Professional Activist Seeking…

Non-profit organization seeks overqualified coordinator (at full-time pay and double the hours) to bust his/her ass. Responsibilities include coordinating volunteers, overseeing logistics, administration, fundraising, and anything else that arises in the general vicinity of anything. Experience is required (but not financially compensated) and applicants must be prepared to work flexible hours and unpaid overtime while fudging numbers and squinting to see the big picture. Applicants must have an undergraduate degree in drinking, smoking weed and/or going to protests and a minimum of 3 years experience in eating shit cakes for minimum wage. Applicants looking for glory, benefits and job stability need not apply.

I’m being bitter and facetious, I see that. I am vastly exaggerating. But after 4 amazing years in non-profits and a million before as an activist, why do I feel so frustrated? It seems as if  I have worked and I have definitely made a visible dent of change in the communities I have served but I am surprised by the overwhelming feeling that in the nonprofit world, where we sacrifice the big money we could have made for the cause that was worth it, we end up professional activists, barely compensated volunteers and often bitter.

Maybe it’s only my immediate experience but I have seen a lot of resistence to change within social change organizations. We want to change the world, change policy, test social norms but we don’t want to consider perhaps that our own perception of our management and organizational methods might be itself flawed, and holding back progress. In that way, we are our causes worst enemy.

oh yes i did just compare myelf to gandhi

Professional activists, anyone who has every really cared about a community or a cause and has been burned, we are not unlike so many of the conflicts we wish to solve or better: we often work with very little professional support, we meet roadblocks where often violent hostility and ego get in the way of communication, money seems like it would solve everything, but there is never enough and it often causes more dilemmas than it solves when it does come through. With so much work on so many fronts, we are often distracted, overwhelmed and overworked into paralysis.

That is the difference between really caring about something and just sharing it on facebook. I admit that I am guilty of both deeds, though I like to think I show up more often than not. Activism, building a community, fighting a good fight, creating change, is a bigger emotional risk. Sometimes getting personally involved in a community can transform it and its members, sometimes it can change the world and sometimes it can break your heart. I’m pretty sure that the greatest activists of all time, Harvey Milk, Alice Paul, Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, even some of them who made the ultimate sacrifice, would tell you that every bead of sweat went to build something great- even when it hurt and even when they couldn’t continue on, someone else did because of what they gave. They didn’t just share it on facebook- or the pony express or whatever. I’m pretty glad they didn’t.

That doesn’t mean that the greats didn’t curse and yell and scream at the movement sometimes. But I’m guessing, based on their results, that they always came back around- or built something new in the wake  of something old that wasn’t working. Activism, social change work, is a living, breathing beast that has us activists in its grip- and rarely does it let go for good. It always catches up with us.

Professional Activist seeks upper management position in a feminist, pluralist non-profit institution. The organization must be willing to breath through the discomfort of community growing pains, and give over the reigns of the project in exchange for success, exceeded expectations and a raised bar for future programs. Applicant promises to contribute impeccable organizational skills, constant passion and drive, great work with in a staff and managing a staff, award-winning ass-kissing fundraising and creative problem-solving. Potential organizations must allow occasional crying in the office and dogs in sweaters.  Dogs in sweaters is a non-negotiable term. Staff meetings must not exceed 2 hours and the word “process” must not exceed the amount of 45 times used per staff meeting. Employers who despise eye-rolling need not respond to this add.

the tittie dilemma

(This article will be printed in the upcoming issue of Fallopian Falafel! Yay!)

Sometimes it feels as if my boobs are a separate entity from myself. As if they are a political region in crisis, a top news story, a high-maintenance house plant or a hood ornament. They often seem inanimate, though they are a part of my body they have a life of their own as silent observers of my painful and glorious 20’s.

My boobs are huge- so while they distract the eyes from my other slightly larger than desired features, they do just that to my dismay: They attract the eye.

u wish these were my boobs

Have you ever had someone pass you by on the street, ogle you and say in a sleazy drawn out creepy voice, “nice tits”? It’s very different from the time I was walking between meetings in Chelsea (Manhattan’s Gaybourhood) and two boys passed, one exclaiming, “Great shoes!”

