We got a puppy

Three years after Aliyah, I was just getting settled. Job going well. Husband’s job going well. Daughter in Army. Two teenage sons at school (some of the time).

But the nagging for a puppy had reached a new level ….’I’ll walk it every day’, ‘I’ll feed it’, ‘I will ensure that it never poos’, ‘it won't be out my sight.’

It was the first time all three kids had agreed on anything. Apart from how much they hate us.  When I announced we were going to a dog shelter, they skulked slowly from the darkness of their rooms, immediately jumped from their beds, and were downstairs at the allotted time.

The visits to the dog shelters became ‘Family Outings’. These were new events for us.I think it's what other families do. I kept arranging dog shelter visits to ‘see what type of dog we might want’, not imagining we would have to get one. We could just keep having the ‘Family Outings’ where the five of us sat in a car together driving somewhere. It was better than nothing. 

It became apparent that a puppy from a shelter was going to be tricky to find. The bigger dogs needed ‘walking’. I don’t do much of that. Teenage Daughter got pulled over by a particularly strong dog, had her arm pulled out her socket, and ‘nearly died’. She’s a touch overdramatic.

But we realized a shelter dog really wasn’t an option, when Husband and two out of three children were covered in red welts, with itchy eyes and difficulty breathing. Apparently, they were having a major allergic reaction to dogs. Again, overdramatic or what.

Our dog shelter visits seemed to be over. But I needed to prolong this new ‘family time’ that we were experiencing. It was the only thing that got them to leave their rooms apart from food. And that never worked. Have you had my cooking?

So, I told them we could look at hypoallergenic dogs. Again, I had no intention of ever, ever, allowing one across our threshold. But I could keep going with the ‘looking’ phase for as long as necessary.

I found an Israeli breeder with a hypoallergenic puppy. He spoke only Russian. We arranged to meet in a park to ‘just to take a look’. A park is obviously a completely normal place for any Israeli business transaction to take place. Our WhatsApp messages (with the help of google translate) went as follows;

Him: I am here      (я здесь)

Me: I am here too

Him: I am in the park      (в парке)

Me: I am in the park too

Him: I am in the car park               (в автостоянке)

Me: Oh. Which car park?

This was interspersed with some shouting from Husband about this being a ‘ridiculous idea’, and ‘who meets a bloody breeder in the middle of nowhere’. He wasn’t dealing well with the whole thing.

Him: I am wearing a black hoodie

Me: I am wearing an oversized sweatshirt that has seen better days, and to be honest I look a bit of a mess. In fact, I’m embarrassed to be seen like this. I came out in my slippers.

Eventually, we found him. He was wearing a black hoodie (as per his WhatsApp message) and looked rather dodgy. We sauntered over with our best swagger and greeted him hello with the only Russian phrase I know:

‘Мне нравится водка’. (Which I later found out means, ‘I like Vodka’).

Five minutes later we were all back in the car. Driving home. 

With a puppy.

How it actually happened is still a blur. But I have flashbacks of something fluffy being put in my arms and the sound of wailing when they tried to take it away.  

Apparently, the wailing was me. 

Army Graduation

So, three years after making Aliyah, have I become a real Israeli?                Well…no.

But Teenage Daughter has completed three months basic training in the Israeli Army and graduated last week.  

This is an especially big moment for her because;

1.      She wasn’t a keen participant in our ‘Aliyah Dream’. We had to drag her out of our house in the UK, as she clung onto her mattress screaming obscenities about ‘ruining her life’, ‘worst parents in the world’ and ‘never getting on the plane’.

2.       She didn’t speak a word of Hebrew until 6 months ago. Except swear words.

3.       She’s whats known as ‘feisty’ and not great with being told what to do. Which is kind of tricky in the Army. They seem to like giving people orders. We heard that if you don’t do what you’re told, they send you to Army prison.

When she enlisted, and we sent her off with a wave, it was entirely with the expectation that we’d see her the next day. We imagined her commander would call us to pick her up, as they couldn’t handle her. Or tell us that she’d been army imprisoned. We heard she came close to prison a few times. 

Apparently, ‘leave me alooooone’, is not the correct response when being woken at 4am. And telling your Commander that you’re ‘not cleaning the toilet, can’t you pay someone to do it?’ is also not advisable.

Her daily panic attack phone calls gradually diminished.  It had been slightly disconcerting listening to heavy breathing for an hour every day. I thought I had a new admirer. I got into the habit of taking the phone into the work toilet, so I could repeat my mantra to her ….’Come on! I’ve told you. Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth’.

I got some weird looks when I came back into the office and realized some of my colleagues had been in the other cubicles.

So, you can imagine our complete shock, delight, when three months down the line we were attending her graduation.

The day arrived, and we had planned ahead. We had taken enough food to feed an Army (boom, boom!). As I’m not particularly mobile, due to a broken ankle issue, Daughter had thoughtfully arranged disabled parking for us. Fabulous.

But we still needed to access the base. Upon arrival, we came across a queue of cars waiting to enter. The queue wasn’t moving. As Israelis don’t seem to understand the concept of waiting, they had given up. And decided to leave their cars where they were. In the middle of the access road. Blocking the entrance.

