The other twin, my dreaming daughter, has always been a little of a struggle for me. From the day she was born, I knew I would be tested with her. When my vet twin, at 6 months, would sit still and listen to my directions, the dreamer twin would stick out her tongue, tuck her hands under her armpits and cry. Whatever I would tell her, she would do the complete opposite.
I call her the dreamer twin because she wants to grow up, go to Eygpt and dig up bones. I bought her a book about Eygpt when she was eight and since then, the stories of the Pharoahs and pyramids enchanted her and accelerated her imagination to envision a world of her and archeology. Funny thing is, her math and science marks...well for better terminology, SUCK.
I have a friend whose wife went into the anthropology field. He told me she didn't finish her degree. It was a highly competitive field and very gruelling. Day in and day out of painstaking measurements and research while fighting in what seemed to be predominately a man's world. I listened attentively and pondered his comments and then thought about my daughter. She is a dreamer and I wondered, do I break her well-manufactured bubble now or let her learn for herself?
She would often come to me with her homework, be it math, science, history, English (ok, pretty much the entire curriculum) and say, "Mamma, I don't get it." I would scold her and say, "Did you even try?" The minute the going got tough, she would give up and seek help. "You give up too easy. Read the examples and go from there," I would say, but she came back, like a boomerang. She would not relent. "I still don't get it," as she curled up beside me. While I held her imaginary hand, we would conquer and complete the question together, without seeing the light in her eyes.
This phrase infuriated me from the time she could speak her first words. I swear, when she was born, she must have heard me say, "I don't get it" when the doctor said I delivered twin girls (whereas the ultrasound showed a girl and a boy). Since then, she had adopted this phrase--and for me, it was one royal COP-OUT.
I sat her down last night and had a heart to heart with her. I chose my words carefully. Growing up with a father who told me that I would not amount to anything unless I studied around the clock was not the motivating, "I have a dream" speech I wished to impart on my daughter. Instead, I sat down with her and smiled. She stared at me, speechless, as I sat smiling at her. "What do you want to be when you grow up," I asked. She thought it was a trick question. "I don't get it," she replied and I was about to bang my head against the wall. But I kept my composure.
"You know I want to become an archeologist." Instead of telling her everything my friend told me about the path to archeology and the years spent trying to attain this goal, I turned to her and said, "Yes. You can be anything you see yourself being. But you have to WANT it. Really bad." She nodded her head profusely. "Then you have to stop saying, I don't get it. You have to think out of the box and stare at what confuses you until you see something you understand."
I said this to her as kindly as possible despite our history of angry door slamming and room departures, hair-pulling attempts towards clarity and ridiculous arguments stemming from allegations that her teachers were wrong and she was always right. Again, she nodded and I could see she was internally debating whether I was naturally calm or drugged out of my mind. "Do you really think I can do it? Do you believe in me?" I almost fell out of my chair. How could she think this way? Why would she think otherwise? And then I realized... I had never said it, never said it out loud--that I believed in her abilities and potential.
I looked her square in the eyes and responded with a firm YES. She got up and I thought it was to come over for a hug but instead, she walked past me, with determination in her eyes. That evening, she worked for two hours straight and not once asked me for any help--although I lingered in the hallway, just outside her door.
I call her my dreamer twin in contrast to my vet twin which connotes the idea that one has her future decided while the other is still finding her way. I realized to dream is better than not dreaming at all.
And today, as she approached me with wide, shining eyes, and handed over her math test that she studied for the night before, with a huge 92% marking on the first page, I knew I needed to keep her bubble intact.
"The finest gift you can give anyone is encouragement. Yet, almost no one gets the encouragement they need to grow to their full potential. If everyone received the encouragement they need to grow, the genius in most everyone would blossom and the world would produce abundance beyond the wildest dreams. We would have more than one Einstein, Edison, Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, Dr. Salk and other great minds in a century." Sidney Madwed
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Epiphanies in the stove
Friday night, I kicked everyone out of the house. I opened the windows and breathed in the fresh air. As soon as I heard the car door slam, I knew I was free. Even with the onslaught of Fall, it felt like an Indian summer with the warm breeze hugging every corner of my lovely abode.
I could have grabbed my purse and ran out to shop. Or ran out to have coffee with a friend. Or ran out to take a walk. A million things to do and only two hours to do them in. I stood out in my backyard, on my deck, and looked at the trees. Listened to the birds, and pondered life as I knew it. And then I put on my rubber gloves.
Squeeze me?
Yes, I went indoors, slapped on the rubbers and got to work. Removed one burner at a time and sprayed the inside of the oven with the most repelling oven cleaner known to mankind. I hid my nose under my t-shirt and turned on the exhaust fan. Inhaling the toxic fumes only made my existing cough even worse. And I scrubbed. Yes, I do not have a self-cleaning oven. You are looking at her. And for years, I have refused to bow down to peer pressure to get one. And the other pressure of hiring a cleaning lady. You see, I LIKE to clean. And for me, its therapy. I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me how I am feeling, what I am feeling and why I am feeling this way. My stove has all the answers. The harder it is to clean an item, the more I get out of it and walk away content and relieved.
