The thing about living in Jerusalem is you can't take a step without bumping into a pregnant woman.
You can't take a step without bumping into anyone, period, but when you're in the unfortunate position of wondering if you're ever going to have children yourself and you are constantly having to offer up your seat on the bus for the umpteenth pregnant and married "woman" – and by woman, I mean barely out of her teens, well, you start to look around for a way to just end it all.
“Ask yourself this question: Do you really want to get married?” read the invitation for a singles party in Jerusalem.
“If the answer is NO then carry on going to all those parties, Shabbat meals, lectures, supermarket aisles…”
Ahem! Supermarket aisles? Am I missing something here or is this some kind of veiled reference to that cheesy Dan Fogelberg song from the ‘80s where he meets his old lover in the grocery store, as in, “I stole behind her in the frozen foods and I touched her on the sleeve…”
Quick. When you hear the phrase "consensual sex," what comes to mind?
Rape? How about "Rape by deception."
Because that is what one unfortunate Arab man is convicted of for having had the misfortune of sleeping with the wrong Jewish woman. His crime? Pretending he was a Jew. His punishment? Two years of house arrest and a possible 18 months in jail.
Walking home from yoga I decided to cut through a pretty, tree-lined neighborhood.
On the way I noticed that someone had propped up framed art and a few boxes of stuff next to a garbage bin. I figured someone had moved out and just dumped the things they didn’t want so I crept closer to take a peek. My apartment was in need of a few decorative items.
I'm lapping up Girls in their Married Bliss after finding it on the five-shekel rack at my favorite used bookstore.
Which is another way of saying, Why can’t I just stay home and read books? Why must I endlessly search for a husband when I should be lying prone on the snake chair reading? Particularly because I happen to be lousy at the former and so very talented at the later?
If there is a word for falling in love with your therapist, what’s the word for falling for your hair stylist?
Because that was exactly what went down today at a salon stuck smack dab in the middle of a very kitschy, very loud, very Israeli mall in Jerusalem.
And by “loud” I mean it’s the chofesh hagadol, as they say here, which is another way of saying, the kids have been let out of school and if you thought it was loud before, you ain't heard nothing yet.