American Life as Portrayed on TV

So, wow. We've been here for about 10 weeks and good gravy! Life's

changed a lot here in the last 8 years. I keep hearing about how all these

jobs are being created and how unemployment is going down by 3% here

and 4% there and I'm not seeing who's getting employed. Because, uh...

it's not me. I wonder where the news anchors get their statistics. And I

wonder why the government seems to be content with continuing to

encourage the creation of these minimum-wage to $8.00 an hour jobs

when seemingly NO ONE can survive without public assistance if they

have a family on less than $3000 a month. I'm not talking about living

extravagantly. The only "extras" I'm talking about are internet service

(say $35/month) and flat rate basic unlimited texting and calling cell

phone service instead of installing a phone in the house (for 2 phones $80/

month.) The rest is rent or mortgage, utilities, car payment plus insurance

and at the end of the day, how do you feed the kids? It's scary to me that

Americans still think that they're "living the American dream." I'm not

knocking America. I have lived all over the world and I don't want to be

anywhere but here, really. BUT I seriously consider our "American dream"

to be more of a nightmare. I have to caution my kids not to jump out of

the swings on the playground because we don't have health insurance.

They don't actually get this. But the threat of having Mommy give them

their potentially needed stitches with the wound held over the bathtub so

they don't drip on the bathroom rug instead of going to a lovely, clean

incredibly expensive emergency room usually has them at least slowing

down a bit before springing across the sky to tuck and roll through the

wood chips seemingly unhurt. And I still suck in my breath and clutch my

heart (and wallet) in fear each time.

We get ads in the mail and the free newspaper daily offering "great deals"

on some U-shaped thingy for 319 channels of cable t.v. in HD. What the

....? WHY do I want to see ANYTHING on television in High Definition?

Do I really want to make myself feel better because people in Hollywood

have blackheads like me? I KNOW this. But do I really want to SEE their

blackheads so...up close and personal? Absolutely not.

And maybe it's just me, but have the number of late-night pharmaceutical

ads increased dramatically in the last 8 years? When I left only Bob Dole

was spouting publicly his "erectile dysfunction" issues. (Bob, I hate to tell

you but there's nothing "dysfunctional" about fewer erections when you're

in your 70's. At your age, I would find a four hour erection resembling a

chin-up bar "dysfunctional.") Now, the ads are during prime time and we've

got people practicing conversations with their doctors while walking downtown

about how they're going to bring up the subject. If you judge by the t.v., it's

such a normal occurrence that NO ONE should be embarrassed. I've seen

commercials for Viagra, Cialis, and now ExtenZe??? And I'm certain it's

no accident that the favored "celebrity" spokesperson is a guy named Jimmy

Johnson. How do I answer my 9 year old's questions about why these old

people keep going from painting their house or doing the laundry into a bath

tub naked in the woods?

Then the whole "depression hurts" thing. There are more medication commer-

cials that seemingly are the "answer" to what people have basically done to

themselves by taking advantage of our "land of opportunity." While I don't

disagree that there are a lot of opportunities to be had here in the U.S., I don't

think people are giving themselves an opportunity to actually enjoy any of the

opportunities that they have. Perhaps I'm cynical. But you know, I'm not the

one taking depression medication because I'm living beyond my means, with

erectile dysfunction and extremely high cholesterol due to being depressed

about my erectile dysfunction and eating greasy expensive fast food that I

can't actually afford.

Seems to me, if we look back to the way things were even 30 years ago, and we

have dinner around the table, whole, not pre-packaged, processed food cooked

by mom (or dad), and then play a board game together or read or watch Free-

to-Air television as a family, the number of pharmaceutical company ads, fast

food ads, stress levels, erectile dysfunction issues and perhaps even cost of living

could go down. Because those services would not be needed as much and people

would be just a little happier. Maybe I'm a little this side of Pollyanna.

We're Here!

What a hellacious flight! It took the better part of two months. Okay,

not really. But even after being here for nearly two months I've still

not completely unpacked. There is one small suitcase of papers and

video tapes that I've no idea what to do with. I'm grateful we don't

have a fireplace here or THAT problem would have been solved

weeks ago. And probaby with calls to the local EPA office, what with

all the melting plastic fumes. But you know, come on! VCR tapes?

