Our House is a Very, Very, Very Fine House

With 12 cats in the yard, life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you.

Lately, I’ve realized just how much appreciate where I live. No, I don’t mean Israel. I mean the suburbs. Now, those of you who have heard me talk about Ramat Hasharon know that it hasn’t always been my favorite place in the world. Back when Nadav and I were dating—ahhh, the good ‘ole days—it took me longer to get to Ramat Hasharon on a bus from Jerusalem, a mere 47 miles away, than to Haifa, 100 miles away.

Then, of course, there was Nadav’s bachelor pad, home of 3 single men, 5 computers, a cat-scratched (and probably sprayed) couch, and not a bottle of Mr.Clean to be found. Tuna and tomato paste was the cuisine, and therefore, I kept my distance.

A few months before we got married, though, last year. Ramat Hasharon turned out to be a good choice for us. Nadav worked nearby, and since I was going to be looking for a new job as I had finished most of my master’s degree classes at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, it seemed the affordable, close-enough-to-Tel Aviv choice.

Ramat Hasharon is known throughout Israel as being one of the new places for the affluent, starting-their-families Tel Avivians to move after they’ve had enough of big city life. While the house prices in Ramat Hasharon are way beyond our budget as a young couple, renting here is much more affordable than in Tel Aviv itself. Luckily, we found a half-basement apartment (we have light and air!) in a private home. It was spacious, renovated, and came with really wonderful landlords.

Despite all that, it was hard—very hard. The neighborhood we live in is a mix of a bit more established, secular Israelis and very traditional Yemenite Israelis. We didn’t find ourselves religiously or socially falling into either circle. I was moving from the Katamon neighborhood of Jerusalem, a place known for its young, religious-but-open-minded crowd to a home next to the Shas headquarters.

In addition, I was looking for a job for a large part of the time we’ve been here. While I job-searched, I worked on my thesis and ran a home business in editing and translation, but I’m a people person—and it was difficult having to leave most of my friends in Jerusalem, despite having my best friend here with me, and spend a lot of time on my own.

Luckily, I recently started working in Tel Aviv. Getting out of the house on a regular basis has been good for my heart, soul, and outlook on life.

With these new rose-colored glasses, I’ve been able to appreciate a lot of the things around me:

A few weeks ago, a mother cat brought her litter of kittens to hang out in our front yard for a while. Seeing these little guys play and bounce and experience things in life for the first time brought Nadav and me so much happiness! Unfortunately, our landlord was not such a fan and exiled them to another yard.

On the animal front, I have to mention another star in our neighborhood cast of characters: Jongo the Dog. Jongo is a jolly ole' dog, a black Labrador-looking (but probably not being) dog, who is missing a foot. Before we knew Jongo's name, we used to call him "Happy Dog" because this dog simply gushes joy. Jongo is the happiest being I've ever witnessed. His existence as a "Trumpel-dog" (maybe only the Israeli history buffs will understand this nickname) in no way hinders his love of life, plastic bottles, and neighborhood cats. My favorite interactions with him always involve one of the neighborhood cats, who know him better than we do and know that the only reason to run from him is if you don't want to get licked.

In the plant kingdom is my growing “garden.” I have turned out, after years of “practicing” on plants with less fortunate destinies, to have quite the green thumb. We now have bamboo, cacti, basil, rosemary, parsley, hanging vines, and some flowers in our little botanical collection.

Other than that, Nadav and I are taking ballroom and Latin dance lessons and will soon be going on a worldwide tour to exhibit our contribution to the world of dance.

In short, I’m enjoying married life. Despite my love affair with Jerusalem, I am getting along fine here in the traffic-jammed center of the country. And even though everyone claims Tel Aviv, the city that doesn’t sleep, is the place to be, I’m happy to be about 10 miles out, where we can still hear birds and play with Jongo.

The Spurious Claim of the "Wasted Vote"

As a political science graduate student, a few things get my goat:

• People who still think that the definition of democracy is black and white
• People who try to talk politics with you at otherwise leisurely dinners (yes, studying politics, reading new about politics, and writing a thesis about politics actually IS enough for me)
• And the term “wasted vote”

Maybe I’m just being idealistic here (never been accused of THAT before), but I think a vote that is put in the ballot box is NEVER a wasted vote. You see, I come from a country where there really only are two choices on election day. Ok sure, I get to participate in electing candidates for a variety of offices, but the differences between the policies and areas of focus of each of the parties’ candidates do not vary all that much within each party (and sometimes not even BETWEEN the parties, despite what their campaign messages would have us believe).

Yet, now I find myself, the child of a two-party system suddenly placed in a virtual circus of parties—some care about the environment, others care about education, some care about security and others about the economy. In fact, some even care about IMPORTANT things such as legalizing marijuana!

