Aston Martins and Cat Spit

Esther's Closet

2012-01-20T22:19:00.000+03:00

I had the privilege of having brunch with Sheryll Mairza recently - in Sheryll's courtyard, in January. (Just thought I'd throw that in for all the peeps in the Great White Up - current average mean temp there... -25C) Sheryll is a long time Kuwait resident, married to a Kuwaiti, and firmly rooted in this land of sunshine and sand. She and her husband live in his childhood home in Rumaithiya and Sheryll will happily relate the history of the villa and her husband's family while pointing at pictures and mementos on the walls. In the courtyard is a brand new, purpose built bungalow. In someone else's yard, this little building would likely house the driver and/or other domestic staff. In Sheryll's world, it is an extension of the work she is passionately committed to.

Operation Hope has been around Kuwait for a long time and I imagine there are few people who have not heard of Sheryll and her merry band of volunteers. If you haven't, read on and be enlightened.

Farm worker accommodation (Abdali)
Photo (c)Robert R. Lewis

This charitable effort clothes (and often feeds) expat workers in the fields during the winter in Kuwait. In light of my gloating about the temperatures in the Great White Up, one could be forgiven the thought, "What winter?" however when the summer temp is in excess of 50C, the other end of the scale, 8C, feels darn cold. Many of the expat workers in the fields are from hot steamy countries and the bone chilling cold of the desert nights in poor, inadequate shelter causes illnesses. Sheryll and her volunteers collect winter clothes and shoes, blankets, and any other item useful for keeping warm and distributes this largesse where it's needed.

The OH people also repatriate injured or ailing expats, serve as advocates when required, and now, have started Esther's Closet. I was so impressed with the layout and the items. It's like a lovely little vintage or upscale secondhand shop like I'd find in my upscale and touristy hometown. Prices are reasonable, and all the money from the items donated goes back into the work of looking after those who haven't the means or the opportunity to look after themselves.

Esther's Closet opens tomorrow, 21 January 2012 at 10 am. Regular hours will be Saturday 10 - 1 pm for expats, and Tuesdays 1 - 4 for domestics. This distinction is important - Sheryll and her staff have a way of taking care of the indentured slaves here that helps to restore a little of their dignity and humanity. Tuesdays at Esther's Closet will be special.

I know Sheryll has an old-fashioned yard sale planned in the near future, and further events to raise money for and awareness of the plight of the people who are really the ones who make this country viable. If you have items you would like to donate, or you'd like to go and part with a few KD in support of a good cause (I found some amazing things!) please contact the office.

From the Operation Hope website: If you are able to make a financial contribution, volunteer a few hours of your time, or donate gently used clothing or household items, please contact us at operationhopekuwait@yahoo.com or 9937-5613.

I've used Sheryll's real name, which means of course she'll know who I am in my Not-DaisyMae-Life, but I believe she's as good at secret keeping as I am... so I'll risk it. =)

You can find out more about Sheryll and her crew at www.ohkuwait.org.

The Life of Riley

2012-01-17T20:10:00.000+03:00

Apparently, this was a TV show. ??

When I was young, Most Marvelous Father would occasionally exclaim, 'This is the life of Riley!' and we would all agree, since this invariably happened when we were in the lap of luxury or self-indulgent relaxation. I can recall a few times when he would say this as we were floating along in the canoe, paddles quiet, hoping to see a moose in the early morning mist. Sometimes, we would be kicked back in the backyard, stuffed from the barbecue, and Most Marvelous Father would be surveying his 2 acre domain (also known as the 'Money Pit'). Gazing out over the motley collection of animals in the pasture, he would be compelled to reference the aforementioned Riley.

Recently, I have acquired a live-in housekeeper, a luxury not to be considered in the Great White Up. Nooooooo... at least not in my snack bracket. [One of my friends has a "Family Manager" but one would never dare believe her a mere "housekeeper."] There's just HandyMan and me in our flat in SandyTown. We didn't plan on a live-in housekeeper. We had a lovely Sri Lankan maid who came twice a week and kept us together.

Over a year ago, due to the strange and inexplicable laws in SandyTown, it became necessary for me to sponsor the office maid. Something about her particular category of visa and the King of Beans having no more visa slots on his civil ID. So... what does it matter to me? I signed where I was told, appeared when I was requested, and eventually became the sponsor of a very tiny Philippina with a feisty attitude and borderline OCD when it comes to cleaning.

No big deal.

Until she had to go back to the Philippines in November because her brother died. Off she went, and we promptly learned that the Philippine Overseas Labour Office (POLO) was not going to allow her to come back because her contract had not been validated. Oh dear. Much rushing about of normally inefficient and ineffective mandoobs, and voile! I am called to appear before the Labour Attache to attest to my fitness to sponsor a domestic worker. Fortunately for me, the POLO office is presided over by David Des Dicang, an efficient, committed man, determined to see that Overseas Foreign Workers (OFW) are treated fairly. He's also my friend. So, he reviewed the contract, pointed out that my civil ID was expiring in three days, and then asked me to sign the form verifying that Miz Feisty was getting all she was entitled to, including "...room and board with sponsor."

What?!!

It is impossible to live in SandyTown without breaking the law (not including the speed limits). Really. There is simply no way to live here without running afoul of some law on the books, and this is accepted as a reality of this culture. Having said that, most of the expats and Kuwaitis I know don't break the law unnecessarily. So... I told David if I am required to have Miz Feisty live with me since I am her sponsor, I guess she'll live with me. No need to break the law frivolously (not including the speed limits).

Sort of like my house

Sooooooooo... Manee was discharged with much tears and regret, and Miz Feisty came to live with us. She immediately established that she does not go out. "No. I go home and clean." Alrighty then, home it is. She goes to work, then goes home, and she cleans. She loves His Evilness and the Usurper who have both returned the sentiment since discovering the new person keeps their bowls filled and the litterbox clean. Traitors.

This morning when I got up there was breakfast. Today at work, I had the most yummy lunch, brought from home by Miz Feisty. (She still works with me as an office maid). And tonight when I go home, there will be supper because we bought groceries from the list we were given. ("There is no food! How I cook?") Oh yeah.

The house sparkles, the fridge is clean, and I feel incredibly spoiled.

Riley never had it so good.

Google is Our Friend

2012-01-17T15:17:00.000+03:00

...and now, Google is a therapeutic tool.

First animated logo (the apple falls a la Newton)

A good friend is lovingly shepherding her father through the grief of dementia as he loses his ability to stay connected to the present and takes refuge in the past. Recently, as he talked of memories of his youth which she has never heard before, she had her son use Google to find images, street views, and other memorabilia of her father's youth. She wrote to me how his eyes had sparkled as he pointed out the corner where he lived (the house was gone but the trees were much bigger); how the field where he had played important games still held on to a corner of a city block some 60+ years later. Even as her son would report that this or that building had been replaced, he would be able to find a photo of the same spot, posted by a stranger, which prompted delight and another memory from his grandfather.

Social media has changed our lives in ways that can hardly be comprehended. We talk about postings "going viral" and lament how the youth of today don't get that once something is posted, it's "out there" forever. A mistake or indiscretion becomes the fodder of millions, and the shame has driven some to suicide. People think of themselves as 'out there' - they no longer end at their fingertips, but extend themselves ethereally into cyberspace, encountering other disembodied souls on their way to somewhere else. These encounters have a real world impact.

I've recently joined Twitter, and had the opportunity to experience some of this for myself. I try to send out one tweet every day, relevant to my professional life, and still feel a little frisson of anxiety when I hit the "Send" button. 'Where is this going?' 'Who will see it' and probably more relevant to my totally Choleric self, 'WILL anyone see it?' Last week, as a part of the duties of my Not-DaisyMae-life, I spoke at an event covered by the media. The event was reported in many newspapers, and I dutifully tweeted, retweeted, and posted all about it. (Whom am I kidding? It wasn't "dutifully" at all... it was 'gleefully') The King of Beans, who was not at the event, is a follower of mine on Twitter and he retweeted the coverage to his 4, 700 followers. Now, that one event has provided more exposure for me professionally than anything I've done to date. Hoo ha. Mind you, thinking about this information being 'out there' - it also means that The Witch has potential new fodder for her ongoing "Shred DaisyMae" Project. Social media is a double-edged sword.

Back to Google. As the Trivia Queen, I figured out early that Google was the Bee's Knees; the Cat's Pajamas; and the Bomb all rolled into one. I've been using this resource since it first became a viable way to get information. Over the years it's morphed into a behemoth that sends out little algorithm go-bots on a constant basis to mine the Net for keywords, to map sites, and to catalogue, categorize, and compile the world's trivia. And because it does this so well, my friend and her son can take a frail, bedridden and precious loved one on a trip down memory lane, enriching them all by the experience.

Google honours Richard Trevithick

Autolease Rocks

2012-01-07T14:44:00.002+03:00

We have a new, newnewnew ZoomZoom. 34km on the odometer when we picked it up. Did we ask for this largesse? Noooooo. We are obviously reaping the benefits of being blessed.

When I first came to Kuwait, I did not drive. HandyMan came to visit me in December and said, "Why are you not driving? It sucks to take taxis everywhere."
"I am not driving because I don't care about taking taxis. You do."
"You can do this. Let's rent a car."

He prevailed, and we rented a car. I did get the hang of driving here (and as you know, have adopted the local driving customs with enthusiasm) and rented cars as I needed them for the time when I was here by myself. So I've driven a Chevy Impala (not bad), BMW Coupe (so-so), an Audi Quattro (niiiiiice), and several tin cans from Toyota, Honda, and Seat (a Spanish brand). Eventually, I leased a car on a year contract from AutoLease. A little Peugeot I called "ZipZip" because I have the ridiculous habit of naming my vehicles. ZipZip was cute, peppy, and very, very small. Frighteningly so in a world of Hummers and SUVs on steroids.

Stormy Blue Mica

When we returned to Kuwait together, we decided to lease something bigger when the ZipZip was finished. AutoLease was good to us and for our budget, we could get a Mazda CX-9. This one was blue, and promptly became "Blue LaZoom." Very fast, just the right type of big to muscle into lineups and off ramps, and most importantly, leased. When it broke down (something to do with the electrical system and the stupid key) AutoLease rescued us, gave us another vehicle and returned ours all repaired. Hoo ha.

Eventually, Blue LaZoom outlived her usefulness (too many miles) and Paulino at AutoLease called and asked if we could please come and get a new CX-9?

Copper Red Mica

Of course we can.
This one turned out to be a very sexy red (so Miz CEO pointed out) and was christened 'Foxy ZoomZoom' and we tooled around town looking totally hot. When Foxy broke down (battery cooked in the 58C sunshine), once again AutoLease magically appeared, set everything right, and away we went.

When the tires got shredded somehow (jumping the curbs for those DIY exits or unmarked parking spots?), the magic man from AutoLease appeared in our office parking lot, changed the tires and vanished. How much more painless can it be?

Two days ago, Paulino called and said, "I have a new car for you."
"Really? Why are we getting a new vehicle?"
"The 2008 is too old and we will sell it."
"Ah. So what are we getting in return?"
"A brand new CX-9, Madam. 34km only. From the port to here."
"Same price?"
"Yes, Madam. Same price but new."
"Wow. We'll come tomorrow."
"Very good, Madam."

We dutifully appeared at AutoLease's new location across the 5th Ring from Avenues Mall, having dejunked Foxy to the point where transferring our accumulated detritus wasn't going to look like we were moving house.

"Oh. That is not a nice colour."
"You don't like Platinum, Madam?"
"No, I don't like Platinum."
"We only have Platinum and Dolphin Pearl Grey."
"Ugh. We managed to miss out on the Dolphin Pearl Grey last time. It isn't any nicer this time. We'll stick with Platinum."

Liquid Silver Metallic

So, now we're slightly weak from exposure to 'Eau de New Car' off-gasses and are driving in this freezing weather with the windows open, but we have a groovy stereo, a heads up display with a back-up camera, and no sun roof (which is highly overrated in this smoking hot country). What we don't have is a name. I'm still thinking.

