What did everyone know that I didn’t?

Luckily, it didn’t take me too long to find out. I walked into a local kiosk and found the owner staring up at the TV screen, with a few other customers crowded around the tube.

“Excuse me,” I began, but received no sign of life. Had the body-snatcher invasion began?

“Excuse me,” I tried again, a little louder. “Where do you keep the milk?”

Without batting an eyelash, the kiosk owner pointed me to a spot behind him and to the right. But before I re-routed myself, I glanced up at the screen and found out that the body snatchers of Hollywood East had done it again. 

Tonight was the first night of the second season of the wildly successful reality show: “Big Brother”. And apparently there wasn’t a single resident in Tel Aviv that was going to miss it.

I joined the zombies riveted to the television, determined to find out why exactly “Big Brother” has become a show that hypnotist’s would give their “lean back and relax” couches for. 

The opening season introduced 16 colorful characters, ranging from a hot, single Mom, a trans-gender, a gay loner from a religious home, and even a deaf model. Then they hit the audience with the perfect couple: an overpowering pregnant woman who revealed way more skin than I would have liked to see, holding the tight leash of her pathetically hen-pecked husband.

The real clincher – for me – was the criminal-defense attorney who, when asked what he was extremely good at, answered “hitting on women.” This women-beater was a friend of mine. And it dawned on me that three months from now, when the show ends, I’ll know more about him than I’d want to know, or he wanted me to know.

But after seeing the whole country tuning in to the lives of these people, I couldn’t help but wonder:

Is the shortest path to stardom necessarily the right one?

A few months earlier I had been approached by someone casting for “Big Brother”. She felt I was a “character” they still didn’t have, and promised that participating in the show would catapult my career forward.

“The whole world will know you, whether you win or not. You’ll be famous. Doors will open and you’ll be making a ton of money just from the publicity.”

As a kid, sharing a room (or my parents) with my other 8 siblings was almost impossible for me, so how could I share the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” that have made up my life, so far. When she countered that a true actor can “act” her way through any reality experience, I was momentarily tempted to take on the challenge, and finally accept my destiny.

But then the image of all of Israel (at least all of Tel Aviv) tuning in to watch me pour a cup of coffee for myself appeared in front of me. How on earth could I find my 15 minutes of peace and quiet in the morning, if the whole country is judging my excessive caffeine consumption?

I’m sure you understand, I had to turn down the offer, as tempting as it may have been. “As an actress I pride myself in putting masks on, not taking them off in front of the whole country,” I explained to her, putting on my most diplomatic mask.

For me becoming famous through “revelation of self” in a public forum would be traveling the worst path to stardom. I believe that most actors would willingly give up the paparazzi, the invasion of privacy and the rumors that go along with being an established actor. What I want to do is act, and unfortunately, in order to make a proper living off it, loss of animosity is an unfortunate side-effect of being recognized for you skills. So I’m willing to lose “some” of my self, but not stand naked in front of the world pointing out my personal flaws (assuming I have any).

Yet I have to admit that lately, reality stars are in the consciousness of the Israeli public much more than actors, movies and TV shows. Reality shows are cheaper, give their audiences instant gratification as they invade every nook and cranny of their contestant’s life. In other words, it’s a peep show we don’t have to pay anything for.

And then it happened. Enter stage right. Dover Koshashvili takes the mike and the soundtrack changes to “You’re so vain….” As he states matter-of-factly, that he will not be swept into our “euphoria”, and that we are too quick to celebrate the success of Israeli films. Our movies, he says, are “mediocre”… at best.
Let me set stage:  “Sam Spiegel – Film & Television school Jerusalem”  is celebrating 20 years, and yesterday they organized a 12 hour conference to commemorate the event, at the Cinemateque in Jerusalem. The topic: “The Vision of Israeli Cinema”  features well-known personalities and famous members of the Israeli Film Industry such as:

Yael Abecassis (actress and model), Joseph Cedar  (Director and Screenwriter), Shuly Rand  (actor, singer, director and screenwriter), Ari Folman  (Director and Screenwriter), And many more.

When I wasn’t invited to speak, I elegantly crashed the party, and joined the audience of film professionals and Students of the film industry.

Dover Koshashvili,  an acclaimed Israeli director  (Late Marriage, Gift from Above) dared to burst our bubble, and smash the image of Israeli films playing in the big leagues. In his opinion, Israeli films are not all that good, and he’s not sure if we have the abilities to make them better.
The crowd went wild.

Screaming for blood.

A well-known Israeli actress, a Teacher for the school and a fellow director confronted Dover, accusing him of not bothering to watch Israeli films, of crushing the morale of those present and of generally not arguing in an intellectual manner. Although there were only a handful of people participating in this shout-out, I could feel the ground shaking.

