And I am at war.
Not with the Israeli Prime Minister, who is one of the smartest crooks in recent memory. Netanyahu locked down Israel for all of January so he could distribute the vaccine at warp speed, just in time for the upcoming elections. We are now free to shop, go to school and work, and express our undying gratitude to Bibi for successfully nudging the Pfizer CEO over a series of 17 phone calls.
Not with the Israeli government, which convenes COVID task forces but only listens to the doctors who tell them what they want to hear. The Boss’ cousin is a well-respected scientist who recently resigned from one of these task forces because, in his words, "it's a political joke."
Not with the staff at the ancient city of Caesarea, where Roman, Byzantine, Islamic, and Christian architecture mix and mingle. We were hoping to spend the afternoon there, visiting the hippodrome and impressive Roman amphitheater, but we forgot it was Friday and that everything closes early for Shabbat.
Not with the employees at the country (neighborhood rec center), who allow vaccinated adults with ‘green passports’ to enter, but not their children. Apparently I’m free to live, eat, and share toothbrushes with my unvaccinated children, but I can’t watch them piss in the pool.
Not with the Boss' 95-year-old saba (grandfather), who is constantly bragging about how he escaped the Nazis in Germany in 1933, evaded them again in Czech in 1938, and basically built the state of Israel with his bare hands. Frickin' show-off.
No, I’m not at war with any of those people. I’m at war with an Israeli man named Yaniv (Yah-NEEV), whose picture may or may not be below.
23 years ago, the Boss and Yaniv were hot and heavy. It was 1998. The Boss was a young pup at the time, studying abroad in Jerusalem during spring semester of her junior year. She had just turned 20 and spent the fall semester in Spain. She still had that cute college baby fat which, a few years later, would be used to lure in her future husband.
Yaniv was 25, having already served in the army. He was living in Tel Aviv, studying electrical engineering at the Technion Israel Institute of Technology, and, it turns out, working for the Mossad.
They spent the entire semester together, the Boss taking buses all over Israel to meet Yaniv at various undisclosed locations: the beach, a crowded mall, his parents’ house. The Boss would travel blindfolded so she never knew exactly where she was. Even then Yaniv was the Puppet Master.
They were so deeply in love that Yaniv came to Chicago the following summer, where he lived with the Boss and her parents and worked for the Boss’ father as an engineer. This man slept in the bed in which I would one day sleep, ate breakfast at the table where my children would one day drown themselves in french toast, whipped cream, and syrup, and shat in the shitter in which I would one day shit. The Boss claims that things ended with Yaniv that fateful summer, but I have come to understand otherwise.
The Boss and Yaniv played the long game. They waited patiently. They bided their time. They built families of their own because Yaniv’s position in the Mossad prohibited him from marrying an American living abroad.
And then, a few weeks ago, the first email from Yaniv arrives:
“Hi [the Boss]. I hope this email finds you healthy. Just wanted to say hi. Be well. Yaniv.”
Translation: Hi [the Boss]. The time has come. I love you. Yaniv.
The Boss responds: “Hi Yaniv. Nice to hear from you. Bla bla bla. We are living in Tel Aviv and having a great time despite the lockdown. No question this is a better place to be than Chicago right now! I hope you and your family are well.”
Translation: I’m close to you. Finally. Kill your wife and children.
Yaniv: “Sounds great. We are back to Israel, living in Tel Aviv as well. Bla bla bla. Watch it, we may bump into each other. :) ”
Translation: I feel your presence. I need to hold you. Eggplant emoji.
The Boss: “If it weren’t for COVID, I’m sure we would have run into one another by now. We live in Lamed, so if you’re in northern Tel Aviv, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. 🙂 ”
Translation: I need you. You know where I live. Heart heart heart emojis.
They exchange a few more emails, ostensibly leaving their potential meeting up to chance. But I know the truth: The Boss’ plan was to marry me, bear four children, move us to Israel in the midst of a global pandemic, and then leave me for her long-lost lover.
She and Yaniv have attempted to orchestrate the ultimate Bait and Switch.
I should have known the Boss was up to something. I thought she was so desperate for the kids to go back to school so she could work during the day, but now I realize why the bed is always made when I come home from work.
In fact, now I’m questioning if the friendliness of our local grocers is something else entirely. The guy at the fruit and vegetable market knows the Boss brings her own bags. The guy at the corner store knows she always wants the American-brand Philadelphia cream cheese. The guy at the toy store knows exactly which coloring books Broosevelt and Boni like. What other secrets do these men share with my wife??
Nah, the Boss is cruel, but she’s not dumb. She would never risk her relationship with Yaniv for some silly neighborhood fling. She's been planning this for years, brainwashing me to believe that moving to Israel was my idea.
And now she and Yaniv are trying to turn me against my own children. I used to enjoy spending time with Panini and watching her luckily score goals in soccer games, but now all she talks about is her hair, her clothes, and figuring out how to dress identically to her friends for Purim cuz god forbid she stand out at all. She also recently said to me a parent's most dreaded words: “Daddy, I want a boyfriend.” At this point in Panini’s life, I’d be happy for her to have a new father.
OG wore her Ace of Hearts Purim costume for a month before Purim, so she is obviously oblivious to the fact that her mom wants her to have a new dad. She tells me she loves me and gives me sporadic hugs in between books, but the reality is that she’d love her next dad as much as she loves me.
Subconsciously, Broosevelt is holding on to me tightly because he senses the danger around him. He hugs me. He lets me carry him. He smells me. A couple of weeks ago, the Boss took his three sisters to the dentist, and he and I had a couple of hours alone to bro out. I told him we could do whatever he wanted, and he said, “All right! Let’s watch sports on YouTube, play UNO, build Legos, and shower together!”
As expected, Boni is somehow fully aware that Yaniv is trying to tear her away from me, so she tells me in Jedi-master code to fight back: As I was leaving for tennis the other day, she said, “Daddy, you better win.” I said, “I’ll try my best baby.” She grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, “No, Daddy. Don’t try to win. WIN.”
I will win, Boni. I will. As I consider the battle in front of me, the war to hold on to my children and keep my family together, I am reminded of a line from the musical Hamilton: “Uh oh! You made the wrong sucka a cuckold! Time to pay the price for the pants you unbuckled!”
Yaniv doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, and the Boss thinks that after 20 years together, she knows what I’m capable of. They have no idea. I’m signing up for an ulpan (intensive Hebrew course) so I can speak the language of my enemy. I’ve added grilled cheese to my dinner arsenal. I did some sit-ups the other day. I’m evolving. I’m getting stronger.
Yaniv, you Israeli bastard, it’s over for you. I’m like Liam Neeson from Taken: “I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.”