Root Canals, Laughing Gas and Wikipedia

I got a root canal last week. Secretly, I like going to the dentist. It falls into the category of spring cleaning – an activity that, when completed, leaves one feeling a little bit self-satisfied. Except that unlike with spring cleaning, I don’t have to do anything at all. And better yet, someone else pays for it.

Unless, that is, one needs a root canal. I take great pride in my fastidious dental care and so I was annoyed and horrified at the diagnosis. Before proceeding with a costly procedure with an “out of network” dentist, I felt compelled to conduct a quick interview:

• How do you know I need a root canal? (Read: where did you get your degree from?)
• How does a root canal work? (Read: I have studied up on ‘root canals’ on wikipedia and I am secretly testing you.)
• How do you know if you got all the infection out? (Read: where did you get your degree from?)
• What if you leave a little infection behind? (Read: will you redo it if you didn’t and will I get my money back?)

The interview continued as he settled me in, shot me up with Novocain and administered laughing gas. I stopped talking long enough for him to ask me if I was a “control freak”. Why? I asked. He said that “control freaks do not often react well to laughing gas.” Needless to say, I did not “react well” as I managed to continue the interview even as I mentally slide into a long echo-y tunnel:

• If the tooth is dead, why does it still hurt? (Read: have you really done your job if my tooth hurts afterwards?)
• How does laughing gas work? (Read: are you hooking me on some sort of upper-middle-class drug? And, if so, am I going to see you in a self-help group when I need to attend?)
• Can I see the nerve when you remove it? (Read: I want to see proof that you really did something for all the money this is costing me when it’s all said and done.)

When all 10 of his fingers, the sucky thing and a drill entered my mouth, I was finally forced to quiet. The noise of my questions was replaced by the smell of dentist. You know that smell: two-thirds burning, one-third gross cherry fluoride sprinkled with a dash of fear as the drilling starts and you wonder if the Novocain has really kicked in yet.

As the procedure progressed he pulled out a piece of the nerve and showed it to me. He then placed it on my dental bib so that I could look at it afterwards. It was sort of like a single girl’s equivalent to a baby delivery. Sorta. And, for the record, the laughing gas was, ultimately, a total bust. The control freak in me was too busy cross-examining the dentist and examining her new born nerve to relax enough to be bothered with it.

Christmas Cheer

Until I have children I will probably never send out a Christmas card. Even then, I probably won't send one out unless my children have discovered a cure for cancer, become the next Hannah Montana or at least won the school spelling bee.

But Christmas shouldn't slip by uncelebrated. A wise elf named Buddy once said, "the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear," so I thought I'd cajole (read: boss) my siblings into a rousing medley to honor the season:



Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year, dear family and friends!

Addendum: don't worry, we are all keeping our day jobs. Except David - he proved way too good at go-go dancing and 'jazz hands' and is considering the pursuit of said activity in 2009.

Undone by a Beagle

Last weekend I found myself enrolled in an intense tutorial at the edge of the remaining Lebanese cedars forest, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lebanon_Cedar, as an old, nay ancient, villager taught me how to plant a cedar seed. Through a mixture of bad Arabic translation, my horrible Fren-glish and some Oscar worthy acting I learned that I needed to soak the seed for 4 days. Then I would cut it in half and plant it "one finger nail-length" below the dirt. It must be watered every four days and it had to be planted 700 meters above sea level.

Of course, I live more near than far from sea level, I don't have a yard and I've never before grown anything from seed. "No problem," I thought. I would plant it in my parent's yard. Double win: they would have to water and care for it and since they are trying to downsize their yard it wouldn't be a problem to have 3-5 cedars with 8 foot trunk diameters in 20-100 years. I bought 3 seeds and 5 saplings (he gave me a deal) and I confidently packed them up in my carry-on.

Fast forward to today. As I waited for my luggage in customs a darling little beagle came sniffing around. It seized upon my bag and within minutes I was ratted out. My saplings and seeds (and one granny smith-type apple) all confiscated. After a stern lecture I left, without fine, but much annoyed.

Figuring that swallowing a pinecone-sized seed in a ballon is impractical, next time I will be sure to keep all improperly imported goods at waist level or higher when aforementioned dogs come sniffing around.

The Savvy Traveler

The culturally aware traveler is mindful of her surroundings. She takes careful note of the manner in which the people around her conduct themselves. She strives to blend in by speaking in the local dialect and carrying herself in such a way that her mannerisms perfectly mirror those of the people around her. Success is dependent upon her ability to follow the local dress code and confidently consume the foods of those she studies. By doing so, she disappears into the crowd, becoming one of “the locals.”

