I’ve come to a bunch of conclusions this week. Which is rare. Usually I come to nothing.
1. The very old and the very young seldom celebrate their birthdays on the actual day they were born. Like M.’s grandmother. Whose birthday is celebrated randomly in June. Even though she wasn’t born in June. There weren’t records in Algeria. Not like there are now anyway. And D. was born in September. But they celebrated his birthday in gan, pre-school, this past Friday. Because September is usually the holidays here. So M.’s sister baked a cake. And all of his friends sang happy birthday. And he was really excited about it. So fuck it. I think we should all have two birthdays a year. One on the day we were actually born. And one on a random day. And let’s face it. Our horoscope will still sound spot on whether we are an Aquarias or a Sagitarius.
2. Having spent all of this week subtitling porn, I’ve come to the conclusion that watching eight hours a day of smut is a lot like being on a transatlantic flight. No matter how uncomfortable you are, no matter how ridiculously you ache, there’s just no getting off. At all. But in both cases I recommend xanax and drinking heavily. It helps you get through the night. And the loud fake orgasms and horribly stilted acting. Besides, who needs subtitles for porn? And who watches porn on TV anymore anyway?
3. So this past Friday M. went to take her written driver’s exam. Because she wants to get her driver’s license. And I want her to get it too. Because I need a designated driver. Desperately. And so after celebrating my son’s mid-year birthday we drove to Petach Tikva’s industrial area to take the test. And I told her that she should come back with the passed written test. Or on it. But she didn’t get my reference to Sparta. Or any of my many colorful and witty references. And I’ve come to the conclusion that’s it’s better for our marriage if my wife doesn’t get half of the stupid shit that comes out of my mouth.
4. While she was taking the exam I roamed around the forlorn streets of Petach Tikva’s industrial area. Which is not on any tourist map of Israel. And I took some pictures. And I ran across this old man in his small workshop. Here’s a picture.
And after I snapped a few photos I asked him some questions. He chuckled. And told me that he should start charging people to photograph him. Just last week an entire photography class came by and shot every square inch of his workshop. 40 years he’s been there. Making electrical wires. Then fixing TV’s and VCR’s. And DVD players. And now he dismantles chip boards while listening to the radio. And he had plants. And herbs. And so I asked him about them. And he told me that life is more than just wires and chips. It’s full of color and beauty. And spices. And so I’ve come to the conclusion that we all need to surround ourselves with exactly this type of dichotomy. Motherboards and basil.
5. I spent Friday afternoon at the playground beneath my mother in law’s house. Where people hang their laundry on the window.
And it’s me and a gaggle of religious women. Who won’t sit on the bench next to me. While I read erotic fiction.
And D. rides his tricycle around the playground. And I time him. And try to get him to beat his best time of 23 seconds. But each time he pauses mid lap to get a cookie from one of the religious ladies. Or a cup of iced tea. Even though it adds seconds, sometimes minutes on to his time. And sometimes he comes back twenty minutes later. And wants to check his time. And my conclusion is that he probably won’t be racing in the tour de France. But it makes him really tired. And that’s a big victory in the parenting column.
6. I hate politics. Especially when it plays out in my bedroom. So we have a cat. Let’s call him Mao. Because that’s what we call him.
And my mother in law has something that resembles a big fat old fucking angry piece of shit hairball that claws your feet and growls at everyone. Let’s call him big fat old fucking angry piece of shit hairball. BFOFAPOSHB for short. Here’s a picture.
So Mao doesn’t want to roam free in the entire house. He just wants to sleep on our bed in peace. And lick himself. And don’t we all? And BFOFAPOSHB has decided that he wants our bed all to himself. And he attacks Mao whenever they’re left alone. But before we moved in the room was empty. And BFOFAPOSHB never stepped foot in that empty room. And now he’s all territorial about the bed. I suggested some form of bed for peace deal but both cats gave me the stink eye and hissed at me. So I left with my tail between my legs. And I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no peace anywhere when there’s that much pussy on the bed.
7. As I’m writing this epicly hilarious, poignant and tremendously useful blog post M. asks me what I’m writing about. So I begin to tell her. And before I get two words in she says: “You better not be writing about my written exam”. And of course this whole fucking blog post is an angry rant framed brilliantly by this aforementioned written driver’s exam. And so I tell her: “Don’t chop my onions.” And she says: “You better not publish the blog about my written exam.” And puts her foot down. And I drink my 30 NIS wine (Shiraz, “Israeli” brand… God I fucking love the holidays). And my conclusion? She’s gonna be pissed at me for one reason or another. At least now I know why.
So those are my conclusions. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much I’ve enjoyed roaming the streets of industrial areas, living at my mother in law’s and alienating my beautiful, lovely and COMPASSIONATE wife. If you see me wandering the streets of an industrial area in your town, please feel free to offer me a place to stay.