If you want to really know me, talk to me when I am cleaning. Especially when I am mad. I have been known to stop, in the middle of an argument, grab a Windex bottle, some paper towels and start wiping down a counter, much to the surprise of the other person.
When I am happy, I clean. When I am pissed off, I clean. When I am sad, I clean. When I want to reflect and be myself, I clean. And if the world is a mess around me, I cannot sit down until its clean.
Wash away my sins, impurities, negativity and the wrongs in my life. Order to the chaos. And it is the only thing I can control.
I could have grabbed my purse and ran out to shop. Or ran out to have coffee with a friend. Or ran out to take a walk. A million things to do and only two hours to do them in. I stood out in my backyard, on my deck, and looked at the trees. Listened to the birds, and pondered life as I knew it. And then I put on my rubber gloves.
Squeeze me?
Yes, I went indoors, slapped on the rubbers and got to work. Removed one burner at a time and sprayed the inside of the oven with the most repelling oven cleaner known to mankind. I hid my nose under my t-shirt and turned on the exhaust fan. Inhaling the toxic fumes only made my existing cough even worse. And I scrubbed. Yes, I do not have a self-cleaning oven. You are looking at her. And for years, I have refused to bow down to peer pressure to get one. And the other pressure of hiring a cleaning lady. You see, I LIKE to clean. And for me, its therapy. I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me how I am feeling, what I am feeling and why I am feeling this way. My stove has all the answers. The harder it is to clean an item, the more I get out of it and walk away content and relieved.
If you want to really know me, talk to me when I am cleaning. Especially when I am mad. I have been known to stop, in the middle of an argument, grab a Windex bottle, some paper towels and start wiping down a counter, much to the surprise of the other person.
When I am happy, I clean. When I am pissed off, I clean. When I am sad, I clean. When I want to reflect and be myself, I clean. And if the world is a mess around me, I cannot sit down until its clean.
Wash away my sins, impurities, negativity and the wrongs in my life. Order to the chaos. And it is the only thing I can control.
The Girl in the Mirror
As she walked into the room, all eyes were on her. The flutter of her eyelids, the curve in the small of her back, the luminous shine in her hair, the mystery behind her stare. Her intent was to be invisible and study the environment around her. But instead, she became the object of study. In her smooth movements where her dress sashayed towards the corner of the room, she encountered stares from everyone--male and female alike. And as she approached the end of the line and turned to face her audience, she paused before looking up. What is wrong with me, she immediately concluded. She sighed heavily and then raised her gaze.
He stood before her, a stranger with kind eyes and a genuine smile. And when he began to sing, her peripheral vision blurred and it was only the two of them alone - and she learned that her worst critic, was in the corner of the room...
Oh her eyes, her eyes
Make the stars look like they're not shining
Her hair, her hair
Falls perfectly without her trying
She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day
Yeah I know, I know
When I compliment her
She wont believe me
And its so, its so
Sad to think she don't see what I see
But every time she asks me do I look okay
I say
When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are
Her lips, her lips
I could kiss them all day if she'd let me
Her laugh, her laugh
She hates but I think its so sexy
She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day
Oh you know, you know, you know
Id never ask you to change
If perfect is what you're searching for
Then just stay the same
So don't even bother asking
If you look okay
You know I say
When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are
Don't change for anyone, because you are loved just the way you are.
He stood before her, a stranger with kind eyes and a genuine smile. And when he began to sing, her peripheral vision blurred and it was only the two of them alone - and she learned that her worst critic, was in the corner of the room...
Oh her eyes, her eyes
Make the stars look like they're not shining
Her hair, her hair
Falls perfectly without her trying
She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day
Yeah I know, I know
When I compliment her
She wont believe me
And its so, its so
Sad to think she don't see what I see
But every time she asks me do I look okay
I say
When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are
Her lips, her lips
I could kiss them all day if she'd let me
Her laugh, her laugh
She hates but I think its so sexy
She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day
Oh you know, you know, you know
Id never ask you to change
If perfect is what you're searching for
Then just stay the same
So don't even bother asking
If you look okay
You know I say
When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are
Don't change for anyone, because you are loved just the way you are.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Pakistan taught me to...
One thing that struck me while on my trip was the notion of time.
Whereas the day flies in North America, it didn't go fast enough for me while in Pakistan. Many would argue had I had a good time, the time would go faster. But I disagree. Life was just different. Or was it me?
Sure, we were busy (when there wasn't loadshedding) but it reminded me of my teenage years - lying in the backyard, staring up at the sky and forming shapes of the clouds, wondering when time would hurry up so I could grow up and finally be free.
Its a funny concept. Liberation. But what does it really mean? Well in Pakistan, it could have meant having the basic enemities which majority of the population lacked. Or walking freely outside. Or speaking English without fear. Or going outside without worrying about what you were wearing. Its highly subjective. All I know was that Pakistani life was too slow for me and therefore, suffocating. Despite the hustle and bustle, the over-population, the conjestion and the 'in your face' factor, everyone in Pakistan was just TOO RELAXED.
Squeeze me?
