You could say many things about me, but no one, self included, would have classified me as cool when I was in school. I wasn’t good at sport; my parents weren’t Israel- born or among the founding families of Pardes Hana; we lived in a duplex while the cool ones all lived in a single family homes; and the fact that both my older brother and I skipped a class in the same year didn’t help. It was much more important to skip rope.
There was a time in which I was trying to fit in, to be like everyone else. It failed. Miserably too. Maybe this is when I realized that I wasn’t made for the herd. Years later, I do recognize though that while I wasn’t part of the herd, I was still heard. Enough students voted me to the chair of the school’s paper, I was performing w/the drama class . . . I wasn’t ignored; I was odd, with too many evenings lonelier than I’d liked them to be.
If I learned anything, painful though the learning had been, it was that the cost and effort of fitting in isn’t really worth it in the end. Fitting in does not bring happiness, joy or pride. All it means that instead of being loyal to self, one is loyal to the slimy, jelly like consensus that is brainless yet extremely judgmental. And the herd in one’s head can be such a rigid dictator. I quitted.
“It’s not easy being green” sings Kermit. “It seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things, and people tend to pass you over ’cause you’re not standing out like flashy sparkles in the water or stars in the sky”… [Source: http://lyricsplayground.com/alpha/songs/i/itsnoteasybeinggreen.shtml]
Why this walk down memory lane, you may wonder. Thing is, being home, recuperating, grounded and restricted, with my mind free to wonder does funny things to you. It’s all because of you! The support, visits, calls, SMS’s, emails, Skypes. . . the love and care I was surrounded with, plus my mom’s spoiling nursing made getting better such a good experience – it felt and feels good getting better with all this support. ‘Cause one can take pain killers, but I am not aware of “be my friend” pills.
Thank you guys, each and everyone who supported.

Clipart source:
http://majorcare.org/Cool%20School%20Kids.gif
http://ayyyy.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/panda8.jpg

I am not bothering with apologies about not writing for sooooo long.   I missed it too.

And no, guess I’m not finishing the final cut story.  Gallbladder is gone.  Maybe one day I’ll get around finishing the story.  Not today though.

Today it’s about tomato; tomato juice to be exact.

It all started very well.  Mobile 2.0 was over; the Finish Mobile association treated us to a fun dinner the previous night, and though I slept in after making it to the hotel sometime early that morning, I had a couple of hours before my flight to visit my favorite gallery in Barcelona; had time to take a shower thanks to the hotel flexibility, and was on board the first flight out of two on my way home for a week vacation.

Location: Lufthansa flight, bulkhead seat, 2 Russian guys to my left, the aisle to my right.  Minutes past takeoff I’m in flight mode: headset, MP3 player and a book.  When the Lufthansa sandwich shows up, I adjust.  I hate the “pretend to be a table”, so it stays stored in the armrest.  My solution, book in one hand, sandwich in the other MP Player on lap.

And then the drinks cart arrives.  Tired of hearing “sorry, we run out of lemon, I ask for my 2^nd preferred choice; tomato juice.  Now, with a glass in my hand it’s a real balancing act.  Glass of tomato juice in one hand, book in the other, sandwich on my lap, next to the MP3 player.  I even manage to bite the sandwich ever so often.  All is well and the book is good, until it’s time to flip a page.  I totally forget that there’s a glass full of liquid in my hand, and I turn it to flip the page.  Basic physics tells us the liquids, when given the option, obey gravity.  So it should have come as no surprise that turning a page with a glass in hand allowed the tomato juice to exercise its very own gravity.  Most of it though, didn’t exercise it far.  It landed on my lap.

My seatmates maintain frozen silence.  Not even one giggle or laugh.

Picture this: a very wet red right leg and full hands.  The shock lasts few seconds.  Then, like a preprogrammed robot, damage control process kicks in.  With one dripping hand holding the remains of the tomato juice, I manage to put the book behind my back, MP3 player follows.  Headset is off my head and joins the group session behind my back.  Last to join the reunion is the sandwich.  By whatever miracle, my socks are still white and dry.  A short struggle later I have shoes on.  The way to the lavatory never seemed longer.

