Working In Israel

I was warned before I began my job search here that "all bosses are crazy".  I heard horror stories about the way employees are treated and most people seem to move from job to job.  I sent out about a zillion resumes, however, using sites that are made available to Anglos looking for work in Israel.  I found it mildly disturbing that most of the jobs didn't offer information about the companies, and always wondered who I was giving a summary of my life's work to.  But I couldn't not work, so out the resumes went. 

The difference between putting together a CV here and doing the same in the States is that bosses here don't care how well-rounded you are as an individual.  They want to see exactly what your qualifications are for the particular job.  Each CV I sent out was tailored for the job.  I was also warned that new Anglos in Israel usually spent the first year working in either internet gambling or internet porn.  I decided that I could handle gambling.  A little over a year ago, I answered a very vague ad that was simply "American Content Writer Needed for light, funny copy".  I sent along a CV and writing samples, more than a little worried that it was for a job in porn, and got a response within an hour. 

So I've been working for JamesAllen.com since.  Thankfully, we are neither into gambling or porn, although I understand that one of the employees does like to spend part of the day looking at porn.  It's okay with me.  I don't have to see it.  I am writing for a website that sells diamond jewelry.  I have my own issues with diamonds, and was posting article after article to a sister website about the horrible treatment of diamond miners and the never-ending flow of blood diamonds.  Leonardo DiCaprio can star in as many movies as he wants about the subject, but it has done nothing to stop the violence.  I do feel a bit like I've sold my soul to the devil, but I like the work in general.  I put my personal feelings aside about diamonds and can write ad copy and banners and blog postings and news articles (along with copyediting previously-written pieces that test my patience) with the best of 'em.  I am an advertising whore, and I can live with that.

And yes, my boss is crazy.  He can step on an employee's feelings without batting an eye or feeling guilt.  Fortunately, I have found the set of balls required to keep us even.  If he yells, I yell back.  We have had shouting matches that I couldn't imagine having with an American employer.  No one else is willing to yell at him, and I have set myself apart by demanding respect.  Since we share the same kind of crazy, it works.  I had one foot out the door when my friend Anna quit after he crossed over the line of respect with her, but I've stayed at my job with my crazy boss because I can't imagine anyone else who would put up with my particular brand of crazy.

I call my office "The Big Top", because it turns into a circus.  When my boss, who prefers to keep his name off of the internet, gets an idea in his head, we must execute it immediately.  It took him some time to understand that I can not vomit out brilliance on command, but I can work fast if he gives me an assignment and leaves me alone to do it.  When such orders are given to the office, everyone runs around like crazy and gets stressed.  This is why I keep my desk facing away from everyone.  I put on my headphones, stream in music, and work.

I also call the office "The IHOP".  When I started, it was all Israelis.  Anna and I added the American aspect.  After Anna left, I did the work of two people for four months until we found another writer.  ONE HUNDRED or more shitty writing samples later, I found someone I liked.  My boss trusted me with going through the CVs and picking good candidates.  Some of the writing was so bad that I wanted to cry.  Other samples were so bad I had to laugh.  I picked the guy with not a lot of experience, but who sent articles he had written reviewing music.  And he was well-rounded.  He didn't get the 'tailor your CV' memo, and, since I was doing the choosing, he was The Guy.  He's working out just fine, aside from the constant open-mouthed eating of succulent fruit that gives off sounds which drill into my brain.  But I digress.  Then we had two Americans and several Israelis, and a part-time graphic designer from Argentina.  Soon, we had to hire more programmers.  Now there are two Russians in the mix.  It's the IHOP.  And the Big Top.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this: http://acidcow.com/pics/5743-please-design-a-logo-for-me-with-pie-charts-11.html/ while I was working.

I went into convulsive laughter.  I couldn't stop.  Elan, who sits near me, was laughing at the way I was laughing.  While I was in the middle of my snorting, obnoxious laughter, my boss came out of his office with an assignment.  He was very patient, waiting for me to stop laughing. It took several minutes.

Before he started working with us, the new guy had been working for one of the porn sites, and told me about working endless hours in a windowless room and getting constantly second-guessed by non-native English speakers.

I am lucky. 

Even though I know that, in the States, the person who keeps their cool in an argument wins, that is just not how it is here.  The person who can yell the loudest for the longest wins.

And this bitch has the pipes for it.

Never Ask An Israeli Woman When She's Due, and other lessons learned in Tel Aviv

I have lived in Tel Aviv for a year and a half now, and I love it.  I have learned some valuable lessons since I've been here regarding the Israeli people.  There are also some important misconceptions I really must correct.  But first, the lessons:

1. Never ask an Israeli woman when her baby is due.  Women in this country are generally shaped differently than American women.  There are variations, of course, but it seems that most Israeli women have very think legs, child-bearing hips, and carry their weight mostly in their bellies.  These bellies are often proudly displayed.  For real.  But there are an awful lot of women walking around looking about 5-6 months pregnant or more.  Maybe it's because they have small frames (the people here are TINY).  But, for whatever reason, there is an epidemic of women looking knocked-up.  I think that it's really pretty cool that women are so much less self-conscious about their bodies, although I maintain my hard work to keep fit and flat-tummied.  But you must never, never ask a woman when she's due unless you see a baby emerging from her body at the time.  It's too risky.

2.  Muffin-tops are acceptable, if not embraced, in this country.  Even very thin women buy low-low-low-riding jeans that are just too small.  Fat or not, there will be overhang.  On some of these skinny girls, I can't help but think that it has to body organs hanging over their jeans.  Summer is prime muffin-top viewing time.  My friend Anna and I always marvel at this phenomenon.  She, too, is American, and believes in wearing jeans that are the correct size. 

