How to lose a bed in ten days

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

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

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

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

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

Ah yes, single hood… good times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those naughty mannequins...again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He warned that licences of any violators would be revoked.

(Whatever..ihaddid ba3ad..)

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

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

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

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

Home Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Aftermath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love Formula One…the day after it ends.

Egg-splosion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apology

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

My first ever art show...

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

Invasion after midnight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Decorating houses with spouses

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

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

or…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you so angry with it?”

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

“It’s not that ugly…”

(Gasp. Hand on heart in feigned shock.)

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

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

Several months later…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Digital Art

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

Playing Monopoly with Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Years Later…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nesting Alert!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It reads:

Dear tenant,

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

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

Yours truly,

The Carpet.

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

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

Everyone’s happy.

I slept...

Silence. Silence and lots and lots of beautiful quiet
need to sleep; overwhelming
Bed envelops me and holds me in it's womb
Just the invisible hum of the heat-breathing radiator
Warmth inside, Cold everywhere else

Soft darkness with a yellow glow around the garden
Peace, safety and the loving smell of freshly laundered linens
Falling in backwards, melting into feathers of softness
In a small house, surrounded by strong trees
As the moon was welcomed into a big blue sky of stars, I slept.

I'm only happy when it rains

My husband just found me on the porch in a frantic race against the rain, swishing water out into the garden with the most useless of tools. It's not raining cats and dogs. It's raining cattle, and there are cows of rain on my porch; my safe spot. This is where I’m planning to sit on my wicker furniture, curled up drinking tea and reading a good book during the rainy holiday. This is not supposed to be the set for Water world. I was battling the puddles threatening my doorstep with such enthusiasm I raised my heart rate to cardio-training levels. Wearing cropped pants and beach slippers in the cold, I think I scared him when I turned around to explain what I was doing.

I stood there breathless with electrified frizzy hair, face pink with determination and soaking wet, holding my weapons of choice. The name eludes me now, but in one hand, I was holding that thing you use to swipe water of your shower glass door. To a passer-by I must've looked like a mad hockey player seized with dementia.

"What are you doing?" he asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" I answer waving my other tool, the spade-ish thingy that comes with a matching brush.
"Farah, you're going to get sick! What you're doing is pointless."
"Well, somebody has to save the house from "The Flood". Hand me that bucket will you?" I answer hysterically.
He walked back into the house shaking his head, wondering if when he wasn't looking someone switched me with a look-a-like maniac.

Three Hours Earlier

"I love it when it rains...Isn’t it amazing?" I sigh staring out the window of the car.
It felt so safe driving around, dry inside and wet and splashy outside. It's especially wonderful if you're the front-seat passenger and the executive DJ.

I had bullied my husband into plugging in my iPod, because my music was cooler. He listens to old Arabic songs that go on forever and sound to me like someone is wailing from a prison cell. I can't take it more than 3 seconds. When we were engaged I used to drown out the sound by humming in my head, trying not to be one of those people who have to have things their way. Now that he’s legally bound to me, I decided to tell him the truth.

"Nayef, I can't. It's killing me!" I mutter through clenched teeth.
"What's wrong with your face? Why is it scrunched up like that?"
"It's the music. It hurts my ears. I will die if you don't change it.” I begged, looking like a constipated Pug.

So with good music as our soundtrack, we marveled at the rain’s strength and felt the thrill of driving through big puddles spraying the sides of the streets. However, the peace I found in the rain earlier today was immediately erased when I saw my own porch flooding with pools of water gathering at the threshold, soaking up the make-shift Welcome mat. My domestic safety was vulnerable and I immediately started drawing up architectural solutions to this leakage into my covered porch, while rushing to grab for the nearest squeegee. (I just remembered the name)

Looking out of my window now, I see that the puddle has been revitalized and is collecting smugly in the corner of the porch. I realized that my insane thrashing at it earlier was futile, but either way it was satisfying.

Enjoy the long rainy weekend and “Be one with the puddles…”

GDN Letters that annoy me...

In reference to the letter linked below:

http://www.gulf-daily-news.com/story.asp?Article=163674&Sn=LETT&IssueID=29261

Dear Dark Magician, (whatever the hell that means)

First of all, I got a headache from reading your jumbled letter. Nothing flows smoothly and you don’t have a single healthy sentence in the entire text. You seem to be a bit confused, trying to back your unquestioned beliefs with facts and logic that just don’t mesh with each other. In some instances, I wasn’t sure whether you were for or against something, but I figured out a little bit of your mishmash to understand that you have taken the liberty to “correct” someone by dictating that the hijab is compulsory and in fact not a personal choice.

In all logic and reason, the only people who should have the right to discuss hijab, and its wonderful protective benefits, are women. They are the ones who wear them, and they should be the ones to evaluate their effectiveness against temptation, evil and nuclear war.

I don’t see any passionate campaigns by men, telling women about the wonderful benefits of wearing bras. “Bras…because you don’t want to look like a cow” or “women and bras, unite against gravity!”

So why is it every man’s business to tell us their opinion on how liberating wearing a hijab is. I personally don’t find it liberating nor useful and never will. Others find comfort in it, the same way I am comfortable wearing jeans as opposed to hotpants. It’s my personal choice and right not to reveal my body to whomever I don’t want to reveal it to and I can say the same for every other woman. If you are not comfortable with your hair showing, cover it, and get on with your life.

But to accept that men are telling us, in the name of religion, that it is compulsory to cover your hair, THAT I don’t accept. And just to prove that it isn’t something specifically called for in the Quran, you now see this hijab propaganda gradually evolving and being redefined to include covering the face. I can only anticipate that the next step to “protecting” women will be to ban them from speaking, because their voices will be the only feminine element left to delete. The popular “Islamic” compromise which is unfortunately starting to exist in Bahrain now, is that a woman exists and has alleged “equality”, on the condition that she be covered from head to toe, with no face. This only serves one dangerous and highly poisonous purpose, which is to erase her from existence. She can offer no human feature to appeal to others and essentially becomes a faceless nameless object, easy to ignore or abuse, because she’s not familiar anymore.

You can no longer view her as a mother, a sister or a friend. She becomes your temptation that must be covered, synonymous with sin. She is now that, which will get you into hell if you touch her, think of her or look at her. Something to quickly avert your eyes from and not acknowledge, lest you have sinful thoughts and become tempted to rape, pillage and commit adultery.

I fear that we have gotten to the point where we have to modify God’s creation in order to avoid committing crimes. We no longer take responsibility for our civility, mutual respect, or self-control. If you are on a diet, every baker must close his windows and curb the smell of freshly baked bread, so that YOU don’t feel tempted to grab and devour a loaf of olive bread and get fat. We don’t care! Get fat, or don’t get fat, but pay for the damn bread or go sit in your room under your blanket.

Hair is hair. It is not inherently sexy. How attractive is it lying on the bathroom floor? Does it make you go wild, when you see hair on your carpet? What is beautiful, is the woman, who the hair belongs to. Whether she covers it or not, you cannot reduce her femininity without erasing her presence. Her features will be in your daughter’s faces, her tenderness will shine through in the way she holds your children when they cry and she will always be attractive, no matter what you cover.