My Lumberjack

We recently moved, and in our new home we have a wood burning fire place. I honestly could care less, but this really excited Ahmed. Because I had never had one before, I couldn’t understand his fascination with it. He went on and on about how cozy and romantic a wood burning fire place was, and how amazing it smelled. I was just excited he used the word “romantic”, (for those of you who know Ahmed, romance isn’t really his forte!) so I encouraged him to have it inspected and get it ready to go! 
One of the perks in his mind of having the wood burning fire place was that he could go out and chop his own fire wood. Our house is surrounded by forests, so there is plenty of wood available to use. Ahmed headed out to Canadian Tire to purchase an axe to have handy at home for when we needed it.
The first snowfall of the year had finally come, which made Ahmed very giddy and excited! After he arrived home from work, he went straight to the garage to chop some wood for the fire. He asked me to get started on dinner, and by the time it was ready, he’d be done, and we could eat by the fire. I was now excited, and couldn’t wait for him to finish. I made dinner, put Mia to bed, cleaned up the living room, and set out cushions and a table cloth on the floor to eat. Two hours went by, and he still wasn’t back; I guess he was chopping it all so we would have it for the whole winter season, not just for the night.
Just as I reached for my phone to call him to tell him dinner was ready, I heard the door close, which meant he was done. He came up the stairs, seemingly out of breath, and carrying two small slivers of wood, and one big stump. As I watched my strong lumberjack collapse on the couch from exhaustion, I offered to go down and get the remainder of the fire wood to burn for the night. To my surprise, he had already brought up everything he had chopped. He asked me to look for the receipt so he could return the axe back to the store because it wasn’t good. He said it was nearly impossible to chop anything with it, and was just so frustrated and tired.
We ended up having dinner without the fire, and afterwards he just went to bed for the night. After I put the dishes away, I started looking for the receipt; I couldn’t find it anywhere in the house, so I decided to go into the garage where he had been using the axe, to see if maybe he put it there.
I looked all over, but couldn’t find the receipt anywhere. Instead, I came across the axe. I know I often exaggerate a situation to make a better story, but I swear I am not exaggerating; the “axe” he was using was no bigger than the knives I had in my kitchen! I nearly died laughing. I guess grocery shopping isn’t the only thing he rushes through; he probably saw a sign for axe’s, and just picked up the first thing he saw and assumed his lumberjack powers would kick the axe into gear.
We ended up getting good use out of our fireplace over the winter, and actually had some romantic dinners by the fire. Yes, we had to buy the wood, but that’s not the point. He was so right about the ambiance and smell; it was seriously amazing! He may not have been able to chop the wood himself, but he always managed to build an amazing fire that would burn for hours!
We never ended up finding the receipt for that sorry excuse for an axe he bought, and it is still sitting in our garage. Another wasted purchase… UNLESS I can convince him to go back and buy a few more to make a set; with barbecue season coming up, I can always use them as steak knives!

Is There a Doctor in the House?