I don't even have a VCR. Aiman broke ours years ago. Didn't I

mention a broken VCR in the list of lovelies I found when cleaning

out my husband's closet pre-move to the US? Yeah, you remember.

So, the unpacking. It's nearly all done. There's one huge one with

clothes left in it but I'm so bored with the job that I just shoved it

under my little vanity table in my room and it sort of sadly eyeballs

me now. Like it's telling me, "Come on, Lazy Bones! Yew've gone and

unpacked all me sisters and put dem out in de garage!" (Because in

my mind, my last brown suitcase speaks with an Irish brogue.) And

I counter with, "True, and it's not that I don't like you, but...." And

it interrupts me and shouts, "Yew DON't like meh!" So I admit the

truth, "You're right. I don't like you at all. WHO buys a hideous

brown barrel-shaped duffel bag of a suitcase and proceeds to break

off 3 of the wheels from the bottom and then loads it up with exactly

36 kilos of crap knowing full well that there is only 35 kilos allowed

per suitcase and then stands on the scale sadly noting her own weight

and then picks up said crap-laden suitcase and attempts to read the

scale again in order to be forced to do math in her head so as not to

have to write down the original weight on the paper thus making

it true!?" The suitcase just stares blankly as only suitcases can.

"You're right. It's ME I hate. Me and my fat clothes. I'll unpack you

tomorrow."

We're Back!

It only took fifteen hours, two planes, three barf bags and a trip to the

McDonald's drive through, but we made it back to the great state of
TEXAS!

We left for Cairo on 18 January in two cars. We had to shove the kids
and 12 suitcases and 7 carry-on bags and me, two drivers, a cousin and
one sister-in-law into the vehicles and then drive 3 hours to the airport.
Once we checked the luggage with only ONE protest from one security
guard who noticed and questioned why I was carrying 14 kilos of tools
in one suitcase, I hustled the children onto the plane and got everyone
buckled into their seats and handed out cookies and chips and hoped
they'd all fall asleep. Yeah, right. Not in MY life. Anyway, so everyone,
even Randa, was doing fine...until about 45 minutes before we got to
Frankfurt. That's when she decided to have her autistic meltdown.

Now Germans tend to be a bit on the judgemental side when seeing
people freaking out. They like order and sense. Well, autism just does
NOT fit into this neat and tidy box when sensory overload happens.
So, Randa had a freak out session and then I freaked out when the

flight attendant put. her. hands. on. my. child. So, I mentally flashed

through the scenario of grabbing her by the hair and slinging her into

the tight little closet of a bathroom and giving her a blue swirly, but

then I flashed to me and my autistic child being flung from the wheel

bays below sans parachutes and my other 4 kids waving with at least

one of them asking, "Does this mean we can get more sodas when the

drink cart comes by?" so I shook my head and returned to reality

where I told her through my teeth as politely as I could, "DON'T

touch her. You're making it worse. She is autistic and she cannot

deal with loud people in her face. I can calm her down if you will just

back off and let me!" She did. I did. Everything calm and happy with

the exception of every nasty airline employee eyeball giving me the

stink eye. OH WELL.

And ya know, for the nastiness endured on THAT flight with only one

small meltdown, the next leg of the trip was worse on our behavioral

part (NOT my fault) but the flight attendants were the exact opposite

of the first leg of the trip. They were sooo nice. Like Bizarro World nice.

They put us on first. Gave the kids pretzels and color books and games

and puzzles and kindly explained to them that while the stuff in their

kiddie basket is very cool, they have to have enough for the other kids

on the flight. Fortunately, these were the nice guys. Had we still been

on with the first group of attendants, they'd have handed them sticks

and paper bags to play with and then shouted, "ZAT'S ENOUGH

TOYS FUR YOU, YOU GREEDY DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY OF

AMERICANS!" But we weren't on that flight. We were with Bizarro

World.

