Shred

The last post was making me feel very pissy, it's what I wanted to write about (well, what I wanted to write about after I decided I couldn't be bothered to write about porn after all) but the way it was written was making my eye twitch. All right, it was making my eye twitch even more. Censorship is underrated, I feel positively moustached now. Sty is finally receding and I no longer unwittingly flirt with everyone in my line of vision.

Yesterday I started Jillian Mitchell's '30-day shred'. After seven minutes (Seven. I checked) I wanted to die and my only consolation was, I knew I would, soon. Every time I considered saying 'Sod it, who needs triceps anyway', and funny how severe pain enhances repetitive thinking, Jill, whom I'm not so fond of because she can bit of a competitive cow, would aggravate me further by chiming in with things like 'I know it's hard but don't quit now, you won't believe the difference in a few sessions'. I persevered, thoughts of yanking her by the air and dragging her along a gravel road fueling me on (road rage!) - she'd be proud though, I reckon that would require me to use all the major arm muscles, including the rotator cuff ones.

What hurt the most were the movements requiring knee bending. I was very careful - or as careful as someone who's shaking can be - but it still left my historically histrionic right knee feeling very sore. In fact, the end of it saw me limping to the bathroom (thoughts of gravel roads, etc.) for a shower and anti-inflammatory salve. My knees creaked a lot. It was very disquieting but I watch The Biggest Loser, I am 1.73 and weigh as much as those contestants regularly lose as a whole, what bloody excuse could I possibly come up with not to do it? I imagine the only thing that will make my knees ever feel better is to be toned and fitter and I do want to get there, even if I'll sound like an old haunted staircase along the way. I'm tired of hearing myself whine abt my arse or peasant calves (I want daintily muscled ones, not these cannibal TV-dinners I lug around) and there's often a little voice inside my head screaming 'If you're so tired of it get off said bloody arse and do something abt it!', but it can usually be droned out by another episode of The Real Housewives of *Whatever city, they're all mesmerising*.

Today my neck is sore, and I have a weird internal pain from above my right buttock to about the middle of it. Actually, my body is generally sore but these particular pains come from bad positioning, I could feel it during the ab crunches, I'll have to get them right today. Despite my good intentions and mouth-watering visions of subtly rippling muscles as far as the eye can see, the fact that I just typed 'ab crunches' and 'today' makes me want to weep. [Haven't the Jewish people suffered enough?] I will also have to lock the pets in my bedroom. JIP had an anxiety attack over my floor exertions and kept alternately trying to rub her face against mine and lick my eyelids, and biting my fingers in nervous protest. I cannot fathom why. Cats, the lost heirs of Atlantis? Papoila was just happy I'd decided to play with her in such a novel manner and kept trying to engage my attention all throughout the workout. At the end, while I was doing my lying stretches, I opened my eyes to find her face looming a few centimetres from mine. She was so happy her whole body was wagging. She looked absolutely hysterical from that angle and I hope laughter counts as a muscle stretcher because it all ended very abruptly when I lost it.

Now I shall go have my pectoralis major muscles and their overlaying boobs squashed, irradiated and ultrasonographied. My boobs are the one thing that doesn't hurt today since you can't really exercise boobs - even the rather... long pair I once saw being juggled about the owner's face are no more than an arm workout, really [Also, why? How could anyone possibly be turned on by whirling boobs?] but I expect that will change very soon. Shabbat shalom, my lovelies.

Cattle prod

I really fancied writing a post about porn, I probably haven't aggravated enough Americans in my life and there was this programme that I watched and made me squeal with glee and bless the fact that I live in Portugal [sorry] [and wow!], but Sty has other plans. The buggery thing is still firmly ensconced in my eyelid and, although smaller, I still have a pocket of pus that seems to be resisting the antibiotics. I sense lanceing in the near future and if that's what it takes for me to finally not be blinky, teary and photofobic (or no more photofobic than usual) then here, HAVE A SCALPEL!, need extra hands, I've two!

Good thing I am on holiday right now, yes?

Today it feels as though my eyeball has rotated along its axis. It is not painful per se but neither is it normal, eyeballs should never feel like they are migrating. I look like a mild Tourette patient, honestly, blink-blink, grimace, blink. It's very appealing. Well, I cannot read articles because of the tiny print and I cannot write because of the tiny screen font, and even this small text has caused me to look even more desirable so I am taking the afternoon off and indulging in an America's Next Top Model marathon. Now would be a perfect time for me to be contemplative and actually be able to sit cross-legged and ommm the fuck out of my healing, eye-resting self but I'm not, so ANTM for entertainment it is.

It's not as good as writing about porn but, sort of speaking of which (WARNED YOU BE), I'll leave you with an interesting tidbit: [and this is surprising even me, because I don't fancy writing abt my personal life so much these days after The Great Wanker Experience of Yore, I have no idea why I am inclined to write abt this, of all things, but what the bloody hell], the meds I was on for my skin dry the mucosas, tremendously. Really. You know how men say there are no bad blow jobs? I wouldn't know about that, of course, only being penis-y by proxy, but I can tell you that hydrated mucosas are an underestimated part of gonadal frolicking, and that even with the help of modern pharmaceutical products you'll be inclined to very often utter the words 'I'm sorry, would you mind terribly moving your sand paper a tad to the left? Cheers.' Bad sex because of your partner is horrifying enough [The Fremen in me is screaming 'The waste of precious moisture!' - my wit defies belief.] but less-than-brilliant sex because of you, because you seem to have been transplated to a foreign body? That's just ... No. Not to mention the kiss-interrupting to go have a drink of water because, you know, no saliva. Eh. Blessed be the patient. Good news though, I stopped the meds about a month ago and 1) skin is still clear and 2) I am now able to retain water again. Hurrah!

