Israel is the home to over 7 million people, 3,000 camels, and a million cats. Maybe a million is a bit of an overstatement but the country is literally swarming with felines. There are so many that the most accurate count that Israel’s Veterinary Services can give is “many thousands”. Being a self-proclaimed cat hater, it has taken me a while to get used to these four legged freaks. Payton, also having a natural aversion to cats, entertains himself by chasing them around the neighborhood. So far he has managed to only let one crazy kitty kick his ass!
I have seen cats everywhere in Israel, except inside of a house. They are in, around, and on top of trees, air conditioners, cars, restaurants, mopeds, supermarkets, cafés, dumpsters, beaches, and government offices. G and I even stumbled upon a pair mating on the sidewalk over the weekend–now that’s a pussy that gets around!
I have realized that these traipsing tabbies are like the squirrels in Boston or pigeons in New York. Like their feral American counterparts, cats scare easily, and make for an amusing game of “Stomp”. While I may have coined the name of the game, I credit my brother with the genius behind it. There is a smug feeling of joy that is felt by casually walking up to a small wild creature, stomping your foot in its direction and causing it to flee that cannot be derived from any other game. Note: I would NEVER hurt these innocent animals. “Run” is a variation of this game and best played by young children upon a flock of sullen seagulls–anyone over 4 feet tall just looks silly running at birds!
I have resigned myself to the fact that I have to share this beautiful country with feral cats. After a recent hold-up by a kitten at a gas station, I even felt an urge to pick up the little bugger who was standing in front of the car. I just might have, if not for the fangs he displayed while meowing and simultaneously scratching his fleas.
© 2010
Since the holiday season is in full swing and G and I are far away from US family and friends, we decided to celebrate by not celebrating. For example, on Thanksgiving G and I 
thought it best not to do anything Thankgiving-ish. Instead of wishing we were stuffing our faces with pumpkin pie, we kept ourselves busy by moving into our new apartment. Since we shipped the entire contents of our Boston apartment to Israel by boat, our belongings will not arrive until January. And so our big move into our Tel Aviv apartment consisted of 6 suitcases, 2 beach chairs, and our dog, Payton (see photo). Our 3 other essential elements; a TV, washer/dryer, and mattress would arrive a day later.
We chose a beautiful 2 bedroom apartment in a high rise in a neighborhood of Tel Aviv called Ramat Aviv Hadashah. Our picturesque building is set in a pedestrian neighborhood just 2 blocks from the beach–0.9 miles 
or 1.7 km to be precise. G loves the palm trees that surround the building. I have fallen in love with the gorgeous views of the Mediterranean Sea, Tel Aviv skyline, and the Ramat Aviv mall. The past few nights I have found myself watching the sun set over the ocean from my kitchen window and gazing at one of Israel’s best malls from the balcony off of our bedroom. But, the apartment has a lot more to offer than just scenery and shopping proximity.
Uncommon in Israel, our place came equipped with kitchen appliances. For some reason, Israelis like to take their fridges, ovens, and dishwashers with them when they move. I found this quite odd, but remembered that historically, Israelis were a nomadic people. If they could schlep their things around the desert for 40 years, a few appliances wouldn’t phase them.
But perhaps the best thing about our new apartment is the huge walk-in closet that doubles as a safe room, known as a Mamad (an acronym in Hebrew for “protected room of the apartment”). Our landlord demonstrated how the window can be closed off with a metal door–it works just like a sliding glass door except it is stronger, heavier, and much noisier. Closing the door (I practiced…just in case) creates a sound that I thought I would only hear in some Indiana Jones movie. There is also a cover for the air conditioner vent to seal the room from air contamination as a result of chemical weapons (again, just in case). These rooms are state-mandated and are exempt from property tax. This is a plus, considering that our Mamad is big enough to comfortably sleep a family of four and their emergency rations of hummus and baby wipes.
Just an example...ours is white
Although protection from certain death is reason enough to love this closet/Mamad, I was only slightly impressed with the protection it can provide our family. Rather, it is the INSANE amount of space for my, I mean OUR clothing, that makes the Mamad my favorite room in the apartment. I allocated an area to G, but a good 2/3 of walls are lined with shelves, bars, and drawers that perfectly hold my entire wardrobe, including shoes and accessories! There is even room for towels, sheets, and other linens (until my parents come to visit with a suitcase full of summer clothes). While the concept of needing a safe room is concerning, even though I doubt we will actually need to use it, I’m comforted by the fact that if there is an emergency, G and I will survive in style!
© 2009
Israel is a country that is positively obsessed with babies. Since G and I moved here, I have had more than my fair share of strangers inform me
that I should start popping out offspring. It makes sense that in a country of hotly contested land, Jews must match the outrageous birthrate of Arabs or else find themselves an ethnic minority in the Jewish State. Although G and I want to assimilate to our new culture, we are not yet ready to push around an amazingly stylish Bugaboo stroller.
We have however, participated in the cultural practice of buying baby wipes. Yes, baby wipes. At first I thought the country had some sort of personal hygiene problem, considering that the actual purpose of a baby wipe is to wipe away fecal matter and keep the butt smelling fresh. But after seeing G’s cousin casually throw a travel sized package of wipes into her purse, I knew there must be more to the story.
As it turns out, this baby crazed country uses baby wipes for every imaginable purpose. Housewives clean their oven racks with the unscented version; waiters deliver individually wrapped wipes to diners with their checks; and the cashier at the market offers them to children with runny noses from the self-dispensing package. Baby wipes in Israel are a miracle multi-purpose product that has taken the place of Kleenex, Purell, and Bounty.
