Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Giving Tuesdays

I've been wanting to lose weight since I was 12. Thinking that it was the only way to improve on myself. It wasn't.  In my obsession, I actually didn't realize how lovely I looked, and instead kept carrying more heaviness in my heart until it went to my body.  In my struggle to release it, I was hugging it and letting it flourish. Not any more. I've stopped focusing on what I want to lose and only looking at what I hope to gain and that is making all the difference now.

For the past few years, having become a mother, I've learned a lot about what I'm capable of doing, what I should and shouldn't be doing.  The influence I have on my kids, and what they learn from me is a big responsibility.  And my new desire is no longer about my outer shell, but about my neglected insides.  How does one become a better human being? Can I exchange the bad for good? Now I know dwelling won't help. Neither will self-criticizing, that just makes you more bitter and gives you a sense of false entitlement. Almost like I just abused myself, so now I have the right to be mean to strangers. I knew it had to be some sort of practiced methodical journey, with a long life-changing warm up before I started running.

Inspiration came to me in the car this morning.  I slept 3 hours and that makes me "fake high" and creative. And that's how I decided to name today Giving Tuesdays.  Tuesday is usually a blah filler kind of a day for the work week just like shredded iceberg lettuce in a juicy burger  It has no significance other than it's the start of the slope of desire towards the weekend.  Today I gave it significance. A day that inspires change; a wave hopefully. Future vegetarians, first tried Meatless Mondays, and future "nicer" people are now going to try Giving Tuesdays.

So what is the difference between Farah yesterday and Farah today?  Today I'm  going to strive to give people what they need from me. It's not about what I'm entitled to, but what I can do for others to make their moment, morning, day or even week better. In traffic this morning, I slowed way down so a car on the other lane can come in front of me and turn into the right turn.  I didn't begrudge them for not forward planning and being in the correct lane. There were no scowls, rude gesticular expressions or frustration. I just smiled and let them go in front of me. For the first time in my life I felt in control and relaxed while stupidity was rampant around me in the form of morning drivers--but of course I'm just assuming they were there because I didn't notice, being so zen and all...

It's a heady feeling, I want to do more. I've given people space to take my lane before, but never with this much good intention behind it.  I feel like how Superman must've felt on his first day.  I look forward to driving home at 4..I wonder if I'll still be "giving". It's okay baby steps.

Today if I just learn one thing from my inaugural Giving Tuesday, I learned to happily give what I perceived as rightfully mine, and realized that what I got back was a kinder yet stronger version of myself for a split second. Here's to many more split seconds and the good it brings back to our hearts..

What would you change about yourself on Giving Tuesdays?

Sunday, July 25, 2010

The anesthesiologist that wouldn't stop…

About 9 months ago, I was scheduled to do a minor surgery at a local hospital.

As is the usual practice, before embarking on surgery, you're supposed to meet your trusty anesthesiologist.  In my understanding, this a chance to bond with the guy who's going to knock you out, to calm down and convince yourself, or allow him to convince you that you will not be the unlucky 0.3 % that dies from a routine surgery, that doesn't involve vital organs.  I loved my surgeon, so I completely trusted that he wasn't going to kill me. My worry was that I had to be put under full anesthesia for the 3rd time in the past 5 years at the hands of a stranger.  I'm sure innocent brain cells were lost before in this process, if only for the fact that I sometimes say passport when I mean pizza, or forget for a split second if my son is a girl or boy- (in my defense he does have long eye lashes), or when I completely can't recall what I just said, after someone says "what?".

Anyway, so I go to my appointment to meet the doctor. For 45 minutes I'm in the waiting room, having read the fifth Layalina, and memorized all of Bahrain's inane functions, I started to gather negative feelings towards the guy, or assume that he's really so good, that he's over booked.  When lo and behold, a big fumbling, balding man walks in, sweating and rushed is referred to as Dr. SameName, by the receptionist, and darts off to his office.  No. It can't be him.  She would've introduced me.  He doesn't even look ambidextrous. How is he going to know when to stop?  Wasn't he already up there? Now I'm panicking.

It's probably not him. 

The receptionist waited like 3 seconds after he was gone, to tell me that my doctor had arrived and that I should make my way upstairs to his clinic.  How discreet. 
I go up, not knowing what's coming leaving the next patient to wait her turn.

How can I put this, he was a complete weirdo.  He was awkward, and inappropriate, and everything about his behavior, screamed IDIOT. 
Of course he may have seen the look of disappointment when I walked in and saw him, but I quickly reprimanded myself for stereo typing that clumsy fumbling people
don't make good doctors.  So I refreshed my outlook and sat down.  He asked me questions. Many of which the answers to were on the brief in front of him.  But I complied, and I answered politely.

He didn't mention once anything about the anesthesia, the length of the surgery, any risks, nothing of any value to me.  Then he said, we have to take your blood pressure...

Ok, take it.  I'm sitting right here aren't I? 

No, I have to go to the next room, lie down on a bed assisted by a nurse and close a curtain while I wait for his debut.
Such a melodrama queen.  Fine, I do that.  The nurse tries to wrap the thing around me, it's one of those old things that come in a tin box, as if it's going to be dropped out of a plane or something.

