Who can turn the world on with her smile?

The dry heat has dried up my wit, apparently. Every day I sit down at the computer, check my mail, hop on blogger.com, and try to think of something to write. Nothing interesting usually comes to mind, so I think it is better if I just post when I have something to say that might interest you. And me. Perhaps this is something, perhaps not.

Last night I dreamt of Mary Tyler Moore, who appeared as herself, circa her 1972 look. She had a secret cabin in Wadi Rum, which, strangely enough, was surrounded by evergreen trees. I met her in the wadi and she lead me up to her house, which boasted beautiful ceramic tiles, a bathroom filled with purple--a purple tiled shower, purple sink, and lavender flowers. She also had an indoor pool, which was a relieving sight, since we'd been sweating together in the wadi.

Mary was the most gracious hostess. I felt as if I'd known her many years. When the MTM show aired in 1970, I still had two years to go before I became flesh and blood. I grew up watching MTM in syndication. But I tell you, in my dream, she was like an old friend.

Then today I was reading some news online, discussing how McCain will most likely choose Romney as his running mate. A shudder ran through my bones as I tried to picture those two on stage together. I have (and this may be mean, so be prepared) been referring to John McCain in my home as Fire Marshall Bill for quite some time; I cannot help it, he reminds me of him--his voice, his gestures--minus the crazy physical antics of Jim Carrey, since we know that Senator McCain cannot raise his arms to a level above his hip bones (Vietnam injuries). And then there's Romney, a.k.a. Ken Doll Plastic Hair Dude, whose waxy looks just make me want to hurl.

In thinking about Fire Marshall Bill and how he used to make me laugh--how my cronies and I used to do impressions of him in the hallways--I thought about how much TV shaped my sense of humor. I used to laugh out loud at Mary Tyler Moore, whose show was not part of my generation, but also at In Living Color, which is completely from my generation. Then I started thinking about all of the generations of Saturday Night Live viewers. You have the ones who watched John Belushi and Chevy Chase, who would be the same folks laughing at comedians like Richard Pryor and George Carlin. (Knock Knock. Who is it? Land shark!) Again, I watched those shows as re-runs, and would laugh till I cried. Then you have your Eddie Murphy generation, (also mine) which included some of the funniest skits ever shown on television. (Hot tub! Heeeeeyy! Burn my feet! Too hot, in da hot tub! Owwwww!) I personally loved Phil Hartman, especially in his political sketches. And then there was Dana Carvey, with the Church Lady, Ross Perot (Can I finish?!) and my personal favorite, the Chopping Broccoli song, which I used to sing all the time, and had buried in the deep in the annals of my memory bank, until tonight. Now my son knows it. Should I be proud?

I sat outside tonight in the summer breezes with the laptop, and watched YouTube clips till my cheeks were soaked from laughter. I do wonder if this type of humor is a dying breed--everything today seems so vulgar, so over-the-top.

How has humor shaped your lives?

Bullet the Blue Sky

I did not mean for this number of days to pass without having a chance to post. We welcomed summer with a bang of busy-ness. And thirst. And sweat.

• The hunt for affordable roller blades was the first priority of this, the first week of our summer. Oldest daughter has been asking for in line skates since she was 10. She is about to turn 13. I figured she has been patient enough; of all of my children she makes the least amount of noise, rarely complains, does not give me trouble of any sort. Although on the brink of teenagerdom, she is such a kid at heart, and if getting her roller blades helps her to stay that way, I'm all for it. A friend recommended we try a sporting goods store in Sweifieh. I never knew the store existed, but I now know where to shop for baseball supplies for future Little Leaguers, as well as flippers, if we ever get the chance to snorkel in Aqaba. They also had magnificent looking ping-pong tables. The skates were not expensive.
• I visited a friend whose home should be featured in Architectural Digest. It was simple elegance at its best, with a breathtaking view of unadulterated rolling hills and valleys. For a moment I felt I had been transplanted to a Spanish isle, minus the ocean. Our sons, who met at Little League (yet more kudos being thrown to L.L.!) played football in her lawn. She has a hammock. Ah, yes, a hammock.
• I attended an engagement extravaganza for yet another former student of mine from Alabama. The bride-to-be was lovely. All I could do was hug her and congratulate her, finally shedding my former roll as her teacher. ("Where's your pencil? Where is your homework? Why are you late?) The groom's family walked from table to table, introducing themselves and possibly scoping out potential brides for their apparently large family. I've come to accept that by having three daughters in this country I must learn how to handle blunt questions like, "How old is your daughter and does she want to be married?" "Not yet, by God! I just bought her roller blades!" will be my answer for the next seven years, at least.
• I am drinking around three gallons of water each day, if not more. I cannot remember June ever being this hot. Right as I began typing this paragraph, however, my daughter informed me that after Saturday, normal June weather will return.
• Thrilling news: my sister and her son will visit me in August. Whooo hooooo! She and my nephew will most likely arrive in Amman knowing more about both Amman and Jordan than I do, and I live here. Seeing that ancient Nabataean city and rolling sushi are just a few of the activities we have planned.

