What else am I going to blog about?

Here's tike #4, surrounded by footprints.



I love the way our street looked yesterday. After the 'asr prayer, the snow began falling down on us again. You cannot see the neighbors for the snow-filled fog up ahead, but they are there, playing and running around, adults and kids alike. We felt as if we were on a different planet, truly. I love the clean, purifying feeling snowfall brings to this land. I was also happy to meet so many neighbors I had not known before.



One of two snowmen built in the middle of the street. No cars were coming to plow them down, at least not for twelve hours or so.


There is nothing like a friendly game of soccer in the snow.


The other snow guy.

These two days have been breathtakingly beautiful. We have enjoyed many hot beverages, too. I have mounds of laundry to do this weekend but it is worth it. What a great way to end this winter break.

And down it came!

Rare snowstorm blankets the Middle East

I like (not) how the writer describes, in the above story, how "men in long Arab robes pelted each other with snowballs in Amman." How about "Arab men in long robes," instead? Everyone in my neighborhood got out in this wonderland today and we all played and ran and felt as if we were on another planet. Pictures coming, inshaAllah, once the internet connection is back up to speed. I think it's just cold.

So true, the altruism

Philanthropy, kind heartedness, and selflessness all do exist in this city, Amman.

Tonight the temperature will drop to around 27 degrees Fahrenheit, and we are expecting a snow and rain cocktail for the next two or three days. The tip of my nose right now is freezing, but I am sitting in a comfortable home with diesel fuel heating one heater and a propane tank heating another. We are full, clean, comfortable, and moderately warm, alhamdulillah.

Today as I drove hurriedly to the supermarket to pick up some staples in case we get snowed in, I felt an overwhelming pang of something in my gut, or in my heart; it was, I believe, a heavy discomfort from knowing that I can pretty much get what I want, when I want it. I don't mean diamonds or big-screen plasma televisions, but rather food and clothing and things that make me really, really comfortable.

Ya Allah, I want to do something in this life that will give others comfort.

Read here, at the Black Iris, about a fortunate man who is doing just that.

Save the Kids: A Reprise

I know I write about food and how I enjoy good things to eat quite often. My husband and children love a wide range of foods (well, except the almost six year-old, who currently prefers Arabic dishes that start with the letter "m"). Good food and good company go hand in hand; I love to cook and I love to feed others. However, I have battled with my weight at different stages of my life, including this one, and anyone who has weight issues, whether they be those thirty extra pounds, or one hundred and thirty, is someone with whom I identify. I really do understand.

I am not trying to make any enemies via posting what I'm about to write. Those of us with weight issues, who are adults, have made choices regarding our eating habits and commitments to moving our bodies or living a sedentary lifestyle. OK, some of us were born with the genetic predisposition to be large, some of us have hormonal issues such as thyroid or pituitary, and some of us are diabetic or battle with fluctuating glucose levels. We adults all have circumstances, and a history of choices behind us.

But what of our ten year-olds? What about those precious children we are raising who have not even truly reached puberty, but whose body fat comprises more than half of their weight? What about the kids who never go outside to play, who cannot touch their toes or do one single push-up or sit-up? Children who have never been taken on hikes or family evening walks, but rather are obliged to sit in front of some sort of entertainment box with a plate of microwaved crap because their parents are just too busy to deal with them? What choices has my 7th grader made about what goes on her plate at lunchtime or at dinnertime, except for those choices I have provided her?

I think that living in Jordan for the last six years has been great for my family in that we are away from the drive-in kind of life. I remember being a working mom in the US, when my workday was from 7:30 a.m. until nearly 5 p.m. The last thing I wanted to do after leaving work was to come home and cook. Many nights we ate pizza or fish and fries from a box or take-out Chinese. I do not apologize for those times because I did what I thought was right for my family at that time. But I made sure I interspersed those kinds of quick meals during the week with wholesome, home-cooked stuff, too.

All praise is due to God, my children got their father's metabolism. They are string beans and full of energy, mashaAllah. Looking back at my own childhood, I recognize that I was also a ball of energy and I was given the opportunities to be athletic time and time again. I am thankful that I took them and made physical activity an integral part of my life. It was not as if I sat down and contemplated, "to move, or not to move," because it was just the natural, feel-good thing to do. I attended public schools where P.E. was mandatory, every single day. Each year we took the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. There were perhaps two or three overweight young girls in my entire grade level, and virtually no overweight males. I can vividly remember sitting in Science class after P.E., and my legs pressing against that creaky old wooden desk seat would make these icky pools of sweat. It was yucky, yes, but looking back I am truly grateful someone--the system-- gave me the chance to make my heart beat fast.

