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Thursday, November 30, 2006

 

Sentence of The Month: November


Sentence of the month:
(said to my very, very astonished ears 17 minutes before the month ends).

"So, when you refer to me, you can just call me JohnnyB.
You don't have to use 'The JohnnyB'".

Speechless.


Utterly speechless I am.

And so very touched.


Overwhelmed.

By the graciousness.

Forgive the staccato.

I am all choked.
Practically on the verge of tears of gratitude.

Alas, I am so torn apart.

Temptation calls and allures, but then again, I am so uncertain:

Can I really toss aside all formality, omitting the The, just like that?


Am I truly ready for such closeness?

For that level of familiarness?
Even intimacy, I dare say?

I mean, even CherkyB, as consumed as he might be by his peculiar fascination with the rear end of the subject of this contemptaion, does not allow himself to omit the 'The'.

And - who am I to do so?

Ah, the excruciating conflict!

Only a haiku can express my erupting emotions:


JohnnyB. No "The"?!
My cup has runneth over.
Need to clean the mess.
...next Sentence of The Month

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To a dear friend, who is amongst the top 10 cynics in the world on one hand,
but also among the top golden-hearted ones,
whom we hardly ever see,
due to mutual busy-ness and other silly things that come in the way of what's important:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHLOMI!!!

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Wednesday, November 29, 2006

 

Who Needs Santa?!?

"Are we doing Christmas gifts this year"?, asked The JohnnyB when he came home this evening, looking with glee at the UPS packages that piled over the dining table.

"I dunno", answered his lovely wife with a certain anxiety.

See, in the almost-five-years I've been here, I have learned that the true meaning of Christmas and the real profound reality behind the holiday spirit, is pretty much gift-related.
An insanely outrageous amount of gifts is set under and around millions of decorated trees, may they be real or plastic ones, and everybody's running around in frenzy to find one more gift for the mother of the third cousin of the niece's husband's step-aunt's adopted son.

The first Christmas after I moved here, we had two piles in front of the fireplace.

As the days went by, The JohnnyB and I kept counting - with growing concern - the number of packages in the other's pile, trying to go for equality.
It was quite nerve-wrecking, and we decided that no longer.
We are above this craziness.
No more Christmas gifts.
After all, it's not even my holiday, right?

And yet, each year, we sneak a gift or two, anyway.

Now, The JohnnyB never, ever, goes shopping.
Oooooooooooooooh no.
He shops with his fingers, a click here, double-click there, a secretive smile adorning his face, and packages galore arrive at the house, carried by our smiley-yet-weary UPS guy.
And, The JohnnyB always has the most uniquely original ideas, that usually hit right on the spot.

"Because if we are not doing Christmas gifts", said The JohnnyB, disrupting this line of thought with devils in his hazel eyes, "then you get your gift right now!".

"Uhm... well... it's up to you", said his wife, trying her best to sound daintily indifferent.

And so, he handed me a box.

(Not wrapped, of course.
As we have all learned, The JohnnyB never makes a fuss about presentation).
And in the box, הס פן תעיר, lived a digital camera.


Now, we've been discussing, for quite a while, my long and longing yearning for a digital camera with a decent zoom.

The digital camera I have now (Olympus Camedia C-50, also given to me by The JohnnyB, 3.5 years ago), is an admirable product.
It's wonderfully compact, with an incredible durability and unprecedented survival skills.
It has served me above and beyond my highest expectations, especially considering what I have put it through. Starting with 11,000 photos (yeah, eleven thousands) during our 2.5 months trip in Australia and the Cook Islands, in extra-dusty conditions (well, the Australian outback is not exactly an airconditined resort...) plus several nasty falls, followed by a couple of thousands more photos, taken on other trips, family visits and daily occasions.
But - recently, it's started to show signs that its days are numbered.
I guess it's lived a very full camera-life (more like 13 lifetimes), with its photoholic owner.
Plus, it has a 3X optical zoom.
Not very helpful when you want to snatch a photo of someone with an interesting face in a crowd, without that person noticing that s/he is in fact modeling for you. (and I am, as we all agree by now, very much into portraits).

The catch with a bigger zoom is that the camera also tends to grow bigger, more massive and more impressive, and can no longer be tossed in my purse or my coat pocket, as I go scavenging for new faces and scenes.

And suddenly: look at
this wonder!

Not much bigger than my current camera, with a very clean, slick and elegant design, in stunning metallic dark blue.


AND it is 10X zoom!!

So small - and 10X!!!

How do they do it?
Ah, triviality..


Just to warm the hearts of the engineers amongst you (it's actually pretty neat!):

"This camera features a refractive prism lens unit, that allows zooming to occur horizontally within the camera. This makes it possible to pack a powerful 10x optical zoom - equivalent to a big 35 to 350 millimeter lens on a 35mm camera - into a compact camera. The Extended Optical Zoom function, which magnifies the image with minimal deterioration by using the center part of the high-resolution CCD, boosts the zoom power of up to 12.5x."

Yeah - self-explanatory!

Plus, it has a Leica lens, which would have warmed my parents hearts, as my father owned an antique Leica, and my mom used to speak very proudly of it.

10X zoom!!


10X zoom!!! (I repeat with teary eyes).

More than 3 times the zoom I had till this moment.
A whole world is awaiting me out there - and all I need is zoom into it.


- - - But wait!!!
Didn't they say something about 12.5X zoom?


The JohnnyB delved into the manual and the Panasonic FAQ website, and discovered that when you set the image to be less than the biggest size (5MB), the CCD actually takes advantage of the unused photo-cells and effectively increases the optical zoom by 25%.

So - if I do not insist on having all my photos as heavy as 5MB, I actually get 12.5X zoom!!!

12.5 ZOOM!!!

That is even better than my wildest dreams.

The JohnnyB has really שיחק אותה בגדול!!!
(
as in, really, truly, totally and utterly excelled himself this time)!!!

- - - And now The JohnnyB has 3 broken ribs.
Hugs can be quite damaging, so it seems...

And her name shall be LumiB.

...and in the midst of the excitement, I find myself wondering whether it was fair of me to take a picture of the new camera with the old one, that's about to be abandoned.
Feels almost immoral.

Like the first wife of a Mormon making the bed of the new, second wife, who's just arrived.

oh, Oh, OH - the battery is finally charged.


Time to go out and play!


