The funniest terrorist is a dead terrorist...

Tears of laughter came pouring down my face in torrents when I saw the clip below, performed by American stand-up comedian Jeff Dunham, so I just had to share. Try not to eat or drink while watching...

Why they really went to Annapolis...

I was very skeptical about last week's Annapolis conference. I didn't expect anything to come out of it, and I was rather dubious with regard to some of the participants (and clearly I had good reason to be, as Allison points out here).

In his severely weakened state, Ehud Olmert was forced by various members of his coalition to water down his declared goals until almost nothing was left. Dogged by scandal after scandal, his mandate going into the conference was shaky at best. On the Palestinian side, Mahmoud Abbas is clearly floundering, carrying barely half of a mandate in his pocket and maintaining a fairly solid record vis a vis his inability to contain terror or lead his people.

I, along with many of my countrymen, were simply not impressed, and nor were we very interested. We've heard far too many words, witnessed far too many committees. Frankly, when it came down to it, I couldn't understand the real reasons for holding this conference now, at a time when neither side seemed capable of delivering promises that could actually be kept. I was especially frustrated by Olmert, who hopped across the ocean to attend a useless conference, stopping only to meet with Jerry Seinfeld before grabbing his passport and jumping on a plane, leaving behind a crushing teachers' strike that threatens to render this academic year as being a complete loss. "Why", I thought. Why now? What could you all possibly gain by going to the US now?"

And then, with a blinding flash of intuition that only a shopaholic could understand, I knew. Peace shmeace. With Thanksgiving safely behind us and gift giving holidays on the horizon, there could only be one reason why our leaders were so anxious to be in the US at precisely this time...

Back to the Future...

Greetings and salutations, my trusted readers. As many of you know, I've begun writing for the Diplomatic Post which, unfortunately, is not online at this stage. Since a few of you have been clamoring to see my columns, I received the approval of my editor to post them here. The column below appeared in the second issue of the magazine, which was distributed on August 31st (to Jerusalem Post subscribers only). The column is known as "Page Before Last".

BACK TO THE FUTURE...

When it comes to dealing with the future of Israel and the Middle East, it seems that there are primarily two kinds of people – those who like to talk about it and those who try to do something about it (and then, there's a fringe third group – those who like to talk about the fact that they're doing something about it, a group comprised almost solely of politicians. But I digress...). Seminars and conferences focusing on the subject of Israel and the Middle East abound, and indeed, the complexities of this region provide a never-ending supply of fodder for think tanks and institutes around the world.

What is it about this region that causes the ears of otherwise apathetic individuals to perk up at its mention? The lad who probably can't tell you where the Middle East is located fancies himself an expert, and the local English professor goes apoplectic whenever the subject comes up in conversation. The quest for knowledge is seemingly insatiable, and academics and politicians hot on the lecture circuit make the rounds, recycling nuggets of information to wide-eyed audiences hungry for information. After all, the future of the Middle East has been a hot topic for thousands of years, and while the names and faces change, one fact remains constant – nothing ever changes.

Okay. Maybe that's not completely accurate. On the plus side, Israel (whose creation itself was certainly one of the bigger changes the region has seen during the past 100 years) has garnered peace agreements with two of its neighbors and maintains low-level ties with several other countries in the region. Changes for the worse are too numerous to mention. They're also too repetitive to mention; when it comes down to it, the changes don't really change. You'd think that given all the time spent discussing the future of this region, we'd have been treated to far more success.

Which brings us (albeit rather circuitously) back to our main topic – the proliferation of conferences purporting to shed light on the future. One can't help but be amazed, not only by the diversity of sub-topics, but also by the diversity of approaches to each sub-topic. Who knew? Who knew that there were so many ways to discuss the intricacies of the Arab world? Who knew that there were so many perspectives for analyzing Israel's prospects for peace? Who knew that these same subjects would be dissected ad nauseum for generations without resolution, with each speaker trying to put a unique spin on things, attempting to sound original?

The past few months in Israel have seen at least two events on this subject, one entitled, "Israel and the Middle East at a Crossroad", and the other creatively named "The Future of the Middle East", a symposium that included a staggering number of panels on a wide variety of topics. These affairs were organized by the Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies and the Israel Council on Foreign Relations – organizations that might not catch your attention were it not for their voracious ability to organize conferences and produce a dizzying array of publications.

It's starting to become a bit too predictable, these conferences. "The Future of the Middle East"? "The Middle East at a Crossroad"? The names say it all. Or perhaps they don't say anything. I suppose these names allow for a certain amount of latitude with regard to subject matter, but seriously. We need a new angle, something to get us into the proper frame of mind given the grand scheme of things.

First on the agenda is a unique line-up: We’d need someone like Jimmy Carter, Shimon Peres or Bill Clinton telling us how great the future can be, and someone from the World Bank to extol the virtues of how lucrative it will be. Then, we need a few historians to explain whose fault it is that we’re still in this mess (without alienating anyone, of course). This would, of course, be followed by the resident Arab-basher (probably from the Foreign Office or some such, in order to lend a degree of credibility) explaining how dangerous Iran is becoming and – just to make it even – your token Arab (preferably a poet). For a change, maybe the venue should be a Bedouin tent or perhaps a casino… in New Jersey (or possibly a Bedouin-themed casino in Vegas...). Oh, and we need a catchy title. Something that broadcasts a new trend in thought.

I was thinking along the lines of "The Future of the Middle East: Rehashing it all yet again", or perhaps "Israel and the Middle East: Past, Present and Future – It's all the same, really". Or maybe, someone should just make a movie.

Back to the Future, anyone?

