Happy Hannukka!

Growing up, Hannukka has always been one of my favorite holidays. Over the years, I’ve learned to love and appreciate many of the other holidays, but Hannukka will always have a special place in my heart.

As a child, one of my favorite Hannukka books was “Hershel and the Hannukka Goblins”. I remember the wonderful illustrations of the goblins as they tried to ruin Hannukka for Hershel and the rest of the towns people and how Hershel tricked the king of the goblins to light the hanukia (the Hannukka menora) on the final night of the holiday, bringing light and joy to all the town.

Over the years, my tradition of rereading the book has been abandoned but I’ve replaced it with other traditions, such as inviting friends to my home to light the candles with me and going to Morris’ Hannukka party. Morris’ Hannukka parties are famous among my high school crowd. Morris, along with his mother and three brothers, moved from Japan to Israel fourteen years ago, during Hannukka. Every year they celebrate by having a big party for family and friends. Morris’ mother makes amazing sushi, chicken with cashews and other delectable delights. I bring my merengue kisses.

This past February, Morris moved back to Japan to persue his master’s degree at the University of Kyoto. His mother and brothers remain in Israel. This year, like every year before it, they will be holding their famous Hannukka party. Not to our surprise, our old high school group was invited, despite Morris’ absence. Over the years we’ve lost touch. We’ve gone our separate ways. Since graduation, it was Morris’ Hannukka parties that brought us back together. This year, even though he’s not here to celebrate with us, he still manages to bring us together. And so, together, we will light the candles and eat sushi like good Japanese Jews.

Ever wondered why supermodels, with their ultra long legs, high heels and sultry looks swing their hips as they walk? Honestly, I’ve never been one to really ponder such meaningless things, but today, it all became clear.

One could postulate that in a most Darwinian way, these beautiful specimen are subconsciously swinging their loins forward, thrusting them into the minds of men with whom they hope to procreate. Another reasonable explanation could easily be that they swing their hips in an attempt to regain their balance and look more graceful.

This year, large, funky black boots covered in flaps, seams, whistles and bows seem to be all the rage. Never a slave to fashion, I opted to kick in the season (pun intended) with a plain, black leather boot with a squarish toe and high heels. Nothing to write home about (especially not to tell mom how much I paid for these modern and chic tools of torture, aimed at helping podiatrists and chiropractors the world over), but nice. First time in ages I bought anything with a heel. Last time was way back in high school, a pretty little sandal I thought I would wear to my prom. The pain was agonizing and I ended up dancing most of the night barefooted.

Anyway, back to our super models…

As I spent the day running from class to class, my feet hurt. The balls of my feet begged me to stop, my toes begged for more room and I dreamed of going barefoot. Eventually, somewhere towards the early afternoon, I realized that running certainly wasn’t getting me there faster and definitely wasn’t helping the pain. So I decided to take my time and walk to class. And as I did, I noticed something. As I placed one foot in front of the other in what seemed to me like a rather awkward attempt at walking straight and keeping my balance, my hips started to swing forward. I noticed that the size and speed of my steps directly influenced said swing. And I began to smile.

As I neared my next class, a friend was waiting outside, talking to someone else. When I was close enough to hear him, he turned to me, smiled and said, “You’re looking really good today.” My smile grew as my heart was filled with joy.

Shallow as it may seem, I now know why women “torture” themselves, wearing high heels which are highly uncomfortable. It’s chic, it’s sexy and it makes you feel great. I think I’m going to keep these babies around for a while before I consider giving into the pain.

The calls came in. Two or three of them, but all I needed was one job offer. I’d accept almost anything that paid more than minimum wage and didn’t involve me explaining to large women that we sold junior sized clothing and maybe she’d like to try a XXL? [I, myself, as I always pointed out, was wearing a large.]

I had my first real job interview. It was in the business side of town, in a tall building. The interview was as a phone and computer operator for the Hawaiian telephone company. I wasn’t sure what the job entailed, but it didn’t seem too hard and I was happy that I had this interview.

