Girls and their Hair

I went to the salon the other day to get a long overdue color and haircut session. My hair had become sadly mop-like. Not the kind of mop leaning against your kitchen wall, but the kind that was tossed out with yesterday’s dinner, and had been chewed on diligently by cats. While my misshapen head was busy with the work-gym-home routine, I had forgotten about a woman’s need to maintain her hair, and the wonders that it does for the soul. It’s true. It really brings you back to life.

So I booked an appointment, but not with my usual hair dresser, because he was on vacation. I sneakily requested his competitor, who I had heard did a fabulous job. You may ask, why I don’t go to the better one anyway, and I’ll try to explain the strange loyal relationship a girl has with her hairdresser. Cheating on your hairdresser is only a tiny bit less serious than adultery. There’s this guilt of choosing the other guy at the salon, when he has stood by you and your thinning, oily scalp all these years, telling you your hair is absolutely gorgeous.

I could never face him sitting on the other side of the salon, looking in another man’s mirror.

The salon was busier than usual and the estrogen was everywhere, punctuated by a little testosterone here and there just to keep things interesting. The hormonal commotion, was coming from a bunch of scattered skinny girls, barely past the age of 16, who were all getting high on the fact that there was a man doting on them, running fingers through their hair, and telling them that he would do whatever they wanted to make them look fabulous.

I have to admit, even I like the pampering and the fact that for one hour, someone is dedicating their talents and time to make me look better than I was when I came in. However, I have never been reduced to a giggling teenage noodle by a man with scissors.

In the chair right next to me sat specimen A, from which an insane amount of giggling and flirting was spewing. I resist the urge to throw up into my coffee, while I look straight at the mirror trying not to make a face.

“No…no..give me that…” she squeals and reaches for her phone.

“Why, who’s picture is that? Hmm? Hmm?” the hair assistant says.

“Noooooobudddy…” she giggles coyly.

Can I kill them both? This is just the gay-looking hair-brushing boy and she’s all high pitched and out of control.

As I sip my coffee, with the pure intent of hiding the disapproving look on my face, my eyes peer at them from the corners, wondering how long this girl was locked in a cupboard before they sent her to get a haircut.

I was quite tempted several times, to turn around and suggest that the two of them get a room, especially since the hotel was just upstairs. But I didn’t. I kept my old-fashioned, dignified, opinions to myself.

Besides, it’s really challenging to be patronizing or judgmental when your hair is piled on top of your head, and you have an assortment of brash colored hair clips holding your hair into a fountain like arrangement. For some reason, whenever they do this to me at the hair dressers, I feel like suddenly everything on my face grows bigger and distorted like I’m looking into a fish bowl. My eyebrows start to look like two big black rainbows and my nose starts to take on the form of a root vegetable. That’s why I need my hair, to drown out the unbalanced features of my face, but for now, I must be patient and look like a post modern expressionist painting, before the unveiling of my hidden good looks.

At last my hair cut begins, and of course I have difficulty explaining what I want, because the truth is, I don’t really know what I want. Looking in the mirror for the past 20 minutes, I had shifted more towards wanting a nose job than just a meager hair cut, but I focus on the matter at hand and ask him to do something that suits me but keep it longish, as I like to pull it away from my face often.

Of course, he does nothing of what I ask, and as I see my hair being chopped up into all ungodly layers like a pine tree, I try really hard not to cry.

Meanwhile, freakshow on my right, is still making sexy eyes at the hair dresser and asking him if she can smoke. I swear she’s 12, but whatever, he lights her cigarette for her and they giggle and coo some more. What the hell do you have to smoke for in the MIDDLE of your bloody hair cut??? Are you telling me you are so addicted at this late stage in your life that if you don’t smoke now, you’re going to suffer a fit of shivers from nicotine withdrawal? Besides, she’s not even enjoying it, because he’s combed all her hair onto her face and half the time she can’t even find her mouth to inhale properly. Instead she just dangled and ashed the damn thing for 10 minutes, pretending to be Joan Collins or something. All she’s managed to do is infuse the smell into my wet freshly cut hair. Thank you, Cruella.

My hair was blow-dried to disguise all traces of the horrifying haircut I witnessed and looked magnificent. I beamed and thanked and tipped everyone who contributed to my makeover and went home pleased. Of course even if I had hated it, I would’ve done the same thing, and saved the crying for when I got to the car.

But as usual, we all know that at salons, the water is magical and the hair drying techniques are difficult to reenact at home. So the next day in the morning when I washed my hair and tried to restyle it into its former glory, I ended up looking like an over-the-hill Christmas tree, wondering if flirty flirtina’s haircut was better than mine.

Pony tail it is then, until my hairdresser comes back. Moral of the story? The hair on the other side of the bush always looks better than the mess on your head…or something like that.

Grill and Schmill

I hate Grill and Bloody Chill. I miss Dairy Queeeeeen!!!! Who's bright idea was it to change the damn menu? Okay I understand you needed to put lovely new slate tiles and cosy stone cladding on the walls to give us that nice ski lodge look, but did you have to change the chicken burger? Why? It was one of mine and many other people's favorite treats at DQ. The only chicken sandwich in all of Bahrain's fast food joints, which actually felt like all its parts belonged together. All the others were slippy, slidey and ill-fitting, like there was just something which wasn't quite right. Not the Chickee Chicken, the McChicken, nor the KFC chicken burgers had the lovely harmonious cohesion of the DQ chicken burger. It fit together as one, the crispy tender fillet was just the right size, nestled lovingly in the sesame bun, the lettuce dignified, chopped and not too overwhelming and there was none of this crappy let's include tomatoes for .0001 grams of lycopene. I'll skip the nutrients….that's why I'M AT DQ, FOR BLOODY HELL'S SAKE. Besides, did you know tomatoes are close cousins of tobacco? So thank you, since smoking is soooo late 90's, I'd like no cigarettes in my sandwich!

