I admit - my friend chooses her confidants really badly - I do not know how to lie.
Therefore I present my candid confession submitted to her strict husband.
Dear Eva's husband!
You were right.
At the time when I, in a dreary solitude, suckled through a straw something cold and green, named mysteriously "lemonana", your spouse was throbbing on the edge of ecstasy with a cheese pastry in her hand... Would you imagine, right in front of my eyes! The shameless. But I must admit, that it is with an unbound envy that I followed the changing expressions of pleasure on her face, when her sensual lips touched that black, hot
...During the process, and ONLY for the credibility of the alibi, we gossiped about <censored>, tattled about <coffee stains, can't decipher> and I learned many interesting things about <here I choked on my lemonana>.
For even more credibility, she told me about some of your, dear Eva's's strict husband, unappealing habits... Hey, I must tell you - socks in a vase are passable, but the rest made my hair look like a blast at a spaghetti factory. You should understand, all this was told only to make my alibi more credible, if I ever have to testify... Nothing personal, as they say. Apart from the fact that your spouse has no compassion, whatsoever, to my hairstylist.
After I had followed, for nearly two hours, this wanton behaviour of your wife, I must admit that I could not take the torture any longer, decided that I was worth my own portion of pleasure - and dragged your wife to participate in a joint orgy in the cosmetics store (receipt attached - I got a bottle of vitamins and she, in her licentious way, tested some new gimmick, called vibrating mascara. It is not a joke. I thought they sell these only in sex shops, but your spouse, as you may know, will find something indecent even in a nunnery. I did not understand why she tested it on her eyes (of all other possible places to apply things long, round and vibrating), but we were in a public place).
Then, exhausted and mentally squeezed like a lemon for my limonana, drained with this backbreaking friendly care, I finally sent your satisfied spouse home. There should be limits to everything, even friendship.
So here is my confession, dear Eva's strict husband. I admit assisting an adultery - security videotapes at the shopping mall would serve you during the divorce process. I am ready to testify under oath, in exchange of a cup of coffee and a cheese pastry. I must have what she was having...
What happens usually? I wake up in the morning, I look in the mirror and I think - hm, I'm beautiful dammit, no doubt about it, but who is the terrorist that created this stupid low waist trousers fashion? Each time I sit down, I feel the cool breeze around the northern hemisphere of my bum. And think of skinny jeans, or any type of jeans that do not widen at the bottom - if - and I say IF - I manage to get myself into one of these, I'd look like Obelix, trying to squeeze himself into a Genie bottle. I lived in denial for years now, but now it's time to come out of the fridge and admit it: I am a pear shaped woman.
You can't blame me for looking how to make my life easier. Thanks to darling Paula Jane who shared the link, I discovered that British Scientists in turn discovered that pear-shaped women have memory problems. No-no, don't pity me! I might finally have a chance to use my condition to my advantage.
Oh, I wish they would have discovered it much earlier, when I had to pass exams! I remember those scary old ladies guarding at auditoriums, sniffing your calculators for the formulas you scribble on them, counting how many times you coughed - Morse is alive, the sounds you produce with your body is a well known code-transferring cheating mechanism. Some extremely creative students passed their tests claiming that they had dyslexia. Ritalin junkies! A paper that certifies the circumference of my hips would have earned me the right to bring all my books and notebooks to the exam.
Or consider the case of that gloomy admirer of mine from school, who dully roamed around me... can't remember his name. He would drearily whine - Kraaaapfeeeen.... you promised to go to the beach tonight with me, if I let you copy my homework... I was known to have a great memory then, so I couldn't just forget my promises, and had to invent some horror stories about armor-plated mosquitos, that would hedgehop from the sea when the night falls, producing petrifying Nazgul screams that would make my hair curl into tubes, like Whoopi Goldbergs. Instead, I could have just wobbled my hips and sent him do some farming. To learn how to distinguish between subspecies.
Army service could have been much easier as well. Instead of every career officer repeating to me for the 139th time - while observing my figure in the most carnivorous way - what coffee he prefers, he would understand that it would be easier to make it themselves (for career sergeants the realisation would take twice as long). They wouldn't have given guard duty at the base's gates either - who really can remember who is friend, who is foe, and who's just sneaking to visit his girlfriend. I could also legally forget whom I should call on the base to let pass the pizza delivery - and just collect it myself. What could they do? Discrimination in the army by the ratio of waist to hips is not permitted, as far as I know.
Partnership in the pear- shaped condition can bring the greatest advantages of all. Batting my eyes flirtatiously, I can tell that I do not remember how much my new glandule with microchips cost, that I already have nine pairs of sandals, what I was asked to do on the way home and where the hell I put his beloved memsificator with triple thread??? Or, for example, some men think that they can court a woman for a week or two, and then rest on
So what if our memory sucks? Let's look at the bright side of pear! Cheers to pears, gals! We've got the power!
And all this - apart from us having lower risk for heart deeseases, but it's much less interesting.
Hmmm... Wanted to write one sentence, but as always, it got extended over the whole page. What did I want to say?... Went pear-shaped again. :-)
Josh said that if we were going to watch a film, we needed popcorn. And that was not open to discussion.
Saturday night. Hendon. It's almost London, - the distance of three beers and one Bloody Mary. Josh is funny and a darling. But he's got some extremely perverted conception of the most common things. For me, watching films at home means –pizza and the divine feeling of cholesterol spreading through my veins (since my one and only try, I prefer to order). For Josh it is the annoying crunch of popcorn at the most dramatic moments. On the other hand, that’s probably why he is firm and toned. As he claims.
I am sure that deep inside, he really is.
We had only one problem, a tiny nuisance (shut up, Tom Hanks, I bet Houston never had to put up with THIS one!), - we did not have a microwave. On the other hand, we had me, and "me" craved for a heroic achievement. I could for example, as I once did, shrieking like crazy Mel Gibson in a mini, batter a tuna can against the kitchen counter, in an attempt to open it. Ended up making only a small hole, from which all the oil would leak out and artistically sprinkle all over the kitchen (“Oil on tiles, Tate Museum of Modern Art”). The can itself would stay non-deflorated. I could also perform a brutal abortion to a wine bottle: the dried cork would molder, but won’t budge.
However, my best kitchen achievement so far peeked in my trying to separate two frozen pieces of chicken. I was into lifting weights back then. The chicken did not know that. The marble kitchen counter did not know that either - and hence was really surprised, when I hit it with the frozen poultry, like an enraged King Kong. Astonished, the marble plate split in two.
So after all that I was still hopeful that one day... I would do something outstanding. And everybody would admire me and convulse in an ecstatic paroxysm.
And here I finally faced the possibility to perform an act of culinary heroism, thus preventing the cruel death of two starving actors from emaciation. I recollected my student years and decided to attempt to make popcorn, as it were - in a pot. In frivolous dormitory years that's what my roommate Shiri used to do, and I would follow and study. But now Shiri has two children and a microwave and does not indulge in any more perversions of the sort.
