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.

Digital Art

After going all the way to Saudi Arabia, to buy a year's supply of canvases for my painting sessions, I discovered that I could do things much faster on my computer, and it looked prettier. If it didn't, I would simply click close and then not save. No brushes to clean and no palette to scrape. The following are my creations of the past week. Addictive.

Playing Monopoly with Boys

The first time I played Monopoly with my husband, we had been engaged a few months and were still getting to know each other. We were three players, me, my sister, and the new fiancé.

By the end of the game, my sister had declared bankruptcy and thrown her money at him, and I had a nasty scowl on my face and was rethinking my decision to marry this mean man. A side of him, I had never seen before had emerged and robbed us of all our money, while building massive hotels before we had even passed Go, he charged us hundreds of dollars every time the miserable fate of the dice led us to his properties.

And as we begrudgingly handed over our hard earned cash, he did an obnoxious dance of glee accompanied by an annoyingly non-rhyming song of utter arrogance.

Already, we felt like crap for being broke and mortgaging our pathetically scattered properties, eyeing the collection of one missing land in his possession that could allow us to build houses and hotels.

“You’re on my land. Pay up!” I snapped.
“How much?” He grinned, flipping through his offensively thick wad of notes.
“Six dollars…” I mutter between clenched teeth.
“What? How much?”
“Six. Dollars.” I enunciate irritated at the mockery I was being made into.
“Keep the change…” He throws me a ten before rolling on the floor laughing hysterically.

Four minutes later, I’m borrowing money from Basma to pay him 2000 dollars, because I landed on the damn Board Walk and he has a big fat red hotel on it.

“Damn you and your developments. A little humility wouldn’t kill you!”
“Oh come on. It’s just a game.” He says teasingly as he does a little victory wiggle.
“Like hell it is. This is war.”

This humiliation and indignity continued until 3am. When I finally handed over all my valuables to him and sat penniless by the purple squares, which got me the grand earnings of 18 dollars, he declared himself the “winner” and called it a night.

The next morning at breakfast, my sister came to the table looking all ruffled and hung-over from the game.

“You know, I don’t really like him that much anymore. He used to be really nice until yesterday.”
“I know! Nothing ever pissed me off so much as losing to a big tap-dancing man.”

Three Years Later…

A few days ago, during the long holidays, a friendly game of Monopoly was played, to pass the time. As the three unsuspecting girls sat to play with four suspicious looking boys, they didn’t imagine that the game was going to end 6 hours from now and that at the 4^th hour, war would temporarily break out, hostages would be taken and all the girls would withdraw.

Apparently when boys “play” games, they really live in the game, even if it’s a stupid board game with tiny boots and hats representing their manly selves. The passionate way money was counted and the alliances, signed contracts and under the table trickery was all foreign to us girls. We like to simply roll the dice, say please and thank you and are constantly apologizing, when someone pays us lots of money for landing on our plots. While the mafia of men are seizing property and pushing others to mortgage, we’re coming up with frilly financing plans to allow the poor victim of fate, some pocket money to buy shoes and still rent the room at New York Avenue.

Testosterone on the other hand, works quite differently. Every man carries the mandate, I win, therefore I am. And so they played, ruthlessly and without mercy. My own husband, only wanted me to “join” his team when my alliance to another became a threat. I didn’t buy it and refused to succumb to their manipulation. (He wanted my train stations, my main source of income) I said no and retreated to my sofa, penniless. Again.

At 5:45 am, as the little houses and hotels, cards and dice were put away safely into the box, I silently swore that I will never play anymore co-ed games.

The funny thing was that while the boys yelled and argued about made up rules and unfair alliances, we cowered in the background hoping that a fight wouldn’t break out and make everything all awkward. But when all was done and the winner emerged, the boys slapped each other on the backs laughing and joking and later described the evening (early dawn) as having been such fun and would love to do it again soon. What? Really? What about all the hostile yelling and screaming? We thought heads were about to get ripped off. Apparently not. What we witnessed was boys being boys. Scary.

Needless to say the girls were traumatized and decided that next time, we would play Trivial Pursuit, which was more difficult for the boys, because they didn’t know half the answers. Playing Monopoly with girls is probably not as exciting but it will be a while before I forget the irritation of male competition and play with boys. I wonder when my next memory lapse will be.

Nesting Alert!

It all started with the innocent task of cleaning my wallet. This two-minute activity which involved tossing old receipts and reorganizing cash in order of denominations had led me to the kitchen where we keep a growing pile of change, because neither of us have a pocket for coins in our wallets.

The next thing I knew I was categorizing medication alphabetically and checking expiry dates on random food in the closets. When my husband walked in, he found me sitting on the kitchen counter intensely focused on cleaning the screw cap part of the ketchup bottles and arranging the bottles by height, like a school line up. He sort of always “finds” me in these weird moods. Staring at the stacks of coins, categorized by country, he thought to himself: “What happened to her?”

Domestic demands happened! That’s what. You have to clean after yourself and then after the man. The Man, (a very strange species) does not appreciate the alarm and hysterics caused by finding articles of clothing vertically dropped in the middle of the room, accordion-style. Like a lone roundabout, waiting for a network of roads to happen, perhaps some jeans to lead you to the T-shirt and then a scarf highway to the bed. Now that’s fine if we’re monkeys. But we just bought a beige canvas hamper yesterday! Together! And we both admired its ingenious talent at concealing piles of laundry. What has changed? Are you not speaking to the hamper today? Did you have a falling out?

According to Dr. Laura, I should just tell him kindly that I need his help keeping the house clean and that I’d appreciate he puts things in the right place and then give him a kiss and a hug, bake him brownies and make him some hot chocolate.

That’s just ridiculous. Dr. Farah says to pick up the fiendish item and yell as loud as possible. “I’m throwing it in the garbage!” and then burn it in the garden for all the neighbors to see. That should drive the point home after 65 pleasant requests accompanied with smiles and pats on the back.

(I think he knows I’m writing about him, because he just told me he was going to organize the nightmare table that I’ve been begging him to clean! And then he's going to fix that shelf for me that I wanted up for the past month. Praise the lord, it’s a miracle!)

And so after weighing the pros and cons, I decide not to shame him publicly in the compound, but to try and lovingly understand the shortcomings of men in the household and not hold this against him. So I drop it in the hamper myself and leave a yellow post-it note in its place on the floor.

It reads:

Dear tenant,

It has been noted lately that many things are being dropped here, that do not belong. Please be advised that this is NOT the hamper. To reach the hamper, kindly proceed straight and take the first left turn. Opening hours: All bloody day long.

Further articles of clothing dropped here, will be mercilessly burned at the stake as the witches were in Salem.

Yours truly,

The Carpet.

He never acknowledged the note. But I did notice that things were not thrown willy nilly around the room anymore like a bar fight had broken out. I also noticed that since we hired Emily, our domestic chief of operations, I'm not as evil, as when I was doing everything myself.

And so the moral of the story is: Get a third party to clean your house, they won’t take it personally, because they’re getting paid for it, and it’ll keep your marriage pleasant.

Everyone’s happy.