Collective Thoughts of a Ginrod

New Blog. New Posts. Loves it.

2010-08-23T07:57:00.002+03:00

For my 30th, P Bonex has been working on setting up a new blog site for me. It's definately in the works still but i've already starting posting there instead of here. So come and join me!!

http://ginrod.com

Facebook Status of the Day

2010-08-02T14:43:00.005+03:00

You cannot make this shit up.

"Gosh!!!!!!! I was just listening to "In Christ Alone" today on the radio and telling xxxx about how I sobbed as you and xxxx sang that to each other holding hands with your veil blowing in the wind and all of us singing along. One of the most memorable moments in my life. Praying today you are finding even more joy in Christ. Love you tons!!!!!!!!!!"

basket toss

2010-07-20T12:05:00.003+03:00

“ You should totally try out.” They told me smacking hubba bubba cherry cola pieces between their metal guarded molars. There were three or four of them, their blonde bangs contorted perfectly into two layers and held in place with four pounds of aqua net hairspray.

My back was against the terracotta tiles. I stared at them while fidgeting with my bitten down fingernails, the cacophony of flushing toilets around us echoed into my ears. My straight brown hair clung to my faded sweatshirt like the sticky legs of an octopus.

“Show us your split jump” they dared me, eyeing my hairy pole legs with smirks on their faces. Hesitant, I stood in front of them and showed them what I had been practicing secretly in the confines of my home.

Four years later, I found myself with my foot pointed straight above my ear, on top of a multi layered human pyramid. The memories of my static prone hair and knobby knees now behind me, I was now a toned, flat- chested fourteen year old, with an asymmetrical bob. Through years of private coaching, cheerleading camps and supplemental gymnastics classes, I became a mold of the quintessential Midwestern adolescent female, weathered in stiff clapping and deep yelling.

The human pyramid melted as I effortlessly slid onto the gym floor, my pointed toes lead the way as I hopped to the next spot, my arms systematically clapping and elbows perfectly aligned with my underarms in “arm chair” mode. “Thumbs pointing down wrapped outside of fist.” I would remind myself. “Stiff straight arms means slightly bent,” I nervously whispered under my breath, a reminder to keep my angles sharp. .

After ten more steps and the repetitive yelling of three colors in my deepest voice. I found myself facing my worst enemy with a palpitating heart and perspiring sebaceous glands. The cause of this allergic reaction would be the impending next stunt that featured yours truly as the shining star.

They called it the basket toss. Our senior coach introduced it to us as our secret weapon in winning this competition. Mastering such a high level stunt at our age would catapult us to regional champions, she explained with her wide blue eyes and waving a halfhearted notebook paper explanation of the stunt in front of us. To build it, two of the tallest girls in the squad would squat then weave their arms and hands into a mini-platform and four other girls would add to the buoyancy of the flier (myself) by placing both their hands underneath this platform. I never volunteered to be the flier for this stunt; my hesitation came from my natural fear of heights and a even stronger distrust of the adolescent girls below me who would be responsible for my safety.

This advanced stunt had hundreds of hours behind it. I woke up every morning for months with a basket toss knot in my stomach, ending the last academic hour of every other day knowing I would be thrown in a variety of directions during “practice” whether I wanted to do this or not.

On the count of three, I placed my clammy hands on the shoulders of the two base girls facing one another and jumped into the human basket awaiting me. All 6 girls would dip down in perfect unison with stiffened backs to propel me with momentum into the air like a rising phoenix into the universe. Or more so, propel me straight up into the gym’s speaker system that closely resembled a sputnik on the center of the roof.

The aim was to hit my peak height, arms outstretched and toes pointed into a perfect reverse dive. When I arrived at the peak, I would extend my long thin, limbs into an elegant toe touch then sweep my legs together in a V-shape so the rest of the squad could catch me in perfect motion.

This of course, did not happen.

This climax of our symphony, where the world should have held its breath in awe instead, held its breath in fright. It could have been a mis communication between the physical world and the spiritual world, or the very instance in the universe where that the laws of physics were shaken like dice- to this day, I may never know. The minute the girls below me counted and then dipped, I knew I would never rise like Phoenix did in x-men. I was far from the spandex-clad superhero I strived to be. Instead, the hushed and worries faces in the audience witnessed my super hero bloomers, the cheerleader version of granny underwear in the school colors. The elegant catch that had been practiced tri-weekly for two months morphed into a panicked scramble to awkwardly catch my crumpled body from the air that rejected me.

Once my red and white Asix shoes were safely planted on the newly waxed gym floor, I took a moment to stare at my white shoes, frozen with the failure of my actions, the final proof of my desire not to participate. I savored the two deep breaths I took before completing the rest of the cheer. Out of the corner of my eye I sensed the looming anger of my senior coach, facing me with crossed arms.

We left the gym floor with an exit chant. Lightly panting, I walked out into the lobby, greeted by the furious glare of our high school senior cheerleading coach. “You ruined, everything.” She spurted at me before stomping off. This statement was not news to me, the minute I placed my hands on the shoulders of my squad-mates I knew we were doomed. Shaking, I grabbed the red, white and blue carnations gifted to me and ran out.

The following year, I tested my boundaries by rejecting the red, white and blue and replacing it with a black flight jacket and a predominantly shaven head. Instead of my name on a plaque in the varsity girl’s basketball locker room, I chose to write for the school newspaper and dabble in the drama club. The boys who used to invite me to parties now accused me of becoming a lesbian, frustrated at my need to be different from them.

Two years after the relief of high school graduation, curiosity brought me back to an old classmates Holiday party. I arrived at a petite white house, with chips of paint flaking off like snow on the browned grass below. Christmas tree lights were carelessly strung around the frame of the creaky patio, a few people stood outside with frozen breath, sucking on cigarettes for heat. I let myself in to the warmth of the house. Greeted by the old smiles of classmates I had not spoken to in years, I am offered a Budweiser by another face while walking through the leftover gift-wrapping of a secret Santa event I happily missed. I settle in the corner of the kitchen, adjusting the zipper of my coat and observing old friends. Many of them are still in their high school roles: the academic soccer player talking politics with the valedictorian. The varsity basketball player caressing the chin of his high school ex girlfriend and back burner hookup, my old best friend intently talking to another girlfriend in another corner while playing with her long, silky brown hair.

“Suuuuusi! Have a shot with me!” The shriek is distinct. One of the four voices that first entered my life on that unique day in 5^th grade in the girl’s bathroom. “Why Not” I shrug as I pour her and myself a shot of chilled, clear liquid I find in the freezer. We clink our shot glasses together as I lean against the sink in the bathroom. “Can you believe it’s been TWO years since high school?” She asks me with her glazed blue eyes. “Oh my God, LOOK what I got as my secret Santa” she interrupts herself as she pulls out a thong from her back jean pocket. Her face is round with awe as she tries to step into them. Lightly stumbling, she manages to slip the turquoise lace over her stonewashed jeans. “Is it my color?” she giggles as she poses for the onlookers in the living room, flashes erupt from digital cameras. “It’s a thong.” I flatly overstate the obvious, losing any desire to continue this conversation. She refocuses on me again. “Remember that time in 5^th grade, when you showed us your split jump in the girls bathroom?” she giggles at the memory. “Ah yes, how could I forget” I answer her playing along. She continues: “It was the funniest joke wasn’t it? But we TOTALLY ended up loving you when we got to know you.” She laughed to herself.

My jaw clenches as this realization. I slowly breathe in through my nose, hiding my disdain by breathing out immediately. “Another shot?” I offer the hubba bubba smacking blonde. I pour the liquid slowly this time; masochistically savoring what I know will be the last few minutes of our reunion before I completely move on.

You can make cupcakes from Whale Blubber.

2010-07-19T11:34:00.004+03:00

I am beginning to feel The Force's presence in my belly. At first it felt like like pats in three and then silence. That was last week. This week it's beginning to feel like digestion. As if I just ate a big block of cheese and it's making it's way through my uterus. I wonder if The Force can hear me, if he gets a sense of who I am by residing inside of me.
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As my belly grows, I am also growing into a new person. Slowly, the hormones that are changing my breasts and belly are also soaking into my brain, making me think (and worry) or what the future holds for the Doring-Preston's. Light panic begins as I think about my weak Hebrew level and the lessons in English I will need to prepare to insure my children are fluent in our native language. My imagination can run into 18 years from now and I wonder what state Israel will be in when I hit my middle age.

And then sometimes my only thought is: are freckles genetic?

Downward dog then..fart.

2010-07-04T20:20:00.002+03:00

In the last weeks, I have entered the acceptance stage of my prenatal existential crisis. It's ok, you may slowly approach me, the pregnant woman. Alas, the world has indeed fallen on my vulnerable shoulders and I have managed to push it off into the universe for now, but I cannot guarantee this will be forever. I attribute my coping skills to various calorie filled foods, my ever-patient husband and prenatal Yoga.
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I've borrowed a handful of videos to decorate our living room with and I have finally dusted them off and hoped to make a home routine in addition to my Friday morning prenatal class. Curious as to why downward dog is one of the main positions in Yoga I did a quick search and found it was good because it:

•Calms the brain and helps relieve stress and mild depression
•Energizes the body
•Stretches the shoulders, hamstrings, calves, arches, and hands
•Strengthens the arms and legs
•Helps relieve the symptoms of menopause
•Relieves menstrual discomfort when done with head supported
•Helps prevent osteoporosis
•Improves digestion
•Relieves headache, insomnia, back pain, and fatigue
•Therapeutic for high blood pressure, asthma, flat feet, sciatica, sinusitis
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The benefits are endless for me. and the more I read about them, the more i am inspired to rock out with Yoga during this pregnancy. But really, they should call prenatal downward dog more like the flatulating dog because that's basically what it did for me. IT cleared the way to improve my digestion of those intestines that have been squished in the corner by my growing fetus. As a woman who prides herself in the discussion of bowel movements, I'm feeling that I don't have a lot to talk about lately.

