Recently Rachel has encountered some new words that sound similar to words that she already knows, but which mean entirely different things. This confuses her to no end.
Although Egypt lacks sidewalks, they do have enough curbs to make up for that. There are curbs everywhere, much to Rachel's delight. She finds great joy in walking on the curb but, since she's like 16 months old, she still needs help walking on them so I end up awkwardly leaning over so that I can hold both of her hands while she tries to balance on the curb.
She started to get a little tipsy while we were out walking the other day and looked like she was going to fall and knock both of us over in the process. It scared her a little.
"Watch your balance, Rachel," I warned her.
She looked up at me like I was talking crazy, like I had just suggested the most impossible, most scary thing in the whole world.
I understood why the second time she lost her balance and I said, "Whoops! You lost your balance again."
This time she looked up with me, with the same look of trepidation frozen on her face, but then she shrugged her shoulders and started jump-walking along the curb.
Balance sounds a lot like bounce, if you think about it. And she knows the word bounce all too well.
The other instance of grave confusion that I can recall happened yesterday while I was making dinner. Rachel suddenly decided that she was ravenously hungry and couldn't wait another minute to eat. So she proceeded to tell me so by pulling on me and signing more and pointing to her mouth and whining and crying and, in general, carrying on.
I told her that I was making dinner so she'd have to wait.
She didn't think this was a good idea, but after I ignored her protests long enough she left the kitchen to scavenge around the house.
Five minutes later she was back in the kitchen saying, "Mmmmm, mmmmmm!"
I turned around to see her holding an empty yogurt cup that's she'd pulled out of the garbage can. Gross!
I told her that she wasn't supposed to get anything out of the garbage can...and that she certainly wasn't supposed to eat anything out of the garbage can. Luckily it was a yogurt cup that we'd thrown away within the hour and not Andrew's yogurt cup from breakfast early that morning, so it hadn't been sitting there too long.
Since she was apparently hungry enough to eat garbage, I told her that if she wanted we could get a yogurt out of the fridge to eat. She immediately ran to the fridge and started pounding on it with both fists, apparently to let me know that, yes, she did want to do that. I got her a yogurt and started feeding it to her.
"Now," I said, still in lecture mode, "This is just a snack, so don't expect to get full."
She looked up at me like I was crazy, again. She may very well think I'm crazy. She looks at me like that a lot.
"Yeah," I confirmed, "It's a snack. It's like a mini-meal, so it doesn't fill you all the way up. Just some."
I could read the question mark on her face when she looked at me and started snapping her fingers by touching her thumb with her pointer and middle fingers in a staccato rhythm hoping to make a noise...so not really snapping, but pretending to.
"But mom," she seemed to plead, "This is a snap!"
"Not snap," I corrected.
She shook her head no while continuing to snap her fingers, the question still burning on her face.
"snaCK!" I said, emphasis on the -ck.
She didn't get it; just kept snapping her fingers and shaking her head as if to say, "It's okay, mom. I know it's yogurt but you can call it snap if you want to."
And just so you know, Rachel learned how to snap her fingers from a toilet paper lady at a public washroom near Ibn Tulun. She was afraid to use the potty because it was a squatter and, let's face it, those are scary under the best of circumstances. These were not the best of circumstances and she really had to go, but the bathroom floor was covered in water and I swear it was growing mold. It smelled bad and was filthy dirty. Instead of acting like a normal person and just using the potty anyway, Rachel started screaming her head off while making a break for the door. All this with her pants at her ankles.
The toilet paper lady started hissing at Rachel to get her attention. That's what they do here, hiss at people.
When that failed, the lady started snapping her fingers.
Rachel found this most amusing and started "snapping" her fingers back. Temper tantrum averted, al ham dil Allah. The last thing I wanted was Rachel throwing herself dramatically on the ground.
And the toilet paper lady didn't even baksheesh us for using her bathroom. Probably because she knew that Rachel didn't go and so didn't need toilet paper. And maybe because I slipped and almost fell into the gross, mold-infested, stagnant sewage water that was covering the bathroom floor. I think she felt that she hadn't made our bathroom experience all that it could be.
It was messy and scary and she knew it.
So instead of asking for money she just snapped her fingers and waved at Rachel when we left to find a different, less scary, less messy, less moldy, less squatty bathroom.
The experience greatly impacted Rachel; she's been snapping ever since.
Oh, and while we're talking about Rachel and going to the bathroom, I have an announcement to make.
Yesterday while I continued making dinner post-yogurt break, Rachel left the kitchen. I heard her mucking around in the bathroom so I also left the kitchen so that I could see what she was up to. My sweet little girl went and sat on the potty all by herself. And went! I was so proud!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
200 Pounds
The money system here is rather curious. They have 9 different bills and even fewer coins. I'm actually not sure how many different coins they have because the Wikipedia article on them is rather elusive. All I know is that we, personally, have 3 different coins--a 5 qirsh, a 50 qirsh, and a 25 qirsh. We only have one of each and we don't plan on spending them because they're such a novelty.
Plenty of 1 pound coins have passed through our hands. We see those with more frequency than the other coins so they aren't quite as cool when they come around.
Instead of coins here, they use bills. They have a 1 pound bill, a 50 qirsh bill, and a 25 qirsh bill. Believe me, those qirsh bills are the rattiest looking things! I think that's why coins are supposed to be coins--because they get used more often than anything else.
The funny thing is, that with the exchange rate, 25 qirsh is equal to 0.04 dollars and yet we use them all the time. All the time. But never the coins. We've kept most of the coins we've found (all 3 of them) because they are so rare we'd hate to spend them.
The "big" bills don't come in much larger denominations, so whenever you have to pay for anything that costs a lot of money you end up with a huge wad of bills! They have 1, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, and 200 pound notes. Whenever you get money out of an ATM it always comes out in 100s and 50s. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll get a few 20s in there. You will never, ever see a 200 pound note, which is probably a good thing because it can be very hard to break even a 100 at a store without change.
A lot of stores don't give out change, which is something I don't understand because I usually pay with exact change, as do most people here, so the one day I happen to need to break a 100 you'd think they'd have change. Not so. They have to scrounge around looking for change. Always.
The metro costs 1 pound. Everyone pays with either a 1 pound note or a 1 pound coin. Thousands of people use the metro everyday. Maybe even millions. I don't know. All I know is that if you try to pay for a metro ticket using a 10 pound note you'll ruin the ticket seller's day.
You can look through the window into his booth and see 1 pound notes piled up everywhere, but he will hem and haw and take several minutes counting out your change, like you somehow inconvieninced him. It's not hard to count to nine, Mr. Ticket Man.
Once, Karen, Rachel, and I went to KFC for lunch downtown while we were sightseeing. Karen paid for lunch and it took them a full hour to come up with her 16 LE in change. When they finally gave it to her it was all in 1 pound bills when it would have been much more logical to give her a one, a five, and a ten. So maybe that's why establishments that should have change never seem to have any. They give all their change to only one lucky person per day. The rest of the population just has to suffer.