In the meantime, if you're in Kuwait and you're looking to lease, AutoLease rules. They have one year lease deals for teachers at a good price, and their service is the best. Unfortunately, they don't lease Hummers.
I'm still determined to get me a Hummer.

Spit in your eye

2011-12-28T20:39:00.000+03:00

I wear contacts. I've worn contacts since I was about 15ish years old and had finally, after what felt like endless begging and whingeing, managed to get my parents to fork over for contacts instead of glasses at my yearly eye exam. At that point, I hardly can blame my parents for holding out as long as they could - contacts were expensive and not generally given to irresponsible people under the age of 35.

My Marvelous Mother can correct me, but I don't think I was irresponsible with my glasses - in fact, I was thrilled that I could see. MusicMan, on the other hand, was a dab hand at misplacing, breaking, losing, or otherwise mashing his glasses, generally requiring replacement. One year I think he lost two pairs of glasses in quick succession in the depths of Bear Lake. His carelessness did not endear him to me because he became the mantra used by my parents to stave off purchasing contacts for me. Life is so unfair. [To which my unfazed mother would instantly reply, "Whoever told you life was fair... lied."]

When I was growing up my mother appeared to be a rock - unmoved by whining, emotional distress, manipulation, or blackmail. I suspect our disgruntlement with Youngest Spoiled Bother is that he appeared to reap all the benefit of the years it took we older siblings to wear her down into the marshmallow she was in Dv8ed's hands. (I'll get it from both - Most Marvelous Mother has never, ever been described as a "marshmallow" and Dv8ed will once again insist that I am suffering from Guinea Pig Syndrome. But I know what I know.)

But I wander. Contacts.

Today, I wear Acuvue Moist. They're daily lenses, so I put them in from a groovy little packet in the morning and throw them out at night. Feels luxuriously wasteful. I suppose I could make them last seeing as I became an expert at making 30 day lenses last for six months, but I don't want to. It feels so good to start fresh every morning. These lenses are ultra thin and difficult to handle but I've had lots of practice.

This is not me.

This morning, I put in the right lens, and The Usurper appeared out of nowhere as she usually does, leaping into the sink and batting the opened lens packet onto the floor. She has done this for weeks. I pick up the little plastic doohickeys every night and put them in the garbage. The left lens wasn't so nice. It didn't feel right, so I took it out again and flipped it inside out and tried again. Worse. So once more, I took out the lens, cleaned it, flipped it, and put it back in. Not nice, but manageable.

I decided it must have something on it because one of the lovely things about these lenses is that I can't feel them. At all. So this bit of discomfort was aggravating. Never mind that I've worn contacts so grody with protein that the optometrist threw them out and gave me take a free sample while threatening not to sell me any contacts because I was "...going to go blind if you keep doing that." Fifteen years later, I'm thinking he lied.

After a teary-eyed, blink filled trip to work, I decided to try to fix the problem. Took out the contact and then realized that I had no saline. Darn! The contact was already in my hand, so I kind of rubbed it hoping to dislodge whatever gooby was causing the problem. After eyeballing the contact, I realized that it was probably inside out. I went to flip and it stuck together. Being so flimsy, it dried out in 1.7 seconds.

Now what? No saline, and I know by experience that water doesn't work. Hmmm.... Maybe if I lick it?
Alrighty then, that worked. Without further ado I popped the slimy thing back into my eye, looked at myself in the mirror and almost gagged.

Really. My contact was happily sitting on my left eye just like it should, and my sensibilities were somehow offended and my eyeball was trying to wretch. How weird. Mentally, I'm grossed out by what I just did and wishing my eye could cringe. I must have looked very strange walking back to my office listing to the left.

Just writing about it my left eye wants to close and I am hard put not to twitch. I think I'll go buy an emergency bottle of saline.

Twits

2011-12-27T14:46:00.004+03:00

I am tweeting. I know, I know. I have in the past been rather scornful of the whole Twitter deal, referring to those who tweet as twits (and worse) believing that the Social Venn diagram above is accurate and probably needed to be added as a new diagnosis in the DSM.

Yet, here I am, tweeting.

The King of Beans read a book on using social media effectively and subsequently ordered several changes in the way I'm doing things (happens to minions everywhere). Clearly, marketing has gone far beyond the highway billboard and the local paper. So now I'm sending out thoughtful, psychologically related missives of 140 characters or less. I can see how the generations who've grown up with Twitter as the main medium of instant communication would lose their ability to write a whole paragraph in real words. More importantly, it seems obvious that they're losing the ability to pay attention after the 140 character maximum has been reached.

I really have to be mindful of what I'm going to say because I refuse to use chatspeak. I will not say 'u' or 'r' as in "r u gng 2 party?" I don't replace words with numbers and I certainly insist on using capital letters and proper punctuation. The Glorious Grrls laugh at me. Apparently they have been known to show my BB messages to their friends. Whole words. Oooh ah.

HandyMan has defected to the dark side and uses the chatspeak he can remember. Mostly I'm left trying to decipher what he means because he makes up his own abbreviations without regard to accepted form. Chatspeak is as much about what the word looks like as what it sounds like. i.e., Gr8t. So if I sound disgruntled, I am. My new iPhone is designed to make me wish I had Tinkerbelle's thumbs or force me to use the least number of letters possible in order to say what I want and still avoid the epic fails so hilariously preserved on www.damnyouautocorrect.com

Had a few autocorrect fails already which I managed to catch before hitting send. Whew.

So if you know who I am, you'll be able to follow my brilliantly brief tweets.

Guerilla hits

2011-12-27T10:28:00.001+03:00

Just in case you're confused.

Clearly, in these horridly busy days/weeks if I'm going to blog I'll have to do the guerilla thing. Short and punchy.

So. Christmas with palm trees and sunshine isn't all bad. Nice big dinner at Chez DaisyMae with requisite turkey, stuffing, and weird food from other cultures and traditions. All good. Mrs. Longsuffering kindly supplied me with a lovely bottle of Irish Tea, which I am hoarding all to myself. HandyMan has an entire bar from which to choose thanks to the departed (and missed) Bad Boy Bean Counter. As he pointed out wryly, "We've never had a bar like this in a country where the stuff is legal." Indeed.

One should always have friends such as these. We even got a Skype call from MathMan and Gypsy who were celebrating the season with a far more foodie type occasion in Paris. Hoo ha.

"You know that nothing?"

2011-12-11T17:02:00.001+03:00

"...it's now become Something."

I haven't written for awhile. Combination of busyness, soul sickness, and time warbles. Einstein's Theory of Relativity has been called into question with the new contention that there is something faster than the speed of light (duh!) and I'm all discombobulated as a result. For four weeks in a row now I've lost a day. This is not a good thing. Anyway, I looked and I haven't written since November 3rd.

Yikes!

So... to sum up.

This river only exists after a monsoon...

Oman was lovely, pictures on my Fb page if you know how to get there from here. We survived Tropical Cyclone Keila on the drive from Muscat to Salalah, and horrible sunburn later in the week. We will definitely go back. Here's one pic - this was pretty spectacular, and it was crowded with sightseers.

The Usurper is growing quickly, and has actually changed His Evilness for the better. She's taught him how to sit nicely, how to purr on cue, and that HE can't remain dignified while a small, naughty version of himself is chewing on his tail. She's been delightful, though we have had to denude the bottom third of the Christmas tree in order to have any peace at all. Ms Usurper has claimed the lower branches as her hiding place. It may be she's imagining herself as some leopard, climbing a tree to drop on an unsuspecting lion. HE is never amused when she falls on him from a three foot height. We laugh.

Someone posted a great description of Durian on Fb - if you've never had it, you might want to read this before running out and buying one.

It's like eating pudding in a public men's toilet block surrounded by smelly socks and rotting onion.

There is no possible way to exaggerate how bad Durian smells. Even with a clothespin on my nose I couldn't "...muscle my way past the gag reflex." (Ratatouille) I'm told it actually tastes good but I'll never know.

The Ahmadi Music Group did their usual brilliant and enjoyable thing on Dec 9 & 10, complete with Santa visit. The best part for me is watching Richard Bushman, the choir master, jive his way through the evening. He hardly actually waves his arms at the musicians - but they seem quite accustomed to his entire body approach to conducting. Anyway, very cool. Loved the visit from the King and the Kuwait rendition of "Blue Christmas." Harriet Bushman is also a prolific composer, and her three compositions were incredible. I bought her book, though I think mostly it will serve as a keepsake since I can't even hope to manage the music in it.

The next concert is in January, and they're doing Duke Ellington, The Sacred Concerts. Should be amazing. The Kuwait Jazz Collective will join them, so it will be another stellar night for culture in the bare and dusty desert of the Middle East. Tickets available online at Ahmadi Music Group or from any member should you be fortunate enough to know one.

My fave

The title of today's blog refers to the Chocolate Queen's latest escapade. The Ministry of Morals and Decorum (or whatever it's called) confiscated a box of her chocolates at Customs because the label contained the word "alcohol."
*Gasp!*
The offending morsels were rushed off to the lab, where it was determined that this particular batch contained .0002% alcohol by volume. (One would have to eat approximately 175,000 Fruit Pastilles in order to achieve a buzz equivalent to one glass of wine. I believe I'll pass.) Anyway, CQ ended up with trolls putting red tape all over her hoity toity store in Avenues Mall, while gleefully ordering her to give them 8 pieces of every different chocolate in the store. That equals about 100KD of chocolate... or $365 CAD. Her Highness called her Kuwaiti partner who said, "Dear Chocolate Queen, this is a nothing. Do not worry about it. I will speak to someone and it will all go away." Two days later when she was summoned to appear before the Head Troll, CQ (who is a feisty former Vancouverite) was screeching down the phone, "You know that nothing?! It's now become something! And I'll fix it myself."
And she did.
As we speak, she is back in business, selling hundreds of KD per day of quality Belgian chocolate which she now hand carries from Belgium on her bimonthly trips to the chocolatier. She's racking up the airmiles expecting at some point to be upgraded to First Class, at which time she believes Murphy's Law will mean being arrested for something by the American trolls guarding the world's air travel. (Everyone say, "Thank you." [geck]) Death by chocolate, anyone?

The Aranui - stolen from Marie's blog

My friend Marie Javins is currently on a freighter headed for the Marquesas Islands and eventually home for Christmas (NY). She's had an absolutely amazing adventure and I've been privileged to be her Fb friend, which has introduced me to a whole other world of comic colorists and graphics animators. These are the people who write/draw for Marvel Comics, Teshkeel Media Group, Pixar... they are weird. Really. There's no other word for it. Well... except maybe hilariously funny. I'm looking forward to her next book.

HandyMan continues to be his strong and steadfast self, while I run myself ragged until I can't run anymore and decide to adopt his oh, so cool outlook on life. The Amazing Grrls are great as always, and the Glorious Grandsons are getting the hang of Skype. Nothing like hearing little voices shouting, "It's Opa and Oma in the 'puter!" Wonderful.

I have to make like I'm working.

