In Class Writing. . .

I'm sitting in class writing this blog, which to some (a lot) of you may seem a tad bit irresponsible.

Well, to be fair, the students are working in groups.  And, to be honest, it is writing class.  So, why can't I do a little writing myself?  I'm not avoiding duties.  I'm avoiding falling asleep.

See, although my favorite thing to do is to teach writing, I can't wrap my head around reading student writing at 8 am. There, I said it.

Some "experts" believe (and I agree) that creative writing is best done when a writer is tired. Apparently, the creative juices start flowing when we're sleep-deprived.  I know I've done some of my best writing when I was bordering on insanity from chronic flu-inspired insomnia.

But critical reading and response is not something I can do when my eyelids are droopy.

So, between answering questions here and there and explaining the assignment in detail to a group in the back whose "lead" member finally showed up 45 minutes late (and HAS a car, no less....), I'm composing this blog.

<insert sip of cold coffee> Blech.

I'm not writing as often as I'd like, and this is disgruntling to me. But it also serves as proof of why I needed the blog in the first place. I get so overwhelmed with the day-to-day activities I have to do, my own interests take a backseat to others'.

For example, the shortlist of things I've done this week include:

• Hold a staff meeting for the Student Newspaper that I'm Supervising Editor for
• Meet with the students who are actively producing the competition posters for our newspaper
• Complete the editing on "The Guide for New Teachers", the handbook we (the Induction and Mentoring Committee, which I am also a member of) provide for....new teachers
• Counsel people close to my heart.....a few times.....at various hours
• Watch YouTube with my daughter (if you haven't seen it, "Cooking with Dog" is fabulous!)
• Purchase cinema tickets for my daughter and I to go see "Frozen" this afternoon
• Select my teaching preferences for next semester
• Report a fly infestation in my classroom
• Post flyers around the Language Centre and my teaching block
• Work on The Paper

And this is pretty much only work-related. If I listed everything I've done at home and in my personal life, you'd quit reading and post "TL:DR" at the bottom of this blog. However, suffice it to say, I did manage to get in a daily shower and brushing my teeth several times, too.

So my goal, as this year (and writing class) winds to a close, is to publish more frequently.

And you can help!

In the comments, tell me what YOU'D like to read about. Sometimes I'm merely stumped for subject matter.

Do you have a blazing question? A curious question about me, my life, your life, all life? A topic you'd like to see me expound upon?

<laughing at the word "expound">

Drop me a comment!

Until next time, thanks for joining me!

I Love You, Honey!

In my Listening and Speaking class, we've been working on a unit called "Staying Healthy".  Typically, each chapter has a section where we discuss a general topic, leading up to a main idea about the topic. Then we listen to a recording (sometimes a radio commercial or people chatting). Then there is a second recording that is on a similar idea, with after to bridge the two listenings.

During the last class, we heard a recording about home remedies, and then we discussed different ailments and their natural or herbal solutions. The list included peppermint for stomachaches, garlic for colds, menthol for sinus and chest infection (specifically Vick's, according to the students) and a few others.

In Middle Eastern culture - and the Islamic religion, in general - there are a few natural products that families  - especially old grandmothers - tout as being better than any medicine.  These two things are olive oil and honey. Mothers will rub olive oil all over their children's chests and backs to rid them of colds. Religiously, it is recommended to eat olive oil every day - mixed in salads, on food, or used as a dip for bread with a thyme and sesame seed herbal mixture called zaatar - the same as some Western cultures promote daily vitamins.

Honey is also known as a proponent of health. It's added to tea in many places around the world. It is also recommended, Islamically, to consume one tablespoon of honey per day topped with black seed (nigella sativa) to stave off ailments. In fact, the last time I had a chest cold, I almost went crazy with the number of random people - from multiple ethnic backgrounds - suggesting I drink honey with lemon.

It's clear both olive oil and honey have natural, healing powers. But it wasn't until yesterday that I realized exactly how far the healing powers of honey ran.

I was over at my best friend's house working on The Paper. We decided to stop for a snack, and I'd picked up some popcorn before I came over to make at her place. I know it sounds odd, but I couldn't recall if she had a microwave or not - she doesn't cook frequently, and they're not provided with our furnishings. Anyway, it didn't matter, because I've become accustomed to popping corn on the stove in big pots. It's fresher, and I know there aren't any weird chemicals or ingredients in the mix.

So, there I am in the kitchen, popping corn. It's time to take the popcorn off the stove, and I grab an oven mitt to move it to another eye. (I'm totally a green-eyed monster when it comes to her stove. . .she has a HUGE cooker. Mine is quite small and barely fits two pots comfortably.) I sit it down, and I hear this noise as if the new eye is on. A few more kernels pop, but I don't care because I'm wearing an oven mitt. I even grab ANOTHER rag - dry - to double-insulate my hand. And I go to grab the pot to pour it into the snack bowl.

I didn't even get my entire hand on the bowl before I withdrew it and hissed a not very nice word a little louder than under my breath.

I quickly jerked the mitt off to look at the damage. My poor thumb was stinging, but it didn't appear to be blistered. Just a little (read: a lot) red.  I went to spooning the popcorn into the bowl.