We were skeptical at first, but G and I have found a use for baby wipes as well. We wipe dirt off Payton’s feet, crumbs off the kitchen counters, schmutz off the floor, nose marks off the car windows, sweat off our brow, makeup off my face…and after a recent experience with regional cuisine, I even used the wipes for their intended purpose!
We have found many things in Israel are not in line with what we are used to. While we will be waiting a few years to procreate, we will wipe away right now!
© 2009
Almost everyone, who hasn’t been living under a rock for the past few thousand years, is aware of the volatile history surrounding the land of Israel. Violence, terror, and bus bombings are often the first things that come to mind when the Middle East is mentioned (see my conversation with the J.Crew salesgirl). But G and I have both been to Israel before and knew that the bombings and bloody violence shown on TV, is a far cry from reality. Terrorist attacks are few and far between, and there is little chance that I will find myself a victim to this violence. Although I must admit that I was a little scared the first time we pulled up next to bus at a stoplight!
To start off our adventure in Israel, G and I spent some time in Atlit. Atlit is a peaceful coastal town of 5,000 people outside of the port city of Haifa. So, imagine my surprise on our second day in Atlit that I heard popping noises. I told myself that there was no way the noises I was hearing in this small town was gunfire, but to quell my nerves, I asked G. Just before asking my question, a car drove by.
Blondini: “Um, honey, what’s that noise?”
G: “Uhh, a car?”
Blondini: “No, listen….THAT noise. That’s not…..”
G: “Oh that? That’s gunfire.” (answering nonchalantly)
Blondini: “WHAT?! Oh my G-d what’s happening?!”
As it turns out, there is a Navy base on the edge of town. The shooting that I heard must have been morning target practice. Okay, that I can deal with.
The next incident occurred a few days later. I was getting ready to take a shower and as I closed the shower door behind me I heard a wailing noise. It’s the kind of noise that you don’t need to have heard before to realize it means something bad is about to happen. I ran out of the bathroom and in a panicked voice asked G for clarification.
Blondini: “Oh my G-d, what’s that noise?!”
G: “That? It’s a missile-warning siren. Don’t worry. Go back to the shower, it’s the safest place in the house.”
Blondini: “A missile siren?!”
While he wasn’t alarmed, G ushered me back to the shower. Evidently, it was the safest place in the room…you know, just in case. He explained that it was away from a window and would protect me from flying debris caused by a missile explosion. How comforting. But G was right. The air raid signal, like the gunfire, was just an exercise. In fact, it was the same sound he had heard years before when Lebanon, just 20 miles North of Haifa, attacked.
A few days later we heard a boom, loud enough to shake the windows. This time we knew that it was just another Navy exercise. Discussing the incidents of the week, we looked at each other, and laughed. Even though there was never any danger, we were slightly disturbed but happy to be safe.
© 2009
During the time leading up to our move to Israel, I was thoroughly forewarned; by EVERY female I knew who had spent ANY amount of time in Israel, about Israeli men and their actions towards women. Having visited both Mexico and Greece in college, I was well aware of the forward advances of men across the globe, and expected no less from their Sabra counterparts. In preparation for our move, G also cautioned me about the men here, explaining that a wedding band will not stave off unwelcomed interest. He even taught me the word for “breasts” so I could recognize when strangers were talking about my lady parts.
Usually I scoff at unwanted attention from slime ball members of the opposite sex. That said, I arrived in Israel fully expecting to be treated like a piece of meat and built up my defenses accordingly. However, after a week in Israel, I hadn’t received as much as a second glance from the local male population. During the first few days I didn’t think twice about the lack of attention. But after a few trips to the mall without feeling wandering eyes upon me, I began to reevaluate the warnings.
What was everyone talking about? Israeli men seemed to be respectful and friendly, but not overly attentive. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that warnings I received were superfluous.
It wasn’t until I ventured out alone, without G, that I realized the men weren’t as tame as I originally thought. While I was with G, there were no unwelcome advances, but as soon as I left his side, it was as if I was walking around naked. In the mall, a teenage boy literally spoke to my breasts on the escalator! In a parking lot, two men offered me candy and made kissy noises. Everyone was right! How could I have been so naïve?! I was officially creeped out.
Vowing to be as tough as the Israeli women are to these shameless men, I told a young supermarket employee, “Lo toda!” (Hebrew for “No thanks!”) in the bitchiest Hebrew I could muster. But when the man continued to talk to me, I thought perhaps I had been too rude. After all, I was staring at the aisle of body washes like a hippie who had never seen soap. Maybe he was trying to help me. As a store employee, isn’t it his job to help customers? Thinking I had prematurely judged an attentive employee, I turned to the young man and said, “I’m sorry, but I do not speak Hebrew”. He rushed to my side and asked quickly, “Do you have a boyfriend?” Frustrated, I shoved my ring in his face and said, “NO, I have a HUSBAND!” and turned back to the shower products. Less than 30 seconds later, he was back, holding a bottle of body wash for me to smell, asking “You like dissss?”. Was this kid SERIOUS?! I’m a married woman who just shoved my ginormous ring in your face and you’re still hitting on me?! I grabbed the closest bottle, shouted “LO!”, and hurried off to find a female employee who could direct me to the toilet paper.
© 2009
G and I arrived in Israel last Friday. His family here greeted us with a warm welcome…at least I think it was warm. Although they speak English, G’s family, along with most Israelis I have met so far prefer to speak in their native tongue. After asking the requisite questions about our trip over and other pleasantries in English, the conversation reverted back to Hebrew. Exhausted after a 10-hour flight, I was content to sit back and listen to the foreign conversation.
