Vocabulary Lessons and Lack of Self-Control

In preparation for "back-to-school," I took the three boys to our family practitioner for full physical exams. We made it as far as the vital signs room before the giggling began.

Nurse:  Any surgeries?

     Me:  Testicular varicosele removed earlier this year.

Nurse:  Varico-who?

    Me:  Varicosele. V-a-r-i-c-o-s-e-l-e.

Nurse:  And that's like a varicose vein?

     Me:  Yes, in the testicle.

**Begin giggling behind me that builds to hog snorting and then blatant guffawing.**

To her credit, the nurse was Mexican-American with a very heavy accent and most of the practice services the Hispanic community here, so most of the time she speaks in Spanish.  But she seemed embarrassed enough and rushed through the rest of the height, weight, blood pressure and temperature readings to hurry the out-of-control pubescent lunatics into the exam room and out of her hair.

They were all just fine. The end.

Just A Question

Is there something genetically linked in male  DNA that rears its head in puberty that causes boys to drip water all over the bathroom with no ability to dry it up?

Does someone pull them aside in middle school and whisper to them, "While you will still use every clean towel in the closet after your shower and leave them wadded up throughout the house, from now on you will also be required to step onto the bare floor NEXT to the bathmat and  shake violently like a wet dog to ensure that there is more water on the walls, floor, mirror, counter, and ceiling than ever hit the bath tub during your 98 minute shower while the rest of the family was  hopping outside the door in dire need of a  pee."

Thankfully I noticed it BEFORE I slipped and broke my neck. That is all.

And Now What You've All Been Waiting For.....

I know I promised full disclosure as to the details of our trip from Egypt to the U.S.   And yeah, it's been three weeks since we got back so I can't blame jet-lag any longer.  The truth is, nothing really happened.  I know, right?  Who the hell's life am I living and when will the chaos begin again?!

Okay, so back in late April or early May, I contacted my travel agent and tried to book us on Lufthansa to Dallas because there would only be one layover and the Germans are usually extremely efficient and keep to schedules. Also, because I avoid New York like the friggin' plague because I think it's stupid that all international flights are IN to JFK and then we have to claim all our luggage and go through customs and all that noise just to find a cab (yeah, right!) who can haul all five of us and our 10 suitcases 5 carry-on bags and whatever crap we purchased at Duty-Free all the way over to LaGuardia in Queens and then have to check in again and wait for a flight (that isn't free, by the way) to Dallas. NO THANKS. It's hard enough to travel with kids internationally. I don't want to have to do the whole intracontinental thing, too.

So my travel agent told me that she could book me on Lufthansa for 30, 800 EGP but that Emirates Air had a better price. So I rolled my eyes and asked how many layovers that one had. She said just one but it's in
Dubai. I asked what the price was and she said, "20,000 EGP."

Say WHAT?! "What's the catch?" I asked.

"Well, the transit is in Dubai. So you would have to fly 5 hours from Cairo to Dubai and then you have a 3 hour layover and fly directly from Dubai to DFW. The flight time would be 15 hours from Dubai instead of only 9 hours from Frankfurt to Dallas."

"Girl, we've GOT time. It's money that we seem to always be short on.  Book the Emirates flight."

So that is how we got to fly over Iraq and Russia and the North Pole and Canada and Minneapolis and all the way over Oklahoma and land in Dallas. Yeah, really. I've flown over the North Pole.

I have flown my entire life....and NO, I'm not embellishing.  My dad was military and we traveled back and forth from Europe my entire life. I flew a lot in the US to visit family and then started traveling overseas for my job. I am just as comfortable in the air as I am on a road trip. Maybe more so. I've never endorsed an
airline before.  But I will right now.

EMIRATES AIR RULES!

From the time that we checked in at the desk in Cairo, we were whisked away on a bus by ourselves just as soon as I notified the attendant that we had a special needs child and explained that Autism can sometimes cause my daughter to become overwhelmed and freak out a little but that I can get her to calm down again provided the flight attendants do not try to restrain her. (That happened on the Lufthansa flight last time we traveled to the US and I was nearly at the point of knocking out the woman who was attempting to force Randa into her seat while yelling in her face to keep  calm.) They boarded us in the back of the plane at the same time the first and business class passengers were boarding int he front.

This is a great spot as far as I'm concerned. We're close to the back where the drink carts are stored. We're close to the restrooms. AND most importantly, we're located close to the jet engines where argumentative teenagers and their noise gets drowned out. YES.  The flight attendants were SO very nice to us.  Honestly, they were nice to everyone.

When we arrived in Dubai, the kids were a little hungry and Mohamed had asked me to buy cigarettes at the duty-free store. So, we bought the cigarettes and then wandered to a food court and I decided that it was just too damn expensive. But I did buy them each a coke and got myself a Snapple and we wandered back over to our gate and sat and snarfed down all the cookies and chips and snacks that their uncles had purchased for their backpacks before we left Egypt.

We still had another hour before we were supposed to leave which meant another half hour before boarding started and Randa started to have a meltdown. She was bored and tired and hadn't had her internet fix in more than a day. A gate attendant called Ismail over and asked if we would be able to control her on the flight and Ismail said yes and tried to explain what autism is to him. Finally, he decided that the guy was kind of a rock and called me over to explain. I could barely understand his broken English so I spoke to him in Arabic and explained that my daughter is just extremely tired and bored and that once we were on the plane I could settle her down.  He recognized my dialect as Egyptian. Turns out, HE was Egyptian.

So, what does one Egyptian do for another Egyptian? They "hook a sister up"and he called some Scottish dude who was in charge of security and told him to board us early. He didn't want to but the Egyptian dude told him, "Special needs child" and the Scottish dude asked me what was up and I explained that Randa is Autistic and gets overwhelmed when she is overstimulated and can freak out a bit. He said, "My niece is autistic. I know how that goes."

The Scottish dude said, "Follow me." So we did. And he introduced us to Faris who was the head porter on our flight. Faris introduced us to Mario aka Mex (which apparently was short for Mexican) and they shook hands with Randa and were very polite and asked if she would like anything.

Randa said, "Chocolate." And then she laughed. So they laughed.

Damn if they didn't bring her a mini-Toblerone and a Mars bar just for her from first class. And they sent a color book and a fake Etch-A-Sketch thing. She was just stoked that they had Toy Story 3 on the in-flight movie and they're all high-tech so you can even rewind over and over again like she enjoys doing on the touch screen that was on the back of the head rest in front of her seat.

