Great sayings involving butts

Arabic is a much a more colorful language than English.  Everything is more vivid.  Two of my favorites:

Arabic: Hehm teehze ooh be feswa

English translation: Not only is he/she an ass, but there's a fart in it.

Arabic: Teehze ehyne fet il bahs

English translation: Two butts, one underwear (butt buddies)

This last is my American friends' favorite, it comes in so handy!

I dream of Bibi

Scrubbing myself with a loofah this morning in the shower, I was daydreaming of my Bibi Karima. Bibi means "grandma" in Arabic.  Bibi Karima was my mom's mom.  She passed away in 2001; unfortunately, not being able to meet Zoe or Zena.  She would've loved to meet them, I can see her shaking her head and tsk-tsking at the idea that I actually had a baby. She always saw me as a little kid.

Anyway, Bibi Karima never thought that we were actually clean.  I mean, we showered everyday, but she didn't think we did a good job, especially me.  So, when she had the chance she'd take it upon herself to give us a bath.  There was no escaping.  The bath went something like this:  

• Bibi runs boiling hot water in the bathtub, and fills up the large basin that was in the tub.
• I have a seat on the tub stool, while Bibi leans over the edge of the tub.
• Bibi pours boiling hot water on my head.  Several times.  I scream.
• Bibi washes my hair all the while muttering disgustedly, "Ehn guhtah el sahboon," (the soap is cut off), while she scrubs really, really hard. The "soap is cut off "means that you were so dirty that the initial washing could not even produce lather.
• Bibi starts scrubbing away on my body with the loofah, the really rough one she brought from Baghdad just for this purpose. The soft one was reserved for my mom.
• Bibi is satisfied the dirt was gone when my skin cells have been appropriately removed, and I was red enough. 

I lived to be bathed another day.  

One of the many ways my Bibi lives on in is what I now call "the Bibi Karima treatment."  My own daughters know exactly what's coming their way when I announce it's Bibi Karima day.  And you know? She was right, the soap does get cut off on these small children, despite their showering everyday.

Note:  I grew up using loofahs and large pumice stones.  Except we couldn't get them at Rite Aid or Walmart, or whatever equivalent we had then, you had to wait until someone was coming in from Baghdad, and they would be special requests.  Non-Chaldeans who saw them always thought they were strange.  Sometimes, I wondered what it would be like to just use a washcloth like the rest of the world and not the rough loofah and black pumice stones.  Now when I'm in the shower, and am using my very special loofah that my uncle brought back from Jordan,  I'm excited that I don't have to use my low-rent store bought loofah.  And of course, I dream of Bibi.

This guy would never survive the Bibi Karima Treatment.

Seasonal Entry - The Polar Vortex

The polar vortex released its hold on the area.  I can tell because my food stores are low; both pantry and perishable.  I, like others in the nation, went to the grocery store and stocked up on staples when I heard that we were colder than Antarctica.

In this way, I am not a good representative sample of the Chaldean community: According to our rulebook, at any given moment, all Chaldeans should be ready to feed fifty or more people.  The idea that one needs to "stock up on food" implies that you didn't have enough food to begin with. Outrageous.

All over town, Chaldeans laugh at the "Americans" who don't have enough food to get through three days (or a month or two) of impassable roads.

My husband reminded me today that this Chaldean phenomenon is made possible by the fact that Chaldeans have at least one extra refrigerator in the garage.  Okay, fine, this is a stereotype.  Sometimes the extra refrigerator is in the basement, like mine :)  

Anecdotal evidence:  My aunt and uncle were moving into their house.  As is the norm, the neighbors look to see who's moving in.  One of the kids observing shouted to his mother, "The new people are Chaldean!  They have a refrigerator in the garage!"  

Not a good idea, John.

