“That’s my worst nightmare.”
I’ve heard these exact words from literally dozens of neighbors, friends and readers since I released my dystopian novel, “Enfold Me,” which is set in an appropriately nightmarish Middle East after the fall of Israel. This phrase is usually followed by “That’s too real, I don’t even want to think about it.”
My daughter sat down to dutifully complete her math homework. She did one problem, and got up to go to the bathroom. She came back, stopped to twirl happily on the way, humming, and did another half-problem. She got up to feed to the cat. She came back, via the refrigerator, got a snack, stopped to sharpen her pencil, and finished the second problem. She got up again, little feet dancing around the chair, and dashed upstairs to get an eraser. Before she sat down, she got a tissue. This continued for almost an hour, until the ten minutes worth of questions were finally answered.
I read an article this week about the phenomenon of the Bark Mitzvah. For those unfamiliar, we’re talking about people who celebrate their dogs’ thirteenth birthdays with – you guessed it – a traditional ceremony including the wearing of a Talit and Kipah, and a “reading” from the Torah. My children found this hilarious, as did I, and suggestions of initiating new traditions of Meow-Mitzvahs,Quack-Mitzvahs, and even Moo-Mitzvahs started flying around the table.
I’ve come to the conclusion that my relationship with my mechanic is dysfunctional.
How many times have I stood in front of him, and let him continue speaking long after I’ve lost track of what he’s talking about? At first, I try to ask questions, but I inevitably get lost in the details. In the end, I usually pretend to understand – partly so as not to look like a total idiot, and partly just to get him to stop talking. Ultimately, he does whatever he thinks, and charges me whatever he wants.