hope we can believe in

Today, two men from Afghanistan moved into my office. I was expecting the move and been reading about Afghanistan to prepare myself for their arrival, so when they moved in I felt ready for the challenge. But then one of them did something very unexpected. He taped a photo of Obama to the cabinet door above his head. (not the one in this post) This, I thought, must have been something he learned to do in Afghanistan. Hanging a picture of the "leader" to show loyalty and secure his place at work. I mean, we've seen pictures of Saddam in every corner in Iraq, maybe they do the same in Afghanistan. I wasn't sure if it would be okay to say anything. But it was just too interesting to let it pass, so I made the most innocuous comment I could come up with, "You hanged a picture of Obama." The man turned to me and said, "Obama is the best thing that happened to America." Then the other man stopped organizing his stuff and told me that his wife, who never voted and didn't care about voting, made a special trip to the polling station to vote for Obama in 2008. I think I am going to sleep much better tonight.

Are men necessary?

Are men necessary?

I've been racking my brain with this question for quite some time.

Maureen Dowd struggled with this question in a book with this title several years ago, and I must admit that although I have read her book, I am still at a loss. Michael Moore wrote in his book Stupid White Men that the portable, easy-to-carry, aluminum stepladder "did the male population in... and made us guys as useful as an eight-track tape." I am not sure Michael Moore is a hundred percent correct, because there are a few things I still need a man for.

And no, it’s not what you're thinking...

I confess that I own a stepladder. I can drill a hole in the wall. I can change a light bulb, and even check the oil in my car and add more if it's too low. But for the life of me, I can't twist open tight things, like the lids of jam and pickle jars. Or the cap of the water purifier, which needs to be opened every couple of months for the filter to be replaced.

The last time my daughter needed me to help her open a jar of pickles I gave in and said, "I need a man to do this," only to hear the contempt in her voice echoing in the kitchen. "You say a woman should not depend on a man to do things for her," or something of that sort. 

Of course, I can get that lid off, if I puncture it with a nail. That's how I do it when there is no man around. But I didn't want to make a hole in the lid. I wanted to keep it wholesome, perfect, and unpunctured, man or no man in my life!

So last week, in the absence of my judgmental daughter, I succumbed to the water filter's stubbornness. I unscrewed the whole contraption from the faucet, threw a pocketsize multi-tool Leatherman in a bag and took everything to my car. My idea was to corner a friendly man somewhere during my weekend rounds, shove the filter thingy and the pliers into his hands, and beg him to unscrew the lid.

My mission was accomplished when I ran into a colleague from work who could not resist my pathetic entreaties.  

Other things that drive me to look for a man come in the shape of dead rats! For some unknown reason my garage acts as a death trap for vermin. And when a dead rat manifests itself on the floor or under the stairs, nothing can move me toward its corpse. 

The last time I discovered a dried up rat in my garage I took to the street and called for help. I didn’t scream or flail my arms hysterically. I just called, "Is there a man around who can help me?" as soon as I spotted a male-type neighbor emerge out of a house across the street. The man, who I knew was a navy officer, came to my rescue without a moment’s hesitation. He picked up the shapeless pile of rat remains and deposited it in his own trashcan, so my fragile self would not have to be tormented by the contents of my own trash. 

I usually find myself thinking about the question "Are men necessary?" when I have to lift big heavy things, read electronic gadget manuals, or feel an urge to eat barbecue. But most of all, I think about it when it's ten o'clock at night and I'm in my pajamas on the verge of sleep, and it's pouring rain outside, and I suddenly remember that I forgot to take the trash out to the curb, with or without a dead rat inside.

It would be nice to have a man around to help with the little stuff in life. 

For the big stuff, I rely on myself.

the politics of coffee

This morning, after I dropped Eliya at Moss Landing to go kayaking with a bunch of scientific minded kids, I drove to a coastal blink-of-an-eye hamlet by the freeway and entered a local cafe known for its wonderful variety of pies.

The entire weekend crowd consisted of a young dude in a funky wool cap and his laptop. He looked up and smiled when I entered. It was a good beginning. A friendly crowd of one always makes me feel welcomed. No line. Not too many people staring, making silent judgment about the way I walk and talk and dress and order...

