I'm not a great housewife

I have a confession to make..

I’m not a great housewife.

I’m sorry. I wish I was. Truly I do. In my fantasies I run an organised household, there are fresh flowers placed on the tables, the decor is tasteful and on trend, and everything is clean. No dust dare alight on my counter tops, and any visitors choosing to use my guest facilities will find everything they require for their bathroom needs. The fridge is full of appetizing but healthy snacks, and two delicious meals are prepared each day which provide for my family’s nutritional needs, but also tickle their taste buds. Breakfast they can do themselves for Gawds sake. I’m not a complete domestic goddess.

But that’s in my dreams. My house is not like that. Dust finds its way onto every surface. Three teenage children means that the bathroom is constantly covered in a colourful mixture of toothpaste, shower gel and razor foam and the toilets are, well, just not acceptable for visitors at a moments’ notice. My house is ‘tidy’. I am always putting things away (squashing them in a cupboard), the kids bedroom floors are cleared of ‘stuff’ and you can see the carpet for two days out of every seven, and on the surface all is well. You wouldn’t walk into my house and think ‘God Woman, what is WRONG with you?’, dry heave and pass out, but you might want to use the neighbours toilet instead of mine, and my kitchen floor won’t be gleaming like you see in those really annoying floor cleaner adverts. (I don’t think they use real people’s houses in those adverts).

In an ideal world I would have a cleaner, and a chef. I don’t think that’s too greedy. I know there are a lot of people that do have cleaners (chefs not so much, I’m not mates with the Beckhams), in fact – ahem - I used to have a cleaner myself before we made Aliyah. But unfortunately an increase in a liking (addiction) for Candy Crush and Netflix bingeing, has led to a subsequent decrease in what I used to do, which was, work. For money. Which ultimately paid for my cleaner.

Weirdly I married someone with a sense of morals, and Husband feels very strongly that if there is no paid work being done currently by me, then there can be no cleaner being paid currently by me. I sort of see his point. 

As Husband and kids are out of the house most of the time, (Husband thankfully has not succumbed to Candy Crush addiction and therefore still goes to work), I am left alone and it appears that as I am the only one here, the cleaning and laundry falls to me. 

I actually wouldn’t mind it so much if I could do it just once. I would pat myself on the back on a job well done and put the cleaning stuff away. Forever. And get back to lying on the couch. 

But the problem with cleaning is that it needs doing regularly. You finish, take off your Marigolds, and before you can say Cillit Bang, there’s a mark on the counter, or someone’s had the audacity to use the flippin’ toilet. Good God People. Can’t you hold it in? Or only use the toilet at other people’s houses?

So half an hour later, all my wiping and scrubbing is for nought, as before my eyes the sparkling sink is covered in food and my clean(ish) floor has footmarks . I count down the minutes, until I have to do it all over again.

Although Husband does not appear to have an addictive personality, (Lord knows how he – or anyone - can abstain from Candy Crush), he does have a mild case of OCD. Which means he likes things to be tidy. And clean. Or he’s not a happy bunny. So before he gets home I move (or hide) all the things that could be a trigger – could be last night’s dinner festering in the sink, or a huge bag of rubbish that he trips over as he walks in the door. (You see - they’re only small things).  

Ultimately, having a Husband that is tidier than me has an upside. Although I do the cleaning and washing, it’s never quite done to his standards. The collar of his shirt is still creased after I iron it, hung it up straight from the dryer, the toilet isn’t clean enough, even though I used bleach on it 20 minutes ago, the week before last. He wants it done better. But we both know that is not in my capabilities. I just don’t have the cleaning gene. So, after 20 years of marriage he has realised that the only way to get it done to his satisfaction - is to do it himself. 

I have to say this seems to be working out very well. He’s happy as his clothes are now wrinkle free and he is no longer mistaken for a homeless person - although we will miss the additional income from his street collection - and I’m happy as I’ve finally reached Level 1,049 in Candy Crush Saga.

It’s all good.