If you never watched Shaq's Big Challenge, it is an eye-opening, moving show about a group of kids who are morbidly obese. I tuned in last night with my family. We were all moved to tears. The United States is on a fast track to being the first country where children's life spans will not be longer than their parents'. Heart disease will start showing up around age 20 in some kids; forget about the mid-life crises, because many won't make it past 40. We have let our children take over our households on so many levels. What parent cannot control what he brings home from the supermarket? Put the damn salad and grilled fish on the table, and let that be all there is. If they behave well, must we reward them with an ice cream? A pizza? What happened to a hug or a card or a sweet note in their lunch boxes? With all that we know about how the body works, why are we killing our children? Daily physical activity, increased heart rates and the kind of racing that makes you feel like your lungs are going to explode are not unnatural. They should be part of childhood and adolescence.

To end on a positive note, here's one of the success stories from the show. This kid's parents had to be in on the game, or he never would have made it.

As with anything--mental, spiritual, physical--we must begin with ourselves, purify ourselves, and be the right role models. Nourish those children, who are completely innocent, and teach them to want to take care of the gifts that their bodies are.

Some helpful links:

CDC and Childhood Obesity

Childhood Obesity Statistics and Facts

Kids and Fast Food, with other great links for kids' health

Overweight Teen, with BMI indicator for children and teens

Denise Austin Helps Kids Get Fit

Warning: Butter is Delicious

Cranberry-Orange-Pecan Coffee Cake

Ingredients:

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature
1/2 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup fresh or store bought orange juice (makes more sense to use fresh, since you need orange zest)
1 to 1 1/2 tsp. freshly grated orange zest
1 1/2 cups fresh, frozen, or dried cranberries, whatever you have
1/3 cup (11/2 ounces) chopped pecans (walnuts may be substituted)

Streusel Topping:
1/4 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into bits
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup pecan halves

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 350F. Butter and flour a 9-inch pie pan or a small square Pyrex. (I prefer square)

In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add the egg and vanilla and beat well. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt. Stir to blend. Add to the creamed mixture alternately with the orange juice concentrate in 2 increments, beating just until smooth. Stir in the cranberries and nuts. Spread evenly in the prepared pan.

To make the streusel topping: In a small bowl or a food processor, combine the flour, butter, and sugar. Cut in the butter with your fingers or process until crumbly. Sprinkle evenly over the batter and stud with the nut halves.

Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until the cake is golden brown and a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then unmold right side up on a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature, cut into wedges.

Makes one 9-inch cake; serves 8. (actually mine, in a square pan, served 9)

300

This post is #301, so that means I hit #300 with the last one. I did not even realize it when I hit #100 or #200, but #300 seemed to me like a milestone.

Thanks to all of you who have been reading. Thanks to all of you who have provided me with amazing reading materials from your own blogs. I started on this puppy at a time in my life when I needed it. It's been good.

Anyway, thanks.

Stroll Down Memory Boulevard, with Jiffy Pop

Here's my sister, at her blog, with her own clever quizzola to see how old you are. She and I were born nearly a generation apart (with a generation being approximately 14 years). I must admit some of the items on the list I am not familiar with; others I know only through the osmosis of my older siblings' storytelling. Some I do indeed remember. Do drop by for a gander, it's wunnerful, wunnerful.

Have a Slice and Look Real Pretty Eating It

image taken from this wonderful food blog



I just popped my cranberry-orange-pecan-streusel coffee cake into the oven and poured myself a cup of coffee. I used nearly the last of the coveted "nuts of gold," or pecans, that I brought with me from my trip home this summer. I love pecans any time of year. It's a pity they are so overpriced here.

My cranberries I brought with me in my luggage as well. They are dried and pack a lovely tangy punch when chewed. Cranberries aren't just for keeping the kidneys healthy, folks.

When I left the kitchen with my coffee in hand, I found the kids all snuggled up on a cushion in the den, watching one of their favorite channels, Fatafeat, and my personal favorite chef, Nigella Lawson.

Dang, she's pretty. She's the only person I know who can dirty up her kitchen yet remain picture perfect. My son wants to try everything she makes, even pea puree and pasta with crab. Is it because she makes the food look so enticing, or because she is so dang pretty? I promise this is the last time I use dang three times in one post. But I really like the way they show her raiding the fridge for nighttime leftover indulgences. It's not only sloppy Americans who get the munchies at 11 p.m.; beautiful Britons do, too.