"Ready, aim, sing!"*

As you've probably guessed by now, my sense of humor is often rather quirky and off-beat. I appreciate intelligent, wry commentary, and would be lying if I didn't say that one of my favorite pastimes is exchanging clever, witty banter with friends online, either via email or using any one of my growing collection of chat applications. The writer in me enjoys using words this way, and I find myself drawn to people who can keep up the pace. Words are both magical and powerful, and there are few things that attract my attention more than people who know how to use them well, especially if the words make me laugh and think, and allow for an ongoing exchange in the same vein.

I've had (and continue to have) friendships and relationships that began as a result of my admiration for an individual's writing skills, though obviously, the relationships, as they grew, were not solely based on this one trait. When it comes to entertainment, I tend to prefer high-brow stand-up comedy. Low-brow, lewd, sex jokes do not impress me, nor does the gratuitous use of swearing, for despite the fact that I can and do curse like a truck driver under certain circumstances, if you look carefully through this blog, you will find very few such words among my entries. It's not my style, and it's not the way that I choose to communicate while writing. As in my friendships, I gravitate towards performers who make me think as well as laugh, and if they can intelligently incorporate current events into the act, then so much the better. And because I'm sure that you're dying to know, yes, I do have a favorite. While not a stand-up comedian in the traditional sense, this individual's talent for side-splittingly humorous commentary is unparalleled.

Given my addiction to passion for current events and politics, it should come as no surprise to anyone that I would gravitate towards the material of the incredibly talented Tom Lehrer. His songs are timeless, and I sometimes find it rather shocking that lyrics he wrote in the early 1960s are just as relevant today as when they were originally written. I can't decide if that says more about his uncanny understanding of popular culture or the sadly predictable state of the world. I think I wore out my copy of "That Was the Year That Was", a live album released in 1965, and favorite tunes include "National Brotherhood Week" (a toe-tapping ditty about race relations), "MLF Lullaby" (a charming little tune about the Multilateral Forces), "Smut" ("I do have a cause, though. It is 'obscenity'. I'm for it...") and "Vatican Rag" (everything you wanted to know about Catholicism but were afraid to ask...). While I'm not going to link to all the songs on the album, if you're up for a laugh, I'd strongly recommend taking a glance at all of his lyrics, which can be found on this website. There are also clips for many of the songs on YouTube, which are definitely worth checking out.

As I mentioned above, many of his tunes are still relevant today, whether it be "So Long, Mom" (about a young soldier going off to fight in World War 3) or "Who's Next" (a song about the nuclear arms race). Check out the clip below for a spot-on assessment of American foreign policy.

(Lyrics for all Tom Lehrer songs can be found here.)



If you'd like to listen to "This Was the Year that Was" in full, some kind soul has been thoughtful enough to upload it to YouTube in sections:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five (contains only "Vatican Rag")

Disclaimer: Drinking liquids is not recommended while listening to Tom Lehrer. If you choose to do so, it is at your own risk. Your snarfing is not my responsibility.

*The title of this post is the last line of the Tom Lehrer song "Folk Song Army".

The Wonderfully Wacky World of Why

The Little One turned three a few months ago, and our lives have turned into a live version of Toy Story. While taking the dog for a walk, he spends enormous amounts of time switching his "laser" from "stun" to "kill" (while perfecting his Buzz Lightyear stare - see the picture below - and yes, he really does try to make that face!), and he can often be found running around, pushing the "button" on his chest (while doing his own interpretation of what a button sounds like) in order to "expand his wings", and then calling out "To infinity and beyond!" before leaping at a surprised adult who, fortunately, has lightning quick reflexes (we haven't dropped him yet – does that make us good parents?).

Of course, it's not ALL about Toy Story. Have you ever heard the "Bob the Builder" theme song sung at the top of a three year-old's lungs – as he switches back and forth between English and Hebrew? How about when your only party trick is having your son show people how he says "Dora" or "Dohhra", depending on which language you ask him to say the name in? And speaking of Dora, I'm in the process of trying to coordinate with Allison for us to take the kids to go see the hottest show of the summer among the under-five set – "Dora and the Pirate Adventure" (or something like that...). In Hebrew. Because apparently, we really love our kids, and we just can't seem to get enough of that charming monkey sidekick of hers.

But, tot pop culture aside, one of the more fascinating things to happen lately is that he's recently entered a new phase, one that I like to refer to as "the wonderfully wacky world of why". Why? Yes. Precisely. Why. The Little One has suddenly become very curious about everything, and always wants to know why. "Why did he do that, Mommy?" "Because he was upset, sweetie." "Why was he upset, Mommy?" "Because of what his friend said." "But why, Mommy?" And on and on it goes. It can happen anytime, anywhere. It frequently happens while watching television, though it's also been known to happen when we're out and about, shopping, eating out, or hiking. Sometimes, for a bit of variety, the "whys" are interspersed with "whats" or "hows", but essentially, it all comes down to the same thing – "how can I wear Mommy and Aba down," or "how long can I get them to answer these totally inane questions," and no, it absolutely wouldn't surprise me if he secretly knew the word "inane", but was keeping it to spring on us when we least expected it. He's special that way...

Things I've learned from the Little One...

• Band-Aids (preferably if they have pictures of the Backyardigans on them) can cure any boo-boo, even if there's only been a small bump on the head, and even when there's already a scab and the bleeding has long stopped.


• Dresses, apparently, are only to be worn on Shabbat. To put one on at any other time is a sign of confusion.


• If you're cute, compliments will get you everywhere ("Little One, why did you break that? Now, I'm angry." "Mommy, you're soooo pretty! You're beautiful! I love you!" Sigh...


• My reflexes are quicker than I'd ever imagined possible.


• It's already quite light outside by 5:30 in the morning.


• Construction vehicles that communicate with one another and do jobs with no assistance from humans are normal.


• Ditto the builder who consults with said construction vehicles in order to decide how jobs will get done.


• Crayons work much better once they've been broken in two and their pointy ends have been mashed into oblivion.


