Finding myself in the Middle East

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Val Jean, At Last, We See each Other Plain

Thank you all so much for your concerned e-mails! I am here, I am fine, I am drowning in moving-related housework and other stuff. Which is good! First World problems, as they say. No one is hungry, we have access to clean water, and we have a roof over our heads.  Actually, this roof has heat, which is awesome, and no mold, which is unreal. And running water that becomes hot! And multiple bathrooms!

So I shan't complain about lack of stove. Or upper cabinets. Or that we just took the walls down last week after the iriyah inspection and are finally unpacking after living out of boxes for three weeks.

The iriyah inspection was a lot less dramatic than I anticipated. Upon further reflection, it was probably inappropriate to refer to the inspector as "Javert," and bursting into full song when he walked through the door might have been another strike against me:

Before you say another word, Javert!
Before you chain me up like a slave again!
Listen to me!
There's something I must doooo!

We knocked down the walls that Outdoorsman had just put up as we waggled our fingers to say goodbye to Dear Inspector. (Goodbye! Vrrrrrrrrmmmm!) Now we are working on getting a permit before the next inspection. But if we have to put the walls back up, Outodoorsman, who is not fond of Les Mis (Is it rap? No. Is it Bob Marley? No. Bluegrass, even? I'll take Bluegrass. Um, no. Is it a bunch of French people inexplicably singing as they die? Well, yes, but...) had a better idea of how to deal with Dear Inspector; he wants to hide a bunch of people behind the walls, and when the inspector pokes a hole (to make sure that we didn't slap the wall up over a finished room right before he came, and honestly, whowoulddoathinglikethat?) they will all cower and hide and scream. And wear yellow star armbands.


Someone informed me with thinly veiled horror that having grandparents who survived the camps does not give me license to make holocaust jokes. But it is NOT a holocaust joke! It's an iriya joke. And we should be able to make as many of those as we can. It's either laugh or cry when the city informs you that even though it harms absolutely no one and cannot even be seen on the outside, some of the rooms in your own private apartment have to be closed up, some forever.


It is nice to be back and stretch my blog-legs a little! Wishing everyone a Purim sameach and less last-minute costume changes (read: morning of the purim mesiba--when did I say I wanted to be Hello Kitty? I want to be a Priiiiiiiiinceeeeeesss!) than my girlies.

In the meantime; stay strong against all of the Inspector Javerts in your life!

And little people know
When little people fight
We may look easy pickings
But we've got some bite!
So never kick a dog
Because he's just a pup
We'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give up
So you'd better run for cover when the pup grow up!

Or....okay. Or maybe we'll just do Outdoorsman's idea.


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