Christmas versus Hanukkah

This is the best I can do this year

Previously, I would have been first to declare that Christmas shits all over Hanukkah.  Who wants to light a few candles, when in comparison, your parents buy you a giant sack of presents and pretend that they are from some old trespassing fattie so you don't even have to show gratitude to them.  So as a kid I would have been "It's Christmas all the way".  However, as an adult I am less convinced.  The Ho Ho Hos start earlier every year, and by the time the 24th comes, if I hear another version of Jingle Bell Rock, I'm going to choke somebody with a giant length of red and green tinsel.  That crap makes a shocking mess by the way.....especially when it's all mixed up with saliva and a tepid corpse..... Then there's the frantic mass consumption, the people everywhere - mostly in the way of where you want to be.  There's nowhere to park when you are doing your last minute shopping for more bullshit nobody will want anyway.  You buy and lug home piles of food, and stress about how you're going to cook it so it doesn't suck.  Not to mention all the Christmas ads on TV and the radio that make you want to stick a tree-top angel in a random eye because you've heard the same ones over and over since October.  And then there's the gangs of drunks in Santa hats......sad, very sad.  You wrap presents extremely late into the night on the 24th, and are woken up extra earlier by your kids who have been transitioning from run of the mill psychos into super excited psychos over the course of a month.
And all of this bullshit for one day.

Valli gets in the Hanukkah mood in Jerusalem a couple of years ago

Hanukkah at least goes for eight days - or rather nights.  That's eight days of eating jam donuts and chocolate coins and potato pancakes.  You can pack on some quality pounds during this time - plus it's winter so you can hide your sins under a muu muu.  But...... the whole experience just doesn't seem to go anywhere.  The excitement doesn't really build over the eight days.  I went down to watch the next giant candle being lit on about the fifth night of Hanukkah and there was no crowd reaction when at last it happened.  Not even a measly cheer or a subtle "yay".  I didn't even notice it was alight, until 10 minutes after it actually happened.  Anti-climax.  I like the songs and everything, although of course I can't really join in not knowing the words and all.  We did have a Hanukkah song lesson in my Hebrew class though - but being tone deaf and unable to read the Hebrew alphabet does not make for a delightful singalong.  I felt really sorry for the people sitting in front of me.

Just a touch more sugar kids

The kids concert and Hanukkah party was great.  I liked the whole new experience of it all as well.  It was majorly cute - and in my opinion the plight of the Macabees and the songs about light and dark with the use of torches kicked Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the manger big time.

The "Hoshe, Or" song at the Hanukkah party

Sevevon Sov Sov Sov

Now, for all you ignoramus yok scum - that category includes me too so don't worry - I'm going to give you a little Hanukkah lesson in case you have no idea.  Forgive me Jewish friends if I'm way off the mark here, but just remember I am a self declared ignorant yok scumbag, so that should let me off the hook.

Many people think of Hanukkah as the Jewish Christmas which is probably annoying.  Hanukkah actually has it's roots in revolution against assimilation and happened way before old Jesus popped his head out of the manger.  Basically, some Greek bastard - Antiochus - banned the Jews from, well basically being Jews.  Not to mention killing them, destroying their temples and basically being a major arsehole.  Two rebel groups joined forces - one being the famed Macabees - and together they got their temple back.  But they only had enough oil to light their candelabrum for 1 day, which was major bad news, as the flames had to keep on burning all night every night .  But the tiny amount of oil, instead of lasting for 1 night, lasted for eight (and by then they had whipped up some more oil). And that oily feat is the miracle of Hanukkah, and also the reason why it goes for 8 days and people eat oily foods  - yum.  Take it from me, those hot jam donuts are good shit.

Look it's a good story - but how does it compare to a tiny baby being born to a virgin?  Now that really is a miracle - if it's true.  But frankly I'm sceptical.  Does anyone think that perhaps Mary might have had a sneaky roll in the hay, panicked and made up some bullshit story that she was still a virgin so that Joseph would marry her and everyone wouldn't call her a tramp.  Joseph would have had to keep backing her to avoid looking like a fool - and then the two of them split town on a donkey so the villagers would stop laughing at them.  I'm not saying that's what happened, I'm just wondering if anyone ever considered this possibility.  Mary might have had to keep going along with it once the lie gained momentum.  Once word was out that she was pregnant with God's baby, it would have been too late to say "Actually that was bullshit... sorry everyone - Wise Kings, Angels, Shepherds, Joseph's Mum, it was really me and the pig boy- Sven....we had a few cups of ale, one thing led to another and we got a bit frisky in the barn last March".  So she had to stand by the impregnation by God story.  Next thing she knows, there are strange dudes in crowns bringing totally unsuitable baby gifts (what? they never heard of a diaper cake and bottle of champers - what the hell is Myrrh anyhow?) and she has to push out the baby with some cows and sheep watching and some annoying little shit going perupa pum pum on a drum and everyone calling Sven's kid the son of God......ooooops.  That was one bullshit story that really failed to fade away. Poor Mary,  more than 2000 years later and and people are still all over the "miracle" virgin birth.

Anyway, despite my loathing of the Christmas build up - come actual Christmas Day - which is a total non event here, things get a bit gloomy here in Israel.  I would kill for a piece of turkey wrapped in tinsel and presented by a drunk dude in a Christmas hat singing "Santa Baby".  I remember I had one even more depressing Christmas in Japan, under the fluorescent bulbs of a Japanese classroom, watching a seedy old student of mine showing me how to soap up my body with the cheap shower gel he'd just gifted me with.
That was a low point.

Site of The Manger Yo

The last time I had Christmas here in Israel - 2011- I actually considered going to Bethlehem to get all religious on my own ass in the Church of The Nativity.  But when the time came, a midnight Christmas trip to the West Bank with two babies seemed less like a good idea - and more like a total disaster.  And it was a good thing we didn't go after all, because that was the year that a giant brawl broke out between the priests of the church, and about 100 of them started belting each other with broomsticks until the Palestinian police had to storm the church and subdue all the crazies with truncheons.  Apparently they are brawling all the time there - every time they step a toenail in some part of the church which is controlled by some other religious nuts.

