tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351036552024-03-23T21:14:05.443+03:00Happy RainYoung, Female, Opinionated, Stubborn, Passionate, Lazy, Funny, Wordy, In love, Free, Strong, Scared, Shy, Talented, Private, Fierce, Sweet, Nurturing, Selfish, Unfocused, Intelligent, and always Grateful....for everything.F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-73832900790716888452012-08-14T13:09:00.004+03:002012-08-14T13:09:54.418+03:00Giving TuesdaysI'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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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...<br />
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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.<br />
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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..<br />
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What would you change about yourself on Giving Tuesdays?F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-19909247288460759762010-07-25T01:06:00.000+03:002010-07-25T01:06:09.091+03:00The anesthesiologist that wouldn't stop…<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hdg7y1shlObVZ53xMTUpnhXYIT-VXzWGtQNP7wqmjONUsStWKvp92A_J3isRiazapkbNpa6mId6L6LHwpmDJFjxs70JUdnytmoUmfPkuwUrlQknr1mECwd1RlrGbJnvo6TG2Pg/s1600/fatdoctorfront.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hdg7y1shlObVZ53xMTUpnhXYIT-VXzWGtQNP7wqmjONUsStWKvp92A_J3isRiazapkbNpa6mId6L6LHwpmDJFjxs70JUdnytmoUmfPkuwUrlQknr1mECwd1RlrGbJnvo6TG2Pg/s320/fatdoctorfront.gif" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">About 9 months ago, I was scheduled to do a minor surgery at a local hospital. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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?".</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It's probably not him. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I go up, not knowing what's coming leaving the next patient to wait her turn.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">How can I put this, he was a complete weirdo. He was awkward, and inappropriate, and everything about his behavior, screamed IDIOT. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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...</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ok, take it. I'm sitting right here aren't I? </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I am ready to punch someone.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The nurse looks at me helplessly, as he rudely yells at her to: "HOLD ZIS ONE! NO COME HERE! YOU HOLD ZIS!"</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I'm telling you, right now, my reading ain't gonna be accurate. I'm sure it's 170 over 2 million.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I was a little bit amused, and smug that my stereo typing had been correct. He sucks.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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."</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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? </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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?</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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?" </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“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.”</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Don’t people get sick during holidays? Does the hospital close on Fridays? What does this ass want exactly?</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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?”</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“No, only him.” She answers trying not to smile.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Then why is he pretending like there’s a lineup of spares waiting???” </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“WHAT WAS THAT???” She asked. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Great, a disgruntled anesthesiologist. He’ll just put me to sleep forever. That’s just what I wanted...</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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”. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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...</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Oh ho..shyabi thee? Now what?</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was HIM. 9aba7 il kheeeeeer.. he Good Morninged me and I was NOT amused.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“What’s your name?” He asked.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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)</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Weren’t you here wiz us before?” He is not just here to comfort an anonymous patient, he is here for a discussion apparently.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Yes, last year.” I tried to look busy, but failed miserably.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Ah, November 29th.., it was Eid” He actually brought it up.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the sharpest tone, that I could muster under the circumstances, I responded to him once and for all...</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“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.”</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“He’s not my doctor..” I hissed, while my husband thanked him gratefully, thinking he was my surgeon.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“I told you he’s not my doctor!” I growled under my breath, really pissed off at this point, but trying to maintain composure.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve never been angry before, while lying down. Usually I’m standing, pacing or gesturing. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">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.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He was lucky that I had someone to vent to this time. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Until my next face off... with the anesthesiologist that wouldn’t stop.</span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" />F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-72987234148505721722010-06-11T14:11:00.000+03:002010-06-11T14:11:05.480+03:00What's next?<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSWcONumkEs7Osk8uYrIiByujlcQZ3K7sR9PMcDZztVmj3diuJwTVwTdLznNgkA8e_OW-0NjQh_-vZDrC0RX_P2x8QmSSPPFdnDz58o18QYd4ARM-51CoZcnZjLh8iR3SOpNdvg/s1600/449-self-talk-cartoon.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSWcONumkEs7Osk8uYrIiByujlcQZ3K7sR9PMcDZztVmj3diuJwTVwTdLznNgkA8e_OW-0NjQh_-vZDrC0RX_P2x8QmSSPPFdnDz58o18QYd4ARM-51CoZcnZjLh8iR3SOpNdvg/s320/449-self-talk-cartoon.gif" /></a><br />
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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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?</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span> </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Present day:</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-56706634490607520922010-02-24T23:53:00.002+03:002010-02-25T00:00:01.913+03:00I'm still hereI know I've been very quiet. But I'm still here. Somewhere.<br />I didn't lose my inner voice. It's been there yapping about everything for the past six months.<br />I just never got the words to go through my fingers into the keyboard and onto this blog.<br /><br />I have so much to declare and say and comment on. But the rush of thoughts and ideas in my<br />head make for a very noisy home for any kind of sane thought.<br /><br />It's been the unspoken silence, filled with things you're not allowed to say out loud.<br />I was told that I've been missed, and I certainly missed me to.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Much love and hope to everyone out there. I know I need it.F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-26469381045119458472009-06-17T22:34:00.007+03:002009-06-17T22:53:11.195+03:00Silly Rabbit, Mini Burgers are for kids<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6ehsI38iWqPLZDM2Jtv2CBuQWP0WL5BPlU2P5i5O6HsjJCNyvdR1gTkM3JErzF10awUnzyc_pCla8CvxMVtGDazV2TxVYgKKLCqUsezs8Je6VdKU5pIR9NP5wtvkXD5bfKkMuQ/s1600-h/fuddruckers+mini+burgers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348384411600735074" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6ehsI38iWqPLZDM2Jtv2CBuQWP0WL5BPlU2P5i5O6HsjJCNyvdR1gTkM3JErzF10awUnzyc_pCla8CvxMVtGDazV2TxVYgKKLCqUsezs8Je6VdKU5pIR9NP5wtvkXD5bfKkMuQ/s200/fuddruckers+mini+burgers.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Dear Fuddruckers Management,</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However there is a “rule” that states that I cannot order it, because its only for kids.</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Now I’m not sure what to say to this because I always felt that I was a kid at heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m also told by many people that I look younger than my years.</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">So the waiter (who was very polite—and a little bit apprehensive) had to call the MANAGER.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was as if I had ordered a bottle of Whiskey..and didn’t have ID…in Saudi Arabia.</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The manager politely told me that “ as per the procedures..”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Uh, I don’t think so.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Kind regards, </span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Farah Mohd Mattar</span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">(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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>They too signed the petition to FREE THE MINI BURGERS.)</span></p></div>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-81288877009390910792009-03-05T23:17:00.001+03:002009-03-05T23:20:17.237+03:00Stupidity and Indifference<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: georgia; color: black;">I am utterly disgusted by the headline on page 3 of the GDN March 4th 2009 <span style="font-style: italic;">“rape harmless fun” says lawyer</span>. First of all, I have to know, is this what she meant, or has this been taken out of context?</span></span> <p style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; color: black;">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! </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It is shocking that this is coming from a woman.</span></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; color: black;">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. </span></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; color: black;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rape is </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">not an issue to be taken lightly, it is a serious </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">violation </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">of another human being’s rights</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 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</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 19,20 and 21 years of age </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">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?</span></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">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.</span></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">That is not responsible journalism..</span></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-39385938732760910902009-03-01T04:02:00.004+03:002009-03-01T04:28:59.329+03:00Berries on the Brain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQgkA2PIeXd1HQuSG5QKGcnsr1l4Gvotw7-TiouYUYETd1B_Z7xyjJzMwjjPL7hLt-G3kin2J49tnXvVtUf5SHdwr_CpKtUnm1d2hMZiV25pgt57CdZ32xDaDLhbHFK8e8a0GiA/s1600-h/blackberry-curve.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQgkA2PIeXd1HQuSG5QKGcnsr1l4Gvotw7-TiouYUYETd1B_Z7xyjJzMwjjPL7hLt-G3kin2J49tnXvVtUf5SHdwr_CpKtUnm1d2hMZiV25pgt57CdZ32xDaDLhbHFK8e8a0GiA/s200/blackberry-curve.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308022886441575762" border="0" /></a>
