Day 145: A Holiday Gift from Saul

Fuck Christmas. 

I hate Christmas. Every year I hate that shit. Plastic presents and plastic mistletoe. Ugly sweaters and fat, lecherous Santa. Consumerism Gone Wild. Christmas is gross, and it’s a gift that Christmas is totally irrelevant and avoidable in the Jewish state of Israel.

I thank Israel for this gift and, to pay it forward, I would like to give you, dear reader, a wildly unappreciated gift: me. You’re lucky to be reading this blog. You’re lucky to know me. Be grateful. Be grateful for my bald head, my sweet smile, and my flexible hamstrings. You don’t need to thank me for this gift I’ve given you; just know that you’re welcome.

Israel has also given us the gift of easy Mediterranean living: 70 degree days throughout December, sunsets on the beach, coffee shops and bakeries on every corner, a bi-weekly local fruit and vegetable shuk (market), and consumable hemp products.

As previously mentioned, Panini was given the gift a two-week quarantine by one of her COVID-positive classmates, but her friends turned that frown upside down by bringing her a big box of sugary and salty treats. They left the gift outside our apartment as a surprise and then stood in the parking lot three stories down to tell Panini they love her. To the horror of my children, I thanked them from the window in my immaculate Hebrew, ripped pajama pants, and, I’m pretty sure, a shirt.

Do you all remember Shirli (SHEER-lee), the woman in the apartment below us who doesn’t want my kids to run or jump or make noise or have fun or be children? Well, she got a gift for us too, but it turns out we can’t use it because Shirli is a witch.

The following is 100% true:

1. Shirli lives alone. (Witches live alone.)

2. Shirli wears a mask at all times. (Witches don’t like to be seen.)

3. Shirli has lots of weird ceramic objects around her apartment. (Witches have weird shit in their homes.)

4. Shirli frequently invites my children to her apartment. (Witches frequently lure children to their homes.)

5. One time when two of my children and I went to her apartment, Shirli was wearing one of those thin, silk robes with Chinese characters. It was barely tied and, as a result, my kids and I could clearly see half of one of her breasts. (Witches do weird shit.)

So about a week ago, Shirli aka Shirli the Witch aka Maleficent (from Sleeping Beauty) asks us to stop using the wall heater in one of the kids’ rooms because “it makes a terrible noise and [she] can’t sleep.” We say sorry, the heater has been professionally checked twice, it’s not making any abnormal noises, and our kids are not Arctic ground squirrels, so deal with it. So Maleficent offers to buy us a radiator which we can use for the rest of the year and then give back to her when we leave. Not realizing that this radiator is a spinning wheel with a spindle, we accept the gift.

As we put Broosevelt and Boni to bed that night, we warn them not to touch the radiator because it’s hot. A few minutes later, Broosevelt is in tears because he feels like he won’t be able to not touch it. Maleficent has put a spell on my home and my children, and when Broosevelt dies because he pricks his finger on the god damn spindle, I’m gonna give the entire free world a gift and kill Maleficent.

Someone in Broosevelt’s gene pool gave him some Rain Man gifts. Broosevelt has a laminated sheet of paper with the pictures and names of all of his classmates, their addresses, their parents’ names, and their parents’ phone numbers (all in Hebrew). Turns out Lil’ Rain Man Broosevelt has memorized not only all the kids’ names and spelling, but also their addresses, their parents’ names, and the first three digits of every parent’s phone number. 30 kids plus 30 addresses plus 60 parent names plus 60 phone numbers equals Dustin Hoffman counting toothpicks.

The Boss gave OG a gift after OG managed to lock herself in our bathroom. The Boss did her best Cirque du Soleil contortionist imitation, climbed through a very high, small window (see below), and saved OG’s life.

I would have saved OG myself, but I wanted the Boss to feel proud. All I do is give. I give to my family, I give to my students, and I give to you, my dear readers.

In the meantime, the U.S. gifted Israel a COVID vaccine and Israel gifted us another lockdown. 

Happy Christian New Year!

Day 138: Everything's Okay

My reaction to everything these days is, “It’s okay.” It’s okay I was just handed an extra class to teach. It’s okay Panini just started a two-week quarantine because a kid in her class tested positive for COVID. It’s okay the Boss is always mad at me even though I do everything right. It’s okay Netanyahu is still in office despite six straight months of protests.

Some things are actually okay.

It’s okay the kids have been in school, socializing with friends, doing some after-school activities, and improving their Hebrew. It’s okay the Boss sets up rabbi appointments for Panini’s bat mitzvah during the day, works during the evenings, and cleans the house at night. It’s okay I’m teaching my butt off, playing tennis regularly, and making tons of new friends with my adept social skills and blossoming Hebrew.

It’s okay that it hasn’t dropped below 50 degrees since we’ve been here and that I haven’t worn a fleece or jacket since April in Chicago. It’s definitely okay that we spent five hours in the sun at the beach last Saturday.

It’s okay that Shabbat dinners here are no joke: chicken, fish, basar (meat), pasta, rice, lentil soup, vegetable soup, lasagna, bourekas (stuffed phyllo dough), home-made tomato rotev (sauce), soup, salad, olives, cheeses, roasted zucchini, red wine, white wine, beer, cheesecake, chocolate cakes, cupcakes, and, of course, sufganiyot (Chanukah donuts).

It’s okay that Yoni, the Boss’ deeply insecure younger brother, has been here for the last month. He feeds and reads bed-time stories to my children to gain Favorite Uncle status, he demands validation from me during our late-night walks to Pedo Park, and he seeks constant attention from family members by announcing the imminent birth of his and his wildly gay partner Raph’s baby in June.

It’s okay we see the Boss’ family every single free moment we have. At least we’ve done some tiyulim (trips) over the past month. Last weekend, we spent the morning in Jaffa, an ancient port city in the southernmost part of Tel Aviv. It’s okay that Boni whined most of the time about the fact that we didn’t buy her any junk from the flea market; at least I had a great shawarma for lunch.

Some things aren't okay but it's still okay.

It’s okay we almost died. A few weeks ago, we hiked through Ein Gedi, an oasis overlooking the Dead Sea. It was a beautiful, perfect, sunny day, and the next morning, there were flash floods. It’s okay Broosevelt is not a great swimmer… 

It’s okay there’s a new COVID strain in England. My kids still eat their vegetables, I somehow get stronger and better looking every day, and the insufficiently researched, politically motivated, Autism-causing vaccine has arrived.

So it’s okay that daily COVID cases in Israel are back up to 3,000 and the government is close to issuing another lockdown. We escape to COVID-free zones when things look rough. Last week during Chanukah, we spent five days in Eilat, a COVID- and duty-free resort town on the Red Sea where you have to show a negative test to enter.

