Day 252: Bob the Pedophile

Bob the Pedophile teaches Physics at my school. He’s American, about 70 years old, and a total creepster. First off, he’s a Republican, which automatically makes him a pedophile. Actually, I’m not even sure he’s a Republican; he’s one of those “I hate all politicians” and “Trump is no worse than Hillary” types who refuses to distinguish between decent and terrible. He also denies global warming, claiming that the earth has always experienced cycles of warming and cooling. He’s one of those people who knows a lot about something (Physics) and therefore thinks he knows a lot about everything. He’s an idiot. And a weirdo: Sometimes he comes up behind me and puts both hands on my back or shoulders for way longer than necessary. Either he thinks we’re bros because we’re both American or he really likes me. The best (worst) part about Bob is his wife, Felicia, who teaches English at the school. She’s a gapped-tooth Brit who stinks of smoke because she rips beaucoup cigarettes on her lunch break. Sometimes when I’m feeling blue, I imagine Bob and Felicia together at home in the evening, and I laugh. And then I cry. I don’t actually think Bob is a pedophile. I just really don’t like the dude and a pedophile is the worst thing I can think to call him. (And also he might actually be a pedophile.)

I’m telling you about Bob because when I need to rationalize our decision to leave Israel, I think of him. I mean, objectively speaking, why would we leave? COVID is nearly irrelevant in Israel at the moment, international travel is picking up again, and the ridiculously amazing weather just never gets old.

We’re also becoming real Israelis: We are now official owners of a machtzelet, a big woven mat Israelis use for picnics on the beach, on the grass, or in the middle of a parking lot. After we finish eating our pita-and-hummus lunch on aforementioned machtzelet, we play matkot (paddle ball), known by Israelis as their national beach sport.

Then we go home, take a shnatz (nap), eat dinner, and at 21:30, drive an hour to Jerusalem for our first mimouna, a Moroccan Jewish tradition celebrated the day after Pesach (Passover) to mark the return of eating chametz (leavened bread). Tables are covered with chocolates, candies, frothy concoctions of egg white and sugar, sweet jellies made of eggplant or cherry tomatoes, mofletta (North African Jewish pancake), and, of course, a giant fish head symbolizing the parting of the Red Sea. It is said that to be an Israeli, one must have a Moroccan friend and attend a mimouna. Looks like we’re official.

We’re also having some fun here and there. The Boss gets wasted once a month at outdoor wine-and-cheese parties with the neighborhood moms, Panini fills her existential void by shopping with her friends in downtown Tel Aviv, OG roller-blades up and down our block like she owns the place, Broosevelt is finally getting a little better at soccer, Boni is the talk of the town with her sparkly purple roller-skates, and I dominate in tennis twice a week. What more could we ask for, right?

Wrong. We gotta go. There’s no way we could stay. Surfing, sunshine, and falafel are not for us. We need to leave, I keep telling myself...

We need to leave because Israel has unique trauma. Yesterday was Yom HaZikaron (Remembrance Day), when Israelis commemorate fallen soldiers. It is not an exaggeration to say that every Israeli knows someone who has died serving their country. There is also a ton of PTSD here, much of which goes untreated. Two days ago, a disabled Israeli army veteran set himself on fire in front of the Defense Ministry’s rehabilitation department. War scars and self-immolation? My kids can barely handle no dessert.

We need to leave because they definitely can’t handle Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day). Ceremonies and services are held at schools and military bases, and at 10:00 there’s a two-minute siren throughout the country. Everyone pauses what they’re doing and stands. Drivers stop on the road. The entire country is still. Panini knew about the Holocaust but lost it when she heard specifics about ghettos and gas chambers. We explained the Holocaust to Broosevelt and Boni, but they clearly didn’t get it. The next day, Little Broosevelt kept asking Siri, “How many people didn’t die in World War II?”

We need to leave because this country is sexist. Panini is the only girl in her entire school who knows how to shoot a basketball. Kids stare at OG because she has short hair. Broosevelt plays soccer with boys and Boni dances with girls. Ok, fine, Boni belongs nowhere near a soccer field.

We need to leave (skip this paragraph if you're not a weak Jew with allergies) because we are weak Jews suffering from terrible allergies in the land that never stops blooming.

We need to leave (skip this paragraph if you don't care about sports) because the basketball players here are the absolute worst: On one end, they hack the shit out of you if you get anywhere near the basket, and on the other the end, they call a foul if you even breathe on them. For a bunch of dudes who served in the military, it's downright embarrassing.

