Post 65: Sabra attacked by a sabra

Post 65: Sabra attacked by a sabra

As most of you know, sabra is a cactus fruit found in Israel and also refers to a native-born Israeli. I'm not a sabra, since I immigrated to Israel from Canada, but both my mother and my son are sabras. When referring to male sabras, the term also alludes to, like the fruit, something/someone who is rough and tough (macho-like) on the outside but sweet on the inside.

My son could probably use a little bit of the sabra in him for his exterior, as his sensitive side shows through all too clearly in public. This has made him subject to teasing. Now that he's a teenager, it's still tough for him to be "tough", but that's what psychologists are for.....yes, I'm passing the buck, but I have an excuse. I'm not a sabra, and I'm just not that tough. I fight for my rights, but I'm still pretty nice. You won't see me in the book "Why Men Marry Bitches". Maybe that's why I'm not married.

And although I've had quite a few boyfriends, both before and after my marriage and divorce, not all of them were native-born Israelis. There have been Anglo-saxon (of all English speaking countries), South American, Russian, Israelis who lived abroad, and yes, some born and bred sabras.

A few weeks ago, I met a sabra. The mammal. Not the fruit. We clicked immediately and started a relationship,,,,,of sorts. One night he was hungry and started peeling fruit from his fridge. Startled by the noise, I woke up and he offered me some sabra fruit. I ate one or two that he had cut up for me, and then watched him devour one after the other, relishing every bite.

But he didn't use gloves! A few hours later, I found him awake again in pain, yelling, and pulling out cactus thorns from his hands.

The sabra had attacked the sabra. But this writer realized that sabras can also fight back.

Post 32: Sooner or Later

originally created as Column 32, September, 2002

Evan met Ben in the park and told me about him. Divorced, non-smoker, attractive, “anglo-saxon” and good-looking. But he doesn’t like setting people up so he wouldn’t give him my phone number nor him mine. “Look for him on the internet”, he said and told me what site to find him on. I didn’t bother and then a few months later, Ben contacted me on the internet. I sent him pictures, per his request and got not even a thank you. Considering the bachelors and married men who won’t leave me alone, I imagine that I am not that ugly, but for whatever reason (maybe Ben met someone else or got back with an old girlfriend) I never heard from him. Neither did Evan.

Another six months passed until last night. Evan, my son and I went to a music concert where a familiar looking guy started talking to Evan. I realized that it was Ben and winked at Evan. Evan introduced me and asked if we knew each other. We both said “no”. Ben was polite but didn’t seem particularly interested in me. My son tried to gain attention throughout the performance.. Ben disappeared ever so quickly when the performance was over. Sooner or later it was going to happen. Perhaps he was embarrassed at the confrontation. I didn’t get any dates out of confronting the internet man who thought he could escape her screen. My son got to play a rare instrument and be applauded by an audience of 20. A full moon shone with the stars onto the rooftop, and I forgot the threat of terrorists, at least for an hour.

No sex and no future dates, but this writer spent the evening with the two most attractive men in the room on either side of her, even though one was eight-years-old.

Post 26: Clothespins, Poppyseeds and Headguests

originally created as Column twenty-six, June, 2001

Clothespins, Poppyseeds and Headguests

Since post twenty-four I’ve opened up a few more doors, actually had three dates with the same guy and frankly feel a little ambivalent. I’ve noticed a few peculiar things over the last six years, since my separation. First of all, men are like clothespins. All the sturdy, stable ones seem to get away and you are left with the imperfect ones. The socks must fall off with the clothespins, as it is a well-known fact that there are more single socks than single women. Washing machines are a well-known eater of socks, but where do they go once they are eaten?

So after you lose so many clothespins, you have to go shopping for more, and there never seem to be enough. Do they feel like they are going on dates when the laundry is being hung out? I mean there they are being hung out on a line in the middle of nowhere, having to fend for themselves. As well as supporting their own weight, they have to hold up wet laundry and hope that pigeons don’t mess with them. Some of the good quality pins do stay around, but they are a rare, faithful kind.

Speaking of laundry, I had a boyfriend for three years who basically saw my son grow up. Don met me when my son was only 2 and still in diapers. Despite the differences Don and I shared, I valued his tolerance of putting up with disgusting diapers. How was I to know that you don’t feed poppyseed hamantaschen (oznei haman) to a 2 year old boy, that poppyseed is something only older children can tolerate? Don was patient but nonetheless relieved when my son was FINALLY toilet trained only a month before his fourth birthday. Also at age 3, Don tolerated visitors of a different variety – head lice. I completely lost it when the daycare worker broke the news to me, but Don helped me comb out those little buggers and I have been fortunate not to buy lice killing shampoo for 3 and a half years until.....THEY’RE BACK.

It is 2 am and I am not having mad passionate sex with my imaginary boyfriend. I am combing head lice out of my hair, and this is all because my (blogger's note: at the time this post was created, my son was 7 - in 2008 he is 14) 7 year old son loves to hug his classmates. Only in Israel can I be dodging bombs one morning and combing hair lice out of my hair another night. Who knows, if perfume doesn’t attract men, then maybe the smell of this shampoo will work? What happens if on the fourth date, (if I get reach the fourth date) my “number 3 man” will want to stroke my hair? Do I tell him the truth and risk turning him off for life and turning this column into “Absolutely No Sex in the City Forever?”

This writer wishes that the little black things on her scalp were simply poppyseeds.