On the way to Eilat, we stopped in the Negev Desert to view the Makhtesh Ramon, a stunning erosion crater not nearly as cool as the Grand Canyon. It’s okay Jews can’t help but associate misery with this natural beauty. There were some short films in the museum, one of which was about Ilan Ramon who became a national hero as the first Israeli astronaut and then a national tragedy when he died in his first space mission when the 2003 Columbia was destroyed upon re-entry. His son, Assaf, also became a pilot and died in 2009 during a training flight. Jews flourished in Spain before the Inquisition and were running shit in Germany before Hitler, so somehow these deaths seem tragic but fitting. It’s okay.

It’s also okay that humans and wildlife are living in absurdly close proximity in the Negev: We saw hundreds of ibex roaming the streets and parking lots of a small town (see below), and we visited Hai-Bar Nature Reserve, where we saw mountain gazelle, wild goats, and ostriches who stuck their heads in our car and plucked at Panini’s iPhone.

It’s okay that Eilat’s wonders are built on oppression. Once we got there, we hiked through the surrounding mountains and canyons, hung out at the beach, and snorkeled. The Boss, Panini, and OG also swam with dolphins who were captured from the wild, enslaved, and made dependent on human food and support. The dolphins are free to swim out to the sea, but they choose to stay 50 feet from the shore…

It’s okay and maybe even awesome that Israelis are as judgmental and condescending as I am. I bond with neighbors I barely know over our mutual disdain of the “nouveau-riche” in the next neighborhood over who wear Prada, smoke cigarettes, and host kids’ birthday parties with hair-straightening, make-up, and nail-painting. 

It’s okay that we’re the only family in Israel without a giant woven mat used to have picnics anywhere, anytime: on the beach, in a park, or in the middle of a concrete parking lot. 

It’s okay that Israelis have zero tact. I’m playing tennis with this dude for the first time, and when I tell him about my twins, he yells out from the other end of the court, “Were they natural?”

It’s okay that the next Israeli I’m trying to practice my Hebrew with who says, “I prefer to improve my English” is gonna get punched in the face.

It’s okay that my deeply privileged students from all over the world can’t get their work done on time and ask for extensions on nearly every major assignment. It’s also okay and deeply gratifying when I say no get the hell out of my face with that bullshit extension request.

It’s okay that teachers drink wine at holiday lunch parties and then spend the afternoon with students. It’s sick that those same teachers rip cigs behind the building and then help students with their essays. It’s bad-ass that these teachers smell like alcoholic ashtrays and then teach their classes. 

It’s okay that Israelis are so soft. It’s fine that they wear winter coats when it drops below 70 and rain boots when it’s not raining and cancel soccer practice when it might rain. It’s reasonable that every child in Israel gets what he wants when he wants it: shoes, balloons, gummy candies, chocolates. And it’s definitely acceptable that Israeli 6-year-olds don’t know when their birthday is. They know how old they are, but they have no idea on which day or in which month they were born.

It’s also perfectly normal that 6-year-olds here don’t know how to tie their shoes. Or put on their shoes. Or put on their socks. Yes, it is true that numerous able-bodied Israeli 6-year-olds literally cannot put on their own socks and shoes because, presumably, Mommy has been doing it for them forever. Broosevelt and Boni had a playdate with Ariel, the most athletic 6-year-old on the block. When Ariel left, he brought his socks and shoes to me with out-stretched arms and, I’m pretty sure, a tear in his eye. I told him hell no figure it out, son. So Boni spent the next ten minutes putting Ariel’s socks and shoes on him. 

It’s okay that Boni, the softest of all my soft-ass children, notices how soft Israelis are: “People in Israel are such wimps!”

WARNING: Do not read the next paragraph if you are a total loser who can’t get down with the nuances of sport.

It’s okay that Israeli tennis players are fucking hooks. It’s okay that any ball on, or even near, the line is out. In civilized countries, when a ball lands near the line and the receiving player doesn’t see it perfectly, he’ll often take a quick walk over to the line, take a look, non-verbally convey “Well, I’m pretty sure it was out, but I didn’t see it that well, so I guess it’s your point” with a frown and shoulder-shrug, and walk away. In Israel, players walk over to the line a couple seconds after the point has ended, identify an imaginary ball-mark, and call it out. 

It’s okay that my children don’t understand that every action has a reaction. Like, for example, it’s okay they don’t understand that if a 9-year-old puts a bed sheet in a 6-year-old’s mouth and that 6-year-old clenches it with her teeth as hard as possible while the 9-year-old yanks the sheet as hard as possible, the 6-year-old might lose a tooth and cry for a long time and bleed profusely.

It’s okay that Panini’s on a soccer team but won’t hook me up with the squad’s merch. It’s great she has school friends and neighborhood friends, and that she’s dreaming in Hebrew and going to Tel Aviv villas for Bat Mitzvah parties. It’s also cool that Panini has violent tendencies. It’s awesome that sometimes she slaps OG in the face “out of instinct” and knocks the wind out of OG when she “didn’t mean to punch her that hard.”

It’s okay that I have to coach OG through her showers. And it’s fine that, despite my love and support, OG doesn’t appreciate me. It’s okay that she said, “If Mommy weren’t around, things would be grim.”

It’s also okay that this 9-year-old girl, Mika, is super mean to OG for no reason. Scratch that; there is a reason: She’s a jealous little bitch who can’t handle that OG is cuter, smarter, and a better dancer. True story: OG wrote Mika a note (in Hebrew) saying that Mika hurts her feelings when she says mean things and asking her to please be nicer. Mika read the note, yelled at OG, and ripped up the note in front of OG’s face. We happened to be going out of town the next day, but we discovered that afternoon that a bunch of girls in OG’s class had brought her balloons and candy in a show of support because they love OG and know Mika is a little beotch. It’s okay, Mika. Bring that shit any time you want. 

It’s okay that Broosevelt continues to praise 6-year-old soccer-star Segev even though Segev hits and isn’t a good listener and doesn’t play fair and likes Atai more than he likes Broosevelt.

And it’s okay that Broosevelt is accident-prone. It’s fine (as previously mentioned) that he slipped and smashed his face into a table at school and lost a tooth. And it’s normal that a couple days later he somehow got caught up in one of the window shades and the whole thing came crashing down on him and a large metal piece nailed him in the back of the head and he had a giant lump and hopefully not a concussion.

It’s okay that Boni is also an accident waiting to happen. After Broosevelt lost a tooth, her front tooth became loose. Boni then bit into an apple, causing herself tremendous pain, and then a couple hours later, she accidentally knocked out the tooth with a Kindle.

