Washington Post Contest
This was sent to me by a good friend: These are entries to A Washington Post competition asking for a two line poem. The contest was to have the most romantic first line, and the least romantic second line.
My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:
Marrying you screwed up my life.
I see your face when I am dreaming.
That’s why I always wake up screaming.
Kind, intelligent, loving and hot;
This describes everything you’re not.
Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss,
But I only slept with you ‘cause I was pissed.
I thought that I could love no other –
That is until I met your brother.
Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl’s empty and so is your head.
I want to feel your sweet embrace;
But don’t take that paper bag off your face.
I love your smile, your face and your eyes –
Damn, I’m good at telling lies!
My love, you take my breath away.
What have you stepped in to smell this way?
My feelings for you no words can tell,
Except for maybe “Go to hell.’
What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.
“Was That Funny?”
When my son was little, he went through a time when he would make up jokes and tell us, and watch our reaction and ask “was that funny?” He wanted desperately to catch on to humor, but humor is a whole new way of thinking, and he was only four or five years old.
We started with riddles, I think, jokes in which words had more than one meaning, and then we moved on to knock knock jokes. But when he first started making jokes, he started with pure nonsense.
Around eight, we introduced him to Shel Silverstein, a brilliant poet, who writes books for kids that are also a joy for adults.
(photo courtesy of Amazon.com.)
Where The Sidewalk Ends
Light in the Attic
Falling Up
We all loved Shel Silverstein. Our son would read the poems aloud to us as we zipped around the back streets of Europe. We never got tired of him. His poems are funny to both children and adults “One Sister for Sale” “The King Who Loved Peanut Butter” . . . and sometimes poignant, or even sad.
Slowly, slowly, our son built up a huge repetoire of humor. Today, he is one of the funniest men I know, albeit most of his wit is very dry, and sometimes . . . I don’t always get it.
And that doesn’t begin to tackle the problem of “what is funny” crossing national and cultural boundaries! I think you have really arrived in a language when you can tell a joke in another language, and the native speakers find it funny.
I Never Knew There Was a Word for it
From this weeks A-Word-a-Day (see Blogroll)
This week’s theme: porcine words to mark the Chinese new year.
epigamic (ep-i-GAM-ik) adjective
Of or relating to a trait or behavior that attracts a mate.
Examples: In an animal, bright feathers or big antlers.
In a human, a sports car or a big bust.
[From Greek epigamos (marriageable), from epi- (upon) + gamos (marriage).]
-Anu Garg (garg wordsmith.org)
“The change from the young, intellectual, epigamic Jays, to the more
diplomatically sophisticated Hendersons also reflected a sharp change
in Washington lifestyle.”
Peter D. Carr; It Occurred to Me; Trafford Publishing; 2006.
Winter Cold Punch
We’re so romantic. Valentine’s Day found us sniffing and snorting, and coughing great big (highly unattractive) coughs. We did manage a great Valentine’s Dinner at a nearby restaurant. As we dined, we saw at least four young couples with tiny babies enjoying a romantic, candlelit dinner – it warmed our hearts. But we skipped date night, watched a movie and this morning I fixed up some hot punch to give us a psychological boost.
This is very much the same as the Christmas Rum Punch, but no rum, and lighter on the spices. It is full of vitamin C, goes down easy, and permeated even the stuffiest nose with the sweet smells of cinnamon and clove.
1 jar Cranberry Juice (Can be Cran-Rasberry, or Cran Grape, or what the Sultan Center has!)
1 quart/litre Pineapple Juice (Sultan Center has FRESH pineapple juice!)
1/4 cup brown sugar
12 inches cinnamon stick (4 sticks of the small Ceylon cinnamon sticks)
1 Tablespoons whole cloves
1 orange peel
Bring to a simmer, and quickly scoop out the cinnamon and clove pieces, or it will get too spicy. When cool, if there is any left, pour back into empty cranberry juice jar, refrigerate until the next time, and microwave until hot. It’s the combination of heat and Vitamin C that knocks out the cold/flu going around, and even better, it smells yummy.
Jean Plaidy and Courts of Love
My last day back in Seattle, I allowed myself a trip to the nearest Barnes and Noble. It was a shorter trip, only ten days, and full of family and family gatherings, centered around my father’s recent death. The days sped by, each full and exhausting.
I had already packed most of my bags. I do this so I know how much, if any, room I have. That way, I won’t buy too many books. I know myself. I know my vices. There is a part of me that says “how can there be too many books? How can there be too much of such a good thing?”
And then I am stuck trying to shovel books into an already overpacked suitcase, stuffing more into my stuffed backpack, shoving, re-arranging, tossing out old underwear to make way for yet another book.
I only bought a few books, one of which was Courts of Love by Jean Plaidy. If you follow this link, you will find many reviews of this book that disagree with my opinion, and gave this book almost five full stars.