John's parents love to camp.  It might be because they're extremely frugal or they really enjoy the outdoors.  Regardless, they fully embrace all aspects of the camping experience and try to integrate it whenever possible.  Side note:  I've never gone to the bathroom outside and I'm not sure I know how, so that's what's keeping me from more rustic camping.  My only experience with camping was at a "campground" where I heard the most white trash conversations I could ever have imagined).

One fourth of July weekend, the Kissingers invited my parents and my sister and Kirk to their house on Lake Michigan.  My in-laws like to have everything PLANNED.  This includes a notebook that describes what activities we will be doing or have the option of doing and what we will be eating.  I plan on taking a photo and posting one day.  One night, the planned evening activity was having an outdoor hot dog roast over the firepit, to be followed up by S'mores.  Overall, yummy!

Now, while everyone can acknowledge that hot dogs are delicious, my dad sometimes has a hard time believing that he's actually eating a hot dog, let alone cooking it over a fire using a special stick.   I think he thinks they are overall a "low-level operation," being used to as he is to home-cooked Chaldean dishes that involve someone slaving all day over a hot stove.  Thankfully, the novelty of the experience was distracting.  Or maybe it reminded him of the time he was camping in the desert and decided to cut off a bit of his finger and cook it over a fire to see how human flesh tasted.  He thought better of it as he was about to put it into his mouth - cannibalism really is reserved for a last resort.  I'm sure he would've tasted like chicken.

Hot dog roasting went well.  Check.  Now onto S'mores.  This is what my dad would refer to as an "advanced system."  The marshmallow roasting and the quick removal to make a scrumptious graham cracker and chocolate dessert was intriguing to my dad. But, my dad has an aversion to stickiness, even if it's not on him.  Anything sticky weirds him out.   In fact, at one point he confessed to us that if someone wanted to torture him, he could drip honey on his neck and not allow him to clean it.  

There's a method to removing marshmallow goo, so one can store the sticks without attracting ants.  John explained it to my dad:  you take your metal stick and plunge it into the sand and take it in and out repeatedly until the sand has removed all the goo, much like a good exfoliant.  So, John being the good son-in-law, takes my dad's stick and plunged it authoritatively into the sand, except it hit a rock buried shallowly on the beach.  John removed it to find that the roasting stick with tines akimbo.  My dad simply looked at him with pity (or perhaps distress, because it was still sticky) and said, "That was not a good idea, John," and walked away in search of some proper wipes to sort out the matter.

The bidet mystery unravelled!

My mom loves to read my blog!  I'm so excited!

She called me twice to explain how one dries off after using the bidet:

1.  Wipe normally.

2.  Use bidet .

3.  Dry off using either paper towel, specifically there for that purpose or "if you're fancy," you have a special stack of washcloths and a basket or hamper for the drying off.

A side note: mom says that if you're butt and parts are clean, you can go a couple of days without a shower.

This makes a lot of sense, and I may jump on this bandwagon!   Thanks, mom!

Clean, but wet? Or dirty, but dry?

That is the question.

Americans, as a general rule,  are not bidet users.  I expect it's because we aren't used to the sensation of a jet of water aimed at our nether regions. While it seems that this is changing with the advent of the sort of portable, installable bidet - not just for Mtv Cribs anymore - bidets have been a staple of foreign bathrooms for as long as indoor plumbing has been commonplace. 

My in-laws tell a story from the 1960s when they were backpacking through Europe, or living in Germany, or camping in Sweden, not sure which European adventure they were referring to, but they were booking a hotel room and they were asked if they would like a room with a bidet or without a bidet.  Since they're American and prefer to travel on the cheap (bidet = more money), they said, "without."  As the story goes, the hotel staff treated them like lepers because what kind of nasty-ass (literally) people wouldn't use a bidet? It was embarrassing.  On the flip side, this was also the time in Europe where the only people who used deodorant had some kind of body odor disease.  Which led to them getting strange looks while trying to buy some antiperspirant at the pharmacy - it was behind the counter.  I guess this was a sort of a reverse boater experience.  

