ihath

I love it when people give me advice. Especially when it is from complete strangers. Usually those are the best kind of advice. Over the years I have benefited greatly from advice given to me by various people.

Take the advice given to me by Abdullah (not his real name)., an acquaintance of the family. We socialize with Abdullah about once or twice a year. He was sitting in the living room after a festive dinner and we were chatting about world affairs as all us middle easterners like to do. When Abdullah suddenly said that he has been thinking lots about my brother, who has been suffering with mental illness for many years. Abdullah said that he spent many hours attempting to figure out why my brother was ill, and after long thinking and contemplation he has finally figured out. Wow! Abdullah you are a genius, all the best psychiatrists and therapist haven’t been able to help my brother, please tell us why my brother is in his tormented state. Abdullah said “ You brother is sick because of you ihath. You are so successful on many fronts, career and family. Each time your brother meets with you, he feels inadequate because in his mind he is comparing himself with you. It makes him feel inadequate and then he feels depressed as a result”. Wow! What great advice from somebody who barely knows me. I have spent 13 years watching my brother deteriorate from bi polar disease to Schizophrenia. I have been to every psychiatric ward, half way house and group house in the city of Vancouver in order to visit my brother because he was housed in all of them at one point or another. I have talked to a bazillion of psychiatrists, nurses and therapists and heard them tell me the same nonsense. I have watched him take medication after medication, each with such vile side effects that it made me doubt if being insane wasn’t better. I had watched him gain lots of weight till he looked like he would explode and then lose it again with amazing speed where he looked like a skeleton. I have spent hours listening to him tell me about his dark illusions and fantasies. How he walks around for hours and everybody seems be a devil possessed human. How he can actually see horns on their heads. How all these people are after him and want to kill him and he is constantly trying to escape. I had visited my brother in the psychiatric ward where he was locked up in a room with nothing but a mattress and a stainless steel toilette. When he is in that state, I need to be accompanied with two body guards that look like Vin Diesel on steroids, for my own safety. I have watched my parents plunge into their own depression over this and I had to tell them over and over and over that my brother’s illness was not their fault. All this torment could have been spared had I listened to the valuable advice of Abdullah I will mess up both my professional and family life so that my brother will no longer feel inadequate next to me. I figured that the quickest way to mess up my life would be to take hard drugs. From what I hear it seems to be a guaranteed way to mess up everything. Since I don’t have much knowledge about the matter I need advice. Which kinda drug should I take? I hear drug names in Hollywood movies like crack, LSD or cocaine, which is best and fastest at ruining a life? Is there a way to take this drug without needles, I am really squeamish about needles in general and cannot imagine injecting myself with a needle. I get dizzy when the doctors gives me the flu shots.

Off course, Abdullah’s not so successful career and recent divorce contributed nothing to his sincere advice to me. There is no way that this bright middle aged man feels inadequate next to ihath. There is no way that he was projecting his own feeling onto my brother. No, that is absolutely not what was going on in his mind.

I love the fragile ego of some middle eastern men, it can be such a hoot.

So, as I have illustrated with the above example I get valuable advice from people already. So all of you who send me emails about how I should live my life and what I should think, just make me laugh. You pale in comparison to the wonderful advice of Abdullah. Unless you can top the brilliance and deep wisdom of AAbdullah then I recommend that you don’t bother sending me advice. I get able advice already.


My favorite emails are the ones where the sender diagnoses me with mental illnesses that I have never heard off. Considering that I have read several books on mental illnesses after my brothers affliction, I am constantly amazed by new illnesses that I have never heard of. One person diagnosed me with Stockholm Syndrome. Another concluded that I must suffer from evilitis – the chronic state of evil. All this time, when my brother was really ill and he would start imagining that I was one the devil possessed, horn wearing people, I thought it was because he didn’t take his little blue pills on time. Turns out he was right all the way. Hey! The amazing things that you discover from complete strangers can be amazing. All this time I had no idea. Been going to the family doctor on my yearly checkup and he never mentioned a thing. Finally, I get free psycho analysis for free from people whom I never met. Isn’t this internet thing just amazing?

