Eating Crow

**The information contained in this blog post may or may not be 100% accurate. It's what I understand to be true at the moment, but I'll hopefully continue to learn as I go along. 

I have a new hobby/passion/addiction/whatever you want to call it. I've been fighting it for a while, but I'm sunk. I love carpets. I love carpet shopping. I love learning about the different styles, patterns, fibers, dyes, regions, identification . . . everything but the prices. Good grief, handmade carpets are expensive!

I used to be someone who rolled their eyes (internally, no need to be rude) when someone gushed over an "old tabreez that is to die for!" Um, it's a piece of material that you lay on the floor. Why pay a bunch of money for something that people are going to walk on? Ridiculous. Remember me and the "Who wants an old carpet?! Gross!" story from the souk? I currently have one old carpet that I'm very attached to (and would be thrilled to acquire a few more). Hey, they don't make them like they used to!

This one is a Beljik, from Afganistan. Made of merino wool (soft and silky feeling). Beljiks are always these deep reds, blacks and navy blues. This photo doesn't do the rug justice. I think the LED lights from the Christmas tree are washing it out, making the border look hazy and muted. 

This one shows how the white border of the design pops against the red background. The reason the design is so sharp is because there are over 400 knots/square inch of carpet. Yes, they are expensive, but when you think that it takes over a year to make one of these, it works out to pennies/knot. 

I love being able to go into a carpet shop and correctly identify carpets. "This one is beljik, right?" The deep reds and blues are a big tipoff that they are from Afghanistan, but the sharpness of the pattern (or not), the feel of the wool, and the type of fringe help define a Beljik from its lesser quality brothers and sisters. There's nothing wrong with a lesser quality handmade carpet -- you just want to make sure you're not paying a premium price for something that isn't. 

I prefer wool on wool carpets or silk on silk (don't have any of those yet). They make wool or silk on cotton (meaning the wool of the carpet is woven onto a cotton base), but the cotton warp threads can cut into the wool as the carpet is walked on and the carpet won't hold up as well over time. Mixed fiber rugs are also more difficult to clean. (An important consideration here!)

This is an inexpensive wool/wool handmade carpet called a Kazak. (When I say inexpensive, this one was around $200). These are historically Armenian and come from the region around Azerbaijan (one of the many countries that didn't exist when I was in High School).  These are pretty easily identified by the lighter colored blues along with the cream, red and navy and the less defined patterns than the Beljiks. I love the design of this rug. Notice how my taste trends toward reds and blues and geometric shapes? These kinds of designs are called "tribals," as opposed to "city carpets," which are more realistic in pattern with flowers, smooth lines and less boxy shapes. 

Example of a city carpet -- not mine (pretty, but not my style). This is usually what people visualize when they hear the term "Persian carpet."

You can see the much larger individual knots. Bigger knots aren't bad, it just naturally creates a less detailed and less labor intensive piece. 

This carpet was our gateway drug. We went to a rug flop saying we weren't going to spend more than $220 on a rug and came home with this little guy. Now we're looking at rugs that are 220 BD and exclaiming, "That's a bargain!"

This rug is my "old one" (60ish years -- still a baby in rug years) and it's from Iran. It was a steal of a deal and I didn't care what it was called when I heard the price. Now that I've made you curious, I'll tell you -- it was under $650 for a 9x12 foot rug. For comparison's sake, a commercially made Pottery Barn rug of similar size would cost at least twice as much. See what I mean about it being a steal?

Yes, more reds and blues. Still a tribal, but softer shapes. I'd love to know the history and region of this rug because it's so different than the styles that are currently being made. It's nice that this one doesn't have a center medallion because it's easy to put a table on top of it without blocking the design or worrying about centering the table evenly over the most decorative part. 

Writing this blog post made me curious, so I looked at the underside of the carpet at the label. In addition to Made in Iran, the label says "saroogh," which according to Google is a city in Iran that is known for producing carpets in the late 19th century in response to the huge demand for Persian carpets from Europe and North America. It's possible that the design of ours is known as an "American Sarouk" because they created these carpets with the American design esthetic in mind.

Everyone needs a runner, right? We don't need one in our current house, but I'm thinking ahead. This rug is called a Chobi (choo-bee). It is valued because it is made from hand spun wool (usually with only a drop spindle) and dyed using hand gathered natural dyes. They are the most labor intensive to make because of all the pre-weaving work. This style is really popular right now because the colors are more muted and antique looking. Chobi's are generally designed with flowers and swirls -- they are not tribal. 

