One of my quaint quirks is that I can't leave a book unfinished once I've started reading it. It took me months to read "Anna Karenina" even though it was the darkest, slowest moving plot line known to mankind. I even stuck through to the end, though it did slow my progress and motivation down slightly, when a friend came over, saw the book on our coffee table (with the bookmark clearly in the MIDDLE of the book, mind you) and said, "You know she dies in the end." I have faced many an obstacle, read many a series of words strung together that didn't necessarily please me (no need to mention 'The Kite Runner' is there?) but I stuck it out to the end. That has all changed.

The book 'Twilight' changed me.

I had heard from a great friend, one that I would permanently ink myself with if I had the chance, that she had loved this book series. She said she had enjoyed these books so much that she had become relatively reclusive, shutting herself away from the world with her nose stuck between some pages. Buoyed by her review, I bought the book while we were in Thailand, and thought of starting it while we were still there, but wanted to give the respect to the other books that had been brought to me by a friend. I don't like books "jumping the line". They need to be managed.

When its turn came, I gladly picked up the book, fully expecting to fall in love with the story from the beginning. How could I not? It was the classic tension-filled love story, this time between a teenage girl and a hot vampire. How could it be bad, right? After Chapter one, I nearly forgot that I had started reading a book; its grip on me was that loose. With each passing chapter, I became more and more annoyed by the author's writing style. Days went by between putting the book down and picking it back up again. It was not the page-turner I had been expecting.

First complaint, she used the word handsomer. While I have come to find out (I did research because it bugged me that much. Yes, I'm that much of a geek.) that this is a grammatically correct term; it is old fashioned. I do personally prefer "more handsome". Secondly, why must every spoken sentence be qualified by "his eyes narrowed" or "she said coldly" or "he growled while gripping his hands tightly into fists"? One thing I learned through reading many well written works is that a good author will respect the intelligence of his/her audience. If a scene is appropriately staged, a conversation doesn't need qualifier after qualifier after agonizing qualifier. It became so annoying that I found myself rolling my eyes after each spoken sentence when I read the words, "she hissed", which was also uncreatively overused. I understand that this book was written for a younger audience. The iconic Harry Potter series was also written for a younger audience. I was impressed by Rowling's ability to paint an incredibly detailed canvas with words while at the same time not alienating her young nor her adult audiences. Thirdly, I often got the impression that the author came to a point where she just knew that she couldn't use the word "hissed" one more time on the page, so she had to find a different way to explain to the reader that there was this ANGST and TENSION brewing between her characters because she just didn't think YOU WERE GETTING IT, so she had to turn to her thesaurus to find words like, "infinitesimally" when describing how his eyes were narrowing yet again when he was glaring at the girl he loved but couldn't love because he shouldn't love her, but gawd!, did he love her and he couldn't help himself.

I only made it to chapter 5. My husband sat back slightly after I complained again about the writing style and the author treating me like an idiot and said, "If it bothers you so much, why don't you just stop reading it?" But I can't stop! I have a personal policy against not finishing reading a book. "Don't waste anymore of your life on it." He was right! And he gave me the permission I needed to release myself from my personal expectations.

I re-gifted the book to my neighbour's 17 year old daughter who LOVED it. She is, obviously, in the right age demographic for this book; I'm happy for her that she liked it so much. For the first time in my life, I'm just going to wait for the movie. My inner book nerd is gasping and clutching at the pain of her heart breaking in her chest. I never thought I would say those words, but there they are for the world to see: Waiting. For. The. Movie.

Thanks a lot Stephenie Meyer for writing such a terrible piece of fiction that I had to change my policy. I look forward to not reading any of your books in the future.

A friend of ours is married to a wonderful woman. She's sweet, thoughtful, and because she's not from our friend's "home" culture, she is often the victim of his jokes. Early on in their marriage, he stuck his index finger out towards her and pleaded with her to pull it. With no pop-culture reference or stupid boy humour experience to refer to, she naively pulled his finger. Of course, he let one rip ("one" being air of the flatulence nature, for those not sure what I'm getting at). He laughed and then stuck his finger out again, asking her to pull it. "No." "Oh, come on (giggle)! I promise (giggle) I won't fart again. (giggle-giggle)" She pulled it, and *shaking my head* he farted again. The gales of laughter could be heard from across the city. He was enjoying himself way too much. Inching his index finger closer into her personal-bubble space, he wiped away the giggle tears with his other hand and gasped, "Pull my finger." "No, you'll just fart again." "There is no way that I could fart three times in a row!" She pulled it. He farted.



For some reason, I told this story the other day over lunch. Charlie thought it was so funny, and laughed and laughed. Slowly, he raised his hand to eye level, and extended his index finger. With eyes wide and full of wonder, he pulled it. He farted. It really works.

It goes without saying that from one language to another, there can be a combination of sounds that resembles something offensive in one language, while at the same time describing something of the mundane in the next. I have admired myself for being able to keep a straight face in the times that I hears words like faqat that sound a lot like something rather crude to my English ears. I do admit to giggling a bit when I learned the words for "bird" because I used it in an English sentence: That's mighty big assfoor a little girl. For the most part, though, a word will strike me as funny, but all you will see is the silent shaking of my shoulders as I quietly try to get my immaturity under control. There are moments, though, when the word hits without warning and I can't, no matter the mental exercises and relaxation techniques I utilize, regain my composure.

A classmate was telling his traveling story in front of the class. Noticing that some of us (read: me) were not fully paying attention to other students when they spoke, the teacher required us to write down any mistakes that we noticed. I was paying close attention to this particular student because he, like my husband, is a whizz at language and to find a mistake would be glorious! He must have sensed my overzealousness for error finding because he threw out a word that sent me into a spiral that I just could not recover from:


CM (classmate): We drove from this city to the other and our.... how do you say travel guide?

Teacher: mumbles something I didn't hear

CM: Oh yes, right, 'morshit'...


Me: inward shock. Did I just hear what I think I heard?


CM: ...'morshit'


Me: inward giggle.


CM: ...'morshit'


Me: pffffffffft! HAHAHAHAHA


At this point, I buried my face into my notebook and folded it up over my face while I roaringly laughed into the pages. My laughter continued long and loud, much longer and louder than ever before. I laughed at first because of the shock and mounting amusement with each repetition of the word, but then my laughter bubbled up on top and over itself because I just couldn't believe how much I was losing control in class!

With class ending, and the sounds of shuffling papers filling the space as students shoved books into their bags in preparation of going home, my classmate asked our teacher if she knew why I was laughing. Amazingly, he knew the Arabic word for "poop" and was able to communicate what I heard. She giggled.

I'm pretty sure there is a "What whitegirl did today in class" poster in the teachers' lounge. They certainly have enough material to fill an afternoon, if not a book.

Rollercoaster is an accurate descriptor for language learning. One week, like last week, I could be in the pits of despair when it comes to language acquisition, linking my failure to all the other perceived failures in my life, and then the next week, like this one, could be feeling pretty good about myself again, and even having fun in class. It has the potential of wreaking havoc on my emotional state, as if I don't do that enough myself as it is.