Then it happened. I was sitting quietly on the couch, overwhelmed by the conversations around me when in front of me a teddy bear appeared. Behind it 
was G’s cousin Gal, with a curious smile on her face. That was the moment when I realized that even if I were unable to eloquently converse with the adult family members, I would still have to speak Hebrew. I wanted to throw the bear across the room, knowing that ignoring the invitation to play with a 5 year old would cement my position as the silent guest in the room. As long as I stayed on the couch, I was protected from verbal communication. Determined not to be a terrible person who ignores innocent children, I took the bear and began my study of Hebrew.
I was nervous at first, but then I realized that Gal could be the perfect friend. I am a woman whose knowledge of Hebrew stops at “dog”, “cat”, and “watermelon”. Hebrew is her first language and, due to the fact that she’s just 5 years old, speaks clearly and simply. After realizing that I don’t speak Hebrew, she said to me, “I will teach you” (in Hebrew of course), took my hand and brought me upstairs to color.
Children, naturally, are non-judgmental but after making her teddy bear moonwalk Friday evening, I was past the point of being embarrassed and embraced my new learning experience. Over the weekend I not only expanded my vocabulary to include “ice cream”, “thank you”, “salt”, and “napkin” but I practiced coloring in the lines and made a new friend.
© 2009
After our economy hit the lowest point it has been in since 1929, G and I decided to move. Feeling that we were destined to live somewhere not plagued by snow and sleet, we opted to get out of Boston. So, just in time for the wintry gusts to start blowing, we are packing up our bags and heading East….to the Middle East…Israel.
We both have a connection to Israel. G was born there, served in the Israeli Defense Forces, and has family living there. While my souped-up “teen tour” 10 years ago provides me with a lesser degree of connectivity, I have always had a burning desire to return to the Land of Milk and Honey. In addition to our love for palm trees and hummus, the fact that the Israeli government has managed to keep its economy afloat made Israel even more inviting. So, G and I will be making Aliyah in November with our dog, Payton.
The news of our departure for the Promised Land has spawned a myriad of comments from family, friends, and strangers. Thankfully our families have been more than supportive. Although it is tough to say goodbye, who can resist moving to a beautiful country to start a life together as husband and wife (yes, we got married 10/17/09)? The fact that G got an amazing job outside of Tel Aviv is also a plus.
Our non-Jewish friends, after giving us their best disguised “Are you serious?!” looks, have for the most part been understanding of our relocation. But it is the random people in life who have put aside social graces and given us the full wrath of their ignorance, that we enjoy the most. It is these people who have blatantly called us out of what others probably want to say but are too polite to do so.
The usual responses from strangers when we tell them that we’re moving has created the need for us to come up with witty comebacks that not only chastise the ignorance but inform the speaker as well.
JCrew Salesgirl: “Oh, did you see the new winter line that we got in?”
Blondini: “Yeah, it’s really nice, but I’m moving to a warm climate and have no need for wool sweaters and cords”
JCrew Salesgirl: “Where are you moving?”
Blondini: “To Israel”
JCrew Salesgirl: [long pause] “Oh that’s in the Middle East right? The place where they do all those bus bombs and stuff?”
Blondini: “Yup, that’s the place….but as long as I ride my camel to work, I should be safe”
It’s fun to confuse callous inquirers who ask, “Why are you moving THERE?!” by explaining that we want to spend the next 40 years wandering the desert–hey, it was good enough for Moses– or that I’ve always wanted to go pro with my challah making skills. But the real answer is simple…why not?
© 2009
So the Bar Exam is finally over and I am starting to be myself again. After 2 months of studying and 3 days of rigorous testing, my brain is back to normal. Most of the post-bar exam effects of life are wonderful. I now have time
to eat, sleep, and Facebook to my heart’s content (although the caffeine withdrawal headaches make these activities slightly less enjoyable). If you met me today, you would have no idea that just one week ago, I was an M&M munching, greasy haired monster who lacked the ability to make simple conversation without lashing out at unsuspecting strangers. Let me take you back…..
For 8 weeks I trudged a path between the apartment, BarBri class, and the Boston Public Library. When bar studying started, I established a routine of waking up super early to get to the gym then coming home to shower, eat, throw on sweats and study. Things were working out great….or so I thought. Nose-deep in outlines and practice tests left little time for self reflection. While natural beauty can only fade so much, the raccoon eyes, worry lines, and grown out highlights had taken their toll on my unabashed good looks. My hair had grown to an unmanageable length and my complexion looked more like a slice from Dominos than the porcelain plate it was sitting on.
In addition to my physical metamorphasis, my personality changed. The hypersensitive plaintiff that we learned about during BarBri had materialized. I was abnormally sensitive to otherwise normal conduct and ready to swing at anything in my path. Things that once brought a smile to my face, such as puppies, the elderly, and shopping, yielded sobs and scathes. Studying for 12 hours a day will make anyone cranky, but intellectual overexertion paired with torn cuticles, an inability to converse outside the scope of the law, and the wardrobe of a What Not to Wear candidate will zap the life out of any 25 year old girl. For almost an entire month, I had turned into a Multiple Choice Monster, an Outlining Ogre, a Highlighting Hellraiser…otherwise known as the Studying Spawn of Satan.
As it turns out, G, my parents, and even the neighborhood bum would soon find relief from the Bar Exam demon that had taken over me. The third day of the Bar Exam marked the end of my ugly, cranky misery. While my brain has been a little slow on the uptake, my physical appearance has reverted to its normal state, thanks to a facial and mani/pedi at Boston’s Best Day Spa (courtesy of G). I reunited with my makeup bag and hair straightner. Drawstring pants were folded up and reserved for their proper purpose as pajamas. Recently, I ran errands with a smile on my face. I even walked pass the beggars on the street without barking at them to “Get a job and leave me alone– CAN’T YOU SEE I’M ON THE PHONE?!?!”
I made it through the Bar Exam and am once again the singing blonde girl who loves life….and looking at herself in the mirror!
