Tyra Banks is the single most horrible person on Earth. She is a stain on humanity. She is the real life incarnation of Zoolander except instead of being endearingly dumb she is irritatingly narcissistic. Every single face she uses to display modeling versatility on America's Next Top Model is the exact fucking same. Also I don't believe her about modeling being "so hard," all you have to do is not eat, and if I could do that for those three days before senior prom then it can't be that difficult. Don't even get me started on the Tyra Banks show, her condescending version of empathy is appalling. Okay, now that's out of the way we can move on to today's story, that of Arsim and a dear friend I like to call Mesther. Mesther is all things lovely and bewitching, yet she has an incomprehensible affection for Arsim. Without further ado...
Fighting off Arsim in the Holy Land
I am by no means an expert on all things trashy. Nor am I an expert on all things Israeli. I am a mere observer of the phenomena that results from the clash of the two. A whirlwind of American, Euro and Middle Eastern influence colliding- spitting out greased up, track jacket clad, earring wearing, trance music listening men. These men are known in the Holy Land as Arsim, or in the singular, Arse. In their natural habitat Arsim can be found lurking around malls, kiosks and underage night clubs or leaning against souped up cars that they have meticulously and tirelessly pimped out with chrome rims and large unsightly windshield decals. Armed with cigarettes, red bull, and enough hair grease to fuel the entire Israeli electricity grid they are known for their aggressive behavior. Their uniform of tight fitting acid wash jeans and bling bling is accented by the signature item, the fashion sneaker.
An import from Europe, the fashion sneaker is a non-functional men's shoe masquerading as a tennis shoe. They serve no real purpose with their velcro closures and complicated laces, their stitched on logos of cats and gold lamay. They are the mark of metrosexuals and in Israel, the Arse. The fashion sneaker makes virtually no sound as the Arse sneaks up on its prey, whispering sweet nothings in it's ear and calling it capara (think baby in Hebrew).
For the American girl in Israel the Arse is the lowest rung on the ladder or desirability. The top rung is the elite unit military man with the intense tan and built physique, the rugged looks and fierce attitude that play into every stereotype of the exotic Israeli. A man faced with conflict and the constant threat of attack, who has developed a hardened exterior, a shell of machismo and sternness. Yet inside is a heart of gold, a tenderness that only you the American girl from the tri-state area with Uggs and a Chi straightener can unleash. He is kind of like an Israeli M&M.
Much farther down on the ladder is the second rung, the Israeli with a car. The desirability of a license toting, car owning Israeli boyfriend is practical in nature; public transportation sucks. About a half inch below the car rung lies the cable rung, again this is a utility attraction and satellite cable is really an aphrodisiac. Nothing says love like being able to watch Lost or The Office while abroad. Finally, below soldier, car, satellite TV, men who will pay for a drink, men who are taller than you, men with good English and a multitude of other equally shallow and self serving criteria for attraction, there is the Arse.
No girl willingly enters into a conversation let alone a relationship with an Arse. American-Arse interaction is generally facilitated by imbibing excessive amounts of alcohol and very dim lighting. Mesther, a dear friend and former roommate, often found herself in this unfortunate state of poorly lit inebriation while we lived together in Jerusalem. Once inside a dance club she was the object of many an Arse's affections. Being the kind hearted and drunken lady that she is, Mesther had trouble mustering the courage and bitchiness required to refuse the advances of these overly aggressive Arsim with their questionably jelled hair and copious compliments. On more than one occasion Mesther convinced herself that Arsim were people too, deserving a shot at love and her heart. However more often than not she found, rather unpleasantly, that they were far more concerned with a shot at her pants.
Yet Mesther-a consummate bleeding heart and believer in the fight for social justice-refused to mock, ridicule, laugh at and otherwise reject Arsim like the rest of us. Weekend after weekend Mesther would receive calls from boys and men alike, seeking dates with her. On rare occasions they asked her to bring friends for their friends. This is the story of one such occasion.
I arrived home to my Jerusalem quasi apartment after a long day at my quasi job. I was tired and hungry as I often am at the end of the day (well really at any point in the day) and looking forward to a relaxing evening of pirating movies off the internet. Getting off the elevator in my building I heard a ruckus coming from my apartment. The high pitched squeals of girls and the smell of perfume stung the air. This could mean only one thing, someone was going to see a boy.