In class recently, we had to do an oral assignment where we verbally recounted a trip that we took or would take in the near future. I decided to talk about Thailand because it was awesome, of course. I learned that you can't say "I had an appointment with the beach" in Arabic, which I don't necessarily agree with. You can't really say it in English either. I don't have an appointment WITH the beach, but the concept of necessary relaxation is communicated. I think I can do the same in Arabic, play with the words and expressions to get my point across.



At the end of my little story, the teacher went through my mistakes. The first thing she said was that even though I say things correctly at times, and she understands clearly what I'm saying, my accent is mia fil mia (100%) English speaking accent. As soon as she said it, I literally had to bite back my words because I wanted to retort, "You have an accent when you speak English!"



Sitting at home this afternoon, I was watching a business makeover show. The business owner's mother spoke little English, and when she did speak, she had the sweetest Spanish accent. I loved it. Why can't my accent be cute? When I was reorganizing Charlie's toys the other day, I was listening to BBC Food in the background and giggled with delight over the French chef's accent. There are some accents, such as the Irish accent, that make me swoon and I have to hold myself back from asking the speaker to "Please read this fast food menu?" There is nothing sexier than the words "Value Meal" spoken with an Irish accent. Why can't my accent incite delight and the giggles in other people?



I kind of wanted to punch my teacher in the face-veil, but then again, I don't. I know her motivation is to make sure that I speak as well as possible because my success and ability is a reflection on the institute and, more importantly, on her skills as a teacher. There is no way, though, that I can get rid of my thick accent completely. I'd rather that she be thrilled with my accent, and giggle girlishly while asking me to "Please say 'falafel meal' again."

I lived in Europe for nearly 8 years, so the ups and downs of adjusting to a new culture are not new to me, and it's not necessarily adjusting to the new country that is an issue. I found the adjustment back into how things work in my "home" country sometimes more difficult, confusing and stressful. Then, of course, there were the humorous and embarrassing moments when it was glaringly obvious that I just didn't "get it" anymore. Like the time that I stood thisclose to the next guy in line at the grocery store while he was paying for his groceries by credit card. I was so close, that I could feel his body heat. In Europe, if you don't stand that close to the next person in line, someone will butt in front of you. Taking notice of the non-verbal signals from the guy beside me and even the cashier, I took a look at the next person in line who was this-------------------------------------------------far from me. "Oh!" I said to myself, "I shouldn't be standing so close." Resisting the urge to "over explain", I simply stepped away one or 5 steps, and quietly pretended that nothing weird had happened. Nothing to see here is the motto of my life.

One evening, I was driving to the convenience store with my sister to pick up a late-night slushee-soft ice cream treat, aptly named "Screamer" because it can cause a brain freeze of such proportions that the only way to deal with the pain is to scream. As we were coasting down a long, steep hill, we passed our brother's car. He was pulled over to the side of the road and a police car was parked behind him. Like only good sisters can, we laughed at our brother for getting what we thought was a speeding ticket, and continued on to buy our beloved beverage. We didn't want to miss our chance to get it before the store closed, plus, mocking our brother for getting a speeding ticket would be so much more entertaining with a snack.

Driving up the hill (without a Screamer because the store was already closed - I guess the gods were on our brother's side and the mockery was on us), I circled the car around so that I could park behind the cop and we could see what was going on. "What? Are you doing?" my sister shouted. "I'm parking! I'm pulling off to the side so we are out of the way, why?"

"We don't park on sidewalks here."

Ohhhh... right. Sheepishly, I put the car in reverse, and repositioned the car so that it was parked nicely, neatly and properly on the side of the road, off of the sidewalk.

The other day, as I was looking out the window during class (which I often do, especially when I stop understanding what the heck is going on because all of a sudden we are talking about vowelling, and, frankly, who cares!) I saw this:
And I laughed! At last, my justification for why I believe it's perfectly normal to park on the sidewalk has been documented.

For further irony:

A police car with 3 officers inside, driving past the clearly visible car-parked-on-sidewalk without as much as blip from the siren or a side-long glance.

I am going to be printing out these pictures and putting them in my purse along with my passport and driver's license the next time I go back to my "home" country. That way, if I get caught by law enforcement for inappropriate parking, I can produce evidence that the way I am is not my fault. I am just culturally confused.

Not wanting my week of firsts to end, I added another "first" to my list. Needing some vegetarian inspiration to make a meal for some vegetarian friends, I put out an internet beacon for help. One tip led me to Moroccan cuisine, which is largely made up of vegetarian, and delicious!, fare. During my investigation, I came across a recipe for apricot and prune chicken. I decided that this recipe was the exact excuse I needed to do something that I've been wanting to do ever since we moved to the desert. I bought a fresh chicken. How fresh, you ask? So fresh, that it squawked at me while I was trying to make a decision between him and his best friend. I chose him.

The whole experience reminded me a lot of the Christian horror song:
Two men walking up a hill, one disappears and one is left standing still. I wish we'd all been ready.

Shortly after I dumped chicken little from the pink, plastic bag into the bowl in preparation for further butchering, I witnessed a very disturbing phenomenon that I have never had to endure with frozen chicken: post-death flesh tremors. If my husband had not been in the kitchen with me at the time, I'm nearly certain I would have screamed, vomited and passed out - all simultaneously. It takes talent, you know. I suppressed my instincts (and talent) and my ground stood firm. It only happened that once, even though I prodded it a few times with my left index finger while holding the camera, poised and ready to get some video footage for you to watch. Blessing laughed at me, saying, "This must be the first time you have a fresh chicken." Yes, I am a fresh chicken virgin. Or I was. Now I'm not.

I so wanted to document the whole experience via photo essay, but with my husband being sick, I didn't think it was prudent for me to be alone, taking pictures of the butcher. Imagine the conversations at his dinner table? I'm sure it was spectacular enough to see this large car pull up to the rinky dinky chicken crate place and an incredibly beautiful woman breeze her way down from behind the steering wheel. (Yes, I have an overactive, grandiose imagination) Now that the proverbial cherry is no longer, I'm sure that I'll be playing God with chicken lives and picking up another fresh chicken. I dare say that I may even revel in the fact that a chicken's destiny is literally in my hands. It is advantageous not having to wait for the meat to thaw out, even if it does do a post-mortem dance, but feeling the warmth of the flesh, knowing that I had been the cause of this life to be no longer was a bit unnerving. If this doesn't make me turn to vegetarianism, nothing will.

Today was a day of firsts. Up until this point, I've been terrified of driving. For one, our vehicle is big and intimidating. Secondly, the streets are narrow as is, but add more vehicles not only driving but parked along the way, and throw in a few motorbikes darting dangerously through the mix, and it's a recipe for disaster, not to mention stress.