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unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Book Title"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1107304683 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">With work threatening to take over my life and my entire being, I decided to seize the bull by the horns, and help myself.<span style=""> </span>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 5<sup>th</sup> time that week, that perhaps the “toot” was going to be my savior.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I wasn’t offered one by the office, in fact, they weren’t too happy with the request that we need it.<span style=""> </span>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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<span style=""> </span>And they were friendly, polite and promised to hide one for me.<span style=""> </span>Which is more than I can say for Geant, who will transfer you to the fish counter, to answer your question about a printer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I got there in about 30 minutes-<i>I don’t know where Batelco was looking, but it was a blackberry fest up in there</i> - picked up my new technology, paid for it without wincing, and frolicked back home, like I had just won a prize at the fair. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">So for the past 2 weeks, the BB, has become a part of my anatomy.<span style=""> </span>I became an expert in about a day and a half and I have become lighter and more mobile, without all the extra baggage.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>It was the delicate balance of exhaustion and momentum that kept me going.<span style=""> </span>I had broken new frontiers, raised the bar, and shot out of my comfort zone. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Basically, I had screwed myself.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I realized that this morning, when I woke to find that BB had run out of battery during the night and died.<span style=""> </span>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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Yesterday, I tried to balance being a blackberry superstar and a home-alone mom.<span style=""> </span>I was with Ali and no one else was home.<span style=""> </span>Everyone had somewhere fancier to be.<span style=""> </span>I was exhausted…but he WASN’T. At some point he tried to eat my Blackberry, so I distracted him with my phone.<span style=""> </span>Oh yes, my stupid strategy at simplifying life, means now I’m responsible for charging, and maintaining TWO gadgets.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>“Oh..do whatever you want…” I thought.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<span style=""> </span>I kept getting distracted by the ominous vibrations coming from the black leather case.<span style=""> </span>Each one was a warning of endless tasks to pour my way tomorrow morning.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<span style=""> </span>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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Buh Bye BERRY BOY. See you during working hours…</span></p> F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-70656177463959487312009-02-12T18:53:00.007+03:002009-02-15T10:28:40.242+03:00Future Headlines that we could do without!<span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdx6swhyAaVbKUz71ZR6zN1TRHmziuSetxU4Lhsz3TFxG0Y-gIWV7UpEn1BJdY9wnrZ8xAFC7WkDZ__Ftw3nJv0utN6F430UFhb1h-mfgYgjp0t_6oTe0jPJMNHZj-xL3qOrYQQ/s1600-h/love+stinks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdx6swhyAaVbKUz71ZR6zN1TRHmziuSetxU4Lhsz3TFxG0Y-gIWV7UpEn1BJdY9wnrZ8xAFC7WkDZ__Ftw3nJv0utN6F430UFhb1h-mfgYgjp0t_6oTe0jPJMNHZj-xL3qOrYQQ/s200/love+stinks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301950602569629346" border="0" /></a>NOTE: THIS IS FICTION. THIS DID NOT HAPPEN AND NEVER WILL HOPEFULLY TO THE LOVELY BAHRAIN. xxx<br /></span><p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Ban on day of love<img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/FARAH%7E1.MAT/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-3.jpg" alt="" /></span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The head of the crap-and-other-useless-rules committee stood up and addressed the session.</span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"I think that we have to ban this unislamic practice of valentine's day.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> 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.</span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"We have received many complaints from individuals that their neighborhoods were turning into rose infested slums.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> The sound of love songs and secret amorous messages was causing them to have uncomfortable feelings."</span></p> <p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.</span></p><p style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">xoxo<br /></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-2769230414941993982008-12-22T16:54:00.002+03:002008-12-22T17:11:48.178+03:00Whisker is missing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0btJiAGlrFoaA4hrUk8TSREUNaCG9o4XEY162uKZynU1-XTprFd7ytlzWfb6dlU7ozjks_UmenM-eJEQJadcX_gIxUmq93yKUrAxW6HtfcYHaCWN1c8ELcCq3Zx94eMJbM8GDhg/s1600-h/Whisker+missing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 574px; height: 428px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0btJiAGlrFoaA4hrUk8TSREUNaCG9o4XEY162uKZynU1-XTprFd7ytlzWfb6dlU7ozjks_UmenM-eJEQJadcX_gIxUmq93yKUrAxW6HtfcYHaCWN1c8ELcCq3Zx94eMJbM8GDhg/s400/Whisker+missing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282614513042224626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<br /><br />If anyone sees her, please keep her with you and contact us immediately.<br /><br />I"m hoping she'll come back to us. We are so so sad.<br /><br />Thanks Everyone.<br /></span>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-8159776828329870612008-11-06T11:02:00.006+03:002008-11-06T19:14:08.806+03:00ANGRY POST OF THE DAY!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTBbPuFahS5sNLEC3P96yses2MoDujL15dHDXuICbJYa6p_i542DOR6EwIg16eHAwocWymsMgZ7dlheu_saQBFRLYhbUCWASwCAlotrqjDeWlURHMgwhNt7bCP_PLs4vxklAZuw/s1600-h/doctor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265531021770778626" style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right; width: 219px; height: 214px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTBbPuFahS5sNLEC3P96yses2MoDujL15dHDXuICbJYa6p_i542DOR6EwIg16eHAwocWymsMgZ7dlheu_saQBFRLYhbUCWASwCAlotrqjDeWlURHMgwhNt7bCP_PLs4vxklAZuw/s200/doctor.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >Today in the GDN.</span></strong></div><br /><div><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></strong></div><br /><div><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >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:</span></strong></div><br /><div><strong><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></strong></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Male doctors face clamp</strong> </span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(oh please..they face nothing! That implies that this kind of garbage can actually hold ground and become legislation. Bullshit.)<br /></span>MALE doctors <strong>could</strong> soon be banned from working in <strong>all</strong> maternity wards in Bahrain, if parliament <strong>has its way</strong>. MPs said at their weekly session yesterday <strong>many women were complaining</strong> that they were <strong>forced</strong> to reveal their <strong>"sensitive parts"</strong> to male doctors, which they say was making them feel <strong>uncomfortable</strong>. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">MY WHOLE PREGNANCY WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, A MALE DOCTOR WOULDN'T HAVE ADDED MUCH TO THAT DISCOMFORT!!!!</span></span></span></div><br /><div><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >Parliament <strong>unanimously</strong> <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(that means all the dumb asses)</span> voted in favour of the proposal, despite assurances by Health Ministry officials that they were already taking the issue into consideration.</span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Health Ministry assistant under-secretary for hospital affairs Dr Abdulhai Al Awadhi <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(someone who is probably qualified)</span> said that the ministry was already giving patients the choice between male and female consultants and doctors.<br />"The patient has the right to choose and <span style="font-weight: bold;">we don't force any doctor or consultant on any patient</span>," he said.<br />"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. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(Are they being bullied out of the profession?)</span></span></span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"We have recently asked six male doctors to carry out maternity services, because many female staff members are taking the <span style="font-weight: bold;">two-hour</span> breastfeeding time-off from 9am to 11am, which is our peak time." <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(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!!!)</span></span></span></div><br /><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(I can't believe these are now our benchmarks for progress and freedom)</span></span></span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">MP Sayed Maki Al Wedaie <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(someone who is obviously <span style="font-weight: bold;">NOT</span> qualified)</span> said that Islam bans males and females <span style="font-weight: bold;">touching </span>"sensitive body parts" of members of the same sex or other sex, unless it is an emergency. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(or for fun!)</span></span></span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mr Al Wedaie, who is <span style="font-weight: bold;">parliament's foreign affairs, defence and national security committee vice-chairman</span>, said that maternity was not an emergency <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">OH REALLY? BIAAATCH!!!</span> and considered as a normal case. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(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 <strong>NORMAL CASE</strong> IS WHAT I SHOULD USE TO SMACK YOUR HEAD ABOUT WITH)</span></span></span></div><br /><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></div><br /><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >I guess in his expertise, unless it was a troop of soldiers marching out of the woman, he really couldn't <span style="font-weight: bold;">feel </span>the urgency of the situation. By the way, when you're in labour you will let anyone <span style="font-weight: bold;">and </span>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, </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >uteruses...</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >uterii... uterees-(oh forget it) ...ovaries.</span></div><br /><div><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"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." <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(Oh..There you go. Expert defense and national security man has solved it. And I thought it was going to be more complicated.)</span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></div><br /><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></div><br /><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >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????</span></div><br /><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ></span></div><div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >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.</span></div>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-53812062766576241652008-10-12T12:49:00.003+03:002008-10-12T17:11:41.370+03:00Yearning to blog<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWlqfqNNuTEnQ11qHOSu85QNo9d4scACQuZ0lasruGd3jFonJk1lbG_EtFQ_Crt3ydZYOIvSuaV2QIpY5HlCG2fzv_OKUWz-DFV6U4Nd4T8ZoYHrFBeU2ecr6F2pbme0Gv9CF3Q/s1600-h/Cutes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256268360305656722" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWlqfqNNuTEnQ11qHOSu85QNo9d4scACQuZ0lasruGd3jFonJk1lbG_EtFQ_Crt3ydZYOIvSuaV2QIpY5HlCG2fzv_OKUWz-DFV6U4Nd4T8ZoYHrFBeU2ecr6F2pbme0Gv9CF3Q/s200/Cutes.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>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.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I am currently imprisoned in my cubicle, typing random different things feverishly as I try to </div><br /><div>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.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It is such a long bloody daaaaay! </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The End.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>ps. I wrote the first paragraph at 11:12 am. The second one at 3:07pm. And the last one at 4:50pm.</div>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-64547240639956432442008-08-22T23:59:00.005+03:002008-08-23T00:30:50.076+03:00Cruel and Unusual punishment<span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwiZP-RY42wtloyRzNSy5xeG-_sFnWZ8K6qBjWQA1PVWgZSewTFi2Ov5M4E6xPHhx4czxzYZtJG5MxATN9BYgBEW2NRmIuPaGnlwC43-pmDDcxOrUrcyrUM63zQkEcs-OvxP7EQ/s1600-h/books.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwiZP-RY42wtloyRzNSy5xeG-_sFnWZ8K6qBjWQA1PVWgZSewTFi2Ov5M4E6xPHhx4czxzYZtJG5MxATN9BYgBEW2NRmIuPaGnlwC43-pmDDcxOrUrcyrUM63zQkEcs-OvxP7EQ/s200/books.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237451959049460274" border="0" /></a><br /></span> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;">…</span></i><i><span style="line-height: 115%;">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</span></i></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" > madry shino pooed and the monstrous baboon fleed...bleeuh ble-bleeuh ble-bleeeeeeeeeeuh…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Oh. My. God.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >If you started to doze off reading the above, I don’t blame you. I almost passed out writing it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""> </span>When I start reading a novel, I want to know the story.<span style=""> </span>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 </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >fabric's </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >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…(</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >actually that might be fascinating</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >) just because he happened to pass by it.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >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.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I’ve started reading this story, which when summarized sounds very interesting, but having page after page of descriptions is making my hair frizz.<span style=""> </span>I mean his wife had several clandestine affairs, and it surprises me that no one <span style="font-style: italic;">–COUGH</span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >author</span><span style="line-height: 115%; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >COUGH</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">- </span>thought to follow her around and give us a detailed account of her illicit relationships.<span style=""> </span>And honestly I don’t judge her for her infidelity.<span style=""> </span>I mean the guy keeps strolling next to streams and trees, all silent and uninteresting.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been reading about him for only a day and now <b>I</b> want to have an affair!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Why would I care that the fluffy bird in the tall Oak tree is pecking at the aged and crooked branch.<span style=""> </span>WHY? Unless of course, the bird played a pivotal role in the plot. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >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.<span style=""> </span>He was the serial killer…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >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.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Even I can do that.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >So now I’m reading this novel out of spite.<span style=""> </span>I will finish you damn it, just so I can casually say “Oh, I read that…”.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I miss Harry Potter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-44772458494999916932008-06-29T17:49:00.006+03:002008-06-29T19:15:04.728+03:00Damn Schmeft Crappo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZi56Nf8KqOHMbB8JeEyuxsEAsQAyCVyBEGcDX_5-1C4OiXw5k7S3Ofho0OgfXZMil02QJamhcEof32GOFH9VPXognOMAquGLZXimvqthEZV5Qp7QFXoeakZr1hQlG_2FE3XO1og/s1600-h/Grand+schmeft+Crappo.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217315930421898146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZi56Nf8KqOHMbB8JeEyuxsEAsQAyCVyBEGcDX_5-1C4OiXw5k7S3Ofho0OgfXZMil02QJamhcEof32GOFH9VPXognOMAquGLZXimvqthEZV5Qp7QFXoeakZr1hQlG_2FE3XO1og/s200/Grand+schmeft+Crappo.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“What are you doing?”<br />“Huh?” He mumbled back.<br />“Shitsawy?” </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br />“NAYEF! Min thailain???” I think I stamped my foot as I said this. </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Huh? Shfeech 7abeebty?” </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Shfeeeeeeny? Shfeeeeeeeeeeeeny??? It’s been a month and this game still hasn’t finished? And why are you in a strip club??”</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br />“I have to go meet someone and pick up a car..” He said this with his concentration still fully on the damn screen.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br />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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br />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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br />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.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br />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.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I will be patient and wait for the game to self-destruct from overuse. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Maybe if I use a hairdryer.… </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">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 </span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Oh dear, he’s stormed off. Bye, I have to go make nice.<br /></span></div>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-11097204305614483222008-05-14T01:32:00.003+03:002008-05-14T02:44:24.732+03:00Arrested for bad behaviour<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggfqzxzXPNhKezRveJorp7DgmBqXb4PA2FpUadcNbp73hXadrSyyjwfuGHQaBShSvggGb2SNIWpRMgHuj8OAX3VaRlPFLfPwubv4wH7Egp-BZQVGEjiXViX7y-2OWkJMueyfxcw/s1600-h/hospital.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggfqzxzXPNhKezRveJorp7DgmBqXb4PA2FpUadcNbp73hXadrSyyjwfuGHQaBShSvggGb2SNIWpRMgHuj8OAX3VaRlPFLfPwubv4wH7Egp-BZQVGEjiXViX7y-2OWkJMueyfxcw/s200/hospital.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200009776799792722" border="0" /></a><br /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >Last week, when I innocently walked into the hospital at 11am for my weekly doctor’s appointment, I didn’t know that I would still be there two days later.<span style=""> </span>I was withheld for further questioning when my doctor found that my naughty blood pressure was not favorable.<span style=""> </span>Hmm… apparently 150/97 is ample cause for alarm.<span style=""> </span>So placed under hospital arrest, I was. Banned from work, banned from TV and banned from being awake, I was to be put to sleep immediately and I didn’t need to go home to pack a few things.<span style=""> </span>The idea was unsettling, as I made my calls to my husband and quick sms’s to friends, family and co workers, warning them of my temporary disappearance from mid-morning.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >The injection they gave me to help me relax was painful, but the cloud-floating slumber that ensued was amazing.<span style=""> </span>I forgave the injection for it’s savage ways and drifted into a state of bliss and unconsciousness, where life was beautiful and there was absolutely nothing to worry about.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >Looking back now, I’m wondering whether my high blood pressure was caused by things in my life, or simply an odd anomaly of pregnancy.<span style=""> </span>I mean I do often go on a fervent cursing rampage while driving through the jungle-y roads of Bahrain.<span style=""> </span>And I have been known to shout at newspapers and then draw evil moustaches and horns on certain pictures of imbeciles who say stupid things like, “this flies in the face of our culture”.<span style=""> </span>The only thing that’s going to fly in your face is my shoe.<span style=""> </span>Go back to your box and don’t come out till next year, when I will beat you with my shoe, again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >I don’t know where I get this quick-to-anger trait.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s my Iraqi blood, although my grandmother didn’t get angry at stupid things.