Allah Ma'ak, Haiffaa

This is the story of a great woman. I prefer my stories with happy endings, and I'll warn you right now, this is not one of those stories; it is, however, a story with a happy middle, and sometimes, that's all we can cling to.

Sometimes we forget just how big the world is. We start to believe that our triumph is more magnificent or that our loss is greater; our joy is the most radiant or our sorrow is the deepest. And that's when life slaps us upside our silly little heads with the reality that we know nothing of triumph, loss, joy, or sadness at all compared to someone else's story. And the end of this story is this: Haiffaa Ali is dead.

Haiffaa Ali was born into a wealthy Iraqi family. Her father was an important person in the government, and his salary let them live not just comfortably, but opulently even. Her only money problems were "deciding what to spend it on"...a luxury few Americans, let alone Iraqis, enjoy. She married Majeed, an important man with more power and money, and her status grew. She believed her joy was complete.

When Saddam Hussein's role as Iraq's leader was threatened by US intervention, the powerful dictator became increasingly distrustful of everyone around him, drawing lines in the sand and imagining enemies where before he saw friends. He blacklisted numerous powerful people, one of which was Majeed. Haiffaa's husband was forced to flee from Iraq to Syria, leaving Haiffaa and their children in the care of her father. But Haiffaa's now-elderly father was soon added to Saddam's blacklist, and one night soldiers tore into their home and savagely murdered him in his bed while Haiffaa watched, helpless. Her sorrow was so deep...

Knowing that it was no longer an 'if' but a 'when', regarding an attack on her own life, Haiffaa packed up her children and went in search of her husband. Reunited in Syria, they were told the refugee camp was too full, and the options were back to Iraq or onward to America. With a heavy heart, she prepared to move to the land of disrespectful cowboys who probably wanted her and her family dead too. Arriving in Denver, she was placed in Hidden Brook apartments, a Hope Communities property, and given six months to get her family back on its feet. With not a dollar to her name, no marketable skills, children too young to work, and a now-disabled husband, it was a time of desperation for Haiffaa. A dedicated employee of Hope Communities, Jessie, befriended her and helped her sign up for English classes, as well as connected her with a group of refugee women who make and sell jewelry. Slowly, Haiffaa and her family adjusted to life in America, and the day that she sold her first necklace, for eight dollars, brought her to tears. Never in her life had she done something truly on her own, and her pride--left with the rest of her life in Baghdad--had found its way across ten thousand miles back to her gentle heart.

This tiny woman with thick graying hair and a colorful scarf on her head came into my life with a smile and a cup of tea. Seated in her living room, her stilted speech was somehow...melodic, and her words were wise and honest. She practiced her speech for us, preparing for her NPR interview, and she was at once highly intelligent yet gentle and modest. She fully understood the magnificence of her triumph, but refused to accept any credit for it.

Each year, Jessie went to Haiffaa's girls-only birthday party. Girls-only meant that Haiffaa could remove her head scarf--letting her hair down both literally and figuratively. Haiffaa had clearly assimilated into American life, and loved to tell other refugees of her revelation that the American government is not the American people. She was thrilled with her new independence, and even took a vacation to Germany to visit her son. Having finally rebuilt her life, not to its old glory, but to a new kind of glory, Haiffaa decided to make peace with her past. It was time to go back to Iraq and visit her father's grave.

Haiffaa crossed the border into Baghdad on October 20, 2009. She spent 5 days experiencing a city, once home, that now felt so foreign. She prayed reverently at her father's grave and breathed deeply, exhaling all the hurt and betrayal and grief of her past. And on October 25, 2009, she made her way back to the travel agency to arrange for her next-day departure.

On Sunday, October 25, 2009, two blasts erupted in downtown Baghdad--the worst bombing in over two years. As the death toll hit 155, Iraqis took to the streets to mourn. Somewhere in the chaos and smoldering ruins, lay the remnants of a colorful head scarf...

How Do You Like Them Apples?

Oh, Fall in Colorado... School's back in session, the leaves are changing, the weather swings wildly from 84 to 34 degrees, and love is in bloom. Yeah, that last one is normally a spring thing, but it's not only the weather that's backwards here.