Despite all the wonderful advice I have gotten I myself am rotten at giving advice. In fact if I ever give you advice on anything you should probably ignore it. Had I know any good advice I would have given some to my brother; but non of the advice worked thus far.


Perhaps if I take drugs, I will be reduced to a psychotic state as well. These probably is a drug out there that can induce that. One day, both my brother and I will be sitting on a couch in the psychiatric ward. We will both be wearing those flimsy hospital gowns that show your behind when you stand up. We will talk about the devil possessed, horn wearing people and device escape plans together. At last, my brother won’t feel lonely in the dark world that he lives in. At last I will be able to understand what he is going through. It will be like the good old days, when we were both kids and we would spend hours sharing our fantasies and hopes for the future.

My father laughed. My brother was laughing so hard he was swaying forwards and backwards. My mother placed her hand on her head and said “Oh no! what now!”. My husband suppressed the laugh; but only because he knew that he would have to go home with me that night.

Three years ago I announced at the family weekly get together lunch that I would do the Sun Run. A popular Vancouver 10K run.

There were head shakes with disbelief.
There were “But you need to be an athlete to run 10K.”
There were “But you can’t run around the block, how will you run a 10k race?”
There was “But people train for that sorta thing.”

In defiance, I said ” so I will train and do the bloody 10k race. I don’t see what the big deal is?”. Despite my nonchalant exterior, I wasn’t surprised at my family’s response. I would run for 5 minutes and feel like I was about faint and collapse. Few days following my proclamation, I enrolled in a running clinic that is for complete beginners. The premise is simple you start by running 30 seconds and walking for 4.5 minutes, repeat for an hour. Every week, you increase the running time and reduce the walking time by a bit until you are able to run the whole hour. I would meet with the group 9 am every Sunday and do the routine with the group and later you are supposed to do it on your own twice during the week. The first meeting was easy. Those 30 seconds went by so fast that I would hardly notice the time going by. Hey! Even I could do it and with ease. Good start.

The next day it snowed in Vancouver. And when it snows in Vancouver you don’t get that nice powdery ice cream like fluff you get in Montreal. You see, in Vancouver it snows, then the temperature goes up, which means the snow partially melts forming a slushy substance, and then it rains on top of that, forming wet vastness of murky goo. After people walk on this murky goo for a day the icy part is compacted leaving the water on top of the compacted murky goo. Water on top of compacted ice like murky goo is the perfect recipe for breaking your neck. How was I supposed to do my two walk/run routines during the week. It snows very rarely in Vancouver, about once or twice a year. That year the snow was particularly unusual because it happened in October. I felt that the whole universe was conspiring to stop me from training for the Sun Run.

Even God was laughing at me and telling me “ihath, you can’t do this”.

But being the stubborn Iraqi that I am, I was adamant that I would do it. Since I work full time and have three small children to care for, my days are pretty full. Making 5 am in the morning the perfect time for training for this working mother. I woke up, at 5 am looked out the window. It looked dark, cold and miserable outside. I put my running shoes on and went outside anyway. If you think that walking on the murky goo is dangerous try doing it in the dark when you can’t see. Much more fun. I was the only person outside. As I ran and walked I kept telling myself “I am the most insane person in the world”. Definitely, an A type personality. I spent more energy looking where I was going and balancing myself on icy patches than the actual running. I think I got more muscle toning that cardio on that day. But, I did it anyway. When I got back home my husband was awake. “You are the most insane woman in the world” he told me.

I knew if I would drop the ball at the beginning I wouldn’t continue with the running clinic and I would have to bear the teasing of my family for many years to come. I could imagine the weekly family lunch, week after week, year after year hearing “Do you remember the time when ihath said she would run the 10k? hahahaha wasn’t that a hoot?”. Who says family can’t be the source of your motivation?