We've been here for about 3 months now and we've seen a lot of money come and go in that time. I don't think I've ever seen such a large amount of cashflow--of course, I'm used to the "cashless" society of North America so any cashflow seems like a lot. However, in all our time here, in all the many bills we've seen and handled, we've never seen a 200 pound bill.
Until today.
I went in to the CSA to get the refund from my Egyptian cooking class that I never went to. I had signed up to attend the class with Sara in September. She said Kevan would watch Sam and Rachel for us while we went. But then the instructor broke her back and the class was postponed and Kevan ended up in Saudi Arabia so...long story short, I finally went to get my refund today.
And it came in the form of a 200 pound bill (among other, smaller, denominations).
I was so excited! I felt so rich...but I'm not exactly sure why since 200 LE is less than $40. Still, I felt rich. Perhaps I felt rich in experience because I handled the bill before Andrew did! Neener, neener, neener! ...Not that it was a competition or anything.
He was pretty excited about when I showed it to him, too!
We considered just holding on to it for a while, but then we remembered that we live on a grad student budget, and while 200 LE isn't a whole lot of money, it is money. I wonder how we're going to break this 200.
I kind of want to do it at the metro station just to stick it to Mr. Ticket Man. I can almost see his face when I hand him a crisp 200 pound note and ask for 1 ticket. If I succeeded in convincing him to give me 199 one-pound notes, I'd never need to scrounge around for taxi change again!
Plenty of 1 pound coins have passed through our hands. We see those with more frequency than the other coins so they aren't quite as cool when they come around.
Instead of coins here, they use bills. They have a 1 pound bill, a 50 qirsh bill, and a 25 qirsh bill. Believe me, those qirsh bills are the rattiest looking things! I think that's why coins are supposed to be coins--because they get used more often than anything else.
The funny thing is, that with the exchange rate, 25 qirsh is equal to 0.04 dollars and yet we use them all the time. All the time. But never the coins. We've kept most of the coins we've found (all 3 of them) because they are so rare we'd hate to spend them.
The "big" bills don't come in much larger denominations, so whenever you have to pay for anything that costs a lot of money you end up with a huge wad of bills! They have 1, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, and 200 pound notes. Whenever you get money out of an ATM it always comes out in 100s and 50s. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll get a few 20s in there. You will never, ever see a 200 pound note, which is probably a good thing because it can be very hard to break even a 100 at a store without change.
A lot of stores don't give out change, which is something I don't understand because I usually pay with exact change, as do most people here, so the one day I happen to need to break a 100 you'd think they'd have change. Not so. They have to scrounge around looking for change. Always.
The metro costs 1 pound. Everyone pays with either a 1 pound note or a 1 pound coin. Thousands of people use the metro everyday. Maybe even millions. I don't know. All I know is that if you try to pay for a metro ticket using a 10 pound note you'll ruin the ticket seller's day.
You can look through the window into his booth and see 1 pound notes piled up everywhere, but he will hem and haw and take several minutes counting out your change, like you somehow inconvieninced him. It's not hard to count to nine, Mr. Ticket Man.
Once, Karen, Rachel, and I went to KFC for lunch downtown while we were sightseeing. Karen paid for lunch and it took them a full hour to come up with her 16 LE in change. When they finally gave it to her it was all in 1 pound bills when it would have been much more logical to give her a one, a five, and a ten. So maybe that's why establishments that should have change never seem to have any. They give all their change to only one lucky person per day. The rest of the population just has to suffer.
We've been here for about 3 months now and we've seen a lot of money come and go in that time. I don't think I've ever seen such a large amount of cashflow--of course, I'm used to the "cashless" society of North America so any cashflow seems like a lot. However, in all our time here, in all the many bills we've seen and handled, we've never seen a 200 pound bill.
Until today.
I went in to the CSA to get the refund from my Egyptian cooking class that I never went to. I had signed up to attend the class with Sara in September. She said Kevan would watch Sam and Rachel for us while we went. But then the instructor broke her back and the class was postponed and Kevan ended up in Saudi Arabia so...long story short, I finally went to get my refund today.
And it came in the form of a 200 pound bill (among other, smaller, denominations).
I was so excited! I felt so rich...but I'm not exactly sure why since 200 LE is less than $40. Still, I felt rich. Perhaps I felt rich in experience because I handled the bill before Andrew did! Neener, neener, neener! ...Not that it was a competition or anything.
He was pretty excited about when I showed it to him, too!
We considered just holding on to it for a while, but then we remembered that we live on a grad student budget, and while 200 LE isn't a whole lot of money, it is money. I wonder how we're going to break this 200.
I kind of want to do it at the metro station just to stick it to Mr. Ticket Man. I can almost see his face when I hand him a crisp 200 pound note and ask for 1 ticket. If I succeeded in convincing him to give me 199 one-pound notes, I'd never need to scrounge around for taxi change again!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Beautiful Baby Buns
Sometimes I do Rachel's hair and it's just too cute for words...so I take pictures and then let her sleep in it and wear it the next day, still as cute as the day before just a little messier and less hassle for me.
Before
After
Before
AfterIt still looked good after she'd been running around all day. It survived through several outfit changes (because she likes to change her clothes multiple times throughout the day) and even a nap. And it was a whole lot easier than the french pony-tail pigtails so we'll probably be duplicating this hairdo in the near future.
Here, ball-y, ball-y, ball-y...
I said come here!
Mom! Stop laughing and give me a hand!
Here, ball-y, ball-y, ball-y...
I said come here!
Mom! Stop laughing and give me a hand!Here's our next-day picture. Rachel got up early with me to go workout with some friends this morning and I didn't want to fight with her about her hair. So we just left in her buns all day long. I think they still looked nice. And I just put her to bed...still wearing her buns.
Maybe I'll actually re-do her hair tomorrow...after playgroup. Because why would I do her hair when there's a chance of swimming?
Monday, November 10, 2008
New Quirks
My friend Eliza tagged me with the quirk game again, and I'm kind of glad because I had such a hard time thinking up quirks last time that I've been thinking about them ever since. So thanks, Eliza!
Rules: A - People who are tagged need to post these rules and 8 random habits, facts, quirks about themselves. B - At the end of the post you need to choose 8 people to get tagged and list their names.
1) Although you can't tell by looking at my eyebrows, I love to pluck them. I love when other people pluck them for me. I find it relaxing sometimes to just tug at them. That said, I rarely find the time to actually sit down and shape them. Nor do I actually know how to.
2) It really bothers me when there is still time left on the microwave and Andrew closes the door. I prefer him to run out the timer and then close the door so that it doesn't run without anything in it. This is not a problem in America. Only here.
3) I still consciously edit Americanisms out of my speech. That doesn't mean I haven't gained a little bit of an American accent, but I've intentionally retained some of my Canadian speech patterns. When I'm really nervous I raise my vowels subconsciously so people more often guess that I'm not "from around here" after I speak in church or give a presentation than from daily conversations.
