Something rather large that happened since I last scrawled, was that my husband turned fifty. Fucking fifty. The big 5 0. No offence honey, but what an old cunt. I'm telling you, it's making me feel old, and that's just plain selfish of him. I never signed up for a 50 year old husband - 40-something sure, but bloody 50???? For the love of god, he's a decade off a seniors card. It sux to be me right now. Again, no offence intended sweetie, at least you look good......even if you are mentally and partially physically decrepit.
Yep - I'm as dumb as I look
We had a couple of celebrations - no large party because as I said, he is over the hill and as lame as you can get without being one-legged or something like that. I had the 'brilliant' idea of taking him to one of those escape rooms that are all the rage these days. Of course the concept started in Japan a few years back (like all the weird shit), and quickly spread. Basically you choose some kind of a situation and get locked in a room and have to find clues for a mission, and also find a way to bust the hell out once it's all over. It is not easy. In fact it was pretty much impossible. I chose a 1920s Boardwalk Empire room. It was that or a blood-splashed Saw room (I scare easily though, and watch all horror movies with my eyes and ears covered - I still strangely enjoy them and honestly believe that I appreciate the genre). Sadly it took us about 15 minutes just to get into the main room before it all even started, and things pretty much went downhill from there. I was useless. Totally useless. I'm just not cut out for logic or intelligence, and my husband is a geriatric. It was an epic fail. Luckily you could wave to the cameras and they would give you clues over a microphone. We basically got hints the entire time and still didn't unlock the final door. They rescued us and let us pose like we won. Thanks dudes.
They let us hold the guns too - again, I just look confused
I also organised one family surprise party that evening which slightly backfired because my husband got far too drunk with the decoy person, and was an hour late. Meanwhile everyone was right over crouching behind the furniture in the dark. Talk about anti-climax. We then had dinner with friends a couple of days later, accompanied by a last minute scramble to get some kind of cool car to drive to bars and restaurants in. Things were looking good for a while - especially when we worked out that one of the cars came with a blonde driver (she better have been hot, it was hard to tell from the photo). However, due to financial issues we were forced to downgrade to other options. The third car photo really was sent to my friend as one of the options in our price range. The other ones (not pictured), looked like random cars just snapped in the street.
We took taxis.
It was fun though, especially the brilliant idea my friend had where we all wore "Chalky" glasses.....Wacky times......I guess you had to be there.....
So promising
So so promising
Reality
Chalk Life
Yes, fairy wings
I'm always relived when birthdays are over. They are only truly fun when you're under 12. Talking of the ideals of childhood, while all things horrible keep happening in the world, I dream of going back to being six years old. How wondrous would it be to honestly think that the world was a scrummy place and all the people in it were super smashing? A magic world where your biggest problem related to the loss of a front bottom tooth. My little daughter had been wobbling the aforementioned tooth for about a month. She wasn't particularly committed to getting it out, she just loved having a 'wibbily' tooth and everybody she met she encouraged them to have a little rattle as well. Therefore, it was with great distress when she awoke one morning to discover that Old Wibbles had finally become completely dislodged in the night and she had seemingly swallowed it. Although we conducted a thorough bed search, there was nothing to do but to accept it was somewhere in the intestines, and to assure a weeping Vali that the tooth fairy would still come. More importantly for me was to ensure her that searching through every turd she did for the next 3 days was definitely not necessary, because she seemed to think it was a viable option for a while. The days of poo searching, smearing and exploring with it's texture are long over for me, and I was not making a return anytime soon. Certainly not for a tiny little chip of calcium. A diamond perhaps. Or a block of tightly wrapped MDMA sure. Now undeterred by her loss, and to make sure she collected the cash, she scrawled this little note that she later left next to her bed. I like her focus and determination to get the cash. Nice work V.