2.  "Low-Rise" has its own meaning here.  Seriously.  I have friends who buy decorative undies because the top of them *will* show.  A cute little bow in the front, maybe.  Could be a pretty design.  Underwear becomes an outward fashion statement.  Some of the jeans are so low that I fear not only a viewing of the rear-crack, but the--ahem--front one as well.  And the way these jeans are designed, the pockets that are traditionally on a person's ass are actually on the back of her thighs.  Maybe I'm old-school, but pockets are utilitarian for me.  I use them to put things in.  Sliding my ID and some shekels into my back pocket makes sense.  How I would do that if I had to reach down below my ass, I don't know.  I guess it's fashion.  It looks silly to me.

3.  There is no such thing as 'weight-appropriate' or 'age-appropriate'.  Women of the larger variety will wear tiny skirts and low-cut, belly-baring tops.  Or worse.  White leggings, for example.  With colorful underwear underneath.  And when leggings are stretched to that degree, these women might as well be wearing cellophane.  Also, it is not uncommon to see a woman in her 50s or 60s wearing clothes that are clearly designed for young people.  We all reach a certain age when babydoll dresses with printed footless tights and stiletto heels are not acceptable.  Also, being painted up like a Christmas whore is not necessary when one is at the flea market.  Except here.  I, myself, have tried on jeans in various shops in the city.  No matter how much the salesperson tells me that the ultra-low-rise looks great on me--and even if it does--I am not 22 anymore.  Explaining the importance of this is difficult.  Of course, it is difficult for a woman of my height and muscularity to find any jeans that don't cut off the circulation to my feet.  I must stress again that the people here are tiny.  Most stores don't carry pants that are long enough or built to accommodate bigger thighs.  Anna and I were jonesing hard for the Gap.  We are both on gap.com's email list, and we would be sitting at our desks at work, simultaneously sighing when we saw the latest sales advertised.  When I was in the States over the summer, Mom and I hit the Gap like a tornado. 

3.  On baldness:  there is a strange epidemic of baldness here.  I noticed it, Mom noticed it, and other Americans I've met have noticed it.  As a woman who prefers a good head of hair on a man, the dating pool--already shallow due to certain height restrictions I have--nearly evaporates.  Israeli women don't seem to notice this any more than their boyfriends/husbands notice the muffin-top.  They've worked it out.  I can't.

4.  Israeli men are assless.  I am a woman who likes a nice ass on a man.  As common as baldness is the sad concavity in the back of the Israeli man's jeans.

5.  Israeli men, no matter how old, fat, bald, ugly, or stupid believe that all women want to sleep with them.  I am constantly approached by men who make me briefly question whether I have lost my mojo.  The feeling quickly passes as I accept that 'God's Gift to Women' thing is as prevalent here as it is in Jamaica.

6.  Most Israeli men AND WOMEN believe and accept that "all men cheat".  I have friends here who have tried to explain to me that men just do it, and what I don't know can't hurt me.  I call this "bullshit".  Alon tried to explain this to me in an elaborate (and very stoned) explanation that began with "Men are like lions".  At first, I wasn't sure if I wasn't getting it because I was high at the time.  Later I realized that I didn't get it because it didn't follow any logic.  As far as "what I don't know can't hurt me" goes, well, when I do  find out, it will hurt him.  A lot.  And probably render him impotent.

More on this in my next posting, which will be soon.  I am back on this thang.

Socialized Medicine: Upsides and Not-So-Upsides

So I've been here for over a year, my Hebrew is improving, and I can even navigate the all-Hebrew website of my health plan. I can see all my test results and upcoming appointments there. I can also make appointments, search for doctors, and so on. It's mostly a good thing.

Almost everything is 100% covered by the Health Fund, and medications are cheap, which is nice. There are a few exceptions, of course. Like migraine medications. Those need "special permission" and the neurologist has to submit certain paperwork to ensure that I don't get charged full price for the only migraine medication that works for me. Full price is 250 shekels, which, right now, means about $60. In the US, the same medication is $499. For six (6) pills. Not kidding. Naturally, my neurologist failed to send in the appropriate paperwork, and she's harder to reach than JD Salinger.

What is strangest is that there is no nurse to call you in for your appointment. Outside each doctor's office (and there could be as many as 6 or 7 in one area) is a list of his/her appointments for the day. It only lists the first name of the patient and the appointment time. If someone gets there ahead of me, there's always a conversation about what time each person's appointment is. Some people will just try to bolt in ahead. Fortunately, after an exhaustive search, I found a GP who is nice, speaks English, and returns phone calls. She also makes sure that the person who is supposed to be next actually is next.

One day, a few months back, I had to go see a doctor about a women's issue. Without going into detail, I will say that lasers and discomfort were involved. Sitting in the "waiting area" (hallway) with me were a few women going in for similar issues, but there was another doctor who removed moles and so on in the same area. So there I was, worrying a bit about my girl parts, and there are men all around having moles removed. I started talking to a woman who was very, very nervous and upset. I kept my voice down, because other people's cooters are not the business of every person who has a suspicious-looking freckle.

I was the only one keeping my voice down.

A couple was there. The woman was having the same procedure I was. Her boyfriend was having a very loud, animated conversation with one of the assistants about how long it would be before they were able to have sex. My Hebrew was good enough to understand this. What I did *not* understand is what made this a topic of conversation in the middle of a crowded hallway.

Okay, so I go to see my OB/GYN last week. I show up a bit late for my appointment, but I know Dr. G. usually runs behind, so I figure that the one woman and her infant in the waiting area were before me. I would still make it to work before Oded had a cow. Since it's really hot and humid here, I was sweatin' like a whore in church. I sat down under the A/C and started fiddling with my new phone, which cost me nothing because I was very pleasant with the people at Orange (the cell phone company), and because I was showing the appropriate amount of cleavage. Israeli men are SO easy.