New Experience

2011-11-03T17:10:00.001+03:00

Our holiday to Oman has turned into an adventure. This is normal for us. I don't think we do anything without having an adventure. Driving from Muscat, the desert in the center of Oman was flat but certainly not featureless. The landscape changed regularly. It was beautiful and bleak. We skirted the Rub Al Khali (the Empty Quarter) and saw sand dunes, pink rock, and camels. No oryx (except as statues). Oh, and a jerboa, the cross between a kangaroo and a mouse. Huge big ears and long legs. Huge is relevant because the whole thing is only about three inches tall.
Anyway, about 200 kms from Salalah, it started to rain. The rain got worse and the engineering flaws in the road construction soon became obvious. The road didn't drain except in rivers across the highway about every fifty feet. When we got to Salalah, we learned the Marriott is actually another 86 km from the city, out on a point of land.
The rain became so heavy we couldn't see when the lights were on low beam. We passed a lorry accident while winding through the hills down to the coast. At one point, HandyMan tried to pass a very slow moving taxi, only to plow into water nearly as high as the wheel wells.
I screamed. I admit it.
We followed the road which got narrower and less well lit until we were about 6 km from the hotel (signage being rather scarce). We came up to two vehicles stopped on the road. One facing away from us, one facing toward us. Behind them was a raging torrent across the road.
Oh dear.
The van facing us had run through the water and stalled. The other car facing the torrent was just sitting there. The rain meant we couldn't really see the other side, but we could certainly see that the water was rushing so fast that it was backed up in about the middle of the road because of the debris on the side. HandyMan said, "We can do this. We'll go slow."
Shriek!!!
All I could imagine was sliding off the road into the torrent flowing toward the sea. I watch WAY too many news shows.
HandyMan prevailed and we inched our way through the water and made it safely to the other side. The car went "burble, burble" but made it without a hitch. We drove up to the hotel security gate and the men didn't even come outside - they just put up the gate. And we were confronted with more water than was running across the road!
Anyway, the hotel informed us that we had come through Tropical Cyclone Keila.
Wha...?!
As HandyMan said to me later, "I wondered if this was a hurricane but I wasn't going to say anything to you."
Good thinking.

So here's the scoop.

P.S. It was so fun to do a typical "Canadian" road trip. 1100 km. Bliss.

The Travel Bug

2011-11-01T17:23:00.000+03:00

The sky beckons.

The tickets are bought,

the luggage packed,

and the 'To Do' list mostly beaten.

Anything that's left can wait.

Even if it can't.
Goin' to Winnipeg.*

I am on vacation. So ha.

Here's to foreign road trips, posh hotels, and spying on fishes.

Hopefully, we'll see one of these.

*Totally Canadian reference. Click here

Rituals and Traditions

2011-11-01T13:21:00.004+03:00

As is our wont, HandyMan and I went out for breakfast this morning. We are off on a holiday, and one of our traditions is to get up while G-d is still sleeping and leave, getting breakfast "down the road." This is not possible when one is flying somewhere, but we've adapted. This morning we were up ridiculously early and having put everything we could think of in a suitcase, decided we had time to go out for a "we are already on holidays" breakfast. HandyMan nearly lost his salvation because of the traffic, but as we were debating about where to go, we passed Jabriya, and HandyMan suggested The Early Bird.

Oh yeah.

15 minutes traffic filled minutes later, we found the little tiny hole-in-the-wall that is one of Kuwait's best breakfast places. Actually, it's one of the best breakfast places ever. It's just if it were anywhere else, it would be a monster success. Here, it's two small cafes, one in Jabriya and one in Fahaheel. Anyway, either location, breakfast is always good. (The Jabriya location has some really cool wait staff.)

What I really started thinking about was rituals and traditions. Specifically, how the rituals and traditions of my family and HandyMan's family had been morphed, discarded, or remade into something unique to he and I and the Glorious Girls. And that made smile to think about the times we have laughed ourselves sick as a family because of some hilarious incident which immediately became the stuff of family legend, incorporated into the lexicon of our shared memories.
Like, "Hitting the road..." eh, AMG?
Or, "Just act natural."
Or, "Adventures a la automobile." (I think 'adventure with tires' is about all we've ever owned, including Cruella the Cadillac DeVille)
Or, "Let's go for a drive." ...800 miles later...
Or any line, of any scene from The Princess Bride, appropriately deployed, will reduce us all to cackling cretins, regardless of time and place. Any family member who snorts beverage out the nose, loses.

That pleasant train of thought got interrupted as I comprehended the bumper sticker stuck to the bulletin board at The Early Bird. (clicking link will open a new window) I think I may have been staring vacantly into space, lost in my reminiscing. Not that I forgot to eat my very yummy biscuits and gravy. No. I did not.

The bumper sticker read, "Well-behaved women rarely get noticed."

Bwahahaha!!!

Alrighty then. I'm all over that one.

That made me think of other bumper stickers I've read that I either loved or made me laugh. I'm thinking and eating. (HandyMan is only eating. He does not multi-task.)

Like...

Dyslexics of the world, untie!

DADD: Dad's Against Daughters Dating. Shoot the first; word will get around.

Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did... only backwards and in high heels.

Don't meddle in the affairs of dragons for you are crunchy and good with ketchup.

PETA - People Eating Tasty Animals (horribly un-PC I know, but I'm a carnivore. Sorry)

US Marine Corps - When it absolutely, positively must be destroyed overnight.

And a pic I couldn't resist - shameless brand hijack. Tsk, tsk.

While we're on the subject, I can't be done without a mention of my favorite dose of Schadenfreude - www.despair.com. (clicking link will open a new window) When I am truly maxed out with people, I get a bit of perspective by cruising the offerings by Despair Inc. Not a one could I ever put up anywhere, but just being able to go and say out loud what feels like a reality sandwich helps restore my equilibrium. And, I laugh.

And we all know how important that is.

Homeostasis

2011-10-31T17:19:00.001+03:00

The only time she's behaving herself

Finally, after four weeks and much hissing, His Evilness and The Usurper have come to an understanding. Mostly, I think she just wore HE down as babies do. The first few days were horrible. His Evilness disappeared entirely, only to be heard hissing indignantly when Little Miss would come upon him in her exploring. She, too, is a Kuwaiti stray, and doesn't know how to behave. Consequently she ignored the hissing and the spitting and went about her business of making the house hers. His Evilness could stay in the couch stuffing forever as far as she was concerned. She ate from his dish, peed in his sandbox, and scratched up his rug. He just watched.
The second week, HE began stalking The Usurper. Anytime she wasn't looking, he could be seen skulking up behind her with clearly evil intent. This dissipated immediately if she turned to look at him. He immediately made like couch stuffing again, and she went serenely about her business, tail high. The unfortunate part of this period was that both cats decided that the battle ground would be our bed.

"Madam, cat make kaka."
"What?"
"Kaka. You know the poop. In your bed. I clean?"
"Wha..?!! Our bed! (HandyMan is gagging from the ManDen. )
"I clean, Madam. Don't worry."
"Gross, gross, gross! Yes, clean."

As we are standing there discussing this development, The Usurper raced passed us down the hallway, leaped on our bed and PEED. She scrambled off the other side onto the floor and under the dresser.

"Madam," says our housekeeper, deadpan. "Cat pee on your bed."
"Crap!
"No," says HandyMan, "pee. And if you think I'm sleeping in that bed, you're out of your mind. Whose idea was it to get a kitten anyway?"
"Yours! And I'm not sleeping that bed either."
"I clean, Madam. Don't worry."
"Thanks. And keep the door shut."
"Yes, Madam."

Fortunately, everything was washable, and we kept the door closed for the next two weeks. That meant His Evilness really didn't have any escape from The Usurper, and she haunted him, attacking his tail, biting his ears, and generally ignoring his curmudgeonly crankiness. In the end, she won. Now, they play - if you could call the stiff, reluctant engagement of His Evilness, 'play.' But at least they are getting along. Thankfully.

Now, we're back to normal with HE enthroned on the bed once again. The Usurper is becoming much more polite and seems to have actually learned her place. Occasionally she becomes too annoying and gets soundly bitten by HE for her trouble, but she takes it in good grace.

Not so impressed

HandyMan and I were sitting on the sofa recently, quietly reading and minding our own business, and The Usurper was doing what all babies do. Licking things, tasting everything, knocking stuff on the floor, bounding from sofa to coffee table to chair to side table to sofa without touching the floor. After a second run over my iPad and through HandyMan's hair, we looked at each other.

"We'd never survive a real baby."
"Nope. We'll barely survive this one."
"Indeed."

But His Evilness is not lonely anymore. And that's important.

De-funked Mojo

2011-10-23T10:33:00.001+03:00

I was thinking I would write something a little more upbeat having talked with the Glorious Girls, and gotten enough sleep in Bahrain to actually feel like I'm caught up. The effect is gone after today's craziness, but for just a few moments there I felt mostly good.

Feeling funky isn't all that pleasant (at least for me being more Pollyanna than Eeyore) and I wanted to be over it. All sorts of well-meaning friends and family weighed in on the subject, and the overwhelming majority said I just needed to "...count my blessings."

"Be thankful."

"Think about things you're grateful for."

Not gonna argue there. Doin' it.

Still feeling funky. But, I had a tiny little epiphany in Bahrain. Right around the time I was thinking about taking my second nap of the day....

Thus began "Feeling Funky (Part II)." But that's as far as I got before being interrupted, and today, as I get back to it, things are different.

Yesterday, I had the chance to have a looooooooooooooooooong conversation with HandyMan since we were flaked out at home doing our best imitation of dead people. (FG - does this mean we technically qualify as zombies?)

I am tired. Worn out. Fatigued. Bagged. Knackered. Bushed. Wasted. Toast. Exhausted.

This level of tiredness goes beyond not having enough sleep, or partying on the weekend. The unremitting stress of the current circumstances combined with chronic health issues and no real down time since last February have conspired together to produce exhaustion. And when I'm exhausted, I can't think. I feel like I'm swimming through molasses all the time (or 'treacle' as our Brit friends say), and struggle to summon up the energy to face the day's tasks.

HandyMan reminded me that being tired just trashes my perspective and Pollyanna goes straight out the window. [In fact, I throw her out myself and watch her splat on the pavement.] He's right. I occasionally manage to successfully forget that MS does not go away. Ever. And so I power through my life as if rest is something wimps do. I haven't really had a break since February when we hid out in Oman for five days. I've been away from my job, but fantastic, amazing experiences aside, running around after three little grandbabies for 3 weeks isn't a rest. It's a change. I wouldn't do anything different for our time with them, but the end result is tired.

So Pollyanna has disappeared. It occurs to me that just like an addict, when I get Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired (HALT), my mojo gets funky. And HandyMan can make me laugh, which restores balance to my universe. He also listens. Really listens and figures out what I'm not saying in all the things I do say. [Maybe this is why he's so good at what he does - I'm certainly a fan.]

I'm counting down the time to 10 whole days of rest. Off to Oman to spy on fishes, look for turtles, and read. Do nothing. No phones, no calls, no work. I can hold it together these last few days and when I come back, I fully expect to be able to figure out accurately what needs to be tossed, renovated, or retooled in my life. Pollyanna will miraculously resurrect and perkily smile as I make room for ME in my life.

I'll have my mojo back. Oh yeah.

HM is my hero.

Omani Turtle - any encounter would be good mojo

On being Funky

2011-10-10T16:06:00.000+03:00

It is not too often that I feel overwhelmed by life. As y'all know, I have a pretty deeply entrenched Pollyanna attitude toward life, mostly taking things in stride with only minor temper tantrums, generally only witnessed by HandyMan, who is, was, and always will be my hero. He puts up with me.

But generally speaking, I do more than just endure life. When I travel, I expect to have an adventure. I usually get what I expect. I'm interested in new things, new experiences, new ways to improvise and overcome unforeseen obstacles. Like cancelled flights, flat tires, no gas, full hotels, floods, snow, and even on occasion, misplaced animals. Every time we move (which is often) I expect to enjoy the new house, city, province, country... whatever. I'm a good schmoozer and joiner, and I get busy making friends and getting connected.

In daily life I mostly like mornings, even in the face of 30 years of HandyMan's unremitting refusal to consider getting up as a legitimate thing to do. I like to sit with myself on our big sofa and contemplate the shape of the day. I read, play with His Evilness (who has only recently begun to speak to me again after the introduction of The Usurper), and contemplate life. I love my job, I like GulfTown (Truth!), and I love living in a kaleidoscope of cultures. All good.

Lately, however, I've been dragging a bit. I'm not very happy with negative emotions and I don't handle feeling down very well. In fact, I hate it. I have so much to be thankful for, so much in my life that it wonderful and worthwhile, that I end up berating myself internally for feeling funky. Recently, this became an issue as others have begun asking me, "Are you okay?" Argh!!! It's really bad if the funk is showing enough for other people to wonder what's wrong with me. I figured I'd better do something along the lines of "physician, heal thyself" before my clients decide I need to see someone.

