#fancy tomatoes

In any case, Robert Siegel’s voice was not what I needed right then. I ripped my Converse off as quickly as I could and dashed like a mad-woman to our dining area so I could switch to something that wouldn’t make me contemplate suicide. I played with the channel toggle and picked up a fuzzy, loud line that sounded familiar before immediately dismissing it and trying to latch onto a cleaner signal.

Before I knew what was happening, music was blasting from the speakers of our boom box, loud, bouncy and familiar. For a moment, I was plunged into slow motion: there was a recognizable note, a definitive tone, and…Was that a marimba?

I tuned back in almost violently to catch the end of Ruth’s marimba dance, a ginormous and genuine smile splitting my face. I wiggled back and forth in my dining area, waiting to join in…

“The beat goes on and I’m so wrong, the beat goes on and I’m so wrong—THE BEAT GOES ON AND I’M SO WRONG, [yeah, this is where I started jumping up and down] THE BEAT GOES ON AND I’M SO WRONG!”

My bag was digging into my shoulder, so I let it drop to the floor without a care in the world before planting my feet, spreading my arms, and belting from my gut with all the by-god intensity years of chorus had instilled:

“I MAY BE TOTALLY WRONG BUT I’M A DANCIN’ FOOO-HOOO-OOOOL! I MAY BE TOTALLY WRONG BUT I’M A DANCIN’ FOOO-HOOO-OOOL!”

I danced like a maniac during the interlude before swaggering (swank suave-ay?) around, announcing that I’d gotten it together and now had my very own disco clothes (HEY!) complete with a spoon for up my nose.

I’m something, aren’t I? (At least, that’s what most people would probably say…)

Around this point, El Padre wandered into the dining room with a smirk and an awed expression.  When he asked me breathlessly if I was Jewish, any irritation I previously felt towards him melted away. I grinned and waved a dismissive gesture at him while complimenting his nails.

The song quickly reached its end (can I use denouement here?) and I was left standing by the kitchen with an amazingly goofy smile on my face. Ladies and gentlemen: a cool-ass DJ, an awesome (and spirited) song and just like that, insta-good-mood! At that moment, I could not have been flying higher.

I pulled out my laptop and send the DJ an email, thanking him for being such an exceptional human being (2nd time I’ve caught him playing Zappa) and blasted the song a few more times just for good measure.

Unfortunately, here in Israel, there’s no such thing as a radio station dedicated to rock (or music at all, actually). But I don’t mind. I mean, I don’t (always, ahemahem) need a radio station to be in a good mood, and certainly not on my Anniversary!

Yes yes yes, sweet children of mine—it’s been 2 years, today, since my first blog post. Cool, huh?

Wait, what? You forgot again? Marked it on your calendar a month late, planned on sending me a card, but your carrier pigeon became dazed and confused flying across the Atlantic?

It’s alright. I figured. No hard feelings. :)

Besides. A pigeon can’t really compete with this view anyway.

Anyway, a great many things have happened in the past two months. In fact, a great many things occurred before those two months. You, my pretties, should find out about all of these in due time. In the meantime, why don’t I tell you about my birthday and one of the most awesome gifts I received?

In the past year, I’ve become friends with people of multiple personalities and varying degrees of coolness. There’s the evil necromancer, the insane ninja/fangirl, and, of course, the kickass artsy fartsy artist.

Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Artsy Fartsy is amazing. She is kind, thoughtful, sweet, and pretty d**n good at making birthday presents—if I may say so myself. She finds out everything about you, determines your key likes/preferences, figures out how to realize them artistically in a way you’ll appreciate and then creates a masterpiece.

For a long while, I was the “best birthday-present-person” in our group of friends. Once one of us had a birthday, she put me to shame. I mean, this chick is intense.

You see, on a beautiful August day in Israel, about 3 weeks before we were due to fly home, I got  a lovely email from Ms. AF that read as follows:

Subject:  Your birthday gift

Body: Is a secret.

But I know you like Doctor Who.

And Sherlock.

  Anything else?

TELL ME WHAT YOU LIKE.