It’s also okay that Boni has no friends. It’s kinda awesome that Ms. Queenie is finding it hard to adjust to the way 6-year-old girls play in Israel and that sometimes the other girls ignore her. It’s about time Ms. Popularity felt the sting of rejection. 

And I suppose it’s okay that the Boss called up Boni’s teacher (Shulamit) to discuss Boni’s difficulties. It’s not like Shulamit has to worry about 30 other kids who can’t even read. It’s totally reasonable to ask Shulamit to pay extra attention to our little precious Boni who comes home crying because a few girls won’t play pretend with her.

I’ll leave you with the infamous Israeli phrase: Yihye beseder. Its denotation is, “It’ll be alright.” Its connotation is, “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s fucked.”

Merry Christmas!

Day 106: Cautious Optimism

I woke up early on the morning of Wednesday, November 4th to very bad news: Trump was winning. It hadn’t rained in Tel Aviv for over three months, but it rained like crazy that day. I was practically in tears on the way to work because my country had failed in its shot at redemption, and cuz rain is dramatic. I taught my classes like a zombie and checked CNN every free second I had.

Later that evening, the momentum started to shift and, I shit you not, the sun came out. I went to bed that night feeling a sliver of hope. Over the next few days, Biden won Michigan and Pennsylvania, and all of a sudden we had ourselves a new president-elect. 

The joy and relief I felt once Biden passed 270 lasted for about ten minutes: I started thinking about the 70 million people who voted for Trump, the stacked Supreme Court, the likely-to-be Republican-controlled Senate, and the fact that moron Democrats and evil Republicans were the ones who got us Trump in the first place. Trump and His Crazies are going nowhere, and I’m curious to see where the hell this all ends up in two years, four years, etc. I am, at best, cautiously optimistic.

Same goes for our situation here. 75% of my kids are back at school, chugim (after-school activities) are coming back, and we’re finally getting to explore Israel. Two weeks ago, 14 of us (me, the Boss, Panini, OG, Broosevelt, Boni, the Boss’ mom and dad, the Boss’ aunt and uncle, the Boss’ cousin and his wife, and the Boss’ other cousin and his girlfriend) went to the northern tip of Israel, where the weather was cool and the natural beauty was stunning. Syria was a few miles to the east and Lebanon was a few miles to the west... 

We stayed on a kibbutz, a collective community traditionally based on agricultural and socialist idealism. Nowadays, many kibbutzim engage in pragmatic capitalist endeavors such as tourism, high-tech, and real estate. This particular kibbutz built a bunch of tsimmerim (cabins) and sold them to private individuals who now rent out those cabins to city-slickers such as myself. To be clear, these cabins are not rustic; they have TVs, cable, and wi-fi. And the best part is that they only have one bathroom, so my children were able to experience my daily movements as intimately as ever.

Breakfast, served al fresco on our tsimmer’s picturesque patio, was included: eggs, lox, herring, tuna, olives, olive tapenade, sliced cheese, feta cheese, cream cheese, caviar and other cheese spreads, labane (Greek yogurt), salat (diced tomatoes and cucumbers with olive oil and salt), granola, bread, butter, jelly, Nutella, hot coffee, cold choco (chocolate milk), and not freshly squeezed orange juice (see below). Per Jewish culture, we made six sandwiches with the left-overs, wrapped them up tight in paper napkins, and made sure we were prepared should we be struck that afternoon by another genocide.

On the first morning of our tiyul (trip), we went on a beautiful hike on the border with Lebanon, and I felt happy. The weather was perfect, pecan and fig trees were in abundance, and we ate sweet, wild blackberries. I was amused by the fornicating snails we discovered, but I was a bit taken aback by the sound of Hezbollah at a firing range just over the hill.

That afternoon, we had a muddy picnic lunch, saw some cows, climbed through natural stone fissures, and drove through the hills of the Galil (the region around the Sea of Galilee). One look-out had a memorial for a local Israeli soldier who died in one of the recent wars in Lebanon. I listened solemnly and carefully to the recording, and understood very little. 

That evening, we had Shabbat dinner at the home of friends of the Boss’ parents. 10 people sat together inside wearing masks, while my Family of Slobs and I were seated outside by ourselves. 

The next morning, we hiked through a river, the kids got soaked, and the Boss’ nice tuchus (Yiddish for butt) got wet. We had another picnic lunch, this time on the Jordan River, where I proved my bravery and impressed many onlookers by swimming upstream in very cold water to a small waterfall. Panini made it about 2/3rds of the way before turning back, OG turned back after 20 seconds, Boni turned back after 10 seconds, and Broosevelt jumped in, shrieked, and jumped out.

That afternoon, we drove into the heart of the Galil valley. Any Jew who knows the history of Israel knows that this is where the OG Zionists drained the swamps, developed agriculture, and helped feed the young nation. Though clearly that era was needed, Israelis discovered that the swamps wanted to be swamps: Over the years, the region experienced dust storms and fires, so the country decided to restore the wetlands to their natural state.

As a result, northern Israel today continues to be a mecca for migrating birds, and we were lucky enough to see tens of thousands of cranes, along with herons and flamingos, all enjoying each other’s company. We also saw some wild boars who seem to have plenty to eat and, if you’ll pardon me the pun, are in hog heaven.

That evening, the election was finally called for Biden, so we drank some wine and watched the news. The kids finished two pizzas by themselves, and the Boss and I ate shitty falafel, which clearly symbolized the cultural defeat within Biden’s political victory.

On the last day of the trip, we packed up our things, ate as much breakfast as we could, prepared our Holocaust lunches, and said thank you and goodbye to Nano, the owner of the tsimmer. We thought Nano was cool, but it turns out he is an ardent Trump supporter. We drove away feeling more cautious and less optimistic.

We spent the morning walking through Roman ruins, hiking down to an impressive waterfall, and driving up to an Arab village in the Golan Heights on the border with Syria, where Broosevelt met expectations by vomiting in the car. On our way back to Tel Aviv that afternoon, we stopped at the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) so the kids could swim, freeze, and dry themselves off with their own dirty clothes. 

It was a good trip.

Day to day, the Boss is, for the moment, living her best life. Last week, while I fed, bathed, and loved our four children, she presented at an international conference on Zoom for hundreds of psychologists and researchers and, on her night off, hosted an outdoor wine-and-cheese birthday party with the neighborhood moms. In Chicago, she worked out once a month. Here, she is working out twice a week: rooftop yoga on Wednesday mornings and group exercise in the park on Friday mornings. She humbly prepared a 70th birthday dinner for her parents, proudly figured out how to pay the electric bill, and, in her embrace of aggressive Israeli culture, publicly chastised a grocery store cashier for “extreme negligence and incompetence” (the Boss, 2020). She is evolving: Last week, Broosevelt and Boni’s teacher (Shulamit, shoo-lah-MEET) berated Boni for accidentally walking out of the building before being officially dismissed. The Boss, who is generally conflict-averse, yelled at Shulamit on the phone and, in so many words, told her to back the fuck off.