"What kind of pot? "- asked Josh. He was more courageous than me. His voice revealed trust and even an ounce or two of that admiration that I craved. Ha! I always knew that I impress people with my air of convincing confidence.
But he didn’t know me well enough. My answer should have ignited red lights inside his head, but my confident magnetic field had probably burnt down his cerebral batteries.
"The one which you won't care about"- I said. I knew what I was saying. He still was ready to take the chance.
What he “did not care about” was a pot big and beautiful, shining with all its convexities, probably his mom's present. Something clearly designed for chicken soups and gefilte fish. But as it probably was a long time since the last gefilte fish had died in there, the pot required a thorough disinfection procedure - Josh made an impression that he was actually washing the pot in a dark kitchen, until his father phoned and he cheerfully escaped to the bedroom, collapsing with the phone on a bed, shutting the door and barricading himself from culinarity. A man running from responsibility. Classical.( The appearence of Brazilian plantation owner, disguised as Kevin SpaceyCollapse )
Not necessary Part I
"Holmes! Why is this purple face which is flying around the room making such scary faces to me???"
"Maybe because it is angry, Watson. After all, that was MY cocaine!"
As any good student who compiles a seminar paper from two other papers, three Google links and four hundred beer labels, I thought that all I had to do - was to copy from the picture of some well-painted personality. I was wrong. First of all, all pictures seemed to be of mutants from the Galaxy of Perfection, middle name - Photoshop. Second - and only slightly less horrible - was to discover that copying a make-up was just a tad harder than replicating a Cellini in a tanker-hull smelting plant. There are rules, orders, techniques and palettes. I needed instructions. In search of the abovementioned, I had to wander through dissertations from the National University of Tittybong (NUT) discussing Nicole Kidman's eye colour and advertisements promising to "enhance my natural beauty" and with that beauty to "answer that secret nerve in the heart of everyone". Damn! All my life I've been dreaming of serving as application officer for electrochemical transmitters in the cardiac muscle of every jerk, and did not even realize my true calling!
What can I say?... I Know what "second order stochastic dominance" means (at least my boss should think so), but after reading this sentence - "start with dark shades - from the middle of the upper eyelid to the external third of the lower eyelid so that they would join at the outer corner of the eye and rise up, making an angle of 120 degrees with the eye-section" – I was ready to drink eye-makeup remover and die. An advice for spectacles wearers to "curl eyelashes, otherwise they would graze against the glasses" completely convinced me of my own deficiency, because my lashes had NEVER touched my spectacles. In fact, they were so disturbed by the revelation that they curled up into a tube and threatened to fall off completely.
Then I discovered that every hair colour and skin tone has its own matching "makeup palette".
So I couldn't help imagining burying myself in a greengrocer's counter after reading the following:
"Dark hair and warm skin - Your best eye shadow color is olive green, rust, beige, chocolate brown, earthy red and orange. Your best blush choice would be light brown or apricot and a bright pink for accent on cheekbones. Your best lipstick choice is in the rust, raisin, warm chocolate brown or orange red family."
Reading this description immediately brought to mind Cezanne's "Compotier, Pitcher, and Fruit", with myself as the compotier..Do you remember the joke about men telling women that "peach is a fruit, not a colour"? Well, count me as a man starting now! What the hell is "peach" colour?? I've seen peaches of all kinds - from evergreen to rotten brown with fluffy mold. Chocolate colour depends on the percentage of non-chocolate gunk stuffed into it and olives can be Manzanillo olives, Syrian olives and smashed under your shoe olives And all of them have different tones. Trust me. So how should I interpret this passage???
There was only one thing whose colour left me in no doubt: rust. And it kept suspiciously repeating itself. There it was: my "palette" was ordering me to cover myself in rust so I could look like a Tinman recovered from the submerged Titanic.
The rest of the tips were even more inspiring:
"The simplest way to determine which shade is the one you need is to pinch your cheeks quite intensively, then the perfect tone should be similar to the one you get on your face after this procedure"
Right. Actually, this is for dabblers. For professionals, I would personally advise to apply an incandescent frying pan - not only will it reveal your "perfect tone", but you won't need blush for months!
Here's another one:
The tip to find your natural blush color is to bend down and touch your toes for two minutes and then stand back up. The color of cheeks is the right blush color for you"
Assuming, of course, that you are ABLE to touch your toes. By the way, I read somewhere that hanging people with their heads down was a common practice of the Inquisition. Now I understand why: just imagine a Jesuit monk with a brush shouting – "Reveal your colours, heretic!" And you will sell the whole dreadful plot to murder Monsieur Lancome with an eyeliner.
New mysteries kept unraveling to me. For example, one must apply powder "in a downward direction, otherwise the down on the face ridges out" (for those who did not have a chance to shave in the morning), and if your skin is inflamed, one absolutely must use… green powder! Honestly, the first image that came to my mind was that of a dead body surfacing in a swamp. "Green face powders are ideal for those possessing a red or ruddy complexion. If you constantly blush even without a decent reason – buy one." Aha. Remember drawing lessons at school. Red skin + green powder = purple? As for me, I would rather go working as a traffic light than smear my physiognomy with green tint to make it look like an eggplant!
A propos eggplants: "Violet powders are made for yellowish and dull complexion. They will return your skin its natural beauty and usual colour." Absolutely. The natural colour of Jackie Chan cooked by his enemies in borscht.
I killed half a day on all this balderdash during which I almost exhausted my supply of fruit paints. By eating them, what did you think? While Cezanne was crying in the corner, threatening to switch from painting fruits to painting those tanker hulls instead, I went to the cosmetics drawer for an inventory. At that point I already knew that if Bill Gates does not pay you alimony, in order to touch anyone's secret nerve you will have to sell first yourself and then your mother, so I restrained myself from shopping for new supplies.
My aunt had been lazily presenting me with makeup elements and I was happy to find in that magic drawer a box of paints for a seventh grade drawing lesson with 21 colours of eye shades, three types of rouge (I spent half an hour comparing them to the pictures published at The Agricultural Association's website and a sample of corrosion in my car motor but could not decide what did they brought to mind most – rust or biology), and a brush, miraculously not used to paint greeting cards. I also had three black mascaras (I once had a blue one too, but I had to throw it away after I used the brush in a procedure advised by one funny sexologist on a seminar in my early student years (he advice did not deliver the promised reward so I won't disclose it here).
( The processCollapse )
(the ad is originally in Russian, my translation)
Igor, 39 from St.Petersburg, wants to marry a girl 16-20.
"The Kingdom is growing, but still without a worthy Cinderella (no bad habbits, good-looking, and in posession of an intellect), to become a princess, able for devotion, loyalty and love (without sexual past, one who knows how to guard her honour from the early age.
