We're in Lockdown

Things have changed rather a lot since my last blog (which I think was back in 1979). People are finally cottoning on to the fact that the only way to save the world and all of humanity (in the absence of Will Smith or Bruce Willis) is to stay home and watch telly.

I mean COME ON!

I’ve been saying that for the past 5 years. And I know people are preaching that we must use this unexpected downtime to learn Swahili, read War and Peace and write sonnets, but seriously? I can just about keep on top of the cooking, cleaning, shouting, crying, hiding my last sacred bars of Dairy Milk and watching telly, (this is obviously not in order of importance), without the added pressure of having to learn the chords of ‘Imagine’ on the guitar.

So as things have rapidly altered, I thought it would be useful to re-introduce all the members of the household to remind you who everyone is and explain their vital role within the Sugarpuff clan.

This blog episode re-introduces Tidy Husband.

I am assuming that his name is self-explanatory, but - for the slower amongst us – he is called that because he is my Husband and he is Tidy. Tidy Husband is a personal fitness coach, spinning instructor and mountain climber - such a lazy sod. I’m embarrassed.

To climb mountains, he usually needs to fly somewhere where there is a mountain. Flying is proving particularly tricky during this ‘only celebrities may fly – as long as they wear gloves and a mask’ period we are currently experiencing. Additionally, he is finding it difficult to ‘work from home’ as it turns out there aren’t a huge number of mountains to climb in our house. He did discover a clothes mountain in one of the kids bedrooms but he said the view wasn’t great from the top.

Due to his unwillingness to walk to Mount Kilimanjaro (I told you he was lazy), or even cycle to Mount Everest (disappointing), that part of his job has had to be postponed for the time being.

So, instead of being away for 2-3 weeks at a time like usual, he is now At Home. With Me. Watching My Every Move. As a result, Lockdown is not going quite as expected.

My Daily Lockdown Plan was going to be perfect as it was very similar to my Daily Pre-Lockdown Plan. I envisaged awaking around 8, enjoying a leisurely breakfast outside (weather permitting) before slotting in a second sleep before lunch. After lunch I imagined selecting my day attire, (a choice between my Primark ‘Love To Lounge’ Pyjamas or Tesco ‘LeisureWear’ onesie), watching some telly (well, maybe quite a bit of telly), having my daily portion of Ben & Jerry’s, napping a while, asking someone to make me a cup of tea, watching some more telly and squeezing in a quick blast of Candy Crush, finishing the day with some Dairy Milk before retiring to bed.

With Tidy Husband now at home, Daily Lockdown Plan has been scuppered.

He appears to want things … tidy. Exceptionally … tidy. This means that some extra-curricular unexpected activities have had to be slotted into my meticulous agenda. Apart from cleaning the bathroom more than once a month (apparently this wasn’t acceptable), his expectations include something to eat at least once a day, clean clothes for his online spinning sessions and me getting up off beige sofa at least twice a day (unfair I feel).

I queried the need for clean clothes seeing as his fitness sessions are now online with no one there to smell him. Seeing as we always remain 6 feet away from each other, (we did this even before the Lockdown), the smell won't bother me either. 

We are still in negotiations regarding eating. My foods of choice are ice cream (currently hidden under some left over bolognaise that no one liked), and chocolate (also hidden but the whereabouts cannot be divulged as I don’t know who’s reading this). These food items require no preparation whereas Tidy Husband prefers to eat foods that need cooking. And I’m not really one for cooking.

The negotiations are ongoing.

To end on a positive note, as Tidy Husband is a fitness instructor, I now have personalized work-out sessions every day. I think I have lost 3 stone since the Lockdown began. (see below...)

(That last sentence is a lie).

Exotic lands await

Tidy Husband loves his job. He’s a mountaineer. He gets to go to exotic lands and pretend he doesn’t have any Wifi connection. Thankfully I’ve never been a jealous person.

Until now.

The opportunity recently arose for me to go on a trip with him. I dropped no hints whatsoever. There were no threats or tantrums. Well, maybe just one. Or two.

But the main thing is I was going to travel to exotic lands myself. I wasn’t fussed if Tidy Husband joined me or not.

We were doing an African safari (the Serengeti noch) and touring Zanzibar. It was made clear this was a Very Important Work Trip. I was to Behave Myself and not make any silly jokes or ask stupid questions like ’Why is that giraffe sticking his neck out?’, or ‘What do you call a dirty elephant?’ (A smellyphant).