I'm done now - and aren't we all relieved.

'I've got a theory, it could be bunnies...'

Yesterday I had to be diplomatic, a lot. It was for the community [The Community] so I couldn't escape it, but it was exhausting, especially with a sty. Like an idiot, like a bleeding idiot, I'd gone to the chemist's and asked for drops and told her what I wanted but forgot to check what she actually gave me. See, styes are usually caused by Staphylococcus aureus, which is a bacteria, which equals infection, whish equals no use of corticosteroids whatsoever, which of course means I had been dousing my eye with dexamethasone all day. IDIOT. Eye obediently threw a cortico-induced fit, and it made thing so very worse. It wasn't painful per se but the discomfort of having an entire lower lid swollen and dragging down is surprisingly great. I rang my Dr. friend amidst a lot of self-cursing, then we both cursed the chemist soundly - you would not believe the rubbish that chemists see fit to give out to people here, Oh, a cough, here, have some broad spectrum antibiotics, it's frightening - IDIOT. - and she prescribed me not only drops but systemic antibiotics as well. And then we both stopped and marvelled when I told her how I had been advised by an acquaintance to put some raw turkey meat in my eye. Raw turkey meat. In my eye. Indeed, why have a one-bacteria infection when you could have so many more? Humans are resilient little things, what sort of git uses decomposing poultry - and if it's raw it's decomposing, no matter how slowly - as a treatment for infection? I cannot begin to fathom it but what puzzles me the most is, why turkey, specifically? Why is chicken or, say, lamb, not curative enough? The bloody hell?

Then I had to go and be diplomatic some more, at the Israeli embassy reception for the 61 anniversary of the state of Israel. There's an Israeli bloke that I know by sight from such events and mind, it was just like being back baaretz. Every time falafel was served and I tried to reach the small plates (4 falafel each) I was thwarted by Israeli Bloke who was beautifully positioned and snatched them all, every single time. A pita by any other name unless filled to the brim is unedible, it would seem. It reminded me, again, how my love for Israelis often happens despite Israelis, good God, man, it's a reception, not a trough for one! The third time it happened I actually turned to him and told him in Hebrew he had eaten my falafel, again, but he was so busy having a Total Israeli Experience that he didn't even hear me. I wanted to smack him or, at the very least, stand on his foot. I was wearing my furry boots, which I'd just re-discovered in my closet (I am the shoe-obsessed twit who actually forgets the fabulous shoes she owns), much to my glee, and with those heels it would have been painful. But it would not have done much for public relations eithers, and I thought of the community [The Community], saint-like, and let out my breath slowly, sadly not charring him. And I tried. I eventually ate a falafel but only after cake had been served. Guess why, guess who was frolicking with the cake. By the time I came back I was knackered beyond belief, fabulous boots are half a size too small but they are so fabulous and were so cheap I had to have them, so now I suffer, and my eye was bothering me a lot. I went to bed hopeful because I was being properly medicated after all and magic happens during the night. During the night I woke up a lot, every time I turned the pain would lightly poke me awake and even half-asleep I realised if magic had happened it was of the Dark sort. When I got up my eyelid was even more swollen and red and there was real pain so I everted it and lo, I have a pocket of pus on the inside. It's like a Whose Line song, that old classic 'Pus In My Eyelid'. Off to Casualty I go now because I'm not bothered by pus really, I actually look forward to cleaning abscesses and the likes but Pus In My Eyelid is a tad too onimous to ignore. I like my eyes and use them to to write my thesis, and speaking of which,

I am finally enjoying working on it, I have started writing text, a miracle in itself because, as much as I find Small Furry Things' dental disease endlessly fascinating [Malocclusion! Periapical abscesses! Retrobulbar abscesses! Bunnies!], I had forgotten how hard and time-consuming it is to write a thesis. Have I told you this? I must have. Can you believe I truly thought I'd have a Masters thesis finished in a month, from beginning to end? Ahhhh.... This is my Portie arse, kindly kick it around a bit. IDIOT. The procuring and organising of the bibiography alone took forever and drove me absolutely mental but right now, I am enjoying it. Or was, rather, it's hard to write with teary vision so this all very much looks like the Tooth Fairy gone terribly wrong.

Serves me right for not trying the turkey, I suppose. I could have swung the carcass above my head a few times for good measure as well and chanted in Aramaic, and I'd have been righteously cleansed.

'And Xander! Help Willow, and try not to bleed on my couch'

I must be experiencing mental ovulation, for it is one of those days when I am filled with goodwill towards the whole of mankind and a fair amount of restlessness, all sturm und drang in the vicinity of my belly button, something is brewing... This is not helped by my having heard about a concert at the end of May today, you'll never believe who will be performing live: Nik Kershaw! Rick Astley! Kim Wilde! Belinda Carlisle! For fuck's sake, Rick Astley, how brilliantly naff is this? [You don't need carbon 14 to date me, just have a look at my musical taste.] It will be exactly like being in my car but with actual room to dance. Now I need to devise a plan to convince my friends to join me, and then we can all pinch each other awake.

