Well, looks like my timing was pretty off.

When I started this, my workload was relatively light despite a few projects that were in the pipeline. In the past four months, though, I've gotten all kinds of professional and personal projects piling on, taking a few international work trips, and now am slated to be transferred back to the US for a 12-month contract for my job. In the Old South. Awesome.

So hence the reasons this blog never quite got off the ground. My return to the US will be mid-summer and, obviously, Simon won't be coming with me. We've done 10 months apart before, so I have no doubt we can pull off twelve. Then we'll see where we are: if I come back to Israel or if we go find somewhere else entirely to live. Professionally we'll both be in better places in a year's time, so who knows what the future holds.

We'll see if I get anywhere on this blog in the coming months before I head back State-side, though don't hold your breath. I'm already juggling enough, nevermind now having to plan a move and find housing, furniture, etc. a few thousand miles away, and Simon is pretty overworked himself. The time and energy needed to convert a pretty humdrum life to interesting blog posts just isn't available right now.

In the meantime, my Tumblr is queued up with some interesting reads about expat-ness and GLBT stuff in Israel. I'll keep that running, since it's pretty low maintenance, and am always available to answer questions, but blogging...just not in the schedule right now.

I have some really absurd fears, living in this country.

One of them is going to the hospital. But not just going to the hospital, going to the hospital under really sketchy circumstances. For example: yesterday, I was cleaning the apartment since I had a day off. One task was mopping the floor. So as not to get any cleaning detergent on my clothes, and since it was pretty warm, I stripped down to my underwear and a tie-dyed tank top that I had slept in.

So I’m happily mopping along, listening to the radio, when Single Ladies comes on. Now, obviously, no one who is home alone can listen to Single Ladies and not shake their booty at least a little bit. So that’s what I was doing: a bit of dancing while mopping the tile floors with soapy water in my tie-dyed underwear.

Obviously, you can see where this is going.

Of course, I almost slip and, as I’m almost crashing to the floor, what flashes through my mind is the scenario where Simon comes home to find me bleeding to death on the floor and has to rush me to the hospital or call an ambulance, and I regain consciousness in the hospital as a Russian nurse is asking my boyfriend questions about why I’m covered in blood, wearing only a tie-dyed tank top and boxer-briefs, wet, and smelling vaguely of mountain freshness. And that, no matter how rational and accurate our explanation may be, she says something like, “well, you boys should be more careful next time; those towel racks come right out of the wall”.

Because worse than having to go to the ER for a sex-related injury is having to go to the ER for a non-sex-related injury that looks like a sex-related injury.