The tits comment is demeaning, violating, mortifying and violent. And in Jerusalem, it happens to me often- several times a year a man will utter those words or similar ones, or grunt in my ear as he passes by and let’s be honest, it’s not because of long legs, a flat stomach with a 6 pack, a tight ass or high cheek bones. I don’t have any of those things. I have big boobs, that stand gloriously high considering my age, thank you. Sure, I also have blond hair and in the Middle East, that helps. But it is undoubtedly the boobs that attract the attention of ogling, barbarians.

i wish these were my boobs

I don’t want to blame my boobs, but I am conflicted about them. I do often wonder if a nip and a tuck wouldn’t get me some peace and quiet from car horns and horny passersby. Maybe with a breast reduction I’d escape the eventual sagging and drooping. If money were not object, maybe I would have done it years ago. Maybe I’d get rid of some of my chronic back ache. But maybe I’d miss them. Maybe they make up a bigger part of me than I’d like to acknowledge. Besides, they aren’t that big. They are somewhere around an E or EE, but they aren’t Hs! It is a really personal dilemma.

People tell me to wait until I after I breastfeed my babies. I don’t have any babies. Or baby plans. Or desire to grow one inside me, push it out and then breastfeed it. So despite all of those facts, I should base my entire self-image, my day-to-day chest-muscle weightlifting regiment, my physical image and sexually harassed body  on a frighteningly farm-like analogy?! I will not base my decision- to niptuck or not to niptuck- on potential future feeders of the boob.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a sexual object, nor am I a farm animal.

But maybe I am also not ready to leave my breasts on the cutting room floor of my life.

For now, I can’t afford a breast reduction. For now, I am dating a man who loves the EEs. For now, I am thankful for winter’s baggy clothes and scarves, great bras, gracious gravity, good laughs with my sisters, size Large sexy lingerie and the very few respectful, blind men who keep their eyes in their sockets when we pass by.

you have 'em too, boobie-man!

Thai Perspective

Now that I am back from an amazing, much needed vacation, my new perspective haunts me.

l had so much time to think and assess things in Thailand. I made plans about managing my stress levels, staying zen in Jerusalem. Then I came back to the same old busy, ass-busting, often frustrating life. Remember the time I spent 3 weeks laying on the beach, eating high-fat foods and loving up my tan bikini belly? Just barely, since I have no pictures. I left my camera on the plane and it was never found. And while at first my new shanty attitude helped me cope with the fucked up loss, with a week in, I’m screaming FML in my head when I think about it. But then I breath and try to let it go for the fifth time.

Lets be honest, getting back from an amazing vacation SUCKS ASS. Even with a gorgeous man and great friends waiting to see you. Here are my ‘back to reality’ resolutions, that just might help me keep the memory of the relaxed me alive:

1. Wear more skirts/dresses, like I did on the beach. Religious girls don’t have a monopoly on looking cute in a skirt.
2. Wear fisherman pants with Crocs. That’s the ugliest and most comfortable combination of clothing I can think of. Kiss my tan ass, Arielle (she’ll comment, then you’ll know who she is if you don’t already)!
3. Love my body… more. I do my best to embrace my curves and rolls. But I found in Thailand, in complete isolation, a real love affair with myself in general and real true acceptance of my body. Loving me up.
4. No more weekend overtime. I’ve been overworking myself to insanity, and taking work with me everywhere I go, including my evenings, my weekends, my dreams and nightmares. In Thailand, I took a cooking class, I snorkeled, I volunteered, got massages for $5- now that, is the way to spend a weekend. As the great Uncle Moishy sang, “Ain’t gonna work on Saturday” (he left out and Friday for Israelis/Sunday for Americans because that’s a bit wordy for a kids song). But call me a mitzvah man, because I think I’m gonna start keeping Shabbat.
5. Do new fun things with my spare time (See #2’s cooking class, snorkeling… massages”). I would love to learn to cook. I can be like Martha Stewart! Or learning the great art of Thai massage. The beauty is I’m a shit cook, and I don’t know that I have the grace to be a great masseuse, but I do love to eat, and I do have hands, so it could work. Look for me, next season on the Food Network.
6. Shhhh!  More quiet time. This is a hard one for me. But I need to devote more time sans phone, internet. My biggest form of communication with family and friends, Internet and phone are hard to ditch for even 5 minutes but I have also become accessible through those channels by work, which makes them major stressors. I need to make room in my week for quiet. This is a hard but important one for me, and I imagine all of my girlfriends working their asses off at work and with families.
7. Make more music. I’m going back to the band. The album drops Chrismas 2015.