It has been pointed out to me how fast I: walk, talk, eat, work, cook, clean, drive, read, react...ok, you get the picture. As far as I can remember, I have always been hurrying to get things done. I remember my father rushing me out of the house as if someone was going to steal our car, rushing me to eat as if my food would disappear, rushing me to fill out my university applications, as if these learning institutions would change their mind. If I took time to formulate an argument about why I wanted to extend my curfew to 8pm to 9pm, he would interject and tell me it was too late to defend myself. I was never fast enough.
In Pakistan, I found myself flying past Ruby on the stairs as she sauntered around conducting her errands. Or I would hurriedly set the table while my relatives lounged in the sitting room talking about nonsensical things while I waited at the dinnertable, by myself at 10pm. I almost tripped over Bucka (or Buckoo) trying to get into the car to go for a shopping trip. I could have sworn that the goats exhanged strange glances with each other while I piled into the car and ask them to drive out, even though the gate was still closed. I just couldn't slow down.
Looking back, I thought my trip would go faster if I went faster. Instead, I was a hyperactive, multi-tasking octopus, trying to get errands done, shopping done, visiting done, gift-giving done, banking done, sightseeing done, loadshedding over with, etc. Even when we were leaving the country, as the passport officer nonchalantly flipped through the blank pages of my passport, I steamed in my own impatience.
The ache to go home was overwhelming but a part of me was telling me to SLOW IT RIGHT DOWN. I was not going to get this experience back so I needed to block out the past and the future and just concentrate on the present. But my brain was wired to the fast paced life I had created for the last 40 years. Rewiring would require a lobotomy.
The irony is that I long for that time when I was a teenager again, lying in my backyard... but this time, wishing the opposite. To enjoy my youth, close my eyes and live in the moment...hindsight is 20/20.
Whereas the day flies in North America, it didn't go fast enough for me while in Pakistan. Many would argue had I had a good time, the time would go faster. But I disagree. Life was just different. Or was it me?
Sure, we were busy (when there wasn't loadshedding) but it reminded me of my teenage years - lying in the backyard, staring up at the sky and forming shapes of the clouds, wondering when time would hurry up so I could grow up and finally be free.
Its a funny concept. Liberation. But what does it really mean? Well in Pakistan, it could have meant having the basic enemities which majority of the population lacked. Or walking freely outside. Or speaking English without fear. Or going outside without worrying about what you were wearing. Its highly subjective. All I know was that Pakistani life was too slow for me and therefore, suffocating. Despite the hustle and bustle, the over-population, the conjestion and the 'in your face' factor, everyone in Pakistan was just TOO RELAXED.
Squeeze me?
It has been pointed out to me how fast I: walk, talk, eat, work, cook, clean, drive, read, react...ok, you get the picture. As far as I can remember, I have always been hurrying to get things done. I remember my father rushing me out of the house as if someone was going to steal our car, rushing me to eat as if my food would disappear, rushing me to fill out my university applications, as if these learning institutions would change their mind. If I took time to formulate an argument about why I wanted to extend my curfew to 8pm to 9pm, he would interject and tell me it was too late to defend myself. I was never fast enough.
In Pakistan, I found myself flying past Ruby on the stairs as she sauntered around conducting her errands. Or I would hurriedly set the table while my relatives lounged in the sitting room talking about nonsensical things while I waited at the dinnertable, by myself at 10pm. I almost tripped over Bucka (or Buckoo) trying to get into the car to go for a shopping trip. I could have sworn that the goats exhanged strange glances with each other while I piled into the car and ask them to drive out, even though the gate was still closed. I just couldn't slow down.
Looking back, I thought my trip would go faster if I went faster. Instead, I was a hyperactive, multi-tasking octopus, trying to get errands done, shopping done, visiting done, gift-giving done, banking done, sightseeing done, loadshedding over with, etc. Even when we were leaving the country, as the passport officer nonchalantly flipped through the blank pages of my passport, I steamed in my own impatience.
The ache to go home was overwhelming but a part of me was telling me to SLOW IT RIGHT DOWN. I was not going to get this experience back so I needed to block out the past and the future and just concentrate on the present. But my brain was wired to the fast paced life I had created for the last 40 years. Rewiring would require a lobotomy.
The irony is that I long for that time when I was a teenager again, lying in my backyard... but this time, wishing the opposite. To enjoy my youth, close my eyes and live in the moment...hindsight is 20/20.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Blame Game
I know I am supposed to talk about Pakistan for this post but more interesting things happened today that I am itching to talk about!
My team at work took a dear friend out to cheer her up. We went to a restaurant nearby (I won't name the establishment) at lunch time.
I am all for customer service but when its done hastily and YOU feel like the intruder who has upset the flow of things, obtaining a free meal doesn't feel worth it anymore.
My boss had told us that she had a few bad experiences at this restaurant but our friend wanted to eat there - so to oblige her, we decided to stay and order. We were asked about drinks and then proceeded to wait 10 minutes for them to arrive. I personally have a billion special needs whenever I go out to eat - I don't eat meat that is neither halaal or kosher and I am picky about my seafood. After mulling over the menu, 'heeing and hawing' about what little choice I had, I ordered a tuna and avocado salad off the lunch menu. Everyone else placed their order as well but we waited 15 minutes before our server came to take the order. As the clocked ticked, we realized that over a half hour had elapsed. The server came back to announce that my meal was no longer available, despite being on the menu. My boss and I exchanged looks. Before I could respond, she was already challenging our server why the item was STILL on the menu. He suggested I pick something else -- without offering a idea for substitution or handing me back the menu. He blamed the hostess for leaving the lunch menu out and gave me the main menu. I selected a vegetarian stir fry; but my boss still asked to speak to the manager.