• It's okay to cry when your best friend goes home – even if he lives right downstairs.


• Running around the house without any clothes on is fun. If you come to my house, don't forget to knock first...

An open letter to the head of the Histadrut

Dear Mr Eini,

First of all, I would like to say that I can, perhaps, understand why you feel the need to launch a public sector strike. It is indeed unfortunate that workers in the public sector are once again getting screwed by the government, and while these strikes drastically affect the daily lives of all citizens, I understand your frustration, not to mention your desire to show the powers-that-be and those who fall under your responsibility that you mean business, and that you must take serious action. I don't have a problem with working from home should the Israel Railways Authority join the strike, and on occasion, even enjoy pecking away at my computer while sitting on my porch.

I would, however, be terribly grateful if you could postpone the strike for about a week or so, in order to ensure that the arrival of my new Harry Potter book, which should be shipped on Saturday from the UK, is not delayed due to workers striking at the airport and the post office.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Best regards,

Liza

Bathroom humor...

Little One: Mommy, what you doing?

Mommy: Going to the bathroom, sweetie.

Little One: I want to see!

Mommy: You can't right now, sweetie.

Little One: Why? Is your tushy too big?

It's in the bag...

I've been at my current job for 20 months now, lugging my beloved laptop back and forth everyday, often using my train time as writing time. I'm not a big laptop expert, and am quite happy with my work-provided Dell (though I'm desperately in need of a new battery, which I keep forgetting to remind out IT guys about...). What I'm not happy about is the work-provided Dell laptop bag, which is big, bulky and heavy, not to mention terribly unfashionable. And, not that I am terribly fashionable (think "Gap chic" on a good day...), but I would still like to drag said beloved laptop around in a trendier, more useful bag. As it stands today, I barely have enough room for my "required" items, such as my wallet, a book (which will become even more problematic once I receive my pre-ordered version of the new Harry Potter book, due out in just a few weeks' time), a hairbrush (which I even remember to use on occasion), copious amounts of tissues, glasses case, and in winter, a small umbrella (fortunately, the Little One has long left the Cheerios phase, or I'd have little baggies with Cheerios in them as well, with the baggie often getting punctured by the brush and resulting in a smattering of Cheerio crumbs spread throughout). Everything must be fitted just so, and I often find myself having to take everything out and start from scratch. Chronic paininthebuttitis, that's what it is...

Hence, I've started the search for a new bag. I love bags – not the sleek yet impractical mini-bags, but rather bags with lots of room and lots of pockets and compartments. I love pockets and compartments (my father is the same way, so it's clearly a genetic trait). When I go bag shopping, I always make sure to bring a book with me, just to verify that it will fit in any bag to which I take a liking. If a bag doesn't pass the book test, it's probably not going to pass over the threshold out of the store, at least not with me. It's not that I buy a lot of bags, mind you. Truly, I don't (though I'm guessing that some males would probably disagree with my assessment, but seriously, how could I even debate this with individuals who only needs three pairs of shoes or less to get them through all of life's twists and turns?). I just tend to lust over them from afar, hoping to come up with a legitimate reason to make the purchase. I may look with longing, but I need to a definite reason to buy, and if the price is outrageous, I will never find the justification. Of course, the term "outrageous" is relative...

Where was I? Oh yes. A bag for the laptop. There's a chance I might have a suitable bag at home that would only require the purchase of a laptop sleeve, but I'm secretly hoping that I don't. Or maybe not so secretly, seeing as I've just let you all in on my little secret. Jeez, I can't even be trusted to keep my own secrets! Sigh... So anyway, I've been perusing the internet, getting bag ideas. And I've discovered something. I've discovered that I'm clueless (which some of you may have realized long before this). I don't know what I need, what will best suit my requirements. I don't know if I'll be happier with a tote bag or a messenger bag, and I keep finding myself surreptitiously staring at women's bags wherever I am, trying to envision myself with a similar bag and wondering if the particular style in question will do the trick. I've always tended to favor the messenger bag style, but that's only because I've never seriously considered the tote style, never really taken an in-depth look. Could I be a tote bag person? Could I have that trendy tote, or will I always be destined to go with the (more casual) messenger bag? Decisions decisions. If I go the messenger route, I'd have to make sure that I'm not taken in by canvas which, while totally laid back and comfortable (totally me), may start to look tatty, especially after one rainy Israeli winter. I'm not big on those brand emblems either, and I just can't see myself getting one of those flashy bags with brightly colored stripes or patterns, or some hideously loud-colored bag – it would have to be either black or brown, I'm thinking. After all, it has to be a bag that I can carry around with me wherever I go after work, on those rare occasions when I meet up with friends or go to a meeting of some sort, something that will fit in with my usual style (or lack thereof). Polka dots and plaids just won't do.

Which brings me to my next discovery. Who knew that bags could be so ugly? Some of the designs and patterns I saw were truly horrifying, as though a paint factory had exploded, or that my son had had a hand in the design. Or I did. People who choose laptop bags with garish polka dots should not be allowed to have laptops. There. I've said it. The truth laid bare. It's like letting guests from the Jerry Springer show breed. It just isn't right. Period. I may not have a lot of style, but I can certainly recognize an item that has none. I mean, it's not rocket science, you know. Besides, let's say for the sake of argument that you get the garishly polka-dotted bag. As long as you carry that bag, you can never wear polka-dots or stripes. You will clash with your bag.

I'm not saying that laptop bags can't be stylish and trendy, and even have color. Of course they can! Colored solids, elegant stripes (admittedly, my stripes would be in neutral colors). Knock yourselves out. Just remember what always used to say to the New Zealander who used to cut my air – make it interesting, but not embarrassing. There's a fine line between the two, and easily blurred at that.

And of course, now that I've probably managed to alienate the few readers that I have, if any of you have managed to read this far without being insulted, I'd, ummm, welcome your suggestions for a new laptop bag...