The only "incident"so to speak, was about 9 hours into the flight when Randa started shouting, "Butt hurts! Back hurts! Go faster. FLY FASTER!" The whole time she was pretending to row (yeah like in a boat) as if air- rowing was going to get us there quicker. They were handing out drinks at the time and the flight attendant sort of giggled but then told Randa, "I will tell the pilot to fly faster, dear."

Once we were over Oklahoma, we hit every air pocket that we DIDN'T hit flying all over the rest of the globe. All I could think of was TORNADOES. But thankfully, we weren't in any tornadoes. But the air pockets DEFINITELY did a number on my stomach, as well as Randa's. Because then she decided that she didn't want him to fly faster any more. And she started to stomp on her imaginary air brakes and shouted, "Slow down. Fly slower." This of course, delighted the two men sitting on the other side of her and they tried to hide their amusement but failed miserably.

Good thing she doesn't give a shit what other people think.

Anyway, a few hours later we landed and even though it took us about 2 hours to get through immigration and customs, we did it fairly quickly and uneventfully. It was awesome. Boring and uneventful almost NEVER happens to us. So this was amazing to me and my family.

I cannot emphasize enough how awesome Emirates Air was on both legs of the trip and at all three airports and if you ever have a need to fly anywhere in the world that they service, TAKE THEM. It is an awesome experience.

Also....it was amazing to see my husband, my son, my mom and my sisters and their kids waiting for us at the  airport. These are my favorite people in the world. (My brother, too, of course but he had to work that day and he lives in Austin.) And here's a photo of Randa hugging her grandmother at the airport upon our arrival while her father looks on:

6 Days and a Wake Up

Things are rolling along. Managed to sell off the last of the big ticket items and people are coming by and picking up their purchases....at the oddest of hours. BUT....who cares? As long as I have money in hand and they take the stuff with them when they go.

My glasses broke in half (at the bridge of the nose) yesterday and it's hard to deal with life peering through Scotch tape and bent frames. I got an exam last night and ordered my new glasses. Only 24 hours more of headaches and then I'll be fashionably...dorky...again. Okay, so they're not the awesome frames I wanted but I had an 12 yr old and 13 yr old with me who were more interested in trying glasses on themselves than to help me find a pair that doesn't make me look like I'm a new recruit on her first day at boot camp when issued a set of BCG's. (That's Birth Control Goggles, for you civilian folk.)

I've got most of my to-do list, to-done. Just a few more items to tick off before we leave this apartment and spend our last 3 days in Egypt with my husband's brother and family. I'm so excited. A friend mentioned that this would be a bittersweet move, and truthfully it is. On the other hand, I'm READY for a new chapter and this is the right move for us. If it weren't, then things wouldn't be just falling into place the way they are. (Thanks, God.)

Our internet service should be disconnected any second now so I will have to post once we arrive in the US and I come out of the jet-lag coma. Thanks for following our story. I should have mega-stories about the travels. ;)

Guess What I Got For Mother's Day

NO! I didn't get a razor as a Mother's Day gift.

I did, however, manage to get a shower in semi-hot water with enough time to actually mow BOTH of my legs. HOW did I do this, you may inquire?  It was simple.

I showered before all four of the kids got up. I made sure that the 2 younger ones, who were up before I was had used the toilet before I went in. THEN I made a mad dash for the bathroom and locked the door.

I also made it perfectly clear that I would NOT answer questions through the door about why so-and-so got to play outside before studying yesterday or about where such-and-such is located.

It was pure tepid heaven.

Of course, I had to retire this razor since it had been about 8 or 9 months since I'd shaved.  Oh, well. Also, I no longer have flies trailing me because I washed my hair AND conditioned it. It's going to be a good day.

Happy (U.S. and Australia) Mother's Day to all the Moms, Stepmoms, Grandmoms, Aunts, others who provide for kids.

You Think Junk Yards Are Cool, But I'M Embarrassing?

Mornings are tough some days at our house.  They are much tougher when I do stupid things like stay up all night long watching old movies that I really liked back in the 80's and 90's. (Why DO they put all the good stuff on after my bedtime?) So last night I stayed awake watching re-broadcasts of a Turkish soap opera and an Egyptian soap opera that I had missed earlier in the evening. Then one of my favorite movies came on (Something to Talk About with Julia Roberts, Robert Duvall, Dennis Quaid and Kyra Sedgewick) and I watched it from beginning to end.

So chances are I'm not going to get the required rest when the movie ends at 5:30 a.m. and my alarm is set for 5:50 a.m. to get the boy to school on time. I just pulled a blanket over me and took a power nap on the couch. We actually got him to school on time. And I bought potatoes and got home by 7:15. Woohoo. Yay, me. I celebrated in the form of a nap until 10:30.

My daughter goes to school from 12:30 until 4:30 p.m. So we arrive half an hour late to pick up her brother and she's about forty-five minutes early for her classes. Whatever. Beats making 6 trips up and back each day, doesn't it? So she turned the television on while I was getting dressed and slugging coffee and some movie I've never seen before was on. Samiya called me out to the living room.

"Mom, what is that place they're climbing the fence to get into?"

     "That's a junk yard, Honey."

"Wow. That is so cool. It's really clean for a garbage dump."

     "Child, it's not a garbage dump. It's a junk yard. It's where they tow wrecked and broken down cars."

"They're very organized.  Are all of them like that?"

      "Like what?"

"Like stacked in that whole OCD way?"

     "Some of them are just haphazardly tossed about but the best ones are organized.  I never took you to a
junk yard when we lived in the states?"

"How would I know?  We left when I was two."

     "Oh, yeah."

"So why would you go to a junk yard?"

     "Well, you know when stuff breaks on your car or you get in a  wreck or you just need a really expensive part, instead of going to pay for a new one at a  parts store  you can call around to the junk yards near you and ask if they have the alternator or engine or door or fender or bumper to the same kind of car that you have and how much it is. And chances are you'll  end up paying a good deal less."

"Oh. That is just the coolest thing I've ever seen."

     "Your granddad and Uncle Tracy would be so proud to see those Southern roots exposed.  I like junk yards because they're sort of the silver lining of a totaled car."

"What do you mean?"

     "Well, once a car is wrecked so badly that the owner can't drive it anymore, it's towed off to the junk yard and the owner gets a new one after his insurance pays out, etc. But junk yards are sort of like a recycling center for vehicles and they help cut down on costs for people who need to repair their cars and it's a lucrative business for those who own the lot. I've always appreciated a good junk yard. It's nice to see another girl who does, as well."

"Mom, can we go now? I'm going to be late for school and I'm kind of over this whole emotional tie you seem to have with a dump for broken cars. I really only brought it up because I liked how they stacked them up. You're so embarrassing!"


