Category: Kibbutz

Kibbutz, Living in Community

That’s So Country

Jen

Nowhere in his song “Thank God I’m A Country Boy” does John Denver mention anything about lizards. Or snakes. Or centipedes.

I’ll take the laid back life on the farm that Denver croons about any day of the week, but the truth of the matter is: I’m a suburban girl. And worse yet, I’m a born and raised Jersey girl.

Sure, I went to overnight camp in the woods of Pennsylvania and Maine. Sure, I camped out a few times as a young adult — happy to be cozy in sleeping bags with boys I had crushes on. But, I’ve never been the rough and tumble kind of girl who has embraced nature.

I blame this on allergies.

Since I had severe environmental allergies as a kid, and was literally allergic to everything on the scratch test, I was pretty uncomfortable out in nature. From the expected stuffy nose and watery eyes, to the unexpected over-reaction to poison ivy and mosquito bites. (Ask my USY friends if they remember an epic case of oozing poison ivy I was quarantined for one Spring Convention.)

Nature was never as kind to me as I was to her. Despite a run-of-the-mill fear of spiders and other insects, I’ve never been the sort who killed a critter with pleasure. Whenever possible, if a rogue bug makes it indoors, I either scoop it up into a glass and let it go outside, or I ask my husband to “take care of it.” The exception to this is cockroaches (I had an infestation in one city apartment) and mice (another infestation in a different city apartment) — those guys I kill with pleasure. After all, it’s not as if my exterminating a few is going to make any significant impact on their population density. Mice and roaches will survive 2012, if anyone will.

Here in Israel, as I’ve mentioned before, I’ve had to get used to sharing my home with the outdoors. This includes the mud my kids track in on a daily basis, the dust that flies in through open windows, and the creatures that make their way through cracks or doors left open by mud-stained children. A Daddy Long Legs has been hanging out in the same spot on my bathroom ceiling for three months now. He hasn’t moved. For a while, I used to check above my head while I was showering or on the toilet to make sure he wasn’t creeping down closer to me. At some point, I realized he was either dead or very comfortable in his spot on the ceiling, and I started greeting him with a smile in the mornings instead of worrying about him.

Lest you think I have made the transition to country life with ease, let me burst that bubble for you. Earlier this week, I went into my bathroom and closed the door. I sat down on the toilet and looked up at the ceiling to greet my long-legged friend. He wasn’t there. He was gone. But someone took his place.

This guy (or a close relative):

A lizard. About 6 inches long. Hanging on the wall above the bathroom door.

I had seen this guy before. A few nights prior, we heard some crickets behind the refrigerator door. Determined to quiet the noise, we pulled the refrigerator out from the wall to take care of it once and for all. We didn’t find crickets. We found a lizard.

Compassion, karma, fear of retribution…call it what you will, but there was no way I was letting my husband kill a lizard in my house. Standing on a chair and screaming like an old lady the entire time, I made him chase the lizard down until he caught it inside a glass and released it outside.

This time we were not so lucky. I called for my husband who went after the lizard in the bathroom in the same fashion. But this time, the little guy got away. He scurried under the bathroom door and hid — In the laundry basket? Behind the wardrobe? Under the bed? Who knows.

I didn’t sleep so well that night. I woke up constantly; peeking above my head to the bedroom ceiling, waiting for the other lizard to drop. To my knowledge, he didn’t. And he’s stayed in hiding since.

My mother-in-law says I should leave the lizards alone. “They eat the bugs,” she says. She makes a good point.

Next up, I’ll be instructed to ignore the snakes.  After all, they eat lizards.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends

Jew like me

Jen

I find myself in an odd predicament now that I live in Israel.
 
To touch or not to touch.
 
I like to think I’m a fairly affectionate person; though some would argue I’m a cold, aloof, you-know-what that starts with a B and ends in an itch. Nevertheless, I enjoy the freedom of being able to give someone an enthusiastic “nice-to-meet-you” handshake; a compassionate stroke on the back should a friend feel sad; or a warm hug to express my excitement over his recent achievement.
 
I’m an equal opportunity touchy feeler. Meaning: In the communities in which I’ve lived up until now, doling out such loving kindness to both men and women has always been socially acceptable and appropriate.
 
Certainly, I knew there were cultures in which touching a married man in any way would have been inappropriate, but I hardly came into contact with anyone in such a culture, including observant Jewish men.

In New Jersey, where I spent most of my adult life, the Jews I frequently interacted with were a range of Conservative to Reform to non-practicing. Certainly, I might see or even talk to a Modern Orthodox Jew, for instance, but the closest I came to social interaction with a man who considered himself observant enough to avoid contact with a woman other than his wife happened to be a client of mine.
 