Israel aches in me today, too. I am writing my masters' thesis, and I will dedicate it to Uzi. He had absolutely nothing to do with small mammal's teeth, nothing to do with veterinary science really, except for his uncanny eye to spot snakes and the likes [Remember the scorpion he brought me from the avocado field? Boy knew how to press the buttons of my hormonometre, gift-wise...], but somehow, everything I've done so far is imbedded with him. It's not dark pain, per se, it's a throbbing longing, one of the inumerable things we will never talk about. Not that he would have a lot to say about rabbit and their tooth fairy problems, but... Some days are longer than others. I have been missing Israel a lot. There are days when the lack of Hebrew hurts so much that all I can do is play Hebrew songs over and over again (see: today), Hebrew my faith, osmosis my god. You are all well acquainted with my love for English, yes?, but Hebrew is a physical language, I don't know how else to put it. You speak Hebrew to me for long enough, don't be suprised if I end up latched onto you, trying to relocate your uvula through sheer lingual prehension.

Actually, that last sentence might have been a tad more credible had I not lived in Israel for 3.5 years and effectively managed to resist most Israelis. Well, most kibbutzniks really, there may be a slight difference - for instance, I don't think regular Israelis are born with a toothpick hanging from their mouths. But what do I know, I lived on a kibbutz and then in Eilat, it didn't leave a lot of room for sophistication. Or table manners. Oh someone shut me up, I'm having flashbacks! Do you know what else is bothersome? If you compound what is already a tragedy, being that you're having communal meals with the very people regularly banned, as a nation, from hotels in Turkey and Cyprus due to general lack of civility and the abundant theft items such as bed linen and faucets [fau.cets], by having Tomer what's his name [it was Tomer, why must I remember it?] explain, over breakfast, how much he enjoyed his girlfriend's use of her finger in the general vicinity of his arse, possibly rectum, who knows if colon, peri-orgasm. Now, my own sex life is vastly engrossing but other people's? Mind, I hope you're all copulating plenty and well but that's about the extent of it, I don't particularly need details from strangers, especially instantly visual ones over salad, and especially if the male in question is a bit repulsive anyway. As Israelis might say, WHY I NEED TO KNOW THIS?? And hey, I suffered, you suffer right along with me, I don't care.

[Is it just me or do you also want to kindly pat the hand of those people who say things like Sex is important in a relationship, of course, but not THAT important? Because you know they have been wildly unlucky, right? *pats hand kindly*]

Speaking of vile, foul and disgusting, I am not eating haroset this Seder, it is the bane of Pessach every single time. I don't care how symbolic it is, NO MORE. There.

Now with a hefty does of guilt

I don't know how to start this post. I don't know how to start any post, actually, and that's why I have not been writing. I didn't mean for you to worry, I didn't realise people would think this was a February spill, it hasn't been. About a month ago I had a highly bloggable day, a highly how-fun-to-live-in-a-3rd-world-country bloggable day, but by the time I got home I was just knackered and couldn't be bothered. See, I'm not an insomniac anymore [fu tfu tfu] and, as it turns out, I wrote more when I had the mental. I don't miss the mental, my friends certainly don't miss the mental, but bloody hell, was the mental prolific. But guess what - GUILT WORKS, so cheers!

Disjointedly, then: I finished my internishp, and after taking a few days off to re-organise my life (e.g. doctor appointments, finances, everything that had become non-essential for survival) I started trying to write my thesis. Under the lovely Bologne convention, which I believe I have healthily cursed every day since its inception and am now cursing even more, what bollocks it is, I am forced to write a Masters' thesis. I do not wish to write a stupid Masters' thesis. In fact, I very much resent having to write a stupid Masters' thesis, because then I'll be forced to defend said stupid thesis before a jury and - really, you expect me to talk in front of people and not stutter and faint? Nightmares pullullating, I cannot cope with it. And yet, Europe says I must so I am buggered, is what I am.

Despite that, I'd always thought it would finally be a relief after the gruesome years of vet school to have to write, simply write [everyone laughing yet?], and I was shocked to realise that I wasn't able to. The writing thingy wasn't working AT ALL. I couldn't get organised in my mind and it all starts there, I need to find a thread and what I found instead was intellectual illiteracy. After many days of metaphorically ramming my head repeatedly against a very solid wall I had a revelation: vet school robbed me of the will to live took up 7 years of my life [SE-VEN.], and when that was finished I had exactly one weekend off and then started my internship. In 7.5 years I had a few exam-free times but a holiday, a proper go away somewhere and leave it all behind holiday? That happened exactly once, those 10 days I spent at the beach with my Dr. friend, in 2006. If I hadn't been so burnt out I'd have realised sooner that the problem was exactly that, but being too burnt out to realise it - I don't even know how to finish this sentence, use your muscled little grey cells ad lib.

So I decided (amidst loads of guilt, mind, GO WRITE THE THESIS ALREADY!!), to take a wholesome number of days off, around my birthday, and to deliberately NOT do anything remotely academia-related. Lo, serendipity loves me and around this time I stumbled upon a site lauding a video game called Deus Ex, which I promtply acquired and this is where words fail me again, because this game, THIS GAME?, is fucking brilliant, I was in geek heaven, I was in love, I had so much fun I cannot even describe it, and even as I killed my formerly nourishing ocular cells I could feel the knot in my brain dissolving, dissolving, gone. Deus Ex was bliss, and my little heart is still soaring with gratitude.

And now I have a thread. Amazingly, and this will show you how brilliantly the bright can turn daft and not even know it, I had a revelation: I should start with - the bibliography! Isn't that a revolutionary idea? I know, I'm so proud! Over three decades of education and academic work have really sharpened my mind. I am now past the stage where references beget references, and at the stage where I am both already reading and emailing authors directly to beg ask for papers because I don't have access to Elsevier (have a care now and DO NOT even mention my university), and who can afford $31.50 an article? It is hard to write theses in the Magreb.