My husband has been sick for the past three days. Typically, he's stubborn, so it takes a lot for a sickness to get him down. "I just told that virus that it wasn't getting the best of me and it didn't," I've often heard him preaching after I've asked for the millionth time why I'm the one that is sick and he isn't. When a virus doesn't fall prey to his mental games, I know it's something serious. He drove to the capital for a meeting, was away for one night, and when he returned, I knew as soon as I laid eyes on him that he wasn't doing well at all. Before the water even had the chance to boil for tea, he was changed into his pajamas and buried under 4 blankets, shivering and desperate to get warm. I made tea, poured water into the hot water bottle, and settled my mind into the role of nurse.

This morning, when his temperature was still 103 degrees, we called a fellow student who happens to be a doctor. He stopped by and recommended that my husband go to the hospital to get tests done. One look at my husbands barely conscious, puffy eyed state, and I knew that I would have to force myself past my fears and get behind the steering wheel. With all the obstacles and challenges on the road, the point of the drive that caused me the most pre-action anxiety was the backing out of the yard part. We have a huge gate, and I was terrified of taking a large portion of vehicle off with the wall's edge.

After gulping down a few spoonfuls of mashed potato, packing up some toys for the kids, and getting ready to go out, I opened the gate, and settled myself behind the wheel. With a little coaching, I was able to turn the vehicle and navigate my way through the narrow passage with little to no drama! How is that for overcoming fears? Now that I was out of the gate, the rest seemed easy, and it was. I had a little moment of panic when my husband said that I would have to drive over the 4x4 section where there is no pavement, just a rise and fall of loose dirt and rock, but I mastered it like an old pro.

I dropped Charlie and Lola off with some great friends, and continued along the way to the hospital. I couldn't help but notice men and boys stopping in their tracks, watching our vehicle going past because I, a woman, was driving. Yes, boys, a girl can drive. Geez. It's not like I was growing a baby on the side of my face or something.

We spent a number of hours at the hospital, getting the tests done, and I did a lot of running back and forth to the hospital pharmacy. Now I understand why it's so important for family members to sit with their loved ones in the hospital day in and day out. It's not just for the company, but it's so that the able-bodied family member can be a runner for all the medication that is necessary for the treatment of the patient. Over the few hours that I was at the hospital, I was handed 3 or 4 prescriptions which I had to go to the pharmacy to get filled, including an I.V drip for rehydration. That was definitely a first. I had never bought an I.V. bag before. I may have some fresh new Christmas gift ideas for friends and family back home!

The sweetest male nurse from the Philippines took care of us for the most part while we were there. Also, a guy that I didn't know approached my husband, started talking and then took over all the negotiations and figuring out where we needed to be. I thought he worked for the hospital, but it turned out that he was the brother of someone that my husband knows and recognized my husband, even in his diminished state.

Three pokes to the arm, a chest x-ray, numerous runs to the pharmacy, a long nap (on my husband's part) and studying (on my part! How good am I, right?) behind us, and the diagnosis was finally in: bronchitis. My husband now has a patient file number at the hospital. Wanting to clarify, I made sure to find out if this number was for my husband only and I would have to get a number of my own if I ever had to come to the hospital for treatment. I said, "God willing, I won't ever need a number. I actually don't want one." Yeah, I'm a knob cross-culturally, too.

I'm tired. I still have to do some homework for my classes tomorrow. I'll also have to drive the kids and myself to school in the morning, but after today, it's old hat. It's not big thing.

Anyone want an I.V drip? I have an extra.

I skipped school on Wednesday, called our housekeeper and told her to stay home, and took the morning for myself. I can't remember the last time I was at home completely alone, without anyone demanding my attention or a list of must-do's crowding in on my brain space. I took the morning to go for a run on the treadmill, do some Christmas shopping online (I can't wait for the new Polly Pocket set! I mean, Lola can't wait, even though she doesn't know about it!), and then I sat outside on top of the rock that is hollowed out as a cave (I told you we had a cool garden!) with a cup of coffee, 2 chocolate chip cookies, the sunshine and my thoughts.

After our big fight, and my dictionary shredding fiasco, I identified some issues that I was dealing with. Mainly, significance, or rather insignificance, is something that I am always struggling with in my mind. There is nothing that I have done in the past 1o years that I can put on resume that screams, "Accomplishment! Hireable! An asset to the outside world!". I can't very well put "good friend, good cook, randomly wise, funny, even-more-randomly inappropriate" on my resume as marketable skills. Admittedly, there are things that I do well at, like cooking, but I see that as something that everyone can do. It comes to me so effortlessly and I enjoy it so much, that everyone must also be able to achieve the same results that I get with as little or even less effort that I put in. So what if my husband comes to me for intuitive insight? It's not like I took a course. I have no formulaic method that I can teach to anyone, and it's not like I have accurate insight every time I put my mind and opinion to something. I can't teach someone what I've experienced. So, yeah, I have strengths, but what value are they really? I've been taught through the feminist movement that being a mother and caring for my family is "just" - "I am just a mother. I am just a housewife. I am just supporting my husband as he goes through school/advances his career/begins a new path" I am just. The feminist movement has been wonderful in opening the doors to opportunities that were not afforded to my mother or her sisters when they were thinking of entering the workforce. At the same time, my culture and society has taught me that to be a mother is of no real value in the modern arena. I feel marginalized by the very women who want me to feel liberated. Oh, sure, the media (especially approaching a certain day in the month of May) will say that the virtue of motherhood is honourable, but have you seen a mother being honoured at any of these "Great Women of our Times" events for being a mother? No, she was a woman who wrote a breakthrough work, or developed a feeding program for the homeless, or paved the way for equal pay among the genders in the workplace, and she also happened to be a mother. Motherhood is not an honourable vocation in its own right. How many times has it happened that I have been asked, "What do you do?" and eyebrows are raised slightly in veiled disgust that I am just a mother. "But certainly you have a degree, yes?" No. I don't. Further disapproval.

Then again, maybe that's what my struggle is: approval. Everyone wants to feel that they have acceptance and approval from the people that mean the most to them. I have been accurately accused in the past of caring too much. I care too much about what people think of me. Have you seen the movie "Mother"? The mother, played by Debbie Reynolds, can not resist the temptation of over-sharing every intimate detail of her and her sons' lives with everyone she encounters because she is so worried about what people think of her, so she needs to "set the record straight". To prove his point, her oldest son takes her into a store and says to the sales clerk, "I would like to buy a pair of crotchless panties for my mother." The sales girl doesn't bat an eye, "What is your size, Ma'am?" Sputtering and each word falling over the previous, the mother pulls her son out of the store, rambling incoherently about some "experiment" that her son is doing because he is a writer. I laughed long and hard through this whole movie mostly because there was so much of myself (and my grandma! heee!) that I see in this movie. The most damning disapproval is my own. No matter what I do or don't do, it's never good enough. It's never perfect enough. It's never inventive, delicious, ample, interesting, fluent, or intelligent enough.