Though Panini is still mostly on Zoom for school, has gotten a couple migraines, and spazzes out on the keyboard when she fails at piano, life is good. She bikes to and from soccer practice, she has a bunch of neighborhood friends, her Hebrew is fantastic, she has had some in-person school sessions, and, at the time of writing, she is at a sleep-over with her new non-Hebrew-speaking Russian-British friend. Panini is becoming the brazen young woman I’d always hoped she’d become: On the first night of our tiyul, despite sharing one room with all of her siblings and a mattress with OG, she demanded three pillows. The next day on our hike, she and I were walking behind everyone, and she calmly looked at me and said, “Why am I walking with you? You’re, like, the least cool person here.”

We are even somewhat cautiously optimistic about OG, who looks and acts like Mary Lou Retton. OG’s self-created and self-taught gymnastics routine is dope, her shoulders and biceps are chiseled, and her dance moves are tight. I haven’t seen her actual Zumba class, but I know for a fact she’s the best one in there. She never plays with Panini, she is rudely sarcastic to Broosevelt and Boni, and her two front teeth are practically pointing at each other. But who cares? She might just be a winner.

Broosevelt is exchanging Pokémon pictures with one of my students. Broosevelt is playing soccer, basketball, tennis and baseball. Broosevelt is speaking Hebrew very well. Broosevelt is reading books. Broosevelt is crushing it on the piano. Broosevelt is the cutest, most well-liked boy on the block. Broosevelt is running into the classroom, slipping, and slamming his face onto the table. Broosevelt has bloody gums and a big gap in his mouth because his front tooth was so crooked and the roots were so damaged that they decided to yank it out. All of Broosevelt’s classmates told their parents what had happened and we received tons of WhatsApps about how Broosevelt was doing because everyone loves Broosevelt because Broosevelt’s the man.

The boys in Tochnit Lamed (the name of our neighborhood) have officially gone crazy for Boni. It was only a matter of time. The girls already love her, and Boni is running for Mayor of Lamed. But now I see these salacious 6-year-olds including Boni in all their games and chasing Boni around the park and using Broosevelt to get closer to Boni, and all I wanna do is strangle these little perverts who don’t even understand that the feeling they’re feeling is, in fact, a perverted one. Boni is blissfully ignorant. She does ballet in the park, she climbs the slides at the playground, and she runs barefoot through the grass while these little demons giggle and trip behind her. She cries when her teacher yells at her, she cries when her brother gets hurt, and she cries when she makes a mistake. Why? Because she’s the Mayor and leaders can’t make mistakes and we are less cautious and more optimistic when it comes to Boni’s Reign of Benevolent Terror.

I have finally found a group of dudes to play tennis with. My students are slowly but surely realizing that they’re the luckiest bastards on earth. People compliment my Hebrew a lot because my accent is perfect. Certain things are being delivered to me that will enhance my enjoyment of certain things.

The other day at work, I heard the school secretary asking random people in the halls, “Where is [Saul]? Have you seen [Saul]?” I called her into the room where I was sitting, and she handed me an envelope with 2,500₪ (about $700). I’d never been reimbursed for anything in cash, but it made me feel cautiously optimistic.

Bye bye, the Donald.

Day 89: The Fourth World

You are reading Saul’s Famous, which means you are intelligent and sophisticated, and thus aware of the fact that the “third world” is an anachronistic, Cold War term. As, of course, you already know, the “first world” referred to countries allied with the United States and NATO, the “second world” referred to those allied with the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact, and the “third world” referred to those schmucks allied with neither. Though the Cold War is over, these terms remain, particularly “third world,” which basically means developing, underdeveloped, or totally fucked.

Technically, Israel was a first world country, as it was (and still is) closely allied with the United States. Cumulatively, Israel has received the most aid from the U.S. since World War II and about $3 billion a year for the last 40 years. This money has contributed to a powerful military, a modern economy, and a generally high standard of living. Now that things are opening up here, I’ve had a chance to make a few observations, and there’s some serious third world shit going on here. Therefore, this paradox of a nation shall henceforth be referred to as the “fourth world.”

In the fourth world, hot water is endless but cold water is nowhere to be found. Israel, one of the driest countries on earth, is known as a “water giant,” as it desalinates more than half of its drinking water. Furthermore, nearly every building has solar thermal water heaters on its roof, making my showers long and pleasant. But if you want a really cold glass of water, you’ll have to fill up the pitcher, put it in the fridge, and wait a while. Cold water from the pipes is not a thing, and neither is ice.

In the fourth world, people are active and fit, but they don’t believe in moderation. This past Saturday, the Boss’ cousins came over for Shabbat pancakes, syrup, and Prosecco. If I were invited to someone’s house for Shabbat pancakes and syrup, I would (make the Boss) bring juice or fruit, or perhaps flowers. They brought home-made cupcakes and multiple requests were made to add more Prosecco to the mimosas. 

Of note: The Boss’ cousins also brought three beautiful children with beautiful Israel names: Yam (sea), Shai (gift), and Mikey.

In the fourth world, communities unite around children living in denial. This past Friday, a bunch of kids from the neighborhood did a beach clean-up. As they picked up candy wrappers and cigarette butts, the life-guard gave them props over the loud-speaker, and nearly everyone on the beach started applauding. There were lots of Eze chamudim! (What cuties!) and Kol hakavod! (Good job!). What no one seemed to appreciate is that these children were carrying around giant, thick plastic bags, which they barely filled up. They then threw these huge bags in the trash, overwhelming local landfills and adding plastic pollutants to the ocean. 

In the fourth world, people play white collar sports but customer service means nothing. 20 minutes before closing time at a local tennis facility, I went to speak with the lady at the front desk to reserve a court for the following week. The reservations are on a paper calendar cuz it’s the fourth world, and even though that calendar was on the desk in front of her, she said I should call to make a reservation the next day because she was “already closed.” 

In the fourth world, the weather is perfect but it’s always hot. Israelis keep saying that fall has officially arrived because we changed the clocks back an hour, the chatsavim (squill) are blooming, and any day it’s going to rain. It is now November, I continue to use air conditioning in the car, it hasn’t rained a single drop, and today there’s a high of 82, again.