It looks like what's hot at Pottery Barn, doesn't it?

And our latest find -- a Qashqai. This carpet comes from Iran, woven by a nomadic tribal group. This brightly colored tribal is identified by its detail and the inclusion of birds and other animals. 

One of the things I love about handwoven carpets is the way it looks different from different angles. There is always a dark side and a light side. This is the dark side of this carpet. The red is burgundy, the navy almost looks black and the many medallions that dot the body of the carpet are more subdued. 

10 seconds later, viewed from the other side. There really is a huge difference depending on how you look at it. The red is brighter, almost brick colored, the medallions pop, and each little design comes to life. 

Studying all the details of this piece makes me happy -- imagining the skill and handiwork it required to create leaves me in awe. 

This was Josh's birthday present -- an unintended carpet purchase. We went on a shopping trip to help a few friends choose carpets (it's always nice to have another set of eyes) and this is one of the many that they pulled from the stacks. It wasn't her style, but Josh was drawn to it immediately. I wasn't sure about all the different colors together, but the more I look at it, the deeper I fall in love. It's almost like a patchwork quilt, where you see something new every time you look at it. 

The sign of a quality handmade carpet? The back is just as beautiful as the front. 

Between our travels and our carpet buying adventures, we may come back from the Middle East a lot poorer in the wallet, but richer in experience. And carpets can always double as wall art or bedcovers, right? 

Stage Fright

After all the accolades my previous post received, I was thinking maybe I should sign off for good, end on a high note, and quit while the getting is good. How do I follow that act? Funny enough, as I was writing about my Christmas Day 10 years ago, it didn't feel like anything special. I mean, I enjoyed the walk down memory lane (mostly because I'm not in that place anymore), but I didn't think it was earth shattering or groundbreaking. I've written about my need for meds many times before -- though based on the number of messages and replies I received from people, this post clearly landed in a place people could relate to. Or they know me in this different life and couldn't imagine that I hadn't always been this way.

Maybe I spelled it out in a way that people finally understood how cuckoo I really was. I guess you can say you need an SSRI to function normally, but until you admit that you called your husband and begged him to turn around and come home when he was on the way to take your child to an appointment with a surgical specialist people can't imagine you were actually that sick. Yeah, I really did that. Josh told me I was being ridiculous, hung up, and kept driving. Meanwhile, I tried not to hyperventilate as I counted down the minutes it would take for him to drive to Loma Linda (90), account for how long the appointment should take, and then home again. I had decided against going to the appointment with them because I couldn't travel that far from the house without panicking, but after he left I started second guessing my choice. I should write a post some day about all the hoops I jumped through to keep from feeling anxious. It would sound truly crazy to someone who doesn't struggle with anxiety. (Like taking a 2 day Amtrak train trip by myself to avoid a 3.5 hour flight. Yep. For reals.)

I'm so glad that my post did get such a positive response, but it still surprises me and feels unreal. It's almost miraculous that stringing a few letters together can have so much meaning. I guess that's why I like writing. It's an art form that uses letters to paint pictures. A few are the focal point of the gallery, some are frame worthy, and others are the type to be hung on my mom's refrigerator door. Creating a pile of posts that are only good enough to hang on a refrigerator is all part of practicing my art form. As long as I keep writing, I'm bound to produce a few gems every now and then . . . hopefully.

In addition to not knowing what to post next, I've been busy with Christmas this week. Unlike last year, when we spent Christmas day hiking in the snow in Cappacocia, Turkey, this year wasn't exotic at all. We shared a Christmas Eve dinner with friends and then went to church for a carol service. In between each song, people from the congregation read passages from the Bible relating to Christmas (both prophecy and the Nativity story), but they each read them in their native languages. French, Afrikaans, Hindi, Tagalog, a language from an African nation, etc. (OK, so maybe that was a bit exotic). It was a reminder that we are privileged to worship God with Christians from all over the world.

Christmas Day we slept in, the kids opened a few presents that family had sent and we went to base for Christmas dinner (no cooking required!) While there I grabbed a few things to put in the kids' stockings (I'm a failure at all the regular Christmas traditions. Can you imagine if I had to move an Elf every night?!) that I hadn't filled yet and then we went and had a potluck dinner with another group of friends. I'm thankful that we are part of a great community of friends from church, our Home Group, and base. We are content and at peace which is the best gift we could possibly ask for.