Finding life at the dead sea

2010-06-29T22:02:00.004+03:00

A last minute escape for the weekend brought P Bonez and I to the Dead Sea. I can’t tell you how much this weekend was needed. When I was in college, I never explored nor desired weekends away. I would spend all my free time working to pay for my general expenses. Staying up late with knots in my back, carrying trays for a living.

There is something priceless about walking into a sparse cold room, double the size of your own bedroom, and having a bathroom freshly cleaned and waiting for you to pour a long warm bath. This experience was lightly delayed due to our initial room smelling like an ashtray. In Israel, it is still legal to smoke in hotel rooms. The Le Meridien hotel allows smoking in all rooms, so it’s really a luck of the draw. Luckily, our draw landed us in an even better room than before. With a larger bathroom and a massive patio peeking over the salt water pools below and a light view of the dead sea.

Aside from P Bonez forcing us to order massages, the first day has already been a satisfying swim, massive breakfast and a float in the salt pool. A popular destination for German tourists, I’ve been able to soak in some German TV and catch up on my literary reading. The bed is so big that we couldn’t find one another when we woke up this morning. P Bonez had to text his coordinates and we were able to discover one another’s location.

Happy Weekend to us.

16 Weeks

2010-06-21T09:40:00.003+03:00

This morning I didn't even hear my alarm. Granted, every morning it usually goes off at 5:40 a.m, I am one of those people who wake up the moment the first sound is emitted from my Nokia.
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Pregnancy is doing that to me.
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Summer has joined the Doring-Preston household in such a fashion that we're already playing catch up with our lives. P Bonez and myself are knee deep in freelance work so much that we haven't showered in 5 days. There's the constant buzzing of the Vuvuzela in our brains, in our souls and banging our heads against the couch in unison has not helped.
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Aside from that, The force is growing inside and my belly is beginning to pop out, especially after lunch. This new found look has illicited unwanted comments, especially from my coworker who said the following in one mouthfull just yesterday:

"When I was pregnant with twins I wasn't showing as much as you are right now"
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"I told you to watch yourself, I can tell you're going to get really really really big."
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".....and then it's going to be really really hard to lose the weight".
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Flabbergasted, I didn't know how to respond except that I have gained the normal chart gain for a 16 week pregnancy. Today however, that initial shock has worn off and now i'm just fuming. If you put a mirror again my ear it will fog up from the steam. I guess I just didn't think normal humans would talk that way to someone else, but welcome to Israel, where it's encouraged to act like a monkey.
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Don't believe me?
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Look at our politicans.

A thought at 6 weeks (almost 7 weeks ago)

2010-06-04T16:51:00.002+03:00

Last night I had a “moment” with P Bonez as he was doing the washing up. “Do you know what happens this week?” I ask him as I lean against the refrigerator. He calmly replies that he must begin working on his “BBQ table” before our annual Independence Day BBQ in the last remaining backyard in Jerusalem.

No no, I explain. “Do you know what happens with The Force this week?” I say motioning to my beer belly that has yet to evolve into the perky pregnancy belly that women all over the world can envy.

“I don’t” he simply replies. This is an obvious reflection that the last six weeks have not fazed him. At this very moment, I realize that this is a “Knocked Up” moment. My husband has not spent countless hours researching every minute detail of this pregnancy. He has not been filling his brain with statistics and reports, surverys and forums. He hasn’t been symphatic to all the poison I have had to abstain from ingesting in the name of a healthy pregnancy.

He’s just been doing what he usually does and this week that means contemplating how to build a BBQ table for this coming Monday.

“This week there is a heartbeat!! “I explain with enthusiasm. “Within the next seven days, the fetus will almost DOUBLE in size, with phalanges protruding from it’s body! “ . P Bonez continues his BBQ contemplation, more interested in what I have to say but not reaching the levels of interest that I have obviously expressed in the last few weeks. Ok, perhaps “interest” is not the right word to use and "compulsive research behavior" is.

“I can feel my left and right ovaries” I state. “This means I could possibly be having twins” I test him.

He perks up.

“Not Really” I say as I walk away. My eyes rolling.

The homegirls

2010-06-01T16:57:00.001+03:00

2010-05-18T07:47:00.003+03:00

Our pup Henck has been exhibiting more human like behavior each month that goes by. It was first the heavy usage of his paws to retrieve what he wanted. Using them as if his hands were in muffs trying to hold and push things into his range of fire.
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Then it was the pillow.
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Following my lead, he put two and two together and realized a pillow is just for your head. So when we gave him our old pillows for his dog corner, you stopped seeing him actually lying on the pillow with his body and instead you would see him place only his head when he rested.
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His new human neurosis is preparing the apartment for the day. At night, he sleeps in a pet taxi with all of his pillows and blankets. After we walk him in the morning, he pulls out the blankets and a pillow and places them in parts of the apartment that he will frequent during the day: the yellow blanket is dragged and placed near the inside of the couch under the coffee table and the checkered blue blanket along with a pillow is brought by Henck to his "doggy corner", a large mat placed on the edge of the living room.
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This morning, I was convinced that the Huzzy did all of this arranging. But no, it's Henck the pup, who is now an intricate part of the Doring-Preston household.

Yom HaZikkaron

2010-04-18T15:31:00.001+03:00

It’s been five years since I lost my soldier on 2nd day Chol Hamoed Pesach (the week of the Passover holiday). That year, Yom HaZikkaron (Soldiers memorial day) followed on the heels of Pesach (Passover). That day in 2005, Tsiki’s friends and I were on our way to his student apartment in Beer Sheva to pack up his belongings and to put them in storage in his home in Maskeret Batya. I remember a few things from that day, how they stopped the car on the middle of the highway and I heard the sounds of the sirens growing in my ear drums. In 2005, I didn’t understand much what was going on and I didn’t digest how an entire nation could freeze in memory of soldiers like Tsiki. All I could digest was the scorching heat of the desert air and the powerful sun that kept me body warm while I was grieving for my fallen soldier.
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When we arrived in his apartment, I remember the lonely feeling of packing up a room that I was just in months before, when music was playing and mnemonic devices of Tsiki’s studying for psychology tests filled the empty walls as I networked on the computer with non-profit organizations in the country.
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These days, Yom HaZikkaron has an additional meaning for me. It marks the day when I sat in front of three rabbi’s and six onlookers as I was quizzed for hours about my knowledge of Judaism. It reminds me of that moment when I heard the sirens wailing outside and I didn’t stand up. I didn’t stand up because I knew those rabbi’s in the room, didn’t believe in acknowledging fallen soldiers on this day. Because Zion to them should not yet exist and for those who have sacrificed for Israel have wasted their time. Of course, I did not agree with this. However, at that moment, I did not feel I had a choice. I also felt that Tsiki would understand.
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That day, my soul celebrated as heartfelt as any Jewess and Zionist could. I passed one of the biggest tests of my life and although I mourned my memories of Tsiki, I came into the Israel’s Independence day with a profound self realization. Of my inner workings and how I truly feel about Israel.
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Yom HaZikkaron will always be sentimental for me, it is also a reflection of the polarized existence we live in Israel. As one of the girls in the Girlfriends of fallen soldiers group told me: “Women like us- we live with one eye laughing and the other crying. And that is how it is.”

I craving a Cupcake.

2010-04-14T13:13:00.003+03:00

There was a lot of wheeling and dealing going on at the dinner table growing up. I wasn't a big fan of milk or bone marrow or squid so my mother had to come up with other methods to force food down this freckled throat.
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My father pulled the starving children in Africa line on every finish your plate occasion. As I pictured desolate dusty villages with starving cows, I wondered why we didn't just package our food and send them in air tight containers to these starving children. Better yet, why doesn't MOM stop cooking so much food and then we can donate the money to these villages?
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My eight year old reasoning obviously fell upon deaf ears. And I spent many evenings stubborningly sitting at the table, alone as my brother watched his favorite TV shows in the living room.
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I share this thought with you because as I was eating my lunch that my husband graciously prepared, I was getting full and my own inner voice said: "If you do not finish your lunch, you cannot go and buy that cupcake you have been craving."