Then another woman showed up with her infant. I knew that her appointment had to be after mine, but I also know the pushiness of the average person trying to get in with the doctor, so I had a little internal debate.

Should I let this woman and her tiny infant go before me, even though her appointment is after? She did, after all, have her hands full with that little bundle of baby vomit.

Because I needed to get work at a reasonable hour, it was also reasonable to go to my appointment as scheduled.

If this woman and her giant baby stroller were to try to push ahead of me, how far was I willing to go to block her path? If simply telling her I was next didn't work, would I be forced to look threatening enough to scare her back to her seat?

Was that the right thing to do to someone with a baby?

If it ever came down to it, was I willing to issue a smackdown on some baby's momma?

As it turned out, Dr. G. emerged from the appointment before mine, and I stood up to catch his eye. Since I am difficult to miss, he saw me and told me to go ahead into his office. I had already decided that, if it came down to it, I would tell the woman that it was my turn and she'd have to wait. If that didn't work, well, I found the image of me body-slamming a babymomma entertaining. As long as she wasn't carrying the baby.

These are simply not things you have to consider when you're waiting for a doctor in the States. Yes, it seems so much more civilized to have a nurse call your name when it is your turn, to lead you to the examination room, and to take your vitals. Here, all of the medical clinics have a free-for-all kind of feel.

Of course, medicine is very advanced here, and a lot of new medical technology comes from Israel. The doctors are highly competent. They aren't always nice, but they're good.

Given a choice, I'll take socialized medicine. Everything is a bit more of a pain in the ass, but we all get medical care, and, if we look hard enough and smile at the right people and bitch at the others, we get exactly what we need.

Running on the Namal Tel Aviv

The Namal, or North Port, of Tel Aviv is, in two words, Gor-Geous. In Three words: A-May-Zing. Tonight, as I was running on the wide wooden path that is like a dock in heaven, passing men in chairs fishing, the Mediterranean Sea was putting on a show, with waves crashing over the fence and soaking a good bit of the walkway. I could hear the waves over my offensively-loud 311 iPod mix. Today, I went about 10km, running at least 7 1/2 of it. I started out getting through at least 3 without slowing down. Granted, I'm not sprinting. I've got a bit of an old lady vibe with my jogging, which is why I prefer the cover of darkness when I'm out.

There seems to be some kind of display of painted dinosaurs (they all seem to be apatosaurs). It reminds me of the painted cows I saw in Minneapolis and then, later, Boston. I will try to get out to photograph them tomorrow, possibly after shabat has begun and people are with their families. It gives me quiet time. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll round up a friend who can take pictures of me on the mini-dinosaurs. They seem to be painfully cute.

I am nervous as hell about my surgery on Sunday (remember: Sun-Thurs work week here), but running helped me clear my head and relax. Tomorrow is a yoga day, and I might actually go to a class instead of practicing alone. Depends on how late I sleep. And I have a lot to get done before Sunday, since I'm told I need 4 days bed rest after the surgery, and we all know how much I enjoy sitting still. I think my friends will have to take turns holding me down, or maybe handcuffing me to the heater or something. Bed rest sucks, but at least Dad loaded me up with a few seasons of Dexter and House to keep me busy. I can also catch up on my Dr. Phil (just kidding).

Am I the only one who isn't interested in the teachings of Deepak Chopra? I don't feel the inspiration. Right now, I am inspired by the teachings of Nick Hexum. And P-nut. I am also in an intensive study with Isabelle on relaxing meditations. I haven't mastered the purr/roll over moving meditation yet, but I'm trying. I have learned a great deal about life from TMX Elmo, also. He teaches me that nothing is so serious that you can't let yourself have a good belly-laugh. Avi, my 2 year old kitten, tries to make friends with TMX Elmo, but doesn't know what to do when Elmo stops moving. I'll try to get video of it.

Anyway, these are the thoughts for the day. And some links.

www.liberalhexum.org

Every swear word ever uttered on the Sopranos, in chronological order

Play around and watch a few shows. Ze Frank is a genius. http://www.zefrank.com/theshow/

So much to say...

A Moment To Recognize That The US Finally Got It Right

(And he don't look bad topless, either)
My apologies to Bob, the only Republican holdout on my blog list

I can't start at the beginning, because there is SO much. So I'll jump all over the place, which my mind tends to do anyway.

I just got back from a FANTASTIC run. For those of you who know me, you know that running has never been my strong suit. Short distances on the basketball court or soccer field, yes. But distances? NO WAY. Of course, I don't like it when I can't do something, so I decided it was time to learn how to run farther than down the block. And I get better every day. About 2 1/2 km today without slowing down to a power-walk. That's really, really good for me.

I got back and Danny, who owns the dog grooming business at ground level in my building, is throwing his 31st birthday party out of the shop. There are about 15 people on the street, drinking wine, beer, mixed drinks, and water (okay, I was the only one drinking water--I had just gone running). They were passing around joints and everyone was messing up the rotation. All out on the sidewalk. In front of God and everyone.

Then the cops showed up screaming something through their bullhorns. My Hebrew is getting pretty good, but garbled cop-Hebrew through a bullhorn is difficult. I thought they were breaking up the party, but my friends just kept nudging me a little further down the street. Finally, I asked Itai what was going on.

Someone left an unattended bag at the bus stop. No one would claim it. They were concerned it was a bomb and brought in the bomb squad and everything.

