The first assumption is that this is an Intifada but I think it's fair to call the events of the past six months a low level, incredibly consistent uprising, so Intifada it is. Also, I noticed that at least some media are calling it the Knife Intifada, so that's additional support for the term Intifada. Now to the larger issue: how to parent mobile children during such times. This brings us to the second assumption of the post: it's impossible to keep any semblance of control over mobile children.
What are mobile children? For the purposes of today's discussion, they are any dependents who are old enough not to need anything more than tertiary monitoring. Unfortunately this describes all my children.
Son #1 is in the army which means most of the time he has a gun and travels with other soldiers who carry guns. When they are together, I worry less. It's the off time that concerns me the most. He comes home for Shabbat at 10:00 pm Thursday night and decides that it is an excellent time to go to Jerusalem. I know it's partly my age, but at 10:00 pm Thursday night I think it is an excellent time to put on my pyjamas. And what am I supposed to say to someone the army deems old enough to carry a gun on behalf of the country: "No, you can't go?" That's what I want to say, but he is almost 21, so it is ridiculous.
Son #2, upon hearing that Son #1 is going to Jerusalem, decides to go too. And for good measure says that he will drive so that Son #1 can catch up on his sleep en route. Keep in mind that Son #2, who lives in Jerusalem most of the week, knows full well that we will attempt to thwart his plan -- he is only 18 and just arrived home for Purim -- hence his gracious offer to accompany his brother. Of course, he was just praying that his brother would come home so he could justify taking the car back to Jerusalem. Apparently the Fates have looked kindly on him, and off they go.
That leaves us with Daughter #1, who upon noticing that she is home alone yet again, just goes out. None of my warnings to my sons hold any concern for her. At least she is in Ra'anana, although based on events of the past several months, that is no guarantee of safety either.
I tell them not to drive on highway 443 and to stay away from the Old City, but once they leave in the car I have utterly lost control.
I quickly send a WhatsApp telling them to call when they get there, but at 8:00 am the next morning I still haven't heard from them. First I panic and then I realize that, Thank God, there have been no middle of the night visits from the police, so things are probably okay. However, I don't want to be negligent so I send a second WhatsApp in CAPS asking them if they have arrived in Jerusalem yet.
When I finally speak to Son #2 he is at a total loss to understand my concerns. "There's nothing to worry about Ema," he tells me totally exasperated by my list of dos and don'ts. He thinks the media are over-reacting and people who are avoiding Israel are ...... (assume nothing nice is missing from this sentence). He fully intends to keep doing whatever it is he does regularly when he isn't in school.
I don't want him to be fearful but I also wish he had a slightly more cautious nature. So far, for him, it is good to be 18. I pray it stays that way. I also can't believe that I am relieved that my other son has a a big gun. (I just reread that sentence because I can't believe I just wrote it. There's a lot of suspended belief in my life these days.)
After over-dwelling on these thoughts it finally dawns on me -- not for the first time -- that life is truly out of our hands. A power much greater than I can truly imagine is in control. As a parent that doesn't really cheer me up but it does force me to accept that life must go on and we cannot be bullied into submission. If the past is any indication heeding the threats of bullies and intimidators did not serve us well either.
Showing posts with label life in Israel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life in Israel. Show all posts
Monday, March 28, 2016
Friday, May 1, 2015
Stray observations about IDF Parents' Day
Let me begin by saying that I could not have more gratitude, respect and general appreciation for the Israel Defence Forces. Without them my life, my family's and friends' lives, and the lives of unappreciative Jews everywhere, would not look as they do today -- which is a far sight better than they looked 75 years ago.
That said, I am not above finding the oddities in their procedures amusing. I have no doubt that many native born Israelis or long-time immigrants don't notice these things. And that's why I am here.
Yesterday we attended our first Parents' Day at our son's base. Our previous experience with children in the army did not include a Parents' Day, so this was all new.
Stray observations:
That said, I am not above finding the oddities in their procedures amusing. I have no doubt that many native born Israelis or long-time immigrants don't notice these things. And that's why I am here.
Yesterday we attended our first Parents' Day at our son's base. Our previous experience with children in the army did not include a Parents' Day, so this was all new.
Stray observations:
- There is a lot of hurry-up-and-wait time. For fear of missing the bus to the base we left home at 1:15 for a 5:30 program start-time. Since I don't want to mention where the base is located you will simply have to trust me when I say that we could have left at 3:30 and been totally fine driving ourselves right to the gates of the base. Instead, we took what seemed like an endless trip by car and bus -- and we were still 1.25 hours early.
- If you have not met people from every conceivable segment of Israeli society then you have not been to an army Parents' Day. I did not notice any cross-dressers but they may have been there too since everyone else was. And I would probably have overlooked them because they were dressed better than half the other women there .....
