The List

I have been thinking a great deal lately about why women let themselves get in a rut, or more specifically, recycled ruts.

I watched a segment on Oprah several years ago (two?) that featured country singer Wynonna Judd. Wynonna had gone through a divorce and had gained an inordinate amount of weight. She discussed how she had always been a "rock" for everyone in her life: her mom, her kids, her fans, etc., and while in the process of trying to please everyone, she "forgot to put herself on the list."

That expression carried a lot of weight with me. I wondered what place I held on the list.

Every once in a while I'll have an epiphany and make a conscious decision to change my life. It usually goes something like this:

1. Lose weight
2. Be nicer
3. Embrace my spirituality properly and practice what I preach
4. Model the behavior that I want my loved ones to model as well
5. Make my marriage the best it can be

And I do OK for a while--two or three weeks. Then it all goes back to suckeyville for another year or so, until I have another "a-ha!" moment.

I know what needs to be done. I know how to do it. I just choose not to, and I think it is because I routinely leave myself off of the "list." Umm Zaid wrote a post a few days ago and talked about stuff I've been thinking
about for several months now, because I've seen many of my dearest friends suffering in their personal lives, and much of the source of their suffering has come out of left field, leaving them completely shocked. Every woman has a story. Every woman has a painful story, doesn't she?

Does every man have a painful story? I think not.

We women exclude ourselves from the "list." We do this because it is our nature not to trouble our significant other, or for him to be able to focus on himself (usually career-wise), while we hold down the forts and man the guns on the battlefield. We birth the babies, raise them (mostly), cook and clean and wear holey pajama pants we bought from Wal-Mart back in 1994 when we were umpteen pounds lighter.

How many shirts do you have with a Clorox stain on them? How many times a week do you wear them? You think, "I need to go shopping," but you put it off, because the kids need this and that. You don't want to trouble anyone.

Then maybe you get to know other women who consistently put themselves first, before the house and husband and kids, and they seem to have it "all together." But do they?

Do any of us?

How many of us need to update our lists or hold a list-burning for the outdated ones we've let govern us for years and years?

Here is Menu

I just ate some sardines that had several chili peppers packed in with them. I did not pay attention to the packaging when I bought them.

And, since I'm having allergy-o-rama these days, I just had to wipe my eyes with my finger that had inadvertently touched some of the oil the sardines were packed in.

I don't think it was a habañero pepper. Needless to say, my eyeball is on fire.

This experience reminded me of a time when I bought sesame chicken take-out at a Chinese restaurant. Hidden in one of the pieces of chicken was one of those long hot Chinese red peppers. I bit down on it. I think I ran my tongue under the sink for several minutes afterward, just knowing I had permanently burned off my taste buds. They eventually regained consciousness but it took a few hours.

I long for some authentic Chinese cuisine. I remember the little place we used to order from by our house, China Way. The owners were always sitting and eating the best looking stuff, like the food you'd see in China Town. So once I got brave and I told the guy, "I want to eat what YOU eat." He said, "Here is menu."

"No. I don't want something from the menu. Just cook me what you cook yourself. No pork."

"Here is menu, what we serve."

Nevermind. I always liked that place because they made their eggrolls and won tons with chicken.

Most times I've ordered Chinese food in Jordan, it's been cooked by a guy named Ahmed or a derivation thereof. (Muhammad, Mahmoud)

It's just not the same.

Notation Compulsion

I miss the days when I used to write with a pen.

Not long ago I was cleaning out bookshelves and old papers, and I ran across a collection of notes from my last two years at university. The classes were either Spanish literature or History. I paid particular attention to the notes I took with one of my favorite professors, Dr. George Liber, professor of Soviet/Russian history. Dr. Liber had a way of making me love Soviet history, even though my course of study focused on the history of Latin America. George had a dry sense of humor and was well-liked for being one of the few approachable professors in the School of Social and Behavioral Sciences. He liked my writing and gave positive feedback where it was deserved. Some professors hold back praise because, well, they are professors sitting on pedestals and can't afford to throw a crust of bread down to their minions. It'd be beneath them, don't you know?