4) That said, I was totally shocked when I went to visit my sister once at how absolutely funny the Canadian accent can be. I was talking to my friend's mom and she kept saying, "Don't ya know?" and I had totally forgotten that was something Canadians said. She was like, "Oh, Kate* is going to be so sad she missed you. She's down at college, don't ya know?" I answered, "Oh, yeah, I did know that." That was totally the wrong response. *Not her real name.
5) I grind my teeth when I sleep. It's terrible and I hate it.
6) Because of my teeth grinding I can't bite things. I kind of hold it with my teeth and tear it. My top and bottom teeth don't touch each other no matter how hard I try. The upside is that I can't bite my nails or chew on my lips. The downside is that eating is a chore. One day when I'm rich and famous* I'll get my teeth fixed. *Fame optional.
7) I've moved a lot. I've lived in Raymond, Alberta; Provo, Utah; Orem, Utah; El Cajon, California; Burnaby, British Columbia; Port Coquitlam, British Columbia; Calgary, Alberta; High River, Alberta; Voronezh, Russia; Amman, Jordan; and now Cairo, Egypt.
8) I still wear clothes I wore in middle school. Actually, I still have a pair of shoes I wore in grade five, so I suppose I could say I still wear clothes I wore in elementary school (although they were a tad big in elementary school, so I'm not sure that counts). I definitely still wear clothes I wore in high school. And a lot more often than the clothes from middle school because, let's face it--those clothes are getting a little old...
Now, I tag: Abra, Kelli, My mom, Katharine, Sarah, Karen, Nicolette, and Emily.
(If you see your name on there and aren't sure whether I mean you or another person by your name, it's you.)
Rules: A - People who are tagged need to post these rules and 8 random habits, facts, quirks about themselves. B - At the end of the post you need to choose 8 people to get tagged and list their names.
1) Although you can't tell by looking at my eyebrows, I love to pluck them. I love when other people pluck them for me. I find it relaxing sometimes to just tug at them. That said, I rarely find the time to actually sit down and shape them. Nor do I actually know how to.
2) It really bothers me when there is still time left on the microwave and Andrew closes the door. I prefer him to run out the timer and then close the door so that it doesn't run without anything in it. This is not a problem in America. Only here.
3) I still consciously edit Americanisms out of my speech. That doesn't mean I haven't gained a little bit of an American accent, but I've intentionally retained some of my Canadian speech patterns. When I'm really nervous I raise my vowels subconsciously so people more often guess that I'm not "from around here" after I speak in church or give a presentation than from daily conversations.
4) That said, I was totally shocked when I went to visit my sister once at how absolutely funny the Canadian accent can be. I was talking to my friend's mom and she kept saying, "Don't ya know?" and I had totally forgotten that was something Canadians said. She was like, "Oh, Kate* is going to be so sad she missed you. She's down at college, don't ya know?" I answered, "Oh, yeah, I did know that." That was totally the wrong response. *Not her real name.
5) I grind my teeth when I sleep. It's terrible and I hate it.
6) Because of my teeth grinding I can't bite things. I kind of hold it with my teeth and tear it. My top and bottom teeth don't touch each other no matter how hard I try. The upside is that I can't bite my nails or chew on my lips. The downside is that eating is a chore. One day when I'm rich and famous* I'll get my teeth fixed. *Fame optional.
7) I've moved a lot. I've lived in Raymond, Alberta; Provo, Utah; Orem, Utah; El Cajon, California; Burnaby, British Columbia; Port Coquitlam, British Columbia; Calgary, Alberta; High River, Alberta; Voronezh, Russia; Amman, Jordan; and now Cairo, Egypt.
8) I still wear clothes I wore in middle school. Actually, I still have a pair of shoes I wore in grade five, so I suppose I could say I still wear clothes I wore in elementary school (although they were a tad big in elementary school, so I'm not sure that counts). I definitely still wear clothes I wore in high school. And a lot more often than the clothes from middle school because, let's face it--those clothes are getting a little old...
Now, I tag: Abra, Kelli, My mom, Katharine, Sarah, Karen, Nicolette, and Emily.
(If you see your name on there and aren't sure whether I mean you or another person by your name, it's you.)
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Lions and tigers and pears
Living here makes the linguist inside me smile. If I was given a pound for every translation error I spotted, I'd be rich. Perhaps I should start charging...
During breakfast the other day Andrew noticed an error on a box of Temmy's Rice Crips. (He could be rich, too, and then we'd be doubly rich!)
We're loyal Temmy's fans--we choke down their brand almost every morning for breakfast.
On the back of the Rice Crips box there were a bunch of games and an advertisement for Honey Pops. Their cereal isn't great so they have to use gimmicks to get people to keep buying. It also helps that they are the cheapest brand. That's why we keep buying...not because of the Mother's Day CD that I got as a prize last week.
Anyway, we've had the Honey Pops before, and they're actually pretty good, but this ad made me want to go out and buy another box ASAP. Who can resist that lovable pear?
On the side panel of any Temmy's box you will see the serving instructions informing you that it's alright to eat this cereal in both summer's and winter's. The instructions are the same on every kind of cereal, except that the name of whatever cereal you're eating is inserted (in parentheses, of course).
People here still have to be reminded that it's cold cereal so the idea is that you eat it with cold milk. I like that they suggest adding sugar to your preference. So do I, so do I. Especially if you get the bran flakes. The bran flakes are terrible and taste just like eating cardboard, so I prefer a lot of sugar. (As a side note, don't get the bran flakes...or the bran o's. Get the bran stars. They still look like dog kebble, but they taste way better!)
I also find it interesting that whoever wrote (or translated) this little gem pours their milk and then adds cereal. I personally pour my cereal and then add milk. But maybe I'm not normal. What do you do?
At least Temmy's is made locally, as virtually everything in Egypt is--I swear they import nothing--so that we won't have to face another cereal shortage if war between Isreal and Lebanon flares up again. That really put a cramp in our breakfast habits those last few weeks in Jordan.
Leaving our cereal cupboard we move on to the saran wrap. We buy Firest because it's pretty much the cheapest stuff available. (Yes, that's my garbage can overflowing in the background, and yes, I emptied it after I looked at this picture and noticed that it was overflowing. Thank you for asking.)
We haven't been able to figure out if they mean to say "First Wrap" or not. From the Arabic it looks like they were probably going for "First Wrap," but with the invisible vowels, it's hard to tell.
The great part is that on the side of the box it lists some uses for the wrap:
So now you know, it's Firest that you want. I want anything that allaw my veggies to breath!
Those "Glad bags" you saw in the first picture--totally boring. "Glad bags" was the only English on the box. The rest is in Chinese, which, unfortunately, I can't read.
But it makes for a nice segue to our next item: the package for the gas match we recently purchased. A picture wouldn't do this justice, so I'll just transcribe it for you.
"Description: Gas match is the best disposable butane torch lighter. This multipurpose lighter is ideal for these difficulty to reach in-door. Outdoor. Lighting tasks. And most important. This torch lighter allows you to keep your face and hands away from flames. It S so convenient that you will never use match again.