The girl behind the counter looked busy doing something, but I wasn't sure what. I waited for a few minutes hoping she would notice me. Eventually she did and promised she'd be right with me. After several more minutes she asked me what I wanted. I asked for a cup of coffee. She motioned toward a heavy wooden dresser behind me and insinuated in some nonverbal way that I should serve myself.

I got myself a paper cup, after paying for the coffee, and started pumping coffee out of a tall thermos. The pump went dry before the cup got half way to the top. Oh, well, no rush, I thought. I picked the empty thermos and gave it to the girl. It's empty, I said.

She took it and turned to serve another woman who materialized out of nowhere. Eventually, someone came from inside the kitchen and took the empty thermos, I guess to fill it up.

I waited. In the meantime I learned about the customer's family and friends and what she thought about a bag of granola. The customer dropped a pen. I picked it up. Then waited some more. It's a small town, I thought. No rush. One customer at the counter, one sitting at the table, and no coffee. So what? We have time. People talk, bond over family ties. The dude at the table finished reading whatever he was reading on his laptop, folded everything and left. And I was still waiting. Waiting for some coffee. In a small artsy cafe at the end of the street, a block away from Starbucks.

Oh, come on, be good. Have some patience. It's the weekend. Take it easy. Everything is cool. I kept on waiting. And waiting. Suddenly something stirred inside me. Are they going to bring the coffee, I interrupted the friendly conversation that meandered next to me. Uh, I'll get it for you, the girl behind the counter said.

She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee. "Let me know if you want some more," she said, as she handed me a half-filled cup.

I looked at the half-full cup (or half empty, you decide) and out of nowhere said to her that I no longer wanted any coffee. I just wanted to leave.

The woman with the granola bag got really mad at me. She insisted that I take the half-full coffee cup because that was what I wanted, right? You wanted coffee, here it is. She frowned at me and was about to start a fight to defend the honor of the girl behind the counter.

But I did not feel like getting mad at anyone. I left the artsy cafe and drove to my favorite, always busy French bakery, where the friendly woman behind the counter poured me a cup of coffee (after I handed her an empty dispenser/thermos of French Roast) and warned me to watch out because it was very hot.

And no, as you see, it was not Starbucks.

America has lost its mind

Recently I saw a headline in one of the local papers toying with the idea that Boehner (House minority leader, i.e., a Republican) is going to be the next speaker of the house. It made cringe. I felt helpless and angry that America was handing me this card, again. After eight years of Bush, a short respite, and here we go again.

Eight years of watching the Republicans destroying everything I thought was good about America really took it out of me. But then came Obama and things started to look brighter, more promising, in spite of the mismanaged wars, the economic collapse, the bitter aftertaste of living under the Cheney snarl day after day after day. In the last elections America proved itself again as the harbinger of progress and renewal. But now, only two years into Obama's presidency, the mean-spiritedness of the republican party already metastasizes into every corner of our public and private spheres and threatens to take us all down into its dark nether world.

I see no difference between the mobs who burn American flags on the streets of Pakistan and the well-funded crazies who wave posters of Obama in a Hilterite mustache on this continent. The only difference you can find between the two is that the latter are fully embraced by the republican mainstream establishment.

I am so tired of being bullied by ignorance, stupidity, greed, fake hysteria, xenophobia, cynicism, belligerence, sexually repressed politicians and their blatant disregard for facts.

I tell myself that in the micro level my life will not change if the Republicans win Congress. I will still go to work every morning, drive my daughter to school, live in the same place, shop at the same stores, walk on the same beach, talk to the same people, enjoy the sunset. So what if more young Americans will get killed because of the misguided notion Republicans had that American democracy can be imposed on Muslims at gun point. So what if the wounded soldiers will get dumped on the streets because there will be no money to care for them. So what if our public schools turn into Christian madrassas. So what if the next generations will bake in an endless summer and watch the sea level rise and the ice caps disappear. So what if the billionaires get richer with our tax dollars and then rip off ordinary citizens, so what if more people lose their health insurance that the health care reform endowed them with after long and tiresome maneuvers the democrats had to pull off on the floor of the congress? So what? Life goes on... "yom asal yom basal" as they say in Arabic. One day honey, one day onion.

