A Year Spent Cleaning My Closet

In addition to getting a great job, finding a beautiful apartment with a hot shower and washer and dryer,  joining OkCupid and actually finding a pretty wonderful guy, and beginning my Year of Wellness, my first year back in America has been spent cleaning my closet. 

The cleaning of my closet was a process that took a little over a year to actually complete, and I am still kind of shocked it took me that long to do it. There were times where I thought that, yes, this is it, I have nothing else to let go of, my closet is perfect! But then on a sleepless night, or an early morning, I would attack my closet, throwing shoes, bags, costume jewelry, and clothes in a bag to give away. Letting go, and making space for new things, is not easy, especially when your skinny jeans are involved.

The stages of cleaning my closet went something like this: 

1. The Obvious S**t

One of the first things I did when I got back and was living at home un-employed, was to go through all my stuff that I had left behind. To be honest, I must have been out of my mind with some of the s**t I kept. T-shirts with holes, bras that would only fit half of one of my boobs, Adams Morgan/bar crawl sexy heels, 100,000 wristlets bought at TJMaxx for $6.99, a collection of Christmas Eve pajamas, clothes left from college (let that sink it)...the list goes on and on and on. After living for 27 months wearing the same 5-6 outfits over and over again, coming home and seeing how much crap I actually kept was cray cray. So I got rid of all the stuff I was too old to wear, that was too damaged to keep, or was just plain repetitive (I do not need 4 pairs of black heels, I just don't). These selections were obvious and I made a good $20 from Buffalo Exchange which I used to purchase wine for a good friend and me.

2. You Are Too Old for This S**t 

This was a little more difficult, because this was all my "cute" and "sexy" stuff. Oh but I wore that dress to that club and so many people bought me drinks! I bought that dress at one of my favorite stores in DC and it makes my boobs look great! I LIVED in that t-shirt/blouse/pants when I lived in DC! A lot changes in 27 months, including that with every year that passed I got a little older. So I had to come to terms with the fact that I needed to give away these things to update my wardrobe, because now that I am a little older, wearing a boob exposing blouse just doesn't look as good on a 29/30 year old as it did on a 25/26 year old. So I sold all that stuff at Buffalo Exchange and bought some more mature clothes suitable for a lady that is no longer a complete hot mess riding the train to crazy town. 

3. Just Get Over This S**T

This stage was yet again more difficult. This consisted of all the stuff that were gifts but that I had never worn/used. I guess I held onto this stuff out of a sense of duty. These were thoughtful gifts that were given to me, but there was not point on holding on to these things simply because I felt I had to. So I let them go. I never wore them, and they never seemed to really fit, so I got over myself and gave them to someone who would get more use out of them than me. I mean, yes, I love scarves, but who the f*ck need 100,000 scarves?

4. Make this S**t Simple

I am going to tell everyone a little secret. If I could wear the same comfy yet hip and stylish I am too cool to care and yet so effortlessly classy outfit every day, I.WOULD. My life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco gave me the excuse to wear the same 6 pieces of clothes over and over again, and I loved it. It was so simple. Everything I owned had to match because I did not have the room or money for it not to, which is how I perfected the carry-on only travel policy. While I still have way more that 6 pieces of clothes, and they are of a little higher quality, if I wanted to wear them with yoga pants I could. And what better thing is there in life than wearing yoga pants?

5. Girl, Your Ass Will Never Again Fit Into This S**t, Get Over It

Oh, this stage hurt. This is my Year of Wellness, and I plan to not only get physically healthy (aka back in shape) but be in a better place financially, mentally, and emotionally. Now don't get all worried, I am not on the verge of having a break down, but I think returning to life in America, and coming to terms with everything I missed and how much everyone has changed, yet stayed the same, has been much more difficult than I have been willing to admit to myself, and I need to face that to move forward. I am doing a yoga teacher training, participating in Baron Baptiste Level One, and am looking for better financial opportunities. But I also needed to get rid of a lot of stuff I was holding onto, like that amazing  Club Monaco grey pinstripe blazer that I bought at the Marshals by the Moorsetown Mall for $30 back in HIGH SCHOOL. My boobs will never, ever, ever fit into that blazer ever again. They just won't, and I don't know if I want them to, because that was HIGH SCHOOL. This year is not about losing weight, but developing and maintaining a healthy lifestyle. So while drinking a little less red wine and doing more yoga might make me lose weight, I will most likely never fit into that beautiful chiffon tan dress with white polka dots that I bought at the TJMaxx down the shore and wore when Mrs. Fulbright visited the office I worked at after I graduated college. And you know what, even if I did, I should treat myself to something new, even though the last time I wore that really great navy blue dress I accidentally butt flashed some very attractive men in uniform in front of the White House when a gust of wind blew up the dress...