I’ve known for years that I wanted to go to Thailand. I didn’t have any idea how much I needed this trip.

But I don’t want to be all Eat, Pray, Love Liz about this because I needed to shut my life away for 3 weeks to get this peace- I know not everyone can get that time away right now. I wish us all a long, paid, all inclusive free trip to the highest number on our ‘Top 5 Trave Destination‘ list in 2010.

making friends and other forms of prostitution

Island hopping through Thailand, the islands of Lanta, Samui and Chang, to be exact, I have been making friends here and there. Some more fleeting than others, some more warm and in-depth than others but all of the relationships have such an interesting lifespan.

Traveling alone is like turning your world into a pickup bar- that’s what you have to do in order to break the silence. At first it was hard and I considered that perhaps I wasn’t socialized properly. But that wasn’t it- thought I’m not saying it isn’t true.  I just had to think like a single bisexual on the prowl. Beer and a backpack, my wingman. Every single person- particularly English speakers- is potential prey. If I’m at a bar then I talk them up- “Where are you from?” or ask a question about the sporting event that’s on TV in the bar. My latest line- “What sport is that?”  is brilliant, because I really am that clueless about sports.  If I’m on a truck taxi or a bus or ferry, a good bet is asking a traveling question- “Where are you headed?”. Everyone’s fair game too- young, old, male, female, singles and couple- I’m not too picky. And I’m getting good at it, too. Fathers, lock up your traveling children…

Today, when my taxi truck (picture a pick up truck with 2 benches in the back, fitting 10 people, with a roof overhead on which backpacks lie) failed to lock into gear, thus sliding backwards down a hill and stopping itself in the jungle, I had no problem making fast friends- everything is an opportunity.  (no one was hurt, just lots of colorful language- “Shit!” “Fuck!” “We’re gonna hit a tree!” and probably some German curses I didn’t catch…)

I have been fortunate to share meals, snorkeling trips and beers with some really nice people from all over the world. A few fellow Americans flying solo in the East, with great conversation and a little reminder of home. Some young Sweds, Brits and Aussies have kept me in great company these last few weeks- sharing stories and laughs over a cold Chang beer and some pad thai.

Sometimes, you meet some real douche-bags, though. But the thing is, that for one night if you don’t feel like being alone, the douchebag you know beats the one you don’t. Recently I met 2 young Canadian guys over drinks and there was some serious douche-baginess going on, but I tagged along anyway, not feeling the quiet vibe that night. Over the course of the evening I heard a lot of fairly offensive comments and chuckled- not at the joke but at the lingering existence of ignorance in the world. I knew there was a reason Americans always laugh at Canadians- these two guys are it. Amongst the name calling of “gay” (and not in the good way) and sports-bar pool games I wasn’t that into, we went to get Thai massage after dinner. They had never been and I highly recommended it so we went. Not only did they not shut up the whole time- but as we left, one of them chose to leave a big tip, which was cool of him. When he told us how much he left, the other one proclaims, “You made me look like such a Jew in there!”

Pause for shock. Because for real, I did not know that people still said things like that- and we had already been through the  ‘I live in Israel and yes, I’m Jewish’ conversation. Usually, I like being The Jew and answering questions- also about Israel. I feel I represent well and I like telling people about our culture. It’s interesting. But not nearly as interesting as the anti-Semitic statement just made in my face. Sure he was mortified and apologetic after and I merely responded with, “Well, I’m sure now that you’ve said it to a Jew you’ll hesitate before saying it ever again, so that’s good”. What does it mean to look like a Jew anyway? To look cheap? This from the bungalow boys from Canada who hesitated and deliberated over having a $5 one hour massage which I have had daily here with no reservations?! I’m done invalidating the comment- it doesn’t need to be done. It’s just so strange to know, after 5 years in Israel and 28 years as a Jew, that anti-Semitism is alive and well- and it lives in Whistler, Canada.