Anyway, reading the anthology of notes I took during his classes made me feel two things:

1. I have gotten dumber with age.
2. My notes should be published.

As for the first point, I know I have not really dumbed down, but rather my focuses have changed. I'm no longer burning the midnight oil writing term papers, and I have not done so in about ten years, thankfully.

Which leads me to my second point: I was disliked by some of my fellow students because I would not lend them my notes. I would not even lend notes to my best friend. I figured that if students were taking 400/500 level history classes, then they damned well should be able to attend the lectures and pay attention. I treasured my notes. I am an auditory learner and my ability to transcribe what I heard was something of a gift I was not willing to share. Isn't that mean? I vividly remember Joe Fraternity, who was majoring in History just because it was the only thing he could teach once he got a job as a high school football coach, coming to class once a week, pale and frantic. "Dude," he'd ask, "Could I take your notes over to the library and copy them? It's been busy at the Frat house lately."

"No," I'd say.

"Dude, did you say 'no'?"

"I come to every lecture. I listen. I write. My notes are not leaving my possession."

"You're brutal, dude."

"Thank you."

Come to think of it, I did not love history until I entered university, which can be traced back to my high school years where 90% of my teachers of Social Studies were just bigger versions of Joe Fraternity. History class was the class we all blew off, because we knew our teacher was too preoccupied with working on the next play book for Friday's game.

I just re-skimmed through sixty hours of Soviet history, in my own words, written with my black Uniball. Just gorgeous.

Belated Pics

First stop was here, at the Narameen waterfall. I've never been there, but my husband said that while it looked lovely, the water was rather murky. No one dipped his toes in.

Eleven fathers, eleven sons, and a few teachers.
That's my son's Arabic teacher in the white shirt, standing amongst the musicians. He has instilled in my fourth grader a love of Arabic poetry.
A scene from Jarash, Roman ruins.

Here are a few pictures of the Father & Son field trip that took place last month. It gave my husband and son the opportunity to bond with other sons and fathers, seeing sights in Jordan and playing games. My husband won the "Dads' Race." He could not walk for two days afterward, but by gosh, he won.

I've Been Found

Once again, clap-clap-clap (loud applause), hip-hip-hooray, technology is grand.

My childhood friend Lianne Epstein found me.

She found my blog, and subsequently found a post about herself.

Isn't that a coincidence if ever there was one?

We have, oh, about twenty-six years of catching up to do now. I think that's exciting!

Nightly News

This morning my husband and I were watching (why, I can't tell you) the ABC Nightly News, which in Jordan comes on the a.m. after it is aired in the U.S.

I guess I was so used to watching this news, even as an American Muslim, and used to the jargon and catch phrases that they did not make my skin crawl. Five years of being 'out of the loop' regarding watching this stuff has made me very aware of why most Westerners feel the way they do about the region I'm living in.

The anchor, after talking about the hunt for the missing US soldiers in Iraq, said,

"Now we move to another region in the Middle East that has of late been overshadowed by the news from Iraq. We move to Israel, where the Palestinian-Israeli conflict continues to breed terrorists every day."

Hmmm.

Funny, because the actual film and commentary were about Israeli rockets that are now able to accurately target strikepoints in Gaza with more precision than ever before.

I used to be just like those thousands of US viewers glued to the news every night, taking it all in, subconsciously, because if it was on the nightly news, it must've been true. And that was long before the days of Fox.

God help us.

Sleep Deprivation

My little one's fever just wouldn't break.

We took a trip to her pediatrician today. It's kind of a journey from where I live, because it's in the neighborhood where I lived over three years ago, and they are tearing up the highway (wait, is there a highway in Amman?) so we had to take a detour.

He said, "She's a step away from being in danger of rheumatic fever."

Rheumatic fever can occur when a streptococcus infection goes untreated. Apparently, many kids here have strep throat that ends up going untreated. Eventually, the strep infection will go away, but it can leave permanent damage which will rear its head about 20 days after the initial infection, and can cause heart valve damage.