Once I close the door behind me, I have time to take another sip.  Yes, tomato juice is still with me.  Then I try to think.  This is the first flight out of two, it’s early afternoon, and it’ll be 5 AM the following morning before I hit the ground in Israel.  No way I can survive the tomato smell or the looks for that long.

Done drinking the tomato juice, it’s laundry time.  Yes, in the airplane lavatory, I took off my pants and started washing them.   

The sink, miniature as it is, became my wash basin.  Clean and wet, it’s drying time.  I wring the pants, one leg at the time.  Instead of ironing, I “shake” them as hard as I can.  That’s how I avoid ironing.  In the process I get my glasses all covered with water drops.  I try very hard not to think what the people outside think hearing the noises coming out of the bathroom.

It’s time to put pants on.  One leg completely wet, the other not so much.  Last I’ve checked the only wet competitions were for white T-shirts.  I hold my breath and pull one leg, and then the other.  It’s cold, but not too cold.  I can do it.

And now, with nose high up, and maintaining eye contact with the ceiling only, I walk back to my seat.  I sit down, and start to reassemble my flying kit.  Headphones are back on, MP3 plays, book, and sandwich.  Surprisingly, all I have to wipe is the armrest and I am happy to realize that the seat’s upholstery is not fabric but rather leather-like.

As I try to balance all items the Russian guy in the seat next to me offers “you can put things here” as he points to his table.  I politely decline, but a minute later accept.  Now we are talking.  The two guys are returning from a chemistry convention.  Apparently Russia is the WW #1 manufacturer of food preservative 211 or whatever JSR-like number it has.  Unlike the Mobile 2.0 crowd, the chemists didn’t taste too much of Barcelona.  They were reading their Barcelona travel guide on their way back home.

I guess that there are different level of geekiness and nerdiness.

By the time we landed in Frankfurt, the only person who could tell that my pants were wet was I.  No stains left to tell the story.

6 months and not one blog? Shame, shame on me.
a week before JavaOne is as bad as bad timing goes, but i shall make the time and create the blog.
no blogitto, no ergo sum.

This one is to Martin, Eran and Simon.

A thought

Who could imagine that one Saturday I’ll be shopping for a new Goth pants, wear it on Wednesday, and change to a hospital gown on Thursday???  Not me.  The Goth blog will wait though.

Packing list

I know what to pack for a biz trip, but what do you take to a hospital?  Once it was decided that I’ll be spending the night[s] at the hospital, the Dr. suggested that I’ll first check-in and than go out to get my stuff.  “That way”, he said, “you won’t have to come back here again after you’ve been to the hotel”.  Well spoken.  40 minutes later, with my hospital bracelet, Martin and I were still waiting.  I decided I could use the special bonding, and hunted down the Dr. @ his office.  “I’m sorry, can you please tell us how long it’s going to take?”

“What?!! You are still here?!! Come on, I’ll take you”.  And so I was delivered to the ward by the nice doctor himself, who explained, to the nurses’ surprise, that I’m checking in, but will be leaving shortly.

I was relieved to be in the cab.  Can’t say that I wasn’t tempted to “fall asleep” in my hotel room and wake up in the morning all innocent.  Who cares where I sleep if it’s only sleeping.  But the IV thingy was hurting me and I was finally, getting hungry after 23 hours with no food and the only food/drink I was allowed comes in clear plastic bags.  Martin verified, IN PERSON, that I got in the cab to go back to the hospital.

What did I pack?  A laptop, one charger for phone, MP3 player, USB cable.  The electronics took much more room and were heavier than the necessities like tooth brush & paste, change of cloth…  Geek!

Karolinska University Hospital

11:30 PM

Of course, not using one, I didn’t pack a PJ.  The hospital took care of it.   Too white.  With my mouth dry, after 24 hours with no food, but couple of cups of water, IV was my feeder.

Laptop connected, Wi-Fi is free, Rhapsody is the soundtrack of my night.

First night at the hospital, and I did use the alarm button to call for pain killers.  It was time to give in.

Of course, once the pain killers started working, FaceBook, Twitter and their likes came to life.

05:00 AM

A polite knock at the door woke me up.  A nurse is coming for my blood.  With my eyes closed I stretch my hand, remember to tell her that my veins are narrow, and falls back to sleep.