"I'm not you, and I never will be!" I screamed at my husband. One of my greatest downfalls is comparing myself. Especially to my husband. I must be just as good as him, at any given activity, or I'm just not measuring up. I'm not sure where this thought came from because I don't think my husband has ever started a contest or a star-chart. Maybe it's the feminist-bent again saying things like, "She beat a man at tennis!" or "She is paid the same as a man!" or "Let's honour this woman who outshone all the other male contenders and is now the head of some great big company!" Regardless of the source, somewhere along the line of our history, I am the one that pegged my husband as the stick that I measure my progress against. My husband, though, did shed light on my practice by saying, "But you never measure those areas that you are better at than me." Like cooking, or nurturing, or intuition, or sensitivity. But then, again, those aren't areas that are viewed by the western world at large as being particularly valuable. I can't get paid for being nurturing. Unless I want to work in a restaurant, which I don't, my cooking skills aren't particularly fabulous (unless I invite you over for dinner). I'm not inventive, paving the way in new cooking techniques or even developing my own recipes and menu plans that can be marketed in the next book sensation. I can read, that's basically the secret of my cooking skills. I can read a recipe and follow it. Big deal. My husband, however, is highly intelligent. He has a photographic memory, which comes in handy for language acquisition and remembering new vocabulary. His thought processes and the way that he works through information to come to a creative solution is astounding. I can't tell you how many times I've heard (and thought, myself!) the words, "I've never heard it put like that before," or "I've never met anyone who thinks like you." Honestly, he's brilliant. Recently, he completed his masters degree with a 4.0 average. I, on the other hand, changed innumerable diapers, successfully toilet trained a child, coached my 7 year old to read chapter books, and got him to correctly spell the word "scissors". I bandaged many cuts and scrapes. I researched and successfully carried out an antibiotic-free solution to an earache, and I go through my Charlie's backpack everyday looking for any homework he might have, and encouraging him through the difficult struggle that is Arabic. I've also read Curious George out loud more times than I like to admit, caught myself humming "One Elephant Went Out To Play" to myself, and played with Lola's Polly Pocket boutique even after she was tired of it.

My thoughts on the rock then moved to guilt and identity. What has changed in what I used to hold as my identity? I used to see myself as a housewife. I was the CEO of my homestead. Taking inventory of everything that was needed, from supplies to tools to maintenance. I was the one that cleaned. I was the one that cooked. I was the one that was there for my kids 24/7. What has changed now is that I don't clean anymore. Even on my day off from school, my housemaid comes to the house and irons my babies' uniforms and my husband's business shirts while I sit on Facebook and chat with my friends or I go running because I want to stay out of her way. I come home to a spotless house that I can't sit back and take credit for because it wasn't my hard work that got it to look that way. "I hate housecleaning", I said one day during the break at school. "But you don't do any cleaning! Blessing does it for you!" came the rebuttal. I know, but I still don't like it. I used to do all the cleaning, and I used to be with my children from morning until night. Now, I spend 4 hours a day in class (5 + hours away from the house), apparently trying to a learn a language, and I'm not succeeding at it. And by succeeding, I'm clearly measuring myself against the husband-stick (that doesn't sound good! ha! See? randomly-inappropriate). I'm not as polished in the language as my husband, so clearly, I'm failing, and I'm wasting my time. I'm not cleaning my own house. I'm not caring for my own children. I'm not excelling at school. Every category that I inventory is an area that my identity was squarely rooted in, and I'm not succeeding in any of them.

Sitting on the rock, I sifted through my emotions to try to find the roots. There is no point in dealing with topical issues when the roots are still lodged firmly in my heart. I can solve my way to a blue face all I want if I'm dealing with a topical problem, but it will only resurface again in a different circumstance.

Ironically, my husband pointed out, I have my Phd in womanhood here in the desert: a pudgy, wealthy husband, I cook, I love hosting guests, and I have a firstborn son. I'm a traditional woman living in a traditional society, mentally working within a feminist paradym. I'm in a pressure cooker of a sandstorm over here, wrestling with my own identity, my self worth, my significance in and to the world. And I still don't know what to do with it all.

The wife of one of the new students at our language school just had a baby two days ago. She gave birth in the car on the way to the hospital! I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one struggling with modesty.

A dear friend of mine (you know who you are! Hi! I'm saying hi to you on my blog! Wave at your screen because I'm waving at you!) organized meal's for this sweet family for the next two weeks. Isn't she amazing? She's so thoughtful and encouraging. When I got the email about who was assigned to which day for dinner, I was a little surprised to read the words, "they prefer vegetarian meals." We ate beef for three different meals this week! I don't do vegetarian, unless it's breakfast-for-dinner (we love pancakes!). Do eggs and omelettes count as vegetarian since they are unborn chickens? See what I'm dealing with here?

I'm pleading for some insight! I'm responsible for 2 meals. I have one idea for one meal, but I don't want to bore them with two of the same meal. What is your favourite vegetarian meal? This has rocked my world nearly as much as when I first heard someone say, "I don't like chocolate cake." What? *sputter* *hack* How is that even possible? Seriously! I still think they were lying to me.

After many tears the other day, I sucked up my sorrow, threw on my spandex and went downstairs to run my troubles away on the treadmill. It felt great to get some of the tension and stress out through sweat. We have quite the set up down there. There is the treadmill and a television hooked up to the satellite. It's my very own gym set up that I'm very happy to enter nearly every day.

I was channel surfing as I was getting settled into my run, and as I was paused on E! Channel, I dropped the remote onto the treadmill accidentally and my stride kicked it across the room. Well, I sighed to myself, I guess I'm stuck on E! Channel until the end of my run.

"This is the American dream! Putting pictures of yourself in your underwear on the internet for everyone to see."

Well, that solves all of life's mysteries. I'm so glad I went for a run and switched the channel to such informative programming. If I hadn't inadvertently kicked the remote to the curb, I would never have learned that what I'm missing in life is the American dream. This is why I'm struggling in language and feeling like I have no significance. There are no pictures of me in my underwear on the internet! And, apparently, this is also why you, dear reader are suffering from depression and winter blues. Thank you, E!

On another note, I finished my Christmas shopping for the kids. We have planned a trip to Africa, so the gift exchange between hubs and I will be our boarding passes, but I still wanted to get the kids something. Their squeals and eyes filled with delight are what the gift exchange is really about, don't you think? I'm really excited about Lola's present in particular. I can't wait for her to open it and then I can get started setting it up and playing with it. I mean, SHE will play with it. *cough*

This has been a week of frustrations, I tell you. From an unfair exam, in my opinion, and a teacher that is measuring my fluency not based on how long I've been studying but rather against the fluency of native speakers, to the audacity of stupid drivers, my nerves and emotions are nearly spent. I'm about ready to lock myself in the house, never to face the day ever again! My bed covers are calling to me, "Climb on under! Throw me over your head! You'll feel better!"

Our morning routine goes something like this:

6a.m: alarm clock sounds

6:04 a.m: alarm clock sounds again

6:08 a.m: alarm clock sounds again

6:12 a.m: alarm clock sounds and we drag ourselves out of bed.

breakfast for the kids, get ourselves ready, get snacks ready, nag Charlie to brush his teeth and get dressed, brush Lola's teeth, get her dressed and do her hair.