Do not write me: megalomaniacs, those thinking themselves the last arse on the planet , shabby loosers, unrealised illiquid of the marriage market, people with non traditional orientation, envious idiots, whose discussions, advice and questions are not requested here. Do not comment, I am not interested. Will not take body for sale, I am fastidious. Write to the point, other linguistic diarrhoea will not be read."
Don't you even dare to think about it! He is MINE!
Right. Deep breath. I need age correction in my passport. Anybody can help? Please??? Oh! And my dubious past... Darn! Well, I heard plastic surgeons can do miracles. My linguistic diarrhoea will be a problem though.
Do you think a wedding dress all covered in gold will be too heavy?... Alright, alright, just the edges, but with diamonds spread all over it!
( More feast for the eyes - stop dripping!Collapse )
Me: "What are these columns on the first pic for?... To tie 'em up???"
Pini: "Your imagination is too developed, Igor won't want you! You obviously can't guard your honour..."
The original ad in Russian
Posters about an organ concert, a choir singing only Ave Marias, a singer singing only Salve Reginas and other guest artists from Europe.
And above it all a huge placart: "Pope Benedict XVI on his Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, May 8-15"
Yep, right. With electric guitar and two cardinals on bass and drums!
I've been a woman for such a long time now, and all these years I have no idea what I've been doing while my friends savoured "Cosmo", gnawed carrots like professional rabbits with PhDs in Vegetable Recasting and spent fortunes at beauty salons. For all these years I was buying notebooks and other mimsitesators wholesale. I definetely missed some of the pleasures of my sex. Even today, when our two secretaries are trying to explain to our boss the difference between knits and beads, I am ready to swallow a lethal amount of each and plea for political asylum with white bears. We will surely find a mutual language. They don't read Vogue. Or so I heard.
It took me a while to understand why so much free time and even more - free
ions intellect and money is turned to what seemed to me as a ridiculous attempt to occupy oneself with anything instead of reading Schopenhauer or ganking monsters in Diablo. Not that I've ever done any of the abovementioned, spending my time in perfect idleness twidling my thumbs, but at least it did not involve pictures of anorectic models fed with lettuce probably since they were born. However, when I accidently drowned Les Miserables in the bath I understood the advantage of magazines (gloss cannot be drowned!) and stopped pretending to be different to others. After all, I have read Angelique, Bridget Jones and cooking recipes. I AM qualified.
(Yesterday, for example, it was an article about the hard times German brothels are having because of the credit crunch. They now have to offer sales, you know, like in a supermarket: "two plus one" or "all included" or club member(hm!)ships. There are reductions for pensioners or taxi drivers, and "free daily" tickets. All this helps women "to keep their full-time employment" says one of the club owners.)
But I digress.
With my first lipstick, given to me by my loving aunt, I drew filthy pictures on school walls and wrote "Lennon is more alive than the living!" rephrasing the patriotic Soviet phrase about Lenin. I think I should be thankful that I did not solve differential equations with that lipstick. Otherwise it would have ended much faster, and there would be nothing left for Paul, George and Ringo.
My development into a proper woman was derailed at the age of fourteen, when my friend Sofia asked in a mysterious whisper whether I wanted to come to her place to watch Double impact. Jean-Claude Van Damme was very popular in the Russian-speaking immigrant community. Actually, if going for brutality, I would have preferred to watch Musketeers, but in our house we had only three videotapes brought from Russia and Sofia's father managed to get brand new pirate tapes - you know, of the type where the picture is bad, the sound is even worse and when credits run you suddenly see people getting up from their chairs in front of you and realize it was recorded by a hand-held camera from the screen right in the theatre? Authentic "feel like you are attending a premiere!" effect.
There were still no computers or internet or e-mule. So I could not be picky.
Sofia's father had a great stock of videotapes, some he permitted his daughter to watch, but others stood in a back row, probably in order not to traumatise her gentle soul with belgian violence. The Double Impact tape was there, hidden behind. So everything was done in secret, while her parents were out. Four girls sat on the sofa, knwoing they do something extremely punishable. The air was filled with sin.
And sin it was. Abu-Sofia's "Double Impact" turned out to be a saucy, juicy, hardcore porn film, slapped with enough X's to fill three algebra textbooks, except that the pictures were much more interesting than trigonometry functions. After I collected my eyes - smeared all over the ceiling - I asked in complete amazement: "Whooah, does everybody who kisses has to stick tongues into each other's mouth???" - and other questions of the type. My girlfriends were puzzled and probably thought that I was preparing to enter German full-employment program.
You see, those questions were much more interesting than neverending discussion about pimple reduction. I never had pimples. So since then my female development moved in only one direction, ignoring or hiding deep all other "abilities" like - tidying up, ironing, cooking (probably I was just too lazy or too feminist for such!), opening beer bottles - and yes, taking efforts to take care of my looks.
But when a woman approaches 30, she cannot neglect anymore broken nails and peeling skin.
This revelation was brought home to me rather bluntly, when a collegue approached me:
"Listen, Krapfen. Explain to me the disparity… You seem to be all sensual and feminine, but do not wear jewellery, do not use nailpolish and not a drop of makeup. How's that?
I told her that this is because I was Xena the Warrior Princess, eating cannon balls for lunch and sewing corsets from the skin of my enemies, activity definitely ruining any good nailpolish, but deep inside I have to admit, I was confused. Not that I did not know that I was beautiful on the inside - I really love elegant underwear - but I knew I needed that external glamour that would pile up my admirers into a proper staircase to paradise. Suddenly I imagined all the hearts I did not break just because I lacked that "final touch" - if only I had worked a bit harder to "enter the character" - and decided immediately to correct the problem.
The mission started.
...And I will stop here without getting to the point, because it turns out much longer than I thought!!! Oh. As always.
That is what the director of the Safari told the Israeli radio early morning a couple of days ago.
"And how do you treat their constipation problems?" - asked the host.
I did not hear the answer since I fell off the bed from laughter, but I presume it was nothing interesting, like "with a screwdriver" or something of the sort.
Recently noticed that I have to tilt my head when I want to smile (too much internet!) - so just imagine how my human-produced LOL-smiley looks like... the bed was just not large enough!
- Current Mood: amused
But now it's time to get rid of all the khametz in thoughts too. So I will float it away on the unending internet scope and tell you how I made pizza. Before the Passover, of course.
First of all, it has to be stated that I am a very untypical woman - I don't cook. Still, I know that "antipasti" is no Italian revolutionary movement, that pasta should crunch under the teeth, that steaks should be cooked "à point" meaning - alive enough to get up and walk away from your plate, and that if "gigot" is grilled for more than 40 minutes and then sits for longer than 15 more before being served, it should be called "Leg of Lamb", and torn brutally by Conan the Barbarian, rather than relished gracefully at Avenue Foch. Don't try to persuade me - IT'S NOT THE SAME THING!
But I don't cook, which, in case you were wondering, immediately disqualifies me from being Hannibal Lecter, connoisseur and chef. This is, of course, apart from other trifling differences like my brown eyes, my radiant beauty and the inability to dismember corpses with one hand while playing Bach with another. This I did not master yet. Bach, I mean.
