How I Got Rabies in Morocco

Disclaimer: Rabies is a very serious and often fatal disease. I do not support the spread of rabies among animals or humans. I do not think actual rabies is funny nor would I mock it's victims in death. I only intend to mock rabies in the abstract as it relates to my younger sister and her desire to pick up, feed, pet, house and otherwise love kittens seen on the streets of North African and Middle Eastern Countries.

As I prepared to travel to Morocco this spring I knew I was taking some life threatening risks. First there was the plane ride. Despite the supposed "safety" of air travel, I am fairly certain that I will die in some fiery plane crash. There are a couple of theories I have developed to ward off plane crashes and of course I took the customary in flight precautions like wearing close toed shoes, counting the number of seats between myself and the nearest emergency exit, and alerting the flight attendant to all suspected terrorists on board. Then there were the advance safety measures employed too avoid certain death. Before even heading to the airport I followed the lottery rule. Whenever I have a big flight (or a simple 45 minute flight from DC to NYC), I buy a lottery ticket. If I win the lottery the lottery I can't fly, ever again. Clearly the win indicates that all good luck for a lifetime has been used up and at every opportunity bad luck and death are lurking. It’s the natural law of karma, one really great thing means misery and crap is waiting at the other end. Luckily I didn't win the 200 Million jackpot the day before my flight for Casablanca. I had one base covered.

Then there is the attractiveness clause. I know (from watching Lost and just being really in touch with the Universe) that God only takes down planes with really good looking people aboard. There are a couple reasons for this. First, in the unlikely event that the plane crash lands on a deserted island, there need to be enough good looking people to get together and procreate. Ugly people having ugly babies on some gorgeous palm tree lined beach just doesn't cut it in the grand scheme of things (you can pull from the karma justification above, if your plane crashed then the chances are you will at least be able to find some super hunky mate to gather your coconuts and keep you warm in your hut).

The second reason ugly people don't make for a good plane crash is that ugly people don't really illicit sympathy. If the plane crashes and everyone dies (which is probably a more likely scenario than the deserted island), the pictures CNN scrolls across the screen are going to need to display some young tan couple that's recently engaged, or a beautiful young mom with her three cherub like babies. We want to cry for these people and their lost youth. No one is going to cry for some balding snaggle toothed lady with a lazy eye who had to pay for two tickets because her ass couldn't fit in one seat.

Needless to say, when sitting at the gate, convulsing and crying hysterically because I know my time on this planet is running out, I am slightly comforted by the presence of persons missing limbs, wearing an eye-patch, lacking proper hygiene or someone with those bizarre lobster fins instead of arms. I can only hope that the man with two wooden legs, a harelip and only one tooth is sitting next to me.

Assuming I didn't perish en route to Morocco, there were other opportunities for my downfall waiting for me on arrival. Some of which were foreseeable, others which were not. The foreseeable dangers included but were not limited to spending ten days with my Mother and 15-year-old sister Mannah. Now Mom and Mannah (the sister) are great, in small and diluted doses but ten non stop days together created the very real threat that I would kill them both and face very serious jail time.

Having taken many trips with Madre throughout the years, I knew we traveled well together. We both like museums, food, attempting to figure out foreign public transportation systems and soaking up local culture. She is a fine woman (and deceptively young looking!), and I love her dearly (especially because she paid for the trip), however I knew there would be things that tested my limits. For example, my mother’s habits at the buffet style hotel breakfast are a bit bizarre. Apparently the woman grew up in times of famine because every time we went to the hotel breakfast my mother packed away about fifteen meals worth of rolls, jams, cheeses, yogurts, fruits and other perishables that were unlikely to make it through the 90 degree day unrefrigerated.

Alas, I murdered no one and my plane made it safely across the Atlantic, thus the last threat I faced was that of the unknown. A couple notes about the unknown, it’s hard to pack for. How was I to know I would need pliers and a sledgehammer? Had I brought these items the unknown would have been far more manageable and my brushes with death far less fear inducing.