One day, the client came to an event I organized and I was so pleasantly surprised to see him there that I gave him a big appreciative hug. Mid-hug, I realized my error and was so mortified I frantically looked around for a hole to crawl into. No such luck. It was too late to take the hug back and there was nowhere to hide. I smiled what I hope was an apologetic smile, and ran away.
 
There is no place to run here in Israel, where you encounter Jews of every shape, size, color, and denomination. At the bank, the post office, the grocery store. Of course, there is little reason for me to embrace my local postal worker (except for when he’s delivering a care package from the United States), but there are certain occasions in which I’ve been forced to consider how I might greet the man in front of me.
 
For instance, last week I was called in for a job interview. In advance of my meeting, I was asked by a Nefesh B’Nefesh coordinator if I wanted some quick tips about interviewing in Israel. At first, I felt a bit insulted. After all, I am a consummate professional with more than 15 years in the workforce. I’ve been on numerous successful interviews. What do I really need to know about interviewing in Israel?
 
Well…turns out I was wrong. “What are you going to do about shaking hands?” the coordinator asked me. “Um, shake with confidence, but not painfully hard?” I responded. “No,” she said. “If the person in front of you is a woman, go ahead and shake. However, if the person you are meeting with is a man, check to see if he’s wearing a kippah. If he is, let him extend his hand first to see if he is comfortable shaking yours.”
 
What? Since I was a young woman heading out for internship interviews in Washington, D.C., I was taught by my father that a woman should have a firm, confident handshake, especially when meeting a gentleman. What accompanies “it’s a pleasure to meet you” if not a handshake? (In the end, the individual who interviewed me was a woman.)
 
Back at home, on pluralistic Hannaton, I also need to tread carefully. Earlier this week, our neighbor gave birth. Her husband, who wears a kippah and whom I know to be from an observant background, came by to pick up his son who we were watching while his mother was in the hospital.

“So,” I asked him. “Is everything is ok?”
 
“Yes,” he responded. “We have a new baby girl.”
 
“Hooray! Mazal tov,” I shouted as I jumped up and down, leaning towards him for the hug. Mere seconds before touching him, I caught myself and asked. “Is it okay if I hug you?”
 
“Of course!” he responded, as if to say, “You silly American olah chadasha.” I was proud of myself for thinking quickly enough to ask permission before the embrace, instead of regretting it and obsessing about it with remorse and humiliation afterwards.
 
Pluralism is a hot button topic in Israel, I’m finding – The idea that religious and secular Jews can and should live in harmony together. It’s a dialogue we hardly ever have in the States. We’re too busy sticking together against the anti-Semites to worry much about embracing or rejecting our own intrafaith diversity.
 
The conversations on pluralism and acceptance are ones in which I’m interested in partaking. First, however, I need to figure out an authentic, yet appropriate way for a friendly Jewish girl to say, “Hello.”
 

(Originally posted by Jen Maidenberg on March 11, 2011 at  THE JERUSALEM POST BLOG CENTRAL)

Education, Food, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Middle East Conflict, Parenting, Politics, Religion, Work

Moving

Jen

Don’t worry.

We’re not moving anywhere.

But this blog is.

I’m happy to announce that The Jerusalem Post invited me over to blog about my Aliyah experience on The Jerusalem Post Blog Central. You can find my new blog there, “Israeli in Progress,” on the Blog home page in the Aliyah category.

Hope to see you join the conversation over there. And if you like what you read, please share with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, or via email.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

Playground Etiquette

Jen

One of the most hair-raising experiences of my thirties has been trying to figure out how to parent kids while simultaneously attempting to make and keep friends.

It took me eight years of careful sociological study and experimentation to figure out how to do this with as much tact, and as little arrogant condemnation of  other people as I could muster. 

How to reprimand my children in public, for instance, while seeming neither a bully, nor a wimp. How to reprimand other people’s brats children so it seemed as if I cared about their behavior more than just how it impacted the present playdate.  How to locate that fine line between co-parenting with good friends… and complete and utter neglect.

The hard time I put in making mom friends in New Jersey was well worth the effort: After five years of dancing around playdates and preschool drop off trying to figure out who I liked and who liked me back, I had enough mom friends where I no longer needed to troll message boards or moms’ groups. Even better, I had a good solid book club and a small contact list of people I could call on short notice should I desperately need a shared drink or cup of tea the minute my husband walked in the front door.

Alas, due to the seven-hour time difference and technophobia, my Stateside mom friends have practically abandoned me.  I can’t blame them. I’m good for nothing at this point; not a drop off playdate, not even a drop off birthday party.