Remembering Hebron

2010-04-01T10:54:00.009+03:00

Today is Tsiki's five year jahrzeit. Instead of my usual reflections, I've worked on writing a piece trying to remember the time I went to Hebron to see where he died. This day was a jumbled mess of memories and although this piece is short, it took me time to remember what I thought of it all.
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A week after the Shivah, the male half of Tsiki’s family and myself were picked up in an army issued van and taken to a checkpoint in the highway 60 intersection. This intersection is the checkpoint before entering a highway into the West Bank, a concrete path that passes through small Arab villages and Jewish settlements like Kiryat Arba. When we exited the van, an 80-seat bulletproof bus and a small IDF unit with big guns were waiting for us. The head of the unit welcomed us with a somber face and motioned us with her hand to the large bus parked on the side lane.
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This was the first time I ever found myself in such a vehicle. It was an old make, with the windows replaced with dense ballistic glass. The frame of the 8-wheeler was reinforced with opaque armor comprised of high-hardened ballistic steel. Inside, it still smells like any other bus I’ve entered in my 25 years of life. The lonely seats are at attention, their backs worn and faded from the generations of passengers that sank into them. Tsiki’s father and brother in law take the first seats upon entering, his brother Oren takes a few steps more and slips into a seat, his glasses reflecting the outside light and covering his mood. The student instinct in me finds a place towards the back away from the other passengers. I step slowly down the aisle, placing my hands on each row I walk past. I fall into a window seat and automatically prop my knees up into the back of the seat in front of me, my hands securely folded between my legs. I’m wearing the same pants I arrived in the week before; they have become dusty from the spring desert air and are recklessly falling off my thinning body. I borrowed a belt to look presentable for this journey that I wish I could repudiate.

The windows hold a certain glare that shines into my face on this day. Instead of inviting the vitamin D into my skin, I feel the ray like thick , warm sludge over me. It forces me to duck and squint into the outside world. The forests outside are smudges of dried green and browns, the marks on the highway fly by my peripheral vision. “It seems so normal out there” I think to myself. Realizing that the world is still turning and people are still waking up to go to work. Sitting in cafes and talking about pop culture. I however, am sitting in this encased bus, waiting to visit the scene where Tsiki took his last breath. I am bewildered, and I am lonely. Last week, the world ended and now it’s opening back up to me, telling me the history of my life one tragedy at a time.

The bus slips into another gear as it continues its trip through Israel’s territory. This legal path through disputed territory makes a 40 minute bus ride almost two hours long. When it reaches its final destination, the machine let’s out a high pitch squeak of the tires and I awaken to my own sordid reality. Even though my skin is glowing from the middle eastern sun, I feel I am turning into a spiritual grape. As every moment passes, another essence of me is being sucked and dried, left hanging for the wild animals of life to eat.

It’s been less than 10 days since he died and I am already itchy in my own skin. The unreal u-turn my life has made has left me hardened and frazzled at the same time. Like the Shivah, I am defiant and angry, waiting until everyone is asleep to let out any tears in my dehydrated body. Sometimes, late at night, I would open the bag of his army clothes, I then slowly choose a piece of his clothing and hold it up to my nose like a drug. His smell would make my body shake and give in to my confusion. I would use the cloth to stifle my tears. At that time of night, the house is so quiet you could hear the electricity buzz in the plastered walls.

We are briefed in the army barracks. They remind me of the pre-fabricated buildings in grade school, temporary shelters that house bathrooms and beds, offices and coffee machines. A sergeant offers us biscuits as he explains the lay of the land, with thin lines in patterns I do not understand. I keep interrupting their language for an explanation in my language but I’m not really listening, instead, I’m staring at anything that keeps me grounded in this world: the dandelions on the patches of grass, the stray dog running through the paths outside, looking for scraps.

After an hour, we are escorted back onto the bus, on my way to the parking lot, I see one of Tsiki’s army friends. “The same trousers Susi all week?” he says with some comic relief in mind”, I lightly smile for his sake “yeah, I’ve got no fashion in the desert.”

As I step off the bus I am greeted by another small unit, decorated with M16’s and green helmets. I am handed a bulletproof vest that I wear like a 20 pound night blouse. The helmet they place on my head makes me feel like a ninja with no turtle power. Another soldier guides us to towards the bridge.

The bridge. I’ve read about Hebron in books, at one time as one of the most dangerous places on earth. To Israeli soldiers on reserve, it’s just another checkpoint, just another tower they have to sit in 24 hours at a time, keeping watch until they can go back to their normal lives, to their mothers and girlfriends, to their university exams and after school jobs.

We are standing here, on this bridge in the middle of the desert, where Tsiki took his last breath, I am staring at the exact spot where he fell a week ago while the same sergeant is explaining the scenario, the words are falling on my still ears. My vision becomes tunneled onto this spot and it’s so unreal to me. This is not how it ends, his life and mine, it doesn’t fall onto this one piece of concrete in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the universe. Tsiki is not here to me and Tsiki is not in the ground buried back in his home town of Maskeret Batya, I breath and turn around. I take a few steps before my mind becomes dizzy, I begin to cry but but there is nothing left. I am dried out.

A comment from a coworker

2010-03-10T12:07:00.001+02:00

A comment from a coworker:

As you all know, I am an “Aussie” and the take on English “down under” is somewhat unique. Firstly, we love to abbreviate words: “arvo” is afternoon, “baccy” is tobacco, “barbie” is a barbeque, “chewy” is chewing gum, “chockie” is chocolate, “lippie” is lipstick, “mushies” are mushrooms, “mozzies” are mosquitoes and “sunnies” are sunglasses. A “spud” is a potato, a “chook” is a chicken and feet are “clod hoppers”.

Down under, water is known as “Adam’s ale”, beer is “liquid amber” and milk is “moo juice”. A bastard is a term of endearment and a “happy little Vegemite” describes those who have eaten their weight in concentrated yeast extract. A “drongo”, “dingbat”, “derro” or “dingaling” refers to an individual lacking in intelligence, or possible a ready supply of Vegemite. Collectively, they are a “few Kangaroos loose in the top paddock” or a “picnic short of a sandwich”.

Some Australians will “earbash” you by talking incessantly to the point of boredom or irritation, while others are “stickybeaks”, in that they are interested in matters that do not concern them (do you know anybody like that?). On occasion, these individuals might “chuck a spaz” or “spit the dummy”, which translates as losing one’s temper. To be generally argumentative is to be “argy bargy” and to be aggressive is to be “agro”.

Australians love using infixes, for example, “abso-bloody-lutely”, “fan-bloody-tastic”, “un-bloody-believable” (“Bloody” does not refer to a free flowing sanguine from the body, it simply means “really”). I “dunno” (don’t know) why, but it is very commonly used.

Well, I am “knackered”, so I will stop “mucking around”, “call it a day” and get some “shut eye”… “any tick of the clock” (I am tired, I will stop wasting time, finish work and get some sleep…any minute now).

Jessikah

breath holding

2010-03-09T08:03:00.004+02:00

Every week night i play this game where I hold my breath until I am safely in my bed with my new book in hand. Then Henk the pup plays this game where he jumps on the bed and spends the next five minutes "feeling" out the bed for the perfect resting spot, going in circles until it's just right. I stick my face in his, he licks my hand until it's sparkly clean and then i have to get up to wash it.

But before this nightly ritual I am fighting against my enemy, the clock. I'm trying to get as much of my routine complete before the clock stikes 9pm (i know.), this is done so I can glide after 9, tying up loose ends and end my chores with my nighttime reading love affair.

It's been awhile since i've found a good book to read, and given that i spent the first couple of years in Israel obsessively studying Judaism to become the perfect Jewess I am today -my other reading has suffered. By this I mean my Israel, middle east and political reading that I have steadfastly avoided for YEARS. A big reason i've avoided this topic is because I'm annoyed by humans in general. So, when another human broaches this subject I get even more annoyed. A political conversation about Israel is a dizzying and emotional topic and if you put belts in peoples hands- it would be more effective to whip one another and let the best whipper win.

Secondly, I understand that my opinion of Israel is a bit biased. My background and losing Tsiki in the army gave me a view not many people have,and often, i prefer to keep such a view out of conversation- most likely because it's complicated, it's skewed and above all, after five years of Israel exposure, I still don't understand the middle east.

After a friend recommendation, I picked up "From Beirut to Jerusalem" and have been in love ever since. Friedman's writing flows and although some of the information read is quite disturbing, I trust the education I am getting from this book. Upward and onwards!! Let my obsession with middle eastern politics and thought begin!!!

Marketing FAIL

2010-03-04T13:04:00.001+02:00

If these people are "children" then i fear what their "childhood memories" are.
Marketing FAIL.

P Bonez

2010-02-20T21:48:00.006+02:00

This week P Bonez will celebrate his 30th with me by his side. I am constantly impressed by our statistic of being in one anothers life for the last five years. Of course, it hasn't been a olympic gold medal run down the mountain we call relationship, we had many breakups and "talks" and trial periods before we decided that life was far better together than apart. With P Bonez, I've uncovered the benefits of being a team and having someone to bounce all my energy off of. He passes all the tests someone of my personality could possibly put another human through, whether it's inquiries into sailing the world or exploring the possibility of experiencing the "vomit comet".
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Often, when I think about our relationship, I get butterflies thinking about the amazing experiences we've had in the last year alone. Building things, painting things, sitting across the table and showing our frigid breath in our ice box of an apartment. I know this time in our lives will always be remembered as an important base for all the good and bad things awaiting us in the forest of our lives.
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Last Friday, we took the car with two dogs in tow to the center of the country. We stopped off on a dirt road to walk the paths of a vineyard freshly toiled for the next harvest. The sun was beating down (in February) and David took his shirt off to seep in the rays. I looked and him and took my shirt off too. After all, no one was around for miles. The dogs were running along the wide, dusty path and there we were, a team created from unconventional love, about to embark on our third decade together with the summer all around us.
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A pic of us almost five years ago!

Phone cam

2010-02-20T19:48:00.001+02:00

In israel, square is in.