Disclaimer:
As amazing as this may sound, no furniture was broken, no fire has started, no wall was damaged and the roof is still standing.
Basically, no harm was done to the house neither to its residents during the opening, testing and playing with LumiB.
And, mind you, not even one cup of tea was made by me.
Almost disappointing, Eh?

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The Joy of Microsoft


From time to time, one finds herself pondering,

"What would one have done without computers?"

For once, one would be much, MUCH calmer.
And significantly less frustrated, too.

Apparently, I am not alone.

Enjoy this adoring tribute to Bill Gates.


Thanks, FrizzyZ, for sharing.

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Monday, November 27, 2006

 

ArtPact #2


I am presenting to you the first painted version of NitzkuA, wearing his mommy's hat, which I have finished only 30 minutes ago.

As promised, fresh from the easel.

Interestingly, painting the face was real fun, and not as hard as I feared (felt like I was caressing his face with my brush).
I actually thought I was all done yesterday, but an artist friend (JanieP), who came over and saw the painting, stated nonchalantly: "Very nice! And now you can start working on the background and the coat" . . .

. . . so I did, slaving over it most of last night and today.



A good friend told me once that when I show my paintings, I should shut up and refrain from giving my own interpretation, as tempting as it may be.


OK then, MichelleD, I am keeping quiet.


Click on the image to see a bigger version of it.



"Mommy's Hat #1"
Watercolor on W/N CP Paper, half-sheet (15"x22", 37 x 55 cm).

previous ArtPact next ArtPact

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Going Beyond The Obvious


So, ArtPact...
For now, I intend to go for a series of paintings of my great- nephew, NitzkuA.

"Why paint the same painting more than once?!?", some of you wonder.

Aha - because when you paint one painting, and then move on to the other, you are most likely to go for the obvious painting, pretty much painting what you see, and being very cautious to not paint outside the lines.
Especially when you are a beginning painter, which is what I am.
You copy what you see, follow the colors, the shapes, the light pattern, not leaving much room for creativity - and when you are done, you move on the to next painting, which you are likely to do in the same way.

Painting the same thing more than once gives you the opportunity to explore.
Once you've painted the first version, you are free from the look-alike mode, you are no longer intimidated by the subject, as you already did it once and survived.

And, above all: you are not likely to paint the same thing again exactly in the same way, using the same colors.
As, well, that would be terribly boring.

So, you try a different color combination.

And then you try a third version, perhaps with a different technique.

And then you do a fourth one - - -

"C'mon, you must be kidding", you groan in disbelief.

Nope.

A year ago, I took a class titled "Watercolor Beyond The Obvious".


There were so many legends and scare-stories about this class, and I was terrified, to say the least.
But, JanieP pretty much informed me
"OK, young lady, you are taking this class. Now".
And when JanieP tells you something, well, you just do it.
A matter of survival.
Ask The JohnnyB.
It wasn't your typical class that you go, paint, and go home telling yourself and The JohnnyB,
"OK I painted in class - I don't need to paint again this week".

Nooooooooooooooooo.

That class was anything but that.

The instructor, MikeyB, was super-enthusiastic, knowledgeable and a very unique teacher.
He exchanged hugs with students who took the class before, jumped up and down with tons of energy - and at first sight, I couldn't stand him, nor the whole artsy ambience.
"It's not the place for you", I warned myself.
But myself replied, "Give it a chance!".
Plus, myself was scared of JanieP, who was also taking the class.
We stayed.


To say that I was skeptical at first, would be the ultimate understatement.
I listened to MikeyB's introduction with the Yeah-Right look, as he went on and on about the wonders of this class.
Soon, I discovered that each class begins with a sharing session to begin with - now, that was
way too touchy-feely for me, as I am soooooooooooo far from that crap.

I used to sit there, rolling my eyes - - - but as the class progressed, I realized how necessary that sharing session was.
As, it wasn't just a class. It was more of an experience. And an amazing one.
The whole idea of the class was to pick a subject and paint it throughout the class.
May it be still-life, figure/s or portrait/s.
One subject.
Painting was done solely at home, at our own time.
(That was one of the benefits of this class: we could actually wear normal clothes, and show off a bit...
Artists usually see each other in rags, bought in Ross Dress For Less...).
In class, we would have a series of lectures and discussions about design, composition, color - anything that's art-related, followed by a critique session of what we painted at home.

So, there we were, 24 painters, from utter beginners (yours truly) to highly accomplished artists who sell their artwork in galleries, all in the same boat of going through the excitement of the process.

First, there was the highly concerning picking of the subject.

Then the initial enthusiasm of painting it a couple of times, learning a new thing every time, with all the ideas we had.

Then came the wonder how to paint it differently.

Then came the struggle to find yet a new way to portray it.

Then the boredom...

...and the excruciating frustration...

...and the extreme anger!!!

...and then hitting the wall of void and swearing in many languages at MikeyB and his #%$^#* class...

Because, y'see, we each made a commitment at the beginning of the class:
To bring, each week, 2 paintings of the same subject. no matter what.
2 paintings a week, at a class that lasts 10 weeks: that means painting the very same thing 20 freakin' times!!!

Insane?
Oh yes.

Masochistic?
Definitely.

"And you actually PAID to do that?"
Yes.

Because - after all those mood changes and hitting the wall (in my case, literally...), you emerged from the other side, with tons of freshly new creative ideas, and could go on and on with the same subject.
As you, all of a sudden, realized that the subject didn't really matter.
It's just, as MikeyB says, "an infrastructure ion which to hang the elements and principles of design".

At the end of the class, we all brought our paintings, and each of us got 15 minutes of fame.
The paintings were spread on tables, and the mob of painters and guests walked around and Wowed.
Looking at such a body of work, unified by the same subject, was quite overwhelming.

20 paintings, each of them the size of a full-sheet watercolor paper (meaning, 22"x30", or - in Hebrew: 55x75cm), all of the same subject, and yet, all looking very different.
Not everyone had 20 paintings, but I was among those who did push ourselves to go for this typological number, and the sense of achievement was intoxicating.

That class has made a big, huge, immense change for me.
Not only in the art domain, but also on a personal level.

For the first time since I came here, I felt that I belong.

And, when it comes to painting, I revealed that the best way to work in indeed in a series.
That is the only way to go beyond the obvious.
A novel idea, perhaps.
Requires lots of work, definitely.
And yet, it really does push you up and forward at an incredible rate.

