Recently, I had occasion to speak with a friend who is married to a Hoo Ha! Native Son. My friend was wearing abaya (not normal) and when I commented, she told me she'd been attending the Aza (funeral) for her husband's uncle.1
The greeting at the airport after a 14 months' separation from the Glorious Grrrls occasioned many tears on all parts. Hugging and touching in person immediately highlights the very significant inadequacies of relationships managed through digital spaces using Skype, or FaceTime, or Facebook.1
I'm sitting in an old chair, propped up by a pillow because it's so deep, laptop on my knees, looking out the window at rain pouring down on the Maine coast.2
whining present participle of whine (Verb)
Whining is a joke in our family. Mostly because nobody does it - at least not regularly and certainly not for long. The family "Whine-O-Meter" goes right off the scale after about 30 seconds, and a response will be forthcoming.
I am on holidays.
Whatever that means. I am still tied to work, checking emails, responding to queries, and putting out fires from thousands of miles away.
But I feel holidayish.
SandyTown has initiated a cleansing of sorts. 100,000 expats per year are to be summarily declared persona non grata and the overall population reduced by 1,000,000 over the next 10 years. "They," say the disgruntled, "are taking the jobs away from Native Sons. Go home."
I'm quite behind lately in reading MathMan's blog (I haven't been doing anything with my own blog, so I'm an equal opportunity ignorer) and I just caught up.
He's been fighting with bees. Clearly, he's done with marking science exams.
I have never been particularly interested in politics ...of any kind. Neither the micro nor macro level of political manoeuvring, campaigning, baby-kissing (or a$$ kissing depending on the context) or favour-currying have ever been part of my operational manual.3