<span style=""> </span>Anyhow, if my BP is not whipped into shape through medication and bed rest, Ali is to be evicted from his current home, faster than he can say: “let’s kick that rib again to see what kind of noise it makes..”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >Oh shit. Can we keep him in, just a couple weeks more?<span style=""> </span>I need to kind of do some baby clothes laundry and get some furniture delivered and maybe read a couple hundred pages about this project of motherhood….I’M NOT FLIPPING READY YET!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >By Day two in the maternity ward, I was the only bored person, as everyone else there was either giving birth or getting to know their new baby.<span style=""> </span>I may have been the only one with their child actually on the inside. The constant lying down, was part of the reason that Ali decided to move into my lungs and was suffocating me, so I was advised to go for a walk so he could descend back down where he belongs at this point.<span style=""> </span>I feel like a lava lamp sometimes.<span style=""> </span>Hmm…what can one do at 10pm in a hospital? I wish there were shops or a salon, or a <i>24 hours </i>store, so I could buy magazines or get a manicure.<span style=""> </span>The only place I could actually walk to at this point was the nursery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >There were two babies there; a cute and cuddly pink one positioned by the window, sleeping happily and the other one, to my surprise placed like a rotisserie chicken under foil and blue lights.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >“What’s wrong with him?<span style=""> </span>He’s so small…” I gasped to my friend, horrified.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >“I can’t see his face. Are they cooking him?” She replied just as clueless.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >“I don’t know, but I don’t want to put my baby in foil, it looks mean.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >We later found out that he has jaundice, he’s a normal full-term baby, and no one was trying to cook him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >Oh God I think I’m going to vomit. <b>Inside edition</b> just aired a segment about a woman who got scalped, because her long hair got caught in a go-kart engine.<span style=""> </span>Azoo3 or what????<span style=""> </span>I’m now doing Lamaze breathing, so I don’t go into labour from sheer grossed outness. Beeeeeeu3.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" >This entry was written in the hospital ward at 4am when I was supposed to be asleep..Naughty Nocturnal Farah…I hope I'm not arrested tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:14;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-30373145967958893102008-04-19T10:36:00.004+03:002008-04-19T10:41:31.001+03:00Le Inspecteur and ze apples<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGR5wKCdB5s7pXQTa8j3mHaSu6aghjnaYtVBLu31EjSzOwqRBvA_zu_uFg5-zLZpkHlSLXc7vxRDMFCrKn16bJAqPuWVEkRwWwjO2tgfaCyTTVv2th825NZTd99kNEFVA377H4lg/s1600-h/Apples.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGR5wKCdB5s7pXQTa8j3mHaSu6aghjnaYtVBLu31EjSzOwqRBvA_zu_uFg5-zLZpkHlSLXc7vxRDMFCrKn16bJAqPuWVEkRwWwjO2tgfaCyTTVv2th825NZTd99kNEFVA377H4lg/s320/Apples.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190857240551050450" border="0" /></a><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >While all scientific evidence may point to the contrary, I am quite convinced that at 34 weeks, monsieur bebe, has gotten bored and figured out a way to sneak out the back door of the amniotic sac and is scouting out my internal organs as we speak.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I often feel like my insides are being examined by some kind of antiques dealer who is picking up my organs, turning them over, sometimes flicking them or squeezing them to check for quality and resilience.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >“Excuse me, would you put that down?!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >“What?!” Nayef says startled, dropping his hairbrush.<span style=""> </span>“It’s mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >“Not you,” I say angrily staring at my belly. “It’s him. He’s massaging my liver again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >“Leave him alone. Let him do what he wants. He’s just a baby.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Yeah, that’s what you all think. This one’s going to come out with a tool belt around his waist and a miners helmet, with that light thingy, pointed at the doctor and then he’s going to give her a full detailed report about the state of my insides.<span style=""> </span>He hasn’t sat still since week 22.<span style=""> </span>Who does he take after? I know I appreciate quiet time and rarely move unnecessarily.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >According to my weekly email updates, he’s a little over 4 pounds or the size and weight of a pineapple…. Mmmm pineapple, what I would do for a big juicy slice… It seems that every time someone mentions the name of a food, I embark on a music filled fantasy of how I am going to consume that food, and then I work myself up into such a frenzy that if I don’t have that particular edible delight immediately I feel the world will end and I will die a sad and painful death.<span style=""> </span>I am not exaggerating.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Two nights ago, my husband mumbled that he felt like eating an apple while we were getting into bed, and that one sentence set me off into a mad search in the fridge looking for an apple. (not for him, but for me.) My mouth was watering, knowing that if I found one, it would probably be shriveled up and really, really old because I don’t remember buying any in the recent past.<span style=""> </span>My quest left me empty handed and teary eyed.<span style=""> </span>I wanted that apple so bad…I fantasized about biting into it, or blending it with ice and mint, or chopping it up with other fruit and pouring orange juice all over it.<span style=""> </span>That apple was my ultimate fantasy that night, and it went unsatisfied.<span style=""> </span>Do not ask me how I made it through the night.<span style=""> </span>Before I left the kitchen defeated, I found applesauce in the freezer, from the early morning sickness days, but by the time that defrosted I had passed out and when I woke up the next morning it did not live up to its fresh predecessor; the crunchy intact apple.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Last night however, at 11:34pm, before the closing of Midway, we ordered 4 shiny red apples, a bunch of bananas, apple juice and orange juice. By 12 midnight, I had made two smoothies using chopped apple, a banana, ice cubes, mint, apple juice and a dash of orange juice.<span style=""> </span>It was scrumptious.<span style=""> </span>I had to wake my husband up to drink it. He fell asleep on the couch waiting for me to come back. With one eye open, he downed the glass, told me it was amazing and then collapsed into bed.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I was so refreshed by my invention, that I was more alert than I’d ever been at any AM timing in my life.<span style=""> </span>So awake was I, that at 3am, I decided the poor excuse for a “nursery” had to be neatened up.<span style=""> </span>There is a box in that room, which has been there ever since we moved into the house, after our wedding. I’m talking summer 2006.<span style=""> </span>In that box are miscellaneous crappy items, that I’ve lived for two years without, and yet still feel the need to dust them and keep them.<span style=""> </span>In the dead of night, you could see the profile of a very big bump moving around in that room, lifting a box and carrying it all the way back to the bedroom for a long night of sifting and reminiscing.<span style=""> </span>I wish there was anything of value in there. I found 12 MAC lipsticks (I don’t know why I buy them, I wore lipstick like 3 times in my life and it never worked out), 7 different eye shadow boxes, 10 lip liners, 6 eyeliners, a beaded ring that I never wore, and dental floss.<span style=""> </span>I lovingly dusted everything and arranged it on my dressing table, as if they were not expired, poisonous, or never to be used anyway.<span style=""> </span>I’ll throw them away some other time.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >At 4am, I felt inadequate as a mother, so I started to read voraciously, with an effort to actually finish the book, <i>What to expect the first year</i>.<span style=""> </span>This was one of the many books I had ordered since entering the third trimester and was suddenly struck by the realization that pregnancy usually ends with the arrival of a BABY!!! Being too stricken with panic to actually finish any one given book, I have a series of well-meaning book marks stuck in each one, signaling my efforts to prove that Amazon, wasn’t getting my money for nothing.<span style=""> </span>What I’ve learned so far, is how not to flash people in the mall while breast feeding, and how it may or may not be that colic is caused by eating too much cauliflower.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >BUT NONE OF THESE BOOKS ARE REALLY TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!<span style=""> </span>I want my mommy.<span style=""> </span>I’m thinking about the baby’s belly button and how to clean it.<span style=""> </span>How the hell do you change a diaper? What do you dress them in for what activity, there are so many names for their clothes!!! Onesies, wraps, vests, cardigans, t-shirts, pajamas! Aren’t they all the same???<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I tried to fill the baby bath tub the other day to practice and after a lot of pulling and tugging the hose thingy just wouldn’t reach the tap.<span style=""> </span>Then someone told me that you only use the hose for draining the tub. If you want to fill it, you get the water to the right temperature and then do it the old fashioned way with a bucket, from the sink.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Oh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I must calm down. I give myself the dramatic soap opera slap across the face.</span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I stop hyperventilating.</span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I think I’ll go to sleep now. I had barely two hours of sleep. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">What with the insane nesting of the third trimester and the annoying morning sickness symptoms of the first, I could barely rest last night.</span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">And since the inspector seems to be at rest, no longer fiddling around in there, it’s a good opportunity to catch some zzzzz’s.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-21269063374224671412008-03-04T00:00:00.005+03:002008-03-04T00:07:27.573+03:00This is getting ridiculous…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJQPsbaX6tLc6iv0T5Ig5fXVcuv6TLFYQvxmxbv5wNZA0xHjV_Ssi0JsXOUXBjvipGwvVyoJjPI5gAVi8DJHsxTgi_Ibv6u0FfYreno0hR3KfUgnIv6xn78R-XyhujyornQjUFQ/s1600-h/kicking+baby.