Day – 17: The Naughty Effect

Today I was called naughty.

Photo on 13-02-03 at 4.01 PM #2

Which got me thinking, am I?

Which then got me reminiscing about my childhood – more specifically when I was 9. Back then I was comfortably situated in a city in Canada where the Caribou outnumbered the people.

But I was happy.

It was that same year my father decided to take a job in Saudi Arabia.

I lost it – similarly to the way Mariah Carey would “lose it” if she caught one of her many maids looking at her.

I distinctly remember thinking to myself – why would I move from my habitual paradise where I speak English only to be relocated to a nation where they spoke what ever the hell they spoke there – Saudi or something- later I discovered they speak Arabic.

Ok – I’m sure 9 year old me didn’t use the word hell – but still.

Being an avid reader, I was most concerned that my books wouldn’t translate there.

So I did the only logical thing a girl my age could do.

I would wake up at night and secretly unpack the boxes that my mom so meticulously labeled and put together.

She was on to me.

She was like a packing ninja because she out unpacked me.

I had to step it up.

I went to my school library and started reading the one book they had about the country I was moving to. I’m pretty sure the Librarian didn’t even know where Saudi Arabia was. She was stand behind me – hovered over my shoulders to learn about this foreign land with me. The pictures in the book terrified me – men wearing white dresses eating on the floor with their hands, and women cloaked from head to toe in black- floating behind their men like ghosts.

And there was no snow.

What humid, camel loving, hell where they taking me to?

Every night during dinner, I taught my parents something new about Saudi Arabia – and every night they nodded numbly – ignoring my pleas to remain in a civilized nation.

It finally came time to leave – I hugged my best friend good bye and told her I would be back tomorrow.

She nodded at me – although in retrospect I’m pretty sure she had no idea what I was talking about.

We arrived at the airport. My mother started to check us in as she placed the first piece of luggage on the scale.

It was time.

I ran – like a person released from a 70 year prison sentence. I ran as fast as I could – like that scene in Forrest Gump when his leg braces rip off. I escaped and was going to live in Canada forever – where people wear shorts and eat with utensils.

Until- bam, I smashed into a pillar and fell to the ground.

My mom quizzically glared at me with the fury of 9 hells in her eyes.

I was in trouble.

Big trouble.

She clutched onto my arm for the duration of the 20 plus hour flight. It was all over now – I wasn’t going to see my best friend tomorrow.

We moved into our new house which was located in an American compound – and to my surprise everyone spoke English. The school library was vast and people did in fact use forks and knives to eat.

Life was starting to return to the mundane, repetitive, routine that I very much appreciated.

Until one day at school- I was walking towards line up with my nose buried in a book, minding my own business – when a girl in my class, ran behind me and pulled my pants down.

I had no idea what to do.

Where was I supposed to place my book?

It was all downhill from there.

And even worse – nothing, absolutely nothing happened to the evil wench. I had to take things into my own hands.

I pulled Lindsey Lohan and started to lash out.

A few weeks later, I was invited to Sally’s birthday party – that was her name. My mother bought her earrings, despite me insisting that bag of dog poop fully sufficed. Against my will, my mother dragged me  to her poop party – I mean pool party. As expected, she started to underhandedly tease me – you know, the way you bully someone without parents figuring it out. Sadly, in my 9 years of existence, I lacked the tact and control she had mastered. WHEN IT

Sobbing to my parents and begging them to sign emancipation papers wasn’t going to happen.

So, I stopped studying and consequently started failing all my tests. In act of sheer concern, my teacher asked that each exam with a score below a 50% be signed by my parents.

So – I started forging their signatures.

Flawlessly.

Well – not flawlessly – 4 months later I got caught.

At first it was fun, I would carefully place the carbon paper underneath any of my parent’s authentic signatures, then I would slowly trace each letter – each nuance to perfection. I would then proudly beam at my work. My teacher didn’t catch on.

Until I got sloppy.

And I got in a lot of trouble.

So yes, I think naughty is quite accurate.

Sweet Dreams World.

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78 replies

  1. By far one of the best reads I’ve had on wordpress! Great, now I’ve got to go back and read everything you’ve written. I hope you’re happy! 😛

  2. I feel you. We didn’t move anywhere quite as different as Saudi Arabia when I was younger, but my mum has what she calls ‘itchy feet.’ I cried the first time we moved from England to the United States and several other times when we hopped around cities and states – I hated leaving friends. Then I just stopped making friends. I love my parents, but relocation is hell on kids.

  3. Awesome…I love your quriky way of seeing the world & sense of humor…the deeper message is subtle but has a strong impact when it hits. I really look forward to reading more

  4. Ouch! Well, you’ve come a long way since then. Hopefully… : )

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