How do you say 'Birthday' in English? A serious post. Seriously

How do you say 'Birthday' in English?

A serious post.

Seriously

Oy.
Birthday season arrives on November 18th and ends on January 23rd.
Eight out of ten (that's 80%  if I do any math at all) immediate family members stuff their birthdays into this time period. And I'm not including Thanksgiving, Christmas and/or  חֲנֻכָּה‎ (I left in the vowels to help you out).
That's Chanuka, Chanukah, Chanukkah, Channukah, Hanukah, Hannukah, Hanukkah, Hanuka (Hawaiian), Hanukka (Finnish), Hanaka (Japanese), Haneka (Inuit), Hanika (Danish), Khanukkah (Lion King).

Kindly, the two dark-haired beauties of our tribe, removed themselves from the rush of indulgence and stay aloof until April and July. But enough about them.

חֲנֻכָּה ‎ in Israel, when I lived there as a tot, was nothing like Chanukah here.  We did it the Sephard way.  Jelly donuts and sitting on the cold limestone floor playing games with nuts and stones. At least by the time the candles were lit I spoke Hebrew. I was a proper and polite North Londoner plonked down into Jerusalem.  Then popped into school.  At that time, half the class spoke English.  The country was only 15 years old and the population was more European than anything else. My two best friends were from New York.  I suppose I could have got away with not learning any Hebrew but a) I had a crush on an Israeli boy in the grade above me and b) the fact that my parents couldn't speak or really understand was just too delicious to pass up.

It was the only pure AHA! (sp?) moment I ever had.  The moment I 'got' Hebrew.
At about the three week mark into my private lessons, after struggling over some reading, my teacher pointed to the bowl of fruit that was on top of her 'fridge.  'Name the fruit', she said. 'Quentin Crisp', I said, 'It's an apple'.  'Wrong', she said in that brackish tone some Israelis like to put on.
'Not an apple', I murmured, 'hm'.
And then it happened. The heavens split open, the curtains rose, my spine got all tingly, I was raptured - I named all the fruit. In Hebrew.  Then the bowl, 'fridge, contents of 'fridge, Mr. Fork and Curly Spoon - I was blind but now I saw.  It was ecstasy.  I bounced down the stairs; lo and behold - I could read all the shop and street signs.  I could fumble for my bus money like the best of them. I could run pass the house of the witch on Rehov Jabotinsky with real, understandable terror while blurting out childish invective. I felt at home.
And then it all went away. Back at home I didn't need Hebrew. At all.  So it was back to Latin.  Hebrew was delegated to the storage locker of my brain. I still cocked my head to the side, à la chien, whenever I heard Hebrew being spoken but nothing really got through. I do expect, however, that the second my feet touch Israel's soil (whenever that may be), the door will be unlocked and I'll be completely bi-lingual once more.

Now wasn't I a clever thing - learning a language that didn't use our alphabet.  I fumbled through Italian, French, a smattering of German and with what ease would I make the transition to America?   No prob.  Same language.  Same alphabet.  They had Saks, we had Selfridges.  They had Land O' Lakes, we had the Lake Country. They had Disneyland, we had Butlins.  Actually scratch that. Butlins was far creepier than any Disney Haunted Mansion.  Trust me.  Nick Cave described it as 'Auschwitz with Curtains'  but he was born in Australia so take that with a grain of salt.