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 409px; height: 90px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJQPsbaX6tLc6iv0T5Ig5fXVcuv6TLFYQvxmxbv5wNZA0xHjV_Ssi0JsXOUXBjvipGwvVyoJjPI5gAVi8DJHsxTgi_Ibv6u0FfYreno0hR3KfUgnIv6xn78R-XyhujyornQjUFQ/s400/kicking+baby.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173623619176254050" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: georgia;font-size:130%;" >The bastards who lied to me about the average time span of morning sickness, have yet to be punished.<span style=""> </span>Because after that ended…LAST WEEK…<span style=""> </span>I’ve been battling with acidity that has the strength to compete with heart attacks and acute angina.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >In fact, I read somewhere that heartburn often has the same symptoms as a heart attack.<span style=""> </span>Lovely.<span style=""> </span>A constant feeling that you’re going to die, that can often be caused by the very same foods that cure it.<span style=""> </span>Not only is that fun, but it’s coupled with the lovely blossoming of my body into what I can best describe as a watermelon with legs…or rather a cluster of watermelons.<span style=""> </span>Me and my vegetable stand are often seen bumping into corners, closet doors and other human beings.<span style=""> </span>I no longer fit in my usual spaces.<span style=""> </span>After using my car the other day my husband kindly adjusted my car seat back for my Dwarfish height.<span style=""> </span>And flattered though I was at his generosity in his adjustments, being no Kate Moss, I found myself wedged between my car seat and the steering wheel, honking the horn involuntarily for all the neighbors to see.<span style=""> </span>Grace is not one of my strong suits these days. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I am starting to feel hippo-esque, although friends tell me…this is nothing, wait till May.<span style=""> </span>May? What’s May? I can only think of now and a minute from now. Besides the doctor rudely delayed my due date from June 4 to 5! Why?<span style=""> </span>Did he get a memo from my baby that he will be in meetings all day on the fourth, and therefore the fifth is a better day for his schedule???<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;">This blogging was interrupted by an unexpected bout of MORNING SICKNESS!!!! It’s not cute anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Anyway, earlier today, while I was beached on the sofa, I had a conversation with my mother, about how I can lose weight, by tricking my body and contributing it towards the baby’s weight gain, and we had an ambitious plan on how I would eat only healthy things, and minimize carbs, and engage in a bit of brisk walking.<span style=""> </span>5 minutes after that we were both on the phone ordering a pizza, chicken wings and a Greek salad.<span style=""> </span>And when it arrived, I barely waddled to go get it. Brisk walk my ass.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >The baby only ever communicates with me when I sit really still, we have tapping morse code conversations, and he kicks back when I poke at him trying to get his attention.<span style=""> </span>When I’m alone, he’ll kick and thump my internal organs like they were his personal punching bags. But once I invite onlookers and fans to come and feel all the action, he sits there quietly making me look like a liar, not moving a muscle.<span style=""> </span>We tricked him once, and he kicked Nayef’s hand really hard.<span style=""> </span>Nayef looked so surprised, as though he just got undeniable proof that there really is a baby in there, and I’m not making it up as an excuse to get fat and be mean. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >So here I am, 6.754 months pregnant. If I count it in weeks, which no one understands, it’s a grand total of 27 weeks, which feels like such an achievement. I remember feeling that I was 8 weeks for like a year. Time just would not budge. Now the weeks fly by, but the individual days, I feel go on forever. By 6pm, I’m ready to end the day and start over tomorrow. Which means that at 1:30pm, I’d really like the work day to be OVER!<span style=""> </span>I want to shrink everything down, except lying down time and the nights.<span style=""> </span>Once I’m in my bed, which is a “mitfalsif” Japanese style bed about 2 inches off the ground, gravity and the world’s forces all conspire to keep me there forever.<span style=""> </span>Even rolling around in the middle of the night, gives me flash backs of workers maneuvering extremely heavy and enormous steel structures in the Boston Big Dig.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I have 13 weeks to go to the big day or week, or however long labour is supposed to last.<span style=""> </span>I’m busy hanging up curtains and choosing baby stuff, but what I really want to do is sleep until then.<span style=""> </span>I don’t want to do anything demanding, mentally-challenging, or physically involving movement.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >And sometimes very suddenly I stop whatever it is I’m doing and I go to sleep….<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-42931169729788301022008-02-14T13:09:00.004+03:002008-02-14T13:30:39.508+03:00Love is in the hair!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCsPMoHjZgk6nQfAeKjfkDX_GeNlUSGdSH7YscNcaDGecrvrDy_OPBUmrgGi0GfBpf8uzpKRFuOo5WXXOH_MWzSjYdHRphJRbvSOgJaRbpfiP4tmmC6oNTR57k2HwoinoACkrmQ/s1600-h/valentines_day.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCsPMoHjZgk6nQfAeKjfkDX_GeNlUSGdSH7YscNcaDGecrvrDy_OPBUmrgGi0GfBpf8uzpKRFuOo5WXXOH_MWzSjYdHRphJRbvSOgJaRbpfiP4tmmC6oNTR57k2HwoinoACkrmQ/s200/valentines_day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166779344022160066" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >On a day when the profoundly intelligent mullas across the causeway are busy mangling red roses and hunting down hormonal, repressed girls in crimson, we have the liberties to enjoy the day known as Valentines Day.<span style=""> </span>Now regardless of all the retarded emails of warning that I’m going to get today on “do you know what you are celebrating?” and the history of St. Valentine and what it really meant and how it is the end of Islamic civilization, if I give my husband a rose; in spite of all this stupidity, the overpriced balloons at Al Osra, and the Styrofoam hearts in restaurants, I think what today makes me think of, whether I like it or not, is love.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >And I do love lots of people in my life, who I don’t really tell that I love, for fear of getting too soppy and emotional and sounding like the ending of a movie about some terminal illness.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >But I have to say that today morning, on my way to work, I felt so much love that I thought I had to share it or I’d explode.<span style=""> </span>I felt I should go in a chronological-ish order.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my mother and father. I realized this morning that they are my first loves.<span style=""> </span>The first sounds I heard, and the first eyes that embraced me, loving me, even though I was a slimy little snot, that cried all the time and gave them lovely packages of poo, in return.<span style=""> </span>Without them, I wouldn’t be loved by anyone else. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my brother and sisters.<span style=""> </span>I love them so much, it’s embarrassing.<span style=""> </span>So to hide it I was really mean to them, bossing them around, teasing them, making them think they were adopted, and frequently running sexist campaigns against my brother for being the only boy in the house.<span style=""> </span>I felt that if they knew how much I loved them, they’d think I was weird.<span style=""> </span>But I love them so much, I always have.<span style=""> </span>And as their leader, mentor and pioneer, I would fight fiercely to the death to protect them from harm, pain or evil.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my Grandfathers and Grandmothers, for loving me and playing such great roles in my life. And as each one of them left the world, leaving me in tears at the prospect of being without them, I learned that they have taught me what they know, and I have to carry on and make them proud.<span style=""> </span>I love them all.<span style=""> </span>I loved when Mama Mariam made me khanfaroosh, and when Mama Rafeea told me stories about Iraq. I loved Baba Khalid’s expression when he gave us presents that made us happy, and the way Baba Ali used to pretend he was eating my ears, my nose and my tiny hands. I miss them all so much, especially these days.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my Aunts and Uncles, who took over when we were left without grandparents. I love them because they tie us together.<span style=""> </span>I love my cousins, who make me feel like I will never be alone.<span style=""> </span>I love their unborn children, whether I’m here to hold them or not. I love our gatherings on Saturdays and Eid and everything in between.<span style=""> </span>They are the joys in my life, in between the difficult times and the frustrating tasks life throws at you.<span style=""> </span>I hope to have lots of stupidly fun times with them, singing, boating, lounging, eating and being a family.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my friends. Those both near and far. Those that call a lot, and those that don’t.<span style=""> </span>I love them all. I love our history together and all the memories growing up and living life’s funniest times (the teen years).<span style=""> </span>I love knowing that they’re healthy, happy, and successful. I would never give them up. I have been blessed with my friends, all the boys and girls that have been a second family to me, have also made me who I am today. I am very thankful.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my Husband.<span style=""> </span>I love that he just showed up out of nowhere one day, and proved to me that this kind of love really does exist.<span style=""> </span>I love that he is with me everyday in the morning and at night, sharing movies, food and giving me his hands, when I want to hold them.<span style=""> </span>For being kind, even when I’m sick, grumpy, bloated and<span style=""> </span>looking like a banshee, by hugging me and telling me that I’m cute, (when I’m clearly NOT).<span style=""> </span>I love that he loves the people I love.<span style=""> </span>I love him for being tall, for being sweet, for being mine, for every characteristic both shallow and profound that makes him, him.<span style=""> </span>I know that we will grow old together, because no one else will do. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love my dog. Because, although she’s just a pet, I swear she loves me too. I love her when she’s sleeping like a doughnut and I love her<span style=""> </span>when she’s whizzing around the house hyper from her bath. I love that she understands both Arabic and English, especially when we talk about her. I love whisker like she was my own little fluffy child….<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I love the monkey in my tummy.<span style=""> </span>I’m growing a new love, who kicks me swiftly from time to time to show me who’s boss.<span style=""> </span>I even love the fact that he caused me horrendous morning sickness enough to make me actually lose weight in the first 3 months.