Reconnecting

Growing up an Army brat, I attended 15 schools in 12 years.
Filling out a security questionnaire for me was challenging and
probably a nightmare for the guy who had to do the back-
ground investigation on me. I wonder if he got overtime. He
damn sure deserved it.

We moved in the summer. We moved in the winter. We moved
all the time. By the time we finally picked of the little blue stickers
the movers had stuck on our furniture, it was time for another
moving company to come and put on some fresh ones. There
were a few times that they just stuck new ones on top of the
old ones.

I think the longest we ever lived in one place was the last place
we were stationed in Germany. It was a little town in Bavaria
called Schwaebisch Gmuend. Still we managed to move from
a very temporary inn just outside of town, to temporary 8 bed
room apartment on the 4th floor for one year, to a 3 bedroom
3rd floor apartment after one of my best friends, Anneliece, and
her family rotated back to the States. We stayed in that apart-
ment for a little over two years.

I made friends all over the world. We had summer vacations in
Italy where we camped and ate corned beef hash cooked on
a Coleman stove and then toured churches and cathedrals and
museums all day. We got to drive through the Swiss Alps and
my sister ordered goat's milk at a restaurant in Switzerland just
like Heidi used to drink in the book. We went to Austria, the
Netherlands, England, Belgium, and France. We swam in the
Mediterranean and North Seas. But we didn't know probably
half of our cousins and never understood what the word "home
town" actually meant.

Now that the world has become so much smaller, thanks to the
internet and social networks such as Facebook, I've reconnected
with friends I haven't seen for nearly thirty years. And most of
the other military brats I was friends with still remember me and
the fun we used to have at various posts around the globe. Today
there was a post about paper grocery bags from the commissary
and all of the 1001 uses for them that had all of us in stitches.
It didn't matter where we were stationed, Germany, England,
Spain, Italy, Ft. Knox, Kentucky....we ALL used those bags in
the same ways.

Reconnecting with other military brats has helped me in the last
few weeks. It helped me to remember how complete I am as a
person; how my "weirdness" is not unique to me but to all of us
military brats...thus giving me a sense of normalcy. Whatever
THAT is.

I'm proud that I'm a military brat. I'm proud that my dad served
for more than 20 years in the US Army. I'm proud that his
service allowed me to reap the benefits of world culture, a larger
sense of appreciation for others cultures, a respect for humans
as a whole, and a sincere and deep lack of understanding of the
word "prejudice." Thanks, Dad. (And thanks, Facebook.)

Fred Flinstone Ain't Got Nothin' on Us

Yes. This pretty much sums it up. My little boy, Ismail, is twelve. Okay.
He'll be 13 in September. And he wears a size 12 men's shoe. His
older brother wears an 11.5 but he's 16 years old, so one wouldn't
exactly cringe at that size since he's closer to adulthood. But Ismail is
only 12! And they are wide, God bless him. Like "toss-the-shoes-and-
keep-the-box" wide.

I used to worry about shoes because all 5 of them had such wide feet
and outgrew shoes all at the same time and Stride Rite was the only
place that could accommodate the Donald Duck-width thing. (Damn
them for being so pricey!) But NOW, we're at the point of starting a
letter writing campaign to all the shoe factories in Egypt to see which
ones will be willing to custom make shoes for these kids. Samiya and
Aiman both wear my size now and they are 11 and 10. Randa has
been in a size 9.5 women's for a couple of years now. I'm thinking I
should get some sponsors for advertising on this blog. Maybe even
writing a book....soon. I'll need any money I make to pay for shoes.
Or a class with the local cobbler so we can not only homeschool and
make our own ketchup, but have D-I-Y-foot fashion "to boot."
(ba-dum-ching!)

You Don't Understand What It's Like to Be Me

"You don't understand what it's like to be me!" shouted my

nearly 12 year old daughter when I told her she could not

sleep on the couch and instead had to sleep in her bed. Of

course I don't. Just like I don't understand what it's like to 

be her nearly 13 year old brother or her 15 year old sister

or her 16 year old brother....or the 64 year old doorman to

our building. 