One of the things I often suggest is a running list, stuck to the fridge. One side says, "Things I'm thankful for," and the other side says "Things that Suck." Usually (or so my clients tell me) this is an effective exercise because the things to be thankful for are pretty permanent (job, health, kids, husband, chocolate, shoes...) and the sucky things can change daily. Or if they aren't shortly resolved, they don't tend to be permanent. So the thankful list grows, and the sucky list gets messy, scribbled, crossed out, and erased. I mean, really. Think back to this time a month ago. Or this day a year ago. I bet it's the same for you. The thankful list will be pretty similar, but the sucky list will have changed totally. Not always, but often enough for this to be a good exercise for depressed clients to do.

So I did it.

The thankful list is long, the sucky list is almost empty; (missing my girls & grandbabies, missing Most Marvelous Parents, no fall foliage...) certainly it doesn't contain anything major. Having finished, and expecting to feel a least a little better, I was most annoyed to realize that I still feel funky. Argh!!!

Go away, blues!

It's not working.

I shall think on this further. Stay tuned. Or not.

I.Am.Canadian.

2011-10-10T11:41:00.000+03:00

Just Funny

2011-10-09T11:53:00.001+03:00

If you like animal funnies (some great puns) check out www.icanhascheezburger.com. (Skip if you're MathMan)

Hockey Season is here!

2011-10-09T11:50:00.000+03:00

Expanding Boxes

2011-10-09T11:32:00.000+03:00

Art Discussion Panel

I recently had occasion to attend a new gallery opening in Kuwait. The Contemporary Arts Platform (CAP) is a new space in the Life Center in Shuwaikh. Well, the edge of Shuwaikh for all of you thinking, "Ewwwww! Shuwaikh?! Can anything good come out of Shuwaikh?" Where the 55 and the 4th Ring intersect. Precisely.

The invitation arrived by email, as do all invitations these days, and I was intrigued. I'm not necessarily a fan of contemporary art. I look at some of the stuff and think, "I could have done that." This immediately creates a sense of outrage that someone else paid mucho dineros for this piece of non-art, and that if I had done the same thing, I couldn't have given it away. There is no justice in this world. (The adult way of saying, "No fair!")

Isabelle Hughes

Off I went at the prescribed time, and as a good Canadian, arrived right on time and before the art. Not quite, but there certainly wasn't anyone else there. I got to look at all the pieces and read the little blurbs without any fear of blocking anyone else or taking too long in front of any certain piece. I made sure to read every legend and carefully consider every work. Fortunately, there was no there to see me gecking at quite a number of the installations. I also talk to myself as I view these pieces, and I was quite thankful there was no one there to hear my commentary. Surprisingly, given my aforementioned issues with contemporary art, there were a number of pieces I found evocative and thought provoking, and a couple I even loved.

The pieces all belong to locals, a part of the collections of the more culturally inclined Kuwaitis who also have money to spend on things other than food and lodging.

The Liberators

The evening was actually totally enjoyable. Once the pretty people started arriving ("fashionably" late), the gallery began to resemble anything you'd find in New York. The plumage rivaled Fashion Week, and the amount of bare skin, $$$ shoes, and trendy young men belied our Middle East locale. The highlight, however, were the lectures. Omar Something-or-Other from CAP Magazine, Isabella de la Bruyere, Director, Christies Middle East, Isabelle Hughes, Museum Curator & Art Critic, Dubai, and Steven Sabella, Artist, all gave short, excellent lectures. I felt very old listening to Isabelle Hughes give her 15 minute lecture on the history of art in the Middle East from Pre-Islamic to Contemporary. She looked like a mere child (I'm sure she's younger than my daughters) but she was fascinating. Isabella de la Bruyere (I wonder if she's related to the cheese?) did Buying Art 101, and should I ever fall into an extra million or so, I'll know just what to look for when spending it. Steven Sabella, whose own works were part of the evening's display, gave a great perspective on the commercial side of art from the artist's viewpoint. Funny and informative. Sitting in the front row (the advantages of being early) I felt suddenly like I've been a shadow of myself - this event was like a bath in culture. Suddenly, I'm invigorated. I learned lots of things I didn't know, was challenged in how I think about some things, and exposed to glorious creativity presented in forms outside my very boxy idea of same. I'm still thinking about some of the pieces, so I guess the whole deal is a success for CAP from their perspective.

The gallery is open for public viewing until the next opening, which I believe is mid-October. Give lie to the myth that there's nothing to do in Kuwait and go see it for yourself. It's a worthwhile trip.

Les Femmes du Maroc

My favorite pieces all portrayed faces/people in some way (Is there anyone surprised by this?). This triptych I really would have to buy if I had that million.

Blackberries and Stink Eye

2011-10-03T19:33:00.000+03:00

As is our habit, this morning we left the house to do a regular errand for HandyMan. On the way, he suggested we make Sunday mornings our breakfast date, since other commitments had intruded on our normal Thursday morning gig. 'Sure,' I said. I figured this would probably work out better anyway.
Dates for us are a funny thing these days. We have no children at home, so there is not that little frisson of excitement at "escaping" our responsibilities for an evening like there used to be when the Glorious Girls were still in the nest. The sense of liberty was somewhat dissipated by the fact that those same girls would insist that it must be time for a date because they needed a grandma fix. Or to see a favorite uncle or some such reason why mom and dad should go on a date.

Anyhoo...

We headed off to 360 (you know... the mall with no accessible entrances?) and Le Notre. The breakfast buffet is pricey @ 5KD, but the quality of the food is stellar. Occasionally, like yesterday, the service sucks, but hey. perfection is not required for me to enjoy myself. I went off to the buffet while HM watched my iPad. This probably isn't actually necessary, given that very little thievery of this sort happens in such upscale places as the mall, and at that time of the morning, the mall is empty, but I take no chances. So he guarded.

My plate was loaded with lovely fresh fruit, some non-fat yoghurt, dried apricots, figs, and raisins ("humiliated grapes" according to Amazing Middle Girl) and sugared hazelnuts. Oh. And some very lovely goat cheese, tiny pancakes, and a miniature croissant. Yum. HandyMan eyed my plate and then trotted off. He returned with a similarly loaded plate.

DM - "This fruit is gorgeous. And I didn't even put sugar on it. I'm eating it naked."
HM - "No you are not. You are fully clothed and sort-of in your right mind. Besides, sugar on fresh fruit is a sin, I'm sure."
DM - "You've obviously never eaten fresh rhubarb."
HM - "I like this buffet, but I try not to think about how much this is costing. If I figured out what I was paying per item on my plate, I would immediately cease to enjoy myself."
DM - "Right. Don't think about it. You'll do something embarrassing like try to bargain with the waiter. Wait! You have blackberries! Where are the blackberries?"
HM - "On the buffet."
DM - "Duh. I didn't see any blackberries with the fruit."
HM - "Nope."
DM - "Oh. You took the garnish off the cheese plate!"
HM - "Yup. And you didn't because you think it's against the rules to eat the plate decorations. Therefore I have blackberries and you do not."

[stink eye]

I'm considering going over to the Dark Side. They have blackberries.

Average, Shmaverage

2011-10-02T16:36:00.001+03:00

Oh yeah! Perfect weather is on it's way.

Average yearly temperatures for Kuwait (Fahrenheit)

Celsius is

...in reality, this summer was HOT.

From Desert Girl (repost)

2011-09-19T11:05:00.000+03:00

Calling Bidun Women in Kuwait

A representative from Refugees International is in Kuwait and would like to meet with Bidun ("stateless" - no nationality) women to discuss their personal stories; life, obstacles, what it is like for them and their children to have no nationality in Kuwait. It is extremely important that stateless people share their personal experiences so that others can understand the situation. No one else can be their voice.

As you may know, RI has been instrumental in bringing the Bidun cause to global attention through their reporting and activism. They have published numerous reports (check out here).

Please pass the word to Bidun friends who can get in contact directly with the RI rep. Contact e-mail is melanie@refintl.org.

Refugees International website is http://www.refintl.org/.

Maybe here?

2011-09-19T10:59:00.002+03:00

Bedoun protester in Jahra

Protests are happening. We saw the SWAT team and entourage go past while out today at lunch time. The weather has moderated so a noon walk is once more a pleasant break from sitting at a desk. The swirling dust, choking fumes, and sour gas emanating from the nearby sewers make this jaunt less healthful that one might suppose, however I am getting a nice dose of vitamin D. UV rays notwithstanding.

There were significant protests on Thursday night - though the police had apparently had advance notice and they managed to cut off access to the square where the protestors were planning to gather. Nothing much came of it except a little rock throwing. HandyMan pointed out that there were protests planned for today as well, and though they must be nearby since we are not too far from the Kuwait Legislature, we didn't see anything but the police presence.

Last night at dinner (Cuts, Movenpick Shuwaikh) we were discussing how the people who are protesting don't seem to be the people with the real issues. For example, the stateless (Bedoun jinsiyya - without nationality) have been quietly, implacably, and for the most part peacefully working their way toward being accepted as Kuwaitis. Their small demonstrations have been orderly and in aid of a specific piece of legislation or to move bureaucracy to implement a law already passed. Occasionally, rock-throwing youths trigger smoke bombs and water cannons in response.

Of all the Gulf States, Kuwait actually works for the most part. There are flaws in human rights, some issues with corruption, and the bureaucracy is a nightmare, however there is legally entrenched religious freedom, an elected legislature, and reform-minded Emir. It is proof that democracy, albeit gimpy, is a part of the politics because the legislature is currently paralyzed with an even number of for/against the Prime Minister's proposed bills. No army has swooped, nobody's been beaten, life has essentially carried on while the politicians posture and primp trying to get enough votes to sway the house one way or the other. Of the countries involved in the Arab Spring, none can say the same. I don't think taking down the Emir will have the desired end.

In fact, reviewing the news of the last few days, it appears the riots and demonstrations have been perpetrated by Kuwaiti emergency personnel (firemen) who demand that "fingerprint attendance be discontinued" and that allowances and benefits be paid to employees even during an extended leave of absence.

Oh.

Canadian Bank employees protesting

While not to make light of these serious grievances (I wouldn't want to be fingerprinted for my attendance either... I'd probably have to lie down if I knew how many hours I actually work in a week) the reporting in the Western world regarding the disturbances is somewhat misleading, obviously. If these riots are part of the Arab Spring Revolt, then my fellow Freezies should be prepared for civil servants to rise up and overthrow the elected gov't in Ottawa. Protesting for a shorter work week and better benefits doesn't exactly constitute global news... if it happens in Edmonton (that city of former champions) or Montreal. But apparently, any riot, anywhere in the Middle East gets major airtime if it's connected (legitimately or not) with the Arab Spring Revolt.

Media. Bah.

Dogs vs Cats

2011-09-18T11:25:00.002+03:00

Sorry. I can't pass this one up. His Evilness barely deigns to acknowledge when we speak, never mind come when he's called. That'll be the day.

The Dog's Diary
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Cat's Diary

Day 983 of My Captivity

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat,while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Gross.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now ... [Author Unknown]

A Woman's Perogative

2011-09-13T20:23:00.001+03:00

I've been posting a lot of drivel lately. Partly as a defense against having to think too hard, and partly because in not thinking too hard, I have nothing of consequence to write.

Una problema.

So I've been pondering (in between books, clients, research, crisis, and fatigue) about being in this job for almost two years, now. And thinking of significant days led me around to remembering that Saturday is HandyMan's 104th birthday. He's amazingly well-preserved, and I put this down to living with a much younger woman for so many years.

In our lifetime, HM has undergone a transformation regarding birthdays. Some of our earliest "discussions" had to do with what I perceived as his inexplicable and ridiculous stand on birthday celebrations. As in, they shouldn't happen. No amount of cajoling, talking, sulking, screaming, or manipulating could change his mind. Birthdays were out. Not afraid to take a decision, however, I celebrated all the family birthdays anyway. Grumbling and disgruntled, HandyMan would attend. And usually, he became his witty, cake-eating self at some point, and the party would be good.

