Boys’ Toys February 19, 2010
Every Thursday my son’s classmate comes to our house after school. It’s an arrangement between the boy’s parents and I and so far it as worked quite nicely.
Yesterday the two boys met me at the school gate as usual but out of the ordinary was their hyper-animated state.
“I have 100 shekels (U.S. $25) Sonya gave me for my birthday and I brought it to buy Gogos. Will you take us to the store?” my son’s friend asked.
Sonya is a classmate. But I didn’t know that. I figured Sonya was an aunt. Gogos are the craze du jour among Israel’s elementary school set. They’re highly appealing, mini-plastic figurines that come three to a packet. They cost about $1.75 per.
Your mom said it’s okay for you to spend your birthday money on that many Gogo’s? I asked.
It’s my money. My mom lets me do what I want with my money. As long as I take her to a hotel for vacation, he responded, laughing.
How very liberal of her I pondered. I wouldn’t let my son do that. Maybe I should loosen up. . .
Okay then, I capitulated. Let’s go.
At the store, I browsed front page stories about Mossad agents, assassination and dual identities while the boys handled the transaction.
They purchased 14 packets and split them – my son’s friend is quite generous – and then clamored to get home and open the goods.
They alternately ran and walked the 5 city blocks to our place, urging me to hurry. My son actually screeched aloud with anticipation as I unlocked the front door. The neighbors! I chastised with an internal smile. Their enthusiasm was refreshing.
They dumped book bags in the entrance hall and spread the packets across the coffee table, busying themselves with the business of divvying treasure.
When lunch was ready, I called repeatedly to no avail. Eventually I threatened to lock up the kitchen for the day in order to cajole them into eating.
At 3, the boy’s father came to retrieve him. And Gogo Hell broke loose.
You bought WHAT? he asked incredously. With what money? After I told you there would be no more Gogo’s? Where did you get a hundred shekels? WHO gave it to you? You’re in some serious trouble, young man…
They exited and as I heard their exchange in the hallway, my cheeks flamed red with shame. It hadn’t occurréd to me to phone one of the parents and check the story’s legitimacy. I assumed if a kid says he got some money for his birthday and he’s allowed to spend it….Criminy. Silly me.
THE TRUE STORY: Sonya, presumably wishing to curry favor, gave the boy a hundred shekels she got from God-knows-where a day prior. He decided to purchase the toys without telling anyone – other than a gullible ME, that is. The part about the birthday and his mom knowing? Mmm, Mmm, mmmm. My son was also clueless to the dupe.
Okay so I learned my lesson. The opened Gogo packets can’t go back to the store but the money has to go back to Sonya. I won’t take the loot away from my son – he was an innocent. So I’ll cough up half the $$ and give it to the boy’s parents. Peace offering sort of thing, Innit?
When the winds of war calmed later in the day, I texted his mother: “You have to admit, it IS funny”
She texted back: This story is going to make the rounds for years to come.
The Birthday Bailout November 25, 2009
Last week myself and another set of parents co-hosted our sons’ 2nd grade birthday party . It was an ordeal. To say the least. The hoopla was originally scheduled to happen at a local museum but due to logistics, the venue tanked. So the other parents and I scrambled at the last minute to find a back up: the local bowling alley.
As the date approached, my son fell ill with fever as did his co-host. We held off, hoping for health and instead, three hours pre-celebration we postponed. Thank goodness for SMS, email and cellphone technology. It all makes last minute change tenable.
We re-grouped and re-scheduled for the following week and luck was to be on our side: The celebration happened as planned. But not without incident.
Let’s just say that when you invite 35 kids – thirty-bleedin’-five – there’s bound to be a “hiccup” or two.
And so, the post-party day after was devoted to ME-chill out-time. I needed it. To regain my voice – lost as I attempted to out-shout the background music (score! on Lady Gaga), video arcade din and general bedlam. I also needed to relax after the tension of all that last minute hiccup stuff.
While chilling at home, I emailed my dear friend Keith with a party re-cap. I had to share it with someone. His reply: “I laughed out loud. Then I read it again and laughed again!” – prompted me to share it here.
It’s post-birthday party chill day. My friend D just showed up impromptu and we went to a French brasserie for coffee/food together. I also briefly met with a graphic designer for a project. Otherwise, NADA else on the schedule.
The party was slightly hectic – 35 kids. And honey, let’s just say these littl’uns DID NOT grow up playing in the local league. They was throwin’ the ball backwards into the spectator area, bouncing it from lane to lane, rollin’ it down the center panel between lanes. . .EVERYTHANG!
I was certain someone would get killed or lose a foot.