Teenagers.

Consideration of Others IS Consideration of Self

RESPECT - an act of giving particular attention: Consideration

Respect is a vital ingredient to any relationship. It is needed for a healthy relationship with self, partner, parent, spouse, child, neighbor, competitor, stranger, boss, employee and even enemy. (Yes. There are enemies who hate one another but still respect one another.)

I have encountered more disrespect in the past twenty hours than I think I am able to handle. I've had a lit cigarette flicked at me while the cigarette-flicker looked right at me, been lied to by a woman who "desperately needed to buy this stuff" so she could get back to her baby that she had locked in the house by himself....only to find that 2 boxes of green tea, some toy soldiers and a  punch balloon were her emergency AND she had her 4 yr old boy in tow (I told her, "May God forgive you for lying to get ahead in life and setting a bad example for your son) and then when I went to buy a new coffee mug at a different store, the two employees there were more interested in  playing Romeo to teenage girl Juliets that they volleyed back and forth as to who was going to help me and neither did. I complained LOUDLY to the owner and reminded him that if it weren't for the customers that his employees refused to help they wouldn't be needed to work there and that I would never shop there again.

My son "borrowed" my mp3  player without permission and took it into the bathroom to listen to it while he did his business...only somehow my mp3 player fell into his "business" before he flushed and now it and more than 140 songs I'd purchased are covered in poo and the circuits inside are fried because he "rinsed it off."

I've been called upon to lift furniture and clean up a nasty dirty apartment by a woman who claims that she is my friend without warning and treated with disdain when I apologized and stated that I was not at home but in fact visiting a friend on the other side of town. I suppose she expected us to get up from the dinner table and run to her aid even though her own sisters, brother, mother and children refused to help her and she didn't say a word to them.

People! Respect is key. The base of my marriage is respect. The reason that my husband and I have been happily married for 18+ years is because we respect each other and TREAT each other with respect. We do not call names in arguments and have never raised a hand one to another. EVER. My friends can attest to the fact that I treat them with respect 100% and that even if we are arguing, I respect secrets told to me and still don't repeat them, even if the friendship ends. If I am wrong, I respect myself and friends enough to ADMIT IT and apologize.

Today, I feel that respect is something that I give to everyone right out of the gate and that I get very little to none in return. I am not a happy camper and due to the disrespect of my wishes and property by my son, I can't even plug in my headphones and sing away my blues. Instead I'm hoping to "blog it out." *sigh*

Go out of your way to treat others with respect today (and everyday.) It is a reflection of the respect you have for yourself as well as for others who share your planet.

Alphabet Soup

I've mentioned before that I'm a military BRAT. Growing up around the Army, acronyms were just the norm for us. While most kids on a playground can tell you about ABC-gum and understand what "You'd better XYZPDQ" means, BRATs are familiar with so much more, usually even before the third grade. Also, our  parents when saying things like 'As Soon As Possible' did not spell out A.S.A.P. but usually pronounced it ay-sap. By the time we were in high school, we knew that a letter from DODDS addressed to our fathers was probably CC'd to him and actually addressed to his C.O. and that we must be nailed for ditching school and life as we knew it was now FUBAR (that's Foo-Bar.)

What's that? OH...right. Translation:

DODDS:   Department of Defense Dependent Schools
CC:           Courtesy Copy (you should know this from email headers, come on!)
C.O.:         Commanding Officer
FUBAR:    F*#!ed Up Beyond All Recognition

So, when I got caught, along with 65 of my closest friends, drinking apple schnapps on the school bus and the driver, Frank (not really his name but since Frank and Stoeckl own the bus company we called ALL of our bus drivers Frank) drove us to the MP station and the DSCC held all of us there for over 4 hours without allowing us to contact our parents. I finally was the ballsiest and picked up a phone and called my dad, who came immediately with my friends parents in tow and OMG did the S.H.T.F!  My dad calmly went in and told the DSCC, "Colonel, I would like to press charges." The colonel was shocked thinking that my dad wanted to press charges against me for under-age drinking. He contended this was a matter best left for the  parents to handle since I was not military and they could not hold me in a military cell or discipline me in anyway. Dad clarified. "I want to press charges for kidnapping." That got the Colonel's attention.

DSCC:   "Against whom?"
D.A.D:   "You, Sir."
DSCC:   "Come again?"
D.A.D:   "Sir, you have held my daughter against her will, without her parents knowledge and refused to
               her any contact with her parents. According to any dictionary, that is the definition of kidnapping,
               Sir, and I'd like to press charges."
DSCC:   "But she and her friends were drinking on the bus!"
D.A.D:    "True, Sir. But as you've indicated, that would be a matter best left to her parents to handle since
                she is a dependent and not a military member and thus outside your jurisdiction. Isn't that correct,
                Sir?"
DSCC:    "Uh, well......uhm, see that she never does this again, Chief!"
D.A.D:     "I can guaran-damn-tee it, Sir."
DSCC:    "Then I'll just release her into your custody and we'll pretend this never happened?"
D.A.D:    "That's affirmative, Sir."

I thought my dad was the coolest thing ever. The DSCC released the rest of the students with a stern warning and only my two best friends got suspended from the bus and had to take the train for two weeks. (That's because they'd bought the booze in the first place.) And I was just the big hero. MY dad had pretty much gotten everyone off the hook and put the DSCC in his place, etc. Until we got in the car. And I was placed on restriction for the next 2 weeks and only allowed to leave my room for KP, laundry, meals and school. SNAFU. I was also warned that if I were to EVER embarrass my father via his chain of command again, that I would see the 4 walls of my room until we PCS'd. I was scared. That meant no more DYA sports, no more AFN, no more kissing boys behind the BOQ, no more watching movies at the AAFES theater and no more hanging out at the snack bar in the PX. So, I followed my father's advice and got my "head out of my ass" and walked the straight and narrow until he came home one day and said, 'FIGMO'.