See it for yourself if you like..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RnVfXFd5MU

Inside part of the Church 

Baby Cordus on the sacred site

The church itself is pretty amazing.  I went there with my sister when Vali and Cordi were 5 months old.  It was built in the 6th century, apparently on the site of the famous birthplace of Jesus (or should we say Sven's bastard????).  Yes, that's right - the good old hay filled manger.  The church itself, is the longest continually functioning church in the world.  It is beautiful, and despite my cynicism, it feels magical.  Some parts of it are extremely cramped and crowded with pilgrims.  If you want to go to the the actual spot in the church where Jesus is said to have popped out, prepare to cop a squashing.  There are hundreds of people pushing each other to kiss the ground, and the stone is worn down to a smooth shininess from all those kissing lips over the years - if you have a cold-sore phobia I would avoid bending down for a toungie.  Instead I had Cordi stand on it (and I disinfected her feet once I got home).  By the way, do you think people would be upset if someone graffiti-ed "Jesus Woz Ere"  right on the special spot?  After leaving the church it took us an hour to clear the scene.  This is because, blocking our path, were two giant busloads of Nigerian pilgrims.  Twins are a sign of luck in Nigeria and the crowds around the girls were intimidating to say the least.  Possibly a hundred people were trying to get pictures taken with the girls and they were yanked out of our arms and passed around like a couple of chillums at a Indian charis festival.

Give me back my kid lady

Once we retrieved our long lost children we ventured into the old city of Bethlehem where I nearly got arrested for laughing at a CD of Yasser Arafat - I thought it was a compilation of him singing some famous Arabian hits (amusing right?????), when it was actually a CD of his famous speeches.  So we fled the riot we created, got back in a Arab taxi, and headed past the wastelands of West Bank poverty and the giant grey wall, where the Israeli border policed waved us back through the check point and onwards to Jerusalem.

Wizzie on the run in the West Bank after the Yasser Arafat incident

So this year we are skipping warring priests, avoiding being stoned for crimes against Yasser and giving a wide berth to anti climatic lunches of falafel and hummus, and are jumping on a plane bound for Vienna.  Lights, carols, Santa, eggnog and piles of presents here we come.....Guten Tag Austria, and Happy Christmas everyone......

Alexa Shows No Mercy

At least the kids are happy - pretty sad looking snowman though - but I guess, limited snowman experience....

Isralies are a big bunch of pussies when it comes to the weather.  No offence.  It is surprising though, because, in general, they are one of the toughest, most hardy groups of people on the face of the earth.  Shower them in rockets fired non-stop by neighbouring maniacs – no worries.  Bomb the shit out of their public transport system – life goes on.  But drop temperatures enough for them to break out their winter knits, and shit hits the fan.  Even dipping down to a balmy 18 degrees makes people start to wrap themselves in scarves and huddle in groups visibly distressed about the Arctic turn the weather has taken.  Meanwhile, I’ve got the kids in their bathers and have stocked up on cheap beach bucket sets made by poor children from the Chinese countryside who recently moved to Shanghai to make a new life for themselves, and send their $4 a month home to their elderly parents, for whom the rice paddy business has taken a back seat as they fight to defend their lands against real estate developers, who want to build yet another empty set of giant apartment blocks, inevitably destined to become eerie ghost towns, a modern blight of the recent transition from communist financial structures into a winner-takes-all capitalist approach to an emerging global economic power house …….

Traffic Mayhem

So back to the pussies - I pass people in decked out head to toe in wool jumpsuits hoovering down steaming cups of coffee and toasting marshmallows over the ends of their cigarettes, almost in tears about how cold it is.  In Tasmania on a similar day, the streets would be full of celebrating fools eager to soak up the sunshine on a mid summers day.  We would all flock to the beach with a “Woooooo Hoooooo” and a picnic basket full of egg sandwiches and blackcurrent cordial, and spend all day trying to avoid 3rd degree burns from the lack of an ozone layer and watching our kids lips turn blue as they play in the shallows.  But we’re not in Kansas now……

At least he's got a plastic cover for the hat

So when the largest storm to hit Israel in decades loomed, it’s only natural that people would start the panic well in advance.  Business's closed their doors, schools were cancelled and the whole country went into lock down – especially in Jerusalem which copped massive amounts of snow, and sent the entire place into chaos.  The road in and out of the city was shut, power has been out for days, and residents have been advised to stay indoors.  At least they can freeze to death privately rather than mess up the streets I guess.  I also read that 350 have been treated for cold related injuries.  You see, I'm just not buying that.  Cold related injuries?? Please.  Canada gets temperatures of -35 and the people are outside drinking egg nog and joking about shovelling their driveways - Israel goes down to zero and people are calling the ambulance because they have cold feet.  Just get a bloody hot water bottle  or build yourself an igloo or something.  Sooks.  Even on the first day the cray-cray already started.  The traffic lights were down across Tel Aviv  – can you imagine this city without traffic lights?  Maybe not, but take it from me it’s like End of Days…..There was also looting – well, at least my sister in law’s place was broken into by some cruel hearted bastards who took their heirlooms and computers.  Can you imagine how devastating the loss of a laptop is to one of the most important doctors in the country and one of the top experts in the world on Cystic Fibrosis???  Just a little bit of essential information contained in there......Not like mine.  The worst I would lose if my computer got knocked off would be some pictures of my butt taken in the bathroom mirror - not so much Kim Kuntrashian with the side boob and white bathers, more like Stick-It -Up-On-The -Fridge-To-Tempt-Myself-Away-From-The Hummus kind of style, plus a detailed and hidden record of the online shopping I've recently developed an addiction to.......

Snowball fights never get old

Anyway, old Storm Alexa did her best and hung around for 3 days.  And it wasn't just throughout this country that things got nasty.  Those poor god dam Syrian refugees.  Things were pretty bad across Lebanon as well, not to mention Gaza and The West Bank.  How awful can life be for some people? Cairo got snow for the first time in 112 years - now there must be some serious amounts of city snowmen going on over there.  Meanwhile back in the Holy Land, people who went to Jerusalem to see the snow ended up being stranded there all weekend - bet you're regretting that snowball fight at the Western Wall now suckers.  Buses took 12 hours to make the 1 hour journey to Tel Aviv (and that was before the road was closed completely).  Jerusalem does get snow on occasion during winter.  But not to this extent.  Apparently the storm was rare and unusually intense.  Tel Aviv got hail - but it missed out on the snow.  I remember the last time my home city of Hobart got snow.  I was 13 years old and it was memorably thrilling.  School was cancelled and all the kids went to the school grounds and had snowball fights. For kids that shit is more exciting than Christmas, or should I say Hanukkah. No, I was talking about Tasmania so I'm good to go with the Christmas analogy.  I remember that there were people skiing along the Tasman bridge to work and surfers in full wetsuits and hoods surfing the swell that came up the Derwent River.  There were surfers out in the waves off Tel Aviv yesterday as well.  Riding large waves in the now brown coloured sea.  I was in the process of hosting my first Shabbat dinner for the family on Friday.  I put on my best Martha Stewart apron and went overboard, sending my tortured husband to the market on the most hellish day of the year.  Apparently there was an actual river running down the middle of it which doesn't sound fun.  What did I care.  I was inside all day with the heaters on, pigging out, and making mini pies and lemon tart.  I have never heard more emergency sirens go past as I did that day.  More cold toes I guess.