The next week, I showed up for the group run and It was snowing heavily on that day. About 20% of the group showed up only. Most people didn’t bother leaving home on that morning. But I was there, ready for the next stage. “Go ahead God!, have a good laugh.”
We ran/ walked for an hour and it snowed so heavily that I could hardly see in front of me. Anybody who lives in Vancouver will tell you how rare that is. There was something beautiful and surreal about walking and running in the snow. At least with the fresh powdery snow it wasn’t slippery.

Three weeks of running/walking on slippery goo, where followed by 5 am running/walking in the pouring rain. And I mean I would come home dripping water from every limb. I would walk through the back door into the kitchen of the house so wet that I had to take all my clothes off in the entrance so as not to wet the carpets in the house. I would find my husband in the kitchen about to make coffee and he would look at me and shake his head. He had already given up on talking me out of it at that point.


For my birthday that year, my husband bought me the full running gear. The trousers the technical shirt even the running jacket thing. All sugoi. All in my favorite color of egg plant purple. I guess he figured it I was gonna fall flat on my face, I might as well do it looking good. I saw this as an awesome gesture of encouragement. Even though he didn’t support what I was doing he supported me any way and I loved him for it.

The night before the race I got a concerned phone call from my dad. It went something like this.

Dad: So are you going through with it?
Me: Yes, off course.
Dad: Honey, I am worried you will hurt yourself, running 10k is no joke.
Me: Don’t worry, I trained.
Dad: You know, I won’t think less of you if you quit, I promise that nobody in the family will make fun of you if you quit now.
Me: Dad, don’t worry, I will do fine.
Dad: Listen, if you feel hurt half way through, don’t push yourself, just stop half way through and go home, ok!
Me: Dad, don’t worry, I will do fine.
Dad: Ok, just promise me you won’t push yourself, if you feel pain you will stop.
Me: Ok Dad, but don’t worry.
Dad: I promise you nobody will make fun of you if you stop half way through.

That night when I went to bed I tossed and turned. I had nightmares where I am running and then I fall flat on my face. I couldn’t sleep very well. My husband kept telling me “You will do fine, now go to sleep”.

The next day, I did it. I ran the 10k and I didn’t fall flat on my face and I didn’t stop half way through. When I crossed the finish line, I started to cry.

I had finished university, balanced career with family, gave birth to three children, learned foreign languages and traveled around the world. None of these things were easy, but they were all expected of me. They were things that I myself and my family expected of me. This was the first time that I had done something that nobody expected of me. I surprised them all, including myself.

I went home to find my children cheering “mommy we saw you running”. My husband gave me a hug. My dad called to say “ I take my words back, I am sorry I made fun of you earlier, you did it and I am proud of you”.

From then on, every year, I have resolved myself to do something that I don’t believe that I can do. Something that I am terrified of, something that I have never done before. So far I have done, running, dancing and this years challenge is writing a book. The fun just never ends.

If somebody told me that I was prettier than Janet Reno I would feel insulted. That woman has the charm of a door knob. On the other hand, if I was compared to Kate Winslet I would find that flattering. You don’t even have to say that I am prettier than her only that I maybe remind you of her a tiny bit. Yes! I know I am being delusional here, but a woman is entitled to a few delusions.

If somebody told me that I was smarter than a bag of hammers, I would be insulted as well. I am no Einstein, but I would rather be compared to thinkers of the medium I.Q. range at least. One reader told me that my blog reminds him of the music of Fabrizio De Andre (Italian musician). I can’t think of a more flattering statement.

So, I don’t understand your pride at telling me that the coalition forces are better than Saddam and the Ba’athist party. You keep telling me that this and that is better. Is that something to be proud of? We are better than Saddam. Is that your measuring yard stick? Is that your goal? To be better than one of the worst dictatorships to exist in our modern history.