For those of you, not familiar with military life overseas, more translation:

MP:        Military Police
DSCC:   Deputy Sub-Community Commander (the MFWIC of the smaller of two American military
              communities that are closely situated.)
MFWIC: Mother F*#!er What's In Charge
OMG:     Really? You have to ask this in the age of Twitter?
S.H.T.F:  Sh** Hit the Fan
KP:         Kitchen Police
SNAFU:  Situation Normal-All F*#!ed Up
PCS'd:    Permanent Change of Station (to move)
DYA:      Dependent Youth Association
AFN:      Armed Forces Network (tv and radio station; aka AFRTS or Ay-Farts which is Armed Forces
                Radio and Television Service)
BOQ:     Billeting of Quarters (a military sort of hotel where members and families sometimes stay
               temporarily, after they've cleared quarters prior to PCSing and/or while on TDY - Temporary
               Duty)
AAFES:  Army Air Force Exchange Services (they ARE the dept store/fast food/bowling alley/theater/ on
               any Army or Air Force military compound.)
PX:         Post Exchange (you'll sometimes hear someone say BX and that is the same thing only they're
               usually Navy or Air Force because they have BASES instead of  POSTS so it would be Base
               Exchange....which I find really weird because Marines are assigned to CAMPS but they don't say
               CX for Camp Exchange....I think they also have BXes. Of course, no one credits the Marines for
               being big readers anyway so if you just say "the exchange" to them they'll know what you're talking
               about and reply in the affirmative, "Oo-rah."
FIGMO:  F*#! It. Got My Orders (means I don't care....I'm PCSing soon and already have orders to leave)

      

Respect for Elders

So, yesterday was another scorcher and I opted to send two of my kids down to the corner store to pick up a bunch of stuff we were missing. They spent about 35 Pounds buying me groceries and complained that the owner was really crabby.  I blew it off and went about making breakfast (it's Ramadan and we're fasting until sunset) when I realized that I forgot to have the kids buy salt. I sent Ismail back down to the corner store to get me a bag of salt. He came home really angry but not raging (which is good for a 13 yr old boy who is learning to control his emotions.) He said that the dude gave him a bag of salt and he paid and then asked for a plastic sack to put it in. The owner of the store yelled at him, "It comes in a bag!" Ismail thought he was just clowning with him and said, "No, really. I want a bag."  The owner yelled at him again and got in his face this time, "I TOLD YOU IT COMES IN A BAG!"  So Ismail handed the salt back to him and said, "Then I don't want anything from you. I would like my money back." So the guy jerks the salt out of his hand and stuffs the money into it and says, "That's even better. Now get out!" (And here's where I got pissed.) He shoved him toward the door.

Ismail went to his biggest competitor across the street and bought the salt there. When he came home he told me that he was so mad and he wanted to hit him but he didn't. And he insisted that I go downstairs immediately and tell him what's what. I told him I'd do it later but that I needed to make fitar (breakfast) first and that I would handle it later that night or the next day. Ismail wanted to come along and I told him I didn't think it was a good idea. He was livid. He swore he'd never buy anything from that big jerk ever again. I told him that we're not going to call names because it's haram (forbidden) and this is a guy who is in his late 50's or early 60's. We need to calm down. I got him busy making juice and talking about other things and so it went. I didn't go talk to the man last night. I waited until today.

I decided to take Ismail with me. As we were walking, we passed the masjid on our street where many people were praying the Taraweeh prayers (extra prayers said each night during Ramadan) and we noticed that the store owner was praying from a seated position near the door. He usually stands and bows and kneels with the younger men in the masjid. We kept walking and I told Ismail that maybe it would be best if we just go to the store and talk to the owner's brother who also works there. That way he can act as an intermediary and present the issue to his brother with our concerns voiced but without the older man feeling as though he is being attacked. But his brother was not there. His son was. I spoke calmly and explained to the young man what had happened and he apologized for his father. I explained that I understand that the weather is so very hot and that the temperature inside the store is hotter than in the street. This combined with fasting can make for short tempers. However, as sassy and rotten as my kids are to me and each other at home, I know without a doubt that they do not get sassy and rude with elders. I have been complimented on this fact many times, even by the store owner. And if my son was out of line in any way, I will address the issue with him. But under no circumstances was the owner right in shoving him or touching him in any way.

The young man kissed Ismail on his forehead and apologized for his father's behavior. "Tont (Aunt), I am so sorry. But my father is under great stress right now. You see, he took my uncle and niece and grandmother to a cousin's wedding on the first of this month. I stayed here and ran the store overnight. They were in an accident on the way home and my father rolled the car 3 times. I left straight from here to the hospital and he didn't even know that my grandmother, Allah bestow her His mercy, didn't make it. I had to tell him when I arrived. My father has permanent damage to his spine and has broken ribs. My uncle broke his shoulder and my niece was cut across her lip and chin. My father went straight back to work and refuses to take any time off and if I suggest it, he yells at me or slaps me. But what can I do? He is my father. But if you would just forgive him. He is very angry and hurt and his nerves are not the same. And all that I can do is ask that Allah forgive him and give me patience to wait until my father is able to deal with this grief. You know that I love Ismail like my little brother and all of your children are always very respectful in this store. I'm so sorry."

I told him that I understand and said "May Allah bless him with patience" and then bought a few cookies and things that we really didn't need but as a gesture that we understand and are not taking our business elsewhere.  When we left the store, I asked Ismail if he understood what all was happening in the store owner's world.  He said, "Wow. He has had a lot to deal with in just a few weeks. I wonder if he has cried yet." I told him probably not or he wouldn't be so angry and grouchy. We talked about PTSD and grief and rage and how sometimes people blame themselves for things that were destined to happen. I asked Ismail if he was upset that I didn't go in yelling and screaming and that I bought from them. He said no. And that he understood that the best way to handle the situation was as I had done because it showed respect for everyone involved.

Thank God. I am doing something right. 

We're Having a Party Today

I have decided to throw a party today...just for my kids. I believe that they deserve it.  I know you think I'm nuts, right?  "All the complaining about them driving you insane as to how bored they are, even on their way home from the beach! Your kids don't deserve a party!" Au contraire, mon frere.

You see, most of you civilian types don't know what I'm talking about.  My military brat friends are probably laughing their butts off right now. Because they know that the above-pictured party hat will NOT be donned by my children. That's right, fellow BRATs.  I'm throwing my kids a G.I. Party.  They don't know what it is yet either. But you can bet, they won't be wearing headgear of any kind. (Don't worry, civilian people. I'll  provide a glossary for all these italicized terms at the end of this post.) But I will. THIS will be my party hat:
Oh, yeah.


Somewhere along the line, I got tired. Perhaps it was the fact that I realized I'll be 44 this year, AHEM! (29 for the 15th time.) Perhaps it's just the heat and humidity is getting to me.  The fact that we all shower 3 and 4 times a day, thus overfeeding the laundry monster towels and sweaty clothes requiring me to slay it repeatedly on a daily basis, has pushed me to the edge of my usually forced patience brink.  But now we'll add in the constant whining, bickering, insult-throwing, sassing, and fist-fights to the already fully packed list of tattles, complaining, and arguing and you've got a one word adjective that describes the situation I am in to a T:   Disrespect. 