It's not that I hate cooking - it's just that cooking and I have disagreements. I once bought a package of basil, which said "after opening, put in a jar with water". Well, that I did. Two days later I opened the cover. It stunk! I sincerely could not understand why, I did as they told me to! Untill my friend Pini explained to me that "put in jar with water" means "treat basil as you treat flowers" rather than pickles or gefilte-fish. Pini is a physicist, he knows things. But how should I know???
So when I festively declared to my friends - Pini and Baby-Mammoth - that take-away fast-food pizza is nothing compared to the home-made real thing, and that I would make them a pizza, even the cockroaches laughed under the sink.
Thus, one beautiful evening we all gathered at Pini's house to perform the show of Italian authenticity. He spent two years in Rome, and he was the first I could turn to for a recipe. He never made pizza in his life but he supplied me with an Italian book which looked like someone's doctoral thesis. Why anyone would write 63 pages about such a simple thing as a lump of dough with tomatoes and cheese?.. Notwithstanding, I courageously opened the book. It was in Italian. And I was immediately struck by one of the headlines: "L'uso della pasta madre"… I had no idea what this pasta-madre could mean. It seemed like something an angry Spanish conquistador would shout in a Greek tavern, when deprived from a drink: "L'Uzo! Tu puta pasta madre!" (history keeps silent as to what Spanish conquistadors would do in Greece, but we will not stand upon trifles). Afterwards there followed a continuous text spreading over several pages, probably describing, apart from the madre, all pasta relatives. Since I had no interest in pasta genealogy (of course I will never admit that I don't speak Italian!), I dropped the idea of authenticity along with the book, and asked for "Phone-A-Friend".
"You mean, Pizza Hut?" - asked Pini cunningly.
"Darling, we don't want you to work hard!" - innocently added Baby Mammoth.
"Thank you for your support, but can I get some trust from my friends here?... I am only asking for something written for economists. Like me."
Pini digged deep and produced his aunt's recipe, written in a large neat handwriting, promisses of "very quick and simple process" and wishes of good luck and divine results. Mix ingredients, wait until the dough doubles its volume - then roll flat and bake for 20 minutes. Quick and easy. Like a guillotine.
I did not know then that simplicity is always a trap, and that neat handwriting is a distinguishing trait of maniacs.
I understood that something was wrong ten minutes after I prepared the "pasta madre", namely, the dough. It did not "rise" or "double its volume" as promissed. Oh no! It was not even laying there, sadly, on the bottom of the bowl, sleeping like some old drained matza! Not at all - it was boiling out like a proud Paaaasta-Madddre! As in "Sweet porridge", you know, the Brothers Grimm tale, where there is a pot to whom you must say "Little pot, cook!" - and it starts producing porridge until you say a magic word to stop it? But if you forget to shout "stop, little pot!" - the crazy pot, probably on Energizer batteries (or something stronger, if it was Columbian pot) would madly keep cooking untill the porridge filled the whole town? So now it seemed I forgot the magic words, as all I could produce was just a shriek of horror, which was apparently perceived by the paleface enemy as a battle cry, since this Madre of All Pastas kept running out, flowing over the edges of the bowl, insolently pushing away the wet towel that was covering it.
Shouting Allah Akbar, Santiago and Banzai all together (appreciate my multi-erudition at times of stress!), I jostled away a gaping Baby-Mammoth, who seemed not to understand the danger, and dashed forward like Xena, aiming to stuff the Pasta Madre thing back to where it belonged. After I hissed threatenly that I would feed it to the street cats, Pasta Madre pretended we could cooperate.
Baby Mammoth was looking sceptically and asked for the Pizza Hut phone number. I reminded her that street cats have never tasted a good Mammoth, and that they'd be really happy to try the delicatessen after they are finished with my pizza.
Pini, who was silently following my battle with Pasta Madre, said that he read somewhere that pizza dough should "be similar in texture to a female breast". No, seriously, I quote. You understand now how my kneading was perceived by the two troglodytes?
Since I managed to shove the leaveneus insolentus back, I victoriously proclaimed, that all is OK. I WISHED! The huge breast in the bowl decided that it wanted to audition for Bay Beach or however it's called, you know, this series with Pamela Anderson - and kept enlarging, this time right in front of our eyes, aiming to fill not only one red swimsuit, but a concert piano covering as well.
I decided we could not wait anymore and the rebellious substance should be promptly transferred on to the pan and into the oven.
But for that purpose it had to be flattened first. I realised immediately that it could very well go up - but not stretch to the sides! I understood then how asphalt rollers must feel on a bad day. I tried to roll it along and across, but it hanged back with all its might and decided that now it would all shrink back!
Finally, clutching the rubber substance from three sides, the company and I pulled it into different directions, straining it over the pan like Phantomas putting on his mask before going off to impersonate yet another Scottish lord in order to gank all the guests in the castle. I left Pini and Baby-Mammoth to hold the edges, ignoring the Pizza Hut phone numbers rolling in their eyes, and decided that if Pasta Madre was crushed down with all kinds of goods, it would stay flat. So I loaded the rising-shrinking creature with tomato sauce, cheese, mushrooms, olives and corn, all that was left in the fridge, and the entire spice garden.
Pasta Madre looked at me gravely under the mushrooms, gurgled contemptuously, moved one or two olives to the side, but did not budge anymore. It worked!
Suddenly, everything became beautiful and cozy. I heard blissgul sighs around me and felt like a cooking angel. Pizza Hut's CEO was already knocking at the bank managers' doors, trying to get a loan to save the business.
Hm… Peeping ten minutes later into the oven, I discovered - surprise! - a dreadful picture, - "pizza" kicked off all the covers like a snake shedding its skin and decided it was at least a three-storeys wedding cake, rising up to the oven ceiling and sticking there!
I will not tell you how we cleaned the oven from the pizza and the pizza from the oven. To tell you the truth, when it all ended I was really exhausted. All that was "divine" about the recipe was to finally find some afterbattle solace on the couch. We even ate it and it was not bad at all.
The next day I woke up and felt stuffed like I never had before. I think that pizza kept growing in my stomack. I wish it could have stayed there, however, because I was not hungry for half a day. This could have been the best diet ever - eat pizza and loose weight!
I have to learn Italian though. Probably there are some strategic secrets scattered over those 63 pages...
Boy asks his mother:
"Mom, how I was born?..."
"We found you in a cabbage."
"And my little sister?"
"We found her in roses."
Nex day he catches his parents during an interesting activity.
"Hey, I see the gardening is at its height!"
I have a confession to make: at my advanced age, I can sometimes be as naïve as a cupboard knob. Today I am smart enough not to believe in wonderful global things like world peace, eternal love and the anti-aging wrinkle decrease line of Lancôme for £80 a sample (no really, I am not that crazy! Or THAT old!). But common everyday peculiarities manage to evade my rationality here and there. A person who, at the age of 13 was still scribbling petitions to Santa Claus, at 30 can only be expected to send cablograms to Mars.