In walks Shrek, he practically hip-shoots her aside and then starts to bruise my arm, with his less than ballerina fingers, trying to wrap the arm band and hold the tin box on a 1 cm precipice, before it smashes to the ground, yanking my arm with it.

I am ready to punch someone.

The nurse looks at me helplessly, as he rudely yells at her to: "HOLD ZIS ONE! NO COME HERE! YOU HOLD ZIS!"

I'm telling you, right now, my reading ain't gonna be accurate.  I'm sure it's 170 over 2 million.

Then he abruptly pushes me up, at the same time informing me that he needs to hear my heart beat.  Ok fine, we do this all the time don't we?  Apparently not.

He has a bloody wrestling match with my top.  Looking at him from outside the room, you'd think the guy was trying to get a mad octopus of my back, not a limp cotton garment.
I was a little bit amused, and smug that my stereo typing had been correct.  He sucks.

So we finish this fiasco, I go back into the room where he allegedly "consults", and I thank him for his time.  At the door, it occurs to me that he didn't reassure me about the surgery at all.

So I ask while standing at the door.  So you're going to be my anesthesiologist?  To which he replies: "I don't know about that."

Excuse me? What, I didn’t pass the test? Then why am I here?  My operation is scheduled for a week from now, and he is certainly not helping my cold feet.

He proceeded to rant for 15 minutes that my surgery is on the same day as a holiday, and that there will be no one in the hospital.  So I look at him and say, I already scheduled this, what do you mean no one will be here?   Will I be assisting the surgeon in the OR? 

Then he says why are you doing it during Eid?  So I explained, still quite shocked, that I don't have more than a few days off, so I need to do it during a holiday for the recovery period.  Isn't there a recommended recovery period?

Do you know what he said to me?????   "I don' t know about zis, why where do you work?  They don't give you time off?"

God loves me.  So by divine intervention, it was the first time in a hospital that I didn't see a sharp object such as a syringe, or an oxygen tank with which to reply to him.

I stare back at him, livid at the irrelevant questioning.  I asked him if he was in charge of appointments, and he mumbled something about my surgeon not being from here and not realizing it was a holiday. 

“The doctor is fully aware it’s a holiday, I told him it was suitable for me.” I spoke slowly, so as not to explode right there.  “I’m not responsible for the hospital’s administration procedures, I simply made a request and it was granted.”

Don’t people get sick during holidays?  Does the hospital close on Fridays?  What does this ass want exactly?

He realizes he’s not winning in this contest of back and forth, and tells me to forget he said anything, but still doesn’t confirm who my anesthesiologist will be, stating he doesn’t know who they’re going to call in.

I walked off bewildered, and on my way out caught the eye of the girl who was after me.  I gave her a look that warned her of the insanity that she was about to experience.

In the lift on the way down I turned to the victim nurse who had witnessed this whole fiasco.  “Is there another anesthesiologist in the hospital?”

“No, only him.” She answers trying not to smile.

“Then why is he pretending like there’s a lineup of spares waiting???” 

By the time I get to reception, and after I had done several tests, I am fuming.  How dare he act this way.  I was coming here to meet someone to put my mind at ease, and now this   imbecile, just confirmed to me that he doesn’t particularly want to be there.  I’ve had this appointment for a month and no one had a problem with it.  I’m going to entrust the remaining brain matter I have in his stubby hands?? I DON’T think so.

I file a big ass colorful complaint about his lack of good conduct, his unprofessionalism, and his unnecessary discussion with me about the hospital’s thoughtless decision to book me on the 2nd day of Eid.  All this to a hesitant receptionist, who insists that he’s quite good at what he does. 

Maybe he sniffs the drugs he administers, because he has no bedside manner, he has no kerb side manner even.  I inform them that I won’t do the surgery with him. Find someone else.  He didn’t even have the decency to tell me that he was the ONLY anesthesiologist in the entire hospital.

Just as I am about to finish my story and starting to think what if I imagined how horrible it really was, the girl behind me walked in.

“WHAT WAS THAT???” She asked.

Apparently he had had a similar wrestling match with her clothes, and she thought perhaps she should’ve worn a swim suit rather than an abaya, had she known taking blood pressure was this traumatic.  He also questioned her on why her surgery was on a Friday, and that he didn’t particularly think it was a good day to be in the OR.  She also demanded someone else in his place.

I laughed my head off, relieved that I wasn’t a mean patient, reassured, that others saw what I did.  Just before I left, a couple walked in to the receptionist, asking her what was wrong with that doctor?  They were referring to Shrek too.

I wasn’t offered another anesthesiologist for legal reasons, but the hospital director called me herself, and reassured me that she would be there and that he was reprimanded for his behavior, but that he was excellent at what he did.

Great, a disgruntled anesthesiologist. He’ll just put me to sleep forever. That’s just what I wanted...