I took that class once again, 6 months later.
Obviously, I was one of those who hugged MikeyB.
And I bet there was a newbie looking at me with disgust, thinking, "I am so outta here!".

Never say never, Eh?

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Must Be Winter


Woke up with a sore throat last morning.

Had cups of tea galore.

(yes, of course I made them! Aren't you following?)

Went with The JohnnyB for a small shopping spree, mostly gifts for my (actually, our) recently born great-nephews, with the highlight being getting a nice 4 Qt bucket to use as a water container when I paint (as you can tell, it's very easy to make me happy!)

Spent most of the evening sniffing, sneezing my eyes out, feeling dizzy, and making tea in between.

Went to bed with AirBorne NightTime, plus a big shot of NyQuil.

Woke up much, much worse.

Back to the teapot.

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Saturday, November 25, 2006

 

...Four And a Half Hours Later


And now, I can paint.

And re-mess.

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Brace Yourselves...


So the art pact is made.
And - as happens with those of us, who master procrastination and bring it to a state-of-the-art level, I haven't done a thing about it yet.
And it's already Saturday afternoon

"But why?", you wonder. "Don't you like to paint?".

Of course I do.
I love it.
Nothing comes even close.

And yet, as a very wise workshop instructor told us, making us all sigh with relief that we are not alone (she had a purple voice):
"We all spend so much time furnishing and accessorizing our studio to perfection -
and then we spend the rest of the time finding all the reasons in the world to not go inside".


How true.
How excruciatingly true.

These two images might give you a better idea as for why I refrain from entering my studio recently, and why The JohnnyB runs away to the horizon with a cry of despair, whenever he passes by the door and forgets to avoid eye-contact.


















Now, the greatest catch is this:
Artists are messy.

Well, most of them.
OK, most of us.

But - even the messiest among us, cannot paint in chaos.
You see, chaos seems to be an inevitable bi-product of creation, but we cannot start from chaos. We need to make it ourselves, from scratch, each and every time.

It's kinda like a smoker who's asking for a non-smoking room at the hotel, complaining daintily that "smoking rooms stink so badly!".

Which yields a lot of organizing-cleaning-tidying periods in between sprees of creativity.

Now you understand?
Hence the ArtPact.

And now I shall bravely step into the studio, and turn it into a place where one can actually do some work.

Just to mess it all over again.

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Friday, November 24, 2006

 

Indian Thanksgiving


(No, not American Indians.
Somehow, I have the feeling they do not see this day as a celebration... Not quite).

Went to TexieD's and his better 90%, for Thanksgiving dinner, which - like all events at their house, was wonderfully warm, filled with lots of fun people and very, very tasty.

The JohnnyB, encompassed by the holiday spirit of sharing, brought some of his recent brew, and - as always, ended up finishing most of it himself. That's 'cause he drinks faster.
(which, to me, kinda misses the whole point of giving, but who am I to come between a man and his beer).

At least I can safely attest that we did not stuff ourselves with turkey, stuffing and gravy.


Because there weren't any.

The meal was purely Indian.

Well, except for The JohnnyB's winning appetizer, featured here:

(Preparation by The JohnnyB, presentation by yours truly.
As far as The JohnnyB was concerned, it could have been served in plastic bags).


Now, if you've never been to TexieD for such dinner, it goes like this:
TexieD prepares the main dish, and each and every guest brings an appetizer, side dish or dessert.

And, it's not like you make whatever you want.
Noooooooo.

A week in advance, you are assigned a recipe that was carefully chosen, handpicked and nitpicked by TexieD, as all the dishes need to go hand in hand.

You are expected (expected ? ordered!) to obediently follow the recipe, and are not allowed to step an inch from the instructions nor the ingredients.

Then, The TexieD (interesting... seems like he has just won himself the desired 'The' prefix!) Emails you to ask whether have any questions, and when you reply with a Minnesotan short "Nope", he calls you and inquires exactly on which slope of the hill did the spinach leaves grow, and did you take out all the stems, and would you cut the potatoes to exact even cubes, and were the cloves picked by virgins.

And so, a day or two before the holiday, you see people running around between grocery stores on a frantic quest for the right kind of star anise or a specific horseradish sauce, and you get an urgent call to look up the difference between apple cider and apple juice in Wikipedia.
(I swear. Happened yesterday. He called. I did).

The man is utterly terrorizing his guests, and as they step in, they all await his verdict as, with trembling hands, they hand their offerings to the food Nazi.

And those who are brave enough to actually help him cook the main dish, get admonished for cutting the onion slices too thick. (poor The JohnnyB. How reprimanded he looked...)

But - when the moment of truth comes, and everything is spreaded on the table, it's like a jigsaw puzzle of colors and scents and flavors, all perfectly assembled, and you get one of the very best Thanksgiving dinners served in the country, I dare say.


So, as I proudly stated, we didn't stuff ourselves with turkey.

But I don't think any of us will eat again.

Ever.

Thanks, The TexieD and The Better 90%!!!

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Thursday, November 23, 2006

 

I should have seen it coming...


So, perhaps the idea of Happy Birthdaying people through the blog wasn't so bright...

What do you do with those dearly beloved friends, whose birthday happened before I started this tradition?

How do you congratulate someone in a post-factum manner?

What do you do when you get a reprimanding comment from Anonymous (for the sake of confidentiality, we shall name her AnonyMiki), that says (in eloquent Polish):

"And I never knew I was married to such a mythology!!!
Besides, let me remind you, that being married to one - also makes me a living mythological figure(??)
(and I too had a birthday......) "

Here's what you do:



To a wonderfully warm, extremely bright and hysterically funny woman,
who carries with valor the burden of being the wife of a mythological person,
who can trademark the phrase "Yes, Dear",
and needs a new set of eyes every couple of weeks,
as hers got worn out by the eye-rolling that's become her daily (if not hourly) routine...

HAPPY - belated - BIRTHDAY, MIKI!!!


Now, can I get back to blogging?

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To a great friend, who hides his heart of gold and true caring behind walls of cynicism,
and puts my English to shame in every opportunity he gets.
As a highly(?) intelligent(??) being(!) said, long ago: "הוא דווקא נחמד"...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ETAI!!!