Sure, I still kept all my jllabas from Morocco, one pair of my "skinny" jeans, that electric blue corduroy skirt I bought at the Armani Exchange outlet in Italy in 2006, and 30 scarves. But I did get rid of a lot of s**t I no longer need in my life or that simply just does not fit. I will never stop cleaning my closet, partially becasue I love discount/consignment shopping, but after spending an entire year cleaning my closet, I think I have done a pretty good job of letting go of the past and making way for that pair of Ferragamo loafers I found for $5 at the church sale down the street. Life is good.

I am an idiot, part 3

As my Peace Corps service comes to an end (12 more days!) there is a long list of things I need to get done. These things should be easy to do because I have been here 27 months and should know darija by now, except that I don't. Sure I got intermediate high during my Language Exam, but I think my tester gave this score to me as a joke since for one question that I did not understand I answered with "inshallah?" (if Gd wills). He just laughed at me. True story.

So, moving on, when I was in Rabat a week ago I figured this would be the best time to visit the bank and withdrawal all my money, since doing business in a bank in the capital of Morocco should be easier than in my site? This is what happened (all in Moroccan arabic/darija)...

Me: Hello. I have money. I need money. I need check to get money. Please. Thank you. (hands her piece of paper with account number on it)
Bank Woman: Do you have an ATM card or checks?
Me: No. ATM card went away. Checks. No.
Bank Woman: YOU LOST YOUR ATM CARD AND HAVE NO CHECKS! (looks at me like I am the saddest thing she has ever seen) Let me see your carte de sejour.
Me: (hands her carte de sejour/identity card) Here. Thank you.
Bank Woman: OMG your card is expiring in two days. T.W.O. D.A.Y.S.
Me: I know. Spoke to police. Ok.
Bank Woman: (she does not believe me, is feeling even more sorry for me..walks away to check my account.) You cannot get checks here, you have to go to the bank on Abdallah Basid avenue. (using hand gestures) No.checks.here.other.bank.understand?
Me: (put the saddest most dejected look on my face) Is far?
Bank Woman: (rolls eyes, mutters something, using a lot of hand gestures) This time, only this time, I give you check, every other time go to other bank.
Me: Thank you! Thank you! You nice!
Bank Woman: (hands me piece of paper in French to fill out)
Me: (looks at it for a while)
Bank Woman: Are you ok?
Me: I don't understand French.
Bank Woman: (rolls eyes, fills out form for me) How much do you need?
Me: Everything.
Bank Woman: Everything?
Me: Yes. But do not know how much I have.
Bank Woman: You are so sad.
Me: I speak little arabic. But little by little yes?
Bank Woman: (shakes head) Here is your money. What is this?
Me: 100 dirhams!
Bank Woman: And this?
Me: 20 dirhams!
Bank Woman: And this?
Me: 10 dirhams! 5 dirhams! 1 dirham! Half a dirham!
Bank Woman: You are so smart! You know your numbers!
Me: Yes. But do not understand ryals. Go to souq and think they want 100 dirhams for carrots and really want 100 ryal. I don't understand.
Bank Woman: Oh you are so sad! You like souq.
Me: No! Tomato. Carrot. Eggplant. Chicken. Egg. Mint. Potato.
Bank Woman: And onion!
Me: Yes. Onion! 
Bank Woman: You speak darija very well! How long have you been here?
Me: (too embarrassed to admit that I have been here 27 months given how poor my darija is) One year!
Bank Woman: One year! You should be very proud of yourself!
Me: A little, darija hard. Thank you. You nice. Goodbye. 