This tantrum was thrown last night at 12:30 am when I made my husband drive me to Dairy Queen Salmaniya for a long-awaited nostalgic meal after a week or so of having difficulty with food. Having lost the ability to keep food on the inside, I was beginning to rethink my feelings towards food, and decided that I should love it all unconditionally and never judge it. However that was before I realized that a demanding hungry woman hopped up on surging hormones will not compromise on the specifications of her all-time favorite sandwich. When we rolled up to the window I leaned all the way over my Husband's lap towards his window and gave the woman a big smile so that she would feel compelled to do as I asked.

"Hi, can I get the Crispy chicken sandwich with cheese…the way it was done befoooore?" I requested as sweetly as I could.

I was met with a puzzled look and slight annoyance.

"You know, when it was delicious? Befoooore Grill & Chill?" I continued, hopeful.

"Chopped letooooos?" She said, resigned to the fact that she couldn't play dumb anymore.

"Yes." I answered happily, recognizing that there was a stream of underground Grill & Chill haters who have probably been requesting the very same thing since the stupid change.

We added an ice cream treat for Nayef and one for me for being so polite, as she proceeded to yell the order into the microphone referring to the preparation of my burger as "old style". Yes thank you! Old bloody style! Was that so hard now? Just leave it on the menu and train all those new food preparers exactly how it was made, keep the memory alive damn it. Don't forget him…my "oldstyle" chicken burger with cheese. Oh I want to weep and so will you when I tell you what happened next.

As we drove home, and I blissfully embraced my food, sneaking fries here and there, I wasn't aware, that in that bag, in the darkness of the night's highways was none other than…THE BASTARD REPLACEMENT IMPOSTER FAKE WANNABE crispy stupid chicken WITH BIG LETTUCE! Oh but the screaming and cursing when I sat down on the sofa to open my treasure.

"THOSE BASTARD, MOTHER@#$$%$, SONS OF @#$%$^^% how could they????"

As my husband stood speechless by the door, wondering whether it was safer for him to run back outside into the late night and hitchhike as far away from me as he possibly could, I yelled and cursed and strangled the pathetic excuse for a sandwich feeling the betrayal and mockery of that woman who had promised me "chopped letooooooos, old-style!"

"They put a goddamn tomato!!! Why?? Tell me? Can we go back?"

"No, Farah, just throw the tomato out. Like hell we're going back." He bravely stood his ground, not knowing what the results would be.

"But it made a print…on the cheese, and look at this bed sheet sized lettuce!" I groaned going all noodly and floppy like kids do when they know they have no convincing case.

Of course, since we were all here, and no one was going to drive me back to wreak havoc on the chilling grill, I decided to bite into this idiot sandwich which bore no resemblance to it's beautiful predecessor. I thought, you know, it might be just fine, and perhaps I did over react…a tad.

Nope! It sucks. The chicken fillet tastes like a boot, it's hard and oddly shaped long-wise, sticking out of both sides of the new thicker, unnecessarily bouncier bread buns. The wings of lettuce made the sandwich look like it could fly away, if only they stayed put as you bit into it. But instead of being one with the sandwich they kept shooting out the sides, lubricated by the oddly spread mayonnaise. The cheese looked sad hugging the fillet, as if it had been killed on it, rather than melted with the warmth of 15 candles. And last but not least, I glared with contempt at the stupid slice of tomato which served no purpose, but to soggy up the bread and increase the velocity of the lettuce on its way out. Chopped letoooos my ass.

As I tossed the dissected mess into the box, I decided that the battle was over. The people behind the scenes that night at Grill & Smell had no idea what "old style" was. I will never again revive my old pal the DQ chicken sandwich with cheese. I'm going to have to find a way to recreate it at home, for those once in a while nostalgic feelings of being in high school again.

Oh well, nothing lasts forever.

Aging is good

I’m not suffering from writer’s block, nor am I lacking in entertaining writing material, but somehow I haven’t written anything non-work related since July 2^nd. I am very disappointed with myself. But I have to say, that it’s been a tumultuous, revelation-filled, mind-turning, epiphany-infested sort of year for me. I have spiraled upwards into a higher level of life experiences and as they all say… you find yourself at 30.

Well, I haven’t quite turned 30 yet, but I will in a few weeks.
I don’t feel 30 nor do I think I look 30, but I do feel a substantial inkling that I finally know exactly who I am. Which is what’s supposed to happen. You suddenly just “know” things.

I know what I’m supposed to say, when I’m supposed to say it, how I’m supposed to say it and when to keep my mouth tightly shut. (Although sometimes against my own better judgement, I keep blabbering on…like now for instance.)

But throughout the intensive thinking and pondering, which was keeping me busy from my blogging, here is what I have found out about myself and probably a million other women on the cusp of their third decade.

Three important things:

I no longer let petty office work enslave me nor fret over menial tasks. It is not the most important thing on earth. If you make mistakes, that’s great; they’re effective crash courses minus the boring lectures. Make informed decisions, stand by what you know, and do the best you can in the allocated time. That’s it. Then go home and have a fulfilling life.

I don’t have to be polite all the time, because ultimately, that will lead me to be an internally rude person with lots of road rage. Rather than just smile and swear on the inside, I am going to simply say “no” to unreasonable requests, imposing demands, and time-wasting activities.

I’m no longer afraid of looking stupid. In fact, I don’t really care anymore what people think. I have recognized that I am wonderful and my faults are just like anyone else’s. Self-esteem sky rockets after this revelation. It’s the best part.

And since at 30 you require more sleep than a 20 year old, (or look like a panda if you don’t get enough) I will now go pass out so that I can go to work tomorrow and continue my silent protest towards corporate slavery…Bon Nuit.

Top ten signs you're a workaholic

Ten: You don’t understand what people are saying on the phone, because you’re zoned into a screen where you have 10 windows open that you have to either, revise, proof read, or reformat into a 16 column table and email to someone in the next 3 minutes.

Nine: Lunch time gets exciting when you order a pathetic sandwich and get to eat it on the center meeting table.