  Your lover,

Ms. Artsy Fartsy.

  And be serious.

Because I need to know.

So I answered. Because, let’s be honest—who can resist an email like that? I mean, bonus points if you’re 3000 miles away from your best friend, broski, ‘cause I’m weak.

Anyway, time went on, and before we knew it, September had arrived and life was beautiful. I woke up on September 10th to sunshine, warmth and birds singing outside. I got dressed in all my favorite (and lucky) garments, was surprised with a beautiful birthday breakfast, and was in a great mood for the first day of school.

Now, I’d already met up with all my friends that weekend, so it wasn’t like school was supposed to be a reunion. Except I hadn’t seen Ms. Artsy Fartsy. I didn’t have any classes with her, and was hoping to everything holy in the universe that I’d run into her, because I was dying for a hug. She’d left to a language camp before I’d even gone abroad, so I was pretty deprived.

I stood in the hall, waiting with Ninja for the cluster of preps to walk in, so we could squeeze into homeroom. Just as we were about to enter, I heard a voice cry above the din, “CARMEL!!!”

I turned towards the voice, a grin already stretching my face. Could I really be this lucky? Was I finally going to be reunited with my best friend? “ARTSY!”

A mass bones, flesh and squishiness slammed into me with the force of a freight train, though—superwoman that I am—I didn’t topple over. We embraced and though it felt like she was trying to squeeze the air out of me (admittedly, I was probably doing the same to her), it didn’t hurt at all. I was just too happy to feel any pain.

This was going to turn into an epic sweet 16.

We death-hugged for a good 5 seconds before she pulled herself out of my grasp, shoved a bag into my hands, said “Happy birthday!” and ran off.

I called “Love you!” after her, and though she was down the hall by then, I heard her answer back in a similar fashion.

Once I was seated in homeroom, I set my bags down (a couple of other buddies had given me presents) and looked at my other friend’s presents first. They were all beautiful, and incredibly thoughtful. But they didn’t compare to Arsty’s gift.

I was completely blown away. I’d never really celebrated my birthday with anyone but my family before, and besides that, I’d never gotten such an intricate gift before. I sat at my desk, my eyes brimming with tears, trying to fight off an emotional breakdown.

Though I must admit, once our VP came on the PA system to wish our principal (the ultimate bane of my existence) a happy birthday, it was pretty easy to sober up. Ahem.

Ninja covered her mouth with her hand and looked at me with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

I stared at her mutely.

“Well. I don’t know. Maybe today isn’t her actual birthday. Maybe he’s just saying it now, but it was really over the weekend. You know what I mean?”

As you guys had better know by now, I have been a Zappa fan since the summer before 7th grade. My brother claims to be a Zappa fan. His definition of 'fan' is deciding that he likes about 5 or 6 random tracks, asking people where they got their ponchos and humming the opening riff for Muffin Man. Mind you, this is after a year and a half or so of me bugging him to listen to something, getting deterred after hearing him say that the style is too 'out there' for him and then leaving him alone for about 6 months before he suddenly decides to like Camarillo Brillo.

As you can imagine, being the feisty, outspoken, red-Converse-wearing, angsty Zappatista teenager that I am (and yes, that's how I describe myself to people!), I stood for none of this and deemed my brother (my own kin!) guilty of one of the worst sins achievable for mankind: being a poseur.

Oh, yes.

You think you're original? You think you're 'all that'? Take your hot pink feather boa and leave me alone, A. I need to balance this chemical equation and I can't do it with you shaking your butt to Muffin Man in my face, okay?

Anyway... Ahem, ahem. This story, ladies and gentlemen, takes place on the morn of the day in which The Broski was due to leave for the Holy Land. Someone apparently gave him the order to wake me up, and woken up I was—at the ungodly hour of 9AM....On a Sunday.

“Carm-ell...Wake up...”

I rolled over and buried my head in my pillow, hoping for another few minutes of bliss. “Ungh.” (For those of you not fluent in the language of Teenage Morning Speak, that was 'no'. Fortunately, The Broski was a teen only a few years ago, so he's still got it.)