But they were also thrilled with fuzzy pjs

and Frozen themed books

This coming week Josh has (a much needed) vacation and I predict lots of sleeping in and lounging around the house. Or maybe that's just my idea of a great vacation . . .

A little Christmas cheer

10 years ago I was sitting at my sister's kitchen table, head in hands, heart pounding, dreading the drive home. It was only 2 and a half hours from Orange County back to 29 Palms, but to my mind, the distance felt impossible. We'd all been having breakfast together and the conversation was full of "Guess what? Mental illness runs in our family!" stories, which sounds like the worst Christmas ever (it was), but the knowledge that I came from a line of loonies was mildly comforting. The reassuring part was realizing that several people in my family history who I thought were normal (relatively), actually did have mental issues in their past, which meant there was hope for me. Too bad it took me losing my mind to hear about them losing theirs. 

I remember the tears running down my face as my parents guided me to the front seat of the car the way executioners guide a prisoner to the electric chair. I kept repeating "I can't do this" and Josh snapped, "All you have to do is sit there!" God bless him, I would have left my sorry behind sitting on the curb. I was so wrapped up in my own head at the time; I'm sure he's the one that got our three little boys in the car (5, 3 and 5 months), loaded all the luggage, and then had to deal with a crazy wife who begged him to pull over so she could throw up on the side of the road when she felt the car closing in on her. 

Looking back, I'm surprised no one took me to a mental hospital. I would have fought them tooth and nail, like an addict resisting rehab, but I needed an intervention. That Christmas trip revealed the rapidly growing, gaping holes in my psyche that I'd refused to face over the past 6 months. Sure, most people don't call their husband at work and beg him to come home because they are scared of being alone with their children and most people don't construct exit strategies in their heads as they decide whether they can make it to the grocery store without having a panic attack (I couldn't), and most people don't compulsively check their pulse all day long looking for flutters or skipped heartbeats that are a sure sign of impending bodily doom. But I was still OK . . . sort of. Right? Even though I knew I wasn't, the alternative (either medication or mental hospital) was worse.  

So why this depressing topic on what is supposed to be the Merriest of days? Because this morning, this story, was the beginning of my end. My rock bottom, my wave the white flag moment, my emperor without his clothes. When I couldn't enjoy a family Christmas party without escaping to a back bedroom to breathe deeply, when I couldn't sit in the front seat of a car as a passenger and all I desperately wanted was to be home, when I saw a Christmas card that someone sent my sister and I wistfully said I envied them because they were smiling, when I hid in the bathtub of our crappy hotel room because it was a small and warm space and everywhere else felt too big and scary . . . that was it. I was done. Broken. Rock bottom. The end. 

I don't remember exactly when he said it, but one of the most hurtful (but best) things Josh ever said to me was "Robin, you are an anchor dragging our family down. I don't know how much longer I can hold us up." That Christmas showed me the weight of my anchor. I felt its heaviness and felt it dragging me under the surface, and as I was choking and gasping for breath, the fear of living with it finally outweighed the fear of what it would take to get rid of it. 

I made it home (an ugly trip made a little easier by Christmas Day (zero) traffic) and the next morning, I called the hospital and made an appointment for ASAP. The next several months weren't pretty, but I was headed in the right direction. I found myself at the bottom of a huge hole and it took about a year to claw my way out. This March I will celebrate my 10th Zoloft birthday (it seems like I need to create an AA type of chip for that occasion!) and I will bask in the irony that the thing I was most afraid of (medication for my brain) was an integral part in saving me. 

So, Merry Christmas! Today I will enjoy my time at home alone with the kids and be thankful when Josh comes home from work because I'm happy he's here to start the grill and not because I'm afraid of myself. I will drive to pick up a few things from the store and smile that I can enjoy that freedom. I might take a bath to hide from the chaos of a busy week and not because I'm hiding from my life. But most of all, I will be the one smiling in photos because I have Joy and Peace. Incredibly thankful to have been in dark places and to be enjoying the light. 