Let's take, for example, grass cultivation. I know nothing about it. So when instead of grass I saw in my philosopher friend's garden dull black earth with short yellow bristle sticking out of it, I could not really come up with one bloody reason for that, just thought that this is probably what Normandy looked like in 1944.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" - I asked, annoyed.
"It's the gardener," - said my friend calmly, not even lifting his head from the computer as he kept typing yet another philosophical paper of his. As if such a hooliganism by a gardener is considered common behaviour.
"Excuse me, what did the gardener do?..."
"He inverted the grass. Turned it upside down," - pit-pat tick-tack pit-pat-bruh-huuuuuuums (that was the spacekey)… and then again - pit-pat tick-tack…
"He did… WHAT?"
"He turned it", - pit-pat - "upside down."
The grass owner mused at another ornate passage.
"How's that?" - I asked.
Indignation started to boil inside me - such a frivolous and indifferent attitude towards my bewilderment, on the background of pats and bruhms. The philosopher stared at the screen and obviously did not intend to explain the inverted grass phenomenon. But then probably some old Wittgenstein winked at him beneath the letter-forming electrons, reminding that there are people who just happen not to have the ability to understand things, because in the end, he condescended to answer.
"Just as it sounds. He took the pieces of sod - and turned them over, grass down. And these yellow sticks - well, they are the grass roots."
"But why would he do such a thing???"
"Apparently, it has to be done periodically. For some recovery reasons. After that the grass will be softer and greener."
My best expression of astonishment (jaw laid out like a carpet at the airport during a presidential visit, brows saying hello to my hair) was not appreciated as it deserved, - the philosopher's eyes were bouncing along the rhythm of ticks and bruhmses. I thought of a gardener, shaking the grass like a sofa cover and impudently revealing the grass's private parts to the world - and I felt deeply offended for the grass, and for the country, and for myself, so ignorant of gardening.
Eyes stopped bouncing and now were cunningly looking at me.
"You never heard of inverted grass?"
"But this is such a common practice!"
I imagined White House dudes, digging over the famous lawn every Saturday under the flashlights of tourists and journalists. Duh! Let's see whether Fox can beat CNN in the number of ideas regarding - what the *beep* are they looking for?... and the press release telling they are just "making the grass greener"… I was honestly unhinged by the image.
"Depends to whom it is so common, - I said. - I heard of turning over pancakes. Or coma patients. Nothing is known to me about inverting grass. So, when will he turn it back?..."
Friend sighed - and then laughed. I felt very uncomfortable serving as the source of such amusement just because of my lack of knowledge in gardening practices.
"It will all come back in a week. It will grow again by then"
"What do you mean - grow??? Will it now be growing INSIDE?" - I pictured the grass, drilling into the earth like a rabid corkscrew, scaring all the moles out.
"But no. Well, you did not really believe that he turned the grass?... (Oh yes, hell I did!) He just cut it off almost completely. And I… well, I was just making fun of you…"
Tick-tack tick-tack BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUHMS! - that was me now, in my private paradise exploding a bomb under his doormat.
You see, I am so far gone that even a lobotomy won't help. Now you have to excuse me, I must go packing. I was just told that Mars has finally replied to my queries.
But since my Persian connections are limited to children's tales and few mentions of the word "Iran" in private emails for the last couple of days, and since I really doubt that Ali-Baba has dropped by to say hello, I seriously suspect that someone has penetrated my mailbox and was happy to find some journal links there.
Which leads me to make one important statement: if one day I change my name to Shakhzadeh or Firouza, start covering my hair and eliminate every dirty word from this blog (which would be a shame, I hold on them), don't panic. It does not mean I went deep undercover - it only means that firewalls did not make it, my passwords belong now to the nuclear nation to be and the journal is going through Islamic Revolution.
Laurell, today still speaking Hebrew.
P.S. I also mentioned recently Kirgizstan, Papua New Guinea, Maurutius and Santa Helena in my emails. I'd love to have some exotic flaggies on that sidebar. Anybody?...
"Promise to me that when I die, you will look at my picture and touch it tenderly with your finger…"
Girl looked at her portrait in a wooden frame, that stood on Writer's table.
"Why should you die before me? - Writer seemed surprised. - You are much younger than me."
"Since when does it matter?... I will certainly die before you, because I do not want to live after you. I CAN'T live without you. And you… just promise to me that you will caress my photograph."
"It is so touching. It will express your love and longing for me."
"This of all things?.. Allright, I promise."
"And you will remember me. Your whole life."
"Of course I will remember you. Always. And yearn terribly."
"But then you will fall in love again…" - Girl looked dreamy, but her face was still turned towards Writer.
"Oh no, I've had enough of it. You were the last. I am too old for these things." - Writer was very confident of this, but Girl cut him off impatiently.
"Don't interrupt. Don't swear. You will fall in love again. And it will be me. I will come to you again, but you will not know me. You will suffer from guilt, as if you had betrayed me. But you should not. Because even if I will look different, it will still be me."
"How will I recognise you?"
"You will. I know that you will"
Girl smiled cunningly, kissed Writer on the nose, and slipped down from his lap.
"Let's go swimming." she said.
"You go. I want to try to work a little."
"But you asked me not to go alone, since I do not know all the eddies in this lake."
"Just stay close to the shore. I will join you later."
She shaked her head, lashing him with her long shiny black hair and fled away.
Writer stayed alone. In contemplation, he looked outside the window at the wild lake. The cabin stood deep in the woods and seldom did people drop by. He had built this house with his own hands, in the desperate hope that here, in the silence of the nature, he could finally overcome that atrocious anxiety he always felt in front of a clean sheet of paper. The white rectangle horrendously sparkled in its whiteness and while he looked at it, something deep in Writer's chest seemed to whine, something rending his soul, like the moans of somebody being tortured in the depth of a dungeon cellar.
It happened to him before, when his wife was still alive. He would struggle through words and phrases for a while, angry at the whole world that did not know how much effort it takes to write a book, but then, at some point his soul would cork up and he could not produce even a single sentence. He tried then to find inspiration in his wife's love, but in vain. He could not release his muse, he did not even know where she existed. He was looking for her day and night. He tried it all: he travelled, he redecorated the house, he tried to be sociable, although by nature he was a complete loner. Nothing helped. In the end, alone in his room, he started to look into himself, digging deeply, squeezing out everything that hid deeply in him, whether bright or dark. Looking for any source to recharge himself. Realising finally that he was ready to sacrifice everything for a short period of freedom from his fetters. And then suddenly, it happened. He found his Muse. And when it did, he could not believe his own powers. Even his grief over his wife, who died then, could not stop him - he was writing easily, quickly, at any place and any time.
