Much Making

So now you know - the concept of dating didn't exist when I was a teenager - at least not for my parents. Actually, it doesnt really exist in the Arabic culture. Not even for the purpose of finding a husband. "GAWD! NO DATING!" you might exclaim. "WELL HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO FIND A HUSBAND!? THROUGH SOME SORT OF ARCHAIC METHOD OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE WHERE THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN SEE THE MAN. LIKE IN THOSE PLACES WHERE PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN TENTS AND RIDE CAMELS?---OH SORRY.." No no. Don't apologize. There is a truth to that. At least what you may have seen on television. And though I'm sure there are still areas in the world where bride and groom don't see each other until the wedding, or marry someone they have chosen for them, without getting much say in the matter, for the most part it's not like that. It's more advanced. A screening process. (You know, like Match.com or eharmony) The suitors must fit certain criteria - good education, good family, no history of shenanigans involving goats which might plague him - and you - for years. That last thing doesn't happen very often, but it did happen to someone my mom knows back in Basra, so she always uses it as an example. In its simplest form, it's match making...or as my mother pronounces it 'MUCHMAKING,' (the way she says her long A sounds less like 'ah' and more like 'uh.') So yeah - matchmaking. You don't have to pick anyone you don't like. I'm not defending it- I'm just giving you the backstory. For the record, I'm not much of a fan of Much Making. But anyway... When I turned 19, Mom decided that it was time to explore the pool of eligible men in hopes of finding me a husband. It didn't matter that just a year ago, I was considered too young to date. Now suddenly I stood on the precipice of spinsterhood, unless I considered the list of ...ahem...eligible bachelors. Picture this: A photo of a man with thick glasses and uni-brow, stares at us - not even attempting to smile. My mother studies it with the scrutiny of a cartographer checking the accuracy of their work. "This one is studying to be a doctor. He is the brother of your cousin’s Podiatrist. Are you interested in meeting him?" I should tell you that at this point I am very busy doing what someone of my age typically does: lounging comfortably on my bed, flipping through People Magazine and listening to Nirvana on my walkman. I don't have energy for one more task. And I don't try to find the energy either. So I barely look up when my mother holds out the photo, from the huge stack she is flipping through. "No he's out. Too serious." she tosses the photo aside and continues flipping. She stops again. "This one is an engineer" Again, she holds the photo out to me. Again, I ignore it. And yet again, Mom yanks it back. "No...not enough hair on his head and too much coming out of his shirt collar..." Flip. Flip. Flip. "Oh! How about this one?" She shoves the photo on top of my magazine. I startle because I wasn't expecting to see a HUGE-- "he could get that mole removed. Or at least trim the hair in it." We both stare at the photo for a moment, mesmerized. Then finally Mom breaks the spell by tossing it aside. "No, probably too much work." I tolerated these sessions for the most part, by ignoring them. But after a while Mom crossed the line. Like the time I was in English Lit class just waiting for the lunch bell to ring. I opened my binder and a LARGE PHOTO fell at the feet of Misty McCallister, the schools's resident Perfect Blond. Misty picked it up. It was a picture of a nondescript Arab guy. Plain. Bland. Generic. On his face was a yellow post-it note. which read, "What do you think about this guy?" Misty, in her loudest voice turned to me and said."You dropped your mail-order boyfriend." This of course prompted jeers and laughter. And for the rest of the week - I was known as " Desperately Seeking" Or DS for short. Nevermind that it was not a particularly clever name - it got the point across. In my anger, I stuck that photo under the visor of my mom's car - and I drew devil's horns on him and in big block letters wrote "STOP RUINING MY LIFE!" The trouble was, it dropped into Mom's lap as she was backing out of the driveway and startled her so bad that she backed into my Dad's parked car. And I got grounded for a month. Which I guess is fair. Everyone's okay though. ...And the 'Much Making' attempts did end.