I have to apologize for my severe neglect of this blog lately. But as you can imagine, my hands were full with projects which we shall file under “Miscellaneous”. Besides, I am quite sure you would not be the least bit entertained by the events that occurred in recent weeks. I’ll give you the abridged version:
Pack a box, wait in line to get paperwork signed, cry, goodbye party, pack a box, wait in line to get paperwork signed, cry, goodbye dinner, pack a box…
There were some funny moments, some sad ones and some brilliant realizations tucked in between.
My emotions have been all over the place these past two weeks. I promised my husband between the anxiety attacks, spells of utter elation and crying jags that I’d find his sane wife and return her promptly. To date she has not yet been located. If you see her, please notify the authorities immediately.
If I get nothing more out of this move, I have learned so much about myself in the process. I have learned that I can. I can run into a brick wall, wipe away my tears, brush myself off and keep on going. I can fit all 20 pairs of shoes into my suitcase. I can live without sleep. I can be uncompromising. I can laugh at my mistakes. I can feel scared. I can be uncertain and completely sure all at the same time. I can get things done when no one else can.
I have also learned DH is the most patient man in the world.
With only 5 days left, the stress level has been strangely reduced to a trickle and replaced by waves of anticipation for the impending adventure. But check back with me while I am sprinting through LaGuardia to JFK with 6 extra-large and overpacked suitcases, a pissed off puppy and a frazzled husband…
Bring on the life boats.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
A Picture's Worth: In Search of a Home
Whilst in search of a proper living space in Israel via this magnificent creature called the inter-webz, I have become quite amused by one example of the seemingly universal Israeli I couldn't give a rat's ass attitude.
Throughout my quest I have observed Israelis lack the staging a home method of their American counterparts. As a twenty-something, never quite ready to purchase a home, I've done my fair share of apartment hunting in the States. Perfectly photoshopped, cropped and propped apartments almost gleam from the home pages. The masterfully manicured apartment complex with an equally manicured name, like Summer Oaks or The Estates at Stone Creek, entice you to come live the dream. Beautiful model homes with Martha Stewart kitchens and Pottery Barn bedrooms allow you to take a brief moment to imagine your flawless life in your flawless home.
Israelis, on the other hand, are a bit more...understated. Their apartments are named “2 room/small but good enough/no pets allowed”. Two scenarios usually occur in search of an apartment in Israel: either one will come across photos of the resident’s belongings strewn across their apartments or the apartment is still under construction with bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a broom tucked into the corner and half- hung cabinets lying on the dusty floor.
I have seen condoms sitting on a bathroom counter, dogs sleeping in unmade beds, a family enjoying dinner in the unkempt dining room and piles of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. If you are a Nosey Ned at heart, then apartment hunting in Israel is the perfect place to get your rocks off.
My favorite is the amount of obscene photos I have unearthed. One apartment was perfect...minus the sofa-sized poster of a woman's bare chest hanging above the living room couch. And I found another gorgeous 2 room townhome in a great location featuring a perfectly nice photo of a dog in mid-poop in the backyard.
Throughout my quest I have observed Israelis lack the staging a home method of their American counterparts. As a twenty-something, never quite ready to purchase a home, I've done my fair share of apartment hunting in the States. Perfectly photoshopped, cropped and propped apartments almost gleam from the home pages. The masterfully manicured apartment complex with an equally manicured name, like Summer Oaks or The Estates at Stone Creek, entice you to come live the dream. Beautiful model homes with Martha Stewart kitchens and Pottery Barn bedrooms allow you to take a brief moment to imagine your flawless life in your flawless home.
Israelis, on the other hand, are a bit more...understated. Their apartments are named “2 room/small but good enough/no pets allowed”. Two scenarios usually occur in search of an apartment in Israel: either one will come across photos of the resident’s belongings strewn across their apartments or the apartment is still under construction with bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a broom tucked into the corner and half- hung cabinets lying on the dusty floor.
I have seen condoms sitting on a bathroom counter, dogs sleeping in unmade beds, a family enjoying dinner in the unkempt dining room and piles of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. If you are a Nosey Ned at heart, then apartment hunting in Israel is the perfect place to get your rocks off.
