36 and Counting
I’ll be your pool-buddy,” AdventureMan said, as we lounged against the side of the pool. It was the best, the very best anniversary present he has ever given me.
My pool buddies are gone. One is coming back, one is not. The pool is big and beautiful, but being alone at the pool isn’t a lot of fun. Although AdventureMan doesn’t like pools as much as I do, he is willing to make the sacrifice – make the time – to make me happy.
We’ve been married 36 years. We didn’t go out last night, instead we had artichokes and tacos, and burned the wedding candle my parents gave us 36 years ago in Heidelberg. Artichokes, because at the first family dinner AdventureMan attended, my mom served artichokes as a first course, and AM thought it was some kind of a test. Tacos because in our 36 years together, it has always been one of our favorite meals, and because I found all kinds of Mexican food supplies in Qatar.
Then we walked over to the pool, swam, bounced around, talked, and when we got out – even though the temperatures were still high – there was a breeze, and we even felt just a tiny bit chilly! Chilly in the blazing heat of the Gulf summer is GOOD!
Just for our 36th anniversary, there was also a full moon. We walked home, cool and breezy, under the light of a great big romantic full moon. 36 years, and it just keeps getting better and better. 🙂
Busted
Today, as I was getting ready to leave the church services, one of my very special friends hugged me and said farewell, and then said “But of course, I can keep up with you on your blog.”
It was as if time stopped for a second, then started up again.
“My blog? You read my blog? You know?” I stammered, not loudly because there were other people around.
She laughed.
“I figured it out when you described this guy,” she said, punching AdventureMan lightly on the shoulder. “I KNEW it was you.”
When we got into the car, AdventureMan had a big smug grin on his face.
“I almost told her I read your blog quickly first, to see if I’m in it,” he said, “but then I was embarrassed that I am so vain.”
LLLOOOLLLL!
I’ve gotten less careful. It’s becoming less and less relevant as I get closer to leaving.
Selling My Car
I have a darling little car, I bought it in Doha six years ago. Aye, there’s the rub. While the company agreed to ship the car for us, Qatar won’t accept a car older than 5 years old. My sweet car has less than 40K km on it, has been lovingly maintained, and I totally love it – I was outraged at Qatar. But being outraged at a bureaucracy is a loser’s game, it isn’t going to change, the rules aren’t going to be excepted for me. So I had to sell the car.
I looked up the blue book price, and I knew my car was better than that, but these are hard times for selling a used car. I just put it out word-of-mouth, and within a week, I had my buyer.
She came. She sat in the car. She said “I will take it.”
I said “but you haven’t even driven it!”
She said “I can look at you, and look at this car, and I know it is a good car.”
We talked about a price. We agreed to a price a little higher than the blue book price, a little lower than I wanted. We were both happy.
She paid me in cash.
When we went to transfer title – this is Kuwait – the administrative section was closed! It wasn’t supposed to be closed! The area was full of Kuwaitis, Jordanians, people like us, wanting to transfer title. Fortunately, the woman knew another administration place nearby, so we went there, and after the normal finagling, the title transferred and all was completed.
We really wanted this woman to have the car. It has so many good years left on it, and this is a good woman.
AdventureMan laughs at how quietly all the decisions were made, all the negotiations done. The day after we sold the car, we got an SMS from the buyer saying how happy she was, and asking God to bless us richly. We feel already blessed, having sold the car to a fine woman.
Shutting Down
Yes, I’ve been busy. Yes, it involves movers, and bureaucracy, and parties, and the normal getting-ready-for-summer activities.
But the reason I’m not blogging a lot is that I’ve been shutting down, emotionally.
Here is a truth about me. I handle bad situations by shutting down. If I feel too much, I just get overwhelmed and don’t function. When I was packing boxes – and sighing – I could only pack a couple boxes and I would have to go lie down. It wasn’t physical so much as emotionally draining, packing up a life. I can’t really even begin to think about starting up a new one; I just need to get through finishing up this one.
So I just pack away all my grief with my household goods. Honestly, it works for me. I probably appear cold and unfeeling. The unfeeling part is true – I can make myself not feel, or at least postpone the feeling part. It gets me through the tough parts. I think it helps me survive. You go on automatic pilot. You go through the motions. You are only half there.