Our food arrived 45 minutes late, although mine came at the same time --and to boot, my veggie choice looked like it had chicken on it! Five minutes into the meal, the manager finally showed up. My boss grabbed my plate and demanded to know if that was chicken on my stirfry. He said it was not and that it was tofu. "I know you ordered the turkey and avocado salad..." he began, looking exasperated and bothered. I held up my finger. "Correction. I ordered a TUNA and avocado salad." He paused and agreed with me and then hurriedly proceeded to accuse the hostess for being away for a week and forgetting to remove the lunch menu which had the tuna/avocado item on it.
I opened my mouth to interject when my boss spoke up. "I understand that people make mistakes but our service was very slow and we have been waiting over 45 minutes." She had her GAME face on which meant, you don't mess with her in this state. She pointed to me and asked if my meal was free. The manager pursed his lips and said very quickly, "All lunch is on me," and then walked away and vanished. My boss looked over at all of us, stunned. I looked at my coworkers and our friend was giggling incessantly. "I should go to lunch with Marketing more often!" she exclaimed. My boss was clearly dismayed. The build up was there but for her, no release.
While we tried to confirm whether he meant my lunch was on him or the entire table, the server came back to check on us and my boss told him what his manager said. Without a pause, he revealed that the manager was only happy when he wasn't working. Nice. In that single proclaimation, we then understood the dynamics at the whole restaurant. The top guy just didn't care.
Prior to opening, the manager should have had a meeting to check that the menus with this item were removed and communicated this error to his entire staff. Instead, the server blamed the hostess and the manager blamed the hostess. And in a blink of an eye, he was rid of us by giving what HE THOUGHT was customer service. The manager could have kindly apologized without compromising the reputation of his staff and owning up to the mistake himself. Five free lunches were unnecessary, seriously. Instead, his own loyal staff inadvertently exposed the restaurant for what it really was.
Suddenly, our free lunch didn't taste so good after all...
My team at work took a dear friend out to cheer her up. We went to a restaurant nearby (I won't name the establishment) at lunch time.
I am all for customer service but when its done hastily and YOU feel like the intruder who has upset the flow of things, obtaining a free meal doesn't feel worth it anymore.
My boss had told us that she had a few bad experiences at this restaurant but our friend wanted to eat there - so to oblige her, we decided to stay and order. We were asked about drinks and then proceeded to wait 10 minutes for them to arrive. I personally have a billion special needs whenever I go out to eat - I don't eat meat that is neither halaal or kosher and I am picky about my seafood. After mulling over the menu, 'heeing and hawing' about what little choice I had, I ordered a tuna and avocado salad off the lunch menu. Everyone else placed their order as well but we waited 15 minutes before our server came to take the order. As the clocked ticked, we realized that over a half hour had elapsed. The server came back to announce that my meal was no longer available, despite being on the menu. My boss and I exchanged looks. Before I could respond, she was already challenging our server why the item was STILL on the menu. He suggested I pick something else -- without offering a idea for substitution or handing me back the menu. He blamed the hostess for leaving the lunch menu out and gave me the main menu. I selected a vegetarian stir fry; but my boss still asked to speak to the manager.
Our food arrived 45 minutes late, although mine came at the same time --and to boot, my veggie choice looked like it had chicken on it! Five minutes into the meal, the manager finally showed up. My boss grabbed my plate and demanded to know if that was chicken on my stirfry. He said it was not and that it was tofu. "I know you ordered the turkey and avocado salad..." he began, looking exasperated and bothered. I held up my finger. "Correction. I ordered a TUNA and avocado salad." He paused and agreed with me and then hurriedly proceeded to accuse the hostess for being away for a week and forgetting to remove the lunch menu which had the tuna/avocado item on it.
I opened my mouth to interject when my boss spoke up. "I understand that people make mistakes but our service was very slow and we have been waiting over 45 minutes." She had her GAME face on which meant, you don't mess with her in this state. She pointed to me and asked if my meal was free. The manager pursed his lips and said very quickly, "All lunch is on me," and then walked away and vanished. My boss looked over at all of us, stunned. I looked at my coworkers and our friend was giggling incessantly. "I should go to lunch with Marketing more often!" she exclaimed. My boss was clearly dismayed. The build up was there but for her, no release.
While we tried to confirm whether he meant my lunch was on him or the entire table, the server came back to check on us and my boss told him what his manager said. Without a pause, he revealed that the manager was only happy when he wasn't working. Nice. In that single proclaimation, we then understood the dynamics at the whole restaurant. The top guy just didn't care.