"Pleaseeeeee Mharon," Mesther's voice was raised into a whine. "Please come with me. I will love you forever." She stood in the middle of our small living room wearing a red shirt and jeans, she had a knee high boot on one foot and a silver flat on the other.
"No, Mesther. I'm sorry I just really don't want to go on a blind date." Mharon crossed her arms over her chest rolling her eyes in my direction as I closed the front door behind me.
"AH, thank god you're here Meph." Mesther ran to me, holding up two earrings, each different, neither matching her shirt. "I'm going out with a boy tonight, or I would be if Mharon agreed to come so his friend can come." I dropped my bag on the floor and plopped down on the couch next to Mharon.
"Who is this boy? Is he cute? And why won't you go Mharon?" I got down to business.
"He's an arse she met in a club and I'm not going to be her sidekick." Mharon cut in. Her Australian accent made the word Arse sound far more proper and dignified than her tone suggested. Mharon's accusation was not surprising as Mesther was known for attempting to reform Arsim and making them suitable boyfriends. Mesther turned to me with a desperate look in her eye.
"Mephanie, you have to come with me. You HAVE to come with me." She pleaded in earnest. I surveyed her mismatched shoes, her clashing earrings, her puppy dog eyes. "Please," she whined.
"Fine." I blurted out before I could stop myself. "But the friend has to be tall and speak English and I'm not going to be nice." I made my demands.
Twenty minutes later after a quick outfit change for me and an outfit overhaul for Mesther, we stood waiting outside our apartment building. Mesther arranged to have her boy and his friend come pick us up at which point we would go somewhere and get drinks. As we waited Mesther filled me in on the details of the Arse. They met at her favorite underage dance club (while Mesther was not underage she believed that good music was only played at establishments that happened to be infested with underaged kids and Arsim). They danced and talked and maybe made out before he got her number and they realized it was love. I mocked her for even entertaining the idea of dating an arse and she took it in good fun. We waited and waited and waited and waited, sure that each souped up Honda that drove past was "definitely them," after an hour we realized that it was "definitely not" and they were "definitely late."
By the time the boys arrived at 10:00 p.m. I was cranky and exhausted, insisting that we needed to stay in the area because I wanted to be home in an hour. Mesther relayed this and thus we decided to "drive around" and "get to know each other." The boys, both Mesther's and mine were definitely Arsim. They did not get out of the car to greet us so I could not be sure of the fit of their pants but the glare from the acid wash was visible even in the back seat.
"Hi," I said, trying to be nice. "I'm Mephanie." The boys looked at eachother in confusion and said something in Hebrew to Mesther. Having taken eight semesters of college Hebrew and living in Israel for six months one would assume that if not fluent I would be at the very least proficient in the language. One would be very, very wrong. I could get around; make sure to order my sandwiches without olives, find a bathroom, ask for the time. But this was the extent of my Hebrew. I could not flirt, be witty, or otherwise entertain a potential suitor with my limited vocabulary of food I do not like and colors.
Mesther looked at me with fear, "Mephanie, he doesn't speak English." She nodded her head towards my intended. Luckily for her the doors were locked and we had started to pull away from the curb. I settled into my seat shotting her a death star and set about playing games on my phone.
Mesther talked to both boys, her Arse and mine, laughing and flipping her hair as she leaned towards them in the front seat. Mesther's voice dropped three octaves when she spoke Hebrew; her flirtatious voice sound gutteral and authoritative. Every so often the friend, my date, would turn around to look at me and smile. Then he would say something to Mesther and she would translate. Nearly fluent in Hebrew, Mesther often played the role of translator.
Via Mesther I found out that my dates name was Moshe (that's Hebrew for Moses!). He was 22 and finishing up his army service. He was a paratrooper (a common claim from Arsim) and could be sent to Gaza at any moment. Would I wait for him, he wondered? Of course not I replied! Though I think Mesther may not have translated that accurately because his face lit up with absolute glee at this response.
After an hour of driving around and intense boredom the boys pulled up in front of our apartment building. All four of us exited the car, it was then I realized that I was easily the tallest in the bunch. Mesther and her date moved off to the side in some sort of awkward embrace. I was alone with Moshe. His jeans were as tight as I suspected and I had at least three inches on him. "Fun" he said in English. I smiled and stuck out my hand. He looked at it for a moment as though it were an insult before shaking it. We both looked over at Mesther, she was in full on make out mode with her Arse. I said "toda" (one of my few Hebrew phrases) and ran to the apartment building door before Moshe got any ideas.
Mesther still owes me.
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