In the fourth world, everyone has a car but no one knows how to use one. The roads here are fantastic and the signage is excellent, but drivers have no idea what they’re doing. Bikers are also clueless and unsafe. Countless times, I’ve seen dads with no helmets and 2-year-olds on their shoulders (also with no helmets) going 25mph on electric bikes. I don’t wish pain or death on that 2-year-old, but how else will dad learn his lesson?

In the fourth world, everyone has an iPhone with an alarm, but no one uses it because the local wildlife wakes them up. I set my alarm every night, yet every morning the birds, the god damn fucking birds, are singing. The abundance of birds is strange because there are so many cats. As you know, cats kill billions of birds a year. Not here apparently. Israeli stray cats are friendly, plump, and well fed. I guess the cats and birds will continue to happily co-exist while I experience extreme sleep deprivation, which technically is form a torture.

Speaking of wildlife, in the fourth world, everyone has advanced technology, but no one has common sense. Residents of our apartment building vigilantly WhatsApp each other about not leaving our windows open at night because mice crawl up the side of the building. This wouldn’t be a problem if any of the windows had screens. On a related note, our building has a security code to get in, but it’s only relevant six days a week because the doors are left wide open on Shabbat so religious folks can avoid using electricity. I’m not sure who’s dumber, the tenants who leave themselves vulnerable once a week or the thieves who don’t realize that the Sabbath is a day to steal, not rest.

In the fourth world, natural beauty abounds, as does litter. It took me six seconds to reverse six years of propaganda to which young Broosevelt had been exposed. We were hiking through and around a stream in the Galilee (a mountainous region in northern Israel), and Broosevelt finished the water in a big plastic bottle. I jokingly told him to throw it into the bushes, and he said, “But Daddy, that’s littering.” To see how gullible he is, I said, “Ahh, don’t worry about it.” So he tossed it. The Boss said, “Broosevelt, what are you doing?? Don’t litter.” He responded, “But people in Israel do it all the time.”

In the fourth world, I discovered my professional passion: catering to every desire of those in the first world. I find great joy in spending over an hour on Zoom with a rich kid and his mom in Manhattan, walking him step by step through his 4,000-word essay so he can take my feedback and filter it through his tutor with whom he will get me in touch so both his tutor and I can continue to work closely with him and his mother to make sure his essay is worth every penny his divorced parents have spent.

In the fourth world, 9-year-old children squeegee the shower floor before and during the shower, and then they squeegee the soap off their own bodies. I have witnesses.

Big day today in the Mecca of the First World. Enjoy the emotional rollercoaster!

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Day 80: The End Is Near

Earlier this week, Israel began slowly crawling out of its most recent lockdown. A week or two from now, my next post will either celebrate this recent emancipation or it will be ghost-written in memoriam of my brief, but historically significant, life.

We made it through the spring lockdown in Chicago, had a decent summer, did two weeks of quarantine when we got to Israel, and then had a few weeks of normalcy to get our feet under us. The last month, however, has been a steady slide into boredom, misery, and existential malaise. I'm not sure if “the end” means joy and freedom or if we’re going to have another Heaven’s Gate on our hands.

Israel is experiencing its own existential crisis. At the beginning of the lockdown, Prime Minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu allowed protests. Upset with Bibi’s corruption and the government’s handling of the Corona crisis, the protests grew into the tens of thousands. Bibi tried to put some restrictions on the protests, but they continued on sidewalks, on streets, and in squares across the country. There are pink flags, black flags, Israeli flags, and all types of signs, most of which I can’t read. The protestors range from babies in strollers to millennials in tight pants to elderly with masks and wheelchairs. My favorite sign is one used frequently by the youth: “You messed with the wrong generation!” Bibi may come out of this alive, but he may ultimately end up in jail.

I can’t help but notice some similarities between Israel and the United States of Donald. In just over a week, Trump may lose the election, there may be a peaceful transition of power, and we can all try to forget about the past four years. Or he may win the election, the election may be contested, and all hell will break loose. Personally I’m hoping for the latter, if only for entertainment’s sake.

The kids have done school on Zoom for the last month, their “chugim” (activities) have been cancelled, and the Boss is going grey managing four children who are generally illiterate in Hebrew. Pre-schoolers went back to school last week and, if all goes well, 1st through 4th grade will go back in a week or two, followed by middle schoolers a month or two later. Daily Corona cases have gone from a peak of 9,000 to an average of around 1,000, but this country is corrupt, confused, and incredibly inefficient.

For example, as previously mentioned, stoplights here go from red to yellow to green, which is dumb. They also go from green (go) to flashing green (stop) to yellow (Stop!) to red (STOP!!!). If the flashing green were truly designed to make drivers stop, it would just be red. And if the government really wanted to flatten the Corona curve, it would prohibit these ignorant-ass Orthodox Jews (who are every bit as bad as the religious right in Alabama) from having large religious gatherings and weddings. But Bibi needs them in his coalition, so he generally looks the other way. If the government had any sense, it would immediately grant me an Israeli teaching license by recognizing my Master’s degree, 20 years of experience, and certification in History and English rather than making me sit through weekly 2-hour Zooms with some old Russian lady who barely speaks English and wants to show me “how to create a lesson plan.”

All that said, it turns out that my little immigrant clan may be the ignorant ones. On October 11th, we got out of bed thinking that the Jewish holiday, Sukkot, had ended. The Boss woke me up with a gentle kiss, scrubbed my back in the shower, made me breakfast, and packed my lunch in my leather briefcase. Just as I was leaving, however, we realized that Sukkot had not, in fact, ended, and that there was no school or work. Later that day, we were deciding who should take the kids to the park. OG, clearly unaware of the things I do for this family, suggested I take them because “mommy’s work is a little more serious.”

Despite the awesomeness of the nearby Park HaYarkon, my unappreciative children started to get bored with it. Though the beaches were closed during the lockdown, I took all the kids there anyway because I’m an awesome role model. The Boss initially felt “uncomfortable” with me breaking the law with (for) my children, but she eventually came around. In the past couple weeks, we’ve biked to the beach (which is now officially open) five or six times. Despite the warm water, soft sand, and cool breeze, my children have figured out how to ruin even this experience, incessantly complaining about who gets to go second in the family bike line.

The Boss, whose professional speciality is childhood trauma, is coming out of this lockdown with trauma galore. She hasn’t made any new friends because thousands of Israelis spent the last month in Greece doing Zooms from the beach. She can’t get any work done because she’s with the kids all day and on work Zooms all afternoon and evening. Around 19:00, I make her a gourmet dinner and the kids stuff it through her cell bars. She goes to bed around 00:30, bleary-eyed, wakes up before her alarm clock, lathers, rinses, and repeats. You would think the Boss’ parents could offer some support, but they flew business class to Chicago right when the lockdown started and, having now returned, are in another two-week quarantine. Sick timing.