For me, the hardest part is being around people. Keeping all the feelings shut away is hard work! It’s exhausting! Or maybe it’s the scorching heat, but I come home and cannot stay awake, I have to take a nap. I wake up feeling better. I read late into the night – late for me. It’s OK, when I count up the nap sleeping with my night sleeping, I am getting enough sleep.
I have a very few good friends who know exactly where I am emotionally, and they shield me. We talk as if life were not going to change drastically, and for us, it won’t, there will still be the e-mails and visits. When I make a good friend, she/he is a friend for life. They don’t ask too much of me right now, but they are there to protect me when I need it. They are getting me through the tough times, and these are tough times.
When I get to Doha, I will start feeling again. I will allow the grief to seep in slowly, I will cry a little when no one is around to see, and slowly, slowly, as I grieve, I will also be engaging in a new life – slowly, slowly.
The Qatteri Cat is going through the same thing. He has built himself a little hidey-hole back in my old project room / Little Diamond’s room. He crawls into a pile of pillows and comforter until he is invisible, safe, warm, and sleeps. When he is awake, it is too depressing for him – his territory has changed so dramatically, none of the old reliable places are there.
So we comfort one another.
Family Suitcase Culture
Yesterday was one of those “deja-vu all over again” kinds of days as AdventureMan and I hit a store and bought suitcases. We will take extra baggage with us to Doha, to carry us over until our shipment arrives, and had been tizzying a little over just how best to do it. I remembered down in the souks they have cheap rolling suitcases, that, even if you just use one time before they break, are worth the price.
Then our good friend mentioned – just in time – that Carrefour was having a sale on luggage, and it was a truly incredible price, like three pieces for KD5.500. We went, we checked, we found the bags – marked at $80. with K-Mart tags. We each bought one set.
As we were pulling them out, I started laughing – we didn’t get such a hot deal. The tag said 6 pieces for $80. so that would mean the 3 pieces we got were worth – full price – about $40. We paid about $20 – so it was as if we bought suitcases at K-Mart for half price.
Suitcases – buying suitcases – are a part of our family culture. I can’t count the number of times my sisters and I have been someplace and we’ve made a run to TJMaxx to pick up another suitcase to carry unexpected purchases. We’ve always had loads of bags, when a friend visits and needs an extra bag going home, they are welcome to take one of ours. We had some friends, long ago, visiting from Moscow, and they took a bag with them to fill with fresh vegetables, something they had been craving in February in Soviet era Moscow. The bag came back the next year, filled with a beautiful Russian samovar they brought as a guest gift, and then the bag returned with them, once again, filled with fresh vegetables.
Some of my favorite suitcases have been great buys – but where are they now? I know a couple are in our storage locker, with collected linens and finds from faraway places. One of my husband’s best bags is in a closet in Pensacola, where we left it in case we needed it some time in the future. Slowly but surely, our collection of baggage has diminished.
Thus, the trip to Carrefour. AdventureMan groaned, hitting Carrefour around 4:30, as the teeming hoards arrived. To our amazement, a car left just where we needed parking. We were in Carrefour, found the bags prominently displayed, quickly decided they would do just fine since we only need them for one trip, and out again in under 30 minutes – how amazing is that? As it turned out, they were instantly useful as AdventureMan cleared some things from his office; the empty suitcase was soon filled.
It’s amazing what comfort 4 – 6 extra cubic feet of packing space can bring. 🙂
(I found the wonderful suitcase photo on Sister’s Choice, a delightful blog.
Alexander McCall Smith: Tea Time for the Traditionally Built
This brand new book in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series could not have come at a better time for me. Sorting through, giving away, selling my car – it all takes a toll. It’s a little like dying, this moving. I know I will be “resurrected” in another life, but in the meanwhile, I have so much grief, and I just stuff it away and keep going. These books are my carrots; they are my reward at the end of the day.
I have a stack of books and I am going through them like a locomotive – just chugging along.