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Wednesday, November 22, 2006

 

A Little Lunch For Thought (TM) #2


Today's post by
Neil Shakespeare, makes you think that something about the month of November is causing people to go on a bloody shoot-out craze.

JFK, Rabin, Pierre Gemayel - - - and the list goes on.

Something about the approaching holidays?
I wonder.


...previous little lunch next little lunch

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To a mythological manager, a wonderful friend and confidant,
the owner of an amazing sense of humor, a huge heart, a great ear and shoulder,
and the twinkliest eyes, who should have trademarked the "Have Fun" phrase long ago:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMIR!!!

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My Sister, Where Art Thou?

Today I tried, yet again, to convince my sister to have a look at my blog.

As you may recall, she is not very keen on the English language
(except when The JohnnyB speaks it, as then she becomes all sweet and fluent, infected with this virus that causes the world to melt upon his smile).

"I started to put photos in my blog", I allured her over the phone this morning. "And also a drawing of NitzkuA!". (her grandson).

"Yes, but I cannot open your blog", she confessed.

"???", I raised my eyebrows.

"I deleted the mail that you sent me, you know, the one that had your blog, so I cannot see your blog again", she said with deep regret.

"Ah, that... Well, you don't really need it", I calmed her down.

"What????", she astounded from thousands of miles away.

"You can enter my blog without that Email", I assured her.

"But your blog was in the Email!",
she reprimanded.

"OK... let me show you how to get to the blog", I said patiently, understanding it's gonna be a long phone call...

You see, as opposed to her young sister, who slaved for Intel for 9 long years, and runs big chunks of her life around the computer ever since, my sister has had a much healthier life, away from keyboards and screens and traitorous applications.
She is one of the most intelligent people I know, extremely bright and smart and clever and witty (Ok, OK, I'll admit it: it does run in the family), and I love her to death.
And yet, when you tell her
"open a window", she goes to the window and opens it, letting the breeze in...

"Do you know what a blog is?", I went back to basics, feeling my way around, very cautiously.

"Of course I know!!!!", she said, offended.

Now, many a people accept the fact that they are not exactly a computer savvy, and thus, when you try to help them in that area, they listen to you with attentive eyes, and become grateful forever.
My sister is not quite one of them.
She is not the obedient type, either. Definitely not when it comes to her younger sister.
First, she argues, to be on the safe side; then she tries to complete your sentences and guess what you are about to say; and then she throws some wise-crack into the air, in attempt to hide the fact that she doesn't understand.
"I don't see why Intel is still making electronic chips", she exclaimed to me, one unforgettable day, years ago, when I was still a devoted Intelloid. "This is so passe. Everyone else have already switched to Silicone.". . .

"OK, open the Internet", I guided my one and only sister.

"Why?", she asked suspiciously.

"'Because I want to show you how to get to my blog", I explained, patiently.

"But what does the Internet have to do with your blog?", she asked with sheer contempt, going back to the days when she was 24 and I was 12.

"Ahm... well... my blog is on the Internet",
I declared.

"REALLY?" - now, that really impressed her!
Her own little sister, on the Internet. Wow!

"Really. Now, open the Internet, p-l-e-a-s-e", I begged.

"No, but wait", she said, somewhat distrustfully, "are you sure?".

"Yes, I am", I took an oath.

"So - you mean the blog is not in the Email?", she inquired.

"It's not", I promised.

"I mean the Email that I deleted", she tried to enlighten me.

"I know what you meant. It really is not in that Email", I whispered, reverting to the very last reserves of patience I keep for cases of emergency.

"Why not?", she got philosophical.

"A blog has nothing to do with Email", I said through my gathering tears.

"Aha! So why is it, when I open the Internet, it always opens on the Email page?", she beamed, triumphantly.

"'cause that's what the home page was set to", I choked, starting to feel a bit dizzy.

"Who did it?", she demanded to know.

"I don't know", I confessed. (I have the perfect alibi: :l am here, away from her computer!)

"You sure about that?".

"Yes".

"Oh, OK".

And now, in my white hair and very weary eyes, I shall wait and see if she ever gets in.
If nothing else, this post should bring her roaring... Eh, NatiG?

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Tuesday, November 21, 2006

 

Flashbacks from the past #2


By now, y'all are open-jawed and under extreme suspense, asking yourself and each other:

"So, is The JohnnyB really Canadian, Eh?".

Also, some people cannot contain themselves and are about to burst from joy and are having waaaaaaaaaaaay too good a field day over this, so I hear.
And so, for those of you who always seek closure, I feel obliged to report the resolution of the mystery.

As you can imagine, the interview at the INS was followed by murderous looks (on my behalf) and by frantic Emailing and telephoning (on The JohnnyB's).
And - exactly 1 week after that interview, I wrote the following to my friends:

USA TODAY
Thursday, March 13th

* * * BREAKING NEWS * * *
* * * A New Benoit Is Born!!! * * *


(To all of you, my Polish friends - no, it's not what you're thinking...
Relax... you've just wasted one hell of a jump...).


I am happy to announce the official birth of John Andrew Benoit.
Finally.
About 2 hours ago, a FedEx dude knocked on the door and handed me an envelope.
And in the envelope (...tהס פן תעיר, גיל) was the birth certificate from the State Of Minnesota, carrying "The great seal of the state of Minnesota", stating that John was actually born in the city of Baudette, in the county of Lake Of The Woods (what a poetic place to be born in!).

Baby John is feeling well.
More important: he is an American.
He is healthy and happy, very developed for his age, and is about to have his lunch (Burrito, I presume...).
Since he's already spending most of his time at Intel, I think that when he grows up, he'll be an engineer.
















The attached pictures show him held by his anonymous godfather, and with my mother and sister, who are obviously very excited about his birth. Ah, he is so cute in yellow :-)

And - to whom it may concern (or not): No, the Brit will not take place in a week...

Nava

And just in case you wonder:
No, The JohnnyB never ever said: "Y'know, my lovely wife, I might have been wrong".
Not ever.

previous flashback

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Flashbacks from the past #1


When I just came here, and started the process of becoming a US permanent resident, I used to send a "USA Today" report to my friends.
Blogging did not exist yet, and dinosaurs were ruling the streets.
CherkyB's
DMV trauma, especially his incomplete birth certificate, have brought all the memories back...
Here's the report I wrote and sent on March 2003.