© 2009
So our dog, Payton, is fortunate enough to have parents who are too busy to walk him during the day and hire strangers 
to take him to the park and pick up his poop. Don’t get me wrong, G and I walk Payton before his dog walker comes and twice after he gets home from his walks. We spend our free time playing with him, talking to him, and occasionally dressing him up in funny outfits (ok, that’s mostly me). But he needs his exercise during the day so we send him on trips with other dogs.
So from Monday to Friday Payton goes on these trips. He started out by going on hikes outside of the city. Although he enjoyed the swimming and frolicking in the fresh air, we had to pull him from the country trips when we realized he somehow inherited the accident- prone gene that I possess. Although Payton hasn’t been crushed under mirrors, he managed to injure himself every week on his hikes. Unfortunately our dog is unaware that the delicious lake water that he swims in is the culprit for the gastrointestinal distress that plagues him and never knows when he’s had enough to drink. After running through a thicket, Payton needed 4 staples in his side, antibiotics…. and a new outlet for his energy. And so the city hikes began.
Yesterday a new walker came to take Payton for his two hour outing. Since he left around 11, G and I were expecting our pup to be back by the time G got home…but he wasn’t. He waited another hour before emailing the walking service–this wouldn’t be the first time a trip ran overtime because a doggie needed to be rushed to the vet. But the manager assured us that everything was okay, apologized for the delay, and succinctly explained that, “New Girl is still learning to read a map”. When Payton finally arrived home 5 hours late, it became obvious that reading a map wasn’t the only thing New Girl was learning to do.
Apparently she missed the memo that her group was restricted to dog parks in the city and took them for a frolick in the wilderness. When he arrived at our door, our fawn colored Boxer, including his white paws, was effectively dark brown, covered in mud. There were twigs and leaves, stuck in the caked dirt, hanging from his neck and
stomach. The leash was sopping wet and filthy as well. Our first interaction with New Girl went something like this:
New Girl: “Hi, I’m New Girl, sorry for bring him back so late”
G: “Nice to meet you” –interrupted by,
Blondini: “OMG Payton look at you! You’re filthy! Where did you go?”
New Girl: “Oh I took them to some park you’ve never heard of. They all went swimming”
Blondini: “Swimming?!”
G: “Um, he usually goes on city hikes. I thought this was a city hike group”
New Girl: “Huh?”
G: “Yeah, he drinks the lake water and gets sick”
New Girl: “Huh?”
Knowing that spending 3 hours in the van meant a full bladder, we took Payton for a walk and returned 10 minutes later to find New Girl, back in the van full of dogs, still parked in front of our apartment, trying to read a map. That’s when we put it together–this girl was an idiot! No wonder it took her so long to get them home. She probably spent at least an hour rounding the dogs up at the park because she didn’t know any of their names to call them. And the park? Who takes dogs swimming in 60° weather with intermittent rain showers? Was she serious?!
It took two long baths to finally get the muck out of Payton’s coat. Between the gritty mud and the scrubbing to get it off, his white neck and belly turned pink from irritation! G and I were speechless–how could this girl be so dumb as to take the dogs to an open park on a chilly rainy day and let them go swimming and why did it take her 3 hours to find out apartment?! All we could do was laugh at the situation and our pink, wet pup….until the lake water caught up to him and he peed on the floor.
© 2009
So I started preparing for the Bar Exam several weeks ago. Considering that studying has taken up the majority of my time, naturally, something had to give. G and I decided that since the apartment couldn’t afford to get any messier, that we would sacrifice making dinner at home. Foodler, an online delivery service, has become our savior for the occasional dim sum, gyro, or pizza. While it is convenient, we still have yet to find the perfect meal.
Our first mission on Foodler was to find a decent Chinese restaurant in Boston, a seemingly impossible feat for a region that actually renamed General Tao’s Chicken. We tried several Chinese restaurants and succeeded in putting a face to the aptly named “Chinese Restaurant Syndrome”, despite the NO MSG addendum to every order. After I woke up unable to slide my engagement ring on my newly sausaged finger, G and I decided we had enough.
With our gustatory interests moving West, we delved into Greek and Middle Eastern fare. But, between the tasteless hummus and dry kafta, we were less than impressed. However the strategic placement of olives in every dish, which we avoid like vampires avoid light, was the final straw and sent us searching for a new cuisine.
Considering that there’s apparently no such thing as bad pizza, G and I were pleased to discover a multitude of options when it came to those cholesterol-laden pies. We bought into the hype and ordered the thin crust pies voted Boston’s Best. The pizzas are good, but they get delivered by bicycle, tucked away in wooden box on the back. While this is an efficient method for some, the route of 5 right turns from the restaurant to our apartment left us a squished pizza…and looking for another restaurant to order from. Before moving on however, I made sure to speak to the manager and got a free replacement pizza for lunch the next day.
Granted the food is cause for concern, as it is a rare occasion that we actually get what we order, the delivery people are often the worst part. Tardiness is par for the course, but the sheer laziness is astounding. I was annoyed the day my order was cancelled because the delivery guy didn’t show up for his shift. G and I were effectively pissed off when the delivery lady called to tell us to come down to get our food one night because she would not bring it up. Once again employing his Israeli Army tactics, G engaged the woman in a standoff. He negotiated for the delivery of the pizza like the freedom of a hostage. After her surrender and the delivery of our cold pizza to our third floor apartment, I chided her on the true meaning of delivery and the satisfaction she would get out of actually earning that 20% tip we included online. While our delivery lady may not have gotten much out of my lecture, G and I learned to wait until after delivery to tip. We are determined to find a place that delivers delicious food, but until then, Chez Blondini is back in business.
