(Real World Update Update)

Apparently somebody actually reads what I write.

For instance, here are some updates:

• Nomi has 35 things that she can possibly do in life after her chamesh chodasheem b-ramla (five months in Ramla), and making Alliyah is number 32 on that list.

• Sarah moved in today. She’s a 24-year-old graduate of Albany who majored in history in school but has become a film producer. She would want to go to graduate school but she doesn’t want the stigma of going to film school because she made fun of those kids when she was in school.

• We have only two smokers in the house, Joey and Jay. Gabi was just hitting on those two (Joey is her “boyfriend” and Jay now her “husband” that gives bad back rubs), while everyone else has been too boring studying Hebrew that the smokers were the only ones who could entertain Sara this morning.

• Nomi is a Sabra—she was born in Israel—so she doesn’t have to make Alliyah, just return here.

• Oh, yeah, I have to write about myself here. I am neither the token gay guy nor the token loner. I like it here, and I enjoy the company of most of my housemates. I don’t regret my decision to be here; I am glad I came. I am just champing at the bit to get started because doing nothing and not sleeping sucks.

• I beat a professional. We played cadoor regel (soccer) on Yom Shabbat (Saturday), and I stood up to a professional soccer player. They put all of us Americans on the same team against the Israelis; we would lose within 30 seconds then wait 10 minutes for the next game. I know only how to play defense. A 19-year-old professional had the weekend off, and his 10-year-old brother looked so cute in goal with them. When I got in, I stepped up to defend the tall, defined young man in a black wife-beater shirt and green shorts. His little brother was screaming—how can somebody so small act so mean? Green shorts looked at me and dribbled the ball back and forth five feet away from me. “Bo po,” I said, ordering him to come to me. He kept showing me his fancy moves; I knew he would kick my ass if I attacked him, so I didn’t. When he made a fake to get past me, I stayed on my feet. Then he kicked the ball between my reglayim (feet) and snuck around me. The next time I defender him, he did the same basic shit (a different dribble this time), but this time I deflected the ball, and on my third defensive play against him I stopped him. We lost, but as we were walking off the court he and his teammates called me “Tov” (good). I was angry that we lost, but I was so surprised that they respected me and my play. When I got home, I got on a high that lasted 24 hours—I stood up to a professional soccer player.