Metalhorns With Baby Fingers

0

Juggling being an active zinester artist with being a mother is tricky. But juggling being an active metalhead with being a mother is damn near impossible.

Whereas I can easily use my free mornings for zine-production every once in a while, the metalhead life is mostly a nightly deal. But my nights are packed to the rim with maternal duties.

Joy to the Jerusalemite Metalheads, Blaze Bar has reopened and is once again reinstating the occasional Sunday Metal Nights. But just like before, the problem for me is finding a suitable arrangement for my daughter. She doesn’t like strangers, so I can’t get a random babysitter to drop by and look after her. And also, she doesn’t fall asleep in a place or a room that isn’t her own, so I can’t drop her off at my mother-in-law while I go off to my headbanging life.

I can’t believe I’m actually considering taking her with me to the metal bar, but I’m fucking desperate. I miss my metal nights and I miss the guys. And I would really like to introduce her to the metal scene a bit more. She seems to like heavy music. Nirvana is her favorite, and she took to Arch Enemy almost immediately (she calls them Angela, of course she does, since the Arch Enemy of Angela is the real Arch Enemy).

But then, there is a slew of other issues to consider. For one, and the most problematic one, is the cigarette smoke that is prevalent in the whole place. Toxic, dangerous, smelly as fuck, and doesn’t ever leave your hair, your clothes, your skin… You go to bed smelling worse than your own child’s diaper after a bean-soup dinner. So exposing my daughter to that is just really bad parenting.

Then, there is the loud music. At home, she listens to Nirvana and Arch Enemy at a normal volume and happily headbangs to it. But at the bar, she would most likely need headphones, and even if I do manage to find a pair made for babies, could I be completely sure that she would even agree to wear them at all times? Hell fucking no. I’d be lucky if she agrees to keep a hat on her head. Which brings me to the next problem.

It’s October. Jerusalem nights have become cold. Very very cold. Even if I were to bundle my kid up in a heavy winter coat and a tuque and a scarf, I would still be worried about her catching a cold. This is the time of year when viruses become ravenous, and the young make easy prey. Exposing her to this fucking freezing air is bad parenting yet again.

Finally, Metal Night starts around 9:00 p.m. and gets really good around 10:00. My kid’s bedtime is 8:30 p.m. After that, she becomes cranky and miserable. If she goes to sleep too late, she has trouble waking up the next day, so we have to wake her up which means she will be cranky and miserable for the rest of the day. It’s her routine, and anyone disturbing it will ultimately know her unabated wrath.

But I miss my metal night. I miss my nightlife. And I miss Blaze, for fuck’s sake.

Peace, love and my neck needs a break, literally.

Advertisements

Holicraze

0

Every time someone asks me “How did you pass the holidays?” I say “It passed.”

And thank the good Goddess it did. FUCK! It was so long! Too long. Way too long.

I don’t know why this year it seemed much longer than in previous years. It could be because every holiday started on Sunday night, so it would just be an extension of the Sabbath and seemed to go on forever.

It might also be because my daughter is nearing 2 years and being an active little cookie, she was bored out of her mind, bouncing off the walls, and not going to daycare. So every day, we struggled to find ways to entertain her.

The days simply crawled by. Towards the end of the exhausting ordeal, Elad went to play basketball in the park. He told me about one of the guys he played with who said “I’m so bummed that the holidays are over next week!” My husband replied to him “You don’t have kids, do you?”

(Cue hysterical laughter)

September 27 was the day of the Rally for fallen soldiers and their families. You might remember my rant in one of my previous posts where I was convinced I would make a fool of myself while giving my speech at the event. However, this day went by far more smoothly than I could have ever imagined. And it so happened that I did NOT make a complete fool of myself! Quite the contrary, in fact. I didn’t stutter or trip on my words once. After the ceremony, random strangers, people I don’t know and who don’t know me or my family or my deceased uncle, came up to me and told me how much my speech moved them.

I could hardly believe it. I mean, this is me we’re talking about here. Me! Who can’t for the life of me speak a decent phrase, can’t form an acceptable argument, can’t win any debate, let alone in Hebrew, to the point where I choose to just keep my mouth shut. Me, who always believed that silence is power and chose the written expression over the spoken one every chance I got. I actually spoke in front of a big-ass audience and moved them all to tears.