I don’t know if Panini’s gonna make it through. She finally has some friends to go to the beach with, but I’m pretty sure she’s the reason one of them left the group chat. She says she’s enjoying school via Zoom, but the fast-paced instruction in Hebrew and, in particular, tanach (Hebrew Bible) have led to some tears. There are signs of hope: Panini delivers challot (plural of challah) to older folks in the neighborhood every Friday, she baked a decent cheesecake and some solid sugar cookies, and she does soccer Zooms once or twice a week. There are, however, signs of distress: She recently discovered online retail therapy, she claims she can’t fit in her completely normal-sized bed, and she keeps referring to me as her “best friend.”

OG is going to be famous in a few weeks and dead by 2022. She spontaneously and successfully auditioned for a performance group in her tzofim (Israeli scouts) by singing Katy Perry’s “Firework” in front of more than 30 people. She does Zumba classes with girls in the neighborhood. She cannot, however, internalize the fact that Israelis don’t always pick up their dogs’ poop, so she somersaults through the grass and gets kaki on her hands. She also complains that 30 minutes to get dressed, go pee, and have a snack is “not enough time.” And she continues to say some truly next level shit such as, “Can dogs be transgendered?”

Broosevelt doesn’t know there wasn’t a lockdown and that then there was one and that now there’s not. He is also unaware of the dubious distinctions he earns in soccer, which is currently being organized by a neighborhood mom and coached by two fifth-graders. Broosevelt got medallions for “best listener” and “no fouling,” and while I’m glad he respects his coaches and teammates, as his father, I’d be okay with him putting someone on his ass once in a while and scoring a god damn goal. Finally, Broosevelt does not understand that our love for him is conditional. The other day, despite his limited skills, he somehow managed to kick a soccer ball up on the kitchen table, spilling water all over some computers and shattering the glass. He went to his room, shamefully. A few minutes later, the Boss went in and said to him, “Don’t worry, Broosevelt. We still love you.” He responded, “Of course you still love me. Why would you stop loving me?”

Boni could care less about the crumbling world around her. She makes impressive artwork with toilet paper rolls and popsicle sticks. She has one play-date a week and spends an hour on Zoom a day, but her Hebrew is officially the best in the family. She frequently translates words Panini and I don’t know and, when Broosevelt hesitates for a single second, she speaks for him. She sleeps on the floor because she knows we won’t leave her there all night and, as the Queen of Corona, she insists that we call her by her new nickname, Dumpster.

I’m good. Really good. Coming out of this totally unscathed. Stronger, in fact. Students half-asleep in-class? Throw sharp pencils. No HDMI cables for the projector? Early dismissal. Offensively low salary? Thanks for the free time. No tennis or basketball? Watch Fed on YouTube. Israelis speaking English to me? Duolingo. God damn fitted sheets won’t stay on my god damn mattress?!? Find meaning in the suffering (Viktor Frankl).

Remember Broosevelt’s soccer-playing friend Segev (“Greatness”) and his dad, Rotem? Broosevelt and I are dominating the shit out of them. Rotem is so insecure with my excellence that making coffee for all the parents apparently wasn’t enough. Last weekend at the playground, he made tea with mint from his garden, brought bubbles for the kids, and made his wife bring pancakes and syrup. Nice try, Rotem. A few days later, I brought a bat and a ball and, within seconds, was the Pied Pier of the Land of the Free. While Rotem muttered to the Boss that he “never liked baseball” and “thought it was boring,” the kids swarmed to me to take some cuts and drink from my sweet brew of Americana.

Also of note: 6-year-old Segev is soft as shit. A few weeks ago, Segev won one of the soccer medallions (for ball-hogging and cherry-picking). This past week, he couldn’t go to practice, so the mom in charge asked that his parents bring back the medallion so one of the other kids could get it. Segev’s parents said no because they didn’t want Segev to know that he was missing practice because Segev needs to be coddled and lied to and shielded from the reality that he may be good at soccer but that Broosevelt hits a baseball way better than he does and that his parent’s pancakes taste like shit.

I definitely found the image below on Google and did not take a picture of some random kid at the playground. May it serve as a symbol for Israel’s current national identity, my family’s current state of mind, the Boss around 14:00 every day, and/or Segev when I spit on his blue cleats.

 

Day 61: Shit or Get Off the Pot

I want Trump to die. Desperately. First I want him to suffer. And then I want him to die.

"Oh, I would never wish death upon anyone!" you say. Well, you're stupid. Would you have wished Hitler dead if you'd been around during WWII? Of course you would have.

"But Hitler's so much worse than Trump!" you claim. Ahhh, but now you've lost the argument because it's not about not wishing anyone dead. It's that you don't think Trump is evil enough to be wished dead. 

"Well then allow me to retort!" (Pulp Fiction). Trump is a lying scumbag piece of shit, and my threshold for whom I want to die is clearly much lower than yours. So let's agree to disagree, and let me speak my piece: I want Trump to die. I want Putin to die. I even want a guy who once cheated me in a tennis tournament to die. Just kidding: Putin's the man.

Let me be clear: I am completely anti-capital punishment because I do not believe the government should be able to end someone's life, even Trump's. Killing is killing. I also do not believe I should be able to end Trump's life, as much as I want to. All I'm saying is that I wish that fat fucker were dead because, well, he's a big jerk face and this country and this world would be better off without him.

Ya know what, I take it all back. Trump is not the problem; he's a symptom of the problem, and the longer he lives, the worse our never-great nation will get. So I actually want him to live for as long as possible because the longer he lives, the worse shit will get, and then real change will come because even though 30% of the country is ignorant beyond saving, a solid majority of America is not totally stupid and is ready for meaningful systemic change.

Shit or get off the pot, Trump. Die already so we can see what this Pence fellow is all about or get back in the Oval Office, tell some more lies, and let's see how high these flames will rise.

I feel like I need to shit or get off the pot too. Lockdown blows, and it's not even a real lockdown. 

Israel did an amazing job in March. With this lockdown, however, the government is so desperate for order that it orchestrated the following move with wireless providers: On the upper left-hand corner of your phone where the network name is listed as Verizon or Sprint or whatever, now it says StayHome. I guess the government feels that laws, police, and national solidarity are not as effective as hashtags on our iPhones. 