I was excited as I wore slacks and a button down shirt, riding the bus downtown. (I ditched the bike so I wouldn’t arrive all sweaty.) I entered the building and the receptionist pointed me into the waiting room. I sat on a chair, feet firmly on the ground, hands in my lap, trying not to fidget too much. I waited. About five minutes later a woman in her late thirties or early forties came into the room. She called my name. [Here's the part where I mention that I've got a guy's name. In Israel, it's unisex, but somehow in the states, it's exclusively a man's name.] I stood up. She looked around the empty room and called my name again. I said “that’s me.” She looked at me and I repeated my name, reassuring her it was I she was looking for. “Oh,” she started to stammer, glancing down at my resume, “we were expecting a… uh, someone taller.” Her face flushed and I knew she meant “a man”. “I’m very tall,” I reassured her, “especially when wearing heels.” I joked at my own expense. I’d need really high heels to be taller than my 152 cm [5'1"] allowed me.

A few days later I got a call that they were interesting in continuing the hiring process and sent me to do drug tests. I wasn’t all that crazy about the company and the first woman’s lack of tact, but I went and did the drug test as requested. I still needed a decent paying job. Long hours at the store, knowing it really wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t doing me much good.

Before I got the results from the drug test back, I got called into another interview. This one was at Decision Research Corporation and they were a small computer company. They were looking for a database administrator when they saw my resume. During the interview, they seemed pleased with my knowledge of SQL and Oracle and the fact that I served in the IDF’s intelligence unit. I was hired on the spot.

Next time the phone company called, I rejected their offer, telling them I had already found employment elsewhere. They seemed mad at the fact that I wasted their time and money, but I didn’t feel too bad about it.

I started working at DRC almost immediately. I was left on my own most of the time. It was a strange feeling of independence, mixed in with the fear that I would somehow screw things up and prove to be a bad employee. I kept the job at the store for a few more weeks, only working weekends. I didn’t want to burn my life line in case DRC decided I was a fluke.

Within a few weeks I was starting to feel more confident with my job at DRC and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be firing me soon. At the same time, I was still working weekends at the store, getting irritated by having to serve fat customers who wanted me to tell them how great that t-shirt looked on them and trying to convince them to buy more. One Saturday, an extremely large woman came into the store. As Kim, the other sales chick, was already busy with another customer, I tended to the large woman, explaining that we probably don’t have shirts that would fit her, but our shirts do make lovely gifts. She kept on insisting that she wanted to see so and so shirts in a medium. No way in heaven or in hell would she fit into a medium, but under Kim’s glare of “give the customer what she wants”, I gave her the shirts she requested. As she tried them on in the tiny fitting room, I could hear her grunts as she tried to wedge her way into the small shirts. Eventually, she came out, shirts fully stretched, the graphics distorted and said “Your shirts are shit. Look at this crappy quality.” I looked at Kim. She was dealing with a customer. “Our shirts are great quality,” I started. “We sell JUNIOR sizes! If you weren’t such a fat cow, you might be able to fit into one of our shirts, but you even refuse to try on a larger size – so what the hell do you expect?!” I found myself raising my voice until I was almost shouting. Kim had turned away from her customer and was glaring at me. I knew that look meant I was fired and so I just walked out of the store. Three days later I got a call from Kim, telling me I was fired and that they would appreciate it if I would stay away from the David & Goliath chain of stores. I could pick up my check at the end of next week, just don’t forget to turn my sales chick shirt in before I do.

I never did hand in my sales chick shirt. I did pick up the last paycheck, though. I also stole a bunch of buttons and stickers before I left. Nothing really expensive, but it was fun. They had a tank top that had two coconuts on the chest and said “Shake Your Coconuts!” (see my logo!) I really liked it, but I never did buy it. $20 for a tank top seemed a bit pricey, especially when workers don’t get a discount. Besides, they fired me, so I shouldn’t be giving them back my money, cause if you do the math, I would have had to work almost six hours in order to pay for the damn tank top! So not worth it.

Ok, so I needed money. Part of living includes rent and paying bills, things I’d soon learn. But in the mean time, just living was costing me more than I had and in order to sustain myself, I realized I’d have to get a job.

After high school I was drafted to the army. With military service being mandatory, we made but the smallest stipend, as uniforms, food, lodging and transportation were all inclusive. During those two years, every cent I made was available to spend or save as I wished. Now, a few thousand miles from mom’s generous wallet, I was on my own. My money had gone to pay for the ticket to Hawaii; I had $97 to my name as I landed.

