Press Hard

My head has been through a lot, recently. Earlier this week, I found that I have lice. Now, I’m generally the sort that’s fine about insects, with one exception: Insects crawling all over my skin, which might just be the worst sensation in the history of humankind. So naturally, finding that I now have insects crawling all over my scalp and sucking my blood, I went all-out, with a special shampoo and spray. Those may have gotten rid of the lice, but left my head in very poor shape, and itchy.

Itching has only reminded me of that little bump that grew on my head a few months ago, and made me think immediately of cancer. It also made my family doctor think of cancer, but skin cancer. The dermatologist didn’t really think it was skin cancer, but wanted me to cut it off, either way. I booked an appointment, for a few months later, and there I was, the other day, having surgery in a mall.

The Israeli health services aren’t so bad. They’re not exactly great, but not bad. What I’m really trying to say, is, at least it’s not America. Health insurance is pretty affordable, and as long as you don’t have any chronic diseases (in that case, you are screwed), prescriptions and appointments are mostly covered. My appointment, as said, was in the largest mall in Jerusalem. Why? I’m not sure, but it came in useful, as I was reminded that human society is crumbling before my very eyes, and that I don’t look very well in skinny jeans.

While waiting, someone who got my phone number was trying to induct me into preparation classes for the university’s standard placement tests. My doctor was very nice, but generally in a hurry, and first saw me in what was obviously an ENT office, but I understand budget cuts happen, especially considering how our doctors have been on strike for a few months, and 800 interns will be quitting their jobs next week.

My nice doctor looked at my scalp, and said that he thinks we can do it today. Considering the fact that I had come for the surgery today, this seemed very reasonable. I told him I was free, and indeed, not at all in a hurry. I had to go through from one clinic to the other, and sign several papers. While I did read them, I didn’t understand a word. As far as I was concerned, I could have been going into a circumcision-correction surgery, and paying $20,000 for this treat. This did not happen, but I was just given some sterile clothes by a cool Russian nurse, and sat on what was definitely a dentist’s chair in the operation room.

Now, being just a very minor operation of a mole removal, I had some local anesthetic, and for five or so minutes, the doctor and nurse just talked about how awful it is to be a doctor and a nurse, and how hospitals are basically big mafia families. The doctor then took my hand, and had me press a bandage to the top of my head. Since, like many women, I suffer from a condition called ‘long hair’, he didn’t want to stitch or burn the cut, so we just had to wait until the bleeding stopped. He said five to eight minutes, and left.

The nurse, as far as I was aware, did wait five to ten minutes. I tried to look at the clock across the room, but it took me about two minutes to realize that it was out of order. Looking under my bandage, it seemed that I was still bleeding, and the nurse repeated her mantra for our time together, “Well, press hard. What can you do.” So I pressed hard, for five more minutes, and i still bled, five minutes later. This process repeated itself a few times, until the next patient had to come in. In an attempt to keep things in order, the nurse bandaged me like an old-timey lady with a toothache, around my face and chin. In my sterile smock and booties, I’m sure I looked very sexy.

The bleeding hasn’t actually stopped, when the doctor finally came back and said I can go, so I had a bandage taped onto my head, and had been sent out, just like that. The glue wasn’t very good, considering that it fell one hat later, in the mall’s H&M. I had to set it to the bleeding cut with hair pins. It didn’t hurt at all, and I definitely didn’t look weird doing that in a public toilet. Then again, I look just as weird in a beret. And what have I learned about having a tiny surgery? It still hurts. A lot. And makes for a great excuse to avoid doing chores.

It’s All Shit

It’s been a while since I’ve watched South Park. My relationship with this show has always been weird, mainly because I love it, and everything Parker and Stone do, but when I see them in interviews, I’d like more than anything to punch them in the teeth (especially Stone, no idea why).

Being a feminist probably has something to do with it: South Park, while more progressive than a lot of shit on American and Israeli TV, is still pretty brutal to women, and very forgiving in a ‘boys will be boys’ sort of way to just about whatever their male characters do. They might comment about it, now and then, or have some fairly feminist episodes, by they’re no Sarah Haskins.