Hmmmm....things you don't think about in Portland or Charleston or Boston or San Francisco...

Turns out, some old lady probably just forgot it when she got on the bus. If it was my first bomb scare, I might have gotten nervous. I just wanted to get up to my apartment so I could finish stretching and posting to my poor, neglected blog. I wasn't at any time concerned about anything going boom. You kinda get used to that here. I'd rather be searched every time I walk into the bank than worry that someone dangerous is NOT getting searched when he or she walks in. Besides, the security guy at the bank loves me because I always say 'boker tov' or 'yom tov' ('good morning' or 'good day') while most people do the Big Resentful Sigh because he's looking in purses and backpacks and running the metal-detector-wand-thingy over people. Except me. Because he remembers me, because I'm nice to him. I keep waiting for other people to catch on, but they don't. I alone walk in getting a big smile and "boker tov! ma shlomekh?"

So I have this AMAZING job that I love love love. I work as Marketing Director for www.JamesAllen.com.. Their marketing department is here and I'm learning all about Search Engine Optimization. I was hired to copyedit the "Hebrish" (as I call it), or English written by native Hebrew speakers. BIG difference between speaking fluently and writing eloquently. Also, I was to take over the blog to write 'funny, edgy' material (www.diamondthoughts.com) which would draw people to the site, and then I created "my kids", Nick and Sarah, who are traveling around the US, drinking beer, having adventures, and looking for the perfect engagement ring (it IS for work) since they plan to get engaged at the end of their trip. Sadly for Nick and Sarah, they may never end up married, since it looks like the company is going international and I'm going to have them in Thailand and Brazil and Scotland and who-knows-where-else. My fictitious offspring are 22 now. I fear that, after "Vito" turns this into an e-book and the kids keep traveling, they will be old and wrinkly before they ever find that one perfect ring.

Sound like my life, only without the exciting adventure. Or the man to stay with me consistently, over time.

Some days, when I am copyediting and celebrities aren't misbehaving enough to be interesting, I get frustrated with the horrendous abuse of my beloved English language on the website. Those days, I am especially grateful for the other American in the office, a woman hired at the same time as I was. Anna. She has dreads. She so much smarter than I am that it is frightening. I would call her very nearly "Mark Gannon Smart". But not quite, because, as many of you know, "Mark Gannon Smart" is very, very, very fucking freakishly brilliant.

Thank God I was good at competitive sports.

Anyway, Anna and I both hold dear the minute details that make the English language special. We both love the special turns-of-phrase. We both love the way a well-written sentence can bring out emotion. And we both love love love good spelling and proper usage of grammar. Just know that when you see the word "Jewellery" in something I've written, it is for SEO purposes, because that's how the British search for jewelery. With extra letters.

Anna and I also enjoy a lot of the same kind of humor. One day, I was sitting at my desk after getting to work extra-early, and Anna came in and slapped this down on my desk:

I thought it a very considerate gift. It sat on my desk all day for us to laugh at, but I had to bring it home to be with my Colon laundry detergent and my Fairy dishwashing soap.

Anna is also what I would call in America a bit of a woods hippie. Here, she is "leftist". She marched past my house in the demonstration against the recent Gaza War.

I am very much for the Gaza War. I don't like war, and I think any collateral damage is too much collateral damage, but I stand behind Israel in protecting itself from terrorist attacks. Please, let's not turn this into a debate. I'm making a point about the Political Oddity that is me here.

When Barack Obama was elected President, I was more proud of the US than I have been in, let's say, 8 years. Here was a President that I think capable, brilliant, diplomatic, smart enough to keep those with dissenting opinions in his cabinet, and he looks great without a shirt on. At work the day after he was sworn in, I went into work and went about my day. I checked the news briefly, to see that Obama had already put the kibosh on Guantanamo. My heart almost burst out of my chest, I was so proud. Anna and I were both so pleased at Obama's immediate act to stop the torture there.

Then we all sat down for lunch together, as we do at work every day. And the debate began. Suddenly, Anna the Dread-locked Woods Hippie and I were arguing against the other 8 people in the office (thank God for a small staff). They were saying that sometimes torture is necessary to get information about a terrorist attack before it happens. I thought it perfectly rational to argue that the 0.01 percent of the time that actually happens is great, but how do you justify torturing innocent people the other 99.99 percent of the time. I even found myself arguing that everyone has the right to a trial before they are condemned to any fate, and that their fate shouldn't be torture.

POOF! I was the other "leftist" in the office, even though I support Israel in wars against Hamas and Hezbollah. Weird.

Now we've got election here this coming Tuesday, and I still have to do my homework before I decide who to vote for. It's so complicated here. So many parties. And just so much of everything. It makes me wish I liked drinking beer, because it makes me want a beer. Or a valium.

Also, since I moved here, my exercise regimen has been forcibly altered because of my pathetic Hebrew. They always say it's okay, that the teachers of most classes can translate when they need to, but it slows the class down, and I remember how I would get impatient and even irritable when one inexperienced person would slow down a good ass-kicking yoga or karate or kung fu class. Okay, granted, I was the one slowing down the kung fu class. And I felt the disdain oozing from the pores of every other person in the room. Except Mike, who will eventually be sainted, I'm sure.

I practice my yoga on my own at home, I have taken up running, I do some conditioning exercises, and I go to Bikram classes from time to time, as I have written about. The studio, pictured below, is stunning. I like taking the classes in Hebrew there because the sequence of poses is always the same in that class, and I can tune out the Hebrew and focus on my practice. Or I can tune in the Hebrew and learn some new words, like "slowly, slowly", "to sit", "forward", "up", "down", and so on.