Eight : You tell your husband/wife, you’ll be home in 10 minutes, for lunch but hours later, you’re still knee-deep in work and you’re no where near packing up…to go have dinner.

Seven: The guy who empties the trash cans at the end of each day, has to wheel you and your chair aside to get to it, because after seven ‘excuse me’s’ you still had no idea how he snuck up on you. He then asks you to lock up on your way out.

Six: You email your colleagues little to-do notes, reminders and annoying task-like assignments, at midnight, instead of going to sleep and telling them tomorrow--in person.

Five: You feel guilty when you’re sick, on vacation, or dying.

Four: You dream that you’re being chased by members of senior management holding papers in their hands, and questioning your loyalty to your job. You hide in a milk box.

Three: Your boss shoo’s you out of the office on his/her way out.

Two: When you go home you talk about work, your colleagues, how you have so much to do tomorrow while your spouse silently slips into a coma. You don’t notice.

And the number One reason is…

One: You don’t have time to blog, but when you do, you’re so tired that all you can come up with is this lame top-ten crap. You find the typing keyboard sounds soothing.

You too can be a Desperate Housewife

My domestication was like a big slap in the face, I wasn’t prepared and it became the most overwhelming month of my life. Our house had been pretty much functional as an evening hang out, prior to moving in. But now that we actually lived here and had to adhere to marriage protocol, i.e. providing lunch and processing laundry, we found that we were missing thousands of items.

In order to grill our first chicken, I had to go to the supermarket four times. I now know, that only red onions are used for cooking. Well, someone should’ve bloody written that on the list. I’m not psychic. Also, I’ve become an expert technician in the inner workings of Gas-Electric combination ovens.

Needless to say, lunch consisted of sandwiches, eaten on the kitchen floor with 8 different instruction manuals spread around and a lot of peering into the oven. After much consulting with one another, as well as with the naked chicken, obediently sitting in it’s brand new oven dish, Henrietta was finally grilled by dinner time.

Doing laundry was also a big adventure. The last time I did laundry, was in Boston, in the basement of my building. I was 18-21 and excited about putting quarters into the big machine as it spun my clothes towards mountain freshness. I had moral support from Esmat, and we ate Doritos as the clothes dried and then played “Roman Times” with the bed sheets. This was usually done at midnight while normal people slept. After three years of waltzing around with underwear on our heads in the laundry room, we discovered the security camera.

In my new house, after a few weeks back, I received my new washer and dryer, an exciting house warming gift from my uncle. Finally, I can wash my own clothes and not drag a huge hamper sack home every Friday lunch.

Doing the first load of laundry took 5 hours. I spent 2 hours alone in the supermarket staring at all the different things I could put into my washing machine, and all the magical smells and cool effects that they would produce. After sniffing everything, I called Mama’s hotline, and discovered that Comfort was only a softener and not a detergent. After being mocked and laughed at, I bought all the right ingredients and went home.

The test drive involved towels and inexpensive items such as old socks and worn out tank tops. This process also involved a lot of sticking my head behind the machines to make sure everything was connected and that no water was going to gush out onto my kitchen floor and ruin everything.

According to the salesman, this washer has a sixth sense. Wonderful! This machine was actually designed and built to protect itself from the freshman housewife. It will pre-wash when it feels necessary and rinse and spin as it pleases.

“I have nothing to do with it, if your shirt is now 3 sizes smaller. Whirlpool did it.”

Choosing the linens was a very stressful time in my life. It was like doing the SATs. I would touch one fabric, then put it back in the plastic and open another pillowcase and inspect the stitching. Would it be weird if I put my cheek on it and closed my eyes? Can I open it up and snuggle with it for a while? Aren’t I entitled to a mini-simulation? You know, we are going to be sleeping together.

And as for pillows, I came from a bed that was a little smaller than a full size. However, it was populated with 8soft feather pillows. I HATE foam pillows. I want to kill them. They are offensive and insolent bastards and a punishment to your neck. No I don’t think I’m a princess. But my pillows have to be the way I like them, or I just sit up all night stewing in anger. You can imagine my horror when my lovely groom introduced me to his stiff foamy pillows, which he says he loves as opposed to the annoying feathery ones. Well fine then, I thought, we shouldn’t have a problem. If he doesn’t like my pillows, he won’t want to use them. Oh, how I was wrong…

Now that we are sharing a bed, jealousy has started to rear its ugly head. Although I only have four now, and he also has four, including his foamies from home, someone is starting to question the system.

“How come you have all the nice pillows and I only have these ugly ones? And why are you setting up your pillows around the edge of the bed, are you building a fortress?”

“They’re my pillows. And it’s a low bed, I don’t want any ants wandering into my ears.”

Well, it’s true, I can’t sleep with all this open space around my head. The other day I found a squashed ant, near my head. What was it doing??? Who squashed it??!!

Several times, Nayef was caught red handed trying to steal my color-coded pillows. I had a strict system of pillow case identification. You don’t want to know about the big identifying party that happened after laundry day when all the pillow cases were switched around. I sat there for 20 minutes cursing as I unstuffed and restuffed into the correct pillow cases. I did not rest until all my beloved pillows were back in their clothes.

“They’re MINE!”

Nayef loves Bree on Desperate Housewives, but he doesn’t realize that I have some of her crazy and none of her domesticity…

No pillows or husbands were hurt in the writing of this post

How to lose a bed in ten days

When one has a large dependence on an everyday object, it is very difficult to have to deal with the sudden malfunction of this thing. Many of you might be familiar with the feeling of having your car break down for the first time, after years of safely delivering you to and from your destinations. You feel betrayed. “Hey, I thought we were friends…” you may mumble at your engine, through the smoke as passing vehicles smugly looked over at your misery, glad that it wasn’t them.

Well, there are degrees of importance in the roles of our daily inanimate partners. For example, your AC, your shower, your hairdryer, your car, your telephone, your microwave…and last but not least your bed, they all have different percentages of love, dependence, whatever. I mean, you can pie-chart it and the biggest chunk always goes to Mr. Bed.

