddenly require an original document from the applicant's country, complete with apostille (the acquiring of which might take a couple of months). OR they might suddenly decide that they can no longer accept said original document, and instead, want a letter from you. See what I mean? This fun element of surprise designed to keep you on your toes never grows old!

Recently, however, we encountered an amusing new variation on this element of surprise.

As usual, we'd applied to Christian Affairs for the recommendations we needed. This first step is usually an easy formality. But time went by and we were told that the head of Christian Affairs (naturally, the only person in the country who could sign the recommendations) was out, but expected back soon. Perhaps next week. Accustomed as we were to the caprices of Israeli bureaucracy, we weren't initially alarmed. But the next week we received the very same message: perhaps the following week. Same response the following week. Then we began calling daily. Time was running out. I was supposed to be leaving for Montreal in one week and thanks to the beauty of Israeli bureaucracy, I was the only person currently in the country permitted to request visas from the Ministry of Interior.

The admin person who had sent in the recommendation requests for the 10 people set to arrive shortly had been calling Christian Affairs every day, and then she left for vacation. I took over the daily calls to Christian Affairs.

My first call, I was asked: "And who are you? We need a letter stating that you are a contact person for us."
MY name is on the recommendation!
"Nevertheless, we need a letter from the head of the organization."
I sent a Power of Attorney written for me only 6 months ago.
"Don't you have a more recent one?"
I contacted the head of the organization, on vacation in Norway, potentially outside of internet range.
Finally, after a rigamarole of a bureaucratic merry-go-round of requirements (including getting someone on vacation in Norway to write a PoA), I was deemed worthy of consideration.

I called and asked, "Are the papers ready?"
"Not yet, they're on the new director's desk. Call again at 4:00."
I called at 4:00.
"Call at 8:00, tomorrow morning."
I'm electing to spare you the rest of this, but you can let your imagination run wild as to how many times I called. I've lost count, anyhow.

Now, if there's one thing I've discovered, it's that in Israel, polite persistence (aka "gently making a nuisance of yourself") pays off. I choose not to engage in the typical Israeli misbehavior of yelling and threatening. I choose to be politely, persistently Canadian until the person I call is so sick of hearing my soft, gentle, respectful voice that they give me what I need. It's a system that usually works for me.

I courteously explained that we needed the papers soon, that people had plane tickets and that their arrival was imminent. I called again and again and again.

I began to lose heart; my usually fail-proof strategy seemed to be failing me. Time was running out and I needed to employ a new tactic. I contemplated my options (screaming and raging? it's really not me) and decided to try something different:

New plan! I would go... sit there... and... wait.

I would sit in the reception area, and the woman who kept putting me off would see me. ALL the Religious Affairs employees would see me... sitting there... waiting. I would bring a book... and sit... and wait. When they left their offices to speak to a co-worker, they would see me... sitting there... waiting. When they left their offices for a break, they would see me... sitting there... waiting. I would be a constant reminder that they still hadn't given me what I needed.

And thus I settled upon my new course of action: inaction.

If my plan was to be passive and pacifistic, I determined I'd need to look as intimidating as possible. I put on a very serious I-mean-business black dress. I sprayed on some Poison (is there a more intimidatingly-named perfume?). I wavered between pearls and heavy gold necklace: which one would be more formidable? I put on the pearls. I placed an austere, lady-like black hat on my head. I completed the look with a fearsome leopard-print tote which sometimes scares me when I happen to come upon it unawares. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror and saw someone who could Get Things Done. The only improvement I could have made: red lipstick, which only occurred to me after I'd left home. Next time.

This is what I would have looked like (minus the tiara and the black satin gloves).

Just before heading out the door, I made one last call to Christian Affairs.

The woman who had been fending me off tirelessly was out (of course), but an unusually helpful government employee offered to check whether the recommendations were ready. (I hadn't even considered that they might be.)

Unexpectedly, they were signed!

Thank God. Because frankly, I think my new strategy was rubbish.

I hopped in a cab, got the recommendations, and then headed into work, feeling fierce and yet silly, at the same time.

Of course, now that we had the coveted papers, before me lay the still-challenging hurdle of going to the Ministry of Interior. The Powers That Be must have decided I'd been through enough, and only required me to jump through a few more hoops.

And it was there that I made a discovery. The source of the delay at Christian Affairs (not only for our recommendations, but for those of every other Christian organization in Israel)? The director - the person who was supposed to sign the recommendations - is under investigation.

Welcome to Israeli Bureaucracy!

It's not me; it's a Jerusalem thing

2018-07-06T13:16:00.002-07:00

I get hit on a lot. And as a 41-year-old woman, let me tell you: It's very gratifying.