But since Girl had come into his life, since the photograph of his wife had moved from his table to the drawer and was replaced by Girl's picture, since her laughter began to fill the silence that was left in his house by his wife's death, Writer's fingers had stopped again flying over the keys of his typewriter. And now he was ready to howl when he was looking at his shaking hands, not daring to type a single word… He had to release his muse again.
He looked at the armchair by the window - a place where Girl liked to sit and read, sun rays dancing in her black hair, and recalled the conversation that had just ended. He opened the drawer and took out a photograph. The soft features of his beloved wife, framed by fair silky hair. Writer lightly stroked the forehead in the photograph. Nobody knew that he was still keeping it, nobody knew how much he was longing for her. He was astounded by Girl's words. It was as if she knew that he was secretly caressing the photograph of his wife as if it was her very skin, alive, warm, soft skin, and not a frozen pale mask, as he had seen her the last time.
Writer raised his head and looked out of the window again. Girl was running on the grass towards the lake, her long light dress flowing beneath her bare feet. She stopped on the shore, turned around, and laughing, waved to him.
Writer smiled in return, following her with his gaze as she threw the dress off and slowly walked into the water. Then he turned to his typewriter again, musingly looking at his enemy - the blank page.
He laid his fingers on the keys, closed his eyes and concentrated, like a pianist before a performance. He was ready. He strained his whole mind - and he waited. It should happen now, he remembered that same feeling from the last time, he felt the pain in his chest gradually dissolving, releasing him. His fingertips trembled, waiting to be unleashed. And at that very moment, when a muted cry was heard among water splashes from the direction of the lake, to be followed by a choking sob, - ten light wings, quivering, pulsed against the metallic circles of the keys. A few more minutes, and then one line after another appeared on the page, the pain replaced by joy and inebriation. Much later, sometime in the future, his fingers will rest on the portrait of the black haired head, but now they were racing forward, ever more quickly, to rush on before Another One came and deprived him of his strength again.
He did not notice how a dark shadow silently entered from the lake and found her place in an armchair by the window, but he sensed her presence. He had called for her. She was his Muse.
At the same time our government is leading talks to swap several hundreds of those who planted explosives, planned attacks, - for one Israeli soldier, Gilad Shalit. Yes, we have to do a lot to help bring him home. Yes, it goes along with our standards and morals. But we also have to think very carefully about the price we are going to pay.
No soldier will be safe after that - because terrorists will know they can capture more, since we are ready to pay. No victim of a terror attack will be sure that the criminals, responsible for the death and injuries of his family members, never get free to kill again.
No, I do not have a son (husband, brother, whoever) in captivity. But I do have a mother, few relatives and friends living in Haifa. And I want them to keep going peacefully shopping, riding on a bus and sitting at restaurants without fear.
Journalists were deprived of some high-rated shots. But they are happy to concentrate on "Bring our boy home" campaign, or to make a fuss about a sniper who, trying to protect his fellows, shot a civillian woman in Gaza, - thus shaking already not very solid ideological base of our government. Forgetting that we already pay millions of dollars to PA, deliver them electricity and water, while they keep trying to kill us.
Forgetting that we are AT WAR. I can (maybe) understand all the beautiful souls from Europe, who, sitting there with a cup of tea and a biscuit, watching live battles on TV and thinking that they know better. And when at war, for the sake of "Glasnost", you cannot undermine nation's morals and that little, what is still left of its external power.
Disclaimer: I am in no way an artist, cartoonist, but I like making fun of things and people around. This is my second (and last) try with computer colouring, hey-hey!
- Current Mood:It's not against any religion
- Current Music:...to want to dispose of a pigeon!
The owner of a stolen car must have nerves of steel, balls of cast iron, enough energy to power a food processor were it plugged into his ass and an amount of free time that a bored zoo tiger can envy. First of all, understand that nobody will go looking for your carburator somewhere in Ramallah, where your car has probably seen its last days and now, with Pater Noster in Arabic chanted in the background, is being dismantled, its organs readied to be sold throughout the whole of Middle East for transplantation. You also can bid adieu to your panoramic mirror of the "into the wide open" type and mourn a very special steering wheel cover - bought in a moment of masochistic bewilderment - covered with stickers that should look like flowers, but are more reminescent of acid nocturnal emissions. And to top it all - you have to deal with the permanent emotional stress that accompanies thoughts like "I will never see this dent on the wing ever again!" Gloomy requiems play in your head and you start cutting armbands from your black concert dress.
Next, you will disappear from work, like pens or clean spoons for coffee. Because of a scrote who decided that your wheeled bucket of screws was exactly what he needed at this stage of his life, you just mutated into a real life Dragon Quest player. The tasks are multistage and casualties are inevitable. Get ready to gank monsters in a game running on Windows Vista installed on an abacus.
- Spend two hours on the phone with the insurance company, just to ask what you're supposed to do next.
Life: 95%; weapons: list of
monsters to ice vague instructions.
- Go to the other end of town to submit your complaint to the police. You are back in high school or visiting somebody's wet dream: the station is full of girls in blue uniforms. They look as if the last time they ate something was a year ago and discuss whether they want some lettuce for lunch, or a diet coke and a cigarette will do. It takes one of them almost an hour to type your complaint, though it consists of only two sentences. Probably she is just weak from hunger.
Life: extremely deteriorated. Need a hamburger.
- Send a copy of the essay to the insurance company: one monster down, you are still alive.
- Ministry of transport issues you a death certificate for your car on a festive orange paper.
- You are all hope and call the insurance company. Discover that, being preoccupied with her gastronomical decisions, the salad girl forgot to write some important details.
- Trying hard to hide the smoke coming out of your ears, your go back and ask for a correction from the salad girl. She looks paler than before. You really had to leave her half a hamburger...
- Back to insurance. You start hating this part of town and wish you were a Terminator, or at least Clive Owen and could deal with problems by your own means.
- Wrong move - they tell you they need a lawyer to attest your signature. Vapours of lethal ending start filling the air.
- Israel has one of the highest lawers-to-population rates in the world. Suing each other is a national sport, courts are as busy as public toilets. I think we should press for the inclusion of this sport in the Olympics. Hmmm… Three lawyer's offices in the same building, but with no lawyers in them! They were probably very busy suing each other for sending a commando of cockroaches to the neighbour's office to spy. Actually, the last time I saw a real lawer, he was singing Sgt. Merryl's part in the Jerusalem production of the Yeomen of the Guard.
Life: is not beautiful anymore.
- The lawyer is found. You pay him the price of a blowjob on the Tel-Baruch hooker promenade in Tel-Aviv for half a minute of his time and go back to what already feels like home. The insurance company.
- Back to insurance. If I played Monopoly and had to collect 200 dollars each time I pass it, I'd be a millionaire and could buy every Arab car thief his own wrench. But jokes aside - this is a solemn moment. I am here to hand in the car keys. The requiem sounds louder.