My first night in Morocco I was on my own. Having arrived in Casablanca a day before my mother and younger sister, I traveled by train to my hotel in the city center. Not speaking a word of Arabic or French made this slightly difficult as the vast majority of people seemed to know little English. Yet people were unbelievably helpful in my quest to find my hotel and I made it in one piece by around 8:00 pm local time. I was delirious with exhaustion, unbelievably greasy, and not surprisingly hungry upon arrival. Once in my room I decided I would take a quick shower before heading out to scrounge up some authentic Moroccan food. My sense of adventure had kicked in and despite not speaking the language and looking fairly out of place I was excited to strike out on my own and find some good Moroccan food.

The shower was fine, really relaxing. I step out and towel off, brush my teeth and then go for the door. This is weird, I think, the door handle is turning but the door won't open, must be the moisture from the hot shower. So I wait, patiently, for a minute or two before trying the door again. The door still does not open. My mind goes quiet for a second and I consider the possibilities: my mother got there early and is playing a mean spirited trick on me, there is some sort of rapist/murdered who has decided to lock me in the bathroom before assaulting me, or maybe the door was just stuck. After about an hour of turning the door handle between drop kicks it became apparent that option number three was indeed a reality.

The possibility of escape from Bathroom of Doom seemed pretty slim. My mother was not due to arrive until the next day at five and I had left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door so there wouldn't be any maid service the next morning. It was then that I considered curling up in a ball on the bathroom floor, clad only in a small hotel towels and crying my self to sleep. But my hunger urged me onwards and for two hours straight I banged on the bathroom door screaming "I am stuck in the bathroom in room 1504, please get someone from the front desk." As this was a rather Euro minded hotel I added a " s'il vous plait" in there every so often hoping it might help a passerby to understand.

Finally about two hours later two men from the front desk were alerted to a girl screaming on the 15th floor and came to my rescue. Still half naked and in utter hysterics I barricaded myself in the now open bathroom as the concierge and bell hop tried to pry my out and hand me my bra. If only I had the sledge hammer.

Hey Internet, Find Me a Date!

Everyone is Internet dating these days. Both of my parental units are avid e-daters. These middle-aged daters are on the prowl for love in chat rooms, on Match, on J-Date, even E-harmony. I was home on a school break the day my father called me over to the computer, excitedly pointing at the screen. There, I saw, was a picture of him leaning against a tree, wearing khaki's and a sports coat, a weird and inviting smile pasted on his face. The whole thing resembled a Viagra ad in Men's Health. At his request I proceeded to read the profile.

"Strong yet vulnerable...a man of contradictions...looking for a love that knows no bounds."

When my parents first got divorced I suspected the break up was rooted in my father's potential homosexuality. He loves show tunes (the man had a CD of Les Miserables playing in the car at all times), was very concerned about his appearance (he's been known to tan in public parks wearing only skimpy running shorts, no one wants to be told at lunch in high school that there dad was spotted at the town park wearing nothing but yellow [for all intents and purposes] booty shorts), he owns skimpy running shorts and he is unbearably clean. He has always maintained that he is not in fact gay; however I was once again forced to call this into question when I read about his vulnerable strength and yearning for boundless love.

After the emotional scarring that was reading my father's cyber pick-up essay he wanted to throw some salt in my wounds and asked for my opinion. Answering honestly, I told him it was a little mushy and I found it unappealing (which I think is probably for the best, being wooed by my own Dad's dating profile would be pretty fucked up). Pops was offended by this, insisting that, "This profile is amazing, women from all over the country email me to tell me how moving they find it. Just the other day a woman from Ohio told me she thought I was in touch with my feelings, and wished she could meet me." My father than proceeded to scroll through a list of women he was in contact with and asked that I help him figure out who might be fat in real life. Those with out full body pictures required intense scrutiny, mainly focused around the chin and neck, which he informed me gave away body weight. Yeah, my dad's a real sensitive renaissance man.

Despite all this, I recently joined the ranks of e-daters, hoping that my dear dating Dad would never run across my profile and try to figure out if I was hiding some blubber. The decision was made rather hastily on a lazy Sunday afternoon while watching the cinematic masterpiece "Snakes on a Plane" with a small friend named Mara. As we sat with a computer and a half gallon of ice cream between us, we knew then and there that the time was right for finding love. There is just something about Samuel L. Jackson's impassioned performance that awakens the need for companionship. Mara, being a Jewess much like myself, decided to give J-date a try. As Mara is on the midget side of things J-date, a site populated solely by Jews who are for some reason or another generally pretty short and hairy, seemed the appropriate choice for her (as it happens she enjoys the occasional hairy man). I however had an inkling that the Goyim men of Match.com might be more likely to clear my 6 foot height requirement and got to work creating a profile. And thus in between bites of ice cream and snake induced deaths I starting shopping for boys on the Internet.