For these reasons, this savvy traveler could *not* pass up the below showcased find in a local market in Saida, Lebanon.

Within minutes of putting the hat on, she was virtually invisible – she found herself inexplicably making the “street signs” of the local Shiite and Sunni gangs, eating falafels and finding nothing wrong at all with the fact that her taxi driver seemed unable to stay in one lane but in fact preferred driving on the line dividing the two lanes (at 80 mph) in and out of the other cars.


Until her fellow travel adventurer looked at the hat and said, “hey, a Christmas hat,” nearly ruining the transformation.

A discussion quickly ensued – could the Lebanese cedar tree really symbolize a Christmas tree and the Arabic be misread as “Jesus is the reason for the season”?

Possibly, but because she had so competently proven her ability to bargain when purchasing her falafel (the vendor added an extra into the sandwich), she deemed the hat and herself fully “Lebanese,” if only for the day.

Spring Might Be Nice

A fresh look at Prop 8:



(Sorry to poach from you, Margaret, but this is just too funny...)

Homeward Bound

In the space of an hour this afternoon I...

almost had my Diet Coke hijacked by a little boy. He came up from behind and grabbed the can in a very wily surprise, but failed, attack. By the time it all registered he was one block up the street. If I hadn't been so surprised, I probably wouldn't have employed the 'vice-grip' move and would have let him have it. But, my Diet Coke? My instinct was to protect: don't mess with the DC.

had my donut stolen by a 11 year old. Again, a surprise-from-behind-move... (I began to wonder if I shouldn't portage all food above my head.) I again employed the instinctive 'vice-grip' move. But this time I had had the presence of mind to just let go when second thought rolled around. (Now don't judge me by my food choices; after five days, I was T-I-R-E-D of Indianesque food.)

watched a nursing woman stop nursing to wave a bottle in my face to beg for milk for her baby. I presume you see the irony in this.

...And I knew it was time to go home.

Kathmandu - I like you. But you tire me out.

And as for home? I'm not really sure where it is anymore. Last week as I flew East to return to Abu Dhabi, it felt normal to unlayer ("goodbye sneakers, sweater, scarf. hello flip flops, t-shirt, sunglasses") as the women around me layered ("goodbye jeans, shirts, faces. hello abaya, head scarf"). Destination 2009? TBA.

Baksheesh and Other Observations

Baksheesh: n., pl., "a gratuity, tip, or bribe paid to expedite service, especially in some Near Eastern countries", and the UAE is one such country. I'm on my way back on Saturday and if I've learned anything over the last year, it's that baksheesh greases the wheels from top to bottom.

So, I'm bringing some baksheesh back to my clients in the form of gifts for their kids. I picked up Candyland for one client who has three little girls. How can you go wrong with Candyland? Well, I got home and looked at the board game cover and discovered that there is a TART on the boardgame box. What's with those ankles? And the KNEES? Ha, I feel the need to take a black pen to her outfit to cover her up with a Candyland-style abaya before I can hand the game over.

On other notes, exactly 11 years worth of Wednesdays ago I entered the MTC. I recently found this picture taken by the kind folks at the MTC my first day. Here I am, orange dork dot and all. Interestingly enough, I have almost the same haircut right now.

It's Confirmed: I'm a White Person

Last week I purchased a pea coat. I own one already but one too many pencils have disappeared into the lining and the wool was starting to shine, but not in a good way, so it was time to replace. I worked into the wee hours of the night analyzing, comparing, selecting and purchasing a replacement. I felt quite pleased with myself when I hit "purchase" and slept a satisfied sleep.

And then brother David referenced this site: Stuff White People Like, http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com

I surfed over and found #111 Pea Coats, http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2008/10/02/111-pea-coats. So, turns out I fall guilty to #104, 115, 106, 100, pretty much all the items listed in the 90s, 112, 109, 88, 85, 83, 81, ... right, you get the picture.

Just a hypothesis here, but I'm guessing that the only thing that makes my pea coat "more" white is the store that I purchased it from. Out of some modicum of dignity, I shan't admit here where...