My mom always told me that people in the middle east love bidets.  I speculated out loud how one was supposed to dry off, and she always told me it was much cleaner than simply leaving feces residue in your nether areas. 

Generally, this was followed with a mumbled unsavory story from her gynecology practice about somebody who could've used the services of a home bidet.  I always felt bad for whomever she was talking about:  seriously, how many people would pass what essentially is a crotch sniff test?  I always thought it was strange, then, that my parents' bathroom didn't have one - their home was custom built, after all. 

Sidebar: Still, no real answer on the drying off.  One would imagine toilet paper was involved, but wet toilet paper makes a bigger mess and may stick to your parts - just like it sticks to the ceiling of middle school bathrooms.  Is there a special towel that you're supposed to carry with you? A specific way of folding the toilet paper? An unwritten rule that when someone has a bidet, an outside user could look through their cabinets and help themselves to paper towels? My theory is that you use the toilet paper as best you can, and then use the hand towels to pat dry.  Yes, this could be gross, but I think if you got the hang of it, combined toilet paper and hand towel use could be completely sanitary. After all, I'm not talking about rubbing the towel in between the cheeks, just a gentle pat on the the cheeks.  

A part of the landscape of my parents' bathroom and the guest bathroom was a watering can.  Now, as I've told you before, my dad loves plants and trees and cultivating them is a great hobby of his, but we didn't have many plants in the house, and certainly not in the bathrooms.  I never thought about the watering cans. Then, one day...Ding Ding Ding!  I made the connection:  DIY bidets!  The long skinny spout on the watering can was ideal for aiming properly at the offending area.  Once again, not being a coordinated person, I couldn't figure out how one would do this, but my dad especially was very fastidious, so I'm sure there was an optimal way to aim the pitcher.  

Much to her pleasure, and my daughters', mom had her bathroom retrofitted with an in-bowl bidet.  But the guest bathroom still has the pitcher, for those so inclined. 

Still no direct answer on the drying off, though.  

What's a boater again?

Some people have been wondering: what is a boater?

I found it on Urban Dictionary.  Apparently, it's a Detroit thing!  Check it out:

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=boater

There are several definitions, this is the best one...

 boater

A person who has recently immigrated to America. A first-generation born American may also exhibit "boater" tendencies. The opposite of being "Americanized." A term commonly used in the Detroit, MI area.

Boater tendencies may include:

- canning your own foods, having a large garden, or making your own wine or lunch meats.

-having an uncircumcised penis.

-living at home with your parents until marriage.

-wearing fashionable European clothes such as Armani Exchange or Versace.

-growing up idolizing European soccer stars. 

-wearing lots of cologne or gel

-getting hit by your mother or father well into your 20's.

Having a kitchen in your basement is very boater!  

Having a refrigerator in your garage is very boater!

Zena's shorts

Today, Zena wore a pair of shorts that I bought her a month ago. They were fine. The shorts were a the rolled down look that kids today like to wear, except they only looked like they were rolled. Today, I noticed that despite the fact that Zena only eats every other day, she has grown. The shorts were a little bootylicious, exasperated by the fact that after repeated washings, the hem doesn't lie flat. If Zena stands perfectly still, she looks perfectly decent, however, one wrong move and the world is getting a look at Dora the Explorer undies.

Making a mental note to designate these shorts as "monkey bars" (shorts worn under skirts), I allow Zena to wear the shorts. We went to my mother's house for dinner, about 15 minutes after we got there, my dad showed up. Zena was in front of my mom's tv doing a little shimmy with her baby cousin to the Wiggles. My dad's kahpootha senses were triggered: A girl dancing in short shorts...ALERT! ALERT!

So, my dad leaned over to me and told me that Zena's butt (which is about the size of an orange) was hanging out of her shorts and I really needed to teach her "our values." Having a flashback, I told my dad that no one was thought she was an object of lust. He just looked at me, reached into his wallet, and handed me 20 bucks with instructions to buy Zena new shorts. Tomorrow. This is how contamination starts, he says. I pocket the money. I think it's easier for my dad to think I couldn't afford to buy a full pair of shorts, so I had to settle for cheaper ones, made out of less material.