Features:
Instruction: To light slide safety switch at side of the lighter on the on position. Point the nozze away from face and press ignition. When not in use. Slide safety switch back to off position.
Important: Lighter contains butane. Gas (under pressure) extremely flammable.
Caution: Do not puncture. Incinerate or expose to high temperature from sun or otherwise above 120F
As with all lighters hold away from face while igniting be sure flamw is extinguished after each use exercise care when lighting any object and do not use gas match to light cigarettes, cigars and pipes. Pailure to follow instructions may result in burn injuries.
Keep and store in cool and safe places out of children's reach."
What can I say? I love that they use so many out of place periods in the top half and almost no periods in the bottom half. What really had me laughing was the "Pailure to follow instructions" part. I don't know why I thought that was so funny. I just did.
Do I have sympathy for the translators? Of course I do.
Just the other day I went into the bread store and picked out five little loaves of bread.
"How many?" asked the cashier.
"Hamsa," I answered.
"Ithneen wa noos," he replied in the quick, mumbly way Egyptians frequently talk.
"Ummm, what?" I asked shyly.
"Two and a half pounds," he responded with an irritaed sigh, "I thought you spoke Arabic because you said 'Hamsa' and then you don't understand what I say. Why do you speak Arabic if you don't speak Arabic?"
Because we've all got to start somewhere, I guess.
During breakfast the other day Andrew noticed an error on a box of Temmy's Rice Crips. (He could be rich, too, and then we'd be doubly rich!)
We're loyal Temmy's fans--we choke down their brand almost every morning for breakfast.
On the back of the Rice Crips box there were a bunch of games and an advertisement for Honey Pops. Their cereal isn't great so they have to use gimmicks to get people to keep buying. It also helps that they are the cheapest brand. That's why we keep buying...not because of the Mother's Day CD that I got as a prize last week.
Anyway, we've had the Honey Pops before, and they're actually pretty good, but this ad made me want to go out and buy another box ASAP. Who can resist that lovable pear?
On the side panel of any Temmy's box you will see the serving instructions informing you that it's alright to eat this cereal in both summer's and winter's. The instructions are the same on every kind of cereal, except that the name of whatever cereal you're eating is inserted (in parentheses, of course).
People here still have to be reminded that it's cold cereal so the idea is that you eat it with cold milk. I like that they suggest adding sugar to your preference. So do I, so do I. Especially if you get the bran flakes. The bran flakes are terrible and taste just like eating cardboard, so I prefer a lot of sugar. (As a side note, don't get the bran flakes...or the bran o's. Get the bran stars. They still look like dog kebble, but they taste way better!)
I also find it interesting that whoever wrote (or translated) this little gem pours their milk and then adds cereal. I personally pour my cereal and then add milk. But maybe I'm not normal. What do you do?
At least Temmy's is made locally, as virtually everything in Egypt is--I swear they import nothing--so that we won't have to face another cereal shortage if war between Isreal and Lebanon flares up again. That really put a cramp in our breakfast habits those last few weeks in Jordan.
Leaving our cereal cupboard we move on to the saran wrap. We buy Firest because it's pretty much the cheapest stuff available. (Yes, that's my garbage can overflowing in the background, and yes, I emptied it after I looked at this picture and noticed that it was overflowing. Thank you for asking.)
We haven't been able to figure out if they mean to say "First Wrap" or not. From the Arabic it looks like they were probably going for "First Wrap," but with the invisible vowels, it's hard to tell.
The great part is that on the side of the box it lists some uses for the wrap:
- It Keep your fruits fresh as harvested.
- It allaw your vegetables to breath.
- Your bread crisp as have just baked it.
So now you know, it's Firest that you want. I want anything that allaw my veggies to breath!
Those "Glad bags" you saw in the first picture--totally boring. "Glad bags" was the only English on the box. The rest is in Chinese, which, unfortunately, I can't read.
But it makes for a nice segue to our next item: the package for the gas match we recently purchased. A picture wouldn't do this justice, so I'll just transcribe it for you.
"Description: Gas match is the best disposable butane torch lighter. This multipurpose lighter is ideal for these difficulty to reach in-door. Outdoor. Lighting tasks. And most important. This torch lighter allows you to keep your face and hands away from flames. It S so convenient that you will never use match again.
Features:
- safety switch
- adjustable flamw
- electric icnition
- conveient shape
- extended lighting nozzle
- visible fuel supply
Instruction: To light slide safety switch at side of the lighter on the on position. Point the nozze away from face and press ignition. When not in use. Slide safety switch back to off position.
Important: Lighter contains butane. Gas (under pressure) extremely flammable.
Caution: Do not puncture. Incinerate or expose to high temperature from sun or otherwise above 120F
As with all lighters hold away from face while igniting be sure flamw is extinguished after each use exercise care when lighting any object and do not use gas match to light cigarettes, cigars and pipes. Pailure to follow instructions may result in burn injuries.
Keep and store in cool and safe places out of children's reach."
What can I say? I love that they use so many out of place periods in the top half and almost no periods in the bottom half. What really had me laughing was the "Pailure to follow instructions" part. I don't know why I thought that was so funny. I just did.
Do I have sympathy for the translators? Of course I do.
Just the other day I went into the bread store and picked out five little loaves of bread.
"How many?" asked the cashier.
"Hamsa," I answered.
"Ithneen wa noos," he replied in the quick, mumbly way Egyptians frequently talk.
"Ummm, what?" I asked shyly.
"Two and a half pounds," he responded with an irritaed sigh, "I thought you spoke Arabic because you said 'Hamsa' and then you don't understand what I say. Why do you speak Arabic if you don't speak Arabic?"
Because we've all got to start somewhere, I guess.
I like ketchup! How about you?
Shortly after noon Andrew phoned home to announce that after 2 and a half months of starving the entire student body, as well as all the faculty and staff, the AUC food court officially opened. He said he was celebrating by eating a hamburger and fries and that Rachel and I should also celebrate.
Since he was stuck on campus all day long he said that although we'd be physically separated, we'd be celebrating together in spirit.
So Rachel and I used otlob.com to order some burgers and fries for ourselves.
I didn't feel like going out to celebrate since the last time I went out (yesterday) I was accosted by beggar children, attacked by some angry ants, confronted by some baladi dogs, harassed by a man in a car, and followed halfway home by some kid on his bike saying "Hello, Hello, Hello," over and over and over again. On top of all of that, Rachel refused to be carried and refused to walk so she spent the majority of the trip home in tears.
It's nice that ordering in is so convenient!
I gave Rachel some ketchup to dip her chicken nuggets and french fries in. She was excited to get her own puddle of ketchup to play with. She loves ketchup.
At first she was really good and rhythmic. Dip the fry, eat the fry. Dip the fry, eat the fry.
Then she realized that if she just licked the ketchup off the fry she could get twice the amount of ketchup out of the same fry. Dip the fry, lick the fry. Dip the fry, eat the fry.