On an unrelated note, to the person who found me through this search:


I actually found them to be very generous with their bodies.

Hi! You lot still breathing?

And, it is February

Every year I think February can't possibly be that rotten this year, and yet February always is.

On the 14th of February 4 years ago I was told Uzi's body had been found. I'd never been keen on Valentine's day before, now it doesn't stand half a chance. So I hid at home and swallowed vast amounts of Sex And The City and when I resurfaced I still had half a month to go, plus the funeral anniversary tomorrow, which is also the last time I set foot in Israel - my Israel, which I feel slipping further and further away from me too. February is the month that slowly slithers all over you, oily and unbearable, and I always hope for something different, and something different never comes. I briefly chatted with a friend a while ago and she said I'll catch you later, am late for my priapism meeting. And that is exactly what February is - a huge, unwanted, annoying boner that just sits there, causes you considerable aggravation and WILL NOT GO THE FUCK AWAY.

I've been able to fight it so far and keep a stiff upper lip but I'm all out of faith, so today I officially give up. It is February. All I want to do is curl up with a book and fluffy series until March but it's not to be so I'll just accept the vast shittitude of things in all directions, February is and always will be a mindfuck, and I need to clamp my mental jaws on the fact that Spring is around the corner and this too shall pass.

What these women want

It's been a girl fest latey, and we've been discussing relationships a lot. Men often complain they don't know what women want. This is what we, my mates and I, have to say.

We're in our early thirties-late forties and are, respectively, the ones who are happily married, the ones who are happily together, the one who is so happily together she's doesn't seem to get it anymore, the one who is happily not looking for together right now; the one who is unhappy bcs she keeps breaking up and falling right back into it; the one who can only do flings and has a little black book, the one who cannot do flings at all bcs she always becomes emotionally involved, the one who thought she could cope with flings and is unexpectedly smitten, the one who had a fling turn into an actual love relationship, the one who doesn't even want flings bcs she is perfectly happy alone with her child; the one who says she doesn't want a relationship bcs she was hurt too much but secretely harbours hope, the one who says she does but is visibly too jaded and out of faith; and the one who is waiting for her boyfriend to move out of his ex's flat. We don't always agree abt the details but we know what we want from our men and, for most of us, this is it:

1. We want our men to understand that sometimes we have Bad Hair Days, Bad Bum Days, and we need an extra ego booster - extra bcs we want our men to think us beautiful and sexy anyway, and to fancy us like bloody hell, and to show us that they fancy us like the bloody hell.
   
2. We want our men to understand that sometimes we want them to devour us, we want to merge with them, become one amidst a charm of hummingbirds, but partnership doesn't mean parasitism. We are fiercely independent too, and it is healthy that we meet our mates alone sometimes, that we actually want to, healthy to not always be joined at the hip.
3. We want our men to not be intimidated by our strong personalities, intelligence or need for a life beyond them, this isn't a geisha drive-thru; in fact, we want men who'll thrive on it.
4. We want our men to say 'No', and stand up to us. Please stand up to us, we need our men to be men we can respect.
   
5. We want our men to be intelligent and cultured, we want to be able to chat with them for hours abt big things and small things, to always want to chat with them; our men may sometimes be aggravating but they're never dull.
6. We want our men to not be put off by our tears, bcs we sometimes cry and it won't always make sense, they can't always fix it - and it IS alright, we just need them to hold us and pull us onto their laps and cuddle for a bit.
7. We want men who are manly, bcs if someone's going to be girly in a relationship it'd better be the girl. We respect men who can cry, men who can show pain and sadness, men who can be vulnerable without pulling away - and we want those men as well - but little whiners make us shudder.
8. The Porties among us want our men to not ever - EVER - read Paulo Coelho/be too esoteric bcs we, as a whole, have found out that that equals absolutely, staggeringly, unbelievably mindfucked.
9. The Porties among us want our men to keep their bleeding mouths shut regarding past relationships/sexual encounters for the most part. It is not included in our cultural mating rituals, it is no one's business, and we firmly believe there should be only two in bed, not dozens.
10. We want our men to be able to discuss everyting with us, including their exes , we want them to be able to vent if they're still ruminating, if it was traumatic, if they're still finding their footing again - but no ad nauseam obsessing though.
11. We want our men to make us laugh and giggle, we want to be able to be silly together.
    
12. We want our men to make us laugh in bed, sex must never be a power struggle or a source of grief. One of us had a boyfriend with always half-mast erections actually tell her The others were tighter. [And we stil want to kill the limp little fucker.] We want men who will tell us how they like it, show us how they like it, show it when they like it. No need to wake up the neighbourhood really but they must never just lie there like a log. This isn't assisted masturbation, and a huge chunk of our pleasure is enjoying theirs.
13. We also want our men to be able to listen to what we actually like without being emasculated. One of us once heard back I know what I'm doing!, prompting her to snarl in frustration If you did I'd have had an orgasm long ago!
    
14. We want our men to not be selfish, we want to be part of their lives, not a hobby. We will happily and yet with a certain ammount of self-sacrifice accommodate exes, children, pets, relatives - we certainly expect the same. If their backs are spasming so badly that they can barely move, let alone drive the 40 minutes to be with us, we will be furious when we find out they spent that very evening jumping up and down at the corner cafe watching the football match with their mates [and that's part of the reason the one of us who keeps trying to break up keeps trying to break up].
    
15. We want our men to not be threatened by our mates who are men. Our mates who are men are honorary girls and they've long accepted the fact that, to us, they don't really have a penis. One of us was accused by her boyfriend of coming out of the garage with her mate while wiping and smacking her lips. [Knowing that people expect from others what they themselves would do, all of us are so disgusted we can barely look at him.]
    