7:15 a.m: put on our shoes (my scarf and covering), grab school bags, and pile into the car

7:20 a.m: drop the kids off at school

Usually, at this time, we make our way to our language school and sit in the courtyard for an hour before class starts, doing our homework or extra review while drinking coffee and trying to finally become conscious. Today, however, as we were about to arrive at our school, I remembered that I had forgotten to give Charlie the equivalent of $1.50 for a book about origami that he wanted to buy.

My husband kindly turned the car around and we made our way back to the children's school. A car was ahead of us as we waited to turn left onto another road. This car made the turn, and we followed soon after, slowing to a stop behind it because we had to wait for oncoming traffic to make its way through the narrow passage (cars were parked on both sides of the street making the space available for driving very narrow). As the last of the cars made their way through, all of a sudden the car in front of us begins to reverse. My husband made the culturally appropriate response of making the horn yell long and hard. The car continued to reverse. The horn continued to wail, unrelenting, and the car continued to reverse. Finally, he stopped. More honking. And then the man got out of the car and began to yell. We didn't understand at first, since we hadn't felt anything, and then a passerby said, "You've had an accident." Um... what? We have a large vehicle with large bush bars along the front bumper. The car reversed right into our steel bush bars, causing no damage to our vehicle at all. My husband yelled, "I don't care about my car. Just move out of the way, I have to go!" The man said, "But it is your fault!" EXCUSE ME? Our vehicle was stopped, as in not moving. The other car, reversed, as in it moved, into our vehicle. And this is supposed to be our fault?

My husband put our car in reverse, moved back, and then put it into gear to drive away. As we moved forward, the driver of the other car hopped ONTO our bumper and sat with his arm casually draped over our hood and gazed at us through the windshield with blithe indifference. My husband pulled over to the side of the road, in front of this man's car and stopped. I got out of the vehicle to walk around the corner to the school because I still needed to deliver the money to Charlie.

While I was gone, some young guys got into the vehicle with my husband and explained to him (keep in mind that all the arguing, explaining and negotiating was happening in Arabic before coffee) that the law was that the car at the rear of the accident was automatically at fault. My husband, seizing his opportunity to get his point across, saw that the offending man's car was now parked behind our vehicle. He put the gear into reverse, placed his hand behind the passenger seat's head rest and said, "So what you are saying is that if I reverse into his car right now, it's his fault?" The boys laughed and said, "No, no, no." But that's exactly what happened earlier! We were at a stop and he backed into us. How moronic!

Looking at his bumper before I left, the only damage I saw was peeling paint that was peeling from the top down. There is no way that happened from bumping into our car. That was damage that took place over time, exacerbated by rain and heat. When I returned from delivering the money to Charlie, I saw that the paint had been removed so that all that was left was a patch of missing paint. Hmm... That's when the thought occurred to me that this was all a ruse to get money out of the "rich foreigner." I'm nearly certain that this man looked in his rear view mirror, saw foreigners sitting in a large vehicle, and caused an "accident". When I climbed back into our vehicle, the latest offer was, "Okay, half and half. Half your fault and half his fault." We are at fault for waiting in traffic and warning the vehicle that he was about to back into our car? I don't think so! "No. Absolutely not," was my husband's answer. As the time wore on, the final offer was made, "$10" Okay, we'll pay $10 just to get you to leave us alone. "And $5 to the police officer." Okay fine. As we were about to drive away, someone shouted, "Stop, wait! So-and-so needs money too!" Bingo! Now everyone was seeing my husband as a cash cow and trying to get their piece before he drove away. "No," my husband stated firmly, "Enough!" They relented and we drove away, lighter by $15 and heavier with a deep sense of injustice.

Discussing the situation with a friend who has weathered many a storm in the cultural game, my husband said, "I just don't know how much I can get away with. I would have left or I would have really hit the guy's car." Our friend laughed and said, "You can get away with a lot. If a guy jumped on my car, I would have headed towards a wall to scare him off." Apparently, the game is a little different here, and I think it's pretty clear that we got taken, and I'm still seething inside, scorched from the white hot heat of injustice without the ointment of justice to soothe away the pain.

Charlie and Lola and I made more cookies using a recipe from a friend. After this batch, I realized what was bothering me about our cookies. The cookie cutters that we have are really lacking in creativity and interest.
Who wants to eat a cookie that looks like a sad excuse for a spade? Have you ever heard of a child saying that their favourite cookie was a spade? Have you ever heard a child coo, "Oh Mommy! Thank you for the club cookie!"? Have you? And what is the shape of the third cookie supposed to be exactly? An amputated cactus? Of course, the 4th cookie is a star, but that's so boring and cliche. A star cookie. I figure that what I need are new cookie cutters. I'll just run out to the local Walmart and pick some up... oh wait... can't! Because I'm in the freaking desert. The biggest store in town is so crammed full of food-stuff that there isn't enough room for a person holding a basket at their side, let alone accommodate a shopping cart. I doubt very highly that a shopping expedition in pursuit of some lovely cookie cutters will be anything close to a success. Maybe another care package will come my way. There is always hoping! (I'm smiling sweetly, can you see?)

I may have mentioned my anal-retentive ways in the kitchen when it comes to preparing meals and baked goods. I carefully measure the ingredients out, using a knife to level off the flour and such, and then make sure that every bit makes it into the bowl for mixing. When Lola says that she wants to help me, I have to mentally take a step back and tell myself that the important part is the memories that we are making and there will be plenty of time for perfect cookies or cake later in my life when Lola has a kitchen of her own. We had a great time decorating cookies together. The inside of my cheek was a little sore from biting back my comments and stress. The end result was a bit, um, well, stuck to the table. But Lola had the time of her life, deeming her creations the most beautiful in the world.
And I must agree with her. Through her mommy's eyes, these cookies rival Martha Stewart.

I really debated blogging today because I don't like to admit that there are difficult moments in my life. I pride myself on being the life of the party, making people laugh, and having a smile on my face. When I go through times that are less than desirable, my tendency is to retreat into myself and not talk about anything that is going on until after I feel that it's "over". Then after a lot of retrospection, I will have analyzed the situation down to a capsule of wisdom that I learned about myself and I will sound very wise and securely grounded in self-awareness. It's not that I don't want people to know that I've struggled, it's just that no one needs to know about the crazy that goes on before the self-awareness.


Yesterday was really awful. Generally, people will go through a period of remorse after purchasing a high-ticket item. I don't, so much. If I know that I can afford something, and I wait long enough to make sure that it's not just a passing feeling, when I buy it, I feel confident in what I bought. However, I go through severe remorse after an examination. I rethink everything that I did, stress over my mistakes, and, especially in the case of oral exams, I will rethink and restate my answers until I drive myself crazy. Yesterday was no different.