Of course, language comprehension is a strategic plus when travelling, or in my case, moving to a foreign country.  And I had functioned well in the states.  A year in Berkeley.  But I was 3 years-old, so that doesn't count.  Then, Arlington, MA, where I could have been put into third grade but opted for second grade (lazy, unambitious streak matured early).  At that time - I did want to fit in as evidenced by my sorrowful refusal to understand why, on Halloween, dressed as Sleeping Beauty, everyone guessed who I was due to red hair and English accent.
It was THE move that picked up on the otiose side of my character (see - I do still use my rudimentary Latin : otiosus, "idle, at leisure," from otium, "leisure."). THE move that I thought was only supposed to last four years. 
Did it start badly?  No - although I suppose it could have. Two days after arriving into Ur-California house (bungalow), I started high school.  Not only did that mean that there were boys (horrors?) but that it was about 85 degrees by 10 am.  At least the yanks used Fahrenheit and lbs & oz I didn't think to myself. 
I showed up on campus in an all-wool ensemble.  And I don't just mean grey pleated skirt, socks and sweater.  I really mean that I was also wearing my perfectly usable vest (under-shirt?) and panties.  Or knickers, if you prefer.  All wool.  But never mind that - I was too overwhelmed by the 'rally' and not knowing if I were a frosh/soph/jr/sr. So I clambered into the bleachers and sat down next to a real California girl.  Shiny, green hair (from swimming) and perfect white teeth.
I was transfixed by the cheerleaders and pom-pom girls yelling at us to 'kill the cougars' or 'dunk the donuts'.  California girl was transfixed with my accent.  And a star was born. 
I had burst onto the scene and was surrounded by people coming up to me asking me if
a) I knew the Beatles (well I did have some of Paul McCartney's fingernail clippings (that's a different story for a different time) and
b through z (pronounced 'zed') how did I say: water, birthday, Leicester.  Did I drink tea? Did I ever go to Buckingham (pronounced incorrectly) Palace? What was it like driving on the other side of the road (I was 13)?   Pip Pip Ducky Lorry, what?
The only downside of the day was when I asked for a rubber. Which I prefer to understand as a tool to erase pencil markings.  My classmates had never heard of a French letter.  Too busy wondering if I spelled Labour the way I did. 
 I was instantly popular for being who I was.  In reality, who they thought I was.  Rather than blend in and learn the ways of the Iowa test (I passed the US history with flying colours just by guessing. My history started with King Alfred and a pancake and ended up with the Industrial revolution.  We skipped over the period from 1603 - 1837. One guess as to what we skipped), I took the easy way out and played to my little English girl status. Kept everyone in stitches with my pronouncements which were translated as wit. I floated above the lot of them not learning anything at all that could actually help the transition. 
America meant having choices.  England was a road already selected.  And I liked that road.  I knew what I was expected to do and how. I didn't have to prove myself in England or America but here, everyone defined me the way they wanted; a cartoon Carnaby Street denizen.
Just call me Lady Biba Brittania
It's taken me 40 years to understand this.  And guess who turned the lighbulb on.  A transplanted Israeli.

I'm so confused

Since I landed at SFO last night at 9:25 pm and it is now 3:34 am tomorrow tomorrow night

 

Oooooo  It's already looking like a psychological break

02 February 2022

Since I landed at SFO last night at 9:25 pm and it is now 3:34 am tomorrow tomorrow night.

• 
  

• This first endless paragraph is undoubtedly the most useful information anyone could ever have, from anyone, ever. So please follow carefully. Thanks will be accepted at some point using Kings Rules and subject to the Wet High Intensity Magnetic Separator (commonly known as whims).

• 

   Then I'll begin

  I shall also explain, not that I have to, all these extra (fun!) bullet points.

And I know you can hardly wait. I'm that good.  

• The taxi service (for $55.56) that I had previously ordered and then needed to cancel (which I did as a response to the nice text from the driver and don't worry, the story gets more interesting I SWEAR) sent me a text saying that the driver was on his way. I called the driver to ask if he was really on his way as I had cancelled. He said no and that yes, he was aware that I had cancelled and that I should call the company www.booking.com (do not use for taxi service) and ask them what was going on as that info was coming from them.

I call, and they said that they couldn’t cancel without 24-hour knowledge and that responding to the driver wasn’t ‘kosher’ (my word, not theirs) and that they would not refund the money and that I should be in touch with a different number. Fine diddly-dee. 

So before calling them, I called Uber, who said they would send someone.  I waited and got a text saying that the Uber was there.  Well, tell all your friends that Uber/Lyft do not/are not allowed (in better times, I would have checked this out) to pick people up at the arrivals gate.

So that Uber guy left. I called and ordered another and asked him to meet me at departures (‘cause they drop you off there, right?').  He said sure.

I went upstairs to meet him. Didn’t get there in time, so he left. 

I called a third time and was again told that the departure level was fine.  After about 10 minutes of texting, he said he was on the 5th level of the garage. 

NOTA BENE: the elevator doesn’t go to the 5th level of the garage.

  It’s called something else, like the 2nd floor. Please remain calm.

So he left.