16. We want our men to like our mates who are girls. The one of us whose boyfriend has yet to move out was out looking at flats with him and they were discussing the space they needed (she has two pets and a tiny flat and they intend to mostly stay at his place) when he said And I probably should get an extra room for *insert her best friend's name here*. It was adorable and profoundly right, we're super loyal - but we also want our men to know that our mates are good for them, and very often we have not started a fight or nagged bcs during a dissection session they told us to not be daft and brought us to reason. Our mates know more abt our men than our men are comfortable with but they reign us in, and our men should kiss their feet.
17. We don't want our men to move in with us right away. In fact, were they to offer [one of us experienced this on the 2nd day], it'd cause a stampede for the hills. But we need to feel that we can build a future together, that it is indeed a partnership, not a protracted affair.
    
18. We want our men to be emotionally available. We know that being wanted is a turn on and during those tentative early days we reply to them when we feel like it, bcs we do feel like it, and we want our messages to be clear. If they want us, they should let us know as it happens - not by Wednesday at the earliest so we don't think them too eager. Interest begets interest, and waiting in trepidation for them to deign to move their King doesn't do much for our self-esteem. It makes us feel rejected and ugly and by now we know better than that. We're not playahs and we don't do games.
19. We want our men to be emotionally honest. We want them to ring when they said they would, to show up when they said they would, to do what they said they would (we also want the rest of the world to behave this way, btw), and to NEVER make promises they cannot keep. We want our men to know we are trying out best to be lucid and not create expectations, but if they create them for us and not follow through we will be FUCKING PISSED OFF. The one of us looking for flats was in tears today bcs the ex is emotionally blackmailing the boyfriend, begging him to stay, asking what has she ever done to him that he wants to leave her, and he is ravaged with guilt.
20. We want our men to know we certainly are not like that, WTF?! A man who stays with us stays with us fully, completely, all of him. We want our men to know we can have understanding and patience but there's only so much time we will wait for a proper outcome. We can't say when we will say Enough!, but we know we will say it soon enough. And then our mates will help us cry it out and cry it out we will, but we never beg.
    
21. We also want our men to know that we don't like ambiguity. We don't like to remain in a limbo while they sort out their sorry lives. We'll survive the Nos, it's the eternal Maybes/Eventuallies that make our sanity disintegrate. Pain is harsh but prolonged pain is impossible to bear. Our men made a decision? We want them to fucking own it already.
22. We want our men to have the courage to tell us they stopped wanting to be with us the moment they stop wanting to be with us. A man who no longer wants us we no longer want, even as we still do. We live by blunt truths.
23. We want our men to know that if they were brave enough to end it when it needed to be ended we may spin from the pain but we will feel respected; we will forever respect them in turn.
    
24. We want our men to be absolutely decent human beings, there's nothing better than being able to trust someone. We don't like bad boys and their drama and anxiety-inducing ways at all. It's a home, not a misfits' retreat.
    
25. We want our men to protect us from the Big Bad Wolf. We can be fierce and stand on our own feet, we carve our own way, but we need a cave to retreat to. Our men are it, or they're not our men.
    
26. We want our men to be good fathers, and we'll forever be judging their capabilities/potential on that. Husbands/boyfriends don't last forever, we're acutely aware of that (and yet we all pray ours will) but fatherhood does. The sort of men they are matters not only to us but to the children we'll hopefully have with them. And if we can't dream of having children with them, whichever way they come, then there's no point.
27. We want our men to understand that our pets are family, and untouchable, and we are and forever will be animal daft. One of us had to once point out to a fling that it could never go beyond that and state his dislike of animals as one of the reasons (there were more); he replied But if I made you choose btwn your pets and me you'd choose me, right? - and to this we collectively say 1) No one makes us choose anything and 2) Oh, honey...
28. We want our men to realise that our evergrowing piles of clothes, books, shoes and bags make us better persons.
29. We want our men to leave the toilet seat down.
    

This is what we want from our men, and it is not too much to ask, we know it isn't. And we know it bcs we would never ask for what we ourselves aren't more than willing to give.

"Exciting and new, come aboard, we're expecting you"

Hamas kills Fatah - there's a shocker!

It's the animated version of the Amnesty International reports I used to translate, who said extrajudicial executions are passé? I could go on but ach, can't be bothered, it'd be like commenting on bacterial wrestling. This self-culling is the one intelligent sign of life they've shown so far and all I can think to say is, may they keep playing amongst themselves.

"Just ain't hot"

Photo: Dog

What was sought but not found: Guinea Pig

Why: One presented not walking, incontinent, listless and with a huge lump in his lower abdomen, which, upon examination, turned out to be one huge testis. No wait [tutor after much prodding], testes are in the abdomen, I can feel the penile bone within it, this is a HUMUNGOUS scrotum, what the..?! Unlike the one in the photo, though, no opening could be found bcs of the constriction, and owner was, much to her surprise, told to do icepacks, loads of icepacks .

Moral of this all: Only buy Jewish animals

The Pest on me

Budapest could kill you, and it's a small wonder I can still stand. Too much sadness, too much history, too much grey, so much joy over being Jewish and with my fellows Jews, so overwhelming to have this much responsibility, such delight in everything we've accomplished, so much belonging, such pleasure in being with so many intelligent people, God how I love intelligent people!, so exhilerating and knackering to speak 6 languages on any given day.