At 7:40, I’m up again, learning that one cannot undress with IV attached.  A nurse is coming to help, and is sent back to get me towels, and of course, a clean PJ.  I opt for my own cloth.

At 9:30, I get the day’s doctor visit.  No one notes that since my shower, the IV had not been reattached.  I figure they will eventually.  “Turn off the music” is her first sentence.  And than, like they all do, she introduces herself by first name, shakes my hand and tells me how, even with my blood test results, they are still not sure what I have on top of gallstones.  How reassuring.

At 10:30, when my chaperon is coming to take me for my ultra sound, I stop him from moving the bad and demonstrate my ability to walk.  He is not sure what to do, so I start walking out of the room.

An hour later I’m done, and now I know better than to wait for a chaperon.  I walk back to the ward alone.  Still with no water or food, I’m thinking Yom Kippur.

Nu?

Between twitters, I dose off, get another pain killer and blood pressure is measured for the 2^nd or 3^rd time.

@ 14:00 or so, I’m waked up to be told that I am allowed to have my first meal.  39 hours since my last supper.  No one bothers to comment on the music anymore – guess they got used to it.    It’s a hospital; I have low expectations regarding my first meal.  Wrong.  3 crepes stuffed with mushroom and dill with nice mustardy sauce arrive.  And water.  And a horrible coffee that once left alone, I set free down the sink.

Gallbladder however, is inflamed, flight is highly discouraged, and another night of observation is prescribed.  I am down.  The pain is down, but it doesn’t matter, since I can’t find even one doctor [consulted with London and Israel] that will tell me that I should just walk away.

Around 17:00, my new babysitter is in, and everything looks better.  As much as I try to keep work out of here, how can I not feel lucky to work with people I really like?  How can I not smile when Eran, rerouting his ticket, is my new chaperon/body guard?

With some hope offered by the doctor, I get all energized to buy my ticket home for the following day.  Simon is rushing it though the system, while I head to the hotel to pack my stuff and check out.

Given that the hospital declared me fit to eat, we go for a GOOD dinner.  Not only I’m not eating hospital food, I’m eating good, rich [read: fat] meat.  The reasoning?  This is what empirical testing is all about: If my body can handle this, I’m 100% fit to fly.

Grill, Drottninggatan 89 113 60 Stockholm

Let’s just say that the night provided enough evidence to suggest that while I may be OK to fly, I’m not entitled to a clear bill of health.

After unhealthy dinner and desert, back to my “dorm”.  If only the door wasn’t locked.  It takes three Swedes to figure out how to open the hospital doors, and another 15 minutes before I find my ward.  The nurses node.

“We’ll wake you @ 4:20 for your blood” they remind me.  Yes, since I told them I have a 13:35 flight, they asked the lab, the nurse and the doctor to do their things earlier, so I’ll make my flight.  Nice cannot describe it.

More yet to come. . .

Not Yet Dead [1-see comment at end]

This one is to Martin, Eran and Simon. And to the amazing, caring staff of the Karolinska University Hospital.

Denial

It wasn’t until Saturday noon, sitting at the airport with Eran, knowing I’m going home, that I allowed myself to break down and admit weakness and fear. The tears came as a total surprise though. Until that moment, others did all the worrying, while I was too busy being cool and tough.

2 AM – I am in Pain

Never thought of myself as a wimp, hence, when the first pain wave hit me around 2 am, I figured that it was nature’s response to a very rich dinner. As the hours moved on, nature was having fun. I was not! All I knew was that no matter how I lay, sat, rolled, hugged the pillow or bent, each wave of pain left me exhausted, with the naïve hope that soon enough it’ll stop. A hot bath didn’t help either. I started thinking of the HOUSE episode in which he breaks his finger to distract his mind from a bigger distress.

Around 7 AM I SMS-ed Simon and Martin, informing them that I won’t be able to join the day’s meeting. The idea of sitting, listening, responding and being patient [dah] was beyond me.

Reading the SMS, the two guys immediately shifted into “fix problem” mode. From that moment on, not an hour went by without at least one of them insisting I’d take action.

Phone consultation with a Doctor brought up terms like obstruction, stones and other terms I associate with people other than myself.