We need to leave because the Boss is getting too comfortable: friends, family, tiyulim (trips), etc. We need to get back to Chicago so she can get back on the grind of working full-time, taking the kids to school, making dinner every night, and listening to my god damn feelings.

We need to leave because Panini is surrounded by losers, brats, and bullies. Her soccer team hasn’t won a game since February, her private school classmates are a bunch of spoiled-ass rich kids, and she's getting harassed by some short French girl. The other day, Panini put her backpack on a chair, put her water bottle on the desk, and went to get a drink of water. When she came back, Francine the Dwarf had moved her stuff and was sitting in her seat. Panini told her to move, but Francine the Bully Dwarf didn’t budge. Eventually, Panini found a different seat, and then I was forced to bully her at home that night for not having stood up to Francine the Plucky Dwarf.

We need to leave because OG keeps correcting my Hebrew grammar, and I don’t want to stop loving her.

We need to leave because if Broosevelt keeps picking up his eggs with his hands, it’s goin’ down.

We need to leave because if Boni says “No thanks” one more time when the Boss and I ask her to set the table, she won’t have a plane ticket home.

We need to leave because my student is a Nazi. The other day, I was chatting with Fraulein Mailin who lived in Chile for six years. She told me her grandparents had actually moved to South America years ago, and I was like:

“Oh, really? When?” (“Hmmm...right after World War II?”)

“I’m not sure exactly.” (“My parents told me to never say anything about our past.”)

“Why did they move there?” (“Were they Nazis trying to escape?”)

“I’m not really sure.” (“This Jew can smell my Nazi blood.”)

We need to leave because I might be losing it: The other day as I was semi-paying attention to OG, she said, “Daddy, watch the whole dance,” and I was 100% certain she had said, “Daddy, watch me pole dance.”

Yeah, it’s time to go.

(Adolf Eichmann, logistics architect of the Holocaust, captured by the U.S. in 1945, escaped from detention camp, fled to Argentina in 1950, captured by Mossad (Israel intelligence agency) in 1960, executed in 1962)

Day 238: Hafuch

Do you know who your plumber is? What his name is? Where he’s from? What his back-story is? No, you don’t know any of those things, do you? Because you don’t take the time to talk or listen to your plumber. Maybe you’re busy with work. Maybe you don’t speak Spanish or Polish. Or maybe you’re just an elitist pig.

Well here in Israel, we take time to talk to our plumber, or at least listen to him share his entire life story.

Adi the Plumber was here a few weeks ago, and it’s fair to say I know more about him than I do about my own children. Adi struggled in school in Israel but when his family moved to Singapore at age 10, he did much better. In the late 1960s, Singapore was a young nation just starting to kick ass, and it looked to Israel for military expertise after Israel kicked so much ass in the Six-Day War of 1967. Adi’s father worked for the military and was hired by the Singapore government to help build the Singapore air force, which was non-existent at the time.

Before Adi was a plumber, he also worked on planes. Before that, he lived in our neighborhood and went to Aran, the school where our kids go. Currently, his grandkids go to Aran, and I’ve since seen Adi on the block picking them up from school.

If you’d like to know more about Adi, he is an amateur musician and some of his work can be found on YouTube. His main source of income, however, is plumbing, as he charges approximately $60 for about 10 minutes of actual work.

I admit that chatting with Adi was pretty interesting, as I learned quite a bit about his family and the history of Israel. But the whole situation seemed pretty strange because I was once, like you are now, a privileged jack-ass who demanded service from my workers, not conversation.

This experience was one of many demonstrating that everything in Israel is hafuch. 

Hafuch is pronounced ha-FOOCH, but the ch is not pronounced like the ch in choo-choo train. Rather, it is the wonderful Hebrew letter chet, pronounced like the ch in the familiar Hebrew saying L’chaim! (“To life!”), which even the most Gentile of you has heard when Jews make a toast.

Hafuch means backwards, upside down, or inside out. A broader, more liberal definition includes anything that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. In other words, something that’s screwed up.

The more time I spend in this strange land, the more I realize how hafuch everything is here.

The COVID situation is hafuch. Anti-vaxxer Israelis are forging vaccination certificates, and Israel bought so much vaccine that it’s now selling doses abroad.

