Only In Israel, Only Me

There are certain things that I believe would only happen in Israel. An obviously secular cab driver expounding Erev Shabbos divrei Torah, an elderly woman yelling at you to put a hat on your child, only to have her friend yell at you to take the hat off your child, and so on.

Then there are certain things that would only happen to me. Things like walking across a crowded wedding dance floor only to land on my bottom. And of course, the previously discussed chicken underwear fiasco.

Not several moments ago, I had one such experience. My husband and I usually do our monthly shopping together. I don't trust him to get the correct things, and by the last aisles I can no longer push the cart(s!) on my own, so it's usually a combined effort. What with summer vacation, I stayed home with the kids today and tentatively sent my husband shopping this morning bracing myself for things like marzipan nuggets and olive chips ("But dear! It was on sale!").

Well as dusk turned to twilight, and the delivery still hadn't arrived, I started to get antsy. My husband opened our front door to go to Maariv, and low and behold, there lay a pile of 10 large garbage bags full of groceries, as well as several packages and cartons. We start dragging in the bags until we notice a large puddle of liquid at our doorstep. We start to search the bags frantically for what might have cracked or burst. After several maniacal minutes of flailing foodstuffs, we stood there, befuddled, staring down the mysterious liquid wondering what on earth it could be.

I strike upon a genius idea. I'll smell it. I get down on my hands and knees, (My workout for the day.) I gingerly put my nose to the ground, and I inhale deeply. It wasn't sweet, but it wasn't sour. It smelled sort of tangy, if you will. My husband, ever the active participant, decided to be as helpful as possible by standing there and calling out foods. "Is it juice? Is it toothpaste? Is it sprite? Is it marzipan?"

"No..."

"Soy sauce? BBQ sauce? Duck sauce? Oil?"

"No..."

"Shampoo! Ketchup! Wine! Fabric softener!"

As I'm prostrated there on my doorstep, nostrils pressed to the floor, husband excitedly yelling out random groceries, as if participating in some sort of foodie-themed charades, my upstairs neighbor's 8 year old daughter comes bounding up the steps, takes one look at me, and said, "That's cat pish. I saw him do it." and continues on her way.

Only in Israel.
Only me.