By 11 AM or so, I was ready to cry. 9 hours of pain, no sleep at all, in a hotel bed, tangled with the duvet, hugging a pillow, was not my idea of having a good time.

I obeyed Simon and called our dear AMEX support[2]. “We could get you a list of local doctors” she said. I said “yes, please”. A pathetic list of 3 items arrived more than 4-5 hours later.

Luckily, Martin and Simon were not about to let me stall. “Call the SOS line, NOW!!!” they ordered via SMS, Skype and phone.

And so I did.

There’s a light

A case manager, a medical case manager . . . suddenly I had a professional support team all working for me and my comfort. Within 10-15 minutes, I had an address and someone who’s sole task was to make sure that I’m being taken care of the best possible way. There was a bit of a competition there, between these guys and Martin & Simon, and later Eran, who could care more.

Checking in

For the first time in my life, I checked myself in, and not to a hotel or a flight. Once I paid SEK2000[3], things started moving fast. Blood, urine and descriptions were collected carefully, followed by a CT.

Having to remove everything containing metal turned out to be a challenge – I already had the instrument for liquid injection in my arm, and movement was limited. I had to swallow my “no thank you I can manage” rejection of help, and ask for it. Only to find myself thinking it’s the first time in my life I am helped removing my bra. “BY A WOMAN” was the bold angry message sent from my protesting brain and pleasure center. Yes, by a woman.

Martin, giving up an opportunity to enjoy the beauty of Stockholm, was with me, providing the support I was too blind and stubborn to admit I needed. Further, he recognized that talking work would be a good distraction. Can’t believe it, but it worked, almost as good as a pain killer.

It’s late afternoon and while the pain waves are not longer slicing me that often, not a single thought of food crosses my mind, and I don’t even notice.

While I’m offered a bed a couple of times, I keep going out to the waiting room to enjoy Martin’s company. Denial I call it now for what it was. Sick people need beds, not me.

Verdict, Little Kid and a Big Airplane

The Muslim doctor that was handling my case/me all afternoon is sitting me down for a serious talk. I can forget about getting on a plane tomorrow, I have gallstones and a couple other symptoms they are still investigating; my liver which may be infected, is inflamed, and flying with swollen organs, considering what air pressure does to balloons, is not recommended by the hospital. The SOS Dr. talks to Dr. Mahmud, and wanting a 3^rd opinion I call Ruti, my very own family doctor and friend in Israel. They all agree that flying is a great way to add adventure and pain to my life, along with, most likely, an emergency landing.

• — “You’d rather get it removed at home, right?” says the nice Doctor.
• — “Well, I rather get it done HOME-HOME”, I say.
• — “What do you mean, aren’t you an American?”
• — “Don’t you have an ear for accents?”
• I get a confused look in response.
• — “You are an Arab, aren’t you?” I ask/state.
• — “No, I’m a Kurd” is the immediate response, and I sense some offense in his tone.
• — “Oh, I’m really sorry” I quickly say, “And I’m an Israeli”
• — “You know, when I was a kid, and the Iraqi army was chasing us, and ended up in a camp near Turkey. . . me and all my family”
• — “Yes and the Turks didn’t welcome you either, I remember” I’m proud to show off my knowledge of middle-east conflict history and erase the Arab thing. “How old were you?”
• — “And I will never forget” he says, all emotional, “the first airplane that drooped us food was from Israel.”

I now have a friend at the hospital.

Next – checking in.

Comments:

[1] SPAMALOT – lyrics @ http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/spamalot/heisnotdeadyet.htm or general @ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spamalot

[2] Amex called hours later to ask if i needed anything else. By that time, I already canceled my flight, which the caller wasn’t even aware of. Not sure i was polite. They didn’t deserve it anyway.

[3] Exchange rate was retrieved using WorldMate Live which I’ve been enjoying for the past few months, tracking my biz trips and now my gallbladder-related events.

[Definitions for above terms are @ the bottom of this chapter.]