My job search started with a stroll down Waikiki. The worlds largest shopping mall (one and a half miles long by three blocks wide!), the peninsula was home to many shops and restaurants where one could find a minimum wage paying job. I started to notice the signs in the window, requesting help and bus boys and sales girls. I filled out application after application, names of references, previous work experience, education, etc. Job after job, I got rejected. Restaurants didn’t want be because I had never worked in the food industry. They were unsure I would be able to handle customers and plates full of food. My lack of experience was my weak spot, as I explained that I was social, sweet and could carry a 16 kilogram pack across a three kilometer path – I could definitely carry a few plates from the kitchen to the dinning hall. Besides, I serve my family at dinner… But, to no avail.

Stores didn’t want me, either. Again, my lack of experience was not in my favor as bosses looked at me with a questioning eye, seizing me up before deciding that I wasn’t a good enough sales person to represent their products. You could think that selling junk to Japanese tourists was all that hard. If it was kitsch, they’d buy it.

After so many failed interviews, I started to feel dejected. You’d think one would need a degree in order to sell t-shirts or at least be a failing movie star in order to waitress. In the town of tourists, service was of utmost importance and no one wanted to hire if you couldn’t claim previous experience. Eventually, I realized I’d have to lie. Instead of telling employers about my military service, I told stories of the restaurant I waitressed in back home. I told stories of selling clothes at designer shops. At one interview I even claimed to have sold ice to the Eskimos. Employers started eating up my stories, amazed that I had worked for two years at the same store. Still, no one offered me a job. Inquisitively, I asked one employer why she had decided not to take me on. “Honey,” she started, “you’re new to the islands. Life here is hard and nine out of ten chances are you’ll be eaten and spit back home faster than I can train you. I need someone I know’ll be around and you just don’t look like you’re cut out for it.” Again, I went back to Randy’s apartment, feeling dejected.

Eventually, someone did hire me. Apparently I had impressed her with my extensive experience, working in two posh stores back home, staying with each for over a year. I told her I loved Hawaii and had moved here to live with my Navy fiancé. We’d be here for at least a few years. Two weeks after the initial interview, another one and a few phone calls, I was handed a contract. Minimum wage to sell t-shirts at the David & Goliath “Stupid Factory [Where Boys Are Made]“. Actually, I didn’t even have to do much. The t-shirts were really cute, sporting funny sayings like “Shake Your Coconuts”, basically selling themselves. Tourists couldn’t get enough of them and were buying them by the suitcase full. Unfortunately, my salary was not commission based, so I couldn’t give a damn less if I sold one shirt or one hundred shirts.

At first I worked at the store six or seven days a week. I was eager to make a good impression and prove myself a worthy sales chick, as my work shirt proudly read. This ambition didn’t last more than two weeks. Then I recieved my first paycheck. It was pretty amazing. I was proud of all the hard work I had done and was sure I’d be getting a decent sized check. You can only imagine my surprise when I opened the envelope, only to find a check made out for much less than I expected. I started to read the page that came with the check. I had logged in over eighty hours in those two weeks, not taking unnecessary breaks or too long on my lunch breaks. I folded shirts to perfection. I organized racks. I worked hard. And Uncle Sam and the state of Hawaii both appreciated my hard work. They appreciated it so much, they felt it was their right to dip into my paycheck, before it ever made it into my bank account and take out their share. Their share of what?! What did I get from anyone that my minimum wage salary was suddenly being dug into, until I had almost nothing left to work with?

I cashed the check. I cashed it for fear that if I didn’t, it too, would disappear. G-d only knows it certainly wasn’t much, but it was definitely a start and I needed it. With new determination, I set out. Not to keep working at that lousy store, but to find a job that would pay a salary that I could live with, even after all had been said and done. Only this time, I was equipped with knowledge.

And a resume.

I suddenly thought of my years in the military. Did I not do something important there? I worked with databases and computers. I knew how to restart computers until they’d surrender with their irritating error messages and start working again. I set out to find a job working with computers.

At first, it was hard. Almost impossible. There are almost no hi-tech companies in Hawaii. Furthermore, the few that are, weren’t hiring. Or at least not advertising jobs in the local paper. I started to attend the monthly “Cyber Pizza” and “OS Pizza” meetings at the nearby university. With my charming smile and resume in hand, I was sure people would be kind enough to help me network and branch out. And so it was. Over coke and pizza, I handed out my resume to my new acquaintances, asking them to pass it on, as they see fit.