My favorite is the amount of obscene photos I have unearthed. One apartment was perfect...minus the sofa-sized poster of a woman's bare chest hanging above the living room couch. And I found another gorgeous 2 room townhome in a great location featuring a perfectly nice photo of a dog in mid-poop in the backyard.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Essentials to take to Israel: Hockey Pucks and Black Heels
Although the mere thought of moving abroad could have sent my marriage into a stressed-induced tailspin, my husband and I have managed this move considerably well. Very well in fact. We’ve doled out responsibilities, supported each other, set up weekly “aliyah meetings” over relaxing dinners together and become hyper-aware of the other’s needs.
We are a well-oiled aliyah machine. Kicking ass and taking names. Just call us the Chuck Norris of moving abroad.
That is until the packing began. I have mentioned before my other half may have pack rat tendencies. I, on the other hand, can fill exactly one box of “things” that I have an emotional attachment to. If allowed, DH would fill an entire walk in closet, plus a office and a small hallway closet of items he deems important. Oh wait…he already has.
In marriage, one learns much about his or her partner’s eccentricities and in marriage one must love his or his partner in spite (or because of) those eccentricities. As a self-professed type A control freak married to a self-professed pack rat, I have learned the art and beauty of ignoring the clutter. If it is out of sight, I do my best ignore it-which is far from my desire to go in the closet armed with only industrial sized trash bags and enough Red Bull to get me through one glorious night of organizing. Oh yes, that closet would call me daddy after I was done with it.
I only learned this after our previous move from Washington D.C. Admittedly, in the process of packing, I threw out his prized hockey puck. In my defense, it looked like a regular ol’ hockey puck to me and he hasn’t played hockey since Vanilla Ice had a hit record.
So yes, I threw out his precious hockey puck. But lesson learned….my husband is a borderline hoarder and I am a heartless witch.
Back to this packing adventure. It may be better understood if I simulate an hour of packing in TheBride’s residence:
I’ve had it. I’m about march into that spare room and tell him what’s what when he casually says from the other room: Hon, do you have to take all 10 pairs of black heels with you?
So yes, maybe we all have our eccentricities. I love shoes. He lets me love shoes so I will let him take his boxing gloves to Israel. And that damned hockey puck.
We are a well-oiled aliyah machine. Kicking ass and taking names. Just call us the Chuck Norris of moving abroad.
That is until the packing began. I have mentioned before my other half may have pack rat tendencies. I, on the other hand, can fill exactly one box of “things” that I have an emotional attachment to. If allowed, DH would fill an entire walk in closet, plus a office and a small hallway closet of items he deems important. Oh wait…he already has.
In marriage, one learns much about his or her partner’s eccentricities and in marriage one must love his or his partner in spite (or because of) those eccentricities. As a self-professed type A control freak married to a self-professed pack rat, I have learned the art and beauty of ignoring the clutter. If it is out of sight, I do my best ignore it-which is far from my desire to go in the closet armed with only industrial sized trash bags and enough Red Bull to get me through one glorious night of organizing. Oh yes, that closet would call me daddy after I was done with it.
I only learned this after our previous move from Washington D.C. Admittedly, in the process of packing, I threw out his prized hockey puck. In my defense, it looked like a regular ol’ hockey puck to me and he hasn’t played hockey since Vanilla Ice had a hit record.
So yes, I threw out his precious hockey puck. But lesson learned….my husband is a borderline hoarder and I am a heartless witch.
Back to this packing adventure. It may be better understood if I simulate an hour of packing in TheBride’s residence:
Me: Toss it, Keep it, Pack it up. Toss it, toss it, toss it, keep it, pack it up. Toss it, toss it, toss it, keep it, pack it up.
After an hour, I have successful packed up the entire living room and half the kitchen.
DH: Oooh…I forgot about this!! Then proceeds to plays with new found toy for 5 minutes. Throws away 3 old CD’s, keeps 15 old CD’s. Hon, do you think I need my boxing gloves in Israel? You know what, I’m taking them. Goes through my trashed items to make sure I haven’t thrown away anything of his. Throws out a basketball…neither of us play basketball.Takes back the basketball and packs it just in case.
After an hour, DH has managed to pack 15 CD’s we will never use, a basketball that hasn’t been touched in 3 years and of course his prized hockey puck which he made me retrieve from the dumpster after I tossed it during the last move.