When my friend came into the kitchen, I warned her not to even think about touching the pot. I let her spoon the popcorn while I ran cool water over my hand. The stinging subsided, until I removed my hand from the water. Then it hurt again.

Now, before you start thinking that I grabbed olive oil to ease the suffering, I'm not an idiot. I wasn't about to put butter or any other oil-based food onto my burning digit.

We were also going to make chocolate milkshakes, so I pulled the ice cream out of the freezer and stuck my thumb on the side. It felt good, but it also kind of attached, so I took it off.

Over the next half hour or so, the pain in my thumb wouldn't go away. I thought, "I just have to forget about it." But it was throbbing and literally shaking. Not my whole hand. Just my poor, scalded thumb.

I asked my girl if she had any aloe because that was the only thing I knew soothes burns. She didn't, but she ran to her room and retrieved two bags of ointments and aides.

"Can you use calamine lotion?" she asked.

"...you're gonna need an ocean...of calamine lotion....the minute you start to hang around....Poison Ivy".....popped into my head

"No, that's for itching," I called.

I grabbed my computer, went online and typed "burn remedies" in the search box. I clicked on the first link.

Reading the posts and suggestions, I saw most of them mentioned pure honey.

"Do you have honey?" I asked.

"Yes. Sure, I do. But what about.........ah, not petroleum jelly...."

"No. Have any Band Aids?" I looked up to see her putting a huge bag of cotton balls back in her bag.

"No," she said. "But I have these....and.....medical tape." She grabbed a roll of tape. "Um, well, this is not medical tape. It's double-sided tape."

I leaned over and spotted a familiar white box.

"This is a first aid kit," I said, grabbing it. Inside was a goldmine of bandages and gauze.

"Is there any ointment?"

I took a gauze and bandage and threw the rest in the bag. "I think I'll try the honey."

"Honey?"

"Yeah, it says pure honey soothes burns. I'll try it out. Can't get any worse." I imagined the site being a joke for imbeciles and the honey causing my thumb's skin to peel off.

Luckily, she had a huge jar of pure, local honey sitting on her dining room table. I got a spoonful and slathered in on my thumb. With my friend's help, we wrapped the gauze and some Band Aids around the honey. And I waited.

And, sure enough, about ten minutes later, the pain was all but gone.

Today there is a small bump where the burn was. But there is no pain and no blister.

Many of you may have already known this, and if so, that's wonderful. My father-in-law said that's how they used to treat major burns in the past.

For those of you who didn't, I wanted to share as a verifiable source that honey is a wonderful salve for treating burns.  And since it is probably more likely that you'd have honey in your house than an aloe plant, it's also more convenient.

In the end, I just want to say I am not offering ANY medical advice.

If you've been severely burned, please head to the nearest ER instead of dousing yourself in honey.

But if you find yourself in the same situation as me, a victim of the kitchen's wrath, a little honey can ease the pain and help you avoid a bad blister situation.

What about you? Are there any home remedies that your family uses to fix boo-boos and colds? Any passed-down traditions of healers-gone-by?

Share your tricks and suggestions in the comments!

Say That Again. . .To My Computer Screen

So many things are going through my mind right now:

I miss my family back home, but I love my job and we're happy here in Oman.

I need to finish the laundry - and hang up the clothes that are finished drying on the clotheshorse in the other bedroom.

I love Pop Tarts. Specifically, the frosted strawberry kind.

I wish the grocery store carried my favorite kind of cereal in the regular flavor - not blueberry or cranberry. Eww.

I was shocked to see the grocery store had cottage cheese. First time I've seen it in 3 years.

Why doesn't it snow in Oman?

Is the volcano under Yellowstone really going to erupt soon and destroy Earth?

(Okay, that last one isn't really on my mind - it just popped into my head when I was thinking about snow in Oman and climate change and I read lots of weird news articles and....well, that's how my mind works...)

But the one that's sitting in the forefront, dangling on a neon sign before my eyes, is how I write better than I speak.

No, really. It's true. My best friend confirmed it the other day.

See, I have this penchant for justice. I stand up for people when it looks like they're being taken advantage of.....and if I can't stand up for them, I encourage them to do it for themselves.

Last week, my one of my office mates (I have three, but we have a BIG office....with our own private bathroom.....but, I digress....) had an upsetting event occur at work. She was visibly distraught, and after myself and another office mate (my bestie) talked to her about what was wrong, I suggested she write an email to the person and share her feelings.

She agreed, but she didn't know what to say or how to say it. We come from different cultures, and the person she was writing to was from a different culture from her as well. So, what happened was I basically dictated the email to her. When she finished, she read it back to me and sent it.

During this time, my best friend was out of the office doing other things. After the email had been sent, she returned, and our office mate told her what happened. She said she felt the email was a little harsh and.......strongly-worded. I assured her it wasn't. But, to make her feel better, I told her to read it to my friend - who confirmed it wasn't the least bit harsh or rude.

I then dictated what I would have written had it been me, explaining that I softened the tone and message because it was coming from her - a soft-spoken, genteel woman with engrained humility and respect. Not that I'm not humble or respectful, but her level of gentility far surpasses mine. (Don't mistake my head covering for a doormat!) She was shocked - again, it wasn't rude, it was just more direct.

