I don’t celebrate New Year’s. In my archives, you can find countless posts from previous years about how I don’t give a rat’s ass about New Year’s.

However, being an avid list-maker, I do make some New Year’s resolutions. It’s nice to see just how right I am about my predictions regarding the resolutions: which ones I will definitely get done and which ones I will avoid until the last minute or not do them at all. For example, I will no doubt avoid getting hair extensions until I’m all out of hair. The one I will not do at all (and probably regret it somewhere down the line) is renewing my Canadian passport. Goddamn bureaucratic shit.

On the other hand, I will most likely do all the zine-related resolutions. In fact, I should probably consider making a list solely for these and call it “My New Year’s Re-zine-lutions”.

So without further ado, here is my list as it stands:

  1. Write and publish a new issue of Purple Moon Spawn:
    I’m still in the process of brainwashing a few ideas for this issue. But I’m very excited at the prospect of writing my PMS Perzine under this new and awesome name!
  2. Plan new Twigz tattoo:
    I wrote about that a few posts ago while I was still working on my metal zine. I want to get my mascot tattooed on my left wrist. I just need to draw her properly enough to be worthy of a permanent fixture on my flesh.
  3. Work on a couple of ZineWriMo minis:45358972_10155563905547471_33584333562314752_o
    I still have some of my blanks waiting patiently for me to fill them up with awesomeness inspired by some of the ZineWriMo prompts. I need to get down to that at some point this year.
  4. Buy new purse:
    Yet another activity inspired by a ZineWriMo prompt. I want a new purse that I can use for my zine tools for zinestering on-the-go. Or just get a purse for the sake of having one that I actually like. I’m not too crazy about the one I currently use.
  5. Renew my Canadian passport:
    Stupid shit. Fucking headache. Canadians just can’t get any more anal. And this coming from an Israeli who also has to deal with Israeli bureaucracy. Seriously, I’d rather be renewing my Israeli passport ten times if it meant not having to deal with my Canadian one.
  6. Set Thursday as my Tai Chi day:
    And at the same time, setting Mondays as my zinestering day. I need to make a schedule for every month ahead of time, like I used to do.
  7. Get hair extensions:
    I feel like I’m going prematurely bald. I told my husband, there will come a day, very soon, where I will go to the hair salon and blow a nice amount of cheddar on extensions, hair dye, layering and styling. Fuck this mop of a hair. I’m sick of it already!
  8. Make a new flyer for PMS Mess:
    I already have a nice flyer for my zine (those of you who have traded with me or bought my zines may remember the flyer featuring Carrie soaked in pig’s blood with the tagline “I bleed it, you read it”), I think my Etsy shop can use one too. Speaking of which, please like my Facebook page!
  9. Reload Rammstein songs on my player:
    I found that every time a Rammstein song comes on my player, the song suddenly stops in the middle, stutters for a bit, then skips to the next song. I need to try reloading the songs and see if it remedies the situation. I can’t stand not listening to “Mein Teil” or “Benzin” all the way through. Pisses me off.
  10. Eat healthier:
    A resolution inspired by my new zine friend (Cheers Frances, if you’re reading this!). I’m thinking of at least improving the state of my breakfast. Tea and toast just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. I need eggs, fresh veggies, and different kinds of cheese, alongside tea and toast. And if I do ever get around to making a schedule for every month, I ought to try to include relevant times for trying new recipes.

I really hope to get through all of these, including the ones I really don’t feel like doing. Wish me luck and I shall wish you a happy new year!

Peace, love and 2019 ways of being


Renew the Cycle


I’ve been trying to revamp some of my pages and online stuff that promote my zines, namely my perzine’s Facebook page, my Etsy shop, and this blog.


Since I’ve released my recent work, I haven’t updated these pages accordingly due to a variety of reasons – either I was busy working on another zine, or busy raising my daughter, or being held captive by yet another Stephen King book, or just being lazy, tired or in a procrastination mood.

So now that I’ve updated them (check new items on my Etsy shop, and a new page on this blog under the “Zines” tab called “Others/One-Off”) I’ve been thinking about a total overhaul.