Happy Holidays

This is our third Christmas in Bahrain and every year the irony deepens. The Muslim country outside the base is much more accepting of our Christian holiday than the bureaucracy inside the gates. The base had a very large tree and Santa came, but all the signage was for a "Tree Lighting Ceremony" and "Night of extraordinary lights," nothing about Christmas. Meanwhile, right outside the gate, large posters advertised "Christmas Tree lighting" and "Christmas Dinner" right next to the posters of the King, Prime Minister and Crown Prince.

And there's our landlord, who wishes Josh a "Merry Christmas" when he sees him. And the florist with the large Merry Christmas sign hanging outside the store. And the Christmas trees in the mall, and carols playing over the sound system (not Rudolph, think Joy to the World and other religious songs).

The country is all decorated for National Day (December 16th) so the red and white lights everywhere feel very Christmassy. 

And the kicker? While at the grocery store I saw this Christmas display next to the Christmas trees and lights for sale.  

Yes, that's Jesus on the cross (the box is labeled Christmas Jesus) with a birthday hat. Mind blown. 

So we're all getting into the spirit of Christmas. Camille has a mini tree next to her bed (bought from the   store up the street) and our church went Christmas caroling in the mall. They sang songs in English and then an Arabic speaking group sang them in Arabic. Other friends arranged for a church group to go caroling in a local grocery store and when they said, "You know we'll be singing songs about Jesus, right?" the manager responded, "Yes! We love Jesus!"

In America where we say we celebrate freedom of religion, we could learn a few lessons from these Muslims. If you're a Christian stop being offended when someone says "Happy Holidays" and take it as the cheerful greeting that is intended. It means happy HOLY day and Christmas is a holy day, so no big deal. It also could include Thanksgiving, New Year's, St. Lucia Day, St. Nicholas day, my birthday, Hanukah, Kwanza, Winter Solstice, Boxing Day and any other celebrations that are packed into the 6 week period between Thanksgiving and the New Year. Sometimes I don't want to pick just one so I say Happy Holidays to cover the entire lovely season!

If you're not a Christian, don't be offended when someone wishes you a Merry Christmas. I don't know a single person who uses the greeting "Merry Christmas" as a weapon. If the Muslim community in Bahrain can handle it, I'm sure you can too. 

Also, Xmas? That's not taking Christ out of Christmas. X is the Greek letter that stands for Christ so it's just a shorthand way of writing it. It was done that way for hundreds of years until someone decided to be offended by it and now it has become a thing to be offended by. If we could live with less cynicism and more grace for those around us, we would all be better off. 

It may be 90 degrees here and I'm getting sunburned during a morning of flag football, but Christmas is coming! My real live tree! Someone/some organization donated live trees to overseas service members. They arrived in the mail and we were lucky enough to get one. 

My car smelled amazing!

Go big or go home! It's got to be 10 feet tall. Josh said since our living room is big enough, why not?

So Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Joyful Kwanzaa, Peaceful Arba'een, Light-filled Hanukah and 

Joy to the world!

travel bug

I'm a homebody. I know that doesn't come as a surprise to anyone in my family, but if you read my blog you might think I love to travel. I really don't. I mean, in theory, yes! Travel is exciting, and I get to experience new things, see world famous places in person, and it changes all my perceptions about a country or people group and allows me to speak about things from a place of experience. Travel is an amazing educator.

However, I hate the process. I hate the uncertainty that I feel beforehand, the sense that I'm out of control and don't know what is going to happen. I hate the packing and the mental checklists that I'm constantly making and rechecking (meds? phone charger? electrical outlet adaptors? passport? correct currency?) I dread the stress of the days before, when if given the choice I would always choose to stay home. Some people get excited about going on vacation. I'm not one of them. (I'm positive Kristy and my mom are nodding in agreement right now.) But I do it because it's good for me -- mentally, intellectually, and spiritually. 

It's kind of an "eat your vegetables" exercise for my brain. I have to keep pushing it to do uncomfortable things if I don't want to go back to living my life by the mantra, "home is the only safe place in the world." Every time I travel I add another positive event to the evidence bank and the negative voices get a bit quieter. It is getting easier. The day before our most recent trip to Crete I felt a few flutters of excitement and had a vague sense that I might be looking forward to going instead of just the dread in the pit of my stomach. 