Only 12 more days of people thinking that I am a complete idiot...inshallah. 

A Place Where Clocks Don't Work

Sitting in the train station in Ben Guerir I kept checking the clock, trying to patiently wait for the train to Rabat which was the start of my long trip home to America for my brother's funeral. I don't know why I kept checking the clock, they never work anyway. The big clocks decorating the train stations, the small clocks in the train stations, the clocks outside the banks, the clocks in busses, and even the clocks in Moroccan homes either don't work or the time is incorrect, and this clock was no different. Come to think of it, the clock hanging in my apartment doesn't even work, and I have never bothered to fix it.  The hands have been set at 3:30 since the time I moved in, never changing. If only life was that easy.  

I find it pleasant that most of the clocks in Morocco I have encountered don't work. Time of day and when you do something often revolves around the call to prayer which happens five times a day. It's 4am, I don't have to wake up, but now I have the call to prayer to help me get back to sleep. Oh, it must be around 12:30, better get home for lunch...and so on.  The time of the call to prayer is based on the lunar calendar, and as the days get longer or shorter I often change my class schedule to fit after the 4/5ish call to prayer. I don't even have to tell my students about it, since they don't seem to show up until after that call to prayer anyway. Time seems fluid in Morocco and something that you don't take too seriously. Since "if Gd wills"(inshallah) is the unofficial slogan of Morocco, you arrive precisely the time you were intended to arrive. 

In Morocco, no one seems to be in a rush to do anythng (except maybe board a train). It is like Moroccans have all the time in the world. This has often given me the false impression that time will move just as slow back in America. But whenever my Moroccan mother scolds me about how my American mother only stayed in Morocco for a week, she should have stayed here for at least a month, I jokingly say that in America there is no time. And if you really think about it, it is kind of true. As I live my life in Morocco at this slow relaxing pace, life in America continues to move at lightning speed.  Five weddings, countless birthdays, career changes, and the last years of my brother's life have all passed without me. I often hope that when I step off the plane in America, everything I missed was just a dream, and that it all didn't really happen without me. But it did, and that was the choice I made, and the one I will have to live with.

Perhaps I will try and bring this concept of time back to America and see how it works...hopefully it doesn't get me fired. But while owning non-functioning clocks and getting somewhere when I get there won't bring my brother back, I now have a new appreciation for my favorite J.R.R. Tolkien quote:

"Darkness took me. And I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead and everyday was as long as a life-age of the earth. But it was not the end."

And it brings me peace. 

An Ode to the Wendy's Spicy Chicken Sandwich

Oh Wendy's Spicy Chicken Sandwich

you are THE BEST SANDWICH EVER

to desire

what one cannot have

tis painful

the spice

-iness

the fries

the

ice

cold

coke

and mayo

your protein

which gives you

the value of health

your breaded

and deep fried

deliciousness 

it just is

so there is

no point

to list reasons why

I love you

one always wants what 

one cannot have.

A Social Experiment in Paris

True Story

In Morocco, men I don't know often make comments at me for no apparent reason.  This means that I literally cannot leave my house without some guy busting my balls.  Sometimes the "bonjour", "ca va?", "hey sweetheart", "ciao bella!", "bueno seara", and "I want to f**k you in the ass" comments don't bother me.  Sometimes they make me want to punch someone in the face.  Needless to say, busting my balls EVERYDAY.  

I am actually more confused than anything about these comments.  I mean really?  Really.  Are these comments supposed to impress me?  Make me want to date you?  What EXACTLY are you trying to get from me with these comments?  Honestly, I want to know.  So when I was in Paris I did a little experiment to find out exactly what the benefits of randomly yelling greetings at people of the opposite sex on the street are.  I decided to do my experiment in Paris and not in Morocco because first, I was on vacation and wanted to have some fun, and second, because given the relative equality of men and women in France as opposed to Morocco, a woman yelling at a man on the street in Paris is probably as normal as a man yelling at woman on the street in Morocco.  MAYBE.  So whenever I was sitting in a cafe or walking down the street, when I saw an attractive man I would say in the sweetest most obnoxious voice I have "Bonjour! Ca va!?"  And this is what I discovered...