Travel Tips

Things I've learned over the last week that possibly you might be interested in:

1. Bored at the airport? Find the Chanel perfume.

Last week I went on a quick weekend trip to Sana’a with a work friend. In my efforts to “practice arriving early” (please note Post: "I Know You", October 27), I arrived at the airport and made it through security with 40 mins to spare. And then I had nothing to do. My friend told me that when she is bored at airports she goes to Duty Free, finds The. Most. Expensive. Perfume on the shelf and sprays it all over herself. Sure, we average 31 years of age between the two of us but before you could say “American passport” we were in Duty Free looking for perfume. Within a few moments we located the latest Chanel, selling for a cool $100/ 8 oz. I chose the Nile-inspired version (perplexing since the Nile is full of "yuck"). My colleague chose the Taj Mahal-inspired version (perplexing since the entire city of Agra smells of, well, not good things that normally end up in the toilet). We respectively sprayed ourselves and the 5 foot vicinity area in it.

Bonus Travel Tip: When you board a plane full of people coming from Malaysia who have just finished up a long haul trip, you will find the plane trashed and smelling nauseatingly of body odor. At which point you will be very glad you sprayed yourself with the perfume and wished you given it one more squirt.

2. All the stories you've heard about gypsies are true. Beware and you've been warned.

"The gypsies are scary. They'll try to get you...You'll be innocently looking at something and then next thing you know 5 of them will have surrounded you forcing shawls into your face, as they move you closer and closer to their wagon and then BAM! You are locked in a cage and your friends have no idea what happened. True story."

Thank you, Susan, for wise words shared.

Matthew Alan

Matthew, you are one of those lucky people born with a smile on your face. Well, once the colic was gone. And, oh how that smile has put a smile on our faces ever since. Well, your smile plus really great hugs.


I'm going to miss both your smile and hugs when you leave February 4, 2009 for two years to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in ... California, Fresno speaking Espanol. But - WOW - we'll let you go for an adventure like this. Well done, 'Mamu', on a living a life that's brought you here. XO, baby bro.

A Grand Thing

Whenever an ambulance speeds through a crowded street, I feel a profound sense of awe as cars part to make way. For whatever nonsensical reason, in that moment I feel very American and very proud to be an American. There is an inherent sense of respect, community-ness, understanding that somehow I associate with the US that I hear in the sirens and watch in the red lights pulling to the side of the road...

I felt that same feeling last week – a week that began with the fevered pitch of an election and ended on the beaches of Normandy in a solitude that stills the soul. Something about watching Americans line up at the polls on CNN, discoursing on the pros and cons of both candidates with taxi drivers, doormen, colleagues (Emirate, American, Lebanese, Palestinian, Egyptian etc.), hearing my dad tell stories of WW II soldiers (including my grandfathers), seeing the American Cemetery shadows rotate with the sun at Omaha Beach…

At the entrance to Omaha Beach the following is engraved:
"To us is given the honour of striking a blow for freedom which will live in history; and in the better days that lie ahead men will speak with pride of our doings." ~ Field Marshal Bernard L. Montgomery

And now I live in those "better days" and have hopes for even better "better days." I can pray in peace, learn for free, vote with noise, speak with confidence, live without fear. To be an American is a grand thing.

I Know You

Last weekend...

I ditch the taxi at the curb shouting, "I'll be right back." I run to the Abu Dhabi airport doors. I pull at the sliding doors in an attempt to pry them open faster. I jump a rope. I run through the security x-ray thing. I run to the counter. I throw my passport on the counter and say, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here." It is 59 minutes before my plane leaves.

The man at the counter looks at me and says, "You are often late." I realize that it is Mohamed and he checked me in 10 days earlier when I ran the same airport Olympic trial - arriving 62 minutes before my plane was set to leave. He then told me I should "practice" arriving earlier.

How embarassing. Although not enough so to change my behavior. I really don't like sitting around in airports. I am, after all, my father's daughter.

Ode to Big Chief Watopotami

I understand that this video may be funny to only three people in this world (those being the three showcased in the video). But I do love it so.



Why?

It captures the tail end of almost five hilarious days that involved:
- three mosques, one palace and one really old old old church
- two Medusa heads
- one hamam, somewhere around 32 birthday suits (not that paranoid I was counting or anything) and two unappreciated pats (shudder)
- six rides to the airport (but two more than planned)
- one fight with the ceramics seller guy in the Grand Bazaar
- two attempts to find belly dancers
- five or six Magnum bars (or maybe seven or eight)
- two continents and one ferry with one bathroom that left two of us dry-heaving
- four nights up late answering life's questions like, for example, why Anna was not eligible for Massawepie Maids
- nearly neglible amounts of time working (all things considered)
- unmentionable amounts of lira and equivalent amounts of laughing

Why else?