There was remote learning for two weeks and now it's Sukkot, a Jewish holiday commemorating the time Jews spent in the desert on their way to the Promised Land. So our recent mecca has been Park HaYarkon, a giant park in northern Tel Aviv, through which the Yarkon River runs. The park has, among other things, bike paths, basketball courts, soccer fields, outdoor gyms, playgrounds, lakes, botanical gardens, an aviary, and two outdoor concert venues, which have been graced by musicians such as Guns N' Roses, Lady Gaga, and Michael Jackson, whom I also might've wished dead had I known certain things sooner...

It's a five-minute bike ride from our apartment, so I stuff a couple basketballs and water bottles in a backpack, unlock six bikes, and off we go. Upon arrival, despite the current lockdown, we are greeted by thousands of people walking, running, biking, playing soccer, lifting weights, and playing not socially distanced 3-on-3 basketball. 

Talk about shitting or getting off the pot: I literally stand right next to the basketball courts watching these mediocre games take place because I so desperately want to play but can't "biglal ha Corona" ("cuz of Corona").

When I'm able to momentarily forget about the recent record of 9,000 daily cases in Israel, I can enjoy the park: 

50 Filipinos take over two basketball courts and run some pretty high-quality full-court games. Average player height is 5'5. 

20 Arab-Israelis, spanning at least three generations, play soccer together. There's lots of gesticulating.

Lefty Russian MILFs dominate their husbands in ping-pong.

6-year-olds and 80-year-olds rollerblade, skateboard, and bike around the skating rink.

Shirtless Israeli 20-year-olds play volleyball with a soccer ball and soccer rules on a ping-pong table.

Kids (mine included) climb through a hole in the fence and jump around on trampolines.

And everyone gets Corona.

The Boss is in a holding pattern. She's going, going, going, and getting absolutely nowhere. 

She buys groceries online, goes to nearby supermarkets to supplement, and gets fruits and vegetables from local farmers who come to our block twice a week, but there's never enough food in the house. 

She pays someone to clean the apartment, demands that I sweep the floor multiple times a day, and scrubs the toilet and bathtub herself, but she's always muttering about how we're "living in squalor." 

She works with all four kids during the day on their school work and Hebrew, but no one's learning a god damn thing. 

Whenever she has a free minute, she does work for her actual job, but she constantly complains about how much work she has to do.

Sisyphus should've just let the rock roll down the hill and crush him; the Boss should do the same.

Panini is generally friendless and purposeless, and, ironically, gets mad at me when I try to help. I show empathy and offer sage advice regarding how to cultivate friendships, and she says I'm nagging. I suggest she message her soccer teammates, and she stomps away in tears. Panini did make an amazing braided challah with raisins on Yom Kippur; she has been hanging out with our upstairs neighbor; she went to the beach with friends yesterday and saw a fox; and, at the time of writing, has been included on a group chat that may very well become her crew here. But I am still concerned that if she doesn't wipe her ass, get outside more, and meet some people to play with at the park, she's gonna be stuck watching Malcolm in the Middle with me for the rest of the year.

OG is actually cool with shitting and getting off the pot. As mentioned in previous posts, some days she sits around the house in her pajamas, reads for six hours, and forgets to brush her teeth. Other days, she's out with her friends for most of the day, rolls back home hours after dinner, eats some cucumbers, plays piano, showers, and falls asleep on the floor like a drunk teenager. Her Hebrew is finally taking off and I sense she's the cool new kid on the block, but her teeth are crooked and she doesn't shower enough.

Broosevelt is mostly shitting. He's still playing soccer with his friends, riding his bike, reading books, and playing piano, but dude is spending an increasingly problematic amount of time playing with and talking to his Legos. We also told him about Hitler and the Holocaust for the first time, and he would not allow me to break eye contact with him for the entire conversation. He listened to every word with great consternation and posed numerous, important questions and comments: "Hitler wanted to kill Jews?? But we're Jews..."

Boni shits three times a day, literally. Metaphorically, she's a flower ready to bloom, but there's no rain or sun inside our apartment, so she's stuck doing dance classes on Zoom, somersaulting on the couch, and eating her feelings. A cute little girl named Rotem is Boni's only friend in the neighborhood, but all Rotem wants to do is hug and hold hands, neither of which is allowed biglal ha Corona.

As usual, I'm the only one who's making the best of this situation in limbo. The other day, I forced myself on two young men playing basketball. Sorry, that came out wrong: I saw two dudes shooting around and I gently approached them when they were finished and asked if they would like to shoot around with me some time. We exchanged numbers, and one of them met me the other day for a work-out. He left after 25 minutes not because he was bored but because he couldn't keep up with my intensity. 

I'm getting way more muscular from all the cereal I'm eating, but OG is confused and said I was putting back on the Corona weight.

I'm not intimidated when I don't have a basic tool to fix Boni's bike and a random Israeli dad at the park fixes it in two seconds because he has a complete set of Allen wrenches in his kid's stroller. Fuckin' show off.

I wasn't insecure when I brought a half-full water bottle and semi-deflated soccer ball to the park and Segev's dad brought a camping stove and cute little tin cups and served coffee to all the moms and dads. (And I had no qualms whatsoever about pouring out most of my cup on the sidewalk when he wasn't looking because I don't drink coffee but didn't want to make him feel bad for not drinking his shitty concoction.)

I wasn't annoyed when I witnessed my beautiful niece, MP (Happy birthday btw!!!), do an outstanding job on her Bat Mitzvah. It's not like I came to Israel to engage in local culture and community; I'd much prefer watching masked ceremonies in Denver synagogue parking lots on Zoom.

Having said all that, I do have to describe last Monday, which was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year for Jews. It was special. There are zero, and I mean zero, cars on the street, so friends and families bike all around the city (see OG and her friends below). And when I say bike, I mean bikes, electric bikes, scooters, electric scooters, skateboards, strollers, and other transportation devices for which I don't have a name.

It's incredibly quiet. Kids play, families kibbitz (google it), and birds chirp. It's extraordinarily peaceful, and as my family and I biked to the sea, along the boardwalk, and back home, I felt pride in the Jewish people for having persevered through numerous historical atrocities and for now having the freedom to genuinely enjoy a day of rest and reflection. I also thought about my dad and how happy he would have been to see my family and me on that day.

And then I remembered Trump and Corona and went home to take a shit.

Day 51: Corona Not Corona

Expectations should be managed for this post. It's been a pretty shitty two weeks, from sky-rocketing Corona cases in Israel to world record-breaking diarrhea in our home.

Two weeks ago, things were generally good: The kids went to school and to all of their after-school activities, the Boss was starting to find a rhythm of work and leisure, and I had finally met some dudes to play tennis with.

Behind the scenes, however, things were bad: In about one week, daily Corona cases in Israel jumped to nearly 8,000. In a country of about 8 million people, that's 1 case per every 1,000 people, which is way worse than even the worst day in Trumplandia.