Here is how I advertised myself:

snakesonaplane15

Hey internet, find me a date!

Have kids:	No
Want kids:	Definitely
Ethnicity:	White / Caucasian
Body type:	About average
Height:	5'9" (175cms)
Religion:	No Answer
Smoke:	No Way
Drink:	Social Drinker

More of My Photos

In my own words

for fun:

I like wikipedia a lot.

favorite hot spots:

Ethnic food is fun, especially things I get to eat with my hands. I tend to frequent the same bars on U St./gtown/downtown/adams morgan every weekend so am always looking to try something new. Southeast Asia and or Australia.

favorite things:

I really like water, The Office, french toast and sleeping late.

last read:

I'm in the middle of Empire Falls.

About my life and what I'm looking for

I'm really looking forward to finding love on the Internet, you know, surf the wave of the web. If I can find a sofa on the Internet, I can certainly use it to find a reasonably intelligent, mildly well adjusted guy who enjoys watching really bad reality TV and/or lifetime movies.

Recently, I caught the tail end of a TV show on TLC with a family that has 18 children and the mother is pregnant again. Like a car crash I couldn't look away but was kind of afraid to watch. Every one's name started with a J and they wore matching outfits! If this is the sort of thing you were hoping your future might hold, I think we may not be meant for each other. Much like I don't intend to birth 18 children, I'm also not a fan of rodents as pets or the use of emoticons.

Things I do enjoy include but are not limited to exploring new areas of DC (alas I am not a native), This American Life on NPR, saying "that's what she said" entirely too much and when it clearly doesn't apply, g-chat and following my whims to new places.

As for my perfect match, assuming he shares my feelings on small towns populated solely by your own children, emoticons and rodents, I suppose all I can really hope for is someone taller than me who appreciates and doles out sarcasm.

______________________________

This profile has not surprisingly elicited some bizarre and unattractive respondents. There was the 37 year-old father (not mine) from rural Pennsylvania. The balding 25 year-old from Maryland who in his own words "is smarter than the average person." My personal favorite was the 30 year-old from right here in DC. He messaged me shortly after I joined saying first, "nice profile, care to get to know each other." I never responded because he was of course unattractive and wiry looking in all of his pictures (which were posed and taken by himself in one of those obvious ways). The very next day I received this follow up message, "oops, sorry i didn't mean to email you, your body type says about average." I mean sure, that's a totally okay thing to say. I guess I should stop eating at this point, no one likes someone who is about average.

Then of course there is the endless series of winks. Winks are the lazy/passive aggressive man's way of flirting over the Internet. Frankly I find them a bit ridiculous. We are already so unable to socialize normally that we have turned to a website to find us suitors and suiterettes, must we then forgo the actual message option and merely wink at one another. To one wink I responded:

Subject: ARRGHHHHHHHHHHH

Message:

Hi,

Thanks for the wink, I'm not really sure what that means but I was quite pleased to get it. I can't wink, I only have one eye, tragic pirating accident in '93.

Anyway, I don't like animals, I'm originally from Jersey, and LOVE Medieval Times. Tell me about yourself.

Thanks.

His response seemed wholy unaware of my mention of the high seas and Medieval times, we have yet to meet.

Finding Holey Love in the Holy Land

Note: This will begin a series of posts about love in the Holy Land. Today's post, "The Soldier" tomorrow's, "The Arse."

OHHHHHHHHHHH Israel. It is a land of history and conflict, extremes and polarization, love and hate. No where is this more evident than in the hearts of young American Jews that head off to the Holy Land at the behest of their overbearing mothers to gain a 'cultural' experience that ends up being a quest for some Israeli ass. While I cannot comment on the experiences of young American males lusting after the Israeli Jewess', I can reflect on the experience of courting an Israeli male between the ages of 18-24 (30 when drinking).