But that night I did more than sell my Jewish soul for a beer. I witnessed prostitution and stripping and the general awesome degradation of women that Thailand has to offer. I know I should be more feminist about it- women have a right to do what they please with their bodies, and they do. But I cannot come to terms with it, when I feel my own very visceral, raw emotional reaction to it. I personally feel as if I am turned into a sexual being for sale, when I am in the vicinity of prostitution. As I did when I visited Amsterdam’s Red Light District, I feel so objectified and sexualized against my will in the presence of prostitution that it is really quite unnerving for me. I also can’t help but believe that 95% of those women are not choosing to do that but surviving by it- or maybe enslaved by it. Thailand is one of the world’s biggest destinations for sex trade and sex trafficking and for some reason every moment I spend watching girls market themselves for old fat nasty white men in bars, I feel like I should be doing something to stop it, to save them and save myself from that feeling.

Thai Torture

Lek, the elephant I rode a few hours ago, never forgets and is faithful 100%, according to Dr. Seuss.

Faithful he was in my one hour ride and he just might never forget me, as accessory to torture and tourist extraordinaire. I wanted to ride an elephant and that I did- my guide, mogley (I’m a little racist but the Jungle Books character was clearly modeled after a young Thai man, because the resemblance is uncanny), kindly pointed out the sites: large spiders that grossed me out, eagles that inspired awe, jungle squirrels, butterflies and flowers.

One thing Mogley did not omit from his tour: the elephant beatings.

Torture, or at the very least inhumane treatment of animals. When Lek stopped to take a rest, he got the kick of a foot- gentle but clear, or the hook of a cane and prodding by his ears by a man sitting on his head and neck- should a person even be sitting on an elephants head at all? Lek the elephant was hot, as was I. He batted his ears and made little (BIG) purring noises, and adamantly insisted on covering himself, and myself as an extension of him on his back, with his own snot in order to cool down. We rode, snot covered through the jungle, I hoped my poor Lek wouldn’t cast me into said jungle with a slight shrug, he would occasionally stop in the shade. Well, mogley didn’t like this and for that reason he had a cane. I swear! He prodded my dear Lek, and didn’t understand me when I politely suggested that that might not be the best way to motivate a live animal 10 times your size, he smiled and told me that Lek was happy, Lek smiles. Well, Lek got me back safely, in response to which I fed him an entire stalk of ten bananas (white-man’s guilt). Then I watched a baby elephant show- he stood on his hine legs and made baskets with his trunk!!! I saw no torture of the baby elephant, I am happy to report.

The highlight? Aside from riding an elephant of course which, despite my nudging feeling that I was causing pain and suffering to an animal, was really fun. The highlight for me was when Lek stopped and made some new movements I hadn’t felt yet before.

Then I heard them: elephant farts. HUGE loud elephant farts.

Mogley then informed me of what was about to happen, “elephant toilet!!” he proclaimed ecstatically. Mogley was thrilled, I was too, to be honest. I’m sitting on top of the elephant and here goes all the works- a waterfall and a dump that shakes the core of the earth. I chuckle, as mogley sings a song that consists solely of the words “elephant toilet”. Oh man, this is a wonderful country.

From high atop an elephant, I torture myself over the potential torture of Lek, my new friend.

I pay a Thai woman daily to stand on my back and inflict pain and pleasure on me, the likes of which I will pay for again tomorrow.

My great silence haunts my dreams of friends and loved ones I haven’t spoken to in over a week. I haven’t spoken to anyone right now in 3 days. Its a cleansing silent torture- a new one for me which I have never in my life experienced.