Thankfully I didn’t die, but I did ignore him when he said good morning right before I passed out.  Maybe he sensed my disdain, because I threw up constantly after the surgery as a reaction to the anesthesia, which never happened to me before. 7mar.

So, here we are today in 2010, I went back to the same hospital a few days ago, for a small procedure, thankfully only requiring local anesthesia and four stitches.

Although, it wasn’t a big deal, I had 3 small cysts removed from my scalp, and after the operation, was wheeled out into the hall way of the OR suite to supposedly “recover”.

As the drugs wore off, my head started to feel like I had a severe acid burn.  I was grumpy, because I hated being out of control, and the hospital was one of the few places that made me feel helpless.  I counted the ceiling tiles, waiting for someone to come tell me they were taking me back to my room, waiting for my husband to come see me.  But people just walked past me like I was a buffet.

Just then the other OR opened and people walked out having finished a surgery.  I felt someone pacing, and then I saw it.  A big round face hovering above mine...

Oh ho..shyabi thee?  Now what?

It was HIM.  9aba7 il kheeeeeer.. he Good Morninged me and I was NOT amused.

“What’s your name?”  He asked.

Is he serious?  I wanted to look nonchalant, but that’s really a challenge, when you’re wearing a mesh green surgery cap and lying on a gurney. Fuck my luck.  (Swearing necessary here)

“Weren’t you here wiz us before?”  He is not just here to comfort an anonymous patient, he is here for a discussion apparently.

“Yes, last year.” I tried to look busy, but failed miserably.

“Ah, November 29th.., it was Eid”  He actually brought it up.

“Yes, I remember, you objected to the surgery date.”  There really was no point in pretending not to have recognized him.  I couldn’t really wheel myself out of there, or get up and leave.

And right there, while I was supposed to be in post-op recovery, fighting the pain that was spreading through my head, grieving for the 20% of my hair that was shaved off, this inconsiderate bastard proceeded to AGAIN tell me that it was a holiday and that the hospital is usually empty on those days.  I am not going to let this idiot bully me again.

In the sharpest tone, that I could muster under the circumstances, I responded to him once and for all...
“Listen, as I told you before, YOU need to understand, that I am NOT concerned with the hospital’s scheduling philosophies.  As a patient, I booked with my surgeon, and he agreed and confirmed that it was fine. I don’t CARE to get involved in administration issues you have with the hospital.”

GIVE IT UP ALREADY!  What is wrong with this man??  If he wants to discuss this, why doesn’t he call me when I’m not horizontal, and I will REALLY give him my frank opinion on what I think of him.

My husband walked in, not realizing what had just happened. And not knowing who he was, asked him when they were taking me back to the room.

“He’s not my doctor..” I hissed, while my husband thanked him gratefully, thinking he was my surgeon.

“I told you he’s not my doctor!”  I growled under my breath, really pissed off at this point, but trying to maintain composure.

I’ve never been angry before, while lying down.  Usually I’m standing, pacing or gesturing.

I swore to myself, that I was going to file an even bigger complaint this time, but by the time I got out of there, I really didn’t want to talk about him anymore.  My husband listened patiently for an hour in my room to my ranting and raving, and that deflated my big balloon of fury.

He was lucky that I had someone to vent to this time.

Until my next face off... with the anesthesiologist that wouldn’t stop.

Friday, June 11, 2010

What's next?

I have been terrible, absolutely horrendous;  a failure of the blogosphere if you will.  But I'm here today to tell you what I have been consumed with for the past two years. Mothering.

No, I didn't have quadruplets, not even twins. Just one boy.  And what a boy he is.  But keeping up with him, and an all day long job, has left me with no will to think and type at night.  But for the sake of my own auditing purposes I'm going to list the time line of the past two years to get a grip on how fast time flies, and how few kilos one can lose in 24 months.

May 2008: After a difficult, 40 weeks of morning sickness, high blood pressure and crazy hormonal outbursts I had my son.  This was followed by lots of crying, laughing, freaking the hell out, projectile vomiting, zombie style elegance and self doubt.  Ali was fine.

September 2008: Back to work, more freaking out and self doubt. Gallons and gallons of guilt, and lots of hair pulling.  Ali was fine, but didn't really know who I was.

December 2008: Took a short holiday at home, to prove to Ali that I was his mother.  Ali liked me again. Whisker the best dog in the world goes missing, never comes back. Very sad.

February 2009: After endless efforts at the gym to lose the baby weight, I still look pregnant, so went on health watchers to lose the stupid excess.  Starved, ate tiny portions full of black pepper and caught a bread thief at work.  Lost 3 kilos.  What is that, like a hand bag?

April 2009: High stress at work, leads back to indulging in food, gain 1 kilo.  Ditch everything and go to London with my husband, drive to the country side, take pictures with bulls, pet squirrels--remember Ali.  Go back home.  He ignores me.

May 2009: Ali turns one. I'm too tired to organize a birthday party.  Ali walks. I pass out from pride.  Get him a cake at Saturday lunch, film him getting excited and clapping and looking absolutely adorable. Play back video...nothing got recorded.  Kick own ass. Quite challenging to do.