I understand that she's beginning her journey through "Put-

upon-ville" and she won't arrive to "Finally-got-a-clue City"

until she's already visited "Whaddya-mean-I-can't-wear-

make-up Falls" and "But-all-my-friends-are-doing-it-burg."

There's like a whole road map of teen angst that she's yet

to travel. Yeah, and I'm so looking forward to it. That and

a root canal sans anesthesia. 

I can't blame her for my boredom with her particular road

trip through Hell. It was MY choice to have 3 teenagers 

before her and another one after her. I guess THIS would

be the reason for that whole "spacing" concept when it comes

to having children. Yeah. The light bulb finally came on and 

I get it now...a day late and a dollar short.

But that's fine. I'm in it now. And I'll be grateful when it 

passes and they've all....errrrrrrrrr.....WE'VE all made it 

through the teen years and the whole family has become 

human again. And then I'll start planning my revenge. 

I'll take lots of vitamins and herbs, like echinacea and garlic

and St. John's Wort. I'll eat right and exercise and live to 

be 147 years old and get Alzheimer's and wear adult diapers

and dribble on my chin when I eat. And they'll all be argu-

ing about whose turn it is to take Mom this month. HA!

And in my head I'll be laughing the last laugh and I'll tell 

each one in turn, "You don't understand what it's like to be

me!"

Be Careful What You Click On

When one doesn't have health insurance or has a large deductible
or large family or lives in a foreign country, one must turn to on-line
research for health issues. So, when faced with yet another yeast
infection, I decided to hell with the gynecologist, the creams, the
pills, etc and I went to all the homeopathic and holistic sites that
Google could provide me with. I read a lot of ads and scams. I
signed up for one site that promised a free e-book on how to beat
yeast infections for good. It also came with a free LOSER sign to
stamp across my forehead.

My free e-book consisted of shit that WE ALL KNOW.
Wear cotton underwear. Don't douche. Don't use the creams and
stuff that Massengill tries to tell you will take care of that "not so
fresh feeling" and don't use scented tampons or pads. Duh, duh,
duh and duh. I haven't had a period since 2001 so I have no need
for tampons or pads anyway. I watch the Doctors on t.v. so I
know all about how the "vagina is a self-cleaning oven" and how
douching just kills all the good bacteria and leaves you susceptible
to the bad. The good doctor does NOT tell you how the creams
will do the same. Then the e-book continued to suggest changes
to my diet and how all of this free information will cause a change
and stop my yeast infections dead in their tracks in as soon as
12 hours.

I'm such a sucker. Now every time I open my email inbox, I have
an email from someone I've never heard of with a subject line in
ginormous letters saying, "WATCH OUT! OVER THE COUNTER
MEDICATIONS CAN MAKE YOUR YEAST INFECTION
WORSE!" or "LEARN HOW JILL GOT IMMEDIATE RELIEF
FROM YEAST INFECTIONS." Trouble is each time I get one
of these messages it's from a different sender. Oh well. Point, click,
delete.

Now I just have to be sure and keep the kids out of the room when
I check my email. No reason to educate them on this matter at such
a young age. I'm still searching for the truth in the fight against yeast
infections. And if I ever come across it I can guarantee you that I'm
not going to be one of those opportunistic bitches who will share
that information with the rest of her sister sufferers...for a nominal
fee. I'm going to blog, broadcast and advertise that relief for FREE.
Because that's what REAL sisters do!

Insomnia

Insomnia and I have a long history together. She's that unwelcome
bitch who visits me every time my husband travels. She hangs out
for at least the first week he goes, sometimes longer. I hate her. I
think that she hates me, too. Otherwise, why would she stay and
make me so miserable.