Note: kahpootha is any kind of illicit activity...gambling, drinking, whoring, you get the picture. Example: My mom skipped the kahpootha pages when she read The Other Boleyn Girl. (Aside: I don't know what she got out of it, kahpootha was the whole point of the story.)

Zena...our fallen angel

Zena is our little rascal. She has the face of an angel and the manners of a she-devil. If you look up the definition of sass, there'll be a picture of her, pouting w/hands on hips.

The girls have been brought up to say prayers at bedtime. Along with the standards, they are also asked to say a "Please God...," a "thank you, God..." and a "God bless..." If the occasion calls for it, they are also required to say a "Sorry, God" prayer.

Zena says a lot of "Sorry, God" prayers. Last night, she had three: "Sorry, God for crying at dance camp, sorry, God for being picky, and Sorry, God for tricking my teacher (note: this is an ongoing one)." After she said her prayers, she paused, and said, "what, what was that?" and then smirked and reported that, "He says it's okay."

Thinking this a funny joke, and totally typical of Zena, I retold it to my mom, who looked shocked and then looked as though Zena had actually heard the voice of God assuring her it was okay to be a picky eater. My mom looked at Zena with new admiration, and I had to stop my mother from telling my dad the story. She looked disappointed, but since Dad is always looking for a way to prove that God is communicating with him, she knows that this will just fuel the fire.

The End Times

My dad cannot wait for the world to end. He doesn’t really care what form it comes in: a flood, fire, earthquake. Since I can remember, he’s been impatient to see the face of God. Dad views any disaster as a sign of the upcoming Judgement. Hurricane Katrina? Sign from God. Tsunami in Thailand? Sign from God. Earthquake in Haiti? Sign from God. Y2K scare? Sign from God. Dad is positively giddy over the monsoon rains in Pakistan.

Dad is helped along with assertions that the Second Coming is near by his association with would-be visionaries and sort-of metaphysical telepaths. It seems that people who receive messages from the Virgin Mary or even Jesus himself, never have anything good to report. The Blessed Mother is almost always completely frustrated to the point where she's shedding tears of blood about the pathetic state of her Son's flock. Dad loves this stuff. Visionaries and my dad have an almost symbiotic relationship: the visionary gets a willing audience and my Dad gets more fuel for his fire (no pun intended).

At the moment, Dad's pet visionary is a woman who speaks to and sees the Virgin Mary. He is her "spiritual director." I'm sure Dad is quite excited to finally be able to officially use the certification that he earned several years ago from the Seminary. Not only does this woman see visions, but there's also the added distinction of having oil drip inexplicably from various holy pictures. The Blessed Mother also mentions my Dad in her messages, so Dad is even more impressed. (I've seen the oil; my Dad is convinced that anyone who witnesses it will be converted immediately...I don't think so). To date, there's supposedly two to three hundred pounds of oil, creating a sort of storage problem.

Since Dad is all about the oil now, it's become even more difficult to carry on a conversation with him. Today, he kept trying to inspire John to either care about the oil or ask a question about it. John, on the other hand, kept trying to distract his father-in-law with his other favorite topic (a far second), animals. Here goes their conversation:

Dad: John, you know how much oil there is now?

John: Hey Dad, have you seen any animals lately?

Dad: There is over 300 pounds. It is unbelievable!

John: You know where a lot of animals are? The nature center. I took the girls there this week.

Dad: The Baby Jesus is oozing oil, now, too.

John: We brought some apples to feed the deer. And breadcrumbs for the fish.

And so forth. Incidentally, Dad also took the occasion of the repeal of Prop 8 to reminisce to John about why he had to ask him if he's gay (see earlier post).