This is me, a friend from class, and Bat (baht) the instructor. I didn't want to put this picture in because I look like shit, but it shows not only how sweaty and gross we get in class, but how small some of the clothes are the regular Bikram Yoga practitioners wear.

This was a very exciting day, and it was while my Mom was in town. I called Alon, my vacation boyfriend when I was here a year and a half ago, and he invited me and Mom over for dinner. I asked where Calanit, his roommate and the one who cooks in the house, was. He told me he was cooking. I asked if he was sure. He said "of course" in that way he has, like nothing could ever go wrong as long as he is at the helm. I asked him if he had ever cooked before. He said "no" and mentioned something about whether he should put the pasta in the pot before or after the water was boiling. Again I asked if he was sure he wanted to cook. Again I asked where Calanit was and what time she would be home. I knew she was going to shit eggrolls if he messed up the kitchen. So here is Alon, the Ultimate Alpha Male, cooking for me and my mom:He is laughing because he is on the phone with Calanit, who was still at work. He had done something to the pasta, and (thank God for speakerphone) Calanit laughed louder and harder--and for longer--than anyone I had ever heard. The pasta was fine, although I am unsure what exactly he had been aiming for. Calanit came home, flustered, with a bag of pasta in her hand, you know, just in case.


That meal goes down in the history books because Alon does NOT cook. Women in his life cook. Calanit, or his mother, or his girlfriend. They cater to him like he is the king and they are some kind of maidservants. I have made it clear to him that that ain't how I roll. I am the one woman in his life (and we are just friends) who expects him to move his lazy ass. If he's at my house, I'll make coffee, or dinner, or whatever. At his house, he'll ask if I want coffee, then yell to Calanit (or, on holidays, his Mom) to make coffee for me. Then I shame him into getting up.

Israeli man. American woman. Like PopRocks and Coke. Really fun and entertaining, but possibly lethal.


On that same visit, Ilana took me and mom to Shuk HaPishPishim, the Arab open market in Jaffa. I had been there before with Alon, but we got less done because he jsut wanted to watch me try on jeans. He liked the ones I couldn't breathe in. I bought ones built like cargo pants. Anyway, that day at the shuk was awesome. Ilana is fun, and she's great at bargaining. I've even gotten pretty good at bargaining. I am unmoved by people who say they absolutely can't come down on the price. They usually change their minds if you start to walk away. IMPORTANT NOTE: If you are doing this, it must be done in Hebrew or the price at least doubles. The funniest--and oddest--part of the day was when I was looking at a bunch of random stuff on a table, and the man who owned it said something to me I didn't understand. I looked at Ilana. She explained to me and mom that the man was offering to buy me.


Yes, a man was going to pay my mother to purchase ME. When I re-tell this story to Israeli friends, they all ask "How many camels did they offer her?" In retrospect, I wish we had at least gotten to the bargaining phase so I would know how many camels I am worth in Arab society. I knew Mom wouldn't sell me. I'm not ripe yet.
On Rosh HaShana (Jewish New Year) I went to Alon and Calanit's, my home-away-from-home on the holidays. I am told that I am welcome all the time, but Calanit is usually on the phone while Alon sits in a hashish haze staring at the television, even if it's one of the digital music channels. Even Pinky, his miniature pinscher/chihuahua, has taken on Alon's extreme slug-like behavior. That dogs sleeps more than my cats do.

This is Alon, behaving in a way that used to make me go all mushy inside. After being at his house during the onslaught of holidays in the fall, I reached the point that, while I do love his voice and his passion, I wished he would learn a few new songs. Sorry baby. Also, sleeves. What is it with the Israeli man's aversion to sleeves?
A more relaxed Alon, with the two things he can't live without. Hash and Pinky the Lazy Little Dog. Hash is so common here that far more people smoke it than don't. Cops don't really care, neighbors don't complain, and everything is very chill about it as long as you're willing to share, which is, of course, the nature of the drug. Alon, by the way, is STILL angry with me from several months ago when we were walking Pinky and I stopped him from mounting a pure-bred Pekingese whose elderly mother Alon was in deep conversation with. Neither of them noticed that Pinky was mounting everything, including much larger dogs he couldn't quite reach. This little Pekingese girly girl was clearly in heat, because she offered it up like they were on Hollywood Boulevard. I pulled on Pinky's leash. The woman, who spoke no English, was grateful, since she planned on breeding her dog with another Pekingese and selling the puppies. Alon got all pissed off because Pinky could have had his first time with a "supermodel of dogs". He is still refusing to have Pinky's nuts cut off until Pinky can have a truly wonderful first time. I keep telling him: "It's a dog. Give him 3 minutes with a stuffed animal and he'll feel exactly the same." Alon is unmoved. He acts like his nuts are the ones on the line.

Israeli men. They do not neuter their male dogs. Giant dog nuts are everywhere here. You can't walk down the street without getting mesmerized by the hypnotic swing of some great dane's nuts, or some bulldog's nuts. With the damn dog-groomer right downstairs, I am in Canine Testicle Central. When you are an American, and are not used to it, you can't help but look. Trust me. I am not turned on my dog balls. Quite the opposite, in fact.Flora is Alon's mother. She brought an enormous can of beer to our Rosh HaShana celebration. You gotta love that. She is a tough nut to crack, and nags her 37 year-old son like he's 12, criticizing his smoking, his bachelorhood, his smoking, and his smoking. But she brings the BIG beer to Rosh HaShana.