And so, rather than automatically choosing a large party to defeat “the other party,” I contemplate choosing a smaller one, one that reflects my values, my beliefs. Of course, the fear of the party not passing the threshold necessary to enter the Knesset looms large before my eyes, and I think to myself, “What if my vote, my single tiny vote, prevents Israel from having a center-left government? What if MY vote is the one that allows a closed-minded, and in many ways immoral, coalition to lead my country for the next few years?” In short, what if my vote is a “wasted vote”?

But I think that on several levels, a vote that is cast is not a wasted vote. On one level, the legitimacy of Israeli democracy is strengthened by every vote cast in a secret and free manner. The participation of Israeli citizens in the process of electing their leaders is in and of itself one major reason that even if a vote gets “thrown away” because the party did not pass the threshold, one has done her civic duty—one has participated in a process banned or corrupted in so much of the world.

Beyond this simple expression of democratic behavior, I think that the thought and evaluation process that goes into choosing a party that is not “guaranteed” a place in the next Knesset is different than choosing one of the major parties. The “default” as it were is to choose Kadima, Likud,or Avoda (Labor). To decide to vote for another party is a conscious decision, a statement that “business as usual” does not reflect my values or my vision of what Israeli society should be.

For this reason, when I listen to the election results, I may be elated, I may be disappointed, but I won’t feel my vote was wasted.

Finding my Calling in Life . . . Or at least realizing my skills are valued by the porn industry

And suddenly, it became clear to me why they were still looking for someone to fill his job after three months of searching.

But I’ll start at the beginning because as Julie Andrews once said (or sang), “It’s a very good place to start.”

I began looking for work a few months back. In the meantime, I’ve done some freelance work, finished some papers for school, started my thesis, banged my head against the wall (a few hundred times), and managed to find a job. Well, kind of. The short story is that after a few offers—which I didn’t want—I decided to take a part-time job in addition to my freelance editing/writing work.

Said job began a few weeks ago and consisted of me working for approximately a week after which I was informed that they didn’t exactly have a budget for me yet and would I mind waiting another few weeks to begin my position. Needless to say, I was not amused and began the soul-destroying search for work again. My somewhat more spiritual tendencies are giving my cynical side a dirty look right now implying that we should try to make all of our experiences in life opportunities to learn about ourselves. In fact, I have learned a lot about myself—and about my wonderful husband, who has managed to put up with me, the depressed troll of a job-seeker I’ve become. Yet the cynical side prevails—looking for a job, in today’s abysmal market, with a master’s degree in something other than telemarketing or secretarial duties is soul-destroying.

But then I got the call. After applying for a number of content writing jobs--because, hey, if nothing else, I know how to talk (and type) a blue streak—I got a call from a headhunter company about my resume. “Adi” informed me that my skills seemed suited to a hi-tech company looking for a content writer. “Sounds great,” I said to her. “What’s the name of the company?” To maintain their privacy (and prevent me from being sued . . . AGAIN), let’s just call them “Cool Runnings.” I’d heard of Cool Runnings before and had in fact sent them my resume a few months ago for a content writer position. Their website stated that they were a young and dynamic company which manages a number of recreational websites. They were looking for a native English speaker who “thinks outside the box.” I thought to myself, “I’m their gal. I’m a creative, liberal thinker. I’m young, hip, and well, ‘cool’ like their company name.” But no call came for several months. Only this week, when Adi spoke to me, did I realize it was the same position.

“They’re a hi-tech company in every way,” she explained. “Ok,” I said. “And the content is in the field of ‘entertainment for adults,” she continued. “Excuse me?” I asked, buying a bit of time to try to figure out if my brain correctly understood the Hebrew phrase she used—and if, in fact, that phrase meant the same thing in Israel. “Entertainment for adults,” she repeated. “Hmm. . . ok,” I said, hesitating before asking the inevitable. “So, I’m a bit embarrassed to ask,” I said, because obviously it couldn’t be what I was thinking she meant, “Is it in a bit more . . .ummm . . . blue direction?” “Listen,” she said, “It’s not a porno company or something.” “So, what do you they do?” “Dating sites, that kind of thing.” “Ok,” I thought, “Like J-date, or E-harmony.”

As it turns it, it was soooooo not like J-date (at least not the J-date I’m used to hearing about). When the company manager called to speak with me, she immediately asked me if I knew what the company did. “Content management?” I asked innocently. “Dating sites, no? Something like that?” I continued hopefully. And after a flowery speech about the fifteen million users of their website (which it is important to mention impressed me), she laid it all out for me. “We’re looking for something to write content for our sex site.” After a stunned silence, a few questions should come to your mind: 1) What “content” is there really on a sex site? 2) As popular as porn is on the internet, you call yourselves successful for having only 15 million users? 3) Do you really think most native English speakers in Israel really made Aliyah and moved to the Holy Land to write for porn sites? 4) Did you not read on my resume that I have worked for a feminist organization, a yeshiva, and have edited books in the academia? I’m sorry, sentences such as, “Hi, I’m Candy, wanna ^%&$?” never really came up in the articles I edited on the role of mass communication in modern democracies or discourse analysis in politics.