Somehow, for some reason every time I watch the clip, I laugh. And I am reminded that I have a really hilarious, really great family whom I love a whole lot. XOX

Forced Politics

The story goes like this: four people are driving up a street in San Francisco minding their own business when all of the sudden this happens:



Before too long they find themselves surrounded by 100s, nay, 1000s of bicycles. What is this plot twist you ask? "A political movement called Critical Mass, http://critical-mass.info/," the hippie cyclists shout back as they surround the car and force it to slow to a mere 10 mph (which is not very environmentally friendly, by the way).



Had the protagonists of this story not found the event altogether hilarious, they might have pulled off to the side of the road like all the other cars. But what good story ends so obediently? Definitely not this one - so instead the brave little Toyota found itself crawling up the street, joining the bikes in the movement to ban cars cause, hey, if you can't beat 'em, might as well join 'em...

Anyhow, a few pictures of my 'San-atello' weekend, dedicated to one Tammy K. Adams:

Time

Clock time is our bank manager,
tax collector, police inspector;
this inner time is our wife.
- JB Priestley, 'Man and Time'

I've stolen this quote from my latest read: 'The Time Traveler's Wife'. It continues to twist and turn in my mind as I find myself contemplating time and the spending of said time. I am just back from wandering through six airports and approx 53 hours of travel to visit Katrina, Doug, Marcus, Cathy, one practically perfect baby Sampson, Anna, Katie, Matthew, Mom and Dad in three cities over six days time. It makes my head ache just a bit to think about it.

Too much of the last 6 weeks have been spent at the beck and call of a very harsh Clock Time. So, this last week was a joyful reunion with dear Inner Time. Reuniting over Congo Bars and modern 'art' at the 'Frisco' MOMA, with laughs so good that I was left crying, in the darks of Sutros Baths and Matt's fancy new dorm and at the family dinner table was worth every single security check.

And now I'm more than just a little bit mournful that those hours are gone, but feeling resolved to listen better to the tick of Inner Time.

Idiosyncrasies

I continue to be amused and bemused by the idiosyncrasies of developing realms.

I flew to Cairo to meet new and old (dear) friends last Wed for the weekend. The plane wheels hit the ground and immediately seat belts started unbuckling:

I thought the stewardess was going to have a coronary. After several minutes of shouting people finally sat down...about the same time that they finished getting everything down from the overhead and as we came to a stop at the gate.

And as I type this - I am back in the Cairo airport, using wireless internet, at a Starbucks knockoff. But I do not have any money so I can't pay the bathroom attendant the "baksheesh" (aka bribe money) needed for toilet paper so I have to wait until I board the plane to make my way to the bathroom. Hello Old World...Meet New World.

12 Staring Eyes and 1 Sucker Fish

I've discovered a terrifying thing: 12 staring eight-year old eyes daring you to say something that won't bore them to death (while simultaneously poking the person next to them).

I substitute taught the eight-year olds in church today. I have ventured into Primary only one time since graduating myself and then for only one class on one Sunday as backup support for my sister. I do declare that this might possibly be the most difficult calling in the church (aside from Primary Song Leader, but we'll get to that in a minute). The lesson was Matthew 7:24-26 and at the end everyone was supposed to be able to "choose the right."

The class started with one of the girls running to hide behind the curtains and dance. In short order, she was joined by the other two girls. I found myself saying "is that the right choice?" for the first of MANY times over the next 46 looong minutes, during which time period I was required to use every trick of the teaching trade. I've taught adults for years, presented in front of groups of 100s, trained PhDs, but this was definitely the toughest crowd. Getting catcalled "what's the next game?" and being required to somehow get them to quit jumping from chair to chair while leaving with some sort of religious lesson was a task akin to a performing a blessed miracle. And, in keeping with the preceding 46 minutes, the class ended with me asking, "who would like to say the prayer?" and Danny volunteering his toy werewolf action figure.

After Cairo prayed in lieu of the toy werewolf, we proceeded to Sharing Time. I was asked to stay to provide "adult cover." No joke, and the room never stopped moving. At any given point 72% of the room was squirming. Mid-way through I had to ask Sam to quit sucking on Connor's hand. Connor told me that Sam likes to pretend to be sucker fish with a tone that implied, "and duh, who doesn't like to be a sucker fish". Sam then removed his lips from Connor's hand and proceed to pull out his imaginary light saber to cut the head off of the boy next to him (I surmise that it was a light saber by the sound he was making). I didn't have a watch and had no idea how much longer the torture would continue and considered asking Connor to cut my head off as well. All the while, the poor poor song leader (Allison, you have my utmost respect) continued to lead the group through songs in prep for the sacrament meeting program. The highlight? Watching the little boy who's head had been removed earlier get down to the song "Baptism." Truly, a boogie-worthy song.