I was sitting at the cafe in my neighborhood that is like a second home. This guy was steering a refridgerator down the street on a shopping cart like it was totally normal. I found it hilarious. You know what shopping carts are good for? Groceries. Not so much for major appliances.Y'all had to know there would be one cute cat picture. Avi (almost 2) and Rita (almost 13) are not best friends. Rita has clearly, at some point, unleashed major whoop-ass on Avi, because he doesn't jump on her, trip her, paw at her, or push her out of the way as he does with little Isabelle (almost 9). But when they get onto this kitty tree, Avi re-grows a pair and taunts Rita. If he doesn't quit it in a reasonable amount of time, she retreats to the bed, where he dare not go when she is at rest there.

Christmas in Tel Aviv. I didn't have a tree, or a large enough plant, so I used a vase of flowers. My Dad sent Christmas gifts, as he does every year. I spread them with cheer around the vase. I put the Nutcracker Suite into the CD player. I called my Dad, and we opened presents over the phone. We're non-traditional.
These are the gifts that showed up on time. The gifts above, I received on New Year's Eve, which is a non-recognized but completely celebrated holiday. This means that everyone works on January 1st, but most of them are hungover. We call the holiday "Sylvester" here, because Jews have their own New Year. Pics of that are above. Remember Flora and the giant beer? Anyway, it was kind of nice to have two different Christmas calls with my Dad, because no one even knows it's Christmas here. When I left work on Christmas Day (remember: not a holiday here), I mentioned something about opening gifts with my Dad. Aviv, a guy at work, said something like: "Oh yeah, isn't Christmas next week or something?" I almost lost my shit. I raised my voice and said "December 25. Christmas. It's today. It's a big fucking deal and no one knows about it. I need to go home and talk to an American." Christmas is, for me, about spending time with my Christian Dad on a day that means a lot to him. It could be any day. If it is important to him, it's important to me. Plus, growing up in the States, even the Jewiest of Jews knows when Christmas is. Osmosis. We can't help it. I had a doctor's appointment this past December 25 and arrived at the clinic just in time to hear Dr. Tzviran sing the Chanuka prayer and light the candles. It was nice. I walked home in the rain and kept whistling "Winter Wonderland". Now the election is tomorrow, and I got a call from Calanit this morning. She reminded me that it is important to vote, and I said I would. Then she asked who I'm voting for. To me, that's like talking about how much money I make. But in Israel, neither of these topics is out of the question. They are, in fact, common. Everyone talks about how much they make except me and Anna, who are evasive when the subject of money and rent paid come up. Anyway, Calanit said I should of course do some reading before I decide who to vote for, but that she is voting Kadima. She went on to talk about how Tzipi Livni is smart, and honest, and good. I was saying "mm-hmm" over and over. Israelis lack sublety.

Everyone inthe country gets the day off on election day. Except us. I don't know why. The law says that we're supposed to be paid 200% our normal salaries if we have to work on election day. Anna has a serious issue with this and is going to talk to Oded about it. Since I'll be flat on my back for 4 days next week after my latest surgery, I am in no mad rush to have time off. I am, in fact, lately the first one here and one of the last to leave. I love my job. I love writing.

Please, please keep in mind when checking out my work that I am not just writing for fun, but to bring traffic to JamesAllen.com, so when you see something that looks a little awkward or you see 'jeweller' or 'colour', remember that I am becoming a Search Engine Optimization maven, but I do not do hidden text or any of that 'black hat' crap. As a side note: check into the origin of the term "black hat" as a negative.

I miss you all. I promise it won't be long before I do this again.

Love from the Holy Land.

יש לי עבודה--סוף סוף (that means I got work, y'all)

This is a picture of me the day I interviewed for the job I ended up getting. I was early, so I went into the bathroom and photographed myself in the mirror. I have ones of me not smiling in case I didn't get the job. The ad only read "American Content Writer", so I had some concerns that they would be some internet porn company looking for someone who can be hot in English. I decided that, if necessary for my first year in Israel, I could bring myself to work in internet gambling, but not internet porn. I believe it has the right to exist, and I have the right to not be a part of it.

But I digress.

I was interveiwed by my now-boss, who we'll call "Vito", and we talked about my writing experience after he explained that his company does all the marketing for www.JamesAllen.com, an online American diamond and jewelry seller. We looked at some of the products on a huge screen in the conference room while he showed me the different features, like being able to pick your exact diamond and look at it through an online jeweler's loupe for imperfections. They also have some really cool things like looking at a rotating 3-D image of the ring a person chooses. We talked about Search Engine Optimization, and how he needed someone who could write funny American content to drive more people to the JamesAllen website. I was confident I could do that. After we basically chatted for 45 minutes, I told him he could check out my personal blog (you know, from when I posted to it all the time) if he wanted to see unedited Suzanne writing. He told me that he would be in touch after the high holidays, and I left feeling like I desperately wanted the job.

Because I couldn't sit by and wait to be found fabulous, I decided to send him a thank you email. My Mom suggested I write it like a mini blog entry, which I thought was clever as hell, so I did it. The next day, still antsy, I decided I wanted to call to remind him that I was really interested in the job. Since I'm unfamiliar with Israeli business practices, however, I first called a guy I had met with previously about preparing my resume for an Israeli employer. It's really, really different than in the States. I got his voicemail, so I looked at the email from "Vito", and it listed the New York office number, the Maryland office number, the Tel Aviv number (Hertzliya, actually, but most of you probably haven't heard of it--it's just outside of Tel Aviv), and his mobile number. I summoned every last ounce of balls that I have been steadily growing since moving here, and dialed "Vito"'s personal cell phone number. He answered "hello", and didn't sound amused. I told him that it was me, that I enjoyed the interview, that I was very interested in the job, and asked if he had seen his email yet. His response was something like: "I haven't checked my email yet this morning and I have to go. I'm in a meeting". I figured I had really, really screwed up and said something about hoping to hear from him.