Observations...

...from a unisex company washroom.

It is better to have picked up the toilet seat and left it up, than never to have picked it up at all.

You know you're in Florida when...

1. You see an alligator behind the house within an hour of your arrival.
2. Your hosts talk about hitting the early bird special for lobster night at one of the local restaurants.
3. You've seen three alligators behind the house within three days after your arrival, and are told that you might see more, because it's mating season.
4. Your Little One begins to say words in Spanish before he feels comfortable in English.
5. Your host strongly recommends not going past the last house at the end of the street, as just beyond the grass is the beginning of the lake, and alligators like to hang out there. To bring the point home, your host mentions how she once took a walk down to the end of the street, walked in the grass, looked down at the lake, and saw an alligator staring back at her.
6. The obituaries column in the local newspaper shows that no one is actually originally from here.
7. If you see an alligator by the local bank machine (in close proximity to a lake, lest you think they can be found wandering the city streets), you can call someone to come and take him away.
8. Taking a walk through the neighborhood involves looking both ways at golf cart crossings.
9. You learn how to say "alligator" in Spanish.
10. You feel like the youngest person wherever you go. By a lot. Especially when you find yourself having lunch in a restaurant before noon.
11. Streets downtown display signs with arrows, indicating evacuation routes in the event of a hurricane.

Three shirts have been added to the Official Clothing Count.

And they called it panda love...

Beth's story about her new neighbors made me laugh out loud this morning. If you ask me, though, it's probably better than living near the Chiang Mai Zoo in Thailand these days. I mean, seriously. Panda porn?

According to this article on the Sky News website,

"A panda bear is being shown porn films to ignite his passion and teach the right
way to romp."

Maybe they should show him the video made last year in the Euro Disney dressing rooms...

Shake It, Mommy. Shake It!

A major milestone is now being reached in the something something household. We are currently in the throes of potty training, after an unsuccessful attempt was made last summer (resulting in copious amounts of urine being removed from various items that shall remain unidentified, lest you think twice about where to sit during any upcoming visits to our home). We're doing much better this time around, and aside from the increasingly infrequent accident, I'd say we're doing quite well.

The technicalities of the potty training process are accompanied by much running and cheering – I've lost track of the number of times I've been forced to leap up from the chair in our home office, chasing after the little blur that ran past the door while yelling, "Mommy! Pee pee!" We race to the bathroom, and he hops onto his little step stool. Pants are quickly pulled down, and for me as a female, this is where it gets tricky. Aim. Who knew? Certainly not me. I can honestly say that I'd never really thought about it. Until now. Until I watched as the Little One proudly managed to hit everything but the inside of the toilet bowl. The walls, the floor, the plumbing, the raised toilet cover. Who'd have guessed that such a little boy could make such a big mess? I quickly mastered the fine art of aiming, given that it seemed preferable to take an active role in the urination process than to have to clean up the resulting mess if I didn't.

You'd think that once the stream had stopped, we'd be finished. Umm, not quite. Unbeknownst to me, there's a part two. Little One has finally emptied his bladder, and as I start to reach for the toilet paper, he offers a brief instruction. "Shake it, Mommy. Shake it!" Shake what? What? OH! That? I have to shake that? Good grief. Once again, I find myself asking, "who knew?" I'd never have guessed that one. After all, our plumbing works differently, and unless I'm doing something wrong, there's no shaking required at any stage.

And of course, lest you think that this process is done without speaking, think again. Think "positive reinforcement". While the Little One is shooting his stream, I'm shooting off a verbal stream of encouragement. "Way to go, Little One!" "That's right. You ARE making pee pee in the toilet!" "Ooops! Not on the wall, Sweetie." "What? You don't have pee pee, you have doody? Turn around! Turn around!" "No, you can't see your doody while you're actually sitting on the toilet, Sweetie. It doesn't work that way."

Finally, once all is said and done, once we've shaken, wiped, flushed and dressed, it's time for congratulations. "You made pee pee/doody in the toilet! You rock the house, Little One!" "Let's tell Aba what you did!" "Yay!"

Then there are those occasions when we are somewhat less successful, though thankfully, there seem to be fewer and fewer of these. In this case, the scene usually plays out as follows:

"Little One, do you have to make pee pee or doody?"

"No, Mommy."

Five to ten minutes later. "Little One, do you have to make pee pee or doody?"

"No, Mommy."

Five to ten minutes later, after hearing peculiar "straining" noises coming from the Little One. "Little One, did you make pee pee? Did you make doody?"

"No, Mommy. I'm farting."

"Are you sure? You're a little stinky, and your pants are wet. Did you make doody?"

"YES!"

Sigh... "Why didn't you tell me, Sweetie? You're supposed to do it in the potty, remember?"

Little One opts for the diversionary tactic. "MOMMY! LOOK! IT'S FIREMAN SAM ON TV! DID YOU SEE FIREMAN SAM? FIREMAN SAM! FIREMAN SAM!"

By now I am hip to his tactics, and while he continues to chatter on about Fireman Sam, I carefully pick him up and run to the bathroom. I extol the virtues of toilet use, while he again chooses to go with the diversionary tactic.

"Little One, you know you should be making pee pee and doody in the toilet, right? You have to use the toilet, Sweetie."

More often than not, he responds with, "In da name uh-duh Hundred Maker (sic) Wood, I cature (sic) you!"

And really. How could I possibly argue with logic like that?

Ministry of What?