I have noticed that lately I must call out the same name at least 5 times before I hear a half-assed "Ma'am?" in response. I know that if my face was on t.v. they'd hear me loud and clear. (And probably turn the thing off.)  When I ask someone to complete his or her dishes so that I can get dinner started, I either wait three or four hours for them to begin, or I get pissed off and ask God for patience while I wash them myself.  I get elated that I finally killed the laundry-dragon and burned its nest down and smashed its eggs only to walk into the boys' room and find its twin sister laying more eggs at the end of my son's bed in the back corner of the bedroom.....even though I told him THREE TIMES to get all of his dirty clothes into the hamper NOW so that I can complete the laundry.

These are normal issues that happen all the time, I guess. But we've also been dealing with an enormously abnormal amount of tattling, whining, teasing, slapping, farting on, fist-fighting and swear words. I am at a loss for words as to how much of it.  Maybe not.  Words seldom leave me. I guess to be more accurate, I'll say that I'm too humiliated to admit to the world how bad it's gotten. It's enough that my neighbors can hear the noise of bodies crashing against furniture and four letter words flying through the open windows (only because it's too hot to breathe with the windows closed.)  I'm very grateful that most of their insults and swearing are done in English because none of my neighbors speaks English.  Although they all probably know the bad words. (Thanks, Hollywood.)

I've put them on restriction.  I've spanked (get over it, those of you who don't believe in corporal punishment. I'm betting you don't have 5 kids separated by a year between them each and live in a foreign country and raising them alone. And if you have, oh well. Bygones!) I've taken away their meager allowances and computer privileges and television. I've encouraged. I've rewarded good behavior. I've talked with them. I've explained. I've done everything that everyone under the sun from Dr. Spock to Dr. Laura have suggested. (I still don't know who Dr. Who is, so haven't tried him yet.) So now, I'm going back to my own grassroots, sans the "beat the hell out of 'em" policy.  I am returning to the Army. 


Each GI will be issued a scrub brush.  Sassier GIs will be issued a toothbrush.  KP duty will entail scrubbing of tiles on the walls and floors.  All dishes will be cleaned. Stove top will be scrubbed.  Counters will sparkle and all duties will be completed prior to mess at 1800 hrs. 


Latrine duty will entail scrubbing of all tiles on the walls and floors, sink, toilet, shower and removal of all clutter, including empty shampoo receptacles that had previously been labeled as saved for refilling with water to fire upon passersby under the balcony.  Latrine will sparkle and all duties will be completed prior to mess at 1800 hrs. 


Day room police will entail removal of all dust particles from furnishings and appliances.  Windows will be cleaned and once floor area is completely mopped, all furnishings will be returned to their appropriate locations.  Any non-regulation day room items will be returned to their proper locations or will be removed by drill sergeant during white glove inspection.  Day room will be left in a clean, neat and outstanding condition prior to mess at 1800 hrs.


Any underbreath remarks, backtalk, complaints will result in disciplinary PT  following mess at 1800 hrs.  


DISMISSED.


*As suggested by my BRAT friends, I will not lie on the couch and eat bonbons throughout the party.  But I will definitely be reminiscing and once they fall asleep exhausted tonight, I'm going to email my dad and thank him again for being the hardass that he was.  If he hadn't been, I wouldn't be nearly as respectful a person as I am today.

Now, I'm going to "get this party started."


GLOSSARY (for you civilian types)-


G.I. Party - Army term meaning a massive cleaning session, usually carried out by an entire platoon.

Platoon - A subdivision of a company of soldiers, usually forming a tactical unit that is commanded by a lieutenant and divided into several sections; A movie about Vietnam that starred Tom Berenger and Charlie Sheen...but that's not relevant to this blog post.


Headgear - Regulation hat issued by the military as part of the regulation military uniform; to be worn outdoors only


KP duty - Kitchen police; usually involves scrubbing pots, pans, dishes, walls, floors, peeling potatoes and cooking.


Mess at 1800hrs - Mess means meal; Mess hall or chow hall would be a military dining room. 1800 hrs means 6 o'clock in the evening.


Latrine duty - Cleaning of the latrine


Latrine -  Bathroom; WC; facilities; toilet


Day Room - The living room/den area where soldiers are allowed to "hang out" in the barracks; usually furnished with couches, chairs, tables, television, sometimes  pool table and ping pong table or fussball table and soda machines or snack machines. 


Non-Regulation Day Room items - Personal items that do not belong in the Day Room, this includes but is not limited to clothing, shoes, backpacks, scarves, books, pens, rocks picked up along the beach, the charger for your mobile phone that you always claim you cannot find, and toenail clippers.


Outstanding - Overused Army adjective that reflects good quality; antonyms for outstanding would be unsatisfactory, sub-par, and shitty.

You know how much you hate it when your sinuses are all clogged up due to allergies and even when you cook a really awesome meal like baked chicken in lemon juice with potatoes, you can't enjoy the smell or taste of it because your stupid nose is not working?!

Mine cleared up. About 14.6 seconds before my son decided to have a fart-fest in the living room and attempt to kill us all. My sinuses cleared out about the time the green cloud wafted across the room and bitch-slapped me. Of course, this left four of us pinching our noses closed and yelling and the responsible party in a fit of giggles. (Thankfully, Randa was asleep in another room and didn't have to suffer like the rest of us.) Could that have been the end of the night?

Of course, not. This is MY life.

The reeking odor nauseated Samiya, who was already feeling under the weather. She complained to me holding her stomach that Ismail farted and that she literally felt like puking. I directed her to the bathroom. She didn't make it past the door and left an even smellier trail of chicken that hadn't been chewed very well. I got her cleaned up and changed and off to bed.  I cleaned up the big mess and then remembered that she may get ill again during the night and that perhaps I should put a bucket next to her bed. Only the bucket had a really dirty towel in it that I'd decided to wash by hand. It's a bathmat type towel and I use it to mop up spills on the kitchen floor because the 'genius' who built this apartment put very smooth wall tiles on the floor and I slip a lot.

I had put laundry detergent in the bucket filled it with water and threw the towel in around 9 this morning. Well, it's nearly 4 a.m. (Yeah, I don't sleep much.) So, I figured that I'd just rinse the towel very well and then wash it again in the washing machine tomorrow to get it really clean now that all of the sand and salt and stuff that had been all over it had now been soaked out of it. So I tossed the towel into the sink and then spilled the soapy water all over the floor and pushed it down the open drain with my giant squeegee thingy. And then I rinsed it and squeegeed again. Then I yelled at Ismail, "DID YOU FART AGAIN?"