© 2009
So when I moved in with G I knew that one of the biggest issues we would have would be finding a place to put all of my clothes. Like most women, I have to rotate my wardrobe every 6 months when the weather changes. Swapping my sweaters for sundresses or espadrilles for earmuffs inevitably turns into a multi-day fashion show. Clothes that can slenderize my butt get another season but many items won’t make the cut.
The “Changing of the Clothes” always yields at least one bag of clothing and shoes suitable to donate to Goodwill. 
Over the past several months G and I have made numerous trips to the dropoff center. For some reason, no matter how many bags leave the house, the closets doors still won’t close. While I was filling up a bag of clothes this weekend, G got inspired and began to sort through his closet.
I usually donate clothes that have been sitting around unlaundered, but G went through his freshly drycleaned garments for the less fortunate. I made him try on every pair of pants that I had never seen him wear. I don’t know how, but he owned pants so ill-fitting that they were essentially capris. While it was humorous to see him having his own fashion show, I was happy to get in on the action when we discovered a pair of women’s Tahari pants. Assuming the dry cleaner had mistakenly given G a pair of someone else’s designer pants, I eagerly grabbed them. I was so excited at the prospect of free pants that I didn’t hear G explain their origins. It wasn’t until he was looking at me, swimming in a stranger’s pants 3 sizes too big, that I realized exactly what he said.
G: “I remember someone asking about these…”
Blondini: “Wait……what? OMG, what slut’s pants am I wearing?!”
As I slid out of the pants belonging to his not-so-petite ex-girlfriend, we burst into fits of laughter. I couldn’t believe I tried to take some other girl’s pants as my own. My Purell-toting fiancé was disgusted that I would even try on a stranger’s pants! We threw the Tahiri pants into the Goodwill bag. I might never be able to live with the fact that I wore “her” pants, but a charitable deduction takes away the sting.
© 2009
So I have a fun summer coming up–in July I will be taking the MA and NY Bar Exams. Two weeks ago, I started BAR/BRI, a preparatory course for the Bar Exam. In bar review last week we learned about a remedy at law whereby the spouse of a victim can recover money damages for something called “loss of consortium”. Essentially, this is a way to make the spouse whole by compensating them for the lack of services, such as cooking and cleaning; loss of society, in the form of companionship and conversation; and loss of sex. Thankfully studying hasn’t zapped all of my faculties, but I think my fiancé G has a claim for the first two elements of loss of consortium.
Loss of Services: While I’ve never been called a “neat freak”, up until the bar prep began, G and I tried to maintain a fairly clean house. Since the bar studying has started, our apartment is cluttered with 10 BAR/BRI books, everywhere from the kitchen and coffee tables, to the bedroom fireplace mantle. Post-its with legal doctrine are affixed to the refrigerator and highlighters run amok. Our healthy dinners have been replaced with bags of take-out. The laundry basket is overflowing and the closet is reminiscent of a middle school locker room.
Loss of Society: In addition to reverting back to my “pig pen” ways, the formerly vibrant and funny girl who danced around the apartment has been replaced by a multiple choice taking monster. Making up songs about the law just isn’t as fun as it used to be. The venerable Bar Exam has taken over, leaving me with little to contribute to conversations, save for fancy facts about NY law:
Did you know that imputation of homosexuality is slander per se in New York? I can’t believe that losing an index finger is considered “grave bodily injury” but losing your thumb is not! Oh, and if you ever need to kill anyone in NY, make sure that you say that someone forced you to do it because duress is a defense to homicide there!
I am grateful that, as an attorney, G knows what its like to study for such an exam–he has taken and passed the Bar in two states. In my quest for success, G is a constant source of encouragement. I’ve become a shell of a person lately, but that doesn’t keep him from extolling my work ethic. Whereas some companions would take issue with a crazy schedule, unwashed laundry, and take-out for dinner, G has been very patient…so far.
© 2009
So one of the great things about being in a relationship is always having a hot date for formal events. Being a recent law school graduate, I’ve gone to my fair share of formal events over the past 3 years. Although the open bar is reason enough for attending, the real motivation behind my presence at these soirées is because, as a woman, I love to get dressed up. In accordance with these events is the ever present need for a new dress. In reference to the aforementioned fact that I am a woman, I obviously cannot wear the same thing twice. So, after 3 years in law school, my closet has effectively turned into a Nordstrom sales rack.
G escorted me to both the Fall Ball and the Honor Board Ball this year. Looking simply dapper in the exactly same suit and tie, I decided his wardrobe needed an update. However, as shopping is the bane of every man’s existence, I knew this would be no easy feat. After G picked out a white dress shirt and his dream umbrella in the men’s department of Lord and Taylor, he was done. Instead of using the “Mommy” voice that all women use with impatient men and young children, I sent G home to watch tv. Armed with the coupons of a neighbor who was on vacation (hey, the mailman should put the catalogues in the boxes if he doesn’t want others to use them), I swept through the men’s department, picking up every blue tie free from paisley, flowers, and small animals.* I ended up bringing 5 ties home, 2 of which were approved by G, and the losers were brought back the next day.
*Note: I have since signed up for Lord and Taylor emails and now use the coupons legitimately.
Another Note: If you decide to shop for a man, you must know exactly what to get him. G’s favorite color is blue and he’d never wear anything “cute”. Blue geometric patterns and pinprick sized dots were perfect!
A few months after the tie shopping spree I caught word of another formal event, the Barrister’s Ball. This was a black tie-optional event for graduating law students only. Elated that a gorgeous Sue Wong gown I had worn for my cousin’s wedding 5 years ago still fit, I rushed off to the dry cleaners with my beaded, floor length, black gown. I imagined myself and G as a perfect, well dressed couple: me in my gown and him wearing a new tie. I didn’t account for what happened next…
G informed me that, although the ties were beautiful, he would not be choking himself on the night of Barrister’s Ball. Apparently two formal events wearing ties is his cap for the year. Fine, I thought, its just a tie, he will look great. I had no doubt in my mind that I’d look great as well. I had picked up the dress from the cleaners the week before and in an effort to keep it fresh, had left it in the plastic bag.
