Entering the Second Trimester…

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. 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^st 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.

I was done with Morning Sickness, which by the way is such an elegant name for what it really is. It should be called “your digestive abilities are on vacation, eat crackers and enjoy a constant state of acidity, heartburn and painful stomach discomfort.” I have never seen so much food in reverse. In my entire life, I have never ever been a vomiter. It probably happened to me around 4 or 5 times in my childhood, and I remember the results were always dramatic. 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. Crying was also part of the emotional drama of having your guts evict your meals. 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. Being a mother, even before the kid is out, is very, very difficult.

I had also recently started sleeping in the TV room on the long sofa, because my bedroom stank. No one else smelled it. 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. 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. 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? 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.

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. 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.

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. 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. I now promised myself to never discriminate…and that all food was ultimately good and needed to be treated with respect and reverence.

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. 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.

October/November 2007

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.

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.

"Are you suuuuuure you wanna be a mother??? "

"SIR, YES SIR!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEU3!!"

"Okay then, you will be vomiting your guts out to prove it!!! Grab your basket and run, Sergeaaaaaaaaaant!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

"I'm carrying Satan's child and I'm sure that it's trying to kill me."

"Farah! Don't say that! The baby will hear you.." My mother would hush me.

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?

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.

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.

September 24, 2007

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.

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."

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.

"You know that's a sign of pregnancy…" she smiled.

"Yeah, but I took a test today and it said Not…" I replied, starting to doubt its quality.

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.

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.

My trusty guardian didn't last one minute of futile convincing. I didn't even have to try that hard.

"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?"

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.

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"!

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.

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.

I'm four weeks pregnant.

Girls and their Hair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Noooooobudddy…” she giggles coyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grill and Schmill

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

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

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

I was met with a puzzled look and slight annoyance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well, nothing lasts forever.

Aging is good

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

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

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

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

Three important things:

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

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

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

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

Top ten signs you're a workaholic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the number One reason is…

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

You too can be a Desperate Housewife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re MINE!”

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

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

How to lose a bed in ten days

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

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

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

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

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

Ah yes, single hood… good times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those naughty mannequins...again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He warned that licences of any violators would be revoked.

(Whatever..ihaddid ba3ad..)

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

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

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

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

Home Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Aftermath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love Formula One…the day after it ends.

Egg-splosion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apology

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

My first ever art show...

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

Invasion after midnight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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