- There are a lot of inappropriately dressed woman in Israel -- from 60-year-olds in short shorts and high heels to 20-year-olds in pants that have more holes than material.
- The big military kahuna of the day's events was 25-years-old. And he has a lot of soldiers under his command. I still think I could have taken him or gone down swinging.
- The next-level-down commander tried his terrifying stare on me when my son introduced us, but it didn't work. I asked him how old he was. He said 22 and I sneered knowingly. He then smirked and made sure I noticed his very large gun. I did -- but I still wasn't scared. All the while my son was looking for a rock to hide behind.
- There was a noticeable absence of paper towels and the likes; I do not think hand washing is a big priority there -- and apparently Hezbollah and Hamas don't care. As an aside, think twice before shaking a soldier's hand. Better to just wave.
- The barracks make my son's previous home in a decrepit caravan at a hilltop yeshiva in the Shomron look downright posh. I mean five-star posh.
- "Ass" and "underneath" are yet another two words in Hebrew that can be mistaken for each other. So are "mattress" and "food". Who knew? My son took to walking behind me explaining my lousy Hebrew, and I just kept talking, knowing he would clean up after me.
- Grass fires in dry grass -- bad. And enough said.
It just goes to show how deceptive outward appearances can be because truth be told, I would take the 22-year-old glaring commander with the big gun and the even bigger attitude over just about anyone, any day.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Sometimes the strangest things happen 150 meters from home
Everything went off the rails as I was in the final minutes of preparation for Shabbat this past week. I couldn't find the shoes I wanted. I couldn't find all my electric timers. I never put on make-up or a pair of earrings. The kitchen was messy so I had to do a quick clean-up. The extra leaf for the dining room table wasn't sliding into place as expected. Really nothing catastrophic but enough to send me into a tailspin.
I managed to get to synagogue. Late. Very late. My seat of choice was already occupied as were most seats in the sanctuary. I am usually one of the early arrivers and that is the way I like it. This past week I had to search for a prayer book (thanks Sher) and a seat (thanks Pam) and my reading glasses (still searching). People who expect me in my usual spot, ultimately noticed me while they were gazing around aimlessly, and mouthed the words: "what are you doing way back there?" Damn good question.
But there is always something good that comes out of a bad situation. From my new, much higher vantage point, I could see the entire women's section without visual interference. Since I didn't have my reading glasses I couldn't read along. And since my husband and sons couldn't see me, I had the freedom to mentally wonder off without sensing their disapproval or seeing their hand motions for me to either stop talking or pay attention.
That's when I noticed a young woman on the other side of the floor wearing a white sweater with the letters WTF emblazoned on the chest in about 1000 point type. No, I am not exaggerating. I didn't want to jump to conclusions because I was sans glasses so I asked my friend: "Does that sweater say what I think it says?"
She automatically said no because it was pretty incredible, but at second glance (she is as blind as I am), she changed her mind. "Wow, I think it does."
Now, I have been known to go out in my pyjamas and without brushing my hair. I could even be accused of wearing socks with flip flops on occasion. But who the heck wears at sweater with the letters WTF the size of a small child, to synagogue? Fearing that I was becoming an old fogy, I had to let it go -- even though I wanted to go to the other side of the sanctuary for a better look.
I went home and forgot all about it until the next morning, when I was back in synagogue and the next weird thing happened.
In the middle of Torah reading, some kid -- about 11 years old -- mozied up onto the bima (or the altar segment of the sanctuary if you aren't Jewish) while someone was reading the Torah and started to play catch with himself against the walls of the cabinet that holds to Torah scrolls. For those who don't see a problem: this is a big no-no. I mean a really big no-no.
Once again, no one reacted. And we have a synagogue where people are known to over react for lots of reasons (most, not good reasons). I had my glasses this time so I knew I could see what was going on, but there wasn't a peep from the otherwise overly vocal crowd. I was sure I was losing my mind.
I moved into a seat near a friend of mine who has five boys and asked her: "Am I the only one who sees a kid playing catch on the bima? Am I the only one who thinks that's a bit odd?"
She stretched for a better look and said: "yeah, but he isn't bothering anyone and I don't recognize him so he is obviously a visitor who doesn't know any better." And that was that. That will teach me to ask someone with five boys -- they apparently need to be in a burning building before they sense trouble.
"Am I being an old fogy?" I asked her. "Yeah," she said and then went back to her prayer book.
And with that, I realized that some weeks it is better to stay home. If you begin Shabbat on the wrong foot, there is no where to go but down ... and apparently you have to go there alone.
I managed to get to synagogue. Late. Very late. My seat of choice was already occupied as were most seats in the sanctuary. I am usually one of the early arrivers and that is the way I like it. This past week I had to search for a prayer book (thanks Sher) and a seat (thanks Pam) and my reading glasses (still searching). People who expect me in my usual spot, ultimately noticed me while they were gazing around aimlessly, and mouthed the words: "what are you doing way back there?" Damn good question.