At this point, I was actually crying. In public.  Gypsy taxis came up to me offering to drive me home for $90 and, for some reason, this was the hill that I decided to die on and not put any more money on credit cards (after blowing out all credit buying my daughter: a bed, warm winter coat (hers was stolen in a car-jacking- please don’t ask), winter boots, a sofa, clothes, blankets, cigarettes (don’t @ me), food, cockroach traps, toothpaste - you name it I bought it.  

I texted friends complaining about my misery, and most were v. sympathetic, but when one's friends live in, say, Boulder Creek or Campbell, I know they can’t help; I just needed to vent. 

As for stalwart ex-boyfriend, he was asleep and didn’t answer until this morning with concern.

I finally called Lyft (for $88) and, while I was in the car, got a lovely text from another friend who offered to come fetch me.  I’d marry him if he weren’t gay.

Really nice Lyft driver until he wouldn’t help me drag my suitcase up the front stairs.  This tore what is left of any muscles/tendons in my back as I had stuffed my suitcase with goodies ranging from honey from Pennsylvania (so you won’t get allergies in the mid-Atlantic states) to special cookies that are NOT TO BE SOLD IN CALIFORNIA even though the P.O. Box for said cookies is, yeah, wait for it, in California, and even some jam that I drove out to Pennsylvania Dutch country to buy (I was looking for buggies and barn building).  Saw a buggy parked at a very normal looking house. No barns but there are sure a LOT of Trump/Let’s Go Brandon flags around - hence THIS:

Where was I, oh yes - buying stuff from a very friendly lady in full Pennsylvania Dutch gear (basically a potato sack - so sue me) with the weirdest accent I ever heard.

 But that’s not what was weird.  What was weird was that the other customer in the shop advised me to buy their bagels.

And here I pause for a collective, ‘Say WHAAAAT?’ 

Yupsie Dupsie (that’s Pennsylvania Dutch), ‘Steamed! Like they do in New York City!’.  Since I only had $5 to my name as my wallet had been stolen in a laundromat in Wilmington, and what had been left in its stead, helpfully (and possibly anti-Semitically - but I pass, right?), a crucifix,

I bought some jam.  All that plus the gift of a brand new axe  - seen here with the remains of a severed backscratcher that my mother broke in a fit of demented itching,

made the suitcase extra heavy.

• Home to what I believed would be full-on hospice hell.  It wasn’t scary at all as all hospice workers are flippin’ angels and, of course, have all the very best drugs - Haldol, Lorazepam, and the gold standard - Morphine. I basically empty the suitcase down the laundry chute and head upstairs. That night’s caregiver had been there for close to 36 hours and was happier to see me than I’d ever seen anyone look (at seeing me, that is).   Then she began the run-down of the last two terrible weeks after mum’s 4th stroke ('I had a stroke?’ she said to me today), which I have semi-convinced myself because I was brought up this way, that she had the stroke two days after I left because I left. The cat goes berserk at seeing me and barely lets me take a shower.  How nice to be welcomed back.  I even got a note from our slightly mysterious tenant in the cottage at about 6 am saying:

Who the hell sleeps the whole night and gets up well-rested by 6 am?  

And, more to the point, WTAF warranted such an outpouring of relief? And even more to the point, I have to be a comfort to you too??????

I responded as a mature adult:

When what I really wanted to say was, 'WHY?' What was so terrifying in "the front house?"

(it’s called The Big House number 1.  "The front house" sounds like a merkin). Covens? A party of clowns? High school students making a film about chess and the meaning of death as interpreted through the lens (darkly - pretend I didn’t say that) of post-colonial nihilism?

                                STOP NEEDING ME, EVERYONE. I’M SICK OF IT.