I am not friendless here, though. I have two friends (not counting my husband, which would be both cheesy and stupid, since one of the best parts of having a girlfriend is griping about your husband). Both of my girlfriends I knew before moving here. Yafit was actually one of my first mom friends. Each of us gave birth to our first child in Tucson, and since moved away. Two more kids later, she and her husband now live in Netanya, a suburb of Tel Aviv. With Yafit: There’s no friendly flirtations to partake in; no questioning of our commitment and loyalty to each other. We’re friends. It’s a done deal.

The other is my friend from high school, Shira, who I’m very grateful to have as my neighbor. It’s through Shira that we even knew about Hannaton and she’s been my de facto advisor since we decided to make Aliyah. She’s given us the heads up on potential bureacratic nightmares. She’s let me know where I can buy organic produce or local spices. But, most important, I don’t have to be “on” when I am around her. I can be me…or at least the me that’s still trying to figure out who I am here.

This is not to say that other folks here haven’t gone out of their way to get to know us or be friendly. They certainly have. What I am saying is that I am having a hard time figuring out the rules of engagement.

It’s a whole new ball game for me here in Israel — not just because I’m the new girl on the block or because of the cultural differences (read laissez faire approach to parenting) or even due to the language barrier, but moreso because I have to start from scratch. I need to figure out both who I am as a parent, and who I am as a person, here in this new country and this small, intentional community.

Even harder, I need to figure out how I can share that version of me with people who don’t necessarily speak or want to speak my native language. And, let me tell you, my brand of charm and wit doesn’t translate so easily into broken, present-tense Hebrew.  I almost wish I was pregnant. (God forbid, ptoo, ptoo, ptoo.) At least if I was pregnant, there would be an easy source of conversation; an obvious topic to study in my Hebrew language dictionary.  At least, I could come to gatherings prepared.

Instead, after pick up at the Gan or alongside other adults at the playground, I find myself facing discomforts I thought I left behind long ago. I wonder how appropriate it is for me to linger near, about or around the group of chatting grownups; how much of the conversation in Hebrew I should try to keep up with before resorting to a rhythmic bob of my head in feigned understanding; or how long I should wait to notify the parent of the child who is smacking my two-year-old across the head with a bag of Bisli.

The truth is…I’m getting there. Slower than I like, but I am getting there. I have enough of a playful repor with a few of my new “almost-friends” that I feel comfortable mentioning my interactions with them here. And they’re interested enough in me to take the time to read this blog.

Unless, of course, they’re not interested in me at all; they’re just narcissists. Which wouldn’t be so bad, really, as it would make for good conversation over that beer I’ve yet to be invited to (subtle hint, hint).

I suppose I could be a little more proactive than I’ve been, too. Give up the coy, shy persona that I will no way be able to pull off once someone spends one-on-one time with me for more than twenty minutes.  Or, perhaps I’ll use the oldest trick in the book: My kid as bait. I could encourage my two-year-old to smack their kid across the head with a stick or instruct her to “accidentally” pee on their front yard.

If nothing else, a peeing two-year-old is a great conversation piece — in both Hebrew and in English.

Kibbutz, Parenting

Kibbutz Chic

Jen

I have one pair of “skinny” jeans. I bought them at the Gap outlet in Jersey Gardens right before moving to Israel. I wish I had bought more than one because they have become my favorite pair of pants since moving here.

Not because my butt looks great. (Although, maybe it does. You will have to ask my husband or someone who often walks behind me.) But because my skinny jeans fit best inside my ultra-fashionable green polka-dotted Wellington boots — which are the shoes I wear most around here. The skinny jeans and boots look is deceiving, though. Anyone who knows me well understands that I’m only fashionable by accident.

Having arrived here in winter (which is the rainy season in Northern Israel), I’m having a hard time trusting the folks who keep assuring me, “we need the rain.” They all to swear to me there wasn’t a drop of rain in December, and the rain came in with us, but that’s no consolation for the regular piles of stinking muddy socks. What’s worse is that the chemical-free, eco-conscious brand of laundry detergent I brought here from the States is no match for kibbutz mud or the mineral-heavy water.  No matter how long I soak and scrub their clothes, my kids still look dirty.

I probably wouldn’t even bother washing their clothes at all — since they are just putting them back on to go sit in Gan sand or dig through the mud behind the Migrash*– if it weren’t for the smell. Last week, my two-year-old daughter fell into a man-made puddle (man-made because it’s a hole no one has bothered to fill up), and she smelled like a dead cow that had rolled around in his own feces for two days before he died.

The smell was so wretched I considered throwing away her clothes. But then I looked at the tags and I realized they were from Old Navy, which is like saying Barneys here in Israel. Mustn’t throw the baby clothes out with the bath water…

I promise you, my kids look filty, but smell fresh.  And not the kind of synthetic fresh that makes you want to hold your breath or grab your government-issued gas mask. But, squeaky clean from nightly baths (together, to save water) in Castile soap I had my father-in-law buy in bulk on his recent trip to the States.