Prior to opening, the manager should have had a meeting to check that the menus with this item were removed and communicated this error to his entire staff. Instead, the server blamed the hostess and the manager blamed the hostess. And in a blink of an eye, he was rid of us by giving what HE THOUGHT was customer service. The manager could have kindly apologized without compromising the reputation of his staff and owning up to the mistake himself. Five free lunches were unnecessary, seriously. Instead, his own loyal staff inadvertently exposed the restaurant for what it really was.
Suddenly, our free lunch didn't taste so good after all...
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Stubborn Pride
Ever want to broach a subject but your unwillingness got in the way?
Ever wanted to sincerely apologize but you felt the other person needed to say sorry first?
Ever wanted to break the silence and reason it out but you were too opinionated?
Ever want for things to be different but not take the initiative to change it?
We are all too aware of of 'committing' these actions yet we do it anyways.
Its called STUBBORN PRIDE. Squeeze me?
Why do I always back down? Why do I always sacrifice? Why do I always compromise? Why do I always have to take the initiative? Why do I always have to speak first? Why do I always have to take the initial step? Why do I feel I am losing out? Why do I always feel I am taking two steps back?
What is the cure? What is the solution? How do I fix this? How do I fix me?
One word.
Empathy.
Pride is a hard pill to swallow but once you do it, you are no less than the person or situation you are fighting against. You will find that your are more like your enemy than you ever realized.
To know your enemy, is to know thyself..and at the end, the real enemy is only you...
Ever wanted to sincerely apologize but you felt the other person needed to say sorry first?
Ever wanted to break the silence and reason it out but you were too opinionated?
Ever want for things to be different but not take the initiative to change it?
We are all too aware of of 'committing' these actions yet we do it anyways.
Its called STUBBORN PRIDE. Squeeze me?
Why do I always back down? Why do I always sacrifice? Why do I always compromise? Why do I always have to take the initiative? Why do I always have to speak first? Why do I always have to take the initial step? Why do I feel I am losing out? Why do I always feel I am taking two steps back?
What is the cure? What is the solution? How do I fix this? How do I fix me?
One word.
Empathy.
Pride is a hard pill to swallow but once you do it, you are no less than the person or situation you are fighting against. You will find that your are more like your enemy than you ever realized.
To know your enemy, is to know thyself..and at the end, the real enemy is only you...
Monday, September 20, 2010
Movie Wars
I really do not know why I continue to go to the theatre to watch movies.
I have amnesia. That is the only way I can explain it. However, miraculously, when I am at the theatre, I suddenly realize why I shouldn't be there and its too late.
Squeeze me? Yes, I am 'reeling' from the experience each time (sorry for the pun).
I took my daughter to see a movie last Friday night. She is a teenager and that's what teenagers do for fun. Am I just subscribing to a expected social norm? Considering the summer we just experienced, I guess latent guilt was resurfacing.
If you want a good seat, you need to go early and wait in line. That's when the war for me begins. First, there are no boundaries. Everyone lines up and stands extremely close, in the event that someone will jump the line to get ahead.
This is the first invasion of my privacy.
Then, when I find a seat, I cannot choose who I sit next to. I try to gage the personalities of people in line and make a beeline away from them even if there is the slightest hint of unusual behaviour. True story: I once got stuck sitting next to a guy with Tourette syndrome. In the first five minutes of the movie, I had to feign illness to move to another spot. I felt watching a Disney movie, with six year old twins, while the F word was flying out every 2 minutes was not conducive to my theatre experience.
Finally, once I am sitting, the person(s) next to me is somehow invading my privacy and personal space by doing either of the following:
-eating loudly
-talking incessantly and loudly
-shifting in their seat repeatedly
-picking their nose
-texting every blow Joe in the world
-using my drink holder
-neighbour behind me is kicking my chair
And every time I go, there is a new douzy to add to the ever-growing list. This time, my neighbour, who seemed to be a thirty-something, well-dressed polished woman, decided to let out a big yawn, not once, not twice but five times during the preview. She did not cover her mouth or attempt to even stifle her yawn. I think I indiscreetly looked over at her once, just to show my dismay, but she didn't get the hint. I turned to my daughter and she stared at the screen with her mouth open, oblivious to my torture. Ah, to be young and naive. I missed those days.
As we watched our movie and the audience laughed at the comedic parts, my elegant neighbour let out a hee haw, donkey of a laugh that I nearly caused me to slide off my seat. I looked around. Does anyone not hear this?! Again, I glanced over at my daughter who was smiling with content at the screen, enjoying her theatre experience with not a worry in her mind.
We walked out of the theatre and in the parking lot, my daughter threw her arms around me. "Your the best mom EVER. It was great to watch this movie with you! She scurried to the other side of the car, smiling to herself, as I sat down in the driver seat. Forget amnesia -- its temporary insanity -- crazy what we do for love...
I have amnesia. That is the only way I can explain it. However, miraculously, when I am at the theatre, I suddenly realize why I shouldn't be there and its too late.
Squeeze me? Yes, I am 'reeling' from the experience each time (sorry for the pun).
I took my daughter to see a movie last Friday night. She is a teenager and that's what teenagers do for fun. Am I just subscribing to a expected social norm? Considering the summer we just experienced, I guess latent guilt was resurfacing.
