I once described the innards of my brain as the island of misfit toys

currently listening to ALL CHRISTMAS ALL THE TIME (more specifically, Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby)

I was thinking about the time I likened my brain to the Island of Misfit Toys in the Rudolph cartoon today when I was in the middle of a dar chebab meeting about the activities I've got up my sleeve for Christmas and started jotting down things to blog about. I'm not even sure if that last sentence makes sense because I started thinking about peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the middle of it.

Anyway this is going to be yet another rambling, disjointed entry. Hold onto your hats!

First of all, a bit I wanted to blog about before but couldn't figure out a way to write it in a way that didn't make me sound like Carrie Bradshaw. Don't get me wrong, Sex and the City is classic and a great way to pass lonely nights in Morocco. That said, I can't stand Carrie's writing style and I think she does as much for women in terms of gaining respect as the Spice Girls.

Off the soapbox and on topic: I find that in Morocco I tend to wish I was a man. And it's not penis envy. It's ability-to-obtain-coffee envy. In my current homestay situation I depend on my host mom for coffee, who depends on the shopkeeper that she has an open tab with. If he decides to sleep in, she can't buy milk in the morning and I am SOL. This makes for rough mornings that spill over into rough afternoons if I miss nap time. If I were a man, this would be no big deal. I could just skip the family breakfast and head to any old cafe and kick it. No problem. I might even have two cups, who knows. I'm crazy unpredictable, and who can understand a man anyway?

Sigh. Unfortunately for me, I feel comfortable in ONE cafe, and it's on the complete other side of town. A good 25 minute walk. Who's got that kind of time in the morning? Not me, that's who. Especially when I'm uncaffeinated. It's a vicious cycle.

Next!

Last weekend two dear friends and I reunited for the first time since swearing-in (bold-faced lie--I saw one of them a week after moving to site and then again a few weeks after that)and went to a little place called Marjane. The Marjane is a Super Target-esque store that would be totally ordinary and maybe even sub-par in the states, but in Morocco it almost made me hyperventilate upon entry.

Imagine spending three and a halfish months in small town Morocco, doing jumping jacks to stay warm at night, bathing every three days or so and considering it a good week if your bowel movements were more or less regular. Now imagine stumbling into a huge superstore with air conditioning, American music on the speakers, and BOOZE prominently displayed. My fellow Volunteers and I just stood in the entry for a solid minute, sort of giggling and trying to lower our heart rates. We then proceeded--slowly--up and down every aisle, inspecting every product and trying to think rationally about what we should buy. After an hour or two of blissful shopping to tunage like "Ghetto Superstar," we emerged triumphant with peanut butter, cheese, pepperonis (don't judge), Oreos, Snickers bars and various other tidbits. I was even given a printed receipt! Ridiculous.

Yukon ho!

Today I received my very first package from America in the mail. It was from my dearest daddy and it was magnificent. I can safely assure you that there is at least one Dwight Schrute bobblehead doll in Morocco as of this morning.

There is also at least one beloved lavender unicorn hoodie sweatshirt. And now, a spontaneous haiku:

mythical creature
you've one horn and you've one heart:
mine. How I've missed you!

And because I don't want to end this blog on a completely absurd note:

There's this part in Jesus Christ Superstar (and I assume this happens at some point in the Bible, too) where Jesus is surrounded by beggars yelling at him:

See my eyes, I can hardly see/ See me stand I can hardly walk/ I believe you can make me whole/ See my tongue I can hardly talk

And then they keep getting closer and encroaching on his personal space until he finally just flips his shit and screams "Heal yourselves!"

I don't mean to compare myself to Jesus in anyway, but I totally had a similar moment this morning. This kid kept grabbing my arm and another one was telling me something while another was whining that someone hit her and a third was asking me how to say everything in a 3 mile radius in English until a fourth grabbed my other arm and I sort of involuntarily jerked my arm away and said "What?!" irritably and a little loud. Of course I immediately felt like a complete bitch and spent the remainder of the morning playing Uno and trying to make as many silly faces as possible. That heals all wounds right?