Iconic Shot of The Holy City

And how did dinner go?  Well it was fun.  And fortunately our own power outage didn't happen until well after the main course.  Things got pretty chilly soon after and I had a few feelings of guilt for paying out on the pensioners of Jerusalem who had been freezing since Wednesday night.  We all hung around in the dark for a while, expecting it to restart again - but nothing happened and everyone left.  The most unfortunate thing though, was after everyone left when the alarm had a spaz out due to not having any power and an incessant beeping started up and did not cease for 2 hours.  That was enough to make me consider cutting out my own eardrums and pelting them at the flashing box.  The electrical company finally came round and we suffered acute embarrassment to realise that it was a blown fuse.  Ooops.  But to be fair it was a blown fuse in the second hidden fuse box that we didn't even know existed.  With the heaters back on and the beeping stamped out at last I slept cosy through the night.  I didn't even know it got this cold here.  Cold weather and Israel is something I never imagined went together.  And considering it was 30 degrees a week ago, it seems kind of sudden.

It's a city made for snow photos - Hey!  He's got a plastic hat cover too!

Anyway, it seems that the crisis is over and life will go back to normal. Well as normal as it ever gets in this country where daily life continues to surprise and excite me.  And that's the way I love to live.  After that stupid line, I had the repulsive urge to end this with "Peace Out" but luckily vomited myself into realisation that it would be going to levels of pathetic and tragic that I'm just not ready for.  So instead I say, put on your second pair of socks Israelis, and hang in there.  And if that fails, just call the cops and ask them to bring you a cup of hot cocoa and a blankie. H.T.F.U.

Coping with Copenhagen

Classic - but kind of smaller than you prepare for

when visual imagery is not enough

So last weekend my husband and I did something we haven't done in five years.  We took an overseas trip without our children.  We haven't done this since the girls were about 5 months in utero.  Even back then, as foetuses, they were already messing shit up for me.  Making me chunder in a toilet in Thailand that you really wouldn't have wanted to have to stick your head it.  Causing me to have to sit down every five minutes due to an unfortunate case of the headspins - it took an hour and a half to walk 10 minutes to the post office.  Messing with my hormones which resulted in me getting all emotional and hiding from my husband in a spare room in the hotel when he thought I'd left in a huff for the airport and tried to taxi there to rescue me.......I blame the little cretins.  It's all their fault.  None is mine.  None.  Never is.  Never will be.

Anyway, as you can possibly guess from the title, we were headed for Copenhagen for a weekend extravaganza...... of....... furniture and........pickled herring?  I never previously rated Danish cuisine to be honest.  Considering Denmark has had the number one restaurant in the world for quite some time now - they must be doing something right though.  Would have loved to visit it - it's called Noma.  By the way never google search "Noma" and press "images".  You will never eat again.  Unless you enjoy looking at pictures of African children  with teeth coming out holes in their heads.  Seriously, I don't think I will sleep tonight.  What the fuck???  Who names their restaurant after a disfiguring children's disease????

Anyway, despite this unfortunate coincidence, Noma is so ridiculously booked out, that the next available table was not available until January 8th.....for lunch.  God knows how you'd get into that place for dinner.  You'd have to book two years in advance, or possibly develop a relationship with the maître d' based on sexual favours for tables....and then again, who knows if you'd succeed. I'd have to brush up on my blow-job techniques - start reading Cleo again.   Should it be like that?  Am I willing to prostitute myself for odd food?  Should a restaurant actually be that popular?  Besides, how many ways can you prepare herring, open sandwiches and licorice?  I was never going to find out.  Well not this trip anyway.  Which was a shame as it was my husband's birthday on the Sunday.  I usually like to organise something memorable.  Possibly blow jobs with strangers was not the answer however.....

The making of carrot caviar

The whole Nordic cuisine is huge right now.  It's kind of a backlash against the molecular tapas style cuisine that fadded out from Spain a few years back.  In my opinion that was nice too - but it was a little tricky to tell what you were eating on occasion.  Carrot caviar?  Sure, why not?  Dry ice cooked egg?  I'll give it a go.  Fillet steak cooked without heat - but instead cooked under high pressure and sprinkled with pop rocks for the sizzling effect?  I'll chew it.  And I did.  I chowed down on all of that crap and more.

This Nordic-style approach is a return to more seasonal and local ingredients combined with highly refined cooking and food preparation techniques.  This style favours an emphasis on foraging for food - a.k.a. scrounging around for unwanted crap.  Australia's top restaurant - Attica - prides itself on exactly that.  Listen, I'm all for a seasonal ingredient, but, it's the scrounging itself that I'm just not convinced about.  The chef at Attica in Melbourne has some pictures of himself on their website scraping moss off a city alleyway.  Let's just hope he was participating in  "Keep Our City Streets Clean" campaign, rather than making a jus for his veal cutlets. Let's put it this way, when we partook in a dinner there I was certainly searching the menu for accompaniments of city fungi.   By the way, is that stuff called lichen rather than moss?  I'm never sure.  I tried to paste in the "foraging for moss" picture from Attica's website, but it wouldn't work.  Anyone who wants to see their dinner being gathered from some clumps of weeds, feel free to have a gander here - http://www.attica.com.au/#!m=gallery/album&id=4&imageID=12

Talking of lichen, I had a friend at Sandy Bay Infant School called Lichen Kemp.  For some unknown reason my parents had embraced the name themselves a few years before that, and decided to call their growing foetus Lichen once it arrived.  It's hard to believe Lichen was doing the rounds as a popular name in the 70s.....Luckily Davie rocked up and Lichen Saunders just didn't cut it for a boy.  By the time Louise appeared they'd stopped smoking dope.  Thus they were saved from making a rather large hippy-based mistake they would obviously regret once they re-discovered capitalism.  Poor old Li-Li Kemp wasn't so fortunate herself.  Take that as a warning current day pot smokers - If you choof weed you could end up naming your kid after one.