August 2009: Two week vacation with family and my parents in Lebanon. Chill by pool, go to beach, sleep all morning- stay up all night. Absolutely fantastic.  Feel happy again. 

September 2009: Back to work. Bahrain is hot. Again, kick own ass for not immigrating to colder country.  Becoming an expert.  Officially stop exercising, don't see the point.  Still look pregnant. WTF. Start playing Farmville, bury emotions and frustrations in harvesting digital fruits and vegetables.

December 2009-March 2010: Weather amazing.  Started doing Hot Yoga classes twice a week. Sit outside on porch every evening, farming my imaginary farm, wishing I had a real one. Ali is now talking, becomes more amazing everyday.  However, frequent floor hugging tantrums in public, make me feel useless as a mom. Very well behaved indoors. Wish there were witnesses.  Remodeled my kitchen.  Excellent outlet for emotions.

April 2010: Go to London for work.  Husband comes along.  THANK GOD. Get stuck in London one extra week because of Ash Cloud.  Mom tells me she'll take care of Ali, if the Ash Cloud doesn't go away, and wants to know what time he starts nursery in SEPTEMBER!  Somehow don't enjoy the forced extra time, but at least I'm not alone.  Miss Ali, wish I had the guts to travel 7 hours with him on a plane. Buy him lots of gifts to compensate.

May 2010: A month of hell at work, too much to do, no time to stop. Wish I was inside my digital farm.  Seriously consider faking my own abduction.  At 1.99, Ali starts demonstrating what the Terrible Two's are all about.

Ali turns 2.  You can forget about the birthday. Take two cakes to Friday and Saturday family lunch. Ali hates the "Happy Birthday" song, makes sounds like "The Exorcist" movie, and tries to bash the cake, this we actually HAVE on film.  Thank god I didn't invite kids.  Secretly sings "Happy Birthday" to himself in his room, when no one around.  I am relieved he's not possessed.

June 2010: A very rude and early summer arrives. And my drive and will to be productive departs. It's too hot to breathe outside, let alone get in a car or think.  Finally understand the concept of a siesta in hot countries.  Seriously consider demonstrating against long working hours.   Become obsessed with the random idea of going to live as a housewife in New York, then start looking at Long Island, Martha's vineyard.  Realize it's too far, shift obsession to a small island in France, then Greece.  End up looking at the website of Al Bander.  Sad.

Get cute pet Hamster for Ali instead.  They bond. What kind of an exit plan is that? Just one more mouth to feed at home.   Saw a couch I liked, asked price.  Was told it was 6000 dinars.  Told my husband about it 7 times.  Bought a bigger fluffier couch for 600, for a living room that wasn't built yet.  Trying to prove a point.  Still haven't won the lottery.

Present day:

YUCK! Some guy on TV just blended uncooked prawns and rolled them into a fillet of raw Sole. I think I'm going to throw up.  He's helping a woman cook up a romantic valentine dinner for her husband.  His badly dressed assistant is redecorating the woman's dining room into a Cupidic nightmare of red and tacky fake flowers.  Good luck with that, lady.

Anyway.  Now that I have shared my exciting memoirs, I'll come back soon, when something worth talking about has happened.  Meanwhile, Ali is bashing down the door, so I'll go see what my boss wants and then try to distract him with a hamster or a biscuit.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I'm still here

I know I've been very quiet. But I'm still here. Somewhere.
I didn't lose my inner voice. It's been there yapping about everything for the past six months.
I just never got the words to go through my fingers into the keyboard and onto this blog.

I have so much to declare and say and comment on. But the rush of thoughts and ideas in my
head make for a very noisy home for any kind of sane thought.

It's been the unspoken silence, filled with things you're not allowed to say out loud.
I was told that I've been missed, and I certainly missed me to.

Will try to find her now. I just need to rifle through life's mess, and find a clean square of carpet where I can sit and say something that will help another person, rifle through their own clutter, if only for a few minutes.

Much love and hope to everyone out there. I know I need it.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Silly Rabbit, Mini Burgers are for kids

Dear Fuddruckers Management,

I tried to order the mini burgers today which are quite delicious and just the right size portion so I don’t get a tummy ache. However there is a “rule” that states that I cannot order it, because its only for kids.

Now I’m not sure what to say to this because I always felt that I was a kid at heart. I’m also told by many people that I look younger than my years.

So the waiter (who was very polite—and a little bit apprehensive) had to call the MANAGER. It was as if I had ordered a bottle of Whiskey..and didn’t have ID…in Saudi Arabia.

The manager politely told me that “ as per the procedures..” the mini burger was only for kids and that I can have a value meal instead, which was the same size as two mini burgers combined but in one bun. But that –other than being a ridiculous suggestion- is like offering someone a whole potato and telling them it’s the same as sticking all the French fries together.

Uh, I don’t think so.

It would be very progressive and modern of you to bin this archaic rule which infringes on personal freedoms. Also most of the population is really fat and you should encourage smaller portions and healthy choices.

I thank you for your time and hopefully next time I come here I can order my mini burgers without calling in high officials, managers, and presenting a photo ID.

