Weird egg.

Is this weird?

I picked up a few things at the grocery today to bring home after work. I shoved the heavy bags on the floor of the car and then pondered what to do with the eggs.

Ok, hold on. I don’t usually do the shopping, and when I do, I’m usually not alone, so I never really come to the point where I have no one to hold the eggs in the car on the way home. This was a new quandary for me, here in my late 20’s: What does one do with the eggs when one is alone?

I’ll admit; at first I did something pretty dumb. I put them in the backseat with the seatbelt across the cardboard carton’s little chest. Then I stood back and laughed at myself. Not in a friendly way, but in a mean, schoolyard-bully way.

Then I thought, what’s that big car seat for if not to protect our delicate hatchlings?

And so you have it. My eggs settled in the safety of Evenflow’s mighty wings and all twelve arrived in my fridge safe and uncracked.

Maybe doing up the seat belt was a bit much though.

Also, it didn’t stop them from being boiled soon after.

Must be dreamin'.

There was ridiculous traffic on the dirt road leading up the hill towards Arafat’s compound. We each supposedly had meeting times but were all very late for them in any case. To the right was the beginning of the dusty compound and to the left was the beginning of the dusty hills.

To get into the compound you had to pass a rocket launcher. A rocket launcher in this case was a giant curved pipe coming out of the ground, with a rocket ready to launch, sitting at the bottom, underground. Every few minutes there were test preparations, when it would creep up towards the top with a comically-calm, low siren going off. It became a repeated ritual to endure while waiting on the road to pass it. The rocket’s track was supposedly to fly over the road towards Modiin but with each low siren we came to believe its target was much close than that.

At some point, my party made it through the compound and towards Arafat’s ‘house,’ trying not to look suspicious while passing through the dim halls and clay walls towards the back area. Arab teens in tight jeans and sweatshirts were passing through, looking and whispering but we knew they were instructed not to harm us.

The back area was carpeted and pampered with old wooden European furniture. Arafat was in a wife-beater and khaki shorts, holding a drink and inviting us to sit down to some pizza. We sat in a huddled group towards the end of the table, opposite his made up wife who held out her hand to each of us. Arafat told jokes for twenty long uncomfortable minutes and then I got up to excuse myself. I was late to pick up my child from daycare.

“Oh, you must have a gorgeous child,” Arafat’s wife crooned.

“I’m sure he will be a great pride to you someday,” Arafat croaked.

I nodded and thanked them and stepped out, past the teens who seemed all the more threatening now that I was alone, past the rocket launcher, which was once again just about ready to release a rocket, past the traffic which was starting to grow limp and wary as the sky went dark, and found my car parked backwards on a curved busy main road. My husband was there to meet me as I had instructed him and we jumped in. In one kind of quick maneuver I had the car out on the road and racing towards the airport.

Chillest fire department ever.

So there we are, my roommate and I, out on the mirpeset for a romantic start-of-the-weekend dinner of shippudim when I look up and see… a fire.

“Hey, that wasn’t there before, was it?”

Indeed, it was not. And it was growing by the second.

It was a fire started in some trees, right outside the school in the center of Tzur Hadassah.

So my husband calls the fire department… and gets a busy signal.

“Maybe everyone else is calling at the same time?”

He keeps trying till he gets an answer.

“B’derech, b’derech.”

We sit back down and watch the fire grow through the trees. Five minutes go by, ten minutes.

“The fire department is right here, in Bar Giyyora… What the hell?”

After fifteen minutes, he calls again.

“I reported a fire by the school in Tzur Hadassah about fifteen minutes ago… where are you?”

“Ahh… They said the fire was outside the school.”

Hmm. I didn’t go to fire school or anything. But I’m pretty sure fire doesn’t just chill where it starts…

“Duh, I think I’ll just plop down right here, conveniently outside the school so I don’t bother anyone.”

Ten minutes later, the firetruck shows up.

ICQ Toothpaste: Because you never know.

The Israeli hi tech world is alive and…  brushing.

Gizmodo posted that the Israeli software company that created ICQ, the instant messenger we all lost our virginity to, teamed up with an Israeli pharmaceutical company and together have created this bad boy of a Frankenstein:

ICQ Toothpaste

That’s right, ICQ toothpaste. Why, you inevitably ask?

The Israeli software company that developed the suite before it was purchased by AOL has just partnered with a big Israeli pharmacy company called CTS to release this ICQ toothpaste, which our tipster claims will “help P2P communication (person to person) while reducing bad breath.” (Gizmodo)

Only in Israel.