Phone cam

2010-02-16T22:17:00.001+02:00

Night out in jtown. Concert in home

Phone cam

2010-02-12T13:17:00.001+02:00

Hiking in jerusalem

Photo cam

2010-02-11T22:32:00.001+02:00

Hey jerusalem- OLD CITY

Phone cam

2010-02-02T19:20:00.001+02:00

Serious cake

body dysmorphic disorder

2010-02-02T08:40:00.006+02:00

http://www.cnn.com/ just published an article about a body dysmorphic disorder which is an obsession with one or more bodily features, normally in the face. They failed to mention this condition is also a result of a society that places so much emphasis on perfection that even top models are airbrushed before their images are allowed to be published.
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A few days ago, I was standing in the long bathroom line at the mall. I have a natural tendency to not gaze in the mirror unless I feel a big booger in my nostrils. I do not gaze because I don't like looking at myself, but more for the reason that I know what I look like, I see my mug every day in reflections and various mirrors. I have no need to make extra effort or to worry if my nose has fallen off. I can feel it hasn't.
.
However. I do unabashfully watch OTHER people look at themselves. I watch their every move when applying another coat of mascara onto their short eyelashes. I scan their oval butts that are stuffed into low rise blue jeans. Their love handles pouring over the waists like an overfilled milkshake. I watch their mouth imitate fish movements as they slather glossy red lipstick over their pale lips. I wince as they steadily move around the mirror in their 3 inch heels as if their ankles are tied by a rope, prisoners of their countenance. When the toilet frees, they practicially hop into the stall,their motion limited by their snug jeans and noisy heels.
.

After 1.5 minutes you hear a flush and the natural clicks of heels when standing up from the toilet seat. The latch is slowly turned back into it's place and highlighted hair appears out of the shadows of the stall. They fluff their hair with a shake of the head. First left, then right. Hungrily, they waddle to replace themselves in front of the mirror they just left. Their overly manicured nails perfecting each misplaced strand of their over dryed and over dyed hair.

I sigh, with a light nod of my head I walk into the stall. Just another situation of social body dysmorphic disorder.

avatar

2010-01-30T22:26:00.002+02:00

The Huzzy and I finally saw Avatar. Third try is a charm in this case. Our first attempt 6 weeks ago was thwarted by P Bonez having a fever, chicken soup for dinner won. The second attempt was an immigrant situation of not understanding the touch dials in Hebrew. Finally, P Bonez insured our double seats by going a couple days before, directly to the source: a foggy window with a circle carved in the middle of it.
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What I love about movies like Avatar is the chance to dive back into imagination. I feel as thirty is tickling our nostrils, I am slowly creeping away from the childhood naivety and creativeness that got me through life's general challenges. I am taken back to the days when I believed there was a man on the moon who ate cheese and after watching Goonies, I would find my own cave full of gold and a shipwreck that would sail me out of a cave a hero. A time when my mom threatened to throw away my toys because of a messy room and I held them close, with tears in my eyes, emotionally attached and when I kept them, had long conversations with them, welcoming them back into my room.
,
But enough of that. If I had an Avatar, it would have really big boobs.
.

Phone cam

2010-01-28T20:46:00.001+02:00

My favourite packaging.

2010-01-24T19:19:00.002+02:00

Our pup ist ein Furzer. I came home today to find another chew toy victim, stuffing decorating our terracotta tiles. Henk and his playmate, Hazel have obviously been terrorizing the chew toys in our absence, but at least they can do it as a team- which brings some warmth to my dog owner-heart.
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The warmth in Jerusalem however has left the city and has been replaced with bone chilling wind. My left nostril is running like the Thames and has crusted over to protect itself. It was suggested at work that I simply stuff it with tissue and watch football on TV. Instead, I bought some gentle face lotion filled with avocado and honey and I rub it slowly, singing random tunes that are off key because I have coughed my angelic voice hoarse.
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I am fantasizing about Israel's long summer days, where vitamin D replaces my need for sleep and the salt is heavy in the air. Where I can sweat and clean out my sebaceous glands by a simple power walk around the block. If I am fire and P Bonez is water, that means our favourite place as a couple should be at the beach in the middle of summer, or standing behind a grill with one foot in the water bucket.

Phone cam

2010-01-22T10:20:00.001+02:00

israel. A place where coconuts and wine meet in the market.

Shabbat Shalom

2010-01-22T10:05:00.005+02:00

Earlier, I was walking to the boutique bread store thinking of metaphors of this morning. The sun is out and the air is crisp. I remember myself as a kid in Germany, my hand lost in the giant paws of my father, walking to the local bakery to buy Brötchen. When I got old enough my mom would send me with the bakery list pinned to the back of my bike. Our breakfasts would consist of yellow cheeses and fine bread, jam from Switzerland and wurst from the butcher.
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Friday mornings are really lovely in Jerusalem. When I walk into the supermarket I am greeted by a wine barrel displaying a local brand of wine and coconuts decorating the negative space. Coconuts. In January, in Jerusalem. Coconuts in January in Jerusalem. Say it with me sisters.
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I proceed to the ten item checkout. In Jerusalem, the local supermarket has ten registers and opens three, creating mass traffic on a heavy shopping morning. I do not even look at my items, it is my assumption that if I can carry my items then I probably do not have over the limit.
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As i place my items on the conveyor belt, a man two persons behind me points out that I am over the limit. I look at him puzzled and stare at my items in front of me. I count them, he is correct, I have fourteen.
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I apologize to him and told him this travesty I have created was far from intentional. He sternly looks at me and states I should leave the line. The woman directly behind me rolls her eyes and tells me it is not a big deal.

"Maybe where you come from, you can behave in such a manner" he snipes at me. "But not here."

I am completely shocked at such a comment by a stranger.
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"Where I come from, someone who wears a kippa (Yamaka) would never behave in such a manner on Erev Shabbat".
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Then I go home and literally bawl my eyes out to my husband. La Sigh, my love affair with Israel will continue. but that man, well, I am sure his wife does not like him.

TwittaBling

2010-01-21T21:24:00.003+02:00

Dear Mom,

My online handle has been made into Bling:

Here.

A Ginrod Qoute

2010-01-18T13:22:00.002+02:00

"i mean, i dont' think i'm going anywhere except into the ground
and the only responsibiltiy I have is to make sure that i have inspired enough people so the memory of me passes on into the universe causing stars to shoot into the sky and flowers to blossom in the cold winters of our hearts"

Phone cam

2010-01-10T20:22:00.001+02:00

Too cute

The Shivah

2010-01-06T11:49:00.007+02:00

Constructive Criticism always welcome, this is what I wrote for my memoir writing class:

Shivah House
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I enter the home hearing only murmuring, I do not know where to look, , I feel blinded like a newborn, slowly, the fuzzy shapes and shadows evolve into a living room and people everywhere. There are light movements of silhouettes making sure the urn is filled for hot drinks, cleaning the counters. Platters upon platters of sweet and savory pastries decorate the long, dining room table in neat pyramids. I am not sure I am exhaling; my heart is so tormented than any movement, physical or emotional, is excruciating, I am trembling in fear as I begin the slow steps through the entrance of the home. An older woman stands there, tightly clutching a broomstick and waiting to instantly sweep any sign of dust that hits the floor, she stands there, waiting for the crumbs, giving herself some focus in this lonely home.
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This week hundreds of guests will enter this house of mourning, consoling the bereaved, consoling me.
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My stomach leads the way, not because of the smell of treats in the air but in my weak state of mind, it is the only part of my body that is responding to death. It twists and turns and flips inside of me, it crunches and folds and sprays acid up into my throat. My lips are parched from too much wine and pills that were supposed to illicit a calm state of mind during a nine-hour flight from Bangkok only hours before. When the medicine wore off, my body responded in tremors and uncontrollable sobbing. The only way I could bring comfort to my soul was by compulsively rocking myself in the notoriously uncomfortable middle seat, in the middle row of the middle part of the plane.
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My sneakers make no sound as I walk towards her, even though my entire body is trembling from my loss, the sight of her makes me realize that this loss is not only my own but everyone here. This instant realization doubles, triples my pain. I can feel it everywhere, it is bursting out of my fingertips and I can feel it from hers. Two women wearing equally distraught expressions are holding her. Her hand is limp in theirs, and she is moaning in pain. She sees me and my stomach begins a circus-like performance inside of me. I kneel in front of her and look up at her, she places her palms on my face as if blessing me but instead moans with words. “What a beautiful bride you would have been my darling. Oh my G-d!” she wails as she places my head on her lap, her hands trembling on my ears.
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My stomach can take no more; I leap up and run upstairs, finding solace on the porcelain seat of the first floor toilet. There is no food to release into the bowl below me. I stare at my saliva dripping into the water below as my acrobat stomach jerks my empty body. I flush to buy myself more time.
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I walk outside, my mouth dry from the many cigarettes I am putting in my mouth for comfort. There are so many people here; they came to look at me with their sorry eyes and their sympathetic kisses on my frozen cheeks. They ask the obvious questions: “How are you?” and “Are you alright?” Sometimes, I would blatantly look at someone and state “NO. I am not alright.” and walk away. I have no time for them. I have no time for all of this.
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The sun is everywhere. It bathes my shoulders as I sit on warm plastic green chairs. Every now and then, the sky would host the deafening engine of a jet taking off from the air force base nearby. It stains the sky above us in white clouds and cursive loops. I watch the sun beating on my exposed skin, the hair on my forearms are becoming blonder and with every millisecond that passes, new freckle constellations are forming around my skin, forming a new kind of destiny and replacing the old one reluctantly.
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I feel like my heart has left my body and now I am a robot. I must take care of the machinery. I remember to drink water but by the time I pick up the small plastic cup next to my chair, it is already warm and pieces of pollen are floating in it. I pick up the savory pastries when the trays pass under my nose but I don’t smell them. The minutes take ages to thaw and move by.
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Finally, a breeze snakes through the crowds, breaking me from my thoughts. The faint smell of the lemon trees behind me recharges my mind; I get up to find solicitude in the cool washroom of the basement. I start light conversation with the few silhouettes standing there and in a moment of confusion of the heart and soul. I make a decision. I make it standing against a Beko dryer as if it was as simple as doing laundry. My arms are crossed as if they were physically protecting myself from the inevitable future repercussions such a bold statement would make.
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“I’m staying” I tell Clifford Corney, an London born gentlemen in an electric blue buttoned down shirt as my eyes traced the specks on the white tiles below. It was only last week he was wearing the same uniform as Tsiki in the army reserve service, but now he is not like Tsiki, he is here and Tsiki is gone.
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The moment the words fall out of my mouth, they make this situation a reality. I had just reorganized my life after the death of my father weeks before. The summer was to be spent helping my mother pull her life back together, cleaning out the memories of a quarter-century marriage in selling it in a garage sale with $1.00 price tags.
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“What will you do?” asks Clifford, distracting me from the surplus of thoughts that simple statement just created. I look up at him as a different person, as if I just didn’t experience the loss of big love & as if my ring finger is not naked, representing the emptiness the path ahead of me. “I will need a job” I tell him quietly. I shrug. I stare directly at him, lifeless. “I need to study Hebrew, I need to convert,” I tell him, citing our already existing plan together before he died. “I need to eat.”