Apparently, The JohnnyB was doing his thing even in those days...




USA TODAY
Monday, March 6th

Featuring:
The INS Interview
or
Of "born in small towns" Minnesotans and Their Still Pending Spouses...


...and so, this morning, we went through the ultimate fear: the interview at the INS.

We made sure we have all the original documents we sent them.
We made copies of these original documents, in case they wish to keep them.
We made copies of each and every piece of paper we ever sent the INS, or got from the INS.
We brought an album with our wedding pictures, of us together, with and without other people (and I took the opportunity to also fill it up with pictures of Ilai, my sister's grandson, just to get his cuteness promoted worldwide).
We even made copies of all these pictures, just in case they wish to keep them.
We arrived at the INS office 45 minutes in advance, to be on the safe side.
We did everything right - or did we?

About 10 minutes before our scheduled interview, my name was called, by a very sweet tiny woman, who looked like a porcelain doll. We followed her into the maze of the INS offices, walking in the long corridor, between many small rooms filled with immigrants. From one of the rooms, came the sound of a woman sobbing quietly, adding to the surreal and bleak atmosphere.

We finally reached "our" room, went inside - and were asked to remain standing.
We took a vow, with our right hand raised, that everything we are going to say is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the - and then we got the permission to sit down.

First, allow me to say that - yet again - I learned to never listen too seriously to all those "know-all" who have no idea... All the legends and scary myths about the INS interviews, which are mostly based on the movie "Green Card", turned out to be false.

First, our interviewer was extremely nice, highly intelligent and very pleasant. Not sure if she was an immigrant or not (she seemed Vietnamese or a Philippine, yet her accent was perfectly American).

She started by asking us how we met, where and when we got married, and then asked if we plan to go back to Israel to have a traditional marriage ceremony (to which we answered with a big 'No', explaining the issue of John being uncut...).
Not even one question was asked about any private or intimate details, she couldn't care less about the color of the toothbrush, our knowledge in the birth dates of each other or the underwear size of any of us.
NOTHING!

She then asked us to show all kinds of official proof that we lead a common life: medical insurance, life insurance, bank accounts and such, and then asked to see our credit cards and medical insurance cards.

The next stage was for us to show the original documents of everything we filed to the INS.
She carefully examined our original marriage certificate, my divorce certificate, our passports, my employment authorization (issued by the INS), John's driving license - and then asked me how come I don't have one yet... well, apparently, she's not among the loyal readers of my "USA TODAY"...

Then, she looked at my birth certificate.
I was a bit concerned, as it was in Hebrew, and the only notarized translated copy was given to the INS 6 months ago. After some help from John (as she was holding it upside-down), she was happy.

And then... then she asked to see John's birth certificate.
Now, a momentary flashback, going back in time 6 months: - - -
- - - When we filed the application to the INS, John gave a copy of his Baptism Certificate as evidence of his birth. When I asked him about it, he reprimanded me, with the sweeping confidence that only guys have: "This IS the certificate. It's not like Israel here, y'know...", and so, the little ignorant alien (that's me) accepted his words with complete trust, because, pfffffffffffrrrrrrrrrrr, what do I know, right!? - - - - -
Wrong!
When the INS officer looked at John's baptism certificate, she asked, "OK, and where is your birth certificate?", to which John answered (same sweeping confidence!):
"I do not have any. I was born in a very small town in Minnesota, and they did not issue birth certificate".
She gave him the look of, "Are you fucking with me, dude!?".
And he said, "I even got my American passport based on that certificate. This is basically what I've been using for the last 30 years"
(yes, it's a severe case of denial, as the man turned 37 on January, but that's a different story :-)

She still showed a huge amount of disbelief, said she needs to consult with her supervisor, left the room for 2 minutes, and came back, with the following verdict: "Well, you'll have to send us a birth certificate. This is not sufficient. So, contact the town where you were born, and if they indeed do not issue birth certificates, we'll need to see an official letter from them, stating they cannot issue one. In such a case, you'll need to provide an affidavit, by your mother and an older brother/sister, that you were born".

Then she added, with a little smile, "Because, as far as we're concerned, you are not born yet".

And so, we were given 84 days to get evidence that John was actually born, and - more important - born in the USA.
As, after all, in order to give me a green card, they need to make sure I actually married an American citizen.

"If you don't have any questions, we're done",
she said.
John collected all the documents, and turned to the door.
"Wait", I said in despair, "I have a question!".
"What?" she asked with astonishment.
"So - what is my status?" I wondered.
"Oh", she said cheerfully, "You are still pending. Once we get the required documents (within 84 days), I will check it, and then approve your application. We will then send you a letter to come to our office again, and we'll give you a stamp in your passport, which will be your proof that you are approved, until you get your actual green card, which will arrive within a couple of months".
"So", I said in a very small voice, "I cannot leave the country?".
"You can still use your advance parole", she cheered me up.
"But it's expiring in 2 weeks", I reminded her.
"Well, you'll need to apply again for a travel authorization", she said, almost apologetically.

And then she gave me this Yes-dearie-I fully-understand-your-desire-to-kill-him-here-and-now-but-it-wouldn't-be-wise-to-do-it-in-the-INS-offices-so-wait-till-you're-out-of-the-building kind of look.
Told you she was nice!

Now, for some historical facts:
When baby John was about to be born, his mom actually crossed the border between Canada and Minnesota by foot, on a snowy night (January!), to get to the nearest hospital.

So, I asked John if he's sure her water didn't break just 5 meters before the border, on the Canadian side... ...after all, Vancouver is a very nice place to live in, Eh?...
...He actually said that to his mom on the phone, and - after she was done laughing - she approved that she actually made it in time to the hospital in Baudette, Minnesota - which is, according to John's version - too small a town to be giving birth certificates.

And so, dear friends, I am still pending.
My record is crystal clear, as white as the first snow on a January morning in the (small) town of Baudette, Minnesota... not even one tiny stain, but now John is the suspect...

And I ask: why couldn't they give me the bloody stamp in my passport, and put a "pending!" stamp in John's passport??? After all, he's now the immediate suspect!!!

Well, I have always claimed that John is a legend...
...I hereby rest my case: he was never born.

Pendingly yours, Nava (Still, the alien).


Looks like a bad dream now...


next flashback

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Monday, November 20, 2006

 

ArtPact #1

So, now that I've admitted my blogoholism, I basically did the first step towards quitting a habit, right?

