« Like Daaamn That's Hot... | Main | Go Go. Go Shorty... »

December 21, 2007

America Don't Worry Israel Is Behind You

All right. I’m back.

Hi.

So should we talk about the wedding first? Or my honeymoon that I took before my wedding. I know, right?

I haven’t written in a while so I will be all over the place. There is no editing. This is raw. Eddie Murphy red leather pants suit raw. I’m just saying shit. Wait, was he wearing purple?

Doesn’t matter. I’m feeling old and lazy big time so let me just confess that. I have avoided this blog by occupying myself with all things ridiculous. Last week, I thought I had Morgellons and distracted myself with that. When I got over that, I had the nerve to attempt to track my ovulation calendar but when that got too difficult, I just broke open one of the many bottles of chardonnay I have in my fully stocked bar (post wedding). I don’t know why I’ve been avoiding this for so long. Fear of failure, I’m sure. Reading this entry about my wedding back to myself, I find it far less interesting than it was at the time. That is not to say I am not happily married. Loving this shit, for real. But rehashing it seems so boring. But maybe you’ll like it.

So…

We went on our honeymoon before the wedding. We’d decided we were having the wedding at home after a long elimination process. But how did we get to the honeymoon before the wedding? I’ll explain.

Justin has all these personal standards and rules for his vacationing.

1. He can’t be on a plane for more than 6 hours.
2. There must be Internet.
3. New York must be only a simple phone call away.
4. The music native to the location cannot include that blaring blow horn sound and should be of some interest to him.
5. Film crews working on anything spring break related or anything of a Girls Gone Wild or Real World Road Rules Challenge nature cannot be interested in said location.
6. As for the exchange rate, verbatim he said, “Five dollars of ours has to be like 500 of theirs, dude.”

My requirements were much simpler.

1. Are there handcrafted earrings for cheap?
2. Is there shrimp cocktail?
3. Will I come home crispy and black meaning gorgeously tan?
4. Does their Diet Coke taste like our Diet Coke? No, for real. In Botswana it tasted like Tab and I wasn’t with that. Not that Botswana isn’t a hot vacation spot. I’m just saying.
5. Do they serve cocktails on the beach?

I could already tell looking at the lists (yes, we really had these requirements) that there would be some compromise. Six hours on a plane? We can’t even get to Marfa, TX in six hours. Dude. Come on. Marfa was on my list, you know. So cute.

Somehow, one day, he said Dubai. And I was like, That’s so many hours on a plane, fool. And he was like if it’s sick, he’d be willing to travel. We wanted to check into that sailboat hotel for a week. That ended up eating up most of our wedding budget. Oh, there was a budget. A budget I deemed laughable until I got straight creative. The creativity combined with my “Long Island wedding outrage” – I’ll get to that -- really allowed us to coast through this process. I’m getting ahead of myself.

So we’re trying to decide on a honeymoon spot.

I’m still totally not creative. I’m like Fiji. Hawaii. Shit, I’ll even go back to Jamaica and I say it like that because as Mos Def would say, “I. Had. A. Bad. Experience.” Not really, but I’ve somehow convinced myself that anytime I was being filmed couldn’t have been that great when in reality, it was pretty cool if I go deep into the recesses of my mind and really think about it. But thinking about it makes me think about a bunch of things I might have done differently and then it’s all depressing like and blah blah blah. Actually, I would not have met J had I not made the decisions I made. And I would not have had my teeth fixed. So all things considered, I'm happy about the decisions I made. I mean, I could have been a stripper. Or a chain smoker. Or a chain smoking stripper that's really excited about laying down a whole mess of burgandy plush carpet.

Wow.

One day J came to me and said, “Babe, I have a really great idea. Hear me out.”

I immediately thought to myself, “Absolutely not. If you’re coming at me talking about you want to go the Hamptons, I’m gonna fuck you up.” I just assumed he didn’t want to go anywhere far and this was a brewing argument, you know.

He was like, “Israel.”

I was like, “Israel?”

He was like, “Israel, dude.”

Half joking, half serious I was like, “Like suicide bombs and AK47s and war-torn religious guilt and shit? I’m really trying to get my drink on, though. Can I really wear a bikini top while we’re looking at the Dead Sea scrolls and shit?”