Cough Cough.

2010-01-05T10:05:00.003+02:00

I have survived night #2 of NIGHT bronchitis. My coughing during light hours are at a minimum compared to the war that ensues once I attempt to lie down to sleep. It's as if I'm having a obnoxiously loud - dry heaving coughing argument with the alien in front of the window. My mouth is gaped wide open like the scream painting and the sounds that escape sound like an over exaggerated ninja fighting the night. No no, the tears you see from my coughing fits are not from coughing, they are from every moment lost on my pillow.
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P Bonez has the naturally ability to sleep through this. This worries me, do you know why? I am worried because this foreshadows our future as parents. When we decide to procreate this means that I will most likely retire any title I earned from sleeping while P Bonez slumbers into a Pulitzer Prize.
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This is p bonez

2010-01-01T01:26:00.001+02:00

Happy new year bitches!

Top Five things about 2009

2009-12-31T09:02:00.002+02:00

I've had blogger-block for the last couple weeks. Today, I really wanted to share something insightful for 2010. But no- the only thing i could think of that has occured in the last couple weeks are the following:
.
1. The days are SUPER short
2. The dogs have diarrhea
3. I've been getting pimples on the side of my head from my hats
4. I think about cleaning the floors every night but quench the desire.
5. P Bonez was virual in the last week and we both have coughing contests upon slumber.

See? If that's not writable awesomness, I don't know what is.
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Happy 2010 Bitches!!

Phone cam

2009-12-28T13:27:00.001+02:00

Stop this tel aviv fashion now!

Photo cam

2009-12-27T16:42:00.001+02:00

A blurry fashion no no called shit in pants.

Phone cam

2009-12-20T19:25:00.001+02:00

My husband loves me. A lot.

A Letter to my Co-worker upon his departure

2009-12-20T14:21:00.003+02:00

Dear xx,

I could not wait for this moment soon enough. After the nightmares I had of you and that you were a serial killer- I understand now that these thoughts could be G-d himself speaking to me.
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Your impending departure has not only saved my own life, but the lives of all future UoPeople employees. Hashem works in mysterious ways AS we all know. From the small moment of gas- inspired discomfort in my belly to know it's functioning, to the UN's decision to give us this desert filled with Milk and Honey.

Alas, despite you being a serial killer I am sure there is some part of me that will miss your filthy humor and your murderous comments when I reach your fake-wooden desk. You are in luck, I actually stay in Tel Aviv on Tuesday nights because I am in therapy because of you. However, I am only available for alcohol consumption in celebration after 9pm.

Ta Ta for Now.
.
The Sooz.

Phone cam

2009-12-17T18:09:00.001+02:00

When goliath and henk play. Part 1.

Phone cam

2009-12-07T16:41:00.001+02:00

A rainy day in the middle east. Tel aviv.

Remembering Tsiki

2009-12-02T08:04:00.009+02:00

Dearest Tsiki,
.
Today you would have been 28- years old. When I met you, you were an Israeli 22 year-old. What do I mean by Israeli 22? The only way one that lives in this country can be 22. Fresh-faced out of the army, with a heightened sense of fraternization with your friends than any other culture I’ve witnessed. I suppose when I met you, the relief of you and all the boys leaving the army was reflected in the passion when you all traveled: the jokes on lawn chairs at midnight, and heckling laughter with every step you took and the incessant back slapping. You all carried the excitement of exploring the entire world for the first time- spending the fruits of your labor, one dollar at a time- and enjoying them- for weeks at a time.
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I often seek you in the faces of strangers. The tall gentlemen at the shop next door has your complexion. The café steps from my work- he has your eyes, the little boy at the playground- he must have been you when you were a child. In my mind I put these attributes together and age you in my mind. It’s my way of finding you in this world.
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But I cannot age you, because each year I grow older and my body has become that of a 29 year old and in my dreams you are still 23. My mind has grown confused with the more I know and in my memories of you, you will never have one more wrinkle or read the latest pulitzer prize winning book.
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A few days ago, a comrade of yours in the army wrote to me, to extend his hand in communication and I believe, to tell me he thinks of you. These forms of contacts are few and far between and I know this is your way of speaking to me, to tell me in the form of a caring thought that you still exist in our lives.
.
That you hear us and you want us to hear you.
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Although my life has moved forward and I can walk with my own two feet from the devastation I experienced in losing you, I think about you every day because you have become a part of me.
.

My desk at work.

2009-12-01T19:10:00.001+02:00

Go asian.

Smoked Turkey

2009-11-29T11:32:00.002+02:00

P Bonez and I have taken cooking flesh to a whole new level when we decided to purchase a second hand smoker from our friends who decided to escape back to L.A. When we first got the smoker, we were sticking everything in it: asparagus, fish, shoe laces, egg cartons, small children. We even had a get together for 6.5 hours for the sole sake of watching the brisket smoke. It's a great southern scenario: my London- born husband sitting in his camping chair holding a Carlsberg watching the sunset- i mean, the brisket smoke.
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We took smoking to a whole new level last Thursday when we decided to shove a 6 kilo turkey inside the Webber and fill it's flesh with hickory smoke. I nearly had a heart attack in my first attempt to prepare the coals before placing them inside of the smoker. My pride prevented me from frantically calling P Bonez to explain that there is wind and the coals don't light with lighters and that we should buy lighter fluid to douse those stubborn _expletive_ coals. But my 20s have brought me patience and when i failed, i kept trying and eventually, after half an hour I had red-hot coals eagerly waiting to be placed under the rump of our luscious turkey.
.
Then suddenly, a flood of our friends came in 15 minutes later than expected and ate everything. EVERYTHING. The only thing left was the following:

2 tumble weeds
4 serving platters with only crumbs
a smoked turkey carcass

I kid I kid.
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It was a great party, it was so good that even the off label red wine bottles were empty.

Howlin' Henk

2009-11-23T08:15:00.003+02:00

Henckel hears the harmonica for the first time.

Poor me and Poo Pup

2009-11-17T18:38:00.005+02:00

I feel like my ovaries are going to roll out of my body and drop on the floor. I can visualize it now and the accidental kick of them against the eggshell colored wall. You gaSP. I know. But the trials of being female make us sturdy fem me fa tales. Which is much needed, especially in the middle east.
.
This week has been unruly for the Doring-Preston household, unexpected change and then lack of change have collided in our universe and I'm not sure how to place the pieces for a perfect, lifestyle Eden. Apartment leases and hunting and not hunting and maybe car buying, and if so- what kind of car pontifications have made me realize how absurdly expensive this country is. Pile on the maddening traffic and the constant jams and honking and time falling out of our pockets and I've pretty much reached the boiling point for my sanity.
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And poor Henckel, he got his balls chopped off today. That poor pup- as a rescue dog, anytime we take him out of his schedule he pukes himself from worry. Actually, that only happened once. But P Bonez described his puppy dog eyes when he walked out of the vet's. And those eyes were very very sad. Then the vet described his constant crying before and after his surgery. He must be really attached. But now, his balls aren't attached. Soon, they will be dried out bags, symbolic of the alpha dog he could have once been.

The Lumpia Story

2009-11-17T13:59:00.002+02:00

.
An elderly Foreigner lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite food,
Filipino Lumpia.

Gathering his remaining strength, he lifted himself from the bed. Leaning
against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even
greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands he crawled to the
kitchen. With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame gazing into the
kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself
already in heaven. For there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen
table were literally hundreds of his favorite food, LUMPIA .

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted
Filipino wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy
man?

Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture, his parched lips parted, the
A wondrous taste of the lumpia was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing
him back to life.

The aged and withered hand trembled on to a lumpia, when he was suddenly
smacked with a spatula by his wife,

"Git out op here!" she shouted. "dis are por your puneral !"