But there is always something good that comes out of a bad situation. From my new, much higher vantage point, I could see the entire women's section without visual interference. Since I didn't have my reading glasses I couldn't read along. And since my husband and sons couldn't see me, I had the freedom to mentally wonder off without sensing their disapproval or seeing their hand motions for me to either stop talking or pay attention.
That's when I noticed a young woman on the other side of the floor wearing a white sweater with the letters WTF emblazoned on the chest in about 1000 point type. No, I am not exaggerating. I didn't want to jump to conclusions because I was sans glasses so I asked my friend: "Does that sweater say what I think it says?"
She automatically said no because it was pretty incredible, but at second glance (she is as blind as I am), she changed her mind. "Wow, I think it does."
Now, I have been known to go out in my pyjamas and without brushing my hair. I could even be accused of wearing socks with flip flops on occasion. But who the heck wears at sweater with the letters WTF the size of a small child, to synagogue? Fearing that I was becoming an old fogy, I had to let it go -- even though I wanted to go to the other side of the sanctuary for a better look.
I went home and forgot all about it until the next morning, when I was back in synagogue and the next weird thing happened.
In the middle of Torah reading, some kid -- about 11 years old -- mozied up onto the bima (or the altar segment of the sanctuary if you aren't Jewish) while someone was reading the Torah and started to play catch with himself against the walls of the cabinet that holds to Torah scrolls. For those who don't see a problem: this is a big no-no. I mean a really big no-no.
Once again, no one reacted. And we have a synagogue where people are known to over react for lots of reasons (most, not good reasons). I had my glasses this time so I knew I could see what was going on, but there wasn't a peep from the otherwise overly vocal crowd. I was sure I was losing my mind.
I moved into a seat near a friend of mine who has five boys and asked her: "Am I the only one who sees a kid playing catch on the bima? Am I the only one who thinks that's a bit odd?"
She stretched for a better look and said: "yeah, but he isn't bothering anyone and I don't recognize him so he is obviously a visitor who doesn't know any better." And that was that. That will teach me to ask someone with five boys -- they apparently need to be in a burning building before they sense trouble.
"Am I being an old fogy?" I asked her. "Yeah," she said and then went back to her prayer book.
And with that, I realized that some weeks it is better to stay home. If you begin Shabbat on the wrong foot, there is no where to go but down ... and apparently you have to go there alone.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
The mourning after
Judaism, for those who observe it, comes with a very clear set of rules of how to mourn the loss of a family member. Seven days of shiva, 30 days of the shlosim and a year of avelut. Each has its own set of restrictions and behaviours that, in their own way, bring great comfort to the mourners.
But what does one do when the mourning is not for a family member, yet not a stranger either? This is the situation in which many Israelis find themselves right now.
We are not the immediate families of the three kidnapped boys who were discovered dead outside Hevron last week. But we are also far, far, far from being complete strangers. Many of us feel like they were the next best thing to our own sons and the situation in which they found themselves could have been the horrifying situation in which any one of us might have found ourselves. Emotionally, it hit waaaaaayyyyyyyy to close to home even though we never met them. We all have children, friends, or friends of friends, who did.
We can't help ourselves when we read every last morsel of news that might shed some clarifying light on the situation. It's not because we are voyeurs but rather because we are trying to understand how something like this could happen. Many of us have cried ourselves dry of tears with each new piece of information.
Even the Jews outside of Israel, who were originally saddened by the turn of events, have gone back to their routines. You can't blame them. It wasn't their loss. But it was ours.
Personally, I feel uncomfortable about getting back to my blog routine. Normally -- when innocent Israeli blood isn't being shed -- I have more than enough happy and funny content to fill these pages at least once a week. Life here never ceases to amaze me.
This past week, as we all continued to do our best to be happy at the simchas we attended and with the guests around our Shabbat tables, the conversation was never more than 30 seconds away from the boys and the predicament in which we, Israeli Jews, find ourselves right now.
It's not like we can discuss it with others outside our little world. As I said last week, no one really cares or cares to understand.
This past Shabbat I bumped into the daughter-in-law of my neighbours. She, her husband and their very cute little baby live in the Arab quarter of the Old City -- a risky and idealistic venture at the best of times. The riots of the past week have left them homeless. They went out for a quick dinner with the baby (thank heavens) and literally could not get back to their home -- at least not alive. So here they are, stuck in Middle Israel, with the clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads, and not much else.
It's really not time to stop mourning yet.
But what does one do when the mourning is not for a family member, yet not a stranger either? This is the situation in which many Israelis find themselves right now.