Whew! I must have just woken up from a very long, very bad dream. I dreamed that the President was accused of rape and sexual harassment, the Justice Minister was on trial for sexual harassment, and Israel went to war with Hizbullah (I mean, really! I had to dream that! How absurd to think that Israel would conduct an actual war with a terror organization!). I dreamed that Israel went back into Gaza, that Israeli soldiers were kidnapped, that Palestinian factions were firing Kassams at Sderot. I dreamed about strikes at the airport and general public-sector strikes. I dreamed that every time I turned around, Israel was in deeper and deeper, bother domestically and internationally, that poverty was getting worse and worse, that budget cuts were becoming increasingly harsh and once again taking a toll on the weakest sectors of our society.

Clearly, it must have all been part of some bizarre nightmare, and none of those things actually happened. Obviously, our national budget is balancing quite nicely, and we have some extra money in the coffers to play around with. I mean, what other plausible explanation could there possibly be for the government to give the go ahead for the creation of the Ministry of Magic Strategic Threats, a ministry which even the Attorney General admits that, "there exists a lack of clarity on the role of this ministry, and this considering the government's decision that 'the establishment of this office is not intended to reduce the authority of another minister in the domain of his or her ministry." Twenty staff positions have been approved for this new ministry. Apparently, it takes that many pencil pushers to decide what this office is supposed to do (or maybe it's just nineteen, and the twentieth individual will be in charge of taking food orders and making latté runs for the others).

Perhaps I'm the naive one who doesn't understand how politics works (hey, I thought the government was supposed to serve the citizens, not themselves!), but it seems to me that creating an entirely new ministry (especially one with such a bogus-sounding name) in order to show appreciation to the head of a large party for his role in strengthening a weak, corrupt, dysfunctional government is, hmmm, how shall I put this – a bit out of line. It would be out of line under any normal circumstances (though what passes for normal in this country stretches way beyond anything that my imagination can muster), but given that the politician in question is Avigdor Liberman, well, shit! The man and his party practically advocate transfer of the Israeli Arab population (offering financial incentives for them to leave qualifies, does it not?), and their platform is nothing short of racist and divisive – not really a recipe for success when society is already falling apart, I should think (but then again, what the hell do I know, anyway?). With this snarky little move, our politicians have proven once again that saving their own (very expensive) seats is more important than ensuring the integrity of our government. How do these people sleep at night, how do they look themselves in the mirror every morning, knowing that they're wasting funds that could be spent in a thousand different ways to improve the lives of regular Israelis?

How do the Labor politicians sleep with themselves, knowing that they're also sleeping with Liberman? To be honest, I never expected that Olmert would amount to much as Prime Minister. I never had high hopes for him (little did I know just how badly he would manage to botch things or how quickly he would manage to do so, but that's an entirely different kettle of fish). I sort of had a feeling that he would fly in whatever direction the wind took him, never letting his principles get in the way of his political career. As a result, while I am disappointed in his behavior, I can't say that I'm surprised. He's an opportunist who got lucky beyond his wildest dreams when Arik Sharon was struck down, and he's damned if he's going to give up his seat without a fight. Then there's the Labor party, associated with the political left and a proponent of workers' rights and welfare issues. I didn't vote for them, but considered doing so. I essentially agreed with their platform issues, and for the most part, liked their key politicians. Despite their relative appeal to my sensibilities, the idea of voting for them just didn't feel right, and in the end, I went with my gut and felt good about doing so. Thank bloody god! Apparently, unlike the majority of the Labor party members, my principles are important to me, and I'd have been quite perturbed if I'd voted for a party that forsook its ideals and instead opted to get in bed with the devil, just so they could keep the bed.

What I want to know is, why is it that when all of these people start playing around in bed together, I'm the one who wakes up with a bad taste in my mouth...

Eat matzoh. Drink more wine. Slouch. - Thoughts during Passover

Here we are, about halfway through the Passover holiday, and unfortunately, about three-quarters of the way through the Passover cookies. Our Seder was mercifully quick, and seems to get quicker and less structured from year to year, which suits me just fine! Fourteen of us at my sister-in-law's home, which is where we've held the Seder every year since my mother-in-law passed away, just before Passover back in 1999. The food is always wonderful and always plentiful, and I am extremely, extremely lucky that my sister-in-law actually enjoys making the family Seder, as the thought of doing it myself practically brings on a panic attack.

The Seders I remember most from my childhood were held at various hotels in the Catskills, where the amounts of food served at any given meal were simply mind-boggling, and Seders were performed by various high-powered cantors. We often spent at least part of the holiday there, depending on how the school vacation was scheduled during a given year, and we would spend our time running around with all the other kids, begging quarters from all ancestors and blood relatives, to be spent on the hotel arcade pinball machines and video games (Pacman, Asteroids, Phoenix, and the like), and I shudder to think of the house I could have now had I saved all the quarters spent on arcade games in my youth. For the most part, the same kids would return year after year, and we wandered around like a pack, looking for things to do (Bingo, anyone?), going swimming/ice skating/bowling/etc, participating in Simon Says, going to the evening shows that embodied the Borscht Belt genre of comedy. Those were good times, characterized by food (it always comes down to food with us, doesn't it?), bingo, Latin American waiters who were often both charming and handsome (and given the amount of time spent at our assigned table in the dining room, we got to know our assigned waiters quite well), and endless supplies of Kosher-for-Passover rolls that my grandmother (and all the other elderly ladies in the vicinity, of which there were many) casually nicked from the dining room by stashing them in a pocketbook seemingly designed for just such an eventuality.

We even managed to maintain contact with some of our "Passover" friends during the year, and no one was more surprised than I at a new student orientation lecture on my first day at university when a guy came over and sat down next to me and said, "hi, don't you recognize me from "Unnamed Hotel"? I'm Garey. I saw you and your parents moving you into your dorm room." I did indeed recognize Garey, but had always assumed him to be older, as he was always with his grandparents, and never hung around with the other kids. While never becoming great friends, we maintained casual contact throughout our four years on campus.

