Focus My Ass

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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.

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Hannukrap

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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.

What Vacation?

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This year’s holiday season has been the absolute worst one I’ve ever had.

It’s ironic that on one of my previous years’ holiday posts I said something along the lines of “I like holiday season because it’s my birthday and when the zodiac turns to Libra, the stars tend to align and all is right in the universe.”

Well this time, the zodiac and the full moon of Tishrei must have been in some kind of retrograde because goddamn! First my birthday and the fact that, first, my dog got sick, and then my daughter got sick. Then the back and forth rides from Jerusalem to Givolim, then Be’er Sheva, then back to Jerusalem and back to Be’er Sheva, then back to Jerusalem and all the way to Zichron and back to Jerusalem. My daughter constantly being confronted with people she doesn’t know, and being strapped to a car seat for endless rides, completely screwed up her routine and sleeping patterns and finally ended up being sick with a fever and eye infection for the entire fucking holiday.

My husband came back home from work yesterday and said that everyone kept asking him how was his vacation, and he’s like “What vacation?”

Seriously, vacation? What the fuck is that anyway? If holding your kid and feel her going up in flames is a vacation, then yes, we had a blast. If sticking a thermometer and a bunch of suppositories up your kid’s bum and rubbing antibiotic cream into your kid’s eyes and having her hate you as a result is a vacation, then oh boy, that was one hell of a vacation! If spending every waking hour at the doctor’s clinic turning your kid into a guinea pig being poked and prodded all over and having her hate you even more is a vacation, party on because my vacation kicked your vacation’s ass.

I don’t want any more vacations. I want my routine. I want my daughter to be healthy, have fun with her friends at daycare, and go to sleep at a normal hour and not wake up at 2:00 a.m. due to a body temperature of 40 fucking degrees.

This traumatizing holiday season is making me dread Passover and dread next year’s holidays even more.

On a brighter note, I got a new Stephen King book to keep me busy and hopefully make me forget about this steaming pile of horseshit known as a vacation.

Peace, love and here’s to a silent baby monitor

Get Messy on V-Day!

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V-Day special! For this weekend only, use the coupon code “VDAY2016” on the PMS Mess Etsy Shop and get 14% off any purchase! (14% as in February 14, get it?)

Treat yourself to feminist zines, music and postcards or get a unique gift for a kickass feminist friend!

Messy and magical items in the shop include:

Purple Myrtle Squeegy – my PMS perzine

PMS cover 1 PMS issue 4 DSC02449 DSC03041

Fallopian Falafel – my compilation zine

Fallopian Falafel Fallopian Falafel Fallopian Falafel Fallopian Falafel

Alternative Jerusalem – a series of awesome postcards I designed

Draining1 Metal Proud1 Slut

Kickass care packages

PMS collection Care Package FF

All items come with freebies such as feminist zines or minizines or stickers or patches or my band’s CD!

Peace, love and mess up!

No Presents for New Year

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So New Year’s is coming up, and just like any other Christian New Year I will be doing nothing. New Year’s for me is as unimportant as the Jewish New Year is to Christians. Thinking back on all the other New Years I’ve had, they were either uneventful or absolutely horrible. I’m pretty sure I wrote about this once, though I can’t remember where, so here it is again.

I don’t remember any New Year parties before Y2K, so nothing happened then.

In 2000, New Year’s eve fell on a Friday. So it was the Sabbath. I did nothing more than watching the NY ball drop on TV, expecting my computer to go up in flames and waiting for nukes to fly. Nothing happened of course and life went on as usual.

In 2001, I slept. In 2002, I slept some more. In 2003, I was up north with my boyfriend of the time, getting drunk and freezing my ass off in a cabin that had no heating. The following day I spent with my head in the toilet. In 2004, some more sleeping took place. In 2005, I wrote this post. The following years, I was in Israel (and still am) where the “Sylvester” is virtually non-existent. It’s just another day where you go to work and, while looking over your schedule for the day or writing another invoice, you realize “Oh yeah, it’s January 1st,” in a rather nonchalant tone. Same thing happens on Christmas.

There were some New Year’ses that sucked ass. Like in January 1, 2010. It was the 30-day memorial of my cousin who passed away from brain cancer. So the first thing I did that year was looking at the gravestone of an 18-year-old kid, while my grandmother was screaming bloody murder.

In 2010 to 2012, schlafen marathons galore, and maybe even some Stephen King books.

In 2013 I had a blast – namely my elbow was blasted to hell and beyond. So I spent my New Year’s at the hospital. How awesome is that?