When she left, my friend (our friend) told me, "You really are a good writer. You write a lot better than you speak."

And it's the truth. When I speak, I tend to break off mid-sentence and grasp for words. I lose my train of thought if I don't practice what I'll say before I say it.

Unless, that is, I'm talking about writing. When I'm talking about writing (or teaching it), I tend to have a steady flow. Perhaps because that's what is engrained in me. I've practiced and trained for so long, it's what I feel comfortable talking about and doing.

I used to say I could win any battle with the written word.

See, I hate - loathe - conflict and confrontations. I turn into a limp noodle, and I tend to become very withdrawn and capitulatory. Whatever you want, just stop arguing.

But when it comes to fighting in writing. Well......that's completely different.

My usual medium of argumentation is the computer. Through messenger services, online forums, post boards. Now with so many devices - Smart or stupid - I've branched out to technological services like What's App and SMS.

I can write quickly. But I can type even faster. And when the words come, the fingers move. There's no stuttering - maybe the occasional backspace - but I can do that as easily and quickly as a flick of a finger. And the logic falls together for me. I can read what I've said, and I can view what I'm about to say before 'sending' it. I don't have to rely on my foggy memory.

And I don't back down. I don't surrender. I don't pacify in order to calm the waters.

I stand my ground. I present my case. I call out fallacies. I demand justice and fairness.

I'm like Martin Luther King, Jr. or JFK.....................only technologically-advanced!

(Putting down She-Ra's sword and looking around at the people staring, wide-eyed, at my momentary lapse of sanity.....)

Did I mention I'm also humble?

20 Questions

These lists of questions come along on Facebook all the time, and they're usually pretty inane. However, I saw this one on my friend's page, and it made me think about some interesting things.


1. What did you do during your childhood summers?

Depends on my age, really. When I was younger, I went camping with my grandparents and spent most days outside, either rolling down the hill in the front yard of my grandparents' house or swimming in their pool. As I got older, I went to church camp, which was not always the best experience for me. As a teenager, I worked at Dollywood, a theme park in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

2. If you did not need the money what would you do for work?

Many women would say they want to stay home. But I did that for two and a half years, and it nearly drove me insane. I would, however, spend quality time working on my writing and do charity work to help others in need.

3. What is the strangest food you have ever eaten?

I will admit I have tried grilled eel at a Korean restaurant in Saudi Arabia. It was not my favorite. I have also eaten tongue. Surprisingly, it was disgusting. But I didn't care for the texture. Why did I eat tongue? Because my daughter wanted to eat it at my sister-in-law's house, and I said if she was willing to try it, I had to be brave and give it a go.

4. What is the best costume you have worn?

Well, I've worn several, and some would venture to say that I wear one now. But I suppose the "best", meaning most costume-y, would be the time I dressed up in leather and fishnets for Halloween. I was about 17, I guess. Then I went with my friend's aunt to a get-together. She neglected to tell me it was for a church get-together.

5. If you had to act your age what behavior would you change?
 
Honestly, the only behaviors I want and need to change are about health. But those aren't age-related. If I had to choose a behavior I have that should change because I'm too old (or too young), it would be (twenty minutes later. . .) arguing with my sister. We're both too old to argue with each other about anything that's not seriously important. And, fortunately, what we argue about is never seriously important.

6. What part of pop culture do you wish would just go away?

Giving stupid nicknames to everything. For example, selfie. . .what's wrong with "picture" or "self portrait"? And "TomKat" or "Brangelina". Please. Gag.

7. What do you do to impress someone you are attracted to?

I don't change myself to impress others. I try to be honest at all times. However, I might amp up the humor a bit, if appropriate. Now that I'm married, when I want to impress Hubby, or simply catch his eye, I just do something special for him, like a nice dinner.

8. What habits would you like to be able to break?

I don't think all of the habits I want to change would fit on here, but these are a few:

• eating too much junk food
• procrastinating
• going to bed late
• avoiding exercise
• worrying about my health

 

9.What is the prettiest city you have ever been to?

Rothenburg, Germany. It is this quaint Bavarian village with a defense wall running the perimeter of the town. You can tour the entire town by walking along the wall.

10. Can you do your job working from home?

Not unless all of my students join me. However, I do have to bring my work home with me sometimes.

11. What is your favorite song from a Disney Movie?

I like lots of Disney songs, so it's hard to pick a favorite. Some of the ones that come to mind:

• "I'll Make a Man (Out of You)" from Mulan
• "Once Upon a December" from Anastasia
• "Kiss the Girl" from The Little Mermaid
• "A Whole New World" from Aladdin
• "Feed the Birds" and "Stay Awake" from Mary Poppins

I could go on and on.

12. Are you annoyed when other people do not "follow the rules" even if it does not affect you?

The older I get, the more frustrated I become. And perhaps it's because I live in a place where "following the rules" is more of a suggestion. For example, line-cutting makes me furious, even if I'm not standing in the same line. I have, on more than one occasion, spoken up for people who were being cut in on. But I have to admit that my annoyance is based on the rule. If it's a rule that is ridiculous and annoying itself, I could care less. Like bringing my own water to the movie theater. Who am I hurting?