1. The men in Paris are EXTREMELY attractive with their blue eyes and I don't care but I do care street style.  

2. Parisian police officers can fill out a uniform like you can't BELIEVE. 

3. The men you yell at will ignore you or be confused as to what you are doing.

4. The police officers will respond with "Bonjour Mademoiselle" because I think they are legally obligated to do so?

5. The one group of men that turned around and validated that what I was doing actually worked were drunk...yet attractive!  

6.  I did not make out with any French men or police officers. Sad face.

Moral of the story is that randomly yelling at people from the opposite sex on the street in the hopes of getting some action doesn't work. If you want people to give you strange looks it works.  If the other group of people are drunk it partially works.  If it is a police officer it works because of the law, but all you get is an amazing smile, nothing physical.  

While discovering that randomly yelling at people from the opposite sex on the street in the hopes of getting some action doesn't work, my experiment led me no closer to finding out the reasons why some men in Morocco feel the need to bust my balls.  However, I do know that someone once said that constantly repeating an action that has been proven by science to not work makes you an idiot, so that is comforting.

My First and Only Attempt at Being Insightful

This post will be my first and only attempt at being insightful and giving "advice" on serving in the Peace Corps.  I didn't create this blog to bore people with cliches discussed in a study group of an Intro to International Development or Intro to Philosophy course and how I understand them and you don't.  So as promised, I have stuck to mainly embarrassing moments where I make a fool of myself.  

But one day, on a train ride though the misty wild flower covered hills of Fez (ahhhh CLICHE ALERT)  I was listening to Baz Lurhmann's remix of Mary Schmich's 1997 Chicago Tribune column "Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young" and was feeling the ebbs and flows of nostalgia weigh on my heart (damn it, I did it again) so I decided to at least attempt to write ONE insightful post.  Actually, ok, lets be honest here, so I am not actually going to WRITE it.  I am simply going to highlight some of the most insightful things Mary Schmich wrote and comment on how they relate to life in the Peace Corps.

"Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blind side you at 4 PM on some idle Tuesday."

So, no one came to your English class.  Your counterpart was late to a meeting, again.  You can't seem to get anything done and your Peace Corps service is not as fulfilling as you thought it would be because no on here is "poor enough" to need your help.  YOU WERE LIED TO so you wrote your frustrations out on FMPCL (F*** my Peace Corps Life).  Listen pancakes, cry me a river, build me a bridge, and GTF over it.  People will come to your class eventually, you will start showing up late to meetings and end up being right on time, you will eventually get something done, and your service will be fulfilling because whoever doesn't leave Peace Corps a better person was a POS to begin with.  Fact.  So why worry about it?  Ultimately the trivial day to day going ons are the things you should be enjoying (even if you don't understand them or they frustrate you) as they prepare you for the real troubles that come your way. 

"Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself." 

Please do not compare yourself to other Peace Corps volunteers or be jealous of their projects.  I have yet to meet a normal Peace Corps volunteer, including me, and abnormalities can't be compared with other abnormalities.  That is what makes them abnormal, it is science.  Anyway, you think I am normal?  No, I am not normal.  I should show you my W2 form from 2011 and compare it with my W2 form from 2012 where my only "income" was from the Peace Corps...WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE!?

Also, GET OFF FACEBOOK.  The volunteers who are on Facebook all the time talking about how great their life is, is it really that great if they are always on Facebook?  I mean, where do they get all the time to do their amazing projects if they are always writing about them on Facebook?  And let's be real, the only reason people on Facebook think I am cool is because I take all my pictures using Instagram. True story.   

Listen, we should all take the time to share our stories and celebrate our accomplishments, whether that be on Facebook or somewhere else.  But please don't be THAT volunteer.  You know the one that I am talking about, the one who ALWAYS talks about how amazing their life is and how much work they are doing.  Are you really enjoying that one sided conversation.  I mean really?  No, you aren't.  It is like blah blah blah blah bladdiblah for HOURS and you know they are only doing it to make themselves feel better.  I mean, do you honestly even believe the words that are coming out of their mouths.  No, you don't.    

"Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's."