In 2014, I was still struggling to find a date for my second surgery and Hadassah Hospital kept postponing it. And then I slept.

This year, there’s a party at Blaze, but I don’t care. I rather stay at home and get some writing done. Now that I have some time cleared, I may actually make something of myself, and celebrate New Year 2015 in the company of my typewriter, stationaries, pens and paper. Who knows, maybe I can even start a new issue of PMS!

Peace, love and January is in winter anyway so it sucks no matter what.

Batmetal

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With no connection whatsoever to the title of this blog, I miss writing and zine production. Goddess how I miss it. The wedding arrangements and planning and meetings and everything is taking up waaaay too much of my time. I can’t wait for it to be all closed and done, and enjoy my wedding and go on with the rest of my life.

With a little closer connection to the title, I also miss Sunday Metal Nights. A few weeks ago, I missed it because we had a meeting at the wedding hall. Then after that, I missed it again because I had a surgery on that day. And the following week (which was last week) when we finally made it to the bar, some guy took over the computer, raided the motherfucker with like 50 songs, all of which were lameass nu metal tunes with choruses of clean vocals, which my boyfriend adequately describes as boy-band vocals. I think it was the first metal night I’ve been to where Amon Amarth, Carcass and Death didn’t make even one lousy appearance.

Today, I don’t even know if we’ll make it to the metal night because we have a Hannuka dinner at my boyfriend’s grandmother’s house. There will be couscous and Shfinj (a Moroccan delicacy, not to be missed, EVER!).

So for three consecutive weeks, I feel a serious withdrawal from good wholesome Sunday Metal Nights. And if tonight’s dinner ends late, this will bring the total number of weeks to four. A whole fucking month.

My boyfriend says that Sunday Metal Nights are a necessity that holds him sane for the entire week. And I couldn’t agree more. So a whole month without it is something I can barely comprehend.

All that besides the fact that I miss writing and making zines. And wedding stuff taking too long and yes, I confess, I am still reading an ungodly amount of Stephen King, and I have nobody to blame but myself for that. But I vow that once all of this is done and once Detective Hodges catches the Mercedes Killer, I will stock up on a fresh load of paper cuts and spilled smudged ink stains on my fingers.

Peace, love and happy Hannuka!

Life Is Good. Death Is Better!

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20141001_194934Yesterday was my 32nd goyishe birthday. For the occasion, my boyfriend’s parents and family ordered pizza and a chocolate cake, and I got a few new shirts, a pair of pants and some birthday songs. My boyfriend already got me a Stephen King book from my Amazon wishlist, which I should get only towards the end of this month, plus a nice night of romance which I got last night.

Also, I got a free salad from my favorite salad place in downtown Jerusalem. I must say that I don’t recall ever getting a birthday wish or free stuff from any company or shop in Montreal whenever my birthday rolled around. But in Israel, I got a text and an e-card from my medical insurance company, a text from Hasalatia informing me of a free salad, and even my salary slip at work has a little note wishing me a happy birthday. My coworker says it’s probably the companies’ way of reminding me that they exist, as some kind of publicity, but I still thought it’s sweet, and made me smile.

Aside from all that, I also got a letter from my new penpal from Salem, Massachusetts, and the zine I ordered from Sweet Candy Distro!

So I was sitting at the post office branch in downtown Jerusalem, waiting to take care of some errands for my work, while reading my penpal letter and leafing through the awesome zine. A girl sitting next to me was sifting through a whole stack of bills she has to pay. This made me think of how much happier I am to find colorful envelopes in my mailbox and how snail mail can be so much more awesome when the packages you get are not just boring old bills and stupid flyers for shit you don’t need.

I can’t wait to write my Salem penpal back and maybe even send my recent Purple Myrtle Squeegy zine issue to Sweet Candy Distro for consideration!

Also, tonight there is a tribute for the awesome band Death in Tel Aviv. A couple of years ago we went to another Death tribute they had at Sublime, also in Tel Aviv. I recall it was fucking rad! Death is not an easy band to cover. Their musicians are as good as they come and their vocals are second to none. But that tribute was surprisingly good, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I don’t know how good this year’s tribute will be. My boyfriend says that the place where they will play (Barbi Bar) has terrible acoustics. However, this year they got musicians from several bands, including Magor who we saw at Wacken in August and at Festikassach last week, plus a drummer from Cradle of Filth. So that should be interesting.

I like birthday season. When the Zodiac turns to Libra, the stars tend to line up and all is well in the universe. I am really looking forward to fasting this Sabbath (Yom Kippur) and also to the full moon on my Jewish birthday (Succot).

Peace, love and health to all