<span style=""> </span>My own little dietician…awww.<span style=""> </span>I love that he is part Nayef and part me and part his own unique new surprise.<span style=""> </span>I love that he made rude gestures with his hands during the last ultrasound and then went into fighting stance.<span style=""> </span>It’s going to be fun taming him. I love him for choosing my belly as his starting point, and I hope he will grow up to love me, realizing that he had tugged on my heart strings even when he was just a dot. I love my baby boy. My own baby Ali.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >Xxx love you all.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Happy Valentines Day.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-3646241647916795412008-01-21T01:29:00.000+03:002008-01-21T01:45:03.681+03:00Entering the Second Trimester…<span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SkjcJe6_JcEE9iTWQTip81UWK6ZoAVudZ0fn8xsdgmuKwqMl231b-hsDNnG4wgGXp28UOMlOw4rjA4f0qO-TEcyDssX2dx8yvYNEcHGzMInicpm0kFtjMpwT-1PiSUd9rSs2OQ/s1600-h/pepe+le+pew.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SkjcJe6_JcEE9iTWQTip81UWK6ZoAVudZ0fn8xsdgmuKwqMl231b-hsDNnG4wgGXp28UOMlOw4rjA4f0qO-TEcyDssX2dx8yvYNEcHGzMInicpm0kFtjMpwT-1PiSUd9rSs2OQ/s200/pepe+le+pew.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157691788759038850" border="0" /></a></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >Oh my God At last!!!! I waited for the day when I was exactly 12 weeks pregnant, as if like a big clock tower, ceremonious bells would ring and the disgusting feeling would officially disappear.<span style=""> </span>Every other book, website, formerly pregnant woman, and self-proclaimed expert told me it shouldn’t be too bad after 12 weeks. So I rejoiced on November 21<sup>st</sup><span style=""> </span>because I thought I would never see the day, when I could once again hold a conversation with someone, that included the words: onions, sausages, or cucumbers without grimacing, screaming out “gross” and then heading straight for the nearest throw up station that I had set up around my home.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I was done with Morning Sickness, which by the way is such an elegant name for what it really is.<span style=""> </span>It should be called “your digestive abilities are on vacation, eat crackers and enjoy a constant state of acidity, heartburn and painful stomach discomfort.”<span style=""> </span>I have never seen so much food in reverse.<span style=""> </span>In my entire life, I have never ever been a vomiter.<span style=""> </span>It probably happened to me around 4 or 5 times in my childhood, and I remember the results were always dramatic.<span style=""> </span>I would immediately break out with blood freckles all over my face and my eyes would bulge out froggy-style leaving me to look stupid for a day or two.<span style=""> </span>Crying was also part of the emotional drama of having your guts evict your meals.<span style=""> </span>In the past 2 months, I’ve done this exercise around 30-40 times. This is why you should all go and kiss your mother’s feet.<span style=""> </span>Being a mother, even before the kid is out, is very, very difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >I had also recently started sleeping in the TV room on the long sofa, because my bedroom stank.<span style=""> </span>No one else smelled it.<span style=""> </span>I pulled in a variety of people, family and friends to sniff my room usually sticking their noses into the AC vent and asking them if they wanted to die from the stench.<span style=""> </span>Some felt sorry for me, some touched my head to check if I had a temperature, but most people told me that they had no idea what I was talking about.<span style=""> </span>The problem was that the bad smell angered me. It was like a taunting skunk, that only I could see. Why was the bastard exclusive to my nose??? I started to feel like that cat that was constantly being molested by the uninvited advances of Pepe Le Pew. Don’t I have enough on my plate? <span style=""> </span>I don’t need to be sleeping refugee-style in the living room, rudely awakened at 6:00am by an annoyingly cheerful sun, accompanied by a choir of stupid twittering birds.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >But that’s all in the past. Today, I had graduated from this military camp of food intolerance and even my mood had lifted, after I had seen my 12-week scan showing the little monkey, with heart beat going strong and everything as it should be.<span style=""> </span>It made me remember what I was doing, and that “tiny” over here, had no idea about all the uproar that was going on outside on a daily basis.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >The next day was my brother’s wedding, and I had planned on staying up till 4am. Having gotten my hands on the menu, I was drooling in anticipation of all the yummy things I was going to taste.<span style=""> </span>It had been in September probably, when I had last enjoyed eating anything and I really regretted ever having been mean to any foods, rejecting them for being too high in calories, unhealthy, or fattening.<span style=""> </span>I now promised myself to never discriminate…and that all food was ultimately good and needed to be treated with respect and reverence.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" >The next day everything went well, I ate, I laughed, I saw people I hadn’t seen in months, and then I ate breakfast before I went home, all partied out and happily full.<span style=""> </span>It was a nice ending to a very testing first trimester. But little did I know…the fat lady (not me) had not sung yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:130%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-92214495080712416682008-01-10T16:59:00.001+03:002008-01-10T17:04:18.461+03:00October/November 2007<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0SfAfwg7y1tMyPopbaMFQTrsyRMJqX68PaDgSfhEMTgeMAlzh-yti0zwIcgCbk2XvB4B6kcqmZ4kfEACxZNCcyZcjx3QbrFBLzYSOyAtJYf2p4ii3hEXC4tv6E_8Jvr5RRWV6A/s1600-h/devil+baby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0SfAfwg7y1tMyPopbaMFQTrsyRMJqX68PaDgSfhEMTgeMAlzh-yti0zwIcgCbk2XvB4B6kcqmZ4kfEACxZNCcyZcjx3QbrFBLzYSOyAtJYf2p4ii3hEXC4tv6E_8Jvr5RRWV6A/s200/devil+baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153847934763039602" border="0" /></a><br /><span xmlns=""><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:14;" ><br /> </span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >I was supposed to keep it quiet. At least until after I went to the doctor and confirmed it was in fact a viable pregnancy. It was Ramadan and I was trying to secretly eat Tums in the office, to squash the untimely heartburn, without drawing much suspicion. At one point I was walking around starving, when I accidentally walked in on two girls illegally sharing some biscuits, and I grabbed one, thanked them and scuttled away. No one knew why I was being weird. I kept it quiet for two or three weeks, and then we finally heard the little heart beat in my tummy. That little heart beat which confirms that I am in fact capable of creating human life…that actually works. I didn't cry, but I was extremely relieved. My mother the terrible secret keeper, having witnessed this, decided that it was now safe to tell half the world, but I couldn't join in the dissemination of the news because I was busy at home enjoying the tell-tale signs of early pregnancy.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >In the weeks that followed, I made my own conclusions about pregnancy. I started to believe that God had created morning sickness as a type of hazing for mothers to be. Just like the military, only the toughest will get the honor of Mommy Medal.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >"Are you suuuuuure you wanna be a mother??? "<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >"SIR, YES SIR!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEU3!!"<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >"Okay then, you will be vomiting your guts out to prove it!!! Grab your basket and run, Sergeaaaaaaaaaant!"<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" > By the end of Month 2, the misery was both phenomenal and contagious. At 8 weeks pregnant, I was not yet aglow with the wonders of maternity. I had been reenacting scenes from The Exorcist and in the intermissions, I was usually found hugging my trusty plastic-lined trashcan like it was my life raft out of this river of hell. Thinking that I was the last living victim of morning sickness, I was often found sputtering with tears down my face asking God: "Why Me?" As they handed me another tissue, my husband and my mother looked at each other helplessly and mouthed: "Not just you, every other woman on earth…" but they wouldn't dare say that to me out loud.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >My sole purpose in life was now reduced to keeping small amounts of bland, tasteless mush down where it belonged; in the tummy, and sleeping for ungodly amounts of time, to avoid the hellish discomfort of being conscious. Work? I don' t even know what you're talking about. I simply forgot everything beyond my sofa and my TV and of course my good friend the barf bin. Also I was on so many pills, vitamins and hormones, that I'm positive that I had morphed into another being, slowly, day by day, until I had become unrecognizable.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" > All I would watch was MBC 4, and I had never in my life, been so in tune to the tragedies of daytime soap operas until then. ("Damn it, I knew he wasn't the real father but to sell his daughter out for the secret company files???") Yes the issues were inane, but they kept me distracted from my nausea, until the damn ad for Kraft cheese which appeared every ten minutes, showing a loving mother smearing a blasphemous amount of creamy goo on a preposterously small piece of pita bread, and giving it to her son, whose joy was seriously out of proportion. Both the over use of food and the melodrama made me sick.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >It's a miracle I'm still married. My husband was the only witness to this scary phenomenon of losing his wife, who seemed to have been switched with a mean, grumpy Alsatian holding his first child hostage. And yet, through it all, he was kind, helpful, and caring to the green-faced witch lying on the couch muttering curses and swear words at all the suffering she had been subjected to. "Miskeen" Nayef. He deserves a medal.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >My other savior was my mother. I never knew how much it meant to have her around, until she held my forehead, wiped my tears, and made me hot tea and toast. Without them, the world was black. I really believed I was going to die, if they left me alone with my very own "rosemary's baby".<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >"I'm carrying Satan's child and I'm sure that it's trying to kill me." <br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >"Farah! Don't say that! The baby will hear you.." My mother would hush me.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >Excited at being a grandmother, my mom was extremely happy that I was throwing up every other meal. She kept telling me that it's a wonderful sign and the pregnancy is strong. Beaming with pride she told me that this is what she went through, four times, and that it only lasts 3 months. Three Months??? I don't have 3 months! Sometimes 4 or 5 she would say. Five??? You are squashing all hope. I can't do this for another day. Can't they give me morphine or something?