Politics is hafuch. Israel has had four elections in two years because Netanyahu can’t maintain a coalition. But he somehow keeps getting the most votes in each election, thereby getting yet another chance to build a coalition. The Boss’ hairdresser shared some of his wisdom on the topic of politics: All politicians piss in the pool. Some, like Biden and Netanyhau, piss while they’re swimming. And some, like Trump, piss from the diving board.

History is hafuch. Earlier this week, we spent the day on a kibbutz in southern Israel with one of the Boss’ cousins, Yael. Turns out that Yael’s grandmother, mother, and aunt were on the “Kastner train,” which left Hungary in June 1944, made a strange, extended stop at the German concentration camp Bergen-Belsen, and eventually made its way to Switzerland, where approximately 1,600 Jews found safety. In exchange for this freedom, Kastner (a Hungarian Jew) gave Adolf Eichmann (the German SS officer in charge of deporting Hungary’s Jews to Auschwitz) gold, diamonds, and lots of cash. Kastner was initially praised for saving so many Jewish lives, and he emigrated to Israel in 1947 where he became an important government spokesperson. Soon, however, allegations surfaced that he’d been a Nazi collaborator, an Israeli judge ruled that he had “sold his soul to the devil,” and he was assassinated in 1957. Though the Israeli Supreme Court ultimately overturned the lower court’s ruling, Kastner’s legacy is controversial. (As a Jew and a history teacher, I strongly encourage you to do some Googling of your own.)

The weather’s hafuch. Two weeks ago in mid-March, it was 90 degrees.

Birthdays are beyond hafuch. Every one of the 30 dudes on my basketball WhatsApp group felt the need to wish one dude happy birthday with orange basketball and birthday streamer emojis.

The money and time spent on kids’ birthday parties is egregiously hafuch. OG turned 10 in March and Broosevelt and Noni turned 7. The Boss spent many hundreds of dollars on cakes and for a guy to juggle with fire, walk on stilts, and eat our pizza.

Our most recent tiyul (trip) was hafuch. Nearly all of the tiyulim we’ve been on this year have been with the Boss’ aunt and uncle. A couple of days ago, however, the six of us did our own tiyul to the north where we hiked around a nature reserve and splashed through shallow rivers. On the drive back, as we climbed through the hills surrounding the Jordan Valley overlooking the ancient city of Jericho, we should have been listening to Ladysmith Black Mambazo or some other spiritual shit. Instead, I was forced to listen to the Boss belt out “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips.

Pesach (Passover) was hafuch. For the first time in our lives, we celebrated Pesach in Israel. Should’ve been a special day. A symbolic day. A day to remember. The only thing I’ll remember is that I was stuck with all the kids in a Tel Aviv suburb with one side of the Boss' family while the Boss spent eight hours in Jerusalem with the other side of her family sipping wine and snacking on matzah.

There’s a teacher here who’s most definitely hafuch. Your first grade teacher was likely a nice old lady with grey hair and glasses; Broosevelt and Noni’s 1st grade teacher (Shulamit) is a straight-up bitch. The Boss asked Shulamit if she could send cupcakes to school for the kids' birthdays. Despite the fact that everything in this country happens at the last minute, Shulamit insisted that the sending of cupcakes be planned far in advance. Yelling ensued, and the Boss and Shulamit officially have beef (again).

Panini epitomizes hafuch. In theory, she’s studying for her bat mitzvah, playing soccer three times a week, doing her best in an impossible English class, learning advanced Math in Hebrew, trying to keep up with both her Israeli neighborhood friends and her international school friends, and dealing with the trials and tribulations of being a tween. In reality, her soccer team has lost its last three games by a total score of 26 to 2, she doesn’t know how to combine like terms, she recently moronically complained that her “french fries tasted like potatoes,” and the other day on our glorious hike, she exclaimed, “I have another case of rashy thighs.”

OG is hafuch in her own special way. She and all the native Hebrew speakers/readers/writers in her class took a Hebrew reading comprehension test. She scored near the top of her class. I still don’t get it. What I also don’t get is how sweet little Ms. Rainbow Zebra tried to play her parents by asking the Boss if she could have friends over, and then when the Boss said no, she asked me the same thing. I said yes, the friends came over, and the Boss was not pleased. I was also not pleased, but I do respect the power move. You would think someone with this evil intelligence would finish her homework and not spend all day on the couch in a filthy Snuggie.