Within a few days, I had started to receive phone calls….

Two days elapsed before I had slept off the jet lag and gotten used to Hawaii time. I headed out for a bit of shopping only to realize that I needed money. In order to get money, I’d probably need a job, as robbing banks wasn’t up high on my list of things to do. With the thought in mind, I decided to postpone the search for another day.

In the meantime, Randy invited me to the opera. He was first violin in the Hawaii Philharmonic Orchestra and they were just starting opera season with Puccini’s “Tosca”. He got me into standing room for $10 and I shmoozed my way up to the third row center where some couple decided not to show.

Fresh off the boat, as they say, I didn’t have much clothes but what I had come with from Israel. After two years of wearing military uniforms day in and day out, my closet wasn’t the most fashionable place to go for evening wear and I opted for black pants with a button down black shirt. As I waited in line for the tickets, I felt oddly out of place as I noticed women in evening gowns, draped in expensive fabrics, dripping diamonds. I tried to be quiet and stay close to the walls as much as possible. Little did I realize is how out of place I was. It was only during intermission that I really got a taste of snobbery. During the first intermission I headed out with everybody else. I wanted to enjoy the cool evening air and the night sky. I was watching couples sip champagne and eating tiny finger foods, dressed up and served on silver trays with colorful toothpicks. As I was minding my own business, an elderly woman, in her late fifties or early sixties, turned to me and asked me to get her and her partner another round of champagne. “I’m not a waitress”, I stated, to which she simply scoffed and complained about the service and how it’s not what it used to be. I headed to the outskirts of the people, hoping no one else would confuse me for a server. I faced no such luck as one of the other servers offered me a cigarette and asked me if I was new. I declined the offer and told him I didn’t work here and just came to enjoy the opera. He seemed to find this funny as he noted to the fact that I was bringing down the average age of the audience. I simply smiled and turned away.

During the second intermission, I went to the bathroom, but decided to stay in my seat, for the most part.

After the performance, Randy had some stuff to rehearse with some of the other musicians, so I decided to wait for him at the restaurant across the street. I walked into Friday’s with a smile as the cluttered memorabilia reminded me of birthdays when I was younger, going with my family to eat at Friday’s and the silly birthday songs the waiters sing. This was no different and in less than five minutes a group of waiters was heading towards the tabel adjacent to mine with candles and song. I couldn’t help but smile.

When they were through with their song, I was sure one of the waiters would approach me, ready to take my order. I was ready. But no one came. Eventually, I managed to make eye contact and as I waved him over, he asked me if I would like to order anything to drink while I waited. While I waited for what, exactly? I suddenly understood that he didn’t understand that I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I started to explain that I’ll be dining alone. This seventeen year old waiter stammered an apology as he took my order as fast as he could.

It wasn’t until a few hours later when I was home at Randy’s house did I realize it was February 14th. Valentine’s day. Probably not the best day to be dining alone. But, I am woman, hear me roar. I don’t need a dinner companion. I am strong, confident, independent. (Things  probably would have turned out different had I known it was a corporate holiday reminding us of the importance of celebrating our relationships by giving gifts and spending money.) But for the most part, I’m happy things turned out as they did. And yes, I’d dine alone again. I actually do, on occasion. Why can’t I treat myself?

I was just packing my suitcase as my father called me from New York to ask if my flight was still supposed to arrive on time. Apparently, a snow storm was heading for New York just as we were supposed to land. With the wonders of technology, I checked online and even called El Al up to make sure the flight was still supposed to fly according to plan. Thumbs up and green lights said yes and I was excited to be flying west for the year.

We were the last flight that landed that snowy morning, as crew cleared off the landing strip so we could make it into JFK safely. Originally overjoyed that we managed to land, I called my father up to see if he was on his way with fresh bagels, as promised. I was supposed to have a three hour layover which would have been cutting it close with anything more than bagels, but here I was being given all this extra time to see my dad. I waited for him to pick up the phone, worried that if he took any longer I’d run out of quarters with which to feel the pay phone. But, lo and behold, he answered, while driving. He was on his way. Or at least until he made it to the city road, which was blocked due to the snow rapidly piling up and making the roads dangerous for such vehicles. The conversation started to break up just as I was beginning to understand that our runway rendezvous wasn’t going to happen.