So, all you Primary workers out there - my hats off... and to you, Sam, you go sucker fish boy (just make sure that hand is clean).


In honor of eight-year olds, a picture of my favorite eight-year old around

Good Life Advice: Bargain First, Ride Second

I spent a day in Bekaa Valley, Lebanon last weekend exploring ruins of Baalbek, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baalbek.
Afterwards, I was accosted by a horde of exuberant (aka pushy/obnoxious) merchants strategically placed outside the gates so to force exiting tourists through a "buy from me" gauntlet (which included Hezbollah fundraisers). I escaped unscathed and with my money nearly intact (note: one purchase made, a very worthy exception - email me to find out). However, I soon found one of my friends who had been less lucky.

He'd been lured over to the camels, dressed up like a Islamic militant, placed on a camel and then taken on a ride - both literally and figuratively.

After the ride he asked "how much?" The camel owner replied with what was probably the biggest number he could think of on the fly: "100,000 Lebanonese pounds." That would be 66.67 US and, basically, a million dollars to him. I think that Ruben could have purchased the camel for that amount. Unfortunately for Ruben, I was out of pounds and all he had was a US $50 bill - which they saw when he made mistake of opening his wallet in front of them.

After 10 minutes of hard bargaining and a final "give me more change or else I will walk and give you nothing" ultimatum, Ruben finally bargained them down to $25 (still a total rip off).

Take away lessons? (1) "good price for you, my American friend" is better translated as "good price for ME, my American friend" (although Ruben has some great pictures that make him look like he's ready to join the Hezbollah which, ultimately, may actually be worth $67) and (2) said "good prices" are best set before riding the walkway to the temple doors and back.

Larger life lessons hidden there somewhere, I'm sure.

Me Against the Abayas...

Abayas: a long bathrobe-like covering worn by women in the Gulf; designed to protect men from the wiles of a female figure. I really don't like them for a wide variety of reasons that I won't bore you with. But now it's personal...


Yes, I might have gained a pound or 2 care of Uncle Booz's bottomless expense account, but does the abaya really need to call this out??

Here's more like it. Hair-loose and fancy free. Watch out men...



UPDATE: I should clarify that the guy on the right is Elias. Not a "staring starer" but in fact a colleague who sits 2 cubes over from me and 1 to the left at the office. And if I remember correctly, there was some joke being made at the time of photo-taking about said photo-taking.

Election 2008: Paris Hilton v. The White Haired Dude

Recently McCain compared Obama to Paris, Britney and other 'faddish celebs':



In response, Paris had a thing or two to say:

See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die

McCain might look into hiring her publicists for his campaign. That's hot.

The Last Lecture ~ Randy Pausch

Words to live by from a man dying, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randy_Pausch. Take a moment and listen.



The full lecture is over an hour so if you'd like the "Cliff Notes" version (12 minutes), listen here:



And the .pdf version:
http://download.srv.cs.cmu.edu/~pausch/Randy/pauschlastlecturetranscript.pdf

Here's to dreams and here's to waking up and making them happen.

Adventures in Haircuttery

I was long overdue for a haircut. But I had seen several of my colleagues get their hair cut by local stylists and I was scared I'd end up with hair like this:

Which would force me to dress like this for 2-6 months:

Since I have fairly W.A.S.P.y hair I made a rule that I needed someone with a passport from a country west of Germany to cut my hair and, preferably, west of the State of New York. After considerable research, I ended up with a British passport holder. Luckily, I think she did pretty well with the instructions, "I actually had my current haircut in 7th grade as well so make it different":

A Few of My Favorite Things

In honor of Mom, Katie and Susan's visit, please sing to the tune of the Sound of Music's standard:

Family arriving on B.A. Seventy-Two-oo
Henna on hands and whiskers on camels
Smothering days of 41 'grees ... (celsius that is)
These are a few of my favorite things

Fruit layered cocktails and crisp sunburnt faces
Taxis and hotels with doorbells that chi-ime
Omani men that attempt 15 year old kidnaps
These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in abayas with faces all covered
Dubai Big Bus to-ur that nearly killed us ... (yes, another heat reference)
Dune bashing rides that leave stomaches behind
These are a few of my favorite things

When my family leaves
When the hotel room empties
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Pucker Up

Weekend before last I ventured back into Oman with four colleagues. We went in search of green-back turtles found on the beaches of Ras Al Hadd. While sitting in the airport cafe waiting to board the plane we made what proved to be a brilliant rule:

If you even mentioned a SINGLE solitary word about work you were punished which meant that the two of us non-drinkers had to eat peppered lemon slices.