Extremely important, in allowing you to enjoy all the other activities in life, sleep is a precious, precious thing. When a virus invades your motherboard and your computer becomes a paper weight, you can cry, shout, scream and have a glorious breakdown, but when you are chock full of valium and eventually escorted by a sympathetic relative away from the rubble of technology, it will be to your bed.

However, when it is the bed who has “et-tu-brute’d” you, where the hell do you go? I mean, let’s face it, you can’t have a breakdown on your microwave. So my friend, you are now, without peace.

As you are gathering, my bed-disaster in 2004 was very traumatic because I have a rather special relationship with sleep. I had 8 categorized pillows. The Royal Four, which were feather goose down, had been with me since 1995 when I was in Boston studying, and I was in love with them. They were supposed to come with me when I got married. The Secondary Two were “pity” pillows, to fill up the space left over and block sinister looking gaps between the headboards. The Final Duo I somehow acquired in Bahrain, in my days of pirating and pillaging my sisters’ rooms. I think I was trying to create a crowded feeling in the bed.

Ah yes, single hood… good times.

Next came the bed which was a funky hand carved redwood and something-else-wood piece of art done by a “self-proclaimed insane” Egyptian artist, which I managed to acquire by whining and whimpering for 3 working days at my father’s feet about my plight as a single struggling artist readjusting to the customs of Bahrain with nowhere fashionable to sleep. Eventually I wore him down, so he grumbled all the way to the exhibition, bought it and left.

I was ecstatic. It was soooo me. Something my bed has today, ceased to be. It was only last year that I started to get bed troubles. One night, at around 2:30am, I decided that nothing exciting was happening on my left side so I turned onto my right side and faced the wall; a routine exercise. Just as I was settling into my new cosy spot, I suddenly..Booov! Houston, we have a problem. My middle has collapsed.

Too tired and sleepy to get up and investigate, I just pretended that nothing happened and continued to fake-sleep until I got over the adrenaline rush and actually dozed off. The next morning I had post-rodeo levels of lower back pain. It was expected since I had camped on hilly terrains. So I hobbled off to work, and dealt with the crash bed later that day.

It soon became routine. Turn over one too many times and the bed will tell you to shove off. It turns out that my traditionally designed bed had boards that decided to shrink and topple over under my mattress. I eventually had to bring a carpenter home to bang it back into shape. It doesn’t collapse anymore, but sometimes I feel it’s just waiting for the right moment to piss me off again.

Several months later, I had another domestic disturbance whilst nesting late at night.

It happened while I was enjoying a particularly funny book in bed. The type with knee-slapping, loud laughter, causing siblings to look around the wall and check if you’re still sane, kind of book.

I was tired, and sleepy and about to drop the book and retire as I noted something moving to my left. Dismissing my initial instinct, I told myself, “Oh its nothing”.

But when the “nothing” moved again, I sprang on all fours, into full alert mode smashing the living daylights out of it with my novel. Needless to say, the not “nothing” was unaffected. The dark brown tick like creature eventually fell between my bed and the side table. But as always, the bastard had family.

And that was the end of my relaxing night of deep slumber. The next five hours consisted of a full scale war in my room and dismantling my bed, followed by sitting on the couch like a zombie, wondering where I had gone wrong with personal hygiene and why I had the same pest problems as the common mongrel.

For the next week, I felt like a refugee. I called work that morning and calmly explained to my boss, while still delirious from being awake 24 hours that I can’t come to work today, because I was busy all night overcoming insect trauma.

That was too creative to be untrue, so I got the day off. I put this free day to use supervising the intensive disinfecting and boiling of my bedding. My bed was taken apart, washed, vacuumed and suspiciously looked at. Pest control companies were summoned to, at once, assess the situation and assure me that there is a chemical compound strong enough to rid the world of the rude invaders, without killing me in the process. During the previous night’s war, a sampling of prisoners were captured, which I handed over in their little glass jar. I needed evidence to justify the freaked out state I was in.

I was soon assured that the “bed bugs” were there through no fault of my own and can in fact be exterminated swiftly, however I will have to find shelter else where for the next two days.

The day after the spraying, I was to sleep for the first time in my pesticide stinking bed since the invasion. I lay in bed with my eyes wide open and my bedside lamp on. The light was supposed to trick them into thinking that it’s day time, and I’m not there. After obsessively frantic research, I knew enough about them to write their biography. The sneaky freaks only come out at night when they sense human body heat and they can survive for years without food.

THEN. WHY. WERE. THEY. HERE??? The streets would’ve had the same options. Some food, or not so much food. Why am I a buffet???

Some blamed the exotic wood from Egypt, some said mattresses stored in old warehouses often come with unwelcome guests, but we never really knew where they came from.

I wasn’t quite ready to put the past behind me and it was a long time before I was able to sleep happily again, in the dark. I moved out quickly after that, before they could return. Little did I know that I was to be introduced to the exciting creatures of Jasra, where it's a bit more wild.

Last week our house maid, Emily claimed that a crocodile broke into her room. The only other witness at the time was Whisker and she didn’t look too alarmed. I pointed out that there were no nearby marshes or swamps, but only after half the workers in the compound, turned her room upside down, was she reluctantly able to go inside again.

Those naughty mannequins...again!

I’ve pasted below an article from today’s GDN…I have commented (in italics) on each thing that was caught by my short unimpressed attention span.

THE MUHARRAQ Municipal Council has initiated a crackdown on what it claims are sexually explicit posters and provocatively dressed mannequins.

(those slutty mannequins, when are they going to learn that, that is not the best way to catch a decent man. I mean isn’t it enough that they’re cold and unflexible?? Now to tarnish their questionable reputations, they’re featured in the press as part of a moral crackdown. They’re never gonna meet “wild il halal” now…)

Chairman Mohammed Jassim Saleh Hamada said the council had received many complaints from residents, especially women, who believe that these fly in the face of their traditional values.