That's my girl - eyes on the prize
Classic Tel Aviv
But now the time draws nigh, when we once again pack our bags and head for the shores of the motherland. Far from being over Israel, right before I leave I often become very nostalgic about the place I currently call home, and actively miss it's quirkiness when I'm back admiring the cleanness of the Australian city streets. I forget about the stabbers and the social unrest and fondly think about the dog walkers and the fruit sellers that yell "Wah Wah Wee Wah" every 5 seconds while you're shopping for figs (usually intensely annoying btw). One of my current favourite things about Israel is paying for good or services with your credit card. While a credit card payment in Australia goes along with a severe signature check (although not anymore as I keep realising, it's all about the tapping these days isn't it?), a purchase in Europe is accompanied by a thorough ID check to make sure you haven't swiped some sucker's lifeline and bought up big time at H&M while on holiday in London. In Israel it's a far more breezy and carefree transaction. I have since learnt, after multiple lashes with the old creddie that it is totally acceptable to not only sign the recipe with a single stroke of a pen, but to actually use your fingernail to scratch a scribble on the dotted line. And you don't have to be too artistic about it either, a faint scratch or a zig zag will leave an impression that justifies as proof of ownership of your card. I tell you it's liberating. I'm going to try it in Myers in Melbourne next week and see how it goes down.
Fingernail signing at it's finest
Cluster Fuck
Signing like you don't give a fuck is almost as liberating as city driving. After having a little sooky fit (or ten) in my first days on the road - blown away by the intensity and the seeming aggression on the roads, I have learnt that a breezy attitude to driving is what all the cool kids are doing. By all means refuse to choose a lane and just either sit in the middle of 2 of them, or casually swing between as many as you like. Just drift - nobody cares. In fact they actually expect you to do it, so you may as well. You can even change your mind at the last minute and drive diagonally across 4 lanes in the middle of the city's busiest highway. Become a hazard to those around you - don't even glance in your rear vision mirror when you decide to do a 3 pointer on a busy main road. Anything goes - just embrace the chaos. That pretty much goes for life in general here. There is no other way - and no point fighting against it. "Find the Joy in The Chaos" should actually be Israel's slogan, rather than "A Land of Milk and Honey".
Stuffed them full of falafel and hummus
I must admit, I do feel a tad on the guilty side for ripping my children out of school for close to a month. I realise that they are only 6, and they are busting to see all their family and friends - but it's not like they get a choice. And they, much more than myself or my husband have really built a life for themselves here. They adore school - they are always busy and active, and their social life is awe-inspiring. Today was a major moment on the play-date scene. Previously all of their play dates are with their friends who all have English as their first language. But today's girl party was with two little girls who know no English at all. Hearing them chat away to their friends in Hebrew as I drove them all back to our place was both exciting and degrading. I tried to fumble with a bit of Hebrew and was immediately corrected by my daughters. They then proceeded to translate for me and add that their poor Mummy couldn't really speak the national dialect.
It's becoming a slight issue. Now that I've left the bilingual kindergarten and my Mummies group of ex-pats and have plunged into Israeli society, things have got tricky regarding communication. I keep missing all of the texts the group of mothers from the school sends out to each other. At first I really tried to read all the messages and discovered quite a lot were things along the lines of "good job" and 'aren't all the children sweeties?". They took me 20 minutes to read so I gave up not long after, and ended up missing all these major events taking place at, and after, school. I didn't take costumes for concerts, didn't give permission for an excursion, and I have no idea what day is actually sports day so I send them to school in their sports clothes every second day just in case. But it wasn't until I missed an after-school birthday party that my girls really became disappointed in my mothering skills. On the way home I posed the question; "Do you girls wish I was Hebrew speaking like all the other mothers?". One little muffin responded "No Mummy, I love you just the way you are" (major presents from Santa going on for her this year).....but the other one seemed to be avoiding answering by looking out the window and I swear I heard her whistling to herself. Hmmm - nice cover up Squirt.
And it's only going to get worse.
Brilliant
But off we go to drink alcohol in the sun and sing songs about baby Jesus - by the way I can never say, write, or think about baby Jesus anymore with out thinking of that scene from Kath and Kim where Kath tells Kim to get a statue of baby Jesus for her wedding, and comes in to see that Kim has constructed a statue made out of mini Babybel cheeses ("Kimmy I said Little Baby Jesus not Little Baby Chesus"). It's a brilliant moment in Aussie bogan speak isn't it? My children of course cannot wait to get a sack of loot from a fat guy in a red velvet suit trimmed in white fluff (it is velvet isn't it?). And I'm still waiting to get busted as a WASP with two heathen children having a religious Jewish education. I get dirty looks from the headmistress every morning, but others have ensured me it's actually her natural expression - scary. Really.
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