I can learn to ignore whatever goes on in the halls of Washington. Focus on my life in California. Then, in a month from now, when the republicans boot the democrats out of congress, I will be ready to see their smug faces ushering in their distorted version of reality. All I have to do is find a way to avoid being arrested in case I feel an urge to please myself.

Because after all, what has given the republicans an edge over the democrats in this election cycle is their freshest battle cry: "No more masturbation for the masses."

related stuff:

Slate: Socialism, masturbation and Christine O'Donnell

Masturbation hater wins senate primary

video: Karl Rove loves Christine O'Donnell

Kandahar

I think we need to change the phrase "Go to hell" to "Go to Kandahar." Both have a powerful H in them which makes a strong impact and provide immediate release from negative emotions trapped inside the body, but the latter has an additional K which can make for a more powerful release. I like saying 'Kandahar' but I don't like to think about Kandahar. Do you know where Kandahar is? Can you find it on the map if I point to Afghanistan? North, south, east west, center, mountain range, valley floor, desert? I bet you will have to squint your eyes and search for it. Even if you heard about Kandahar, you probably never stopped to look at a map and find the damned place. While I still have to locate Karbala [Iraq] on the map, I already know where to look for Kandahar. The Taliban birthplace, that's what Kandahar is all about. The stronghold of pure, concentrated, well-armed, narrow-minded, fanatical masculine evil. Where martyrdom is more appreciated than music and art, where women and children are treated like domestic animals, or worse, where Allah has all the answers, where good people die for what? And today, according to the New York Times headline "American and Afghan Troops Begin Combat for Kandahar." You would think that Kandahar is some enchanted kingdom sitting on a golden hill, a mythical Troy or Shangri-La, a place worth dying for. Fuck Kandahar. That's all I want to say today.

blogging on yom kippur

Blogging on Yom Kippur? Hell yes.

Stephen Hawking leaves me no other choice.

The only reason I would fast on Yom Kipur is to divert the wrath of God away from evil-doer me to other evil doers who don't fast, but now that Hawking came out with this old-new revelation about the almighty one, I can finally live without fear. I need not fast to appease Him. I can eat cream puffs if I want to.

Just check out cyberspace and you will be inundated with this tidal wave of headlines screaming Hawking's latest discovery: We don't need God to explain the unexplainable, or what we thought was unexplainable, because he - Hawking, not God - can explain it himself!

Here is a sample:

MoneyBlog - Stephen Hawking: God is not necessary to understand the universe.

Telegraph - The Big Bang was the result of the inevitable laws of physics and did not need God to spark the creation of the Universe, Stephen Hawking has concluded.

Jerusalem Post - Hawking: God was not needed to create the universe.

Youtube - Stephen Hawking: Physics Leaves No Room For God.

What I don't understand is why the universe is so scandalized by this recent "Discovery?" In 2005, Neil DeGrasse Tyson wrote about the Perimeter of Ignorance in which he stated pretty much the same thing. Yet, I don't remember it making such a huge splash. Maybe I was not so well connected then or maybe I was too busy to notice. Or maybe that essay's purpose was to prepare the universe for Hawking's new earth un-shuttering claim. I mean, it probably will take more than a couple of articles and books to root out the notion of a God who stalks humanity and then abuses it with all kinds of diseases and calamities if it acts human.

I don't know. Maybe Hawking can answer that question, too.

In the meantime, I'll keep my mezuzah on my door sill. Just in case...

Men in uniform

Sometimes the length I have to go to get attention from men is mind boggling.

Most of the time I feel completely invisible. Walking on the beach, shopping at Trader Joe's, or sitting in my favorite cafe, I am clearly not the kind of woman who makes men's heads turn in awe; and at work, well, my men colleagues have been so methodically indoctrinated in the prevention of sexual harassment, they dare not compliment a woman even on days she knows she deserves one, because several of her females colleagues have already commented on her hair, her muscle tone, or her snazzy outfit.

But yesterday things took an interesting turn. Not that I planned it that way. All I wanted to do was donate blood to the Armed Services Blood Program (ASBP). And considering the scary procedure I was going to endure, men were the farthest thing from my mind. But little did I know.