Broosevelt’s making me hafuch. He is obsessed with numbers: counting how many days until the Boss’ 96-year-old saba (grandfather) turns 100, the age of NBA players, and the height and weight of Pokémon. The other day as I was doing my business in the bathroom, I was fully engrossed in my reading material about the Ground-Fire Legendary Pokémon Primal Groudon.

Boni used to be a loser American with no Israeli friends. Now her world is hafuch: her social calendar is full and everyone wants to have a play-date with the silky-haired, gap-toothed grilled-cheese eater.

One final note: We’ve decided to stay in Israel for another year! Every day is beautiful here, the kids speak Hebrew and have friends, and the Boss is tan and slender. Wish us luck.

P.S. April Fool’s! As planned, we’ll be back in August. We figured that right as my Hebrew was really starting to pick up and right when I’d found a weekly basketball game and made some tennis friends and found my footing at work, we’d get the hell out of here.

Hafuch.

Day 206: The Bait and Switch

It’s 3am, I’m sleeping on the couch in the living room because there’s mold in the bedroom, and I’m sneezing like a crazy man due to allergies and aforementioned mold.

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.”

Day 171: Amazing Grace

Apparently, everyone in Israel is aluf (a champion). If you’re a 6-year-old boy playing basketball and you miss four shots in a row but make the fifth, you’re aluf. If you’re a 43-year-old woman and you even just show up for your exercise class, you’re alufa.

And, apparently, everything in Israel is amazing. I confirm an 11am meeting with a student and she says, “Amazing.” I text my tennis partner I have some decent used balls we can hit with and he responds, “Amazing.”

To be fair, amazing is a tricky word. It can mean awesome, shocking, or ridiculous. I’ll leave it to you, Astute Reader of Saul’s Famous, to figure out what it means for the remainder of this post.

It’s amazing Trump was ever elected. I guess knowing what we know now, it’s not that amazing: 75 million Americans really are that dumb. Still, it’s amazing he got away with everything he did these past four years. I suppose two impeachments isn’t really “got away with everything,” but it’s still amazing that no one assassinated him. Yet.

It’s amazing that we finally have a new president, someone who, despite his disappearing lips, strange balding pattern, and overall skeletal appearance, seems to have good intentions. On January 20th, Inauguration Day, Broosevelt once again woke us up too early. As the Boss was trying to kick him out of our bed, he looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Happy Biden president day.”

It’s amazing that BLM protesters get tear-gassed and that those fucking insurrectionists get a boost to climb the Capitol walls. Prejudices exist in Israel too: Orthodox Jews in Israel get fined half as often for breaking COVID protocols; Arab-Israelis get fined twice as often.

Speaking of getting fined, the 500₪ ($150) fine we got the other day was amazing. Israel is currently in its third hard lockdown. We have to stay within a kilometer from home, but we can walk, bike, and recreate outdoors. Last weekend, my brood and I met another family at the park to play baseball. 20 meters from us, the basketball courts were filled with dudes breathing and sweating on each other. The cops honked at them to scatter. Groups of cops walked by our game more than once and didn’t say a word. Then later in the afternoon, Assface Cop 1 and Assface Cop 2 decided to give us a ticket even though we were socially distanced and following the current lockdown rules. We will not be paying aforementioned fine.

Even though this lockdown has already lasted two weeks and will continue for at least one more, the rate of vaccination in Israel is amazing. High school students are now being vaccinated and after the Boss got her first shot yesterday, a barista offered her a free latte. 

The Boss is amazing. She cleansed our filthy children of lice and explained prostitution to OG, but her most amazing moment was when she may or may not have been overheard telling one of our rude children to “shut up.”

It was amazing when I got home from work the other day and, instead of seeing the kids hard at work reading, writing, and scrubbing the floors, they had prepared a January 18th Halloween party complete with left-over black and orange decorations, a Halloween B-I-N-G-O and scavenger hunt, and pin-the-tail on the monster. I don’t know what the hell happens around here during the day, but it ain’t learning.

Before he forgets, Saul would like to officially recognize the amazing Panini who, despite being in the throes of puberty and having had her life upended by a foreign country, a new language, and her first zit, is generally doing her best to work hard and create meaningful friendships through sleep-overs, picnics, and baking brookies. He would also like to state that not all problems are big problems, and that not all struggles are significant, and that kids in inner-city Chicago surrounded by violence, and especially child soldiers in Uganda, have it way worse than Panini has it, and that not all of her problems and issues deserve validation god damnit.

It’s amazing when OG dances to no music and that she eats most meals by herself because she can’t make it to the table when everyone else is eating. 