On the other hand, I appreciate Insomnia for getting me motivated
to get the "early stuff" done that I ordinarily would blow off and
leave for another day. Like today, I'm supposed to go start the
paperwork for transferring Ismail from the really crappy middle
school in Abu Yusef to Hamo's not as crappy middle school up in
Betash. And since Ramadan is supposed to start tomorrow, God
willing, today would be the best day to get it done. So I suppose I
should be thankful that Insomnia popped in for another unannounced
visit.

But I'm not. I hate her. She jacks up my eating schedule, my sleep
schedule and she leaves me so exhausted that I feel like puking. Her
visits almost always have an effect on how I handle my kids. The
usual bickering and arguing and occasional fist-fight seem amplified
by about 60 decibels whenever Insomnia is around. Why is that?
And the kids always seem to feel her tension and then they get
irritated by her effects on me. But seemingly, she's not in the least
swayed to get the hell out of here and leave me alone. Nope. And
the kids' irritation always come out on me. They're far too respect-
ful to mistreat a guest...even an unwelcome one like Insomnia.

Maybe I'll give her the cold shoulder after lunch today and just
ignore her and take a nap. She might get the message and finally
hit the bricks.

But I have my doubts.

I Love...

I love...
  my husband. He's the tall, dark and handsome guy who would give me the moon
  if I wanted it. I love his dark eyes and hearty laugh and shyness and even his axe-
  murderer deep voice. He is the one who taught me how to love me; that I deserve
  to be loved. He is the salt in my food...that slice of fresh lemon on the side of my
  tea glass. He is my second wind. He isn't a necessity for me to live....but he sure
  does make my life nice. When he reaches for my hand on the couch while we sit
  in the dark watching old movies on t.v., I feel his love just pulsing from my palm
  up to my heart. And I feel it flutter like it did when we first kissed at that souvlaki
  stand back in Athens so many years ago. When he brings me a Diet Pepsi home
  with the bag of sweets for the children, I know that he thought of me while he was
  out and that he knows it's my favorite. When he installs that extra wall socket in
  the kitchen to make my life more convenient even though I never asked him to do
  it, I know that it's because these acts of kindness are his way of showing me how
  much he loves me. And when he is far away from home at work in a foreign land
  and he texts me on my mobile phone just that one word "Habibty" (Arabic for my
  beloved), I know that he misses me and wishes that he were home. I love him.
  And he loves me.

It's Africa Hot

Yeah, well, Africa Hot here in Africa just means the usual kind of hot.
The hot where you have all the ceiling fans and the portable fans run-
ning full blast all day and all night until the electric company shuts off
the power grid for about 2 hours so that the city can handle the sheer
volume of wattage being sucked out of it at once. Or maybe they're
just giving the little gerbils a tea and cigarette break outside of their
wheels.

And we sweat. We sweat while we sleep, while we eat, while we sit,
while we shower. Yes, we sweat IN the shower. We haven't even
hooked up the water heater since we've moved in. Who needs it?
Africa hot means solar heated water pipes. However, this also means
you don't get to drink cold water unless you've remembered to put
water bottles in the fridge. And with 5 kids, you'd think that would
not be a problem, right? You would be so WRONG. Because with
5 kids, we drink hot water out of the cold tap all the time. Mainly,
because we can't ever find the water bottles.

As a mom, I drink a bottle of water. I then carry it with me on my
next trip to the kitchen and wash it out and refill it and stick it in the
freezer (usually behind a bag of bread to hide it from those cold water
sucking fiends I laughingly call my offspring.) My kids, however, take
a bottle (usually my ice-chippy cold bottle hidden behind the bread
bags) and suck it down and then find a new place to store the empty
bottle. These places change hourly. I have found the empty bottles
under the computer desk, behind my bed, under the couch, on top
of the t.v., in the toy box, and on the top shelf of the closet.

And today, with all the water bottles empty, and the fans going full
blast blowing around hot air, Ismail and Randa decided to teach
themselves how to bake bread today....at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

GACK.