With no one answering our questions regarding how long we’d be snowed in, I splurged and made a few very expensive long distance phone calls. First, I called my mom. I missed her. I regretted not taking her advice about the sweatshirt. I thought that going from Israel to tropical Hawaii, I wouldn’t need it, but apparently airport control thought that turning down the heat would keep us from getting rowdy and assisting in crowd control.

Secondly, I called Randy, telling him I was snowed in at JFK and that I wouldn’t be making it in on the flight I had originally planned. The phone call seemed pointless as he had forgotten he was supposed to pick me up. Later on I would learn how really scattered he is and that it’s amazing he still has his head in place.

In the meantime, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to get to see my dad.

I started to wander around the airport, aimlessly. At 6 am, stores weren’t open yet and if the snow wouldn’t let up, it seemed like the sales people wouldn’t be making it in to work today. I had already finished the first book I brought along for the flight and was trying to enjoy the second, but it couldn’t interest me less and I put it down with a sigh,  restless. All over the terminal people were sitting with their loved ones, bummed about starting their vacations late or calling work to tell them they were snowed in at JFK. By noon some of the stores had opened, including a book store, a pizza place, candy shop and random, overpriced gift stores selling I(heart)NY stuff to frantic tourists who realize they forgot to get a gift for uncle Joe and aunt Betty. There’s only so much window shopping I could do before the handful of stores began to bore me. I looked for conversation and found it with a very nice perfume sales girl, who seemed to have enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers. She didn’t seem overly busy, yet happy to have a chance to talk to someone about random stuff besides Channel No. 5. Before I left to look for lunch, she gave me a Milano cookie. I remember these cookies from my childhood. Sweet memories of my mother hiding them from my brother and me as we pulled the kitchen apart in search of the delectable delights we knew were hidden from view. Faced with a tough choice between pizza and pizza, I opted for the latter. Sitting among families, couples and friends, I started talking with people, telling them tales of life in Israel and my service in the IDF. They shared stories of the ski vacation they were just on or of places they want to travel to. Despite having been snowed in for so long, people were nice, friendly. I don’t think Israelies would have that patience. I think that within a few hours they would have been at the throat of the airline, demanding to leave now. I guess it’s a good thing we don’t get snow in the central part of Israel, in and around the airport.

As time passed, the snow began to melt as new people started to arrive at the airport. Incoming flights were landing, but we still couldn’t leave and my westward flight had to be rerouted. As I spent more time walking the airport floors, I joined a duo of Irish boys with a guitar. One of them played as I and the second one joined in singing. I regretted the fact that my harmonica was not with me. Apparently, a harmonica resembles a gun clip, so after almost half an hour with the x-ray machine prior to my first flight, I had to give my harmonica up, as it wasn’t deemed safe. I know I’m bad, but never thought I was bad enough to be considered a weapon. I always thought that was part of the beauty of harmonicas – it’s really hard to play bad. (If you ever want to screw with security at your local airport, toss a harmonica into your hand bag.)

After thirty-five hours I was on a flight to Chicago, then to California and only then to Hawaii. I arrived almost four days after I headed out of Israel. Jet lagged - you bet. And, surprise, surprise – Randy forgot to pick me up at the airport. I called him while he was at work so I ended up waiting at the arrivals gate for an hour and a half before he arrived. I watched at greeters came, leis in hand, greeting honeymooners and tourists. To his credit, I have to say, Randy did come with a lei for me.

Those first few days were just a preview of the odyssey I was about to embark on…

I should probably explain why I took this as my blog title, aside from the obvious sex appeal theme…

Living in Israel means that upon your eighteenth birthday and having graduated from high school, you join the Israeli Defense Force (IDF, from now on) for a period of two years for females, three years for males. Upon completion of our military service, it’s very popular to take a long trip to South America or Australia/New Zealand. I did neither of the sort, yet opted for something slightly different. Being an American citizen (born and bred!), I decided I’d find work in the US. Using the internet, I started searching for jobs in Alaska. I’ve always liked the cold and Alaska seemed right up my alley. I sent resumes, hoping to get a job as a salmon fisherwoman or something along the lines of. Rejection letter after rejection letter flooded my mail box, claiming that as a female I had nothing to look for in Alaska unless I was planning on working as a stripper or getting married. Apparently they have a 4 to 1 male to female ratio and men were looking to get laid or married. The employers who sent me such letters weren’t doing much to help bring more women to Alaska, that’s for sure.