Because once I arrive, I love traveling. I have a new "safe space" to call home (my hotel room, apartment or wherever we are staying) and our days are full of exploring, learning, experiencing, and food. It's always a spiritual experience to realize that God loves this culture and these people just as much as me and my own and I find that usually I agree with him. It gives us a chance for great talks with our kids (in-between the times when I'm telling them to stop arguing and be quiet! ) about what they like best about a particular trip, comparisons to previous travel and just getting to know them better as people. 

So when Gulf Air had a special promotion for National Day yesterday, I knew it was time to buy a few tickets. I booked a weekend trip to Oman for the family in February and Josh and I are going to Paris for 5 nights in March. I've wanted to take him to Paris ever since I went last year and for less than $500/ticket, it was too good to pass up. Now I'm just crossing my fingers that he can take that time off or I'll be stretching myself even further and taking one of the kids (Carter) with me. 

Now I get to plan, research and dream about Paris for the next 3 months, which in my mind, is the best part of traveling. Adventures from the comfort of my own home. . .

Isn't it romantical

This adorable homecoming couple was kind of my fault. Calvin originally said he was going to to to the homecoming dance with a group of friends so I asked a few probing questions: A group of guys or are guys and girls going together? Do you want to take a date? Do most people take a date? I wasn't encouraging him to get a date, I was just wondering what was going on in his head and making sure he felt free to invite someone if he wanted to. 

Maybe he was waiting for permission because a few days later he said, "Mom, is it OK if I take a date to homecoming? Because I was talking to a girl at youth group and I told her about homecoming and she said her school doesn't have one so I asked her if she would like to go with me. She already asked her parents and they said it was OK, so is it OK?" 

Whoa there! My kid went from awkward teenage boy going to a dance with a group of guys to Rico Suave in the span of 30 seconds. I had a moment of internal panic and then smiled and said, "Sure! Good for you! I'm happy you're a braver kid than I was in High School."

Bringing a date upped the ante so the first step was finding Calvin something to wear. Josh handled that part and took Calvin to the tailor to have a sport coat, dress shirt and pants made. Then we found the tie, belt and ordered the corsage. Oh and shoes. Can't forget shoes. 

The day of the dance Camille and I picked up the corsage while Calvin was at school and she treated it like Cinderella's glass slipper as we walked home. With shining eyes she asked, "Since Calvin is going on a date, that means he'll be married, right?" Not quite yet, sweetie. We have a few more years until then, hopefully. 

All dressed for the big night! I was dreading doing this by myself (Josh was gone on an exercise on the south side of the island) because his date lived somewhere 30 minutes south of us, Carter had a Christmas party on the west side of the island at at the same time as the dance, and Camille and Caleb were going to have to tag along for the ride. Not how I would want to set out for my first date. 

Anyway, God worked out all those worrisome details because a friend coordinated transportation for Carter and Josh asked for the evening off so he could spend the evening with me. He arrived home about 30 minutes before we left to pick up Calvin's date. Perfect timing!

As for the littles? We left them at home with all the TV they wanted to watch, a cell phone, and instructions not to eat anything. And a bit of bribery. We told Caleb we'd pay him for being a good babysitter and that Camille would get paid for being a good babysittee. 

We picked up Calvin's date and her mom pinned the corsage on Calvin 

And Calvin tied the corsage on his date's wrist

adorable!

We dropped them off at the hotel (on the far east side of the island -- if Josh hadn't been along it would have been a very long night of driving by myself!) and we went to dinner while they went to the dance. 

They all had a great time

and we had a great night!

You know the legendary Friday brunches? This hotel also has one on Thursday night. We had about 3 hours to eat, drink, and be merry. 

Dinner by the light of the Christmas tree. Our first "first date" went perfectly. 

It was the worst of times, it was the worstest of times.

It all started with a triathlon. I was not participating in the triathlon, but 80 professional athletes and thousands of amateurs came to Bahrain to compete in a half ironman last weekend. A legit one. An official, branded, part of a world-wide series of sporting events set up by an outside entity race. Josh would have loved to compete in it except, surprise! He was not going to be here. It turned out that he was headed out of the country the morning of the race and when they published the maps of the race route and road closures I sent him a message saying it was a good thing his was leaving on an early flight or he might not be able to get to the airport.

He had to be there by 7 and the roads weren't supposed to close until 7 so he left at 6, sure he had plenty of time to make the 20 minute trip. He messaged me at 6:30 and said he hadn't even gotten over the bridge yet and was afraid he wouldn't make it. It turns out that whoever was in charge of road closures closed all the roads earlier than scheduled and everyone was stuck. Gridlock. Usually people flaunt traffic rules but someone must have put the fear of God into the security people that this was a VERY IMPORTANT RACE because they weren't budging. 

