Stefanella's Drive Thru

Israel, U.S., conflict, war, peace, humor, travel, romance, fashion, fun

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.    crazybutch


FREE CANDY!!! November 11, 2008

Municipal elections were held today in Israel and in order to accommodate voters, numerous schools were transformed into polling centers for the day, my son’s including.  So he had the day off which was great for him.   

En route to the park with our new companion “Butch”, a black lab & I dunno what mix, I explained to my son that I’d soon make my way to his school to cast my vote for Tel Aviv mayor. “The person who is the head of the city,” I explained, and continued: “If I were mayor, there’d be free candy for everyone and no teeth brushing ever!”

“YAHOO” my son-turned-instant-fan encouraged.  “Will you be the mayor?”

I chuckled and shrugged my shoulders.

The thing about almost-7-year-olds is that they take things kind of literally.

“My mom’s going to be mayor,” he told his best friend later in the day.  “And then she’s going to give us free candy and we don’t have to brush our teeth or go to school!”  My son has learned to embellish already.  Bless.

“YAHOO!” he and his friend hooted, stomping their feet and waving their arms wildly.

I chuckled again.

Later in the evening, as my son and I walked home from his art class he asked: “Did you win yet mom?  I’d sure love some candy.”

“Too early to know sweetie,” I replied.

Quick.  Send ideas. What to tell him tomorrow morning?  On second thought, it’s not important.  Just as long as the child continues believing his mayor-elect-mom is 23, everything else falls by the wayside.

Thanks anyway,

Your Future Mayor and Candy Contributor. . .



No Hurting Kids Allowed! September 17, 2008

My son started 1st grade this month; I blogged it here a few weeks ago.

As we now settle into the routine of week three, my petit jewel is revealing a penchant for learning: he is eager to come home and complete homework assignments and he asks permission to skip ahead in his books.

I’m, on the other hand, recovering from the shock of observing MY child, less than a month into formal education, reading text.  MY BOY IS READING!!!… IN HEBREW & ENGLISH!

I know.  No biggie for those of you multi-lingual old timers.  So indulge me for a minute, okay?  Thanks.

I also blogged about how the whole school in Israel (Holy Land Central or HLC) thing is a no-reference-point situation for me because I didn’t grow up here. So buying books, getting “uniforms” (tee-shirts bearing the school logo) and even being told by the headmistress that yes, we parents of English speaking kids can bring in a private English tutor for our kids during regular school hours without going through bureaucratic hassle or paperwork is all new and wondrous for me.

One aspect of the school experience, however, is oh-so-universal…

1st Grade Son, casual-like, while playing with Legos: Oh mom, when I was on the playground today a big kid threw a ball in my face and he and the other big kids laughed.

Stefanella, putting down Newspaper: Did you get hurt?

Son: It felt like my nose would fall off.

Stefanella, steam rising: Lemme see…  How big of a big kid?  Did you cry?

Son: I think they were in 3rd or 4th grade.  Yeah, I cried.

Stefanella, through clenched teeth: Was there a playground teacher out there?  Did anyone help you?

Son: Yeah.  She said she would tell the boys’ teachers later.

Stefanella, pondering: And it wasn’t an accident?

Son: No.  They laughed when the one boy did it.

Stefanella: You’re okay?

Son: Yeah.  Can I play computer games?

Stefanella, seething: Sure, honey.

Stefanella, Internal Dialoguing: I’ll show you what’s funny.  Hurt MY BOY?  MY BOY?  The one with a halo ’round the back of his Head?  Ooh, you all don’t KNOW what hurt is!  I’ll come over there and show you.  NO ARMS, NO BALL THROWING!  Picking on MY little boy?  Uh Uh.  I don’t think SO!

But of course, I did nothing.  Because that wee story shot me back a few decades.  And a schoolyard is a schoolyard is a schoolyard.  T’ain’t a thing I can do.  Make it worse, maybe, by storming the kids or talking to a teacher.  Unless it gets bad.  Otherwise, this is what proving ground is all about.