With less than a month left to go until the end of my service, I was getting antsy as I was still jobless and ticket-less.  And, just as I was about to give up, Randy, an old family friend, offered that I come visit him in Hawaii. Suddenly, I had a new plan. Get to Hawaii, find a job, find an apartment (I couldn’t stay with Randy too long…) and learn to surf. Now, not to keep you in suspense or anything, in short, I found a job, found an apartment and had quite an experience… A year of sin and fun in the sun.  But, Hawaii isn’t Vegas and “whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” just doesn’t hold the same water with Hawaii. These islands have equipped me with many tales and adventures to share with the world and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive the world of my swashbuckling stories and tall tales, mixed with much truth, a bit of flamboyant flair and twists and turns at every corner.

So, with this we begin.

Four days out of the army and I had my bags packed and a ticket to Hawaii. Without any concrete plans, I decided to look for a job doing anything. A few white lies and a month later, I found myself working at the David and Goliath Stupid Factory (Where Boys Are Made). Basically, a touristy, overpriced store selling juniors sized tank tops and t-shirts with funny sayings like “rock killed paper” and, my personal favorite, “Shake Your Coconuts!” Pissed that I didn’t get a workers discount, I never did buy anything at the store, although I did enjoy a five finger discount. My fingers found their way around postcards (we weren’t selling them anyway, just giving them out to customers who bought something), stickers (only the ones that weren’t really sellable),  buttons (ok, no excuse for this one, but I have a long-standing habit of stealing buttons and they had so many cute ones…) and when I left, I took my “sales chick” t-shirt with me. What did they expect if they paid minimum wage, didn’t give any benefits and by the time the government got a hold of their part and handed over mine, I was lucky if there was anything left to enjoy. I don’t know how anyone can live on such a salary.

That crappy job, as short lived as it was (not nearly two months), was a very significant part of my experience and later on I couldn’t get that shirt out of my mind (still kicking myself for not having bought it), especially since it would make a great title for my Hawaii memoirs.

So, here, mostly past, mixed in with a bit of the present, is “Shake Your Coconuts!” – a memoir.

Once upon a time advertisements taught us that customer loyalty is important and that if we should stay with the winning company. And, there was a time when I agreed with this. Sunrise Bagels was the only bagel store for me, I bought local produce and I stayed with the same bank for as long as I could remember. But, in today’s changing times, I suddenly realize that something has changed. It took a while before I understood, but then it dawned on me. (Ok, my younger brother pointed it out to me.) Commercials weren’t talking about customer loyalty any more. Suddenly, everyone was talking about benefits for new customers. In today’s commercialistic, competitive world, customer loyalty is no longer worth the years past.

I took a closer look at my cell phone bill and realized how high it’s become these past few months. Apparently, I’ve been charged another fee for some reason or other, my minutely rate has risen and I seem to be paying for services I don’t even use. I decided to call my cell phone provider and see what was going on. After waiting on hold for almost twelve minutes, I finally got through. During a fifteen minute conversation with a sales rep, I realized that not only was I paying ridiculous fees, but were I a new customer, I wouldn’t be paying them. What ever happened to customer loyalty, I asked her? Apparently it died when marketing decided that it was more profitable to target new customers. This didn’t help me.

Next, I decided to take a closer look at my bank. I belong to the same bank for the past eleven years and when I moved on to campus three years ago, I was delighted that they have a branch on campus. Thinking I would be spared going home for all of my banking needs, I stayed loyal to my bank. Then, one day I needed to make some changes in my savings account. I went to the branch on campus only to be told that I would have to go to my home branch, as they don’t have access to my account. I was pissed. And not only because I had to go home, but even more than that, my home bank is closed on Thursday afternoons and Fridays. Meaning, if I wanted to be home during open hours, I’d have to miss a day of classes. This was starting to cost me time and money.