Josh messaged me again after 7 and said he barely made it to the airport, but had to dump the car in short term parking which costs $25/day. An 8 day trip meant that I was going to have to go back later in the evening to move the car so that we could afford to feed the kids this month. Oh well. A small inconvenience. Another small inconvenience was that Calvin had a youth conference on base that morning and the road leading in wasn't supposed to close until after 8, but we gave ourselves 90 minutes for an 8 minute trip since I suspected it wouldn't go smoothly. Sure enough, I got as far as the road that divides our neighborhood from the base neighborhood and they had already closed it, directing all traffic toward the freeway. We rolled up to the corner and Calvin hopped out and started the 20 minute walk in on foot. Thankfully he had packed his dress clothes in his bag with the intention of changing upon arrival, just in case this exact scenario took place. 

I was able to maneuver and get back home and now it was 7:30 am on a Saturday (I had to wake up Camille to take Calvin -- the worst sin ever) and we were stuck at home. I had the bright idea of telling Camille we'd do 20 minutes of straightening up and then watch a movie and drink hot chocolate. Fun mom, right? She, of course, fixated on the hot chocolate and movie part and ended up in a limp rag doll tantrum: "I want to pick the movie NOW!!!" so we spent the next 30 minutes in preschooler hell until she realized that me asking her to pick up her princess dolls wasn't the worst thing in the world and she wiped the snot and tears off of her face and grudgingly went to work. She's an extreme cryer, but once she snaps out of it she is quick to apologize for her drama. 

So we hung out at home for the rest of the morning, avoiding this mess on the roads:  Traffic problems

This article makes me laugh because it shows how unprepared they were for the logistical problems that arose from closing so many major roads all at the same time. That lack of foresight is common here. Josh was fortunate that his flight took off, but many people had canceled or delayed flights and the cruiseship disaster? 1700 extra people trying to tour the island on the day of a major road race? The triathlon has been scheduled for a year, it didn't occur to anyone that that would be a bad idea? 

My friend who was competing in the race said she was flying by the wall of traffic on her bike thinking, man, you people are going to be stuck for hours. She said it was all horns blaring and people out of their cars, standing around and frustrated. All that to say, I was happy to stay home. 

I wish my cat had been just as happy to stay home. Around noon the guy came to wash our car and Camille was outside chatting with him and let the cat out accidentally. I caught him and brought him back inside, but a few minutes later I couldn't find him and knew he had slipped back out. Since we live on a corner that is hazardous to all living creatures, I was nervous about him being out, but there wasn't anything I could do other than hope and pray he would come back when it got dark and he got hungry.

Finally around 4pm all the roads had opened back up and I was able to go take care of moving the car. The other unfinished business that Josh left behind was an issue with Carter's phone. The night before, they had gone to the electronics mall here (a bunch of tiny shops that all sell cellphones, cases, do computer repair, etc. I have no idea why things are organized this way, but one place will have all the fabric shops, another area all the shops that sell faucets and tub fixtures, another area is lightbulb alley, etc. It seems completely counterintuitive for a successful business to have that much competition, but whatever. It was that way in Oman too) to buy Carter a cellphone. A used iPhone to be specific. Carter has been saving his money for a year and finally saved up enough to buy one. They came home happy until I tried to call Carter 10 minutes later and I could hear him, but he couldn't hear me. They checked every part of the phone, except the actual phone part, cause you assume a phone can make and receive calls. (That and he didn't have his sim card with him to actually make a call). So I needed to take him back there ASAP to get it repaired or replaced so they didn't blame him for breaking it. 

First I had to pick up Calvin from his conference. He didn't win Military Child of the Year, but he said it was a good day and his speech went well. Yay. Went home, dropped him off, picked up Carter and headed to the cell phone shop. I hate going there because it's in an area with nasty traffic. But we made it and only had to drive the wrong way down a one way street once. Victory. Inside the guy checked out the phone and said it was an easy fix if we could wait 20 minutes. Then 20 minutes turned into an hour because the guy "didn't have the part so inshallah," his guy would come in an hour. I decided while we waited it would be a good time to go take care of the car at the airport. Of course I didn't take the key with me so I messaged Calvin and said we would swing by the house and if he could grab the keys for us and bring them out, that would help. Now it's getting dark and the cat still isn't home. Caleb is in tears, but there's not much I can do until I'm home for the evening. 