I think it might be because I kinda cheated. When I went up on that stage, the lights went out and the only spotlight was on me. The rest of the auditorium, with the entire audience in it, vanished into complete darkness. So it was easy for me to imagine I wasn’t really speaking to anybody and that the place was empty.

The rest of the day went by smoothly because this was the one day during chol hamoed where I didn’t have to find ways to entertain my daughter. The rally took place in Kfar Hanoar in Maayanot. It was a huge park, grass everywhere, a nearby petting zoo with goats and cows and ponies, a big stage in the middle of the park with music and tiny tiny dancing kids, my daughter among them, a temp tattoo booth, mats spread out all over, tons of food… All we had to do was give my daughter space and chase her around. She was so worn out by the end that she fell asleep ON THE WAY to the car and didn’t wake up until we got back to Jerusalem.

But yeah, the rest of the days, dude, snails go by faster. Yesterday, I was so relieved to finally get back to our regular routine. It was a bit difficult for my daughter, at first. We totally confused her over the past fucking month like “Ok, back to daycare,” “Or maybe not”, “and not today either”, “but today yes,” “and today again no”… Who wouldn’t be confused with such a non-routine?

So yes, it passed. Mazal Tov bitches!

Peace, love and I’m two times 18. Chai chai ve’kayam!

 

Slutty Mother, Feminist Baby

0

So Slutwalk Jerusalem is coming up for the 7th year in a row. I noticed that every time someone posts about it on Facebook, there is a shitload of back-and-forth comments mostly by trolls who have no idea what Slutwalk is even about and think they can criticise it however they want.

I don’t really care about that. Slutwalk is about women reclaiming their bodies. That’s it. It’s a good thing. It’s a positive thing. But people still comment on it, saying it’s demeaning and offensive. So if people are offended by women claiming ownership of what they obviously own, said people can go fuck themselves or get a brain.

I’m going along with a group of friends. I was also planning on bringing my daughter along and dress her in her new onesie (pictured here).onesie smash But my husband said he won’t let me. It’s funny and rather ironic that he won’t let me do something when it comes to feminism. But in this case, I think he’s right. Although I want to expose my daughter to the movement early on in her life, I think that a year and five months is far too young to actually take part in marches that involve being in the scorching sun for a long time, shouting slogans, and (let’s face it) putting yourself in certain danger by counter-protesters.

I want my daughter to be an activist and be strong and stand up for her rights as an empowered woman, but I also want my daughter to be safe. And Slutwalk Jerusalem is not exactly the safest place to be on May 18. So she will stay with my husband, who can do his own share of exposing our daughter to feminism by reading her one of her favorite books “Feminist Baby”, including the Slutwalk-inspired part that says “Feminist baby chooses what to wear, and if you don’t like it she doesn’t care”, as well as teaching her the Rosie the Riveter feminist fist, demonstrated in the book by the feminist baby herself.

So next week will be nice and packed. With the hopes that my daughter doesn’t get sick in any one of those days, this is my schedule for the upcoming days:

Friday, May 11: Bake cookies, go to Be’er Sheva for the weekend
Sunday, May 13: Work morning, pick up daughter, bake broccoli snack (new recipe!)
Monday, May 14: Tai Chi morning, work afternoon
Tuesday, May 15: Doctor’s appointment and blood work, work afternoon
Wednesday, May 16: Write letters to penpals, work afternoon
Thursday, May 17: Bake pizza-flavored pasta quiche (another new recipe!), work afternoon
Friday, May 18: Smash the fucking patriarchy at Slutwalk with a group of badass bitches, and make the world a better place for my daughter, then go to Be’er Sheva for weekend and Shavuot.

If all goes well, I might try to start a new issue of my zine and include a piece about Slutwalk. Between taking care of a child and taking care of a child, I don’t know when that will be, but yes. Zinesters shall zine.

Peace, love and sluts

Hannukrap

0

Since becoming a mother, I realized I’ve become quite ambivalent about holidays. On one hand, I like them because, well, they’re holidays. On the other, I really do not like them because they often involve spending a lot of time with family, which means having to travel to the south, which in turn means having a very upset baby for the next couple of days seeing as her sleeping and eating patterns become all screwy.

So Hannukah was no different. And just like on the September/October holidays, my poor baby got sick, although this was not as a result of traveling to the south but rather as a side effect of the shot she got the previous week.