Kind regards,

Farah Mohd Mattar

(20 minutes after I finished eating my mini burger, which I was told I would get for the LAST time, a group of girls walked in and sat on the other side of the restaurant. When I over heard their conversation with the waiter and he began to explain that the value meal was the same size as two mini burgers and that it was against the system, I almost died laughing. They too signed the petition to FREE THE MINI BURGERS.)

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Stupidity and Indifference

I am utterly disgusted by the headline on page 3 of the GDN March 4th 2009 “rape harmless fun” says lawyer. First of all, I have to know, is this what she meant, or has this been taken out of context?

Because it is extremely upsetting to show this kind of attitude and lack of respect for women and basic human rights. It is disgusting that she got a headline, saying that the horror that one woman went through was the “harmless fun” of 3 adult men! It is shocking that this is coming from a woman.

I don’t think that the GDN should be writing things like a mindless tattle tale and simply repeating stupidity. I think that as a newspaper you are responsible for the influence and current trends in attitude towards certain issues. The article should be about the HUGE problem we have of not putting the right crime with the right punishment. We should be questioning the level of education this lawyer has. We should be questioning how recent bans on website, infringe on personal freedoms and do nothing for an expat woman with no one to stand with her in a case like this.

Rape is not an issue to be taken lightly, it is a serious violation of another human being’s rights. It is an act of inflicting power on another and not sexual as is commonly misinterpreted by people in general. Rapists are people who get a thrill out of over powering and being in control. These individuals even at the young age of 19,20 and 21 years of age are dangers to society, their neighborhoods and the very families that they will go on to create. When they commit a crime against one person, it should feel to society that the crime is against everyone.

When we read things like these in the paper, there should be some kind of call for the country's population to support tougher laws and not put up with bull shit excuses by uneducated pathetic members of society who give Bahrain a poor reputation. How do you think it looks when an international press agency picks up a headline like this on the internet?

What does that do for Bahrain? Or for it’s people? Nothing. Lately the GDN is more like the Khaleeji TV series they put in Ramadhan. They claim to show us the truths of society, but in fact all they do is perpetuate the practice of disgusting behavior by magnifying a small percentage and blowing it up for everyone to learn from.

That is not responsible journalism..

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Berries on the Brain

With work threatening to take over my life and my entire being, I decided to seize the bull by the horns, and help myself. After several years of looking at the blackberry with disdain and contempt, and swearing I would never want one, I suddenly had a thought, one day while lugging my lap top for the 5th time that week, that perhaps the “toot” was going to be my savior.

I wasn’t offered one by the office, in fact, they weren’t too happy with the request that we need it. And perhaps that reverse psychology was part of the reason that my stubborn head finally began to look at the curious fruit named gadget as the answer.

Impatient as I am, the day I decided to welcome the Blackberry into my embrace, was the day I wanted it active. I trotted feverishly over to Batelco, only to be told that their very last Bold (which rumour has it is prone to jamming) was reserved for someone very important, and that they were in a hunt all over Bahrain to find a second one, for someone else equally important.

I should know better than to listen to Batelco. In about 2 minutes flat, I spoke to Sharaf DG the new Mecca for electronics, to find that not only did they have ample stock of the Blackberry Curve that I wanted, but it was also at the best price in town. And they were friendly, polite and promised to hide one for me. Which is more than I can say for Geant, who will transfer you to the fish counter, to answer your question about a printer.

I got there in about 30 minutes-I don’t know where Batelco was looking, but it was a blackberry fest up in there - picked up my new technology, paid for it without wincing, and frolicked back home, like I had just won a prize at the fair.

Of course I didn’t get my wish of having it hooked up and ready to go, as there was additional procedures to go through with Batelco and the IT at the office, so for the last time I went home looking like a bag lady carrying my lap top.

The reason I wanted a blackberry is because I wanted to spend more time with Ali. I can’t, in the middle of hugging him, feeding him, or playing monster with him, drop it all, go to my lap top, open it and try to log onto my email clicking pathetically for 20 minutes until it hooks up to WIFI. Because then once that’s open, I’ve forgotten that I have a son, or he has fallen asleep again, and I’m left WORKING. Again. From home. Because now I’m in there, and I might as well just check all the emails and reply to them all before I forget, and the next thing you know, I’m an android.

So for the past 2 weeks, the BB, has become a part of my anatomy. I became an expert in about a day and a half and I have become lighter and more mobile, without all the extra baggage. What I hadn’t realized as of this morning, is that I have been working non-stop for the past few weeks and the baggage was now mental and not physical. The Blackberry has become almost like an evil Nazi trainer, whipping me ruthlessly into 20 reps of emails in every free moment that I might have. My brain has literally only stopped to rest at night, when I sleep. The speed at which I began to connect things, and then action them and coordinate a gazillion things through SMS and phone calls at once was beginning to impress my superiors. It was the delicate balance of exhaustion and momentum that kept me going. I had broken new frontiers, raised the bar, and shot out of my comfort zone.

Basically, I had screwed myself.