Soon after that she gave up on fries altogether and started dipping and licking her fingers. Dip the finger, lick the finger. Dip the finger, lick the finger.
She then realized that the area of her hand was greater than the area of her finger, so she started putting her palm into the ketchup and licking that off. Smash and lick. Smash and lick.
Her ingenuity didn't stop there for she soon realized that she was wasting both time and ketchup by using her hands at all. She finished her lunch by licking the ketchup straight off her plate.
I was surprised at how moderately messy she got during this meal--I lucked out because I forgot to put a bib on her! I guess she just didn't want to waste any of that precious ketchup!
Since he was stuck on campus all day long he said that although we'd be physically separated, we'd be celebrating together in spirit.
So Rachel and I used otlob.com to order some burgers and fries for ourselves.
I didn't feel like going out to celebrate since the last time I went out (yesterday) I was accosted by beggar children, attacked by some angry ants, confronted by some baladi dogs, harassed by a man in a car, and followed halfway home by some kid on his bike saying "Hello, Hello, Hello," over and over and over again. On top of all of that, Rachel refused to be carried and refused to walk so she spent the majority of the trip home in tears.
It's nice that ordering in is so convenient!
I gave Rachel some ketchup to dip her chicken nuggets and french fries in. She was excited to get her own puddle of ketchup to play with. She loves ketchup.
At first she was really good and rhythmic. Dip the fry, eat the fry. Dip the fry, eat the fry.
Then she realized that if she just licked the ketchup off the fry she could get twice the amount of ketchup out of the same fry. Dip the fry, lick the fry. Dip the fry, eat the fry.
Soon after that she gave up on fries altogether and started dipping and licking her fingers. Dip the finger, lick the finger. Dip the finger, lick the finger.
She then realized that the area of her hand was greater than the area of her finger, so she started putting her palm into the ketchup and licking that off. Smash and lick. Smash and lick.
Her ingenuity didn't stop there for she soon realized that she was wasting both time and ketchup by using her hands at all. She finished her lunch by licking the ketchup straight off her plate.
I was surprised at how moderately messy she got during this meal--I lucked out because I forgot to put a bib on her! I guess she just didn't want to waste any of that precious ketchup!
That ketchup was soooo good!
Hello, my pretty.
Look, mom! No hands!Saturday, November 08, 2008
Baby Charades
Rachel is a closet talker. She has words. She just doesn't use them.
She much prefers signing to talking.
Sometimes this is nice. Sometimes it's plain frustrating.
Take yesterday, for example. She had been playing nicely by herself and I thought I should check on her so I looked up from what I was doing and there she was, standing as still as a statue, her little fist clutched in the sign for "potty" right in front of her sullen little face.
She had had an accident.
I told her that signing is good, but signing doesn't get my attention, so she has to say "Mama!" and then show me the sign once she has my attention. I told her, further, that she could say "Mama, potty!" and I would know exactly what she wanted.
This intimidated her, I think, because she can't say potty yet. She spent the rest of the night refusing to say anything at all. Every time I asked her to use her mouth she'd pinch her little lips tight so that no sound could come out.
While she was having her pre-bedtime nursing session she tried to communicate with me. again It was just like playing charades.
She tugged on her ear.
"Your ear?" I said.
She nodded. Ouch.
"Baby girl, don't nod while you're nursing, ok? It hurts Mommy."
She tugged her ear again.
"Ear," I said.
Then she smacked me, hard.
"Rachel, don't hit mama."
She shook her head. Ouch.
"Rachel, don't shake your head while nursing, ok?"
She tugged her ear and then smacked me again.
"Rachel, don't hit mama."
She reached up and grabbed my ear.
"That's mama's ear."
She hit me again, this time bopping me in the nose and sending my glasses flying.
"Rachel, stop it! Daddy will you come and tell your daughter how to behave?!" I growled.
Andrew came to my rescue and reprimanded Rachel. He told her that if she had something to say she should come out and say it...and not hit mommy.
She grabbed her ear and pouted.
"Oh!" I cooed. Enlightenment had struck, "Does your ear hurt?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry, baby doll," she's been a little under the weather this week so I'm not surprised, "But can you say wawa* or owie when something hurts next time instead of hitting mommy?"
Sheesh. Most babies just tug their ear all day long. Not my baby. I guess she figured that hitting hurts so if she hit me, I'd know that meant "hurts." Then if she could somehow get me to connect hurt with ear I'd know she had an earache.
The problem, though, is that ear-tugging while nursing right before bedtime means "tired," so it took a while longer for us to communicate. And she hadn't been tugging it all day, either. Just right before bed.
Sometimes I love her charades, like when she comes and tugs on my hand to make me come play with her, but it's so cute when she talks!
She was better at using her words today. She kept coming up to me and putting books in my lap and then would run over to sit on our "reading chair."
"Weeeeeeeeeeeed!" she commanded over and over all day long.
How could you resist an order from such a pretty princess?
Today we read: Colors, B is for Books, I like Bugs, Bloomer the Bunny, Little Ladybug, See Me Go, I See You, What do I need? and Friendly Snowman, and a few others...all multiple times.
It's amazing the variety you get when you hide Clifford's Birthday Party.
She's also taken to saying, "Yee-ah!" when she nods her head. It's rather adorable.
It's also adorable when she totally guesses instead of trying to say things. Like yesterday when she wouldn't say "mama" for some reason and just pushed her lips together and signed random things at me.
"Say mama, Rachel."
She signed more.
"Say mama," I tried again.
This time she signed please.
"Oh, come on! You know how to say mama! Just say mama!"
In response she folded her arms, all the while smiling slyly.
What have I gotten myself into?
*Wawa is the Arabic for owie (as I learned on Bridget's blog) so we've been using that to describe our owies. Rachel has yet to actually say it.
She much prefers signing to talking.
Sometimes this is nice. Sometimes it's plain frustrating.
Take yesterday, for example. She had been playing nicely by herself and I thought I should check on her so I looked up from what I was doing and there she was, standing as still as a statue, her little fist clutched in the sign for "potty" right in front of her sullen little face.
She had had an accident.
I told her that signing is good, but signing doesn't get my attention, so she has to say "Mama!" and then show me the sign once she has my attention. I told her, further, that she could say "Mama, potty!" and I would know exactly what she wanted.
This intimidated her, I think, because she can't say potty yet. She spent the rest of the night refusing to say anything at all. Every time I asked her to use her mouth she'd pinch her little lips tight so that no sound could come out.
While she was having her pre-bedtime nursing session she tried to communicate with me. again It was just like playing charades.
She tugged on her ear.
"Your ear?" I said.
She nodded. Ouch.
"Baby girl, don't nod while you're nursing, ok? It hurts Mommy."
She tugged her ear again.
"Ear," I said.
Then she smacked me, hard.
"Rachel, don't hit mama."
She shook her head. Ouch.
"Rachel, don't shake your head while nursing, ok?"