First, I don’t want my zine’s Facebook page to be my zine’s Facebook page anymore, but my Etsy Shop’s Facebook page. So I tried to change its name from Purple Myrtle Squeegy to PMS Mess. But of course, keeping with my lack of luck with changing my actual Facebook name, Facebook refused to change my page’s name, too. I tried to appeal stating that PMS is the acronym for Purple Myrtle Squeegy, so it’s basically the same and it’s not misleading or whatever other shit they said. But they responded to the appeal with the exact same response I got the first time around. Idiots.

Then I tried to merge both of my Facebook pages (PMS and Fallopian Falafel) but again to no avail.

Honestly, I think Facebook people must have worked for the Canadian government at some point because changing the name on my Facebook account isn’t any easier than it is to change it on my Canadian passport.

Anyway, I did update some of the info on the page to indicate that this is a page for my Etsy shop so that I could include non-PMS-perzine-related items in there as well (postcards, art, other zines, etc.) reflecting everything that I sell on Etsy. I was also considering starting a whole new page altogether, but I’m not sure about that yet.

While rewriting the “about us” section of my page, I wrote the title “Moon Spawn”. It occurred to me that if I added a P-word at the beginning of this headline, it would also be a PMS acronym. So naturally, I added Purple.

Purple Moon Spawn.

That’s it! That’s totally it! And because I love this headline too much to just leave it as a headline on a page that may not even be active for much longer, I said this should be the new name for my perzine.

Purple Moon Spawn, formerly known as Purple Myrtle Squeegy – A PMS Perzine.

Fuck yeah!

So ever since this new name came to me, I’ve been running high on inspiration, with no time or incentive to actually run with it. Maybe some brainstorming will help, like it did on the first day of ZineWriMo. But again, time is scarce. But damn! I love that name!!

Peace, love and Assfacebook

Fluent Genderfluid Hebrew


The following post may offend some people, so I apologize in advance. I’m trying to educate myself and when it comes to Hebrew, it’s awfully complicated.

I have no problem with people identifying their own gender, one way or another. Most non-Jews and non-Hebrew speakers assume Hadass is the name of a dude. I remember my days in Canada when I would get calls that always started off the same way:

Caller: “Hi, may I speak to Hadass?”
Me: “Speaking.”
Caller: “Uh… [short silence] Oh! You’re a girl.”

Now I live in Israel, where “Hadass” is a common name, and is used solely for girls. But international readers still misgender me so I feel compelled to clarify. I am a straight cis female and my pronouns are she/her.

The same goes for trans and non-binary people. Who you are is who you are, and I will respect you and refer to you in any gender and any pronouns you use.

However, this is a huge problem when it comes to Hebrew. Hebrew is a highly genderized language. Everything from people to objects is genderized. Depending on the gender of the subject, other things such as colors, verbs, adjectives and numbers must be genderized accordingly. Everything, absolutely everything has a gender.

English-speakers ask me “How do you say ‘I love you’ in Hebrew?” There are a bunch of different answers to that question, depending on who is speaking to whom. A man to a woman, a man to a man, a woman to a woman, a woman to a man, and the same with the plural. There is a male form of plural and a female form of plural. So they/them doesn’t work in Hebrew like it does in English because it’ll be genderized anyway. “Hem” is the male form of “they”. “Hen” is female form.

Hebrew is complicated as fuck. Sometimes it doesn’t even make sense (for example, the Hebrew word for “uterus” is male and the one for “prostate” is female). Even native Hebrew speakers make tons mistakes because of it. French has more or less the same problem, as well.

I constantly correct my daughter when she says “I want” in the male gender. I tell her “Honey, you’re a girl. Girls say ‘ani rotzah’. Daddy is a boy so he says ‘ani rotzeh’.” And then, considering my opinions of what gender is and how it doesn’t always reflect the assigned-at-birth one, I think maybe I shouldn’t correct her. All the kids in her daycare are boys and speak accordingly, so she probably learned it from them. And when I was a kid, even at 5 or 6 years old, I would speak in the male gender even if I knew it was wrong. I don’t know why. I just felt comfortable that way.