13.Who is a woman from history that you respect?

I've thought about this for several days, and I know it says "a woman", but there are really two that I greatly respect. 

The first is Mary, mother of Jesus. To go through what she did - having a miraculous birth - to face opponents and those speaking ill of her - to raise a man who she knew was a prophet, a representative of God's grace and love - I'm sure she had some days where she was just like, "I think I'll sleep in. I've earned it."

The second is Mother Theresa. Here is this lady who spent the majority of her adult life living in the worst conditions in order to help others. She is my hero. I wish that I had the courage and ability to do what she did. She's such an inspiration and picture of love, tolerance and Godliness.

14. What charity do you support?

My daughter. Just kidding. (No, I do support her, but she's not a charity!) I don't give financially to any charity on a regular basis. I prefer to give directly to people who are in need at the time. For example, I've volunteered during cleanup of various storm recoveries. I've collected donations for others. But, I don't like to talk about giving charity, because I believe talking about it negates the reason for doing it in the first place: to please God and promote humanitarianism.

15. What is your favorite song from a Broadway musical?

"All I Ask of You" from The Phantom of the Opera

16. Who is somebody famous that you would have liked to have met?

My short list? Well, honestly, even though I am Muslim, Jesus is at the top of my list. Sure, there's no doubt I'd love to have met Prophet Muhammad. But all the world seems to disagree on exactly who Jesus was and what his purpose was on Earth.

17. What story from history inspires you?

There are lots of stories that have wonderful messages. Parables and fables, too. But one of the most inspiring stories from history is that of Rosa Parks. It gives me chills to hear it. Imagine staring in the face of adversity and saying, "No, I will not move."

18. What do you think makes a person good-looking?

Physically? Eyes and smile.

Otherwise? A sense of humor, wittiness, common interests, honesty, and interacting with children.

19. What is your favorite way to travel in the rain?
 

Well, I suppose it would be in a car, but not as the driver. I don't like flying in rain because of the lightning. And I prefer not to travel at all in the rain because it's dangerous. But if I had to, I guess I'd rather be in a car than on a motorcycle.

20. What are 3 random songs from your playlist?
 

I don't have a playlist. But 3 songs that I always turn the radio up for:

"Titanium" by David Guetta featuring Sia

"Wake Me Up" by Avicii

"Dear Darlin'" by Ollie Murs

Girls Only, Boys Not Allowed

WARNING: The following story may not be suitable for all audiences.

Let's face it. There are some jobs that women are better suited for than men, and then there are some jobs that women let the men do alone. Like. . .sewer maintenance. I don't think many women would volunteer for that job. I don't think many men would either, but hey, SOMEBODY'S got to do it, right?

Now, teaching. That's a job for both genders. Men and women are equally qualified to pass on knowledge to up-and-coming generations. Or paper delivery person. Who has trouble shoving a newspaper into a box?

When I think about jobs that men and women are equally capable of doing, I tend to lump doctor in alongside the rest. We're all humans, and we have the same bodily functions and maladies. For the most part.

Yes, it's true, men and women both get the flu. We are both susceptible to cancer and mesothelioma (though hopefully not anymore). We can all get food poisoning followed by a case of the trots. So, picking a specialty should generally be a "what's-your-fancy" kind of deal.

Unless it comes to gynecology.

I am a firm believer that men have no business being gynecologists. There are a few reasons for this, including:

• Men do not need to be staring at hoo-haas all day long. That's just weird. And uncomfortable. For women.
  
• Said activity of staring at female ladybits has to be a real turn-off when it comes to intimacy with the Ms.

But the #1 reason I believe men should not be allowed to practice gynecology is that they have no basis for empathy, sympathy or experience. What's that? They can learn?

Sure, they can learn the names and locations of the Fallopian tubes, cervix and every other nook and cranny that's crammed into our nether-regions.

But have they ever woken up in the middle of the night to find their bed looks like a scene from Psycho?

Do they know what it's like to shove a giant cotton swab into their privates and walk around with a tail dangling out? To wear a diaper all day, for several days, that has to be changed every three or four hours (if you're lucky) like a newborn?

How do you teach a man to understand what it's like to feel menstrual cramps? "Pretend someone stuck a hot poker up your wee-wee. . .and then twisted it until it felt like something came loose in your stomach. Yes, now sweat. And don't forget to rub your aching man-boobies."

Oh, and let's not even get started with childbirth.

When I was pregnant, I developed a condition called hydronephrosis of my right kidney. Basically, because I always slept on my right side, the baby had become accustomed to laying on my right side, too. She compressed the tube leading out of my kidney, basically creating the most painful event of my life. It was so bad that when I went to the ER to have it checked out, the nurses thought I was going into premature labor and were ready to operate. They didn't even put me in a room - I was in a delivery ward.

Thank God, I didn't have to have surgery, and after a few days in the hospital, I was sent home with the instructions to stay off my right side as much as possible (now I've taken to my left, so. . .) and drink as much water as I could. The solution is to coax the baby into a different position and make sure you're hydrated - odd, being that the condition means "water in the kidneys". But, it was manageable there on out.

