Family life, Paleo-ish eating and Coping with Chronic Illness

For three whole days I was fancy.  From Tuesday to Friday I was driving a 2015 model minivan.  I like being fancy.  On my commute, I noticed my fellow commuters were looking at me with envy.  I gave those folks a little smile and wave when I passed.  I’m always gracious.

red van

Good Morning inferior commuters! This van’s so fancy, I can drive no-hands!

Now I’m back to driving this:

bumper damage

Not our van…but you get the idea.

Eddie was rear ended on the highway.  Our van was totaled.   The good news is that Eddie is okay, and so are all his wrestling buddies who were with him.  The bad news is, buying a car wasn’t in our short term plan.  Or, our long term plan.

The insurance lady called me on the phone to tell me the news.  I put her on loud speaker so Scott could hear too.  She told us we could get a small sum of money, and I guess we were supposed to use that money towards a new van.  So, that’s what I thought we’d do.    We’d go from driving a van that was paid for, to driving a van that mostly the bank owned.  We’d “buy” a van that would put us further in debt.  Then I remembered I was married to Scott.

Scott did sign language at me while I was talking to the insurance lady on the phone.   I understood he wanted me to ask her if we could keep the van instead.   I rolled my eyes, and I asked.

Insurance lady said we could keep the van. The insurance company would just write us a check for a much smaller amount.   That made Scott smile.   I think he might be thinking we’re  coming out ahead.  Because, see, he doesn’t mind driving around a heap of crumpled steel.  If you want to know what I think, I believe he might actually even enjoy it.  He’s really not a normal guy.

But, I’m fancy now.  I’ve been driving in the fancy van, and people have noticed.  I don’t want to go back.

Later in the evening, after I had accepted my non-fancy fate, Scott came up to me  smiling.  He said this, “No hay mal que por bien no benga.”  Love it (lying)  when he speaks Spanish.

Translation: There is no bad thing from which good does not come. Another translation: There’s always a silver lining.  Another translation: my husband can be annoying.

I knew it. He thinks a crumpled van and a few extra bucks is a stroke of good fortune.

Have you heard of Malala?  She is the 14-year-old who just won a Nobel Peace Prize.  The Taliban shot her in the face.  Don’t worry.  It’s not like they did it for no reason.  She was trying to get an education.  Who wouldn’t be angry?

malala

Malala wrote a book.  It is called, “I am Malala”.   This is a book I know I will read soon.

In the news this week, there was a story about how men in Malala’s home country of Pakistan were holding an, “I am NOT Malala” day.  These wise men have banned Malala’s book, and they’re trying to demonize her.  Again, don’t forget she has this coming with all the trying to go to school shenanigans she put these guys through.

As I was reading more about this story, and trying to understand, I learned that another reason these men say they hate Malala is because she made reference to Salman Rushdie in her book.  Salman Rushdie is a prize winning author.  He has written 11 books.  In at least one of Rushdie’s books, he was critical of Islam.  For this reason, the Ayatollah Khomeini (Remember that crazy kid? What a hoot.) ordered a fatwa against Rushdie in 1989.  A fatwa means, watch out.  We’re going to kill you.  These guys would make the best diplomats.  They’ve got great ideas. Salman Rushdie was forced into hiding.

The more I read about Salman Rushdie, the more interested I became in him.  I looked up all of his books, and for some reason I couldn’t understand  I was associating Salman Rusdie with humor.  Scott reminded me that I have Jerry Seinfeld to thank for that.  Do you remember the episode where Kramer thought he saw Salman Rushdie on the streets of New York?  I know.  There really IS a Seinfeld episode for everything.

So this long story getting longer is about how I ordered one of Salman Rushdie’s books, “Satanic Verses”,  the book that resulted in the fatwa.  I was so caught up in learning more about all this, that I got hasty (surprising to everyone).  I hit “buy” on my kindle before I read the book reviews.  Once I started reading the reviews, I thought there was a chance I might have a problem.

Readers said this:

“The prose is challenging, but once you become familiar it has an almost melodic quality.”

As a rule, I’m against melodious novels.  Melodious songs?  Fine.  I like my novels more straight forward.

And this:

“This book has many subtle and intertwined criticisms and twists on the Islamic faith. To understand these moments in the book the reader does need a fairly large knowledge of Islam.”

Check.  I got that (again with the lying), so we should be good.

Then I started reading the book.  Here’s the first paragraph:

‘To be born again,’ sang Gabireel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, ‘first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy Earth, at first one needs to fly. Tat-Taa, Taka-thun!  How to ever smile again, if at first you won’t cry? How to win the darlings love, mister, without a sigh? Baba…if you want to get born again’…Just before dawn one winter’s morning. New Year’s day, or thereabouts, two real, full-grown men fell from a great height, twenty-nine-thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of Parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.

Are you still with me?  Right.  I know.  I am SO in over my head.  What on this bosomy Earth is Salman Rushdie talking about? I read the first page, and this is how it sounded in my head:

Gobledy gooky,  wahh, wahh, peanuts in my tummy. Forsook you lass of all generations to be the true bride.  Come hither for shall thou ride elephants from sun up to grandma’s?

But, I paid for this book.  Remember Scott?

If someone who likes my blog would please pay me ten dollars, I’d owe you big.  Then,  I do not have to read this book, and I can tell Scott I got a refund. Otherwise, it looks like I’m in for the long haul.  578 pages of this melodic prose.  I should be ready to do my book report by 2025. Ho ji!  Ho ji!

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Comments on: "I Guess I Don’t Get to be Fancy" (1)

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