With my child, seeing as she’s only 2 years old, I will raise her as a girl and teach her the cis pronouns, as I still think it’s important for her vocabulary, grammar and syntax. But I still want to make sure that she knows and understands that when it comes to her own gender, this is entirely up to her. That’s why I find it so fucking complicated.

She says: “Ani ohev chatulim ktanot” (“I love little cats” misgendering both herself and the cats).
I correct: “Ani ohevet chatulim ktanim” (and then I wonder if I should even bother).

I once met a genderqueer native Hebrew-speaking person in Israel. When they spoke, they used the male gender and the female gender interchangeably and switched every once in a while. I tried to follow them, addressing them the same way. Every time they switched gender, I did too. But is this really the best option? Isn’t there something easier, like there is in English?

So my question is, to non-binary Hebrew speakers, how do I address you? What pronouns do you use? How would you raise your kids, teaching them to speak in proper genderized Hebrew while also teaching them the non-binary options?

I feel like in these terms, dictionary people, professors, and linguists need to rethink and completely revamp the language. Create a decent and easy replacement for cis pronouns that non-binary people can use. Good luck to native Hebrew speakers who don’t speak properly anyways.

Peace, love and paging Chaim Nachman Bialik



No More Holes


196033_4689712470_599_nA few years ago, I wrote a zine which included an article I wrote about piercings. I said something along the lines of how I like piercings and how I am not doing it for attention and how it’s become a way of life. I was 25 when I wrote that piece and though it still rings true today, I think it would ring truer if the word “piercings” would be substituted with “tattoos”.

Back in the day, I preferred piercings over tattoos because I said that if I ever get tired of one or more, I can simply remove it and all that would be left is a little hole. But with tattoos, removing them could be tricky.

Today, however, I have come to see tattoos as my preferred method of body modification. I form a closer connection to my tattoos because they become a new birthmark or I feel as if they’re a part of my genetic makeup. Even if their meaning for me has changed or if I feel their message doesn’t represent me anymore (which hasn’t happened yet) they’re still part of who I am and will remain with me until the day I die.

Piercings don’t. As pretty as some of them are (I especially love oral piercings. Fucking stunning!) they’re temporary and can be removed at any time.

At the hight of my piercing stage, I’ve had a total of eight piercings. Not much, but enough for my surgeons to gawk at the plastic cup they gave me for keeping my metal before whatever surgery I had to undergo.

My grandfather pierced my ears when I was a year old. I pierced my septum when I was 20, then my right nipple four months later. I got a belly ring at 21, a labret at 23, my left nipple at 26 and a rook at 27.

I had already started getting tattoos by the time I got my labret, and now have four of them. A small one of my logo on my right wrist, a slightly bigger one of my guitar on my left hip, and a half-sleeve on both arms.

Events took place at different stages of my life which forced me to remove almost all of my piercings one by one.

My ears:
After losing my favorite pair of earrings (Star of David earrings I got for my 14th birthday from my aunt in LA), I failed to find a pair that I loved as much. My right one also kept getting infected. I keep trying to find a pair that I like and that doesn’t hurt too much, but to no avail.

My labret:
As any gorgeous oral piercing tends to do, my labret did a number on my oral health. It started to destroy my lower front teeth. The gums were receding and I got scared of any further damage. Off it went to never go back.

My left nipple:
This one came off after my efforts to fight the reoccurring infections proved futile. I had it for about four years, and the infection kept coming back every one or two months. Finally, I found myself unable to touch it and didn’t even let my husband (who was my boyfriend back then) anywhere near it. Off it went. Fuck that painful shit.

The rook:
After my wedding, I had to remove my rings once a month to go to the mikveh (the ritual bath). It was a pain in the ass to remove them and an even bigger pain in the ass to put them back in. The most difficult one was the rook. My ring was with a pressure ball which I could never snap back in, so I just left it as is without the pressure ball. But it was still difficult to remove and put back. Recently, I tried changing the ring itself to a curved barbell, but it didn’t help. So last week, after coming back from the mikveh, I decided to not put it back. Pretty as it was, it’s not worth my rage every time I try putting it back in and fail about a dozen times before I succeed.