This is taken from the  "Noma" website - told you so......moss

Anyway, there was to be no visit to the number one restaurant in the world this trip.  But as I since found out, it has been knocked off it's perch by the Spanish again - pop rocks is back on the menu, moss is out.  So......who wants to visit number 2 anyway?  L a m e.

It's funny how after just a month you become acclimatised to the place in which you live.  You don't even notice how you've been affected until you have something to compare it to.  Israel had already invaded my psyche.  We flew out on Pegasus Air. The Winged Horse - sounds majestic?  Think again. Absolutely shit airline.  Really, so bad.  My cousin spent a few months as a tutor/manny for the Turkish owners of Pegasus.  They are unbelievably loaded - I saw pictures of their mansion.  It is obvious why.  The fucker has not spent a red dime on his fleet of jets.

Oh majestic Pegasus, your once glorious name is now mud

My seat was working overtime to hold in my body - and I promise I have not been eating that much hummus.  There shouldn't be a problem with mass.  My knees were practically up around my shoulders once the dude in front tipped his chair back - and that thing tilted a maximum of an inch.  It was squashier on there than it would be on a squash court completely filled with butternut pumpkins.  Not good.  And I was tired.  Extremely tired, considering we had to leave the house at 3am to make our 6am flight out of Tel Aviv.  And with the moving apartments, it had not been a relaxing week.  They have one redeeming feature on Pegasus Air alone, and that is that they have a cute safety video with Turkish kids acting out all the safety stuff.  I actually looked forward to watching it again after we changed planes in Istanbul.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQK2X4WOwh8

It's hard to say "Just get me a fucking water" to this little poppit

But apart from that, the rest sux.  There's only so far a few precocious brats wearing life jackets can get you.  You have to order everything in advance - everything.  You can't even get a glass of water if you haven't pre-booked it.  As I'd been drinking wine the night before, this was no good.  No good at all.  We booked squat.  You always think it's worth the ten buck saving at the time of reservation.  So my recommendation to you is - Fuck Pegasus.  Who cares if it's the cheapest?  It's only the cheapest by 50 bucks or so.  Pay the extra - even ride to your destination on an actual horse with paper wings strapped to it's back.  It would be more pleasant.  You could also stop for a drink at your leisure.

So organised

I was right next to the window, and it was an unbelievably clear day across Denmark.  The plane flew low.  We came over the water, and after hitting the stunning coastline, soared across the land.  It was completely flat.  Not a hill, not a mountain, not a slope in sight.  And it was sublime down there.  Perfect patchworks of gorgeous looking fields of various shades of green and brown with a little farmhouse situated perfectly in the middle.  Quaint little towns that looked like they were made from Lego.  All the houses matched and were in perfect lines. It was like toy town.  You could tell it was clean too, and that everyone would pick up their dog shit and wouldn't yell at you all the time.  And scatered throughout the landscape below, those huge white windmills were slowly turning.  As you approach Copenhagen those windmills are even in the sea.  It's quite a sight.

Blow my pretties blow

It looks like a futuristic world with historical buildings propped up as a backdrop.  You get off the plane and the place is immaculate.  Immaculate and quiet.  The wooden parquetry on the airport floor is beautifully laid and clean.  There are no garish pictures all over the airport walls.  The toilets are delightful - the sinks have no broken soap dispensers spilling pink gunk all over them, there's no toilet paper on the floor.  It's glorious.  All the Danes are stylishly attired, friendly and polite.  Not a single 60 year old rocking the slut-look in sight.  I have decided I now want to be Danish.  That Danish style - so uncomplicated, so simple, so refined, so classic.

It was why we were there in the first place.

Ooooh yeah

Danish designed furniture has always been in vogue - but lately it has made somewhat of a resurgence. That classic 50ish, 60ish  style. Curved lines, functional simplicity.  The trouble is, that outside Denmark it is bloody expensive to deck your joint out with such a look.  But in Denmark, not so much - which makes sense really.  So, we've been to Denmark on a couple of occasions, and one of our favourite things to do outside making ourselves physically ill from over indulgence in licorice, is to go to Illums Boligus - a four story department store full of wares and furniture, and masturbate over the entire contents of the shop.  I think I mentioned this rather seedy habit in December when I wrote a blog about my pathetic desperation to bond with "Our Mary" - H.R.H The Crown Princess of Denmark on my previous visit to Copenhagen.  I've given up on that now....it became obvious my friendship was being rebuffed.

Hello Lover!  (The shop, not old baldy in the foreground)

Anyway, the fact that we had an almost bare apartment to stock and tax free shopping out of Denmark and into Israel.  This meant that things were looking rosy as far as buying Danish furniture was concerned.  We had one whole day to achieve our dreams.  It was time to get active and organised, and spend spend spend.  The first two I'm not so good with, but the spending???......bring it bitch.  We spend 7 hours in that place.  Carefully surveying the wares, including photographing.  Then we took a brief lunch break, discussed the options, made some decisions, went back to the shop, ordered the big items, bought smaller goods to stuff our empty suitcases with, claimed our tax and went back to the hotel to collapse.  It was satisfying.  Really unbelievably satisfying.

That night was the birthday night feast.  We had gone to a really nice restaurant the night before as recommended by our hotel, so I was hoping my choice would live up to it.  I can't remember what exactly we had at the first place, but I do remember that there was some kind of steaming tea poured in a kind of moat that was incorporated around my desert plate.  This was meant to emulate the mist in the valleys on the Danish island from which all the food was sourced.  Alright then......and I thought teppanyaki grills were a bit show-pony.  I took me a while to warm up on arrival.  We had made the mistake of taking a bicycle taxi because the waiter in the previous bar had recommended such a move as an essential Danish experience.  What he should have possibly added was "Take a bicycle taxi with someone who is actually familiar with Copenhagen.  When a 5 minute ride around the corner turns into a 30 minute ride out to the highway and it's 3 degrees - well, things aren't great.  Even less great when you discover you've left your handbag at the bar you just had a cocktail in.  Fuck.

I'm telling you, it was bloody scary by night

Anyway.  Come birthday night I did well.  Bloody well. I found a brand new restaurant  started by the ex sous chef from Noma, who obviously split and by the looks of it, took many of the staff with him. It was called Amass. I managed to book a 9pm table by the skin of my nads 3 weeks before.  So I was feeling pretty smug.  I had a slight rush of panic when the taxi, upon exiting the city limits, drove into deserted shipyards on the outskirts of town.  I just finished watching the 3rd series of The Killing (Danish version of course) - that's some twisted shit......love it......Thus it was a bit understandable to imagine that we were going to skinned alive and hung from metal chains in a deserted warehouse while the taxi driver sent taunting pictures of our bloody carcases to the Danish police.  Even though Sarah Lund would sort that bastard out, I was still concerned for my safety.  I like my skin.....However the so called restaurant was not looking promising - I actually made the taxi driver get out of the cab and investigate the entrance.  As I mentioned, I've got experience in knowing how Danish serial killers get their victims in the empty factory in the first place.  I was taking no chances.