It’s amazing that Broosevelt knows the ages of all the dads of the kids in his class. (He says I’m the second oldest.) It’s also amazing that sometimes during soccer, he lets the other kids make him play goalie the whole time. 

It’s amazing Boni joined basketball with one other girl and ten boys, and that she loves Star Wars. She may be turning into someone I actually like.

It’s amazing how patient I am. The other day, I made a delicious dinner for the family. As we were enjoying the meal, the Boss said to me, “This bread is stale, like our marriage.”

It’s amazing how much I’ve taught my children. Last week, I heard the Boss say to one of our amazing kids, “Who has been picking their nose and wiping boogers on the bed?!?”

Perhaps you remember that in November and December, we went on a few tiyulim (trips). Well, yesterday we went on another amazing tiyul to the small, abandoned airport in between our apartment and the beach. There is barbed-wire fencing around the whole facility, but there are plenty of holes to crawl through. The pièce de résistance is the control tower, which has been artistically transformed into a heroin den: busted-out windows, shards of glass lining the floor, and graffiti-filled walls. My kids climbed the narrow staircase, nimbly avoiding tetanus hazards, and jumped around gleefully on the mattress on the top floor. Upon returning downstairs, they chased each other around with sheets of metal, rubber tubes, and electric wires. It was truly one of the most exciting, dangerous, and amazing experiences we’ve had here.

The best part, however, was when Broosevelt and I shared the ultimate male bonding experience: spelling our names in the sand with urine.

I was told they’ll be building 16,000 apartments on that prime real estate over the coming years. When a beach-front property offers a crack house as its centerpiece, it’s clearly reached its nadir, so now the only direction to go is up.

On that uplifting note, I hate religion and country music, but I did get emotional listening to Garth Brooks sing Amazing Grace at the inauguration the other day. After a deeply traumatic four years, listening to Biden’s speech, hearing Gorman’s poem, and seeing our nation’s leaders masked up and ready for action was amazing.

Si se puede.

Day 162: The Dentist

I know “everyone’s shit is all emotional right now” (President Camacho, Idiocracy), what with 4,000 COVID deaths a day in the U.S. and the storming of the Capitol by Trump’s henchmen. Keep calm: Biden's inauguration is only a few days away and there definitely won’t be any violence. The progressive, anti-Trump, Black Lives Matter-supporting police have everything under control.

Israel, a country of 10 million, is nearing 10,000 daily COVID cases, and we are currently in the second week of a hard lockdown with schools shuttered and travel banned. In a couple of months, there will be another national election, the fourth in two years. But fear not: Israel has vaccinated 2 million people (yes, 1/5th of its population) and I got my first shot today. My arm is killing me, they kicked me out of the building even though I said I was experiencing an allergic reaction, and I had to pay 10 shekel for parking, but otherwise I think it was worth it.

Amidst all the chaos, desperation, and lack of hope for any type of decent future, I have found meaning in my life: I’m in love.

Yes, I like my children most of the time and, sure, I love my wife, but until my visit to the dentist earlier this week, I never knew what it meant to be in love.

In Israel’s world of socialized medicine, only one cleaning a year is paid for, so I knew it would be a special visit. I left my house around 5:40pm for a 6:00pm appointment. It’s possible I was wearing pajama pants from a former student’s Bar Mitzvah; they’re plaid and they have big holes in the crotch. 

It was a perfect evening: nearly 70 degrees, a slight breeze, and a few clouds in the sky. I walked north to the end of our two-block neighborhood and strolled up a stone staircase towards a busy intersection. I pulled my mask over my nose, crossed the street, and made my way towards the Ramat Aviv mall, which is next to the office building in which my soon-to-be second wife works.

At the entrance, there was a Filipina nurse helping an extremely old Israeli man; I went in front of them because I don’t have a walker. The security guard was a brown-skinned gentleman, likely an immigrant from Ethiopia. I scanned my temperature, took the elevator to the 13th floor, and entered the dentist’s office. After some awkward English-Hebrew exchanges with the three ladies at the front desk, I was invited back to Room 1, the Room of Destiny.

There she was: 55-ish years old, dyed blonde hair, slightly overweight, white Reebok walking shoes, a mask, a face-guard, gloves, and a smock. Perfection.

I laid down in the chair and looked up at the face-down TV hanging from the ceiling. I couldn’t understand most of what I was watching and felt guilty for not giving my soulmate my undivided attention, so I refocused.