(Who’s flying what in whose face? Sample complaint: “That bitch, just stood there all headless and hot and stole my husband from me. After 2o years together, last night he told me I was too bendy for his taste and ordered me to stand still by the window! Home wrecker!!!”)

While the council's rules against sexually explicit displays have been in place for a long time, Mr Hamada said implementation has been lax.

(Using the word lax, reminds me of laxative. A laxative is often used to relax the bowel movements of constipated individuals, and then they are able to go to the bathroom regularly. Hmm..how relevant that it can also refer to the lax jaw muscles of the above individual, who is spewing out continuous crap, and stinking up the entire world of logic…)

The council has already ordered municipal authorities to make daily inspections to identify violators.

'The mannequins are wearing see-through clothing that show their breasts," he said.

(I say you put them in jail and end this ridiculous breasty stand off. I mean, their breasts show! How can the men of Muharraq ignore an un-nippled mound of fibre glass and not stray from the path??? It is unIslamic! Help us God, how our morality has been trodden by the western ways of window displays and (marketing) and now we must consummate marriages with plastic girls to make it right...)

"And the posters that are on display at video stores are very offensive.

(To who??? Get out of the damn store! You don’t deserve to rent a movie. And who the hell uses videos anymore, for God’s sake move on to DVD’s you Neanderthal goon.)

"There are pictures depicting men embracing women, kissing them, with their breasts uncovered. Others show singers wearing skimpy clothing. It seems that baring breasts has become a normal thing in our society these days," continued Mr Hamada.

(It seems..yes yes. God forbid, men should embrace or kiss women, it is more natural that they should whip them and lock them up in rusty cages. Let’s look to Ramadhan as the perfect time to portray such beautiful Man-Woman relationships in the crap that the GCC airs on TV. Ban that, oh Mighty Chair-man.)

He warned that licences of any violators would be revoked.

(Whatever..ihaddid ba3ad..)

He also welcomed a parliamentary proposal to outlaw men working at women's lingerie shops.

(An ‘outlaw’ is usually someone depicted in an old western movie who is galloping away on a black horse with a bag of money in his hands, but in New Bahrain, it will be a sorry fool who accepted a job selling underwear in a dinky shop in Muharraq. Welcome to progress. If I may add, I feel uncomfortable buying my monthly feminine products from supermarkets, can we ban them from there as well?? It hurts my dignity…Also, I think you shouldn’t put skinny people behind the counters at fast food restaurants, they’re so judgemental…Ban them too…Oh yeah and poor people as bank tellers, they would feel jealous of other peoples money! Let’s make sure only high net worth individuals work in banks.)

As Jerry Springer loves to leave his less than sophisticated audience with a final thought of the day..(I’m watching it) I shall leave the above lost monkeys with my final words of wisdom. “Leave the mannequins alone, get a hobby like cooking, knitting or needlepoint and stop talking to the press. You have nothing worth hearing to say.

Take care of yourselves and each other…Good night…you sick bastards.”

Home Alone

Is there such a thing as newly-wed syndrome? I am so attached to my husband, I find it hard to ignore him, leave him alone or enjoy a night out with the girls. Sometimes, I feel like that over eager puppy from Tom and Jerry. “Can we play, huh? Can we? Can we go outside, huh? Please, please, can we, can we?”

“Farah! Sit. Good girl.” He pats me on the head and runs away to his Cigar smoking room. (I have to add that to the non-smoking zones in the house, since the issuing of my health revolution edict of February 2007)

Usually, once left alone, I am eventually forced to go find something interesting to do, like jog, paint, blog about him or pester my sister. It’s actually quite healthy for us to spend time apart, I’m told… Whatever.

I mean, I can handle a few hours of alone time, but 2 DAYS! That’s got to be challenging, for anyone. A few weeks ago, I got so overwhelmed by my spare time, I didn’t know what to do with myself. This is not to say that I had nothing to do, I had lots of things to entertain me. I was excited about everything, like a confused grasshopper with absolutely no focus. The reason, for all this spare time? Nayef was in Riyadh for the weekend, and I had nothing to stare at…

I realized just how much my pathetic list of activities revolved around my husband. Not to say that it was a bad thing. I loved hanging out together and planning every dinner, every movie, and sharing with him, every single random thought that popped into my head, even the ones he’d rather not hear. But he gets me, and it’s lovely to talk to someone, who’s almost always with you on the same wave length.

The weekend he was away, the deathly still silence woke me up at least three times in the middle of the night. It was so damn quiet, not a touch of wind or rain, no AC or heater working and Whisker (the husband substitute) was as quiet as a mouse. The 2^nd time I woke up at 3:30 am I felt for Whisker for a comforting hug in the dark, and found she wasn’t in bed. Immediately I jumped up and turned on the table lamp, yelling her name…there she was. Sitting like the sphinx, Whisker sat across my row of shoes, nose dedicatedly embedded into my bronze heels. This dog has a shoe fetish, and even at 3:30 am she shamelessly got out of bed in the pitch black night to go dabble in some shoe-tasting.

I stuffed my face back into my pillow, annoyed at being awake at such a scary time of night, missing his gentle snoring that I had cursed/recorded and threatened him with, so often before.

It really sucked, but I suppressed my separation-anxiety and tried to have some dignity, rather than call Nayef every 25 minutes to ask stupid questions like “Having fun?” referring to his excruciating time in Riyadh. Instead, I kept myself busy by reading and watching Oprah’s 20^th Anniversary DVD which miraculously showed up in the mail, the day he was leaving. Watching all the emotional and sad episodes on Oprah without a boy around can actually be fun, you can cry, sob and wipe your tearful eyes dramatically, without someone peering into your puffy face and asking you, “Are you serious??!! You’re crying?” It’s very cathartic and tension releasing, without the mockery, of course.