I’ve had it. I’m about march into that spare room and tell him what’s what when he casually says from the other room: Hon, do you have to take all 10 pairs of black heels with you?
So yes, maybe we all have our eccentricities. I love shoes. He lets me love shoes so I will let him take his boxing gloves to Israel. And that damned hockey puck.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Visa Blessings from an Internet Angel
As I am sitting here, taking a much needed break from filling out tiny boxes on countless pieces of paper, making endless phone calls, harassing government officials and deciphering the demands of the Israeli government, I marvel at the implausible blessings we’ve been given during this process. But I guess all blessings are unbelievable and surprising at the time.
As in a previous post, I told you I don’t believe in signs…but sometimes it is really hard not to. We’ve always said the reason we’re moving now and haven’t before is because it seems like today…right at this moment…all roads lead to Israel. Windows open when doors slam shut. New roads open up when dead ends block our way. Blessings are given when we feel like giving up.
I got another one in the form of an internet angel this weekend.
Getting me a visa to enter Israel has been a long and draining process. We are never given the answers we’re looking for and when we do, we are usually pointed in the wrong direction anyway. I have been warned before that the Ministry of Interior is quite conservative. They really don’t like dealing with intermarriages and seemingly make life a bit more difficult for non-Jewish spouses of Israelis.
DH and I were told last week that all I needed to get my B1 visa was to show up at the Ministry of Interior with my passport and marriage certificate once we arrived in Israel. That seemed too easy. It wasn’t possible that it was that easy and that made us even more uneasy. Then my angel arrived, out of the internet abyss and handed me a key to the madness.
As you can imagine, there are not too many interfaith families immigrating to the Jewish State. The Jewish Agency and Nefesh B’Nefesh who are helping my husband make aliyah don’t really know how to handle my situation, so they try their best, but end up with as many questions as we have. My angel came in the form of a fellow international blogger, the author of From 外人 to גוי, who is a non-Jewish gal married to an Israeli guy trying to figure out the maze of Israeli immigration (check out her blog…it’s insightful, well-written and has some amazing photos and videos).
Apparently, as I had anticipated, I don’t just have to show up with my passport and marriage certificate to get my visa. Apparently, as I had anticipated, there are quite a few hoops to jump through before I even step foot on that plane leaving August 31.
Here’s the list of items one will need to get a visa and/or permanent residency from the State of Israel. It’s a little more than a passport and marriage certificate I’d say.
I'm off to get fingerprinted, apostilled, notarized, stamped, copied, signed and checked. Wish me luck.
As in a previous post, I told you I don’t believe in signs…but sometimes it is really hard not to. We’ve always said the reason we’re moving now and haven’t before is because it seems like today…right at this moment…all roads lead to Israel. Windows open when doors slam shut. New roads open up when dead ends block our way. Blessings are given when we feel like giving up.
I got another one in the form of an internet angel this weekend.
Getting me a visa to enter Israel has been a long and draining process. We are never given the answers we’re looking for and when we do, we are usually pointed in the wrong direction anyway. I have been warned before that the Ministry of Interior is quite conservative. They really don’t like dealing with intermarriages and seemingly make life a bit more difficult for non-Jewish spouses of Israelis.
DH and I were told last week that all I needed to get my B1 visa was to show up at the Ministry of Interior with my passport and marriage certificate once we arrived in Israel. That seemed too easy. It wasn’t possible that it was that easy and that made us even more uneasy. Then my angel arrived, out of the internet abyss and handed me a key to the madness.
As you can imagine, there are not too many interfaith families immigrating to the Jewish State. The Jewish Agency and Nefesh B’Nefesh who are helping my husband make aliyah don’t really know how to handle my situation, so they try their best, but end up with as many questions as we have. My angel came in the form of a fellow international blogger, the author of From 外人 to גוי, who is a non-Jewish gal married to an Israeli guy trying to figure out the maze of Israeli immigration (check out her blog…it’s insightful, well-written and has some amazing photos and videos).
Apparently, as I had anticipated, I don’t just have to show up with my passport and marriage certificate to get my visa. Apparently, as I had anticipated, there are quite a few hoops to jump through before I even step foot on that plane leaving August 31.