If you want a good seat, you need to go early and wait in line. That's when the war for me begins. First, there are no boundaries. Everyone lines up and stands extremely close, in the event that someone will jump the line to get ahead.
This is the first invasion of my privacy.
Then, when I find a seat, I cannot choose who I sit next to. I try to gage the personalities of people in line and make a beeline away from them even if there is the slightest hint of unusual behaviour. True story: I once got stuck sitting next to a guy with Tourette syndrome. In the first five minutes of the movie, I had to feign illness to move to another spot. I felt watching a Disney movie, with six year old twins, while the F word was flying out every 2 minutes was not conducive to my theatre experience.
Finally, once I am sitting, the person(s) next to me is somehow invading my privacy and personal space by doing either of the following:
-eating loudly
-talking incessantly and loudly
-shifting in their seat repeatedly
-picking their nose
-texting every blow Joe in the world
-using my drink holder
-neighbour behind me is kicking my chair
And every time I go, there is a new douzy to add to the ever-growing list. This time, my neighbour, who seemed to be a thirty-something, well-dressed polished woman, decided to let out a big yawn, not once, not twice but five times during the preview. She did not cover her mouth or attempt to even stifle her yawn. I think I indiscreetly looked over at her once, just to show my dismay, but she didn't get the hint. I turned to my daughter and she stared at the screen with her mouth open, oblivious to my torture. Ah, to be young and naive. I missed those days.
As we watched our movie and the audience laughed at the comedic parts, my elegant neighbour let out a hee haw, donkey of a laugh that I nearly caused me to slide off my seat. I looked around. Does anyone not hear this?! Again, I glanced over at my daughter who was smiling with content at the screen, enjoying her theatre experience with not a worry in her mind.
We walked out of the theatre and in the parking lot, my daughter threw her arms around me. "Your the best mom EVER. It was great to watch this movie with you! She scurried to the other side of the car, smiling to herself, as I sat down in the driver seat. Forget amnesia -- its temporary insanity -- crazy what we do for love...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Violent Bees
I'm a swinger.
I will go back and forth between Pakistan and Canada, just to keep things lively.
Remember the post about the event with the three not-your-average lady dancers? I forgot to mention an occurence that happened that night but did not transpire until three days later.
As we waited for everyone to file out after the event, and I got 'the look' from one the dancers, I remember seeing my husband rubbing his neck. You could clearly see his discomfort but he did not say a word. It was a fleeting episode that I didn't recall until I saw the back of his neck afterwards. After taking a shower, he asked me to look at his neck. He said he felt a burning sensation and didn't know why.
I pulled down the collar of his shirt and was mortified. His skin was purplish-blue, with a multitude of bumps and scales. I choked on my own saliva. "What the hell?! How long have you felt this burning sensation?" I asked, trying to mask the quiver in my voice. When he wasn't looking, my eldest daughter and I were trading shocked expressions. "Well, I thought something bit me at the party. And then I looked down and I saw this black bee on the floor...dead." I covered my mouth to smother my gasps. "Are you sure it was a bee? There are multiple bites on your neck." I was still trying to tone down my shock and ask in my most doctor-like voice, as I would the girls when they would come to me with a sliver in their hand. "I saw a dead bee on the ground." He nudged me aside as he tried to view his back through the bedroom mirror. I looked for an entry point but it looked like the damn thing bit him over and over.
I grabbed my medical suitcase (no word of a lie, my medical supplies were in a small suitcase -- a portable Canadian pharmacy) and search for an antiseptic analgestic cream. "We have to call Asad to confirm what meds you need." Asad was a doctor and family friend who was visiting Pakistan with his family during July. He used to live in Pakistan but experienced its violence with three home invasions at gunpoint. He had enough and immigrated to Canada to start a new life and ensure safety for his wife and children. Why he was back visiting was a question I should have asked myself.
Despite the fact that we took preventions against malaria, hepatitis A & B, typhoid and diaherra, I was unconvinced that all this would protect him from whatever took a chunk out of his neck. As he tried to use my makeup mirror to see his condition of his neck, I flew across the room to intervene. "You just let me take care of it. Its not so bad but I need a doctor to look at it -- just as a precaution." He shrugged his shoulders as I applied nearly an entire tube of Polysporin on his neck.
His UK cousin walked in, wondering what all the commotion was about, when he suddenly released a slew of profanities after viewing my husband's neck. Anything you say in a British accent sounds intelligent but I personally struggled with the advice he gave him: "Dude, it looks like an alien got tangled up in your neck hairs and fought for his life! You should consider going for a back wax!"
Terroism, tumult, uproar, struggle, corruption, bloodshed, crime, immorality, natural disasters and ...violent bees. At that point, I just wanted to "wax" Pakistan off the world map.
Just another notch on the frayed belt that continued to whip me on a daily basis...
I will go back and forth between Pakistan and Canada, just to keep things lively.
Remember the post about the event with the three not-your-average lady dancers? I forgot to mention an occurence that happened that night but did not transpire until three days later.
As we waited for everyone to file out after the event, and I got 'the look' from one the dancers, I remember seeing my husband rubbing his neck. You could clearly see his discomfort but he did not say a word. It was a fleeting episode that I didn't recall until I saw the back of his neck afterwards. After taking a shower, he asked me to look at his neck. He said he felt a burning sensation and didn't know why.