So, let me make it easy for you. Yes you, your government and your people are better than Saddam and I mean that in the most insulting sense of the word possible.

If I was you, I wouldn’t brag about that, the same way I don’t go around bragging that I am prettier than Janet Reno. I mean I am prettier, no delusions involved in this one, but it is not something I am very proud of because it is not much of an achievement. Saying it would make me seem extremely ugly.

You know how plastic surgeons have the before and after pictures.

Ugly and still ugly but less flap around the neck. That is what your bragging and American chest beating reminds me off. The still ugly women with a stretched out face satisfied with her new face lift.

As for you, I am not much impressed with you either. Bragging that you will vote for John Kerry, as if that will make a difference. Let me remind you that the democratic party is every bit as war mongering and endorses a bloody foreign policy every bit as scary. Yes, I am perfectly aware that had Al Gore won last elections he wouldn’t have invaded Iraq. However, he would have been happy to continue the sanctions that were killing even more people and bomb Iraq only on occasion while keeping Saddam firmly in power. At least by invading the country, Bush brought the situation to head and is offering a glimmer of hope where there was non before. If you think that bombing a country because of non existant weapons is horrid, then howcome you are not outraged about the sanctions for 13 long years for the same fictional reason. Further more, John Kerry’s stand with regards to Palestine is even worse than that of Bush. Even more ruthless, even more inhumane. And so, faced with the choice between the neo cons that look scary but at least what you see is what you get and a hypocritical, sorry excuse, stand for nothing, bunch of whiners, good for nothing flip flopers. I can’t possibly endorse the pathetic excuse for a liberal party. A face lift is better than a face mutilation.

If I am going to mutilate my face, then I might as well submit to an already rich plastic surgeon who is about to get even richer abusing my pathetic insecurities; better than submitting to the psychopath wielding a machete because he is convinced that slicing my face is in the best interest if the world as a result of some vague lofty ideas.

I have been taking left turns at every street corner for years now and found myself going around in circles.

ihath is hoping that George Bush wins the next elections.

So, the young and restless didn't like my attempt at humor in the last post. Which means that I need to make a second attempt at it. I was gonna tell you this serious and deep story but now that will have to wait till next week. Got to appease.

Here goes, take two.

I always said that my mother gave me the best preparation for married life. She taught me nothing about house work cooking or cleaning. So when I got married my husband had to do it all. It was great.

At age 19, I had never used the oven, never vacuumed a carpet and never ironed a shirt. I was your typical spoiled princess, expecting to snap my fingers and see other people jump to my commands. Its not easy growing up spoiled because you eventually have to face reality. As a teenager I was used to throwing my dirty clothes on the floor of my bedroom and they would magically reappear clean and folded in my closet the next day. I would come from school and a hot meal was ready on the table. Imagine my shock when I went to university and would throw my clothes on the floor and find them lying there the next day? The day after, the pile kept on getting bigger. Oh no! you mean I have to do laundry? Maybe, I should throw away the clothes and buy new, but I figured that would get too expensive so I introduced myself to the laundry room at the university dormitory where I was living. I approached the task with lots of trepidation. That big machine thing with the huge hole in the middle was intimidating. It was mocking me. "You can't do this, you can't do this, you can't do this, nah nanah nananah!". It seemed rather obvious that you should stick the dirty clothes in the middle, put some detergent to top. How much detergent? O! I don't know. Maybe this should be enough, a scoop or two a third won't hurt. And then I pushed a button and it starting buzzing. I could hear the sound of water woshing around in there. Hey! This isn't so hard. This is dead easy. Even I could do it. One hour later, I learned the lesson about separating your clothes based on color. Everything came out a pukey shade of pink. At least I didn't have to worry about color coordination since everything was the same color now.

At least I didn't have to cook. The dormitories I lived in had a cafeteria that served three meals a day. Yeah! So when I got married I knew how to color separate but couldn't fry an egg. I didn't know that in order to fry an egg you should heat some oil in a pan and then break and egg in the middle, that was too hard for me. Luckily, my husband is a great cook and he seemed happy to make great meals everyday. Until one day I had the following discussion with my mom over the phone.