The written portion wasn't so difficult, which was expected. I am, admittedly, much stronger in the reading comprehension and written aspects of language than other skills like listening comprehension, even though I had to return to the test and redo part of the written section because I had misunderstood the instructions. Doh! Good thing the teacher was still in the other room, distracted by a student in an oral exam, so I was able to slip in and slip out without being detected, thus necessitating the need to explain that I'm even more stupid than previously suspected. The oral exam, though, was the most difficult and frustrating for me. Our teacher gave us a "review" and "highlighted" vocabulary, the majority of which didn't appear anywhere on the exam and there was nothing given for direction in the verbal section other than "it's all fair game". Well, for someone who has difficulty with retention anyway and struggling in conversational fluency, to be faced with the overwhelming task of being able to produce 200+ words was debilitating. Coupled with the fact that I have trouble thinking up good, intelligent answers or sentences on the spot in class when the pressure of performance isn't as high, it was pretty much guaranteed that I would not excel in this part of the exam. Sitting in front of the teacher as she asked me questions like, "What do you think is the biggest problem facing the world and why?" knowing that I was being marked on how relaxed I was, my fluency, grammar and use of new vocabulary was really stressful.

When I got home, I just kept thinking about the exam, my answers, how I felt it was an unfair expectation to be able to answer questions that had never been posed to me before - it's not like we had a written exercise in the past that I could access in my knowledge bank. It was all on the spot and I had better get all the grammar correct, along with feeling relaxed, speak quickly and use new vocabulary! The more I thought about it, the more upset I got. My husband, bless his heart, tried to offer sympathy, but it was really hard to hear it for what it was when I know he was posed more difficult questions, gave more detailed, highly intelligent and grammatically perfect answers on the spot. "Why can't I recall past vocabulary like you can?? Why is it so easy for you?" I screamed. Feeling the frustration rise and rise, I ripped my Arabic dictionary to shreds while crying, "I hate this language! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!"

Ever the example of poise, maturity and grace, that's what I am. Look to me as your role model. Sign up now and you'll get this free cheese slicer!

I'm ashamed at my reaction. I'm ashamed at my poor performance. I'm frustrated by my limitations. I'm sick of being compared and comparing myself to my husband, the ambitious overachiever with the photographic memory and barely audible accent.

I looked in the jar that is my life, and there is presently no capsule of wisdom from this experience. No self awareness, other than to say that I'm not my husband, nor will I ever be. I'm searching for a sense of significance that is fleeting, and the reality of me is constantly coming up short to the ideal me.

The joys of learning a new language in a formal education system is the regular accountability structure that has been developed through testing. I do think that some of our teachers glean a sick sense of pleasure from test day and watching their students squirm under the pressure of needing produce strange sounding words from their iceberg of knowledge. We did have one teacher openly giggle behind the stack of exams as she was about to hand them out. She wasn't very good at hiding her true feelings behind a stern, no-nonsense demeanor like other teachers.

Some of the words I'm required to produce on this test today:

country
continent
to be addicted to
addict
smuggle
tricky person
solution
pyramid
culture magazine

A part of me is wondering if there is a secret agenda and if I'm being programmed for some sort of devious work. I wonder if I get one of the words like "addict" wrong, can I make a case that I don't want to dabble in any work on the dark-side as my excuse for not having all my vocabulary nailed?

One thing that I enjoyed from this term was the creative story writing that we were assigned each week, using the new vocabulary that we had learned. I really struggle with coming up with a plot line. Even in class, when I'm called on to produce a sentence using a new word that we have just learned, there is often a long silence as I struggle to come up with the sentence itself. It isn't the Arabic grammatical construction that I struggle with, it's the sentence! Why do my ideas fail me under pressure in class? I have no idea. But my creativity is also dampened when I'm sitting at home, trying to come up with a storyline involving a list of vocabulary words. Once I came up with a plot line, I decided to stick with it from one vocabulary list to the next, creating a series of sorts, hoping that my teacher and classmates would be eager to hear each new installment. The heroine of my story was named "Mumilla Al Bakhee", directly translated "Boring The Leftovers". There is a history to this name, which is too long for this already lengthy post, but you can rest in the fact there is humour involved and much giggling (and maybe a little dying inside on my part).

Mumilla Al Bakhee

Once upon a time there was a girl named Mumilla Al Bakhee. Her grandmother lived in the forest, alone, and one day Mumilla Al Bakhee was walking through the forest to go to visit her. She was carrying a bag with juice and bread inside. There was a snake that also lived in the forest and he was addicted to drugs. When he saw Mumilla Al Bakhee walking in the forest, he thought she had drugs in her bag and he waited for her. Mumilla Al Bakhee sat in the grass to rest, and that is when the snake smuggled himself into her bag. When the snake saw that there were no drugs in her bag, just juice and bread, he became so angry that he died.

(end of installment #1)

When Mumilla Al Bakhee opened her bag to enjoy her juice and bread, she saw the snake and was very afraid. She began to beat the snake. Mumilla's grandmother was walking through the forest and heard Mumilla beating the snake. "No! This is snake abuse," her grandmother shouted! She insisted that her granddaughter repent of this great sin. Mumilla refused because the snake was dead before she began to beat him.

(end of installment #2)

Mumilla's grandmother thought her granddaughter was a murderess, and took her to prison. Telling the prison guard what she thought had happened, they threw Mumilla into jail. Mumilla Al Bakhee sat between the trees of the forest prison and read tabloid magazines. She cried every day, and the prison guard heard her crying. One day, he asked her what really happened. Mumilla told him about how the snake was already dead when she hit him, and the prison guard yelled, "You are innocent!" He released her from prison, and when the prison guard saw Mumilla outside of the prison, he fell in love with her. Mumilla, however, decided that she was going to go to Hollywood because she thought that life in Hollywood was better than in the forest because she had read the tabloid magazines. The prison guard decided to wait for her because "Love is Blind".

(end of installment #3)

Mumilla Al Bakhee arrived in Hollywood and saw that there were many malls everywhere. She went into one store and looked at the dresses. She asked the seller how much one dress was and he told her that it was $800! She asked, "Why is it so expensive?" He said, "It is a designer dress." Mumilla asked for a discount and the seller refused. He said that the price is the price. Mumilla began to cry and said, "Do you know who I am? I am Mumilla Al Bakhee! I am very famous in the forest." The seller replied, "When you step out from your door, you aren't as important as you think you are."

The End

Look at what Lola found in the garden!
Isn't he just the cutest thing you've ever laid your eyes on! It's the tiniest lizard I've ever seen! I wish we could have kept him and made him stay that size forever, but we were wise and let the little guy go free in the jungle that is our garden. I hope to see you again sometime, little guy! Have a great life!

Fresh Guava Juice!

Methinks the mango fiasco will not be repeated during the guava season. How jealous of me are you? A lot, right? I know! Because look at my life! I can make fresh guava juice from my very own fruit from my very own garden! Desert life isn't all sand and eye irritation. Sometimes, it's rather sweet.

Sickness is never easy in any context, especially when you are a mother and you have to watch your child deal with discomfort and pain. In the desert, the stakes are a little higher because the medical system is not anywhere close to great so seemingly minor situations can deteriorate quickly into disaster and tragedy.