My Dad: The First Line of Defense Against Gay World Domination

My father is convinced that homosexuals want nothing more than to recruit players to their team. This will be accomplished by gays infiltrating traditional institutions and corrupting them. Dear old dad was always ultra-vigilant in the men's room, gruffly rebuking anybody who dared look somewhere other than straight ahead with a, "Hey! Don't look at me, man!" (You would think he would avoid places where men's pants were unzipped with regularity, but bathrooms attract my dad like honey attracts flies. )

My father was not going to allow the gays to get the best of him, so growing up, my dad always told me that he was planning to point blank ask any man who wanted to marry me if he was a homosexual. I took this in stride, since, relatively speaking, it would be one of the lesser things my dad had done to mortify me. Also, since I wasn't allowed to date, the likelihood that I'd be getting married was slim to none. (Note: my secret high school boyfriend actually was gay; I just thought he was a gentleman).

Enter John: the man who swept me off my feet and got us engaged in all of six weeks. In between staring adoringly into each other's eyes and making up our own secret language, I had to prepare him to meet my dad. Thankfully, John was secure enough in his manhood (and madly in love with me) that he was willing to allow my father to question his sexuality. After my dad got that out of the way, he moved on to the much more legitimate and pressing concern of how John was going to support me: "You deliver the pizza and have a miserable B.S."

I always wondered why my father thought that a homosexual trying to infiltrate mainstream society via marriage to his daughter would actually answer honestly: "Dammit! You foiled my plan!" I would hope if gays were trying to take over the world, they'd be more organized, and not send troops into the field that would crack under the pressure of being questioned by a homophobic boater.

Camp Live in the World

This week, we hosted my nephews from northern Michigan. In a way, it was a sort of cultural exchange program. John and I were the counselors at Camp Live in the World. Some things the boys learned during their trip downstate:

§ White boys pierce their ears, too.

§ Chinese is not the same as Japanese.

§ Not everyone who lives in or visits Detroit is going to be murdered.

§ Just because the chef at the Japanese steakhouse doesn’t speak English doesn’t mean he shouldn’t work there.

§ Black people are not trying to take over the world.

§ Doors are locked for other reasons than to keep dad out.

§ Some people don’t eat meat.

§ Manual labor is not the only way to make a living.

Now, I’d like to be clear that John’s sister is an educated person who does not subscribe to stereotypical rural opinions. She herself is the subject of ridicule and suspicion by her neighbors because her farm produces exotic fare like spinach and bok choy; real Americans farmers grow corn and beans and use lard, not extra virgin olive oil. However, she will have to be constantly vigilant about making sure her boys understand that the world is much larger than their 23 acres. Given the geography and demographics of where she and the boys live, this is going to be an uphill battle.

What do Iraqi men find manly?

Middle eastern men are notoriously concerned with machismo. Unfortunately for them, even though in the homeland they may be studly, by American standards, they appear cheesy or just unhygienic. Some things to look for:

1. Iraqi men love mustaches. If you can grow a thick, lush mustache then you are a man. Pity those boys who are late developers; they are clearly inferior, possibly gay. Watch news footage of demonstrations/celebrations for examples of this phenomenon: sign expressing my hatred of the west, check. Rifle to shoot in the air, check. Mustache wax, check.

Personal note: My cousin immigrated to the States while he was still in high school. He arrived sporting a thick, black, hair across his upper lip; he clearly thought he was the sh%t. At first, his classmates thought he was going for an ironic, retro, sort of Freddy Mercury vibe. When they realized he was serious, he became the weird boater with a caterpillar on his face.

2. Unibrows. While usually the subject of ridicule to Americans, unibrows symbolize manlinesss. Once again, more hair equals more virility.

Personal note: My non-boater cousin, in an effort to combat his unibrow tendencies underwent some laser hair removal to separate his conjoined eyebrows. My father was surprised and told his nephew that in Iraq, men are proud to have hair between their eyebrows. My cousin's response: "Well in America, it's embarrassing and gross." I think my dad may have taken these words to heart because his eyebrows are considerably less connected. Maybe it's old age.