<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >I asked; they wouldn't. Apparently it's illegal to do recreational drugs with your baby. However, they did pat me on the back and tell me, that all my suffering is a good sign.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >Sign, schmine, this baby better be a genius millionaire, and care for me when I'm old, grumpy and alone. Just like I am now.</span></p></span>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-52019770042435446242008-01-04T20:09:00.001+03:002008-01-04T20:09:38.531+03:00September 24, 2007<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>One month into my brand new gym membership after retraining myself into maintaining a legally recognized jog for 30 minutes. I found myself wheezing , huffing and puffing like the grandmother of the big bad wolf, while climbing up some stairs.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>My friend looked at me, as I looked back at her with a grin plastered on my blue, oxygen-deprived face, "I've never been good at stair climbing."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'> I go to the bloody gym every day, but I can't do 1 minute of upward ascending, without holding my gut and professing my doubt that I will live another minute.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>"You know that's a sign of pregnancy…" she smiled.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>"Yeah, but I took a test today and it said Not…" I replied, starting to doubt its quality.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>Although the test claimed it was made in Holland, it had the comical name of: "Now you will know" apparently referring to the state of limbo, mothers-to-be go through when wanting to know if their eggs had in fact met the "one" and gotten engaged or rather embryoed. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>After discussing the old-fashioned test I took, I was filled with suspicion. Maybe it was wrong. My friend's advice was that we should go to the pharmacy immediately and get the brand new digital tests, and maybe do another one tomorrow or the day after. So when we got the tests, I made her promise not to let me use one, because not knowing is the worst kind of temptation to use all the tests in one night. In the quest for motherhood, my curiosity and I were known to have wasted quite a number of tests unnecessarily and then sat there staring at a bunch of negatives, when one simple test would've sufficed.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>My trusty guardian didn't last one minute of futile convincing. I didn't even have to try that hard.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>"You know there was a second very, very, very faint blue line with the test I did earlier. Does that mean that it's still very early, or does it have to be really clear?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>The next thing I knew I was handed a test and shoved towards the bathroom and told to put us all out of our misery by just finding out once and for all. What was another negative…at least then we could enjoy the rest of the evening.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>I walked out of my room holding the test and looked up at the eager face of my friend waiting for a response.. I shrugged and said: "You know, it's really early to even test, to get an accurate result, I should've waited at least another week…but even though it's early and I thought it was negative before..this digital test says… "pregnant"!<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>Lots of excited screaming and jumping ensued, and then immediately I got strict instructions not to ever jump like that again and to sit down for the next 9 months.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>I was dizzy from disbelief, with a million things going through my mind. Grinning stupidly I looked around my house and thought, everything is going to change…I can't believe it. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:14pt'>I'm four weeks pregnant.<br /></span></p></span>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-67752021276960441602007-11-10T00:25:00.000+03:002007-11-10T00:28:58.060+03:00Girls and their Hair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3jp8Ehf7zD2bNqYf2VyYmrHBaJELg8SIXd-R6KdszX3tmj1d1kveoCIlupxjjAJ4eiV14rOV3S9ld8tadBZfLbYzzI13Fn70lFEFjLVDrzvAKMnYSaD3zPlFOsFXUESaPxxOplA/s1600-h/Bad_hair_day.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3jp8Ehf7zD2bNqYf2VyYmrHBaJELg8SIXd-R6KdszX3tmj1d1kveoCIlupxjjAJ4eiV14rOV3S9ld8tadBZfLbYzzI13Fn70lFEFjLVDrzvAKMnYSaD3zPlFOsFXUESaPxxOplA/s200/Bad_hair_day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130955426124730514" border="0" /></a><span style="">I went to the salon the other day to get a long overdue color and haircut session.<span style=""> </span>My hair had become sadly mop-like.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>It’s true.<span style=""> </span>It really brings you back to life.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">So I booked an appointment, but not with my usual hair dresser, because he was on vacation.<span style=""> </span>I sneakily requested his competitor, who I had heard did a fabulous job.<span style=""> </span>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. <span style=""> </span>Cheating on your hairdresser is only a tiny bit less serious than adultery.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">I could never face him sitting on the other side of the salon, looking in another man’s mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">The salon was busier than usual and the estrogen was everywhere, punctuated by a little testosterone here and there just to keep things interesting.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">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.<span style=""> </span>However, I have never been reduced to a giggling teenage noodle by a man with scissors.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">In the chair right next to me sat specimen A, from which an insane amount of giggling and flirting was spewing.<span style=""> </span>I resist the urge to throw up into my coffee, while I look straight at the mirror trying not to make a face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">“No…no..give me that…” she squeals and reaches for her phone.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">“Why, who’s picture is that? Hmm? Hmm?” the hair assistant says.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">“Noooooobudddy…” she giggles coyly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Can I kill them both?<span style=""> </span>This is just the gay-looking hair-brushing boy and she’s all high pitched and out of control.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">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.<span style=""> </span>But I didn’t. I kept my old-fashioned, dignified, opinions to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Meanwhile, freakshow on my right, is still making sexy eyes at the hair dresser and asking him if she can smoke.<span style=""> </span>I swear she’s 12, but whatever, he lights her cigarette for her and they giggle and coo some more.<span style=""> </span>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?<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Instead she just dangled and ashed the damn thing for 10 minutes, pretending to be Joan Collins or something.<span style=""> </span>All she’s managed to do is infuse the smell into my wet freshly cut hair.<span style=""> </span>Thank you, Cruella.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">My hair was blow-dried to disguise all traces of the horrifying haircut I witnessed and looked magnificent.<span style=""> </span>I beamed and thanked and tipped everyone who contributed to my makeover and went home pleased.<span style=""> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">But as usual, we all know that at salons, the water is magical and the hair drying techniques are difficult to reenact at home.<span style=""> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Pony tail it is then, until my hairdresser comes back. Moral of the story?<span style=""> </span>The hair on the other side of the bush always looks better than the mess on your head…or something like that.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-82649759393974831262007-10-28T00:33:00.001+03:002007-10-28T00:47:24.089+03:00Grill and Schmill<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmM5K_-ZO42evjmFESoX-5vYF-zRkBLJ-Sm5uOjQfdFCR0ZyZ7v01HLbU8DcmVlgzKGdGNjFzIJXcGymHQsj2y0kD50oEZKOlad_E3LV8mUd8PAz06COOI-fYpnK4x-adwYLoaA/s1600-h/tantrum.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmM5K_-ZO42evjmFESoX-5vYF-zRkBLJ-Sm5uOjQfdFCR0ZyZ7v01HLbU8DcmVlgzKGdGNjFzIJXcGymHQsj2y0kD50oEZKOlad_E3LV8mUd8PAz06COOI-fYpnK4x-adwYLoaA/s200/tantrum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126136245928507698" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span xmlns="" style="font-size:130%;"><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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!<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"Hi, can I get the Crispy chicken sandwich with cheese…the way it was done befoooore?" I requested as sweetly as I could.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >I was met with a puzzled look and slight annoyance.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"You know, when it was delicious? Befoooore Grill & Chill?" I continued, hopeful.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"Chopped letooooos?" She said, resigned to the fact that she couldn't play dumb anymore.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"THOSE BASTARD, MOTHER@#$$%$, SONS OF @#$%$^^% how could they????"<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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!"<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"They put a goddamn tomato!!! Why?? Tell me? Can we go back?"<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >"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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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.<br /></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Georgia;" >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.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Oh well, nothing lasts forever.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><br /> </span> </p></span>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-25884022258272507262007-08-29T00:06:00.000+03:002007-08-29T00:13:17.341+03:00Aging is good<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXYsBs94LwAvfP-uQmppLn48ZOov7miC68V_VRHOr2DNCwDjFj6Pz7kQql0XyxPAQTcZPK4QRIZA6Ho3leI7LQYodmgYFImCvLKlnn5wf52EM0gxYuBGJVe1Bn5m1baONmInpEg/s1600-h/panda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXYsBs94LwAvfP-uQmppLn48ZOov7miC68V_VRHOr2DNCwDjFj6Pz7kQql0XyxPAQTcZPK4QRIZA6Ho3leI7LQYodmgYFImCvLKlnn5wf52EM0gxYuBGJVe1Bn5m1baONmInpEg/s200/panda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103861634806626770" border="0" /></a><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >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<sup>nd</sup>.