Considering what the water has already done to my hair and our clothes, I try to be diligent about brushing my kid’s teeth. Not about brushing their hair, though, because I don’t want to get too attached. I have a strong feeling that I will have to shave our heads once lice season arrives. 

There is one day of the week I recognize my formerly well-groomed and fairly tidy children. On Shabbat morning, I can actually pick out my ragamuffins from the others — they don their handsome clothes, clean teeth, and combed hair. 

This past Shabbat my littlest rugrat was confused. “Ima,” she called as she wandered from leg to leg. “Ima, where are you?” She couldn’t find the boots — the rain had finally stopped long enough for me to put them out to dry and trade them for crocs.

What? You think we wear heels to synagogue here on the kibbutz? We’d sink faster than you could say Manolo Blahnik.

That is, if I was fashionable enough to know how to say it. 

GLOSSARY
Migrash = Open space (here it’s the area where the playground and ball courts are)
Ima= mommy

Kibbutz, Letting Go

Stop Bugging Me

Jen

I am not a clean freak. Nor am I a slob. I’m somewhere in the middle — which makes kibbutz life tolerable, particularly in the rainy season.

When I was growing up, we were a no shoes in the house, no food on the couch type of family. I had to tidy my room for the cleaning lady (a point of contention for most upper middle class teenagers), but at least I was allowed through the living room, unless there were fresh vacuum lines on the carpet.

In my house in Israel, there are no carpets, just a few rugs to keep our feet from getting dangerously cold. (Apparently, if you don’t wear slippers across the cold tile floor here, you’ll either catch pneumonia, go into shock or turn into stone.)  It’s actually better that we don’t have carpets because it makes it a lot easier to spot the bugs.

I have to give myself a great big pat on the back for the tolerance I’ve shown the crickets and spiders.  I’ve even turned my head at the garden slugs that make their way to the front porch every morning and the centipedes that sneak under the front door in the middle of the night. I’ve only smooshed about half of them…the rest I’ve swept out the sliding glass door with my big Wicked Witch of the West size broom. I’d say that’s pretty compassionate.

But now we have ants. They appeared out of nowhere at the base of one of our bathrooms sinks; in the guest bathroom, which is much better than the master bathroom because I can ignore the problem until the next time we have guests, at which point I will feign shock and utter “What? Ants? I had no idea!”

In New Jersey, where I lived most of my life before Israel, if you have a bug problem you call Jerry the Exterminator. Not me, of course, because I know that pesticides kill you or give you cancer, whichever one comes first. I only call Jerry for the mice.

According to my friend Shira, who has lived here longer than I have, “Every season has its share of critters.” This includes mice, who don’t discriminate based on whether you rent or own your home.  And snakes, which apparently stick to the backyard. Somehow, I thought with all the rogue cats that hang out around here, I wouldn’t have to worry about rodents.  Not so. Could have something to do with folks like my mother-in-law who feed the cats fancy scraps. Who wants to prey on mice and snakes when you can have leftover Schnitzel?

The lice I expected…not because Israelis are dirty or anything, but because Gan is gross. It’s heaven for my kids, don’t get me wrong. What four year old wouldn’t love digging through the mud to find a cellphone from 1998 or snuggling up with a hand-me-down Raggedy Ann doll that looks like it made its way over here on The Exodus? It’s just that old pillows and stuffed animals are lice paradise, so having my kids in Gan pretty much guarantees I’m going to spend the summer months scratching my head off.

I have a theory, though, which I am unwillingly testing out and hope is true.

I think one is genetically predisposed to get lice the same way one is predisposed to near-sightedness or freckles. According to my theory, you are either a family that gets lice or you don’t. It’s something in your hormones or pheromones. It has nothing to do with which shampoo you use or how often you bathe.

So far, my whole life I’ve never had lice.  No matter how many times I’ve anxiously scratched away at little ghost nits in my hair as the school nurse ran her plastic comb through it, I’ve had nary a one. Let me make this perfectly clear: I feel very, very lucky about this, and I’m very scared to say it out loud — ptoo ptoo ptoo kenahora. I have enough conditions and illnesses to manage in my household. That last thing I need to be obsessing over is lice.

Unfortunately, my husband can’t make the same claim I can. He did have lice once as a kid, and so therefore I have to wonder what’s in store for my kids. Did I hand them down the lice-free genes? Is there such a thing? All I know is that having two kids in Gan will seriously put my theory to the test.

The good news is that the influx of little critters has desensitized my previously bug-aphobic kids. Now instead of screaming when they see a worm, they look around for a sharp object to slice it in half — just like any good kibbutz kid should.