Of course, the most important thing was to look the part. I became obsessed with buying appropriate safari kit spending a ridiculous amount of time online googling ‘best safari hat for people who have a lot of fuzzy hair that won’t fit under a safari hat’ and ‘clothes that make you look cool when you are overweight and middle-aged and never ever going to look cool.’

I pined hourly for Tesco and Primark. Tidy Husband cautioned me on buying too much safari kit, but I wouldn’t listen and ordered a whole host of khaki co-ordinates, heavy-duty trekking trousers, hiking boots, (we were traveling in a jeep), flowing maxi dresses for ambling along the white sandy beaches and an Australian safari hat with corks hanging down. I was going to fit in perfectly.

I eagerly awaited the arrival of my goodies to discover that nothing fit - and I ended up wearing the same black top and black trousers for 12 days in a row.

Our first stop was Kilimanjaro in Africa.

They speak Swahili. I don’t.

Everyone was very friendly and smiley but called me Jumbo. I found this rather rude. I didn’t appreciate them commenting on my size. There’s no doubt I’m a little on the large side (even wearing my ‘slimming’ black get-up) but I wasn’t expecting complete strangers to judge me.

‘Perhaps this is the local culture,’ I wondered to myself, ‘perhaps they’re all just extremely honest.’

I returned their smiles until Tidy Husband arrived to pick me up from the airport - he had flown out earlier to fit in another mountain climb. (As you do).  

But I noticed he too was getting called Jumbo. This was not on. 

He is far from Jumbo – he is positively microscopic (in a good way).

I started to explain to a friendly smiling African lady that Tidy Husband is not Jumbo – he’s up at 5am every day to work out for several hours and very rarely – if ever – eats cake.

She could call me Jumbo as I spend most of my time eating ice cream and watching Netflix, but she was going too far…..…..

.........when Tidy Husband explained that Jumbo in Swahili - means ‘hello’. 

So? Are we settled yet?

It’s been 4 years since we made Aliyah. It feels like a lifetime but also 5 minutes. I can’t decide whether I’m settled, not settled, half settled or even what settled means. Some things have changed, others haven’t and some probably never will.

Speaking Hebrew

Ha! Don’t make me laugh. Me - speak Hebrew? No, the only thing that has happened is that I have forgotten how to speak. At all. In any language. My go-to language of choice remains English. All Israelis think they’re fluent English speakers because they’ve watched a whole series of Friends and can say, ‘how YOU doin’?’ in a ridiculous Hebrew/New York accent.  

If I don’t find a fluent English speaker in the shop/bank/garage that I find myself in, I leave.

It can be an effort to go somewhere else, as there is always the risk I won’t find another parking spot. They usually take 3 hours to find, even though I am fortunate to have a disabled parking permit, and I often have to fight off a couple of old people to steal their disabled space. 

So sometimes I decide to stick it out in the shop with a Hebrew Person and have a go with Hebrish.  Sometimes a bit of French or Spanish creeps in if I’m not paying attention.

A typical daily conversation goes something like this…

Me:                                        Shalom

Hebrew person (‘HP’):          Shalom

Me:                                        Erm…

Hebrew person:                    (looking at me with a half expectant, but mostly bored, expression)

Me:                                        Erm…ken….hi….erm…..

HP:                                        Ken ?? (looking a tad irritated now)

Me:                                        Yes ....I mean ken…ani…er…ani… (hot and sweaty and beginning to panic)

HP:                                        What you need? (said in angry tone of impatience)

Me:                                        Er… ben sheli ……oh! ….. you speak English? (huge sigh of relief knowing I won’t need to beat up anymore old people to steal their parking space)

HP:                                        Yes, your son…your son what? What?

Me:                                        My son....he need this book (shakily hold up a blurred photo on my phone of the Hebrew school book my son asked me to get in 2016)

HP:                                        We don’t have

Me:                                        You don’t have?

HP:                                        Ugh. I just say – we don’t have

Me:                                        Oh yes, yes …..of course…silly me…. when will you have it back in stock?

HP:                                         Who knows?

Me:                                        Shall I take a guess?

HP:                                         You come back again. Maybe I have it, maybe I don’t? Like I said, who knows? Maybe we all die tomorrow.

Me:                                        Of course, mais oui. Makes perfect sense. Adios amigo.

No longer teenage daughter is in the Navy

One thing that does make you feel Israeli is having kids in the Army. Although having said that, it also makes you feel like you have ‘Immigrant’ tattooed on your forehead, as you grasp how much you will never ever know about your children’s lives.

No Longer Teenage Daughter (‘NLTD’) is serving in the Navy(sing along). She wears a gorgeous beige uniform and looks like a movie star. But that changes when she opens her mouth and everything (everything), is expressed in a loud aggressive tone of voice.