Key handoff complete we head to the airport, getting stuck in massive traffic on the way. 6 or 8 police and military vehicles with blue lights flashing and cars stopped on both sides of the road. I thought it was a checkpoint until we got closer and saw foam all over the street and sidewalk. It turns out that someone was in a massive single car crash that set his vehicle on fire and killed him. Ugh. The paper reported, "It is believed drink was involved." (that's how they talk about alcohol here)

Meanwhile in traffic Carter and I making the best of things are cranking the music (hoping for a little Taylor Swift "Shake it Off") so I decide to open the sunroof. Only the sunroof that I spent over $200 fixing last week won't open. So Josh relaxing in his hotel in Jordan starts getting crazy lady texts like this one:

We finally make it through the mess and out to the airport, locate the car in the parking lot, and park. My plan is to move Josh's car to the long term lot a few blocks away (that only costs $2.65/day) and then walk back to short term to get my car. As I grab my purse and close up my car I see Carter struggling with the key. "It's not working, Mom." I wiggle and jiggle the key in the lock and then look down to see that the key he is using to try and get into the Land Rover is the old Montero key. Breathe in, breathe out. I'm annoyed and headachy and can't believe that I drove all the way out there for nothing, but life goes on. My fault, I should have checked to make sure the boys handed off the correct key to each other. So back to the cell phone store to see if any progress has been made on Carter's phone. 

The guy said that they replaced the speaker in the earpiece but it still didn't work so he was going to have to have the technician keep it overnight and take a look at it. He said that he would let me know how much it would cost. Excuse me? You sold me a broken phone. I'm not paying anything. 

We went round and round at the shop with him saying that we should have checked the phone thoroughly before leaving and I said there's no way to check it without a SIM card and he should have checked it before he sold a defective product, but we both decided it wasn't worth arguing about it until we knew whether it was a big problem or a small problem. 

So I returned Carter to the house, went inside and got the correct key myself and went back out to the airport. I told the kids I wanted them to go to bed and to be asleep by the time I got home. Bob was still crying and Carter started crying because Zeki still hadn't come home. I told them they could troll the neighborhood for him, but then go to bed because I wasn't in any mood to deal with any more garbage (like putting Camille to bed) after going to the airport twice in one evening. Calvin made the insightful statement of, "Why does this stuff always happen when Dad is gone?" Sure enough. It's one of the laws of nature. The 11th commandment. It's as predicable as gravity. 

Round 2 at the airport was pretty uneventful, even though long term parking looks like a private parking lot and they've reversed the lot so you have to drive in the exit, against the directional arrows to enter. Figures. I arrived home around 9:30, having just spend the last 5 hours driving in circles getting almost nothing accomplished. And our cat was still missing. 

At first glance it seemed that they were all asleep,  but I found Carter, huddled up by our front window, sobbing that he couldn't go to school tomorrow because Zeki wasn't home. Poor kid. I didn't expect that from him (Caleb, definitely). Neither did Josh apparently since when I sent him these texts he seemed very insensitive to our pet tragedy. 

(we worked things out eventually)

I told Carter to go to bed and that I would walk around our neighborhood and look for him before I went to bed. So, looking like an idiot, I walked all the blocks in our immediate vicinity with a plate and fork in hand, tap, tap, tapping as I walked, hoping the cat would come running like he does at mealtime at home. I'm sure I looked like the step-mom/girlfriend from The Parent Trap tapping her sticks together to scare away the mountain lions. Ridiculous. It did have the desired effect though. All the cats in the neighborhood came running: scrawny black ones, diseased looking tabbys, an orange one with an oozing eye and a banged up ear . . . cats came from all over to see what sort of food I was passing out. But not my cat. I finally gave up looking under parked cars and went home, full of sunshine.

Yep the dog got out while I was looking for the cat and ran his scrawny behind all over the neighborhood (thankfully not getting hit by a car in the process) until I blew his whistle (thanks mom) and he ran up panting a few minutes later, smelling of garbage. 