Here’s the list of items one will need to get a visa and/or permanent residency from the State of Israel. It’s a little more than a passport and marriage certificate I’d say.
1) Apostilled background check, “Letter of Good Conduct”, with both maiden and married names from the FBI/State Police (You need to be fingerprinted at your local police station.)
2) Apostilled proof of being single from State of Residence and State of Marriage (this document doesn’t exist some states, but the state of Alabama CAN get you one)
3) Apostilled marriage certificate
4) Original birth certificate (if before 1989, no need to order certified and apostilled copy)
5) Passport, plus photocopy of front page and tourist visa
6) Two passport pictures, Israeli size (slightly smaller than American versions)
7) Evidence of shared bank accounts
8) Letter in Hebrew explaining how we met, signed and dated by us
8) Evidence of financial support while in Israel, signed by Israeli lawyer
10) Copy of Israeli apartment deed, signed by Israeli lawyer
11) Signed affidavits in Hebrew with contact info from three Israeli friends vouching for validity of marriage
12) Photos from before, during, and after wedding as evidence of valid relationship
I'm off to get fingerprinted, apostilled, notarized, stamped, copied, signed and checked. Wish me luck.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Israel: The Weird Kid In Class
The Israelis have requested yet another passport photo of me and DH. I’m serious. Another one. After we’ve already sent them 10. What are they doing with those things? No, you know what...I don’t wanna know. They can keep their weird government secrets.
I’ve come to realize the Israeli government is sort of like that weird kid in your 4th grade class. He was a little strange and nobody really liked him, but he was mysterious and intriguing all the same. His only friends were the other loner kids that nobody really liked either.
In fact, Israel is a lot like that weird kid. You know who I’m talking about, you had one in your class too.
You hung out with him during the summer because he had really cool toys and was kind of fun. But once school started again he always tried to talk to you in the halls, but you were scared of being seen with him so you turned your back to him. He'd ask you why you ignored him and you felt bad. You knew he was right, but it wasn't the cool thing to do.
The teacher would scold you in front of the whole class if you picked on him and sometimes even threaten to take away your recess. But someone always picked on him anyway, because... well, what is a little yelling really gonna do? Besides the teacher never followed through with any of those threats.
Those weird kids, they were tough s.o.b’s. Mostly because everyone was always trying to fight with them all the time. He’d kick some ass too. He’d go home with a black eye, but always come back to school the next day ready to forgive to make some friends, but willing to fight all over again if he had to.
So yeah, Israel is a lot like that weird kid.
I’ve come to realize the Israeli government is sort of like that weird kid in your 4th grade class. He was a little strange and nobody really liked him, but he was mysterious and intriguing all the same. His only friends were the other loner kids that nobody really liked either.
In fact, Israel is a lot like that weird kid. You know who I’m talking about, you had one in your class too.
You hung out with him during the summer because he had really cool toys and was kind of fun. But once school started again he always tried to talk to you in the halls, but you were scared of being seen with him so you turned your back to him. He'd ask you why you ignored him and you felt bad. You knew he was right, but it wasn't the cool thing to do.
The teacher would scold you in front of the whole class if you picked on him and sometimes even threaten to take away your recess. But someone always picked on him anyway, because... well, what is a little yelling really gonna do? Besides the teacher never followed through with any of those threats.
Those weird kids, they were tough s.o.b’s. Mostly because everyone was always trying to fight with them all the time. He’d kick some ass too. He’d go home with a black eye, but always come back to school the next day ready to forgive to make some friends, but willing to fight all over again if he had to.
So yeah, Israel is a lot like that weird kid.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Ode to Empty Boxes
Oh, moving boxes...why must you taunt me with your emptiness?
Are you that unfulfilled in life, oh empty moving boxes? So void of purpose?
With Grandma's creepy painting of an owl that always frightened me as a child and kind of still does.
There you sit...hoping for a smidge of acknowledgement each day I enter the room, only to be disappointed when I do not even glance in your direction.
There you sit. Patiently waiting to be carefully filled withthe pack rat's DH's adored collection of dozens of the same copy of newspaper, his beloved anthology of long forgotten computer parts and random wires and the ratty college t-shirt compilation that still lingers with the sweet acrid stench of fraternity basements and all-nighters.
There you sit. Patiently waiting to be carefully filled with
With Grandma's creepy painting of an owl that always frightened me as a child and kind of still does.