Then I went about my day. I went to talk to some friends about the interview and how nervous I was, and they all looked at me like I was crazy when I said I had called his cell phone. "We don't do that here", was what I kept hearing. Oh, shit. I'm gonna have to end up working in internet gambling, right?

And my phone rang. It was an "09" number, which is Hertzliya, so I answered immediately. It was "Vito". He asked if I could come in soon to meet with him again. Rosh HaShana started the next evening, and I was hesitant to ask for the day before a holiday starts, and he said "Can you come in today?"

I went home, showered, and got to Hertzliya as quickly as I could. "Vito" told me that he liked my email and that the people in New York (where all the diamonds are and jewelry is made) loved my personal blog. That surprised me, and made me happy. Offensive, sarcastic wit is, after all, kinda my thing. We talked salary and expectations and I left knowing that I would be starting a job soon.

After Yom Kippur (the MacDaddy of the High Holidays), I went into work. I was there by 9. No one else showed up until 10. Welcome to the Holy Land, as I've heard said so many times. "Vito" had told me that we don't punch a clock, that we can go in as late as we want, but we should be getting in 40-hour weeks. We can sometimes do work from home, too. Since I have a tendency to be most creative when I am in my pajamas (or less), this is another bonus. And they pay for our lunch every day and travel back and forth. I take the train. There's a station about 10 minutes walk from my house, and, at the other end, about 20 minutes walk to work (or a 20-25 shekel cab ride).

Although I am still, technically, in my "training period", I am ass-deep in real work. But I get to write absolutely freely about any topic I choose on the company's blog--www.diamondthoughts.com. Jim, as in "James Allen", loves my writing. He loves my sense of humor. They think I'm a genius. Boy, have I got them fooled. I'm not a genius--I am just a very, very demented English Major.

I have to exercise some self-restraint when posting to JamesAllen.com/news. THAT is hard work. 'Serious' doesn't come naturally to me at all. But I was even given a title: Marketing Director. Yeah, baby. I'll never have business cards because I am all behind-the-scenes, and I like it that way. I don't have a phone on my desk, and I don't even have an extension.

What I DO have is a partner in crime, another woman hired at the same time, who also posts to news, but is happy to leave the blog to me. She's way better at html and a whole LOT of other stuff than I am (I'd call her about 5X smarter than I am, easy), but we both have an appreciation--even adoration--for the English language. Since a lot of the jewelry descriptions on the site were written by Israelis who speak English, well, let's just say we have a lot of correcting to do. When she and I are copyediting, which is SO way harder than just writing, we laugh out loud at some of the shit we see. Sometimes it's hard to even figure out what the hell the person was trying to communicate. We are compiling a list of evocative adjectives and verbs that help us describe jewelry in complete sentences and without sounding semi-pornographic. This picture is Anna, the aforementoined partner in crime, who the guy at Rap 'n Roll (our favorite place to eat near work) simply calls "Rasta". She will hate me briefly for this picture, but I will replace it with one that does her justice. In this photo, she is either concentrating very hard on editing ad copy, or checking out someecards.com to email me something offensive.

As it happens, I have found the one place I can work for someone else and have a great time. Sometimes Anna and I get into mini shouting matches with Oded over copy on the site. He doesn't mind and neither do we. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. But Anna and I have, thus far, become a united front. We love the English language and we know how Americans shop online. She's funny as hell, too. Would you believe she was raised in an Orthodox Jewish home? After being here for 6 months, I have NO problem believing it.

I love my job. I love that I can laugh and have fun and joke with everyone. There are only 10 of us in the office, and we all eat lunch together. I knew we were really turning into a family the other day because they pissed me off so much I shouted "BULLSHIT!", slammed my fist on the table, and forced everyone to listen to my argument that evolution has made it so a man's foremost biological need is not to spread his seed everywhere, any time. This is an argument I have had with more than one Israeli man, and even a discussion I've had with some Israeli women. "All men cheat" they say. "Not one who wants to be with me", I respond. And there are good Israeli men. But men here are given way too much leeway to be macho.

Be macho and protect my country. Be macho and kill that spider. But don't think "macho" means "go ahead and have intercourse with everyone". That shit don't fly with American girls. And they love us American girls. I couldn't even begin to answer why.

Interesting to note that, since I moved here, I have become a ball-buster myself. I had always relied on my mom to do the major ball-busting, but I think I finally have my training wheels off and am riding along just fine. No one gets away with bullshit anymore. Being in Israel has brought out my inner Ball-Busting American. I think I am more American in behavior now than when I lived here.

I have SO much more to tell you all. I will. I promise. Love from the Holy Land.

And if you need a fix, there's always my work blog: www.diamondthoughts.com. I post something to it at least 4 times a week. Do you dig how I'm already totally turning into an advertising whore?

FYI: No bullshit, JamesAllen.com does truly (not saying this because I work there) have the best prices on diamond jewelry ANYWHERE. Check it out. I hated to admit how impressed I was by the quality of everything. Now Anna and I will just spend the next 8 lifetimes making the website quality reflect product quality.

I'm A Grandmother!

This probably comes as a shock to most of you, since I have no children, and, unless I was born in certain parts of the South, am a bit too young to be a Grandmother anyway.

But I have my 3 fur-children, Rita, Isabelle, and Avi. They are my sun, moon, and stars. They are all neutered because I can't deal with cats in heat, and I don't want litters of kittens running around the house.

And I have my adopted street cats, the previously-documented Joel L. Harrison Memorial Alley-Rabbit Squad. T-shirts being designed. Patent pending.