‘Would you like a cup of tea darling?’ I might say.

‘WHY? WHY WOULD I WANT A CUP OF TEA? WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU????

You get the picture.

I was at home the other day and I accidentally overheard her on the phone (even though she was in Tel Aviv). She had been requested to do overnight guarding, but wires had got crossed along the line.

No Longer Teenage Daughter (‘NLTD’):  Ken??!! (shouted aggressively)

Poor soldier on the other end of phone ('PSOOEOP'): mumblemumblemumble

NLTD:                                                      Lo lo lo lo lo !!!!!!!!!

PSOOEOP:                                 (Slightly louder) mumblemumblemumble

NLTD:                                                                    Lots of rapid-fire Hebrew shouted down the phone, lasting around 5 minutes non-stop, punctuated by ‘lo’! and ‘ze lo beseder’! plus quite a few expletives

PSOOEOP:                                                           (silence)

NLTD:                                                                    Beseder?

PSOOEOP:                                                           (very quietly) mumblemumblemumble

NLTD:                                                                    More machine-gun Hebrew and several more expletives

PSOOEP:                                                              (silence)

NLTD:                                                                    OK?

PSOOEP:                                                              er……..ken………er……...bye

When I questioned the appropriateness of speaking to another soldier like that, she looked at me as though I was the mad one, (which I usually am), and said ‘but I was really nice to him.’

Son Number 2 is in the Army

Yup, I have two serving soldiers at present. Sending Son Number 2 off to the Army was a surreal experience. Seeing him in his Army uniform transported me back to when he was 3 and his chosen Purim outfit was an Israeli soldiers’ uniform. Long before our Aliyah days and never thinking he would ever wear it for real….

He chose to do Kravi (combat) which we were petrified delighted about. There are times when he doesn’t get back to base in time, his phone is off and the tracking device I use to spy on him, see where he is, isn’t working. But then I remember he belongs to the Army now and it’s up to them to discipline him and not me.

The best moments are when he walks through the door before Shabbat, tired, sweaty and hungry, goes straight up to his room and stays there for 48 hours straight. Even when he doesn’t say a word to us, we just loving knowing he’s there.

I’m a working Israeli woman

As you may recall, Husband wasn’t overly impressed with my encyclopedic knowledge of ALL the programmes on Netflix and ‘suggested’ I might want to get a job. I reluctantly gladly acquiesced and am now a fully-fledged Israeli woman working in Hi -Tec (sorry to brag).

My teenage work colleagues don’t know what to make of me. Not only am I treble their age, I am also double their size and speak only English. But some have embraced my unique advancement in years, constant need for chocolate, and attempt to talk to me.

Most of the conversation in the office is in Hebrew. I find this extremely selfish, seeing as I am the only one out of 75 people that can’t speak Hebrew. Obviously I refuse to bow down to this intimidating, and frankly, bullying behavior and will only reply in English.

Teenage work colleague (‘TWC’):                     So…live you here in Israel?

Me:                                                                        Yes, I made Aliyah

TWC:                                                                     Why you leave America?

Me:                                                                        I didn’t leave America, I left the UK, I’m British

TWC:                                                                     But you American woman, (I give up), why live you here in Israel? In other countries everyone have cars that work. They earn enough money to eat. Netflix more choice of programmes. Prime video latest releases. Buy Cadbury's chocolate in normal clean place, not smelly, disgusting supermarket. Ben & Jerry’s half price and can buy electrical goods without having to sell a limb. They have Amazon. Why you come to place where no Amazon? You crazy?

Me:                                                                        Well….. you see…. the thing is..........

I’m a Zionist   

(collapses on floor sobbing)                        

Candy Crush addiction

Regular readers will know how I feel about Candy Crush. I like it. A lot. It first came into my life around 4 years ago, when we made Aliyah. This was not a coincidence. I was a tad overwhelmed at the time and Candy Crush seemed to give me what I needed. (Respite from brain overload).

I try to keep my lengthy play sessions to myself but sometimes people notice. There have been a few occasions when I was in the bathroom a little toooo long at work. They thought I’d left for the day and I got locked in the office. And I had an embarrassing situation with my CEO when he asked me to stop whatsapping him with my Candy Crush progress. 

I get a lot of interested questions. How does it feel to be a super-dooper candy crusher? Where did you train?  How do you keep up your stamina? How did you learn those skills?

And then there are other less pleasant questions. Are you some sort of brain dead numb skull? What the hell’s wrong with you? Where’s my dinner? Which are most commonly asked by Tidy Husband.