3. Deodorant is feminine. Cologne is manly. To be fair, deodorant is adopted fairly quickly by boaters. New arrivals, however, generally smell like b.o. overlaid with some pre-war fragrance or some black market designer impostor.

Personal note: My dad was a late adopter of deodorant. A fellow boater had to pretty much have a "come to Jesus" talk with my dad about it. Mostly, I guess, this talk consisted of assuring my dad that he wouldn't turn gay if he used a little Sure.

Please don't have more diarrhea

When I read a book or watch a movie, I appreciate when a sort of epilogue is included where they tell you the fate of the characters. Well, the epilogue to the poopy pants story is this:

Nate had been acting fine when we got home from the pool, so we attributed his fussiness toward the end of dinner as tiredness from the excitement of the day. The kids were excused from the table to go play and put on their pajamas. About 15 minutes later, Nate comes racing through the house and into the bathroom...about 10 seconds too late. John followed Nate into the bathroom and had no problem finding his way as there was a trail of brown liquid leading from the hallway outside the bathroom into the toilet itself. John bravely opened the door and found poor Nate in a puddle of rancid diarrhea, but what was worse (yes, it gets worse), is that Nate's colon seems to have exploded and there was shrapnel all over the bathroom. Nate had to be airlifted into the shower and scrubbed, the bathmats and clothes had to be scrubbed, the bathroom floor and walls had to be scrubbed. Little Nate finally got into his pajamas and then had to go to the bathroom several more times until he was so exhausted that he was barely able to hold his head up while on the toilet. However, John's proclamation that, "it's all clear liquid with a bit of sand," was the signal that Nate was nearing the end of his ordeal. He fell right to sleep and woke up in good spirits.

All day today we were careful to serve Nate only foods that would not upset his sensitive tummy: jello, applesauce, dry toast, bananas. Oddly enough, the other kids found these things quite appealing, so they joined in on the tummy-friendly fare.

Fast-forward several hours. I ran an errand and planned to make lunch for the children and John when I got back. What greeted me was tantamount to a chip-eating orgy. There they were, the kiddies gripping Wii remotes in one hand and stuffing Ruffles into their mouths with the other. The carpet was littered with the crushed chips and wrappers (from what?). And there in the middle of the room, was their ringleader, Zena, sitting on the floor grinning ear to ear with a huge bag of Tostitos Lime chips in her lap. When I grabbed the bags back and went to put them in the pantry, I was greeted with a wide open empty bag of Doritos Tacos at Midnight. All I could think about was Nate's stomach rebelling, the grease and spice was surely not going to be welcomed. There was nothing to do but wait.

The man will not keep me down

Today marks the second full day of my adventure with Ethan and Nate, the nephews from northern Michigan. I'm remarkably less stressed today, thanks to my doting husband. Yesterday, I was about to tear my hair out...four children in your face who are not inclined to follow directions is enough to make a saint want to cry.

We went to the pool, and all was well for the first hour or so. Then, Nate told me he had to go potty. Now, Nate is 5 years old, that in-between age where it's kind of awkward to take him into the women's locker room, but he's not quite old enough to navigate the men's room on his own. My solution: have older brother, Ethan, take him into the men's locker room to make sure he gets there okay. No problem. Nate comes back to me a little disheveled, I straighten him up. All is well. Until I see Nate running for the locker room. I wait a bit, and then asked Ethan to go check on Nate. Ethan, ever the supportive big brother, runs up to me laughing and shouting, "Nate has pooped his pants!" Reading my look of horror, Ethan assures me, "yeah, really, he did!"

Okay, this is a problem. I'm a mom, so I don't have a problem with poopy pants. I do have a problem with going into the men's locker room. To add to the stress of the moment, who shows up? My mother. Zoe and Zena, of course, desert Ethan and crawl all over her, begging to go to her house. Seriously, she's like a salt lick to them. Mom acts like she goes into the men's room all the time, and I'm being silly for hesitating.