Seeking and following the advice of a Doctor is not a common practice in our culture. We are all programmed to believe we know better and can do better than anyone else, and more willing to offer (force) advice to people we know, then taking any ourselves.
I’m talking about the older generation, and targeting on the women. Remember, I am just generally speaking; I know there probably is one or two amongst the millions that don’t fit into any of these categories, so if that is you, I’m sorry. (Please don’t send me hate mail).
Afghan women seem to think they have the cure for everything. They think they have all the knowledge, all the experience and can help you with anything you are suffering from; however the treatments are almost always the same. They think “aash” (not quite a soup, not quite a stew), and chai (tea) can treat almost anything. Your back hurts? You have a headache? You’re constipated? Get ready for an overload of aash, and chai. And if that doesn’t help, they will “espand” you (a way to ward off the evil eye); the cure for all life’s problems.
When there is an entire room of these women and something happens, get ready for chaos. Imagine being in an operating room and having twenty-six VERY opinionated women holding scalpels, cutting up a different part of you, trying to “one-up” each other. I’ll share a story with you. My mother had thrown me a party after I had gotten married, and invited all her friends to come. One of them unfortunately was having an anxiety attack while being there. Now being someone who has suffered from one before, I knew that the last thing she needed was fifty people hovered over her watching; she needed her space. When word got out that she wasn’t well, every woman in there jumped up to help. They threw her down, one lifted her legs, one shoved water down her throat, the other gave her peppers, one went looking for aash, one was bouncing off the walls screaming, one was starting the heimlich maneuver, one tried to carry her out, one reached into her purse for espand and started burning it… but not once did anyone ask her what was wrong. They saw a woman who was having a mild panic attack, and all sprung into action as if working in the ER. I had to call the paramedics; not because of her panic attack, but to get some back-up to control these women. Two of them actually followed her out to where the paramedics were assessing her, and were offering their own advice on what to do. Thankfully our friend was fine, but it took almost an army of trained professionals to have these women back off.
Then we have the women who are hypochondriacs, and think they have every disease imaginable. If you ever mention anything ever wrong with you, these women have it as well. Your teeth hurt? Hers hurt worse. You have a bad back? She can hardly walk. You have diabetes? Her sugar levels are through the roof! You have a heavy flow? Even though she’s well into menopause, her flows are heavier. I know way too many women like this, and I swear they have never seen a Doctor in their lives, yet complain to having every disability or disease imaginable, just for attention. They constantly complain about everything just to have something to talk to you about. If you’ve had it, she’s had it way worse, and then some!
And then finally there are the women who actually go and see a Doctor, but never follow their advice and laugh about how rebellious they are. If the Doctor prescribes something, they never get it; why? It’ll get better on its own. If the Doctor advises them to get more active, they don’t; why? They get enough exercise doing housework. If the Doctor advises them to cut down their fat intake, they don’t; why? How can you possibly make baanjaan (eggplant) with anything less than three gallons of oil?
It’s frustrating because they will never change. Even if we decide to follow the path that almost all Afghan mother’s dream of and become Doctor’s ourselves, none of them will ever take our advice! As long as there is “espand” burning somewhere, they won’t ever need us.

I Dream of Skinny

Every few months or so I go through my closet and pull out clothes that I haven’t worn in a while, and decide to either donate them to charity, or give them away to a friend or family member. Usually clothes I no longer like, or are too short, or no longer in season… but never the clothes that don’t fit me anymore.
I’m no longer the size two I once used to be, but I so desperately hold onto the clothes in those sizes, hoping that one day I will fit into them again. It’s the dreaded pile of clothes from my early twenties that seem to haunt me, and I can never get rid of! For some reason I think I’m going to get back into shape one day, and wear them again. See, that would make total sense if I exercised and ate right; but the last time I exercised was my eleventh grade gym class.
I’ve looked up diets and cleanses to maybe find a quick fix on how to lose about fifteen pounds. I’ve read about the soup diet, the cayenne cleanse, the raw food diet, but none of them appeal to me; I don’t like restrictions.
My mom doesn’t help much; every time I complain about my figure to her, she scolds me and adds an extra scoop of rice on my plate, and then makes my sister eat a stick of butter and multi-vitamins to catch up! When I tell my Dad, he agrees with me but will then sit with me for hours discussing all my areas of concern, and lectures me about letting myself go. His best advice to me was to wear my “shikamband” (girdle) on a daily basis to manipulate my stomach and love handles into thinking they were smaller. 
A few friends, including my husband, have advised me into cutting soda out of my life. I used to drink a minimum of four a day, which obviously doesn’t help me much. So I recently decided to cut them out of my life (soda; not my friends and husband). Every time I felt like having a soda, I would reach for bottled water instead. It’s taking some getting used to, but so far it’s going well; I’ve only had three sodas total in a span of three weeks. The only thing that sucks is that I haven’t lost a single pound or inch off my waist… It makes no sense! As I stare down at the scale, water bottle in one hand, and my daily bag of large M&M peanuts in the other, I just can’t seem to understand what I’m doing wrong! *sigh*

Unlock The Cage

Dating is such a sensitive subject in the Afghan community.  The only time it really exists is when it is on the down-low, so no one knows about it.  Reputation means everything to our families, and as children, we are required to upkeep an image of innocence and perfection, so no one will think poorly of us. 

 

I have always had a hard time understanding why some parents have such an issue with their children dating.  These parents are so caught up in what people will think; always worrying that their child will tarnish their family name if she is seen with someone of the opposite sex. 

 

There is such a double standard when it comes to dating in the Afghan culture.  Boys are allowed to parade around like gigolos, and are applauded for it.  No one will ever think less of a guy who’s been around; they are just enjoying their youth.  Eventually they will settle down and marry a nice Afghan girl.  But if a girl is so much as seen with a boy, you can guarantee that Shah Koko and Shah Bibi are telling the world what whore she is. It makes me angry because it’s not fair.  Dating doesn’t have to be something dirty; it’s a chance for two people to get to know each other, and to see if they are compatible.  Don’t all parents want to know their child is in a loving, committed relationship?

 

I have no issue with arranged marriages, as long as both people involved are willing, and happy with the decision.  I have many friends who have had very successful and loving marriages that started with an arrangement; and I applaud them for taking such a risk, and working so hard to make it work. My issue lies with the parents that force their children into this. Why do you feel you have the right to make such a life changing decision for someone else?  They usually don’t even base it on anything credible; they base it on their looks. Just because a girl is beautiful doesn’t mean she’s going to be well-suited for your son.

 

We are so pressured to marry within the culture, but are not allowed to socialize within it.  How do these parents expect their daughters to meet a nice Afghan boy, if they are never allowed to talk to one?  Concerts, school social events, weddings, parties are all ways we can meet and greet with these guys, but if we’re caught talking to them, we get in trouble.  Afghan guys are always in fear of approaching and Afghan girl, because if they are caught, they better be ready to go for her hand in marriage so it doesn’t ruin her reputation.

 

Because of all the pressure these parents put on their children, it is no wonder they are all in a rush to get married.  All these girls know of love is watching old Hindi movies; so once a Shahrukh Khan look alike gives them a wink, they think they are in love.  It’s almost like marriage is a ticket to freedom for them.  Once you’re married, you are free to date your husband; give me a break!  This is why there is so much separation and divorce happening in our culture now.  Girls think they are in love, rush into marriage, and end up realizing they have made a huge mistake. 

 

I’d like to send a message to all the backwards parents out there: Why not focus your energy on teaching your children how to respect themselves and others instead?  Stop worrying so much about what people will think; whether it’s good or bad, they’re talking.  Don’t punish your children because you’re worried about what others will say.  Stop caging them; whether you like it or not, they are doing it behind your back anyways.  It’s your choice to decide whether you want to know where your children actually are, and who they are hanging out with, instead of sitting around worrying about what they could be doing.  Talk to your children, and listen to them, and most importantly, learn to have faith in them and in your parenting so you can be confident knowing you have raised a child with good morals, good values, and respect. 

Little Miss Wafa

I haven’t always loved shopping the way I do now; I actually used to dread it when I was younger.  It wasn’t so much the buying things I tried to avoid; it was going clothes shopping with my dad that would worry me.

My father is a very conservative man, and has his own idea of what “fashion” is. He doesn’t believe fashion evolves with time; instead he thinks once you have acquired a look for yourself, you need to stick to it for the rest of your life.  As long as I can remember, my father has never changed the way he’s dressed; even if he’s going to the supermarket, he’s always in dress pants and a dress shirt – his signature look.  I have yet to see him in a pair of jeans, or a plain t-shirt; that’s just not him.  

When it came to buying clothes and deciding what to wear, he always told us that we should seek the advice of others because they would be the ones having to see us in it; and by “others” he meant himself.  He truly believes he has the strongest sense of what looks good and what doesn’t.

He never minded spending money on any of us, as long as we chose what he liked.  Up until I was about seventeen, he was the one who took me shopping for clothes.

Now being a teenager and in High School, there is a certain image you want to have.  Each and every summer I would look forward to back to school shopping, in hopes I would transform myself for the upcoming school year.  My free time was spent planning how I would make myself over so that my classmates were all “wowed” by the “new” me!

I would look through magazines and study what celebrities were wearing… and by celebrities I meant the Spice Girls.  I wanted flashy, tight and tiny clothing, along with matching wedged sneakers; my idea of beautiful!  This was hard because any store that had clothes I liked, were the stores my dad avoided. How was I supposed to dress like a teenager if my father never let me graduate from the “little miss” section at The Bay?

I was never an ungrateful brat; I always appreciated what my parents gave me. I just wanted so desperately to fit in with everyone else in my high school, and stop matching the kids from elementary. 

One of the back to school shopping days, I had convinced my mom to come with me instead of my dad.  She is so much cooler than him when it comes to shopping.  She let me walk into any store I wanted, and try on anything I pleased.  As long as it wasn’t too short, too tight, or too revealing, I was allowed to start dressing like a teenager.  She let me buy the  pair of bell bottoms I had my eye on, and I couldn’t wait to show them off!

I always did a little fashion show for my sister and parents when I would buy something new; for the first time, in a long time, I was actually looking forward to showing off my new “cool” jeans.  Goodbye butterfly embroidery and hearts, and hello stone wash!  The look on my dad’s face was priceless!  His reaction was “you look like a gigolo!” 

Now I don’t think my dad actually knows the definition of a gigolo, because there was no way he would ever call me a male prostitute;  I guess it’s a word he used, and actually still uses to describe someone who looks ridiculous.

He asked my mother to take me back to the store to return the jeans and buy a pair that actually looked good.  My mother tried talking to him, to convince him it was time I got to dress the way I wanted.  He said that was fine, but he just hated when kids wore bell-bottoms; they looked stupid.  My mom started laughing, and went upstairs to go get an old album from when my dad was younger; who would have know that what she was about to show us was going to be my ticket to fashion freedom?

Inside this album were pictures from when my father was in the army, some engagement and wedding photos, and a picture of my father wearing a pair of beige bell-bottoms!  Not only did he have bell-bottoms, he had matching side-burns to go with them!  He didn’t come out of the womb in a dress shirt after all!! He actually had a sense of style, and dressed with the trends; I couldn’t believe it!

Needless to say, my father never bothered me again about my bell bottoms.  I proudly was allowed to flaunt them, and finally took the first step into adolescence.  I always know he means well and wants what was best for me; he was just trying to keep his little girl a “little girl” as long as possible — and I love him for that!

Before I end this blog, I just wanted to just share some of the reactions my father had with different looks throughout my life:   

Body-suits:  “you look like you’re wearing a baby’s top”

Ripped Jeans:  “if someone gave me $50 to wear these, I still wouldn’t.”

Red Lipstick: “you look like a clown”

Capris:  “please either wear a full length pant, or a proper short; these are just stupid”

Hoop Earrings:  “who wears bracelet’s on their ears?”

Highlights & short hair: “you look like a parrot”

Faded Jeans:  “did you buy those at a garage sale?”

Short Skirts:  “here’s an extra $20, please buy something with more fabric”

 

Even though I’m all grown up, and have a little girl of my own, I still secretly crave his approval on what I’m wearing; and if I don’t happen to get that, at least I can get a reaction I can blog about later on!

Stale Bread; Bruised Apples

Growing up, my father always did the grocery shopping in our house.  I don’t think I ever remember a time that my mother did.  She handles the cooking, and Baba does all the shopping.  It works well for them; he’s a pro at picking out the best and freshest produce, and my mom’s a pro at turning them into the most delicious meals!

 

It’s a long process for him; he plans out everything by looking through his flyers (his training), and then goes out full force, sometimes spending the entire day out to take advantage of all the sales. What I never quite understood about him was why he was willing to waste $10 in gas to go save $0.10 on lettuce.  I tried to educate him on “price matching” at Walmart and No Frills, so he wouldn’t have to drive around from store to store to get deals, but he absolutely refuses to do so because he likes things done his way (and for those of you who have met my father, you know that he never compromises his ways.)

 

I got a lot of things from my father; his blunt sense of humour, his stubbornness, and his grocery shopping obsession.  I LOVE to grocery shop!  I find it therapeutic.  I love going aisle to aisle, looking through flyers, planning out my route, everything and anything to do with it.  The only difference between him and I is that I actually do the cooking myself.  I take my time in each store, and plan out recipes as I go.  Anyone who has gone grocery shopping with me can attest to the fact that I can spend HOURS inside.  And if it happens to be a Superstore, I can be there the entire day!

 

My husband on the other hand HATES grocery shopping.  If he had it his way, we would have our groceries delivered to our house just so he can avoid going in.  Any mention of the word groceries and he starts to twitch.  He often sits in the car and waits until I am finished, and texts me about a thousand times to hurry up while I’m in there.

 

Over the past few months, there have been several times Ahmed has asked me to just give him a list and he’ll pick up what I need on his way home.  He plays it off as trying to make things easier for me.  He’s wrong…

 

When Ahmed goes grocery shopping, he goes to the closest grocery store on his way home; which just so happens to be the most expensive.  He, unlike my father, does not care if he spends an extra $1 on a bag of potatoes, as long as it saves him from having to drive to multiple stores to shop. There have been times that I have found a certain item on sale and wanted him to take me to another store to purchase them, and he’s refused, saying it’ll cost more in gas to drive those five minutes to other store just to save a couple of dollars.  So I have to settle on spending $4.99 on detergent vs. $2.00.  Do you know how quickly that adds up??

 

What’s even more annoying is the crazy amount of phone calls I get from him during is trip to the store.  He finds every reason to call and ask a question. He’ll ask me if it’s ok to buy grape tomatoes because they are all out of cherry, or if virgin olive oil is ok instead of extra virgin.  It’s ok when it’s just one or two, but I swear he calls like twenty times when he’s there!

 

My father has taught me ways to inspect groceries to ensure it’s of high quality.  I sniff melons, squeeze bread, pinch okra,… basically feel up everything in the store one way or another (except for the cashiers and stock boys of course!)  What does Ahmed do?  He just grabs and goes.  No checking expiry dates, no checking for bruising or freshness; just grabs and goes.  I can’t even ask him to buy croissants from the bakery anymore because he always manages to come home with rock hard, stale croissants.  When I question him, he says it was on the list and he was afraid that I would get mad if he didn’t come home with any.  Sure. He’s afraid of me getting mad over a croissant, but when it’s fifteen consecutive hours of poker, he’s never afraid!

 

You think guys are bad when it comes to asking for directions?  Try asking them to ask a store clerk where something is in the store.  He will go on a two hour hunt to try to find PC Blue Menu products, and get angry while doing so, instead of just finding someone who works there to guide him in the right direction.  We once got in an argument over cream of tartar because he had no clue what aisle to even look in.  He had me on the phone for ½ hour explaining to him where exactly the spice aisle was in Walmart so he could buy it! 

 

Once he gets through actually putting things into the cart, he complains about the long line ups!  If there are more than two people in front of him, he’s upset.  He “accidentally” waits in the express checkout, and then tries to convince the cashier that he didn’t read the sign of “10 items or less”.  They usually let him through because he can be quite charming. 

 

By the time he gets home (four hours later), he’s so frustrated and exhausted that he swears he’s never going to go again.  But the very next week, he asks me for a list, and we go through the exact same thing all over! I realize the solution is for me to just go and get my license already; but that’s a whole other blog, and I don’t have time to get into that right now.  He needs to just let me do the grocery shopping and stop complaining.  Let me go through my aisles and enjoy myself.  At least this way we don’t end up having to slip items into our neighbours compost bins because ours are overflowing with stale bread and bruised apples!

It’s ONLY A Year

I have heard a lot of people say that the first year of marriage is tough; boy, were they right!  But they never explain WHY it is so tough. You think you know a person, but you really don’t until you live with them.

 

It seems like the easiest solution is living with the person BEFORE you get married, but unfortunately my parents would have never allowed that.  It was hard enough for them knowing Ahmed and I were dating (because it’s so taboo in our culture)… I can’t even imagine the number of slippers I would have had thrown at my head if I had suggested living with him before we got married.

 

Back to the first year:  We were soooooooooooooooooo excited to finally be living together; no more curfews for me, no more rules, we were actually adults!  We had our own place, could eat what we wanted, sleep in till whenever, clean if we felt like it; everything seemed perfect… until reality hit.

 

Our first arguments were over little things, like groceries.  I come from a very social family; my parents have people over for dinner parties at least once a week.  That means a lot of groceries!  I knew how to cook, but didn’t know how to grocery shop.  I decided to just follow in my father’s footsteps, and shop the way he does.  I wrote out a list, and was off to Fortinos.

 

Let me remind you, math was not my best subject in school.  I couldn’t ration the amount of groceries we would need, being only the two of us.  I would buy the same amount of groceries my father would; 20 tomatoes, 12 cucumbers, 8 gallons of oil, bags full of okra and eggplant… hoping it would miraculously turn into something. I would walk by the watermelons and tap them, pick up melons and smell them, and examine grapes piece by piece, just so I could look like I knew what I was doing. 

 

Now if I actually made something out of all of these groceries, there would be no problem.  For the first year, we used to have dinner once a week at my parents place, and take home leftovers for the next day; eat out twice a week; have dinner at one of our relatives place another night; and order pizza on Fridays.  That only left one day in the week for me to cook, and with all those groceries, I could never decide what to make.  We would toss out bags and bags of food, and get in fights over why I was so wasteful.  After all the waste and arguments, he eventually started monitoring my spending and my lists, and checking to ensure I was only buying what we needed.  I felt like a five year old.

 

One argument I know all married couples have gotten into is over the washroom. We had 4 in our first home, but still decided to share one. To this day, I cannot understand a man’s need to stay in the washroom for hours at a time.  It’s like a secret man cave.  Ahmed calls the washroom his office, because he does all his thinking in there.  It drove me nuts!! 

 

His problem with me and the washroom was that he couldn’t get used to all the potpourri, candles, and stuff I crowded them with.  I figured if he was spending so much time in there, I would decorate it nice and pretty for him.  Who wouldn’t want a nice office space? 

 

I filled all the drawers in our washroom with my makeup, accessories, creams, hair tools, etc., leaving no space for his stuff.  He finally got fed up, and kicked me out of the master washroom, and made me move all my things into the guest washroom.  He didn’t want me to mess with his cave anymore than I already had. I was very hurt; aren’t married couples supposed to share everything?!

 

As much as I couldn’t understand his need for space in the washroom, he couldn’t understand my obsession with toilet paper.  I can go through an entire roll in a day.  Now before you get grossed out, I use it for things other than the obvious.  Ever since the triple-ply, cotton weaved, moisture enriched brands came out, I can’t get enough of it!  I use it to blow my nose, wipe my tears, blot my makeup,… the skies the limit with this stuff!  I stopped buying tissue paper, because I no longer had a need for it.  Ahmed would tally up the number of rolls I would use in a week, verses the amount he would use in a month; the difference would shock you.  It would irritate me that he was monitoring my use, and it would irritate him because he thought I was wasting again.  *sigh*

 

I had never done a load of laundry in my life until I moved in with Ahmed.  He was the one who taught me how to do it.  It took a few months, and a lot of shrunken shirts, before I finally got it right!   My issue was never the amount of laundry I had to do; I honestly enjoyed it.  What I couldn’t stand was how Ahmed was incapable of putting his dirty socks into the hamper!  Each and every day, I would find socks under the bed, in the bathroom, on the stairs; but never in the hamper!  How hard is it to take them off and just place them in the basket?!

 

I have a bad habit of peeling food into the sink; and I get that from my mother.  I hate having to stand over the garbage when peeling; I’d rather do it all in the sink, and then collect it, and place it in the garbage at once.  There were times that I would forget to do it, and just leave it in there.  That drove Ahmed nuts… and actually still does because I haven’t shook that bad habit as of yet.  I could feel his blood boil every time he would have to take the plunger out and unclog the sink.

 

The sink isn’t the only thing I used to always clog up.  For some reason, I used to vacuum up everything and anything I saw on the floor. It seemed like a waste of my time to just bend down and pick up the big stuff, considering I had an amazing central vac system that would pick it up for me.  I guess the vacuum had enough, and finally broke down one day. I suggested we call a technician in to figure out what the problem was; Ahmed instead decided to take it apart, and try and find out what was wrong on his own.  He managed to pull out 3 pencils, 4 hair ties, a bunch of paper clips, crumpled paper, and bobby pins all out of the clogged hose. I was trying to find a way to place the blame on someone else, but with only the two of us living there, and me being the only one who ever vacuumed, it was kind of hard. 

 

The first year is filled with a lot of new experiences; you see each other in different light, sometimes a not so flattering light. The love is still there, it’s just clouded with all the snoring, farting, morning breath, bed head. It requires a lot of patience and acceptance to really get through it.

 

I feel we’ve come a long way; I don’t harass him as much about the washroom and his socks, and he has learned not to freak out whenever I clog the sink. Now when Ahmed finds one of my earrings lying around, he collects them, and re-gifts them back to me before I get the chance to vacuum them up!  

Zannaah

We all know at least a handful of women in our lives, no matter where we are from, that have a serious case of verbal diarrhea.  The women that always find a way to say the stupidest thing, offer the worst advice, and sit around and talk about everyone and anyone.  For this blog, I will refer to them all as the “zannaah” (meaning women in Dari) 

As a young Afghan girl, I found there was constant pressure for me to get married.  I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I started getting serious marriage proposals from the age of 16.  It was like the world was in a rush to quickly tie me down, and have me married off.  Thankfully my parents didn’t feel the same way.  But that didn’t stop the zannaah from constantly pestering me about why I wasn’t married.  One of the zannaah in particular came up to me (I was only 22 at the time), and expressed her shock to why I was still single.  She said “You’re still around? No one wants to marry you?”  I guess not.  I should really inquire about a mail order groom.

When I finally did get married, immediately the zannaah were asking me when I was going to have a baby. If I had an extra soda one day, and was a little bloated, or wore something flowy, rumors would spread that I was pregnant. I used to wear a girdle under everything I owned just to avoid the question. It seemed all the zannaah were obsessed with my uterus. First they would say that if I didn’t get pregnant right away, people would think my husband was impotent.  And when I would explain that we just weren’t ready to have kids so soon, they accused me of being lazy and selfish.  When that didn’t work, I just blamed it on Ahmed, and told them that he wanted to wait.  Instead of respecting that, they offered me some sneaky maneuvers to get pregnant and pass it off as an “accident”.  Yes ladies, the key to a successful marriage is definitely manipulation. 

When we did decide it was time to have a baby, and I was pregnant, I thought the zannaah would finally get off my back.  I was wrong; this just opened a whole new window of opportunity for meddling and uncomfortable discussions.  I was asked questions on how I conceived and how long we were trying for.  I didn’t realize I owed it to you to share those intimate details; next time I’ll be sure to make a video.

I found out we were having a baby girl when I was almost 5 months along.  The family and friends closest to me were so excited for us!  But then the zannaah began questioning me, asking me why we weren’t able to conceive a boy.  I kid you not, they showed utter disappointment in the fact I was pregnant with a girl. Some wouldn’t be as blunt with their displeasure, but instead say “maybe next time you’ll have a boy.”  Sorry, I guess I didn’t try hard enough. All we cared about was having a healthy child; how selfish of us.

In my final trimester, the zannaah felt they needed to share their labour horror stories with me.  What better way to prepare me for this life changing experience than to scare the begeebers out of me? They’re so thoughtful, aren’t they? 

The happiest day of both our lives had finally arrived; the day we welcomed our perfect little angel into this world.   Now I realize all parents think that their child is the most beautiful child in the world; and rightfully so.  Even if others don’t agree with you, you never tell someone that; have some discretion.

The following are some of the STUPID things these zannaah said to me once Mia was born: 

“Did they forget another baby in there?  You’re still fat!” I should really go back to my OBGYN and find out.  I mean, it’s totally abnormal to still look fat 3 days after you’ve given birth. I must be a monster! 

 

“I’m sorry to say this, but she looks exactly like your husband.” Ugh! I wasted all time during my pregnancy watching Clooney movies, hoping she’d come out looking like him!  What are the odds she’d come out looking like her father? 

“She’s so pretty; she doesn’t even look Afghan.”  Thank goodness!  Cuz all Afghan’s are hideous beasts, right?

“She looks like a boy.” Really?  The doctors must have missed it; her wee-wee is probably just hiding. 

“I’m sorry, but she’s not even close to as beautiful as you.”  Phew! Who needs the competition? 

I think you can all imagine my excitement whenever I have the pleasure to be in the presence of these dear zannaah; *sigh*

In all seriousness, I don’t know why they do it. Are they missing a filter in their brain that causes them to say such inappropriate things?  Are they out to hurt the world because they are so unhappy in theirs?  Do they even know that what they’re saying is wrong? I don’t mind so much if they sit around and talk about stuff like this amongst themselves; they need something to do.  Just please have some discretion, and leave the rest of us alone.

I Got 99 Problems, And A Wedding Is One!

Have you ever heard the term too many chefs in the kitchen?  That is the perfect way to describe planning an Afghan wedding.  It seems like everyone you are related to, your friends, and even your neighbours, all think they have a say in your planning.  From the dresses, to your colours, to who is invited; nothing is off limits.

It seems nearly impossible to have a wedding with less than 500 people nowadays.  Our families feel the need to invite everyone and anyone they have ever associated with over the course of their lives.  Your uncle’s mother-in-law’s cousin’s daughter MUST be invited because she’s practically family; we can’t upset anyone.

I tried to protest this when I was getting married.  Our guest list jumped up to 750 people; all people our families felt needed to attend.  This did not include any family from overseas, or any of our own close friends.  We managed to talk them down to 550, but even that was a struggle.  My father basically reminded me that this wedding had nothing to do with me; it was HIS daughter’s wedding.  How am I supposed to argue with that?

Why are our families so afraid that they will offend someone if they aren’t invited to their child’s wedding?  They are willing to let us blow our life savings, and then some, just to satisfy Shah Koko’s family?  Yes, we went to her daughters wedding 20 years ago; but that doesn’t mean she’s earned the right to come to mine. 

Ok, so I can deal with parents wanting a say; but why does anyone else need one?  I had people refusing to come to my wedding because we did not invite their in-laws, parents, or children.  See, children I can understand… if you can’t find a sitter, you can’t come.  But why do I need to invite your parents or in-laws who I have NEVER met?  I was even asked to just go ahead and invite certain people, because they wouldn’t come anyways. Why would I waste an invitation on someone who I know wouldn’t care to come, and I don’t want there? 

Once you get through the hurdle of who’s invited, you have to deal with the RSVP-ing.  That word has no meaning to most Afghans.  Some have gone as far as describing an RSVP as an insult.  How will my asking if someone has decided to attend my wedding or not going to offend them?  It’s a simple question; you coming, or not?  Please don’t think that giving me the typical “we’ll see” response will suffice.

We try desperately to follow a schedule, to ensure everything goes smoothly at the wedding.  But it would only work if people could show up on time… and yes, I am fully aware that I am one of those people.  If you ever see someone there at 6:00pm (which is standard invite time), they are either in the bridal party, part of the immediate family, or not Afghan.  When invited for 6:00pm, people don’t usually start showing up until 8:00pm, which postpones everything for the party.  You hope and pray that people will show up on time, and you’ll be the first to get to follow the original schedule, but that’s just wishful thinking.  Our clocks just don’t work that way.

And then there is seating arrangement.  I feel horrible for people who have taken the time and energy to plan out where their guests are going to sit.  It just ends up being a waste of your time; people will just sit where they want anyways.  The table is only meant for 10?  Oh, they’ll find a way to fit 16.  I have yet to go to a wedding where someone hasn’t fought over a chair.  If you leave yours unattended, the wedding turns into a food court battle for seats. Before you know it, you have no seat, and need to go steal someone else’s in order to eat.  It’s a vicious cycle!

It would be great if our weddings were like Italian weddings.  In their culture, it is customary to give a monetary gift; not only to cover the cost of your plate, but a little extra to get the couple started in life. How thoughtful!  You get to have the wedding of your dreams, and have some money left over.  What do we get?  Someone’s re-gifted gold ring, necklace or bracelet, or a crystal serving dish of some sort.  The only way to make money off our wedding is to visit The Cash Man, Russel Oliver, and pawn it off; at least he’ll give you top dollar for your gold. 

Is it even worth it? You go through all this trouble, and all these expenses, just to have people show up late, complain, and then gossip about everything and anything that didn’t please them.  If it’s not how the bride looks or how the food tastes, it’s the choice of venue and décor.  It’s pretty much customary to pick apart a wedding. 

To all you future bride and groom’s out there… Make your life easier, and just elope!

You Might Be An Afghan

If you show up to a wedding 4 hours after you were invited …You might be an Afghan

If you take all the rugs, cushions, and tarps from your house to a barbecue …You might be an Afghan

If you drink scorching hot tea on a blistering summer day …You might be an Afghan

If you’ve dated or are currently dating your cousin …You might be an Afghan

If you have tubs of yoghurt taking over your fridge …You might be an Afghan

If your mother makes a meal for 30 people when only 4 are coming over …You might be an Afghan

If your house is covered in area rugs …You might be an Afghan

If your parents make you hand deliver wedding invitations as opposed to mailing them out …You might be an Afghan

If you use empty tubs of yoghurt as Tupperware …You might be an Afghan

If you wear a t-shirt under your revealing dress …You might be an Afghan

If you wear white shoes and matching belt with your black suit …You might be an Afghan

If you have to lie to go to the mall …You might be an Afghan

If you have to pluck every other day …You might be an Afghan

If you’re a girl, and weren’t allowed to do your school projects with boys …You might be an Afghan

If you have yoghurt with every meal …You might be an Afghan

If you know what a car bar is …You might be an Afghan

If your remote is covered in plastic wrap …You might be an Afghan

If your walls are decorated in plants/vines …You might be an Afghan

If you need an entire entourage to go to the bathroom …You might be an Afghan

If you get in trouble for leaving your seat at a wedding …You might be an Afghan

If you drink, smoke, and gamble, but DON’T eat pork …You might be an Afghan

If you’ve gotten in a fight over a chair …You might be an Afghan

If you cause a scene when deciding who’s going to pay …You might be an Afghan

If you have someone in your family named Mariam or Mustafa …You might be an Afghan

If your Tupperware is stained orange …You might be an Afghan

If you get in trouble for speaking English at home …You might be an Afghan

If you think blue eye shadow looks good on you …You might be an Afghan

If you call Bluffer’s ParkBrimleyPark …You might be an Afghan

If you let go of your girlfriends hand when you see your aunt in the mall …You might be an Afghan

If your parents ever threw a slipper at you …You might be an Afghan

If you’re couches are covered with blankets when guests aren’t over …You might be an Afghan

If dance at any given opportunity …You might be an Afghan

If your parents scream at the top of their lungs while on the phone …You might be an Afghan

If your mother cooks everything with a gallon of oil …You might be an Afghan

If you’re not allowed to date until you’re engaged …You might be an Afghan

If you’re offended by my blog …You’re DEFINITELY an Afghan