Obviously, Koshashvili was treading thin ice, putting down Israeli films and demoralizing future cinema creators – or – was it his way of giving a motivational speech? When asked why our film producers and directors weren’t good enough, he expressed frustration, and couldn’t understand why we didn’t see it for ourselves. Finally, he added: “They’re not Fellini.”

But I was curious. Was Koshashvili on a self-hating rampage? Did the industry deserve his wrath? Did they really care all that much? 

I spent the next several hours interviewing many of the students, and was surprised to learn that most of them did in fact agree with him. They just didn’t feel comfortable expressing their opinion in that particular forum.

But it didn’t make sense. Israeli Films seem to be getting better every year. They’re everywhere. And lately we’ve been on a winning streak, sought after and appreciated by foreign festivals and even nominated for the academy awards. So, if Koshashvili is right you just have to wonder: Does Israel actually deserve the reputation it’s receiving for outstanding film-making?

One film student I interviewed said she had a hard time finding a film worth paying for at the movies, although, she was quick to add, “they are certainly worth downloading.”

Another told me he thought some Israeli films were exceptionally good compared to other Israeli films, but not compared to the films worldwide.

And still another told me that Israeli films all have that heavy atmosphere to them. She had recently come home from Paris and noticed that from the sky, Israel was covered in a cloud , a foggy haze that didn’t dissipate as they came in for a landing. And that, she pointed out, was an appropriate analogy to the film industry.

Tawfik Abu Wael, an accomplished Arab director and screen-writer  (Atash) spoke candidly when he told us he didn’t feel part of the Israeli Film industry. He complained about his unique situation: On the one hand he represents Arabs and makes films about Arabs, and on the other hand, Arabs don’t see movies.

Tawfik’s criticism towards the Israeli Film Industry was courageous and unexpected. He felt that there is indeed an Israeli mainstream, a template which most film-makers are afraid to move away from. He said that not all Israelis are gay, not all are soldiers or left wing, and that he himself would love to see an authentic film of Israeli settlers fighting for their land.

At the end of his short talk, a member of the audience screamed out to him: “Would YOU make a film about Israeli Settlers fighting Arabs for their land?”

Without batting an eyelash, he retorted: “Give me a good script and the money and I’ll make it.”

It’s safe to say that most of us left feeling that the future of the Israeli film industry was in dire straits, not only as far as quality of production and subject matter were concerned, but also because of the growing problems of film piracy, disastrous co-productions, and a sever shortage of funding – all issues that were raised, with a relatively pessimistic view as to solving them.

And yet, the same questions continue to haunt me:  Why does it seem that Israeli Films are gaining recognition around the world? Is it my imagination? Is it a passing fad?

Are Israeli films popular these days because they’re not politically correct? Is conflict “in”? Are our headlines piquing the curiosity of those who think that war and anger are what good movies are all about? Is it the topics we choose rather than the quality?

Or does Israel, in fact, make good movies?

“Excuse me?” I blurt out, spitting my wine onto the white napkin provided for wiping, not spilling.

No, I’m not talking about my latest date. I’m referring to my very first encounter with the acclaimed wine critic, Daniel Rogov, 6 months ago.

“The French have many ways to bid a maiden farewell, and they are all expressed in the kiss of a hand. Allow me,” he raises my hand to his lips, and proceeds to demonstrate the various, graphic kisses used by the French to woo their women. But I had to admit, if Rogov knew even half as much about wine as he did about impressing women, his reputation was well deserved.

If you don’t know who I’m talking about, allow me to enlighten you. Rogov has established himself as one of Israel’s’ leading wine critics, currently writing a column for “Haaretz”, and a contributor to other international wine books such as “Hugh Johnson’s Pocket Wine Book” and” Tom Stevenson’s Wine Report.”

But his real claim-to-fame is his thorough, user friendly wine guide: Rogov’s Guide to Israel wines – 2010 published by “Toby Press”. That’s what this classy celebration at “Derech Hayayin” (The Wine Road), in Tel Aviv, was all about.

Rogov’s comprehensive guide covers over 2000 Israeli wines, 150 Israeli wineries, and a vast amount of information about each wine – even a tasting chart. Adam Montefiore, representing the Carmel Winery, launched the event, assuring everyone that Israeli wines are indeed on the map, due, in no small measure, to Rogov. He described Rogov as the “Ambassador of Israeli wines”, and his guide has helped catapult Israeli wines into the consciousness of wine-drinkers across the world.

But what am I, a humble actress and blogger doing at this classy party?