Getting tagged as “Chick”-something is bad for business. Its value for men evaporates, thus 49% of the population may view it as an “uncool”, “not-for-me” thing. Man’s manhood is challenged, once man admits going to chick flick, reading chick lit. Enjoying it is top secret, “I can tell you, but I’ll have to kill you” kind of thing

In Human Resources, the term “going pink” is used to describe professions that are moving from being predominantly performed by men to female territory. “Going pink” implies status and compensation are going down. Sadly, this happened to the Human Resources management profession itself. And we all suffer. Statistically [not to say genetically], Women are better caregivers. This is not antifeminism chauvinism, this is an observation. Last night @ the wedding, it was Melanie who called home to ask her man if everything is OK with charming daughter. I have yet to see A man, calling his wife while having a good time, not to say good night to the kids, but to ask “is everything alright with our precious off-spring/s?”

Do you find this observation irrelevant? Who then, in your office, organizes the gatherings? Remembers B-days? Or notices that you are not yourself today? Congrats to all men who are in touch with their caring side; hate to tell you that you are still a minority among men.

In the Manly Men’s Movie Reviews website, they describe themselves as “rampaging bundles of male hormones. We love movies with big, phallic guns and curvaceous chicks with clothing that falls away for no plot driven reason”. Keep on mind however, that they rated Borat A⁺. Who classifies a movie as a chick flick anyway? Couple of gals who want to see a bloodless movie? Avoid an evening with an action hero? Or is it the guys, unable to figure out emotional nuances beyond good, bad and ugly?

Why do I care? Last Tuesday, I saw The Secret Life of Bees. The night before, and all the way to the box office, Pam and I tried to decide between W. and the Bees. Discussion went like this:

“So which movie shall we see?”

“If we choose W., we could discuss it over dinner”

– Company to include 3 women, 2 men.

“On the other hand, The Secrets of Bees will provide us with a good healthy cry.”

“Yes, I know W.is serious, political, good subject for small talk.”

Upon arrival to the box office, we asked the attendant, who sort of repeated the lines above. I chose the bees. Pam provided the Kleenex in the appropriate time.

As we left the theater, I was developing that annoyed itch about the chick thing. The Secret Life of Bees is a great movie, well done, with great performance delivered by Dakota Fanning, Queen Latifah, Jennifer Hudson, Alicia Keys and Sophie Okonedo. The kind of performances that get nominated. Still wonder why tagging it as chick flick is so bad? . . . I hope not.

Good movie, good book, good stuff!

And now to the definitions:

“Chick lit”, Wikipedia is a term used to denote genre fiction written for and marketed to young women, especially single, working women in their twenties and thirties. … The style can also be seen to be somewhat influenced by female teen angst movies like Sixteen Candles and Clueless. Later with the appearance of Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary and similar works; the genre continued to sell well in the 2000s, with chick lit titles topping bestseller lists and the creation of imprints devoted entirely to chick lit.

“Chick Flick”, Wikipedia is slang for a film designed to appeal to a female target audience. The term was first used in the 1980s, a decade during which such chick flicks as Beaches were released. … “Chick flick” is typically used only in reference to films that are heavy with emotion or contain themes that are relationship-based (though not necessarily romantic and may not involve men). It is typically not used for high art, feminist subject matter, or romantic comedies intended for a wider audience (such as the 2005 film Wedding Crashers and Fever Pitch^[1]).

Clipart:

http://www.lintrezza.com/uploaded_images/bee_birth5-748834.jpg

http://otter.covblogs.com/archives/images/chick_flick.jpg

Sitting uncomfortably in an airplane, ready to write about sitting in airplanes. Is it like writing about life instead of living it? Never mind.

So while I know you are waiting to read about Burning Man, Puerto Rico, home and what have you, this is what I feel like writing about and it’ll have to do.

Months ago, I went to Puerto Rico. That chapter has yet to be written. On the first flight [out of 2] back, I got a window seat. Preoccupied with my book , I caught from the corner of my eye a couple standing close to my row, talking in Spanish. They were discussing who’ll sit where, since their seats were aisle apart. The man decided he preferred the seat next to me and set down.

Being first, and reading, I already claimed the armrest. Or at least so I thought. The macho had a very different idea. As his arm met mine, in total violation of the unwritten rules of armrest sharing, instead of pulling back his arm ASAP, Mr. Macho opted for offense. The offensive arm started pushing, and pushing. . .