Another thing that releases tension and passes the time is singing! But I can’t sing Karaoke when Nayef is around because he makes faces and never joins in. That’s why, although I love doing that, I will only sing when I am absolutely alone. I don’t even do it when Emily is around for fear that she might want to participate, she apparently won BD 5 in a magic sing-a-long competition and enjoys karaoke. My secret stash of microphones and 25 Karaoke DVDs that I’ve gathered over the past five years would only come out after she went to her room in the evening. So that weekend, I sang and sang, with Whisker as my only audience, (I made her solemnly swear that she would never speak of it). By the time I had gone through 27 songs, I had a soar throat and felt a little light headed, so I had to stop.

By the end of the two days I had kept up my self-restraint so well, that when Nayef came back, he almost thought I didn’t miss him. I just smiled and said, “Oh, you know, I was busy with my mom, and went out with friends I hadn’t seen in ages.” I’m such a liar, I didn’t even feel like going out. But he didn’t know that I was a loser who stayed at home, lit candles and bonded with Whisker, Oprah and my vocal cords. Next time I’ll have to do something more exciting…but in the mean time, I’m going to enjoy the syndrome.

The Aftermath

The loveliest thing in the world is to sit on your sofa, after a terrible, long, stressful week, wearing your favorite soft cotton pajamas with the sweetest dog in the world stretched out on your lap resting her cute little fluffy, whiskery chin on your knee. (that is assuming the sight of a dog, doesn’t send you screaming and leaping onto the nearest coffee table.)

Such is my heaven, but as no heaven is perfect, I have to disclose that Whisker just leapt off of my lap, and went to curl up doughnut-style next to Nayef. I’m so jealous but I have to hide it and pretend to actually be mature. So I’m just sitting here calmly typing away, as if it’s not eating at me as I will her with my eyes to “come back to Momma’s lap now...”

To commemorate the end of my nightmarish week of working like a slave monkey on speed, we decided to celebrate with a mock slumber party. I decided that we would sleep in the TV room, like when we were kids, each on his/her respective sofa eating different flavors of Doritos and watching marathons of favorite movies all night long. But while we both jumped with glee at the genius idea, we apparently had very different ideas of “favorite movies”.

“Let’s watch something, funny and romantic and cute.” I suggested naively, thinking of When Harry met Sally.

“Oh, I wanted to watch something with a little bit more killing, beating up and fighting.” He said hopping around, illustrating his fantasy fight scene, “Godfather?”

Oh good God, how many times am I going to subject myself to a movie that I loved the first time, but had to watch 6 or 7 times, as my husband secretly wished he was in the Mafia and then laughed at me when I cried at the sad scenes. Zero sensitivity. Zero.

Too tired to argue, or get up off the sofa to find a better choice, we are now watching something called “Payback” starring the devilishly handsome yet increasingly violent Mel Gibson. I am trying really hard not to throw up, during the gruesome scenes and finding it hard not to eat my hand, while someone pulls someone’s piercing out of his nose…

Damn it, I’m going to wait this movie through with the help of God, and then we’re watching something light and airy like CareBears: The movie, or else this whole slumber party is going to get cancelled and I’m sending everyone (nayef) home!

Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy the lime flavored Doritos, which are oddly refreshing like a tiny glass of lemonade compressed into each corn chip, especially when sipping club soda in between crunches.

I love Formula One…the day after it ends.

Egg-splosion

I had an egg explode in my face last weekend. It redefined the whole concept of an exciting breakfast. And after we (Whisker, parts of the furniture and Nayef’s foot) were covered in specks of egg, I was offered another egg in its place.

“No, Thank you, I’ve had enough egg today…” I said as I picked out fragments of shell out of my hair.

I guess this entry is going to include the word “egg” a lot.

Nayef wanted a soft boiled egg and I wanted a hard boiled egg, after several failed attempts at getting this challenging culinary accomplishment, Emily served us with two gooey and soft uncooked eggs.

When notified of this oversight, she went back to the kitchen with the suspect and tried to fix it with her secret cooking methods and we were none the wiser.

It must’ve been that I wasn’t fully awake yet, because I didn’t realize that my egg looked scary. It was a normal egg, but there was a big bubble of its insides coming out of the top. I thought that boiling an already partly peeled egg, had that effect on it.

“Ooh, look! Frankenstein egg.” I said as I giggled to myself.

The next thing that happened after I touched it was a very loud BANG!!!!!! Egg fragments everywhere!

Nayef jumped off the sofa, and I shrieked from the noise and the hot burn on my finger and Emily rushed into the room to find out what had exploded. Whisker not the least bit shell-shocked began to eat the bits that covered her face.

“Ay! What haaa-pen?” she asked the obvious question.

“Emily, the breakfast exploded…” I answered showing her the perimeter of the blast.

Her look of shock and regret, assured me that the lesson had been learned.

Never. Ever. Microwave an EGG…even if it seems like a good idea at the time.

Of course, I spent the rest of my day holding my victim finger at Nayef and making a sad face, when Emily wasn’t looking. I’m such a baby when it comes to pain. You have to hear about it like 10,000 times, and I still don’t really know what reaction in particular I’m looking for. Is it a dramatic embrace coupled with wailing at my great misfortune? Is it a loving pat on the head and a hope for a speedy recovery from my tragic WOUND? I don’t know, but I waved my finger at Nayef, my mom, my dad, my sister (who didn’t give me the time of day) and others I saw along the way, all weekend.

I quickly got over it and went back to eating my usual breakfast, but since then I feel a little bit safer with the egg scrambled, fried, or omletted. Remember the lesson and when in doubt, stick to conventional cooking methods.

Apology

I would like to apologize for being a terrible blogger, and not updating my site in the past 20 days...I promise I will write soon...promise... :)

My first ever art show...

I finally took photographs of some of my art. I haven't had a show yet, but people who come into my home always encourage me to do more. I don't think I'm ready, but I'd love to hear your feedback. What's your favorite?