Thanks to an extensive and appropriate education [GPA 4.0 *clapping*] HandyMan came to understand the very real angst underlying his dislike of natal days and changed his mind all by himself (are men allowed to do that?). Here we are, ready to mark off another year - he actually brought it up. Shocked me, I can tell you.

Good thing WE remembered, otherwise I would have been lootless in the moment. I actually like shopping for gifts. I'm not so much on just shopping, but when I'm looking for a gift for someone, I enjoy the process. Of course, this will be because my own love language is gifts. You know, presents, big or small. Loot.

Right.

What to get for HandyMan? Since he reads this blog, you needn't think I'm going to hint, but I am quite happy to consider your ideas between now and Friday when I plan to go hunting and gathering. What does one get for the 104 year-old man who has everything?

Hmmm.... (feel free to make your suggestions in the comment box below)

New use for shoes

2011-09-08T20:36:00.000+03:00

Thanks, Deano! This site is just about as hilarious as www.damnyouautocorrect.com. Both sites are a great way to get some perspective on life. There are some astoundingly clueless people in the world.

Seasick Steve

2011-09-08T20:09:00.000+03:00

Thanks to the Bad Boy Bean Counter, I have been exposed to a new blues dude... kinda like him.

: Read
I Started Out With Nothin Lyrics
here.

It's all relative

2011-09-08T17:02:00.000+03:00

Received by email as a response to one of my recent bits of dithering. I quite happily settle for "relatively" clever. *delightedclapping*

Frenchville

2011-09-08T15:58:00.001+03:00

St Joseph's Oratory, Montreal

It's true, I admit it. We have relatives living in Frenchville. This is mostly a well kept secret, and we speak of it only in whispers in dark corners after the majority of the family has retired for the night.

Being born and raised in the West of the Great White Up, anything east of the Saskatchewan (that would be Sah skat chew ahn)/Manitoba border is suspect. And French Land itself is Outer Mongolia. If it were not for the capital city perched in just such a way as to straddle the Ontario/Quebec border, most of the Great White Up citizens could safely meander without fear of touching French soil.

Those of you who spotted that Manitoba itself has been set aside would be so brilliant. There are a few isolated French settlements west of the Sask/Man border, but they are scattered and easily avoided. Manitoba, however, has a strange history which gains the Great White Up no glory. None at all. It is the seat of the Red River Rebellion. Louis Riel was Metis (the offspring of a Cree mother and a French father) and you can click on the link and read all about him your ownself. Fascinating. In any case, his existence and wretchedly inconvenient demand that the Metis be allowed to keep their culture and land (such a familiar refrain in the Great White Up) ended badly for him, and stranded French-speaking non-Quebecois in Manitoba. They also no longer speak any sort of French that would be understood in French Land. It's probably the only time ever that the French and the English united in the face of a common "enemy." Everybody treated the Metis badly. And if I tell the truth, it hasn't changed much today.

HandyMan and the in-laws at St Joseph's

Anyhoo, the Original Fairy Girl (OFG) was actually born in the West. Our branch of the family tree migrated from East to West lo these many years ago and all the offspring born after that point have inhaled the West's disdain for all things French. Through a series of what Lemony Snickett would call "unfortunate events" she ended up in Frenchville. There are gaps in this story as I am not privy to all the intervening years between when I last saw her in the West and when I saw her again in Frenchville. It was a long time, so I'm quite sure OFG does not consider all of the intervening years/events unfortunate. I am simply referring to the anomaly of a bona fide member of our family ending up in horrors! Quebec. (A very famous maternal uncle once lived in Montreal for a number of years, but that was required in the furtherance of his career [the French are tres cultured] and can be overlooked.)

Along the way, OFG has produced offspring, and one of them is actually the reason for this post. (I'm stalling here. In my real life, I'm supposed to be writing a report about a very small eleven year old girl with terminal cancer - I choose to PollyAnna for a bit longer) Le Ballerina is her mother's daughter, and quite clearly related to this family without having to prove this with DNA testing. No. Not needed. In lots of ways, Le Ballerina reminds me of my own Fairy Girl. I couldn't think of any more apt name for Le Ballerina's mother than to acknowledge that the craziness of Tinkerbelle is generational.

So. Le Ballerina. She's gorgeous, channels Betty Boop and Dita von Teese (think on that for a moment) in a glorious, elegant way. She regularly flings her hair into a paint jar and wears the resulting exotic plumage with grace and panache. (As with my own Fairy Girl, "Bird of Paradise" comes to mind) Recently, she and a friend spent the afternoon taking photos of each other in various get ups and personas. The theme progressed from innocence to invitation, all with a great deal of laughter and what looks like true fun... the kind people hardly ever have anymore. I have threatened to take the Dita pose and doctor it with Photoshop and repost it, but I have not done it yet. I'll wait until she's about to get married or something.

Now, Facebook tells me Le Ballerina is "In a relationship." Oh. Cool. I'm clicking through the photos, and who is she in a relationship with? Antonio Banderas! No kidding. (I wondered if I should warn her about Melanie Griffiths, who has a reputation for a mean temper now that she's always sober.) It's good I took a second look because the guy Le Ballerina loves is actually a doppelganger for Mr. Banderas. Complete with similar sounding name. I immediately christened him 'Spanish Bandit.' Le Ballerina informed me he's Eye-talian. Spanish...Italian... what's the difference? (I can hear him choking from here).

Old Montreal is lovely

As a testament to the grace and fortitude this family extends to its leaflets, OFG and her dependents remain full, card-carrying members of our crazy tree, and when we visited Frenchville ourselves, she found us awed and lost in Old Montreal, fed us breakfast, and reminded us how very much she fits in this family. Groovy.

P.S. I loved Montreal but I'm still not learning French.

P.P. S. Photos by DaisyMae

Money Crops

2011-09-07T18:46:00.002+03:00

Madame Sister's husband is a rancher. In fact, I think he probably owns/leases more than the land mass of the smaller Gulf states. He raises red whiteface beef cattle, a lot of chickens, a few goats, and the odd bear or two. (He doesn't personally look after the bears - they're independent). Oh. Can't forget Roxie the Wonder Dog and Catzilla, the feline equivalent of the movie gorilla.

In the free time between checking calves, vaccinating calves, separating cows and calves, milking goats, and tending chickens, The Rancher drives a brand new semi. He hauls cattle to market, and horses to Outfitters' camps. He's the hauler of choice because he's so good with the animals. I think he's the original cow whisperer. He used to haul logs, which in the northern part of the Great White Up makes him the equivalent of the Top Gun trucker. You should see those roads. Both he and Madame Sister are happy that logs are no longer a part of his life.

What all of this means is that The Rancher has NO free time. Ranches are a lot of work. More work than you could ever imagine. (MMF used to call our small acreage, "A tax write-off" because it cost so much money) Something is always breaking, collapsing, growing, or refusing to grow. The weather impacts your every waking moment, and "a trip to town" for parts means a whole day, gone. Madame Sister has taken to reframing errands to the more distant auction sales as "dates." She is creative, is my sister.

Our family get-togethers must be almost torture for The Rancher who is the epitome of the 'strong, silent type.' The amount of chaos involved when our family is all in one place would astound y'all. In fact, our craziness is so inherent that we generally encourage family members to marry far outside the clan so as to limit the instability of the future generations. Mostly this works. Occasionally, rebels like my Farmville-loving cousin marry someone as crazy as we are. This requires desperate measures, and her grandchildren will need to marry lawyers or accountants to restore equilibrium to the family tree. (Madame Sister is perilously close to being a professional bean counter, however she insists she only counts tax beans in an attempt to short-change the government trolls which excuses her from the ranks of the aforementioned suits.) She chose well for an addition to our family tree. I know this because their two lovely daughters are only half crazy.

How he has survived all this craziness, I'm not sure, except that every once in a while, he lets slip a dry or droll observation regarding the antics at hand. This usually stops the show. Usually, one of my beloved bothers will come back with something totally inappropriate and shriekingly funny. And The Rancher will laugh. Actually, really laugh.

The best memory I have of my quiet, steadfast, and inscrutable brother-in-law is when we moved the granary. (I got to drive the tractor!) I was making a movie of the whole thing, providing a running commentary which, on hearing it later, is simultaneously inane and hilarious. We had almost completed the job, having trucked the huge structure from the field, down the road, under the low hanging wires (which HandyMan risked death or dismemberment to lift out of the way) and into the ranch yard. While providing a useless and unnecessary explanation (I talk too much) of the problem which had halted progress, I walked toward The Rancher and HandyMan and filming. Just as I got close, HandyMan did something naughty (surprise, surprise), and then realized I was filming. So he said something to the camera about what he'd just done. The Rancher overheard him and laughed. I mean really, really laughed. He was laughing so hard he couldn't talk and he didn't want me to film him anymore so he walked around the other side of the granary. (I followed him). HandyMan and I were both astounded at The Rancher leaning against the side of the granary, helplessly laughing . I still laugh every time I watch that clip. Thanks to the world of digital editing, we've cut the rest and saved that moment. It's priceless.

When I saw this Get Fuzzy - I immediately thought of The Rancher.

If only he could harvest this crop back at the ranch... wow.

Shades of Granny

2011-09-04T19:49:00.004+03:00

Our goats were the fussiest things, ever. They would not drink from the trough if the horse had been there first, they had to stand in the hay mow. No eating from the ground like the other farm animals. Nooooo. They didn't eat the laundry, they wouldn't even look at fruit peels or turnip tops. Anything that had been desecrated by a human hand was refused. Dolly the cow loved bananas, and sheep would at least gum anything once, and as expected, the pigs would eat anything - including live chickens - that ended up in the pigsty.

The goats did, however, love strawberry flowers, broccoli, peas, currants, and any other thing that took their fancy in my mother's lovely verdant garden. Granny was old and decrepit, and so had to wait for one of us to neglect the gate latch before she could get out. Not so, Lady. She could climb the wooden fence rails, dance across the top and hop down on the other side, whereupon she made a beeline for the neighbour's garden. This would have been just fine with me, except Mrs. Dionne objected to sharing. After many phone calls, a lot of French swears, and manhandling of said goat, MMF built a triangle collar for Lady. I'm sure it felt as ungainly as it looked but it kept her inside the fence.

We never had technicolor poop that I remember, but neither did we have strawberries, or raspberries, or rhubarb, or peas if we weren't careful. Between the cow, the sheep, the goats, and the horse, I'm surprised we managed to harvest much of anything from Mom's garden.

It was always a huge source of disappointment to me that I could not induce any one of my four-legged friends to eat the turnips.

Mission Accomplished

2011-09-04T18:26:00.001+03:00

Gilly is home in the Philippines! It was nerve-wracking watching her little self go through all the security checks and passport control because anything can (and often does) go wrong. She had no carry-on luggage, no gifts, and no Kuwaiti to navigate her through to the departure gate. Sometimes, men or women working these check points get cranky and pick on the solo women trying to go home. But last night, nada. Everybody was having tea, chatting, and congratulating each other on completing another Holy Month. Gilly slipped through with nary a stink eye anywhere.

She even had some money to change which we helped her do just before security. We stood around her shielding her from sight while she squirreled away 6500 pesos in her jean pocket.

And, a bonus. Her sponsor merely cancelled her visa. He did not report her as absconded, he did not register a case against her in the police station, (he threatened to do these things) and he didn't assault her on the way to drop her off . She will be able to register with another agency and come back if she chooses. And she probably will. Gilly has two small children and a husband crippled in an accident. Her degree in Hotel Management & Tourism doesn't get her a job in her native land. She's wiser this time, she says. She'll register with an agency that works exclusively with expats.

In any case, she's landed in Manilla and she's now on the bus to Bagu City to her family, slightly inconvenienced, but mostly undamaged. We're good with this.

We're also wiser. When Hoo Ha! Native Son had to deal with HandyMan, it was a totally different outcome than when HHNS spoke to Gilly's aunty. Next time, we'll do things a little differently, and while we'll hope for the same outcome, the process of getting there might not be so arduous.

