The Problem With Cheap Tampons

"Shit"

Ma’ayan was in the bathroom and I asked what the problem was.

"I just got my period and I'm out of tampons.  I hate to do this to you, but will you run out and get me a box?"

It was 11:45 at night, and the only place open in our neighborhood was the corner bodega.  When I got there, there was one box of tampons.  They were in a dusty faded red and white striped box, looked about 20 years old, and the writing was in some language I'd never seen before, but they were definately tampons, as far as I could tell.  I bought them and shuffled home to my dear girlfriend.  She was a little grossed out when she saw that the box was so dusty and old.  "They're gross!

I could get toxic shock or something!"

Nonetheless, she used one, and we went to bed.

The TV or my need to pee or both woke me up at 4:34 and I groggily made my way to the bathroom.  When I got back, there was Ma’ayan sound asleep, naked and spread eagle on the bed, and there, poking out of her vagina was not the usual white string, but something that looked like the tip of a tiny lion's tail, and it was wagging.

"Ma’ayan!" she snored at me in response.  I opened up my cellphone and shined the blue light on her crotch.  It was definately a tail of some kind.  I gave it a little tug, and suddenly saw a little cloven hoof sticking out below a small brown hairy rear.  As I pulled more, Ma’ayan began to wake up.  "What are you doing? We can't have sex.. go back to sleep."

"But there's a little horse or a goat or somthing in your vagina!"

She sat bolt upright, turned on the light, and looked down, and suddenly began to sob, but not like she was upset or even shocked or scared... she actually seemed happy.

"I knew if I waited long enough, I'd get one... don't you see?  It’s the giraffe I wished  for on my sixth birthday!"  and she pulled it the rest of the way out.

There, sitting on the bed, between my girlfriend's open thighs, was a 3-inch tall baby giraffe, trying to get its land legs and failing miserably.

"He’s so cute!" she squeeled. 

He was, but...

"I want to call him Benny.  Quick, go get me some milk from the fridge."

It's been 3 weeks now, and Benny has become part of the family.  He's brought us closer than we ever were, and he's not even high maintenance or anything.  The trouble is, he's now nearly 9 feet tall.  The Karils, our downstairs neighbors have started to complain that they hear clopping on the floor at strange hours of the night, and plaster is falling on their heads, and our chandelier, the one my mother bought us for the new apartment is broken.  The other day, Mr. Karil cornered me in the elevator, and I had to tell him that my  300 pound Aunt Margi is staying with us and she’s a slightly deranged aging flamenco dancer... I had to promise that we'd only let her practice in the afternoon.

Also, the ashtray that became a litterbox that's now a sandbox that's sitting in the middle of our living room is becoming insufficient, and since Ma’ayan works days, and I stay home, I'm the one who has to empty it 3 or 4 or 5 times a day, and I've already stuffed up the toilet several times.  Giraffe poop doesn't smell much but it's pretty big and can really stuff a toilet.  Don’t quote me on this, but I think we're going to end up having to move to Jersey or something soon.

The first observation Z made, was of a young woman walking with a child’s carriage past his building on his way back from the laundry room. She was talking avidly and excitedly apparently to the carriage’s occupant, and Z thought to himself, “how nice, she talks to her child as an adult. No baby talk, no cooing, no patronizing…” and she seemed perfectly normal. Then, as she came closer, Z began to overhear the content of the conversation:
The woman- “how can I depend on you for anything? You say you’ll pick it up and yell at me when I remind you but here it is Thursday, and you still haven’t gotten the laundry.”
The baby – “... “
As she came yet closer and just as Z was about to condemn her as insane or at the very least unfit to pilot a carriage on a public sidewalk, he noticed the thin black wire hanging from her left ear.

Life in New York--
To live on a small island through which flows the entire world.

a man falls in love a hundred times a day
this girl's ass
another's hair
another's awkward smile
and another who carries a book of children's questions
it's touching you see?
she enters your field of vision long enough for the beginnings of attachment
to be born
then
she is gone
a momentary feeling of loss
(almost imperceptable grief)
and you move on

sad today
we are driving in the car
you sit beside me in silence
I try to engage you
how was your day?
but the quiet stays between us
like another planet
and you tell me
I'm distant.

.............................

there is a certain September echo
the ring of a dog's bark across the concrete courtyard bounces off brownstone walls
there is a certain September echo
even in the light (if that makes any sense)
evening sweeps up third avenue
traffic, headlight dawn cuts the dusk with pointed yellow fingers
the bright light cheese scented warmth of our corner pizza place pulls at us but our wallets beg to differ
instead we go home to sock footed jeans off on the couch
maybe you'll make a salad you say, and we can warm last winter's frozen soup in the microwave.
back on the couch, your head in the crook of my shoulder
we talk about the early chill in the air, and how the spider plant looks like it's dying again
an echo of last September

Letter From A "Self Hating Jew"

While reading an article this morning on Haaretz.com about the director Ken Loach's boycott of Israeli cultural institutions, I was struck by one of the reader commentaries at the bottom of the article. More specifically, it was one of the responses to another reader's comments. A Mr. Larry Saltzman, of Santa Barbara, California, expressed the following;

" I agree with Loach. The occupation of Palestine and the recent war against Lebanon are worthy of any sanctions and boycotts that can be successfully imposed on Israel."

to which, Ronald Ginson, of Lee's Summit, Missouri replied by calling Mr. Saltzman a "self hating Jew".

While I heartily disagree with Saltzman's assertion regarding sanctions and boycotts, that is a matter for another day and another blog. My argument today, is with Ginson's use of the term "Self Hating Jew".