Food, Kibbutz, Letting Go

Supersize It

Jen

Our Rabbi (who is also our friend) and her family are coming to Israel in a few weeks on a synagogue-organized trip, with a special stop to our kibbutz. We’re really excited to see them, but their visit presents a moral and ethical dilemma:

How inappropriate is it to ask them to devote an entire suitcase to items we need from the States? And is it even more inappropriate to ask them to forgo an item of luggage so they can instead bring us an IKEA Expedit bookshelf?

I’ve only lived here for six weeks and already I completely understand with great compassion why our Israeli relatives and friends always asked us to buy shoes on Amazon.com or toys from Amazing Savings or tupperware from the Dollar Store to pack in our bags and schlep over here for them. For years, the reason eluded me. Why on earth would my father-in-law need coffee from the States? Is he that picky? Why did our little cousins get so excited by a cruddy little Fisher Price wind-up toy we spent 75 cents on?

Why? Because you have to be an Israeli millionaire before you can afford quality tupperware in this country. You need to be among the upper elite before you can buy a decent gift at Toys RUS. And home goods or kitchen supplies? Ha! What you pay here for a ripoff of a Made in China ripoff is the same as what you’d pay in Williams Sonoma for the Chef Michael Voltaggio brand in the States.

I am not kidding. Ask my mother-in-law. We were joking about it last night, but really not. In fact, we were not joking so hard we were crying real tears.

When she goes back to the States to visit, she brings an extra suitcase. On the last day of her trip, she goes to Costco and fills up that suitcase with everything from Kirkland brand white albacore tuna (you can only get Chunk Light here!) to Swiffer refills to Chinet paper plates.

But, then you return to Israel, and you can’t bring yourself to actually use the Chinet! It is like fine china — reserved for dignitaries and special Shabbat guests only.  I mean, what happens when it’s all gone and you have to go back to using the flimsy plastic plates they sell here?

It’s not like you can ask a friend visiting from the States to bring you over some Chinet.  When a friend asks you if you want anything from “back home,” she expects a “Please bring me a movie-sized bag of M and Ms” or a “Yes, I’d really love the new Michael Chabon book.” Your friend is not expecting you to politely beg her to bring you paper plates in bulk.

When my mother-in-law saw me unpack a bulk-sized Bounty paper towels from one of my kitchen boxes a few weeks ago, she audibly gasped. “Zvi, did you see? Bounty…,” she said longingly. I laughed at the time, but after one trip to SuperPharm, where I bought a pack of the paper towels you get around here, I told my husband, “Hide the Bounty! You are forbidden to use the Bounty for anything less than vomit! Do you understand me?!?”

I think about all the items we liquidated at our weekend-long garage sale right before we moved. Or, the leftover items that were donated to charity. Lord, how I wish I had my rusty old teapot (I can’t seem to find anything but an electric kettle here) or my kids’ less-desired Playmobil (I could have resold it here for a gajillion shekels! Or at least re-gifted it to my kids’ classmates at birthday parties.)

Today we re-bought gardening tools we didn’t realize we’d ever need in Israel.  With the rains over the last few weeks, our backyard has grown so tall, we’ve lost our two-year old. I don’t understand. Never, on any of my trips to Israel, have I ever seen a blade of green grass. I’ve seen sand. I’ve seen dry wisps of what may have once been grass. But never green grass or yards. Whomever would have thought we’d actually get enough of the green stuff to require a weed wacker? And yet, today we needed to buy a new one at Home Center. Don’t ask me what it cost — I had to barter one of my kidneys.

I’m a nice girl. I’ll never ask you to pack me a case of Rice Protein powder from Whole Foods or a family pack of Charmin toilet paper. But if you happen to have a little extra room to spare in your suitcase…consider going up to your attic and rifling through your “donate to charity” pile.  If you see an old teapot or some extra under-the-bed plastic containers, we’ll take ’em.

If not, I’ll gladly accept the remaining pack of travel sized Kleenex you didn’t use on the plane. Or the M-n-Ms.

Food, Kibbutz

Organically-grown foodie

Jen

Okay, I’m a little sneak. I previously wrote and published this post on February 6 for my wellness-related blog, The Wellness Bitch. However, its connection to Israel is clear and relevant, and has much to do with my making Aliyah. I even added a special little something to this version.

Some people mistake my interest in food for an interest in food.

By that, I mean just because I am constantly thinking and writing about food, people who don’t know me well automatically assume that I like to cook, enjoy food preparation, and think it’s groovy to come up with surprising new ways to prepare root vegetables.

This is not true. In fact, until I was practically forced to cook for my family when I realized that most of Trader Joes’ frozen meals were cross-contaminated with peanuts (a food my son is severely allergic to), I preferred to reach into the freezer for dinner, not the vegetable crisper.