The shit bro

But we were waved in by some hipster looking chef with a headband on, and thus it was on - dinner at Amass.  You entered from upstairs.  The entire place was set up down below in an open industrial looking space with street art all over the back wall.  Typically Danish.  Annoying cool, while successfully pretending that no effort was made at all.  We went the 5 course taster with matching wines.
I'm too lazy to describe all the dishes, so I will just copy and paste the menu as is with a little extra commentary.


Cod Head Rillette (basically some old fish head found on the jetty after the fishermen went home)

Arctic Char, Buckwheat, Nasturtium (no idea what these things are)

Monkfish, Bitter Radish, Söl, Beef Fat ( unwanted bitter radishes and fat trimmings - picked out of the garbage - Söl is seaweed - basically beach garbage)

Wild Duck, Red Beet, Black Garlic, Giganteus Oil (free ducks, old garlic - plus I googled giganteus and a picture of a half spider/half scorpion came up - wish I'd done that before dinner)

Apple, Black Pepper Ice Cream, Vinegar Caramel, Oregano (Jesus.  Are they trying to poison us with the leftover crap on the chopping board?)

Take it from me - it was quite the experience.  Those dudes sure know what to do with piles of unwanted rubbish.  And there was no moss.  No lichen, possibly no weeds of any kind - but I'm still investigating there.  Not that I would have known regardless, I was blind by dessert.  A pre-dinner champagne and 5 matching wines (with top ups) can do that to the best of us.  I also had some kind of after dinner throat sizzling petrol presented as some sort of gourmet liquor.  I was not a pretty sight the next morning.  But then again, it is rare for me to be a pretty sight in the mornings these days.  So probably the staggering and the hair all over my face teemed with the pasty complexion was not much different from every other day.  More moaning though, definitely more moaning.

Beautiful

But, we had a plane to catch, and a trip back to Israel on our agendas.  We now had heavy suitcases and felt ill from spending so much cash....and eating seaweed and discarded fish and drinking petrol.  It was raining in Copenhagen.  And it was bloody freezing.  As I looked around at all the people, the grey streets, although beautiful, seemed pretty grim in the wet gloom.  I knew that everyone was shaping up for 3-4 months of winter hell.  No wonder they all looked a bit depressed.  I was in Copenhagen last December and it wasn't exactly a welcoming climate.  I began to look forward to returning back to the pumping excitement of Tel Aviv.  One thing you can't go past, no matter what you think of the place, is the weather.  And weather really does matter to overall experience.  Just ask any Tasmanian during "Summer".  At this time of year, it is superior in Israel - 25 degrees daily;15 overnight.  Sunny, not windy.  Bloody glorious.  And of course there's the people, who really characterise a country.  The Danes may be friendly, polite, cool and stylish, but they lack that warmth that Israelis possess once you get beneath the prickly outer surface.  Native Israelis call themselves sabras - which means prickly pears.  A popular seasonal fruit - sweet inside, but covered with tiny spikes on the outside.  I never really liked the taste myself, but some people love them.  Plus, it's a very apt description.

Flying back into Tel Aviv felt like coming home.  And it made me happy that it did.  And besides, prickly pears really grow on you if you give them a chance.

Anyone.....anyone????

Keeping Up with The Upkeep

That pink dog is mine bitch

I need that bitch's wardrobe

I've decided I'm really going to embrace life here and change my yok name for something more appropriate.  Something that really makes me blend in as a local.  I was thinking to go for Bat or Dafna.  Thoughts, anyone?  I definitely wasn't thinking Yael though.  It seems to be a far too popular name for all Australians who have emigrated to Israel.  Pretty much every foreign mother at the girls' kindergarten is called Yael.  The thing is, I have never met a Yael in Australia, so I am suss - they have definitely done the name switch-a-roo.  It means "mountain goat" though.....so, interesting choice. If it's all about meaning though, I would personally go for "Chemda" which means desirable and charming......need I say more?  But I have since decided that I'm in fact pushing the boundaries and going for Pinkus.  Unfortunately after I made my decision, my husband informed me that it was a man's name.  That's ok - I was planning on shortening it to Pinky anyhows.  What do you think?.  I could dress only in pink and eat only pink foods - get some kind of theme going on.  Become the Crazy Pink Lady of Tel Aviv.  But as I recently noticed it's been done before.  You just can't even be mental and original these days.  Again, sadly enough, when perusing the most unpopular names for girls - Pinky appeared loud and clear as one of the most hated names over the last 100 years.  Frankly I was a little crushed - Pinky is awesome.  Well it's certainly better than Icy which also made the cut.  So did Chestina and Buelah - which are not the greatest either.  Yes, as you can possibly tell, I have a little too much time on my hands with the girls in kindergarten.  I've got to get myself a hobby.  A job is out of the question - employers don't like pink much.

Now here's something less wholesome I can work with - bless that sweet flower Angelyne 

At least I know what to do with all that time after yesterday's conversation.  I was chatting with a man approaching his 60s, and he admitted to me that his entire life is pretty much devoted to self maintenance.  I was concerned, mainly for myself  - it only get's worse????  How much more fucking time do you have to spend ensuring that you don't descend into nothing but a pile of split ends, flaky skin and cellulite.  I know I've mentioned this issue on several occasions before - but what can I say?  I've been writing so much bullshit about nothing at all, that I'm bound to rotate the crap already once (or twice) discussed.  I have no apologies.  It's time to face facts - I'm the kind of person that retells the same tired jokes at social events with fingers crossed that the lucky soul who ended up chatting with good old "Pinky" hasn't heard my repertoire before.  It's touch and go - Do you trot out the old faithfuls that get a guaranteed laugh and take the risk that it's actually a virgin listener?  Or do you try out some of your latest raw material and pray that it's a painless journey to Laughsville?  It's unclear to me which is the bigger risk.  And with the blog and everything - I'm just running out of in-the-flesh tales to impress with.  Sometimes mid-story I notice my audience glancing over the top of my head for someone better to talk to.  Or another bored prick may actually feign a weak laugh and say, "Yeah, actually I read that one on your blog" - meaning basically "Shut Up Please".   But honestly, care factor = zip. It has to be, as it's only going to get worse.