Fall is a season of change, and reflection, and blog posts about Topics (with a capital T!) like Truth and Reality. I've been working on this really great analogy about how people are like apples. We have a skin that's pliable and resilient and stays intact even when the fruit is bruised, but how easy it is for a sharp poke to penetrate our tough exteriors and damage us deeply. And how there's so much good substance to all of us--how if we just go past the skin we find the delicious fruit of personality and depth of character and a real beauty on the inside, so to speak. But we also all have these faults that we hide on the inside. Seeds of our own destruction that we work to overcome and to keep from ruining our taste. Then I snapped out of it and realized that philosophy was better left to the expert bloggers.

Instead, I'll stick with what I do best, which is exaggeration and sarcasm.

What's not an exaggeration though, is that our two apple trees have produced 2683579300134764058245 apples this season. This has given our neighbors a reason to talk to us, which they have been eager to do since we moved in. We are, after all, the source of a significant number of rumors.

"I heard they're polygamists...but the kind where she has two husbands!"

"They're never home! That's gotta be a sign of deviancy."

"Maybe that other guy is their kid, and he has some weird condition that makes him look older. Didn't they make a movie about a guy like that?"

"What if they're drug dealers with a meth lab? That one guy is always in the garage."

"Did you know they all have different last names? I know because I checked their mailbox. Do you think they might (gasp) not be married??"

I've been accosted by different neighbors on my way out of my house in the morning no less than three times so that they could ask my last name. Then they catch "that one guy" while he's in the yard and ask his last name, and then say, in mock confusion, "Oh, Bob honey, did we get his wife's last name wrong? I could swear it was something else!" So now the secret is out--we are (gasp) not married. Bring on the social pariah-ism. Fortunately, no one asks about "the other guy", 'cause with many of our neighbors being longtime AARP members, they just might not be able to live with the concept of roommates. Besides, with the new additions to the "family" arriving in January, we have a feeling they have a lot more confusion ahead of them.

So, anyway, the apples. We haven't been able to actually pick many ourselves because they're so high up, and the cripple is, well, crippled. He did get a new splint (pics at the bottom of the post), so that's been helping with the mobility, but still, no apple-picking for him. Instead, we've been telling eager neighbors that they can pick as many as they want--just leave half of whatever they take for us. This was a brilliant idea initially, but now we have 92384127 pounds of apples in the garage, in the kitchen, in buckets in the yard (steal them--please!), and strewn about the backyard...with lots more on the trees still. Our grateful neighbors have given us apple cake, homemade sweet dill pickles, homegrown tomatoes, and a promise of apple cider when it's complete. What a haul! So I've made a lot of applesauce, and we've got plans for many other apple-based items, but I'm thinking maybe we need to be that house that gives out apples at halloween? That'll teach those damn kids that play in our yard without permission. Did I mention that our house is the neighborhood bus stop? And that I have to back out of the garage, at a time of the morning that often finds me driving with my eyes closed, and avoid the children that think the world is a pedestrian crosswalk. At least they will pick my apples for me.

In other apple-related news, the third wheel of our happy little tricycle seems to have found himself a young lady to help us graduate to big kid bikes. (Yeaahhh, analogies.) We met her the other day when we toured the corn maze--and by toured, I mean gimpy pushed our pace from a fast walk to a gentle Olympic sprint to better our time, all the while chastizing kids for taking shortcuts. I tried to take some photos, but photos taken at a 6-minute-mile pace just aren't the same. Anyway, we met the new lady in our lives, and then she even coordinated a dinner-making, board-game-playing evening at our house this week. And we played Apples to Apples! The theme lives on...

Let Them Eat Cake

Sometimes work is like high school. Cliques, gossip, unnecessary drama, people getting their feelings hurt, etc. And sometimes it's like middle school.