The belly ring and my right nipple:
These two came off after I got pregnant. The belly ring started to hurt even during my first trimester when I was barely showing. And the nipple simply got pushed out when my breasts started to swell. I suspect that the hole was still there even after I gave birth to my daughter because I found that it was much easier for me to pump and easier for her to nurse on my right one. But I never tried to put my rings back in even after I stopped breastfeeding.

The septum:
This is the first voluntary piercing I got, and the only one I still have. I even have the same ring since I was 20. I changed it a couple of times over the years but always came back to it because it was the most comfortable one. Curved barbell, 14 gauge, spread slightly wider at the curve so that I could easily flip it upside down into my nose whenever I need to hide it. I can also easily remove it and put it back in, no problem at all. My daughter also likes my septum. She points at it and says “Agil!” [Ring] and then points at her own nose and says “Gam ani rotza!” [I want one too!]


So now, every time I think I ought to get another piercing, I think about how painful it will be to eventually have to remove it because all my other piercings met the same fate and got relegated to my jewelry box, where they will slowly become oxidized. And then I think, fuck that, I’ll get a tattoo instead.

When my daughter grows up and decides to get a piercing, I will take her to the tattoo shop, she’ll get her piercing wherever she wants, and I’ll get a tattoo of one of her drawings as I’m planning to do. Maybe on one of my shoulderblades.

Peace, love and bodmod is for the freaks. Popular kids should steer clear and fuck off.

Focus My Ass


My head hurts, my throat feels all bloody and my nose is a faucet. I’m trying to focus through. My aunt decided that I should stand up in front of a bunch of people I don’t know and give a speech about my uncle who was killed when I was five. So yes, I’m trying to focus and trying to come up with what to write. And it’s even harder to do when I’m sick. And it’s even harder to do when the speech I have to write is in Hebrew. And it’s even harder to do when all I have to work with is five years worth of super fuzzy memories and super fuzzy newspaper clippings circa 1987. Focussing on the fuzz… right.

My aunt chose me to give that speech because she says I’m a good writer. But this is different. This so-called good writer needs to read her writing to a bigass audience made up of complete strangers. That is what freaks me out, because when the written word translates into spoken word, I might as well be mute. The only time I ever gave speeches was in school, in front of classmates, and it was for grades so I managed quite well and scored high. But now, I may very well trip over my words, stutter my way through whatever it is I plan to put down on paper, and do it all under the scorching sun of southern Israel.

The rally where I’m set to make a complete fool of myself is on September 27. Still trying to focus and I’m sick as fuck.

I’d rather be doing something creative like working on my daughter’s photo album. Picabook is where it’s at.

I’d rather be reading. Stephen King is totally where it’s at.

I’d rather fucking sleep. My bedroom is totally and completely and desperately where it’s at.

But alas. I’m at work. Sick. And trying to focus on something I’m hopelessly fuzzed-out about.

Help me.

Peace, love and holidays shmolidays.

Post-IZM Blues


I’ve recently found that slowly but surely I’ve managed to return to myself and my regular programming – art, activism, writing, reading, exercise, music, social activities, the usual mischief.

July kicked ass. I’ve worked hard and managed my time accordingly and have thus made zines, wrote some shit, attended Slutwalk, attended Pride, organized art mornings, kept with my weekly Tai Chi routine, read and am still reading lots of King books, and tried to stay as active as possible even within the realms of my maternal duties, as limiting as some of them may be. Yes, there are 24 hours in a day. I’ve owned them and filled them up to the fucking rim.

However, after an exchange between me and my husband regarding boring financial issues, we’ve agreed that I should give up my free mornings so that I may be able to pick my daughter up from daycare at a more reasonable hour and not have to keep her there until 18:00 and be charged for babysitting services. It comes out to hundreds of Shekels every month, and that’s a lot. But what I will be sacrificing to avoid such an expense is a lot, too.