While I was at the hospital, being wheeled around by a very compassionate L&D nurse, I received some news. She said, "Honey, if you get through this, delivery will be a breeze."

Apparently, kidneys stones and renal problems are the most painful health crises that both genders can experience. Connection: it's been said that a man passing a kidney stone is the closest he'll ever come to physically understanding childbirth.

Well, that's all well and good. And I do sincerely feel awful for anyone that experiences a kidney stone or renal issue (I've had kidney stones, too, and they're terrible!). But that doesn't make a man an expert on women's health issues. And it doesn't teach him to empathize with women when it comes to such issues.

I had this general discussion today with Hubby after going to the doctor and having one of THE most unpleasant experiences I've ever had in that realm of my body - short of having an IUD inserted.

I had an HSG - hysterosalpingogram.

We got to the radiology department on time, and it wasn't long before I was called back. These aren't done in a regular examination or ultrasound room. These procedures are done in the X-ray room, on a cold, hard table.

The nurse led me into a bathroom, told me to empty my bladder and change clothes. She was very nice, and she assured me the male technician would not be in the room during the procedure.

When I came out, she brought the step-stool over for me to climb onto the table.

The doctor was already in the room, putting on a lead-proof jacket. She came over to the table and gestured, "Lie down."

I did, and I looked around at Hubby, who was sitting in a chair against the wall. At first, the nurse didn't want him to come back with me. She thought I only wanted him because I thought there was going to be a man in the room. She didn't realize that I wanted him with me because I was nervous.

The doctor and the nurse were talking to each other. "Which size do you have? A ten?"

Nurse: "A ten. You want an eight?"

I'm thinking needles, because that's what I usually associate with sizes in a medical facility. Except there aren't supposed to be any needles involved.

The doctor stepped over to me. "How many children? You have children?"

"One," Hubby said.

"None?" Doctor answered.

"No, one," I said.

"Ah, one - and did you have normal delivery or Caesarean?"

"C-section."

"Okay - you have a six?" she asked the nurse.

It's then I realize she's talking about dilation. The speculum. Since I've never gone through childbirth, she wants the smallest speculum possible. That's kind of her.

"A six?" Nurse asked. I hear her rummage around in a cabinet. "I thought ten. No, no six."

"No. . .what about eight?"

At his point, Hubby came over and said something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about childbirth and the procedure and how I wish I could've stayed in bed because I'd had a horrible night.

Doctor came back over to me. "You know there is some pain with this, right?"

"Yes," I answered.

"You read the internet?"

I nodded.

"Good," she said. "You took the pill they gave you, right?"

I nodded again. They gave me an analgesic. I supplemented with a muscle spasm medication. My body was feeling relaxed, but I was still nervous.

"Okay. So, what happens is. . ." She explained the procedure, starting with cleaning. "Then I will insert a tube into your cervix. . .and inflate a small balloon with liquid. I will put as little liquid as possible. Sometimes when the balloon inflates, this causes pain. It will be like menstrual cramps."

See, that reference to menstrual cramps? How could a man say that? How does he know what menstrual cramps feel like?

I braced myself as she continued. I have terrible, awful, double-over in blinding pain menstrual cramps. Surely she's not referring to my kind.

"Then the radiologist will come in, and I'll push the dye. He'll take the images, and that's it."

I nodded. I'd read the internet sites. I saw conflicting views: It's worse than childbirth! I didn't feel any pain. The doctor LIED!!! Every woman has a different experience. This is mine.

The cleaning began, and while it wasn't enjoyable, it wasn't horrible. I'd call it a nuisance.

"Are you hurting?" Hubby asked from across the room.

I shook my head no.

Then she inserted the speculum, and if you've ever had a Pap smear, you'll know that it's like an invasion of privacy. It doesn't hurt, per se. But it's not something I want to walk around with.

The worst part was my legs. I had to bend them at an ungodly angle and keep my feet on the table. Which was difficult because the table was covered in a drape (as was I). They were slipping, and I felt like I would kick her in the face and the speculum would go flying.

"I'm inserting the tube now. . ." she said.

I expected a pinch or a dull ache. I didn't feel anything. Hmm. Okay, so the reviews talking about the exaggeration of pain were right. I can deal with this. It's nothing, I thought.

"Call the radiologist," Doctor ordered. "We're almost finished."

The radiologist came in, and while the nurse was helping me scoot back up on the table (and put my legs down, thank God), he adjusted the monitor. I don't mind the radiologist being a man. He wasn't in communication with me. All he had to do was look at the screen. Anyone can be trained to look at a screen.

"Shall I push?" Doctor asked.

I didn't hear the radiologist say anything, but it didn't matter. Because she pushed.

And my insides caught on fire like someone was stabbing me AND burning me from the inside out at the same time.

"Ahhhh!" I cried. Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to stay still. I clutched the drape over my stomach.

"I need you to turn on your left side," Nurse said.

Turn?!?!?!?! I may never walk again! I thought. "Okay. . .just. . .wait," I said.