I realized that this morning, when I woke to find that BB had run out of battery during the night and died. And I was forced to put it in the charger which is all the way in another room, as I had run out of outlets in my bedroom.

I had forgotten the peace and bliss of ignorance while sipping my morning coffee; the quiet before the daily storm and the chance to think about things OTHER than work.

Yesterday, I tried to balance being a blackberry superstar and a home-alone mom. I was with Ali and no one else was home. Everyone had somewhere fancier to be. I was exhausted…but he WASN’T. At some point he tried to eat my Blackberry, so I distracted him with my phone. Oh yes, my stupid strategy at simplifying life, means now I’m responsible for charging, and maintaining TWO gadgets. Anyway, by 8pm, I was so tired, that I didn’t even argue with him as he practically sat on my head, drooling onto my nose and waving one or both of my technology about. “Oh..do whatever you want…” I thought.

I fell asleep twice while trying to put him to sleep, as he lay peacefully in my arms chewing my hair and staring at my chin. I wasn’t learning the graceful art of motherhood with a career very well yet. I kept getting distracted by the ominous vibrations coming from the black leather case. Each one was a warning of endless tasks to pour my way tomorrow morning.

Ali slept in the end, but only after I had burned 1074 calories. I picked up my stuff and tiptoed out of his room. Mission accomplished. I unlocked my BB to see what else was new, and saw one line of battery left.

HAHAA! You can’t out do me bitch! I have TWO lines left in me! I plugged it into the charger, and left it there in the naughty corner. I decided to enjoy the rest of my evening and night at the other end of the house, far away from the frequent buzzing, or the annoying reminder that work was now ALWAYS at my finger tips.

Buh Bye BERRY BOY. See you during working hours…

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Future Headlines that we could do without!


Ban on day of love

A session in parliament, meaning to discuss important and pivotal issues like approving the national budget, was disrupted when one of the MP's received a fresh bouquet of roses with big balloons asking the bearded heart throb to be someone's valentine, right in the middle of the session.

Although the bouquet was extravagant and quite difficult to ignore, the MP was also showered with pink glitter by the messenger and thus proceeded to blush profusely, causing heads to turn and suppressed giggles to erupt among the onlookers.

The chairman of parliament settled the room and asked everyone to get back to the matter at hand, however it was too late, as members began to request time to speak, clearly to discuss this new development.

The head of the crap-and-other-useless-rules committee stood up and addressed the session.

"I think that we have to ban this unislamic practice of valentine's day. It is a day when misguided teenagers are sending flowers to each other and expressing their love to one another which is not only against our culture and traditions, but also morally corrupt." He said.

"We have received many complaints from individuals that their neighborhoods were turning into rose infested slums. The sound of love songs and secret amorous messages was causing them to have uncomfortable feelings."

It was proposed that all valentine's day memorabilia be banned and that any florist caught selling red roses, eating red roses, or simply possessing them would face a minimum of 3 months jail time.

Members unanimously voted in favor of this new ban, except for the culprit, who hid under his table in shame at having received such a scandalous display of what is clearly misguided affection.


Monday, December 22, 2008

Whisker is missing

Hi everyone, I just want to put this on here in the hopes that someone will find Whisker. She went missing from our house or Garden in Jasra yesterday Dec 21 and without a trace. We think she might have been picked up by someone who found her wandering in the compound.

If anyone sees her, please keep her with you and contact us immediately.

I"m hoping she'll come back to us. We are so so sad.

Thanks Everyone.

Thursday, November 06, 2008


Today in the GDN.

Well yesterday actually, but I was so shocked that by the time I was conscious again to write about it the news became yesterday's. I've bolded the words that amused me. Let's see what the experts are proposing now:

Male doctors face clamp (oh please..they face nothing! That implies that this kind of garbage can actually hold ground and become legislation. Bullshit.)
MALE doctors could soon be banned from working in all maternity wards in Bahrain, if parliament has its way. MPs said at their weekly session yesterday many women were complaining that they were forced to reveal their "sensitive parts" to male doctors, which they say was making them feel uncomfortable. MY WHOLE PREGNANCY WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, A MALE DOCTOR WOULDN'T HAVE ADDED MUCH TO THAT DISCOMFORT!!!!

Parliament unanimously (that means all the dumb asses) voted in favour of the proposal, despite assurances by Health Ministry officials that they were already taking the issue into consideration.

Health Ministry assistant under-secretary for hospital affairs Dr Abdulhai Al Awadhi (someone who is probably qualified) said that the ministry was already giving patients the choice between male and female consultants and doctors.
"The patient has the right to choose and we don't force any doctor or consultant on any patient," he said.
"The number of male doctors and consultants is decreasing and out of 11 consultants, only four are males, while more than 90pc of our (maternity) doctors are females. (Are they being bullied out of the profession?)

"We have recently asked six male doctors to carry out maternity services, because many female staff members are taking the two-hour breastfeeding time-off from 9am to 11am, which is our peak time." (okay this guys' just looking for a platform to complain about the women, boo hoo he doesn't get to breast feed. WELL THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS. IT SURE AINT FUN!!!)