Silver Bullets

They are black, really, the bullets. This is the quickest way for me to organize my thoughts in this span of time that allows me no time for myself. It will be over soon, inshaAllah; summer lies just 'round the bend.

• I am excited for the first time in my adult life, save the two-month period in 1992 when I voted in my first Presidential election, about politics. I do not write about politics because so many others do so better than I can. Anything I might want to say has already been said. I know the first thing Obama did this week in his Dem Candidate role was go and speak to AIPAC. I have definite feelings about this. I also know, however, that he'll never make it to the White House without AIPAC. Still, though, I want to think differently about him. I want, as someone said in that video I posted, to feel proud of my homeland on some level. Currently, I do not. Patriotism skipped over my generation and left me in a cycle of cynicism.


• We took my husband's sister to Bennigan's last night. That is perhaps the nicest family restaurant in Amman. The menu is varied enough so that everyone can be happy; the prices are decent, the service is good (the manager always visits our table to check on us), and children eat free on Wednesday nights. Our bill did not make us seek smelling salts. There is no thumpity-thump blaring music drowning out my attempt to make friendly mealtime conversation.


• It must have been nearly 100 degrees by 8:30 this morning. From whence cometh heat waveth? We have been sleeping with the winter blankets until now. Perhaps it is really time to break out the fans.


• Running on treadmill is wreaking havoc on my feet. Oh, wait, that'd be living in Jordan is wreaking havoc on my feet. They look like I use them to pick cotton and/or scrub bathtubs. The thing about getting a pedicure (very affordable here) is that my feet have to reach a certain degree of "it doesn't make me want to crawl under my chair when you look at my feet" status. They are not yet there. I need no dissing from the pedicurist.

A bulleted "whass up wichyoo" list

• The cockatiel upstairs is performing his usual morning car alarm serenade. He has managed to capture the essence of three or four typical Jordanian car alarms. When Willie our cat was still alive, the cockatiel did a mean meow, but since Willie's demise, he sticks to the tantalizing sounds of burglared autos. His owners are two older, unmarried ladies, and their elderly mother, who is a stroke victim. She used to need live-in help but managed to pull an astounding recovery and takes care of herself during the day. Bless her heart, she tries to talk to me from the balcony but I cannot understand her (damage to her mouth from the stroke), and I'm sure the parrot cannot either. I just wish they could teach that bird something else to say, like the Nakamura family did with their amazing grey parrot. At least the parrot does not smoke cigarettes.

• I am absolutely ready for summer to begin. I do not want to make any more 7 a.m. sandwiches for at least two months or purchase juice boxes, the biggest money suckers ever invented. My two older ones need to rest and have fun. How many days left until the 15th?

• I have adjusted my taste for coffee. I can now tolerate it with only half of a spoonful of sugar. So THIS is how coffee really tastes!

• I had friends over from Alabama last night. We laughed and laughed and high-fived and laughed some more. I did an impression of a rock-cutting machine, which was a big hit. (flashing back to the home repair of last summer) My friend who gave me my shahadah and who was the first American Muslim I knew was among the visitors. I looked at pictures of those little girls I mentioned before, who are now beautiful women. I fought back tears. I went to sleep happy.

• I made a 9-inch, two-layer, Hershey's chocolate cake with Hershey's icing and did not even taste it. Better yet, I really did not want to. That was yesterday, though, so we'll see how today fairs.

A Lull

After the wedding festivities, a Saturday BBQ for the entire family, including new bride and groom, and yesterday's "Independence Day" in Jordan, I'm ready for a respite.

Now it is time to get geared up for the testing grind, which will begin today and end sometime in mid-June. I'll come up for air once the older two have finished all of their exams.