Soooooooooo......thus it strikes me as ironic that the older you get, the more amount of time you put into self maintenance, yet the shitter you look.  What, for the love of god, is going on there?  The hours spent purely on basic maintenance is mind blowing. Plucking various bits of hair out of new zones of your face (the car rear vision mirror works best for this I find), waxing vast areas of your entire body -which is still excruciating and needs to be done all the time.  Unless of course you are one of those lasering people.  You still have to do it, but apparently less, but apparently it is much more painful so it's unclear on whether it is a better option to me.  I have an epilator piece of crap.  I'm unsure if it even works, but it hurts like fuck, makes my legs all spotty, and I have to do it all the god dam time.  Shits me (if you can't tell).

Not mine - yet pretty grossly familiar

Then there the bloody finger nails which if you start doing you have to keep up - and if you use that gel/shellac stuff you destroy your nails and then have to cover them with more crap.  I pulled some gel polish off my index finger a couple of months ago to reveal a giant distorted yellow claw.  It was hideous.  Thinking I was in some alternate reality nightmare where your body starts to rot before your eyes, I quickly peeled off all the rest in a panic and pretty much took large sections of the rest of my fingernails with it.  It was pretty uncool.  And just when you you think you're on top of your hands, you roll over in bed and open up a major artery on your husbands leg with a flick of your big toe(nail).  And while you're dealing with filing back that monstrosity, you realise that your feet and heels resemble those of a zombie that had been pounding the tarmac for a decade in search of brains.  And pedicures are never cheap.  And they are kind of scary.  I had one done 2 days ago here in Tel Aviv and they used a razor blade - a razor blade - on my flesh!  And then followed that up by sawing at me with some kind of mini angle grinder.  I was terrified.  But more terrified of the Russian woman operating the thing, so I chose to keep quiet.  What is it about older Russian women?  The young ones resemble angels, but when they get older they look like they want to stab you in the eye with a pen.

Then there's the hair.  Never has a collection of shit looking locks had so much bucks spent on it.  I am as grey as a geriatrics's pubes and it's not a good look. But the annoying thing about being old and haggard before my time, is that I have to get my hair dyed constantly.  The regrowth is relentless.  Doing it myself ends so badly on every occasion, so it's just not worth the savings.  If the non attendance to these issues stretches on longer than a month, it's just embarrassing for all involved.  People start asking me if I'm the girl's Nanna when I pick them up from school.  By the way I did that myself to one of the Yael's recently.  Jesus - bitch must have birthed that baby at 55.  So, eager to avoid more of those kind of awkward Nanna mistaking social interactions, I played eenie meenie meini mo and picked some salon down the road called Benjamin's early this week.

That's what I'm talking about

Benjamin was another old scary looking Russian, I think they all must be in the beauty industry, which is once again ironic.  Plus, I suspect Benjamin himself may have been a member of the Russian mafia judging by his clientele and his mates that dropped in for a a few cheek kisses.  His hands stunk of cigarettes and he got extremely offended when I didn't want a coffee.  He just kept offering, and saying "Why WHY???" until I finally accepted the chipped cup of weak Nescafe with somebody else's lipstick all over it.  I chose to keep quiet on the matter.  I am not ending up in a body bag over a cup of instant coffee.

Old Benji may not have been able to wash a cup, or make a caffeinated beverage to save himself, but actually he didn't do a bad job on my hair.  It was far, far better than one Tel Aviv hairdresser who actually gave me a bowl cut on top of shoulder length hair.  It was a confusing style - and one which has taken me 2 years to come out of - I'm almost there.  But, none of that compared to the Japanese dude who tried to bleach my hair and eyebrows in Tokyo at the end of 2006.  I ended up with spotty and stripy red and black hair, and fire engine red eyebrows.  Talk about lost in translation.  Maybe he thought I said "Make me look like a sick freak" when I actually said "I want something slick and chic".  It was the first and only time I actually burst into tears in the salon chair (usually I wait until I get home - like the unfortunate time I looked like lesbianic Danni Minogue circa 1989).  But apart from hair upkeep, which is costly and dangerous in non- English speaking countries, there's also moisturising your entire body daily so it doesn't go scaly, hair styling, trying to eat healthy nothing so you don't become a blimp, constant exercising or feeling guilty because you're not exercising, getting at least 8 hours of sleep, drinking 2 litres of water, constantly pissing from drinking 2 litres of water, applying 3 different types of face cream and sunscreen, and then make-up on top of that until your entire face is 2cm thicker than it's true size.  Top it off with selecting some sort of half decent outfit amongst  mountains of crappy, out of dated badly fitting junk, and you realise that the entire day has passed and it's time to put your pyjamas back on on go back to bed.

Oh Danni, Danni, Danni

I'm exhausted just thinking about this.  And I haven't even ventured into the zone of investing much more money and time on my appearance.  Part of me really wants to try Botox, but I just can't bear the thought of yet another thing I have to maintain.  I'd have to trade it in for something else - like brushing my teeth - and lord knows, we all hate gingivitis.  I did however get a laser job on the unfortunate pigmentation residue that arrived during pregnancy, and hung around for a long time after the melon heads were born.  But that was a once off.  I'm not sure if it was meant to be so, but I can't go back, I just can't.  That procedure is the worst.  So so bad.  It is excruciatingly painful.  Some people say it's like someone flicking you with an rubber band.  I would agree - but only if that rubber band is covered in red hot needles and they are flicking it straight into an open infected sore.  The smell isn't good either.  I'm not sure if it was my actual flesh or the tiny facial hairs that were smouldering - but let me tell you, that aroma does not fade from the sensory memory in a hurry. My face was so red and burning that I looked like I had taken my last vacation to the surface of the sun.  I then had dark brown scabs on my face for 10 days.  Pretty as a picture.  A picture of someone with a combination of leprosy and the bubonic plague however.   It eventually worked though.  But then again, it would fucking want to.