We are not the immediate families of the three kidnapped boys who were discovered dead outside Hevron last week. But we are also far, far, far from being complete strangers. Many of us feel like they were the next best thing to our own sons and the situation in which they found themselves could have been the horrifying situation in which any one of us might have found ourselves. Emotionally, it hit waaaaaayyyyyyyy to close to home even though we never met them. We all have children, friends, or friends of friends, who did.
We can't help ourselves when we read every last morsel of news that might shed some clarifying light on the situation. It's not because we are voyeurs but rather because we are trying to understand how something like this could happen. Many of us have cried ourselves dry of tears with each new piece of information.
Even the Jews outside of Israel, who were originally saddened by the turn of events, have gone back to their routines. You can't blame them. It wasn't their loss. But it was ours.
Personally, I feel uncomfortable about getting back to my blog routine. Normally -- when innocent Israeli blood isn't being shed -- I have more than enough happy and funny content to fill these pages at least once a week. Life here never ceases to amaze me.
This past week, as we all continued to do our best to be happy at the simchas we attended and with the guests around our Shabbat tables, the conversation was never more than 30 seconds away from the boys and the predicament in which we, Israeli Jews, find ourselves right now.
It's not like we can discuss it with others outside our little world. As I said last week, no one really cares or cares to understand.
This past Shabbat I bumped into the daughter-in-law of my neighbours. She, her husband and their very cute little baby live in the Arab quarter of the Old City -- a risky and idealistic venture at the best of times. The riots of the past week have left them homeless. They went out for a quick dinner with the baby (thank heavens) and literally could not get back to their home -- at least not alive. So here they are, stuck in Middle Israel, with the clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads, and not much else.
It's really not time to stop mourning yet.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
And life goes on ... sort of
Now I know what surreal means. I used to use the example of purple spaghetti when my kids asked me what it meant after an art gallery visit. That might have satisfied their little minds years ago but now I understand it on a deeper level and I think they should too.
Surreal is when life goes on -- we go to work, we walk our dogs, we eat, we go to synagogue, we meet friends for coffee, we exercise -- seemingly as always, but underneath the surface appearances, something has profoundly changed. Something is not as it should be.
This past week, I participated in the bar mitzvah celebrations of one of my 7th grade English students. At this stage, more often than not, when I am at a bar mitzvah, I am there because the parents are my friends and not because I know and like the bar mitzvah boy. This past weekend I was there because I am invested in this kid's life and I was proud of him. I really enjoyed throwing whatever candies I hadn't already eaten while I was waiting for the candy-throwing moment, at him, and I was really caught up in the festive atmosphere that typically follows when every little kid in the synagogue runs after those candies with wild abandon. I have seen my dog maintain more self-control when confronted with treats!!!!
Then, just like that, my head sent out a quick reminder that there are three innocent boys who could not have participated in a celebration like this even if they wanted to.
Good-bye joy. I forced myself to sit a little longer but then I decided to leave. (full disclosure: I frequently leave early so I didn't make a huge departure from my routine.)
As I left I was trying to figure out if I was the only person thinking this way. The sun was out, the weather was beautiful, it was Shabbat and people were chatting on street corners. By the time I arrived at my friend's house a few minutes later, I had my answer: the fate of these boys was on all my religious friends' minds. No matter what we all talked about for the next hour, all conversation doubled back to the boys and every piece of news and speculation we have collectively read in the past nine days. "I heard ..."; "I read ..."; "So and so told me .....".
This morning, as I walked my dog, I started to wonder if perhaps it was only religious people who were worried about the boys. After all the boys are religious and in Israel, many issues divide along religious and secular lines. And I am sure that hitchhiking in the Territories is one of them. So, since I like to view this as a statistically valid blog, I ran an ad hoc interview with the secular woman who irons my family's shirts. She was born and raised here. I am not sure that a survey of one is a valid sample size, but I do have a life to live so that's my sample size!
She explained to me in Hebrew (because she does not speak any English) that everyone is concerned and everyone runs to hear the news at the top of the hour to see if there has been any progress made finding the psychopaths who took the three innocent boys. But, she said, this is the cycle of life in Israel, and we cannot stop living just because there has been a tragedy. Then she said, if we did (stop living for tragedies) there would be years where nothing productive was done.
Of course, if I am being totally realistic, I have religious friends who are very left-wing and I am sure that right now they are seething inside -- dying to scream out: "It's their (the boys) own fault for being out there and they are getting what they deserve." I am sure that they are all letting out their true feelings when they meet up with other anti-Israel Israelis living in Israel (don't ever say we don't have all types in this democracy) for reasons that I don't really understand. However, they are demonstrating impressive survival skills -- keeping their thoughts to themselves for the time being.
So life goes on. Tonight I am going to a wedding. I am sure it will be fun and I love seeing young happy couples beginning their lives together. But at some point, I know I am going to step back and think that this is a real-time example of my surrealistic world.