I must say, that despite nearly 13 years of marriage, I've never become completely satisfied with my husband's family Seders. While I do enjoy the "rapid" pace of the Seder itself, I often find myself missing the Seders of my own family, always a special occasion where everyone gets dressed up and makes extra effort to get into a festive mood, where the pace is comfortable and familiar, where the traditions are mine, and not something I've had to adopt (and anyone who has attended a Persian Seder probably knows what I'm talking about...). Every year, I tell myself that maybe next year we'll plan our trip to the US to coincide with Passover, but it never seems to happen. Admittedly, though, my joy knows no bounds when it comes to the fact that we only have one Seder in Israel, instead of the two held everywhere else, and the holiday is one day shorter here (isn't it, or am I just making that up?). All good eating habits go out the window whenever this holiday comes around, and one of my most anchored traditions is spending a week feeling guilty about my calorie consumption. As the old saying goes with regard to Jewish holidays, "they tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat." And that, my friends, sums it up.

In keeping with the holiday theme I've got going here, I'd like to share a recent email that my father sent...

The Two-Minute Haggadah - A Passover service for the impatient

Opening prayers:
Thanks, God, for creating wine. (Drink wine.)
Thanks for creating produce. (Eat parsley.)

Overview:
Once we were slaves in Egypt. Now we're free. That's why we're doing this.

Four questions:
1. What's up with the matzoh?
2. What's the deal with horseradish?
3. What's with the dipping of the herbs?
4. What's this whole slouching at the table business?

Answers:
1. When we left Egypt, we were in a hurry. There was no time for making decent bread.
2. Life was bitter, like horseradish.
3. It's called symbolism.
4. Free people get to slouch.

A funny story:
Once, these five rabbis talked all night, then it was morning. (Heat soup now.)

The four kinds of children and how to deal with them:
Wise child - explain Passover.
Simple child - explain Passover slowly.
Silent child - explain Passover loudly.
Wicked child - browbeat in front of the relatives.

Speaking of children:
We hid some matzoh. Whoever finds it gets five bucks.

The story of Passover:
It's a long time ago. We're slaves in Egypt. Pharaoh is a nightmare. We cry out for help. God brings plagues upon the Egyptians. We escape, bake some matzoh. God parts the Red Sea. We make it through; the Egyptians aren't so lucky. We wander 40 years in the desert, eat manna, get the Torah, wind up in Israel, get a new temple, enjoy several years without being persecuted again. (Let brisket cool now.)

The 10 Plagues:
Blood, Frogs, Lice - you name it.

The singing of "Dayenu":
If God had gotten us out of Egypt and not punished our enemies, it would've been enough. If he'd punished our enemies and not parted the Red Sea, if would've been enough.
If he'd parted the Red Sea... (Remove gefilte fish from refrigerator now.)

Eat matzoh. Drink more wine. Slouch.

Thanks again, God, for everything.

SERVE MEAL

Random thoughts on a Monday...

Just a few random issues that I've been dealing with lately...

The concept of having to watch what you say around your kids was really brought home to me recently. While fiddling with the home computer one morning, it suddenly froze up. Fearing that I’d just lost all my work, I swore, emphatically repeating the same word three times. Suddenly, a small voice next to me called out, “Puck! Puck! Puck!” and giggled. Sigh…
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How depressing that everyone seems to be in agreement that the best thing to come out of the Israeli elections will be a day off on election day…
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I met up with two new friends last week, one is a journalist and the other a professor. We were discussing our careers – the benefits and perks, etc. The journalist mentioned that she gets kidnapping insurance. “That’s interesting,” I remarked. “You get kidnapping insurance, and I get dental.” Hmmm… Whose career is more exciting, do you think?
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Why couldn’t I be good with numbers instead of writing (going on the assumption, of course, that I am, indeed good at writing. I know I am because my father told me! Hi Dad!)? Then I could find a job I enjoy that pays well, instead of the job I don’t enjoy that pays well or the job I know I’d enjoy, but I also know that the pay is serious crap. The sad truth is that I suck at anything having to do with numbers – can’t add to save my life, nor can I figure out my own part of the restaurant bill. As far as figuring out the tip, well, let’s just not go there, okay?
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Can anyone recommend a hotel in Amsterdam? A friend and I are planning a girls' weekend away, and I've spent hours upon hours poring over websites. Some hotels look better than others, but if anyone has any specific recommendations, we'd love to hear! We're looking for a small hotel, preferably non-smoking, within walking distance of most major sites, and definitely not expensive.
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Now that I’ve been given an opportunity to do some real freelancing, I can’t think of a damn thing to write about (which may be evident, given the way this blog entry is going)! This could very well be my shortest blog entry ever! What the hell am I going to write about?

What's that you're saying?

One of the most interesting aspects of living in Israel is the melting pot of native English speakers that one can encounter. Over the years, I have had the pleasure of spending time with Scots, Welsh, English, South Africans, Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, and many, many Americans. As a result of this, my English has become a bastard mix of words from around the globe, to a point where I’m no longer certain as to what is proper for my own American English. It affects my speaking, my spelling, and my general writing style (would you put a comma after the word “spelling” as I have?), and consequently, I am often forced to consider my words and punctuation very carefully. It makes life wonderfully interesting, and I enjoy expanding my vocabulary this way.

While in university (which the Americans usually refer to as college, and in most countries outside the US, there is a difference between the two), I even wrote a paper on the subject, garnering an “A” for noting terms like “lorry” vs. “truck”, “lift” vs. “elevator”, and “eraser” vs. “rubber”, with the last of these generating an embarrassing mistake for a friend when he was in high school. This friend was born in Israel, living here until age 9. He then moved to England, where he lived until age 15. At that point, he was transplanted to Long Island. His accent was positively indescribable, though absolutely charming. Anyway, Guy was taking an exam in his American high school, writing in pencil. Upon making a mistake, he turned to a classmate and asked to borrow a rubber. As you can imagine, his request went down a treat, given that in the US (and perhaps elsewhere, I just don’t know), a rubber is not an eraser, but a condom. Poor Guy!