Example: Jane is getting married. Sue, Joe, and Sally decide to ask Mary to get a cake from the awesome bakery near her house for a wedding shower. Suddenly it' s announced that Karen is the new Social Director for the office (yes, we have a Social Director), and she will be planning the shower. Rather than go to Karen and tell her they've asked Mary to get a cake, they assume that will hurt Karen's feelings and step on her party-planning toes. And instead, they sulk about how they want a cake instead of the new plan of cheese and champagne. They ask Mary to get a cake anyway, but feeling like she's been put in the middle, she refuses. Commence back room bickerings. And hurt feelings. Then Karen gets wind of the drama and says cake costs too much, which just confirms Sue, Joe, and Sally's feelings of frustration. Conclusion: I volunteer to make a goddamn cake.

So because I'm an eternal overachiever, I decided to go all out. And thanks to www.smittenkitchen.com, I got the recipes and instructions I would need to make (da-da-dah):

Vanilla Buttermilk Cake with Mango Curd Filling and Swiss Buttercream Frosting

It contains a whopping 2lbs of butter (in the 6.5lb cake!), and about 11 eggs. Step One was making the cake itself, which was far messier than my previous cake making attempts, primarily because it was not out of a box. Also, because it expanded more than expected, and made a huge mess in the oven.

Step Two was the curd--a bright yellow, gooey, deliciousness intended for the layer filling. Mango, sugar, lime juice, and some fancy cheese-clothing and over-boiling-water-whisking. Mmm...tasty.

After this step I somehow managed to have seasonal allergies at a whole new level that left me in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, unable to breathe or swallow, with Jackson curled up next to me, ready to eat me once I finally died. Fortunately the broken boy came to my rescue (talk about the blind leading the blind) just in time, and several medication remedies later, with no success, we resorted to feeding me siracha sauce to open my airways. And oddly enough, it worked. But I digress.

Of course, the best part (Step Three) is the frosting, which is sweet, but not too sweet, and melt in your mouth fabulous. Just like the author of Smitten Kitchen warned me, it looked like a disgusting bowl of, of, well, I don't know. I can't think of a good analogy and I'm tired of sitting here and trying to think of one. But it didn't look like frosting. And then, in one magical spin of the whisk, it suddenly became the thick, creamy, buttery, spreadable, amazingness I was hoping to discover. Let the frosting and filling begin!

After crumb-coating/dirty-frosting (the correct term depends on which cake decorating show you're watching), I had my canvas. Unfortunately, the decorating turned out to be the much more difficult part. After many failed attempts at colored flowers and polka dots and lines and other not-so-complicated-sounding decorations, I stormed out of the kitchen frustrated and ready to leave the cake white. Then, inspiration hit when I saw the dark chocolate raspberry hershey kisses. I jumped into action, melting the chocolate and spraying designs of it across pam-sprayed wax paper. Into the freezer they went, hardening into beautiful chocolate-y strokes that I then tucked into the base ring of frosting. Good enough! Now refrigerate a few hours to set. Then, serve.

Disabled Dating for Dummies

For the one of my two readers who doesn't know about my honey's boo boo, let me summarize the events of the last couple weeks. Corey broke his wrist (and his finger it turns out, but that went undiagnosed until today) while biking in Canada, going 30ft off a 25ft jump. He also converted the elbow of his unbroken arm into ground hamburger meat. With stitches and bandages on both arms, he has been an invalid for the past three weeks and I've gotten to practice my long-expired Camp Sparky first aid certification on him. Although I was hoping to just post a picture of the shower routine to capture why I approve of laughing at the disabled, the little tiny shred of mercy I have left in my body won't allow me to sink that low. However, it won't keep me from telling tales, because the world needs to know just how hilarious handicapped people are. And so, without further ado, dear readers, it is time for some invaluable advice on how to date a differently-abled person (as those of us who are sensitive to their plight refer to the handi-tards).

Let's take some questions from those of you dating handicapped people:

Q: What are some fun things for handicapped people to do since they can't ride their bikes down steep hills any more?

