Why Men Gain Weight

When I had a male cook. I lost weight. Now that I have a female cook, I'm gaining it all back. She keeps saying that my wife would surely expect her to take better care of me and that if I go home skinny, it will mean that she has failed. She just keeps making food that I don't ask for, don't want, don't need. And I don't think she would stop even over my obese, diabetes-afflicted, artery-clogged dead body. One week after bragging over getting into the best shape I've been in since high school, I may have to take it all back.

In My Free Time

Sans children I have discovered this strange new selfish, free, invigorating, lonely thing they call free time. I have chosen two objectives with this very expensive so-called "free" time: 1) get in really good shape, 2) write a novel.

The report on objective 1 is all positive. 5k time is down from 30 minutes to 22 min 44 sec. Belt has tightened one notch.

As for the second, it turns out writing a book is hard. I have written the first 20 pages four times.

Count Your Blessings

The cook at the USAID guest house finishes washing dishes and prepping the next day's offerings around 9 p.m. He then walks about a mile to catch a "taxi." His taxi is a small pick up truck. He goes to sleep in the back with seven or eight other men as the truck drives three hours to his village. There, he cares for his two sick elderly parents for a few hours before getting back in the truck to return to work at 6 a.m.

I just like this chair, OK. That's it. That's the whole post.

The Boiling Frog

Work is accelerating. We may have to inspect some installations in the southern lowlands where the temperature will be over 50 degrees celsius. So I had to get a conversion app to tell me what that meant in English: 125 degrees. I didn't know humans could survive at that temperature. So that will be nice.

The Weekend

From Friday evening to Monday morning I traverse the barren desert. Long empty hours burn and blister. There are no laughing children. There are no jolly friends. There is the market, movies, the embassy, mirages of distraction. I go to the pool where strangers sun bathe, silently, on adjacent lounge chairs. I go to the basketball court where the echo of the bouncing ball finds eternity uninterrupted by quarreling children. I run the treadmill. And run. And run. Across the wasteland I run, never progressing, only running. I go to my bedroom and discover that the Internet is empty, a wide portal to nothing and nowhere. It makes no early morning demands. It has no accidents that must be cleaned up. It doesn't fight, hit, kick, or scream. What good is a friend that does not exasperate? It is no friend at all.

The Real Airport Fun

After gaining a profound appreciation for my diplomatic passport, I had a little magic in the airport waiting area. Two little Kashmiri girls, roughly age six and four, took an interest in what I was typing and decided to assist. Their parents were, as parents tend to me, nervous they were disturbing me. Disturbing me? I haven't seen my kids in five weeks.

I called off the parents and entertained with pictures of "American kids with Cillenela" and iPhone movies of Caleb doing the robot. We, especially I, passed the time quite joyfully.

Fun at the Benazir Bhutto International Airport

Being a genius, I always have my back pack ready to go in case of an emergency. Or, as it turned out last weekend, in case of a non-emergency required trip to Dubai to accommodate the quirky provisions of my Pakistan visa. No need to pack. I'm already packed.

Being a genius, my ready packed pack includes a secret compartment with knife, pliers, duct tape, various medical supplies; things that seem down right paramilitary when viewed in a certain light. Quick tip: Take such things out of your bag before going through security at the Islamabad Airport.

Don't Know What You've Got

Sometimes our political system in the US can seem pretty messed up. For perspective, however, today they are voting on the annual budget in Pakistan. The vote has not yet taken place. Could go either way. Yet they're already protesting in the streets shutting down half the city.

If ill-mannered bloggers and hyperactive talk show hosts are the price I pay for not having all the streets blocked every time there is a vote, then I'm happy to pay it.

Pakistani TV

There are three 24-7 cricket channels. I don't understand all the rules, but I'm getting a taste for the game. I think of it as baseball if Charlie Sheen replaced Bud Selig. It is baseball on crack...if you can manage it socially. Plus, there are dancing goddesses (they are one part cheerleader, one part pole dancer). Great sport. Cricket, I mean.

Also there is a sort of Central Asian MTV (back when MTV had music videos, that is). It is confusing and disorienting, however, to see fully covered, modestly dressed women thrusting about in Madonna/Gaga/Aguilera dance moves with a twist of Bollywood.

Ever Vigilant

So we're supposed be, like, all alert and stuff. You know, always watching for things that seem out of place or sudden changes in the pattern. OK, first of all, I'm in Pakistan. Everything seems totally out of place, for example, me. This vigilance is of particular concern while we're driving.

Hold on. You want me to watch for changing traffic patterns? Is random chaos a pattern from which there can be recognizable deviation? Furthermore, the only way I can avoid constant and utter panic while riding in the embassy vehicles is to pay as little attention as possible to traffic. We are always and ever on the verge of plowing or being plowed.

Pedestrians have a particular cavalier approach to streets, which they treat as side walks. And the kids, six-year-olds, weaving through traffic (not at the stop lights, mind you) trying to sell coloring books to motorists. Hey, kid. I admire the spunk. But even if they weren't going 60 mph, they're not going to buy a coloring book. The Pakistanis have a lot going for them, but the business acumen of the six-year-old crowd leaves room for improvement.

Anyway, I simply have no stomach for the sequenced games of "chicken" they call driving. Lanes? How quaint. So, watch for things that are out of the ordinary? Sorry, I'll just read thank you. If a bomber can find his way through all this traffic, more power to him.

My gratitude and admiration is to the well-trained, under-paid drivers who drive 6-foot wide vehicles through 7-foot moving targets at speed while I pray into my Kindle.