Being named Guy was no picnic in the US. It certainly didn’t help that when he moved to England, the officials spelled his given name of “Haggai” as “Chagay”, leading to endless pronunciation issues. But Guy is not a popular name in the US, despite its popularity in the UK. Interestingly enough, there are quite a few names that don’t work if you are hopping between English-speaking countries. What Brit hasn’t chuckled when meeting an American (male or female) named Randy? If my name happened to be Fanny (I swear it’s not!), I’d definitely be using a nickname when traveling around the UK. And of course, let us not forget the names that don’t transfer well to Israeli culture. I knew an American Jewish woman named Sheva once, many years ago. On the face of things, it sounds like a beautiful name, no? At least, if you don’t know what it means, it sounds beautiful. In Hebrew, “sheva” is “seven”. Yep. The number seven. And given that I met poor Sheva as we were participating in a year program together in Israel, you can only imagine what it must have been like to spend an entire year having people ask you why your name is seven. Less fun than you might think.

What caused me to dedicate a blog entry to this subject? Well, recently I learned a new word from a colleague who grew up in South Africa. Before I share the new word with you, I’d like to point out that South Africans, bless ‘em, use some very bizarre terms. For instance, did you know that in South Africa, a traffic light is known as a robot? I swear! Or when a South African tells you that he will be taking care of something “just now”, it means that he will be taking care of it at any time between now and, say, any old indefinite time period. Neat concept, eh? It took me a while to catch on to that one, when my South African colleagues would tell me that they would get to whatever it was that I was waiting for just now, and I couldn’t imagine what was taking so long. Do you know what a “braai” is? Why, it’s a barbecue, of course! If a South African invites you over for a braai, consider yourself lucky indeed, as these folks are unquestionable masters of meat, and you’re sure to leave quite sated. Which brings me to today’s new word. Brinjal. That’s right, brinjal. I can just see you, scratching your heads, quietly asking yourselves, “what the hell is a brinjal?” Well, depending on which English speaking country you’re from, it’s either an eggplant or an aubergine (probably good that I didn’t only use the term “aubergine”, as you’d probably start scratching your head with wonder again). I thought I’d heard it all. To be quite honest, I actually thought she was making it up, until she popped it into Babylon and showed me that it was a real word.

I seem to recall a quote that Steve Martin once gave. “Boy, those French! They have a different word for everything!” After the “brinjal” incident, I’m thinking it’s not only the French who are guilty here. Hey, what other “strange” words can you come up with?

Cabalay

I’ve been asked to get a bit more personal and write about my son. Well, I’m nothing if not accommodating (or at least try to be when possible), so here it goes! Our child is now nearly 20 months old (annoying isn’t it, how parents count the age of their children in months?), and needless to say he is the light of our lives, the apple of our eye, and pretty much any other drippy sweet platitude you can think of. It was a long, complicated, emotional journey to bring him into our lives, and we are doing our best to enjoy every moment (though some moments are admittedly more trying than others!).

The Little One is highly entertaining, as I would expect any child of mine to be, and he clearly has a sense of humor, laughing big belly laughs at anything he deems to be funny. He is, unfortunately, already enchanted by the “wonders” of television, and is particularly taken with a number of shows, especially "Brum" (causing him to smile delightedly and call out “Brum! Brum!” whenever it’s on), "Thomas the Tank Engine" (his grandparents just sent him a Thomas video and miniature train engine, and he runs around the house saying “Tómas? Tómas?”), "Balamory" (“Mory?”), and essentially anything else starring a tractor, truck or train. Oh, and by the way, with regard to the television, he's also taught us that it can be turned on by pressing the "Program" buttons on the set itself, as well as things we never knew about our stereo system...

Husband and I are speaking to the Little One only in English, as it’s important to both of us that he be as comfortable in English as he will be in Hebrew. His daycare center is also bilingual, so he’s getting additional English-language reinforcement there as well. The result so far is that most of his words are in English, with a smattering of Hebrew. Of course, in our attempts to improve the Little One’s vocabulary (and maximize his entertainment value), we have successfully managed to teach him a number of words and phrases that will undoubtedly help him in the future. When asked a question, the response will often be a confident “Oh yeah.” If the question involves cake, cookies, etc., the response becomes an emphatic” OHHHHHHH YEAH!!!” Upon waking from a nap in daycare one afternoon, the woman in charge told him that she’d call his father to come pick him up (we live close enough so that if he’s asleep when it’s time to go, Husband leaves, returning once he gets the call that he’s woken up). His response? “Oh, nice!” When planes fly overhead, he will point up at the sky and say, “the plane! The plane!” in a manner not unlike Tattoo from “Fantasy Island”.

Speaking of speaking, he’s also quite the little parrot, often picking up on certain words while we speak and trying to repeat them. Some of the more amusing examples would have to be “whayaname?” (“what’s your name?”) and “nipple” (don’t ask, because I won’t tell you). Other unusual words in his vocabulary include “cacti” (we have a large collection – it was one of his first words), “insect” (thank you, Baby Einstein!), “sushi” (courtesy of “First Book of Sushi” by Amy Wilson Sanger), and “manatee”. Husband, much to my dismay, has taught him to say “cusit” (or “babe”, in its less derogatory translation). He seems to have a problem connecting between “the cute things we teach him now” and “the cute things we once taught him that will certainly come back to bite us in the ass”, and “cusit” is certainly one of those things (another is described below). One afternoon, when Husband and Little One picked me up at the train station, Little One looked at me, gave a big, beautiful smile, and said “cusit!” Charming, no? Words fail me…

Husband thoughtfully (thoughtlessly?) taught him how to open the refrigerator, because he thought it would be cute when the Little One helps him make coffee by getting the milk. And you know what, it is cute. What could not be cute about a kid who, when you tell him you’re making coffee, looks up at you with wide eyes, says “coppee?”, and runs to the refrigerator to get the milk, shaking it before he gives it to you? Of course, what is less cute is that he seems to believe that the refrigerator is a special play area, from which it is possible to remove all sorts of items for his own personal use – wine bottles (had a harrowing experience once, where he grabbed a bottle of red wine and ran into the living room with it. I proceeded oh so cautiously, given the potential damage, and successfully retrieved said bottle), eggs, syrup, juice cartons, etc. And, if he’s not removing stuff, he’s casually sitting on the bottom shelf, feet on the floor, trying to pull the door closed (don’t worry, he can’t).