"Again?" Doctor asked.

What the. . .?!?!?! Again?!?!?!

The fire exploded in my stomach, and it occurred to me that when she said it would feel like menstrual cramps, she did mean MY kind. The tears started sliding down my face.

"Okay, right side," Nurse said.

"We're almost finished," Doctor consoled. She patted me on the leg.

I rolled, barely, to the right with the help of the nurse. The doctor pushed the dye for the third and final time. Or was it the fourth? I don't know. I lost count after number one.

"Finished," Doctor said. I felt her pull the tube out, painlessly.

Hubby rushed over to my side, took my hand and wiped my eyes. He kissed my forehead. Wisely, he didn't say anything.

"Are you okay?" Nurse asked.

"I need the bathroom," I said. That's another perk of having things poked and prodded into your uh-huhs and no-nos.

"Okay. Wait a bit," Nurse said.

I suppose they thought I would collapse if I stood.

Finally, the nurse came over and helped me sit. "You can change. You feel okay?"

"Yeah," I lied. My stomach was still cramping, my back was aching and I felt like I'd just been on some kind of medieval torture device.

"I'm sorry," Doctor said. She came over and rubbed my arm, motherly. "I am the one who gave you the pain. I'm sorry." I don't know where she was from, but her level of compassion made me feel slightly less uncomfortable. "The test shows no blocking. That's good."

No Fallopian blockage is the desired result of an HSG. So, at least the news was positive.

With the help of Hubby, I got down, went to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. As we left, I realized I was kind of weak, and my legs felt wobbly. It was probably a combination of the meds I took and the pain. I was smart to have asked him to come along.

We left radiology and headed for the front of the hospital.

"You stay here, and I'll get the car," Hubby offered. "I parked far away."

Gladly, I sat in the waiting area and looked around at the myriad women also waiting for someone or something to come along. He has no idea what I just went through, I thought. There is absolutely no way that he ever could.

Sure, it wasn't the worst pain I've ever been in. But it was so personal.

If I got lung cancer, he could commiserate. Not because he has cancer, but because he has lungs.

If I break my hand, he can fathom the pain.

If I have a cold, he knows what it feels like to be in my shoes.

But no man, ever, anywhere, can know what it's like to lay on a table, legs bent and propped on either a hard surface or (even better) stirrups to help you balance. A man can never know what it's like to expose your most private of private parts to a stranger, for them to put their hands, fingers and other objects in. To have a tube inserted into an area of yourself that you've never even seen with your own two eyes. To have to hold as still as humanly possible while someone squirts a dye into your body that feels like acid. To be told your essence. . .the very thing that makes you a woman and separates you from men. . .needs to be completely removed. No, no man can ever know.

And that, my friends, is why I stand firmly on the ground and say that men are not qualified to be gynecologists.

Let them be podiatrists. Oncologists. They should definitely be urologists.

But they should never, ever, under any circumstances, be allowed to practice gynecology.

Or do mammograms.

Please Pardon Our Progress. . .

That's the sign that I need installed on the front of my head.  You know, those signs that they put up in the middle of construction zones or at the mall where there's a big pile of trash and a wall covered in plastic?

Or perhaps a "We're Experiencing Technical Difficulties..." tattooed in the center of my forehead would be more appropriate.

I'm having a flashback to 2007.

I'm sitting in the floor of my apartment's office, surrounded by stacks of paper and binders full of articles.  I've been reading for hours. Days. Weeks. I just can't get it to mesh together in a way that I want it to.  I know what I want to say, but I don't know how to finagle the stupid research.

I have been writing for 25 years, and I can't figure out how to back up my ideas with other people's writing. What kind of Master's student am I?

My friends - co-students - seem to be quite at ease shuffling through articles and papers and locating the relevant. Of course they are. They've been doing this as a hobby for years. Like I've been making up stories.

I remember going to my professor - only by title, because he'd acquired a PhD - and telling him that I was so confused. We discussed the direction of my paper - my TERM paper - THE term paper - my OPUS TERM PAPER. He gave me suggestions, and we discussed how to integrate sources. I felt better. Then I left his office.

What the what just happened in there? I thought. Oh, PLEASE let this semester end. I only had to pass this class, and I would be finished.

Finally, I did the best I could and stuffed all the papers into a file. I presented it to my professor, and I...earned...a C. Or was it a B? Geez, I don't remember anymore. And it doesn't matter, really, because in the end, I completed the program and was awarded my Master's - in Creative Writing, NOT literary theory.

So, what's all this have to do with the situation in my head?

About a year ago, I had this "brilliant" idea. I was going to integrate online-based peer review forums into my writing classes.  For those of you who don't teach writing or have never heard of it, peer review is when students read, evaluate and offer suggestions on each others' work.  It's one of the most valuable tools any writer can utilize. Not only does it teach them to give quality feedback, it also teaches them to find the mistakes in their own writing.  It's win-win.

I teamed up with my colleague, and best friend, and we decided to put the plan into action. She would follow suit with her own class (a higher level than mine), and we would write a paper to report the findings. It would be awesome. It would be enlightening. It would be the biggest thorn in both of our sides for months to come.