Mma Precious Ramotswe and her totally different world in Botswana sweep me away totally. I love the sweetness of the way she thinks, her love for her country, and her tolerance. In Tea Time for the Traditionally Built, several things are going on at once, not the least of which is that she, also, must part with her dearly loved little white van, which has gone as far as it can go, and can go no further. The engine cannot be revived, not even one more time, by her dear husband, mechanic J.L.B. Matekoni.
Just in time, just when they need a new customer, comes Mr. Molofololo, the owner and manager of the Kalahari Swoopers, who hires Mma Ramotswe to find the traitor who is causing the Swoopers to lose their games.
Last, but not least, Mma Makutsi’s fiancee (she is the Assistant Detective now, remember?) Phuti Radiphuti, is being assaulted by Makutsi’s old rival from the secretarial school, Violet Sephotho, who is looking for a rich husband, and would love to steal Grace’s fiancee away, for all the worst reasons. How can plain Grace, with her big glasses and her unfortunate complexion, compete with the glamorous and seductive Violet? Can Phuti resist her wiles?
When I reached the last ten pages of the book, none of these crises had been resolved, and I thought “Oh no! How can the book end with all these loose ends out there?” but in a deft drawing together, McCall vanquishes the devils, finds simple solutions, and leaves us with Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi having tea together at the President Hotel.
This book is a great way to end the day with a smile on your face. 🙂 I bought this book for $21 in a bookstore, but Amazon has it for $14.37 plus shipping. I don’t buy a lot of hardcover books, but this one was worth every penny.
Strasbourg Magic
It is perfect May weather in Strasbourg right now – warm and sunny, even hot, one minute, crashing thunder, lightning and pouring rain the next. One minute you are catching the last rays of the sun on the Strasbourg Cathedral, and the next, you are ducking into the nearest restaurant to get out of the rain, have a little wine and flammekeuchen, give the weather a chance to change once again and you are on your way.
Besides the fact that we always have a lot of fun in Strasbourg – it is a great town for walking – remember that shoe store that was closed for the holiday on Friday? I have French feet; German shoes are too wide, American shoes are too serious . . .but French shoes are always just right. We go again, first thing Saturday morning, and they have all the newest shoes in the yummiest colors and they have them all in my size!
Just look at these colors! Grape! Orange sherbet! Fuscia/raspberryt! I am not really so much a shoe person, but oh! When the right shoe comes along! I know it! AdventureMan waits patiently, smiling indulgently, as I try on almost everything in my size.
Looking at me seriously, he says “Buy what you want! Who knows when you will be back in Strasbourg? I insist, you must buy at least four pair!” (Now THAT is true love.)
Truly a magical day in Strasbourg. 🙂
Wives, be subject to your husbands
This part of today’s reading, among my set and the things we discuss, is one of the most controversial. We can debate this for hours.
What does being subject mean? If we, as wives, are subject to our husband, just as our husbands are subject to God, does it mean we can’t argue? We can’t disagree?
I saw a husband say to a wife the other day “I forbid you.” I think this is more common in Gulf culture than in our culture. I am sorry, but the thought of a husband daring to say this to a wife in the west is unthinkable. What I have also noticed is that when a husband says “I forbid you” here, it is not the end, but the opening skirmish. 🙂
There is a lot of food for thought in this reading, and I publish it to give you insight into what we read, and because I suspect you have similar readings.
Colossians 3:18-4:18
18 Wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord. 19Husbands, love your wives and never treat them harshly.
20 Children, obey your parents in everything, for this is your acceptable duty in the Lord. 21Fathers, do not provoke your children, or they may lose heart. 22Slaves, obey your earthly masters* in everything, not only while being watched and in order to please them, but wholeheartedly, fearing the Lord.* 23Whatever your task, put yourselves into it, as done for the Lord and not for your masters,* 24since you know that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward; you serve* the Lord Christ. 25For the wrongdoer will be paid back for whatever wrong has been done, and there is no partiality. 41Masters, treat your slaves justly and fairly, for you know that you also have a Master in heaven.
2 Devote yourselves to prayer, keeping alert in it with thanksgiving. 3At the same time pray for us as well that God will open to us a door for the word, that we may declare the mystery of Christ, for which I am in prison, 4so that I may reveal it clearly, as I should.