Now, under normal circumstances, I would never give my kids medicine

to make them fall asleep. But if Randa couldn't handle a 4 hour flight

without a panic attack, how could she handle a 9 hour flight? Usually, in

our experience, her outbursts are louder and longer and her panic more

pronounced when she has several meltdowns in one day. Add to the mix

that she hadn't slept in over 24 hours and I was totally digging through

my carry-on bag for a serious cold capsule. It worked. She fell asleep

just after take-off and woke up about 20 minutes before landing. Poor

baby. So seemingly, this flight was a piece of cake, right? Silly readers.

This is MY life we're talking about here. Of COURSE not.

So, a couple of hours into the flight they started serving the meals. Now

I was traveling alone with 5 kids and it's not like they've got 6 seats all

across from each other or better, little compartments like on trains.

So I had us seated strategically like this:

seat1 seat2 -aisle- Hamo Ismail Samiya -aisle- seat6 seat7

seat8 seat9 -aisle- Aiman Randa Me -aisle- seat10 seat11

There is a reason for this. Hamo and Ismail listen better in public.

Samiya, who ALWAYS has to go to the bathroom while traveling EVEN

just to the grocery store, needed to be on an aisle. Aiman, the youngest,

needs to be reeled in now and then, and Randa, well, we already know

about her issues. So, they put a tray in front of all the kids but Randa

and then serve me last. So we were wearing our heaviest winter coats in

an effort to alleviate some of the suitcase weight and it was really

crowded in our seats. Then all of a sudden Hamo started barfing. He

filled one barf bag and then took Ismail's and began to vomit into it.

Samiya yelled over the high seat back, "Hamo's sick! Hamo's sick!"

To which I could do nothing at all to help since I was belted in, Randa's

unconscious head on my shoulder snoring, Aiman still excited about

having a caffeinated soda with his lunch and afraid that if he moved to

help his brother someone would take away his tray and that would be

the end of his brown liquid delight. I tried to put back my chair back so

I could rest Randa's head in the crack there, but got protests from the

portly man behind me who was also trying to eat and got the tray

pushed into his midsection. By now, the smell of puke reaches Samiya,

who proceeded to grab her own barf bag. Ismail's chair started to shake

and I was afraid that he was going to start his own hurl-fest until I heard

him guffaw. Samiya then started punching him while shouting, "Do you

(yak!) (punch) think (yak!) (punch) that it's funny (yak!) ( punch) that

we're (yak!) (punch) sick??!! (yak!)" This of course made him laugh even

harder to the point that he could barely breathe and was on the verge

of an asthma attack. I tried to get up at this point and of course, the

drink cart was blocking me in. Then the brain started working again and

I grabbed the guy by his sleeve and said, "Excuse me, but my son is

vomitting and I can't get to him and he's out of barf bags!" Klaus, or

whatever his name was, sprung into action. He flew to the back of the

plane and reappeared almost instantaneously with 3 new bags. He

handed Hamo and Samiya new barf bags and gave Ismail some tissue

because he'd now reached to point of laughter where there is no sound

made and only tears streaming from his eyes. I thanked him when they

brough Hamo a soda to calm his stomach and we landed about 45

minutes after that. Yup. Never a dull moment with this group.

So then in the car on the way home from the airport, Hamo began

complaining about the guy across the aisle from him (seat2, see map

above) and how he was making a mean face at him like it was HIS

fault for throwing up on the plane. I gently reminded my son that

while the man understood that he didn't want to be sick he was

still grossed out because a) he WAS trying to eat his dinner while

you were practicing for the Upchuck Olympics and more importantly

b) when one uses a barf bag, it is customary to hold it as close to

one's mouth as possible and try to discreetly spew so as not to disgust

the other passengers. "What do you mean?" asked Hamo.

"Well, Son," I replied, "You held the bag about arm's length from your

face and proceeded to aim via projectile vomiting in an effort to hit

the bag. He had every right to be grossed out and give you the stink

eye. This would also explain Ismail's laughter. He was looking at the

whole picture and seeing the guy's reaction to you and THAT was

where the hilarity originated and NOT the fact that you were sick."

We arrived at bribery point number two (fast food drive thru window)

that we used to convince Randa to get on the plane in the first place.

"Do you want anything to eat, Hamo?"

"NO THANKS!" He responded. Good thing. Compact cars don't usually

have barf bags in the seat pocket.