And of course, the “active” kids are the ones whose parents dropped them curbside and screeched away out of sight, leaving only tread marks in their stead. Bless their little hyped up souls. I went hoarse coaxing them NOT to throw balls the wrong way, drop balls on other kids’ toes, roll balls down the lane while the machine was wracking or take them to the toilet á la “this is mine!”…It was a job.
And let’s not forget the crying: One inconsolable who arrived as dinner was starting and missed the gaming, another who sobbed that his lane-mates were robbing him of his turn and another who DID NOT want to bowl – he had come for the video arcade!
But it was fun and my son had a really good time as did the other kids. And he got tons of gifts. And truth be known, it was the easiest party I’ve ever put on in terms of personal involvement. I merely had to buy party favors, email invites and shell out $$. Not too tough.
But, as the co-host-mom said the on the phone when she rang to check in: ‘It’s sort of like the Last Supper. Good thing it happened because it was the last time.’
I would have to vote an ‘Amen, sister!’ to that. Less is more & mass invite parties are passé. Even if it was my first.
Missing in Action November 9, 2009
It’s another Ruth-themed blog entry day. Ruth, for the uninitiated, is the in-her-eighties-woman at the Tel Aviv dog park I frequent who I’ve been fascinated with lately.
Ruth has spunk, attitude and sass to spare and I’d wager she’s the type who stocks vodka in the freezer for guests. And if the guests don’t drink vodka? She’d probably press a bill into her visitor’s palm and send him or her off to the corner store for an alternate libation of choice and some ice.
For the past few weeks, Ruth hasn’t shown up at the park at the usual hour. And because her health is sketchy and she has already had one near-death experience, my ruminations have meandered to concern regarding her whereabouts or possible demise.
Apparently, I’m not alone.
As I climbed the stone stairs of the dog run entrance yesterday, Jacob, another octogenarian park regular, posed: Have you seen Ruth lately?” I shrugged and motioned for him to join as I crossed the grass path to the stone bench beneath the orange tree. I sat beside David, a middle aged regular whose dog is named Meeklee and whose American partner is also named David.
Have you seen Ruth lately? I asked him.
No & I’ve been worried. I know that when she was hospitalized for a month, she put Jessie in the Dog Farm. Maybe something happened to her and she put her there again. Maybe they know something, David offered.
I had the Dog Farm number handy – Ruth had given it to me as a kenneling recommendation – so I dialed the number from my mobile phone and awkwardly explained to the proprietor that a group of dog park people was concerned over Ruth’s disappearance.
Did she bring Jessie there? Do you know anything about where she might be?
The Farm owner understood the gist and said that Jessie wasn’t at the Farm. But she offered up Ruth’s last name.
One call to information later, I was ringing up Ruth’s apartment.
Hello? a small voice answered. I didn’t recognize the accent and guessed it might be the Russian caretaker she had mentioned several times.
It’s Stephanie from the dog park. I’m looking for Ruth. Is she there?
Yes, mamaleh (English: sweetie). What is it you need?
Ruth? Is that you? We haven’t seen you in a while. So a few of us are sitting here and we were worried so we decided to —-
Tell her the view’s not the same without her! Jacob interjected, the relief in his voice audible. I think Jacob has a thing for Ruth, between you and me. 
Oh, I’m fine. I’m fine. Thank you for calling, Ruth soothed and I could tell she was touched. I don’t come in the evening anymore because Jessie gets into the garbage and eats trash and it drives me crazy.
I laughed aloud and David commented Well if she’s laughing, everything must be okay.
Ruth, give me your cellphone number, will you? Just so I have it. And take mine, I urged. We exchanged and then she said:
Thank you mamaleh. Thank you for calling. I come on Saturday mornings so I’ll see you then. But listen, I have to go. I’m watching my German mystery series on t.v. and I have to see how it ends.
That’s the Ruth I know.
GI Jane October 21, 2009
I have posted here a few times about Ruth from the dog park.
She’s someone I love running into because at 80-something, Ruth makes up in pep for what she has lost in mobility. Bright red lipstick, carrot-colored choppy hair, manicured nails and a cane for support, she’s got that naughty glint in her eye that says: “I know how to work it and I will if need be.”
Last week when we met at the dog run, Ruth shared that she had fallen in the crosswalk earlier in the day while out with her dog Jessie.
Oh my God! I reacted.
Yeah, came her casual reply. I was like Jesus on the cross. Spread out all over the place.
Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?
Me? she countered wide eyed, gesturing toward herself. No no. I know how to fall. I took a parachuting course years ago.
All of a sudden I felt a pang. 
Ruth parachuting! Wow.