Invasion after midnight

When you march off to bed, so tired, flipping off light switches and locking doors, the last thing you want to see, when you walk into your room, is a cockroach doing a runway walk on your blanket.

“Naaaaaaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeeffffffffff!!!!” I screamed, tonsils ringing like alarm bells. “Z’haaaaaaaaayweeeeeeeeeeeee !!! ” (cockroach in arabic)

I could hear him cursing from the hallway as he walked towards our bedroom, not enthusiastic about my find, nor my manner in expressing my horror.

“Okay. Okay, calm down.” He muttered as he walked to the kitchen to get paper towels. I remained plastered to the wall, like a petrified shadow, staring hatefully at the intruder. The bastard cockroach had frozen on the edge of the bed, pretending not to be there.

“Where did he come from, Nayef? Where? We are not cockroach people!” I was hysterical, walking backwards as Nayef captured the evil creature.

I mean, we clean our house, we’ve had pest control, and we’re basically good people. Why is it on my bed??? Why? I suddenly feel dirty and ashamed…and a little bit homeless.

I looked accusingly at the open bathroom door, and shut it firmly, after checking under the sink for a cockroach party. No relatives in sight.

Whisker rudely awakened from my screaming, and Nayef storming out of the house with a big crumpled ball of newspaper, looked at me for an explanation. I tried to enlighten her, but she wasn’t so interested. As long as the screaming wasn’t about her, she didn’t care and comfortably nestled her head into her butt, making like a doughnut in her insect-free bed.

“Where did you put it?” I greeted Nayef at the door.
“In the garbage.”
“With its friends?? To make more babies???” I shrieked.
“No, no, no. I crushed it. It’s dead. No babies.” He patted my head.
“Goood!”

Following the killing festival, our sleepiness evaporated, and we resentfully walked back to the TV room to watch more 24.

Of course, as one does in times of horror, I Googled my latest nightmare. I had to know more about this invasive species, and below is my disturbing find:

“Cockroaches live up to a year. The female may produce up to eight egg cases in a lifetime; in favorable conditions, it can produce 300-400 offspring. Other species of cockroach, however, can produce an extremely high number of eggs in a lifetime. Laying up to 100 eggs in each egg sac, it only needs to be impregnated once to be able to lay eggs for the rest of its life, allowing one single cockroach to lay over a million eggs during its lifespan.”—Source: Wikipedia.

No wonder, the fu*&ers are always wondering around alone. They’re already pregnant! No biological clock ticking, no need to date and no worries about missing out on motherhood. Just a one-night stand on a crazy lonely night of passion, and the bitch is set up for life. Children here, children there, spreading disgusting nuclear war-proof eggs everywhere.

It was 1:30am when we stumbled upon ‘sleeping beauty’ on our bed. I couldn’t help but think that if it wasn’t a holiday, at that time, it would be dark in our room, and we’d be sleeping, stupidly unaware of the monster invasion.

So what do we do now? We are both exhausted, refugeed on the sofa, watching hour 4am on 24, bed-less and pyjama-less.

Oooh…I can’t go back to bed consciously. Damn it, I need a tranquilizer.

"It's Bahrain's finest...It's Bahrain's fair..."

The Autumn fair, is neither held in Autumn nor can it in any way be described as fair, in terms of beauty.

Nonetheless, my best friend and I go every time it is in town. In the fear that we might miss something, we subject ourselves to cruel and unusual traffic, mentally challenged drivers and the worst parking scenarios you can ever imagine. Off we went last Saturday morning, on the very last day of this large gathering of sellers from all over the world and shoppers from all over Bahrain.

After getting stuck for 45 long minutes behind a large 16 wheeler that had stupidly lost its way into the swarming area, we gave the police men some tips and pointers on traffic control, parked the car in a dangerously questionable spot, and walked in.

It was so crowded and very pushy and shovey. I was tempted to poke the cattle of people in front of me with a knitting needle, to hurry them the hell up. Kids running around with sticky lollipops where bumping into peoples posteriors and then politely pulling the clammy candy of the offended butts. Old ladies inspected every single thing they passed frequently stopping without warning, in danger of being crushed by those behind them. What fun!

“I guess this is what Hajj must be like” I say to my friend, as we clung to each other.
“Yeah, but without the credit…” She whispers back.
“Ok now where the hell is the Egyptian Cotton?” I wonder looking around, “They say its amazing and gets softer and softer with every wash.”

We set off on an expedition within the huge exhibition center to find the legendary bed sheets. It is so surprising how most booths, will not help you find another seller, even when their products have nothing to do with what you’re looking for. They’re not even bloody competition.

I asked the shoe guy, the man who sold miracle honey, and a bored woman who sat at an empty stall, trying to sell funny looking underwear with bad spelling. None of them would 'fess up.

“No, don’t know! Don’t know!” The spice seller shook his head so profusely, I suspected he was lying.

“He knows and he’s not telling.” I say annoyed.

“Let’s buy some cinnamon and see if he confesses.” She suggests.

At this point, we have a bag of spices we will never need, especially since I am no culinary artist, and no information to get us closer to the bed sheets than when we walked in.

We set off to the opposite side of the bustling indoor marketplace and since I’m “the older one”, I continued to look for Egyptian looking people to ask. I figured that perhaps countrymen would help one another.

About two minutes before we were ready to give up, we both found the answer simultaneously as we each asked our last suspect.

“I found it.” I happily announced.
“Me too.” She said excited.

We were satisfied with getting the left over sheets after everyone in Bahrain got what they wanted, and moved back to shop for fun things.

At the counter of Arabic perfumes, Oud and other concoctions of Jasmine and bukhour, we were attended to by a man who knew little about “nice flowery smells”. As we struggled to explain to him that we didn’t want to smell like an ‘old aunty’, I was attacked by a manic salesman who sprayed my arm with ‘Eau de Grandma’, informing me it was his fast-selling special blend, and that was the last bottle.

“Hey!” I yelled, in my head, keeping my aggressive side hidden.