We are not living in the land of the rapid strep tests. In fact, strep has only been diagnosed through visual means with all of my kids; a strep test/swabbing of the throat was never done.

Needless to say, she got a major shot (it hurt me to watch!), and a five-day dose of antibiotics.

Hurrah for medical advancements. Fifty years ago, rheumatic fever was one of the leading killers of children under the age of five.

I have had two sleepless nights, but I think we're in the clear now. She's playing with her new chalkboard (a prize for being such a brave girl) and fighting with her three year old sister. Those are signs that she's on the mend.

As Umm Zaid said, my mommy instincts kicked in, and I followed them. It's a good thing.

Alhamdulillah.

We had an experience at the US Embassy here in Amman on Thursday, and I thought it was worth mentioning. It was POSITIVE. Imagine that. This time last year I tried to go and do a few things (namely, renew my kids' passports), and I left the American Services office in tears. (Did I also use the "F" word? Yes sir, I think I did, and I don't usually swear.)

This time around, however, everyone was super nice. I mean, SMILING and helpful. Passports will be ready within eleven days, they informed me.

Now we just need a destination. *sigh*

General Update

I found out who the lady is from Alabama. I was sure I knew all the gals in Amman from Alabama. I was wrong. I'm looking forward to meeting her in person.

I have a little one home with a fever that won't seem to break. I was reading in a parenting book about how we parents go cuckoo when our kids get a fever, and that fevers are just a sign that the body is fighting infection, and we should let them ride their course.

But I want instant fever reduction! Mystery fevers freak me out. We did the cool bath thing and that seemed to help for a little while, but it's right back up to 40 degrees Celsius, which is, I believe, around 103 degrees Fahrenheit.

We purchased Lost, Season III, up to episode 21, in the balad last night. So far it's really worth it. Talk about cliffhangers. JJ Abrams is a master, as is the team of writers sitting in rooms trying to come up with ways to intrigue me over and over. They are succeeding.

That's about it for today.

From BBQ to Toilets

The first Gulf War did many things to upset and uproot all kinds of people.

In brief, Palestinians had been living in Kuwait for around twenty years, contributing to the relatively new country a myriad of benefits. The Palestinians are among the most brilliant in the world in the fields of Math and Science. They are a driven people, focusing on education and betterment. The thousands upon thousands of Palestinians from Jordan who had made Kuwait their home in the 1970s and 1980s were a vital force in Kuwait's workforce and general infrastructure. Most people I know who visit Kuwait today and who knew it in its heyday would say that it is different, not the same 'feel', and missing Palestinians.

So when my in-laws were kicked out of Kuwait in 1991, my husband who was a student in the US lost his source of funds. He had to quit studying and find a job. The best-paying job he found was working in a Bar-B-Q restaurant, in the kitchen. And that's where we met.

Someone in the comments section of a previous post had asked me to talk about the moving from non-halal to halal employment. Over the years I have met many Arab-Americans here in Jordan who grew up with parents whose money was not earned in a halal way, whether it was grocery stores that sold prohibited items or owning liquor stores or what have you. We all know that in America, when you are in a comfortable place earning good money that it is very, very difficult to make changes. Stability is a good thing; we all want assurance regarding our next meal or month's rent.

Needless to say, my husband was stuck in that job for many years. It paid well. The insurance was great. But it was haram.

So, he left that job to become a janitor in the masjid. He took care of the masjid grounds, the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the Islamic school facilities. We lost our health insurance and half of his income. I can honestly say, however, that the four years he held that job, we were never happier. We really put our hearts and souls into the community then. That job led to better things, but its greatest gift was building character and giving my husband a sense of accomplishment. I don't think he ever felt any accomplishment while chopping chicken or sticking a slab of ribs on a plate.

He did, however, learn how to make some mean potato salad--a fringe benefit.