When work life is your social life and your social life is your work life, the boundary between “at work” and “not at work” is very very very blurry. While this kept the trip from devolving into a 2 day work meeting, many lemon slices were still consumed:



Disclaimer: No, I am not looking my freshest best. I hadn't showered in 36 hours -despite 103 degree temps and nearly 100% humidity and 2 days of swimming in water of dubious cleanliness- and I was very very tired due to below mentioned camping "experience."

Thanks to Masoud, our rather bored guide, we hiked into a superb wadi to swim and cliff jump, camped out under the stars (since the rather “rustic” huts also sheltered spiders), and found pretty hilarious 4-foot long turtles nearly 300 kilometers into the Omani countryside. Despite the pepper burn around my lips - an altogether and all-round great adventure.

Moments, Part 2: One-Hundred Million Dollar Friends

I've started and deleted this post a hundred times. I can't figure out how to capture a really, really, really wonderful vacation with old friends, new friends and limitless ice cream bars (which were all calorie free because Doug told me that if I did the 'running-man' on the way to and from the fridge when getting one then I would work the calories all off).

But this post needs to be written so here I am two weeks later at my 101st attempt...

I remember my dearest moments as snapshots or still frames which capture feelings, images or experiences that make my heart happy. Two weeks ago I pulled away from an Outer Banks, NC beach house named "Crab's Day Off" (hey, I didn't name the house) with a new album of such moments including:

Wandering across Cathy sunning and sleeping on the beach with Sampson laying across her - sound asleep: true contentment.

Watching Marcus "the Kite Whisperer" Donaldson fly a kite for what seemed like the whole day - and good part of that day laying down on the beach while he flew it. And then kindly allowing us to win the weird German bean card game that night - when we all knew he had the game figured out and won midway through Round 1.

And speaking of games. Settlers - total silence coming from the kitchen table where Loren, Katrina, Allison and John picked up an age old battle over who truly is "Settler Master" and the total chaos two nights later when Cathy, a supposed novice, cleaned up at a game of poker where the high stakes were having to clean the kitchen if you lost. Oh, and remembering from past experiences that a serious player had better keep an eye on one "Run the River" Sarah Shaw.

Learning to build "drip sand castles" from John - who then gamely allowed us to turn him into a sand mermaid (which suited him quite well, I might add).

Spending Sunday evening listening to Loren play us all into a splendid stupor with his guitar and singing.

Watching Doug and Sampson dance the "Macarena" (in my professional opinion they executed the steps with great form).

Walking to the end of the beach (or till it got fenced off) with Allison , my dear fellow "life walker."

Gathering around the kitchen table to talk to a few of the smartest, strongest, funniest women I know - and talking through the "burning-eyes-sensation-because-I-was-so-tired" because I didn't want the conversation, or evening, to end.

Like the wise Jack Johnson says in song playing right now, "I've got a hundred million dollar friends" and shoes full of sand. Could a girl be any more lucky?

Thank you, dear, wonderful benefactors, Katrina and Doug--

Moments

I am sure I know what heaven is like. It is sitting around a computer with dear, hilarious, amazing friends at a beach house at 2pm in the afternoon watching youtube clips that go something like this:



[This is best enjoyed while reading the real words:

No I can't forget this evening Or your face as you were leaving But I guess that's just the way The story goes You always smile but in your eyes Your sorrow shows Yes it shows

No I can't forget tomorrow When I think of all my sorrow When I had you there But then I let you go And now it's only fair That I should let you know What you should know

I can't live If living is without you I can't live I can't give anymore I can't live If living is without you I can't give I can't give anymore

Well I can't forget this evening Or your face as you were leaving But I guess that's just the way The story goes You always smile but in your eyes Your sorrow shows Yes it shows

I can't live If living is without you I can't live I can't give any more I can't live If living is without you I can't give I can't give anymore]
____________________________________________

Anyhow, consider this post a teaser preview of a later longer post commemorating the past 5 days...

Congrats Class of 2008 ... AT LAST

Since I wasn't able to attend my high school graduation, I finally attended my very first ever high school graduation today - that of one Matthew Alan Kearl, a proud graduate of Pocatello's Highland High School:

I must say, however, that it was, in a word, INTERMINABLE. At one point during the proceedings every member of the family was texting another member of the family:

Several of us had the foresight to bring reading materials:

And others found amusement in the form of (very) excessive picture taking:

Our various coping mechanisms provided us with enough stamina to survive through 150 minutes of events that included: 4 speeches, 3 choir numbers, 1 orchestral number, and a bunch of other stuff that pains me to remember.