Also, can we just imagine for a moment where this job can take me in the future? I’m picturing at my next job interview, a few years down the line: “So Becky, what did you do at Cool Runnings?” “Oh, it was great, I wrote content for them.” “Really, where could we find some of your work?” “Well, don’t bother looking in the New York Times, or even the Jerusalem Post—your best bet is to probably Google ‘hot chicks’ or something of that nature.”

As I post this, I am just wondering how many people will probably accidentally arrive at my blog from searching for “hot chicks” and will be sorely disappointed at the lack of “hot chicks” on this page. Of course, now that I’ve written those keywords a few times, I’m sure my search engine optimization has gone up. Maybe I’ll have fifteen million users soon? Nahhhh . . .I think there may be too much actual content here.

Note: I did NOT go to the job interview for this position (there was just a bit of confusion regarding that point for some of my readers . . . some of whom that that maybe I should have!).

In a New York Minute

It's the end of the year, and looking back, I'm sure many of us are thinking how frivolously we used our time.  Of course, there were things that were well-worth the time--the day of my wedding for instance.  Yet, what of all those times I zoomed about the internet looking for the perfect veil?  

I turned in a paper today, for instance, on which I spent a good couple of months--time well worth it.  What about all the time I checked my email, the news, the weather, Facebook, and more when I should have been working on my paper--time used less wisely.

Today, on the day so many are looking back and thinking of time and what they did with it, my friend reminded me how time really is of the essence.  "A minute is so much better than 15 seconds," she said to me on the phone.  On the surface, nothing exceptional.  Sure, a minute is better than 15 seconds in many cases--more time to sleep, more time to get ready in the morning.  Nadav often says to me when we're getting ready to leave the house, "I'll be ready in two minutes."  Two minutes is no time, right?

Taking into account, though, the circumstances under which she made this comment made me realized just how much time a minute can be: it's enough time to move your family from the living room to the protected room--the one with concrete, re-inforced walls.  It's enough time to run down the stairs, if need be, to your apartment building's shelter.  It's enough time to pick up your child and run for dear life, for his life.

She lives in Beer Sheva and works in Sderot.  A few days ago, we could have said, "She lives in a place where the rockets can't reach and works in a place where for the last 7 years, over 8,000 Kassam rockets have fallen."  Now, we must say, "She now lives in a place where the rockets can reach her and her family and several hundred thousand other people."  There are warning sirens, to be sure.  In Sderot, they give you 15 seconds, if you are lucky and the siren sounds.  In Beer Sheva, you have a minute.   "A minute is so much better than 15 seconds."

I think of the millions of people who will watch the ball drop in Times Square this evening and of the countdown as the ball moves down towards ringing in the new year.  Wouldn't it be amazing if everyone counting down suddenly understood that some people in the world have even less time than that to try to save themselves and their families?

   

Launch of an Amazing New Technology Website

For all you engineers out there, looking for an efficient tool, C-to-Verilog.com offers conversion from C to Verilog. It creates hardware circuits in the blink of an eye (or the click of a mouse!) and assists you in accelerating your development cycle. My husband opened it as a hobby--if you have any engineering or programmer friends, please send them the link.

It’s why I’ll never be a successful comedian . . .

I realized recently that it’s been absolutely ages since I’ve written. No, I haven’t experienced any major traumas. In fact, I’ve experienced many wonderful things this year. I married my wonderful Nadav. My family came to Israel, most of them for the first time, for the wedding. But I think here is where the difficulty lies. There were many, MANY things to write about the wedding and probably even more about wedding planning. But I care too much. You see, due to my natural ability to take most unpleasant occurrences and, well, make fun of them, I would have had a lot of material during the months it took to plan the wedding. Titles that could have been included in my repertoire include:

“The perks of finding a wedding hall located directly across the street from a strip club” (yes, I know, a bit wordy, but these are rough drafts)

“The perks of finding a wedding hall located directly across the street from an auto mechanic” (oh, I’m sorry, am I lacking creativity?)

“To sparkle or not to sparkle: Fireworks lining the wedding canopy, Israeli makeup artists, and a low-key bride’s fight for survival”


As you may gather from these possible titles, planning the wedding was, in short, something of a circus—and I am glad that I have finally settled into “boring” married life.