All right. I'm in. Even though I appreciate the urgency of the matter, I take a moment to look around. I am a pioneer. I'm where few women have ever gone before. While the women's locker room is by no means deluxe, the men's room is positively prison-like. Everything is dingy and gray. The newish sinks seem out of place in light of the huge concrete urinals.

I take a deep breath and locate Nate, crying pathetically in a stall (note: to add to the prison motif the locks on the stalls are all broken. A little impatient during the foot-tapping, are we?) I had a passing thought as to what someone would think seeing my sparkling flip flops along with Nate's little feet under the stall, but as a community we're pretty tolerant, and would probably be pleased that our club has attracted a non-traditional family. Ethan was right, he had definitely pooped his pants.

First: empty the solid mass into the toilet. That's easier said than done. It's a delicate procedure of pulling the shorts down far enough to allow the turd to fall in the toilet, but not so far as to soil the rest of the bowl and seat. I'm only partially successful. Second: remove shorts and wipe bottom. Now, wiping a bottom usually entails just wiping around the rectum (damn near killed 'em) and the surrounding crack. However, in a poopy pants scenario, wiping means serious scrubbing of the hole, crack, cheeks, and back of thighs...using very thin toilet paper. God bless little Nate, he just stood there, clearly humiliated, allowing his Aunt Nazik to clean out his butt. Third: clean the shorts. I had to work quickly...leaving Nate in the stall, I used handsoap to rinse the remaining poo residue down the sink. I'm pretty sure I was violating some serious sanitary guidelines, as well as some state laws, but it couldn't be helped. A couple of small lumps were too big to go down the drain on their own, so I smashed them for easier rinsing. Fourth: put Nate back into his shorts.

Nate ran out ahead of me and jumped back into the water. I walked out, a little worse for wear, but worthy of the respect of women everywhere. Today, I broke through the glass ceiling. A sign on the door could not keep me out. There was a job to do, and I was the woman to do it.

The 20 year old mirror

I have the pleasure of hosting my two nephews next week. As we're going to be spending a lot of time at the pool, I thought I'd arrange for some swim lessons for them. They live on a farm, so they're more skilled at goat herding and egg candling than swimming. So, after talking to the girls' swim coaches, I was referred to one very handsome lifeguard to teach the boys. Cha-ching! Hot Lifeguard will be at my beck and call! Sort of. Anyway, Hot Lifeguard asked for my number so he could call me with his schedule because he's taking a class (yes, he's that young). I told him, whatever, he could call me or text me if it's easier. His response: "Yeah, I usually like to call the moms, because, you know, sometimes they..." and he kind of trailed off and looked at me knowingly. "I know how to text! My phone has a keyboard!" And Hot Lifeguard just smiled and nodded, "yeah, you're a cool mom." So, after a few more minutes of chit-chat about my nephews, he leaves with, "okay, I'll call you tomorrow." Uggh. Hot Lifeguard talked to me like I talk to my parents, pitying them when they talk about their computers or phones. Hot Lifeguard, who wears his swim trunks alarmingly low, does not wish to throw himself at the temple of my wisdom, experience, and mature beauty. Hot Lifeguard thinks I'm old. This is how 20 year olds see me. Sigh.

What's that you've got there? A plum?