And then the lockdown started. Schools shut down, "chugim" (after-school activities) stopped, and the Boss started going crazy.

I also started feeling like absolute shit and, after three days, decided to get a Corona test just in case. The address was on the north side of the street, but as I drove there, I noticed a parking lot on the south side of the street with an absurdly long line of cars (see photo below). I joined it, confirmed it was the testing site, and waited over an hour for a guy in a hazmat suit to aggressively swab my throat and nose. As expected, the results were negative, but anyone who knows me knows that I'm not a huge wimp who gets sick easily and that obviously I had Corona but conquered it just like everything else I've conquered in life.

So, the country is in a state of lockdown and a "total" lockdown was supposed to start yesterday, but the streets are filled with cars, the sidewalks with dog-walkers, and the parks and playgrounds with shirtless, tan, six-packed 20-year-olds playing Hacky Sack with a soccer ball. On the first day of lockdown, we went to the kids' school where there were well over 100 people on the basketball/soccer courts. I overheard one kid sarcastically comment, "Mamash seger," which basically means, "Nice fuckin' lockdown."

Here are some other Corona Not Corona contradictions in this confusing country: 

As cases continue to rise, the government can't decide whether it will allow religious gatherings, political demonstrations, neither, or both. 

I see protestors everywhere with black flags and Israeli flags. I don't know what either means, so sometimes I honk and sometimes I don't.

My joke of a teacher's salary can not be publicly acknowledged, but my new computer charger cost over $100. 

Obesity is low and physical activity is high, but kids here get ice cream every single time they go to the park. Some kids get two ice creams. 

Fruits and vegetables are everywhere, and so is smoking in public.

3- and 4-year-olds know how to skateboard and ride bikes. It's the craziest thing I've ever seen. And while they're riding around, they have pacifiers in their mouths.

Israeli children surely suffer from nut allergies, but there are no discussions or policies regarding nut-free zones, and I happily slather peanut butter and honey on my kids' sandwiches. 

There's this snack here called Bissli which is simultaneously the most disgusting and delicious snack you've ever tasted. It smells like curry, but it tastes like pancakes and barbecue chips. Flavors include, but are not limited to: falafel, hamburger, and Mexican.

The Boss is not happy. She used to have a few hours during the day to get some work done, make lunch, and iron my suits. Now, her days are filled with shepherding our children through the most ineffective Zoom sessions you've ever seen. It would be bad if everything were in English; it's really bad because everything is in Hebrew. Each day, she does six hours of parenting/schooling, six hours of work, and six hours of keeping the family afloat through constant WhatsApp vigilance, Zoom calls with our absentee landlord, upping our 1,000₪ ($300!) monthly credit card allowance, trips to the store to buy ant spray and medication for aforementioned diarrhea, researching orthodontia for Panini, and getting a car-wash. Thank god she has those extra six hours every day to get some sleep after she rubs my back.

Panini has embraced Corona Not Corona life. She was built for Zoom: She's organized and responsible, and she likes her space. She doesn't need things like the outdoors, friends, or laughter. Soccer, surfing, and "tzofim" (scouts) are on hold, but when school is finished, Panini puts on her sneakers, goes for pleasant bike-rides by herself, and scrapes the shit out of her leg on various neighborhood benches. Her Hebrew has tapered off because she's not socializing as much, and when she does go to the park with her friends, she spends most of the time playing with babies.

From 8:00 to 14:00, OG might as well be locked in a dark room with no windows, a toilet, and a bowl of mush. She is for sure getting dumber during the school day as it currently exists. Zoom was not built for someone with her attentional capacity, and the fact that everything is in Hebrew makes life utterly miserable for her. Her teacher is aware of the problem, but her solutions are a joke: Last week, she asked OG to go through a couple pages of a magazine and cut out every Aleph (the letter A). I told the teacher that OG is in 4th grade, not Kindergarten, and that I will be speaking with her administrator. 

When school ends at 14:00, OG quickly transforms from a slimy caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly. She WhatsApps her friends in Pidgin Hebrew; sets up play dates for the remainder of the afternoon and evening; grabs her bike, some shekels, and a granola bar; and peaces out. She comes home, filthy, around 19:30, scarfs down some dinner, practices Pachelbel's Canon on our 1987 electronic keyboard, takes a shower, poops, and signs off at 21:00.

Broosevelt has forgotten how to read, write, and do math, but boy is he getting good at soccer. Well, not really, but he's definitely playing a lot of soccer. And he finally learned how to ride a bike. Broosevelt's two best friends are Ariel and Segev, both of whom are sick at soccer. Yesterday morning, we learned that Segev was playing soccer at the park with his dad and brother around 8:00, which is right about the time Broosevelt finishes watching an episode on the iPad and finally goes pee. I looked little Broosevelt in the eye and said to him, "You're suckin' down sugary Cheerios while Segev is out there training!" 

A couple hours later, Broosevelt was kicking the nerf soccer ball around the living room, and he looked up at me and said, "Segev thinks he's gonna be better at soccer than me, but that's not gonna happen."

What Broosevelt doesn't know is that every Hebrew name means something. For example, Dov means "bear," Shai means "gift," and Aviv means "spring." Broosevelt may cling to the desperate hope that he will one day surpass Ariel and Segev, but he'd be wise to remember that Ariel means "lion" and Segev means "greatness." My son, whom I love dearly, is totally screwed.

Boni may have, or have had, Corona. She was indoors for almost a week due to the worst diarrhea this nation has ever seen. If the owners of the apartment we are renting were reading this post, they would be deeply concerned about the number of locations in which poop was discovered after Night 1 of Diarrhea. It's unclear how she got this awful stomach bug and why no one else in the family got it, but she will no longer be petting the stray cats outside our apartment and, if you'll allow me another Holocaust joke, she would not have lasted in Auschwitz for 48 hours. That said, the minute she was feeling better, she demanded a play date and was gone for more than three hours. And she got ice cream. Also, as I write, I'm realizing that Boni has, once again, out-smarted all of us by giving herself diarrhea so she could avoid sitting through all those pointless Zooms.

In addition to my successful bout with Corona, I'm continuing to do absolutely phenomenally. I had an entire phone conversation in Hebrew with a dude from the Ministry of Education. Sure, he had to speak super slowly, repeat himself a bunch, and say some words in English, but I definitely heard him say at one point that my Hebrew was "tov" (good). Furthermore, after hours of annoying of phone calls and emails, I finally got National Geographic to send me a magazine in English. Yom Kippur starts tomorrow, and I can't even think of anything for which I should atone.

Things are swell.