Then there are my nighttime beach walks where I allow myself to hear, feel and see things I haven’t in these past 2 tough years. I love this beach on Lanta Island for its beauty, its green blue, its sunsets, its hells and coral and its ability to field my many emotions without flinching- from pure relaxation and happiness (“the elephant toilet” song will never not make me smile) to sadness, anger and the other grieving emotions.  Tortured to know that I will have to leave here in 2 weeks- return to the rain and cold and pasty bodies (mine no longer included) of the Holy city and again tortured (good and bad) by the knowledge of 2 more weeks in potential fleeting silence.

Most of all I am so lucky to be here- for this great gift of sun, sand and quiet me time, I will take the pleasure together with the torture of  animal and human soul.

Travel Blog: Just One?

Yes, just one.

I am in Thailand, traveling alone on a combination post-divorce, i-work-too-hard, yay-i-have-money, summer-in-December vacation. I am tan, I spend glorious hours by the pool, on the beach, in bed sleeping and getting massages. I also spend some time thinking, writing, mourning, celebrating and thinking some more. I spend much of my time answering the question: “Just one person?”

When I go into a restaurant, check in, buy a ticket, join a tour, get off or on a boat or taxi or plane, the great, sweet, hospitable, sweet people of Thailand ask, with both shock and pity, if I am just one, traveling alone.

And I am, by choice. I chose this. I have a wonderful boo and family and friends who would have joined me, given cheaper tickets and better timing. But I need to do this alone- I need the quiet, I need the space, I need the experience and I don’t regret it. It does get lonely, eating alone and thinking in place of talking, but I have met people and I will meet more people- fleeting travelers to drink with or chat with. But mostly, on this trip I am meeting myself.

I am really nice. And cute.

But mostly, I’m complex and I’ve been through a lot in the past few years. While it is usually taboo to be sad on vacation, or skip the sites, or stay in bed on vacation, I have dubbed this trip, the “my-choice” trip. During the “my choice” trip, all of the minutes of all of the days will be spent doing solely what I chose to do at that exact moment.

So, I got jet-lagged, a luxury I never allow myself on trips to the states. I eat shrimp- pause for the gasp of all conservative American Jews. I went on a boat, with 10 couples, for 5 hours of swimming, snorkeling, monkey feeding and kayaking. I kayaked. I kayaked with someones boyfriend when she wasn’t into it- I was totally into it. I saw fish, and they were near me. Very near. I freaked out but as a wise traveler brother of mine predicted, when I freaked out and there was no one there to see and react to the freak-out, I just got over it and kept on snorklin’.

I write a lot, in a journal with a pen, which is a blast from the past for this e-blogger but the pen and paper make a comeback, sans laptop. No offense, but I get a lot more real and a lot more honest when it’s just me reading the entries. Amazing.

I think about the past, I get sad, I cry, I reminisce, I admit that things Id rather think of as another life are actually this life, a few years ago, and parts of me- hopes, dreams, fears and nightmares that happened to me and are with me even when I pretend they aren’t.

And then I get a massage- and for one sweet hour a tiny but strong Thai woman pinches, pulls, punches, kicks, elbows and massaged my very soul into submission. I submit. By the end of the massage I am ready to propose marriage and I feel very certain its love. But it’s just a Thai massage. It’s heavenly.

As loud as all of the clubs, bars, lady-boys, meat-heads, air-heads, obnoxious Brits (that’s right, I said it- Brits are more obnoxious travelers here than Israelis and Americans combined- they are drunk and loud and rude) are, they don’t drown out the silence of traveling alone. Sometimes it feels like I’ve taken a vow of silence, until I order my next 10,000 calorie meal that will cost me less than $5. But I haven’t vowed silence to God, I’ve just vowed 3 weeks to myself and as I work through the glory and guilt of that, I do so in a gorgeous setting of white sands, blue waters, white clouds, bright sun, flashing club lights and the bright red lipstick of the lady-boys. These colors and sounds allow me to get real and get calm and get still- finally.

So, yes, I am just one. But, bitch, you better be damned sure that I eat and get massages for two.