In a previous post I mentioned that anytime a dog runs out of a room, it is usually a sign of impending danger. True to this observation, as soon as I opened the dry cleaning bag, my dog ran out of the room. I quickly realized the danger which the dog had sensed. The stench that eminated from the dress permeated the room–drycleaning chemicals on chiffon plus inadequate ventilation equaled what can only be described as the stench of geriatric crotch. Yes, geriatric crotch. The noxious odor had G and I writhing in olfactory turmoil. Confusion ensued, followed by panic–we were running late and my dress reeked like nothing I had ever smelled. Wishing only to offend others by my beauty and not my stench, I had no idea what to do. Thankfully G’s über-sensitive nose told him exactly what needed to be done. With the speed and valour that could have only be acquired by his Israeli Army training, he thrust me in front of the fan and
doused me with Febreze. Lacking the courage of my fiancé, I burst into a fit of hysterical laughter and whines:
Blondini: OMG G, what am I going to do? I smell like an old person’s crotch! OMG OMG OMG!
G: Don’t you have anything else you can wear?
Blondini: NO! Well yes…. but I really wanna wear thiiiissss oneeee!
I called a girlfriend in a fit who tried to assure me that I did not smell like the mythically revered “Geriatric Crotch” I had invisioned, but ensured me that she would keep her distance from me during the night. My fears were further quelled after G spritzed me head to toe in my new perfume and admitted that, even though I smelled rank, I looked really good.
We left for the Ball, laughing that only such a debacle could happen to us, and vowed to nonchalently comment about how the venue smelled if people wrinkled their noses in our direction.
© 2009
So I moved in with G in December. Although I was already living in his apartment for three months, in December I terminated the lease to my own apartment and arranged for stangers to transport my belongings down the street. Along with this arrangement came the realization that all the weird things I did in private, were private no longer. There are certain behaviors of mine that even I will agree are quite strange and are more suited for single life than for cohabited living.
Some of the things I did while living alone were benign, and would probably go unnoticed by G. For example, I used to read mail order catalogues in bed before falling asleep. Nightly, I would tuck myself in with a glossy catalogue addressed to a former tenant of the building. Flipping through the pages of L.L. Bean, Harry and David, or Oriental Trading set my mind at ease. The endless pages of fruit baskets and tchotchkes erased the worries of the day and lulled me to sleep.
However, some of the things I did back then would not fly with G now. Eating an entire bag of edamame for dinner and a frozen fruit bar for dessert is a meal that only a single girl could get away with. Having three Fiber One bars in a day is another delight best indulged in alone–or an open relationship with good ventilation! The days of scrutinizing my pores in the bathroom mirror are over as well. Although I did enjoy my time perched on the bathroom sink, spending an hour watching the news with G before bed is much more satisfying.
While many of my behaviors have changed, I still fly my freak flag proudly. My pre-shower ritual of dancing to the bathroom singing “Showertime” to the tune of “Hammertime” has remained in effect. Now that I have an audience, it has become quite a performance! I continue to hoard the Bed Bath and Beyond coupons that the mailman haphazardly tosses into the vestibule of the apartment building. G doesn’t understand and gives me the “enough already” look when he sees me eyeing those dark blue fliers.
In addition to my old routine, I have developed new habits since moving in. With double the mail coming in and not a bill in my name, I rush to the mailbox daily, like a kid on Christmas. My infomercial addiction has been replaced with the news, TMZ, and a lineup of sitcoms on DVR. On Friday nights, G laughs about the challah that seems to mysteriously disappear after Shabbat dinner. No matter now much I insist that the loaf shrinks, he sees through my lack of self control (it’s just too good)!
Although the strange behavior from my single life has been modified, I am happy that my meals are more balanced and have even started to appreciate TIME magazine. I am the same Blondini as before, but I now have new habits…including blaming funky smells on the dog!
© 2009
So about a week after G and I started dating we had a conversation that could have easily been overheard in a 7th grade homeroom:
Blondini: “So, are you on Facebook?”
G: “No, I’m not into that stuff”
Blondini: “Wait, what?! You’re not on Facebook?!?! Seriously?!”
G: “Um, no…”
Obviously I thought that he was crazy and that our generation gap kept him out of touch with the technological innovations of the 21st century (I would later discover being out of touch with Facebook does not make someone cyber-challenged). So I introduced G to Facebook and showed him the many things that it has to offer a young professional like himself. Facebook connected him to old law school friends (many of whom have also been consumed by big law firms), fraternity brothers (some with two kids), and cousins from Israel sporting IDF regulation uniforms. Not to mention, the 400 photos of me on Facebook provided G with some Blondini relief during those long hours he kept at the big firm.
I’m sure that my Facebook expertise was comforting to G, however, as a new member he must have been intimidated by the number of “friends” I had. While he no doubt had plenty of friends in real life, he couldn’t compete with me on the internet. I had about 750 friends when he joined. After having a quasi-stalker incident this past year, I de-friended about 50 questionables. Anyone whose nickname in college was “Creepy Jimmy” or randoms from my days on JDate were deleted.
While I stood as G’s Facebook guru for those first few weeks, he quickly got the hang of it. Before I knew it he was up to about 300 friends, had joined Groups, and become a fan of everything from the Golden Girls to Falafel. Together G and I quickly took Facebook to a new level. We changed our relationship status to “In a Relationship” and posted messages on each others’ walls. His photo albums, save for the early Israel days, are a photo-journalistic review our courtship. Our precious time became occupied by this social networking site. Our dog Payton joined the ranks when G and I made a Dogbook profile for our beloved boxer.