Time to jump on the treadmill, wait for the coffee cake to be done, then we're off to brunch with some friends. At least I will have pre-worked off the calories I intend to consume.

In the News: Egypt and Gaza

Could the 2 billion dollars worth of foreign aid that Egypt receives from the United States each year possibly be the impetus for Egypt's attempted sealing of the Rafah border? It's just a thought.

It's not like Egyptian citizens have not been suffering from economic depravity for generations. The dichotomy between rich and poor in Egypt is more widely seen than in most Arab nations. All I have to do is walk down my street and survey the Egyptian building supers or construction workers in my neighborhood to have a clearer picture of what skilled laborers can expect to bring home each month in Egypt. My friend whose mother is from Alexandria and whose father is Palestinian spoke with her cousin in Egypt who just graduated from University a few months ago. Her expected salary now that she is employed is around 22 JD per month, or $31 US, which is 172 Egyptian pounds. Compare that to what a building super can make per month, around 100 JD, or 785 Egyptian pounds. It is no mystery why the Jordanian labor force is largely composed of Egyptian workers. To read more about Egypt's economic and educational crises:

Egyptians Demand Higher Salaries

Brightest Minds Neglected

The Tragedy of Education and Culture in Egypt (long, but interesting)

Egyptian Universities: No room for the mind to grow ?

Now, back to the issue facing Gazans:

Bulldozer Thwarts Egyptians at Gaza border

Border Crisis Key to Gaza's Future

People Power: And the Wall Came Down
(thanks, Aaminah, really beautiful)

Steam THIS

"Meanwhile, back in the Broccoli Forest..."

Thanks, Baraka, for pointing out these foodscapes. Amazing!

Man's Inhumanity to Man

My friend Umm A.R. alerted me to this story yesterday, and today The Jordan Times has more information about the Indonesian domestic worker who was slain and whose body was dumped in a remote area. This story is yet another despicable tragedy in the annals of the relatively new history of domestic workers in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.

I have been suppressing the urge to write about my take on domestic workers in Jordan for some time. One of my dearest friends came to Jordan as a domestic worker (read: slave), and I have absolutely no tolerance when it comes to abuse of human beings in any capacity. One thing I try to do when discussing different cultures or races is avoid, like the plague, the two-cent stereotype. When speaking about domestic workers in Jordan and their widespread, well covered-up mistreatment, it is easy to fall into concluding that those Arabs are cold-hearted and don't consider their maids as humans. Well, that is simply untrue. On the other hand, one might be able to toss up the blanket statements that those Indonesians are too naive and will end up taking Egyptian boyfriends if you don't keep 'em on a leash, or those Filipinas are too strong-willed and demanding and have to be shown their place. Stereotypes, as you know, all originate from some snippet of truth, but cannot be accepted as truths themselves. This is where our God-given abilities to observe, reason, and make conclusions based on our own observations should come into play. Gee, if everyone did this, I think we could eradicate racism in one fell swoop. I'm such an idealist.

So here's my story, and later we can discuss.

When we moved to Jordan I did not imagine that I would feel like a failure as a housewife. I now know why the woman who is only 45 years old looks more like 60. The physical demands on women here are difficult to articulate. You have to live it to know of what I speak. Dust is everywhere, and it creeps into homes with even the tightest of sealed windows. We even have metal window covers we pull down to cover the glass that is covering the screens that are behind 40 meters (ha!) of curtains to keep the dust out, but to no avail. Dust has a life of its own, is determined to rule, and rule it does. We have to dust every day, wash floors, wash all of our dishes by hand (dishwashers would consume too much water), clean bathrooms that mysteriously become flooded with water, sweep and sweep and sweep, and sweep some more. Plus most of us make our meals from scratch, and that includes sauces and everything. I do not know anyone who dumps jars of Ragu on pasta and says, "Dinner is served," because that one jar would cost the same as it costs to make four batches of spaghetti with meat. No Lean Cuisine, no Marie Callender's, no quickie pop-in-microwave conveniences. They would break the bank.

What happens is that we adapt to the demands of cooking and cleaning in Jordan, and most of us, I must say, do an excellent job of it. Some of us even become obsessed with having to keep the perfect home, which is probably triple the work of doing so in the U.S. I fell into this mentality and so did many of my friends. The thought of in-laws popping in unexpectedly and the house being in shambles was enough to always keep me on my toes. In the process, however, I felt my lower back taking its revenge out on me. Oh, and then I had baby #4, who cried for months and months on end. I needed help: my husband saw it, my friends saw it, and I finally conceded. I thought that having a maid was going to be the lifesaver I needed.