Like any self-respecting actress, I have done my share of bartending. And for me the wine experience is one of the more delightful. Yet, my appreciation for the beverage is totally subjective and I have never been a gargle-then-spit wine connoisseur. I know the basic rules; smell before tasting, white before red and from experience – never, never drink on an empty stomach.

But what I went there to find out was:  Is there such thing as great Kosher wine?

So here I am, mingling among the rich and famous, trying my best to fit in. The only problem is, my brother seems determined to blow my cover.

“What should I try first, Red or White?” he asks me, holding up a sparkling dessert wine and a sweet concord wine.

“Neither,” I say in disgust, motioning for him to hide both glasses. “Act sophisticated, will you? Try a REAL wine, not alcoholic sugared syrup! Here, try this,” I hand him a cup of my favorite pinotage.

Bro takes a sip and scrunches his face in discontent. “This is spoiled. It’s bitter!”

“You simply have to develop your pallet a little more,” I say confidently, straightening up and gargling my wine as professionally as I can, wondering if there was a difference between a dry wine and a wet wine. “This is your chance to taste some great Kosher wines.”

He shakes his head at me. “Tiferet, don’t you know that we Jews are famous for the sweet red wine? You wouldn’t want to break a tradition, would you?” and he gulps his grape-juice tasting beverage down.

He has a point. We all share those same first memories of kosher wine. The sugar rush that courses through your veins with your first sip of Concord Extra Sweet (Pre-Diabetic) Wine. Drink enough Manischewitz and even the Mom’s chicken soup tastes like candy.

In fact, I remember, back in the States, I walked into a liquor store to buy a holiday gift for a family who invited me for a meal. When I asked the salesman to recommend a good kosher wine he looked at me and said:  “You want good or kosher. Decide.”

So that’s why Rogov’s OTHER guide, the first of its’ kind, is a very important PR tool for Kosher wines: “Rogov’s Guide to Kosher Wines – 2010: A guide to the world’s 500 Best Kosher wines.”
I was impressed to read in Rogov’s’ kosher wine introduction that making good wine is not a new field for Jews. And in fact, there was life before Manischewitz. Apparently, 2000 years ago, Jews were actually the leading experts on the how-to of alcohol. But that was before the onset of our last Diaspora. When we returned to making wine, some 200 years ago in the USA, our ingredients were limited as was our ability. So there’s good reason Kosher wine has received a bad rep. It really was pretty bad.

And speaking of the “old days”, who hasn’t felt downright envious of those lucky enough to have their Friday night dinner with a “good bottle of wine” - dry, even semi-dry. But most Jews (including my family) brought in the Sabbath with fine foods, respectable guests and 100% Glucose Concord/Malaga wine.
So much for developing connoisseur tastes.

The only thing we developed was cavities.

But I am happy to announce that those days are over. Kosher wine is “in”. So, I dragged my wine-mayven brother over to congratulate Rogov in person.

This time I thought I was prepared. I wore long sleeves and had a package of hand sanitizers in my purse. But nothing really prepares you for Rogov.

“Can I just have a quick picture with you?” I ask, beckoning the photographer in our direction.

“Of course. Will we be getting undressed?” he grins.

“In another time, another place, and a different age gap,” I wink at him. “For right now, let’s just smile at the camera.”

Rogov’s charisma and quick wit are only part of his charm. The other part is he really does know what he’s talking about.

Rogov’s guide will help you to see the light as well as the medium and heavy wines. It will introduce you to wines you may be unfamiliar with, and will teach you how to know when your wine reaches its peak of flavor.
And you’ll be proud to learn that being kosher and liking good wine is no longer an oxymoron.

“Do you maybe have a Danish that will help wash away this taste of alcohol?” my brother asks the waiter, pointing to his cup of Muscat. The waiter frowns in disgust and offers him Blue cheese hors D’oeuvres instead.

“Whoa,” Bro takes a step back. “That cheese has fungus all over it!” Noticing the waiter’s astonished look, he quickly adds, “That’s okay, just throw it right away. I won’t tell your boss you forgot to refrigerate it.”

I smile apologetically to the waiter, and shove my brother in the other direction. “You’re embarrassing me. Now please, let’s pretend to be civilized people, and drink some of this Château stuff,” I hiccup, trying to steady my balance.

My slightly inebriated, hyperactive brother grabs a copy of Rogov’s guide and reads me the following:

“…Whether one enjoys drinking wines in their youth, their adolescence, their early adulthood or in their maturity, their choice is very much a matter of personal taste.

“That means, that if I think sweet wine is delicious – it is!” he concludes, as those around us turn to snicker.