I pulled down the collar of his shirt and was mortified. His skin was purplish-blue, with a multitude of bumps and scales. I choked on my own saliva. "What the hell?! How long have you felt this burning sensation?" I asked, trying to mask the quiver in my voice. When he wasn't looking, my eldest daughter and I were trading shocked expressions. "Well, I thought something bit me at the party. And then I looked down and I saw this black bee on the floor...dead." I covered my mouth to smother my gasps. "Are you sure it was a bee? There are multiple bites on your neck." I was still trying to tone down my shock and ask in my most doctor-like voice, as I would the girls when they would come to me with a sliver in their hand. "I saw a dead bee on the ground." He nudged me aside as he tried to view his back through the bedroom mirror. I looked for an entry point but it looked like the damn thing bit him over and over.
I grabbed my medical suitcase (no word of a lie, my medical supplies were in a small suitcase -- a portable Canadian pharmacy) and search for an antiseptic analgestic cream. "We have to call Asad to confirm what meds you need." Asad was a doctor and family friend who was visiting Pakistan with his family during July. He used to live in Pakistan but experienced its violence with three home invasions at gunpoint. He had enough and immigrated to Canada to start a new life and ensure safety for his wife and children. Why he was back visiting was a question I should have asked myself.
Despite the fact that we took preventions against malaria, hepatitis A & B, typhoid and diaherra, I was unconvinced that all this would protect him from whatever took a chunk out of his neck. As he tried to use my makeup mirror to see his condition of his neck, I flew across the room to intervene. "You just let me take care of it. Its not so bad but I need a doctor to look at it -- just as a precaution." He shrugged his shoulders as I applied nearly an entire tube of Polysporin on his neck.
His UK cousin walked in, wondering what all the commotion was about, when he suddenly released a slew of profanities after viewing my husband's neck. Anything you say in a British accent sounds intelligent but I personally struggled with the advice he gave him: "Dude, it looks like an alien got tangled up in your neck hairs and fought for his life! You should consider going for a back wax!"
Terroism, tumult, uproar, struggle, corruption, bloodshed, crime, immorality, natural disasters and ...violent bees. At that point, I just wanted to "wax" Pakistan off the world map.
Just another notch on the frayed belt that continued to whip me on a daily basis...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Power of Nice
Ok, I am taking a break from Pakistan. I am sure that will brings sighs of relief to some, who upon hearing the name "Pakistan" in the future, will make a run for the hills.
Let me bring you back to Canada and share a thought that crossed my mind yesterday.
I am sure at some point, during the week, month or for some, the year, we fall into a cycle. For me its a self-absorbed, bubbled environment when its only me, alone in this world, fighting against everything and everyone. So take Tuesday. I woke up with a migraine and knew I would have a crappy day. Yes, I decided from the get-go that it would be a bad day. And believe you me, it was. I screwed up at work, I angered a friend and even got yelled at by my mother in law for forgetting a task. I also walked around for an hour in public, with my fly wide open. Leave it to me to screw things over.
Personally, when I am in that cycle, I wallow in my own self-pity. Nothing goes right and I am not right. I mentally list my faults, the faults of people around me and even blame Mother Nature for the rain. And worse than that, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Trust me, you will know when I am pissed off. Either I will bite your head off with a snide or sarcastic remark hidden behind the guise of a joke or I will smile that phony smile that really looks like I am constipated.
And when you are in this state, you don't think of others. Right then, its only affecting you --like when you drive your car and you are lost in your thoughts, not conscious of the traffic around you or how you reached your destination. PRNDL. Personal, Reclusive, Neglectful, Delusional, Loser. I did not just make that up. I was looking at my gear shift in the car and these words popped out at me out of nowhere. Squeeze me? Yes, words really do appear like that for me. Its my Harry Potter imagination that takes over.
How hard is it to stop the car, in the middle of the street and do a U -turn? In plain English, how hard is it to break that cycle? It definately differs from one individual to another but for me, its instantaneous.
So Tuesday, I had already made up my mind to be a bitch. But someone emailed me and said something that threw my premeditated state off. It took probably five minutes of their time to acknowledge me and show their appreciation. How hard is it to break someone's cycle? How hard is it, even if you are having a bad day, to be nice to someone else? I have never known someone to be nice and not feel good about it. The giver feels good and the receiver feels even better.
Its the 90/10 rule. 10% is your environment. 90% is how you react to it. Now if everyone could put as much energy they exert sustaining the cycle to breaking it, we become less 'me' and more 'we'.
The power of nice. Give someone a natural high.
Let me bring you back to Canada and share a thought that crossed my mind yesterday.
I am sure at some point, during the week, month or for some, the year, we fall into a cycle. For me its a self-absorbed, bubbled environment when its only me, alone in this world, fighting against everything and everyone. So take Tuesday. I woke up with a migraine and knew I would have a crappy day. Yes, I decided from the get-go that it would be a bad day. And believe you me, it was. I screwed up at work, I angered a friend and even got yelled at by my mother in law for forgetting a task. I also walked around for an hour in public, with my fly wide open. Leave it to me to screw things over.
