Michael attempts to do himself in percussionally.
The Return of (What’s Left of) Michael
We here at Jewlicious have used relationship metaphors for Israel before, but I propose casting our beloved Zionist entity in a different light than the harried girl being given the run-around by that eternal malcontent of nations, Pakistan.
Israel is an abusive spouse, and I am the victim. I give Israel all my loving and the best years of my life, and it viciously assaults me. The other countries say, “Baby, you know he’s no good for you,” but I don’t listen. All Israel needs to do is say, “Girl, you know I love you, but sometimes you just make me so mad I can’t help it! But I swear, baby, I’ve changed. Now come here and let me give you some hummus.” And then I take my apron and dry the tears from my black eyes and go back to the stove and tell the US and England that I just tripped on the curb.
So yes, as you all may be aware, I’ve encountered a few problems with my post-hurricane Israeli Odyssey, dashed against the rocks of Israel, trapped between the Scylla of The 25-Year-Old-Israeli-Girl-in-Customer-Service-Who-Personally-Hates-You and the Charybdis of Israeli Post-Socialist Bureaucracy. El Al lost my luggage without a trace. The Hebrew U apparently forgot we were coming and left us standing around in the sun on Friday afternoon for a couple hours with no ID cards, rooms, or clue as to what we should be doing. I turned down a dorm room (my fault) because I was under the impression that I would be living with ck, who apparently was too busy buying Laya horchatas in LA to ensure that I was not homeless again (his fault). I was the only Hebrew U student to not receive my rental cell phone. My feet are a mess of blisters. And, for completely unknown reasons, I strained my ankle and, unless I eat approximately half my body weight in ibuprofen, I hobble around, cutting a more pitiful scene than the guys who make a living being pitiful for people’s shekels on Ben-Yehuda. Except nobody throws money at me. And the icing on the cake, the fuul on the hummus if you will, is that everybody thinks it’s really, really funny. In the words of Laya, who admittedly is being kind enough to house me in the cozy environs of Chateau Laybecca until I stop being homeless, “It wouldn’t be funny if it wasn’t happening to you.” Thanks, Laya. Apparently misery is a scream as long it’s Michael’s.
But perhaps things are looking up. I got my luggage back today, seemingly none the worse for wear. ck claims he’s found me a place to live until November. And so far, I haven’t got food poisoning and thrown up in any girls’ rooms, which is definitely an improvement over last summer. And I now have easy access to hummus and cashew Nok-Out ice cream bars, which have been scientifically proven in a Hebrew University study to be the best things ever created by the hand of man. So I’m allowing myself to feel a rare bit of optimism. And, newly endowed with clean clothes so I can finally change, I’ve composed a little something that I think you should all say on Yom Kippur. Put it in the Amidah, maybe instead of that dew/rain thing, ‘cuz that’s gonna happen whether you ask for it or not.
×‘×¨×•×š ××ª×” ××“×•× ×™ ××œ×•×”×™× ×• ×ž×œ×š ×”×¢×•×œ× ××©×¨ × ×ª×Ÿ ×œ×ž×™×›××œ ××ª ×”×‘×’×“×™× ×©×œ×• ×•××ª ×””×¡×•× ×™ ×¤×œ×™×™×¡×˜×™×™×©×Ÿ 2″ ×©×œ×• ×•×”×•×©×™×¢ ××•×ª×• ×ž×”×™×“×™×™× ×©×œ ×”×¨×©×¢×™× ×‘××œ ×¢×œ ×•×‘×ž×“×™× ×ª ×™×©×¨××œ
I’ll let TM translate, it seems to make him happy.
In the meantime, if you’re in Jerusalem and you see me, give me a shout-out. I’m the one in the Maccabi Tel Aviv T-shirt sobbing into my sabikh.