“Oh, c'mon, Melli (not my real nickname, people!). Why not?”

I managed to find my voice, still somewhat hoarse and incoherent, but usable: “'Cause. You're a poseur.”

A sighed heavily. “This again?”

“Mm-hmm.” I shut my eyes tightly against the searing sun filtering in from the window that someone sadistically placed next to my bed.

“Fine. Okay, fine. You want to hear how big of a not-poseur I am?”

The Broski sounded fed up, which basically meant: listen or suffer the wrath (of my off-tune humming)! I conceded to my fate and pulled myself into an upright position, my eyes still not used to the light. A took this as his cue to continue.

“Okay, so I'm at work the other day, right (work=tech support at Staples)? It was a slow day, so I walk over to Rosie, who's manning the cashier and I wanted to mess with her a bit, so I go, 'Hey—is that a Sears poncho, or is that a real poncho?' (Let it be known the so-called Rosie was not wearing a poncho of any sort). And she just gives me this confused look, but the woman she's ringing up looks over at me, smiles, snaps her fingers and goes: 'Frank Zappa!' Now, I'm pretty surprised, but I'm still functional so I just say, 'Yeah.' She looks me over and asks sorta suspiciously ('cause The Broski doesn't fit the profile!), 'You listen to Zappa?' And what do I say?! 'No, my sister does!!!'” At this point, The Broski began waving his hands in the air and stomping on the hardwood floor.

I gestured for him to continue. “And...?”

“Well,” he went on, “She looked a little wary, I guess because I looked young compared to her, and asked me how old you were. I told her 14, and her eyes went wide and her eyebrows raised and she's just like, 'Uh...I only know Zappa because of my brother. And he's 48.'”

I waited for him to go on, but when he didn't, I gathered this was the end of the story. I realized A's face was expectant, so I gave him some sibling h**l by simply grinning and nodding. “Yup. That's how I roll.”

Needless to say, The Broski threw his arms in the air, let them flop down to his sides and stomped off, out of my room, irritated.

Ladies and gentlemen, the way I see it: why would he spend a good 7 minutes relaying this anecdote to prove his un-poseurish disposition, if he himself didn't know and agree that he is, indeed, a poseur?

As you all would know if you've been reading my blogs from the start (just picture me giving you a dirty look), every summer, El Madre and I attempt to visit Israel for the main purpose of helping out my grandparents. Last year I was forced to use a cousin's old acoustic guitar to goof around on (this was before I actually buckled down and started learning). It was a truly heartrending experience. The neck was warped, the body was scratched and banged and the poor thing was practically untunable due to disuse, misuse and the extreme temperatures we experinced last year (where my grandparents isn't usually humid...). So, as you can imagine, this year I put up a fight. I knew how  to play now (cough, cough--exaggerated eye roll--cough, cough). They couldn't make me practice on that! So, naturally, I confided in my wondeful Madre and she said exactly what was on my mind: "Why not take Roxanne?" For those of you not in the loop, Roxanne is my baby and Hagstrom Ultralux Viking IIP. YES, I know the model.

When presented with this idea, however, The Father Figure balked. "Absolutely not! She'll get broken on the plane ride and the humidity will kill her. You'll ruin a perfect instrument. No."

As you all know, after the Boston trip and Six Flags stopover was done (thank god), it was time to get on the bus and get back to Jersey. My best friend and seat buddy (let’s call her Adriana—not her real name) and I climbed onto the bus and went to sit down in our seats. Our two other room buddies walked on a few minutes later and we watched in dread as the irritating popular girls (and a few of the annoying guys) filed in behind us. Suddenly, a girl sitting diagonally across from us called my name. I heaved a sigh and turned around to see what she wanted knowing one thing—this could not be good…

“So, Carmel,” she began in her abrading high-pitched voice, “Uhm, do you and your friend wanna switch seats with our friends up there, so we can talk to them?”

I looked at her incredulously. Was she serious?

“I mean, this way you wouldn’t have to yell at us to shut up.”

Ohmygod. She was serious!