This appeared to be entirely normal. As cars were left abandoned and hapharzardly strewn across the road, it meant that disabled people who Can’t Blummin’ Walk had to abandon their car 17 miles down the road, and hobble.

The hobbling was progressing well, albeit slowly, until we hit a problem. A staircase. With 20 sets of stairs. Each with 30 steps.  It wasn’t just soldiers who had to complete basic training. If you wanted to see your soldier graduate, you were forced to complete your own assault course. Husband sprinted to the top before you could say ‘Hup – two, three, four’ (in Hebrew), and left my Mum and I gazing upwards in despair.

By the time we reached the top of Kilimanstairo, there weren’t that many spare seats left around the stadium. We spied some old Army veterans with walking sticks, so we pushed them out the way, asked politely if we could sit with them.

Our priority was to get our picnic out and show off the food we’d brought. Disappointingly, we were swiftly thrown out of the ‘Who brought the best food to your childs’ army graduation’ competition at an early stage, by a French family in front of us, who had people gasping in admiration at their pain aux chocolats.

My Mum is hard of hearing (totes hilarious), and was concerned that her hearing loss may lead to her missing some of the proceedings. This meant no one around her was permitted to speak in case she couldn’t hear. But none of the large Jewish families around us had got the memo.

I pointed out there was little point in her hearing the speeches, as they were in Hebrew, not a language she is familiar with, but by that point, she had already got into a frenetic elbow fight with the young soldiers next to her, who were cheering on their friends.

She continued to attempt to control the noise level with loud shushing at the people whispering in front of her. They ignored her, so her shushing developed into shrill hissing, interspersed with ‘be quiet!’. As she continued to be ignored, it culminated in a violent yelp of ‘oh my god, I’m gonna kill you if you don’t shut up!’

That got their attention. Together with the attention of several Army officers who suddenly surrounded around us pointing Uzi sub machine guns and pistols. Everyone jumped out the seat they had previously trampled on people to secure. I heard that some people even pushed over some old Army veterans. Disgusting.

Mum didn’t seem too bothered about hearing the speeches after that.

I got a job

So I got a job. In Israel. Where I live now. In a country where I don't speak the language or understand anything that is going on. I can't say I wanted a job, but there had been a disarming shift in Husband's behaviour of late that was hard to ignore.

Since we made Aliyah, he has his office at home. So instead of leaving at 6am in the morning and not returning until 7pm, he was located in the house all day. Before, when he arrived home and I was in position on the beige sofa, it was because ‘OMG, I. Have. Not. Stopped. All. Day. I have literally just sat down the minute you walked in’.

But now, he had begun to notice little things like……

…..the house was filthy not because we 'live in the Middle East now. Dust is all around us. It’s impossible for me to be cleaning 24/7’. It was actually because I didn’t do any cleaning. 

……. dinner was served in fancy foil dishes not because ‘the foil brings out the taste – I read it on Mumsnet’, but actually because I had been buying it from the amazing ready-made food place across the road and didn't do any cooking.

.…… my bank account was in major overdraft not as a result of some Israeli scammer bloke stealing my identity, but because I had spent a fortune at the ready-made food place across the road. (because - again, no cooking).

.…….there was an imprint of a large bum shape on the beige sofa because, well, I had a large bum, and it was on the sofa. All day.

Husband had discovered the truth. He quickly deduced that I must be spending a large proportion of my day watching Netflix. He did not think this was acceptable. But he kept calm and gave me an ultimatum.  Either I got a job or it was over between us. 

Fear and panic overwhelmed me. Over between us? After all we'd been through? I couldn't bear the thought. I could cope with Husband leaving me, but he was threatening to take away Netflix. I had no choice. I had to get a job.

I found an advert on Facebook. It said they wanted a grant writer. That was handy. Because that's what I am. The interview was in Hebrew. I managed to hand-signal that I was a highly qualified Fundraising Consultant that had sat at home looking at Facebook, run my own business for the past 20 years, and they agreed to give me a go.

The job required that I spoke English. Luckily, I am fluent. (I don't mean to show off). It also required that I was knowledgeable about fundraising from the UK. I'd read a few books over the past 20 years. Unfortunately, not that many about Fundraising.

After some lengthy complicated hand signaling about what the boss expected in return for giving me money, I got the basics. The computer was there for me to do some ‘work’. It was not to be used for improving my, rather impressive, (if I say so myself), Candy Crush score.

As the office was situated in the religious area of Bnei Brak, I would receive invitations to attend a wedding / barmitzvah / circumsion every week. I was expected to regularly contribute money to a wedding cake / engagement card / birth of new baby gift, say Mazel tov and Baruch Hashem and look happy about it.   

I was not required to cover my hair, but I was expected to gush frequently about the other girls' ‘Cheryl Cole style’ sheitls, and take selfies of myself wearing them in the toilet. I was responsible for maintaining a comprehensive spreadsheet of my co-workers names, keep a running total of how many children they had (that day), how old each child was, and when each one was due to be barmitzvah / married / have their own baby.