Good morning tel aviv.

2009-11-16T07:23:00.001+02:00

At a wedding in london. It's like. SO posh.

2009-11-08T19:35:00.001+02:00

Allergy Queen

2009-10-25T22:12:00.002+02:00

musings from a FrienDly Coworker:

This is a bedtime story for you, as in I'm writing it from my bed...

Once upon a time, there was a girl with beautiful skin. The skin was so lovely, it came with a special curse and she was allergic to everything. She soon discovered that Cortizone steroid creams were good friends of hers and that band-aids were her worst enemies. At age 12, she cut her toe on a chair at a Renoir exhibition and the medic bandaged it up rather than have her make her own bloodied Impressionist art on the tiles of the gallery. The result was so severe, she was housebound with fiercely itchy, lumpy toes filled with clear liquid, while all her friends went on a special tour of Sydney and Canberra.

The girl grew into a woman, who enjoyed a variety of delicious foods, yet had never sampled cheese of the blue variety. She celebrated her first, well-deserved holiday from high school teaching, with a cheese platter containing a strong, mouldy chunk. She found it delicious and ate it with gusto, only to spend her vacation covered from head to toe in hives. Her kindly grandmother, now deceased, gave her some anti-drowsy, anti-histamine tablets. She took one and spent three days comatose and with drooling slack jaw.

This fresh-faced woman had been raised to keep the kashrut and had never tried anything with an exo-skeleton. There had been one time her Jewish friend had popped a tiny prawn in her mouth, but she had assumed the vomiting which occurred afterward was as a result of G-d smiting her from above (that and a combination of red wine and New Zealand vodka and driving around and around in circles in someone's car).

This protagonist found herself at a sushi restaurant in Florentin. Against better judgment, she ordered from the menu, though wary of the rastafarian gentleman making the food and his unrefrigerated, bacteria-laden seafood. Even as she popped the innocuous sushi in her mouth, she pre-empted food poisoning. Her dining companion suggested she finish the last two from her larger plate, and thinking it was tuna inside, the skin-allergic woman popped one in her mouth. Many hours later, she discovered she had eaten crab in some form.

The protagonist, slightly tipsy and red in the face, walked from a Beatles-themed party in Yaffo to the centre of the city, sweating and whimpering as she scratched her skin. She passed out as soon as she returned home and woke up to vomit extraordinary amounts of bile. Her lips had swollen slightly, being the only positive, as lip enhancements don't come cheap.

Knowing that the secret to a rich, fulfilling and painless life was to avoid bandaids, blue cheese and shellfish, she lived happily ever after.

The end.

October is almost November

2009-10-22T13:35:00.009+02:00

Hello week of change. Thank you for embedding yourself in my life, it's not like people don't DIE in my life and on top of that I'm a convert. I've accomplished enough change in the last decade to have quadruple personalities. Enough change that these personalities could even take on different races and hair texture. I may have straight asian hair right now, but two years ago, when Foxxy Tamoosh was surfacing, I had a the biggest fro'.
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My two best girlfriends in Israel have packed their bags to freshen up their lives in the U.S. What's more ironic is that they're British and they are going to live in MY country. MY country. They are going to have access to the brands and products that I grew up with. They are going to update me on TV shows that I should know about before them.
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I guess what makes it so hard is because these two particular women were stars in my growth in Israel. I met them both at a critical time of my life in Israel that their support is a major cause of my stability, success, good looks and academic brilliance in this country. We've run into the Meditteranean Sea on cold winters evenings together and i've sat patiently listening to their self-written Megillah's on the woe's of being human.
.
Aww I miss you people already!
.
It got me thinking on my walk to lunch an hour ago and I did a quick calculation on the financial woes of living in Israel and my jaw fell to the floor. Then it ran away, and I started chasing my jaw, but it was too quick and clever and took a sharp left onto a one way street just as a newly washed Mazda 3 was exiting. After the Mazda three pulled out of the street I found myself stuck in the middle of Tel Aviv, without my jaw and missing my girls.

The goldstone Report

2009-10-18T12:02:00.004+02:00

There is no doubt that war is a terrible thing to occur. But here is a view the media often prefers to not explore.

Goodbye Holidays

2009-10-11T10:00:00.002+02:00

Often, when I'm walking down the street, I see an eccentric individual and in my head I come up with their whole life story. This is a quality I learned from my father, he had quite an opinion and imagination about anyone we ever met. I remember those opinions floating around to the passenger's side of his white Oldsmobile when i wasn't tall enough for my legs to even hang off the seat. I was just long enough that my shoes shook in the air and I listened patiently to how Mrs. Smith wears dresses that look like curtains or how Mr. Garcia is a great business man but why can't he wash his car?
.
But, I am not writing about that. Preston Force has made it through a round of the longest chain of holidays in a row that Judaism has to offer. For weeks on end it did not cease, just when one event was completed we would remember we had dinner with so and so on this day and family time on this day and yes, another gathering on this day. We found ourselves squeezing in cleaning time and walking times and missing out on sleeping time.
.
This could be a big reason why I feel so fatigued and after this week will begin grounding myself on Thursday nights. At this rate- i am tempted to give up anything that is poisonous and only meditate and drink smoothies. The weather is changing and my bones are getting a bit sore. It's time to tuck away celebrating for awhile and get into sweater hibernation.
.
Anyone with me?

Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus

2009-10-09T01:03:00.003+02:00

There is a girl I grew up with who was obsessed with the word Jesus. Jesus Loves YOU! she would yell at us as we scrunched our pom-poms before the football game. Jesus Jesus Jesus she would stutter in every sentence, even we we spoke of hair removal at age 12. Sometimes, during lunch in the cafeteria, she would jump and proclaim her love for Jesus.
.
She loved this word. She never explained her love for Jesus. She would just yell it out, as if protecting her evil thoughts with what she believed was a positive one. When she lost her virginity our Junior year, she bought it back the next week by promising Jesus she wouldn't have sex until marriage- this proclamation was advertised with a paper plaque on the wall- her name scribbled in cursive over the computer made line. She showed her "promise ring" to everyone- the hands holding a heart with a crown on it. In gold. In camp, she never made her bed and her room smelled like fart, but she loved Jesus. We knew this.
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Now, we've found one another on facebook. She's a gorgeous woman, with a gorgeous family and she STILL loves Jesus. I witness it in every status update: JESUS is my BEST friend, i feel her smile through the internet.
.
Shiver.

My new Disease

2009-10-07T08:25:00.003+02:00

Humans Fatigue Syndrome

Primary Symptoms
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As the name people fatigue syndrome suggests, this illness is accompanied by fatigue. However, it's not the kind of fatigue patients experience after a particularly busy holiday or social event, after a mosquito night or after a stressful event. It's a severe, incapacitating intolerance of humans that isn't improved by alcohol or drugs. In fact, it may be exacerbated by touching more than 5 humans a day. It's an all-encompassing fatigue that results in a dramatic decline of mental health and tolerance for world news and even, the TV show Friends.
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People with people fatigue syndrome function at a significantly lower level of social activity than they were capable of prior to becoming ill.Their only thought of joy is to put on earplugs to find that happy place that is usually in the center of their bed. This is not to be confused with depression. People fatigue syndrome is a direct result of hyper-socializing.

Those with people fatigue syndrome are encouraged to find a hotel, a safehouse, or a cheap plane ticket out of their current location as the mere thought of seeing other humans makes them writh with pain and often results in severe skin rashes behind the earlobes.The illness results in a a severly bad attitude and continue'd exhausting, but is easily treatable with something called work life balance. and by following the human avoidance theory.

Yom Kippur in Jerusalem

2009-09-28T20:01:00.004+02:00

Yom Kippur in Israel. There is nothing like it in the world. Walking in white, riding bikes, and flooding into the streets without a car in sight. We spent the last couple weeks anticipating the fast. Preparing ourselves in our minds, asking forgiveness from those who we need it from and making amends with those who we care enough to contact. These actions are there to wash and cleanse our spiritual slate- to make it shiny and new for the new year. My dreams are so full the night of Yom Kippur, as if my brain and soul are together sorting and purging all my issues and all of my memories into special pockets for the new year.
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We spent hours in Shul (synagogue) there were points where I thought the fast would get the best of me, where I would have to sit down because the words in my prayer book were running together, but slowly and surely, the sections became smaller and soon the sun was setting and we completed another successful fast. Our spirits heightened to a level they have not reached all year.

First time on the jtown bridge

2009-09-27T09:51:00.001+02:00

Mazal tov!

2009-09-22T18:14:00.001+03:00

Greeny part 3

My Frienemy

2009-09-21T20:23:00.003+03:00

I have a confession to make. I have a Frienemy. You know. The Friend Enemy. My Frienemy is different.
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She has a tooth growing out of her forehead. Perhaps if she didn't have this tooth growing out of her head she would be my enemy. Or perhaps she is my friend because of this birth defect. Her tooth is always well polished and on Thursday nights, when we get all dolled up in hot pink eye shadow and bracelets, she'll stick a fake diamond sticker smack dab in the middle of her forehead tooth all while chewing a fat piece of hubba bubba watermelon.
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no lie.
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My huzzy (that's Ginrod talk for husband) says she's sparkling and a little bit odd. He can't trust her because the tooth is so distracting. How would YOU feel if you had a TOOTH growing out of YOUR forehead!!? I scream at him.
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He said he wouldn't like it one bit. I nod sarcastically.
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My Frienemy has a variety of special things about her. She likes to take pieces of watermelon for instance, and smear it all over the tiles before serving it to her friends. This is why she is a Frienemy. Real friends just would never do that.
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I once walked in on my Frienemy polishing the tooth on her forehead with my top shelf dead sea scrub. I got it as a gift from my the secretaries 2nd cousin and the line has been dropped from all major stores in the western hemisphere.
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When I am angry with my Frienemy, I often think of holding her down with my knees and taking a pair of open-stock pliers to her forehead. In many ways, I feel like removing her tooth from her forehead would benefit all of us. She would have more success in her karaoke circuit and I would stop thinking she had enemy capabilities.