 So much could be done with that glorious mane of hair

And it's not easy for men these days either.  Times have changed - I was next to a man having a pedicure the other day.  Once I would have thought "You bloody Sissy - why don't you just go home and watch Beaches and have a little cry when Barbara Hershey snuffs it?" But I was actually considering asking him to have a word to my husband and recommending his favourite treatment.  Nowadays, the man maintenance goes way beyond twice weekly shaving, coating yourself in Old Spice, and gargling Listerine when you can't be arsed brushing your teeth.  It all about the upkeep dudes.  This can mean slapping on a red clay face pack while you watch an episode of Girls with your flatmates and drink some kind of green sludge designed to help you do a hemorrhoid-free bog.  Today I saw some dude asleep on a park bench.  He was all hairy and wearing rags, covered in his own shit.  I knew at once what was going on here.  Once he discovered all his mates were getting their balls and crack waxed he couldn't take it anymore.  He just surrendered to the overwhelming forces of nature and let the filth take over.  When faced with the choice between waxing his bum and being a bum, he went with the latter.  It's an understandable decision.

This definitely shouldn't be done with that glorious mass of Mel Gibson looking hair

Nor should this

And most definitely not this

The cuteness almost sickens

Kids have got it easy.  They don't even have to run a comb through their locks to look adorable. I've written an explicit description about the time my kids decorated their bedroom and bodies in their own feces.  They still looked cute.  They are possibly the only humans who could pull off the "I'm covered in my own shit" look and work it.  Thank goodness my bench snoozing homeless friend had no knowledge of this fact.  That fashion statement just wasn't happening for him, and to know others could get away with it would have been the final straw. Talking of covering your body in crap, my daughter wore a large leopard print scarf on her head the other day.  She was Ima Shabbat at her kindergarten - it wasn't a fashion choice.  But everyone was taking photos of her saying how gorgeous she looked.  I attempted to cover up my greys with a head scarf last week and my husband asked what happened to my forehead.  Granted, it is pretty small at the best of times.  I shouldn't wear head ornaments.  Nor should Lara Bingle (as evidenced below).  But back to Cordi as Ima Shabbat (Mother of The Sabbath).  It was so incredibly sweet that I got all emotional and the tears were welling - almost as much as when "Wind Beneath My Wings" broke out just as Bette Midler was reminiscing about her best chum, and possibly regretting those years when their friendship waned for just a while.  Although that fall-out could have been avoided with honest communication, and C.C Bloom has only herself to blame....

I just don't like it Lara

Stupid

Unnecessary

Did she make this one herself?

GO Ima Shabbat - hand out that wine grape juice!

Anyway, she took her staring role so seriously (Cordi not Bette....or Lara for that matter) - that was the cutest thing.  And was incredibly excited about her special duties.  She handed out all the "wine" to her little class chums and bread too.  She tried to sing-a-long with all the others to the songs, but seeing as it was all new for her (and Valli), so she couldn't quite manage to keep pace.  But the look on her face was amazing.  A sort of happy contentment - like she was exactly where she wanted to be. How many of us ever truly feel like that?  I know I rarely do, and especially not when my legs are spread and a stranger is looking into places my mother hasn't dared to look since I was about 5,  and they're asking me if I want the "Ring of Fire" - and that is a direct quote.   I wonder how long it will be before I can hold off my two little lambs from being overwhelmed by the beauty industry that pounds all our brains at any given opportunity.  I try to shelter them from seeing me smother myself in this crap and that, but seeing as it's full time occupation, it's kind of a challenge.  They are already obsessed with outfits, and Valli has been wearing my heels since she was 1.  But innocence lost at a future date or not, right now they are sweetly happy about going to school, making friends, and wearing headscarves on a Friday.

Bring on the challah Cordi

In fact they like it so much there, that we have decided to let them stay on longer at school in the afternoons like most of their classmates.  Now there's something to celebrate.  No offence kids, but we have seriously got a lot to take care off this week.  We have to buy, and transport an entire house of junk (read furniture and personal belongings) into our new apartment.  Plus the brows are unruly again.  It's going to be an exhausting week.......

Moving on up, We're moving on out.....

The only way is up, baby, for you and me now

I love you Candy Bag

My naughty little deserting husband returneth, and totally sweetened the blow of leaving me by bringing a new handbag home with him (for me - not him).  It's out of control crazy - but I love it, so he's totally off the hook.  I've also stopped driving for now and don't even have to catch taxis because my chauffeur is back.  All kerbside bins, and many Ethiopians throughout the city have all breathed a collective sign of relief.  Am I a pussy?  Of course.  Do I care?  Not so far.  The fact that I am alive and our car is intact takes over any feelings I may have been holding onto about inadequacy.

See - it's all about the cream trench

Talking of feelings relating to inadequacy, with the girls in Kindy - or "Gan"  pronounced "Gun",  I have been thinking about my new career path.  Naturally I have decided to live out my dream and become a spy.  Being in Israel, I'm sure there's some spying to be had in the near vicinity.  The only issue is, if I'm too gutless to drive to the shop and get milk, how the fuck am I going to carry out espionage across international borders?  It's true, I haven't thought about the logistics.  I have only given thought to the romantic image of standing on the corner of a dark coblestoned street in a cream trench coat (I have one ready to go) and a pair of sunglasses (3 suitable candidates to choose from here), with a hat.  I wait alone, poised with my coded identifier as the possible contact walks towards me.  I tentatively offer my rehearsed phrase - "The cherry blossoms are beautiful in April " and hopefully prepare for the response "How lovely the lagoon appears by moonlight".  When the correct answer comes, I relax my grip on my bone detailed hand-gun, snugly tucked away in my coat pocket.  Then I slip the secret disc to my fellow spy with my other hand, whisper "God speed to you Sir", and disappear discretely into the shadowy night.

Like I was never even there.......

Beware indeed

It's a satisfying daydream.  In reality I would probably have to have anal sex with really unattractive Arabs with hairy shoulders, and take pictures of messages on their iphones while they're asleep.  It doesn't sound good.  I would have to be toughened up a lot too - (especially in the arsehole region).  I'm sure there's some kind of spy course I could take - Spying 101 or perhaps I could read "Espionage For Dummies" or something.  At times like this, I imagine Chalks coming to pick me up from my spy training course and the administrators saying - "Oh, Emily's down in dungeon 3, you can pop down there if you like".  And there am I, chained up naked to a stone wall while one of the instructors throws buckets of icy cold water on me.  Chalks would be like "Honey are you Ok??????".... I'd be like "Yeah, yeah, totally fine - 3 buckets to go and an quick electrocution, I'll be up in about 15"........