She explained to me in Hebrew (because she does not speak any English) that everyone is concerned and everyone runs to hear the news at the top of the hour to see if there has been any progress made finding the psychopaths who took the three innocent boys. But, she said, this is the cycle of life in Israel, and we cannot stop living just because there has been a tragedy. Then she said, if we did (stop living for tragedies) there would be years where nothing productive was done.
Of course, if I am being totally realistic, I have religious friends who are very left-wing and I am sure that right now they are seething inside -- dying to scream out: "It's their (the boys) own fault for being out there and they are getting what they deserve." I am sure that they are all letting out their true feelings when they meet up with other anti-Israel Israelis living in Israel (don't ever say we don't have all types in this democracy) for reasons that I don't really understand. However, they are demonstrating impressive survival skills -- keeping their thoughts to themselves for the time being.
So life goes on. Tonight I am going to a wedding. I am sure it will be fun and I love seeing young happy couples beginning their lives together. But at some point, I know I am going to step back and think that this is a real-time example of my surrealistic world.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
I think I just saw God on the job
I just saw one of those remarkable life moments that can only be explained by the existence of a higher being. He must have been scanning my grocery store today and happened upon this scene:
I went to the grocery store at about 1:30 p.m. to have some peace and quiet while I shopped. All the mothers' of young children were at home with said young children and all the working people who had stopped by to grab a few things for lunch were already back at work. There was only me, lots of seniors and this one mother-adult daughter combo who apparently, despite the strange hour, were in line to pay for what looked to me like some pointless grocery items (yes, I checked their cart).
My favorite cashier, Malka, was running their non-essential items through the scanner when she was called away for a mili-second by the cashier at the next register. Apparently cashier no. 2 could not get a reading on what looked like leeks. Malka kindly took the item, scanned them and returned them to cashier no. 2.
How long did this whole exchange take? Maybe two minutes. Maybe. Probably not that long.
I like Malka for many reasons. First and foremost, she speaks very good English which was important to me 10 years ago when I first started frequenting this grocery store. Second, she always tells me when there is a better price or sale that I missed. Third, she does not try to force me to buy the specials that I do not want or need. Fourth, she likes to have a little chitchat and discuss family life. Fifth, she reminds me of what I think Mortitia of the Addams Family could look like at 65 if she did not take care of herself. Sixth, she is just a nice person, plain and simple.... (who looks like Mortitia after a night of serious drinking on the wrong side of the tracks).
Apparently the woman trying to finish her shopping with her equally unpleasant adult daughter did not appreciate all the good things about Malka or the fact that she was helping a co-worker. This is how the conversation went from there (imagine it in Hebrew and assume that what I am describing is close to accurate).
Unpleasant customer: Hello. Hello. I am standing here. Why aren't you scanning my groceries?
Malka: I'm sorry, I needed a moment to help the cashier (nodding to cashier no. 2 at the next register).
Unpleasant customer: You can't help her; you are supposed to be here.
Malka: Yes, but she needed some help and I had to help her -- and you just had to wait a second.
Unpleasant customer: I don't care what she needs.
Malka: That's a shame.
After that, everyone had aired their grievances and gone back to what they were doing prior to the incident. And that is when IT happened.
The groceries were all bagged and ready to go. The unpleasant customer took out her wallet to pay and handed Malka several bills. Malka said: "No, this register only takes credit cards."
The unpleasant customer flipped out and started screaming: "How was I supposed to know that???"
Malka calmly pointed to the huge, unavoidable black and white sign hanging over her aisle that said: Credit Cards Only. Two points for Malka.
The unpleasant lady then said: "What am I supposed to do with all these groceries?"
Malka shrugged and pointed to another register.
The now totally disgruntled unpleasant customer dragged all her bags of groceries somewhere. I didn't bother to watch because I was pretty much exhausted from trying to hold in my guffaws of laughter.
As Malka started scanning my groceries, she looked up and she said in English: "Some people have no decency." I leaned in to tell her my theory about the Hand of God, and just then she said: "You know I am not a religious person but sometimes you just can't ignore the idea that there must be someone up there looking out for people like me."
I couldn't agree more.
I went to the grocery store at about 1:30 p.m. to have some peace and quiet while I shopped. All the mothers' of young children were at home with said young children and all the working people who had stopped by to grab a few things for lunch were already back at work. There was only me, lots of seniors and this one mother-adult daughter combo who apparently, despite the strange hour, were in line to pay for what looked to me like some pointless grocery items (yes, I checked their cart).
My favorite cashier, Malka, was running their non-essential items through the scanner when she was called away for a mili-second by the cashier at the next register. Apparently cashier no. 2 could not get a reading on what looked like leeks. Malka kindly took the item, scanned them and returned them to cashier no. 2.