The Soldier (and Israel's Public Transportation System)

In case you didn't know, there is mandatory conscription in Israel, all citizens must go into the army at age 18 (that's right, both boys and girls). The guys stay in three years, sometimes more (if they are an officer, in an elite unite etc). They walk around in their army gear (green shirts and army pants) with their guns and combat boots. This is insanely attractive and inevitably leaves American women of all ages lusting after 18 year old boys. A feeling that invokes an uncomfortable mixture of guilt and regret in those that are just on the cusp of their mid-twenties and clearly to old to be pursuing young, muscled, tanned soldiers.

Being in Israel for six months after graduating from college at the ripe age of 23 clearly qualified me as over the hill when it came to the 18 year old soldiers. However, I managed to tell myself the consoling lie that puts all women on the track to cougar-ville; he looks much older and probably has an advanced level of emotional maturity being in the army and all (which probably wouldn't be that far from the truth - as where they see war, I am in fact an emotionally stunted child of divorce who watches The Bachelor for relationship advice).

These seemingly beautiful soldiers can often be seen riding the public buses dangerously careening between the Peugeot's and gaggles of Hasidim in the streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv (the bus system really should come with army protection as Israeli drivers are worse than Jersey natives in stop and go traffic on the turnpike).

Crossing between the two cities is the real jackpot though. The greyhound style buses that travel to and fro J'lem and Tel Aviv, leaving about every fifteen minutes throughout the day, are filled with all sorts of passengers. There are the mothers with their hair bound up in head scarves, five children tugging on their long black skirts. There are the young American kids on year programs, gossiping endlessly about Yoni and Raheali. There are the old men who haven't showered in a while, who's waist length beards retain the crumbs from their last meal. And then there are the soldiers. All hot and sweaty from the Middle Eastern sun (okay I was there in winter and it was cold and rainy but I prefer to remember them as tanned and glistening).

Getting on the bus is in itself a feat. There is no real "line" or "que" if you will. Instead it is a free for all; a massive swarm of people who either don't know how to use deodorant or really need to upgrade to the prescription stuff. A survival of the fittest if you will. When traveling between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem one understands what prompted Darwin to figure out all that evolution stuff. Basically there is a HUGE mob around the bus stop and people push and pull hair in order to get on. I've seen small elderly women trampled and blind people pushed aside. No one cares though, they just kept on boarding that bus. Israel is quaint like that.

The one upside to this is the close proximity to the aforementioned soldiers the swarm and board experience provides. I like to consider it my time to get to know them. Of course I don't talk to them. Instead, I fight to get on the bus and snag a window seat. Once uncomfortably seated I do stare at each young military man that boards and hope that the cute ones will sit next to me. And that maybe, just maybe, we will make out if there is heavy traffic.

Alas, this has never happened. Only once did a male soldier sit next to me. He was tall with a crew cut. Clad in the typical green fatigues and certainly sweaty, one would think my dreams were coming true. As it turns out, close up this young feller was not quite as dreamy as I had hoped. Instead he was droopy faced and chubby. He also had some serious personal space issues. He didn't seem to understand that a shared two-seater is in fact made for two people. It appeared that he was under the impression that my seat was also for him. When we did inevitably hit heavy traffic there was no smooching, there was instead a steady snore and drool routine going on. His head lolling to the side, dangerously close to my face, he napped like Rip Van fucking Winkle.

There were a couple of short stops that threatened to force the spittle beads down onto my shoulder. A couple of times my elbow "accidentally" found its way into his side (I mean there was no where else to put it, he had of course monopolized the arm rest with his bear claw of an arm) and he begrudgingly turned his lolling head (and now full upper body) in the other direction. I swear other passengers shot me looks of sincere pity and compassion, something which has never before and never since happened to me in the entirety of my Israel experience.

Suffice it to say I never found love with a soldier or on the Israeli public transportation system.

Desperate and Dating in DC

So I'm not what you would call a player. I don't attract men in droves despite my self described great looks, awesome personality and sincere humility. I have been in DC for just about a year now and have not really "clicked" with anyone who's name I remembered once I sobered up. As a young and somewhat reckless woman I have taken it upon myself to meet men in new and awkward ways. About four months ago this decision manifested itself in the form of speed-dating. My rationale was that I couldn't possibly scare men off in less than four minutes...I was wrong.