But every single minute of it was well worth the opportunity to celebrate a wonderful, smart, funny, big-hearted, pretty-darn-cute and not-so-little-brother Matthew. So, Matt - many congratulations on all your hard work. Here's to 18 wonderful years past and 18 times 18 years to come:

You Know You are On Vacation When...

You wake up from an EIGHT hour "nap" to find your family watching the 4th James Bond movie in a row, eating red vines and chugging strangely addictive Mexican hot chocolate:


Here's to Memorial Weekend at Grandma's cabin.

Escape from Escape

For 5 months I've been on "life hiatus." I left behind all responsibilities and realities and now live in a world were my primary purpose is to work ridiculous hours and make Booz Allen Hamilton that much richer. This week was particularly "rigorous" so when I got home from church yesterday, I packed my bags, checked out of my Abu Dhabi hotel and hopped in a cab headed west. Or south? Possibly east - well, I'm not really sure but it was definitely away.

Four hours later I found myself in Fujairah, a coastal town squeezed between the Hajar mountains and Indian Ocean. After checking into my new hotel and one sidetrip to the pool bar to buy a Galaxy ice cream bar, I found myself wading into the Gulf of Oman as far as I dared before my irrational fear of rip tides and sharks stopped me (so to just above my ankles).

The water was warm, the ice cream cold and the sound of the surf crashing was just loud enough to drown out the call of work for a few sweet moments. (And, luckily, I wasn't carried away by a rogue rip tide to be consumed by a school of killer great white sharks.)

The Art of Seduction, or Possibly Just Companionable Friendship

Last week my colleague – a 30-something, single Americanized Bangladeshi male – had an interesting experience. One of our senior client counterparts, Abdul Rahman, grabbed his hand as they walked down the Judicial Department hallway. Now around these parts this is pretty normal – men hold hands, walk arm in arm and are generally pretty affectionate with each other. But around our parts, it’s not so normal. So, Hameed found himself in an interesting predicament. Not wanting to offend, he continued to hold hands. But should he squeeze a little more to say, “hey, I’m down with this and you”? Or should he leave his hand in a non-committal limp fish form within Abdul Rahman’s hand because, frankly, he didn’t really want to hold hands with 60+ year old Client supervisor?

To further complicate the situation, Abdul Rahman interlaced his fingers with Hameed’s. Which begged the question, were they now in a relationship? Did this signify some sort of extra special acceptance? Was Hameed now required to always hold hands with Abdul Rahman? And if he were to drop Abdul Rahman's hand, would they have an awkward moment over the copy machine the next day? As you can imagine, it was a lively lunchtime debate that day.

Questions we all face at one point or another. To handhold or not? To interlace fingers or not? To pull your hand and run away as fast as you can? See, so maybe things aren't so different here afterall.

R.I.P.

There once was a girl who flew far
But her trip, it had a great mar
For her t60 laptop
At the gate it was stop’d
But not till Frankfort she realiz'd with alar(m)

***

Rachel's Booz Allen Hamilton-issued IBM T60 Thinkpad Laptop
June 4, 2007 - May 2, 2008
Herdon, VA - Dulles Airport

Smokin' Hot Banjos

SOME of you have complained about my music and, specifically, Johnny Cash's "Get a Rhythm." To each of you I say, "quit checking my blog at work and then you won't have a problem with the rather enthusiastic welcome care/of Brother Johnny" (ha -just kidding, but I did set the volume lower).

But I will seize this opportunity to talk music and shamelessly promote Old Crow Medicine Show. I heart Old Crow Medicine Show, www.crowmedicine.com/.

We met several years ago during my annual pilgrimage to Wolf Trap to see Prairie Home Companion performed live, and we've been faithful seeing each other ever since. Our relationship went from one of casual flirting to serious commitment in October 2007 when I saw them at the 9:30 Club in DC. Allison and Molly chaperoned what was a fabulous date, I mean, concert where they literally played the strings off their banjos (or fiddles or whatever). And when I found out that their names included Critter, Ketch and Willie I knew this was a love that could last (even though one bears an unfortunate resemblance to David Spade).



So when I learned that they were performing last week I told my project in UAE that I had important "things to do" and had to get back to DC by Wed night. I pulled into Dulles at 2pm and by 5pm I was on the road to Richmond with Anna. By 8pm we were in the balcony enjoying an intimate conversation with aforementioned Ketch, Critter, etc. via one "so good the audience is singing along" song after another.

Like all good dates, I left having had a great time, wanting more and well fed (oh well, that was thanks to Anna). So, in honor of last week, I have uploaded some my OCMS favs. And am now sitting by the phone, eagerly awaiting their call that they're headed back to town and with the promise of another great night.

