Tag Archives: yucky

Tomi the Barfy Kitty



Last night, Tomi the Drooly Kitty puked all over my bed.


It started with the most ungodly, gargling, hacking sound I have ever heard. WHAT IS THAT HOLY SHIT SOMETHING IS DYING.

Then puke. Puke everywhere.

Allie and I just watched him do it, suspended in some bizarre wtf is going on moment, and by the time I shoved him off my bed it was too late. So I grabbed some napkins (thank god we bought those as a we-have-no-idea-where-they-keep-toilet-paper last resort) and scooped it up—and suddenly, the whole thing struck me as utterly, ridiculously hilarious—here I am in my cheap, fuzzy, bright blue hello kitty bathrobe, holding a big handful of cat vomit and laughing uncontrollably.


There are no garbage cans anywhere here, so we threw it out the window into the piles of litter already lining the shores of the river. I can’t stop laughing even as I’m typing this.

(You’d think that my first purchase in Morocco would be something culturally relevant or important, but no. It was a cheap fuzzy hello kitty bathrobe. I’m pretty sure this is the point, though.)

I’ve renamed him Tomi the Barfy Kitty.


C’est baasl


Or, Katie uses Rage Faces to talk about Uncomfortable Subjects

BAASL. That means YUCKY. It’s a very important word.

Not everything in Morocco is wonderful. For example, they drink this stuff that I thought was milk. Took a gulp…

The taste most closely resembles liquified sour cream, but really it’s sorta just spoiled milk. I suppose I could develop a taste for it, but I’m not sure I want to try.

Today, one of our host sisters played a very unsettling game of make-believe: Alexandra and I were her wives, and she our husband. I mean, that’s fine, except for the frequent pretend wife-beating and I’m-angry-with-you-because-you-won’t-obey-me sort of things. UUUUUHHHHHHHHHH

I masked my discomfort, because a harmless child’s game is just that, and she plays games modeled from what she knows—but internally, my discomfort quickly evolved into anger. Gender issues in this country are delicate, and have been in flux for decades, but it infuriated the little-incredible-hulk-feminist inside me that explodes every so often. I WILL NOT PLAY THIS GAME AND I WISH—I WISH—

The men tend to order around the women, and will raise a hand-just in play-against them (it’s still uncomfortable). ijust-don’t- I need to get used to it? I don’t really know how to handle that.

Other yucky things: if you make eye contact with a guy, it means you want to sleep with him. I guess. That’s pretty dumb. I was followed by multiple men multiple times today, and there’s not much I can do about it except tell them to leave me alone. The catcalling I can deal with (Moroccan women often see it as a confidence boost, oh I look good today), but I think foreign women get the short straw. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it, though it’s a bit weird that so many men seemed to have nothing better to do today than follow us around.

Me: laissez-moi tranquille, s’il vous plaît. (and other such things, eye rolling, etc)

Group of 2 or more men: ton numéro téléphone? Ooh la la! (Follows around for 30 more minutes)


Less important things don’t make sense here, too: walking in sandals outside makes you sick. Not having slippers/sandals on inside on the tile makes you sick. Having uncovered wet hair outside makes you sick. Not eating enough makes you sick AND ugly. All of that is charming, actually, but it can get overwhelming trying to remember when to take off and put on shoes, having to say schvet! schvet! shokran! Schvet! —I’m done eating! I’m done! No, really, thank you, I’m done!—and nobody hugs here. I miss hugs.

Random fact, nobody really drinks water here, so we all got super dehydrated during the first week. What?


Well, I don’t want this to be a completely downer post or anything. I’m happy, and this is all part of the Experience, the Journey, the Growth, right? There’s all sorts of other uncomfortable things, too, so now imma write about a funny one, in this blog post.