<span style=""> </span>I am very disappointed with myself.<span style=""> </span>But I have to say, that it’s been a tumultuous, revelation-filled, mind-turning, epiphany-infested sort of year for me.<span style=""> </span>I have spiraled upwards into a higher level of life experiences and as they all say… you find yourself at 30.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >Well, I haven’t quite turned 30 yet, but I will in a few weeks.<span style=""> </span><br />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.<span style=""> </span>Which is what’s supposed to happen.<span style=""> </span>You suddenly just “know” things.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >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.)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >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.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >Three important things:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >I no longer let petty office work enslave me nor fret over menial tasks.<span style=""> </span>It is <b style="">not</b> the most important thing on earth.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>That’s it.<span style=""> </span>Then go home and have a fulfilling life.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >I’m no longer afraid of looking stupid.<span style=""> </span>In fact, I don’t really care anymore what people think.<span style=""> </span>I have recognized that I am wonderful and my faults are just like anyone else’s.<span style=""> </span>Self-esteem sky rockets after this revelation. It’s the best part. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;" >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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-48478662815858183442007-07-02T03:02:00.000+03:002007-07-02T03:32:41.606+03:00Top ten signs you're a workaholic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbApAnbD3xGQUpSsU8BJ1nEhZiyByfrkuAHRKRaywPjh8kyxkblpJfAYTHQ1PITObp1lApTXaB9a6KjU-cvvHN5qGg68pYN1C5H6AqqfKWbIg6zqhYxsJwZ2eBggVUoXaqONsFPg/s1600-h/workaholic.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbApAnbD3xGQUpSsU8BJ1nEhZiyByfrkuAHRKRaywPjh8kyxkblpJfAYTHQ1PITObp1lApTXaB9a6KjU-cvvHN5qGg68pYN1C5H6AqqfKWbIg6zqhYxsJwZ2eBggVUoXaqONsFPg/s320/workaholic.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082390098082566386" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;">Ten</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">:<span style=""> </span>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, <span style=""> </span>revise, proof read, or reformat into a 16 column table and email to someone in the next 3 minutes.<o:p></o:p><o:p><br /><br /></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;">Nine</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">:<span style=""> </span>Lunch time gets exciting when you order a pathetic sandwich and get to eat it on the center meeting table.<o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Eight</b> <span style="font-family:georgia;">: 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<span style=""> </span>packing up…to go have dinner.<o:p></o:p> <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Seven</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: 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.<span style=""> </span>He then asks you to lock up on your way out.</span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Six</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: You email your colleagues little to-do notes, reminders and annoying task-like assignments, at </span><st1:time style="font-family: georgia;" minute="0" hour="0">midnight</st1:time><span style="font-family:georgia;">, instead of going to sleep and telling them tomorrow--in person.<o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Five</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: <span style=""> </span>You feel guilty when you’re sick, on vacation, or dying. <o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Four</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: 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.<o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Three</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: Your boss shoo’s you out of the office on his/her way out.<o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Two</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: 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<o:p>.<br /><br /></o:p>And the number One reason is…<o:p></o:p></span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />One</b><span style="font-family:georgia;">: You don’t have time to blog, but when you do, you’re so tired that all you<span style=""> </span>can come up with is this lame top-ten crap. You find the typing keyboard sounds soothing.<o:p></o:p></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35103655.post-1006752698748630062007-05-31T22:30:00.001+03:002007-05-31T23:50:22.486+03:00You too can be a Desperate Housewife<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9qdu1HfO7ZsRGb74Q-39lNWxE17VJhZ6fQZsuJ-MMhIWp1lxOYlGPn2w95mBi2beS6Q3Y14-lKF7GWANAbI_2S5jLCwHyaocSfuTFcfVPoW-jqS79HaopLaV6TjiBCcvT2fMtw/s1600-h/Marcia_Cross_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9qdu1HfO7ZsRGb74Q-39lNWxE17VJhZ6fQZsuJ-MMhIWp1lxOYlGPn2w95mBi2beS6Q3Y14-lKF7GWANAbI_2S5jLCwHyaocSfuTFcfVPoW-jqS79HaopLaV6TjiBCcvT2fMtw/s320/Marcia_Cross_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070829573088142386" border="0" /></a><br /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">My domestication was like a big slap in the face, I wasn’t prepared and it became the most overwhelming month of my life.<span style=""> </span>Our house had been pretty much functional as an evening hang out, prior to moving in.<span style=""> </span>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.<br /><br />In order to grill our first chicken, I had to go to the supermarket four times.<span style=""> </span>I now know, that only red onions are used for cooking.<span style=""> </span>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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Doing laundry was also a big adventure.<span style=""> </span>The last time I did laundry, was in <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, in the basement of my building.<span style=""> </span>I was 18-21 and excited about putting quarters into the big machine as it spun my clothes towards mountain freshness.<span style=""> </span>I had moral support from Esmat, and we ate Doritos as the clothes dried and then played “Roman Times” with the bed sheets.<span style=""> </span>This was usually done at <st1:time minute="0" hour="0">midnight</st1:time> while normal people slept.<span style=""> </span>After three years of waltzing around with underwear on our heads in the laundry room, we discovered the security camera.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">In my new house, after a few weeks back, I received my new washer and dryer, an exciting house warming gift from my uncle.<span style=""> </span>Finally, I can wash my own clothes and not drag a huge hamper sack home every Friday lunch.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Doing the first load of laundry took 5 hours.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>After sniffing everything, I called Mama’s hotline, and discovered that Comfort was only a softener and not a detergent.<span style=""> </span>After being mocked and laughed at, I bought all the right ingredients and went home.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The test drive involved towels and inexpensive items such as old socks and worn out tank tops.<span style=""> </span>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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">According to the salesman, this washer has a sixth sense.<span style=""> </span>Wonderful!<span style=""> </span>This machine was actually designed and built to protect itself from the freshman housewife.<span style=""> </span>It will pre-wash when it feels necessary and rinse and spin as it pleases.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“I have nothing to do with it, if your shirt is now 3 sizes smaller.<span style=""> </span>Whirlpool did it.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Choosing the linens was a very stressful time in my life.<span style=""> </span>It was like doing the SATs.<span style=""> </span>I would touch one fabric, then put it back in the plastic and open another pillowcase and inspect the stitching.<span style=""> </span>Would it be weird if I put my cheek on it and closed my eyes?<span style=""> </span>Can I open it up and snuggle with it for a while? Aren’t I entitled to a mini-simulation?<span style=""> </span>You know, we are going to be sleeping together.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">And as for pillows, I came from a bed that was a little smaller than a full size.<span style=""> </span>However, it was populated with 8soft feather pillows.<span style=""> </span>I HATE foam pillows.<span style=""> </span>I want to kill them.<span style=""> </span>They are offensive and insolent bastards and a punishment to your neck.<span style=""> </span>No I don’t think I’m a princess.<span style=""> </span>But my pillows have to be the way I like them, or I just sit up all night stewing in anger.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Oh, how I was wrong…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Now that we are sharing a bed, jealousy has started to rear its ugly head.<span style=""> </span>Although I only have four now, and he also has four, including his foamies from home, someone is starting to question the system.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“How come you have all the nice pillows and I only have these ugly ones?<span style=""> </span>And why are you setting up your pillows around the edge of the bed, are you building a fortress?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“They’re my pillows.<span style=""> </span>And it’s a low bed, I don’t want any ants wandering into my ears.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Well, it’s true, I can’t sleep with all this open space around my head.<span style=""> </span>The other day I found a squashed ant, near my head.<span style=""> </span>What was it doing???<span style=""> </span>Who squashed it??!!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Several times, Nayef was caught red handed trying to steal my color-coded pillows.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I sat there for 20 minutes cursing as I unstuffed and restuffed into the correct pillow cases.<span style=""> </span>I did not rest until all my beloved pillows were back in their clothes.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“They’re MINE!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Nayef loves Bree on Desperate Housewives, but he doesn’t realize that I have some of her crazy and none of her domesticity…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i style="">No pillows or husbands were hurt in the writing of this post<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>F. Mattarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06360452373277108296noreply@blogger.com2