And as a mom, it sorta sucks.

Stefanella, in a calmer state: Honey, if the boys throw balls at you again, let me know.  Sometimes kids just do stuff like that.  Okay?

Stefanella, internally dialoguing: Just do stuff like that.  Just do stuff like that? *#*%@ I’ll just DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT! #@*% *sigh*


Shalom Kitah Alef…1st Grade, Here We Come! September 1, 2008

The last week or two has been a concentrated flurry of prepping my 6-year-old for 1st grade.

And because we’re here in Holy Land Central aka “HLC” aka Israel, the entire experience of getting him ready for this school system has meant initiation time for me too.  Because I didn’t grow up here so I do-not-know-the-ropes.

The process began with the list of school supplies that arrived in the mail.

I’m fluent in Hebrew.  I read newspapers, watch movies & t.v. and carry on semi-intelligent conversations in the language of the Biblical Land each and every day.  But I didn’t know what a full third of the listed supplies were nor did I know what they would be used for.  “LabelsA green plastic assignment folder ? He’s talented, but Oil Pastels, watercolors, markers and a sketch pad for art classes? He’s six!”

So it was off to the good neighbor’s house who patiently translated.  And dully sent me packing to the bookstore.

Which presented learning curve hurdle #2.  But before we go there, a friendly word from your sponsors: All you Nortes Americanos out there: You Are Privileged! You live in a wealthy country.  Bow your heads in Gratitude and utter THANKS!

From kindergarten to college my parents never paid for school books.  In my growing up years, the deal was: Show up on the 1st day of class and there’s a standard issue.  Done Deal.  Unless a text falls from the window of a fast-moving car, rolls into a mud patch or is fed to Bingo the dog for dinner, not one dime changes hands in exchange for trusty texts.

In the crazed scene that was my local Tel Aviv bookstore last week, however, parents frantically handed syllabus and supply lists to harried counter people who scrambled to fill orders.  Living in HLC, I have come to appreciate good old fashioned elbows jutted, “get outta my way because I DO OWN THE PLACE” attitudes & jam-packed scenes because it’s part of the …oh let’s just call it charm for lack of better phrasing, shall we?  The bookstore was no exception: charm overflowed.

An hour after arriving I was $200 lighter and had discovered that my childhood memories of prepping for a school year by picking out a new pair of shoes and an outfit for Day 1 would not be rite of passaged on down to my son. Nor would most of my school-associated memories because the school experience is completely different over here.   

Heck, at orientation night we parents were treated to a child psychologist’s lecture on transitioning from Kindergarten to 1st grade.  I don’t think my parents got those deliverables when I was a kid.  To illustrate the inherent difficulty of learning to read & write,  the psychologist asked parents to phonetically string together the sentence: “Shalom Kitah Alef” (Hello 1st Grade) ….in Tagalog.  It wasn’t simple.

As the school year opened this morning, my son and his 1st grade peers were greeted by a clown at the front gate and a ceremony performed in the schoolyard by 5th graders. “Hey 1st graders,” the older kids crooned to the pack of wee ones, “we know you’re frightened and it seems overwhelming but don’t worry.  We’ve been there and you’ll do fine.”  It was touching.  My son’s response: “ was sorta fun but kind of boring”.

It’s actually kind of heady stuff learning the ropes with my child as he moves into new phases of his life in this new and oft times very foreign place.

As I contemplated pushing through the throng of parents to plant a final farewell kiss on his cheek before he entered the school building for the day I discovered something else:

He was talking to a new friend.  He wasn’t searching for me.  He was okay.

I vacillated between the messsage echoed in the previous night’s deliberate bedtime reading choice, Oh,the Places You’ll Go! and my internal dialogue:

That’s it?  I don’t run after him?  I just let him go through those doors and start this next life phase just like that?