So the first three days of Hannukah were spent lighting candles, eating doughnuts and shoving suppositories up my kid’s bum. The fever was finally defeated by Friday evening, and the next day, my husband and I had a very nice Shabbat. We took my baby and my dog out to the dog park as it was nice and sunny. On the way back home, my baby fell asleep. My husband chopped up some fresh veggies and we sat to watch TV. The rest of the day went by uneventfully, thank Goddess.

On Monday, my family planned a birthday party for my grandmother. It took place in a Karaoke place in Be’er Sheva. My husband and I absolutely DESPISE Karaoke. Seriously, Karaoke was the reason earplugs were invented. Karaoke killed the hippy with the unplugged acoustic guitar and his coombaya circle. Karaoke was created solely for people who can’t sing but who think they can.

But everybody was going to be there, including my cousin from Belgium. I spent most of that evening going back and forth between the room where my family was, with the awful sounds of Karaoke and the cigarette-smoke-saturated air, and the next room which had neither. My baby, being attacked by my family she doesn’t know and sounds she didn’t particularly care for, failed to fall asleep that night, as she is wont to do whenever she is anywhere that is not her bedroom.

A word about Karaoke:

Back in Montreal, I went to a drag queen club (Cabaret Mado) on an evening of Karaoke. The people who went up to sing were actually quite talented, so I wasn’t suffering much if at all. A couple of years ago, my friend from Sweden came to visit me in Israel and after she insisted endlessly, I joined her for another Karaoke night. She got up on stage and pretty much wiped the floor with any other wannabe singer who came up after her. So that was also ok.

But my family… no. Just no. I bring earplugs to most of my family’s dinner parties and holidays events because I know there is bound to be singing. And my family is made up of loud Moroccans who don’t need any electronic device to make them sound like they’re singing through a goddamn bullhorn. Earplugs have been my salvation in all my family events. But I forgot to bring them this time around.

Plus, the songs they choose in Karaoke are mostly Middle Eastern tunes. Anybody who knows me, even as a passing acquaintance, knows just how I feel about that music. Bleeding ears is not even the word.

So when my dad came to see me and my husband sitting in the other room, he said that he doesn’t understand why loud singing Moroccans torture us so much considering all the loud metal concerts we go to. The mere fact that he even compared the two was baffling to me. But I explained that the music we listen to involves extremely talented musicians playing their instruments like sheer gods, and talented vocalists tearing up their microphones, whereas the auditory abomination known as Karaoke coming from the next room has neither talented vocals nor talented musical instrumentation.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE my family. So it was still nice to see them and to show off my daughter. But I’m glad that going to the south is not something we do too often, and I’m glad that Karaoke is not something that my family does too much either. But sometimes I wish these machines had Rammstein songs included in their repertoire. Because if they do, the next time my family decides to torture me with a Karaoke night, I will see to it that I will torture them back with some badass industrial German tunes.

Peace, love and also, seriously you guys have to stop smoking already.

My Tired Is Tired

0

So I woke up on Wednesday morning when I heard my husband and my dog coming back from the morning walk. I figured that since I work the afternoon shift, I can afford to sleep a little longer, but I had to pee like a motherfucker. So I got up and went to the bathroom, where I looked at my watch without my reading glasses and deduced that it was 8:00 a.m. I wondered how it is that I didn’t wake up earlier when my daughter does. I came out of the bathroom and looked down the hall and saw that the door of my daughter’s room was closed, which meant she wasn’t in there anymore.

I turned to my husband and said “Did you already take her to daycare?”

“No,” he answered. “You picked her up today.”

“What?”

“You worked morning today. You picked her up, right?”

“No, I work the afternoon shift today…” I wasn’t really following the conversation. Something didn’t make sense, so I added. “Wait, what day are we?”

“It’s Tuesday,” he said.

“What are you talking about? What time is it?” I asked still completely out of it.

“It’s 6:00.”

“In the morning?”

“No, it’s evening!”

Usually when I work the morning shift, I finish early enough to have time to go home, sleep for an hour, then get up and go pick my daughter up from daycare. But what happened now was a classic case of George Carlin-ation. In his “Jammin in New York” stand-up show, he says: “Did you ever fall asleep in the late afternoon and woke up after dark and you don’t know what goddamn day it is?”