As she was about to begin, it occurred to me to ask if I should take off my glasses, but I hesitated because I couldn’t remember if the word for glasses was mishkafayim (glasses) or michnasayim (pants). I didn’t want to make that mistake and make her feel uncomfortable; I wanted to let things unfold naturally.

So I motioned to my glasses and said, “Im o bli zeh?” (With or without these?). She shrugged, indicating it didn’t matter one way or the other. 30 seconds later, she ripped them off my face with one hand and tossed them on the table. It was somewhere between romantic and aggressive. Or both.

In Hebrew, she told me to open my mouth, but I momentarily forgot what liftoach meant. She said it again. I opened. Over the next ten minutes, she commanded me numerous times to liftoach (open) or lizgor (close). Sometimes I got confused, and she yelled at me, “Takshiv!” (Listen!). It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

My dentist in America uses a manual scraper to clean my teeth; this hygienist used a rapidly vibrating, electric scraper which violently shoots water. She cleaned my teeth with reckless abandon, paying no attention to my receding gums, exposed nerves, and painful grimaces. 

I noticed she spoke Hebrew with a Russian accent. Her adverse experiences under the Soviet regime had clearly hardened her. She was a strong woman who demanded strength from others. She patted me on the chest a couple of times as if to say, “Suck it up, you little American bitch.”

The water from the tool she used squirted all over my face. She never offered me a towel. She unapologetically yanked my neck from one side to the other. She demanded I pay extra for a fluoride treatment. She barely said goodbye.

I don’t know her name. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know if she’s vaccinated. But I know that very soon I will mysteriously need a root canal so I can return to her place of work and once again experience something between Little Shop of Horrors and grand masochism.

We’re never moving back.

Day 150: No Respect

Rodney Dangerfield and I have many similarities: We’re both Jewish, we’re both hilarious, we both did stand-up comedy in the “Borscht Belt” resorts of the Catskill Mountains, and we both get no respect.

Broosevelt, Noni, and I did a Hebrew-reading competition. I read more quickly, fluidly, and accurately than both of them, but the Boss declared Broosevelt the winner because god forbid her children lose at something.

At age 44, I’m putting a tennis beat-down on some punk-ass millennial more than ten years younger than me, and this old dude walks over and says to the millennial, “You played in college? Your tennis is beautiful.” 

Where are my props? When will my greatness be appreciated?

The state of Israel doesn’t respect that I, as a teacher of tightly quarantined and regularly tested wealthy international students at a boarding school, am on the goddamn front lines every day. First the government said I was gonna get vaccinated and then they said I had to wait. And then they said they were running out of vaccine and that the entire country is gonna have to press pause. As the son of a Holocaust survivor, the CEO of Pfizer better damn well know that my ancestors didn’t suffer torture and death so I could wait in line with people in third-world countries.

Not that I’ll even get the vaccine when it’s available; my moral and medical philosophies prohibit me from doing so. Yet my own colleagues don’t respect my beliefs. Some presumptuous teacher sent a WhatsApp to all the teachers about abortion finally being legalized in Argentina and the principal sent an email to all the teachers asking for information so we could get the vaccine. Do these cancel culture fools not appreciate that life starts at conception and that vaccines lead to some really, really bad allergic reactions?

I visited one of my constitutionally weaker students in the hospital. All I got was an email saying I’m a “good person.”

Panini baked nearly 60 cookies for her friends in bidud (quarantine) but said she didn’t make any extra for me. 

(Note: There were 20 left over cuz Panini sucks at math.)

We sat down for dinner on New Year’s Eve and, after 10 minutes, the Boss and Panini left to schmooze with the neighborhood ladies and deliver Panini’s burned cookies to her friends. 10 minutes after that, Broosevelt was in the corner working on his Legos, Boni was who the hell knows where, and it was just me and OG at the table. I thought we might have a couple of minutes of quality-time together, but OG picked up a handful of green beans, looked directly at me, and, with a big smile on her face, said, “This is the worst year of my life.”

A couple hours later, Panini was on a Zoom with her friends and I committed the apparently unforgivable atrocity of saying hi to her friends. Tears flowed, milk spilled, a wife screamed at her husband, and the disrespect and disdain for Saul had reached its climax.

2021 is when this shit ends. 2021, the Year of Saul, is when COVID ends, Trump kills himself, and Saul finally gains some goddamn dignity and respect.

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!