Exercise is not for me

I’ve got a confession to make….

I don’t like exercise.

It’s not really my thing.

Previous readers will know of my predisposition for being stuck to the sofa, Netflix binge on the go, and my acute annoyance when I’m requested to move. Why can’t someone else do whatever needs to be done? Isn’t my 12 year old big enough yet to wash his own clothes? Does my family need feeding EVERY DAY? 

If I lived alone I don’t think anyone would mind that much. Not even the kids. They got used to fish fingers and chips every night and un-ironed t-shirts pretty quickly. But the fact is I’m married. To a really nice bloke. I really like him. But he doesn’t seem overly impressed with the whole lying on the sofa thing. I think this is because of his job.

You see. It’s hard for me to say it out loud. But.......

He’s a Personal Trainer (or something like that).

Yes. That’s right. One of those people that EXERCISES. A LOT. EVERY DAY. And makes other people do it too.

I don’t know how we ended up together. When I first met him he was running a few marathons here and there. He got up early to lift weights and go for a run, but I ignored that as I tended to still be asleep at 5 in the morning and I’m hard of hearing, so he never bothered me.

But as time went on, it got more serious. And he wanted ME to be involved. This is where it got tricky. You see he now does Ironman Triathlons. Ironman is nuts. First, you swim. In a sea. Or a lake. And It’s cold. Very cold. And it’s a race, so everyone pushes and kicks each other out of the way. And it hurts. Why would anyone want to do that?

After you get out the water, you get on a bike. You’re still wet so you’re even colder than you were before, and you don’t have time to put socks on (‘cos it’s a race, and it might waste a few seconds, and someone might BEAT you), so your feet get blisters, and they hurt, and you have to ride a very long way. Not just around the block and back, but like, to the next country, up and down hills, in either wind and rain or boiling heat. (Depending on the location).

I think this adds to the fun.

After you get off your bike you have to run.  Not to the corner shop to pick up your Mars Bar, but miles and miles. And miles. You haven’t eaten anything now for around 6 hours, so you’re starving, but you can’t stop off for lunch (’cos it’s a race, and it might waste a few seconds, and someone might BEAT you), so you take these little packs of revolting gel stuff with you that you carry on a girlie belt around your waist. To make it better, they come in different flavours, but they still taste like – well - gel.

And you‘re thirsty, so thirsty, but you can’t carry water as it’s heavy, and it might slow you down, (’cos it’s a race, and it might waste a few seconds, and someone might BEAT you), so well meaning people along the way throw water bottles at you as you pass. But you’re going at quite a speed, (‘cos it’s a race and someone might........  you get it by now) and you have to catch the water. So not only are you running, you’re juggling your gel packs and water bottles and sponges that you squidge on your head ‘cos you’re so bloody hot that you’re gonna die, and the whole thing is proper NUTS.

And my husband LOVES it.

He gets to the end and he is knackered, but so, so happy. And I’m so happy for him. But mainly I’m happy he didn’t make me do it with him.

My role is to show up three times; once to wave from the sea shore as I strain to see him disappear amongst the splashing black army of swimmers, heading ominously towards the horizon; Once when he is on his bike, and I have to wave manically and scream loudly ‘Go Husband Go! You’re the best!’ as he zooms past at a hundred miles an hour, spraying me in sweat and gel spit; (it’s not glamorous I’m afraid. No WAGS life for me); And lastly as I search wildly for him amongst the sea of runners on the final run, desperately trying to remember what colour shorts and vest top he has chosen to wear this time.

Is that him in the black, or was it the blue and white today? Is he wearing a hat? Has he got a beard? What colour is his hair? Has he got long hair? Has he got hair?  Why didn‘t I take the time to look at him at least once during our 20 years of marriage?  

The run is the most difficult part for me. I mean, as I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s all pretty exhausting for me, but as he runs past, he’s slower than on the bike, and unfortunately he KNOWS if I’m there. This time I have to be SEEN.  No way I can concoct a story later about how impressed I was with his zooming around that particularly tight corner on his bike, when I was ACTUALLY halfway through eating the entire hotel buffet. Not that I would ever do that. I am entirely vigilant throughout the whole of the 6 hour bike ride journey and would never consider returning to the hotel room for a fix of Greys Anatomy - or a schluff.