Thoughts on my way to London

2009-09-16T19:59:00.005+03:00

Airports. In every movie and every book there is always a blurb about the beauty of them. To be invisible, a stranger among strangers. Staring at each passerby creating a unique story for each and every character you come across. Feeding the imagination in your mind about where they are coming from and where they plan on going.

The woman over there, I nod my chin to myself, she had a love affair with an artist when she was young. She was 17 and she was studying French Architecture in Paris as an exchange student. She was originally from a medium city in Nebraska and her dad died when she was eight. Her mother married a pastor named Arthur who had a squeaky voice and a passion for growing cactus in their L-shaped backyard. She fell in love with the captain of the football team and after he impregnated her first cousin on homecoming night, she left that small Nebraska town and never looked back, She went to a state school and lived in a state dormitory and filled the last spot for the second semester study abroad in Paris. Obviously, her French was shit, but it was far away from Nebraska winters and football season.

It sounds romantic that she fell in love with an artist but it was a bit dirty. Literally. He was a filthy creature. Hot water was absent in their Parisian love affair and he often smelt like sauerkraut and a cheap cabernet. His hair was oily from his lack of grooming although he often enjoyed grooming every other woman but her. At age twenty and a broken heart later, she went to a Dr to make her crooked nose straight. As if that would mend her Midwest heart. No nose can ever be straight enough for a crooked man she learned and she found a much more simple sort of love in a latin realtor named Jesus. They bought their first home on her 23^rd birthday and Jesus's charming ways earned them a silver Cadillac by the time they were thirty.

Nowadays, she spends her free time combing Jesus's rich Latin hair in the middle of airports, her straight nose shining in the airy lobbies.

Often is seems that travelers wear a costume when they travel. If you’re traveling to Eastern Europe it is of great importance you dress your neck with a politic statement. Any textile from an “occupied” territory will do and it’s good to mix it with a non-traditional color. Black and white? Pink shoes will go great. Converse preferably. If you are an exceptional traveler, you will begin wearing your cargo pants months a head of time, usually when camping- so you can wear them in for the “rugged” look by the time you hit south east Asia during the “wet season.”

Pappa Saul is sitting two rows in front of me. He’s decided to give his common law wife a weekend break from their only child and has him unhappily bouncing on his right knee. His aging parents are waiting for them in London; salmon sandwiches are already on the 30 year old faded china in the tearoom. There is a batch of chocolate chip muffins in the oven, which will still be warm when they arrive home. His son, Henry is miserable and is verbally expressing that fact to the cabin audience. We take it like warriors and I can’t help but wonder if the child has a mental disorder. The miracle of the sky is that eventually, the cabin pressure changes and the child passes out in a mild stupor.

There is a rather full man in the aisle across from me. When he paid for his plane ticket he was under the impression that he also paid for the common aisle for foot space. He has successfully fit his full figured body sideways onto the seat. I respect Santa, he has managed to find comfort in any space big or small. I want to tickle his fingertips with a feather while I pretend to type. But I do not have a feather with me.

I love reading good Crap.

2009-09-04T17:27:00.002+03:00

My aim is to beat this level of creative and lightly disturbing writing:

Click HERE.

R.I.P

2009-09-01T21:53:00.002+03:00

Life is a feather, blowing in the wind. At one moment we're holding on to it and the next moment it blows away, caught by the air around it. Death becomes a feeling, a symptom almost, we react to it individually and uniquely, an incident that is not to be reckoned with. We tip toe and take the information in, we process it and what comes out in the language we speak is a far cry from the palpitations our heart is trying to convey.
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Tonight I think of Tulsa and I think of the crowd I grew up with. I am reminded of Tulsa because a friend has passed, and although he was a bear of a man, his life was a feather that was caught in the wind and blew away. It seemed unexpected and the only reason I found out when I did was because of social networking and once again, I am reminded of how complex and quick our lives can be.
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I can only think of the mother of his unborn child and what she must be going through right now. I think of his sister I was in University with and his cousins who I spent Oklahoma summers with. I think of them because I know how hard they are hurting right now. I think of them because I know what their confusion is and how painful this time must be, i think of them and I am channeling my thoughts to them during this hard time.
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I am reminded of Tulsa tonight and her hot summers and the innocence that once plagued us.

Dinner in jerusalem

2009-09-01T19:14:00.001+03:00

Romance on the dance floor

2009-08-31T16:42:00.003+03:00

The 12,3048,45735th wedding has been put under the belt as of last night. Wedding season in Israel is like a F4 tornado grazing Oklahoma territory with a one evening sweep, it takes no prisoners. The doppler radar for nuptials recommends simply super gluing your heels to your feet and accept that you will put on at least 8.5 pounds from copious amounts of champagne, steak, and sunsets on the beach.
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Are you Jealous?
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Last nights wedding was unique for me as the bride was Russian, which meant, Vodka shots and polka-infused music. The one element that stood out was how her parents would take any moment they could to glide over to the dance floor. The aging husband would respectfully lead his wife as they gazed into one another eyes as if they were 20 all over again. It didn't matter that her arms did not defy gravity or that her hips have swollen with the comfort of time. It didn't matter that they moved a little bit slower than the young adults around them. They continued to methodically and perfectly complete each and every dance they took upon themselves- all the while looking into one anothers eyes.
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It was so romantic- it made my heart quiver.

A sea of dining

2009-08-31T07:50:00.001+03:00

Breakfast in tel aviv

2009-08-28T09:53:00.001+03:00

Lovely cafe in jerusalem town.

2009-08-21T12:06:00.001+03:00

A little bit of jerusalem. In jerusalem.

2009-08-17T18:21:00.001+03:00

A thought about Soul Music

2009-08-17T10:16:00.003+03:00

When I was younger, I used to date a guy who spun soul music in gay clubs on weekday nights. He used to lecture me how club go'ers never could truly appreciate the intense spiritual effects soul music had on the masses. How soul music made people lovers and not fighters. He would explain that when you love soul, you become soul and you walk with soul and talk with soul.
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The guy really loved soul. And that appreciation definately rubbed off on me. To this day I have a modest yet fulfilling collection of soul music. Maybe it's the sad cowboy in all of us, or our proximity to the South, but us Oklahomans were never far from soul music.
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I sometimes wish there would be a 100% soul revival on the radio. Where artists sang love songs and of simple times. Of sitting on the docks of the bays and watching the time go by. Of sad moods and tears flowing like wine and Memphis soul stew. Imagine if we could all live a soundtrack day of soul music. We'd probably all be in love and full by the end of the day and not crying in the Chapel in the midnight hour. Or for any hour really.

Office work

2009-08-13T14:30:00.001+03:00

My boss and co workers moving my files with sticks.

Random Funny

2009-08-12T17:44:00.000+03:00

Hey

Im bored.

And I feel useless and fat

How was your run yesterday??? Successful??

I think im going to cry.

I feel lonely and fat...

Is this a haiku?

I'm a Robot. Are you?

2009-08-07T16:34:00.002+03:00

New girlfriend

2009-07-31T18:14:00.001+03:00

Shuki has a girlfriend and we're so proud.

A letter to a friend

2009-07-29T08:23:00.001+03:00

Dearest xxxx,

I hope this letter finds you well. It's been a long long time since we have spoken and often when I gaze out of the car window, into the heavy morning fog that draps Jerusalem I think of you. Then I think of Portland, then I think of punkrock concerts,bicycles, microbrewed beer and Mt. Hood in the early afternoon and I almost forget about you. Of course, I always refocus and remember I was thinking of you. But then I forget why, or how and then I get angry. Not at you, but at the thought of thinking about you and then forgetting. Then I wonder why memories of Oregon got into my brain. We never spent time in Portland together. Actually, most of the time we spent together is on your hot roof in Tel Aviv. We can't even see the sun set on that roof. But we can see planes flying into Ben Gurion Airport and then we usually talk about something tragic. Like the landing gear not working. Or people with body odor on crowded El Al flights from NYC.

But in all seriousness, I thought of you because I want to make Filipino eggrolls. And I thought if I lived in TA, we would probably be in the kitchen, finely dicing vegetables for these thin eggrolls and you would be bitching and moaning why we couldn't follow the recipe and just use minced PORK ALREADY! I would probably then just laugh and say "dude.Kosher is COOL."

Best,
Susi

News flash

2009-07-29T06:03:00.001+03:00

The paint murder of Haaretz news on a lonely jerusalem street.

Hey Dad

2009-07-27T08:22:00.002+03:00

I don't think there is a stronger longing for me this week than the longing of my father. I can still remember the last time I hugged him: on my tip toes pulling his thick neck down so I could wrap my arms around him. I held his cheek tightly to mine, registering the stub of his beard and his Old Spice smell. I hugged him so tightly he had to pry my arms loose so he could clear his throat.