Earlier this year, one of Charlie's classmates, previously diagnosed with asthma, collapsed at school. The ailment was not clear, and even to the foreign doctors, the solution remained elusive. The situation spiraled downward at such a rapid rate that even though she had been evacuated from the country to receive medical attention elsewhere, it was too late. On Thursday, there was a healthy girl in our midst, brilliant and caring. By the following Tuesday, she was gone.

During the month of Ramadan, my neighbour's husband went into the hospital for a "minor procedure" as it was explained to him. He had cysts in or on his stomach (I'm not really sure what the issue was) and the extent of the surgery was supposed to be just a small 2-inch incision. When he awoke from the surgery, the incision was considerably larger than what he had expected from the surgeon's earlier explanation. Complications arose with infections, necessitating his wife to take on the role of nurse, learning how to administer injections and clean the wound at home. Multiple trips to the hospital were of no use, the complications were compounded by flesh that died and needed to be cut off! Finally, they left the country to seek medical help in a more reputable system. They have been there for over a month, trying to repair the damage that has been done by a supposed minor day surgery.

Another story I heard was of a girl that fell and broke her leg. The break was so severe that she needed surgery. The leg was not healing properly afterwards and she was experiencing uncommonly severe pain. Upon further inspection, they discovered that some gauze was mistakenly left behind in her leg, and the infection had spread so much that not only was her leg in danger but her life.

Sickness in my home country is not something that I take lightly, but it also doesn't carry the weight of potential devastation because there is a capable medical system that I can rely on.

This last week, Lola came down with a cold. A cold isn't a major deal. Many people are sick with colds and flus due to the weather changing from hot to cold (a shivery 16C - I need socks!), which is standard in all autumn seasons in every climate. One afternoon, Lola began to complain about her ears. "My ears hurt, Mommy," and by the evening she was crying from the pain. Not wanting to resort to antibiotics, and yet also wanting to find some sort of solution for her pain, I turned to the trusty internet searching for "natural remedies for earache pain." Sifting through the options that varied from "warm cloth held over the ear" to "drops of urine", I finally settled on a suggestion to crush garlic and soak in olive oil for a number of hours. Warm slightly and then drop a few drops of the oil into the affected ear and cover with a cotton ball. It was a long night. Lola was so uncomfortable and so desperate for sleep. Children's Tylenol only touched the pain temporarily, its pain relief effectiveness lifting long before it was safe for a new dosage. All I could do was hold Lola and cry along with her as I wore a path in the carpet from all my pacing. We ended up setting up camp in the living room in front of the television as the distraction of cartoons lulled her long enough for the safe, healing hands of sleep to grip her. She didn't sleep for long stretches of time, and for a mother's heart, it was agonizing to see her face pained by the desperation for sleep and her body trying to squirm away from the pain in her ears.

I do have faith in a power unseen whom I can pester with my pleas and I believe that God hears me. I'm not going to lie to you, though, I was scared. With so little in my arsenal against this earache, I was powerless. What if things turned from the seemingly minor to something major? Would I wake in the morning to a burst ear drum, or damaged hear loss and wish that I had just gone the route of the antibiotics? Would I have to live with what-ifs?

The next morning was still rough as Lola and I were both living with the effects of a tearful all-nighter. As I pulled the cotton puff out of her ear to add another few drops of warm garlic oil, I saw a large mass of yucky (yes, that is a medical term) stuck to the cotton. The infection was working its way out! We were still working our way up the hill to recovery, but I was confident that it wasn't a slippery slope.

At this moment, Lola is gleefully running around the living room playing her brother's harmonica as accompaniment to her children's music cd. The healing has taken place, in part to garlic oil and many a tearful petition heavenward. I am thankful that this time, the sickness has passed without complications. My heart aches for those families I know that have been touched by complications and death for things that wouldn't even be an issue in our home country. I'm humbled to dependence and a state of trust knowing that there is a real potential for a spiral out of control, aware that my arsenal is so very limited. I pray that the next time our family is touched by sickness, again we can be thankful for finding our way through to health.

The Holy day in the desert is Friday. This, of course, has implications on the days of the week that become our weekend. When we first moved here, I woke Charlie up in the morning to get ready for his first day in his new school, "But it's Saturday!" Charlie protested. Our first day of the work/school week is Saturday, moving on to Sunday and then through to Wednesday. Instead of saying TGIF, I shout, "TGIW!" It just doesn't have the same ring to it, and Monday is hump day. After a number of months, I have gotten used to Thursday and Friday being my weekend. However, I still get mixed up and refer to Wednesday as Friday in conversation, which can have disastrous consequences when making plans with friends. Thankfully, people are used to this mix-up from all the foreigners and so make sure to clarify exactly which day we are meaning.

I said all that to say, "I'm going away for the weekend!" It's Wednesday today! While we were in Thailand some of our classmates went to a coastal town not far from here and had a very enjoyable time. We haven't seen much beyond the main highway, so we are ready to take in some more of the sights of the country. From what I've heard, there are bungalows not far from the beach and the area is isolated, meaning that we can be free to swim without worry (not that I'm worried about modesty, clearly). I've also heard that the food is really good and large portions. We've bought fruit and snacks to take along. Charlie's excitement for the trip was clear when he directed our attention to the special items from home that he had folded and packed carefully. He wanted to make sure that we didn't forget them.

This morning, we are skipping school to host a pancake eating party while watching the election results and then leave early to the beachside. I have the TV on right now, and the election has already been called. McCain called to concede the victory to Obama. Our friends haven't even arrived and the griddle isn't even heated up yet. Oh well.

Happy Weekend to me! Happy Hump Day to you!

I'm not stating my political affiliations since I'm not an American, myself, and my opinions don't really hold any chance of affecting the election outcome. However, it seems obvious to me from the international opinion who seems to be the stronger candidate.

If you are American on American soil, adopt my political philosophy, "Vote! If you don't, you won't have any right to complain later."

Happy Barack Obama Day!

The desert isn't a place for the squeamish. If just looking at the above picture makes you begin to shake and have to explain away vomit stains on your shirt later, then you should definitely not move here. I would even go as far as questioning the wisdom in coming for a visit. Admittedly, we don't see many of these fellows very often. They are nocturnal creatures, only venturing out when the sun has hidden itself, and we don't make a habit of wandering around our garden after dark. Occasionally, though, necessity causes us - read: husband - to put on our brave faces and risk a brush with potential death.

Some may think me dramatic, but the little/big guy above has enough poison to land little Lola in the hospital and cause adults much more than discomfort.

One to take care of his family, my husband was outside after dark, hanging laundry. Under the cover of night, it's possible for him to do domestic work without damaging his manly reputation. Looking down at his feet, he noticed a millipede and then suddenly a centipede shot out from behind a rock and attacked the millipede. Curling up into a ball for protection, the millipede was safe for the time being, but how long can a relatively defenseless creature withstand poison when curling is its only counter measure? I have always hated millipedes, and once I get the courage to break away from my fit of screaming and convulsing to reach for my camera, I will post a picture of one of our very own. If I was in my husbands shoes, I would have screamed and ran inside to my own personal protection. Deathly afraid of spiders, my husband actually loves millipedes and when he saw that the millipede was under attack, he grabbed a broom and used the handle to smash in the centipede's head. The millipede could live another day.