Even these days, when I went to watch most of  seasons 14 and 15, there were moments that were too much for me. The porn and rape jokes, and the objectifying of women just usually made me want to close that window and never watch the show again. And then it usually builds up to a pretty lovely and clever climax, and I forgive Stone and Parker, even if I do want to shoot them in the balls.

Now,  this probably does make me sound very much like a humorless feminist bitch. While a feminist, who reads feminist blogs, and doesn’t even like Tim Minchin very much on that very basis, I still feel the need to assert the fact I have a sense of humor. To do this in the best way, I’m going to perform the amazing literary trick of using an example from the show I was just complaining about for sexism. Because I am amazing.

The shit-shots in South Park’s You’re Getting Older (I know, a month in internet-land is about six years, but bear with me) are more or less what I see when confronted with TV and music that I don’t consider excellent. I can still listen to it, but the shit will always be in the back of my mind. South Park defines this as being a cynical asshole, which I can’t really disagree with.

When it comes to comedy, the Brits have probably spoiled me beyond repair, especially with programs like Peep Show. When my best friend tried to show me episodes from The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother, all I remember is that everyone was much too pretty, and not a single dead dog was eaten. It wasn’t even depressing. Clearly, it’s shit, and that was what I saw.

There were other examples of me just not getting it. I’ve stopped seeing any kind of merit in silly puns on T-shirts – another friend’s love – and can’t watch Israeli TV without getting incredibly angry and nauseated.

And the irony in this situation? To get over all of the shit that makes me angry, I’ve been listening nearly non-stop to Parker and Stone’s latest thing (I haven’t forgotten Bobby Lopez, but I think Avenue Q is basically perfect, anyway), The Book of Mormon. It is probably the funniest and most uplifting musical I have ever listened to, and certain songs often make me tear up. When I watch Stone and Parker being interviewed about it, I don’t even want to shank them in the penis.

Bloodbath

The thing about Israel, as much as we like pretending that we have a mild climate, green meadows, and a functional democracy, is that it’s really 70% made of desert. This means that we don’t have plenty of water: The majority of it comes from a large lake that is never, ever full .

We are constantly reminded that there is not enough water in Israel, and that we absolutely have to save every last drop of it. Even if we’re having a rainy winter, even if Tel-Aviv has been flooded again because they haven’t fixed the sewage system since 1968, and even if the Hermon just had the biggest snowstorm in history- Taking a bath is basically treason.

Now, since there is no capital punishment for treason in Israel, we’ve moved to the second and third best options: Guilt and money. If you waste too much water, the  PSAs alone will make you want to die for endangering your country. The water bill, as a safety net, will make sure that you won’t be able to afford food, and starve to death.

Now, what is especially hard for me about the no-bath rule, is that a soak makes it about 46635 times easier to shave your legs.  This is the only way for me to remove hair from my legs, because of extreme sensitivity to pain. If you consider this too much information, leave the internet and go bake oatmeal cookies. And now I’m back from a week in Paris, in a hotel room that had a bathtub.

In France, being depressed as I was, I took a bath nearly every day. During one of them, I thought, those hairs are getting a bit long. I should shave them. But the thing about me and hair removal isn’t just my pain sensitivity- I’m also very, very clumsy. And yet, still thought it would be a good idea to shave my legs after a bath, in a bathroom I shared with my sister.

It all seemed to go smoothly, at first. At least until I went out and discovered I’m standing in a giant pool of blood. The floor towel looked like I’ve murdered a maid who ignored the ‘do not disturb’ sign. I’ve left bloody footprints all over the bathroom, and without first aid at hand, used half a roll of toiler paper to try to stop the bleeding. And then my sister came back.

It’s a weird situation, facing your older sister in a room full of blood, spouting from the smallest shaving cut ever. She was graceful, and just made sure I knew I’d be cleaning that up, and that I should just keep pressing the toilet paper. I guess that’s what older sisters are for.