As the ‘new normal’ kicks in, I can’t buck the feeling that this is anything BUT normal.
Israel is now coming out of its totally retarded, OTT ‘lockdown’, and some semblance of ‘normal life’ is returning.
For the last few days, I’ve been heading back off to the Kotel, trying to make up the 18 days I was missing from when I got stopped in the middle of my segula to visit the Kotel 40 days in a row, just after Purim.
I’ve discovered a new route that takes me through the back of an Arab neighborhood and up the backside of the hill that slopes up from Guy Ben Hinnom valley, where they used to sacrifice their children to Moloch, in Biblical times.
I now prefer that route to going on the main road, as Moloch and Mahmoud Al-Fahda is scaring me way less than the Israeli police.
Even though I’ve been to the Kotel six times now, I’ve only managed to actually kiss the wall three times.
Friday night, the gestapo police decided there were too many people in the plaza, so there was a big line of us queuing up outside, instead.
For the first time ever on a Friday night, the ‘Reform Plaza’ was filled to capacity – 45 people – all frum Jews, who’d been barred entry to the main event.
Then on a couple of other occasions, I got in to the Womens’ section – which has now been divided up into cute, rectangular white tented areas that just seem creepily reminiscent of Bergen-Belsen huts, minus the rooves.
But there were now ‘too many people’ at the wall itself, so I got sent to the left – to the rectangular tented area marked ‘waiting area #14’ – and I just kind of stood there for a few minutes before turning tail and heading home.
Of course, I have to wear a mask way up over my eyeballs in the plaza itself.
And my forehead has to be shot at by weird men who seem to be strangely over-enjoying their role ‘pretend shooting’ people in the head with a thermometer gun. I guess it’s the next best thing to playing ‘Call of Duty’.
And then, one time I made the mistake of going to the Kotel with my husband, and trying to wait for him to finish up in back of the plaza. A fat, quasi gestapo police minion in a bright fluorescent vest and an oversized facemask marched up to me and told me it was forbidden for me to stand there and wait.
Geveret, you can’t stand here. We can’t have too many people here.
I looked around – there were maybe another 30 people max, scattered all over the back part of the Kotel plaza – and I almost had to choke myself to stop from saying puh-leeze!!!!, or tossing off a casual heil hitler, and clicking my heels together.
I get it, I know. You are only following orders, right?
Over the last couple of months, I have learned that acting like a nazi is something good and proper, as long as you limit yourself to forcibly taking people’s rights and basic personal freedoms away, on pain of harsh punishment and massive fines.
But protesting that type of fascist behavior by saying ‘heil hitler’, or goose-stepping away from a public official is the wrong way to act like a nazi.
Please everyone, remember this. I’d hate for you to get this wrong and end up in some gestapo police basement, having your fingernails pulled out by a public servant because you picked the wrong way to act like a nazi.
But I digress.
With all this ‘normal’ going on, my daughter resumed her driving lessons. She and the instructor both wear masks and rubber gloves (uh, why is that, exactly?) – and the instructor has also been forced to put a clear plastic partition down the middle of the car, where the gearbox is.
Let’s be clear, there is way more risk to human life from novice drivers having their rubber-gloved hands stick to the wheel, or from having that massive mask block their view of the monster truck bearing down on them from out of left field, than there is from any virus.
I actually almost knocked myself out in one shop, because I didn’t see their see-thru plastic sheeting next to the till until I’d head-butted it, trying to pay for my purchase.
While we’re on the subject of totally dumb ‘health measures’ that are 10000% for show, do you know how many ‘germs’ all those cute cloth masks with fake Adidas branding keep out? Maximum 3%.
Oooops, sorry that was a real fact.
Don’t know how that got into any discussion about proper ‘hygiene’ in the era of Coronavirus.
The other kid went back to school yesterday, and the weird normal is also in full swing there. Everyone has to wear masks and gloves full time (which is of course, totally unenforceable, even if it wasn’t also totally pointless).
It’s a dorming school, so they have 2 girls in a room now – as opposed to 5 or 6 pre-Corona – and because they can’t guarantee the ‘hygiene’ of the school kitchen, they are buying all the food takeout, from local restaurants.
Because there are no Corona germs in restaurants.
And anyone who argues with this statement clearly doesn’t know anything about science.
No-one has worked out how the kids are meant to be eating that stuff while fully-masked, so I made a helpful suggestion that they should just puree it all up and then suck in their meals through a straw that’s been hermetically-taped into their masks.
Probably next week, that will be the next ridiculous rule sensible measure the Government foisters on us all, for our own good.
Gotta love #Coronafascism!!
There’s also a rule in place that you don’t have to wear a facemask if you’re exercising, because apparently you can’t catch or transmit Coronavirus when jogging, walking fast or playing basketball.
Again, please don’t try and argue with the logic of this statement, because if it’s the law, it must be totally scientific.
I don’t wear hot-pink spandex to exercise; and I don’t have a massive i-Phone to publically stick on a bicep, so I decided that whenever I see a cop on my daily hitbodedut walk, I’m going to stick my elbows out at right angles and ‘power walk’.
Don’t you know? Didn’t you hear? If your elbows are sticking out when you walk, then you are incapable of transmitting Coronavirus. But if you’re carrying your purse while walking on the way to the store – then you’re back in the ‘high risk’ box.
I guess Coronavirus germs are unusually attracted to credit cards, or something.
So anyway, today I went to visit one of my friends who I haven’t seen for months.
She has 4 small kids, and she’s been cooking, cleaning and all round entertaining them for 3 months solid at home.
Like so many of us, last week she cracked up and totally lost it for a night. I think last week was rough for so many people, me included. I’ve spoken to many other ladies out there – heroines all! – who after months and months of 5 star service for our families just really feel like we need a day off.
We were both regaling each other with our ‘survivor tales’ from the last three months, and laughing our heads off, because what else can you do?
What else can you do, when your three year old comes home from gan demanding to wear a mask, because the pseudo-frum ganenet has scared the pants off them that otherwise, breathing fresh air is probably going to kill them, God forbid?
What else can you do, when your teenager has allergies – the same allergies she’s had every single Spring, for 15 years – but now has to hide away at home in case she gets put on some secret Shabak blacklist for sneezing in public?
What else can you do, when the anti-Semitic government says its OK to get together on L’Ag B’omer, but it’s still forbidden to go to Meron or light a bonfire in your own backyard.
Someone please explain to me, how is lighting a bonfire in my own back garden increasing any risk of getting or sharing Coronavirus?
What if I saw up a few logs – for exercise – before I do it, and kill off all the Coronavirus germs that way, before I toss the first match in? Would that work?
And in the meantime, what else can I do, except laugh.
When I’m done typing this, I’m popping out to buy a dart board.
I have a small, cheap one in my garden, and I’ve discovered that throwing sharp instruments at something with violent hand gestures is actually really cathartic.
When I told my husband what I’m up to, he asked me to promise that I’m not going to print off any pictures, to stick up on that dart board. He doesn’t think that’s healthy.
It’ll be nobody we know personally, I told him.
That’s the best I can do.
But as we lurch onwards towards geula, and as we settle into this weird ‘breathing space’ between birth pangs, I have a feeling I’m going to be spending quite a bit of time with my dart board.
Dear man, I told my husband, much better I have an inanimate object to use for target practice, than someone I’m married to.
What else could he do when I told him that, except laugh?
Don’t forget that Questions for God – Secret Diary of a Jewish Housewife Volume II – is now out on Amazon! You can pick it up HERE.