I am not a foodie.

I do not enjoy watching anything on The Food Network, save for Ace of Cakes (I’m amused by the ingenuity and wit of Duff’s crew) and the occasional Jamie Oliver (because he’s so darn cute and an activist, to boot.)

I arrange food on plates with as much creativity and intention as a lunch lady. And I really, really hate the aftermath of preparing lovely meals — dishpan hands.

However, I have to admit since I started buying organic produce from a local farm, and my husband is closely watching whether or not this budget line item is worth it, I’ve become a lot more playful in the kitchen.

The first week I received the basket I discovered the many uses of cabbage. Shredded cabbage salad. Sauteed cabbage with onions, tomato, and garlic. And this dish I used to love to get from my local Ethiopian restaurant in South Orange, NJ.  I suddenly transformed into a little Jewish Julia Child, which I guess would make me a mini Joan Nathan, since she is already the Jewish Julia Child.

This week, I’m exploring fennel and peppers for a very simple reason: I need to make room in my refrigerator. There are so many peppers and fennel bulbs that I can’t reach the hummus.

When I lived in New Jersey, very close to a Whole Foods Market, I bought plenty of organic fruits and vegetables. But, despite the advice and urging from many of my foodie friends, I stuck with the stuff I knew, loved, and could be sure my children would eat. In the vegetable category, this left me with broccoli, spinach, and kale.  None of which has made an appearance in my weekly organic delivery basket. Are my kids enjoying the cabbage and fennel, too?

No, they are not. And this is the very reason I didn’t join a co-op or CSA in the States. However, as my access to organic food here is significantly limited, and gas is extremely expensive, this is the most practical and affordable option for our family right now.  (To learn more about why I choose organic for my family, please read more of The Wellness Bitch, or talk to the folks here in Israel who work on non-organic farms to learn about the unfortunate incidence of cancer among their co-workers.)

I seek comfort, though, in the knowledge that my children eat Israeli salad for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and that I brought the Jessica Seinfeld cookbook with me instead of selling it at my yard sale.

If I am really lucky, perhaps she has a trick for hiding fennel.

Kibbutz, Living in Community

Bark if you’re Jewish

Jen

I am many things. I am a writer, a wife, a mother, a sugar addict.

But one thing I am not is a dog lover.

In fact, my dog-loving friends would say that is an understatement. They’d say I’m a dog-hater.

They’d be exaggerating. But only a little bit.

For a time, I was a dog-owner hater. And then I realized I only hated dog owners who dressed their pets in sweaters and referred to themselves in the third person as “mommy or daddy” when speaking to their dog.

Now, I’m dog- and dog-owner tolerant.

It’s a prerequisite if you want to live on a kibbutz in Israel.

The two biggest concerns I had when we were considering making Aliyah is how would we keep my nut-allergic son safe in a nut-obsessed culture; and how could I possibly live in harmony with the dogs of Israel?

I tried to prepare myself in advance. I started smiling at dogs. I walked through the dog food aisle at Target. I even instructed my kids to not scream in terror when the neighbor’s dog jumped up to sniff them. Even though I think they have every right to scream and fend off with force any living thing who jumps on top of them against their will. (Why do dog owners think it’s okay when their dog jumps up on a kid? Nine times out of ten, their dog is bigger than my kid. Would they want a big grizzly bear jumping up and scratching in the area of their jugular? I think not.)

Alas, none of this conditioning worked.

On Hannaton, there are a lot of dogs; the majority of which are not on leashes the majority of the time. In fact, when the grownups are off at work during the day, there are more dogs wandering around here than humans. And they are under nobody’s jurisdiction; required to follow nobody’s rules, but their own.

They knowingly strut around — daring those of us humans still at home to just try and keep them from shitting on the playground or barking at passing cars. They stand guard over the owners’ driveways until they find a cat to growl at or a lone jogger to chase.

Most of the dogs here are small enough that I could overcome one if need be. (I think.) At least, this is what kept me calm the other night when a pack of three of them followed me home from my friend’s house.

But there is one dog here who is pushing his mazal.* I had a hunch he was a German shepherd and Google confirmed it. (The irony of his German descent is not lost on me.) He looks like this, only bigger, with sharper teeth and with a really arrogant look on his canine face.

Our first encounter was a week ago, mid-afternoon when I was at the playground with my four-year-old son. The dog seems to live across the street from the playground and barked at us as he stood guard in his driveway (no leash.) I casually kept my eye on him, but in my new paradigm of dog tolerance I didn’t want to overreact.

A few minutes later, the dog strutted over to us. I picked up Oliver and slowly walked towards the steps to my street. The dog followed us up the steps. “Look, mommy, the dog is following us,” Oliver said innocently. “What do you think he wants?”

I don’t know, I thought to myself, lunch?

We made it home unscathed, but my older son didn’t when the same dog barked at him and “stole” his soccer ball yesterday afternoon. By the time he was done with it, the ball was deflated and my eight-year-old dog lover was in tears. My son ran all the way home with the dog chasing after him, until my husband shouted at the dog “Lech!” and the dog walked away. Smugly, I’m sure.

Somehow, my son still wants a dog for his birthday next year.

As if.

Now I have to choose between ignoring a matter that is really important to me or being the annoying American dog basher.

It’s bad enough this dog chewed up my son’s brand new soccer ball, but I’m honestly concerned about my family’s safety. What good is it that your kids can run around alone all day if you constantly have to worry about them stepping in dog shit, or worse yet, being eaten by a German shepherd?

I am certain there is a dog lover reading this who will try to reassure me that domesticated dogs are harmless. That “out in the country” is the ideal place for dog owners to live so their pets can have room to play and run.

My counter argument to that is “buy a farm.”

I truly want to live in harmony with both humans and animals here. And I truly promise to try to be tolerant of your dogs despite my distaste for them. But you have to meet me half way. Be a mensch — keep your dog on a leash or in your own fenced-in backyard.

Thou shalt love thy neighbor, right?

GLOSSARY

Mazal = luck
Lech = Go!

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Parenting, Work

Kibbutz Commute

Jen

This morning you might have mistaken me for a Folger’s commercial.

I left the house this morning with a big ceramic mug of piping hot, fresh, homemade coffee in my hand. My husband was alongside me loving up his own cup. My two little ones played “parade” as they walked single file up the hill to their respective ganim*. It’s January, and the sun was bright in the sky. There was a bit of a chill in the air — enough to wear a fleece over my long-sleeved hoodie– but clear blue skies heralded the coming of another gorgeous day. Unlike what our friends and family in New Jersey are preparing for — yet another snow storm.

This is our kibbutz commute. (Happy sigh.)

Of course, we’re new immigrants and, for all intents and purposes, still without signficant work to focus on, other than unpacking boxes and adjusting to life without our Blackberrys.

Both Avi and I are freelance consultants at the moment with a only few projects to keep us busy and to contribute to our cost of living. This is temporary, of course, so it’s too soon to tell if our morning glory will be permanent or if it will soon revert back to morning rush once we seek out and secure additional work.

Still, we took notice today on our walk back down the hill of the differences between the suburban and the kibbutz commute. For one thing, Avi said, you need to be chipper in the morning. No more eyes turned down, I-pod turned up, ignore your fellow train rider attitude. From the time we left the house until the time we arrived at our front door, we exchanged about 75 “boker tovs,” 25 “yom tovs,” and two dozen enormous smiles.

As a new arrival, these warm greetings are welcoming and reassuring, but will it soon get old? Personally, I’m having a hard time looking presentable in the morning — the water here is working against me, and my hair looks greasy no matter how often I wash it.  I’m really regretting the savvy, short hair cut I got before I moved because it makes a ponytail impossible.

Will I still welcome the friendly interactions when our kids inevitably revert back to psychotic, disagreeable rugrats after a bad night sleep or too many kosher marshmallows at a neighbor’s house? No one wants to be on display as they have to parent their child through a temper tantrum.

Oh well. That’s the kibbutz commute.

For sure, I don’t miss the bundling up of winter gear, the warming of the mini van so the automatic door will open, the driving up and down icy streets, or the three-stop drop off. So far, the smiles and greetings come easily to me because I’m significantly more relaxed than I have been in a very long time — at least since I gave birth to my first child.

But, the truth is, a lot of my relief likely comes from a reduction in tasks and demands.

My oldest dresses himself in a school “uniform” (iron-on t-shirts with the school logo and sweatpants) and walks himself up the street to the bus stop.  My littlest is fed a healthy breakfast and a hot lunch, so less for me to pack and prepare. My middle guy is the only one home mid-afternoon for lunch and, since he is the one who most benefits from one-on-one time, he’s a lot less grumpy at the end of the day when we all meet together again as a family.

Is this Israel? Or just a lifestyle shift? Many might argue that I could have achieved this by moving back to Arizona or putting my kids in daycare. Perhaps, they’d be right.

I’m not going to spend too much time carefully considering why and how I’m so relaxed right now. I don’t want to jinx it. But, I think it’s important to publicly aknowledge its existence so that when my kids come home with lice (God forbid) or the toilet backs up, I can count on you to remind me that once upon a time, my life was a cheery, sunny commercial for blissful living.