He had all this fucking research too. Fool is brilliant.

He just started rambling. It’s the sunniest and best weather in September. The flight is so safe it’s retarded. I’ll shave my beard so there won’t be any problems. We can go during Yom Kippur, even safer! I know some people there. It would be so fucking sick. Who does that? Who goes to Israel for a honeymoon? Really. Dude. Get fucking psyched. We’re going to Israel! You’ll be tan in your dress. I fucking rule, I’ve thought of everything.

I’m like, “Tan in my dress?”

He’s like, “Babe, you know. You see other people’s wedding photos and it’s like everyone’s all pasty and shit. They look really refreshed in the honeymoon photos. I mean, think about it. You’re like so hot with a tan…”

“I always have a tan. Have you met your father-in-law?” I snapped.

And he was like, “Babe, I’m just saying let’s go on our honeymoon before the wedding. That way we’re not all stressed out on the day of. It’ll be sick. We’ll be tan! We’ll do all the work before we go. Come home. Set shit up and get married! Don’t even trip.”

I got to thinking about the honeymooning before the wedding. I really like it because a) it makes sense, actually and b) I just don’t want to follow formal wedding rules, just because I’m me and he’s him. We just don’t follow. It’s not what we do and it’s not who we are. We’re naysayers just for the sake of naysaying sometimes. We’re annoying in that way.

For example:

I discovered while planning my wedding I really hate the process. I hate everything about it. I hate mostly the duping and bamboozling that’s going on in the finance department of the wedding business. I hate all of it. I hate all the rules that apply to having a wedding.

Why do we have to take the photos shortest to tallest? We’re all the shortest, so now what? Why can’t my dress be a mini-dress? Why do the wedding cakes that look super pretty always taste like crap? Why must my dance with my father be all on blast for all to see? Why is a Soul Train Line deemed tacky? Why do I have to slow dance with Justin in front of everyone? Justin ain’t trying to slow dance! Why do I have to play that wedding song as I walk down the aisle? I can’t think of a worse song actually. Except maybe the Sex and the City end credits song, there is not a worse song in the world in my opinion. Why does the invitation need all those extra little thin papers and 40 envelopes? Why can’t I say “Shorty and Mercy” on my invitation? That’s their names! Why am I instantly annoyed upon walking into a “hall” or “chateau”? Why does excessive drapery and moiré disgust me so…

See – annoying but all so true. I really feel this way.

And then I said, Wait a second! I can do whatever the hell I want to do. I don’t want to be put through seven hours of rituals where the fun only begins once everyone is good and liquored up so why should I do that to my guests? I want the party to start immediately. The bars are open! Fuck this babe! We’re doing this our way and you’re right, it’s way smarter to go on the honeymoon before. I’m trying to be tan and stress-free!

Now we’re all fired up all Bread and Roses like. We’re like fuck this, fuck that. And yeah, I’m walking down the aisle to The Girl from Ipanema, how about that?

I’m liking this tan idea. I really am. I’m adding shit in, shouting, getting all riled up, practically jumping on the bed, “And I can wear my earrings! And Rabbi Tyrone will be all impressed with my knowledge of the homeland. You can wear a yarmulke from the catacombs of Jerusalem, all authentic and shit! Oh man, this is the bomb babe. I straight up love you!”

Anyway –

We ended up agreeing to going on the honeymoon before the wedding because we think we’re so smart and we think we’re revolutionizing the 10,000-year-old American wedding process and industry. We ain’t but we’re self-involved enough to think we are.

Is there nothing sacred anymore with the Internets? I’ll divulge a few tidbits about Israel, just a few. Justin Beck ain’t really trying to have y’all read about romantical hand-holding walks on the beach. We only did that once anyway. Besides, I need my hands free to scratch my eczema which, I discovered, is not merely a cold seasonal thing. Ugh.

Now, these are the things I am choosing to share about my honeymoon. This is not to say I did not learn a bunch of cool shit and experience a bunch of spiritual stuff and blah blah blah. That shit I keep to myself. Like you want to know the real me anyway (wink).

We stayed in Haifa and Tel Aviv.

