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Showing posts with label Stupidity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stupidity. Show all posts

Thoughts and Scribbles


I’ve decided to post a collection of the random thoughts and notes from inside my phone. Almost every day, I encounter things that are unusual so I’m going to let you in on some of the stupidy, craziness, and goofy things that are a part of my day-to-day life here. It’s all short, random, and unrelated. Enjoy.

#1 Uhhhh…wudd-ju just say?
 Sometimes, it’s really cute to hear Arabic-speakers try to pronounce English words. One thing I’ve noticed is that the “r” is very difficult for them to say. An example and test of this is the word “squirrel.” Almost 100% of the time when I ask people to say it, it comes out “squiddel.” Haha!  One time, a litltle Moroccan girl was trying to explain to me that she needed a ruler but she didn’t know the English word for it. After I figured out what she was trying to describe I said, “Ohhhh, ok. This is called a ‘ruler’.” She said, “Ah yes.  Looler.”  So stinkin’ cute. Another example: the other day my friend’s mom was jokingly mocking me and I was saying “this flower”…but when she said it, it came out “shit sour.” No harm intended but many laughs resulted!

Pearl the Squirrel, aka Piddel the Squiddel

#2 Priorities
So my friend just had a baby boy. In the house. No doctor, no medicine, no epidural, no after-birth vitals check-up, nothing. After a few hours, it was time for baby’s first meal. Breast milk, you ask? No, my friend. A bottle full of diluted Moroccan tea. I mean, what baby doesn’t want to start life off with a fresh cuppa? Skip the pump, ma—hand over the tea pot. And who wants to look like a raggedy newborn mess whilst sippin’? Not to worry, as grandma had already applied baby’s first coat of eyeliner and eyebrow liner.  So with guyliner and tea bottle in tow, that little guy had a pretty good first day of life.


#3 That’s the Pits!
 No matter where you go in the world, adolescent boys do the armpit fart.
 It’s just a fact of life.


Wonder if that baby's wearing eyeliner...

#4  Untitled …because I literally have no words to say about this.
I was brushing my teeth today and while I was doing so, a friend of mine came up to me and asked what I was doing. Personally, I thought it was obvious what I was doing but around here it may not be something everyone’s used to.  She looked at me and asked me why I was brushing my teeth. She thought it was funny that I brush my teeth every day and so I asked her how often she brushes hers. In all seriousness she replied, “About 2 or 3 years ago.”  No comment.

Eww. Gnarly teeth much?

#5  I’m a Rebel.
Jevver drink water out of a bowl instead of a glass? Well you should. I tried it the other day at 4 am and I gotta say it’s way more fun than using a cup. Just hold it with one hand like you’re at a cocktail party. It’s like you know you’re doing something wrong kinda…but there’s no one there to stop you. The same applies for eating chocolate brownie ice cream for breakfast. Just a thought.

#6  Why Didn’t’ YOU Think of That?
My next topic is the magic dustpan. You know how most people have a set of “kitchen scissors” for cutting food or whatever? Well guess what? Moroccans have their answer to the kitch sizz. It’s the kitchen dustpan, or as I like to call it, the “Yuck-Dumper.” Here in Morocco there’s usually a crowd eating together and the meals are followed by fruit for dessert—almost always apples, oranges, and bananas. Oh yeah—nobody here uses individual plates so there’s always some debris left afterwards. Think about it: when you use a wet sponge to wipe down the table after eating, what do you do?  You wipe all of the table gross-ness into your hand. Eww. Instead, why don’t you invest a buck in a “Y-D” and swoop all the mushy junk into that? Brilliant. BONUS: It can even hang in an inconspicuous spot. BONUS #2: It’s more fun if you give it a name…like Bob The Dustpan. Or maybe Doug. Or maybe Fiona Apple Core Scooper-Upper.

Totes Gross.


#7  Working Girl
So I got invited to a huge party today and I decided to go. I knew there would be a lot of people, I just didn’t know what to expect. Right now I’m writing this on my phone from an apartment and I just counted: There are 67 people here. It’s a one-bedroom apartment. It’s also about 117 degrees in here with a surplus of small toddlers. If you’ve read any of my other posts then you know how much Moroccans hate any kind of breeze, wind, or air. Today is no exception as I click away on my BlackBerry. Everyone is singing and rang-bang-boomin’ around on some tambourines so I stepped away for a quick breath of (almost) fresh air.  ---  For some reason, I always get roped into being the “Lead Makeup Artist” whenever there is any type of group gathering. It starts when one person politely asks if I will do her makeup and results in a line forming in a bedroom. There’s usually about 20 people in a room about 9’ x 9’ .  I just finished doing some makeup but this day, I stopped after one. I’m used to doing makeup in Hollywood—we’re talking cash money in large amounts (sometimes), craft services, and most importantly…AC!! Today the requests didn’t stop at makeup—they also included hijab tutorials, aka “how to wrap a head scarf.” I try to wear mine differently and the Moroccan women have taken notice. I’ve been at weddings where the girls ooh and ahhh and ask me how I do it. It’s kind of ironic to me that the American girl is giving lessons to life-long scarf-wearers! I don’t mind, though—just as long as it’s not an inferno where we are. Ha! With all the makeup apps, scarf wraps, and boom-baps, I actually had a really good time at the party.