So you get the picture. He likes to exercise. I don’t. And I’m keeping it that way.

Thankfully, no matter how fit and strong he is, I’m still too heavy for him to lift off the sofa.

I like Israeli shops

I have a confession to make….

I like Israeli shops.

NOT Israeli supermarkets. And NOT Israeli petrol garages. I like independently owned outlets, the ones where the person serving you actually cares. Yes. Actually gives a monkey’s.

About YOU.    The customer.

I have discovered loads of these shops in Israel. They’re not popular anymore in the UK, the problem being (as I may have mentioned previously) that you can find everything you need in Beloved Tesco. So why go anywhere else?

But here in Israel you can’t buy ‘suck-your-flab-in’ knickers in Rami Levy, and there’s no hair dye stain remover (for when your hair colour somehow gets on your nose) in Shufersal.  So independent shops come in rather handy.

I found a new one today.

It had a rail of comfy looking pyjamas outside the shop, with a big 50% OFF sign. Although I’ve never been a confident clothes shopper, I am comfortable buying pyjamas. No one sees me in them and they help me feel suitably attired for a Netflix binge-watch.

Then I spotted swimwear. Also 50% OFF. Swimwear is not a regular purchase for me. The last time I bought a decent costume was 6 years ago, when a friend convinced me that someone with my physique perhaps needed a little more support than the Tesco ‘Florence & Fred’ range was able to offer.

Living in England there hadn’t been much call for swimwear, but living in Israel, I was suddenly gripped by the realisation that it was nearly Summer, (it can get quite hot), I may have to go to the beach at some point, (other people tend to go there for fun), and I didn’t have a costume that fit me, (Tesco Florence & Fred not being of long-lasting quality).

After glancing around to see if anyone was watching, I tentatively fingered a few of the costumes, saw the prices, had a heart attack, and made a move to scarper, but a Short Man approached me, grabbed the two costumes I was tentatively holding and stated loudly ‘ma ossimim l’melach ve ovodah’?

He didn’t say that, exactly, as I made that up, but, as I don’t speak Hebrew (no - I really don’t - I’m not being modest - and yes, I do realise I’ve been here nearly 2 years), I didn’t understand a word he had said, so I gave my standard reply of  ‘Do you, by any chance, happen to speak English, my good man?’ accompanied by a big embarrassed smile.

Well of course he was fluent (he was of French extraction) and before you could say, ‘Have you seen the size of my thighs, man?’, he had whisked me into the shop and sequestered me into a tiny cubicle clutching a variety of brightly coloured Israeli made (= expensive) swimming costumes.

Panic ensued. I was trapped in a small changing room with a full-length mirror (I’ve avoided one at home for the past 20 years) with only a flimsily made curtain to protect my modesty. Not a position in which I have ever wanted to find myself.

Now. Usually, I am a woman of strong will.  I made a decision that I was going to be more assertive (at the age of 45). So, ordinarily, I would have pulled open the flimsily installed curtain and stated forcefully - ‘Now look, Mr Short Man, you seem an awfully nice chap ‘n all, but I’m really not in the market for an expensive Israeli swimming costume of beautiful quality. I usually go for the Tesco ‘Florence & Fred’ range you see.’

But a small voice at the back of my mind was telling me that actually, actually, I needed new swimming costumes. I knew I shouldn’t be spending THAT AMOUNT OF MONEY on swimwear but you can’t really wear jeans and a hoodie (my entire wardrobe) to the beach in the summer. And my current physique is not what it was. It sort of needs as much help as it can get to look ‘appropriate’ on a beach (or anywhere really) .