With the pencil drawing of Jesus holding a lamb. Oh picture of Jesus holding a lamb, you always held a special place in the hall closet of our Jewish home once my husband figured out you were not just some guy holding a fluffy puppy.
And other useful items I have acquired in these nearly 27 years of life. You longed to be filled, oh poor barren moving boxes.
But I do not come. I am content in my procrastination. You will have to wait until I am ready.
 |
| Don't be surprised if this is how I leave this world. |
Thursday, June 17, 2010
How do you say "Breakdown" in Hebrew?
In two and half months exactly, I will be on a plane flying over the Atlantic with one happy husband, four over packed suitcases and a pissed-off husky on my way to my new home in Israel.
Right now, at this exact moment I am freaking out.
During certain moments in the past few months, I have allowed myself brief periods of complete anxiety induced breakdowns. I don't have any triggers per se. I don't know when or why they occur.
Let's go back to Thursday of last week for example. I woke up on a beautiful Thursday morning, had a relatively normal day at work and the drive home was equally as uneventful. I walk into my apartment and BAM!...DH enters a firestorm.
As I am frantically tearing through the kitchen drawer for my notebook to re-check the June to-do list, simultaneously I am pacing the kitchen floor, figuring out how many blankets, winter clothes, toiletries, picture frames, books we can fit into the monstrosity of box we're shipping and coming up with a brand new entirely worthless list of items we need to purchase before we go.
Let me share a few thoughts a crazed type-A will come up with during a anxiety-induced-I'm-moving-half-way-around-the-world breakdown:
Oh no, I don't know the word for Tampax in Hebrew.
I wonder if they will let me pack stuff in the dog's crate. Aha-there is room!
Sweet baby Jesus, my hair straightener won't fit into Israeli outlets. I'm going to have to live with frizzy hair forever.
If I get to Israel on Wednesday, sleep off the jet lag on Thursday, get back on a plane on Friday then I can make it to the first Alabama football game on Saturday.
I need to go to Costco to buy 300 ibuprofen and a jumbo box of grits.
Normally, I am a perfectly rational human being, excited about the adventure that awaits and who thinks logically about this move most of the time. During these periods of sheer panic, I am not.
Today, as if it were the first time my brain realized it, I am freaking out because I can't speak Hebrew. Most days I am aware that learning a new language will take time. I usually give myself credit for taking on such a daunting task. Today, I am freaking out. Tomorrow, I am sure I will return to normal, but today...
Right now, at this exact moment I am freaking out.
During certain moments in the past few months, I have allowed myself brief periods of complete anxiety induced breakdowns. I don't have any triggers per se. I don't know when or why they occur.
Let's go back to Thursday of last week for example. I woke up on a beautiful Thursday morning, had a relatively normal day at work and the drive home was equally as uneventful. I walk into my apartment and BAM!...DH enters a firestorm.
As I am frantically tearing through the kitchen drawer for my notebook to re-check the June to-do list, simultaneously I am pacing the kitchen floor, figuring out how many blankets, winter clothes, toiletries, picture frames, books we can fit into the monstrosity of box we're shipping and coming up with a brand new entirely worthless list of items we need to purchase before we go.
Let me share a few thoughts a crazed type-A will come up with during a anxiety-induced-I'm-moving-half-way-around-the-world breakdown:
Oh no, I don't know the word for Tampax in Hebrew.
I wonder if they will let me pack stuff in the dog's crate. Aha-there is room!
Sweet baby Jesus, my hair straightener won't fit into Israeli outlets. I'm going to have to live with frizzy hair forever.
If I get to Israel on Wednesday, sleep off the jet lag on Thursday, get back on a plane on Friday then I can make it to the first Alabama football game on Saturday.
I need to go to Costco to buy 300 ibuprofen and a jumbo box of grits.
Normally, I am a perfectly rational human being, excited about the adventure that awaits and who thinks logically about this move most of the time. During these periods of sheer panic, I am not.
Today, as if it were the first time my brain realized it, I am freaking out because I can't speak Hebrew. Most days I am aware that learning a new language will take time. I usually give myself credit for taking on such a daunting task. Today, I am freaking out. Tomorrow, I am sure I will return to normal, but today...
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