But the main one I get is a confused ‘you seem vaguely normal, why are you watching (virtual) coloured sweets get destroyed?

Well, I figured I owed normal people an explanation, and Tidy Husband a reason why he doesn’t eat anymore.

Candy Crush is nice to me.

For those of you that don’t play, because you have a life, let me explain.

1. 

       1.It notices when I’m gone

I could get locked in the basement for a week before anyone would notice. (I once tried it). Not so with my beloved Candy Crush. When I log into Candy Crush each hour day, it knows I’ve been away and welcomes me with open arms. ‘Welcome back!, it sighs, ‘we’ve missed you!.’

‘I’ve only been gone five minutes’, I mumble, but the point is, it noticed I was gone. And it tells me. In writing. I have proof.

Somewhere out there there’s a bot that loves me.

2.       It gives me permission to relax

The real world doesn’t offer much opportunity for relaxation. We are made to feel guilty for time off. We’re told we can’t lay on the sofa for another hour as there are 3 kids that need feeding, and if we so much as reach for the Ipad for another 10-hour Netflix session, we’re told we are ‘lazy’.

Candy Crush opens with the words….Swipe.Match.Relax.

Swipe and Match are pretty meaningless but RELAX – well I respond well to that.

3.       It gives me presents

My family aren’t great at presents. It requires thinking and effort and none of us can be bothered. The last gift I got was a present from my Mum. It was a T-shirt she’d bought in Primark in 2011 that didn’t fit her.

Candy Crush has a free wheel spin every day to get a Free Booster. It’s not real and I can’t actually touch it. But it’s a free gift. Every day. You never know where the wheel will land incorporating the element of surprise as well. Will it never end?

4.       It praises me

I think we can all agree that being a Mother doesn’t involve much positive feedback. I can’t remember the last time I got a reward for putting a load of washing on. No one ever tells me how good I am at making chicken schnitzels. (Maybe ‘cos I never make them).

But in Candy Crush world, I am praised. It recognises my achievements and tells me how good I’m doing.

‘You’re a star’, it coos, ‘you’re doing so well’. ‘We’ve never had a super-dooper candy crusher like you’.

‘Why, shucks’, I reply. ‘I’m blushing’ and Candy Crush rewards me with a vivid virtual fireworks display lighting up my screen.

5.       I win races

Not a marathon or one of those easy-peasy Triathlon things that Tidy Husband does. No, every week there is a race to see who can progress through the most levels. Usually this is #IloveCandyCrushmorethanmykids31 or #CrushCandy4eva, but one week – It Was Me. I won a race. The first I have won since the famous egg and spoon race in 1975 (and I have a feeling I glued the egg to the spoon). 

People worry. They scold me and tell me I’m addicted. Pah! I laugh. Addicted?

It’s impossible to get addicted to sugared sweets. Isn’t it?

It's been a tricky time...

I’ve been having a bit of a tricky time lately.  I’ve been going through something called the ‘menopause’. Ladies over a certain age will know what this is. It’s more confusing for the men, as although menopause has the word ‘men’ in it, it’s not actually anything to do with them. Whether it’s caused by them is another story.

I don’t want to ‘mansplain’ the menopause to my male readers, but feel free to read on to find out the fabulous symptoms you’re missing.

Symptom no. 1 involves water, a lot of it. On your body. In the form of sweat. Your body is covered in a fine film of water, giving a beautiful glistening effect. When you’re age 25. By the age of 50, the glistening diminishes somewhat as the water gets caught in attractive skin folds, which doesn’t give quite the same sparkly result. Water may appear sporadically, or if you’re one of the chosen ones - constantly.

I myself am lucky to fall into the ‘walking through a constant puddle of sweat’ group. My trick is to carry a 40” gale force fan with me wherever I go, keeping it 3 inches from my face on full power.  No one seems to notice.

Symptom no. 2 is gaining weight. Unfortunately, this happened to me when I hit 30. Something to do with eating too much.  I now realise I must have had an exceptionally early menopause to have gained so much weight in a rather impressive record time. According to excellent research by ‘Yes, you’re fat, it’s the menopause.com’, anything you eat will now turn into several tyres around your midriff. This applies to Ben & Jerry’s, cake and Cadburys Dairy Milk. I’m not sure about other foods as I don’t eat them.

Symptom no. 3 is experiencing extremely vivid dreams or insomnia. But not at the same time. You will find yourself either staring longingly at your blissfully sleeping partner imagining all the terrible things you could do to them, or vividly dreaming about the terrible things you could do to them. The dreams are so intense that it can sometimes be hard to distinguish between what’s reality and what’s not. Which you can use as your defence in court.

