I didn't object when my radical feminist former army officer/journalist wife went to Iraq. I didn't object when she went to Afghanistan. I didn't object when she started riding her horse cross-country through some of the Olympic Peninsula's bearsand- cougars-in-residence woods. But this sitting and knitting has to stop. It's dangerous. My wife's mother died of ALS, Stephen Hawking's affliction. It's incurable and a hideous way to go. So when my wife, Erin, started showing symptoms – muscle spasms, loss of strength and range of motion in her arms, screaming in pain at sudden contractions – we did what people often do when they live in civilized countries that provide medical coverage for their citizens. We went to the doctor. Clalit took competent charge. The blood test showed it wasn't ALS. The neuro-scans turned up nothing. We now knew what it wasn't; we just didn't know what it was. Time to get proactive. My wife asked for, and got, a stand-up desk at her office. Big difference. An avid knitter, she cut back and stayed aware of her positioning and technique to avoid repetitive motion problems. She worked up an exercise routine that included multitudinous push-ups. Her symptoms stabilized, then began to ease. True, Clalit provided occasional relief via medication. Wine also worked on weekends and is available without prescription. Proper exercise, diligently self-inflicted, has proven vital. But in retrospect, we owe it all to Samantha. Samantha's our cat. Samantha's a Yesh Makom cat. Born somewhere, she early on decided that the feral lifestyle was not for her. So she went door to door, meowing “Yesh makom? [Is there any room?” By the time she got to us, her routine was perfected and compelling. Also insistent. So we took her in, and within a few weeks “Yesh makom?” had segued into “If you don't want to be bossed around, don't have a cat.” She also turned out to be something of a foodie, dining only on imported- from-America Friskies and never the same variety two meals in a row. Since she eats six times a day, keeping her in varietas can prove challenging. Especially since, periodically, most kinds of Friskies vanish from the local stores and reappear only sporadically. I've come to believe these spot shortages are deliberate, one of Barack Obama's more subtle techniques for signaling displeasure with Israeli behavior. Personally, I've never believed in sanctions. They hurt the poor; the oligarchs, kleptocrats and their mistresses, pals and enforcers don't go without. So Israel and America have issues. Why punish the cat? But I digress. Anyway, when Erin started having problems, Samantha started sleeping on her afflicted shoulders, purring the night away, and sitting/sleeping on her lap while she worked at her home computer, supervising her posture and arm positions and demanding ample affection. “Let me push you around” had yielded to “There's nothing so bad that loving me can't help.” It worked. And the stores are once again full of Friskies. So is my pantry. NIS 200 worth. Does Clalit's coverage extend to cats? Or at least pay for Friskies? And then there's my son. To be precise: my son the Manhattan lawyer who's nearly 30 and still not married. He's with an MIB, a major investment bank. He started out as a consultant, and since this MIB regards anything under 60 hours a week as slacking, he worked his tail off to gain attention. As a consultant, he was paid for overtime. Lots of overtime. And so impressed was this MIB, that they offered him a permanent position. Same hours. No overtime. One-third pay cut as part of his promotion package. As of this writing, he's on vacation in Ireland. Finally, if memory serves, there was an election in Israel last month. There must have been. I voted. I like to vote in Israel. American ballots are ridiculously complex: everything from “Who Do You Want to Mess Up the Country Next?” to a plethora of state and local candidates, few of whom you know anything about, plus bond issues, referenda and a final “This space reserved for nothing in particular” section. In Israel, all you have to do is take a slip of paper with your party's geegaw on it, then try to get it through the slot in a reasonable amount of time. No need to pretend you understand. Just do it. I also like Israel's voter registration system. You don't have to ask; they send you a card. In America, you have to register. In many states, you can do this when you get or renew your driver's license. Plus other options, as I learned when I moved from DC to Seattle. “Here's your license. Do you want to register to vote?” “Sure. Register me Republican.” “Registration in this state is non-partisan. OK, you're registered. Do you want to be an organ donor?” “Sure. Can I leave my organs to Republicans?” The man at the counter only smiled. And frankly, after the last 15 years, I'd prefer not to leave my organs, or anything else, to either American party. Meretz maybe. Or perhaps Likud. The writer had a pretty good winter, even if it did cost NIS 1,850 to fix the water heater.
(photo credit: COURTESY ISRAEL RAILWAYS)