The title of this blog almost doesn't need more explanation--at least not to be funny, that is. To be understandable, perhaps it does need a bit more. Dwarf-sized pickles. It sounds like the name of a teenage garage punk band, right? A kid named (or rather, nicknamed, much to his mother's discontent) "Bonehead" turns to his friend "Munchies" and gives him a high five, "Way to come up the name, man." "Yeah . . . . mannnnn."
But the truth is, you cannot make up this stuff. I ate a dwarf-sized pickle last week, really. I had no idea when I bought the jar or even after I opened it and tasted them for the first time. It was only on Tuesday as I wondered to myself, "How do you say mini-gherkin in Hebrew?" did I look at the label. Turns out it's, "Dwarf Pickle." Well, I guess you could say then that my addition of the word "sized" to the title is just my commentary or hopeful thinking. I can imagine that most people would rather imagine these pickles are made for dwarfs or at least a company makes fun of their size rather than actually being made out of them. Well, that is what I am hoping. I would rather my pickle company be a cruel kid in fourth grade making fun of the short kid (come to think of it, I think I was that short kid) than a cannibalistic cult who for some reason has decided that eating small, mystical creatures from the Lord of the Rings is better than eating normal sized human beings.
That is one funny thing from my week.
What else happened? Oh, yes, I apologized for bumping into a mannequin. It's actually more correct to say that I apologized to the mannequin. I felt pretty good about myself for saying, "Excuse me" in country where short people with canes (not dwarfs, old people) hit your shins and run over you get on the bus. You do hear "Excuse me" a lot in Israel. But there is also a noticeable silence many times when the expected "Sorry" or "Excuse me" floats into the universe instead of coming out of someone's mouth. In any case, I felt pretty good about myself for being polite . . . that is until the bastard stared at me in stony silence. Let me just say, "I can be Israeli, too." That's the last time I say excuse me to a store mannequin.
That is another funny thing from my week.
Ah, yes. I was the star of a horror movie last Monday. Monday, thank goodness*, was a very warm day. *Note: I said thank goodness until I became the star of a horror movie. Now, I say, "Monday, oh-my-freaking-G-d-I-think-I-almost-died-from-disgust-and-heart-failure, was a very warm day." As I was saying, spring finally came. How lovely. Spring. Birds chirping. Kittens (400 of them) being born on our little street. Flowers blooming. Oh yes, and invasions of bugs. Invasions of LOTS of bugs (it is important to mention that they were not dwarf-sized). Not outside. Not even in the hallway. In the bedroom, MY bedroom, on MY B-E-D! One minute I was speaking on the phone and the next my wall and bed were covered by tiny, flesh-eating (well, not really) insects all trying to make their way to me (maybe I'm being egotistical here) and not stopping even after I attacked them (my killer instincts have sharpened since my TWO encounters with hand-sized spiders in my room). The boogers (there is no other word for them but this favorite Southern-ism) were out for blood. So, I did what any respectable girly-girl would do--I saved my Popples (if you have to ask what this is, you have missed a fine generation of stuffed animals) and headed for the hills. That is, I sprayed the room, closed the door, and slept in my roommate's room. Thank the Lord this was a one-time (I hope) occurrence. After speaking with several Israelis on the topic, it turns out that every spring, on the first very warm day, thousands of bugs stream out from their holes in search of the season's first falafel. It's like Groundhog's Day, except Poxatawny Phil is not as disgusting (who ever thought you could say that about a furry, tunnel-dwelling rodent?). They come out, scare innocent girls like myself, and leave (perhaps for Bermuda). Now I am armed for WW3 (not as funny of a joke here in this part of the world). I've got Raid, I've got a BZZT light (you know, the light that goes "BZZT" when the bugs fly into it), and I bought Popples an African bush hat with a net. WE are prepared here in room number 4 at address Ezrat Yisrael 15.
That is the third funny thing that happened this week.
The fourth is that I walked out of a soup restaurant (where, ironically, I did NOT eat soup--I know, I'm so avant garde!) and was run over by a marching band. It was 9pm at night, I was a bit tipsy from my hot chocolate (not really) and out of nowhere comes a group of eight or nine traveling minstrels, playing none other than "If you wanna be my lover" by the Spice Girls. It was weird (perhaps also a bit sporty and posh if you know what I mean), very weird.
I'm sitting here on Monday afternoon, wondering if I'll go out tonight for all the bonfires (In Israel, on Lag B'Omer, we celebrate by building really . . . really big fires). I think about all the random things that happened to me last week, and I wonder if it was any stranger than any other week. I think I'll have a dwarf-sized pickle and contemplate life for a bit. Or maybe just the possibility of a Spice Girl called "Dwarf Spice" . . .
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