Dr Al Awadhi said that most consultants and doctors in Saudi Arabia and Iran were males. "There is no such obligation in those countries," he said. (I can't believe these are now our benchmarks for progress and freedom)

MP Sayed Maki Al Wedaie (someone who is obviously NOT qualified) said that Islam bans males and females touching "sensitive body parts" of members of the same sex or other sex, unless it is an emergency. (or for fun!)

Mr Al Wedaie, who is parliament's foreign affairs, defence and national security committee vice-chairman, said that maternity was not an emergency OH REALLY? BIAAATCH!!! and considered as a normal case. (YOU TELL ME HOW YOU WOULD FEEL IF A HUMAN BEING TRIED TO CRAWL OUT OF YOU WITHOUT an EXPERIENCED man, woman or alien THERE TO PULL IT OUT! A NORMAL CASE IS WHAT I SHOULD USE TO SMACK YOUR HEAD ABOUT WITH)

I guess in his expertise, unless it was a troop of soldiers marching out of the woman, he really couldn't feel the urgency of the situation. By the way, when you're in labour you will let anyone and their mother look at whatever they want to look at, as long as they promise to get that baby out and stop the hellish contractions from trying to kill you. That, my friend, would be considered an emergency in any woman's book! So go play RISK and leave the real thinking to people with brains..and, uteruses...uterii... uterees-(oh forget it) ...ovaries.

"Instead of taking time off from 9am to 11am, those female doctors and consultants should take other timings, when operations are not at their peak." (Oh..There you go. Expert defense and national security man has solved it. And I thought it was going to be more complicated.)

Is it even constitutional to stop the livelihood of qualified licensed doctors in high demand, because of their gender, just because someone's wife didn't want the naughty doctor man to see her hoo-haa????

Go to a woman doctor. It really isn't that difficult. and GDN, please stop putting headlines of garbage, as if they bear any danger on our personal freedoms... THANK YOU.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Yearning to blog

I miss my blog. I miss my blog so much that even though I don't have a second to scratch my head from all the work that is being thrown at me, I snuck here for a quickie post.

I am currently imprisoned in my cubicle, typing random different things feverishly as I try to

go down my endless (and very fertile) To-Do list. Meanwhile, my mother is sending me MMS's of "the delicious one" doing a variety of CUTE things. My heart...oh my heart...it beateth for him. I post his charm, so you know how I suffer.

It is such a long bloody daaaaay!

The End.

ps. I wrote the first paragraph at 11:12 am. The second one at 3:07pm. And the last one at 4:50pm.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Cruel and Unusual punishment

As he slowly strolled on the left side of the clear blue stream which cascaded down the side of the undulating hills of greenery, twisting and turning with the schools of fish on this hot summer day, the insects and birds covered the green shady trees of the orchard and their twittering filled the warm air and breeze. And the road swerved up ahead into the distance flowing with cars, and the madry shino pooed and the monstrous baboon fleed...bleeuh ble-bleeuh ble-bleeeeeeeeeeuh…

Oh. My. God.

If you started to doze off reading the above, I don’t blame you. I almost passed out writing it.

When I start reading a novel, I want to know the story. Its like spoiling a good piece of saucy gossip about the weird neighbors. You could squash the thrill in an instant by dwelling on the time of day, the fabric's textures on their furniture and what their barnyard animals were doing at the time. I don’t want a bloody listing of every boring detail in the background or the scenery. I don’t want a complicated and irrelevant history lesson on the house of the town’s mayor’s ex-boyfriend…(actually that might be fascinating) just because he happened to pass by it. Really, if someone is smart enough to write a book and get it published, they should have the insight to realize that WE (the readers) just want the damn story. If you want to describe the setting to death, put it in the script, when you make it into a low budget TV movie and save us all the misery.

I just want to know where the dude is going and I wish he would hurry the hell up getting there, because the strolling and the stupid insects are getting on my nerves. I am tempted to shout at the book and put it in the naughty corner until it gives me something scandalous to hang on to and motivate me to keep reading further.

I’ve started reading this story, which when summarized sounds very interesting, but having page after page of descriptions is making my hair frizz. I mean his wife had several clandestine affairs, and it surprises me that no one –COUGHauthorCOUGH- thought to follow her around and give us a detailed account of her illicit relationships. And honestly I don’t judge her for her infidelity. I mean the guy keeps strolling next to streams and trees, all silent and uninteresting. I’ve been reading about him for only a day and now I want to have an affair!

Why would I care that the fluffy bird in the tall Oak tree is pecking at the aged and crooked branch. WHY? Unless of course, the bird played a pivotal role in the plot.