HIV Prevention is Personal

I feel so passionate about my work, that sometimes I forget to draw lines between my work and my self. It’s not good, but it could be worse. I don’t work at a bank, a modeling agency (surprising, I know), a paparazzi magazine or a high-tech for-profit company. I run an HIV testing center, I am passionate about LGBT health, women’s health and I am worry about the spread of STDs and AIDS in Jerusalem, Israel and the world.

It’s only appropriate that this week is both World AIDS Day and my birthday, the holy 28th anniversary of leaving my moms V-G so as to go out into the world and eat, sleep, crawl, walk, run and change the world. With World AIDS Day just 2 days before my birthday, I am trying to think of it as a gift. As I organize events and work with service providers and activist to ensure that message of prevention gets to the maximum amount of people possible, I realize that this makes for a stressful birthday- but also a meaningful one. I am giving myself the gift of changing at least one person, but hopefully more- to hand them a condom and convince them that it only takes one incident of unprotected sex to get HIV.

I believe that with the guidance of my staff at the Open Clinic and every other wonderful activist that has gotten involved in the clinic’s work and the Open House’s health initiatives, we are changing people’s approach to sex, we are pushing the trends of rising  HIV infections and we are the change that needs to happen in society in order to stop the spread of this otherwise preventable disease.

So on my birthday, all I wish is that  tonight at our benefit party for the Open Clinic, we will raise more money to support more free HIV tests in Jerusalem, while having a great night. I hope that you will join us or go here to support the clinic’s work. I hope that more dedicated activists get involved in HIV prevention work- because for everyone one activist or donor there is at least one but probably hundreds of newly educated, sexually active young people who are taking responsibility and valuing their lives.

I know that personally I must set boundaries between my work and my personal life- but when I do blur the lines, as I am faulted to do, I am glad I do it for the right reasons. Join the fight against the spread of HIV- it will be the birthday gift you give to me, to yourself and the world.

a short way to fall

I’ve fallen off the diet-wagon (for a few day ) and I can get up.

For a month I ate 1,200 calories a day- never more, not often much less. I worked out 3 to 4 times a week and I feel fairly certain that I have lost weight. I mean I can wear my mid-level skinny jeans- not my super skinny jeans, but still. Yet, I have had no luck with the scales.

Yes, I blame scales for my lack of number-dropping. I have never had a scale I didn’t think was broken and after much thought I have decided that that fact say more about scales than it does about me. Scales are faulty- they can’t be trusted. Digital, or that little pin with the rolling numbers- they can not be trusted! I mean one day you’re up, one day you’re down, that scale is like a drug! But I feel like what I’m doing isn’t working.

שׁAnd I’m pissed off. I’m so frustrated. I slave over allrecipes.com to find recipes with no butter,no flour but good taste and healthy ingredients. I am fucking cooking for the first time in my life because I want to lose weight. Yet my chins are still here- haven’t move an inch, all 4 of them.

I hate my 4 chins- I hate worrying about them in pictures, I hate chubby cheeks- facial cheeks that is. I just want to see a change- and I guess for that I need a number to drop off the scale. I need a chin to disappear and a cheek bone to reappear.

Is it that hard, body? Is it? Really? Maybe I just didn’t exercise for so long that even after a month+ of working out my body is still in shock. Like, “Huh?! What the fuck are you doing?!” and it just won’t budge, scared and confused. Maybe my diet isn’t working. I feel like I’m being so strict, but maybe I’m missing some important detail- except I cannot even consider going to some skinny bitch dietitian and hearing how she went from a size 1 to a size 0 in ninth grade and never looked back. Fuck it. I’ll beat that bitch, I really will not be able to control myself.

But I continue on. I go nowhere on the elliptical, I lift weights, I crunch my beloved belly, I eat near to nothing. And I hope that next time you see me I will be -1 chin, like this guy:

Most Rights Reserved

I know I have a HUGE ego, but sometimes I get really freaked out that someone is going to come into my little blog and  kidnap my word-babies.