So I decided to try them on. I had no other choice. Short Man was on the other side of the curtain blocking my only chance of escape. I considered making a run for it, whilst he served another customer, but he managed to keep up a constant chatter ‘I ‘ave gawjus coral colour – you like?’ and ‘I ‘ave smaller size as well if you need…….’ (flirty smile), and there was no way I could leave in the middle of a sentence. A lack of self-confidence means I’m a compulsively overly courteous customer who is unable to be rude - I couldn’t just ignore him. Heaven forbid.

So I pretended not to notice the incessant rustling of the curtain and heavy rasping breathing noises outside and repeated my mantra ‘You’ve had three children Jo. You can do this. It’s only swimwear Jo, you’ve given birth..…’

The costume was on. But after ten minutes of staring at myself in the mirror, I still had no clue whether the costume I was wearing looked ‘appropriate’. I needed a second opinion. Mr Short Man was my only option.

I made up my mind that he was 100% gay. I knew this for sure because

a) he worked in a women’s underwear shop

b) he was wearing a rather fetching pink frilly shirt

c) he appeared to be totally unaffected by the horror of a 46-year old  woman’s wrinkled body. 

Obviously gay.

Delighted with my new-found knowledge I triumphantly whisked back the curtain to see what he thought.

Mr Short Man:           ‘Well zat is ……..WOW!’.  

Not the reaction I was expecting.

I burst out laughing.

No one had ever said that to me when I’m dressed in swimwear. (Or even dressed to go to a Simcha. Or, even, just, dressed).

Me:      ‘Erm, d’you not think my, erm, you know, my, erm…….well, don’t they look a bit…. big?’

Mr Short Man:           ‘No no no no no no……….you ‘ave to flaunt zem if you ‘ave zem. We need to pull zem up, not flatten zem down’.

I looked at myself again in the mirror. Was the costume flattening zem down or pulling zem up? After some manoeuvering and tweaking of my, ahem, assets by Mr Short Man, I felt satisfied I didn’t look completely hideous.

Emboldened by new-found confidence I asked for another costume. Clearly, one swimsuit would not be sufficient for all the beach outings I now had planned.

I decided I was going to purchase two Israeli, beautifully made, ridiculously expensive, swimming costumes. So what if they cost more than my weekly food bill. The kids didn’t need dinner EVERY night.

I made my way to the till. Still slightly apprehensive I questioned Mr Short Man about whether a woman of my ‘proportions’ could really get away with being seen on the beach in such an outfit.

Mr Short Man:           ‘Oh! You can get away with anyzing. You. You have such a gawjus smile. You light up zee room. I noticed it the moment you walked in zee shop. You really ‘ave something special. Really. I not joking. You no need to worry about ‘ow you look. Ever.’

I was beginning to like Mr Short Man.

I’m going back next week to buy some ‘suck-your-flab-in’ knickers.

Petrol Be va ka sha

I have a confession to make……

I don’t know how to get petrol.

I thought I was quite intelligent. Until I made Aliyah, I acted a bit like an adult.  I could buy what I needed, make myself understood in Starbucks and mostly get to school on time to pick up the kids. (Very occasionally I fell asleep on the sofa, after overdosing on Netflix).

But since making Aliyah there are things I can’t accomplish alone. The most annoying being I can’t work out how to fill my car up with petrol.

When I lived in England, I could do this. It took place when I did my weekly shop at my beloved Tesco. There was a petrol station right there. (So clever, those Tesco bods).  I moved seamlessly from shop car park to adjacent petrol garage forecourt to do the deed.

It was easy and at some point, it was made even easier, when one of those clever Tesco bods invented the ‘Pay At Pump’ option. What. A. Joy. Credit card inserted, petrol pumped and Tesco Clubcard Points to boot. No more trudging through the wind and rain (this was England) to the kiosk to pay, or more importantly, being faced with the temptation of that 'extra large snickers bar, four packets of crisps and fizzy drink combo' in the shop.

Although there were plenty of petrol stations in the UK, my car wasn’t always full. I never quite got the hang of that ‘fill your car up before it runs out’ thing. I always thought the petrol gauge was lying.

