Lessons Learned Whilst Living with a 7-year-old:
Okay honey, time for bed. Let’s brush teeth.
I don’t want to. Why do I have to brush my teeth anyway?
So they won’t fall out.
But if they fall out, I can get gold ones!
Over my dead body.
Okay then. Silver.
Characters: 7-year-old boy & 7-year-old boy’s Mother
Setting: Dinner table in a Tel Aviv apartment. 7-year-old has finished eating. His mother has not
7-year-old: I’m finished. Can I go play on the computer now?
Mother: Nope. Sit with me until I’m finished. It won’t take long.
7-year-old: (ponders for a moment) How about we make a deal?
Mother: Uhum. What kind of deal?
7-year-old: If you let me go play on the computer now, I promise that when you’re old and in a wheelchair I’ll push you wherever you need to go and I’ll buy you things so you won’t have to spend your money. Okay?
It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve been trolling the someecards site for clever greetings to mark the occasion. I chose a few of my favorites & I’m linking here & here
To those celebrating: Enjoy your holiday.
I was planning to head up to Jerusalem and walk the Via Dolorosa then go on into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to light a candle for those of you who couldn’t make it to Holy Land Central in person today. But I changed my mind.
Going to the beach and a movie instead.
Happy Easter Anyway!!
Your friend, Stef
What kind of crazy advertising do they get up to in Israel? Judge fer yerself.
Thanks to my very funny friend Benji for this one – Benji blogs over at What War Zone.
I am trying to imagine this mini-van with its logo and image of the guy on the magic throne bumping along the streets of my parent’s manicured, Ohio condo community. AHHHH!!!
Late one afternoon last week, my 7-year-old and I set out on a wee bicycle jaunt through Tel Aviv to mark the official start of Spring Break.
Crossing one of the city’s main Boulevards – Ben Gurion named for Israel’s 1st Prime Minister – we passed kiosk cafes, juice stands, parents with toddlers playing in mini-playgrounds and other cyclists also enjoying the mild weather.
As we neared the beach we heard strains of live music – mostly drumming really. Exciting! We neared the source and discovered a percussionist and trumpet player whooping it up, the trumpet case open at their feet exhibiting a fair amount of donated coins. We paused to listen and watch. The spectacle was a rarity in the city. A treat.
“Mom, do you think they have homes? I want to give them some money,” my concerned son queried.
I guffawed out loud. Because this was the two-man band:
Honey, they’re okay I reassured.
Clearly the formative years of his life spent in “teeming with homeless” San Francisco have shaped some of my son’s notions.
See these beautiful shiny solar dishes? They are located on a new Israeli solar farm on the brink of going operational. Yesterday Stefanella was privy to a press tour of the grounds and interview time with the scientists who innovated the farm’s new solar harnessing technology.
See the nice man in the picture? Come closer. Notice that wee bit of raspy smoke appearing to rise out of the crown of his head? Nope, it’s not Photoshop.
Heed this lesson kiddies: When standing in a field amidst solar dishes, position yourselves far far away from the reflective panels.
Follow this link – it’s non-embed-able. G’head. You won’t be sorry.
THANKS LAURA!
You know when you first move to a different country or state or city how you’re painfully aware of all the differences?
All the things that were “done like that” in the place you just came from but in the new transplant place aren’t “done like that” anymore? Now they’re done “like this”.
Which is infuriating.
– “What do you mean you just went over there for a minute to get something but you were really standing in front of me in line?” You were not! Okay. Okay. Maybe I’ll go down the street to pick up my dry cleaning and catch a movie on the way back and then come back here and reclaim my place in line! What do you think of that, hmmm? You don’t care? OMG!!! Where in the hell am I?
– Is that guy going to move out of the way or is he going to keep walking on MY SIDE of the sidewalk and run me down? By God he IS going to run into me! But he’s on my side of the sidewalk! Right Side! Right Side! It’s like DRIVING! He Ran Into Me! OMG!!
– Honey can you go into the kitchen and get a new serving spoon? Why? This one’s fine. Trust me. Just get a new one and keep your voice down will you? The guests might hear you. What’s going on? The Vassberger kid – Noah- tasted the egg salad directly from the serving bowl, alright? Ooohhhh! You’re kidding! Did he double dip? No, thank god. I grabbed it out of his hand in time. His parents saw the whole thing and they didn’t say a word. Is that something people DO here? God, I dunno. Please. Just get a new spoon and don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?
These are but a few samples. And yes, they’re real.
I think, however, what’s more frightening than the above is suddenly realizing you’ve morphed into one of them! “When on EARTH did THAT happen?” you ask yourself.
And no, I’m not slandering Israelis. I became “one of them” in San Francisco when I took up meditation and Yoga, in Colorado when I planted skis on my feet and took to the hills and in the Sinai Desert when I resigned myself to languishing on the beach, snorkeling, languishing, smoking a cigarette or two, languishing, eating dinner, languishing and playing backgammon in a languished pose.
I must’ve been morphing all along these past few years in Holy Land Central but I wasn’t paying attention. Until last week. . .
– At the supermarket, the checkout ladies were having a helluva struggle with the new computerized cash registers. “ITZIK!” they’re yelling for the duty manager holding the magic register key. “ITZIK!” the customers in the snaking down aisle 4 line are calling after the manager with the magic register key. In fact, it’s one big chorus of ITZIK! ITZIK! ITZIK!
And instead of getting angry and fuming over idling in the 10-item only speed line for 20 minutes, I start laughing. In an uproarious sort of way. And the cash register lady pauses between “ITZIK!”‘s and asks: What are you laughing at? And I don’t know what to tell her. So I bust out some more and internally dialogue: this scenario is SO absurd it should be a sketch or episode of something somewhere. I’m not upset about “them”. I’m laughing.
– Or, as we’re exiting the pediatrician’s office in a posh Tel Aviv neighborhood, my 6-year-old steps into the nearby bushes and begins tugging at his trousers. “ABSOLUTELY NOT!” I roar. “MARCH RIGHT BACK IN THERE AND USE THE TOILET! AND DON’T YOU DARE DO THAT WHEN WE GET TO GRANDMA AND GRANDPA’S IN AMERICA!” My lord, he is morphing too.
We’re a regular comedy tag-team act we are.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Stefanella's Drive Thru 