Most of the regulars to my daily late-afternoon alley-rabbit feedings have names. Isha, Sharon (pronounced sha-rohn), Mike, Jack (after Hugh Jackman--he's a handsome cat), Isabelle 2 (she has an ear deformity that reminds me of my Isabelle), Georgia (named after my Dad, always hungry and loving to a fault), Grandpa (the eldest of the regulars, and very dignified in his manner), Tom Selleck (you'll see why), Betsit (bet-seet; a Hebraized version of Betsy, my cat from childhood), Cash (he's a Money Cat), Mr. BigNuts (Need I explain?), Dan-the-Little-Red-Headed-Boy (an orange tabby named after an ex-boyfriend), Mommy (she had kittens shortly after I moved here) and her two boys, Alon and Calanit. Calanit is a girl's name, traditionally, and I named the kitten too early. Sometimes, with boy kittens, you can't tell right away, because their nuts don't necessarily drop immediately. I named the kitten Calanit as an homage to my friend of the same name, and then, a few weeks later, saw that Calanit the Cat was, indeed, quite male. I am not sure whom to feel guilty towards: Calanit the Cat, who is a boy with a girl's name; or Calanit my friend, whose name I indiscriminately gave to a male cat.

Then there is the story of Adolfa. She caught my attention right away because her markings make her look rather Hitler-like. Since this is Israel, I thought it fitting that we take the name back, to give it a positive connotation. Hence, Adolfa the cat, a very sweet girl who, clearly, caught the attention of the boys in the neighborhood. Suddenly, I noticed that Adolfa was looking different.

Adolfa was knocked up. In Tel Aviv, when a cat is neutered, his or her ear is clipped at the end. This is for house cats as well as street cats. This ensures that a cat will not be captured twice for surgery. Of course, with males, there is another way to tell. There were two possible suspects in the Adolfa-baby-daddy situation. Dan-the-Little-Red-Headed-Boy and Mr. BigNuts. I knew that the truth would come out when the kittens did.

From left to right, in this picture, Mr.BigNuts, Cash, Adolfa (eating for 4) and Dan-the-Little-Red-Headed-Boy.












I waited as Adolfa got bigger and bigger, checked the internet for the gestation period of a domestic cat, watched as she ate and ate and ate and ate, preferring to have me push the food towards her. Then she sniffs my hand, looks at me, and eats more. She still does this. I almost have her, literally, eating out of the palm of my hand. It is important to earn her trust, since I have to catch her and get her to the Municipality Vet for spaying before one of the boys knocks her up again.

Soon, she disappeared for a few days. I was hoping and hoping that she was just somewhere nursing kittens, and that she hadn't been hurt. A lot of Tel Aviv locals don't like cats much, so I worried a little. But when Adolfa reappeared at the daily feeding, she looked deflated. She still had the belly, but it wasn't full anymore. And she was hungrier than I had ever seen her. She was pushing other cats out of the way for food, and she is not aggressive by nature. I knew that, somewhere in my neighborhood, there were some little baby kittens.

The first day I saw them, I counted three. They were teeny tiny, but followed Mom part of the way from their hiding place to where I feed her and the other Alley-Rabbits. One looks like her. The others, who were busy climbing a tree, look like this:It did not take Matlock to solve the mystery of who the baby-daddy is. Here, kitten stands behind Mom as she eats. This picture did not capture his almost unbearable tiny cuteness.

I followed them as Adolfa went to get a drink, and kitten scooted under her for a beverage of his/her own. The kittens are living in the yard of the building behind my building, so I climbed a wall and jumped a fence to get these pictures. As I made my way into the yard, I saw that Adolfa, who had been in my yard, ran around her building and got between me and the kittens. Surprisingly, the baby-daddy showed up, too.







Proud Papa, Mr. BigNuts, evidently a Name Rightly Earned.

Grandpa seemed to have been watching them while Adolfa was having lunch at my yard. I didn't realize that it takes a village in the feline world, too. I assumed that the males would jump ship, because they can. But even Grandpa, who looks so much like Adolfa, appears to be involved as well. I'm not sure that this is normal cat behavior, but I like it. I had named him "Grandpa" long before Adolfa was pregnant, because he looks like a Grandpa. He is clearly an older cat, and he doesn't push or hurry or make a fuss over food. He shows up, watches, and eats when things quiet down. He is a dignified feline.





It is the kitten that looks like Adolfa who stole my heart away. This one stayed mostly hidden, looking at me with HUGE kitten eyes as I skirted around to get a better picture. Bear in mind that I could hold all three kittens in one hand at the same time. So tiny!
But I am not bringing any other cats into my house. I have reached Maximum Catitude. I love my Alley-Rabbits, but I can NOT do more than assisting the Municipality in having them neutered and performing the daily mitzvah of feeding them and adoring them for 20 minutes or so. I think they're okay with that. Most of them have become so loving and sweet over the past six months. Even Tom Selleck, who was very skittish and wouldn't let me get closer than 6 or 7 feet. This is Tom Selleck, who must always be called by both names:


Not only does he have the cheesy-seventies-moustache markings, but he has Magnum, P.I.-quality chest-hair markings as well. I'd love to get him a little gold medallion to wear around his neck. Tom Selleck, as you can see from the photos, is also not yet neutered (note the complete ears). Before we have a city full of cats who look like feline porn stars, I must take him to get the Big Slice. I never suspected him to be Adolfa's baby-daddy, and I was right, but, with markings like those, it's only a matter of time.

Congratulations to me, brand new Grandma to three perfect kittens. Since my own Grandmother had pictures of Rita and Isabelle on her fridge, calling them her great-grandchildren, I guess now, even though she isn't around anymore, I have finally given her the first great-great-grandchildren in the family. And I didn't even need an epidural for any of it.