She tugged her ear and then smacked me again.
"Rachel, don't hit mama."
She reached up and grabbed my ear.
"That's mama's ear."
She hit me again, this time bopping me in the nose and sending my glasses flying.
"Rachel, stop it! Daddy will you come and tell your daughter how to behave?!" I growled.
Andrew came to my rescue and reprimanded Rachel. He told her that if she had something to say she should come out and say it...and not hit mommy.
She grabbed her ear and pouted.
"Oh!" I cooed. Enlightenment had struck, "Does your ear hurt?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry, baby doll," she's been a little under the weather this week so I'm not surprised, "But can you say wawa* or owie when something hurts next time instead of hitting mommy?"
Sheesh. Most babies just tug their ear all day long. Not my baby. I guess she figured that hitting hurts so if she hit me, I'd know that meant "hurts." Then if she could somehow get me to connect hurt with ear I'd know she had an earache.
The problem, though, is that ear-tugging while nursing right before bedtime means "tired," so it took a while longer for us to communicate. And she hadn't been tugging it all day, either. Just right before bed.
Sometimes I love her charades, like when she comes and tugs on my hand to make me come play with her, but it's so cute when she talks!
She was better at using her words today. She kept coming up to me and putting books in my lap and then would run over to sit on our "reading chair."
"Weeeeeeeeeeeed!" she commanded over and over all day long.
How could you resist an order from such a pretty princess?
Today we read: Colors, B is for Books, I like Bugs, Bloomer the Bunny, Little Ladybug, See Me Go, I See You, What do I need? and Friendly Snowman, and a few others...all multiple times.
It's amazing the variety you get when you hide Clifford's Birthday Party.
She's also taken to saying, "Yee-ah!" when she nods her head. It's rather adorable.
It's also adorable when she totally guesses instead of trying to say things. Like yesterday when she wouldn't say "mama" for some reason and just pushed her lips together and signed random things at me.
"Say mama, Rachel."
She signed more.
"Say mama," I tried again.
This time she signed please.
"Oh, come on! You know how to say mama! Just say mama!"
In response she folded her arms, all the while smiling slyly.
What have I gotten myself into?
*Wawa is the Arabic for owie (as I learned on Bridget's blog) so we've been using that to describe our owies. Rachel has yet to actually say it.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Flashback Friday: I'm a knockout
"Or have you had an encounter with an overhanging cupboard door left open at the wrong place and the wrong time which has been cursed, condemned, and avenged by a sore-headed victim?"Andrew almost got knocked out in the kitchen early this evening. You'll note the use of passive voice there. That's because I'm only partly to blame so I couldn't say "I almost knocked Andrew out in the kitchen early this evening," because that would be taking full responsibility; and it would sound funny to say "Andrew and I almost knocked Andrew out in the kitchen early this evening."
-Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin
Of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles
I am not entirely to blame in this situation because, although I was the one who opened the it, the cupboard door was already open when he bent over and I was in the process of putting things into the cupboard when he stood back up.
He hit it square on. It was a beautiful blow.
I only neglected him for a minute, to take Rachel out of her high chair, before showing some sympathy. I figured he was mostly okay because he was able to sit down instead of just falling over. He did hit his head pretty hard, though, and now he's working on a big paper he has due on Sunday. Don't worry, I'm planning on editing it before he turns it in.
This blog post will be dedicated to the time Andrew knocked me out in the kitchen a few years ago. Tragically the story was never recorded but it deserves to be because it was loads more humorous than this evening's knockout.
It was March 2006. We had been married for approximately 3 months and were eagerly awaiting our move to Jordan. We were trying to break out of our newly-wed isolation and actually socialize so we joined the ward dinner groups. We were scheduled to have dinner with two other families in the ward, one of which was a young-ish family like ours (although not quite as young since now they have 3 kids and we only have 1) and one was a well-established family with teenagers, a big house, and cars that actually worked.
I remember it was March because the dinner was scheduled to be around St. Patrick's day and we were asked to bring dessert. I was a little intimidated because we were going to be having dinner in the big fancy house of the well-established family and I had no idea what kind of dessert they were expecting.
Andrew really wanted to make Jell-o cake, which is Andrew's favorite kind of cake.
The occasion seemed to call for trifle or tiramisu or something a little fancier sounding than Jell-o cake, but I'm not the world's greatest cook and as a newly wed both trifle and tiramisu were a little out of my league.
So Jell-o cake it was. We didn't have the recipe, though, so Andrew phoned his mom to ask her for it while started cleaning the kitchen.
I had squatted to put away our pots and pans and was making such a racket that I didn't even hear Andrew come up behind me and open the cupboard door above the stove--he was checking to see what kinds of cake mix we had because we needed yellow cake mix for the recipe. He neglected to close the cupboard door when he had finished checking, however, and when I stood up...BAM!
I blacked out for a minute, and when I came to Andrew, who was still on the phone with his mom, was cradling my head in his lap.
"Ow," I moaned.
"So, that's two eggs?" Andrew asked, stroking my forehead while continuing to scrawl down the recipe, "And a package of Jell-o..."
He didn't bother to tell his mom that I had passed out on the kitchen floor. He didn't hang up or say, "I'll call you back." He did, however, successfully get the recipe from his mother. I suppose I'm lucky he even bothered to cradle my head or check on me at all, he was that involved in his beloved recipe.
We made the cake that very evening, although my brains were a little scrambled from the cupboard incident.
Andrew left me in charge of making the glaze so that he could finish some homework. I dove excitedly into my task, mixing together some lemon juice and powdered sugar. What could be better than lemon juice and powdered sugar?
It took me a long time to stir. It was pretty thick. I didn't think glaze was supposed to be thick but I didn't want to add any more lemon juice because I didn't want it to be too sour. So instead I just kept stirring and stirring and stirring.
When I finally had it all mixed in, I stuck my finger in to taste it. Then I gagged and spat it out. It was disgusting.
I had used flour instead of icing sugar.
Luckily I hadn't poured it over the cake yet. Not that it would pour or anything. It was much too stiff for that.
So I started the glaze again, this time being sure to use the powdered sugar and it turned out much better.
I cut the cake into squares and put it on the fanciest serving dish I could find. I somehow just knew that this was going to be a formal dinner party.
And when we walked in the door, I realized my premonition was correct.
Their dining room was decorated like a wedding reception. We had two plates, multiple forks and spoons, cloth napkins, and stemware.
I hardly knew what to do with myself.
They even brought out lemon gelato in little bowls between each course (yes, there were actual courses to this meal) to "cleanse our palates."
Suddenly my lime-flavored, bright green, Jell-o cake seemed a little tacky, although since it was close to St. Patrick's Day I suppose it was still an appropriate attempt at dessert.
I will admit, though, that I was further embarrassed by my dessert, if that was at all possible, when our hostess invited us into the kitchen--what she called a "less formal environment"--to have our dessert.