Personally, when I am in that cycle, I wallow in my own self-pity. Nothing goes right and I am not right. I mentally list my faults, the faults of people around me and even blame Mother Nature for the rain. And worse than that, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Trust me, you will know when I am pissed off. Either I will bite your head off with a snide or sarcastic remark hidden behind the guise of a joke or I will smile that phony smile that really looks like I am constipated.
And when you are in this state, you don't think of others. Right then, its only affecting you --like when you drive your car and you are lost in your thoughts, not conscious of the traffic around you or how you reached your destination. PRNDL. Personal, Reclusive, Neglectful, Delusional, Loser. I did not just make that up. I was looking at my gear shift in the car and these words popped out at me out of nowhere. Squeeze me? Yes, words really do appear like that for me. Its my Harry Potter imagination that takes over.
How hard is it to stop the car, in the middle of the street and do a U -turn? In plain English, how hard is it to break that cycle? It definately differs from one individual to another but for me, its instantaneous.
So Tuesday, I had already made up my mind to be a bitch. But someone emailed me and said something that threw my premeditated state off. It took probably five minutes of their time to acknowledge me and show their appreciation. How hard is it to break someone's cycle? How hard is it, even if you are having a bad day, to be nice to someone else? I have never known someone to be nice and not feel good about it. The giver feels good and the receiver feels even better.
Its the 90/10 rule. 10% is your environment. 90% is how you react to it. Now if everyone could put as much energy they exert sustaining the cycle to breaking it, we become less 'me' and more 'we'.
The power of nice. Give someone a natural high.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Would you like a fortress with your BigMac?
Continuation of our one and only sight-seeing episode in Pakistan.
After praying in the Badshahi mosque, we ended up visiting its neighbour, The Lahore Fortress for the rest of the afternoon.
Once the tour guide heard me speak English to my cousin, he latched onto us like a bee on honey for the rest of our time there. A large crowd gathered around us because, I suspect, they were wondering why we were getting a private tour. That's right. The old man who knew the whole history behind each part of the fort, was only focused on us. Note to self: I warned the girls not to speak English in public, and as a result, I had to eat my own words and prepare to give our toothless guide a nice sized tip.
Below is a picture of him in front of the many entrances where he narrated that Prince Akbar would enter the fort, riding an elephant. I felt like I was in the middle of the book, Passage to India.
The fortress was built by the Mughal emperor, Akbar, to secure the city. I cracked a joke to my husband highlighting the fact that it seemed that all the Princes and Maharajahs in India/Pakistan built beautiful monuments for their wives. "What are you living under right now, a hut?!" he exclaimed. Note to readers: Even mere attempts at romance were relinquished the moment we landed in what used to be a land ruled by the Mughals.
Below is a picture of Prince Akbar and his wife. His face was etched out by vandals
We were truly stunned at the lack of maintenance throughout our tour. It was such a shame that there was no program put in place by the government to preserve these historical monuments. And clearly, the people who lived here did not care as we witnessed desecrated parts of the fort.
As I pondered these thoughts, I could hear the girls complaining. I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, It's hot, My feet hurt, That man is staring at me, Why are we looking at old things, There is no way an elephant could fit through there...it reminded me of the time when we went to England and we were touring London on a double-decker bus and as I took in the sights, the architecture and learned about the city's history, my video camera captured London in all its glory while the girls, on the top level and at the back of the bus, fought over who's BigMac had more sauce.
After praying in the Badshahi mosque, we ended up visiting its neighbour, The Lahore Fortress for the rest of the afternoon.
Once the tour guide heard me speak English to my cousin, he latched onto us like a bee on honey for the rest of our time there. A large crowd gathered around us because, I suspect, they were wondering why we were getting a private tour. That's right. The old man who knew the whole history behind each part of the fort, was only focused on us. Note to self: I warned the girls not to speak English in public, and as a result, I had to eat my own words and prepare to give our toothless guide a nice sized tip.
Below is a picture of him in front of the many entrances where he narrated that Prince Akbar would enter the fort, riding an elephant. I felt like I was in the middle of the book, Passage to India.
The fortress was built by the Mughal emperor, Akbar, to secure the city. I cracked a joke to my husband highlighting the fact that it seemed that all the Princes and Maharajahs in India/Pakistan built beautiful monuments for their wives. "What are you living under right now, a hut?!" he exclaimed. Note to readers: Even mere attempts at romance were relinquished the moment we landed in what used to be a land ruled by the Mughals.
Below is a picture of Prince Akbar and his wife. His face was etched out by vandals
We were truly stunned at the lack of maintenance throughout our tour. It was such a shame that there was no program put in place by the government to preserve these historical monuments. And clearly, the people who lived here did not care as we witnessed desecrated parts of the fort.
As I pondered these thoughts, I could hear the girls complaining. I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, It's hot, My feet hurt, That man is staring at me, Why are we looking at old things, There is no way an elephant could fit through there...it reminded me of the time when we went to England and we were touring London on a double-decker bus and as I took in the sights, the architecture and learned about the city's history, my video camera captured London in all its glory while the girls, on the top level and at the back of the bus, fought over who's BigMac had more sauce.
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