This term, is simply too easily and too often bandied about by members of the right wing who see the world in black and white; those Jews who stand with them are immune, while those who oppose their platform, or any element thereof, are summarily dismissed as self hating.
Well hear this; I`m a Jew, and an Israeli, and I love being a Jew, and an Israeli and for that matter, I simply love myself. (Where's the self hate?) I also oppose the war in lebanon, and the occupation by my country`s government of the palestinian territories. Furthermore, I want peace, and the only way I see this happening, is for my government to assist in establishing a Palestinian state, aiding in building a working infrastructure, and for both us, and the Palestinians, to open a new page. This is all very simplistic I know, but I'm trying to be brief and stay close to my original point; the "self hating Jew".
To be honest, I don`t know many "self hating Jews". I assume that when one uses this term, one means it literally, as it`s far to simplistic a designation to hide any subtlties. So, when you, Mr. Ginson, call me a "self hating Jew", which I'm sure you inevitably will, please keep in mind, that Israel and the world in general, are full of people like me, who both love our Jewish-ness, and our Israeli-ness, and despise the actions that are so often carried out in the name of our supposed well being or protection. If that makes me a "self hating Jew", then I can only wish you and the others who favor this term the healthy level of self esteem I and my ilk enjoy.

the sun breaks our window
into rainbows
on the floor
on the couch
she waits
for me to arrive
while beside her
I sit
remote
control in hand
watching CNN

.......................

with scissor words, she cuts
me off
she doesn't get it
she says
and i fall, an apple
to the floor
slightly bruised
and softened

I collect Jewish stars. I have several. They range in style,
material and size, from a small austere silver one without detail
that's about 3/4 of an inch by 3/4 of an inch, to one I was given at an art fair by an israeli artist
that's made of some kind of stained glass looking plastic with silver
and turquoise detail, to one that's approximately 1.5 inches by 1.5
inches, is made of rhodium plated silver (very shiny), and is covered
in cubic zirconia (very sparkley). I refer deprecatingly to the
latter as my "big honkin' hunk o' jewish bling". There are also
several others I've not bothered to describe. I'm seldom without one
of my stars. I tend to wear them according to my moods.

When I'm feeling a particularly deep sense of israeli / jewish pride, tinted
with shoshana damari, chava albershtein, and arik einshtein songs
playing against the background of my consciousness like the soundtrack
to a movie, I will usually don either the small austere star, or the
larger flat silver one I made myself. Both invoke in me a feeling of
nostalgic pride, based not on flashiness, but in connectivity with a
culture and history that flows through my veins and organs.

I will sometimes put on my bling star when I'm feeling ironic. Naturally, I get stares walking down second avenue, with my long "Jewfro", and my ironic/ iconic rock-star gleaming on my chest, about heart level, big and sparkly enough to be seen at least half a block away. On these days, I've usually got mashina and kavveret playing in my head, and on my ipod. This is my "downtown" star, even though I live on the upper east side.

When I'm feeling a draw to that part of me that is linked
with creativity and the arts, to the artists and artisans who, with
their hands and hearts give birth over and over to the beautiful and moving expressions
in my culture, I will wear that handmade star I got from the artist at
the holiday fair in Union Square two years ago. Two triangles of smoky blue composite plastic,
connected and outlined in silver like stained glass, with a spiral etched silver
disc in the middle, and in the middle of that, a blue round mounted
piece of turquoise. I was instantly drawn to it when I saw it hanging on the wall of her makeshift booth, it's design is
personally significant on so many levels. The turquoise is my
birthstone and favorite color, and the spiral is a symbol I used to
see in my dreams, recurring time and again.

Once, at a party, bedecked in my "BLING" star, I joked with someone that
I wore it for protection. Not because of any kind of metaphysical or
spiritual properties one might ascribed it, but, because it was so
big, sparkly and bright, there wasn't a
bullet that could get past it, or a driver that wouldn't see it, even
during a blackout in the middle of the night in the fog.
These are the outstanding stars in my collection. From time to time, I take out my long nose pliars and pry open their bales to change the chains or cords they'll hang on, and subtly change their style and significance.

Last April, a young boy with a belt packed with 4.5 kilograms of
explosives entered the Rosh Ha'Ir Falafel Resturaunt near the old
central bus station in Tel Aviv. When he detonated it, 9 people were
killed and dozens were injured. Two of the injured were friends of mine; a
16 year old boy named Daniel Wultz, and his father, Tuly. So often, when
there is a "pigua" (terrorist attack) in israel, I feel an almost
swelling sense of pride in my israeliness, brought of some
superconcious mantra;

"No matter how much you keep trying to destroy us (me), you can never
take away from us (me) who we are (I am). We (I) will survive!"

In these times, though I am grieving, I will typically reach for my "bling",
because it's the loudest neon sign I have, and it screams louder than I ever could "I will survive!"
This time however, things being closer to home and more personal, my mantra and it's accompanying star seemed both insufficient, and innapropriate. In fact, looking through my drawer of stars, I couldn't seem to
find one that fit my mental state on this occasion at all. I know it sounds
stupid, but my stars really do give me strength, or at least the self illusion of it. They're a part of me the way any form of self
expression is part of us, they are part of the poetry I live.

Some 6 weeks after that april day, my friend Daniel died of his wounds. Since then to be honest, I haven't really worn my stars that much. Suddenly, donning a piece of jewellry as an outward expression to the
world that's meant to sum up something that's so intrinsic to who I am feels shallow, not worthy of the weight of its intention. For now, my stars will sit in their drawer, un-worn. I'm looking forward to the day when, once again, I can feel that nostalgiac little inside smile, or the flooding of pride I feel when I take one of my stars from my drawer like an old compatriot, and place it on my neck. For now though, while the grief and pain last, I'll express myself more inwardly.