Suffice it to say, the project didn't go so well. Not because the idea was bad or wasn't realistic. The problem was two-fold:

1) Her students were so focused on a research paper they had to write over the course of the semester that they didn't want to participate in a voluntary study - well, most of them. The ones that did agree seemed to be unable to get a grasp of the technological aspects, and, well, it was a bum deal.

2) The level I was teaching only had two graded writing assessments - a midterm and a final. Their in-class assignments were not factored in as part of their overall mark. NOTE: NOT my doing. So, basically, only the students who really wanted to improve ever turned in assignments. And that wasn't many. And since I had no means of penalizing them, well, I got the short end of the stick, too.

Not to go into details about why or how or who, but now comes the time when we have to write our paper.

Why would we write the paper? Why would we announce our failure?

Ha. Because geniuses that we are.....we answered a call for chapters to be included in a book that is to be published in the spring. And we were accepted.

Sadly, I even tried to get us out of it by going to the head researcher and telling her the problems. She was actually happy, and she said it was okay if we reported on what happened and explain why. Then we would have the opportunity to explain what needs to be changed in order for the theory to work.

I got a rush of adrenaline and thought, "Yeah! That's right!"

So, here it is, time to write the paper (well, it's been time for a few months now......never co-author a chapter with a fellow procrastinator). And I find myself on my bed, surrounded by highlighted papers and files. It's like deja-vu. And I'm not enjoying the feeling.

Ah, I just can't wait until this month is over, construction is finished and the final product is sent on its way.

Then I can tackle the other projects I have waiting for me. . . . . . .

I'm Not K-12 Certified

If you don't know already, I teach English as Foreign Language for a Foundation Program at a premier university in Oman. The best thing about the university where I teach is my students. They are the best of the best from their cities and villages. Most of them are on scholarship - earned by being the top of their graduating classes. Now, it may seem that my students would, therefore, be prime examples of stellar pupils.

Not to say that they aren't good kids - most of them are excellent. However, you have to understand:

1) Oman's formal education system is only 43 years old, roughly.

2) Many of my students come from tiny villages in the desert and at the tops of mountains where water is still brought into town by a series of fancy (and beautiful) aqueducts called falaj.  These are cemented ditches that run down the sides of the mountain, bringing fresh mountain water from the top to the homes below. It's a marvel to see.

Taking this into consideration, I should also mention that I teach the second-to-lowest level in the Foundation Program. This is by choice. Let's say that when my "kids", as I affectionately refer to them, start out, their English rivals that of a 2nd or 3rd-grade native English speaker. Some of them may be at a 4th or 5th-grade level...but not many.

Are you getting the picture yet? Let me add some more imagery.

It just so happens that most of the students in the lower levels of the Foundation Program are males.  That's right. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys.

Coming into focus?

So, I teach English at a premier university to classes that are dominated (because females tend to score higher on entrance exams) by teenage village boys.

And if you've never been to Oman...or outside of your own home...you might not realize many 18-year-old college freshmen boys have the maturity-equivalent of a bunch of 6-year-olds. In Oman, we have a word to describe them: rubsha.

Rubsha is a word that means rowdy, unruly or incorrigible. Now, don't get me wrong - a lot of these rubsha boys can be the most respectful, hardworking students in your class.

And then there are the two in mine.

At the beginning of every new semester, a teacher gets a feel of her class. As she tries to learn names and faces, she also tries to determine who's going to be the "I know-I know", who's going to need some prodding to participate, and who's going to need to be separated by week three.

I have to admit, I didn't pick these boys as troublemakers at the start. Sure, they talked a little bit too much, and on occasion, I had to remind one or both of them to bring their books or put away their phones. But overall, they were pretty good kids.

In fact, one of them was so quiet that I thought he didn't understand a word I was saying. I referred to him as "Yes" because every time I asked him a question, he would grin like a fool with big, brown eyes and say, "Yes!" while nodding his head. I knew he was lost, but I just stayed patient until he would catch on. He's a cute, short little guy who plans on becoming a lawyer.  So, I'll call him Lawyer.

Then there's his best friend. He doesn't appear to be a hard worker, but he's a good student. He speaks well and appears to understand most of what's going on. His sense of humor is unrelenting, and I sometimes get the feeling he's being a smart butt. But it's okay, because his skills are very good - and that's a great thing, because he wants to work in Tourism. I'll call him The Big One - not because he's big, but because the other one is small.

They come from different ends of the same village about two hours outside of Muscat. I knew they were close early on, but it wasn't until just recently that I learned they're nearly inseparable.

It wasn't until after midterm exams ended a couple of weeks ago that I started to see a problem emerging. These two boys just wouldn't quiet down in class. At first, I just told them to stop talking and focus on their assignment. But it didn't stop.

At last, I told them to move apart. Well, that lasted all of five minutes. One had forgotten his book and needed to share with the other, and they had continued to talk and laugh even though I'd separated them. This kept on for a little while, through all the class activities, until I was fed up.

"Listen, guys," I said. In this culture, you have to be firm but kind. "I think you've had enough class for today."

They both looked at me, oblivious to what I was alluding to.

"I think you should go outside and have a cup of coffee."