As I type this I can’t help laughing. This sounds so fictional, so taken from a Christopher Moore or John Welter book. I still find it hard to believe it really happened.

Restless Armrest / Delta Air Lines / AP

Back in Puerto Rico, we are still on the ground, but it’s a conflict zone. Not about to give up my tenure of the armrest, I’m pushing back. Uncomfortable by the proximity of the offensive arm, I take my blanket and place it as a barricade between us. I’m building a wall.

A split of a second later, I am shocked by the 2^nd attack. Now the guy is spreading his legs open, and aligns his right leg with mine as he opens a 2^nd front. Does he want the armrest, or is he looking for human contact, I wonder. Doesn’t matter. My pocketbook becomes part of the wall. When this is not enough, the case of my dear Bose headsets placed between our knees. The jerk’s pressure is such the the case in holding in the air.

it’s not the Berlin wall, it’s not the Western Wall, but it’s a wall in a conflict zone nonetheless. Meanwhile we took off, safety belt sign is off and the crew is passing around with drink and stale snacks. I cease the opportunity to get the UN on my side.

When asked “what would you like to drink”, my answer is “thank you, but before drinking, can you please tell this man to stop pushing himself all over me?”.

Given that I’m not known to be the whispering kind, the mushroom of silence is spreading around me. “Since the second he set down, this man kept pushing himself on me. I find this unacceptable.”

The [Latino male] attendant asks me to calm down. “I’ll calm down when you stop this. I expect you to protect me from such behavior on your flights.” The guy starts chatting with Mr. Macho in Spanish. “He says he did no such thing” is the conclusion of the discussion. “Look at all this”, I point out to the blanket, headset case, and bag. “Do you think I put it here for nothing?”

Mr. Macho opens his mouse. “I understand what you are saying” , he says in a very slow measured diction.

“I don’t care what you understand”, i dismiss the BS.

“What do you want me to do?” asks the attendant.

“I don’t want this guy sitting next to me.”

“Este… “ starts the attendant mouth to form yet another “what do you want me to do” response.

“Make him move and switch seats with his wife” I demand, as I point to the poor woman. Another quick exchange in Spanish and a no-man’s-land territory is established. The Mrs., I’m sad to say, did her best to be invisible, to occupy at little space as possible, and religiously worked on her Sudoku charts, one after another, never looking at me.

Now it was time for a drink.

As we arrived to Atlanta, knowing I have couple of hours before I make my connection, I followed the couple. Mr. Macho put a possessive hand around his wife shoulders, she had a frozen look on her face, looking forward, never turning her head left or right.

Not a word was spoken.

I went looking for a cup of good cappuccino.

Another person’s view can be found Here. And here’s an aggressive-possessive view of the subject.

The Wired, in the how to section couple of years ago, taught its readers how to capture the armrest. the crash course can be found HERE.

Bon Voyage.

]]> http://yaelol.wordpress.com/2008/10/27/137-armrestless/feed/ 1 yaelol Delta Armrest AP http://yaelol.wordpress.com/2008/10/27/136-vacation-again/ http://yaelol.wordpress.com/2008/10/27/136-vacation-again/#comments Mon, 27 Oct 2008 22:14:47 +0000 yael wagner http://yaelol.wordpress.com/?p=99 ]]>

“Lesson learned” is not what I’d say towards the end of my first vacation day. I’d say that disconnecting from work, office and action items is not easy. Wonder how come Paul Simon never thought of composing “50 ways to leave your computer”. . .

I need only a couple.

The problem is all inside your head She said to me

- I know, so what?!
The answer is easy if you Take it logically

-sure. i’m on vacation and doing emails; how logical is it?
I’d like to help you in your struggle To be free
There must be fifty ways
To leave your ‘puter. . .

Red wine, Steak, friends. . . and hope to avoid emails for the rest of the evening.

Bon appétit.

“Lost in translation” is a fact of life. It’s true for jokes, morals, stories. . . and to names. Since my parents were careful not to give any of us horrible, begging for teasing names, I never thought much about it. I knew its meaning, where it comes from, the animal called this name, and that was it. As long as I lived in Israel.

Psalms 104:18 - The high mountains are for the wild goats; the rocks are a refuge for the conies.