Obviously some people will never learn. Not all common-folk have the capacity to expand their horizons to the sophistication and sensations of good, kosher wine, like me.

But, that cheese really did look like it was growing fungus….

I can handle a wide range of roles without a problem; transform from femme fatale to the girl next door at the drop of a hat. I’m a professional actress. My job is building a character, and I’m good at it. But often, how good you act can’t even get you to first base unless you meet the pre-acting criteria – good (as in sexy, sensual, stunning) looks. 

Okay, I can accept that. To paraphrase that wise old king, “There’s a time for looking good, and a time for looking yourself.” 

For me, getting in touch with my feminine side means being comfortable. I am at my best, and most confident, dressed in corduroy pants, T-shirt and sneakers.

And therein lies the rub! I always assumed that who I am and the roles I play are two separate things. I am only an actress on set. But apparently, things aren’t as simple as that… well at least according to Jim.

Last night, I’m waiting in the rain, at our usual meeting spot when Jim’s Cherokee pulls over. I run to take cover inside his jeep, but as I pull on the handle, the door locks go down. I look inside at Jim, and tap the window. But still, the doors remain locked. Getting wetter by the second, I bang angrily on the window, yelling “Open up, I’m drowning out here, you idiot!”  Finally, the window rolls down and Jim stares angrily at me as though I had done a terrible thing.

“I’m not letting you into my car, and certainly not taking you to the party looking like that!” says my very metro-sexual (although he insists, straight) friend, dressed like a true Tel Avivi.  I grab the door handle from the inside and pull it up. As the door opens I rush inside.

“What’s your problem? I’m fine!” I wring my hair out, secretly enjoying Jim’s shocked expression as rivulets of rainwater soak his precious leather seats.

“Tiferet, didn’t I tell you this was an up-scale party?” he scolds me, disgusted by my nonchalant attitude. “And didn’t I tell you we’d be meeting big-shots there? Didn’t I also tell you that there would be media there? And to look your best?!”

“Uh huh,” I nod, drying my face on his $400 cashmere scarf. “You did. That’s why I’m wearing my best water-soaked sweater, and best water-logged boots!” I raise a boot onto the dashboard for him to see. A little waterfall splashes onto his carpet.

Jim cringes. “I meant wear a little black dress! You need to show some skin! Show some class!”

“Are you crazy? It’s freezing outside! I’m not gonna’ be cold just for the sake of looking sheek! YOU come in a little black dress if it’s so important to you.” And match the tights and necklace to go with it, I mumble under my breath.

“What %@#&!” he curses, shoving my boot off the dash. “And you’re supposed to wear heels!”

“I don’t do heels.”

“What is that supposed to mean, every woman does heels!”

“Not me, they’re dangerous.”

“No they’re not. I never heard of a woman getting killed wearing heels.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s everyone around me. I have no balance in heels. I trip over or under anything in my way. Ask my date of last week. He called yesterday to say that ‘the doctors think they can save my toe’. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t be silly,” he answers, starting the engine and driving in the wrong direction. “But look at you, Tiferet,” he suddenly blurts out, almost in tears, “You may as well have come out in pajamas!”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you. Me coming to the party in baby-dolls or a silk – Hey, where are you going?”

“To the mall, I’m not taking you to the party looking like this. And look at your hair, it’s not done up at all. You’re an actress, you’re supposed to look Sheek, not Shuk!” (the Hebrew word for marketplace). Then he squints at me as though seeing me for the first time.

“Woman, have you just landed from Mars? You’re not even wearing any makeup! YOU need a makeover.”

Silence.

“Venus,” I point out.

“What?”

“Men are from Mars, women are from Venus. Shows what you know.”

Jim isn’t sure whether I’m kidding or not. Or maybe he’s never read the book. I can’t decide which.

“Look Tiferet,” he explains, parking the car in the mall, “as your best friend, and what some might consider a fashion guru, I can’t allow you to walk around Tel Aviv looking the way you do. It’s sacrilegious!”

I didn’t even know he believed in God.

So I had to ask myself the hard question: Is acting a full time job? Do I have to look my best all the time, even if it means I won’t necessarily be feeling my best?

To Jim, the answer is clear. An hour later I am “resplendent” (his word) in my new clothes and accessories. The only hang-up seems to be my feet. I’m petite in most ways but I’ve inherited my father’s feet. Who made up the rule that women’s feet have to be small? (Probably one of those Chinese geisha’s with their dainty tied-up feet during the Ming Dynasty.) But this saleswoman is determined to cut off my circulation. She’s trying to stuff my size 10 foot into a size 7 shoe – and succeeding. The 5 inch heels mean I am also in a ballet position hanging on to Jim for dear life. 