Two days later, the centipede, even though its head had been completely removed by ants, was still moving instinctively when we poked it with a stick. As I stood off to the side, paralyzed with fear, Blessing picked up the centipede using a plastic bag and unceremoniously dropped it into the trash.

Some people, and creatures, are stronger than others. The intense environment of the desert only magnifies the weakness.

Growing up, one of my chores, along with the monthly fridge clear out and washing, was washing the dishes. I was responsible for the actual washing while my younger sister was the one stuck with drying and putting away. Looking back, I can see that it was this very chore that concretely established my competitive nature. It may not have birthed this character flaw, but it certainly was an enabler, and has influenced the way that I go about washing dishes to this very day. I could not STAND it when my sister had nothing in the drip tray. As the dish-dryer, all my sister had to do was keep up with what I placed in the drip tray after doing the final step of rinsing. At first, the steady flow of cups and plates and bowls was enough to keep her busy. However, once those pots and pans hit, the ones needing elbow grease deep scrubbing, my blood would boil when my sister not only caught up with everything needing drying, but she had the audacity to stand and wait! That meant, in my mind, that she was getting a break! How dare she? I had been working just a long as she had, if not longer because she had nothing to dry until I had washed those first few glasses, and now, at the height of my physical labour, as I'm sweating through the scrubbing and the heat of the water and bubbles, I'm also slapped in the face by my younger sister getting the easier end of the job! She got a break! And it's not like she went somewhere else so that it was an "out of sight out of mind" concept, but she was arrogant enough to stay right there and lean against counter waiting ever so patiently for me to get on with bringing her more dishes to dry. Of course, by the time the pot was scrubbed spotless, the amount of time that it took to dry the pot was minuscule in comparison to the amount of time it took to return it to pristine condition. Not a bead of sweat decorated that sweet, young forehead of hers. Theories and justifications flooded my mind. There are always those moments at the end of dish washing when the one who is drying is finishing up the final few dishes and the one who was washing can stand back and savour a job well done. In fact, no, that is not what happens because the dishwasher's job is not fully complete until the sink is rid of all bubbly foam, rinsed clean and wiped dry, including the outside edges, the taps, the back-splash and the basin. After months of standing side by side, I devised a plan of strategy to slow my sister down from the beginning: cutlery. If I started with the cutlery, which are, admittedly, not too difficult to wash and yet naturally meticulous: dry one, put away, dry another, put away, dry another, put away, and so on - I could gain a substantial lead! My plan succeeded and I felt a rush of adrenaline when after I had finished all the cutlery, the drip tray began to pile high with glasses and cups as my sister struggled to keep up with how fast I was pulling ahead in the chore race.

An objective observer may wonder where the dishwasher, as in the machine, was in our house and I honestly can't remember if we had one all that time and my mom was trying to instill responsibility into our characters or if there really was no dishwasher at that time. I do know that at some point a dishwasher did appear. However, the value of washing dishes myself is one that I'm glad my parents insisted I grab a hold of because other than the 6 months in our first-owned home before we moved to Europe, I have never had a dishwasher in my home and have had to rely on the very hands that are typing these words to provide clean dishes, cutlery and pots and pans for my family to use.

Now that I'm in school full time, I find that I fall behind very quickly on the very basics of housework and early on in my return to school I quickly spiralled down into a wonderfully emotional breakdown. It was at this point that my husband said the wise words, "You can't do it all yourself. We need help." In actuality, we got more than help. We got a blessing. I sing her praises every time I step through the door for not only are the dishes done, but the ironing is completed upon request, beds are made, toys are tidied, tables are wiped clean, surfaces dusted, bathrooms cleaned, floors are mopped and carpets are vacuumed. On Wednesday, Blessing said to me, "I want to make you lunch on Saturday. Okay? And invite your friends." We were so excited! A homemade ethnic meal and she did not disappoint! I had enjoyed a similar meal with a friend back in my home country about 2 years ago, and while the tastes were close there was really no comparison. DeeeLish! So, not only was my house clean but lunch was waiting when we got home. I felt like a spoiled princess!

Just to give you an idea what a blessing Blessing is to me, take a look at Exhibit A:

Dishes piled high from the weekend

The magically transformed kitchen upon my return

My favourite thing that Blessing does - slapping the Ziploc bags on the wall to dry

I really could not keep up on everything with school, social obligations, family obligations, internet obligations (hello, friends!), important TV watching (if I could only figure out when Moment of Truth airs, I'd be a happy camper), vocabulary memorization (ha!) and treadmill running if I didn't have Blessing in my life doing things that return to me moments and hours so that I can relax with my family rather than trying to grab hugs and kisses while I'm scrubbing and sweating over the toilet bowl.

I do, however, miss washing dishes. When Blessing started working for us, I was overcome with guilt and a crisis of identity. I had always been the one to do our house work and I enjoyed the feeling of pride and accomplishment when I stood back to survey the clean house that was clean because of the work of my hands. My husband tried to alleviate my guilt with his words, but his voice was just not as loud as the tape recorder in my head that was shouting that there must be something wrong with me if I can't keep up with it all. I'd sneak into the kitchen in the evening and wash up the pots and pans. Catching me in the act, my husband would scowl and say, "What are you doing? You are taking work away from Blessing!" I would guiltily respond, "I'm just doing the hard ones so that there aren't so many for her." Catching me for the umpteenth time up to my elbows in bubbles, my husband threatened, "Fine. I'm going to stop paying Blessing if you are just going to keep doing her work. We pay her so that you don't have to do it." But his words met no success in breaking through. It wasn't until I had succumbed to the temptation to do all the dishes one evening rather than kicking back and relaxing after finishing my studying, and was met with dismay and disappointment from Blessing when she arrived the next morning. Later, I learned, that having done the dishes, I was communicating that I didn't think she was doing a good job and decided to do it myself. By no means did I want to communicate that! But how do I bring resolution to this guilt I'm feeling and wanting to honour someone's hard work? For me, time has been a great healer. I have just had to get used to allowing someone else to help me where I was previously ferociously independent and self sufficient. I've had to let go. I pray that I will never become numb to this feeling of thankfulness.

Thank you, Blessing, for blessing me and my family. Please don't tell my mom that I don't do my own dishes!

Spontaneous love-bloggery right here.**

This is a conversation that Charlie and I just had 5 minutes ago:

Me: Charlie? Are you watching Rachael Ray cook?

Charlie: Yes! I want to learn how to cook, too. I don't want to always have to need you to cook, I want to learn for myself!

((pause))

Charlie: Anyways, where do we get steak?


My question, exactly, Charlie. You've now entered into the seventh circle of hell: watching a cooking show and knowing full well that half of the called-for ingredients are not available where you live. Including steak.

** 100 points to the person who can tell me which movie this near-quote is from. I'm not sure what the points will be towards, but maybe this is the beginning of a game! Wee! I love games!