And I sort of had to squint in my mind’s eye to past-blast beyond the moment and conjure a younger Ruth bodysurfing on the wind.
Of course Ruth has a past. But I had never contemplated it. And being confronted with it in such a lively manner sparked within me a combination of awe and sadness.
It made sense that Ruth had lived a daredevil life: skydiving, avoiding marrying her boyfriend of fifty years, and playing the con artist.
But in facing the image of a younger Ruth, I was facing myself.
THIS is why I like her, I epiphanied.
I Scuba dive and windsurf. I was thrown from a horse into a Mercedes years ago on a wild, midnight ride at Giza’s pyramids. I’ve done my fair share of conning and as for amorous relationships with men. . .I’ll save that for another posting.
Ruth, I realized, reminds me of me.
With luck, I’ll be like her when I get where she is.
Conning the Cops October 4, 2009
I’ve posted here several times about “Dog Park Ruth“, the orange-haired, highly spirited octegenarian I have befriended at the popular dog run near my home. This is the same Ruth who had a near death experience and chooses, for the sake of her relationship, to maintain a dwelling separate from her boyfriend of 50 years.
Ruth always has at least one story of interest to share and several morsels of wisdom to impart when when we meet. This weekend was no exception.
“You know there were municipal officers here today handing out fines for off-leash dogs,” Ruth advised as she spread her newspaper on the stone bench, placed her cane on the retaining wall behind her and sat beside me beneath the lime tree. “The tickets are 450 shekels ($120 U.S.)”
Damn! I replied. Did they get you?
“Me?” Ruth responded, an impish grin appearing on her carefully made-up face.
“First of all, they didn’t want to fine me. They wanted to haul Jessie off to the pound because she was off-leash and they didn’t know where I was. If that had happened, they would’ve fined me and THEN charged me a per-day holding fee.”
Wow! Bastards! I responded.
“Nah, nah,” Ruth retorted with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I told them they can’t fine me; I’m a pensioner. It’s illegal to demand more than my social security pays me each month.” Ruth was beaming as she continued.
“Then I purposely looked sad and asked the officers: ‘What? You’re going to take away my best friend? The only companion I have in my life? What will I be left with?'”
I chortled, clapping my hand to my mouth.
You’re shameless! I admonished with delight, hastily reminding her of the boyfriend of five decades and family members she routinely mentions in conversation.
Ruth smiled broadly, her red lipstick accenting gleaming white teeth. “I eat those types for breakfast.”
I have a lot to learn from this woman.
Deserving the Good Life July 19, 2009
As we traipsed to the swimming pool this afternoon, towels draped over our shoulders, my 7-year-old initiated a wee heart-to-heart.
Mom, if someone wanted to buy you, I think you would be worth 20 million, one thousand ninety eight dollars
Ah really? And if someone decided to do that, who would the money go to? I mean, who would get the 20 million one thousand and ninety eight?
You would. Definitely. Because you don’t have that much longer to live. I mean, you’re not young. So you should keep having a good life.
Damn! That’s Funny! June 6, 2009
“From the Mouths of Babes”….
“Kids Say the Darndest Things”
“Yada Yada Yada”
As the proud mother of a 7-year-old, I’m often privy to some of the freshest humor around. Delivered, of course, by my cutie pie/sweetheart/oh-so-squeezable offspring. Scroll down a bit for the shares.
Single, non-parent types probably think this is downright boring.
Oh God. There she goes on one of those Mommy Blog tangent things
To which I reply: Perhaps. Sue me. Take a commercial break and go make yourself a sandwich or something.
To my fellow parent-types: Enjoy. To the non-parents: Can I get you a soda water with lime to go with that?
___________________
#1 – I host monthly Writers Meetings in Tel Aviv for ..um..writers and each session is addressed by a lecturer on the chosen topic of the month. We’ve had prize winning authors, network television correspondents, NY Times writers and business bloggers host meetings; last month our guest lecturer was a columnist and editor for Israel’s national Haaretz Newspaper.
Due to a list minute babysitter cancellation, my unfortunate son had to tag along with me to the meeting. He threw a fit – rightfully so – raging about the unjust ways of the world and evil mothers therein. Cajoling and bribery on my part got us into a taxi and to the meeting with not a minute to spare where I greeted the guest and welcomed the group.
My son calmed down and sat quietly drawing and doodling beside me for about an hour.
Then, during the Q&A part of the evening, he suddenly raised his hand.
Ah. My sweet precious child is curious!Unabashedly he asked the guest: When will you be finished?
__________________
# 2 – At the pharmacy checkout counter :
150 Shekels! (the equivalent of about U.S. $42) You’re spending 150 Shekels? my son exclaimed.
The cashier and I chuckled and shook our heads in that knowing “Wait until he gets older and finds out what spending really is” sort of way when he blurted:
And it’s for Dreck!