Merin, a dear friend and colleague who is likewise young and reckless suggested we attempt to broaden our social horizons by attending an event put on by a popular young professionals networking organization here in DCizzle. We checked the website regularly for events that might be fun and despite a real desire to go on their haunted hayride or singles trip to Costa Rica, we just couldn't find time in our hectic 9-5 schedules of MTV reality shows and g-chat. Finally in early February after many months of complaining that we didn't meet enough guys at work, the gym or the grocery store, we signed up for a four minute speed dating event being held at what we were assured by a catchy tag line is the trendiest bar in DC. We doled out $25 for the event which came with an hour of open bar after you meet men and hopefully fall in love.

The event started at 8:00 PM on a Friday evening. Getting out of work right at 5 and not having much to do beside put on some make up and a super slutty outfit, I pregamed the event with a couple glasses of wine. You know, loosen up before all the quick dates. Now normally I'm a real stickler for punctuality, if you are late I hate you, plain and simple. However, due to events outside my control (too much wine made me mess up my make-up and start all over again), I arrived at the even at about 8:30PM.

I walk into the ultra hip lounge bar and am hit by the overwhelming smell of Axe. This smell is appropriately accompanied by the sight of about 40 men with thickly gelled hair and at least ten visibly worn pukka shell necklaces. I could tell this night was going to be a blast. I was quickly given a name tag and placed in line with the other women, opposite a line of men. The way it works is you talk to the person directly across from you, switching to the next person every four minutes. If you like the person you are talking to you write their name and ID number down on an index card provided by the event organizers. If they like you, they do the same. At the end of the night the index cards are collected and if there are any matches the contact info is distributed and love ensues.

My first suitor was a fellow named Cesar. Cesar was a small man, no bigger than my thumb. Well okay, slightly bigger than my thumb, but not by much. He had a very close cropped mushroom cut that was parted right down the middle of his small little head. The hair was held tight by a glossy sheen of gel. He was a lovely man. He laughed at all my horribly inappropriate jokes about dead babies (I'm not sure why I would tell a dead baby joke on a mini date but it seemed funny at the time) and didn't even comment on the fact that had I not been wearing three inch heels I still would have towered over his wee little frame.

My next date was a gentleman named Roger. Roger was different than the other men at the event. For starters he wasn't wearing any hair gel. That's probably because he was very seriously balding. He also wasn't wearing the uniform of the fitted oxford dress shirt and snug man Seven's. Instead he had on a really lovely sweater vest that matched his dockers to a tee. Like Cesar, Roger was not a man of great height. His be-speckled eye line probably hit just below my nose. Roger was not your typical "young professional", probably because he was in no way young. He was about 32.

Roger was quiet; timid. When you only have four minutes and are a little drunk, you have no patience for meager older men who look like they walked out of a JC Penny casual wear ad. I had no choice but to take the bull by the horns and thus started talking, rather excitedly, about the first thing that popped into my mind.

"I love cats!" I exclaimed somewhat louder than was necessary.
"Oh do you?" Roger asked, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Yup, I have five cats." I then rattled off the first five words that came to mind, claiming these were the names of my newly created beloved cats. I believe one of the words was rocket. Roger feigned interest, or maybe he really cared, I'm not sure.
"I really love my cats," I continued. "I recently starting knitting too. Since my two favorite things are knitting and my cats I've been knitting mittens, mittens for my kittens!" At this point my excitement at my own cleverness could not be contained. I gesticulated wildly, making little paws with my hands, waving them around in the air. I believe I may have emitted a small meow in all the commotion. "They are so cute, the kitten mittens. I'm thinking about starting my own business knitting and selling them 'Kitten Mittens'." My wine soaked breath is littered with spittle and I can barely contain myself.

Finally the four minute bell rings and sadly little sweater-vest clad Roger moves on. No one else that night peaked my interest as much as the prospect of kittens wearing mittens did. Once the open bar started I dropped my index card somewhere between my third and fourth bourbon and diet.

Look at me I'm blogging!

So after much encouragement from friends and family and multiple threats, I am finally starting a blog. The truth is I enjoy nothing more than constant attention and the sound of my own voice (or the view of my own words), blogging seems to be a natural way to indulge this. My life is not necessarily what one might call "exciting" or "adventurous." I will not be offering keen insight into today's top political and social issues. I likely will not even use correct grammar. Instead I will do what I do best, criticize and judge those I barely know behind their backs and harshly mock those I call friends.

Please read, pass on, print out and poop on at your leisure.

Thanks,
Steph