Al Ajnabiya, I'm sending you cheese. I'll let you know, inshaAllah, when the cheese courier leaves Amman.

Diva and The Jo Men

This, from Umm Zaid. It's all so true.

One admitted fault exposed here, one that even I cannot cover or explain away, however, is the inexplicable fondness of young men for Celine Dion. The women suffer from it too, but it’s more pardonable in a woman. It is very… interesting to go to a cafe in the richest area of town, and the young Arab kids (Jordanians, Gulfies) go “Oooh” and smile and mouth the words when the world’s favorite Canadian chanteuse comes on the track. Or when you walk past a store tended by a young pointy haired, pointy shoe’d guy (ie, the epitome of cool style here) and he’s blasting Celine. I’m not kidding.

Does anyone remember (maybe 8 years back?) that SNL actress who played Celine? I used to laugh like there was no tomorrow. Wait, I still do.

Liar, Part Deux

I wrote part one a long time ago.

I do not want to find anything out about you. I want to make no new discoveries. I am not a CSI wannabe. I do not deliberately investigate. Facts just fall into my lap, time and time again. Most of the time I keep them to myself, but sometimes I just want to expose you, not in a vicious way, but enough to let you know that I know.

I know!

I also know that it is pity you seek, although you claim otherwise. You want to paint this picture of your life for those who have not already been down that exhausting path with you. Paint that picture, go ahead. For what it is worth, I do not pity you.

I told someone the other day that 22,000 + people in Myanmar are not dead because they made innumerable bad choices or lacked life skills. I pity those victims of natural disaster. I pity those without a handful of rice to sustain them. I pity those whose lives--wrought with real struggle, who searched for a new day, a new opportunity, living under a despotic regime--were cut short. People drinking sewage or mothers whose babies will die from dysentery. They deserve pity.

I pity the Palestinians whose struggles I am waiting to write about--the ones with no decent living conditions, land deeds that hold no legal value, fathers who have buried their sons, mothers who have buried their husbands, entire families whose homes have been wiped out by the bulldozer or bodies caught in a crossfire. I pity those children who are brilliant but have no one to teach them, the voices that must be heard but are continually muzzled by the power of their occupier. They deserve pity.

Your trivialities are just that. Trivial.

But I keep you in my supplications.

However, please wake up. The time is now to be thankful.

A little advice

Dear ajmal_ihsaas22,

I do not know who you are.

I do not know of this forum you are on or why you would feel the need to copy my story, MY story, the story I wrote and published right here on my blog, and not give a link, paste my URL, and let all those who read it know exactly who wrote it.

You spurred on a long discussion with my little ol' story, didn't you? You never once gave me credit for writing what you copied and pasted. You said, "I can't remember where I got it." And then you said, "This is my friend's mother-in-law's story."

Linking is just common courtesy. It is part of this code of ethics out here in cyberspace, bloglandia, etc. Give credit where credit is due. We bloggers appreciate and demand it.

While you did not claim my story as your own, you never said it was mine, either. Linky love: it's the right thing to do.

I do not know you. I do not know who you are. I think, perhaps, you are not my friend.

Please make right what you did wrong. Rectify! You can do it!

Site Meter is a wondrous tool. I hardly ever check it but today I just so happened to do so. And right there someone had googled my story from that forum where you pasted my words. My words.

Thanks.

Seal: the Deal

I'm sitting here watching Seal and his wife, Heidi Klum, in an interview with Oprah. He shared this tidbit of husbands' wisdom:

"Happy wife, happy life."

Then he said, "Wife first, family second, career third." By "family," he meant his children. Putting the wife before the kids--now there is a concept. Truly, if the wife is not functioning at her highest level, the kids will not either. I've played that gig.

He also said something, once, to the effect of "we're never gonna survive, unless we get a little crazy."

Wise man, that Seal.

Ich spreche kein Deutsch.

I really don't. But if I moved to Germany, I'd be enrolling myself in a language class faster than you can say "I'll have rot kraut on that wurst." (Halal wurst.) Could I please have a brötchen, too?

Anyhow, Spiegel Online discusses Muslims in Germany.

My take on all of this integration/assimilation has never wavered. It is crucial for all literate residents of a country to attempt to learn the language of the country in which they reside.