Before I got my live-in helper, my dear friend whom I spoke of at the beginning came and lived with my family for three months. She cleaned my house and helped me with the kids; she was Filipina and had come here to work in a spa but the owners had been so vile that she had to run away. It is a long story but the important issue is that she had endured mistreatment and was happy to come and work for an American who smiled at her and who treated her as an equal. My experience with her in my house was exceptional. She just came over for dinner last night; she is a friend for life.

When I finally did get my permanent helper, I breathed a giant sigh of relief. I could leave my home without all four children in tow; I started working part-time doing what I love; after dinner I sat with my husband instead of washing dishes or cleaning up after the kids. I really turned my home over to this person, whose personality was quite strong. She claimed she had come from horrible working conditions and honestly when she arrived at my home she seemed awfully depressed. I was afraid to place many demands on her or to even show her how I wanted things done, because she droned on all the time about how 'bad she'd had it' elsewhere. Whatever she asked of me, I gave her. To make things more complicated, she had very close relatives living in a close proximity to me, and she had been promised by one of them that they could get together every weekend, all of this unbeknownst to me. Her entire premise of coming to work for me was that she was to have the role of nanny in my home, not housemaid. I did not need a nanny, but that is what I got.

She was not all bad. She had definite good qualities; she never stole from me, she was well-educated, and a really good cook. What bothered me the most was that she wanted to run my house, and whenever I called her out on something, she became visibly irritated and snappy. I am not a fan of confrontation and for the first year I kept suppressing my feelings; I refused to be mean or to yell. After a year and a half, she asked if she could go to the Philippines to see her family. I really wanted to just release her from her contract, because at that point our communication had simply broken down. I hated having her in my home. My husband and I decided that letting her go would be a good thing, but after two weeks in the Philippines she kept messaging me that she was missing us and ready to come back to work. So she did.

The last six months of her contract were the worst. I really resented her and I made it known. I did not hold back on confronting her when the situations merited it. I chastised her when she did things that I just simply, as the employer, did not like. I did not, however, mistreat her. She had always had free reign over the kitchen, eating and/or cooking as she wanted. I still let her visit her family members here. I always paid her on time, often gave her advances, and always mailed her letters to her family or wired money home when she asked me. But I really needed her out of my home and I needed her to stop interacting with my children. When it was time for her to leave, it was really time for her to leave.

I hope that she finds a good employer with whom she can see eye to eye and that whomever she works for knows what she is looking for in a job, because housemaid was not it. I want to reiterate that she is not a bad person; she just was not the right helper for my family. But with all of the problems that we had, could I imagine, ever, tying her up with ropes? Putting her in a cold room and letting hypothermia set in? Hurting her or laying a hand on her, in any capacity? A'oothu billahi min as-shaitan ir-rajeem. Do these people not fear Allah? How do people allow themselves to become so filled with hatred and indifference to the value of human life to do such acts? These are the things I cannot comprehend, and they happen every day here. Every day.

My family and I have been living helper-free since October. Yes, some days I want to just sit back and let someone come and do all of the work. But my older kids and I, as well as my husband, aka Mr. Vacuum, are handling it quite well I think.

Two days ago I took my three daughters to Carrefour; we had been down in the beled (city center) earlier and were running on little food for fuel, having had a minimalist's breakfast that morning. I told the girls we'd run upstairs in the mall and grab some sandwiches before we shopped. The sandwich joint where we ordered our food had four smiling Filipinas working behind the counter. I talked with them a bit while waiting on my order, then went to sit down and eat. With my first bite of sandwich, I glanced up to see three other Filipina housekeeping staff gathered around the food court garbage bin. They dug out two (or three, I couldn't tell) Happy Meals that people had thrown away, and began devouring the leftovers within. They called over one of the Egyptian workers to join them, and the four of them stood in plain sight, eating food from the garbage. I put my sandwich down, feeling ill. I nudged my oldest daughter to look over and witness this. She, too, put her sandwich down. The illness we felt was not from watching them eat out of the garbage, but from the sudden realization that we were sitting in the midst of Gluttony; people all around us were devouring way too much food bought at way too high prices, and throwing it away. I told the girls to pack up their sandwiches and that we would finish them at home. Then I went back to the sandwich counter to interview the workers.