I was convinced it was Wednesday morning, when it was actually Tuesday evening. What I thought was my dog’s morning walk was actually her evening one. And what I saw as 8:00 was actually 18:00. And I had slept for a straight 4 fucking hours and my daughter was still in daycare. I slept through the 3 p.m. alarm that I had set. I slept through both phone calls from the lady who runs the daycare.

“Oh my God!” I gasped when it finally hit me. “Go get her NOW!” I told my husband who was already halfway out the door.

Lucky for me, my daughter was used to being at daycare until 18:00 on days when nobody can pick her up at 16:00. But it didn’t stop me from being so completely disappointed with myself.

“What in the fuck is wrong with me?” I asked after my husband came back with my daughter. It’s like the whole evening just disappeared.

I recall working the morning shift and trying to find a meme that adequately described just how fucking exhausted I was. There was nothing to do at work and I was trying to keep myself awake by shaking my hands and hitting my face. Anybody who would have seen me would have thought I was having some sort of seizure or was going crazy. I should have known that my one-hour nap would turn into a four-hour long absence of consciousness. I honestly think I quite literally passed out.

27-I-will-nap-here-cat-meme

Anyway, my daughter was completely oblivious to this lapse of judgment from her mother, who was still trying to make sense of what goddamn day it is. Seriously, even after I already knew it was evening, I caught myself getting dressed for work. My mind had checked out.

And this is my punishment for being stupid. I am never taking naps again.

Peace, love and sleep is for the weak

Motherzinester

0

It wasn’t easy, but I did it!! After almost two years of having made no more than a single mini zine, I finally managed to produce a full-length one. This is not an issue of Purple Myrtle Squeegy, and I wonder if I’ll ever make another one from that series. This issue is called Ima Badass (a play on words to those of you who speak both English and Hebrew) and it focuses on my experience with pregnancy and the onset of motherhood. It might be a one-off, or the first of a few. I haven’t decided yet. All I know is that it needed to be done. You can’t be a zinester and a mother without writing at least a single zine about motherhood.

IB cover

The format of this zine is slightly different from the previous DIY issues of PMS perzine. Since I rarely had any time to work on it, I did most of the layout by computer. The cover is a photo I took while my month-old daughter was napping on my lap. Although it’s mostly cut-and-paste, the script is all computer typed. There are no backgrounds because that would have involved a hell of a lot more time and effort, which anyone with a baby would understand that I simply don’t have.

But still, I did it! And it’s as raw and intimate as any perzine should be.

A huge thank you to all my awesome zinester friends and artist friends for your constant inspiration. A special thanks goes out to my husband for finding the time in his crazy schedule for printing this issue. And another special thanks to Shoshana for contributing a beautiful drawing included in the zine!

Peace, love and babies

Room 101

1

Hello EdenToday, I struggled to organize my daughter’s room but got frustrated because no matter how many things I put away, it always seems so cluttered.

So I sat on a chair looking around the room, pondering on the evolution of this room.

We moved to this apartment when I was two months pregnant. We haven’t even started considering a nursery, much less how to set one up. At the beginning, we used that room as a storage room until we found a place for all the stuff we had. Soon thereafter, it became my work room as well as a guest room.

We kept postponing setting up a nursery. My husband finally suggested we wait until two weeks before my due date. But then two weeks before my due date was when I finally gave birth. And so it was that we had a baby and nothing else – no diapers, no bottles, no clothes, no toys… we had a broken crib and a used car seat. Of course, even before we brought her home, we got a bunch of gifts and my husband went shopping with his sister for a whole stack of things we would need.

So as it stands, my daughter’s room is now a cross between a child’s room and a guest room, with a touch of a zinester’s work room and a goddamn storage space.

And we can’t unclutter it.

  1. We need the guest bed because my mom sleeps there when she comes to visit (plus there is a large compartment under the bed for storing more things).
  2. We can’t get rid of my work station because where else would I lament my lack of time to get any zinestering done? Plus it’s a kickass desk which my daughter could also use later on.
  3. We can’t get rid of any chest because my daughter has no closet and that’s the only place where we can keep her clothes and bedsheets.
  4. And as broken as the crib is, we still use it, even if my husband is so annoyed by it he said we should burn it once our kid graduates to an actual bed.

Above all that is a small bedside table under the desk, two guitars, three radiators and a laundry basket.

So feeling completely hopeless by this room being on the verge of explosion, I closed the door and am now planning a door sign with a nice frame.

Peace, love and only a metalhead would understand that title