• Seriously now - my mother was so happy to see me that she almost broke into a limp.  There were 2 caregivers on hand, both of whom were amazed at the transformation, 'She hasn’t smiled for 2 weeks!’ I felt loved and appreciated and even slightly hopeful that mum wasn’t as badly off as everyone had been saying.  Well, it was more like whispering and muttering behind an arras in the court of Richard III - slightly surreptitious as no one wanted to upset me while I was gone on my mercy mission (which it truly was. Best decision I ever made. But, let me warn all of you out there, being a mother doesn’t magically end when you are, say 42 as it should, and you still have a modicum of youth and vitality left. It’s a road that heads towards the horizon and beyond and is also the truest definition of love I’ve ever felt. I am lucky to feel this - the great pain, both physical and psychic that my beautiful girl suffers knocked all ego and pettiness out of me, and I overflowed with comfort to be poured over her. Something peaceful in knowing that finally, finally, one is doing the right thing) (naturally, all this came to a screeching halt as soon as I was confronted with THIS DAMN DAY).  Thinking that I’d really cheer mum up, later, I fetched all the post that had been held and unceremoniously dumped in the sitting room along with all sorts of goodies from Hospice - you know, waterproof bed pads, adult diapers, wipes, creams, lotions, more pads, more diapers. An aggressive but tempting postcard insisting I GO ON A REAL VACATION Fuck off, you disingenuous fucks, I said to no one. Stupid bills. Stupid tax documents. Stupid sheriffs bench warrant demands because my car (that I sold in September) had multiple parking tickets and was impounded in San Rafael.  Yes, I’ve been dealing with this for months. Yes, I sent them copies of the Pink Slip.  Yes, I sent them the DMV info.

• (memo to self: Do I or do I not pay this actual parking ticket?)

And why can I not, for the life of me, format a simple document? 

Oh, right! I remember! 

It’s because I’m not good for anything as evidenced by my ex-husband's drearily pithy remarks to the court when he whined about paying support (and what a terrible mother I was) by saying that I was ‘an actress of sorts, specializing in “inconsistent acting gigs” as I like to call them'.

 Ha Ha I just saw you through the car window and you look AWFUL and even though I consider getting a chin lift (I’m a superficial cow, actually), I look a thousand times better. SO THERE.  I’m better than you.  En Garde. Meet you at dawn. I win. Ptooey.

I did pay the parking ticket but will send a stern message to Edgar Allan Poe expecting some sort of compensation for the emotional distress in which I now find myself.

God help me - where am I in this saga. Does it even matter anymore?

I was actually going to write about the hell of legal crap, the sounds of the house being readied for repainting and lopping off of termite infested trellises because…well, let me just say that here in this lil ol’ town, which was once again named

 

The most expensive zip code in America,

not one single house is ever bought to live in. Every house, even a 5-year-old house, is torn down and an insane 37,000 sq. foot house with two  7,000 sq. ft basements and a secondary house - maybe called the Back House (but what do I know), which is a measly 12,000 sq. footer, is put up.  Oh, Exsqueeeeze ME.  The monstrosity across the road has been being built for 5 years, so puh-leeze for the love of God don’t get me started on the noise, the entitlement, the imported trees that brought down the power lines in the last rainstorm that California will ever have that cut out power for over 48 hours.

I was going to write as well about the calls with doctors, the cancelling of doctor appointments, the setting up of hospital bed delivery, the still leaking whatever under the kitchen sink, the front door that won’t open, the shock of the $999 PGE bill this month, the washing machine that fills with water and refuses to spin it out. If you need someone to bail out a clothes washer at 2 am, call me! Hey, I’ve nothing else to do!  I also forgot to mention the fire alarm that went off when I was on the 9th floor of the grand old Du Pont Hotel at 5 in the morning and I ended up in pyjamas in 20 degrees in an alley.

Or the blood in the lift (yes that IS the right word - wherever you are, it has to go up to the 12th floor first AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT).

Don’t believe me?

Proof:

Or the snow bomb cyclone.  Although I really enjoyed myself and am somewhat embarrassed by that.

Or that I HAVE NOT SLEPT YET. Or that my mother, at 3:01 am, wants oatmeal and hot chocolate.

It’s a PARTY!! 

And to end, I quote Charlie Chaplin:

Laughter is the tonic, the relief, the surcease for pain.

You pathetic suckers. 

 The relief from pain is in my mother’s cupboard and it’s called Morphine

 

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Favourite Flicks

• Beat the Devil
• La belle et la bête
• My Man Godfrey
• Inglorious Basterds
• The Magician
• Dead Man
• Noises Off
• Champagne For Caeser
• Big Deal On Madonna Street

Books I Love (otherwise I throw them at the wall)

• Ant and Bee
• Beware of God
• Cold Comfort Farm
• Let The Great World Spin
• Loitering with Intent
• My Little Blue Dress
• Neither Here Nor There
• The Finkler Question
• The Woman in White

Books I've Thrown

• The Innocents by Francesca Segal
• Loitering With Intent
• The Kite Runner (I have a perfectly decent explanation)
• Martin Amis
• An Equal Music by Vikram Seth

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