Dad was the American Dream. His cowboy boots and flannel shirts, his planted trees and broken dreams. (that just sounded like a line from a country song didn't it?)

Once mom had a teachers' conference in Southeast Oklahoma, in a lodge in between the mountains. Dad and us would spend our time window shopping at flea markets and ordering hamburgers from country stands off of dirt roads. One day we took a drive into the hills. Dad taught us to drive his Oldsmobile there. At the ripe age of 8 and 9 Bryan and I were taught the driving-takeover drill. His reasoning was that one day he might suffer from a heart attack while driving. He was teaching us to be little heroes.

When I was walking to my carpool this morning these little memories fluttered in my brain and my heart began to ache. What would my life be like if I could call him on these crisp Jerusalem mornings and we could share a little dry humour? He could pressure me about wanting grandkids and I could avoid the topic, instead, sharing a little tidbit on German idealism and name drop philosophers into his stubborn ears.

Another great Shabbat

2009-07-26T09:34:00.005+03:00

I realize now what the declaration of marriage is. It's not as much legalizing your love for one another, but the social announcement of saying "I prefer to spend my free time and my sleep time with THIS person." It's saying if i'm gonna smell someone's farts, it's gonna be his. And if I'm going to steal the last of the Sushi leftovers, it's gonna be from HIM.
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It's saying the Preston force will tackle washing poop out of the dog's coat together and suffer as a team from not seeing the accidently deleted last ten minutes of Changeling.
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Since we're on the topic.. what is the part after the seriel killer guy talks to the priest. Does he confess?
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Happy Sunday homies.

Everyone loves shuki

2009-07-23T16:19:00.001+03:00

Which one is cuter?

Weekend Away

2009-07-19T12:28:00.003+03:00

At the end of the week I am taking the day off for Dr's appointments in Jerusalem. The knowledge that I am having a four day work week is unbearable. This extra time of five hours on a Thursday is equivalent to the joy of eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's and not receiving the 752 calories.
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The extra time is welcome. The possibility of rest is even more welcome. This past weekend I spent the first Shabbat away from P Bonez in nearly two years . Some of the girls and I took a break to go up north and celebrate a friends 30th. So much time with some of my best girlfriends resulted in tween style giggling and rocking in hammocks while staring at the mountains in the background.
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Despite the relaxing atmosphere, my immune system is still begging for more rest.

Zikkron Yaakov

2009-07-17T12:55:00.001+03:00

Friday morn with the girls but missing p bonez

Henna

2009-07-16T19:08:00.001+03:00

Henna smells organic. Since i am making it- does that make me middle eastern?

Work

2009-07-14T15:02:00.001+03:00

My co worker seems to drink her coffee to the same level and stop each time. What could this mean? !

Good morning jeru. I'm still drunk.

2009-07-10T09:53:00.001+03:00

Life

2009-07-09T09:02:00.002+03:00

This week occured in fast forward. It started, I woke up and then the next thing I know- it's Thursday.
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Perhaps this speedy week is a result of my human flaw of looking forward to the next weekend before my initial weekend is finished. I have put in buffers to allow me to enjoy the week as it passes. It comes in the form of strict scheduling and managing to put in the beach and wine on Tuesdays. I manage Hubby time and long walks that involve picking up dog poo wearing a plastic bag on my hand. If i'm lucky, I find time for 13 karate kicks in the air while watching a favourite show of mine: House.
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The only way I am sure it's almost Thursday is my need for an early bedtime on Wednesday. Despite this early bedtime, I pull myself awake at 5:20 am and look over at P Bonez in longing. I want to be the one covering my head with a pillow as the gentle melody of an alarm clock vibrates on the side table.

Raindrops and Urine

2009-07-05T07:59:00.003+03:00

The air was particularly cooler than usual in Jerusalem this morning. I take a brisk walk to my carpool only a few minutes away. For the first time, I noticed urine stains on Jerusalem, a symptom of the amount of dog owners in the Katamon neighborhood.
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The stains reach out like long, alien fingers on the sidewalk- with a desire to touch onto the street. Trees are splotched in a darker shade at the bottom of their trunks. Corner walls of Jerusalem stone are mottled with markings of canine excretion.
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This of course is a result of a country that doesn't see enough rain. A country that doesn't see the refreshing wash of raindrops before the sun rises. Instead, we are greeted with yesterdays stains.

Selfish Madoff Victim

2009-06-29T16:28:00.001+03:00

"Dana Foy of Jemez, N.M., complained that SIPC will only compensate him for the $150,000 he invested in the firm, not the $600,000 that the firm told him his investments were worth."

Wasn't it known that such a return was unreal? A man who has expectations like this should get kicked in the knee.

My co worker eats cockroaches

2009-06-29T13:56:00.001+03:00

The Netty Pot conversation

2009-06-29T11:10:00.000+03:00

Tina: if you use it correctly does the genie come out?

me: duh.what kind of question is that???

Tina: duh.the procedure sounds really scary

me: the genie coming out?it's made of gas, it only tickles because of the dust

Searching for Green

2009-06-28T07:50:00.009+03:00

The weekend was lovely, finally found the time to spend it in Maskeret Batya, a place I once a called my home, with people who are the closest thing to family here in Israel. I felt like I accomplished my goal of catching up on rest and food, something one lacks when summer days are long and days are busy. P Bonez and I took a long walk on Saturday, looking at the different parts of the town. Listened to stories of how Rothschild settled the area. How new immigrants received a petite home and one dunam of land. How they worked the land and it grew to one of the most desired towns in central Israel.

I wonder if our age means we missed the boat finding that pearl of space in this desert-like country. It seems like all of the desirable areas are beyond our budget and sometimes I wonder if the longer we wait means the smaller and smaller our theoretical piece of land becomes. I continue to wonder if I should just pop that dream of space and accept that one cannot expect to receive much of this precious commodity. Or if I should make it my next big goal to become that visionary and find something dry and make it grow. Become that part of the story of Israel.

First things first- I need to bring limes to this country.

My Husband Colours Well don't you think?

2009-06-25T17:04:00.002+03:00

Tower of Babel

Summer Ripe

2009-06-23T08:41:00.003+03:00

Summer is in full swing. Tel Aviv days are blind with sun and the drips of sweat falling from my forehead. Jerusalem still promises a cool night if you place yourself between the open window and a fan. Gazpacho soup is always made at the beginning of the week for a summer cool down full of nutrients and our calendar keeps filling itself up with other peoples summer vacations, birthdays, L'chaim's and all around good news.

I am often surprised we do it all without a car, something I would have never thought of in my past life. Now, when I stand under the shower, I often ponder whether maybe it is better to not have a car and rely on public transportation. Perhaps the money saved is worth it. I am still trying to work out if time and convinience is priceless.
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Aside from that no news is good news. I have begun the ongoing search of finding more time particularly in the sleep chapter of my life, and often think about how Israel is always in-between avocado season. They are either too ripe or too brown by the time they hit the stands. It seems that this polarization exists in most aspects of the place I call home.

Car ride from the beach

2009-06-19T15:46:00.001+03:00

Smart tel aviv

2009-06-17T07:37:00.001+03:00

bless the poeple of the UNIVERSE

2009-06-15T07:47:00.002+03:00

Apparently consumerism still exists in this economic crisis. I came upon this posting online and found it a bit retarded.

FORSALE - New Acer Notebook Posted
by: ***Name*** Sat Jun 13, 2009 11:39 am (PDT)

computer - Brand new Notebook!!! The best! Acer Aspire One – Iridescent Blue body.
Never used.
Wish to sell - Only because I want a different color.
Includes box, warranty and etc.

Contact:
****Name*** - Jerusalem

The plague

2009-06-14T08:08:00.002+03:00

If I sleep 6.4 hours a night, commute approx 3-4 hours a day, work for 9 hours- that leaves me 4 hours of free time a day and 20 hours of free time during the week. These 20 hours are alloted for grocery shopping, walking the dog, cleaning the house , giving the hubby some attention and kicking up my feet on my couch to intensely watch medical drama's on the television.
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Over Shabbat dinner I actually gave someone a diagnosis based on a episode I watched a couple weeks ago. He apparently watched that same episode and assured me it was not the Black plague.
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Thank G-d.

Different tastes

2009-06-14T07:19:00.001+03:00

Marketing is very different in tel aviv. .

Cafe in Jerusalem

2009-06-12T10:50:00.001+03:00

It's Mono Bitches!

2009-06-11T11:07:00.002+03:00

The title is my new tagline. After a routine checkup my Dr. has informed me that my body is the vessel for Mononucleosis. The sad thing is that the last few months of lethargy and lack of motivation was disregarded by myself as a "phase". "A little depression", I would convince myself- from the frustration of my freelance not being maximized. "Too much time on my hands", I would tell myself.. "of course the Siesta occurs,I work at home for G-d's sake!". "I'm getting old"- I would joke, "can't rock out as much as I did in my youth".
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Naw, it was Mono Bitches!
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My Dr. told me I would feel better in 6 weeks. Which kinda gets me all kinds of excited. I mean, I don't FEEL sick. I just felt a bit sluggish- but that can be attributed to the heat, the long days, eating too many carbs. So if I basically feel ok now. Then I'm gonna feel awesome in a month. It's as if I am anticipating the arrival of my youth once again. Just in time for my birthday!

Tel aviv high way

2009-06-08T18:21:00.001+03:00

Two

2009-06-08T10:23:00.002+03:00

This is how Filipinos communicate.