Airports are strange places, I think as I stand in front of the gate waiting for my father to arrive. His flight is not the only flight to arrive this early afternoon, and a flood of people is coming through the gate. Faces, strange faces, blur into each other, all looking the same. They are special to someone, I’m sure, each of them possessing the ability to light up the face of a few loved ones. But they are strangers to me, and they are annoying because the human clutter they create interferes with my ability to locate my father in the crowd.
Twenty minutes pass by. The little airport screens tell me that his plane has already landed. Where is he? I squint, cursing my useless pair of near-sighted eyes, that probably require a new contacts prescription yet again. What if I can’t locate him? What if his face blends into everyone else’s and they all look the same, what if I never find him?
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I was bored, what can I say. I stopped buying women’s magazines years ago, but when you sit at the hair salon getting a haircut, it’s either staring at your familiar, boring face as the stylist works, or picking a magazine and reading it. I chose the latter, and as I was reading, leafing through page after page, I was thinking, how can so much crap fit into one magazine? Of course I had to share it with you, so despite horrified glances from the stylist, I started taking pictures. Here it is – a thoroughly depressing collection of ads and editorials, aimed at women, from one of the top fashion magazines in the world.
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A week in Buenos Aires makes you realize just how boring your life is, in a quiet San Francisco suburb.
Of course, I love my life – as I have stated so many times on this blog – but my life IS kinda boring when compared with the intense energy of a big, vibrant, bustling, never-quite-asleep South American city.
Buenos Aires is a beautiful city, but I’ll spare you the photos of landmarks and monuments. Much more interesting is the street art and the graffiti – the city is basically covered in graffiti, some of it beautiful, some of it, not so much.
It is also one of the dirtiest cities I have ever seen (with the notable exceptions of Beijing and Xi’an):
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That morning, in addition to sweet, reliable M. and E. that usually clean our house, we had two male trainees in the house. They greeted me as I left the house to run a few errands. When I returned home, the house was clean and fragrant. I smiled to myself. It’s so good to come back to a clean house!
Later that night, we found out that my daughter’s Nintendo DSi was missing. It wasn’t in its designated basket in the living room, where I had put it that morning. It was nowhere in the house, and as we were frantically searching, I suddenly remembered the two strange men and there it was- the sudden realization that we are victims of theft.
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The first night of Hanukkah was beautiful – candles shining bright in the Menorah, delicious potato latkes and Hanukkah jelly doughnuts, saying the blessings and singing together. Family time at its best and just as I had envisioned.
Then it was time to open the presents. After several years of resisting the kids’ pressure and sticking with the Israeli custom of giving money rather than gifts, this year we have finally given up and adopted the Jewish American custom of giving eight (!) presents to each child – one for each night of Hanukkah. So unlike years past, this year I had to give a lot of thought to what I bought. I tried to be thoughtful, without going overboard, since you can’t really buy eight big gifts, at least not if you want a college fund for your kids.
Back to last night. Presents were opened, proper gratitude was shown, except that one of my daughters seemed disappointed. When we asked her about it, she said, “Well, it’s just that if this is the biggest gift, then it’s not that big, so yes, I’m a little disappointed.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears. Not just tears, mind you, but sobs, loud uncontrollable sobs. Then to enhance the dramatic effect, I stormed out of the room, announcing that to me Hanukkah this year is over and I have no intention of celebrating it further.
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Make your life easy. Make the teacher happy. If you want to buy your kids’ teacher a gift for the holidays (and this is optional), by all means go ahead and do so, but avoid the “Best Teacher Ever!” mug or any mug for that matter. In fact, it’s best to avoid anything made of ceramics, anything personalized, and anything that the hundreds of Yahoo Stores that sell personalized gifts tell you you should buy.
Yes, this includes soaps and candles, whether personalized or not.
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A real-life friend recently asked for my advice – she wanted to know how come Israeli kids are so much more open to eating veggies than American kids seem to be.
I actually don’t know if this is still the case in Israel of today, since the junk food disease is spreading around the world and has arrived in Israel too unfortunately. But certainly, back when I was a kid, I ate whatever was served to me, which was identical to what the grownups were eating, and that included plenty of veggies.
So it got me thinking, that by assuming our kids would hate vegetables, we are actually conditioning them to do so. Is it possible to raise kids without making a fuss about healthy foods, serving them the food we eat ourselves, avoiding “kid friendly” stuff, and raising vegetable lovers?
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I'm Vered DeLeeuw, a blogger for hire and a social media consultant. My social media campaigns increase brand awareness and loyalty, improve search engine rankings and drive targeted traffic to my clients' websites. Momgrind is my personal blog.