The languages, oh God I was in heaven, we lot really are a bunch of polyglots, and I cannot even begin to describe to you the sheer joy of being in a room where everyone is pretty much switching back and forth all the time, so much so that brain freeze is common and you speak German to the French lady who only speaks English, French and Spanish, or you'll open your mouth and nothing comes out bcs your brain cannot decide upon one particular language, and at the end of the day you always end up saying Erev Tov to the perplexed reception people. Hebrew, I heard Hebrew, I spoke Hebrew, I basked and glowed in it and I wanted to take them all home with me, my Hebrew speakers and tell them Speak now, soothe my soul, talk amongst yourselves, talk to me, make me not be a perfectionist and shy abt making mistakes, help me learn, bring me home. I hear Hebrew long enough and it brings me to tears, it tugs and pulls at the very core of me and nothing, no other sound in the world, compares to it, and even though I often listen to Israeli music on repeat [listen this one, which has to be one of the sexiest songs ever written - google the lyrics] always forget what an impact it has on me, how much I miss it, how much home is shaped through lips and moving air.

Budapest was a surreal experience on many levels, but one of the highlights was a conversation I mostly had almost had had with one of the organisers of the trip. They were all very young, early 20's, I'd say, and mostly the alternative sort. They rebuilt a 3-storey building that is now a café cum conference room cum art gallery, and it was like being transported to the Lefties' quartier in Lisbon - which, quite frankly, is Not My Thing at all. Must be an Iberian thing bcs the bloke from Madrid was a bit horrified himself, but our hosts were so happy we were there we didn't have the heart to say anything and just smiled, loads. I had an out of body experience when one of the girls asked me if I liked the place and I said I was very impressed with what they'd accomplished [true], and she said she knew I was going to love it when I'd fearfully asked whether they played klezmer music there [BLECH!], she'd just known I loved the alternative scene as well. Yey! So I'm sitting there drinking my coke + red wine combo (I badly needed some alcohol, yes) and this bloke from their group starts talking to me. I'd met him the day before during the service and I was completely swallowed by cognitive dissonance because he dressed like your average lef-wing militant but his hair and beard and prayer/singing concentration (kavanah) were straight out of a Hasidic Textbook. So Hasid Bloke sits next to me and he was actually very nice and dying to bond but he sadly didn't speak any English really, or Hebrew, which is why the conversation we held in said languages was a trip, an absolute on acid trip. And you know it is a sad day when I'm the one helpfully providing Hebrew nouns and verbs, yes? When he got up to get more beer I asked someone from our group how he'd managed to understand HB, I'd seen them chatting bfr, and he said he hadn't, at all, he'd just smiled a lot and nodded and said Yes at regular intervals. As far as I can gather, we covered an amazingly extensive ground: we started with the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a rather easy subject to mime, something about tanks, I think, tall, big buildings figured as well, then we moved on to German history, which is fascinating bcs it's really bad and they're all mental but such military genius, there was some travelling story in between, I believe, maybe to Israel?, Israel was mentioned, then we discussed the Hapsburgs, always a fine mental picture to have, and finally how Hungary had defeated the Germans through stealing. Most perplexing - and a bit sad actually, it made me realise how fortunate I am that I have so many languages at my service, here was this bloke, so desperately trying to talk to us, and without the means to. Not that I didn't manage to make a fool of myself plenty, mind, and of course it had to be in Hebrew. I was chatting with an Israeli [70% of the people at the café were Jewish, I nearly laughed hysterically, 70%!!!, can you imagine??] and he asked what I did in Israel. This is and always has been my problem: a lot of Hebrew verbs are very similar, to the extent that a change in one letter gives you an entirely different verb. I always aim for to research but I invariably - INVARIABLY, which is a statistical impossibility but there you have it - open this confounded mouth of mine and new-agely announce that for 3 years I danced with dolphins. He was in stiches over it and then, compounded joy, another bloke who speaks Hebrew as well arrived just in time to join in the hilarity. I know it is funny but I wish I could stop doing it.

One thing that was quickly established by all was how quickly I get lost, everywhere. I'd gone for a walk [In the rain! Turns out the cold can actually be bearable if you keep walking and just came from a very warm place] with a member of the Spanish community after the kabbalat shabbat and he was able to show me around bcs, you know, it's enough to go sightseeing in the morning to immediately have your bearings and then you can easily be someone else's tour guide, and he kept asking in disbelief You really, REALLY, don't know where you are?? Same theme permeated the Saturday evening, at the café we met a Spaniard bloke who lives in Budapest and after a while I said I was going to pop round to the shop up sthe street for fags and he blurts out But ... Won't you get lost?? And I accusingly asked Oh you little Spaniard person, you've known me for all of 15 minutes, whom have you been chatting with? and he said Well, but won't you? Yes, yes, arrogant Spaniard sods, where was your competence when you tried to conquer us and failed, the plague on you, now shut up and go sharpen your crossbows already! I may have walked past the shop 3 times till I found it, and I may have walked past the café twice bfr I recognised it, but no, NO GET LOSTY. All I can say is, conversations like 'Johnny, where are you going?' 'Back to the hotel, aren't we?' 'Yes, but it's in the other direction!' age very fast.