A: Well, if you google "fun things for handicapped people", like me, you learn that a better question is "Why are disabled people so mean?" (I'm serious...google it). They are mean because they cannot do the things they used to be able to do, even though those things are sometimes of questionable sanity, and you already thought they were mentally handicapped for doing them in the first place. Because they can no longer do these things, you will need to find other ways to occupy them, since sitting in bed and watching tv all day won't occupy them quite the way it would if they were choosing to do it instead of being forced to do it. I have a few suggestions:

1. Stick a dog treat in their back pocket and get the dog to follow them around all day. This will keep their mind sharp; they will constantly be wondering if the dog is following them because it senses their weakness and wants to thin them from the herd. Keeping the mind sharp is essential to a quick recovery, and being followed is surprisingly occupying. Make sure you plant the "thinning the weak from the herd" idea in their head early on to make this more effective.
   
2. Make all their meals things like sushi or steak--tough to eat with limited mobility. This will ensure that meals last approximately 4.5 hours, and they won't need to find other things to do.
3. Introduce them to facebook quizzes.
4. Tell their mother you think they are getting depressed. The hourly phone call check-ins will make them beg for the peace and quiet of laying in bed and watching tv.
5. Rearrange all their arm-propping bed pillows. Trust me--it will take ages for them to get them back to just perfect.

Q: What is the most embarrassing thing I will have to deal with as a caretaker?

A: This is a trick question. Just when you think you've hit the top, you find new levels of pride-reducing activities to participate in. For example, "I think there's still soap in my butt crack" will no longer be a foreign phrase. You might also get to hear, "Smell how bad my cast smells," and yes, it does smell that bad. Holding up the bottom edge of a t-shirt that has toothpaste and spit dribbled all the way down the front after a failed toothbrushing venture to ensure that it doesn't hit the floor before you can skillfully maneuver the shirt off? Check. Using medical tape and rubberbands to alter deer-gutting gloves so they can be used as cast covers in the shower? Check. Learning intimate details about the constipating side effects of Percoset? Check. And trust me, I've saved the better ones for you to discover on your own.

Q: What skills do I need to have if I'm going to be spending time with a disabled person?

A: Occupational therapist. EMT. Masseuse. Psychiatrist. Chauffeur. Chef. Maid. Butler. Personal Assistant. Esthetician (Have you ever cut someone's fingernails before? So not easy.). Babysitter. Entertainer. Sugar Momma/Daddy. But don't worry--if you don't have these skills already, you will be well-qualified very quickly. You will also have gained a very strong stomach if you didn't have one before, because flesh that has been converted to hamburger helper is not attractive. Especially not hamburger helper that has a drinking straw sticking out of it so that your burst bursa sac can drain, and a collection of Frankenstein stitches that connect random chunks of noodle and beef that didn't used to be next to each other. Abs of steel? Psh. I've got a gag reflex of steel now. And that's next level.

Q: How do I woo a handi-tard (or a no-handi-tard as we refer to my honey)?

A: The disabled are as desperate for love as Brett Favre is for douche-baggery, so you don't have to try very hard. One good way is through food. For example, my no-handi-tard craves pudding and Arby's all day, every day, when injured, and so providing either of those things wins major brownie points. Another good way is to treat them like a scratching post. Since they cannot scratch themselves, they will appreciate a good clawing. Lastly, keep all the toilet seats in the house lifted. It's a small thing, but it won't go unnoticed. And soon, you will be the proud owner of your very own invalid.

Q: It's not working out with my broken beau. Is there a good way to make a clean break (pun intended) and escape the relationship?

A: Cash For Clunkers ends on Monday, so act fast and trade up.

Quintuple the Pleasure, Quintuple the Fun

Time for another fun-filled Sarah list!

Things I am happy about:

1. Visitors!!

In June, I had visitors 22/30 days. I did so many loads of sheets! In fact, we even had overlapping groups of visitors that prompted me to consider creating an availability calendar so people could schedule themselves, like at a hotel. But that would just lead to me creating marketing materials and soon things would spiral out of control. Anyway, here are some visitor photos (Chris from AZ in Clear Creek, wine casks that the beer La Folie is aged in, and Matt asleep in my passenger seat):

2. New Hair!!

I found a new hairstylist. He looks like Brett Farve, kinda. Definitely in his build, anyway. And he likes to whisper about which female stylists he'd like to take shopping at Victoria's Secret. And tell stories about the women he checks out when he's cutting guys' hair. Trying too hard to seem straight? Perhaps. Hilarious? Yes. And I get a decent haircut, to boot.