He swore he hadn't.  I did what I NEVER should have done. In fact, as I did it my brain began screaming at me, "NO! You idiot! DON'T DO IT! STOPPPPPPPPPPPP!" But of course, my body was like, "You're not the boss of me! I'll do what I want to!" And it didn't listen. And that's about the time my hand  holding that nasty ass towel reached my nose and I inhaled so deeply to see if that was the source of stink I was smelling that my lungs filled to capacity.

My body immediately apologized to my brain.  My brain gave my body the finger.

So in the last 20 minutes that my nasal passages have decided to drop their strike, I've managed to smell giant teenager farts, barfed up chicken and rotten backwater towel!  Why in the hell couldn't they have started working when I was baking that chicken earlier today???!!!!

I KNOW That It's Wrong, But...

I love my kids. I would do anything for them...and have. No reason to go through all of the sacrifices that I, like millions of other moms across the planet, have made for them. I'm not any better or worse than the rest of them.  Or am I?
Yes, I spend an exorbitant amount of time on the computer. I know this. And I try to rationalize that it's because my husband is working overseas and I try to catch up on email and Facebook and my writing this blog or on my novel while keeping Skype open in case he is trying to call.....(Yes, I had to minimize my browser just now to open Skype. Point of fact, I try to keep my blog posts as close to truth as I possibly can.) But the truth is this:

I have no adult friends to talk to in this country. None that I honestly like to spend time with anymore. So all of my friends are at my disposal via Facebook or email. They are MOSTLY people that I actually know in real life and probably 100-150 of them are related to me by blood. I have friends from childhood, high school in Germany, high school in Maryland, former workmates, former partymates, former cellmates acquaintances from all over the world.  There are also about 30  additional friends that I know only from association through military BRAT pages. However, most of the 440+ people on my friends list are people that I actually know. So, yeah....I'm on the computer for about 10-15 minute increments MANY times over the course of any average day.

And these little obnoxious creatures that I gave birth to are criticizing me for "cutting in line," "taking too long," or "stealing my turn" in the 30-minute turn rotation list that is SUPPOSED to keep me from murdering my own offspring.  So tonight during dinner, they were watching the lamest film that Brendan Fraser ever did on television ("Furry Vengeance") and I felt my IQ points dropping. So I finished and sat at the PC to start catching up on some overdue reading. My son, who hadn't even finished eating yet, marched over to me and demanded that I get off the computer because he had been "waiting all day" for his turn to come around again and I always sat here for HOURS and HOURS at a time.  I reminded him that I just shelled out another 15 Pounds yesterday to replace the fan in the power supply unit without asking anyone to contribute and that I was entitled as QUEEN of the household to sit at the computer without interruption. He continued as to how it is so unfair of me to bump him out of line just so I could "look at FACEBOOK."

I know it's wrong....but sometimes I just wanna tell him to STFU.  But then he'd use the expression freely with his siblings and I would be the one who taught it to him. So I don't tell him. Let him learn his use of the f-bombs in the street like other teenagers. 

You KNOW You're Addicted to Facebook/Twitter When....

I need a 12-step program....like NOW. I have blown off making dinner two nights in a row, taken a three and a half week hiatus from writing and now am "holding it" until either I complete answering these last two notifications or my bladder explodes, whichever comes first.

I've reached rock bottom. I know that I'm pounding out this blog post as quickly as possible (because I have to pee really badly and I know that as soon as I get up from this chair, my 15 yr old daughter is going to hijack the computer from me and I'll never get to finish.) Apparently, social networking to this degree is a really bad thing. I managed to exhaust myself the last three days in an attempt to be the world's greatest and broke-est (is that a word?) literary agent with no access to t.v. or radio talk show hosts to the point that I managed to NOT send my kids to school today as I slept until noon. Wow. It's getting bad. DAMN YOU TWITTER! DAMN YOU, TOO, FACEBOOK! (Not really. I love you, both.)

OMG. I've got to stop. If you would like to become my sponsor and have managed to detach yourself from social networking websites for longer than one year, please contact me in the comments section below. I need help now....before I have to join another site. Thank you.

Ooooh, look Pinterest has some..................

Possible New Careers for Me

I'm looking for a new job. Something less stressful than being a Stay-at-home-Mom (SAHM.)  See, being a SAHM requires me to work between 18 and 23 hours a day, eat cold meals, and drink so much coffee that I am not only jittery but usually constipated for days at a time, unless I accidentally take my cholesterol medicine twice in the same day and then....LAWD!  Don't block the path to the bathroom.

I want a new job with benefits.  Health insurance, you ask?  Pish-posh.  I want  the benefits like the right to a daily shower with hot water, whether I need one or not.  I want to be able to sleep a full 6 hours at night without being awakened 20 minutes before the alarm clock goes off to be asked, "What time is it?"  I want to be able to have a "lunch break" where I can actually get more than one forkful of food into my mouth before someone else asks me to serve them seconds.  I want it all.

I'm thinking that a career in firefighting might be a good choice for me.  I got tons of training in how to get people someplace safely in record speeds by being told 12 minutes before soccer practice starts that I was unknowingly volunteered to drive the carpool.  I'm also pretty good with bandaids and antiseptic, so maybe I could train to be an EMT.  I break up fist fights between teenage boys at least three times a day.  Perhaps an official on a nuclear disarmament team?  Peace talks?  Referee for a football club in Liverpool?  Or maybe rodeo clown...but clowns creep me out.

Leave a suggestion in the comments section.
Oh, and check out my friend, Nuala Reilly's webpage for great reading material at this LINK.  She's awesome.

