Abez sez Assalamualaikum!

Goober is a funny word.

Computer is fixed! Alhamdulillah! Finally! Now I can type a new blog to make up for the following substandard one.

Here’s yesterday’s post, today. I blame blogger.

Aaak! I can’t type while listening to music but I’m doing my best. Scout’s honor.

But on the day the scrolls are laid/

With every word and deed displayed/

When we read our account/

I know for one I’ll be afraid/

That day, I’ll be so afraid to read/

Every harsh word that I’ve spoken/

Every time that I have lied/

I’ll be obliged to admit/

I’ll be obliged to submit/

Will I have strength owning up to/

Each deed I’ve tried to hide?/

Allah, I’m so afraid to read/

These lines from Afraid to Read, The Prophet’s Hands by Dawud Wharnsby Ali, a beaucoup excellent Islamic music CD. It’s what I’m plugged up to at the moment, and I love this CD and I can’t get myself to put two sentences together in five minutes because I’m too busy enjoying myself. Forget this man, I’ll write after the CD is finished, in the mean time, I’m cranking it up. Enjoy a joke till I’m done.

This guy goes to a pet shop to buy a parrot.

He sees one on a perch with a red string tied to its left leg and a green string tied to its right leg. He asks the owner the significance of the strings.

“Well, this is a highly trained parrot,” the owner tells him. “If you pull the red string he speaks French; if you pull the green string he speaks German.”

“And what happens if I pull both the strings?” our curious shopper inquires.

“You goober,” screeches the parrot, “I fall off my perch!”

Ok, I can concentrate now. The computer was in the shop (and out, and then in again) all throughout this week and that makes is hard not only to keep in touch, but to print out class work! Additionally, since my momma is gone, I can’t find anything and I don’t know where she left any of her papers or files. Therefore, I have dubbed these last few days ‘The Week of Chaos.’ Things are just starting to get normal again. The school where I’m subbing for my mother is finally making me my own ID.

Last Monday I tried to get in with my mother’s ID and the fact that a scarf-wearing fundu-type (me) was trying to make it into the diplomatic enclave using the ID of a blonde American-type (my mother) aroused great suspicion. I was questioned by the guards at all three of the guard posts, and stopped at the bomb check, and then they had to call in before opening the gate for me. (Who are you? Whose ID is this? Where’s your ID? Where are you from? Where are you going?)Today they met me at the main gate of the diplomatic enclave with a driver though so I had no problem getting in. I was tempted to stick my tongue out at all the guards as we passed. >:p pbbt! Nya nya! They let me in!

What else? The weather is still disgustingly hot and humid. Electricity was in short supply today. I can’t think of much else. The next English Night has been postponed because the student who was supposed to be hosting it has flown suddenly out of the country on business. That’s the problem with diplomats, they always disappear on you. One of my mother’s students hired her for five classes a week and only made it to two of them in the entire month. I’ve been lucky that most of my students stay put, but still. A rolling stone and a diplomat, neither gathers moss.

I’ve also decided (after teaching my mother’s English class of ten year olds) that I prefer teaching adults. They’re more interesting, and plus you don’t have to play mind games with them to get them to pay attention during class. With kids, you’re lucky if you hold their undivided attention for the entire duration of the class let alone for five minutes. With adults it’s different, because they are taking the class voluntarily, (and since they’re paying for it too) they try to get the most out of it. If my adult students were anything like my kid students, then they’d be picking their noses and whining and looking everywhere around the room except the blackboard. He he…that’s a funny mental picture. Sorry, I’m just seeing the –name of position withheld- officer of the embassy of –name of country withheld- fidgeting in his seat with his fingers up his nose…he he

-ahem-

Alright, I’m just wasting space now, since I have nothing really interesting to say anyway. I’ll stop now.

(he he)

(you still here? Ok, then click this.)

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