3. Flowers!!

My live-in gardner has our yard looking top notch. The bees love him. Me too, coincidentally :)

4. Surviving Storms!!

Colorado has some bizarre weather, I tell ya what. On Monday, July 20, the sky grew dark and gray, as it often does in the evenings, and we prepared for the normal rain and thunder/lightning. Except that there was nothing normal about the storm. From the sounds outside, I was pretty sure the fireplace was collapsing into itself, the roof shingles were flying off, and the Four Horseman would soon be at our door. But we survived. The next morning I realized that the same could not be said for our neighbors...

5. My Adrienne!!

Yes, that's right, she's mine. And she came to Colorado!! I was so happy, I almost wet myself. Then, the pot was sweetened, because Scott came too! I would call him My Scott as well, but that might get confusing what with My (other) Scott and all. THEN, it really got fun when the reason they came to Colorado was for a family reunion, and I got to be adopted for the weekend. Woohoo! Party in Estes! While there, I scaled vertical cliffs, crossed dangerous log bridges, and battled through fierce foosball matches. It was quite an adventure.

All in a (Mapes) Week's Work

Some people slow down when they get older. Some people's minds slow, some people's metabolisms slow, and some people's need for excitement and adrenaline rushes diminishes. Some people are not my parents.

Let me recount the last week of my parents' lives for you.

Day 1: Dad talks to neighbors, learns that they are going to move. Dad tells Mom. Mom walks next door and buys neighbors' house.

Day 2: Dad takes reps for the main meal replacement product used at Alaska Premier Health hiking. Reps joke about how they should open a new clinic in Oregon/Washington/California/etc. Dad jokes back that Hawaii would be a way more acceptable option. Mom decides to open a clinic in Hawaii.

Day 3: Mom offers Lindy job at said clinic in Hawaii. Mom posts jobs at said clinic and receives tons of resumes. Mom finds perfect building for said clinic.

Day 4: Mom flies a HI doctor to AK to see if they will oversee HI clinic. Dad decides they need another source of income with all this spending.

Day 5: Dad lists Mom & Dad's house on Craigslist. 30 minutes later, Dad meets with Canadian Consulate at Mom & Dad's house. Canadian Consulate agrees to rent their house for 2 years. Mom & Dad make plans to move to newly purchased neighbor's house in August.

Day 6: Lindy quits her job and gives away everything she owns except her dog and her car (which will be donated if it can't be sold in 24hrs).

Day 7: Lindy leaves for AZ tomorrow, and then home to AK until she has an office and a home in HI. Dad flies to AZ to buy an RV and then the two of them will drive back to AK.

Still with me? Or did I lose you somewhere along the way? It's okay, don't feel bad. I've had to repeat it over and over in my head to keep it straight. That's all for today...my synapses are still misfiring trying to comprehend it all.

Vacation & Victory

Well, now its been too long and I don't remember all the awesome Austin quotes I was going to share. The best was definitely the taxi driver who asked us what big city Denver was near because she hadn't heard of it, but there were a bunch of others and now I don't remember them. Oh well. At least I uploaded photos:



In other news, I jet-setted to the East Coast last weekend and got to see both Adrienne & Scott (woo!) and the extended Mapes Family (uh...woo?). My time in NYC was brief but exciting--everything from box-blocking traffic tickets to secret restaurants accessed by phone booth. I posted a few photos:



My time in Camden, NJ was mostly spent cheering myself hoarse and making fun of my mom for her propensity to need to go to the bathroom when she's excited/anxious. Casey led her team to a decisive victory, and she collected a second gold watch and another couple trophies. We also spent time with Dad's side of the family, none of whom I've seen since I was 14. Her arms are massive...prepare yourself or you might be scared when you see them: