A while ago, I revealed that Mr. B and I would be going on a mini-Birthright for him.  Except it wasn’t free.  Because it’s kind of awkward for married people to go on Birthright.  Since I’ve already been, and I’m not a big fan of him walking drunk down Ben Yehuda Street asking Israeli girls to “show him their weapons.”  Plus, married people are lepers and we, like, aren’t really supposed to mingle with single people. Is there a Birthright for married people? Beshertright?  (Note: I’ve never called Mr. B my beshert in all my life.  Usually just my tsuris.)

Anyway, long story short, I gave him the Birthright rundown of Israel over the past two weeks.

Here is us, jetlagged to hell in historic Yafo with the historic Tel Aviv behind us and some historic German tourists (meaning they were old as hell) taking our picture.   What you don’t know is that we have also just taken 5 doses of acid in order to smile after landing at 5:00 am and hitting the ground running.  Zionism is hard, people.

Here’s us, stirring up some bidness at the Dome of the Rock, which Mr. B noted was “not as shiny as I expected,” and “was highly disappointed in the whole thing.”

And here’s me with some guy that was roaming the mean streets of Jerusalem that knows the best humusiyot in on every Jerusalem hill.  You can never be too careful out there.