I have always held Eleanor of Aquitaine in great awe. Born in the Languedoc region of France, she was raised in a court full of literature and poetry, visitors from distant places bringing news. She was educated, and exposed to rule. She was expected to inheirit the rich province of Aquitaine until a younger brother was born, but, as was not uncommon in the times, he succumbed to a childhood illness, and she once again became the inheiritor of a fabulously wealthy and desirable province, the Aquitaine.
And if being the inheiritor of Aquitaine wasn’t enough, she was also thin, and elegantly beautiful, and educated, and she had spirit. She never felt herself limited by being a woman.
She first married Louis, King of France, who was nowhere near her match. She insisted on accompanying Louis on his crusade to free Jerusalem (failed) and upon her return to France met Henry, the heir to the English throne, secured a divorce from Louis of France based on the fact that they were distantly related, and then quickly married Henry, who was even less distantly related. She did as she wished.
Henry was several years younger than Eleanor, and they were both full of fire, and ambition. They had force, and strategic vision; as a couple, they were unbeatable. Eleanor gave birth almost yearly, mostly sons, and was happy until she discovered her husband’s multiple infidelities. His inability to be a faithful husband created a bitterness in her heart, a wall between the two of them. From time to time, Henry had Eleanor imprisoned to keep her out of his way. He believed she had turned his sons against him. But many times, he would need her, and call her out of her captivity to help him. It’s a bitch, being married to a king.
Where am I going with this review, you might ask?
I finished the book, and all I can wonder is how Jean Plaidy took such a fiery woman, a sensual and vibrant woman, and made her so wooden? It must be some problem in me, as the other reviewers give the book a much higher rating than I would, and I wonder if they are confusing their awe with the subject (Eleanor) with the quality of the book?
Or maybe I have become so used to Phillipa Gregory’s treatment that I am spoiled for Jean Plaidy? When you read The Queen’s Fool, The Other Bolyn Girl and The Constant Princess you are there, you are in their world, feeling their thoughts. The dialogue is rich and lively, you are surrounded by sensory clues, smells, feels, tastes – the world is richly created, and when you finish the book, you feel like you have travelled in time, as if you were really there.
Not so with Courts of Love.
I would rate this book far lower, because I DO admire Eleanor of Aquitaine, and I think she deserves an equally lively, richly sensual treatment. I want to know her world, I want to peek inside her mind and experience a little of what she experienced. I want Philippa Gregory to write about Eleanor of Aquitaine! Jean Plaidy, in my opinion, took an extraordinary woman, and make her less vibrant, and just a little drab. A grave injustice, in my book!
Valentine
Talking with a friend the other day, about being married a long time, we were both stunned into momentary silence by the realization that we had lived with our husbands longer than we had lived with our birth families.
We think of all the forces that created who we are as children, but we forget the years of tumbling around in a marriage that helps to wear off all the sharp edges and smooth the jagged surfaces.
It’s not the boxes of candy or the roses, not even the romantic dinners (no! I am not cancelling!) It’s everything . . . the financial struggles, raising children, building a family life, taking care of aging relations, and, God willing, grandchildren . . . good times and bad times. In the long run, it’s all good.
Adventure Man, Happy Valentine’s Day. Through thick and thin, big guy.
Sectarianism
IRISH PROSTITUTE
An Irish daughter had not been home for over 5 years. Upon her return, her father cussed her. “Where have ye been all this time? Why did ye not write to us, not even a line? Why didn’t ye call? Can ye not understand what ye put yer old mum thru?
The girl, crying, replied, “Sniff, sniff….dad….I became a prostitute….”
“Ye what!!? Out of here, ye shameless harlot! Sinner! You’re a disgrace to this family.”
“OK, dad– as ye wish. I just came back to give mum this luxurious fur coat, title deed to a ten bedroom mansion plus a savings certificate for $5 million.
For me little brother, this gold Rolex and for ye daddy, the sparkling new Mercedes limited edition convertible that’s parked outside plus a membership to the country club…. (takes a breath)….and an invitation for ye all to spend New Years Eve on board my new yacht in the Riviera, and….”
“Now what was it ye said ye had become?” says dad.
Girl, crying again,”Sniff, sniff….a prostitute dad! Sniff, sniff.”
“Oh! Be Jesus! Ye scared me half to death, girl! I thought ye said a Protestant’. Come here and give yer old man a hug!”
Japanese Breakfast
This is for my husband. I know he reads my blog now and then, and I wonder how long it will be before he sees this?
The other night, we were out for our favorite “fast” food, which is Japanese food. Not just sushi, we love miso soup. When I am sick, miso soup makes my throat feel better. I feel like I am eating good health, with all those little tofu squares and that seaweed, I feel like the miso soup will make me better. I also love salmon teriyaki, and chawan moushi, and a variety of lesser known Japanese foods.