__________________
#3 – En route home at the end of a long grueling day my beloved only child ducked into a toy store.
I went in after him.
“Come on! Let’s go home!” I called impatiently.
He turned on his heel and glared at me squarely.
You don’t get it, do you? he huffed, hands on hips.
I’m a kid, mom. This is what I’m supposed to do.
Pedestrian Beware! May 23, 2009
My backpack loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables, I exited Tel Aviv’s open-air Carmel Market & hopped on my bicycle.
Twenty-five minutes to get home, unload purchases, drink something cold and get to my son’s school in time for pick-up 
ZING!
I zipped through traffic, weaving from sidewalk to street and back again in an effort to beat the clock.
REALLY not a smart thing to do anywhere but particularly in Israel where offensive driving and fatal traffic accidents are commonplace.
I saw the light turn red but decided to go for it anyway. I know. Tsk tsk tsk. Bad cyclist.
I zipped into the crosswalk and in my peripheral vision sighted the portly, middle-aged male in bermuda shorts, tube socks and running shoes as he stepped off the curb.
I didn’t brake. Bad bad cyclist.
The pedestrian hastily retreated to the sidewalk and in a thick Scottish accent protested loudly to his companion:
“But the light is Green!”
And because I was zipping, I didn’t call out an apology. I was already gone.
But internally I chuckled.
Yes it’s green. But this is Israel! Must be a Tourist.
Technically I guess it could’ve been Manhattan or London or San Fran or Cairo. It’s sort of an urban thing but it doesn’t make it okay.
I know. Irresponsible and selfish.
Bad bad bad cyclist.
Dog Eat Dog (or Kaka) May 9, 2009
Would somebody please pinch me? ‘Cause I’m having a really tough time remembering why I went out and got a dog.
They’re cute and loyal and great companions and you thought it would be great for your kid and to safeguard the house. And don’t forget: Man’s Best Friend.
All of that’s true. But I’m a woman. And our 10-month-old black Lab mix is truly tapping into my serenity.
Ahh. A puppy. Why didn’t you say so?
Yes, and? I realize that puppies are notorious for gnawing at walls, chewing on furniture and succumbing to indoor accidents but my primary problem at the moment is with the things my not-so-little Butch has been getting into when we go out into the big world.
Let’s just say he evokes an acid trip-esque Andy Warhol Maurice way before he’ll get billing as Norman Rockwell’s Boy Meets His Dog.
What is it snookums? Go ahead and spill.
Thanks. Last week after an exhausting day of traipsing up to Jerusalem, rushing back to Tel Aviv, ferrying my son to swim practice and buying groceries, I took Butch to the dog park to play. I was reading my book while he romped with his friends Juno and Mitzee.
“Uh..You might want to go get Butch,” Juno’s person suggested, breaking into my reading tranquility zone. “They’re all in the bushes and…well you should probably go get him.”
For the non-dog people out there, here’s a shocker for you (consider this your disclaimer): For an asinine reason I have yet to even want to fathom, dogs like to roll in kaka. And eat it too. And usually they find it in bushes.
So when Mitzee’s person grabbed the stained white Samoyed by the collar and, gagging, pulled her from the crime scene, I knew what was in store for me. Butch was covered in it.
I didn’t gag. I didn’t even speak. I hooked him to his leash and promptly marched him to our front yard for a spigot bubble bath x 2.
The next day I reasoned: Keep him on leash and he can’t roll. True. But he CAN stick his snout through the neighbor’s fence and grab cat poop.
The day after I reasoned: He needs to run free or he’ll go nuts. I’ll take him to a different park where perhaps there are no treasure bushes.
Which I did. And as I sat reading on the park bench, off in the distance I saw him toss something small in the air with his mouth and when it landed, flip on his back and roll over it.
Disclaimer #2 for the non-dog people: Animals roll in dead animals. I dunno. Don’t ask.
This was a dead mouse he had unearthed somewhere. You’d be amazed at the powerful stench one tiny carcass can radiate. Especially when a 90-pound dog has rolled over it.
March home. Bubble bath #2 in as many days.
I’ll save the other bits. There are more. But in the name of good taste (har dee har) and at the prompting of my life coach who advises focusing on the positive, I stop here and instead call up some good points.
- My son loves him and the two together are wonderful to behold
- He’s a great watchdog
- He is very funny without trying to be
- He’s an incredibly good natured & playful dog
- He will grow up one day
Thank you for indulging me. Over & out. 
Stefanella's Drive Thru 