“Ouch! It’s pinching everywhere!” I whine.

“Don’t we women have to put up with a lot?” the saleswoman confides, handing me the empty shoebox.

“Tiferet!” Jim commands, steadying me, “Stop complaining and walk in them a little.”

“This can’t be safe, walking on these pointy sticks like this… I’m gonna’ break my ankle,” I pout, staggering along the store hallway.

“Occupational hazard,” Jim says dryly.

“They hurt!”

“No pain no stardom,” he mumbles. “You’re walking like a drunk. Chin up, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back,” he orders.

“Stop giving me runway instructions!”

“Eyes forward!” He demands, following me in his comfortable loafers. “You’ll get used to them in no time, every woman wears them.”

I pause in front of a mirror, not recognizing the woman in the reflection. The tight fitting dress and high heels are bad enough, but Jim has me made up so that I barely recognize myself. I feel like I’m in character, and ready to role.

I pull down the dangerously short dress Jim has chosen for me.

“You look sexy!” Jim drools. It’s times like this I wish Jim was as gay as the impression he actually gives.

“Look at my face!” I implore, rubbing at the uncomfortable makeup. “I feel like I a four-year-old just magic-markered all over it! And this jacket feels like a girdle. I can barely breath. And these Cruella Devile shoes are for the toeless. I’m falling all over the place. If we ever get to the party our host better not have anything expensive lying around.

“And why do I feel like I have to rush forward all the time,” I complain, suddenly feeling sorry for my one year old niece just learning to walk. Why isn’t anyone “ooing” and “ahhhing” me as I take my first steps?

“You just have to practice” Jim advises, “Walk in them an hour a day.”

We buy the shoes – I could never have pried them off anyway.

At the party, all heads turn as I clickity click through the door and onto the Italian marble floor. I keep myself from shouting “Bolero!” but I get the distinct feeling some of the people are asking themselves “What the hell is she made up for?”

But Jim’s right. People notice me. And I get cards with those star-studded words, “Call me” scribbled on the back, with both home and cell numbers.  And there were some directors (2) and producers (1) at the party, and to be honest, one casting director seemed really interested in me (hopefully for my acting potential).
I left early, because of the pain. Crossing the street, my heel got stuck in a crack and I careened forward into the street, barely missing a car, and visa versa. The driver yelled a quick “Shikor!” (Drunk!) and kept driving. But the good thing was that it took me half the time to walk home because I was in perpetual forward motion.

As a victim of the beauty-on-demand era, I feel obligated to pose the question: Are we paying too high a price for what we’re after?

Obviously, in every profession there are sacrifices to be made to get where you want: doctors study seven years or more just to be able to practice; lawyers have to work 18 hour days; and psychologist – well, psychologists have to sacrifice their sanity so they can identify with the insane. 

But none of those professionals have to do it in heels!

In an industry where how you look means more than how you act, and the years of hard work you spent polishing your craft are second to the clothes you wear – how do you know where to draw the line?

It would be one thing if only the actors suffered, but millions of people gaze expectantly at celebrities, copying their every clothing move. We set styles, but do we set a good example?

And between our hair extensions, three-inch makeup, nips and tucks, girdles and high heels – how can any married man (or woman) know who they’re REALLY getting?

Think of the wasted hours spent by women (and more and more men) putting their faces, stomachs and buttocks together each morning. Think of the obsession young people have with being young because their idols never seem to age. Think of the divorce rates that continue to soar because the ratio of how a woman looks when she goes to bed compared to how she looks when she wakes up is 1 (year) to 20 (years)—after only 1 year of marriage!

Would Rodan’s “The Thinker” been have as thoughtful if he’d had Botox injected into him every day? 

I’m still trying to figure out where my red lines are – when I should sacrifice comfort for appearance.

Ah, well…It’s time for me to go practice my heel walking now. But from my pigeon-toed, fifth position, five inch altitude, I’ll be wondering:

I used to study screen writing, and it seems to me that every one of my dates follows the template of a grade B script.

Like any writer, the date knows he has about 5 minutes to grip (not physically) his audience and leave her begging for more. If he’s successful, she’ll be riveted (not physically) to her seat and for the next couple of hours he’ll get the applause he deserves.  If he’s boring, too talkative, spaced out, or takes himself too seriously, then he’ll lose his audience and any chance to really touch (sometimes-but-rarely physically) me. In short, like any movie-goer, if I paid for a ticket (or even if my date paid for it) and the movie’s lousy I’ll force myself to stay until the end—but you can bet your bottom dollar wild horses (flowers, candy, even an apology) won’t get me back for the sequel. 