Sitting in the refrigerator, you ask? Well, it seems the Little One has a penchant for hiding. When he suddenly runs from the living room (usually yelling "running! running! running" as he runs), I race around the house quietly, listening for rustling sounds. He’s not afraid of the dark, and will often be found standing quietly in his dark room, grinning when he sees me, or hiding in a corner of our home office, kneeling quietly, either wedged between a cabinet and a bookcase or squeezed behind the vacuum cleaner. He thinks it’s hilarious (see belly laugh paragraph above), and I must admit, it certainly makes me smile.

Little One also loves to dance (though sadly, he seems to have inherited his mother’s unfortunate sense of rhythm), bouncing his little body up and down whenever a catchy tune is playing. His latest creative foray is in singing. What began with him imitating his mommy imitating Louis Armstrong (think small child running around his room saying “Cabalay, cabalay” in a fake gravelly voice, because he can’t actually say “Cabaret” yet), has recently turned into mealtime songfests, where, while sitting at the table, he suddenly takes my hand and Husband’s hand and, with the three of us holding hands, starts singing “la la la. La la la.” We have no idea where it came from, but given how the entertainment factor is a main feature of our relationship, we encourage it.

So, as you can see, we’ve been having quite a lot of fun with our little chap. We take him hiking so that he will develop a love for nature and the outdoors. We’ve taught him to love animals (especially dogs), though sometimes, he tries to love them with a bit too much gusto. We show him pictures of family and friends abroad so that they will be familiar to him when he sees them (thanks to this method, he recognized his grandparents at the airport straight away when they came to visit in October). Most important of all, we let him know how much we love him and how much he means to us, through lots of hugs, kisses, and attention. I look at him sometimes, and can’t believe he’s ours, can’t believe we managed to create such a beautiful, intelligent, loving little child after so much anguish. If he learns nothing else, he will know that his Mommy and Abba love and treasure him more than life itself, and that he will never be taken for granted.

Raining on your parade

I know we need the rain. Really I do. I just don’t need it right now, though. The walk between my office and the train station was simply dreadful today. God is spitting down buckets of the wet stuff, and I cling to my umbrella for dear life while navigating sidewalks that were clearly not created with any serious thought for inclement weather, pedestrians, etc. The water on the sidewalk has a slight element of depth to it, and the angles, dips and irregularities allow for fast-moving streams and currents. It feels like the sluice gates of a mighty dam have been opened, and I discover for the second time in two days, much to my dismay, that my beloved, uber-comfortable black flats are not waterproof (note to self – get waterproof shoes), and my toes are snugly engulfed by a mushy, cold black mass that used to pass for socks. Thank God for my long, black winter coat, which Husband laughed at me for purchasing several years ago in London, telling me at the time that I would never use it. Let me tell you, it is one practical item of clothing, and I can’t imagine getting through the winter without it. Likewise for my new umbrella (second one of the season), which seems to be as strong as promised so far.

The rain has a funny effect on Israelis. Every year when winter rolls around (as it inevitably does, given the nature of time, seasons passing, etc.), we are hit with a form of collective amnesia and act as though it’s the first winter we’ve ever seen. It’s quite astounding, really. We forget how to drive in the rain, tending to use surrounding cars and other obstacles to stop in a manner not unlike the way we used to use the wall to stop at the roller or ice skating rink (think “slam! ooof!”). We are amazed when we hear about the old streets and housing being flooded in certain neighborhoods of Tel Aviv, despite the fact that these same streets and homes flood every year when it rains; you could set your watch by the predictability of it all. Every year we have these floods. Every year we see the poor homeowners on the news. Every year we hear the officials promising to do something about it. Anyone noticing a pattern here?

Of course, the flip side of all this amnesia is that we are all absurdly happy when the first rains of the season hit. Following the rise of the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) becomes the national pastime, with each additional centimeter being cause for celebration. We also flock in great hoards to all natural water sources in order to watch the torrent of waters rushing by. When driving around the Northern part of the country on any given Saturday during the winter months (as long as there has been some rain), it is quite easy to locate these rushing water spots, for all you have to do is watch for the places that are absolutely packed with cars parked haphazardly, either just off the roadside or all along the shoulder. If you hit one of these, rest assured, you’ve found the water.

Aaah, yes. Winter in Israel is such a happy time. Rainy, cold and windy one day, sunny and warm the next. The Israelis going water and wildflower crazy, and reaching one’s destination successfully is often a hit or miss situation, as already bad driving takes on mammoth proportions, assisted by poorly designed roads and potholes that mysteriously come out to play, adding a touch of excitement to every ride in the car. And those of us with a penchant towards pedestrianism get to have even more fun, dodging the waters spilling onto the sidewalks from building gutters while simultaneously trying to avoid being the victim of a drive-by drowning as cars splash by. Can you feel my joy? Can you? But alas, we really do need the rain. One of the few issues on which all Israelis can actually agree, so who am I to be the drippy one, the wet noodle? Who am I to rain on anyone's parade?

Here come those clouds again...