On Being Real

2011-09-03T10:48:00.002+03:00

Most Marvelous Father wrote me a whole letter!

This is remarkable in that my father, now retired, is very nearly as busy as he was when I was growing up. This means that I, and my illustrious siblings, receive regular notes from said patriarch in Readers' Digest format. Snips and quotes from the various things MMF has been reading or studying over the recent past. Don't get me wrong - this is more than many of my peers receive from their fathers, and I look forward to learning what MMF has been contemplating. But this week, I got a whole letter, just to me.

Bliss.

I grew up in what can truly be described as the 'Grand Central Station' of family life. This meant that personal time with MMF was consequently limited for the most part. My parents were both passionately involved in community causes, they were experienced and well regarded foster parents to some of the most difficult adolescents in government care, and they contributed enormously to the spiritual and social lives of a great number of people in the small northern town in which we lived. Actually, now that I think about it, to the surrounding communities for quite an extended distance. We always seemed to be driving somewhere - or MMF was away, combining his commercial responsibilities with his spiritual or social duties.

MMF being "away" brings up another memory - pancakes for supper or Horrors! sauerkraut & wurst. My father would not eat sauerkraut (something about his dog and sauerkraut not being fit for man nor beast) and so my mother would indulge while he was away. Being a parent of the sixties, she declined to make a second dinner choice for her offspring, so we all ate sauerkraut & wurst. I made up for not eating much (as did my MusicMan bother) by eating a gross of pancakes the next night.

This caused me to remember the other times in my life when MMF stirred up this same feeling in me; the Nancy Drew books, the Tower Lake run on Friday nights, traveling with him to pick up windshields, my 16th birthday, Bear Lake, swimming at lunchtime...

But I have wandered. The letter.

I am surprised at the depth of my response to these 887 words. I'm thinking that my inherent need to be recognized (as in, known) finds the 'family' letters rather less than satisfying. I read them avidly, mostly looking for any hint that MMF was thinking of me in particular (and clearly, this post is all about me) at some point in his musings. The information is interesting - my father is well, and widely, read - but he generally does the cut & paste thing, then sends it off to us all with a whole host of monikers at the end - Dad, Grandpa, Uncle... So I have more information, but not more dad.

MMF is funny, faithful, and ever busy. He has aged over my lifetime from a tall, handsome, black-haired man with enthusiasm and a desire to make things better, to a tall, handsome, white-haired man with wisdom and a passion to make things better. (The amazing blue eyes have stayed the same) MMF is all about people. I admire and love my father, and I cherish his example, his love, and his steadfastness. And now, I have a letter which embodies all the things that I love about MMF.

How cool. You so rock, Dad.

Wisdom of the Ages

2011-09-03T08:36:00.000+03:00

"Problems cannot be solved at the same level of awareness that created them." ~Albert Einstein

I belong to a lot of groups by choice; part of the Choleric temperament I so regularly flaunt. Many of them have to do with my profession, but others are rather more esoteric, dependent on interest, whim, and curiosity. For a long time, I followed a military blog (Neptunus Lex) written by a US Navy pilot, whom, from what I gather wading through the military vocab, is a former Top Gun currently flying anything and everything he can while trolling the world for tidbits of a military and/or political nature. He has an opinion about everything. Very interesting and filled with jargon, opinions, and information I would never have been exposed to otherwise. In this same vein, I follow several Muslim bloggers, an Israeli bedoun, a South African birder, and a world-traveling New Yorker. Also in this mix of eclectic wool-gathering is MathMan, whose blogposts intrigue, inform, amuse, and sometimes enrage. Recently, he's been particularly wicked, provoking old-fashioned, garden variety envy. Urk. On another plane entirely, I regularly read SandyToes and Dustyfeet, first off because the author is a talented and funny writer. And secondly because I know the child in question, and there is such a dearth of small people here that everything this little one does is worth mention.

I also follow GulfTown's very own DesertGirl, whose hilarious ramblings about life in this sandblasted place are shocking and validating in equal measure. DesertGirl is very naughty in that nothing escapes her well-sharpened pen. (Can I still say that given the total absence of a "pen" in this situation?) I am chuffed to follow my own daughter's newly minted blog as well. She's funny and there is an element for me of (I think) justifiable pride in her articulate thinking and writing, given that I homeschooled her right through to her high school diploma. (You go, AMG!) HandyMan blogs as well, but I claim no credit for his entirely-too-sparse erudite ramblings though I read them avidly.

One of the RSS feeds I subscribe to landed in my inbox today when I actually had time to read it. Sometimes, there's nothing of real interest, but because it's relevant to my profession, I look them all over to make sure I catch the trends and directions that might be important for me to follow. Today's digest began with the quote at the beginning of this post. I'll be thinking about it for awhile.

And that's what I appreciate about the Web ...the instant availability of collected knowledge and experience. Oh sure, lots of the information is opinion and not necessarily Truth. But the reality is that I couldn't easily find the same breadth of information if I went to the library. Those bits of Truth, or factoids, or case studies, or research, or trends would be stuck in books or journals or periodicals. I'd have to look at each one individually, hoping for a relevant "hit." With Google (and the other lesser search engines) I type in what I'm interested in, and POOF! I am rewarded with a plethora of sites ...a veritable cornucopia of choices.

I love it. And today, thanks to the current digest, I have something interesting to ponder.

Photo is a youngish Albert Einstein solving a problem.

Something a little lighter

2011-08-31T09:43:00.000+03:00

In an earlier life, Tripawed, my (three-legged) cat, would suddenly stop in the middle of a battle with HandyMan's chihuahua (Cougar) and begin licking the end of her tail. This would go on for about five minutes with Tripawed totally absorbed and Cougar standing patiently. Without any warning, Tripawed would explode into action and off they would go, sounding like something was going to die.

Maybe today, she'd stop to take a call instead.

Adjectives Part II

2011-08-31T09:22:00.001+03:00

HandyMan to the rescue. Off we went with Gilly's aunt to the agency responsible for recruiting her. Given the culture, bringing White Man In A Suit to the negotiations tends to move things along, one way or another.

Once there, we learned that Gilly's contract had been sold by her employer to another agency, and that she was currently in the temporary accommodation of that agency. Gilly, bless her soul, was refusing to go with a new employer, and so the second agency was trying to get rid of her. Hoo ha! Native Son did not want her back as he would have to return the 650KD ($2350CDN) he had received for one "healthy, ready-to-work" domestic slave.
The woman at the agency (we'll call her "Cruella") was unhappy that Gilly's aunt had brought "white people" to the agency. She tried to get us to buy Gilly because this would solve the problem.

You know me...

DM "What you're doing is illegal! You brought this woman here, and it's your obligation to see that the terms of her contract are kept. Gilly didn't come here to be someone's mistress."
Cruella "It is not my problem. She can refuse."
DM "That's what she's doing, but you're doing nothing to get her out of that situation!"
Cruella "How can I? Her sponsor has sold her to another agency. I must wait for him to get her and bring her here, and he doesn't want to because he will have to return the money."
DM "This not right. You're selling human beings!"
Cruella "Of course. This is all what I do."

What the....?

HandyMan called Hoo Ha! Native Son (it's now 10:30 pm) about Gilly and his intentions, and there ensued an argument on the semantics of whether or not "domestic maid" encompassed 'mistress.' Hoo Ha! Native Son seemed to feel she should be thrilled to be elevated from house maid to bed slave. (This is consistent with previous conversations with Gilly's aunt when Hoo Ha! Native Son had declared Gilly to be "stupid" that she could not see the advantages of this offer). HandyMan had great difficulty making Hoo Ha! Native Son understand we would not be picking Gilly up and taking her anywhere. HHNS wanted to sign Gilly over to us (for 650KD); he would give us her passport when she had a new sponsor. That started another round.

DM "Why doesn't Gilly have her own passport? The law says the sponsor cannot keep her passport."
Cruella "What?! No sponsor will give passport. Maid run away! No. No. It is not this way."
DM "You're her agency representative and you don't know the law? It is illegal for the sponsor to keep the passports."
Cruella "No! It is not the law! I here 10 years and no passports. No way."
Gilly's aunt "I have my own passport."
DM "Our maid has her passport."
Cruella "Bah! Run away when you not looking."
DM "When? She's had nearly a year. Maybe because we treat her like a human being, she's happy to stay."
Cruella "Wait. She get boyfriend. She run away. You see."
DM "You mean maids can't have boyfriends?"
Cruella [shocked] NO! This very bad. Make sponsor very very angry."
DM "I suspect that has to do with the jealousy more than anything."
Cruella "What?"
DM "Never miind."

So, at 11 pm having induced the Hoo Ha! Native Son to send Gilly home, we agreed that HandyMan would continue to call said Son until Gilly was actually on her way home. He will have to follow up on this because there is 650KD on the line. Money the Hoo Ha! Native Son does not want to return.

Stay tuned.

For MathMan & Gipsy

2011-08-31T08:45:00.000+03:00

This tempest in a teacup requires proper resolution. MathMan and Gipsy being from Europe, I suppose the mix up could be forgiven. The important thing to remember is that a moose is not an elk is not a reindeer. Moose feature prominently in the "Rocky & Bullwinkle" show, reindeer pull sleighs (for real), and homeless elk wander the streets of Banff National Park hoping for a handout.

Bull moose (Alces alces) in North America and for some ridiculous reason, "Eurasian Elk" in Europe.

Bull Elk (Cervus canadensis) Native name 'Wapati'

Reindeer (Rangifer Tarandis) also known as Caribou

A Paucity of Good Adjectives

2011-08-28T13:19:00.000+03:00

Thinking they'll be dusting and doing laundry...

Gilly (not her real name) is in a pickle (a dilemma for those who do not speak Great White Up). This one is not of her own making - at least not directly.

Unless you count signing up for a job overseas, paying a lot of hard earned cash to a recruiting agency, and taking a leap of faith which landed her in Kuwait, hoping to make a better life for her family. Then you could say she's directly responsible.

But I rant (The foregoing was sarcastic in case you missed it)

She signed up as a housekeeper. She has a BA in something or other, but cannot find work in her country, so she took a housekeeping contract in Kuwait. This entails signing her life away for two years in return for the promise of a minimum of 120KD/month ($433.65) plus room and board. (This is 19,000 pesos more than she would be making in the Land of her Nativity) No legal protection regarding any other aspect of her life. No maximum work hours, no mandated time off, nothing. "Domestic workers" in Kuwait are specifically excluded from all but the most rudimentary labour laws.

Anyhoo... Gilly arrives, spends 24 hours as the guest of her agency, and then is handed over to a Kuwaiti man she has never met, knows nothing about, and who now holds her life in his hands for two years. And guess what? Mr. Hoo Ha! Native Son doesn't want a housekeeper.

Noooooooo...

He "...bought a mistress... for two years."

Gilly, language barrier not withstanding, figures out what Mr. Hoo Ha! Native Son is proposing and refuses. He calls her "stupid." How could she not want her own apartment? Subject only to his whims and peccadilloes? As Mr. Hoo Ha! Native Son explained to Gilly's aunt, "What is wrong with her? This is normal for her kind!"

"Her kind?"

Oh. He means that he believes every single woman from that particular country is just waiting for some Hoo Ha! Native Son to offer her the exalted position of 'Bed Slave.' (He's apparently done this 'bait & switch' successfully in the past)

Of course. Silly me.

So now, having refused, and continued to refuse, this generous offer, Gilly is actually in danger. Hoo Ha! Native Son sold her contract to another agency (which is the same as selling Gilly) though this is illegal, and has informed the aunt that he must be paid 650KD to release Gilly's passport. (He's already been paid by the second agency for Gilly).

Gilly's aunt doesn't know what to do. Enter the Enraged White Woman.

EWW helps with this. After talking back and forth with Hoo Ha! Native Son, a trip to the relevant Embassy, and much coaching of the aunt as to what to say, it appears Gilly will be delivered, paperwork and all to the original agency where it becomes their problem to deal with the disgruntled Hoo Ha! Native Son.