I had to acclimatise to the fact that raising your voice was the ‘normal’ way of communicating in the office, and that just because two people were screaming and gesticulating wildly did not necessarily mean they were having a disagreement. They may just be discussing where to go for lunch. 

I quickly realized that my boss would ignore me every morning, and wouldn’t look me in the eye, until I shouted ‘Boker Tov’ directly in his face. I would have to avoid the many temptations of the numerous delicious falafel / schnitzel / houmous restaurants directly beneath my office and keep the window closed so the smells wouldn’t waft up, sneak their way in, tantalise my tastebuds and increase my, not insubstantial, waistline. 

I would become accustomed to walking past the glass-walled conference room and seeing lots of bearded men dressed in long black coats and hats, huddled together mouthing words silently and rocking back and forth. I even learned to be grateful for their presence, as I was told they were there to kindly pray for my good health and prosperity. I would attempt to time my numerous trips to the toilet (for a much needed Candy Crush fix), to avoid walking past when they were there - lest I should inadvertently flash my knickers. Which can happen on occasion when you reach middle age.

I would have to teach my colleagues to make a cup of proper English tea if I didn’t want to drink 'white paint water' with some pitiful mint leaves floating on the top. I would have to learn enough Hebrew to say ‘when are you due?’, ‘I like your sheitl’, ‘can you learn to communicate with each other without blowing out my eardrums’ and, ‘on no occasion does proper English tea include mint leaves’.

I’ll let you know how I get on, but so far I feel I’m fitting in nicely. 

Baruch Hashem.

Broken ankle - what happened next?

The more attentive amongst you will recall that a year ago I broke my leg. It wasn't a great experience, but on the list of 'bad things that happen in life', it certainly wasn't one of the worst.

It took a while to get it fixed but I was reassured that I would be back to normal in no time. Upon hearing I needed surgery, Husband's first question to Surgeon was how long it would be until I was back to running my usual Ultra Marathons.

Surgeon was examining an overweight, sweaty, breathless middle-aged woman. His face was contorted into a failed attempt at 'professionalism', whilst attempting to prevent a snort escaping his nose.

Husband admitted he was 'pulling his leg' – pun intended – and surgeon went on to confirm that although Marathons might not be my future thing, I would at least be able to run for a bus if so required. Not my thing either. Even before breaking my leg.

So there was no reason to be dismayed. Breakages happen. And there were pros and cons. Pros were binge-watching Netflix, no cleaning duties (I only ever cleaned once every 6 months anyway), and not having to cook. Cons were severe pain around the ankle area and not being able to walk, which I converted into a pro by training my teenagers to be mini slaves. Which they just loved.

Weekly physio ensued - pleasant when it involved massage by a rather striking Israeli Masseur - unpleasant when I had to do some 'exercise'. This was a new word in both my Hebrew and English vocabulary and one I pretended I didn’t understand.

I was told to allow a full year for recovery. As the scars faded, my leg no longer resembled a swollen elephant's leg. It just resembled a normal elephant's leg. And then a new symptom appeared. A rash. A very, ugly, rash.

When mentioning to others that you have a rash, you are faced with two responses... either people jump 20 feet in the air shouting ‘stay away from me with your disgusting herpes thing!', or they look at you sideways, smirk and sneer, 'rash? Pah! I've had a permanent rash on some part of my body since I was 2 weeks old'.

So I began a fun mission to track down the 'rash smirkers and sneerers' and insist on showing them the pretty pattern on my leg…. 'Go on then, let's be 'avin you, I've seen rashes that were so big they ………….….OMG. What the blummin' 'eck is that?'

Well, you've got to find your laughs where you can, when you're walking around with an elephant's leg.

The weeks passed and the swelling got worse. The rash was scaring small children in the street, and various Israeli medical people were telling me that 'something, it is not right.' I was eventually told there is nothing more they could do. Cartilage / scar tissue / unique break  / wow you broke it so well / excellent work love, all conspired to mean I would never be back to how I was.

When I broke the news to concerned friends and families, their reactions varied from 'fantastic news, get me a disabled sticker', to 'well you didn't work hard enough at the physio. When my dog trainers'-brother's-neurologists'-wife tripped over her cockapoo, she did physio every day until she passed out. Did you do that?'

I'll admit that my physio wasn't quite as intense as it could have been. I may have lied a little about the quantity of trimaleolar ankle rotations I had practised at home; and I couldn't say for sure whether I had fully completed the 250 push-ups; but I was thoroughly enjoying the massage from striking Israeli Masseur.

But the main thing I noticed was how keen others were to give well-meaning advice. 'Have you seen Dr Filipinovitz? My word, he worked wonders on my Lionel's arthritic calcaneus.' Or, 'do you remember when I had that awful debilitating osteo-arthritis in my thumb-nail?   Well, Bikram yoga totally cleared it up. Speak to Ramdev. He'll sort you out'.

So, although it would be so nice if we lived in a world where all medical problems can be fixed, sometimes  - they can't. 

I now have to face the fact that my life-long dream of being Ultra Marathon Champion is over.

It’s a hard pill to swallow.