The mother-of-the-groom looking absolutely stunning in her diamond studded blue gown, while the father-of-the-groom looks, well, misérable. I do love, however, how he’s got his arm interlocked with his son’s. It was common to see men in this embrace, which was sweet, yet confusing since if I did it with passion I could go to jail.

     Apparently the father hasn’t been happy in a while. After further investigation, because I’m a little wart like that, I uncovered the story behind the frown. Once a young and robust man, who played soccer professionally, he now suffers from a deteriorating case of diabetes. The reality of the situation has made him unhappy, which has effected his family life. He’s never home, only there to sleep, because seeing his wife and children, who are extremely vivacious, makes him angry.

       I did see, however, him smile one time and that was during the ceremony when Diana said “I do” in Arabic. He cracked a smile and it melted my heart. 



     Oh no! It’s the day of the wedding and Sweet D’s mom accidentally slept on her hand and now has henna tattooed on her jawline. We tried to wash it off and cover it with make-up, but this shit is tough. It’s takes about a month to disappear.

      Sweet D’s mom is the sweetest. Unlike her father, her mom is completely selfless. She’s finally retiring this October after years of being a nurse. D’s dad said that when they got divorced, none of his friend’s cared about his well-being, but were more concerned with losing the best nurse they knew.

      She’s used to traveling alone with D, as am I, so she’s struggled a bit this trip to put-up with the ex and the gay and the fiance all at the same table.  Her Kindle has been getting her through a lot of obnoxious dinner table conversations.

      I feel for D more, though, because she’s got a lot of balls to juggle— all these different personalities on one trip is hard, but she’s doing well. I can tell when she starts to get annoyed and that’s when I shut my mouth and try not to say anything stupid like, “But I thought Z said I could put the pine nuts in my suitcase. You mean they’re not for me? They’re for everyone? My bad,” and then just hope she gets another ball to juggle so she forgets and I can take them back to the states with me. It’s fucking pine nuts, they’re expensive in California and there’s only so many times I can steal them from work before I start to jeopardize job security. 




      My favorite character from the bachelorette party was Mima (grandma). When Sweet D introduced me, I extended my hand. Mima coiled up and shook her head no, running her fingers over her headscarf as to signal that she doesn’t touch men. I lowered my hand and said, “Enchanté.” 
     Sweet D let out a puff of annoyed air, but again, I understood. Seeing a man at one of these parties, especially a blonde-haired blue-eyed Yankee, wasn’t typical. I was invading sacred territory. There were two other boys there, though. One was 5 and too young to leave his mother’s side, the other a closeted teen. Well, I don’t know for sure if he was gay, but judging from his soft demeanor and shapely hips, I assumed he was. You know how teens inherit the body type of the people they hang out with, which in the case of closeted boys it’s often the wives and mothers we sit in the kitchen with.
     Mima intrigued me. I wanted her to like me, but knew that I had to win her affection on the sly. Too aggressive and I’d scare her away. I kept my distance, acting uninterested, but always had her in my peripheral. She didn’t move, nor talk, just sat there slouched over observing. Finally, ever so stilly, she raised her hand to her mouth and without moving a single facial muscle, let out the biggest wail you’d ever heard. Her tongue bounced off the roof of her mouth so loudly that the neighbor’s dog started to howl. 
     That’s it! That’s how I’d get her, with a wail of my own. I knew that ululating was reserved for women, but I didn’t care. I felt safe. Besides, before the trip I had been practicing and by the time I landed in Tunis, I felt as though my skills were above subpar and now was my moment to prove it. 
      I slowly danced to the center of the circle and stood smack-dab in front of Mima. Gently and rhythmically, I moved my hips to pique her interest. I didn’t look, but I could feel her eyebrow lift. I calmly bent over and touched my ankle, then began to work my hand up my leg, building momentum as I went over my thigh and tickled my rib cage. The energy was building. I could feel it. I could also feel that glass of strawberry puree I drank earlier start to enter my small intestines, but I kept focused. Finally, my hand reached my mouth and like a pissed off diamond back, let my tongue rattle. It was loud and long. I kept it going for three minutes. The women went crazy. Eventually, I ran out of breath and over-acted as I collapsed against the wall to hold me up. I looked over at Mima and she was laughing so hard that tears were coming down her cheek.
     I had done it. I got her. She still didn’t touch me, or kiss me, but as she was leaving she waved at me, and I’ll take a wave over a scowl any day.

      My favorite character from the bachelorette party was Mima (grandma). When Sweet D introduced me, I extended my hand. Mima coiled up and shook her head no, running her fingers over her headscarf as to signal that she doesn’t touch men. I lowered my hand and said, “Enchanté.”

     Sweet D let out a puff of annoyed air, but again, I understood. Seeing a man at one of these parties, especially a blonde-haired blue-eyed Yankee, wasn’t typical. I was invading sacred territory. There were two other boys there, though. One was 5 and too young to leave his mother’s side, the other a closeted teen. Well, I don’t know for sure if he was gay, but judging from his soft demeanor and shapely hips, I assumed he was. You know how teens inherit the body type of the people they hang out with, which in the case of closeted boys it’s often the wives and mothers we sit in the kitchen with.

     Mima intrigued me. I wanted her to like me, but knew that I had to win her affection on the sly. Too aggressive and I’d scare her away. I kept my distance, acting uninterested, but always had her in my peripheral. She didn’t move, nor talk, just sat there slouched over observing. Finally, ever so stilly, she raised her hand to her mouth and without moving a single facial muscle, let out the biggest wail you’d ever heard. Her tongue bounced off the roof of her mouth so loudly that the neighbor’s dog started to howl.

     That’s it! That’s how I’d get her, with a wail of my own. I knew that ululating was reserved for women, but I didn’t care. I felt safe. Besides, before the trip I had been practicing and by the time I landed in Tunis, I felt as though my skills were above subpar and now was my moment to prove it.

      I slowly danced to the center of the circle and stood smack-dab in front of Mima. Gently and rhythmically, I moved my hips to pique her interest. I didn’t look, but I could feel her eyebrow lift. I calmly bent over and touched my ankle, then began to work my hand up my leg, building momentum as I went over my thigh and tickled my rib cage. The energy was building. I could feel it. I could also feel that glass of strawberry puree I drank earlier start to enter my small intestines, but I kept focused. Finally, my hand reached my mouth and like a pissed off diamond back, let my tongue rattle. It was loud and long. I kept it going for three minutes. The women went crazy. Eventually, I ran out of breath and over-acted as I collapsed against the wall to hold me up. I looked over at Mima and she was laughing so hard that tears were coming down her cheek.

     I had done it. I got her. She still didn’t touch me, or kiss me, but as she was leaving she waved at me, and I’ll take a wave over a scowl any day.


     This was not your average bachelorette party. Instead of penis straws, veils, and puking bridesmaids, we all sat in a circle, passing around sweets and drinking juice, while one woman pounded the drums and the others sang traditional wedding songs. Everyone showed up, including grandma, aunts, neighbors, and co-workers. The bride danced in the middle, joined by whoever got the urge. There was a lot of ululation (the high-pitched vocal sound produced by the rapid movement of the tongue) happening and it went on until the wee hours of the night.