Here's where the most danger for Gilly happens. If the second, less savoury agency is put out by the change of plans having already paid the Hoo Ha! Native Son for Gilly, one of the ways they recoup their money (you needn't think Hoo Ha! Native Son will be refunding anything) is to kidnap Gilly and force her to work off the "investment." This generally means a brothel in Jleeb Al Shuyouk or Hawally; being drugged into compliance, and being used up and wasted long before her contract is up. [As if the contract terms matter at all to any of these people.]

It is hoped we can spirit Gilly away today to the protection a real sponsor/decent employer before someone in the original agency leaks the details (for money) to someone in the second agency. And these are Gilly's own fellow citizens.

If I let myself think about the number of women (and men) in this position, I'd curl up in the corner and cover my head. But one person at a time, that we can do. It isn't just me - HandyMan is here, Spanish Painter, Mrs. Lovingkindness... and many others who network in varying degrees and by different methods to step up and 'stand in the gap.'

I realized today I don't have anymore adjectives for the human rights abuses that are rampant here... except 'enraged.'

Works for me.

What the Heck?!!

2011-08-24T19:56:00.000+03:00

Watching live TV last night on the Internet, the clip that we wanted to see started with a commercial from Exxon Mobil. If I weren't mindful that Most Marvelous Father reads my blog, I might have used some bad communication. Definitely corrupt communication.

Those "North American reserves" belong to Canada you nitwits. And that little thing about "partnership?" We own the sandbox, dude. You got invited to OUR party, not the other way around. For more representative information on this huge project, check out Imperial Oil. The Calgary-based oil company actually doing the work in Fort Mac.

Waiting to Exhale

2011-08-24T19:31:00.000+03:00

"How are you?" I asked my Muslim friend when we had occasion to talk this week.

"Waiting for Ramadan to be over," he responded instantly.

"Oh? Why is that? Aren't you into the whole family, stay up all night, sleep all day thing?"

"No way! This is total craziness. Nobody works, everything is 'Wait until after Eid,' and my kids are driving me nuts. Who ever lets their seven year old stay out all night? Apparently the neighbors do because Son #2 is furious with me that he has to at least stay in the house. I wish he were in bed, but that's not going to happen."

"Well," I said, "you're whining and I expect that your prayers will be not be going anywhere near to Allah's ears."

"Hey. No big deal. I'm a cultural Muslim. I was born here, nobody asked me. I love my country but I'm not into this five pillars stuff. I don't object to God - heck. I'm a precision engineer. I think if something like a gear takes me to create it, then what is true on a micro level must be true on a macro level. Can't really see the world without a creator. Not sure He hears anyone's prayers, but how would I know? I guess you'd call me agnostic but looking. Well, I don't think you'd call me that. You probably call me something else on that blog of yours," he said wishfully. (I know it was wishful because everyone wants to be in my blog)

"What makes you think I write about you at all? If I were going to write about you, I'd probably call you "Guilt Maester. I think you're actually a closet Catholic."

"Guilt Maester? You don't have to be Catholic to feel guilty about everything, you just need to live with my mother."

"Ha ha. You still live with your mother. You could always change that. Might help with the guilt thing."

"Nah. I'm Kuwaiti. The only way I'm going to get away from my mother is when she dies. May she live to be a hundred. So I called because..."

This in contrast to an acquaintance I've had the fortune/misfortune to run into about three times this month. He can't have a conversation without the phrase, "...this Holy Month." He doesn't say August, or Ramadan, he says, "Holy Month." He drags himself around with a weary face, mentions frequently how fasting in the summer months is a test from Allah for the faithful. He might as well be wearing sack cloth and ashes. He gives me the stink eye because I have water /coffee on my desk. I ignore it.

I prefer the honesty to the piety... and I could be wrong about this, but I like to believe God does, too.

Outrageous

2011-08-22T10:45:00.000+03:00

Four Indian nationals were shot dead, reportedly by a police official in Kuwait, just minutes before the Iftar on August 1. All the four victims are believed to be natives of Andhra Pradesh. The shooter had allegedly killed the workers for eating before Iftar. The local cops have said that the shooter was suffering from some mental illness. (Arab Times; New Delhi Chronicle; Indian Times)

These are very cool for beach picnics...after Iftar, of course

I've been thinking about this for awhile. I was particularly thinking of this as HandyMan and I were sitting on a beach in Julai'a waiting for the barbecue coals to get hot. I was wondering if we'd hear the mezzuin from the local masjid give the evening call to prayer. If not, since neither of us was wearing a watch, we'd have to wait until full dark before putting our pork free smokies on the barbie. When there is the distinct possibility of getting shot for chowing down even 1 minute early, it's not difficult to wait until one is positive that Iftar is officially started.

There is something really unsettling to think that I live in a country where four unarmed men were shot for misreading the time; having watches a little fast; having no watches at all; thinking they were okay to begin eating... any one of a dozen reasons why these four men thought it safe to break the fast.

And the policeman? He'd been released by our stellar psychiatric hospital where he'd been confined for the previous two weeks because of unspecified "mental health issues." Even his own precinct didn't know he'd been released. And he still had all his guns!!!

So now he's been 'referred' back to the psych hospital and the Indian men's bodies have been repatriated. And that's all we'll hear about it. Ever.

My ghast is flabbered.

Funnies

2011-08-17T14:01:00.000+03:00

I just started getting "The Barn" to my inbox, through Arcamax.com. Sometimes, it's funny just because the sheep is so cute. There are also so many references to all things Maple leaf and pointed political sniping that I'm sure the author is probably from the Great White Up.

You can sign up for any number of funnies to be delivered - I never miss my faves, "Zits" and "Get Fuzzy." (Bucky Katt is so like His Evilness we feel a great deal of empathy for whoever caretakes the inspiration for that wretched animated hairball.)

Catch that Train

2011-08-15T15:55:00.000+03:00

Shoes not required

I often marvel at the resiliency of the human spirit. This is not a bad thing given what I do, but sometimes, even my PollyAnna self is awed.

Recently, I had occasion to talk with a woman who is looking for work in GulfTown. She is one of 10 siblings, and at this moment, after the death of her father, she is the sole source of income for the family. Obviously, she is not from GulfTown. Her own native land is blessed with humidity, overcrowding, a wretched economy, and Imelda Marcos. So. She needs to work here where the conversion of the KD into Pesos means that even on the disgraceful salary she will be paid here, she could send back enough money to care for those she loves.

No big deal. A familiar story for most of the domestic workers here.

Not quite.

This particular woman arrived a year ago, her visa brokered through an agency here. She settled in with her new sponsor and enjoyed exactly one week of orientation. After that, the torture started. In the past twelve months she has received third degree burns with an iron, been blinded in one eye (through systematic torture not a single incident), had her nose, several ribs, and one arm broken (without medical attention), been beaten with various objects and raped repeatedly. And, she's never been paid her salary.

Not one KD.

Fortunately, she recently escaped.

Now, limping in to talk with me, she smiles and says how where she's at is so much better, and that she's healing, and how others are working to see justice done. She's been paid her back pay enabling her to send money to her family just in time to bury her father. I thought she'd want to return to her family, but no. Her desire is to see her employer prosecuted, but more importantly, she told me, she wants to get a position that will allow her to support her family. She's willing to try again; she admitted she could go home and "...make something work out," but she's pretty sure she's seen the worst of GulfTown and survived. Clearly, some of her resilience is born of necessity, but that underlying determination to get better, to move forward, is the primary motivation.

Adm. Denton - 'Morse code blinking' - t.o.r.t.u.r.e.

It happens everywhere - after a financial setback, losing a spouse, a tsunami, experiencing a tragedy of some sort - some people seem to have an inner strength that gets them up and moving again, while others crumble internally and never fully recover. I'm sure 'nature and nurture' factor into this somewhere, but what amazes me is that as bad as the physical, psychological, or emotional horrors out there can get, there appears to be the capacity within the human spirit to rise above them.

I first started thinking about this when I was about 13 - I had just finished reading, When Hell was in Session, by Jeremiah Denton, a long-time guest in the Hanoi Hilton. Years later, I read another book called The Evil Men Do, and not too long after that, No Time for Tombstones, then People of the Lie, the classic work by M. Scott Peck. I haven't reached any conclusions yet, but when I meet someone in real life like I did this week, it restarts that train of thought.

It's hard to believe but I've been thinking about this resiliency thing for over 30 years. Each time I ride this particular train, I work out some small piece of the puzzle. Feels good. I expect to die before I work it all out, but then it won't matter. I'll just ask Himself. He'll draw the whole picture. I know it. In the meantime, I marvel at the landscape from my seat on the "Human Beings are Amazing" train.

Thanks, God.

Politically Savvy

2011-08-14T20:46:00.000+03:00

It seems everyone is trying to get elected to something. My own professional association is suffering the pangs of electoral process as the result of someone in the general membership *gasp* challenging the firmly ensconced incumbent. Well. Another opportunity for me to vote. Yeah.

Since moving to GulfTown, I've realized I am far more politically inclined than I realized. Oh, I voted during elections in the Great White Up, mostly at first because I could (it felt slightly wicked and rebellious to do this given my upbringing and I am nothing if not slightly wicked and rebellious), but later, I actually paid attention to the platforms and speeches of those who were trying to garner my vote. My one little ballot was a drop in the proverbial election ocean, but darnit! I make a difference. At least in my own mind.

I had always thought of political people as the ones who are upfront, stumping around making speeches, hoping to impress somebody enough to make an 'X' in the right box. As a process of reflection, I've realized that's not so. In fact, if that were true, absolutely nothing would get done on a governmental level... ever. The real politically savvy people are the ones who work in the basement, run the drafts around for signatures, whisper in the right ears, show up and stand up when body count is important, and generally let the Talking Heads cover themselves with glory while they, the little people, are getting on with the business of the country. (The Talking Heads are necessary. If they weren't up there drawing all the attention, the little people would never get anything done.)

Today I had occasion to sit and talk with one of the Not-Talking-Heads about what it's like on the firing line. His job involves human rights and acting as a liaison in GulfTown for his own country. He's shell shocked, coming from Saudi to here. Mr. Diplomat is trying to do his job properly. As opposed to his predecessor who is rumored to have used the position to start a bank account in the Cayman Islands or somewhere equally nefarious and who was sent home with a large, black cloud over his head. Mr. Diplomat is running afoul of the various Ministries in GulfTown who want to get off the Tier 3 list for human trafficking. These Ministries would like to sweep the abuses under a magic carpet (Where is that genie?), and Mr D is determined to get justice for the unpowerful. He is political. He's not running for office, he's not a Talking Head, he's not ambiguous about his agenda so he can "tweak" his position depending on the context. Nope. Mr. D is pretty (even bluntly) clear about his mandate.

For those (like me) who like pictures

Consequently, he's heard rumors that he's going to get his head shot off. One would hope (he fervently hopes) this is a metaphorical threat. Me too. He's actually accomplishing something. He's managed to get paperwork processed during Ramadan. Now THAT is a feat. Good for him.

Back to me (of course) I guess I am political. I do care about changing the landscape, improving the ethos and revising the laws necessary to make things right. It has become important to me to know whose ear is good for whispering, and who keeps cash in his desk drawer so that when we need quick airplane tickets for a rescued soul, he's ready and thankfully, willing. I want to know what difference it will make here if the Islamic Block wins more seats... or if the legislature in GulfTown actually made a decision about something (anything!!!), would it be enforced?

In the grand scheme of things, it seems lots of us want the same thing - GulfTown to get off the Tier 3 list. Sadly, we're not all agreed on how to do that. Mr. Diplomat is insisting on doing it the hard way - by enforcing existing laws, changing bad laws, and exposing the sad, sick underbelly of human slavery in the Middle East. I'm going to help. Unlike Mr. Diplomat, however, I do not enjoy diplomatic immunity. On occasions, this gives me pause. I am helping though, because I can't not help. I join with those who have the same commitment to permanent, sustainable change.

The others are out looking for a bigger carpet.