But I’m moving ahead of myself. Let’s analyze for a moment the dating script.

Mr. (wannabe) Right starts with his introduction (the story of his life), moving on to the main characters and supporting roles, (his friends and family) who reappear (disjointedly) throughout the plot. Then there is the first turning point, where I will be (sometimes) pleasantly surprised to learn there is more to him than meets the eye (ears, nose and…). If I’m lucky, I find he has personality, maybe even aims, ambitions, goals, and (rarely) a method for reaching his objective. It looks like clear sailing. 

At this point, as with any basic no-brainer movie plot, I let myself relax, realizing that this could be enjoyable. There’s even moments when I think “He’s sweet, a real gentleman (so far) and actually listening to me almost as much as he is to himself.” But then the next sequence begins:

The Revelation, (or second turning point).

In a movie, this is the part where, after following the cop who’s hot on the trail of a serial murderer and seems to be ready to crack the case wide open, we’re suddenly confronted with “the revelation” that the killer is actually his partner, and now the stakes have just gone up, and everyone has a lot more to lose.

Well, on a date “the revelation” itself can often murder any chance you have of finding out if Mr. (wannabe) Right is the “one”.  On a date, those “surprises” that bring you to the edge of your seat in the movies, are rarely exciting and never fun. Because on a first date (even the first couple of dates) who wants to know what “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” you’re date has suffered or if he’s just plain weird?!

Take the really great date I had with this guy who was “a few” years older than me. I’m just coasting along as he glibly checks off the successes he’s had in his life. I’m so enjoying his clever banter that I almost miss “the revelation.”

“I was only twenty-one when my uncle sent me a ticket to the Academy Awards. Don’t ask how he got it, but he knew that Kevin Costner was my favorite actor. He even sent a plane ticket. Do you know how many Oscars his movie won?”

“Seven,” I answered nonchalantly. You can’t be a serious actress and not know the Oscar Winners.

My date was impressed. I was appalled by “the revelation”. Dances With Wolves won the Oscars in 1990. I was no math whiz but if he was twenty-one in 1990 (when I was turning seven) then he was FORTY years old!

Kudos to his plastic surgeon.

Of course, not every revelation is so dramatic. Take my knight in shining armor – great body, full head of hair, piercing blue eyes, and a Jewish background that mirrored my own – who just had to admit that he’s very into me… but that he’s also very into men.

How about cutie who took me to dinner and while ordering the main, informed me that he had an enviable track-record of three failed suicide attempts after being dumped by previous girlfriends (I left before dessert).

Or Mr. nice-guy who “forgot” to mention he has a girlfriend who he’s currently living with and would I mind if he checked in with her – she gets lonely without him.

And my personal favorite – the 30 year old datemeister who suddenly excuses himself as he answers an “emergency” call from his mother. Emergencies are emergencies, but then I actually get to “hear” the revelation as his speaker-phone turns on in the middle of his conversation.

“And sweetheart,” his mother says, with a wonderful Hungarian accent, “don’t be shy. If you need an advance on your allowance, just ask. I know how pricey these restaurants can be. Is she worth it? Oh and did you take the key? Should I wait up? Don’t eat dessert. I baked your favorite cookies. I’ll leave you a few to munch on before you go to sleep.”

As all eyes focused on the both of us, I sheepishly smiled, wanting to shout out “I WAS FIXED UP! THIS IS A BLIND DATE! PLEASE BELIEVE ME!”

Just once I would like “the revelation” to be “Oh, and besides being head over heels in love with you, I’m a millionaire and my plane is even now being warmed up to take us to Paris.”

Or how about, “Yes, Tiferet, I’m bald, but that’s because I donated my long, blond hair to Locks of Life.

So, last Friday, when I met my blind date I was glad I had experienced the above scenarios.  I thought I was prepared for anything.

But Murphy’s Law saw fit to trip me again.

After a lovely dinner, with a wonderful bottle of wine, just as we were having our dessert and I truly believed everything would be at least okay, “the revelation” arrives. 

“And this is my dog, and this is my nephew,” he moves closer to show me the pictures on his cell phone. “And… oh man, I must have forgot it. I was sure I brought a picture of my baby.” He shrugs and places the phone on the table.

Baby?

“Who’s your baby?” I ask warily. “A sports car? Harley Davidson?”

He looks at me, confused.

“My son.”

I cringe, choking on my ice-cream dessert. He gets up to gives me the Heimlich Maneuver. I cringe again. “No thanks,” I say under my breath, “I’d rather die.”

“Pardon?” he says.

“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say you have a kid,” I answer out-loud.

“I do,” he looks at me, as though I had said something strange. “Didn’t Liza tell you that when she set us up?”