Keep away from my anus, apeman

Perhaps not......What we actually have been doing a lot of lately is apartment searching.  Although we were told that finding an apartment in Tel Aviv is murder, we basically found one on the first look.  We viewed a second one for the sole reason of saying that we had looked at more than one - but it was pretty unappealing - some people's "style" really makes you question what on earth they had in mind for their home environment.  The light fitting alone burnt out my retinas, and it wasn't even switched on.  Therefore, we negotiated and agreed on a final contract for the first viewed one last week, and we sign for it in 2 days.  Piss easy.  I was trying to be all casual and nonchalant when we initially looked at it's glory, but every time the agent turned around I was mouthing " I LOOOOOVVVVVEEEEE It" behind his back to Chalks.  I did love it, and still do.  We move in on the old ball and chain's birthday.

The random bed room

It will be good to move out of our current apartment.  As far as Tel Aviv apartments go it's not bad.  Unusually clean for a start.  Decent location.  But the kid's room is a bit quirky.  It consists only of beds.  Three in a row taking up the entire room.  I commented on it when we first walked in.  But the agent acted like there was nothing going on with having a room made entirely of beds.  So I shut my trap.  The girls have been having fun in there.  A little too much fun I think.


When I used to put them to bed at night - there would be 10 mins of chatski and then it was lights out for both of them.  These days they roll around on the giant bed for about an hour before they finally drop off from complete exhaustion.  There's usually at least 3 brawls that have to be dealt with during that time.  Tonight's was particularly disturbing.  I heard Valli screaming and came in to find Cordi pressing a pillow into her face going "Sorry Valli, Sorry Valli".  It really was not the kind of thing you want to walk in on.  Child suffocation can only end badly for everyone.  Apparently Cordi had bit Valli on the nose and was attempting to muffle her screams......nice.  I think I have a child murderer on my hands.  Strange - I always though that if either of them was going to top the other one it would be Valli leading the murder rampage.  You live and learn......or don't.....depending on which side of the pillow you're on.

Valli takes revenge the next day

So we're moving out soon and into a place of our own - after all these years!!! Finally I will have a mattress devoid of strangers sweat stains and piles of dead skin that build up in layers of yellowing filth, being slowly feasted on by miniature skin eating bugs and grotty little scabies. Finally I will be able to make toast without having other people's 2 year old stale and burnt crumbs spilling out the bottom of the toaster every time I move it.  Finally I will be able to clean the drains in the bathroom without getting my fingers entangled in a rotting mass of strangers pubes.  And FINALLY I will able to clean the skids off the side of the toilet bowl without the tiny pieces of the previous tenant's water-logged poo poo and disintegrating toilet paper falling off the toilet brush onto the bathroom floor.  These are the things that really please.  I'm excited.  And even more excited that we get to fill the joint with all the presents that everyone gave us for our wedding in February - thanks for that by the way everyone, at least you are all good for something.

I know what I want in the bedroom

But of course we need to do some shopping for quite a few items still.  We've been visiting shop after shop of late, looking and searching for suitable items that we think we can live with.  It's kind of hard trying to imagine how you want the style of your future life to be when you haven't given it that much thought before.  I'd given thought to things I DIDN'T want - mainly while I was sitting on/lying on/standing on/using them.  But not so much thought to what I actually wanted instead.  Israelis are big on the Italian look.  Personally I don't like it.  Too flashy and too expensive.  We visited a design centre today and looked at heaps of overpriced items.  It's all about the moving mattress over here - do you know what I mean? - the mattress with the remote controlled machine in it  - kind of like a hospital bed.  It's a novelty, I'll give it that.  But I don't like it.  Who wants to be upright when they're asleep?  If you are too lazy to prop up with a couple of pillows when necessary, might I suggest that you need to take a long hard look at yourself.   Plus, I thought the defining feature of a bed was that it was flat. Am I wrong here?  We also discovered a furniture shop there that truly had to be seen to be believed.  It was the High Class Syrian Brothel Look (I think I just invented a new style of decor).  I tried to take pictures of the giant glass disco ball over the mirrored velvet puffy bed for your entertainment (and mine), but was banned and thus kicked out by the pimp shop manager.  Couldn't get a snap of the giant crystal swan either as I was ushered out.

Here's one of a giant silver horse I took somewhere else though

Can't you just imagine old Silver Beauty as the centrepiece of your lounge room?

We also went somewhere today that neither of us have ever been before - for moral reasons.  It's mainly because of despising the fact that almost every place we have ever stayed in - all around the world for the last ten years - has been decked out entirely in it's wares.......Mother Fucking IKEA.  As we went to walk in those yellow and blue doors, Chalky announced that he felt like he was losing his virginity for the very first time.  That nervous, anxious feeling, almost instinctively knowing you were going to like it too much, even though you knew you shouldn't.  It was for good reason that we had these trepidations.  That place is intoxicating.  It won us over immediately by the free hour of child minding offered by a grumpy looking employee on guard in front a huge room of toys, games and the largest ball pit I have ever laid eyes on.
 

Some grotty randoms

The kids were off without a glance (as usual), and we were on our own and loose in IKEA.  Although we felt physically ill whenever we spotted a familiar item - a doona cover, a chair, plastic baby high chairs, espresso cups etc - the pleasing bargain prices win you over in the end.  I get it, I finally get it.  My resistance has been worn down and I am reluctantly proud to admit that I am an IKEA Whore.  Why the fuck would anyone spend 800 bucks on a child's bed in some smancy design store when you can get 2 beds, a set of shelves, a wardrobe, a table, 2 chairs, a desk, a light, 2 full sets of bedding, a rug and a giant ladybird for the same price.  Fuck quality - they're 4 years old for gods sake - more is more.
 

I can't help it - I find this cute

The crockery section is also enticing, as are tables and chairs.....but the cushion area, the lounge room set ups, the rugs and the towels made me feel all cheap and dirty inside.  You have to learn when to say no.  How much is enough before you start to cheapen yourself with weird and twisted longing for perversity?  You must tear yourself away before it's too late.

So back to our new apartment.....It is 3 bedroom - so all you bastards who said you were coming to visit, you better move those butts and get over here.  I know I can now entice you by declaring that you will sleep on, and under, IKEA's finest wares.  And if that doesn't seal the deal, I might add that our spare bedroom actually doubles at the "safe room".  How's that for a dose of reality over this side of the world.  Most buildings and apartments have their own bomb shelter.  A reinforced room of impenetrable thick steel and other protective stuff.  Good news too if you're a brawling type of couple - you can scream and throw shit at your partner from the safety of inaccessible dwellings.  Stash some water and some canned peaches in there and you wouldn't need to come up for air until 2014. Even if your husband called the fire brigade they'd have issues cutting you out in time to make dinner. In fact you may never need to make dinner again.

I'm seriously going to have some fun with that room, I can feel it.

My new coffee table