How long did this whole exchange take? Maybe two minutes. Maybe. Probably not that long.
I like Malka for many reasons. First and foremost, she speaks very good English which was important to me 10 years ago when I first started frequenting this grocery store. Second, she always tells me when there is a better price or sale that I missed. Third, she does not try to force me to buy the specials that I do not want or need. Fourth, she likes to have a little chitchat and discuss family life. Fifth, she reminds me of what I think Mortitia of the Addams Family could look like at 65 if she did not take care of herself. Sixth, she is just a nice person, plain and simple.... (who looks like Mortitia after a night of serious drinking on the wrong side of the tracks).
Apparently the woman trying to finish her shopping with her equally unpleasant adult daughter did not appreciate all the good things about Malka or the fact that she was helping a co-worker. This is how the conversation went from there (imagine it in Hebrew and assume that what I am describing is close to accurate).
Unpleasant customer: Hello. Hello. I am standing here. Why aren't you scanning my groceries?
Malka: I'm sorry, I needed a moment to help the cashier (nodding to cashier no. 2 at the next register).
Unpleasant customer: You can't help her; you are supposed to be here.
Malka: Yes, but she needed some help and I had to help her -- and you just had to wait a second.
Unpleasant customer: I don't care what she needs.
Malka: That's a shame.
After that, everyone had aired their grievances and gone back to what they were doing prior to the incident. And that is when IT happened.
The groceries were all bagged and ready to go. The unpleasant customer took out her wallet to pay and handed Malka several bills. Malka said: "No, this register only takes credit cards."
The unpleasant customer flipped out and started screaming: "How was I supposed to know that???"
Malka calmly pointed to the huge, unavoidable black and white sign hanging over her aisle that said: Credit Cards Only. Two points for Malka.
The unpleasant lady then said: "What am I supposed to do with all these groceries?"
Malka shrugged and pointed to another register.
The now totally disgruntled unpleasant customer dragged all her bags of groceries somewhere. I didn't bother to watch because I was pretty much exhausted from trying to hold in my guffaws of laughter.
As Malka started scanning my groceries, she looked up and she said in English: "Some people have no decency." I leaned in to tell her my theory about the Hand of God, and just then she said: "You know I am not a religious person but sometimes you just can't ignore the idea that there must be someone up there looking out for people like me."
I couldn't agree more.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Browsing only in the corner store
I never really meant to take a four month hiatus. I had nothing in particular to say one week, and then I had something I really wanted to say the following week, but I had no time to do so. Next thing you know it's November and the Mexicali's are having lunch at my house when Mr. Mexicali says: "I check for new posts on your blog every now and then, but there hasn't been one for a while." All true. I just explained why so I am not going over that again.
And it's not like nothing happened during those months that was worth commenting on because heaven knows, while I can't explain it, I am totally convinced that if you simply get out of bed every day and leave the house, eventually something strange will happen.
Last week I was in our neighbourhood corner store -- yes, the same one that I boycotted for six months a few years back until I was suitably convinced that the owner got my point and missed me. Well, he may have missed me and I did return, but the people who work there are not less ridiculous than they were then.
I found a new product in the refridgerated cheese section -- actually, it was the low fat version of an existing cheese product that I really like but regularly refuse to buy because I wouldn't allow myself or my family to eat anything with 28% fat content.
I quickly scanned the label and put two packages in my cart. I continued with my shopping and made my way to the cashier. I placed all my acquisitions on the moving belt. The cashier finished with the man in front of me and started on my groceries. When she noticed the unfamiliar cheese product, she picked it up to have a better look. I thought she was quietly acknowledging the fabulous new product as I had done just a few minutes prior.
Nope.
She looked over the cheese a few times and finally looked up at me and said: "You can't buy this."
As you may remember, I have had more than one scrap with the corner store and I absolutely refuse to go quietly into the night. I am not going to be bullied, intimidated or manipulated by any cashier that they may throw at me.
"Why not?" I asked her.
"I don't know what it is and I don't know how much it costs, so you can't buy it." That was all she had to say. As far as she was concerned that was the end of that.
As far as I was concerned that was only the beginning and I shifted into rebuttal mode. "If you place a product on a display shelf," I said, "then it is for sale. And if you don't know how much it costs then charge me the same as the regular version."
I thought that I had made two sound arguments and so did the irate customers in line behind me. Everyone was nodding in agreement and I was sure that I had won the debate.
Nope.
"I can't sell it to you," she said. And with that, she took the cheese and placed it under her work area.
"Well, if it isn't for sale, then why is it on the cheese shelf?" I thought for sure that the conversation was over now and that she would relent.
Here's what she said: "we only put it there so that people would know we had a new product."
And with that, she told me how much I owed her for the other items had had just purchased.