“No. She told me that she had a great guy for me… who was everything I was looking for – and more…” I smirk. “I don’t suppose More is the name of your son?”

“Well, didn’t you catch my hints along the way?”

“If by hints you mean when I told you I babysit in my spare time, and you said that was good to know – No. I didn’t realize I was being interviewed for an actual position.”

“What about when I said that I was sure you could teach me a few things?” The image of me teaching him how to use Wipe n’ Dipes honestly never crossed my mind.

“Sorry to catch you off-guard,” he tells me as I desperately try to catch the waiter’s attention for the check. “This must have come as a total shock to you.”

“Oh no, me?” I reply a little too quickly, in a shrill voice that projects anything but calm. “Nah, I’m used to this sort of stuff…. Guys I date have kids, kids I watch have dates…and then there are those kids who eat dates and the dates who eat kids….” I suddenly stop when I realize he isn’t blinking. “But I digress. Enough about me, let’s talk more about your dynasty. Is it one boy or a gaggle of guys? ”

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “This must have come as a total surprise.”

“Don’t worry,” I reply in a far-away voice I don’t recognize. “I live for surprises… In fact, nothing would make me happier than to learn that you haven’t even finalized the divorce yet.”

Where is that waiter?

“No divorce.”

I hold back the tears and the screaming person inside me. “See, I love this stuff. Is your son in the car?”

“No, I mean. I never got married. It was… um…. Unexpected.”

“Do you mean you didn’t know whether it would be a boy or girl?” I ask naively.

“No…uhh….. we just went on a few dates…. We didn’t mean to make a kid. It was uh…. An accident.”

There is a strange silence as I finally understand what he’s saying. “Well… I’m sure you learned your lesson….” I say, waving my finger at him. “You’re a naughty boy,” I add, wondering if I could make him sit in the corner (until I make my getaway).

He collects the pieces of cloth napkin that I have apparently torn apart, into his outstretched palms. But in my mind I see him holding a bottle and squirting drops of milk onto his wrist. Then, looking up at me, I think I hear him say,

“Uh…I’m not sure, let’s test it on you” as he squeezes milk onto my wrist.

“Too hot!” I cry suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean… too much.” Then I quietly add, “I think this is too much for me.” I get up and leave.

But dates, like movies, sometimes have unexpected endings. Later that night, he sends me an email with pictures of his baby. I grab my microwave popcorn, and sit down to read his email. What could he possibly have to write? I thought I had made it pretty clear we were over.

But again, endings have a funny way about them.  Sometimes the movie finishes an hour after it should have. And sometimes you find the credits are rolling up the screen way before you were ready for them.

I scroll down the pictures to the text, and read:

“At least let me tell you what I WOULD have wanted to hear—I promise it’s not yours!  

You aren’t gonna’ let a small thing – 7 pounds, 2 ounces—stop us, are you?”

But if you ask me, the most similar thing about these two cities is the weather.

This morning, Tel Aviv received the first major rain of the year.  Before I had the chance to wake up to the soft pitter-patter of rain drops, I was rudely awakened by honking and screaming.

Coming from Jerusalem, the windy city, what’s a little rain? A little cold? To me, anything short of frostbite is a walk in the park. So I find it fascinating when, at the first drop of water, chaos breaks loose. Pedestrians scramble frantically for cover, cars honk and drivers yell obscenities as they skid along the Ayalon Freeway trying desperately to go from 0 to 60 and brake at the same time. Like L.A., Tel Aviv traffic jams are legendary.  I remember my first rain in L.A.  The twenty minute drive to work turned into a two hour ordeal and I had that sinking feeling that perhaps I had taken the wrong entrance and was now idling in the middle of a parking lot.  But to be fair, there is a difference between Tel Aviv and L.A. In Tel Aviv, when workers come in late because of the rain they claim they had just survived “The Flood” and dare anyone to contradict them. In L.A., on a rainy day, I actually don’t remember anyone else showing up to work….

I stuck my head out the window and inhaled deeply, preparing to smell the fresh fragrance of lilies and roses which always seemed to envelop me in Jerusalem (Okay, so I had lilies and roses growing under my window. Still…) But in a city of half a million people and a million cars, the wet smell of exhaust fumes did more than engulf me, it made me gag.

And there’s another difference: In L.A. I always liked to splash in the rain (a holdover from my not too distant youth) but in Tel Aviv, rain is for avoiding, and splashing in the puddles will result in someone siccing their dog on you.

I really like the rain, the wind and the storm. Why? Because that’s the kind of person I am – romantic, stormy, forceful (I’m assuming none of you have met me) – and it’s this very set of qualities that sometimes creates more waves and ripples than I bargain for.