Finally, let's tackle seduction. In Israel, kibbutzniks are not known for their flair and suave moves - or, at least, that was my female experience. Imagine my glee to have it validated by the bloke who lived in Israel, who was complaining that they had to talk abt their eyes and their hair blablabla, while kibbutzniks'd simply say Rotzah lishtot kafe baheder sheli? [Want to have coffee in my room?] [and, CHECK!] or, waving a pack of Malboros instead of the cheaper Noblesse or West, lean over and say You want Márrbôrrô? [CHECK!], and off they'd go with their prey. Why am I bringing this up? Well, to my utter surprise I was a humungous hit with Hungarian men. Honestly, I don't think I have ever been this ogled before - and they're not shy abt it either, oh no! They put kibbutzniks to shame. They'll look at your face, then your boobs, then even move around so as to better peruse your bum, all very leisurely at that, no worries. Not only do they see you, they feel you - and this isn't one of those emoting Anglo things, they quite literally cup a feel. Several. The girl who thought I was alternative dragged 4 of us to a club where they were playing live Gypsy music - well, technically she only dragged the Madrid Spaniard and I (the resident one and the Israeli went very willingly), who were again horrified, this time at the prospect of having to listen to Djobi, Djoba, cada dia yo te quiero más in a Budapest club of all places, and even more horrified when we got there bcs what did we find? Poppified Klezmer music! BLOODY KLEZMER MUSIC! The Hungarians had all fully lost the plot and were jumping up and down and generally contorting themselves like there was no tomorrow but we just couldn't believe it and actually longed - ached, I tell you - for The Gypsy Kings after all. But my convoluted point is, my bum was more groped and pinched and feather-fondled in those 2 hours than in the last decade combined, I was in shock, what the bloody hell?? And then the men and their hands would vanish so it wasn't even a misguided comehither move, it was a declaration of intentions, See my intense, dark Magyar eyes and the magic that my hands weave, you walking Portie sex feast, I could have you but I see you're having a bit of a cultural shock right now so I'll defer my droit du seigneur [as it were], for now. Foreplay, really.

And speaking of which, Manuela and I chatted yesterday and she is going to send me a Fashion care package bcs I asked for some more of the hair clips I found in Canada - shaped an igloo, very cute and more effective than most at keeping my mane in place. But then she thought she'd embellish it, gosh, shipping only hair thingies?, so utterly dull!, *waves hand dismissively* Therefore, I'll soon be the proud owner of a bunch of highly lubricating KY Intrigue gell bottles, which she's just discovered, bcs we couldn't possibly have this. So I'm abt to receive what amounts to a Vagion care package, really. Oh, the pressure.

Thread, the new

Remember I'm going to Budapest in 5 days? It pains me to admit that I trump my own absent-mindednes effortlessly, but yesterday saw this:

Community member: Say, you mentioned the hotel had been booked for you, but you never said anything about the flight.
Me: How do you mean, the flight?
CM: Yes, did you book the flight?
Me: ...Book the flig- OH BUGGER IT, BOLLOCKS, BLOODY BLOODY HELL!

Apparently, one can just walk there. It was very disquieting. What bleeding idiot forgets to book a flight??

Remember how I complained abt the cold? Well, it is still cold, that no central-heating-cold that ensured only the fittest of Porties survived - well, and me, but when I was born we didn't have a neurotic dog and the heater could actually be turned on, so here I am. Alive. Cold. It is so cold that I very often do not even remove my coat, just dive straight under the sofa blanket and this here post is right now being brought to you by fingerless gloves. [Hi! Anyone interested in a free trip to Budapest? I have a brand new e-ticket!] It is so cold that I can't be bothered abt the psoriasis creams bcs really, the last thing I feel like doing when I wake up battered and incapable of straightening up is spending 30 minutes anointing myself with the stupid things, not to mention that the cold means all my work is for naught bcs my skin just doesn't cope with it, at all, and even thought the lesions have diminished (especially in those bits that are always covered) my hands look as aggravated a ever the moment I step out. Or in. [*Clears throat* All right, so this argument is rubbish but it does make my non-compliance sound legitimate, let's all pretend.] Now, why would you wake up battered and incapable of straightening up, you ask? The pills work, my skin is better. They also can cause, amongst a myriad of delights, low back pain of the sort that makes you twist yourself around to check whether you might have somehow acquired a small carnivorous companion now trying to gnaw its way into your kidneys. A bit like deep-sea fishes mating, only with less fusion and more country-style. [This only works if you know what fish I'm talking abt, please say you do, it is sad to laugh alone.] Low back pain as a side effect is more common in teenagers, surprisingly, so I reckon this is the universe saying Hullo, remember how you somehow skipped acne in adolescence? We come bearing retroactive gifts! I still have all my hair though, that's good, yes? But what I've really come to hate is The Scalp Foam. The people who invented it do NOT have psoriasis, I can assure you. I want to lock them in a room and force them to apply it to their actual scalp and not hair or skin. And then I'd cackle when it inevitably burnt said skin, right bfr disappearing into nothing but not bfr it had found its way to their eyebrows or eyelashes or even their chest, bcs it floats, it is alive, pissy and desperate to escape. I've used it twice only and the only good thing I can say abt it is, it goes brilliantly with my new t-shirt: NO MORE HAIRY BOOBS, ASK ME HOW! Eejits.