I learned that all four of them, when they leave work, sleep in the basement of a hospital, in the room adjacent to the morgue. I learned that their salaries are 140 JD /month ($200 US), but that they must buy all of their own food, which runs at least 60 to 70 JD/month. I learned that no one, since working in Amman since summer, has been able to send money home, which is the entire reason for their working here. And I learned that they are all thankful to God to have a job.

I will not soon forget their faces, nor will I forget the unnamed Indonesian girl whose life has been stolen.

Pass Us the Ball

We woke up this morning in Amman to huge flakes of snow falling quickly, enough to really blanket the streets and sidewalks. Yesterday I was walking in the city center and was sweating; today I'm sitting in three layers of winter clothes, waiting for the gas man to drive by, because we have an empty tank.

Which leads me to thinking about all of our brothers and sisters in Gaza, who, if they have an empty tank, cannot fill it. Nor can they have their kidneys dialized, nor can their NICU babies stay on their life saving monitors, nor can the bread stores that are still able to run dole out enough bread to keep the people fed. The hospitals don't even have syringes or antibiotics. A kilo of tomatoes or potatoes can scarcely be purchased.

We couldn't get aid to them if all of the governments of the Arab world suddenly woke up and said, "Let this be the last day for this to happen," which of course, they won't. We cannot get aid through to the people of Gaza, because we must remember that the ball is in their court.

Flim Flam Part II

Saturday we had a gathering to congratulate some hajjis and to also congratulate a sister (also one of the hajjis) on her new home. MashaAllah. Oh! It was also an iftar because most of us were fasting for A'ashoora. It was a three-birds-with-one-stone kind of party; aren't those the best?

I love these kind of gatherings because they include sisters from all walks of life. K-Town, or Hay al Kharabsheh, a neighborhood here in Amman, probably boasts the most ex-pats concentrated in a single square kilometer of this city. You've got your Britons, your Pakistani-Americans, Pakistani-Canadians, Indian-Canadians, just plain Canadians, Australians--I could go on and on. Most of them are students of knowledge who have come to Amman to live and study. Some are murids of Sheikh Nuh of the Shadhili tariqa. Others are murids and are studying Arabic language at Qasid Institute, while some folks work for Islamica Magazine or Shukr Clothing. Many of these ex-pats have completely transplanted their lives and have committed to raising their children here in Amman. Kharabsheh is an amazing place to visit. I am not a murid nor a member of the tariqa, but I have never been greeted with anything but warm, welcoming handshakes or embraces. If you want to see light in Muslims' faces, K-Town is a place to behold.

Along with the Kharabsheh sisters, many sisters from the various email groups or study groups here in Amman also joined the festivities. We are a sisterhood, I tell you. Recently one of my friends from the U.S. was visiting me. She observed the phone calls I received from my friends and remarked about how comforting it was for her to know that I was 'in good hands' here. I left behind many beautiful, dear sisters in the states, but Allah did not close the door on friendship to me when I moved to Jordan. SubhanAllah, subhanAllah, subhanAllah, I am blessed beyond my descriptive abilities with women in my life who are pure treasures, on two continents.

So there we were at the housewarming/hajji fiesta, and there was singing. Most of the sisters from West Amman are not used to singing at gatherings, I think. I may be completely off base, but I feel there is a sort of preconception that group singing will lead to group dhikr which will, by default, lead to dervishy spinning or something. I am not quite sure why we feel intimidated by passing out song books and singing songs that praise Allah and our beloved Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him. As I've said before, I read Arabic with the speed and ease of a first grader; my intimidation with song books could be that I can't keep up with the nine year-olds whose first language is not Arabic. I have, however, reached a plateau of understanding in my life that tells me this: I have much to learn from the students of knowledge.

When the young boys at the gathering sat down in the middle of the room to share their singing talents with us, I had to hold back tears. Before they sang, I heard them in the kitchen discussing which songs they were going to sing and how many verses, etc., and they were completely exuberant in their speech and were bouncing around with excitement. How can we discredit an enthusiasm so pure? While most of our children on this winter break are fighting over the remote control or whatever, these kids don't have televisions. They aren't spoiled beyond spoiled. They say "Assalamu Alaikum" when approached by an adult, and they say it with conviction, unlike so many of the kids in West Amman who only know "ahleyn" or who offer a limp and unenthusiastic hand when greeting adults. Of course the K-Town kids are all still basically kids at heart: they talk back, get into mischief, fight with their siblings, etc. But they have something different in their faces, something beautiful I can't quite describe.

Living here has taught me so much. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to meet, well, everyone.