#8  Extremely Hot Quote of the Day
“Take off the fur coat immediately or I’m gonna puke.”

#9  Let’s Keep it in the Gray Area
No extreme emotions are allowed here. Crying is frowned upon (pun intended) whether it be from something really sad happening or something really funny. Either way, you BETTER not have wet cheeks or there will be consequences.

#10  Daddy Don’t Like No Knuckle-heads
Fun is strictly prohibited when Dad is around. (…and I don’t mean MY Dad of course as he is the King of Hilarity and Goofiness) There will be no loud laughing, giggling, shrieking, and certainly no flailing limbs at any time. Pipe down or fear the repercussions. It’s almost as if every dad here is like a Moroccan Archie Bunker… “STIFLE!”

QUIET!! A baby was boin yestaday!

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Thanks, Chief.



Despite the fact that I’ve been in Morocco for 5 months now, I’m technically considered a tourist. Nevermind the 1-year lease I just signed on my apartment, I am still in the mindset that I’m a resident here.  According to Moroccan Law, an American is allowed to visit for a period of up to 3 months. After the 3 months are up, the person must leave the country. Fine. Not a big deal. After my first 3 months, I dipped out and went to Spain for a few days. Upon entry back into Morocco, the customs official checked my passport and slammed down a fresh ink stamp onto it. Boom! Guess who just got another 3 months? Yep, me. Okay, well now my 2nd three months is about to be up and I really don’t feel like going anywhere. I’m happy here and I am just now  feeling settled, secure, and satisfied.  The good news is, I found a solution. A tourist can apply for an extension for another 3 months.  Yessss. So I took the bus from Tamraght to Agadir to file the paperwork with the police…only to find out I need to go to the station in Tamraght.  Excellent. I go to the policie station in Tamraght hoping to get the papers signed, filed, wham-bam thank you ma’am. Nope.



When I walked into the dusty, dirty, dimly-lit “station” I found it to be no more than the size of a bedroom with 2 adjoining “offices” aka closets. In the main room, I had to clear my throat extra loudly in order to wake the officers up.  One was dozing in front of what appeared to be some type of computer and the other one was sleeping on the queen-sized bed in the corner. Yes, that’s right, a full-on bed for taking naps. So there he was with shoes and socks kicked off, bare feet dangling off the edge—the whole nine. After about 10 minutes of speaking in Arabic, I understood that I had to get all of my documents certified and copied officially with stamps, signatures and a whole lot of waiting in line at the administration office. Where? Oh in Agadir of course. As the Moroccans say, “Note pro-blim.”

So the next day (and about my 100th trip to and fro) I wandered on into the station. Again. This time, I had everything I needed and I was ready to go. Certified papers the size of a phone book, passport copies, extras, blah blah blah.  So today I had an appointment to see the big boss. His office was something out of a movie. Smoke-stained yellow walls, stale air, and it was filled with furniture/equipment/paperwork from what seemed like some other era. Not bad. The demeanor of this guy was somewhat like the Godfather. After I handed him my folder full of papers, he tossed the folder on his desk, opened it up, and let his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose allowing his eyes to peer over the top edges. After 4 minutes of complete silence, he gradually reclined back in his thickly-cushioned 1950s office chair, the metal springs slowly creaking with each centimeter. With his Nike golf shirt untucked and glasses back in place, he stayed there for a while and eventually came back up to the upright position.  He lit up a cigarette, propped both elbows on the desk and slowwwwwly exhaled his smoke into the air. I stood there watching as the smoke danced circles all around the room forming swirling snakes of gray around me. As I stood waiting for his answer, I wondered what was going to happen next. He smashed his cig into the ashtray and told me he’d have to send the papers to Agadir and then Rabat for the final approval. I only have 10 days left and the post office here is less than speedy. I could probably walk the papers there faster. Luckily, I can get a temporary paper to say that I’m waiting on the regular papers to get processed. For now, I think I’ll go to the beach and let the waves clear my head…and the smoke out of my hair.

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