I immediately recall (when I think about assimilation vs. isolationism) my childhood classmate, Tam Le, who literally got off of a boat from Vietnam and landed in the fourth grade in Birmingham, Alabama. I think she learned English in two and a half weeks. Then she proceeded to whip us all in P.E., music, and art. Go Tam! (pronounced "Thumb.") Yeah, yeah, kids are sponges and resilient and adaptable, but so are adults, if they just put their minds to it.

The third generation Turks in Germany do not need to learn German? I cannot see how this will benefit them.

(ht: Seeker's Digest)

Good Old Gross Stuff

So I had a guest last night who dropped by for a little conversation and some dinner. Her parents are out of town and she is not the most adept cook, so I obliged her. I love it when this friend comes over. She understands snippets of English here and there, but in no way can she comprehend the chipmunkish chatter of my little ones.

After dinner I offered her some Turkish coffee and a few of those little sweets you see street vendors selling here--the ones that are tan in color and very chewy, and either covered in pistachios or coconut or something. I am not a great fan of these things, but my son (100% Arab) loves them. I'll eat them in a pinch, and by 'pinch' I mean that desperation when there is absolutely nothing sweet in the house save a kilo of white sugar and possibly a half-eaten gum drop or something. Apparently my youngest daughter was willing to give this unnamed sweet a try, so she took one in her hand, bit off the top, and bellowed,

"Hey, this stuff is ear wax! It's ear wax!!!! But I'll eat it anyway." And down the hatch it went.

My oldest daughter and I roared with laughter, but my guest, who was in mid ear wax nibble, did not understand why we were laughing. She suddenly looked self-conscious. I calmed her fears and let my eldest translate, since my brain was not able to translate ear wax. It's just not a term I've run across as a learner of the Arabic.

My guest burst into laughter. If she can joke about gross bodily function type stuff while eating and visiting, she is definitely 'one of us.' Moreover, she can actually continue to munch on the object of our gross stuff fun-poking.

Ahla wa sahla, always.

And that stuff most definitely looks like ear wax.

Saturday, and not the Elton John variety

I've come to loathe Saturdays in Jordan.

Saturdays have replaced the old Sundays from my childhood. You know, the day before the day you have to begin the week again. Sundays were filled with homework and projects, of laundry to wash and rooms to clean. For many years my mother and I did not live in a place with connections for a washer and dryer. I spent most Sundays from noon until about five or six at the laundrymat, or laundro-mat, or washeteria, or whatever they are known as these days. I think they are more or less non-existent in many cities, suffering the same fate as the pay phone. They've been phased out.

A load of clothing used to cost 50 cents to wash and 25 cents to dry. I remember when this amount went up to $1, and how scandalous (not to mention unaffordable) we thought that was.

I cannot imagine lugging all of our six-member household's laundry to one location each week and waiting my turn for the dryer, here in Jordan. A laundro-mat never would have worked here. First of all, no single location could provide that much water. Secondly, given the innate impatience of most folks, I think the washeteria scene in Jordan could quickly turn to one of mayhem and/or bloodshed. Neither civilization nor globalization have brought this country to the point of readiness for a community clothes-washing locale.

When Mom and I finally moved into a place that had 'connections,' I sighed a sigh of relief. I no longer had to spend my Sundays sitting on hard plastic chairs, trying to finish my Math homework between wash and spin cycles, where other unscrupulous, looking for women sorts used to also do their laundry. Those apartment complex single men gave me the creeps.

So back to Saturdays in Jordan. Saturday is the day when my water comes, so I have to do the bulk of my laundry. It is not enjoyable. Folding clothes does not make me feel peaceful. It took my family quite a while to get used to the first day of the week being Sunday here. I need just one more weekend day. Just one more.

Laundromats have apparently come a long way: check this out.

Blowing off Steam

How does one make a drug addict get a life? Does anyone out there have experience with this?

The answer is, I believe, to stop trying. Let them fall flat on their faces, and I mean completely flat. Could someone back me up here?

Is anyone else out there a magnet for the drug-dependent, super manipulative, pathological liar-types? Is it a sign we wear? Is it a smell we give off? An aura we emit?

Do the professed to be recovering ever truly find recovery?

I certainly hope so.

Agenda

This would be known as a time of "dipping" if my blog were a bell curve, charting my posts. I have lots to say but no impetus to do so.