The weekend G and I got engaged made it obvious how wonderful Facebook really was. Not only could we announce our intent to marry to the cyberworld, but we could post pictures of ourselves, disgustingly happy in love. Friends came out of the woodwork to congratulate us on our upcoming nuptials. Suddenly every grammar school friend and high school bully wanted to know the date of the Big Day…and see the ring. Although it was nice of these relative strangers to wish us good luck, we couldn’t help but think, who are these people? While I can’t speak for G, I know that only a fraction of my 700+ “friends” could give a youknowwhat about my engagement. I don’t need validation from these cyber buddies to realize that my life is great….but it sure feels good to broadcast it!
© 2009
Disclaimer: We are not awful people. If you are offended by this, you either had to be there or have no sense of humor.
So there comes a time in the beginning of every relationship when both partners realize that something good is going on and they have the “Talk”. For me and G, the Talk came about two weeks after our first real date (meaning nighttime date and not the lunch date that was officially our first date). It was a Saturday night in August. The weather was perfect for an outside dinner so we ventured a couple blocks over to Newbury Street, the posh shopping street in town, to a French Brasserie. It was my idea to eat there, as it is one of those places that I will only eat at on a specific day of the week because of their plate du jour. At Brasserie, Saturday night is Beef Bourginion night. On a side note, it says a lot about our connection that so early in the realtionship I suggested a restaurant where I would be gobbling up beef and egg noodles without reservation.
Brasserie is one of those restaurants on a busy shopping street with an outdoor area that is recessed from the sidewalk. Diners are essentially below the street. For a restaurant flanked by the über trendy Intermix clothing store and a ridiculously overpriced Starbucks, the seating arrangements make for a relaxing dining experience. Although people watching is enjoyable, there is something to be said about being slightly displaced from the collagen-injected dog-toting crew who frequent the area.
G and I were having a wonderful time relaxing and sipping on some Veuve Clicquot when it happened…we started the Talk. Things were going great when, around the time of our third toast to ourselves and our budding realtionship, an ambulence pulled up. Thinking nothing of an ambulence in the city we continued on with our conversation. Then we noticed that the paramedics were going into the upstairs part of Brasserie. As our meal arrived, we agreed that someone must have fallen or felt woozy and turned our attention to our appetites. When the paramedics came back to the ambulence to get the stretcher we joked, “Hope it wasn’t the food!” and fed each other forkfulls of our respective dishes. When 15 minutes later, the paramedics were still in the restaurant, we mused, “Either it’s nothing urgent or man died” our eyes met deadpan and we burst out laughing. And then we saw it…the paramedics carrying the stretcher out of the restaurant with the diner strapped on, covered head to toe in a white sheet.
Again we looked at each other. Realizing the brevity of life we clinked flutes and toated to ourselves once more before finishing our dinner. We walked home that night with a special bond. Aside from the fact that we were offiicially “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”, we were likely going to hell for joking about a man’s death. That night marked a turning point in our relationship. Witnessing death and toasting to life, it became clear that G was the man I was meant to be with…and that we both had a pretty twisted sense of humor!
© 2009
So recently I have been plagued by manifestations of the age difference between me and G, particularly what he calls “camp songs”. I’m not sure if he calls these camp songs because he thinks I act like a 12 year old camper while I sing them or because he is secretly jealous that he never went to camp and, as a result, does not randomly break out into song. I believe it is the latter, and so, as a loving fianceé, I spend a good amount of time letting him know how much he really did miss out on.
Aside from the SMURFS theme song that I absentmindedly hum, most songs are relevant to daily activities. The camp songs I sing are familiar melodies with a twist of my own words– relating to our dog. With Payton as my audience, I proudly belt out my tunes. A favorite of ours is “Payton the Boxer” to thetune of “Copacabana”. The “Poopy Dance”, a spin-off of the 90’s hit “Humpty Dance” was recently retired after realizing that our pooch was too distracted watching me perform to actually pass a bowel movement. A remix of “Lean Back” by the Terror Squad is still in the works:
“No my puppy don’t dance, he don’t wear any pants, he just shakes his furry tush. With ears back, ears back, ears back, puts his ears back.”
It is important to note that the full effect of these songs cannot be appreciated without a live performance.
Although I am sure G loves my camp songs as much as Payton does, he has implemented certain restrictions. For one, there is no singing in the bedroom before bed. I understand that the reason for this rule is not because it annoys G, but because the urge to jump out of bed and join me is just too great! I know living with a camper isn’t always the easiest thing for G, but it comes in handy for comedic relief….and paper seder plates!
© 2009
So I’ve learned a lot since I moved in with G. Having lived by myself for the past 2 1/2 years, I was not aware of the differences that arise when living with another person. Sure I had roomates in college, but when you’re sharing the same bedroom (and bed) with someone, the differences between you two become more apparent.
Thankfully many of the differences are easily overcome, as G had little choice but to accept my red throw pillows and gold sheets when I moved into his otherwise black and white apartment. My knack for organizing the kitchen has been well received. Now the dishes, instead of the groceries, are on display in the open cabinet next to the microwave. Not only does this make the kitchen look less cluttered, but we no longer have issues with the dog tearing open our precious boxes of Synder’s of Hanover sourdough pretzels (are dog supposed to like pretzels this much?). G has also appreciated the extra lamps and picture frames that make the apartment look more like a home and less like a bachelor pad.
Although the addition of my things has added a different dimension to the place, it has unearthed some of our major differences. We simply do not have enough space for all of our clothes, shoes, law books, and magazines! This has left us with a very cluttered apartment. While I don’t see an issue with piles of clothes on the desk chair and purses scattered on the floor, it drives G crazy! However, I started to share his vision of a clear floor when the dog recently stepped on my school bag, cracking my computer screen and setting me back about $500.