Warning: Jet Lag Can Cause Ridiculousness

Last night I got home in a mess of jet lag. I was completely exhausted and I fell asleep mid-conversation with Anna (my latest 5 star accomodation). Anna was still in my room when I woke up an hour later talking about getting henna in Abu Dhabi with my clients (who are all men and, by the way, do NOT wear henna).

When Anna started to laugh, I told her I was completely serious and totally awake and "knew what I was talking about." At some point, the conversation shifted to ordering food for a client meeting, with henna I'm sure. She made minimal efforts to placate me, "yes Rachel. Right, Rachel. What kind of food, Rachel?" At some level of consciousness, I knew I was being made fun of, but I was still asleep enough to not be able to deal with it. So I got incredibly offended and did the only thing a self-respecting girl could do - I rolled over, pulled the covers over my head, and refused to talk to her any more.

Arrgh

Every single day for the last week I wake to this at 6am on. the. dot.:



And no, I am not a morning person in case you are wondering so this doesn't really help any.

This Isn't a Souq You Know

Seems as though I brought not only a suitcase full of Indian handicrafts back from India with me but also giardia. I won't bother you with the gory details.

But when I was at the pharmacy picking up blessed medicine, I found myself behind a man kicking up a big fuss. He kept throwing money at the pharmacist and waving his arms around, speaking loudly in Arabic about box of Zantac (ok, I snooped while while waiting in line).

I was too curious so when it was my turn I asked the pharmacist what it was all about. He said that the man, from Oman, only wanted to pay the equivalent of 100 dirhams for medicine priced at 125 dirhams. The pharmacist said, "this isn't a souq, we don't bargain here." The Omani just couldn't believe that the price really wasn't negotiable. After nearly 15 mins of negotiating, the pharmacist finally pulled out a sheet of pills and sold him only half the medicine for the 100 dirhams. Oh and by the way, he was trying to pay in Omani Riyhals. It was so outrageously typical of this country, region, whatever. Everything is a negotiation.

On another note...
- a walk-in "no-insurance-pay-in-full-in-cash" exam with a doctor in the best clinic in town: $30
- brand-name medicine: $7
- health care for a song: priceless, and, I have to admit, wont to make a socialist out of a person (have I just lost half of my readership?? ha!)

Wasta - Don't Leave Home Without It

"Wasta" is a really great Arabic word that means, essentially, "really really useful connections." Thanks to a whirlwind 3 days in Damascus, I am now personally acquainted with wasta and all its benefits.

Two weeks ago I went to the Syrian Embassy to get a visa. I was told that it would take "at least a month." Turns out America doesn't like Syria very much and so they aren't very friendly back. I had plans already made (plane ticket reserved, hotel reservations confirmed) so this was pretty much unacceptable. I was traveling with several work buds including an Arab American colleague who has a lot of family in Damascus. She said, "don't worry about it, my dad knows people." Long story short I had a visa 4 days later. Her dad said (and I quote), "the green paper makes things happen." I didn't ask for details.

I also had some problems with my return ticket. When I went to Syrian Air to purchase a new one, my colleague had a cousin who worked for the airline - and 10 mins later my ticket was $100 dollars cheaper. I didn't ask.

And then we went out to eat with a friend of my colleague's who is in the military. We didn't pay. Again, I didn't ask.

This happened over and over and over ... things just happen here. At least when you are on the right side of "wasta." And in between saying, "oh, that wouldn't happen in the US" over and over and over, I went to the wedding of my colleague's cousin. It started with singing of some sort:

(Check out the random American singing and clapping off beat on the left. What up?)

And then there was sword fighting:

(Yes, that lady is still there.)

And then huge flames:

(Notice the clapping hands on the right? That same lady...)

I have no idea what was going on or why, but I know now that I really really really need fire, swords and singing men at my wedding. It was altogether too great. Afterwards, all the men left but the groom. We women went upstairs to have dinner and, well, basically have a dance party. The women took off their head scarves and wraps to reveal off-the-hook prom dresses and amazingly coiffed hair. At the very end, the fathers and brothers joined in and I soon found myself on the floor dancing with the father of the groom (my colleague's uncle). I looked ridiculous. Let's just say that this white girl can't dance to Arab music. Luckily, "I Will Survive" came on and all my Cannon Center and Wilk Dance training kicked in and I pulled it back together (sorta). It was a great night, a great weekend, a great country with amazing sights, history and people.

A "terrorist State" stamp well worth adding to one's passport.