And my husband said “isn’t miso soup what Japanese people have for breakfast?” and I didn’t know. He though miso soup and rice, so today I looked it up on Google, “Japanese breakfast”, and here is what I found:
Japanese breakfast consists of steamed rice, miso (soy bean paste) soup, and side dishes. Common side dishes are grilled fish, rolled omelet, pickles, dried seaweed, natto, salad, and more. Actually, you can make any dishes to go with rice and miso soup in Japanese breakfast. As you see in the photo, it’s an etiquette to place a bowl of rice on your left and to place a bowl of miso soup on your right side at the table.
It was on Japanese Breakfast About.com, along with ads for Japanese condoms (they are different from others?), a sushi making robot, a Samurai hotel and recipes for steamed rice, miso soup, natto (fermented soy beans), Nori (dried seaweed), Tamagoyaki (rolled omelet), grilled fish and pickles.
It seems to me that Japanese food is going through an internationalization process – sushi used to be all about rice and fish, and main dishes were simple, often stir fried, but all in all, very healthy. Now, I am seeing sushis with fried stuff in them, mayonnaise (?????), and we were offered a green tea ice-cream for dessert . . . that just doesn’t strike me as Japanese. Is it?
But this is for my husband – in case you really read all the way down – YOU WERE RIGHT. (I am obligated by family law to say that.)
“I’m A Third Culture Kid, Are You?”
Most of those who read my blog are not Kuwaiti, and it is for you that I am writing this post. So many of you who read me are also “Third Culture Kids.” My blogging friend Amer just wrote a post by the above title, and whoa! The responses will blow you away! Please go to I am a Third Culture Kid, Are You? and check in with your story – where you came from and where you are today.
And how being a third culture kid has affected your life. This is one of the best blog entries I have read.
The book from which the term Third Culture Kids comes from is mentioned in an earlier blog entry of mine, Chicken Nuggets and Big Macs and is by David C. Pollock and Ruth E. Van Reken. You can find it at Amazon.com. If you are a third culture kid, you might want to buy two or three – you will keep giving them away. The book is that good.
A Special Birthday in Germany
Birthdays aren’t my favorite days, and in spite of that, I’ve had some really good ones. The best birthday I can remember, ever, came as a gift of sharing that totally blew me away.
I was living in a small German village. Little by little, I mastered enough German to be able to interact with the villagers, who were very kind to me. They included my husband and I in the village events, including private birthday parties, which in Germany, are a BIG deal.
Birthdays are YOUR day. Every woman in the village brings a cake – or two. Competition to provide the fanciest, most lucious cake is keen. The cakes are not overly sweet, but are incredibly full of fresh cream. And of course, it is rude not to try a little of everyone’s cakes . . . all eyes are all watching.
The two women in the village who took care of me were my landlady and her mother-in-law, who lived in a house just across the courtyard. My landlady sang in the village choir, which performed at a variety of locations throughout the year – festivals, local events, schools – and at 50th birthday parties. The 50th Birthday Party was very special. The whole choir would sing JUST for the birthday girl.
It was a very small village. Everyone knew everyone. Some people didn’t speak because their grandmother didn’t speak to someone else’s grandmother. People carried grudges for a long time. Memories were long, and tongues were longer. My landlady’s protection was very valuable to me, an outsider in the village, who might, from time to time, violate customs without even knowing about it.
My husband and I were leaving Germany, after four years in the village. It was around this time of the year, the cold cold of winter in Germany. One evening my landlady came down and asked us to come to her birthday party the next night – our birthdays are only two days apart, and we had often celebrated together. We were delighted for the invitation, as we knew the choir would be seranading our landlady.
There was a lovely catered sit-down dinner. Everyone was in dress-up clothing, and the wine and beer were flowing. We knew it would be our last dinner in the village, and we felt so honored to be included.
And then the choir arrived. The choir master made a speech to our landlady, congratulating her on her special birthday and giving her a long list of good wishes. And then he turned to us, and said that tonight our landlady was sharing her birthday with me, and they would sing two songs for us on our departure.
This was her special day. Her 50th birthday is the day the whole village would honor her. It only happens once in your lifetime. And she shared it with me.
The choir sang “The Gypsy Wanderers”, and truly, it was appropriate for my husband and I, departing for our next life in Doha. From the first notes, I cried. I’ve never minded my vagabond life, but for that brief moment, I regretted not having the kind of deep roots that kept me anchored in one place. I would never have a village singing for my 50th birthday; I had never earned that honor. And my landlady gave it to me, simply, without fanfare, sharing the honors she had earned day by day, living in the village. She gave it expecting nothing in return for it, sheerly for the joy of sharing.
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