Toilet Treasures

My friend Jellyfish SMS'd the other day.

The Hotzaah La'Poel people were just here. They say I owe NIS 18,000 ($4500) in taxes. If I don't pay within 48 hours, they say they'll come back and cart me off to jail.

For the non-Holy Land Central (Israel) dwellers, Hotzaah La'Poel is the equivalent of the "Repo Man". They take away your stuff should you fall behind in tax payments, alimony, child support, mortgage payments, etc. No"stuff" to seize? No problem. They'll throw you, the person, in jail instead until a friend or family member pays up on your behalf.

Sh*t man! I SMS'd back. You must be freaking!

My accountant is checking it out. He messages back.

Very calm, I think. Wow. I'd be pretty darned frightened.

A few hours later, Jelly calls.

Guess what, he poses. I'm afraid to guess.

I went to the bank to ask for a loan just in case I really do owe the government the money. And I'm talking to the bank manager. And he says to me: I understand your predicament but why do you think you might need a loan?

To cover the tax debt, I tell him.

But why a loan? he asks me over and over again.

I'm like: He's the bank manager. Is he that thick?

Then he swings the computer monitor around to face me. And I see my bank balance. I have five times the amount I thought I had in my savings account.

DUDE! What's wrong with you? I ask.

How in the hell could you have that much $ in your account and not know about it. Would you PLEASE, for the love of God, invest it or something? Sheesh!

And he tells me it's all because this morning, when he was on cup #4 of coffee, he thought he saw the Virgin Mary's reflection in the toilet bowl. I told him it was too much caffeine. He insists it was an omen.

Damn. I either need to up my caffeine intake or start looking for omens. Damn.

Doubled Over

For 18 years this is what I've done. I've been Ella* - ABC News producer. I'm not sure what it's going to be like without all this.

On the other hand, my kids are growing up and this is it. You get one shot with them. Pretty soon they won't want me around. So I want to be with them and not have to run off to London or Turkey or a suicide bombing or war.

And let me tell you: things got so bad during the early 2000's that I woke up literally doubled over with stomach pain every morning. I went to specialists and had X-Rays and blood work done. Nada.

Then I visited a gastroenterologist and we got to chatting. And we started talking about my work. I mentioned to him that there wasn't one suicide bombing outside Jerusalem I didn't cover throughout the years. Not one!

I'd get the page or call and have to pry my 6-year-old daughter off me to run to the scene. At bombings I was literally walking through a sea of dead bodies and body parts.

Then I'd get home and all I wanted to do was shower. And my daughter would run and cling to me because she wanted to be with me. And I'd dream about the bombings. Then wake up doubled over.

The doc closed my file and told me: Your problem isn't here in the charts. It's your work. You need to see a psychiatrist.

So I did. And the pain stopped.

Maybe not being a news producer will be a good thing.
**********
Conversation with a recently laid off former colleague

Freak Show

Clearly someone who has too much time on his hands

Anorexia Campaign

This is a controversial new ad campaign aimed at stirring awareness around anorexia. What do you think?

American Woman

Compliments of my friend Karin

Atone for Misrepresentation

I'm put off.

I was primed for a new snazzy cellphone upgrade to my outdated model via a promo deal I had worked out with a mobile phone company rep on the phone. We verbally agreed to the terms and the cost, I wrote it all down and even asked: Now, there's nothing hidden here? No fees I'm gonna get hit with later? Naturally, she reassured that there weren't.

So the cellphone company rep showed up this evening and pulled out the new model and displayed its bells and whistles. While I'm playing with the functions and he's preparing to box my older model he pulls out the paperwork. And the grand total shown on their typed up invoice is double the amount I had agreed to less than twenty-four hours prior. I protested.

"Oh this happens about 70-80% of the time," chuckles the delivery person. "But if you sign here and here, it says in the small print you have 48 hours to think things over. Don't worry. The company will come around to the price you agreed on."

And I'm thinking: Do you live on 'Asinine Alley'? Surely you don't expect me to sign the inflated priced contract and then just hop on down to the Cellcom store to spend hours of my time and pounds of frustration and stress on getting my $ back. Nossiree Bob.

I sent Mr. Cellcom a'packin'. Take it and leave. You're wasting my time. When you can show me paperwork that reflects what I agreed to, I'll sign.

This style of "doing business" (sic) is not new in these parts nor is the mentality. And it is trying, wearing and probably THE least attractive aspect of living in this country. The "I'll try and get one over on you and see if you notice" attitude.

The problem is that yes, people notice. They notice when Israelis travel and try this stuff out on foreign terraine, they notice when they come to the country to visit as tourists and get ripped off by the locals and they notice when they live here and haven't grown up with this kind of outright misrepresentation and scandal on a broad and blatant scale.

But as the Cellcom people are banking on, probably 30-40% don't balk. And that's a whole 'lotta profit to be made. Yessiree Bob.

Israel Underwear

A family member recently underwent some pretty serious surgery that involved a pretty serious incision through her abdominal wall.

She's now recovering, thanks for asking. During the recent Rosh Ha'Shana (Jewish New Year) family get-together, I sat next to her during the festive meal.

She wasn't eating very much and she didn't seem to be able to assume a comfortable position. Not surprising. Abdominal surgery is a very painful way of finding out how much you actually use the muscles in that area.

We chatted about her procedure and recovery and between "Pass the baked chicken with tzimmes" and "Allow me to get that for you" my cousin - an Israeli who falls into the "hottie" category - remarked:

I hate having to wear this Golda Underwear.

This was a new one for me. But I knew EXACTLY what she was talking about and snorted so loudly my relatives at the other end of the expansive table urged: "Drink something and it'll go down!"

I know you know the style of undies too if you know who Golda was.

I guess that over here in Mid-East land, that kind of HUGE underwear like Pee Wee used to keep around the playhouse for laughs is termed Golda Underwear after the former Prime Minister.

I'm pretty sure Golda didn't go around flaunting her underthings. But isn't it, like, obvious she wore that style?

I could write that she's turning in her grave just about now but somehow I doubt it. She'd probably remark: "So? What of it?"