So I sat on the couch, grumbling to myself about how horrible my day had been, and how I should probably take Motrin for my headache, but I didn't think I had any left in the house, and I put on Survivor, but didn't care who or what was voted off the island as I knit for the next two hours. Finally a little after midnight I decided it was time to go to bed, but I wanted to check our yard one last time to see if Zeki had heard my plate tapping and decided to come home (I had left the gate open and the garage door up just in case). 

I saw a small bit of movement under the car and thought, "No way. God has answered our prayers and Zeki came back!" I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight and peered under the car to see a black and white cat staring back at me. Seriously? That's just cruel. I got my hopes up for nothing. I reached out to shoo away the stray and saw a bit of beige fuzz behind him. It was Zeki!!! Huddled up on the inside of our car tire. I reached out and pulled him toward me and ran inside and woke up the kids. 

Happy days are here again!

I put the kids back to bed, called Josh and told him the good news and then as it was after 1am, decided it was time to crash. But where was the cat? I checked all of his normal lounging places and he wasn't there -- I even tiptoed around the kids rooms with my flashlight hoping to find him tucked in among their covers. 

I realized in leaving a way for the cat to come back in the house (open bathroom window) I had unwittingly provided him a way to get right back out. Ugh. I don't get paid enough for this job. I did one last scan of our yard and trees with my flashlight before saying, "screw it" and heading to bed. I figured if God had brought the cat back once, he could do it again and at least the kids could have a peaceful night's sleep believing the myth that their cat was safe inside the house. 

A few hours later, morning arrived and I headed outside at 6:30 while the kids were in the shower and called for the cat through my bleary, puffy eyes. He came trotting up like it was no big deal that he had spent the night outside so I picked him up, made sure all of our windows were closed, popped him in the bathroom where the kids were getting ready (and were happy to love all over him) and went back to bed. Amen. 

Time Out

My laptop had to go to the electronic hospital over the weekend because I was finally fed up with a power cord trailing behind me everywhere I went around the house. The whole point of a lightweight, portable computer is to be able to whisk it from one location to another without being tethered, but my battery had given up it's charge many months ago and I was down to about 30 minutes of usable life.

I waited so long because it didn't feel like a need, especially since a new battery would cost about $175. I'd never spend that much fixing one of my old computers, but since my baby works almost as well as the day I got it and it's 3 years old, I figured it was worth investing the money to bring back some of its former glory. Besides, the boys are getting to where they are fighting over who gets to use the computer for homework first, so at some point in the nearish future (or whenever a new model catches my eye), I may "need" to upgrade and give this one to the boys.

I went in to ask about a battery replacement and the guy said, "Sure. We don't have the part here, so it will be 5 days." I almost felt like a junkie when I asked, "Can't I take the computer with me and bring it back when the part arrives?" It turns out that keeping my computer and opening it up was part of the process to guarantee that the correct battery was ordered, so I went home feeling a bit naked.

Since Josh was gone (and his computer with him) and I refuse to use the beast of a computer that the boys have (old, buggy PC that was blown up in Oman and salvaged, but never as good as before) because I'm spoiled by mine, I was computerless for 3 days. Thankfully the guys at the shop were fast! I still had my phone so I wasn't entirely without contact with the outside world, but I hate doing any sort of serious reading or writing on my phone. So when I was home (which wasn't much -- the last 3 days have been ridiculous) I watched dumb Hallmark style Christmas movies on TV and knit. I knit an entire hat for Carter yesterday and Camille and I watched a version of Cinderella that subbed an MP3 player for the glass slipper. It was interesting.

The beginning of my hat -- I dyed this yarn myself too.

I am such an information seeker (reader, researcher, rabbit trail wanderer) that I realized when I have the world at my fingertips it's hard to put the computer down and focus entirely on something else. I'd always rather be multi-tasking (thus, the knitting and TV watching or the knitting and sports watching). But when my computer wasn't in the house, the itch was gone. I didn't feel restless or have withdrawals from Facebook. Life went on online and I was fine with that. News stories happened and I didn't hear about them and no one died as a result (or maybe they did. I wouldn't know since I didn't have my Yahoo headlines). It guess it's like having chocolate in the cupboards. If I know it's there, it calls my name, but when the cupboard is bare, it's easy enough to ignore.

I still plan to finish up my Crete stories, write about Calvin's homecoming night, and spin the tale of my worst day ever (all is fine, the story is more of a comedy than a tragedy), but tonight I'm putting the computer away and going to bed early. Maybe . . .