- You are getting a temporary replacement car from the insurance company. An "armoured catafalque for gnomes" would be a proper name, but I am not a sorehead - I can always pretend I am a London cab on the run. Or install a vacuum cleaner on the catafalque's roof and apply for a tank licence. I can even write "To Berlin!" on the car's side.
Life:you call this life???
Weapons: where do they sell nukes, anybody?...
- The final blow is to answer the phone and to hear a hoarse nicotine voice "this is the insurance investigar… So, what anti-theft devices were installed in your car?..."
Life: sucks. Weapons: I should probably drive my catatank to Ramallah and demand my carburator back. Maybe the vacuum cleaner on the roof will scare them enough...( CatatankCollapse )
- Current Music: Baby, you can drive my car...
Have you heard about an Admiral, - well, actually, Chief Navy Commander of Israel - visiting a strip club in Tel-Aviv?.. This was the top news item of the week. A few days ago the Holy Land was boiling and frothing like the sea during the Battle of Trafalgar: the Navy Commander Eliezer Marom was caught in a Tel-Aviv strip club!
The Chief of Staff did not like the publication. Woozy feminists demanded that Marom be "thrown into the sea". News websites published opinion surveys on whether the officer should be discharged. The Admiral apologized.
Frankly, I don't know what the fuss is all about - he did not visit the club during his shift, and he did not wear a uniform - in fact, the girls (sorry, the employees) even thought he was a Chinese laborer. He did not rape any waitress and did not crush any tables. Disgraceful behavior? But he did not try to perform there (Just imagine the announcement: "Ladies, only today and only on our stage! He is handsome, he is exotic, he is an officer! Give your applause toooooo... The Admiral!" - and our hero appears on stage in a huge bail. All this of course, if he would not have to deal with income taxes … and if the length of the bowsprit would not be classified as top secret).
The internet community promptly credited the Admiral with no less than involvement in trade of people. Oh, c'mon, don't be so shy, you probably meant that he captured boats with Russian tourists, whom he secretly delivered to Tel-Aviv brothels on his flagship, didn't you?!
The squall of demands for the Admiral's resignation was supported with such arguments as "chauvinism in the style of a third-world country", or the incompatibility of the high rank with "buying pleasures for money" (true - why pay money where an order should suffice? And if not - a charismatic twelve-pounder on the stem should do the job?). Some of the talkbacks were concerned about the ability of a commander to control the situation - if he cannot "control his desires". I totally agree - a true commander should know how to deal with other needs too, like hunger, for example, or an urge to pee in the morning. Martial operations should be led strictly while clutching itching testicles in the teeth.
( More... But - warning! Many letters and adult content embedded!Collapse )
And to sum up, let me address our high command on a serious note - you should apologize not for going to stip-bars and have a drink, but for not being able to stop the rockets being fired from Gaza. After you do so - as for me, go and perform there!
I should have suspected the worst the moment I opened the bathroom window and realized it was snowing. March in Jerusalem should mean - the very end of the so-called "winter", which this year was as dry as a desert-found Neanderthal skeleton, with only a couple of days of rain. Big white flakes, melting the moment they touched the earth were a cruel mockery, flying by my window as sovereigns on Danae, or whatever currency they used there in Ancient Greece. One has to bear in mind that it was, after all, a workday morning. You see, precipitations are strictly divided into two groups - those suited to accompany your going to the office - and those suited for a well deserved lazy day with hot chocolate, a book and a blanket. By all accounts, snow certainly should belong to the latter. The correct type of snow is the one that blocks the roads and prevents you from getting to work.
That snow was not correct, however, - it was melting. Life's crap, said I and turned to the scales. The enemy was secretly hiding in the bathroom corner, evoking dizziness and a morning heartburn. I looked at THEM. And THEY looked back at me, with that penetrating look saying "I see dead pizzas…". And dead pizzas they were, all packed around my barely awakened body! The disaster was approaching with the inevitability of a train running over Anna Karenina. Now I would rather become a jerboa intestinal parasite than to watch the numbers going up and up - something I would definitely have preferred to see on my bank account instead. It seemed that the situation could not get worse, so I removed the last articles of clothes I still wore - glasses and socks - then clambered on the scales again. During those four seconds it took them to finalize the result I felt like a broker, studying the red stock market billboards, waiting to be fired and fed to tigers…
Life's crap, I said to myself again, watching my weight shooting even higher than before. The scales probably had hydrocephaly or some other intellectual impairment that could explain why the hell they decided that I had suddenly gained half a kilo in two minutes!
Since I had nothing more to remove, only to get rid of the brain, which seemed to be very slovenly implanted, I had to reach a very disappointing conclusion: No. More. Food. For. That. Woman.
Well… one has to eat breakfast, right?... Every book says it, though probably no top model ever does it.
I was so depressed that I decided I deserved a quarter of an hour of solace before going to work. After all, I survived a true shock, that could even cause high blood pressure, internal itching and probably some mysterious disease called after two mice-tormenting shmucks with unpronounceable names (one of them Jewish of course) like Spienfingelden-Grombabanus! Really, I could not let myself succumb to the theories of these gnawer terrorists, so I poured myself another cup of coffee before going out. Especially since both my bosses were absent - one was attending a conference, another one had to undergo an operation. So I could afford to be a little late.
In the meantime, the snow had turned into heavy rain. Really not a weather to go out. Absolutely outrageous and inhuman. I am sure that there is some paragraph in the Geneva Convention relating to employees having to turn up at work in such weather - a crime even worse than personal mines. It is a corporate conspiracy, that these paragraphs have never been publicized! But I would never go against the law, so I waited… and waited… and...
Two hours passed like nothing, - in deep contemplation over the appeal I would have submitted to the Hague Court, but then a very earthly event diverted me from that highly humanitarian activity - I am getting a text message from the boss. The same one who was supposed to be in the hospital:
"They decided to postpone the operation - see you!"
Oh no. Oh no no no no! That day I was destined to watch numbers - I looked at the clock and understood that my wish of becoming a jerboa intestinal parasite has never been closer to realization - if I am not moving those dead pizzas off the couch now, I am as deep in the anus mundi as any intestinal parasite had ever been. So I moved. I was up, I was dressed, I was out.
After twenty minutes of whirling around the parking like angels above Berlin, looking for my car, I was soaking wet.
And then I realized that my car had been stolen.
Life's crap - did I mention it already?...
My precious boss Shlomo has just returned from New-York, where he participated in some extremely international professional conference. There, apart from the cold, he had the pleasure to suffer from enduring attacks from all the participants, blaming Israel, in his face, for its
At first Shlomo tried to explain that his purpose in New-York was just to
But then some pro-Hamas representative from an Arab country really crossed the
"Stop yelling at me! I am myself a refugee since 1948!" - said Shlomo in pure Arabic.
Surprised, the militant opponent went dumb and temporarily lost his speech. In the meantime, Grandpa Shlomo explained how, being born in Iraq, Little Shlomo had to flee from Bahgdad in 1948, leaving family lands behind.