The day I kicked some much needed arse

I did, I swear, yesterday! We had two deaths, unfortunately -

[Digression: most reptiles and birds we see sufer from poor husbandry. With reptiles it' usually that either the food doesn't have enough Ca, or the Ca:P ratio is wrong, or the food is right but the lights are wrong, or they're all good but then the terrarium is covered with glass intead of mesh so the end result is the same, a very rubbery animal that sometimes even twitches in place. With birds it's almost always poor food - allow me: SUNFLOWER SEEDS KILL YOUR PETS! There, I feel better. It's like asking a 6 year-old to choose between a green salad or a vat of chocolate, guess what wins. The problem is, a bird may be dying and the blood work can be normal (even if the liver is rubbish as it so often is), or vice-versa, and birds, being preyed upon, only show symptoms when their condition is really serious. So they come to the vet so sick they often cannot handle being handled and they die, or they die before anything can be done, or they die despite things being done - point is, they die a bloody lot and it all stems from poor husbandry and their being stubborn little buggers. You see, you cannot just take the beloved seeds away from Psittacines (parrots et al), they will starve to death. They absolutely will, in your face. So what we do is have one feeder with unflower seeds covering the bottom and that's it, the rest should be good formulated food (Harrison's is brilliant, if expensive) and loads of veggies and fruit, raw or cooked (no salt, no nothing!), and preferably in different shapes (finicky buggers as well). Now, in a battle of wills btwn owner-bird the owner will most likely lose bcs this may take months and months and the bird has to starve some to approach the new foods and then the owner goes all Awwww on him and gives him seeds again, and then one fine day I arrive at the clinic to find a richness of corpses. Yey. (And mind, my tutor? The man is the bet exotics vet in Portugal, one of the best in Europe and no doubt in my mind that he is one of the bet in the whole bloody world, but he doen't perform miracles either.)]

So, two birds had died, a cockateel and a parrot, and sad as it was it gave me the chance to practice a few things which will actually be helpful in maintaining other birds alive: catheters and external and internal fixation - this last one make me laugh, btw, bcs you all remember how much I enjoy orthopoedics, right? But this was different and cool. With birds you place the catheters inside the bone, and it was brilliant to actually feel the landmarks since I don't do o well with drawings, and I did a good job! Look!


It's inside the bone but not so far up that it hinders normal movement.

Then I moved on to the external fixation on a and spent abt 1.30h losing my mind and blood bcs, whereas I pricked myself loads, I could not get that irritating blue needle to pierce the bone. When my adviser came in he tried it himself and told me to use a thinner orange needle and then, ahhh:


In a real surgery you'd clip both ends of the needle and secure them together with a roll of material that looks like playdough and is thermally activated when you roll it in your hand. That's how tiny these bone are, needles!

And then on to repair a fracture in the parrot, both tibio-taral and femoral, I struggled a lot here too bcs I was working blind, feeling the bone pieces within the muscles, until he came in again and told me that super nerdvets may manage to but I needed to make an incision so I could actually see the bone piece and I did the femur after he'd shown me how to with the tibiotarsal,



and the good news is, I inserted the intramedullary pin and stabilised the leg but the bad news is, I ued a medial approach instead of a lateral one, apparently the medial one is only used on the tibiotarsals, oops. Next time I'll know!

There's more in my flickr page, poor mobile phone quality that they are, but know that I did my practising after the necropsy. I think the pictures are really not bad at all, gore-wise, but you lot are fragile as daffodils so I might as well nurture you. Lovingly.

And on the left you can see the kashba

I'm going to Budapest in a fortnight to do Important Jewish Stuff. The fact that I'll actually be in Hungary during an European cold wave the likes of which I've never seen [we expect -2 ºC tomorrow in Lisbon, MINUS TWO DEGREES!, what the bloody hell.] [That, incidentally, prompted my dad to try and convince me to move in with them, pets and all, for the duration of said cold front, you know, lest I die. Of exposure. In Lisbon. He did not take it well when I had hysterics either.], not to mention I'm chuffed to be on an aeroplane again and this will be the 3rd weekend in a row that I work so I can free that weekend for the trip, which tranlates into my working four whole weeks until I have my first weekend off - and all this so I can become a Jewsicle? Surely I deserve better. And if anyone thinks I'll be wearing a skirt to Shabbat services they're very much mistaken and Old Europe be damned, they'll be lucky if I don't show up in trousers AND wrapped in a woolen blanket.

Anyway, Hungary. My mother happened to go to the bank today and since she was there she asked the teller whether my new VISA has been properly activated [long, sad previous bank story] so I can use it in Hungary if need be. This is what the teller had to say:

I don't know, I've never been to Hungary.

Scout's honour, the BANK EMPLOYEE did say this. Now, I expect the poor twat was abt the size of flea dung by the time my very polite and yet jugular-y mother left, my mother doesn't suffer fools gladly. She rang me right afterwards and I, in turn, spent the rest of the afternoon ringing my friends during breaks to share this exchange with them. The sad truth is, although everyone was shocked and no one could believe it bcs, REALLY??, they actually all could. We may laugh, yes, but we're all crying inside.

I strongly urge Spain to invade us properly this time so I have someone else to blame.

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PS - Gosh, could Lil' Lioness be bucking up coldwise?? Even though I'm always cold I have also always loved cold air on my face. I will mot certainly become ill if my lower back and decolétage aren't well protected but wet hair never harms me - and I've just had a revelation! I was walking the dog and loving it, the crispiness of the day, the bright sun, everything the warm body versus the cold in my face - dahlings, I can survive the cold if it's not too extreme and am well bundled up, the thing that kills me is my flat, actually, where the temperature is often colder than outside, the neurotic dog won't allow me to have the heater on, I'm not moving and whatever warmth there was is sucked out by the floor to bottom, drafty windows. I am typing this with my gloves and coat on, for pity's sake. But yesterday, I don't know if it's bcs all I do is sleep when I'm not working, in the evening it was approaching 0ºC and I didn't even feel that cold! So, in keeping with the old Let Life Know What You Want In No Uncertain Terms I have compiled a list of IKEA items that I want, for my new flat [like this with a perfectly white duvet, this in Leaby red, this in white, and this, for starters]. You know, the one I'll soon have, with Southern Exposure. There's a new home somewhere with proper windowsills and wall space and a balcony and loads of light and warmth with my name on it so move over, it's time to start hunting.