Finding Ismail

Finding Ismail

Everyone goes through that pre-teen/teenager 
search time in his or her life. Some earlier than 
others. My third child, Ismail, is ten years old. And
I'm a little confused as to why HE is hanging out 
in the "personality fitting room" of life instead of 
his 14 year old brother. I mean, I expect my teenager
to be trying on "the gangster" or "the emo" person-
alities right now. When I was his age, I wore "the 
jock-ette" and "the sharp witted clown" suits quite
comfortably. In fact, I never took them off. But Hamo
seems to be content still in his "artist pajamas" from
way back in kindergarten. Ismail, on the other hand,
has a rotisserie style of personalities (from the sales
racks, I might add) that include ensembles from 
"thug," "wannabe rap artist (hold the rhythm)," "bossy
McBosspants," "sweet, helper boy," "mean bully guy."
I don't understand the attraction to most of his favorite
designs. I REALLY like "sweet, helper boy." This is
the guy who does the dishes for me without being 
asked, volunteers to take out the trash or pick up what
I need from the market. He defends his sisters, brothers,
neighbors and cousins and even picks up trash off of the 
stairs when his slovenly cousins toss it from upper 
floors. 
"Bossy McBosspants" seems to be setting up coup
attempts daily in an effort to overthrow Hamo from his
current position as Oldest Brother. This guy jumps up and
yells out orders to the younger siblings and gets everyone
motivated to clean up their rooms and get dressed quickly
on days we're scheduled to go out on family field trips.
"Thug" gets on my LAST nerve. He has a fascination with
knives and swearing and fighting. He is not a welcome 
personality in this house at all. In fact, he and "mean, bully
guy" have been the reason Ismail has lost computer 
privileges so many times this summer alone.
"Wannabe rap artist" would be tolerable if only he could
keep a beat. Ever see that Steve Martin movie "The Jerk"?
You know, where they were dancing around on the front 
porch and everyone was on time but him? Yeah...that's my
boy. He knows it, too. He's asked his eight year old brother,
Aiman, several times to teach him how to dance and Aiman
just looks at him and says, "I've tried. You just like to shake
your crotch. And that's NOT krumping." (Just a sidenote, I'd
like to thank stupid Nickelodeon and the show "Just Jordan"
for even adding KRUMPING to my little boy's dance moves
repetoire. As though "booty popping" wasn't enough.) Ismail
listens in awe anytime I'm going through my "oh I remember
THAT song" moments and has begged me to teach him the
lyrics to "The Rapper's Delight", "Parents Just Don't Understand"
and songs like "Freakazoid." (Yeah, I know I'm showing my age.)
I guess all I can really do is encourage him to tear off just 
the positive pieces of each of these personality-suits and stitch
them into his own unique pattern to fit Ismail. All the rest of us 
did it. And now it's my turn to just stand back like the changing
room attendants at Macy's and hope he opts for the classics
rather than the passing fads.

SURPRISE...I Cooked.

Waking up to the smell of breakfast used to be a pleasant surprise that would have me stretching and getting out of bed with a big fat smile on my face.  I would put on my robe and slippers and go to the kitchen with that same dopey smile and have coffee and breakfast and ..............and what?  Then I'd go back to my room and get dressed before kissing my parents and heading out the door to high school!

I'm the mom here.  Who the hell is in my kitchen?  My husband makes coffee...for himself.  Unless I'm already up and then he'll make me a cup.  But breakfast?  Hell-to the- No.  Seemingly that is MY job and mine alone.  I have to tell someone "There's a cure for that," when they complain about being hungry.  (I mean NOW that they are all ambulatory and in their teens, of course.)

So when I smelled frying breakfast meats this morning, I got half of my dopey grin on....and then panicked!  I ran out the bedroom door and into the kitchen and found RANDA blocking the kitchen door.  She burped in my face.  "Randa, did you make breakfast for yourself?" I asked.  The rest of the exchange went something like this:

Randa:                 Uh, yeah!
Me:                      Randa, do we have anymore bastarma (Egyptian garlic-cured beef)?
Randa:                 Nope.  It's gone.
Me:                      Randa, you ate a half pound of bastarma by yourself?
Randa:                 (flutters eyes around...in some autistic kids, refusing eye-contact means
                            "I can't hear you" when clearly, they can AND DO understand they're
                            in trouble.)
Me:                      Did you eat?  Do you feel better now?
Randa:                  Uh, yeah.  All better.  Sleepy.  Go to bed now. (She doesn't refer to herself
                             in the first person much.)
Me:                       (looking past her toward the sink) LOOK AT THIS BIG FAT MESS!!
Randa:                   Oops.
Me:                       Randa, did you make cookies? Oh.My.God. There's batter in every mixing
                             bowl.  Did you use all the bakers chocolate?  Did you bake?
Randa:                  (mimicking me and laughing?) ...bakers chocolate?  Did you bake?
Me:                       That's not funny.
Randa:                   That's not funny.
Me:                       You wanna wash the dishes?
Randa:                  You wanna wash the dishes?
Me:                       You are so grounded. Look at this big fat mess!
Randa:                  Yeah, it's big fat mess. Mommy clean up.  Sweet dreams.

And so it begins.  Pre-coffee.                        

WHAT?!

My daughter is 12 years old. She's always been relatively helpful, albeit with a little prodding. But eventually she does help out with cooking or dishes or whatever I ask her to do. She's pretty smart, too. Samiya wins at dominoes, chess and any video game EVER. She's a righteous goalie and has a pretty devastating right cross. Lately, she has been involved in about 2/3 of the altercations happening in the house. If she's not fighting with Aiman, then she's fighting with Ismail or crying because Mohamed kicks ass now and takes names later. Most of the fighting (I'd say about 74% of it) she's involved in, is the fault of her big mouth. She IS her mother's daughter. I've been working on the whole "name-calling" thing forever, it seems. We've determined that her Indian love names for her brothers are "Jerk," "Stupid," and "Idiot." We're confused as to whether or not they actually like these names because while they protest them, they still answer to them.

Anyway, after the 4 zillionth fight to be broken up yesterday, I was cooking and  pissed off and slamming things around the kitchen. Samiya was made to wash dishes to keep her away from her brothers who were united in wanting to kill her. So, intelligently she let me cool off for a few minutes before she attempted any conversation. Finally I cracked wise with her about something, and she looked at me and asked, "When we all grow up and get married and move out, God willing, aren't you going to be bored?"

"WHAT?!" I asked in my Barbara Walters meets McCain voice.

"Bored. You know, when you don't have all these teenage fights and arguments to keep you busy. Aren't you and Baba going to be bored when we move out?" I looked at her to see if this was an attempt at humor but her face looked completely serious.

I started to laugh. I laughed one of those hearty, loud laughs that eventually turns to silent laughing facial gestures with a struggle to get oxygen to your lungs as tears stream out of your eyes and urethra simultaneously. She got pissed and slammed the sponge down onto the counter top and stormed out of the kitchen. I regained my composure and called her into the kitchen while I fanned the flush out of my cheeks with a tea towel. "Honey, I apologize if you felt like I was laughing at you when you were asking me a serious question. You just have no idea the hilarity of your question. Your father and I have been patiently surviving your teen age fighting, desperately WAITING to be bored in the silence of you all moving out."
She got mad again and walked out. Guess I'm up for MOTY Award again....in the Sarcasm Genre.

