Ho Hum

Ho hum. Another looong day of no school and very little news. The best things I can report are that Screamer went peepee on the potty not once, but twice, today (just what you came here to read about, certainly!) and that Sushi managed to make it through an entire 24-hour period without pitching a fit (must be the sedative dart we put in her neck last night). Baby is nursing some mysterious red circles on her cheeks that, appropriately for the season, make her look like a toy soldier from The Nutcracker (any moms out there have a clue of what these could be?), and Daddy actually skipped a trip to the mall this morning (unheard of!!) because his work projects are starting to back up on him (what, they didn't relocate him to the Middle East to spend every single day at the park with his children?). PopPop/Rocky continues his strict regimen at the gym, and I am so beyond the mindset of unpacking that I have happily resigned myself to living out of boxes for the entire two years we are here. Raquel disappeared only once this week (and for a measly few hours, at that), and Zia is in my good graces at the moment because, since I didn't drive anywhere with him today, I don't feel nauseous right now. Which reminds me, all of us are 94% recovered from that stomach bug (each of us is stricken with the occasional stomach pains, and Sushi's complexion, for some odd reason, remains that of someone who is in the permanent presence of a ghost). And That, my friends, is our collective status.

Since I haven't left the house much lately, I don't even have tales from the world to relate... though I suppose I can scrape the bottom of the barrel and tell you how completely creeped out I was at our local Pizza Hut tonight (that's right, travel abroad! experience new foods! expand your palate!) (or not). Mere moments after we arrived at that renowned culinary establishment, a cheesily-attired "waiter" slithered over to the four of us (Daddy, Sushi, Screamer, and me), noticed the girls' rapt interest in the salad bar (admittedly, it was cool: a round table over which a glass half-dome of sanitary protection rose and fell at the touch of a remote control button), and literally SWEPT Screamer up into his arms and away towards the condiments. I fiercely protected my cub (meaning, I near-whispered into my bottom lip, "She's not going to like that") but before I knew it, the guy was holding her up near his cheek and bribing her affections with the salad machinery (the poor kid didn't stand a chance of resisting him; after all, she was raised in an environment in which remote control = power). After he had put his grimy hands all over hers, directing her fingers to the correct buttons on the remote, he asked her for a kiss (!!!) before returning her safely to the earth. Of course at that point, my well-versed-in-the-don't-talk-to-strangers-speech eldest child was standing right next to him, eagerly awaiting her turn on the Skeevy Guy Ride. The goon was more than happy to oblige, and again I just stood there praying that the encounter would be over soon and calculating exactly how many more minutes until the children's bathtime. Adding insult to injury is that for about ten minutes thereafter, the guy stood making small talk with Daddy, all the while STROKING SCREAMER'S HAIR. Funny, I tend to slip into full-body paralysis at the *most* inconvenient times.

May I say again, WTF. I get (or pretend to get, for the sake of being polite) that this culture supposedly has a "great love of children" (you know, one that inspires them to ogle toddlers at the beach and beg 2-year-olds for kisses). But whisking a child away from her parents to steal a few precious moments alone over the coleslaw is really too much.

Or is it just me. Am I too closed-down to realize that perhaps the guy was just SO into Pizza Hut that he wanted to share his passion for salad bars with the next generation. Or that his asking for a kiss wasn't gross or pervy, but rather an innocent bonding moment to commemorate his and Screamer's mutual appreciation for fine fast food.

Um, nope. It was gross, no matter how you slice it. (ha! a pizza pun! that was *actually* not intended!) ahaha I'm getting stupid, time for bed.

Ok, thanks for checking in on us. Talk soon.

p.s. Wait, one funny story. You may recall that I have been steeling myself for the inevitable disclosure of our Newishness to the housemaid and the driver (and the general population at large, as needed)? Well, looks like I don't have to worry about that anymore. Last night I was ushering the kids out to the car, as Daddy and PopPop had volunteered to take the girls out for their first banana split (another Middle East delicacy!), when Daddy came stumbling back into the house, gripping a small children's book and muttering, "Are you trying to get us KILLED?" Turns out that dear Sushi, in an effort to appease her overly-compensating Newish mother who had dragged the Festival of Tights books out from under a rock (of ages!) somewhere, had been paging through one such tome when she encountered a confusing passage. Thus, she held the book out to dear, Pakistani Zia, pointed to the Festival of Tights prayers that were splashed all over the pages in large, cartoonish Hebrew letters amongst dancing menorahs and dreidels, and said, "Can you help me read this?" Apparently, Zia peered intently at the page, drew it closer to his eyes, and remarked bewilderedly, "I don't think this is English..."

Happy Festival of Tights, Zia! L'Chaim!