5 Conduct yourselves wisely towards outsiders, making the most of the time.* 6Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer everyone.
Moving Violation
You may have noticed I am not as engaged with the blog right now. Truth is, I have a lot on my mind. As with many expats, this summer will bring a move from Kuwait, and moves take a lot of energy, both mental, emotional and physical.
I do some of the packing myself, because having something to do helps me fight the sadness I feel about leaving, and also because the things that the packers don’t see, don’t disappear. I know that sounds cynical.Â
This is my 30th move. In one of my early moves, two packers arrived with great big bags. It did occur to me that was rather odd, but I was a sweet and trusting young woman. When I arrived at the other end of the country missing two sterling silver cups engraved with my son’s name and the date of his birth, I started to get wiser about moving. To this day, it hurts me inside that someone would steal cups given to me to commemorate our son’s birth. It isn’t the cups. It’s that they were celebrating a very special event. It still hurts.
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The second illumination was arriving at my destination to discover my riding boots packed with my formal gowns. it wasn’t the dresses. It was that someone cared so little that my worn, dirty boots would be packed with those filmy, fantasy creations. It was almost hostile. I still remember it, and it has to be over 20 years ago.
One move, each piece of tupperware was wrapped individually. One salad bowl – plastic – was wrapped in one large box. Even though the government was paying for these moves, not me, it sent a strong message. Someone was stretching the square footage of the move. Now, I pack my own tupperware, and it easily ALL goes in one box, and no, not a lot of wrapping.Â
One move, three boxes just never showed up, and they contained things of no value to anyone but me.Â
I have a thing about putting too much value on things. I don’t want to miss things – I want to let them go. I am good at letting go of things I choose to let go of, and I find I am not at all good at letting go of things taken from me when I had no choice.Â
And it’s a whole lot easier for me to focus on packing things, and thinking about things that have gone missing than to allow myself to experience the PAIN of all I leave behind every time I move, the sweet friendships, the church, the teams I play on, the sights, the smells. Sometimes I think all my photos are an attempt to hang on to something I know I will have to leave behind.
Jodi Picoult: Handle With Care
I just finished the latest Jodi Picoult novel, Handle with Care. I was uncomfortable with it at the beginning, as I often am with Jodi Picould novels. She’s like that guest who brings up topics no one else brings up, and sometimes you wish she would stop, but the conversation gets rolling and everyone has an opinion, and the party would be much duller if she weren’t there.
She’s also the friend you would go to if you had an embarrassing problem you couldn’t discuss with anyone else. We all need that kind of friend, an honest sounding board, not afraid to deal with the grit and grime of everyday life.
I know the reason her books make me uncomfortable is that sometimes I see things I don’t like about myself in her characters.
The subject of the book is a disease called osteogenesis imperfecta (OI), and Willow, the youngest daughter, has Type III, which means she was born with broken bones, her bones would break if you picked her up wrong, changed her diaper the wrong way, even if she rolled over. Her bones were brittle, and the slightest thing could cause a break. She is also very smart, and a delightful character.
Picoult takes us inside many heads – the mother, Charlotte, a former pastry chef (Picoult includes some of her very best recipes, YUMMMM), Sean, the fiercely loving father, Amelia, a troubled pre-teen who hides her bulemia and cutting, and Marin, the lawyer, searching for her own birth mother. When Charlotte files a wrongful birth suit against her best friend – and obstetrician – Piper, her life starts to fall apart. It’s hard to believe things could get worse than having a child whose bones break all the time, but things definitely get worse.
What I hated about Charlotte, who has learned to anticipate her damaged child’s needs, is seeing myself through her eyes. Frequently, she shows us our insensitivity to the disabled, how we patronize, how we are oblivious to the simplest needs. Charlotte is a little angry at the world, so protective that she bites back scathing words to outsiders – or doesn’t. People without disabilities – visible disabilities, we all have disabilities, don’t we, just some are visible and some are not? – can be so smug, so unaware of the hardships others face. I cringe when I read this book. I see myself, and I don’t like what I see.
I admire Jodi Picoult. I will read just about anything she has written, because of the courage she has to tackle the most sensitive subjects. This is not a comfortable book to read, but it is a worthwhile book to read.
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