Mom: What did you have for dinner last might.
Me: Take away Pizza.
Mom: Doesn't your husband mind?
Me: No, why would he mind, we like eating Pizza straight out of the box.
Mom: But you are married now, you can't keep doing this.
Me: But I never ate pizza straight out of the box before, it is rather liberating to be able to do that.
Mom: Well, your husband doesn't mind now, but later on he might appreciate it if you prepared him a nice meal once in a while.
Me: Hmmmmmm!

Ok, I was determined to learn to cook. I mean how hard can it be? I am a university graduate, surely I can figure out how to cook. So I went to the bookstore and spent 2 hours examining all the cook books on the shelves. After careful examination I settled on buying this one.




Which turned out to be a good choice since it teaches all the basics yet it contains a variety of interesting recipes. Every night I would sit for hours studying the book to try to settle on a simple first dish for me to prepare. My diligent studying of the book got me the mocking remark "Is that you Ph.D thesis?" from my husband. He said that each time I opened that book I got a serious look on my face that reminded him of students when they are revising their Ph.D thesis. From then on, that book has been called ihath's Ph.D. thesis, we still call it that today. Finally, I settled on a pasta dish. It seemed easy. You boil some pasta, make a sauce to go on top. How hard can it be? Only problem was that my Ph.D thesis didn't mention that you should put the pasta in already boiling water. I instead placed the pasta in a big pot of cold water and proceeded to boil. How was I supposed to know that the pasta would stick all together and come out a giant gew mass. "Why didn't the Ph.D. thesis mention that you should boil the water first?" I asked. "It is because everybody knows that you should do that." Replied my husband.

My poor Za'atarah. When I remember all the disasters that I created in my kitchen on those first few months. My Za'atarah would eat it anyway and then try to give me compliments on my progress. There was the burned rice. The chicken that stuck to the pot. The mashed potato that was too liquid and the chili that made you wanna call 911.

And then there was the pita bread incident. After several months of adventures, I decided to get really brave and make pita bread from scratch. Only problem I didn’t calculate how long it would take and started making the bread around 9:30 pm. At 12:30 pm I was ready to start baking the bread in the oven. My husband was tired and wanted to go to sleep. He kept urging me to leave it alone and that he will buy me all the pita bread I wanted the next day, but being the stubborn Iraqi that I am I persisted that I would finish what I started. And then I burned my pinky finger while opening the hot oven door. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I cried in panky pain. I burned my finger. I insisted I had to go emergency right away. My poor Za'atarah got dressed and took me to nearby emergency department of a near by hospital. We sat there in the waiting room for two hours while doctors and nurses attended to heart attacks, drug overdose and accident patients. I sat there with my red pinky and started to feel a bit silly once I compared my "injury" to the very real injuries of the people around me. When the doctor finally saw me, I wasn't in pain anymore. It seemed to have gone away on its own. But since I was there I showed the doctor my pinky anyway. I could tell that the doctor was resisting the urge to laugh. He was kind though, he placed some dressing on my finger and bandaged it anyway, instead of kicking me out for wasting his time.

On my way home, I remembered the wonderful Czech movie "Pysna Princezna". Proud Princess but it can also be translated to the snotty princess. It is a childhood favorite of a mine. A tale about a super spoiled princess who rejects love letters from a king in far away kingdom. The king disguises himself as an average man and decides to teach the princess a lesson with both tough and tender love methods. I really felt like the silly "Pysna Princezna" on that day. But, for the first time, I didn't like playing that role anymore. It was time for me to grow up.

When I got home at 2:30am, I finished making the pita despite my husband's urging to go to bed. I think he was afraid I would detonate a weapon of mass destruction in the kitchen by accident. I persisted and it actually tasted alright. Now that is what I call determination.