Aside from the physical appearance of the apartment, G and I have different everday routines. He is a proponent of the “Early to bed, Early to rise” mantra. Admittedly, I never considered myself a morning person, but unlike my pillow pal who thinks a 7am wake up is “sleeping the day away”, I believe it to be a perfectly respectable time. Thankfully, G keeps himself busy from 5:30 – 7:00 by drinking at least one cup of coffee, paying bills, watching the news, and cleaning the house. He has devised a subtle way of waking me up–talking to the dog in a loud whisper. I awake to a chorus of, “Shhh, she’s still sleeping… No, I don’t know why she’s still asleep, but be quiet, we don’t want to wake her up… No, I’m not going to wake her… Shhh, be quiet Payton!”
Another difference is that after a life of growing up in a “Pink” family, I was flabbergasted to learn that I was going to marry a “Blue” man. Yes, I am talking about artificial sweeteners. I just couldn’t believe it. Could I really have fallen in love with a man who finds aspartame more appealing than saccharin? I know I will never cross over to the other side, but I have learned to get through my morning cuppa joe with Equal when the Sweet’N Low runs out and G has made room in the canister for my pink packets.
We’ve learned to accomodate each other’s needs, and that’s the most important part. That’s love people, that’s love.
© 2009
So after last night, G and I are unsure if I’m going make it to our wedding in one piece. The harsh reality is that I’m a klutz. The politically correct might call it “accident prone” and my mother says I do things too fast, but now matter how you dice it, each week I inevitably end up with another malady. Four days before G proposed to me, I slammed my left hand in the door on my way to take the dog out for a walk. For three months my engagement ring was displayed next to a mangled middle finger missing a nail. However, this pales in comparison to my latest debacle.
Last night we were getting ready to go to a BBQ at G’s friend’s house. I showered first and opted to dry my hair in the bedroom while G was showering in the bathroom. This seemed like a foolproof plan, as I have spent many evenings beautifying myself in front of our 8 foot full length mirror. (I like to sit on Payton’s dog bed while primping because it’s comfy and he looks much cuter with that confused head tilt I get from him). However, something happened last night. I don’t know if I did something when I plugged the hairdryer into the outlet behind the mirror or if I knocked his bed into it, but as I was bending down to sit I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Payton dashing out of the room. (G and I would later joke that anytime a dog runs out of a room, it is usually due to impending danger). That was the last thing I remember before finding myself trapped under the mirror screaming out for help.
Thankfully G has a keen sense of hearing and I have a penchant for speaking at a volume loud enough to be heard in the shower from two rooms away. As G explains it, he came running into the bedroom to find a mirror (our 8 foot, full-length, wooden-framed, 66 pound mirror) with a flailing arm and leg sticking out of it. As he rescued me from my reflective cage, we both burst out laughing. I was laying on the ground in just my underwear, covered in broken glass, a chunk of mirror was perched on top of my head, and the two of us could not stop cracking up! (I would later learn that my head actually broke through the mirror and dislodged this sizeable chunk from the rest of the looking glass. )
It wasn’t until G was helping me pick the glass and wood out of my scalp and scrape the shards from my arms in the shower that I realized the gravity of the situation. What if he had not been there to help me? What if my head not been so disturbingly solid? What if I was too injured to extricate myself and the dog peed allover the house because I could not take him out for a walk? My hysterics in the shower were replaced by wails, as G consoled me. I was fine, I was alive. There were clumps of hair coming off in my hands (thanks to the razor sharp edges of the broken mirror), but I was okay and he was there to take care of me.
We cleaned up the house in relative silence, knowing what could have been. Thankfully though, I was okay and we were together and so our silence was interupted by fits of laughter, and recitations of the scene he walked in on. We quickly dressed and went to the BBQ as a rescuer with a tale to tell and a girl with a reasonable explaination for acting like a monkey, picking glass out of her head.
© 2009
So ever since G and I got engaged, I noticed a change in the world around me. Sure, the sun shines brighter and the birds chirp louder when you’re in love…but that’s not what I mean. Once the ring was on my finger, people started treating me, and us, differently.
We went out for a celebratory dinner the night we got engaged. Even though we dined at one of the nicest restaurants in the city, I find it hard to believe that the service was really THAT impeccable. Okay, maybe it was, but I like to think the reason the waiters parted for us like the Red Sea was because we were engaged.
Becoming engaged seems to have legitimatized my relationship with G. For the first time, my mother put a picture of me and a significant other up on the mantle. My father even agreed to let us sleep in the same room at their house! My parents’ friends and family members decided that talking to me about sex was somehow appropriate and eagerly shared stories of their own wedding nights!
Going to stores has become different as well. The illiterate young men bagging my groceries greeted me as “Ma’am” instead of “Miss”. While I never had a problem walking through Saks in sweats, the formerly rude sales people flocked to me as though the presence of a rock on my finger made me worthy of their attention. I had no idea the 96% cotton/4% lycra/ 3k diamond blend was the latest in haute couture.
Using a tip from a friend, who had recently used her elevated status to get an upgrade on her honeymoon, I decided to give it a go on our trip to Florida in March. A few short emails explaining our excitement for our upcoming vacation to “celebrate our engagement” (4 months after the actual engagement and in reality, Spring Break from law school), we were offered an upgrade and a discounted room rate. Upon checking into our Deluxe King Oceanfront Suite, we were greeted with a bottle of wine and snacks.
I accept that I may never feel fully comfortable with strangers grabbing my hand to gawk at my ring. But on our vacation, sitting on the balcony overlooking the Atlantic and sipping Prosecco, we realized, we could get used to this!
© 2009