The thing is, though, it actually has very little to do with me.

It's a Jerusalem thing.

How have I determined this? If it had to do with me personally, I would get hit on everywhere I went. But this phenomenon appears to be pretty much relegated to Jerusalem.

I will concede to one contributing factor for which I actually am responsible: I dress like a woman, and not an Israeli woman. And Jerusalem men love foreign women.* (I seem to recall a warning in the Bible concerning that...)

Most of the interactions are pleasant and flattering; endearing, even. Then there are the odd, surreal, funny or nerve-wracking incidents. Here are some of the more memorable ones:

The good

The religious American guy in the street who approached me very sweetly, saying, "I've heard women complain that men don't know how to approach them. So I thought I'd just try speaking to you."
Isn't that nice? Kudos to him for the courage it took.
When I pointed out that he was religious and I was not - and that, in fact, I was on my way to my Messianic congregation, he asked if he could join me. He accompanied me into the building. When he realized he would need to climb the 12 floors to the meeting hall (no Shabbat elevator), I could see the wheels in his head turning as he calculated whether or not this would be worth the effort. He decided against it.

The bad

The taxi driver with the most rudimentary of English language skills who - of course - insisted on speaking English with me
After spending the first few minutes of the ride denigrating the neighborhood where I live in the most disparaging terms, he asked whether I was single. (I don't lie; not even when I see what's coming next.)
His line, in heavily accented Hebrew:
"You are seen-gle; I am seen-gle. Why not?"
Why not, indeed.

The absurd

The clerk from the corner shop where I buy milk, in his early 20s, who saw me in the street and insisted on getting my number because he wanted to talk to me about something
I tried... I tried!!!... to avoid giving it to him... I sensed trouble... but I'm Canadian and didn't want to hurt or offend him, so I gave in. That evening, around 10 PM, a Very Long WhatsApp conversation ensued, the gist of which was something like this:
"Can I come over for coffee?"
I politely worded my negative response.
"Actually, there's someone I wanted to set you up with. He's... [list of positive attributes]."
I explained about my faith, and why it couldn't work out with this person.
"What about one night stands? Are they out of the question?" (I will confess, that one shocked me.)
Yes, one night stands are REALLY, REALLY, REALLY out of the question.
After expressing agonizingly long-winded concern that I was denying myself happiness because of my boundaries with men to whom I am not married, he concluded with:
"So... can I come over for coffee right now?"
I am NOT making this up.

The man in a big black Mercedes SUV (*sigh*... beautiful car) who stopped to ask me for directions as I was walking to work.
His destination was straight ahead, but he couldn't drive that way because of irrational Jerusalem traffic restrictions. I apologetically gave him long, convoluted, detailed directions (the very same way I would take). He looked at me askance and said, "There must be a simpler way." I assured him very earnestly that no, there really wasn't. He repeated that there must be, and waited, as if to give me another chance... then thanked me and took off, completely ignoring my directions.
I watched him go in the opposite direction, and my brain started cogitating. Actually... going his way meant that he could turn right! and then turn right again! and then left! and he would reach his destination in half the time!
Argh. I felt so stupid... and yet simultaneously joyful at having discovered this new and wonderful shortcut.
I drove this new course a few times a month (until they changed the roads), grateful for the shorter trajectory, though the recollection of how it came to me filled me with momentary mortification every. single. time.

Honorable mention

The shuk vendor at the tea and spice shop (at least a decade and a half younger) who proposes passionately every time I walk by
Thank you, I'm flattered. But you can stop now, it's making me uncomfortable.

In conclusion:
Women, if you want to feel desirable, here's my advice. Put on a skirt and come to Jerusalem. Walk around the shuk area, the Old City, or go into a hardware store, and I promise you all the attention you could possibly want, and much, MUCH more.

* Jerusalem men love foreign women so much so that we warn our female volunteers that they should expect to get hit on a lot and that it's a cultural thing they shouldn't take too seriously.

Krav Maga

2018-06-29T03:57:00.003-07:00

Mine aren't pink, but I wish they were.

I NEVER thought I would own a pair of boxing gloves... or a mouthguard (to ensure I keep all my teeth), hand wraps (to protect my hands inside my gloves; mine are pink!), and the ugliest shirt in my closet (uniform; no choice in the matter).

As jiu-jitsu was not a match for me (too much testosterone, I thought), I decided to try out Krav Maga. While no less testosterone is required for this particular martial art, there are more women in the class. This is fortunate because very intimate physical contact is involved in this activity, and women smell MUCH better. Especially in summer. (Fighting becomes even more challenging when you're holding your breath.) Neither do women hit as hard as the men who don't know their own strength. It is fortuitous that most of the men there do, though I'm currently typing this with a painfully bruised thigh from an overzealous one who didn't.