Had she known what I'd gone through to make that dessert and the humiliation I now faced because of it, she probably would have desecrated her dining room and served my dessert on the fancy plates she had sitting, preset and unused, on her table, and we would have used her delicate dessert forks (also preset and unused).
I much prefer informal dinners where you clammer for food, serve yourself and put all your "courses" on the same plate. But that might just be how I was raised.
The dessert was delicious, though, if I do say so myself. How can you go wrong with sugary lemon goodness?
Something lives in my ceiling
A couple of days before Halloween I was chatting with my sister, Abra, on IM. We had been talking about some serious stuff but I was a little distracted and abruptly changed the topic on her. It wasn't my fault I was distracted, exactly. I was trying my best to be serious...but it was jut difficult to be serious with Andrew running around hitting the ceiling with a broom to make whatever was in our ceiling run around. I simply couldn't focus.
Here's a snippet of our serious conversation before I so rudely changed the subject:
Abra (6:27): Have you ever had a grapple?
Nancy (6:27): No...grape-apple?
Abra (6:28): It's an apple but it tastes like grapes!
Nancy (6:29): Weird.
Big, long 2 minute gap.
Nancy (6:31): Something lives in our ceiling.
Another big, long 2 minute pause.
Abra (6:33): What?
Nancy (6:33): Yeah. It scurries around; I don't know if it's a cat...or a mouse. But, yeah. Something lives in our ceiling...
Abra (6:33): Yuck!
Nancy (6:33): ...And it's kind of creepy.
Abra (6:33): No kidding.
Nancy (6:33): Andrew was just hitting the ceiling with a broom to make it run around...
Abra (6:33): Of course he was, hahaha!
Nancy (6:34): ...So that we could try to figure out if it was too big to be a mouse or too small to be a cat.
Abra (6:34): It could be a rat.
Nancy (6:35): Also a possibility.
I didn't want it to be a rat, though, so although a rat was the logical answer I continued to hope it was an over-sized mouse or undersized cat.
There are many reasons I didn't want it to be a rat. Rats bug me a little more than mice, I guess. No offense, Shallee. Your rats are cute in their own right, but we're talking about sewer rats here, although I suppose technically they are ceiling rats. It's kind of like the weevil vs. cockroach argument. Clearly the one that lives in the sewer (and occasionally in my ceiling) is more disgusting than the one that lives in wheat.
I believe there's a family story of a rat popping out of a toilet and scaring an ancestor (help me out, mom...) and I have never really liked toilets, anyway, so knowing that there are rats running around really won't help encourage a love affair with the kitchen or bathroom.
Pity, really. I was barely beginning to feel comfortable in the area of the house with plumbing, now that it is virtually a cockroach-free zone.
There's definitely a rat living in our ceiling. It's been merely hypothetical for a few weeks, but now it is fact.
When I first started hearing noises, Andrew thought I was crazy.
*Scratch, scratch, scratch!* I'd hear, and then shudder.
"Andrew, there's something on the roof," I'd say.
"We don't have a roof," he'd say.
Touché! We live, not on the ground floor but, on the first floor of a soon-to-be four storey apartment building so we really don't have a roof.
*Scratch, scratch* I'd hear again.
"Well, then there's someone on our balcony!"
"No, there's not," he'd say soothingly, "It's too covered in junk!"
Again, good point.
"Well, then there's something on our balcony!" I'd mutter under my breath.
*Scratch, scratch* I'd hear again.
"Andrew, seriously, come listen to this!" I'd holler.
Eventually I got him to come and listen and he heard the scratching noise, too, thereby proving my sanity.
So we've spent the last few weeks listening to this thing scamper around above our heads and occasionally breaking out the broom to hit the ceiling, just for kicks. But there's definitely a rat living in our ceiling.
I saw it today.
I was playing with Rachel...or looking up bread recipes online...probably a bit of both. That's how I get everything done. Play with Rachel. Pause. Research, type. Pause. Play with Rachel. Pause. Work, work. Pause. Play with Rachel. Pause. Clean, clean. Pause. Play with Rachel. Pause.
My day is filled with a lot of playing with Rachel. I only ever not-play with Rachel in microbursts of freedom.
So, there I was, playing with Rachel/looking up bread recipes online when I heard the sound of little feet. They were a-scurryin'. They were a-scamperin'. They were a-certainly right on my window sill!
Usually when I hear those scratching noises they're already in the ceiling. Today they weren't. They were on the window sill. So I looked up and saw a rat running across the ledge. A few seconds later he disappeared and then I heard those scratching noises in my ceiling.
There is no doubt in my mind that a rat is living in my ceiling. Our windows are frosted so we can't actually see what's outside, unless that thing is plastered to the window, and then we can see just fine. Kind of like how you can completely make out the gecko we saw on our window back in September.
So I could see his big, fat, brown body; his wee beady eyes; and his plump, pink tail. Definitely more of an Emile than a Remy. He was huge as far as rats go--of course, I don't actually know how big a rat has to be to be considered huge, but in my books this guy was big. I'd guess about 10 pounds.
Rachel and I went outside to see if we could see how he was getting into our ceiling. We were stalked by several baladi cats on our way. I kept having to stomp my feet to shoo them away, but they kept coming back and stalking around our feet. I don't know what their problem was today. Usually they leave people alone. Maybe they were trying to warn us about a R.O.U.S. on the loose.
Truthfully, I didn't think we'd ever have a rat problem here because of all the cats around. But apparently I was wrong. It's not the first time and it won't be the last.
Anyway, when Rachel and I examined the rat entrance, at least the best we could from the ground, we noticed that it isn't just a little hole. No...there's a huge gap in the side of the apartment building leading right into our ceiling. Oh, happy day.
Does anyone know how to kill a rat?
Here's a snippet of our serious conversation before I so rudely changed the subject:
Abra (6:27): Have you ever had a grapple?
Nancy (6:27): No...grape-apple?
Abra (6:28): It's an apple but it tastes like grapes!
Nancy (6:29): Weird.
Big, long 2 minute gap.
Nancy (6:31): Something lives in our ceiling.
Another big, long 2 minute pause.
Abra (6:33): What?
Nancy (6:33): Yeah. It scurries around; I don't know if it's a cat...or a mouse. But, yeah. Something lives in our ceiling...
Abra (6:33): Yuck!
Nancy (6:33): ...And it's kind of creepy.
Abra (6:33): No kidding.
Nancy (6:33): Andrew was just hitting the ceiling with a broom to make it run around...
Abra (6:33): Of course he was, hahaha!
Nancy (6:34): ...So that we could try to figure out if it was too big to be a mouse or too small to be a cat.
Abra (6:34): It could be a rat.
Nancy (6:35): Also a possibility.
I didn't want it to be a rat, though, so although a rat was the logical answer I continued to hope it was an over-sized mouse or undersized cat.
There are many reasons I didn't want it to be a rat. Rats bug me a little more than mice, I guess. No offense, Shallee. Your rats are cute in their own right, but we're talking about sewer rats here, although I suppose technically they are ceiling rats. It's kind of like the weevil vs. cockroach argument. Clearly the one that lives in the sewer (and occasionally in my ceiling) is more disgusting than the one that lives in wheat.