Flim Flam

Flim Flam is what I refer to as what's going on.

This week I've had so many ideas to write about but as I've sat down to do so, I've experienced a bit o' writer's block. Maybe there is too much swimming around in my head and I need to do something like get an old fashioned notebook and ink pen and just jot a bit. I used to jot, a lot, back in the day.

The end of this week was packed full of activity. Thursday I had a few ladies over for lunch; my oven quit working on me and we ended up with some cold soup and a brownie catastrophe, but we had a lovely visit.

On Friday the in-laws came for lunch. My husband and I were the epitome of tag-team cooking and I am still grinning about the synchronicity with which we chopped, boiled, sauteed, rolled, and broiled. The menu:

• 4 kilos of lamb cooked in yogurt with rice and pine nuts (this is called lebaniyyah or shakriyyah)
• homemade mac and cheese
• rolled up m'sakhan fingers (this would be shredded chicken, tons of onions and sumac, and pine nuts, rolled up in flat Arabic shrak bread)
• a big salad
• kanafeh fingers and warbat, from Arafat, the original

My brother-in-law who is still a bachelor (hopefully not for long) washed all the dishes after lunch, bless him. The Colombian connection was part of the group, and they were able to eat, relax, and feel warm in our home (we fired up all of the heaters in their honor). Afterwards I sat with them and picked their brains a bit about what they know regarding Islam. Living in Colombia, where they told me 'you are either Catholic or Christian,' maintaining a Muslim identity is difficult. I did not feel like debating with them on the Catholic/Christian issue, but was happy to know that they at least identify themselves as Muslims. We laughed and joked as I stumbled through my dusty Spanish, but as the evening progressed, I was able to converse fluidly without reverting to Arabic.

Most of the hip slang I used to know was from Mexico back in the early 1990s; some of it I tried to use with the twins and they just laughed and laughed. I suppose this was akin to someone using late 70s disco lingo with Queen Latifah or something. I'm taking a stab in the dark here, people. My husband's nephew did tell me after I said one particular phrase, "Yes, we used to say that, but ya se fue, or it's already out of style." My daughter, thinking she recognized something in their language, perked up and exclaimed, "I didn't know they had a Safeway!"

I'm off to buy some fabric with a friend now; I'll write about Saturday's events, inshaAllah, when I get back.

Los Payasos de Miedo

I don't know about you, but the only clowns I've ever liked have been, um, no clowns at all.

I take that back. Ronald McDonald was the only clown that even came within the limits of acceptability as far as clowns go, because he had decent cronies: Grimace, the Hamburglar, etc. I figured Ronald was also OK because he gave the parents of sick children a place to stay while the kids were being treated. A benevolent clown he is, indeed.

Other than the Ronmeister, clowns be gone! I actually didn't mind them until that fateful night when the deal was sealed: I watched the film Poltergeist at the theater in 1982. (Who took me to see that movie, and what were you thinking?) It was during that scene when the little boy (Robbie?) in the film goes to sleep at night and wakes up to find himself being choked, then wrestled to the ground and dragged under his bed by a clown in his bedroom, when I firmly declared that clowns were not my pals. I didn't want any figurines in my room that played Send in the Clowns nor did I want any giant-eyed, red-lipped smiling faces of pure evil staring at me while I tried to count sheep.

The geniuses have worked their magic again, and figured out that most kids fear clowns.

Mad Mad Mad Mad Men

I'll cut to the chase; I'm short on time.

I enjoy TV programs. I will not be apologetic about this. Most TV, as far as I'm concerned, is pure rubbish. But every once in a while, I'll find something that really grabs me.

This is what happened with the show called Mad Men, which has been aired on MBC 4 this season. I know the MBC family of channels pays mega bucks to get the most popular programs from the US. I had not heard of Mad Men nor had I read about it anywhere. But it sucked me into its world of 1960s advertising and scheming, of lies and cover-ups, of the pinnacle of mastery of passive/aggressive behaviors disguised by fine clothes and good hair. And scotch.

Mad Men is like Leave it to Beaver on Valium. The characters all have something to hide but their sanctimonious attitudes and judgmental call-outs are what attract me the most. I was not alive in the early 1960s (sorry) but I've always been fascinated with that era. It was the period when pill addictions and shock treatments were the norm, but so was having a sterile home life and perfectly manicured hands. It was a time of brewing conflicts on so many levels; a powder keg where the status quo was about to come crashing down, a great President would be killed, and a war that the world never thought could be surpassed in carnage and hypocrisy would begin.