First, I will literally de-friend you if one more annoyingly self-aggrandizing or ignorant comment shows up on my news feed.  I swear to it on a box of Mike and Ikes that I will do it.  Wait, I shouldn't be on Facebook...

Second, cut yourself some slack.  Honestly, do you have any idea what is going on around you right now?  Honestly?  Literally, every single day I have no idea what is going on around me and I have been here for a YEAR AND A HALF.  I should know better, but I don't. I pretend that I do, but I don't.

Finally...

"Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth." 

The most important thing I have learned in Peace Corps is that no one knows what they are talking about.  They might think that they do, but they don't.  You know why they don't, because they aren't you and ultimately can't tell you what to do with your life or what to do with your service.  Take people's advice, don't take people's advice, but remember that advice can sometimes be someone else's insecurities coming out, and you don't have time for that s**t.  Actually, sometimes advice can be someone sharing their vast and well earned wisdom.  I honestly don't know the difference.  But I suppose never trust someone with crazy eyes.  

The end.

For Mary Schmich's full article go here: http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/columnists/chi-schmich-sunscreen-column,0,4054576.column

For the Baz Lurhmann remix go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJ7AzBIJoI

The Mystery Man Anass

Once upon a time, a man named Anass somehow got my number.  For six months he texted and called me in the hopes I would respond.  His calls were insistent and his texts, strange.  The first time he called he said he wanted to meet me to learn more about what I do, he lived in my site and spoke very good English.  I asked if he was a reporter, he didn't respond, I asked if he worked for a local association, he didn't give me a clear answer but simply said he just really wanted to meet me.  I told him to go f**k himself and that if he ever called me again I would hunt him down, rip his balls off, and shove them up his a**.  I think that is when he fell in love with me.

I ignored his calls and texts for the first three months.  My phone constantly buzzed with messages of how we don't know what destiny holds and we should meet, how he knows we have a secret connection, or that I should email him at fabio234@hotmail.com.  All the while calling me is sweet Loshia.  It took all my strength for me not to reply with "I know what destiny holds, it says that one day my foot will be up your a** if you don't stop contacting me", "F**k.You.", or "hotmail, you have to be shitting me." But I never did, and my silence only increased his love for me.

The next three months I would occasionally answer his calls and bark in the phone, not only wasting his minutes, but hoping to give him the impression I was CRAZY and to leave me alone.  My barking only added fire to his passion and his calls and texts kept increasing at a rate that I began to wonder what this guy does for a living?  During those three months, I went from being outraged that this guy thinks I am so f**king pathetic or stupid that I would actually be interested in a creeper like him to absolute shock that a guy actually existed that was so horribly pathetic.  

It finally got to a point where I had enough.  He texted me another plea begging me to give him the pleasure of meeting me.  I responded that if he contacted me again I would give him the pleasure of meeting with the local police and the US government.  This made him mad.  He was indignant, didn't I know he wasn't scared, and he had his own important friends?!  Yeah, sure, a man with the email fabio234@hotmail.com is DEFINITELY an important person with important friends.  So I let PC know and gave them all his information, and they tried to call him to tell him to back the f**k off, but he never picked up.  Our love was lost, or was it?

A week ago a group of tourists came to my site to visit local associations, and one of the places they visited was my center.  Accompanying the group was a man named Anass and we had the following conversation...

Me: Anass it is a pleasure to meet you.  You are the music teacher who played at the Gnoua Festival right?
Anass: Yes, that was me, the famous music teacher.
Me: Hahahaha. You have really good English.
Anass: Thank you.
Me: And your name is Anass?
Anass: Yes.
Me: And you live here?
Anass: Yes.
Me: You know something really funny?
Anass: What?
Me: There was this creeper named Anass who had really good English who lived here who somehow got my number and wouldn't leave me alone, I had to get my organization involved...
Anass: (awkward silence)
Me: Wouldn't that be really funny if you were the same Anass, because then I would have to punch you in the face!  Hahahahahahahahahaha, sigh.
Anass: (awkward laugh) I don't use my phone.
Me: Lucky for you! Hahahahahahah
Anass: (awkward silence)
Me: Well it was a pleasure meeting you Anass.
Anass: Yes, you too.
Me: (f**king a**hole)