"And by the way, - added my sly boss, - please pass my warmest regards to your predesessor... He is my good friend!"
The host interviewed some London rabbi about the halt. He was particularly interested in such important questions as - whether Big Ben is still moving, whether the beer froze in taps and whether the Queen Guards change normally.
This feast of wit has instantly put my Russian-produced mind into its ironic mode. Such a waste of broadcasting time would have never happened between, say, St. Petersburg and Boston. But who cares about the Bostonian snowdrifts, in which someone's car is buried till spring (and whose owner, as I heard, still get parking tickets!), or Petersburgians carrying special brushes for windshields in their pockets… Stories like these are like one more spoon of caviar in a whole bowl of it.
But the snow bringing the London transport to a halt causes over-excitement for Israelis because of this feeling of solidarity - "Been there. Know how it is…"
Every once in a while there is one day, a single day in the year, when Jerusalem turns white. It usually starts in the afternoon, after a really cold and rainy day. During this day people at work are peeping out of the windows, watching the rain - has it turned to snow already?
The work stopped, just buzzing and humming all around - It's snowing! - No, it's still raining... - I told you it's snowing! They said it on the radio that there's snow falling in this or that neighbourhood already...
Those born in Russia, Northern Europe or the US provide their authoritative opinion. The discussions on the subject when exactly a raindrop can be considered a snowflake, and whether the rain reached the proper condition yet, could have sustained at least three scientific symposiums. The tension rises, excitement sabotages work more than a security breach in the Pentagon.
And with the first sight of a snowflake the Great Exodus begins - work spaces are cleared, everybody hustles and jostles in the three-storey parking, trying to escape. The way home takes at least two hours with chances to arrive safely - and to find a parking spot - approaching the level of interest rates nowadays. And the day after - there is no work, no school, - no entry and no exit from the capital. Complete blockade.
This is the only city in Israel that has central heating installed in most of the houses, and during this only day in a year it works to exhaust every oil resource on earth - probably aimed to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict once and for all.
Nothing of this sort is expected this year. No water falls from the sky - whether white or wet. Scarves off, sunglasses on - summer all year round!
Me: "I think with the speed of an asteroid hitting the Earth."
Physicist: "One microsecond before or after the impact? These are two very different values!"
Me: "At the very moment of it."
Physicist: "But this speed is not defined!"
- Current Mood: blank
I want to finish this stupid project already. But it never arrives, like the seventh orgasm
(Very disappointed, drinks)
The programmer keeps returning the results with mistakes, a-ggain and a-ggain. It really proovs the core paradigm of existentialism.
(Anger overtakes disappointment. Drinks more)
All dis is my fault of kors. I am leading the project, afffer all.
(Hard inner thoughts… but then remembers to drink even more, then looks around to find a stronger drink).
Butt! I moost be polite - shees rankkked higher. Ant she weighs moooore. Much moooore. Cobra helicopter wiz longish blondish curls and a goddamn Mensa cardd attashchshched to each plade of the bropeller.
(All the bottles around are empty now. Grief overtakes anger)
Will haf to wok Sat-day. Rooint wikend aggain.
(Despair overtakes everything. Checkmate. Collapses. Curtain)
- Current Mood: pessimistic
Evening with friends. Their 3 year old daughter decided I am (probably) a cockroach and should be executed with a hard sofa cushion (look for this method in the old medieval edition of the "Full Tormentor's Guide for Dummies"). At the same time I am trying to hold a cup of tea, lead a conversation regarding
It appears, my "Inner European| is French: sophisticated and smart. Not British ("slobbering drunk obsessed with football"?) and not even "exotic mysterious" Russian (vodka, caviar and probably nuclear warhead as preferred sex toy). I wonder what would have become of me (according to that stupid quizzzz I took), if I had succumbed to the temptation of choosing "wine and opera" as my preferred night outing. Would I become Italian?..
However, opera is not my preferred night outing. And the problem is rather banal and absolutely embarrassing - I love it, I enjoy it, but I can hardly survive a full opera. No, I do not mean some old Wagner, where you have to take a dinner and a pair of wool socks with you to a theatre, not even I refer to a baby-monster like "Ruslan and Ludmila" (in five acts). But I frankly consider that any theatrical ordeal (it can be a play, a show, or a film) should last no more than an hour and a half, two hours tops. This can be achieved by playing the music twice the tempo.
And then there is this evening problem. Really, who invented those people, who start living after 10 p.m.? I was programmed differently. Two days ago I was sitting with B. - beautiful and smart, at a nice place, - a wonderful synergy of an old bookshop and a restaurant, rare and perfect place in Jerusalem city center. They frequently invite writers and professors to read and lecture on different issues, even their menu is designed as a book. B. was elaborating extremely vividly on the differences between Andre Gide and Albert Camus, their biographies and style. Who needs a writer or a professor! It started as a perfect evening. And then suddenly I hit my limit - an hour and a half, and if there is no drastic change in a picture, move, development, revolution, aliens arriving, - the inner lights are off, and the system stops responding. I collapsed into a tea cup and (as always) - ruined it all. The cup, the table, the clothes.
There is only one activity that keeps me awake for no matter how long, at any time, and I really have no idea how it works - connecting a USB cable to my vein. This option, however, was not listed in that quiz. It was designed for humans…
At last, a secular mayor to Jerusalem. Hope that the new mayor will be someone who accepts that Jerusalem is more than some sort of "idea" of which citizents should be hostages, but a city inhabited by real people (groundless assumption!) who have real needs - like normal transportation, clean streets etc.! This does not mean, of course, that the streets will be safe from burning trash cans and violent demonstrations of the ultra-religious population against gay parades, for example. Although the Patron-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named of these pyromaniacs is definitely loosing his/her qualification.
We had a chance to realise it last February, when MP Benizri, one of the loyal servants and confidants, declared that the recent earthquake was a direct consequence of the horrible sin of sodomy (girls who like girls – you are not guilty and are free to go).
I personally think that such a declaration should be considered as blasphemy at the very least, and am proposing to defrock the irreverent servant Benizri. The sin seizes the very Holy City, where saved are still the footsteps King David, Jesus, Jordan Army and American presidents – but all that God can do in return – is to shake us a little?... Not to ruin even one house, not the smallest haunt of sodomy?
I don’t want even to mention the famous sulphuric rain, once erasing two localities. Such great examples of fireworks are probably not available anymore (that is why the loyal servants attempt to mimic it with burning trash cans?...).
In our secular age, when there exists a right “to be offended”, guaranteed by the Supreme Court, Hague Conventions and the press, I would call up to join our forces for the defence of His Name against the usage of it in every occasion when a plane crashes (because it was flying during Shabbat) or someone chokes (because the food is not kosher), - etc.
Can the new Mayor bring Jerusalem out of the Dark Age? Let’s hope he at least will put any boundaries. And - my personal request - cleen the street from all the garbage...
- Current Mood: curious