Imagine you, a native English speaker, moving to a country that speaks a language that has not “w”. Your name, BTW, is William, nickname Willie. Now everyone calls you Villie or Villiam. Or, further cutting it short, they call you Vill, but to your ears it sounds like Veal. Nice, ha? You are Veal from Vashington. How would you like your steak?

yael, Judean Desert

The English language, rich as it is, has its own limitation too. My name calls out one. “AE” put together are not a common sound, and I end up with listening to creative ways of pronouncing it or even more creative workarounds to avoid saying it. All in good intention, all much appreciated.

It’s important to note however, that a desert goat was not what my parents had on their mind.

And the Torah says:

Judges 4:15-23 (21st Century King James Version)

15And the LORD discomfited Sisera and all his chariots and all his host with the edge of the sword before Barak, so that Sisera alighted down off his chariot and fled away on his feet. 16But Barak pursued after the chariots and after the host unto Harosheth of the Gentiles; and all the host of Sisera fell upon the edge of the sword, and there was not a man left.

17However Sisera fled away on his feet to the tent of Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite, for there was peace between Jabin the king of Hazor and the house of Heber the Kenite. 18And Jael went out to meet Sisera, and said unto him, “Turn in, my lord, turn in to me. Fear not.” And when he had turned in unto her into the tent, she covered him with a mantle. 19And he said unto her, “Give me, I pray thee, a little water to drink; for I am thirsty.” And she opened a bottle of milk, and gave him drink, and covered him. 20Again he said unto her, “Stand in the door of the tent, and it shall be, when any man doth come and inquire of thee and say, `Is there any man here?’ that thou shalt say, `No.’”

Yael, delivering Sisera to a world of Goodness

21Then Jael, Heber’s wife, took a nail of the tent and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground; for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.

22And behold, as Barak pursued Sisera, Jael came out to meet him and said unto him, “Come, and I will show thee the man whom thou seekest.” And when he came into her tent, behold, Sisera lay dead, and the nail was in his temples. 23So God subdued on that day Jabin the king of Canaan before the children of Israel.

A little on the gory side, but those were the days. Don’t know how “yael” became “Jael”; lost in translation, I guess.

My solution? A new ringtone that may help the listener practice. If only I figured out how to load an audio file.

Hard to recall life pre-Rhapsody. Watching an old episode of Criminal Minds [Hard to recall life pre-DVR], the finale scene’s soundtrack included a song I liked. Playback, picking up few sentences, Googling, get the song and singer’s name, click Rhapsody, type in, and. . . the song is playing over the speakers without Agent Gideon quoting William Shakespeare over the song.

In previous life: try to memorize the few lines of the song one could pick, try to sing or recite it to a friend who’s taste one thinks is close to that song. . . and hope. If one got lucky the song was played on the radio within the time span of one’s ability to remember the song. . . nothing too promising.

But this is not it. I love Rhapsody for the games it allows us to play. How about the “make a wish” game. Not too long ago, Francine was over. And we tried to bit Rhapsody. “Tell me your favorite song”, I asked. And there is was. This is how I learned that one of the bands I enjoy listening to is Journey, nameless until then.

And this is how Francine learned that one of my favorite songs is a James Brown song. Click below for a surprise performance, with non less than. . . just click, will you?

James Brown and Pavarotti, unbelievable performance. embarrassingly, while watching i was wondering how easy is the drumming for the song compared to, you know. . . i managed to get so far without saying the R word.

There’s more. I love Little Wing. so imagine that 11 clicks on the keyboard got me the list of all version, original and covers. Clapton, SRV and Jimi Hendrix were a given, but what about Ottmar Liebert, The Corrs and Elvis Schoenberg’s Orchestra? All of which are worth listening, BTW.

This experience would have been limited, if it wasn’t for the comfort or spoiling offered by Sonos. I mentioned it before, so what?! Let me just say that having the ability to play the same music in all rooms, control it from one interface [computer or heavy remote], and manage all music on one’s network is a lot. Spoiling indeed. Soon to be categorized under “Hard to recall life pre”.

When you consume music as I do, even if i don’t know the song or singer’s name or biography, this is a great solution. Enjoy.