So I had my fair share of waiting for the AA man to bring me my green watering can containing £5 of petrol ‘to get you on yer’ way luv'’. I may have had a few smiley telling offs - ‘that was a silly thing to do wern’ it darlin’, you won’t be doin’ that again, will yer’?’ Ho ho ho.

But of course, I would be doing it again. And again. Culminating in being stranded one snowy night with my sister, Mum and Mum-in-law on the hard shoulder of the M11. Whilst waiting for said AA man to save us, we huddled together under a single silver foil blanket singing Barry Manilow songs. (We’d just been to see Barry in concert at the O2. And yes, his face did look really weird).

So though I didn’t always do it in a timely manner, I knew I could do it when required.

But, here in Israel, I can’t.

Everyone else seems to manage it. I see people driving around all over the place. But so far I’ve only figured out two options;

1.     Ask the smiling petrol attendant (often called Yossi) to do it for you.

2.     Do it yourself.

Up until recently, I didn’t even know there was a number 2 (The weird 'do it yourself' option). I honestly believed I had found my petrol station Utopia. I was blown away by the Israeli improvement on Tesco’s ‘Pay at Pump’ option, (which to be fair, I thought was beyond improvement). 

All I had to do was drive up to my pump of choice, smile graciously at Yossi, (as mentioned before, I have always been an overly courteous and appreciative customer), and boldly state ‘Ma-leh Be-vu-ka-sha’. (translation: ‘fill ‘er up please guv’nor’).

And the best bit ……you don’t even get out of your car !!  Your bum stays firmly in position. You open your window the tiniest crack to prevent your beautifully cool, air conditioned air, from escaping, you waggle your credit card through the crack at Yossi for payment and away you go.

Amazing or what?

So what’s the problem?

Well. The problem arises when Yossi isn’t there. Maybe he’s on a falafel break, or a fag break, or more than likely, in the middle of a loud and furious argument with three other customers all at the same time, all of whom are as stumped as me as how to get their flippin’ petrol, and have decided to completely block my entrance to the special ‘Get Yossi to do it for you’ pump lanes.

So now I have to go to one of the scary ‘Get yer' own petrol luv’-  we’re havin' a fag break’ pumps. That I have never ventured near before.

  

I know that before you can get pumping, you need to remove the nozzle. And I know you have to put the nozzle in the petrol hole thing in your car. (I’m not a complete idiot). But in Israel there are a whole series of numbers that need to be input into the frightening huge pump dispenser thing, before the petrol is released. Apparently the numbers include your ID number and your car registration, both of which I actually know. (Well, I don’t actually know my car registration, but again, I don’t want you thinking I’m a complete idiot).

But these numbers need to be input in the right order. Exactly after the scary machine asks you (in bloody Hebrew). And you need to insert your credit card at some point. Perhaps, even twice. And then press a few more random buttons frantically. And there appears to be a knack to this.

Which I haven’t got.

I search for Yossi. But Yossi is oblivious to my distress. He looks directly at me, sees I’m having difficulty, clocks the sweaty, middle-aged woman playing tug-of-war with the pump…....and looks away.

I try to grab his attention, I wave manically, managing to squeak ‘Slich-ah  be-va-ka-sha… ’ before my Hebrew runs out. He finally notices the red-faced, panic-stricken middle-aged lady (that’s me). He saunters over, casual like, looks me up and down with disdain whilst I attempt clumsily to wipe the (now pouring) sweat from my face, and says loudly ‘MUH?’

But. He’s there. Once he’s there, it’s plain sailing. He suavely inputs the magic numbers, his fingers release the nozzle and the fluid finally flows……(sorry, got a bit carried away there).

With Yossi – it’s Utopia.

Without, I face a future of being stranded on an Israeli highway, awaiting the Israeli equivalent of the AA man, bringing me my green watering can with 50 shekels of petrol.

Not appealing.

But I suppose at least I can be grateful that this time I won't be shivering under a silver foil blanket, on the M11, singing Cococabana.