Friday, May 8, 2015

Tweetings of May






and, from the Lag Baomer picnic at our Kibbutz:



Thursday, April 9, 2015

Passover. Pillars of Phate.


Our kibbutz is full of great many flowers, of unknown names and origins. Actually I am too busy with administrative tasks, and doing multimedia PR to get into the mysteries of horticulture.




I think Israel will have pretty good wheat harvest this year. We are on a very rainy streak. Everything is covered with stray wheat and wheat grass.


And weeds the size of trees!!!


The high-tech drip-dry irrigation contributed to the plenty. One of Ben-Gurion's favorite kibbutzes - which means socialist, atheist, leftist - has been observing this shmitta year, which means growing things in liners.


and plenty of salad herbs, and many types of lettuces - for my garden.


Everything feels the onset of warmth and plenty.


Zooming in, the flowers turn out to be a cozy dating site for ladybugs.



Things are just a-blooming on our kibbutz! Joe - JFK on my old blog - now my husband - he is a good decorator. For the Passover he surprised me with this construction project. In his free time he turned an abandoned tool shed near our cottage into a ridiculously tight but spotless tea cozy just large enough for the two of us. I would sit and enjoy having my coffee and smell the flowers - and read Emily Dickinson by the bug lights - and air my Lolita face and cleavage under the gentle fan - and be served through the window. My personal fotografah, my wonder carpentah - the flowers outside and inside - I am speechless with adoration!

We had to saddle up the child seats of our brand new family SUV with my kids and let my husband drive us to Jerusalem. It has been my holy ritual - to honor my parents - right before Passover to take my brood to Jerusalem to visit my parents, and my sister in Sorotzkin.


I tried to be positive and concentrate on the positive energies of the spring. We went to pick up my nephews, and in the entrance to their jerry-rigged study hall-hallway-shtibl-hideaway - and it sported a giant puddle of white paint. The entire bucket had been wasted. Nobody responsible, impossible to clean. Then I was even embarrassed before my husband, to see once again the reckless chaos and waste of the religious world. White paint - it's Passover time - to whitewash things. White - the color of make believe, the color that makes leaven disappear!

BTW, long overdue answerz: about my childhood memories, and about apricot oil anointment.
"[you] certainly remember with fondness how people visited your father [rabbi XYZ] before holidays, etc etc." - No! Our Oberlander Judaism taught self-reliance, and rabbis are there for major issues in education, business, life-critical decisions. I do remember people visiting my father out of the fanatical ideas - they were basket cases that I felt too embarrassed to talk to, and they mistook me for an shy proper girl.

Regarding the apricot oil - I did do it, starting right before Purim, and since we are already familiar with perfumed body oils, took it for granted. My husband is cool - "so what if a faraway reader asked my wife to smear herself with oil?" - the result: I stopped about 3 weeks ago, and still have the apricot scent. So you (and I) can imagine King Artaxerxes enjoying his yummy Jewess Esther after months-long anointment with perfumes and oils.


I used my twins' toy set as a chute for spin-the-bottle games with my lovahs. There was no way to tell which way the marble would roll! Ingenious, huh?


My twins' booster chairs still there over at my sister's. I was the last one among in my family to have had twins. They don't need any boost now - I have to work overtime to bring them up right so they don't wind up needing restraints!
My oldest daughter is 12 already and I am catching up to her life. This Passover is an opportunity for unrestricted investment of ourselves into the kids.After 9 pm the two of us should just about make it to that tea cozy and sip coffee from fine china and nibble on Entennman's chocolate chip cookies and my well-lotioned fingertips.
Now that I brought the munchkins to the little park around our kibbutz command and control centah, with the WiFi connection, I caught up on Tweeting, and thought about our late night spousal pow-wows in the tea cozy. The latest insight we've had was the shtetl principle. It makes sense to get married within your own shtetl. Joe never clicked with other women, who were really a generation removed from Hassidishe, Persian, Syrian, Moroccan backgrounds. As soon as he got to know them more intimately, the masks of courtship came off, and he was just a kind gentleman in the headlights of the Mack truck driven by over-liberated queen bitch.
I was also mismatched with Americans. I was only born there, and except a pre-school year in Brooklyn, grew up elsewhere - Amsterdam, Switzerland, Israel. All this time I was drawn to the much-maligned European-intellectual Israeli mindset. None of my previous men would even brave to father an ex's children. But that vase with the flower in the tool shed makeover - he won me over again!



My exercise machine that I gave her when I moved to France and onward. In my Paris apartment I have a mini gym, which was on of strong points that got the apartment rented weally fast.


And I was right - the Sorotzkin underground's pillars have been whitewashed - for sure, it made the bread rolls disappear!


and since our world has been turned upside down by all things fashionable and cyber punk, Sorotzkin looks the same viewed upside down.


and beside the whitewashed pillars, nothing else changed. Maybe shockingly new commercial lures for the people's smartphones in this community that puffs up and protests too much against internet.
From April. 2010 before my second marriage- my favorite post on the old blog (Siren, and this one about the abandoned ignored erotic dark places in the Sorotozkin underground):