I believe there's a family story of a rat popping out of a toilet and scaring an ancestor (help me out, mom...) and I have never really liked toilets, anyway, so knowing that there are rats running around really won't help encourage a love affair with the kitchen or bathroom.
Pity, really. I was barely beginning to feel comfortable in the area of the house with plumbing, now that it is virtually a cockroach-free zone.
There's definitely a rat living in our ceiling. It's been merely hypothetical for a few weeks, but now it is fact.
When I first started hearing noises, Andrew thought I was crazy.
*Scratch, scratch, scratch!* I'd hear, and then shudder.
"Andrew, there's something on the roof," I'd say.
"We don't have a roof," he'd say.
Touché! We live, not on the ground floor but, on the first floor of a soon-to-be four storey apartment building so we really don't have a roof.
*Scratch, scratch* I'd hear again.
"Well, then there's someone on our balcony!"
"No, there's not," he'd say soothingly, "It's too covered in junk!"
Again, good point.
"Well, then there's something on our balcony!" I'd mutter under my breath.
*Scratch, scratch* I'd hear again.
"Andrew, seriously, come listen to this!" I'd holler.
Eventually I got him to come and listen and he heard the scratching noise, too, thereby proving my sanity.
So we've spent the last few weeks listening to this thing scamper around above our heads and occasionally breaking out the broom to hit the ceiling, just for kicks. But there's definitely a rat living in our ceiling.
I saw it today.
I was playing with Rachel...or looking up bread recipes online...probably a bit of both. That's how I get everything done. Play with Rachel. Pause. Research, type. Pause. Play with Rachel. Pause. Work, work. Pause. Play with Rachel. Pause. Clean, clean. Pause. Play with Rachel. Pause.
My day is filled with a lot of playing with Rachel. I only ever not-play with Rachel in microbursts of freedom.
So, there I was, playing with Rachel/looking up bread recipes online when I heard the sound of little feet. They were a-scurryin'. They were a-scamperin'. They were a-certainly right on my window sill!
Usually when I hear those scratching noises they're already in the ceiling. Today they weren't. They were on the window sill. So I looked up and saw a rat running across the ledge. A few seconds later he disappeared and then I heard those scratching noises in my ceiling.
There is no doubt in my mind that a rat is living in my ceiling. Our windows are frosted so we can't actually see what's outside, unless that thing is plastered to the window, and then we can see just fine. Kind of like how you can completely make out the gecko we saw on our window back in September.
So I could see his big, fat, brown body; his wee beady eyes; and his plump, pink tail. Definitely more of an Emile than a Remy. He was huge as far as rats go--of course, I don't actually know how big a rat has to be to be considered huge, but in my books this guy was big. I'd guess about 10 pounds.
Rachel and I went outside to see if we could see how he was getting into our ceiling. We were stalked by several baladi cats on our way. I kept having to stomp my feet to shoo them away, but they kept coming back and stalking around our feet. I don't know what their problem was today. Usually they leave people alone. Maybe they were trying to warn us about a R.O.U.S. on the loose.
Truthfully, I didn't think we'd ever have a rat problem here because of all the cats around. But apparently I was wrong. It's not the first time and it won't be the last.
Anyway, when Rachel and I examined the rat entrance, at least the best we could from the ground, we noticed that it isn't just a little hole. No...there's a huge gap in the side of the apartment building leading right into our ceiling. Oh, happy day.
Does anyone know how to kill a rat?
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Our Thankful Tree
For those of you who didn't come here to read my political rantings, I thought I'd post a little bit about our family...since technically this is a family blog and not a political one.
Since it's November, we started a "Thankful Tree" for Family Home Evening this week. For our lesson we talking about being thankful to Heavenly Father for all the ways he blesses us. After our lesson we drew some leaves and wrote down some of the things we are thankful for and put them on our tree. We're going to continue to think of blessings throughout the month, so by Thanksgiving our tree should be full of leaves.
It's kind of like a reverse fall. But since we don't have fall here anyway, I don't think it matters that our tree is gaining leaves instead of loosing them. At first when I said what we were doing, Andrew said,
"Okay, let's all make a green leaf..." and he started to give Rachel a green crayon.
"Actually, they can be any color of leaf. It's fall," I pointed out. Plus, it's a paper tree, and Rachel likes the white crayon the best.
"That's right, it is fall," he agreed and picked up a purple crayon, "Although the trees here are still all green."
Yeah, not to rub it in, but it's 25°C (which is like 77°F). That's one of the things I'm thankful for. I really don't like winter.
That's not on our tree yet, but here are some things that are, in no particular order:
There's still so much we have to be thankful for! I'm excited to see how full our tree will be by Thanksgiving.
Rachel's really getting into the Thanksgiving spirit. Yesterday when I got out of the shower, this is the face that greeted me.
We haven't even talked about pilgrims or Native Americans (First Nations/Indians/whatever you want to say...I am not very politically correct at times, I know) but Rachel's all over it! Apparently when Andrew asked her what she wanted to wear she brought him a pair of pants and refused to put on any shirt he offered her.
I thought the headband was a nice touch. She put that on herself.
Since it's November, we started a "Thankful Tree" for Family Home Evening this week. For our lesson we talking about being thankful to Heavenly Father for all the ways he blesses us. After our lesson we drew some leaves and wrote down some of the things we are thankful for and put them on our tree. We're going to continue to think of blessings throughout the month, so by Thanksgiving our tree should be full of leaves.
It's kind of like a reverse fall. But since we don't have fall here anyway, I don't think it matters that our tree is gaining leaves instead of loosing them. At first when I said what we were doing, Andrew said,
"Okay, let's all make a green leaf..." and he started to give Rachel a green crayon.
"Actually, they can be any color of leaf. It's fall," I pointed out. Plus, it's a paper tree, and Rachel likes the white crayon the best.
"That's right, it is fall," he agreed and picked up a purple crayon, "Although the trees here are still all green."
Yeah, not to rub it in, but it's 25°C (which is like 77°F). That's one of the things I'm thankful for. I really don't like winter.
That's not on our tree yet, but here are some things that are, in no particular order:
- Scriptures
- Food
- Mommy
- Daddy
- School
- Family
- Jesus
- Freedom
- Home
- Temples
- Rachel
- The Gospel
- Skype
- The Atonement
- Our Branch in Cairo
There's still so much we have to be thankful for! I'm excited to see how full our tree will be by Thanksgiving.
Rachel's really getting into the Thanksgiving spirit. Yesterday when I got out of the shower, this is the face that greeted me.
We haven't even talked about pilgrims or Native Americans (First Nations/Indians/whatever you want to say...I am not very politically correct at times, I know) but Rachel's all over it! Apparently when Andrew asked her what she wanted to wear she brought him a pair of pants and refused to put on any shirt he offered her.
I thought the headband was a nice touch. She put that on herself.
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