My Little Sister

She is the third child of four, the youngest girl. She has bright red hair and if you ask her where her daddy is she will wiggle her pinkie and tell you, "wrapped around this finger." And if she's laughing, you're going to laugh, too. She was the tattle-tellingest, teasingest kid I ever knew growing up. She was Dad's favorite. We all knew it. But I think she was our favorite, too...at least out of us girls. I mean, come on. Look at this face:

Who could not love this kid? Monika was born when I was five years old. Denise and I were so close in age that we just referred to her as the little one. When Lloyd was born two years later, they were "the little ones." Sometimes they still are.

Monika flew up to Baltimore to visit me when she was in high school. I took her to Lollipalooza '92. We had a blast. We went to the show in Reston, Virginia with a friend of mine from work. Tony brought some friend of his from his barracks named "Roach." I never did know Roach's real name. It had rained four days straight before the concert and the whole field was covered in mud. Monika lost her shoes in it and partied on barefoot. We bailed when the headline band came on. They were drunk. We decided that they should be called "The Luke Warm Silly Peckers" vice "The Red Hot Chili Peppers." They sucked that night and got outplayed by Pearl Jam and Soundgarden.

Monika flew out and spent a month with me after I had my second baby and I had orders to move to Georgia AND my husband flew to Greece to visit family there. She had been working in Alaska for the Summer, stopped for a week or so in Texas to be in our step-brother's wedding and then flew out to Baltimore to stay with me during my hectic, postpartum pack out. (Say THAT 5 times really fast.) We had such a great visit and she bonded quickly with my kids. And the month flew by so fast, even with a 16  hour road trip to Georgia. She was gone before I knew it. And I missed her terribly.

While in Texas last year, I got to go out to her house a few times and hang with her kids. They are super awesome and she is a fantastic mom. I love how laid back she is with them. Probably not as laid back as I am with mine...but you know, she's only got two. I have five and by now, I just don't give a shit to get involved in every tattling detail. I figure by the time hers are teens her policy may change.

Monika has introduced me to some of the coolest music ever made and funniest writers ever born. She is an over-achieving, volunteer addict and recovering lawyer. She is a creative, hilarious, spiritual, sensitive, caring
member of MENSA, who will still dress as a super hero in order to attend a friend's costume party and somehow convince her husband to take the kids to Paris on holiday. She loves me with all my flaws and embraces my crazy with hers. She and I have grown so much closer over the last two years. I am truly inspired by her and I look to her as one of my heroes.

I love you, Monika!

Their Language

English, German, Spanish, Arabic and a little Greek. Those are the languages that I speak. I dabble a bit in French, meaning I've picked up enough to help my son maintain a B average in French class three years running now. But I apparently have lost the ability to speak TEENESE.

I used to be a teen. At one time, I spoke TEENESE fluently. Maybe it's a new dialect that my kids speak. They totally do not understand me. When I was a teen, "Go to bed now," meant walk down the hall, pee, brush my teeth, get my pajamas on, piss off my sister by stepping on her pillow or hiding her jeans that she wanted to wear the next morning, and then getting in my bed and actually going to sleep. Of course, that was 27 years ago.

Language is a constantly evolving thing. New words are born every day and occasionally some old words, while never really dying, will lie dormant for years at a time. At least in English, this is true. My kids speak Arabic and English. I assume they speak TEENESE in both English and Arabic dialects. And while I do speak to my kids in Arabic, I'm the native American so I primarily boss them around in English while my husband, the native Egyptian, bosses them around primarily in Arabic. My husband and I got together and compared notes earlier this week and made some shocking discoveries:

"Go to bed" whether spoken in Arabic or in English to our 16 year old son or 12 year old daughter means "go open up the fridge." To our 13 year old and 11 year old sons, it means giggle and wrestle around the room with no shirts on, causing the entire bedroom to take on that pubescent tube sock/ball sweat odor.

"Go to sleep" to all of the kids, in either language, translates loosely to "make a sandwich."

"Stop talking" translates to "start fighting." And "SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE I POUND YOU" has multiple meanings: 1- roll over and accidentally pull the curtain rod off the wall on your own head, 2- make the peace sign at your brother and say, 'Peace out, Dog' in a Randy Jackson voice and promptly get slapped in the face by the same brother with a dirty handkerchief, 3- giggle so hard that you fart and make your brothers laugh barrel laughs at two in the morning until mother comes in and takes away your privileges for computer for 2 weeks straight.

I'm in the process of compiling our findings into an English-Arabic TEENESE dictionary. I'm hoping that I can get it published before the next generational dialect comes out rendering mine the "new Latin."

Becca's Right...I Have Stress-Induced Gas

So a while back I was experiencing chest pains so strong that I couldn't breathe. I blogged about it a few times here.  Then I spent hundreds (thankfully, not thousands) of pounds paying for tests and cardiograms and ekgs and yada, yada, yada. At the end of the month of two hour bus rides across the city to the International Cardiac Center, my heart had been declared 100% healthy and I was prescribed fat-blockers for my high cholesterol. Really? So why is my chest still hurting like a MOFO?!

I talked it over with my phlebotomist and she said that I should do the bloodwork to eliminate thyroid issues that my cousin, Heather, suggested may be causing it. I'm probably going to do that today. My good friend, Becca, thinks it's just gas. (She knows my family FAR too well to be able to make such a diagnosis.) I wondered if it was a digestion issue and opted to try a vegetarian diet for about 6 weeks. I'd have been able to last longer if it weren't for the autistic kid who has to have only crunchy  food and the 10 year old who hates everything and then the husband and 3 kids who eat whatever I cook but really like meat and chicken and fish.....and that's like 4 different dinners to cook for each meal. So, I just gave up and went back to forcing all 7 of  us to eat the same thing. Yeah, I'm "lazy" like that. (And so over it.)

So now that I'm cholesterol meds, I'm regular........WAYYYYYY regular. (Please don't block the door to the bathroom when you see me running for it. It could prove messy for both of us.) The chest pains eased up for a while. And today came back with a vengeance. My husband and 13 yr old have been doing a weight-lifting program the last few weeks. And my husband's trainer mentioned that they should eat a lot more protein, including a lot of legumes. So we had lentils two nights ago. And yesterday I made Greek chicken in the oven with rice and a large pot of white beans and marinated cucumber and onion salad. While I only had one bowl of beans (for the sake of my family), my husband and sons tore up the pot. All.THREE. pounds. of. beans. Maybe they fart vicariously through me?!  Or it could be that I'm stressed out from the constant fighting between the teens. I'm going to find the Egyptian equivalent of Xanax and try that. And see if that helps at all. But ultimately I think that Becca is right. It's gas.