Bad day, honey? Let me pour you a drink.

MBC has not always made the best choices in choosing what to air over here in the M. East. This show, from AMC, is an exception. Check it out. Oh, and it just won a Golden Globe. Apparently I'm not the only fan.

Good quote, strange tales

That’s the mentality we raise our kids with: That they must be entertained every moment of every day. So we’re now piping Nickelodeon into our minivans over Sirius satellite radio. If you reach adulthood under the impression that the world exists to entertain you, you are going to be on the couch your whole life. And that’s not what God is telling us to do. The world is burning. He wants us to jump in, grab a bucket, and start putting out fires.

I found the above quote in an interview with the co-creator of the new Veggie Tales movie. While I've never seen Veggie Tales, nor do I care to, the interview by Religion Writer is top notch and entertaining.

(I also in no way condone portraying any of the Prophets, may Allah be pleased with them, as vegetables. I just liked the guy's quote.)

Hiatus

No, I'm not really on one. I've just been quite busy with all four of the kids being out on winter break. I have lots to talk about but not much time.

We did have an interesting day as a family yesterday. My husband met, for the first time, his niece and nephew--twins--who hail from Cúcuta, Colombia. My husband's sister (from his Dad's second wife) has lived in Colombia since she was a young bride. She and all of her children primarily speak Spanish, and Spanish only.

I thought they were delightful and was the only person in the family who could understand them. It was odd watching them try to stutter through some basic Arabic conversations. They were frustrated a bit and shy to speak. In stepped la traductora. It has been years since I was in the position of being the translator from Spanish to English, and for the first time yesterday, from Spanish to Arabic. Language continues to fascinate me, as well as trip me up from time to time. Yesterday was no exception.

More to come, hopefully, on the Palestinian--Colombian connection.

Searching

I got this link from Umm Zaid yesterday. Honestly after I read her story, I could not sleep last night. This is the first time I have heard about this young woman; the story did not make the news as other more sensational 'missing persons' stories have. I wonder if it has anything to do with the locale--why have the US news agencies not been more vocal about this?

I really feel for her family and have always believed that not knowing is a more painful existence. I hope they find her.

Farouk The Tablah Player

I thought I would share this one I found; the tablah player shares my son's name, and happens to be quite good. It really picks up around minute marker 1:20. I can barely type this post, much less coordinate my fingers like that.

Running to the Beat of a Different Cabbage

So I've taken up jogging/running on Lester, the treadmill.

When we bought him over a month ago, I promised myself I would walk at least four times a week for thirty minutes at a time. He's just too handsome to resist, and never leaves me unchallenged. He takes my breath away.

Both my husband and I, at some remote points in our lives, were quite athletic. He played soccer and basketball, lifted weights, and ran long distances. I, too, played basketball, as well as spent my summer days in the 102 degree Alabama heat holding girls' feet, with heavy-treaded tennis shoes in my hands, while lifting them high above my head, then catching them in my arms when they fell from a 12-foot height. (I'd catch the entire girl--not just her feet.) Rah, Rah, Sis-Boom-Ba.

There was a time during my courtship with my husband when I began to put on extra pounds (after he introduced me to things like stuffed squash, grape leaves, and baklaweh, or would bring me Taco Bell taco salads at 11 o'clock at night, whispering Arabic sweet nothings things like, "Eat, eat, it's good for you.")

Such encouragement and resulting poundage lead me to go on a year-long diet that set my eating habits in motion for the next five years. I was a picture of self-discipline with my "Oh, I couldn't possibly put mayonnaise on that turkey sandwich," or "No thank you, I won't be having dessert tonight."

Fast-forward to sixteen years and four children later--a time in which my willpower has hit an all-time low. I tried to join a gym in Amman two summers ago, but could not endure being forced to watch Christina Aguilera, Shakira, and Haifa Wahby while I exercised on the machines. Most days I would leave feeling sick and unfulfilled, not to mention having to deal with "trainers" who had never taken a fitness class in their lives nor who knew anything about how to help an asthmatic get a good workout without killing her. (The gym employees also dissed my love for avocado smoothies, telling me they were the culprits keeping me overweight. I vehemently disagreed.)