For example, let’s say that the bird has OCD and had been compulsively pecking for hours, hard enough that the branch happened to break and fall with great timing onto the unfortunate head of the main character causing him instant amnesia and making him forget who he was. He would later meet a kind and beautiful nurse at the hospital and eventually make her his wife until one day when she tells him that she once survived a brutal attack and kidnapping gone wrong by what the police told her was a very dangerous serial killer who never lost a victim, and that they had been trying to track for years…which rings a bell..and the guy starts to remember…it was HIM. He was the serial killer…

If this was the bird’s role in the story, then by all means keep going with the inane descriptions of tweety’s soft feathers, curved orange beak and his elegant yet birdish posture. After all, he is my hero, for he has made this story a zillion times more exciting than the stupid stream has ever contributed. I mean, it just sits there and looks all watery. Puh.

Even I can do that.

So now I’m reading this novel out of spite. I will finish you damn it, just so I can casually say “Oh, I read that…”. Even if every painful page of overly descriptive prose tries to kill me, I will persevere and wake up from each mini coma, to find out where the guy is going, and if he’s actually got a personality hidden in there somewhere.

I miss Harry Potter.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

Damn Schmeft Crappo

I hate Grand Theft Auto IV with all my heart and all the boobs who gave it a five star rating on Amazon’s Customer Rating. Somewhere below that there should be another Review section for the neglected spouses, girlfriends, and life partners of the cheese brained addicts of this dumb game. In this section we would vent our frustrations and feelings and surely this would save many men from a lot of angry shouting.

I need my husband’s attention. I admit. I need reassurance now more than ever that I’m still the cool “girlfriend” he wants to hang out with, not the “mommy” who cooks and cleans and raises the babies.

Okay. I know I don’t cook. Nor do I clean. But that’s beside the point because in a way I’m the Executive Director of the cooking and cleaning.

The week after we became a family with a baby and all, my husband bought this innocent looking PlayStation game and came home. Had I known that there was going to be a serious decline in social interaction in our house, I would’ve grabbed that evil disc from his hand and repeatedly jumped on it stamping it into a million pieces like they do in the cartoons. But I was a little busy, peeking into a diaper, wondering what else is new.
I walked into “his” room the other day only to find someone in a semi-conscious wakeful coma, with a joystick above his head and eyes glued to a screen upon which there was shooting and chasing of some very innocent looking bystanders.

“What are you doing?”
“Huh?” He mumbled back.

Sometimes I repeat the same thing in Arabic, as if it was a language barrier that disabled him from answering…not the fact that his brain had melted and all he could see was pixels.

I left him alone to go watch my new favorite thing on TV “Noor”. (Don’t dis it, just watch it and you’ll be a fan.) And when I came back, do you know what was on the screen? Can you guess? Well, I’ll tell you! On that screen, taking his time, which I am more worthy of, were some very morally questionable looking women and a game of snooker in a very grimy looking bar. He was playing with his PlayStation friends, while a perfectly healthy-yet furious human being was living and breathing in the same house, yearning for adult human contact.

“NAYEF! Min thailain???” I think I stamped my foot as I said this.

“Huh? Shfeech 7abeebty?”

“Shfeeeeeeny? Shfeeeeeeeeeeeeny??? It’s been a month and this game still hasn’t finished? And why are you in a strip club??”

“I have to go meet someone and pick up a car..” He said this with his concentration still fully on the damn screen.
Accompanying him on his mission, was some bitch girl who is supposedly his girlfriend and they actually go out on dates and then he ditches her to meet Brucie or Shmucie or whatever his stupid name is. Then Brucie sends him to steal a car from a garage down the street.

Now you have to see this from the point of view of a woman still in the post-partum period. For those who don’t know what that means, it’s the 6 weeks after birth, where we’re still psycho from the hormones but have no legitimate excuse because we can’t say “ But I’m pregnant” anymore. We are now simply reduced to fat women with temper problems, so in a way I can’t really compete with his e-hooker, who is wearing a few sizes smaller than I can fit into right now, and also doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

When I realized that I was wearing a tent-size jalabiya with birds printed on it and was covered with a few ounces of baby vomit, I knew that I couldn’t have this conversation with him and get any proper attention, so I smiled on the outside and told him I’d see him later. At least my hair was brushed. And that’s an accomplishment these days. I deserve a medal for walking away and not actually thumping the PlayStation violently.

I took a break from writing this entry, and walked towards the sound of sirens and speeding cars down the hallway to the “sickroom” which I now call it. I peeked in just as he was switching it off and pretending to watch TV. He realized that his imbalanced wife, wasn’t very fond of his new game. We’ve had a history of dissent, when it comes to one-player video games. The last happy memories I’ve had was with Mario Kart on the GameCube, when everyone could play and group interaction was key to the fun of racing curious little creatures against one another.

Now the only curious little creature in the house is Ali. At least he gives me his full undivided attention, especially when I’m holding a freshly warmed bottle of milk. And then to reward me for his nutrition he'll usually share some of it with me by throwing it back up on my bird print jalabiya.
I will be patient and wait for the game to self-destruct from overuse.
Maybe if I use a hairdryer.…

Oh Shit! I’ve just been caught. He knows I’m writing about him and he’s threatening to start his own blog. Now he’s eating an apple and shouting at me! Now he’s yelling at me as I type what he’s doing..hahahahahah

Oh dear, he’s stormed off. Bye, I have to go make nice.