Last week, I sat under a tree near the kibbutz dining hall, and told a woman I had just met that I was miserable in Israel (hey, that kind of rhymes!) and wanted to go home.
Now, granted she had a kind face, but she was essentially a total stranger. (I will say in my defense that everyone knows everyone around these parts… which in hindsight might not be such a good thing when I’m bitching and moaning about how i’m like thisclose to hauling ass back to Ben Gurion airport, the kids under each arm like footballs, and dragging my husband by
the balls
the short-hairs.)
(But we all know how I feel about oversharing. And now, so does she.)
So, the sympathetic woman and I spoke for a while—she was once a new immigrant, as well, and essentially understood some of my feelings in a way that only an expat can… And eventually we U-turned and exchanged names, family affiliations, the ages of our kids—all the mundane particulars that fill in the spaces of our character.
“Are you working?” she asked.
“I write a humor column,” I sobbed, blowing snot from my nose on the sleeve of my sweater.
I’ve never been even tempered. In fact, a close friend with a psych background recently suggested I might have something called “>Lombard Street is pretty fucking awesome.
And besides, if I do find even ground on the slow train through the flatlands, I’ll have to change my blog name to The
Highly Medicated
Well-Adjusted Baby Mama. And who wants to read that?