Today, I laughed sinisterly to myself listening to my husband describe his trip to the doctor. I had arranged for John to see the doctor because we needed some paperwork done for our insurance. I had assured him that it would be a quick visit, in and out, just height, weight, some blood tests, etc. Apparently the doctor had other ideas. John was informed by the nurse that he had to don a gown, doctor's orders. Not one to argue (unless it's with me), John complies. He told me that he knew something was up when the female doctor came in accompanied by a nurse. Before he knew it, the good doctor had reached up under his gown and given his scrotum a good roll around. Note: turning your head and coughing is not necessary. The sack past muster, and John thought he was in the clear, when all of a sudden a finger was probing his arse (thank you Outlander). "You are 40 now, so it's important to check your prostrate regularly," the doctor said authoritatively. "You'll be pleased to know that you're stool does not contain any blood." Now, coming from a medical family, I like to pride myself on knowledge of tests and anatomy, but I couldn't figure out how the doc had come to that conclusion without a proper sample. Guess what? A sample can be procured in a non-traditional manner, essentially "pulling out a plum." I believe the vet had done this for Van and Lily, but I always imagined it was because they were dogs and nobody really cared about their dignity. So, today, not only did John get our insurance forms filled out in a timely manner, but also discovered that old age brings other benefits other than wisdom and discounts.

How Does Lesbianism Start?

I have a particular fascination with popping zits and tweezing. Some people may even call it a sickness. For the most part, I control myself and only subject my husband and myself to my "picking." Once in a while, my friend Rebbecca falls victim to my compulsion, and I gleefully hold up my trophy of a long, almost see-through facial hair (visible only in certain lights). She used to be weirded out by this rather familiar overture, but over the years she has come to accept that I am disabled and, therefore, is tolerant of it (much like a sighted person is tolerant of facial fondling by a blind person).

Rewind. I am eleven years old. My sister, Ola, is sixteen. (My sister shares my disability...genetic?) She has a huge whitehead in the middle of her back. It's the kind that practically has a neon sign that demands to be popped. Ola cannot reach the zit to properly pop it, so she calls me into her room to take care of it. Ola had her shirt pulled up, and I was eagerly and clinically considering her back, deciding when and how to pounce. Before I could begin to squeeze, we heard my mom yell, "Hey!" Startled, we turned to her and she demanded that we leave the offending zit alone. This, she told us, is how lesbianism starts. Well. We immediately jumped apart, because neither of us wanted to become an incestuous lesbian couple.

What is a boater?

Children of immigrants, of any variety, should be familiar with the term, boater. A boater is an immigrant; as in, "he/she just came in off the boat." (Note: a boater may have also arrived by airplane). It's usage is generally derogatory or insulting, meant to insinuate that the person in question is ignorant to modern, first world ideas and technology. Not all immigrants are boaters...some are able to seamlessly integrate into their new culture without causing undue stress or embarrassment to themselves or their children. A distinguishing feature of boaters is that they seem to be completely oblivious to the ridiculousness of their behavior. Instead, they feel that everyone else is preposterous.

In my case, I am the child of educated boaters. As far as immigration services were concerned, my parents were ideal additions to the country. My mother a doctor, my father an engineer; 40 years later they still make valuable contributions to society. Society ended at their doorstep, however. Within our home, all who crossed the threshold were subjected to the sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, emotional cocktail that is my parents.

Child of the 90's

To those who know me, it's not a secret that I very much immersed myself in all that was grunge whilst in high school. My dad didn't know what hit him: he'd order flannel shirts from l.l. bean because he thought they were "ehleegant" and warm, and then they'd disappear. Only to reappear tied around my waist in a much less elegant fashion. I wore doc martens with flowered dresses and black lipstick and cried when Kurt Cobain killed himself. I had a leather jacket with Marlboro reds and a zippo in the pocket, along with a mickey mouse charm that I suppose was meant to be ironic. I shopped at Le Chateau (conveniently located down the street from Churchills...hurray for clove cigarettes) and clearly remember being so excited at having found a perfect shirt: silky white, cut low, ruffles down the front, and tied at the waist. The shirttails could be tied modestly or show a little skin for a more risque look. I wore this shirt with a long skirt and platforms to my senior photos. I loved my outfit, but hated my hair.

Fast forward to tonight: My mother unearths a photo album containing the proofs from my senior pictures and my 7 year old wonders: why is mommy dressed like a pirate?