Another girl who was sitting behind the high-pitched one leaned forward and said (in a normal voice), “Yeah, Carmel, c’mon. We can’t bother you if you’re sitting up there.”

Now, I had admittedly been yelling at them to shut their dirty trap-holes for the majority of the trip, but were they really expecting me and my friends to move for their convenience when they hadn’t accommodated us? Were they completely unaware that they were dealing with the most stubborn girl in the whole grade?

“Uh, there’re more than two of us.”

“There are extra seats up front! C’mon, please.”

I turned back to my group and relayed the message, letting them know how I felt about the whole affair. My best friend agreed with me, but the other two were less receptive. As a whole, we agreed to not move.

“Sorry, guys,” I told them. “We don’t really feel like it.”

So, being the almighty and frightening clan the populars knew they were, what did they do?

WHAT DID THEY DO?!

Oh, they only started chanting my name over and over, louder and louder in an attempt to get me to leave.

I turned over the girl who had spoken to me originally and was screaming right in my ear. I smiled broadly and said, sincerely, “Hey, can you scream louder? I can’t hear you.”

A few minutes later, our two room buddies who had sat in front of us simply got up and left. We stared at them indignantly, but they ignored us and we said nothing.

They then requested again, that we move, so their friends could be closer. We smiled, turned away, and I turned on my Zune and to watch an episode of Archer.

The chanting got louder.

A few minutes in, our VP marched in, screamed his head off and told them just where they could get off before stomping back to the front of the bus. All was quiet for a few blissful minutes before something landed in the brown halo surrounding my head that was my hair. I picked it up and inspected it closely.

Oh yes. They were throwing Goldfish at me?!

The abuse went on for a while(it only stopped because one of them screamed that they were hungry,  and then demanded the golden fishy treats). When it finished, Adriana turned over towards the window so she could sleep and I turned to the only album that could match my mood while still relaxing me: Joe’s Garage. As I listened, I did my duty as best friend and kept watch, making sure that no one attempted to draw on her face while she was sleeping. Meanwhile, I eavesdropped on the people mocking and screaming at me.

Suddenly, I heard my name again. I didn’t dare look back, but I lowered the volume to hear what was going on and see if I could get a heads up on the flying-food-item front. Instead, I heard a guy who I didn’t particularly care for say in a loud, fake, jokey voice:

“CARMEL’S MY BEST FRIEND!”

I stifled the urge to smile, display my middle finger and say, “Yes and fuck you, too!”

A little while after that, I tuned back into the music and realized I was listening to On the Bus:

“Meanwhile, Joe hears about Mary's naughty exploits. He falls in with a fast crowd and gets seduced by a girl who works at the Jack-In-The-Box, named Lucille, who gives him an unpronounceable disease...”

How fitting, I thought with a grin, glancing back at the horde of girls sitting behind me, wearing booty shorts and tight tank tops.

Ladies and gentlemen, it was then that half a green Oreo landed on my head.

Every year, our Board of Ed takes a vote on whether or not to allow the current 8th grade to go on a 3-day long field trip. Depending on the economic standing, they either vote yes or no. This year, they voted yes. Can you say 3 days in Boston?

It was, of course, very rewarding and tons of fun. Yes, there was a water park, the freedom trail, the Quincy Market and Six Flags, but the best part was not something quite so obvious. It was a concert.

Not just any concert, though. I am, after all, conditioned to ZPZ. I’m fairly picky when it comes to musical experiences.

This totally awesome concert, this magnificent performance, ladies and germs, was none other than the Blue Man Group.

Oh yes. Tall, bald men, wearing blue face masks and paint, with startling blue eyes banging on bongos.

What could be better?

Two words: Strobe lights.

  PS. For you nosy buggers: Six Flags? All roller-coasters? Yeah. Not a good idea. You know what’s an even worse idea?

Going on The Cyclone and Thunderbolt consecutively, as your first roller-coaster rides ever, and getting so freaked out that you have to drink a lot of water, eat a lot of cotton candy and sing the lyrics to Zomby Woof in your head so you can calm down.