The class started to murmur, and a few people laughed, but the boys didn't move. I knew the Lawyer didn't understand, but I was curious as to why The Big One hadn't argued back at me. Then it hit me that neither of them understood I was kicking them out. Finally, one of the students told them in Arabic that I wanted them to leave.

Lawyer grabbed The Big One's books and put them on his desk. He started to get up. The Big One held his arm and looked at me.  "No, Miss. Sorry, sorry. We don't talk."

I relented and let them stay, separating them again. Not that it mattered. They continued on throughout the last half hour or so. After class, they came up and sat with me, and I told them I was disappointed. They seemed apologetic, so I thought it wouldn't happen again.

Well.

I just can't seem to get these two to settle down. It's only gotten worse from there.

I've had rubsha boys before, but these two take the cake. If only I knew that first day was the tamest they could be.

A few days ago, after separating them permanently (again, not that it matters) and having to hear the daily, "Miss, I can't live without _______!", I was trying to go on with the discussion in class. The Big One was sitting in the back, playing with a couple of glass bottles he'd drank before class.

So, picture it:

There I am, standing in front of the class trying to make a most genius point (I'm sure!) about some skill, when I look up to see The Big One holding the glass bottles to his eyes like a pair of binoculars! I was so dumbfounded all I could do was stop mid-sentence and stare at him.

My students waited a moment before turning to see why I'd stopped. They started laughing at the crazy sight before them. I just shook my head, put my hands on my hips and said, "What is WRONG with you?"

He took the bottles off, looking sheepish, and went back to his book - for a minute. The next thing I know, he's playing with his phone and distracting other students.

Normally, if a student is playing with a phone, I just tell them to put it away. If they continue, I'll walk over with my palm outstretched. Usually, they'll shove the gadget in their pocket and say, "No, Miss. I put away."

This day, however, there was not one thought in my mind to try to avoid embarrassment for The Big One. I marched over to his desk, hand outstretched, and said, "Give it to me. Give me the phone. Give me the bottles - no, both of them - and do your work." He complied, grinning awkwardly.

After class, he came up wanting his phone - and bottles, for some reason (sea voyage?). I told him I was giving it to the first person who could give me a good way to make both him and Lawyer be quiet in class. Yes, even though they've been separated and The Big One seemed to be more concerned with playing Captain, they still talk at one another across the classroom.

I've often wondered, out loud, if moving them to different classrooms would help. But then I get the image of Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That On Television" stuck in my head:

"Hey, Lawyer!"

"Yeah?"

"What you doing?"

"I'm in the class."

"You like the class?"

"Yeah, I like!"

Separation by class would not deter these two.

So, it seemed that it couldn't possibly get any crazier than The Big One scoping out the classroom through glass bottles.

Until today.

I come into class a few minutes late, and Lawyer is calling my name. "Miss Stephanie! Miss Stephanie!"

"Yes???"

"He took my phone!"

I smile, thinking it's funny that somebody else is confiscating electronics. "Who?"

He named the culprit - well, three, actually. "They won't give it back!"

"I don't have it!" The Big One says. All the students - especially the ones that have been implicated - are laughing.

"Yes, you do! And I will kill you!" Lawyer says.

They all laugh.

Lawyer turns to the front and points at the clock on the wall. "I will give you until...two...two...and...two..." He stops, counting to himself. I see his mouth move as he counts in Arabic the intervals on the clock. "Two hundred..."

Another student next to him says, "Two and a half...." (This is a direct translation of how time is read in Arabic.)

Lawyer ignores him, determined to do it himself.  "Two and ten...two..."

"Two and a half..." the other insists.

Finally, Lawyer gives in. "I give you until two and a half. If I don't have my phone....[he breaks into Arabic]....I will kill you after class. At midnight!" He turns to me. "Miss Stephanie, I will kill them at midnight. All three." He names them.

The class is laughing, and I'm rolling my eyes. This is getting ridiculous. "You're going to kill him?"

"Yes."

"How?" I inquire.

"With anything. With knife. With...with gun..."

"YOU have a gun?"

"Ye-es, " he says, in the way he always says it - as though he didn't understand the question.

I sit down at my desk, determined to ignore him and begin class.

But he gets up and comes to my desk. "Miss Stephanie, you have to do something."

"What am I supposed to do? I'm not his mother."

"Tell him give me phone back."

Irritated to my ears with these shenanigans, I finally say, "Listen, whoever has [Lawyer's] phone...give it to him."

Nobody moves. I look at each of the three defendants. "Did you take it? Do you have it?" I ask, one at a time.

They all say no. Lawyer is still standing beside me. I can tell the class is getting restless. This has gone on long enough.

Finally, I look at Lawyer and say one word: Ijlis. Sit.

He hangs his head and sheepishly walks back to his seat. We begin class. For once, we don't have nearly as much disruption as we have had the past several weeks.

I know this isn't over. I know I've got my hands full for the rest of the semester.

All I can say is that when I decided to do this job, I wasn't aware babysitting was part of my job description.

Luckily, at the end of the day, I get to go home to my family and 5-year-old who acts more mature than the college freshmen in my English classes at work.