We went to Jerusalem on the last day of our trip. We had to put wishes in the Wailing Wall. I woke up, all ready with the itinerary. I spent 30 minutes putting together a “respectable” outfit that could handle the heat. I covered my knees, my chest, my arms, my head. I looked like an asshole but I had to respect the environment. We boarded a bus to Jerusalem. When I came home and told people I got on a bus to Jerusalem, for some reason there was outrage, straight tripping! Don’t ever ride a bus blah blah blah. Is this racism at play? Probably, totally. Israel is really mellow, nice-like. Everybody and everything! And, I’ll have you know this bus was carpeted and air-conditioned. It was fly.

The bus unloaded us at a mall. A mall in Jerusalem. This was not what I had expected. I went into the pharmacy and bought tampons though. With Hebrew instructions! Just to say I could and I did. I hate myself for thinking at length about such stupid things, but you know I also wanted to be prepared. Imagine being on that El Al flight only to discover it’s that time and there’s no solution! Interrupting the prayer circle that’s going down right at the back of the plane, right in front of the lavatories. Oh no. Not happening. I got hives just thinking about having to do that. Who may I borrow a tampon from on this flight anyway? Why am I wondering about what a Hasidic woman does for that – you know what? I need to stop. Anyway, everyone was Hasidic on the flight, you know. Wow. It was really interesting.

No editing is really terrible but I don’t have time right now. So…

At the pharmacy this crazy beautiful (like a face I’d never ever seen before) African woman with tattoos on her face came up to me as I’m holding the tampons waiting in line to buy them. In another language, she starts talking to me all animated like. Expressions are universal and hers were saying, “Wait, don’t I know you from somewhere?” And I’m thinking, How is it possible to get Real World’d by this African woman with tattoos on her face? How!

I’m tripping right now. And I instantly hated myself for thinking I was getting Real World’d but you know, it’s been 8 years. I am trained to think that is what is happening.

She just kept going on and on, like she knew me. Cornered me and Justin into the tanning lotion endcap. Finally, Justin was like, “Sorry Miss, sorry Miss…” repeatedly like that was going to help. She kept staring at me as she walked away. We were helluv confused. Other African women with tattooed faces, the same ethnicity, did this to me throughout the day. It was bizarre slash interesting. I definitely must live to do my family tree. I’m onto something. Daddy, I done found our people!

At the Wailing Wall, girls were dressed like straight up tramps. It was baffling. Stomachs out, high high wedge heels, titties everywhere, above-the-butt tribal tattoos exposed. I thought we were in the wrong place, but it is the biggest tourist attraction in the world so I guess that’s to be expected. E’rybody dresses like a streetwalker these days. From Ohio to Pakistan, you don’t have to look too far to find a scantily clad ho. Do not email me about the mutual exclusivity of wearing very little clothing and being a ho. You know what I fucking mean. (See, this is why editing is a good thing but alas no time!)

But damn, how you gonna go to the Wailing Wall with no clothes on? Ugh, did I even use mutual exclusivity correctly? Shut up. I’m drunk I think. I’m not but I should be as it is my day off. What?

In Tel Aviv, we met up with our new friends Arthur and Lior. Arthur had messaged Justin on the Glassjaw MySpace weeks before our trip asking if they’d ever tour in Israel. Justin wrote him back and was like, “No, but I’ll be in Israel soon with my wife.” Somehow some way, they exchanged information and all of a sudden I had my own personal tour guide in Tel Aviv. Arthur showed up to our hotel with Lior. Lior had on a t-shirt with the Burger King logo on it but it said Murder King. Justin asked him if he was a vegetarian, as small talk, and Lior said no and said he got the shirt at some store they have there that’s probably like our Hot Topic. Lost in translation, I guess. I don’t think I even saw one Burger King in the place.

As we were walking, I asked, “How old are you guys?”

I was just curious. They looked at each other and started speaking Hebrew on top of each other all funny like, and then in unison, in English said, “Eighteen.”

Okay?

They were lovely young dudes. We walked all around Tel Aviv, asking lots of questions. Justin went to the record store with them and regaled them with all his music snobbery. When we went back to the hotel, Justin went upstairs to give Arthur a Glassjaw shirt. Arthur was tripping. And I felt bad about Lior not having one so I told Justin to give him one he’d already worn which Justin thought was rude, but it’s like, dude Justin you have 25 of the same shirt at home, you won’t miss it.