Aha - but there lies the catch: I don't want to quit.

On the other hand, I don't want this to take over everything else.

And so, I made a pact with myself:
In order to not ban myself from blogging, I am going to combine two of my artistic outlets.
(I do have more than two, but I have no intention to record myself singing, nor to invite y'all for meals at our house, nor many other things. I may, however, surrender, from time to time, my highly-artistic usage of the English language, which I revert to when I am too tired to speak it correctly and The Johnnyb is not around to save me).

And so, I hereby make a commitment to post - once a week - something from my other creative channel:

Art.
On Paper.
Fresh from the sketchbook, drawing board or easel.

Be warned: it's gonna get artsy, at least once a week.

Now, it's true that I am devoted to watercolor (yet another addiction), but you are not likely to see ethereal landscapes, fine-painted still-life, or lovely bouquets of flowers in delicate colors.
Not here.
My interest - in art as in life - is people, and thus, I am mostly into figures, mostly decently dressed, mostly faces - and recently, hands.

A week ago I finished an enlightening figure painting workshop (of which you all read with bated breath), and two days ago was the last session of an incredible portrait painting workshop.
Sadly, the paintings I did in the portrait workshop were all from reference photos I took from the web or from magazines, and thus cannot be shared anywhere, as they are based on stealth images.
Someone once told me that since paintings done in a workshop can not be entered into competitions, as they are not purely mine, she never "wastes" her own photos on workshops.
Good advice, but since we also painted at home (thus eliminating teacher guidance contamination), I could have used photos from my own arsenal.
I guess I didn't think any of them would turn out successful.
Ha! How wrong I was!!
There are at least two paintings that I am really proud of (and The JohnnyB wowed lengthily about one of them - which is a very, very rare occasion, mind you!), but all I can do with those is hang in our humble premises.
Ah well, yet another curve in the learning process. (a process that some of the ingeniously-blessed amongst you are not familiar with, apparently).

Anyway, the last subject in the portrait workshop was babies/kids.
I eventually got tired of stealth images, and decided to work from my own.
Actually, it's a photo taken by my niece, but she gave me her loving permission, so I am fine. (as long as she gets a painting out of it...).

I found this great photo of one of my great-nephews, NitzkuA.
(Are those teeth I see, flying out of your mouth in attempt to pronounce the name?... Good!! Now you know how I feel sometimes when I speak English!).


He is 18-month old, adorable as can be, purely made of attitude and coolness, and recently upgraded from a uni-vowel being to a bi-vowel one.

The photo has a lot of potential, with fun shapes and wonderful light pattern, and my goal is to take it beyond the "Oh-that-is-tooooo-cute" obviously-fondant baby painting, and see where it goes.

And so - here is my first step:
A crude preliminary drawing of the little guy.

next ArtPact

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Sunday, November 19, 2006

 

To B,
or Not To B

So, I did some thinking.

This blogging thing is fun and joy and all, and I am finally doing what many of you kept nagging me to do, for years.

- "It's a wonderful creative outlet", says the voice in my head.
- "It's NOT a waste of time!", echoes another.
- "It keeps your brain alert",
beseeches a third voice.

- "It forces you to sharpen your English", chimes in the voice of reason (Hmm, I don't recognize the latter... must be a newcomer).

And I tend to not argue with those voices.
There are so many of them - and me, I am merely a shrinking (cobalt) violet.

And yet...

So, after more than a week without painting, after going through hoops deceiving myself that I need to recuperate from the 5-day ultra-intensive figure workshop (well, it really was intensive!), after avoiding eye-contact with my studio door, that kept staring at me with sad admonition, behind layers of cobwebs and dust of the neglected, I summoned myself for a serious conversation.
(From time to time, y'see, it feels good to exchange opinions with someone with your own intellectual and emotional level).

After lavishly wallowing in all the pros, the debate quickly arrived at the major cons:
1. It's addictive.

2. It's addictive.
3. It's quite addictive.

Plus, there is the devastating lack of feedback.
Most of you, readers, do not even bother to leave comments, or at least acknowledge the fact that you enjoy what I write; and yet, you keep creeping back, reading quietly without leaving a mark, like wetting a biscuit and eating it quick, so nobody hears your nibbling and asks for a bite.
(I said most of you...)

And still, I continue.

Why?

The first step, they say, is admitting you have a problem.

So, here goes:

My name is Nava, and I am a bloggoholic.

There, I said it.

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Thursday, November 16, 2006

 

The Curious Incident
of The Sarong in The Workshop


At a serious figure-painting workshop, like the one I was attending last week, you paint from live models.

We had two great models for the first two days, and on the third day, they switched with two other models: one blond, the other brunette.
(
No, it's not the beginning of a non-PC joke.
.Or is it?
)

The brunette was almost an hour late, and when she finally arrived, she burst into the room, panting, "I soooooooooooo got lost!".
Fair enough.


Like the previous models, our two new models were asked the crucial question, whether we could take their pictures while they were are posing. (Yes, TexieD, in the nude).
The blond agreed, the brunette chose to refuse.
Fair enough.


We paid the blond model for the privilege, and took pictures while she was posing during the painting sessions, as we did with the models we had in the first two days.

At the break, the brunette model approached AndieD, the workshop instructor, and whispered something in his ear. He seemed a bit puzzled, but informed us that she feels intimidated by the presence of cameras while she is posing in the nude.

Fair enough.

...Therefore, we cannot use our cameras during the painting session..
Fair enough.

...And so, we will have a special photo session with the blond model.
Fair enough.

..."And don't use your cellular phones in class, as she is concerned that you will use them to take her photo", added AndieD, with a slight eye-rolling. (Hey, and he is not even married to The JohnnyB!).
Fair enough - well, kinda.


People started to mutter and mumble that she is a bit paranoid, as we are all artists, and if she is so concerned and so untrusting, she may be in the wrong profession.
But I told the eye-rollers around me that perhaps she's had a bad experience.
That got a lot of agreeing head-nodding, and brought us back to Fair enough.

The morning painting session was over, we all went to lunch and came back for the photo session.


The blond model stood in the middle of the room and broke into a series of gorgeous poses, choreographed by AndieD, who added incredible lighting that created lyrical shadow shapes on her body and face.