Take last year. There was a show on television. The kind of show you look at and say, “Why on earth aren’t I starring in that?” and then you realize, it’s because they’ve never heard of you! And why haven’t they heard of you? Because you’re new in town and you don’t yet have an agent. And without an agent you can’t get an audition.

Then I asked myself, in true Talmudic fashion, does the howling wind stop the pouring rain? Of course not. The rain beats down despite the winds. If I don’t have an agent to get me an audition will that stop me? Never! I’ll get my own audition.

I am rain (woman).

So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I tracked down the director of the show, took off a day from my busy schedule of watching television, found his mailbox and gently stuffed an overfull envelope which had a cover letter, pictures, and a self-addressed postcard in it, into his mailbox. Of course, I had to empty out all his other mail first. 

Certain that I had impressed him with my earlier material, I returned two days later and placed my showreel and resume into his mailbox – again carefully eliminating all his other (probably junk) mail.
My plan worked. This acclaimed director wrote me a letter saying that he had spoken to the casting director and I was being presented with an opportunity to audition for a smallish part in the show. Strange, but after signing off, the director wrote:

P.S. Can I have my mail back now?

This was my lucky break. I knew it. I was perfect for this series. Within two days I knew every nuance,  and had reworked every angle of the 10 lines that would catapult me to fame.

The rain poured by the time my audition came around. I took this as a sign (although it was winter) and told myself I would be the beating rain that takes the Tel Aviv acting industry by storm.  It was now or never. The director had opened the doors for me (Yes, I returned most of his mail) and the casting director was giving me her valuable time—blowing this was not an option.

For those thespians among you, as well as for those who have nothing to do with my industry, allow me to introduce you to what I feel is the most important rule in acting: Flexibility. Obviously, an actor must have a clear understanding of her character. But in an audition, or on set, you must become a chameleon, instantly adjusting to the fine nuances in your environment, reacting to your co-star’s energy, and adapting to the director’s instructions.  And I knew this instinctively.

The rain beats mercilessly.

And I was great.

At least in my mind.

My knees began to shake and somehow I became deaf, not hearing any stage direction, just watching the director’s lips move as she became more and more agitated. “What’s she saying” I kept thinking to myself? “Can’t she see I’m already doing everything she wants me to do?”

I nodded blankly at her instructions, but repeated the exact acting pattern take after take.

I was the rain.

And I became a drizzle.

I blew the audition.

My first time up in front of a major name, and I couldn’t hold it together. I could barely lift my head up after that. And I silently promised myself to spend more time looking for an agent.

Acting is all about making mistakes:  A role you should’ve gotten but you froze up at the audition; a connection you should’ve followed-up on, but you never got around to; a VIP who could have helped you, but who knew you were expected to send her flowers after your meeting?; and sometimes even acting in a role that will only hurt your career in the long term.

A production called “The Pilots’ Wives” (loose translation) has been having trouble casting for about a year. It’s something of a joke among agents and actors: “Yes, they’re still casting.”

The roles on the series are coveted by every actor in the business. It‘s a major, star-studded production.

Last year, I had an opportunity to go on an audition to this show, but I was still too traumatized from the last one, and talked myself out of it.

Now, three days into filming, there are all sorts of rumors coming from the set. One newspaper reported that the actors were complaining that they’re doing 70-80 takes a day. That they’re exhausted and by the time the end scenes roll in, they can no longer muster the energy and focus to act.

Agents are upset, saying they wouldn’t have allowed their actors to participate in the series had they known how inept everyone is. How this will only hurt their clients’ reputation as professional actors. Bridges are being burned all over the place as everyone accuses each other of a lack of professionalism.

Maybe it was good that I talked myself out of competing with all these “names”. 

Go figure. That’s acting. It’s not a science. It’s mazal. And making sure the wind doesn’t blow you away.

Sylvester Stallone once said about his pre-stardom days, “I had mastered the art of rejection”. The real art, however lies not in your ability to accept rejection, nor in your willingness to “walk out of an audition forgetting you ever entered it, and leave the experience behind you.” The real art is to take those mistakes and admit, aloud, that you made them. That’s life. That’s acting.

Yes, leaving your mistakes behind you – that takes more skill than most people can muster. But remembering how you went from a torrent to a drizzle, and still somehow reinventing your stormy self again, now that’s the real challenge.

Not to beat a metaphor to death—The rains return even after they let up.

I’m zipping up my raincoat, prepared to begin my day. I’m going to leave the hood off, because I intend to get as wet as possible. I’m even considering sneaking up on that director again….