*GLOSSARY
Boker tov = Good morning
Yom tov = Have a good day
Ganim = kindergartens

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

Christmas in Israel

Jen

It takes more than a month for a container to ship from the United States to Israel. When we finally decided on a shipping company, we had a choice to make – Be without our “stuff” on the back end or the front end. Meaning, the sooner we could part with our toys, books, kitchenware, clothes, tools, and all the other items we deem necessary for day-to-day living, the sooner we’d have them once we arrived in Israel.

Our shippers came to pack up about three weeks before the day of our flight with the intention that we’d receive our container only 4-5 days after we landed in Israel. Since our plan was to live with Avi’s parents in Kfar Hittim for a few days while we handled bureaucratic issues, we knew we could hang on for a few more days before receiving our shipment to Hannaton.

Four to five days, however, turned into 19 days.

The day the boat carrying our container arrived in the port of Haifa, the port workers went on a five-day strike.

Followed by a nice long Shabbat weekend.

Followed by a few days while they caught up unloading the “more important” shipments.

Followed by a nice long Shabbat weekend.

Followed by a few days of missing paperwork and phone calls between our shipping company and Misrad HaPnim to “make sure we are new immigrants” and entitled to tax breaks at customs.

Followed by days of waiting until they could reserve a truck big enough to carry the container up North. Followed by days of worrying that all this was code for “we lost your shipment at sea.”

Finally, my otherwise kind and sensitive husband had enough. Remember what Bruce Banner used to say before he turned into the Incredible Hulk? “You won’t like to see me when I’m angry.” Avi switched from his new-American-immigrant-speaking-Hebrew accent to his down home rip-you-a-new-one like a native Israeli twang. It wasn’t long before he was in touch with Moti, the manager, who got things rolling a little bit faster. (By the way, all the Israelis we’ve told this to asked us why we didn’t ask to speak to a manager sooner – apparently, it’s the only way you get things going.)

We received a phone call at 4 o’clock in the afternoon a few days ago from Moti who said, “I have some good news, you’ll have your things in 2-3 hours. The truck is on its way.”

In the dark of night (okay, it was only 7 pm, but it was very dark), four guys loaded our boxes and furniture in through one of the bedroom windows. “This is Israel,” the one who could speak English said. Loading through the window was easier than navigating the ten stairs down to our front door.

They finished at 10 pm, too late for us to do anything but breathe a sigh of relief that we finally had our possessions in our possession.

Since then we’ve been chipping away at it bit by bit. And, as you can imagine, opening the boxes and unwrapping the packaging is like tearing into your gifts at Christmas.  But it’s Christmas for the grownups only; our kids don’t really seem to care.

Being without their Legos or their dolls when we were stuck inside in New Jersey was a bit challenging. But since we’ve arrived in Israel, and more specifically since they started school, they’ve been spending most of their spare daylight time playing with the outdoor cats, kicking the ball around with neighborhood kids, or swinging on the hammock swing. And when we finally opened up the boxes filled with their toys yesterday so their playthings would be waiting for them when they got home from school, they looked at the room, said an obligatory, “Wow,” and went in the backyard to play with the cardboard boxes all afternoon.

Their parents, on the other hand, are much more appreciative each time they open a new box. In the past when we moved, I’ve always packed our things and labeled our boxes meticulously so that when we arrived at our destination and we needed, let’s say a pot or a pan or a container of wipes, we could access it quickly.

Our shippers, on the other hand, didn’t do such a great job labeling the contents. For the most part, the cartons were labeled “kitchen,” “basement,” “clothes,” or “CDs.” (Yes, we brought our CD collection to Israel. Ask my I-phone owning husband, “why,” because I don’t know the answer.)

I didn’t pack our boxes because I was under the impression the shippers needed to take a careful inventory for customers. Although, to be fair, perhaps their strategy is “keep it simple” and customs will leave you alone.

Simple.

I’d be lying if I said we kept it simple when packing for this new phase of our life. After years of Israeli friends and family asking us to bring them or send them “special items” from the States – white albacore tuna, Old Navy clothes, M and Ms – we packed almost as if we were moving to a remote island in the Pacific.

There is great irony in this, I know, considering one of the main reasons we moved to a kibbutz in Israel was to embrace a lower key, less materialistic life.
And, yet, when we finally found the box with my toiletries: my stock of Whole Foods 365 brand shampoo and Tom’s baking soda toothpaste, I cheered. As did Avi when he found his wireless router, which we had almost checked off as left behind.

Christmas. Not presents, per say, but little care packages from home to help make the transition a teeny bit easier.

I am confident that as we dig ourselves out of move mode, we’ll find little gifts in the most unexpected places. We already have. A helping hand from a neighbor; a Shabbat invitation; a new friend. Gifts that cost very little, but make a huge difference in our lives. And can only be found here in Israel.