Those of us who took photos, ran around like a herd of paparazzi on steroids, frantically taking photos from every possible angle. It's not every day that you get so much reference material for painting, directed by one of the best figure painters in the USA.

I know this may sound like a total waste to you (does it, TexieD?), but I hereby confess: I mostly aimed at her face.

What can I say, I am much more into portraits and expressions and personalities than into, well, what many of the husky-voiced readers among you are.

At some point, the model started to pose with one beautiful sarong which she tied around her waist, stretching another one against her back, which yielded fantastic shadow shapes, as the light was breaking through and diffusely illuminating her.


(For those of you about to malign my photographic skills... took me a while to blur the photo enough so that you, curious clickers, can not identify faces and other forensic evidence. Alas, if only you spent your clicking-energy somewhere else on this blog...)

End of the photo session, time to go back to painting, we are all ecstatic about all those pictures that we took and will paint some day - - - and the brunette model is out of sight.
Fair enough?
No.


Out goes AndieD, and 5 minutes later he comes back, in advanced stages of eye-rolling, declaring: "We have a problem".

OK now, let's go back in time.
Remember the blond model (we shall call her Dew), posing in her colorful sarongs?
Apparently, the brunette model (we shall call her, Hmm... Princess @&%#$) got upset.
Why?
Bikoz Dew was using one of Princess @&%#$'s sarongs for the photo session.
"So?", you ask with complete incomprehension. "Why was Princess @&%#$ upset?"
Beecoz she felt utterly offended.
"Why??", you repeat you growing wonder.
Biiiiiiiiiiiiiicoz she felt violated.
"VIOLATED?", you ask with capital letters, "Why would she feel violated?".
Bikous the sarong of The Princess has touched the body of Dew.
"?????????????????", you tilt your eyebrows in a variety if angles.
Yup.
My point exactly.

"Was Dew a leper?", you wonder.
No, she wasn't.


"So, was she covered with terrible eczema, the poor dear?", you try, with sincere desire to get to the root of this.
Not at all.

"Did she have fresh ripe pimples from head to toe?", you may suggest.
No. Not even one zit.

"Was Dew abscess-ridden?", you get more creative.
Nothing of the sort.

"Oozing with pus, Eh?", you go for the Canadian approach.
Nope.

"Was she dripping of green alien goo?", you become desperate.
Y'know, I am not even going to dignify that with an answer.

"Wait, perhaps - - "


- - - (OK, enough of this! seriously, you are getting more and more disgusting!).


All Dew did was tie the sarong around her non-abscessed, smooth waist.

Now, not only was Princess @&%#$ upset, offended and violated, she also decided that she is going home.
Fair enough!? Hell No!


At this point, we all pretty much lost our patience, but @&%#$ (I decided she is too much of a princess to actually deserve the title) chose to push it even further, stating with impressive assertiveness that she should get paid for the whole day.

Got it?

Not only was she was late to class, not only did she put up an unprecedented attitude, not only is she leaving in the middle of the day, because her precious sarong touched another woman's waist - she wants to get fully paid!

There are few times in life when the most appropriate and eloquent expression is: "Ppppppppppppfffffffffffrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr".
This was by far one of those rare occasions.

While all this was taking place, Dew was just sitting on a chair on the side, quite overwhelmed and very confused, not quite knowing what she did wrong to cause all that fuss.

Anyway, we were stuck.
Only one model for 24 people - that's way too crowded.

Someone tried to call the person in charge of the models, to see if another model can come in on such a short notice, AndieD was looking more and more frustrated - - -


And suddenly, one of the workshop participants declared, "I'll do it!".
Just to remind you: we are not talking a portrait workshop, nor was it a clothed-figure workshop.

Now, that took some serious guts!

She asked us if we have some scarf or something of the sort to cover herself a bit, and I handed her my poncho, making sure to formally declare that I shall be utterly offended if it even touched her fingernail...

And - she went for it.
She was a wonderful model to paint, we all excelled ourselves, as we all know and like her a lot.
Our only complaint was that she is about my height (which to The JohnnyB's does not seem significant, but for most normal beings, it's tall!), which meant there was no way to fit her neverending legs on a single sheet of paper.

AndieD made a quick drawing of her, and went to the side to paint it. I admit I was quite irritated that he is painting to himself instead of guiding us.
But at the end, after we all thanked her profusely, I forgave him immediately.

Apparently, he was painting it in order to give it to her as a Thank You for saving the day.
Y'all have to admit that AndieD is one very cool person!

Now, I seriously considered posting one or two of the paintings I did during that workshop.

Trying to decide which to choose, out of the 9 I painted, I turned to the JohnnyB:
"Which of my paintings is worth posting?".
"None of them, really", was his quick nonchalant reply. (way too quick, and waaaaaaaaay too nonchalant, if I may say so...).

So there you go.
Yet again, my good intentions of sharing got underminded by harsh criticism.

And for those of you who constantly seek closure and are on a constant quest for petty details:
As you read, that complaining model is still demanding to get the full-day payment.
We decided to go ahead and pay her for the full day, and then send her the bill for the fee that was paid to the volunteering model, who also got refunded for part of the workshop.

Which - altogether - is more than the demanded fee...

Fair enough, I think.



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Wednesday, November 15, 2006

 

A Little Lunch For Thought (TM) #1


Seems like in this harsh world, you cannot have a blog without a trademarked corner.
It's quite challenging to come up with a phrase that's never been used before - but I do believe we managed.

(The JohnnyB came up with "A Little Lunch for Thought ™", taken from his Minnesotan roots of silence, so credit goes to him).

The Brownielocks and The 3 Bears website elaborates that "There are four meals in the Northland; breakfast, dinner, supper, and 'a little lunch'. A little lunch is the stealth meal served to unsuspecting coffee guests from out of town. Be warned that if a local invites you to a little lunch you should fast for several days first. You will be lavished with lemon bars, chocolate chip cookies, cakes, sandwiches, and a “dab” of every single thing in your host’s refrigerator."


Yesterday, my solid sanity was put in doubt by one reader, who was obviously appalled by the garage report.


"You paid someone to remove four screws and then put them back in again through a new piece of plastic?
Next time you decide to go all crazy like this, have BrainkyP fill you in how much a chin air dam costs from the junkyard first
."

Well, I can see how in a distorted way, in an utopic world, this may make some sense.