In any case, it took a significant amount of restraint NOT to say everything I wish I could have about the conversations I was forced to endure with everyone in the Israeli wedding industry. When one makeup artist attempted to convince me why I absolutely MUST get a pedicure, she quite simply stated, “It’s for your husband.” All this time I thought he appreciated my personality and brains, it was really all for my feet!!

Of course, nobody would have cared had I simply bashed all prima donna hairstylists who really believe that anybody remember's the bride's hairstyle a week after the wedding. It was closer to home that I learned to keep my mouth shut (at least in most cases) and listen and, importantly, understand more.

NOBODY cares about the centerpieces. And NOBODY cares about veil. And truly, NOBODY really cares even about the food. Yet, people feel the need to express their opinions and in some cases even argue over these things because . . . well, that’s exactly it. Nobody really knows. People are excited. Things are changing, and fast.

In my case, I was marrying an oldest son. In my case, again, I was marrying someone from a side of the planet I didn’t know about until I was 18. Which of course means that for both families, mine and his, these were monumental changes.

What our wedding day represented was the coming together of two different families, two different nationalities, two different cultures and languages and foods . . . and the list goes on.

It wasn’t easy for Nadav’s mother to give up her first baby. It wasn’t easy for my mother to realize that, yes, I’m here, I’m staying, and I’m going to be far away from her—the same situation she created with her own mother.

All of these emotions—joy and love, as well as uncertainty and worry—were all mixed up in the whole process called “wedding.”

For these reasons, I couldn’t write and make fun of the strength of the emotions everyone was feeling. It would have cheapened it, made it somehow less special for me to view it with such cynical eyes.

And so, I forge ahead, armed with writing material concerning the Israeli job search. I’m one month in, a bit more worn for the wear, but ready—at the very least—to conquer it through humor, patience (if only), and as many cups of Chai tea as it takes.

I should have been there . . . but thank G-d I wasn't

I’m sure I know this man. He must have been my bus driver at some point over the last four years I’ve lived in Jerusalem, or the last two years I’ve lived in Katamon, home to the number 13 bus line. I speak, of course, of the bus driver of bus 13, the bus that was “tipped over” by a mad man on a bulldozer in today’s attack in Jerusalem.

The shooting of yeshiva students in the Merkaz Harav yeshiva, the last terror attack in Jerusalem—a seemingly distant memory, even though it was only this past March—scared me, but I was able to keep on going. I was forced to—we were attending our friends’ engagement party and what could we do but keep drinking our glasses of wine, toast the happy couple, and try not to think about those who were at the same time being rushed to hospitals, or alternately, put into body bags.

Today, though, I was free to think about what happened. Free to listen to the radio as I made my way into Ramat Gan, where I was going to get a refund on a washing machine, of all the unimportant things in the world. Free to listen, over and over again, to descriptions of what had happened and where it had happened. Free to try and figure out from the clues the reporters gave if my friends could have been there—if, hypothetically, yesterday or everyday before that for the last four years I could have been there.

Thanks to technology, I know my friends are safe. Text messages—so impersonal yet so effective—informed me that my loved ones were fine. And as many times happens, some of the friends receiving my check-up text message were clueless about the attack even happening until I asked if they were ok.

I feel an emptiness inside and a intermittent urges to shed tears when I think about the people who could see it coming--who were trapped inside their cars or could see the bulldozer coming down the street, realizing perhaps only at the last second what was actually happening.

I just got home and, despite my news saturation for the day, decided to see if I could pinpoint where it happened—I had to know which bus had been attacked. It was mine. But more than being my bus line—it was my city, it was my home. Any of the pedestrians, making their way down the sidewalks, any of the people in cars, trying to get through Jerusalem downtown traffic, any of these people who were brutally murdered, in a most unimaginably horrific way—any of these people could have been my friends.

We moved on Sunday to Ramat Hasharon. And due to me studying at Hebrew University, I was in Jerusalem yesterday, literally meters from the attack site. I have this weird feeling—it’s similar to the feeling I get when something major happens to my family in America and I’m not there to go through it with them. It’s like I should have been there—but thank G-d I wasn’t.

Today at 6pm Israel time, thousands of people will be saying Psalm 121 for the safe release of kidnapped Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit. I guess now there will be others for whom we say this psalm:

A song of Ascent.

I lift up my eyes to the hills.
What is the source of my help?

My help comes from the Lord,
Maker of the heavens and the earth.
He will not allow you to stumble, Your Guardian will not slumber.

Indeed, the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.

The Lord is your Guardian, your shelter at your side.

The sun will not smite your by day nor the moon by night.

The Lord will guard you against all evil;
He will guard you, body and soul.

The Lord will guard your going out
And your coming home, now and forever.