I Digress

It turns out there is another Birminghamian living here, female, and I do not know her. Must investigate! Must find out who this fellow blogger-Alabamian- ex pat-mother of three-hopefully friend to be is!

Working on hospitality post, still.

Howdy Neighbor

I used to loathe having guests in my home.

That may sound very selfish, and I've never considered myself a selfish person. Allow me to elaborate.

Americans, on the whole, are known for many things, but hospitality is honestly not one of them. You may say, "But wait a second here, I'm a good neighbor and I greet my visitors with a smile!" If you say that, I'll take it; but once your visitors have gone, do you talk about what a drag it was having them around--how they 'wore you out' or 'expected you to wait on them hand and foot,' et cetera?

Do you know your neighbors? Do you visit them regularly for reasons that go beyond discussing property taxes or picking up dog poo? Would you know if one of your neighbors fell seriously ill and needed help? Accomplished something great in life like graduating or marrying?

If someone comes to your house, do you offer him refreshments? If you do, do you say, "Would you like something to drink?" or do you just go and bring something without being prompted? Do you wear the countenance of "mi casa es su casa," or do you display the tell-tale look, revealing to the guests in your home they are an intrusion into your personal space?

Have you ever been half-way out of your door, only to have someone show up unexpectedly? If so, do you invite him inside, even though you must be some place, or do you be honest and say, "Sorry, this is a bad time, I have to run."?

Ponder these questions, dear readers. I want some comments, and then I'll tell you a little story.

Culinary Martyrdom

Grape Leaves cooked with Olive Oil

My son proudly spoons up some tabouli

As I sat at my kitchen table this afternoon cutting tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions into Lilliputian-sized pieces to put in my salata tabouli, I started to ask myself one question:

Why?

This whole issue crossed my mind earlier this morning as well, when my walking partner and I were discussing the kinds of snacks and meals we ate growing up as kids. I do not remember my mother slaving away in the kitchen the way I find myself doing on a nearly daily basis. After school, I used to eat some cheese and crackers or an apple smeared with peanut butter. My walking partner (she's from the Midwest) said that in her home, cottage cheese was the snack of choice. They dipped crackers in it, stuck fruit in it, and ate it (like I did) with Doritos. Nighttime dinners were simple, quick, and filling.

My mom was a working, single mother, and did not have time to chop or julienne or even simmer food, most of the time. Most weekdays our dinners consisted of opening cans, boil-in-bag (remember those?), or an occasional take-out meal, which was usually Captain D's, that great little seafood place. Mom did the best she could with the funds and time she had, and I turned out just fine.

It was not until I married my husband that I truly realized that the foods I had grown up eating for dinner could not be classified as "meals," but were rather snacks or appetizers at best, and at worst, just plain inedible. Thankfully my husband ate pretty much whatever I served him when we were first married, but I could see in his eyes that he longed for his mama's cooking. Something was missing from his plate; his palate was bland and untantilized. It wasn't only the food itself that he longed for, but also the emotion behind its preparation, which I can now express was a combination of love, an eagerness to please, and sheer exhaustion. How can I define what my husband had been missing? Because I, too, have joined the ranks of what I call the culinary martyrs.

I fully comprehended the depth of my husband's relationship with food the first time he took me out to eat authentic Arabic cuisine. Arabs in Birmingham and a few select local seekers of gastronomic delights knew that a tiny restaurant run by a Christian Palestinian family served each Monday night what was simply referred to as "The Special."

We were seated at a table in the back. The dining room was decorated with paintings of Bedouins and old-fashioned Turkish coffee pots. The waiter, donning a black bow tie and jacket, came to our table to take our order. He and my husband exchanged greetings and begin to chat. Thinking back on that night, I remember hearing, "kh blah kh kh kh blah blah blah kh kh blah blah," but now I know they said stuff like, "How's your family?" and "What's your news these days?" and "What would you like to order?"

I took a few sips of my sweetened iced tea, drumming my fingers on the table, anticipating the arrival of The Special. After about ten minutes, the waiter arrived with a large platter and placed it between us. On the plate was stuffed yellow squash cooked in tomato sauce, stuffed grape leaves, kubbeh, tabouli, hummus, and babaganoush.