I can’t believe he sprayed me. I hate when people do that. I am so picky with smells, it can ruin my day if I’m wearing the wrong perfume. Once in high school, some guy thought it would be funny to spray me with Minotaur (a stinky men’s perfume), and to this day if I smell it, I feel nauseous.

I quickly paid for the bottled scented water for linens which I settled for, and backed away from the counter, to avoid further attacks.

As we walked out of the Autumn fair, carrying bags of spices, bed sheets and perfumed water, I felt that perhaps ‘Eau de Grandma’ wasn’t that far off from my new found persona. I can picture our retirement years…

Oh and by the way, the bed sheets are to die for. Doing it again next year...

Decorating houses with spouses

The title sounds all nice and rhymey, but don’t let that fool you. It’s a potential battle field. When you embark on playing house with your significant other, you have to be extremely careful not to scream out phrases similar to those listed below:

“Are you f*&%ing kidding me??? That ugly-ass couch??? Over my dead body!”

or…

“What do you mean you think peach and blue look lovely together????!!! OhmyGod.. ohmyGod, I think I’m going to die”

Especially heed my warning, when you are in a public place and you two were holding hands a mere few seconds ago. Your hysterical yelling and the shocked look on his face may draw unwanted attention from innocent shoppers.

In the beginning, there was IKEA. (Chorus of angels singing) That was our first shopping trip together. We had gone on a fun road trip to Kuwait, driving a huge Ford pick up truck, ready to be filled with goodies. Our real conflicts didn’t surface because almost everything Ikea makes is so bloody amazing, so we were under the false impression that we both loved the same things. In the midst of Swedish genius, we were such a compromising, loving couple with wonderful taste, who chose everything together.

A few hours later, we had bought about a million things, including a mini rocking chair that sat next to me the whole 5 hour ride back. To leave Kuwait on time, before sundown, I had to be dragged out of the store pulled by my long beaded necklace like a runaway goat, as I pleaded and begged that I just needed 5 more minutes. We all knew I was lying.

I out-shopped everyone, and by the time I was securely fastened into my seat, everyone was cranky and tired, except me. I was high on Ikea. My sister and I were in the back seat of the car with the last minute item wedged between us, and the closer we got to Bahrain, the closer the rocking chair got to my kidney. “You bought it! Now live with it.” I was told.

After that pleasant shopping trip, we’ve since experienced some awkward moments in furniture stores, usually, in the presence of a salesman, who wanted the earth to swallow him.

“That is disgusting. It is offensive and it looks like Louis the XVI threw up on it!”

“Why are you so angry with it?”

“Why are you offended, you didn’t design it, did you?”

“It’s not that ugly…”

(Gasp. Hand on heart in feigned shock.)

“Fine Farah, it’s repulsive, let’s move on.”

Several mini tantrums later, through divine intervention, we are unified again upon discovering a low Japanese bed that we both absolutely cannot live without. In order to keep the peace, we buy it immediately. Love conquers all once again, and we frolic back home in merriment, with our new find.

Several months later…

About two hours and several minutes before the New Year, I found my husband in a room turned upside down with furniture moved around and papers, books and all kinds of things in piles and heaps. At first I thought, he was recreating the Tsunami aftermath. Heaving and panting, lifting a huge TV set and then pushing a big sofa, he explained that he just wanted to check something. As a lazy (or as I like to say energy-efficient) person, I don’t understand moving heavy furniture around, just to explore other possibilities. Imagination is effortless and nothing breaks.

“Umm..honey? Before you go all insane, and start moving things around contrary to logic, why don’t you ask my opinion?” I plead, already feeling helpless.

“Why? Why do I have to check with you? This is my room!” He barked.

Here we go again with the “my room” madness. When I hastily agreed to this ridiculous assignment of rooms, I thought he meant “his” as in space to exist in, not to DECORATE! I can’t have an ugly room in a pretty house. My Virgo-ness won’t allow it. Everything has to be perfect or I will die. (I’m very theatrical in my head) On the outside, I smiled and nodded and urged him to get dressed, because we were invited to more than one party and were intending to do the New Year party hopping thing. We ended up leaving the house at 11pm and barely making it to Manama before 2007.

Another wonderful experience you will encounter when you get married or co-decorate is the thrill of explaining to your loved one that closet space is not a measurement of his masculine power in the house. While we enjoyed ruler-measured equality in our bedroom closet, I only survived a few weeks on that meager space and finally gave in and bought my self my own spacious closet to put the rest of my stuff in.

He never lets me forget, that I overcrowded his clothes by hanging my allegedly “huge” wedding dress in his half of the closet, although it was only for 3 weeks and we were on our honeymoon at the time. Since then it has been evicted to my parent’s house, but that’s because I don’t wear it everyday. I’ve refused to let the others go.

“I can’t throw them away…I’ve known them since 1997.” I say hugging my shoes.

“But you have thirty two and this ones ugly.” He says poking my treasured mustard boots.

“What? I love him.” I say cradling the lone boot. “I carried these with me all the way from London.”

Don’t worry; some events have been slightly dramatized for the enjoyment of the audience. What really happens is you eventually get over all those little hiccups of sharing space and compromising your domestic fantasies, and you finally find a happy place.

The happy place involves the man busy drilling holes and hammering nails, with a collection of tools sufficient to build a boat, while the woman chooses which paintings to hang up and organizes his artillery of tools, neatly labeling each box. This is where we both found ourselves in our element, happy as clams.

And after all the matrimonial DIYing, the shelves were put up, books beautifully stacked, candles were lit, and calmness and peace prevailed.

When Nayef invited me onto the sofa to watch our latest addiction 24, my mind went back to the day we bought it. After months of searching, it was love at first sight. It was during a big sale, and somehow no one had seen it yet. Seized with excitement, Nayef sat me down on the sofa, ordered me to shoo people away and not move until he came back with someone from the store. Today, as I settled down beside him amongst the pillows and fluffy blanket I am immersed in the feeling that we are truly home. Our home.