And it's not like nothing happened during those months that was worth commenting on because heaven knows, while I can't explain it, I am totally convinced that if you simply get out of bed every day and leave the house, eventually something strange will happen.
Last week I was in our neighbourhood corner store -- yes, the same one that I boycotted for six months a few years back until I was suitably convinced that the owner got my point and missed me. Well, he may have missed me and I did return, but the people who work there are not less ridiculous than they were then.
I found a new product in the refridgerated cheese section -- actually, it was the low fat version of an existing cheese product that I really like but regularly refuse to buy because I wouldn't allow myself or my family to eat anything with 28% fat content.
I quickly scanned the label and put two packages in my cart. I continued with my shopping and made my way to the cashier. I placed all my acquisitions on the moving belt. The cashier finished with the man in front of me and started on my groceries. When she noticed the unfamiliar cheese product, she picked it up to have a better look. I thought she was quietly acknowledging the fabulous new product as I had done just a few minutes prior.
Nope.
She looked over the cheese a few times and finally looked up at me and said: "You can't buy this."
As you may remember, I have had more than one scrap with the corner store and I absolutely refuse to go quietly into the night. I am not going to be bullied, intimidated or manipulated by any cashier that they may throw at me.
"Why not?" I asked her.
"I don't know what it is and I don't know how much it costs, so you can't buy it." That was all she had to say. As far as she was concerned that was the end of that.
As far as I was concerned that was only the beginning and I shifted into rebuttal mode. "If you place a product on a display shelf," I said, "then it is for sale. And if you don't know how much it costs then charge me the same as the regular version."
I thought that I had made two sound arguments and so did the irate customers in line behind me. Everyone was nodding in agreement and I was sure that I had won the debate.
Nope.
"I can't sell it to you," she said. And with that, she took the cheese and placed it under her work area.
"Well, if it isn't for sale, then why is it on the cheese shelf?" I thought for sure that the conversation was over now and that she would relent.
Here's what she said: "we only put it there so that people would know we had a new product."
And with that, she told me how much I owed her for the other items had had just purchased.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Parallel universes
Last Shabbat we were in Jerusalem staying at nice hotel and celebrating the bar mitzvah of friends of ours. The bar mitzvah boy's father was originally from Montreal and since he recently did a post-doc in his professional field in Toronto, the family has many ties with the Toronto Jewish Community.And as a result, there were a significant number of Torontonians at the bar mitzvah.
As with any good celebratory event, the speeches began not long after the main course of the first meal on Friday night. And that was when I first noticed that although we were all sitting in the same room, eating at the same tables, and talking to each other, we were apparently doing so from the vantage point of parallel universes. So close, yet so far away.
When the first non-Israeli speaker referred to what a sacrifice the family had made by choosing to live in Israel, it caught my attention. He went on to talk about the fact that the bar mitzvah boy got up so early every morning to get to his yeshiva-of-choice in far-off Bnei Brak. (I am sure that if snow were a common element in Israel, we would have heard about how the poor bar mitzvah boy had to trudge to school in the snow without proper boots -- all because of the gigantic sarcrifice his parents had made by choosing to live in Israel.)
I looked around the room and none of the other Israeli residents seemed to notice, so I thought I was being hyper-sensitive, and dismissed the comments.
Then the second Toronto speaker got up and lo and behold, the entire routine started all over again. This time, with a little more drama. Let me paraphrase here: 'the family had made the ultimate sacrifice by choosing to live in Israel when they could have stayed in Toronto, quickly become millionaires, been part of an amazing Jewish community, yada yada'. And then: 'kudos to the bar mitzvah boy who must get out of bed in the wee hours of the morning, earlier than all of his friends at lesser schools, so that he can travel to his yeshiva in Bnei Brak and study until much later in the evening than said friends'.
Okay, that was it for me. My sons are at the same yeshiva and as far as I can tell, no one does much work until 10th grade -- well past the age of the bar mitzvah boy. And as for their hours -- there are many days that I turn around and there they are. I say: "what are you doing here?" (fair question at noon) to which they often respond one of the following: "I didn't want to go to gym so I came home", "the class was cancelled", "I didn't feel well", "I wasn't in the mood for school", "the rav had to leave" ......
Although this well-intentioned man didn't know it, there are lots of kids in this neighbourhood who go to school earlier and get home later than our kids. I know because I see them sitting on the curb waiting for their rides at 6:30 a.m. They are dressed for school, but mentally they are still in bed -- or hospital since many of them look comatose.
At this point in the evening, I no longer cared if anyone else noticed the first two speakers' comments. I couldn't stop snickering to myself about how well-educated, Israel-committed Jews living outside of Israel have absolutely NO idea what it is like to live here. And they have filled that void with the most ridiculous stories. I mean, it is nice to be perceived as heroic but I think it is best to actually have done something to earn the title.