We ate and ate and ate. We barely spoke to one another; the food was the entire dining pleasure, and really too delicious to be interrupted by chit chat. After wiping out the entire plateful, we ordered coffee and Arabic sweets. I needed a wheel barrow to haul me out of that place, I was so full.

On the way home, my husband told me quietly, "Back home, that plate would have been just a sample. You should see the platefuls of food back home."

In my mind's eye, I could not visualize what he was talking about. We had just consumed enormous quantities of food! How much could those people back home serve for one meal?

Now, sixteen years later, and living back home, I know. I can stuff squash, roll grape leaves, make trays of mansef, stuff cabbage, brown/boil/roast chickens (it's a three-part process)--you name it, I will do it. My mother-in-law taught me all of my skills, and did so patiently. I ruined many, many meals on my quest for culinary martyrdom. I learned about the satisfaction of moving from step A to step Z, when the bales of molokhia are brought into the kitchen for picking or the giant bunches of parsley are staring me in the face, waiting to be made into tabouli, or the three kilos of squash are waiting to be cored and stuffed, or at Eid ul-Adha when 30 gallon bags of freshly slaughtered lamb are set before me, waiting to be cleaned and packaged and distributed to the less fortunate, with, of course, some set aside for mansef.

There is something about this labor of love, this way to my husband and children's hearts, through their stomachs. Every once in a while, I dread cooking, but most of the time, no one can keep me out of the kitchen. Even here in Amman where so many women work outside the home, I see this time consuming way of life starting to become a memory. Microwaves are in almost every kitchen, and fast-food delivery trucks are on every street. Just the other night, the delivery guy tried to bring us two KFC family meals. He had the wrong house.

I am in no way knocking convenience, and we eat out just like everyone else. But there is just something I get from seeing my family well fed and happy, or the feeling of walking into a house where garlic has just been fried to be put in a pot of molokhia or fresh okra, or the pizza dough baking in the oven has been made by my own hands.

I now live in a different food dimension from the West. And I rather enjoy it.

My Jewish Pal

My best friend from age 5 to 8 was Lianne Epstein. Her father was a chiropractor and her mother ran a Hummel plate shop in posh Cocoa Village, Florida.

Lianne was a vegetarian. She was also smart as a whip. She entered Kindergarten at age 4. I think she tested off the charts for IQ. Her family was very goal-oriented and her house was messy. They were eclectic and funny and upbeat, and they introduced me to carob chips and the history of the dreidel and the Maccabees.

My world kind of came crashing down around me when I was eight years old, and had to move away from my home and my best friend. But I'll save that story for another post.

The last time I spoke with Lianne, sixteen years ago, I was about to marry my Palestinian husband. Lianne was working as an architect for Disney in Orlando.

My sister informed me the other day that she ran into Lianne's mom, the plate collector, and older sister, near her home. Lianne's sister identified MY sister as being my relative, immediately, and she has not laid eyes on me in probably twenty seven years.

In Spanish, there is a saying: El mundo es un pañuelo. Translated, it means the world is a handkerchief. What that means is that the world is tiny, and if you fold it up, you are bound to meet folks in corners where you least expect them.

I hope one day mine and Lianne's corners will meet, on so many levels.

Lianne, wherever you are, shalom.

Kudos

Yesterday we got our DSL up to speed. We upgraded. We've been waiting for this upgrade in our area for over a year.

This made my Vonage workable--I mean, really workable. I sat here trying to call everyone I knew. The problem was, I only could remember two phone numbers: Mom at Home, Mom at Work.

That's ok. My mom was able to talk to the granddaughter she's never met. My mom said a bunch of sweet things to her, with my daughter grinning the whole time. Then she told my Mom in the sweetest voice, "That's nice."

I expect floods of phone calls now. No one has any excuses.

Kudos to Linksys and Vonage and whichever computer nerd invented voice-over I/P.

I like computer nerds.