The moment I walked into the gym where the lab team had set its mobile blood collection unit, I realized that things were not exactly the way I had expected them to be. My brain conducted a quick scan of the scenery - young men in uniform lying on folding beds with long plastic tubes hanging from their arms; more young men in uniform sitting on bleachers looking bored, waiting for their turn on the folding beds; young men playing basketball in the back of the gym; young men in uniform collecting information from prospective donors, and a tiny sprinkle of females who seemed to know what they were doing. I also noticed that I was way above the donors' median age; I was not wearing anything remotely similar to camouflage; and everyone but me had a tattoo.

I had no choice but to conclude that any attempt to blend in would be futile, so I decided to adjust to this very odd situation by trying to look professional, respectable and blasé.

But how respectable can one pretend to be when a very good looking young man in uniform asks you "Did you in the last 12 years have sex with a man who had sex with other men?" Or "Did you in the last 12 years have sex even once with a person who gets paid to have sex?" Then he checks how I answered the questions about having syphilis or gonorrhea and whether I had sex with a man from Africa after 1977.

Of course I couldn't keep a straight face. My inner child started cracking jokes with the very cute guy who checked my blood pressure and temperature, while simultaneously pricking my finger and collecting several drops of blood to make sure I was not anemic. While he was marking my blood donor questionnaire, I was shocked to see that my blood pressure shot to 140/70 but then I remembered that I was just poked in the finger by a very handsome stranger and was about to lose a pint of blood. No wonder my veins were misbehaving.

It was also pretty hard to stay serious when another guy checked again all the questions about my potential sex life with non-existent Africans and the exotic diseases I might have contracted in my travels since 1980 (please specify all the dates and names of places you visited). One of the diseases on the 50-questions list was called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. They wanted to know if I had rabies, too. I really had to hold myself back and not protest that all I wanted to do was donate blood, not brag about my extensive exposure to risky sexual activities, exotic diseases, and experimental drugs.

Next in line, I met the lab officer, who practically adopted me once he saw what blood type I was offering to donate to the U.S. armed services. He made me feel really special. Not because of my rare blood type, but because he noticed my purse!!! He liked it. My Moroccan style orange purse with the shiny coiny thingies that dangle on the edge. My $2.00 purse which I bought at Goodwill no less. No man has ever complimented me on my purse. But this captain, who served in Kosovo, Afghanistan, Tikrit (Saddam's hometown in Iraq) and many other scary place, had noticed my purse and my smile - which thankfully made me look younger than my years, he added after checking my age on the form. Thank you very much.

And then came the big moment. I was asked to pull up my sleeves and let a man in a white robe choose the lucky vein. But my sleeves were too tight. So I was sent to change into a blood donor t-shirt. When I said I could change right there, the person in charge nearly passed out. Too many guys around... changing a shirt in front of them...not a good idea. I insisted that I had a very nice undershirt to keep the modesty going, but he was not convinced. I think he thought that having me lie down in front of strangers while blood is flowing out of my body was more palatable than seeing me in my light-blue lacy undershirt. Oh, well.

Once the t-shirt drama was resolved the captain chose the phlebotomist who would draw my blood. It was the best man on the team, I was told. I asked for local anesthesia. They looked at me like I was crazy. Suddenly I felt as if I was going to give birth to my next baby. I was surrounded by a bunch of men, cheering me on, telling me I was doing a great job (doing what exactly, I wondered), and reminding me to squeeze the ball. When I said my hand felt weak and asked if I could squeeze the ball with my other hand, the guy who stuck the needle in my arm could not resist a smile. The captain, who stood by my side the whole time, making sure I was doing fine, was besides himself with pleasure when he saw the smile spread on the face of the guy. For him I was no longer just an exotic French woman with a pretty purse (yes, it's my accent again), I was also a comedian.

The entire affair ended on a very positive note. The armed forces got some good clean blood and in return I got a chocolate chip cookie, a pink squeeze ball, and a t-shirt.

Those of you who wonder what it feels like to donate blood, well, it's not as bad as going to the dentist. And considering the amount of attention a single woman can get from a bunch of dedicated men in uniform, let me tell you, it was worth the trouble.

So next time I feel an urge to be surrounded by men, you know where to find me.

One final comment: if you want to show your support for the troops, donate blood. They will really appreciate it. Check ASBP website to see if you can help.

And to my Israeli readers I say:

אני לא יודעת למה הם עשו מזה עניין כל כך גדול , בסך הכל רציתי לחזור הביתה בשלום