So About The School Thing...

In most schools the main words of the day on the first day of school are supplies, textbooks, homework, tests, you know all the super fun things that everyone just looks forward to doing. Well, that was in America.
I woke up Sunday morning all ready to start my first day of school. Supply-less and finally came to terms with the fact that no, I won't understand anything. I have endless amounts of survival skills. Endless.
Had my cup of coffee. Read the newspaper. Said good morning to the birds, because this is exactly what I do every morning. Gd forbid do I ever roll out of bed and skip breakfast and just about manage to say good morning somewhat friendly-ly  (yes, on my blog making up words is allowed. And encouraged. If this wasn't the case my blog couldn't exist primarily because half the words used are made up or grammatically not correct. Shhh.) Oh and whoever had the idea of pick your clothes out the night before just deserves thousands of dollars. Millions.
Of course everything I did that morning needed to be very dramatic. All the morning's events leading up to my first class (and only class that day, big deal) at 2 o'clock must be recorded in my baby book. My last time brushing my teeth before I am officially a college student. My last time cleaning the shower drain, hopefully ever, but also before I am a college student.* My last time checking my emails before I became the coolest college kid on the block eating my lunch on the quad (which is what in Hebrew? Yes, that's all I want to achieve in life- eat lunch on the quad.). Or so I thought.

*My very threatening sign about the shower drain. I have never felt more like my sister.

I opened up my emails and that was before I knew what a strike was in Hebrew. Ha what an armature  and it was less then 48 hours ago. Into Google translate (anyone know when it's GT, yes we are on nickname basis, birthday? Gotta get the makers of this thing a private island.) I go and walla I got my answer. Nope I didn't need freshly sharpened pencils for my first day or the biggest cheesiest "I am pretending I am so happy to be here but I really just want to crawl into that hole and hibernate until July" smile. I just needed to sit on my ugly couch all day, because October 21, my first day of college in Israel there was a shvita. That's strike for all you ignorant Americans.

P.S.- I wanted that post to not be so story-esque so this little tidbit I'm about to share didn't really fit in hence the P.S. (By the way, is it just me or do "P.S.'s" make you feel really VIP and like your part of some exclusive club. Only normal people get the letter. VIP's get the letter and the P.S. Ok, just my feeling of the day.)
All of my teachers were striking as of Sunday. I thought they would all be so happy to come back to school and see me, you know the kid that just made aliyah and is practically making the world a better place with just her presence. But apparently that was not on the agenda. Ok fine, go on strike. Do your thing. Make your signs and go picket rally or whatever it's called.
Then Monday morning I get an update email that one of my teachers, my Thursday teacher, is no longer striking.
Best moment of my life. Finally I can whip out that new outfit I have been saving and look all school-y and studious (emphasis on the look, not the act. I have no idea how to act studious. I was given a lot of talents, that's what my mom tells me at least, studiousness is no where near on the list.). My countdown to my first class of the year was on.
Thursday Thursday gotta get down on Thursday because I have class la la la la.

Got an email this morning, which I basically read as follows. "You've been punk'd! The professor is on strike. We just wanted to mess with you because we are just as bored as you are. So put that new outfit far far away."

If they were punking me- get a hobby. OR the other alternative is who goes on strike, then off strike then back on strike?! It makes no sense to me. None. But then again so does this whole culture, but we'll save that for another time.

Here was the conversation:  "here we are giving you what you want.  By the way, you have a nice newbie waiting for you in the front row Thursday. She will look like she is about to cry. Odds are she will be crying."
Prof: "ok, I'm going back on strike."

So to recap (wow do I feel like I am teaching you all a gemara or something), the strike is either Bar Ilan punking me, the prof having problems and perhaps some sort of amnesia (anyone know a doctor I can suggest for him?), or it's me. No reason why, just me.

The latter usually always seems to be right.