So now, let me set the record straight.
We live in a small city of approximately 70,000 people, 25 minutes from Tel Aviv. The city has two movie theatres that show approximately 10 recently-released movies between them on any given night. There are more restaurants in Ra'anana than I can visit in a given month. All the large Israeli banks are here. There are at least 30 traffic lights, 10 religious schools, as well as the only (secular) school in the country to produce four pilots for the IDF last year. You can get a manicure, pedicure, doctor's appointment, new bra, new Italian shoes, new hair dryer, new computer, new GPS and on and on and on. I think you get the point. And don't even get me started on Tel Aviv ... where, yesterday, a Southeby's auction sold a painting by a living Israeli artist for almost US$700,000. If that isn't civilized I don't know what is.
Obviously, neither of the speechmakers intended to insult Israel, but the sad truth is that they have no idea what our lives here are like. After a visit one year from one of my old Canadian friends, she looked at me and said: "Basically, you live the same life as you lived in Toronto but without the snow and with the greater potential for danger." I am not even sure I agree with her assessment, but heaven knows, it was closer to my reality than what I heard the other night.
That's the tricky thing about parallel universes. They seem so close together when, in fact, they are so very far apart.
As with any good celebratory event, the speeches began not long after the main course of the first meal on Friday night. And that was when I first noticed that although we were all sitting in the same room, eating at the same tables, and talking to each other, we were apparently doing so from the vantage point of parallel universes. So close, yet so far away.
When the first non-Israeli speaker referred to what a sacrifice the family had made by choosing to live in Israel, it caught my attention. He went on to talk about the fact that the bar mitzvah boy got up so early every morning to get to his yeshiva-of-choice in far-off Bnei Brak. (I am sure that if snow were a common element in Israel, we would have heard about how the poor bar mitzvah boy had to trudge to school in the snow without proper boots -- all because of the gigantic sarcrifice his parents had made by choosing to live in Israel.)
I looked around the room and none of the other Israeli residents seemed to notice, so I thought I was being hyper-sensitive, and dismissed the comments.
Then the second Toronto speaker got up and lo and behold, the entire routine started all over again. This time, with a little more drama. Let me paraphrase here: 'the family had made the ultimate sacrifice by choosing to live in Israel when they could have stayed in Toronto, quickly become millionaires, been part of an amazing Jewish community, yada yada'. And then: 'kudos to the bar mitzvah boy who must get out of bed in the wee hours of the morning, earlier than all of his friends at lesser schools, so that he can travel to his yeshiva in Bnei Brak and study until much later in the evening than said friends'.
Okay, that was it for me. My sons are at the same yeshiva and as far as I can tell, no one does much work until 10th grade -- well past the age of the bar mitzvah boy. And as for their hours -- there are many days that I turn around and there they are. I say: "what are you doing here?" (fair question at noon) to which they often respond one of the following: "I didn't want to go to gym so I came home", "the class was cancelled", "I didn't feel well", "I wasn't in the mood for school", "the rav had to leave" ......
Although this well-intentioned man didn't know it, there are lots of kids in this neighbourhood who go to school earlier and get home later than our kids. I know because I see them sitting on the curb waiting for their rides at 6:30 a.m. They are dressed for school, but mentally they are still in bed -- or hospital since many of them look comatose.
At this point in the evening, I no longer cared if anyone else noticed the first two speakers' comments. I couldn't stop snickering to myself about how well-educated, Israel-committed Jews living outside of Israel have absolutely NO idea what it is like to live here. And they have filled that void with the most ridiculous stories. I mean, it is nice to be perceived as heroic but I think it is best to actually have done something to earn the title.
So now, let me set the record straight.
We live in a small city of approximately 70,000 people, 25 minutes from Tel Aviv. The city has two movie theatres that show approximately 10 recently-released movies between them on any given night. There are more restaurants in Ra'anana than I can visit in a given month. All the large Israeli banks are here. There are at least 30 traffic lights, 10 religious schools, as well as the only (secular) school in the country to produce four pilots for the IDF last year. You can get a manicure, pedicure, doctor's appointment, new bra, new Italian shoes, new hair dryer, new computer, new GPS and on and on and on. I think you get the point. And don't even get me started on Tel Aviv ... where, yesterday, a Southeby's auction sold a painting by a living Israeli artist for almost US$700,000. If that isn't civilized I don't know what is.
Obviously, neither of the speechmakers intended to insult Israel, but the sad truth is that they have no idea what our lives here are like. After a visit one year from one of my old Canadian friends, she looked at me and said: "Basically, you live the same life as you lived in Toronto but without the snow and with the greater potential for danger." I am not even sure I agree with her assessment, but heaven knows, it was closer to my reality than what I heard the other night.
That's the tricky thing about parallel universes. They seem so close together when, in fact, they are so very far apart.
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