My writing is to me like a child is to their parent- on a day when the child is behaving nicely, not being messy, biting, hitting, pulling hair and not screaming. I love my words. The words that I get out on the page are sometimes my best expression of myself, and I don’t want them to be stolen. I don’t want to think they are out there in someone else’s name. They are mine, and after a year when I lost almost all of my physical worldly possessions, I have learned that all a girl can really depend on in this life is her family, her friends, her dog and her words.

So I beg of you, please do not steal my words. In fact, let’s make a deal: I won’t kidnap your babies, if you won’t kidnap mine!

Women Create

I know so many amazing women.

In time, I wish to be able to write about all of them. But in this post, I want to focus on two of my closest friends in Israel. Both women are brilliant, smart, motivated, multi-lingual and artistic. Both women are immigrants to Israel. Both women are independent and brave. Both women are mothers, both have triplets (all together now: Oy vey! Keinehora!)! Both women are artists, who began to create art after they had created new lives. They are recreating themselves in a way. I am so inspired by these women and I want to share their art with you.

Hilary is my honorary second mom/sista-from-anotha-mista from Kibbutz Saad. As well as playing several instruments and being instrumental in introducing me to her band, who allowed me to share a wonderful and musical year with them, Hilary is an acclaimed artist, as of the last few years. Several years ago, she took a class and that class turned into beautiful flower paintings and landscapes. Then came her abstracts- her use of color is amazing and the first 3 of that installment hang proudly in my living room. They lend color, depth and personality to the otherwise white blank slate room. They make me think of Hilary and her strength.

Hilary has 5 sons and a husband. That’s right, the woman has 6 kids in her house! I mean her oldest son helps a lot and her husband is a champ, but then she had triplets and God Bless Her, she then had one more just for fun. She is a nurse full time and over time, so she cares for people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Her outlets, her music and her art are so expressive of her fun-loving personality, her kindness, her creativity, her open, adventurous side and her sensitive, feminine side.

Her latest installment of work is based on images of bamboo- the original piece was on request from a friend but as soon as friends and neighbors saw it, and the others- variations in size, color, negatives, neons, black and white- they began selling and going up in homes all over Israel, the US and Europe! Now, painting for fun is one thing, and it’s great- but on top of all of the other things to do in your life, to dream and act on a business concept, now that’s just fierce. But I understand her- I mean these pieces are good and they should be sold. I think that in the right markets, they could have serious mass appeal, which implies that her future work could have the same effect. I really believe in Hilary’s art and I love it. If you want to see more or get in touch with Hilary, contact me!

Marcia is a Brazilian queen, independent, strong, honest and kick-ass. Recently, she began designing clothes and, having been one of her first models I can tell you, this girl has vision, style and a serious understanding of how to make women look good. Her first two designs just hit stores all over Israel and I personally wear her wrap-meets-cardigan almost everyday. Marcia took this huge step- a new career, a new artform- within a year of just having triplets and building a new home. I don’t know anyone who would have the strength to do that. But she did. The first time I saw Marcia’s clothes, I already wanted one of each- they are flattering to all body-types and super sexy- dresses, tops, sleeves, oh my!

Marcia is the friend who met me at the airport when I made aliyah and helped me through the some of the hardest times of the past 5 years- and helped me celebrate some of the best times! Marcia has had quite an intense and amazing few years, she married a great man and gave birth to triplets! Yes, another set of triplets I am proud to know and love. With a big move and a broken leg, this woman has had her share of challenges this year.But she’s a champ and with her amazing family by her side, she’s kicking ass with her new clothing line!

Despite it all and with it all in her pocket, she still has the strength to start her own clothing design line, mass produce and market her women’s fashions. Her style is awesome, very feminine, very free-flowing, sexy, comfy but not shlumpadinka, curve-loving, beautiful fabrics and colors. Go here to see more and find a list a of stores, or contact me to get in touch with Marcia!

There are things we can all do everyday to support creative women like Marcia and Hilary- we can wear their designs and hang their art in our homes. We can talk them up, forward this post and other PR around to our friends and make sure we do our part to support these fierce women and their creations.

Go ahead, girls! Keep those creative juices flowing, we’re with you!