The first time, about two weeks ago, I ran for two minutes straight on the mill o' tread, and thought that was comparable to climbing a tall mountain peak. Then I stretched it to eight minutes, an accomplishment that merited a phone call to my sister. Then fourteen. Then yesterday, I ran straight for twenty-two minutes, without feeling like my sides were going to split open. I think I could have continued running, but I did not want to push a good thing. I find that covering up the timer on the treadmill helps me; I focus on a few of the bricks in my living room and play Nourhan Sharif's Arabic Rhythms, Volume One, on the iPod. My favorite rhythm so far is the "Malfouf," which in Arabic means "rolled up," "rolled up cabbage leaves," and also just plain "cabbage." Anyone interested in learning basic tablah rhythms should check it out. While I run, there are no skimpily clad women around me, gawking at me or sizing me up; I am in the comfort of my own dining room and can, during certain hours, watch my silhouette run along side me, as the drum beats on.

Ba da ba da da da ba da da ba da ba bomp.

Snapshots: Passing time waiting in the car

This is nothing exciting--just some shots I've taken over the past two weeks with my camera phone while waiting in the car, bored.

I took this shot while driving, but not driving; I was in some kind of traffic jam on University Street heading towards the Duwar Sweileh. I detest driving there because there are so many pedestrians who do not consider their lives as valuable and will jump in front of a moving vehicle without hesitation. Luckily that day we were just sitting, not moving, while some member of our police force did something or another up ahead. Who knows what causes jams in Amman. Could it be...too many cars, too little road? Little or no infrastructure? No city planning? Anyhow, I thought the hills above Sweileh were looking lovely but my camera phone did not do them justice.
Here is our favorite Friday dessert pick-up spot: The Tamriya Joint. Apparently tamriya is a traditional Palestinian sweet but has somehow become impossible to find in Palestine, or so says my sister-in-law. The Arafat family is known for its sweet making prowess. I love tamriya because it is not syrupy sweet and it is made fresh while you wait. It is a thin pastry filled with semolina and some flavor I cannot identify, then quickly deep fried and sprinkled with sugar water and sometimes powdered sugar. Yummy.
Here is the veggie market between the 7th and 6th Circles. I have always admired this veggie market because aesthetically it cannot be topped. I was sitting there waiting on my husband to bring the overpriced fast food (I know, I know) we had just ordered and I started to really think about chestnuts and how tasty they might be, you know, roasted on an open fire. I knew we did not have access to an open fire but we were on our way to Teta's house, who has a sobah (kerosene heater) you can throw just about anything on top of.
Here is a closer view of the chestnuts. I hopped out of the car and bought a half kilo of them and was charged more than double what I pay near my house. Beauty isn't cheap, apparently.

Reflecting and Defining

2007 passed by at lightning speed. While the world continued to spin on its axis--days turning into nights and nights into days--my own days whizzed past me, and some weeks I felt as if I could not stop running. When I did stop to catch my breath this year, it was usually to sit down at the computer and scribble down my nonsense, which surprisingly, some of you actually read.

I have always considered myself as existing on the periphery of everything I desire but have not attained. Perhaps, way back in the day, someone said things to me like, "you have a gift," or "don't throw away your talent." Never being able to accept compliments well, as per my issues with self esteem, I tended to dismiss encouragement. I became a master at setting long-term goals, but the actual achievements eluded me. Some sort of (ugly?) voice inside told me repeatedly that I had other things to do, that my determination was not really mine, so "just deal with it." My life has presented me with situations in which my insolence was required, but I cowered down; keeping the peace is a learned, valued behavior, but is not always the correct choice.

My internal peace is akin to those accords drawn by wobbly-legged third world nations: tentative, at best, but waiting to implode at the simple treading out of bounds. I have asked myself where my boundaries lie--a question I am still trying to answer. I look to the physical, the metaphysical, the spiritual, and maybe even the imagined. The mirror produces a simple visage; certain days I recognize her, but most days I think, "Who can this be? What cruel trick has the evolution of my self played today?"

Do not fear for me: I have found solace in my religion, my sense of humor, my family, my cynicism, and yes, in you. You have become a surrogate mother, father, and friend; I run to you after my first cup of coffee to discover what kudos you might have thrown my way--even if just a crumb of praise or agreement, I will devour it. You are the spokes reaching out from the cogs of these, our collective spinning wheels of insight, pain, devotion, light (and sometimes darkness), humility, bravado--oh where can it stop? You unknowingly, and perhaps unwillingly, feed me with encouragement, illustrate a value where I saw none, or enthrall me with depth and beauty.

I couldn't quit you if I tried.

Here is to 2008: may it be a year of real growth, of self control and triumph, of achievement and benefit, of solidarity and mindfulness, of wisdom, and of definition, but only where it is warranted.