There were girls my size carrying guns. At 18, you have to go into the military. All the kid soldiers were home for Yom Kippur so there were guns and uniforms everywhere. Arthur told us that if you say you’re gay you don’t have to go into the Army. I said, “Yeah, we have a version of that in America too, kinda. In a weird way. Nevermind…” I wasn’t really trying to get into a political debate with someone under 18 about war and homophobia. I was more interested in where we could find the houkas, really. Wait, does that make me sound like I have no interest in culture or politics? See! Not editing is so bad. But whatever, that’s that truth. Where are the houkas? And are you smoking dried fruit or nicotine or marijuana or what? Why is that kid over there only ten years old and smoking a houka? How is that happening?

We bought hilarious matching shirts like couples do on honeymoons. It has two Uzis forming an X and it says “Guns and Moses.” Justin was like, “Babe, this shirt is sick.” I said, “Let’s get it!” Hours later, walking back to our hotel, I was like “Guns and Moses…” randomly and Justin goes, “OOOOOH! Guns and Moses!” I was like, “Yeah, like Guns and Roses, what are you retarded?”

We saw this kid wearing a Bleeding Star shirt. Justin went up to him and said, “Hey, where’d you get that shirt?” And the kid went off about this amazing store called Revolver and how they have all the good American stuff. I was all flattered, and in that way that your mom would embarrass you, I go, “Well, his company printed that shirt in New York.” And the kid lost his mind. This pleased me so I started roll calling. I asked him what kind of music he liked. He’s like, “I like Evergreen Terrace.” And I’m like, “We print that shirt too.” And he lost his mind again. Sick of it All? Yup. Naming band after band and finally the kid says he’ll tell us how to get to the store. On our way to the store, we saw a guy in a War Zone shirt. If you’re into NY hardcore, this shit matters. We were freaking out and we got a picture with him, like assholes.

Israel rules. Rules so much I was not at all worried about the fact that I was set to get married upon my arrival home.

I really did not worry for a single minute. It was really liberating. We set the date for September 29 and we flew back to New York September 26. We had the whole wedding in place before we left so when we got home it was a matter of moving furniture, shuttling Florida folks in and out of the airport, confirming deliveries and killing raccoons. Oh yes. No, we didn't kill them. But did I think about lighting their little leader on fire on a stake in the backyard to show all the other raccoons that this is not a household to be fucked with mere days before my wedding? Yes.

So that was my honeymoon. Yeah.

Oh snap.

There is one honeymoon mystery we have yet to solve though. On the night of Yom Kipper, we’re all hugged up in our hotel room, fake fasting. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and one Twizzler. I couldn’t take it! I tried. I tried.

Around 11 o’clock, there’s a knock on the door. The entire Tel Aviv was shut down so I was like OH NO, they know we’re up in here eating sandwiches dude, don’t answer!

Justin gets up from the bed and is trying to sound all mean, “Who is it?”

The man says, Room service.

Justin goes, “Babe, did you order something? Are you out of your mind right now? What did you order on fucking Yom Kippur dude?”

I was like, “I didn’t, I swear. I know the rules ya cheap bastard! Don’t open the mini bar and don’t order room service, duh.”

(For some reason, only I and not Justin, find the above hysterical. He wasn't laughing but I managed to crack my damn self after I said it.)

Justin opens the door and starts telling the man we didn’t order anything and he’s so sorry blah blah blah.

The man is like, “No, this is a gift. They send this to you.”

J’s like, “There’s a misunderstanding. We didn’t order…”

He says, “No, it is a cake and champagne for you.”

I hear champagne and now I’m out of the bed. Say what?

He rolls this cart in. It’s an adorable chocolate cake that says Mazel Tov on it and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. No card. No message.

For some reason, I’m still feeling guilty so I tell the man, “We’re not going to eat it tonight though…” And I shut the door.

Who sent the cake and champagne? When we got home, no one claimed it! It’s still an unsolved mystery. But whoever you are, thank you. That was really really sweet. A whole bottle of champagne to my damn self? Let me tell you. Eragon with Hebrew subtitles was the most hysterical movie I have ever seen.

And now onto the wedding (and by that I mean this whole sentence will be clickable in like a couple hours or something).

Posted by melissah at December 21, 2007 03:28 PM