“I won’t be writing anymore,” I told my husband. ” I also won’t have time for Tai Chi, or zine-production, or post office errands, or cooking, or dishes, or laundry, or sleeping in, or anything else. I will be reduced to being just a part-time secretary and a full-time mother. Nothing more.”

But money talks.

And bullshit walks.

So along the bullshit goes and sacrifices have to be made. I may have one morning a week for a while at least. And I’ll cram a whole load of things into it. Maybe I can revamp my weekends into something manageable and at least keep my Tai Chi routine…

Pfff, yeah right! After working only mornings shifts, I will be so tired by the end of the week, I’ll just pass the fuck out. No exercise, no zines, no writing and I’ll be too tired to care.

I really hope I won’t be too upset. Ink still runs through my veins and it still needs to bleed out onto a blank page. Tai Chi is necessary for my myotonized muscles lest they cramp up again, and I cannot afford a sedentary lifestyle. Zines breed positivity and I can sure use it right now.

But money still talks. And lord knows that following a morning shift, my pillow also talks my ears off.

Maybe I should start drinking coffee. Fuck this shit.

Peace, love and 24 hours in a day, my ass.

Order Rules and Toddler Shreds


I know this sort of post bores you to bloody tears, but hey, do I give a rat’s ass?

Organizing the house is one of my favorite pastimes. And passing the time it does, pretty much until I lose track of it and get to work late.

This morning, I planned on organizing a couple of garbage bags full of my kid’s winter clothes and giving them back to my sister-in-law. But after getting some kitchen chores out of the way, I found myself with less than an hour to take on that heavy load, so I decided to do some more minor organization tasks… which turned out not to be so minor after all and I got to work late anyway, but yeah.

Somehow, I always manage to have a bunch of papers piling up on what I call our “front desk”. It’s all bank statements and credit card statements and salary slips and a whole bunch of other boring shit that I fail to put away. So I organized that.

But as I was going to the other room to get the folders where I store said boring shit, I came across my DIY bookshelf. This bookshelf was once a product of an order-obsessed chick, with her zines organized by date, traded zines organized thematically, a shelf for her diaries, a shelf for her high school agendas (also organized by date) and sketchbooks, and a shelf for folders of boring shit.

The bookshelf that was once neat and tidy looked like it was hit by a shitstorm, followed by a hurricane with a touch of a flash flood. Though none of it was wet as the allegory would suggest, this bookshelf is now the product of a demolition-obsessed toddler, with shelves filled with torn papers. Luckily, she’s still too short for having inflicted such devastation on my zines and traded zines in the top shelves but, goddamn, what a mess!

To organize my annihilated bookshelf would mean putting torn agendas and diaries back together first before putting them in the right place, and that alone would take me a whole morning. So after a five-minute long longing look at the decimation before me, just begging me to be organized, I reluctantly walked away and back to the pile of boring shit papers.

Once that was done, I decided to organize our dining room table. I don’t know how we always manage to clutter it up, but I was getting sick and tired of having to constantly push a bunch of random stuff to the edge of the table just so we could have dinner.

The things that bothered me most on that table were the electronics – three remotes for our TV and sound system, a wireless keyboard and mouse and a wireless joystick. So I moved these to our electronics drawer, but not before reorganizing the drawer itself which was a whole other shitstorm – a bunch of intertwined cables and wires and chargers and spaghetti running up, down and around cameras, 3-D glasses, batteries, users manuals, a handheld vacuum cleaner and a broken iPod. I blew a hearty 20 minutes fumbling around with all of it and trying to Tetris the wireless keyboard into it, along with the mouse, the joystick and three remotes.

Even though we can now see the actual dining room table and the “front desk”, my mind keeps going back to my DIY bookshelf. I can almost hear its cries of disorder anguish.

I also have the living room bookshelf to look forward to. My growing Stephen King collection isn’t going to organize itself, and space shall be cleared to make way for the King, oh yes it shall.

I’m excited for the imminent return of the order-bug. I wonder how long it will take for my toddler to exterminate it. I bet not long. Not long at all.
Peace, love and happy International Zine Month!