And yet, these days, any hint of do-it-yourself causes me to shiver, when The JohnnyB is involved.

Which calls for A Little Lunch For Thought ™:

Do those reliable skilled tradesmen (electricians, mechanics, plumbers, firefighters et al), to whom we refer at times of urgent need, behave like The JohnnyB at their own home, causing their wives to wish they could just call a tradesman?


Is this what life really all about?


One big vicious circle of resourceful husbands and eye-rolling wives?

next little lunch...

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The Beetle Is Back!


At 2pm today, after 2 days sans my car
, I got a call from the garage, informing me she is ready to go.

A while ago, you see, I may have possibly hit a curb.

Actually, what might have happened, perhaps, was a purely hypothetical situation of someone who could have parked next to one of them low-brick fenced pits in which they plant trees near OfficeDepot.

Theoretically speaking, the driver might have gotten back in the car, and rather than reverse it, maybe decided to go forward.
And, perchance she (Ah, now it's a she, Ha? you shameless sexists!) felt some resistance.
Now, it could be possible that she made up her mind that she is going forward, and no American brick fence would tell her otherwise. And so, one might think she put her foot on the gas in a somewhat heavier manner.

And, who knows - at that point, it may have well been that the car could have climbed over the low fence and drove into the pit, taking the young tree by surprise

Remember - it's all a fictional game we are playing here, yes?

Just to humor you, maybe four construction workers and their boss just happened to be there, peacefully eating their lunch, looking with widening eyes and a dropped jaw at the unprecedented sight.
And perhaps, like, supposedly, after watching with awe the feline-like heroic attempts of the driver to play it cool (as in "Of course I meant to do that!"), they eventually recovered from the slight shock, wiped the crumbs off their mustaches and the smiles off their lips, approached the car and its driver, picked it up and threw it backwards, out of the pit and back into civilization.

No, of course none of that has happened - this was just an analogy, a fairytale, a fiction of the imagination.

Anyway, since that allegedly assumptive event, and totally regardless of it, the plastic shield thingy under my car's engine got loose. You know, that plastic screen that keeps the car's modesty and prevents you from peeping under her skirt.


"I think we should take it to the garage", I told The JohnnyB.
"Garage? why do we need to take it to the garage?", he wondered, "I can fix it in a second!".

Sounds familiar?...

The JohnnyB put a screw through the plastic shield, keeping the car's modesty intact, and that was the end of it.

Kinda.

2 weeks ago, after driving over one of those 3-feet bumpers (why do they make them so bloody high?), I noticed that this shield is, again, loose. I pushed it gently back in place, and tried to stay calm, awaiting The JohnnyB's return from India..
The day after The JohnnyB came back, I offered ValleyM a drive to where our watercolor exhibition was being taken down,
for signing our agreement to have our paintings displayed at the AMD headquarters. (Yeah, I know - the wife of an Intel employee showing at AMD... interesting).
(Mind you, ValleyM got the Emerging Artist Award in our show - check out her painting, titled "Samantha's Cave").

As we were leaving her house, my car went Moroccan, with a startling Kkkkkkkkkkhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

We jumped out - looked under, and the shield looked, well, like that:


The picture doesn't even begin to portray the hideous sight that was revealed - it was devastatingly shattered, and I shattered to the thought that this could have happened on a highway, at 80 MPH (Ahm, I mean 65 MPH, of course...).

I called The JohnnyB, and updated him.
"Ah, just put a wire around it", said he.

Yeah...

I think it was at that moment that ValleyM, who keeps accusing me of maligning poor The JohnnyB, started to think that perhaps I am not exaggerating as it may seem to those who have not witnessed the dangerous resourcefulness of the man.

We went to send off our paintings, continued to our house, grabbed The JohnnyB(*), and brought him to the car. He worked on her for some good 30 minutes, tying wires around her violated purity, while ValleyM is watching in astonishment.


Then we drove to his work(*) to pick up his spare car keys in order to fetch his car from the SF airport.




(*) "Why this crooked trip?", you wonder.
Because when The JohnnyB was packing to leave India, he did not carry the heavy load of his car and house keys in his carry-on, but rather chose to deposit those redundant objects in his check-in baggage, which got lost when he missed his short connection in London.

So, he arrived home by cab, and the day after, we had to drive to Intel to get the spare keys (of course they are not at home - that would be too straightforward!), and then to SF airport to fetch his car - - all that, with the shield tied by wires and cracking all the way home on the very busy 101, freaking me out.

"But why would you take the busiest highway with a car that's rickety?", you ask in puzzlement, again.

Ah... ask The JohnnyB...


After a whole day of the car staring at me with her big blue eyes, begging for a proper treatment, we took her to the garage, where the very nice service consultant Sandy checked us in, and asked what's the problem.

The JohnnyB chose to remain quiet, thoroughly enjoying watching my tongue getting entangled with precise technical terms such as "the-thingy-under-her-front" and "that-plastic-whatsit-you-know".

Then the guy examined the tires, asking how often we rotate them.


"Every time we drive", beamed The JohnnyB with his famous smart alec grin.


Groaning in despair, Sandy turned to me, realizing that in addition to my eloquent proficiency in mechanics terminology, I am also the more mature person in the area - until he noticed I refer to her as a 'She'.

"It's a she?", he wondered, looking at me a bit weird.
"Of course it's a she", I replied him. (Like, Duh!?)
"I see... and what is her name?", he played the game, with a hint of that intonation you use when talking to a 3-year-old.
"Just look at her license plate", was The JohnnyB happy to assist.
"Aha... And, hmm, what is your name?", he asked me, now going for the voice you use when you talk to retards with an accent.
"Nava", I informed him (and here we went through the usual 5-minute argument routine of how to pronounce my name. No-it's-not-Naiva-it's-Nava-like-Lava-with-an-N-say-that-again-Nava).

"OK, at least it's not the same name", he sighed in relief.

"Of course not", protested The JohnnyB, "That would just be crazy..".

Yes, I saw the look they exchanged.
The look of manly men who may not finish every drip of whatsit you put in their beer glasses, but fully appreciate the blessing of living with women who have a healthy imagination and ascribe names and personalities to their cars.

So, we are now about $1175.91 short, as we also went for a new set of tires, and that plastic shield, apparently, is some expensive stuff.

Good thing that driving-into-the-tree-pit was only an imaginative what-if tale...

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