I sucked it up and forgot about it. For about half a year. Then I decided to go abroad with a friend and wanted to pull US dollars out of my foreign currency account. Again, I went to the branch on campus and again, I heard the same story about having to go to my home branch. So I asked the teller what good it did me that they were a branch. She didn’t say much but mumbled something about the ATM. Great. I can pull cash out of any bank’s ATM. That doesn’t make the slightest difference. I wanted to know why I should stay loyal to my bank. No reason was given.

This week I switched banks. Technically, I opened another bank account at a different bank. I still haven’t closed my old bank account because, as you can guess, I still have to go to my home branch and do it. And they don’t work on Fridays. This time, when I picked a bank, I made sure it was open on Fridays. And, as a sign up bonus, I got an all in one color printer, copier and scanner. What did my bank ever give me besides grief and a headache?

So maybe in a perfect world customer loyalty would count for something, but in today’s fast pace, ever-changing, capitalistic, commercialistic world, everyone wants you to be a customer and banks and cell phone carriers are businesses just like everything else and should be looked at and analyzed accordingly. Who’s going to give you the most for your money today?

My mother was a beauty queen. I look just like my father.

I peek into the mirror as I leave the room, ready to go out and meet friends. The face in the mirror smiles but the chubby cheeks remind me that if I look down, I’ll see the thick arms, the tummy bulging underneath the shirt that tries to hide it, the legs draped in baggy jeans to hide the fat and my insecurities. I used to be fatter but lost a lot of weight through high school and military. The military does that to you. Probably the best diet ever. But now I’m finishing my university and it seems that no amount of running and dieting can help. It’s always the last few pounds that are the hardest to drop. My naturally skinny friends don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like to be unable to wear a bikini because you can’t find one that will cover up your flaws instead of showing them off for the world to see. They don’t know what it’s like to wear large clothing, looking for things that will flatter and flatten. And, if G-d forbid I should be romantic with someone, the fear of being seen without those flattering clothes.

My younger brother looks like my mother. Tall, blond, handsome. There’s a picture of the two of us in my bedroom. People tell me I have an attractive boyfriend. When I tell them he’s my brother they tell me how we look nothing alike. Thanks, I already know that.

I’m 5′1″ or 152 cm. I have mousey brown hair, hazel eyes hidden behind thick glasses. My skin, still plagued with acne and scarred by the sun and other random accidents, looks like a mosaic. My smile is my favorite asset, but it too, isn’t perfect. My teeth could be whiter and I’ve spent a fortune trying. There are days when I look in the mirror and I hate myself. Hate her for not having given me better genes. Hate him for giving me his keg legs, which I hide in baggy jeans. Hate the models, wearing skinny jeans on giant billboards, telling the world that the perfect women are a size zero, reminding us size nines that we’ll never be that thin or that perfect. As they flaunt their superior, thin genes in skinny jeans, I shamefully hide my fat genes in baggy jeans, hoping the world just won’t notice me.

Yesterday was warm. Actually, yesterday was still summery hot and when I looked out the window before deciding what to wear, the sun was shining and I opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top, flip flops and sunglasses.

Suddenly, at about 10 am, I was sitting at work, looking out the window when the sky, which up until that minute was looking very calm, opened up and let out a downpour. And the rain didn’t let up within seconds like it usually does; it kept on pouring for hours. And it didn’t let up. Even when I asked really nicely as I was running late for class and had to cross most of the campus, uphill. So I arrived at class, out of breath and soaking wet, only to find out that the proffessor didn’t show and what was worse, just as I was entering the biology department, the rain decided to let up.

It rained again during the evening and all through the night. And then again this morning. It was raining cats and dogs. (Why doesn’t it ever rain men? Or money? Or even computers?) My mom’s neighborhood, which wasn’t built with the rains in mind, flooded within minutes. Cars flooded when you opened their doors and motorcycles got lost under the waist high waters. Muddied and thick, when the waters finally drained, it left a thick layer of sand and dirt on everything.

By the time I made it back to her house for the weekend, the streets were partially drained and I was only knee high in water. Now don’t get me wrong, I love the rain and our country certainly needs it, but I like it a lot more when I’m inside, cuddled under a thick down blanket, watching a movie or reading a good book.

 

Here’s a photo of what my block looked like earlier this morning.