Pink hand wraps and mouthguard. (These ones are mine.)

I've been asked by numerous people what prompted me to take up self-defense, some of whom seemed to expect a horror story. (I thank God I don't have one.) There are a couple of reasons. The first is that, after contemplating learning some form of self-defense for the past 25 years, I've finally gotten around to it.

The final push, however, was that I felt I needed a Really Big New challenge, something that scares the heck out of me. And let me tell you... this does. I normally do everything possible to avoid getting hurt (my instinctive self-defense tactic: RUN AWAY FAST). And here I am, intentionally attending a class where I hit, and get hit.

The intense apprehension I feel before every class is lessening slowly. (The first two classes, I was deathly scared I'd end up in the hospital. I still pray before every class.) When I hit and connect well, I apologize - it's the Canadian in me. And when I get knocked about by a punch I should have blocked or ducked, my instinctive reaction is to start giggling like an idiot, and I do. Argh.

The people in the class are extraordinarily nice, supportive and encouraging; a mix of secular, Messianics/Christians, and quite a few Orthodox men (surprising, right?). The instructor is great. It's been an exhilarating adventure, so far, in addition to a practical life skill, and I invite everyone - especially if you're a woman... or a man who showers - to join me.

(And if you, too, feel the need to recuperate your femininity after the class, you're welcome to join me at ballet the following day.)

Doing what comes naturally...

2018-05-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

The jiu-jitsu verdict?

It's not for me. (Who's surprised?)

I went. I watched. I chickened out on participating. I'd been given the option to observe this week, and come back next week, emotionally prepared and ready to rumble, so I chose to do that.

The class started off with some over-the-shoulder backward floor rolls, and I thought: "We do those in modern dance... piece of cake." Then they progressed to the one-wrong-move-and-you-break-your-neck type of backward floor rolls*. And I thought: "... Ok... No problem... I can learn that." Then they proceeded to perform a wide variety of exercises with one person on the floor, and the opponent on top, switching places periodically. They capped it off with some energetic free fighting, grabbing each other's Gis (uniforms), throwing each other around. It was when they were instructed to put in their mouthguards that I really got a jolt.

It all brought to mind a "playful" fight** I'd witnessed between two brothers (grown men) who were rolling on the floor acrobatically, punching and choking one another, really giving it their all.

And it dawned on me: This really does come naturally to men. Men have been preparing for jiu-jitsu their whole lives. They've always fought amongst themselves - only with jiu-jitsu, they get to do it with technique!

It was all very testosterone-y.

I may yet return to participate at some point in the future, but for now...

WHO WANTS TO JOIN ME FOR KRAV MAGA?

*Not the official jiu-jitsu term.

**Men would have called it playful. Women would have called the police and an ambulance.

The effect of Passover on the human brain

2018-04-09T09:40:00.000-07:00

Passover ended a few days ago, the implication being that I've been without bread for over a week and a half. (I'm mentioning this now so as not to appear completely unhinged.)

Shortly before I left work today, one of our regular, more eccentric (and that's saying something!) library users stopped by, and brought a friend with him, a Ph.D. student of philosophy. We chatted for a little while, and then it was time for me to leave.

Walking home, I contemplated this recent interaction:

Philosophy... Ten years ago, I would have thought it was less than completely useless, but now I can see how - in moderation - it can have some value.

And then I recalled the response a friend of mine had had upon encountering the student of a similar topic (I think it was poetry... and yes, it's really all the same to me), namely: "How's that going to put bread on the table?"

... and then consciousness receded into oblivion, as my entire being refocused itself on ONE THOUGHT:

BREAD!!!

Bread-bread-bread-bread-bread...

And then:
Going to buy BREAD! (reverberating in a mantra inside my head)

It was quite a tragic thing for me to discover that although it had already been a few days since Passover had ended (and the baker had promised me!), they still didn't have the kind I wanted.

This is the bread I awaited anxiously.

Sick, with a sense of humour

2018-02-12T09:43:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine called me last week, thinking I was at work, to ask me to lunch. I told him I was home, sick. To which he replied, sarcastically, "Oh, must be nice to be an employee." (He's an independent contractor, so he doesn't have the privilege of being sick.)

Yesterday, he called me up again for a video chat (I hate video chats, I answered it accidentally), and opened with:

"You look terrible!"

"I'M SICK!"

"Ah... long time already. What's it been now, like 10 days?"

Me, with strangled rage at his exaggeration, "Only one week!"

I'm pretty sure if I didn't have a sense of humour, we couldn't be friends.