So, for these few days, I'm working on:

1. Cleaning the house and de-junking.
2. Sprucing up my mom-in-law's apartment.
3. Listening to my kids when they need to talk to me.
4. Getting back on Lester, the treadmill, who has been dusty and lonely for more than three weeks.
5. Weeding the yard and planting things that make me feel peaceful.
6. Finding a school for my oldest for next year, or deciding to leave her where she is.
7. Reading my required reading for my bi-weekly lesson, as well as picking up where I left off on my leisure reading materials.
8. Baking the perfect oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie.
9. Getting those Get Well cards to my Aunt finally mailed to her. (easier said than done)

I think that's enough gerunds for today. Ing mode is good.

Oh boy

Saturday tip:

How to take/not take care of that new bundle of joy. I especially like the TV in the crib pic.

Me, Me, and Me: We are all that matters

Feeling solipsistic? Are you the center of your universe?
It's time to start keeping your self in check. Turn of the computer, now, then go pick up an atlas. You know, countries and all. Start with North America--the center of the world and most important continent, and everyone knows it--and slowly move eastward. You just might learn something.

(Thanks, Umm Zaid, for this link.)

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just Antioxidizing

The slams against coffee I have heard and read lately trouble me. I love coffee--the way it tastes, the way it smells, the way it wakes up my senses in the morning, no matter what the temperature outside. I drink the stuff in moderation and am not the kind who, in Ramadan, cannot even get out of bed the first few days because of headaches or general grumpiness. As much as I love it, if I wanted to quit I believe I could. I'd switch to decaf, because it's really the taste and comfort of coffee that I love and crave.

I can blame and thank my mother for introducing me to coffee, sitting at a Waffle House, trying to rejuvenate our driving capabilities, while on a road trip many moons ago. The following year I went off to college with a Mr. Coffee 4-cup coffee maker, which really produces a mug and a half. I am a confessed procrastinator extraordinaire and a sometime overachiever wannabe. My first semester I took an overload of difficult classes (trying to prove what? I still am not sure) and I became known in my hall for staying up all night to type out the multiple papers that would be due at the same time. Mr. Coffee sat by my side throughout the ordeal. He never failed to brew on command.

It disturbs me to hear my children, who love to watch cooking shows, refer to any foods they see others eating or drinking as being nasty. I like to consume many things that perhaps are not mainstream American foods (or mainstream anyone's foods) , and am offended when someone says, "How could you eat that nasty stuff?" as if I am eating refuse. I won't chastise the Mongolians for sitting down to some steamed mutton dumplings that I may find repulsive. It's what they know, it's what they like, and who am I to try to survive a harsh winter out on the steppes of outer Mongolia, munching on caesar salad? Survival of the fittest, it is. The Mongolians know what they need to keep on ticking, and if that means drinking tea with curdled yak's milk and mutton fat, so be it.

In my reality, coffee helps keep me ticking, on both physical and emotional levels. Don't dis me coffee, chaps. If it's not your cup of tea (ha!), I surely respect that.

Here are some articles on the health benefits of coffee. I'm feeling persuasive.

Coffee and Antioxidants

Coffee, the New Health Food?

Coffee Perks

Those yet-to-be-found beneficial compounds in coffee

Moderation, Moderation

Another Quiz-ola

I owe a MeMe to Home in Kabul. I will get on that, post haste.

But first, I took the Book Quiz thanks to Baraka's recommendation. Here's my result:

You're Watership Down!
by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're
actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their
assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they
build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd
be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

I don't think I talk about rabbits that much, although I was explaining the other day how I felt like Elmer Fudd, victimized, sitting in Bugs Bunny's salon chair for a haircut recently (I had a horrid haircut but at least a flower did not grow out of the top of my head--yet.)

To those of you who know me: does this about sum me up? I sort of hope not.

Where's the cake?

Why can't I see the pictures on my Rainbow Cake post? Can anyone else? What happened?

I missed this one

I am a big Don Cheadle fan and have been for a long time, way before his acclaimed role in Hotel Rwanda.

This morning the TV was on Dubai One, and they showed a few snippets about this film, Talk to Me. How did I miss this? Was it a popular film in 2007, that long since past year?

I found myself laughing so hard at the character, Petey Greene, played by Don Cheadle. He was a shock jock before shock jocks were popular, and spoke the truth about race relations and the life of black men in the 60s. There is something about the ex-con who does well for himself story that always draws me in. I had to crack up at this line that Petey says on his show:
"Hi, I'm a recovering alcoholic. I've been sober for five hours."

Has anyone seen this movie?