According to recent research by ‘You’re mad, deal with it, t’s the menopause.com’ if you cause harm to your partner during the night, it’s pardonable menopausal behaviour, as they are the one that caused it in the first place by having the ability to sleep soundly.

Symptom no. 4 is headaches. I never suffered a headache until I was 47. But seeing as I have now had one every day for the past two years, I’ve made up for it. According to superb research by ‘Think that’s a headache! Try the menopause.com’, these headaches are designed by Mother Nature to be worse than labour pains. This is intended to make you feel grateful that you’re not young enough to have labour pains anymore. Clever Mother Nature. 

Symptom no. 5 is weeping uncontrollably. This is perfectly acceptable if you are watching ‘Beaches’ for the 17^th time (spoiler, she dies, it’s unbearable), but do try to curb the hysterical sobbing if you are in a work meeting, and the CEO has just told you that revenue is down this month.

Symptom no. 6 - you will be tired all the time. This could be because you have gained 17 stone and are putting enormous stress on your heart. Or it could just be because you’re lazy. Either way, don’t fight it – sleep is good, unless you have insomnia (see symptom number 3) and then………..oh - that’s why I’m tired all the time.

Symptom no. 7 involves losing your memory / concentration / mind. Losing your memory is fun, you now have an excuse why you ‘forgot’ all those things you couldn’t be bothered to remember in the first place.

Losing your concentration is less fun, especially when you tell your boss you are 100% certain you sent her that email yesterday, only to find that you are 100% certain you didn’t, when you find it still in your outbox three days later.

Losing your mind is a bit more serious, but it’s usually your kids that have taken it.  

Finally, symptom no. 8 involves binge watching Netflix and sitting on the couch.

This is normal. Do not resist.

One month on with Puppy

 

Do you like being followed around constantly? Would you like to lose your precious personal space? Do you like having your face licked? Do you find yourself talking in a ridiculously high voice, but have no idea where it came from? Do you like watching your obsessively Tidy Husband lose the plot? 

If so. Get a puppy.

Puppies are sweet. They’re soft and fluffy. But so is a teddy bear.

Would you enjoy shouting at your kids who swore they ‘would walk the puppy every day’. 

‘We’ll look after her Mum. You can stay in position on your beige sofa. Netflix won’t even know you’re gone, and your Candy Crush score will in no way be affected.’

Lies. All lies.

Friends I haven’t spoken to in years are ahead of me on Candy Crush. They’re no better than me, but they have the time to play. I have a list of TV box sets that need binge watching. Sadly waiting. Netflix sends me emails asking where I am. Have I found someone else? Have I given my heart to Apple TV?

Gone are the days of swanning off into the sunset without a care in the world. I thought when my kids were out of nappies I was free forever. I could leave them home alone. (That is legal isn’t it?). But now, I have another baby that I cannot leave alone. The cries and howls are heart breaking. I haven't been to work for two weeks.

  She also poos and wees just like my babies did, but doesn’t have the courtesy to do it in a    nappy. 

I find myself walking. Yes walking. I haven’t walked since 1995. Not only am I walking, I'm being dragged by a tiny fluffy thing that wants to go faster than me and has no respect for a middle-aged, overweight, sweaty lady who can’t avoid tripping over her own two feet.

Whilst walking, I find myself swinging a bag. Not the latest Gucci handbag. No. A bag of dog poo. That I carry around until I can find someone else’s bin to hurriedly hide it in. Tidy Husband won't tolerate dog poo in our clean bins. 

One day Puppy escaped downstairs. Into the hallowed and sacred land of Tidy Husband. You go down there at your peril. Tidy Husband can smell if someone has entered his domain. I received a furious text with all kinds of profanities at the sight that greeted him when he realised he had been violated. Apparently, puppy had been allowed to cause a ******* riot. I even received a picture to illustrate the devastation she had caused...

To say I was shocked is an understatement. 

There are good things of course. Having a warm, soft, contented puppy on your lap whilst watching Netflix is a pleasure. Until you realise, the reason she was contented was because she was secretly chewing your slipper. 

Training her is fun. We took the liberty of getting a puppy trainer. Let’s call him Tamir. Because that’s his name. 

Tamir has spent more time in our house recently than Tidy Husband. His presence turns excitable, slipper-chewing puppy into hypnotized, relaxed tickle-able teddy bear. 

He’s also worked wonders with the kids. Parenting was never my strong point. I’ve always had stronger skills in Candy Crush. But Tamir tells us he doesn’t train the puppy. No, he trains the humans. 

He’s moving in next week.

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.