A different perspective

2011-08-14T19:51:00.000+03:00

Dr. Naif Al-Mutawa is at the other end of the Islamic spectrum from the SkinnyUnwashedGuy hiding in Pakistan (now deceased). The voice of moderation, he has also come under fire from those who believe he is "misinterpreting" or "misrepresenting" Islam. (If the Recently Dead Guy also "misinterpreted" and "misrepresented" Islam, where exactly IS the middle?)
Whatever.
In any case, a fascinating story.

Old West

2011-08-09T19:28:00.000+03:00

[Bat wing doors on the saloon fly open. Sheriff strides in]

"Ahm lookin' fer a cowboy. He's a-wearin' a brown paper vest an' brown paper pants. Yuh seen im?"
"Nope. Can't rightly says that Ah have."
"Dang!"
"Whatcha after him fer, Sheriff?"
"Rustlin'."

Make vs Take

2011-08-09T19:19:00.000+03:00

Here, it is customary to say, "I can't take a decision about..."

I thought this was rather quaint language, and quite enjoy the pause it gives me when I hear it. There are other forms of English that are used a bit differently here, and I like it. But recently, I actually started thinking about the meaning of these words. I was just assuming that the different choice of word was semantics - we all mean the same thing, so it's just a delightful little quirk of working with non-native English speakers.

CommandMan's recent adventure after a small prang caused me to reconsider.

"Make:" construct, create, form (something) by putting parts together or combining substances.

"Take:" lay hold of something with one's hands; reach for and hold; to get into one's possession by force, skill, or artifice, especially 'to capture.'

Ah. As I tell anyone who will listen, "Words Are Important." I guess, given the funnel mentality, "I can't take a decision," makes sense. Some VIM somewhere would be unhappy about the aspirations of an underling to any sort of power. I certainly won't hear that phrase in the same way, ever again.

Just for the record, I take all sorts of decisions. Just ask HandyMan.

Funneling Power

2011-08-07T13:51:00.000+03:00

CommandoMan has been in a minor fender bender as we Canadians would say. The Briddish say "prang" which is, to my mind, a much more interesting word. In any case, CommandoMan was in one. He was car #3 in the sequence, car #1 being a small tank (without guns) being driven by a Hoo ha! Native Son, and car #2 being a luxury sedan driven by a native daughter, who turned out to be the progeny of a Hoo ha! Native Son. Said Hoo ha was on the phone and crashed into Ms. Hoo ha, who then pranged CommandoMan. He had no damage, but thought he'd do the "decent thing" as all former Royal Marines are wont to do, and besides, he had visions of Hoo ha! native son casting blame in all directions but the correct one.

In GulfTown, one must not move a vehicle that has been pranged. Not even one inch. This results in great consternation on the part of officialdom, and causes insurance companies to write horrid things in red pen across the policies of such heinous offenders. Consequently, no matter how minor the accident, the cars are not moved until a police officer gives the okay. The chaos and inconvenience this causes in the traffic here cannot be overstated.

So, not moving. By the time the police officer got there, the three parties involved had bonded in the face of the upcoming trauma, and Ms Hoo ha's father had arrived. He had just given CommandoMan gracious leave to depart when the police showed up. (In hind sight, CommandoMan says he should have ducked and run.)

Mr. Policeman reviewed the three vehicles, eyed Hoo ha! Native Son up and down and pronounced that he could not make a decision about blame here. All parties would be required to follow him to Rumaithiya police station. This was accomplished, and CommandoMan said their little flock moved into the waiting room at the police station along with various and sundry other petitioners, criminals, and maids. After about 60 minutes of chatting amongst the waitees, the police reappeared and told the accident group that the case had to be transferred to Hawally. And furthermore, everyone must follow him, NOW. Obediently, all parties followed Mr. Policeman to Hawally.

Jleeb al Shuyoukh may be the ghetto of GulfTown, but Hawally is the armpit. It is a nightmare of small/narrow streets, high density population, and poor traffic control. If one has the misfortune to live in Hawally, life is defined by how long each night it takes to make it into Hawally in the effort to get home.

The Hawally police station was deserted. Totally. There was no one there. CommandoMan dutifully followed Mr. Policeman on a tour of the completely empty building. Arriving back at the starting point, all parties were commanded to appear before an investigating officer "tomorrow." And with that, he departed.

CommandoMan duly appeared the next morning the appointed time, only to discover Hoo ha! Native Son had not bothered to show up. Everyone else was present, and the father of the young lady involved called Hoo ha! Native Son and demanded that he appear forthwith. Which he did.

More chatting, drinking of Arabic coffee, and then progress. Please produce civil IDs and driver's licenses.

No problem. Quick review by said policeman, and all parties were instructed to provide photocopies of official documents.

No problem.

Wrong.

The police station in Hawally does not have a photocopier. You read that right. No photocopier in the POLICE STATION in Hawally.

"So," says one of the prang unfortunates, "What do we do?"

"Oh, just go round the corner to the photo store. Come back when you're done." [wave wave]

This was duly accomplished with a minimum of fuss (the photo shop was expecting them) and they returned to the police station where they were greeted with dismay.

"Back already?! Now you will wait."

And wait they did.

Eventually, Mr. Policeman came and got them, and took them to a hangar-like office with a Very Important Man behind the two-hectare desk. VIM examined the documents, looked everyone up and down, and then said to no one in particular, "Why you here?"

??!

CommandoMan took the opportunity to speak up and said, "I have no damage. I am just here as a witness."

VIM fixed Hoo ha! Native Son with a stink eye and said, "Your fault!" Hoo ha! Native Son shrugged as he continued to text on his Blackberry. VIM said to CommandoMan, "You go."

So he did.

Two full days wasted.

HandyMan noted that in the Great White Up, the police officer attending the scene would have issued a citation to all relevant parties having determined blame on the spot, which all involved parties are free to contest, somewhere other than the side of the freeway. Here, nobody wants to/is permitted to take a decision about anything. The VIM at the top must decide these things, and is the only one with the power to do so. I think GulfTown's infrastructure looks something like this...

My cartooning abilities are minimal - sorry.

and every ministry, company, family & job/project operates this way. Consequently, you've got Mini VIMs deciding who can have a new uniform, and Big VIMS (CEOs of gazillion dollar conglomerates) approving 10KD invoices for toilet paper, and making decisions about such vital issues as mobile phones ... no wonder most of them "travel" as often as they can. And they can... a LOT. Unfortunately, everything stops when the Big VIM is away.

I geck.

Self-publishing

2011-08-03T17:17:00.000+03:00

Somebody's lovely Blurb creation

If you have an inclination to write or create something, then you should check out Blurb.

It used to be that self-publishing was the lowest of the low, and books done this way had no credibility. Of course, with the advent of web publishing, and people posting chapters of books later picked up by paper publishers, any kind of publishing has become legitimate. Well, as legitimate as precise, anal fact-checking can make anything.

Taking a small bunny trail, there's a whole debate in the professional world (at least in my professional world) about research and papers which are only published online. Even though the process of peer review, etc., has been followed, there is a body of professionals who do not consider such journals on par with say, the APA or BPS print publications. And these aren't all old-guard luddites preaching caution with regard to online publications. I myself have developed a rather high level of skepticism for anything that can't be confirmed from at least three different sources. I now read non-fiction like it most probably is fiction. It occurred to me to think, 'What is this world coming to?' the other day after hearing that yet another Somebody's memoirs had been written with "creative license."

Puhleez. We old people call that "LYING."

But that doesn't apply to Mom Scrapbooker or Dad Photographer. If you check out Blurb, there are some pretty amazing books there, done by people who just wanted a venue for their passion or hobby. These are high quality, glossy books in different formats. You can even "slurp" your blog into a book, with minimal editing required to create something tangible from an online pastime. Very cool.

I've been blogging for three years now, journaling for 35, and snapping photos for about 20 years. It's getting to the point of critical mass... what am I doing with all this stuff if I'm not doing anything with it? Enter 'The Blurberati.' These enlightened and hilarious tech illuminati send me an email regularly to remind me that I'm a member of Blurb. I have so far published nothing... maybe I'd be tempted to get it together with one of these new formats?

I just might. Now I can print trade paperbacks - wow. Maybe I will slurp my blog - there's the odd interesting bit, I'm sure. Maybe I'll even add photos.

A different kind of blurb

An Elegant Turn of Phrase

2011-08-02T20:10:00.000+03:00

Living in a world of English-as-a-second-language speakers is occasionally frustrating, often funny, and always interesting. The turn of phrase used by others who are not familiar with our idioms, similes, and metaphors makes for frequent opportunities for miscommunication. But it's not always like that. I love the different ways of expressing familiar thoughts, and a recent conversation with HandyMan reminded me of some that we both like.

Here, we don't make a choice, we "take a decision." When something is not our responsibility, we say, "It is not in my hand." The Indians often sign emails and letters with the phrase, "Kindly do the needful." The first time I read that one, I thought maybe the writer needed more practice. But actually, I don't think he does. The whole Indian subcontinent speaks a form of English that is stilted and oddly cadenced, thanks to the British East India Company and the native tendency to 'lilt.' The phrase, " all the necessary preparations" is also a common response to confirmations of appointments or meetings.

As I've said before in other blogs, the British have quite a dictionary of their own, and have a tendency to rhyme everything or shorten it. Even words that don't lend themselves to being shortened are unceremoniously hacked off without remorse or repentance. Bathing suits are "cozzies" (because the Brits have 'swimming costumes' NOT bathing suits), sandwiches are "sannies" and the mouthful (sorry, Dad, this is a swear) 'Cor blimey' is actually an inexplicable contraction of "God blind me." (Inexplicable in that the contraction is almost more of a mouthful to say than the original!) I'm not exactly sure who is being sworn at when this expression is used, but I'm pretty sure it's not God so we're okay. Probably the funniest turn of phrase was a very excited mother, frustrated at her lack of English in describing her son's behaviour said, "You know! What you say? My son he is black duck of family!"

The "Ostrich bag" - perfect for HM's next birthday

Anyway, HandyMan and I were driving to work the other morning.

HM [huge sigh]
DM "What's with the heavy sigh?"
HM "Just a wave of tiredness."
DM "Well, jetlag is still a factor I'm sure. How did you sleep last night?"
HM "I was awake from 1 am to 6 am. I wanted to sleep."
DM "Why do you think you aren't sleeping?"
HM [forlornly] "I don't know. I made all the necessary preparations."

I laughed. (I found it funny, anyway)

Possibly he'll want to skip "doing the needful" next time and try something a little more pharmaceutical.

Rock the Casbah

2011-08-02T17:47:00.001+03:00

Occasionally, I review stuff. Books, movies, websites, blogs. Mostly I am moved to do this by something exceptional about the media in question. Either it was really good... or not. In other words, it has to impact me somehow.

Recently, King of Beans posted on Facebook that he'd been featured in a book by Robin Wright. No, not the Robin Wright we all know and love of Princess Bride fame, but the journalist version. Her credentials as a reporter are pretty spectacular, and that's important, given the topic of her book. Wikipedia (that beacon of truth and veracity says),

The American Academy of Diplomacy selected Wright as the journalist of the year for her "distinguished reporting and analysis of international affairs" in 2004. She was also awarded the U.N. Correspondents Association Gold Medal for analysis and coverage of international affairs, and the National Press Club award for diplomatic reporting. Among many other awards, she has received the National Magazine Award for her reportage from Iran in The New Yorker and the Overseas Press Club Award for "best reporting in any medium requiring exceptional courage and initiative" for coverage of African wars. She is the recipient of a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation grant. She won an Alicia Patterson Journalism Fellowship in 1975 to research and write about the dismantling of Portugal's African empire.

There's more blather about the 140 countries she's reported from/on, and a list of heads of state, rebels, tinpot dictators, kings, and commanders that she's interviewed in the course of her job. If that sounds like sarcasm, it isn't. But after all the recent scandals regarding "fictionalized" biographies, memoirs, and documentaries, I hope I can be forgiven a small, self-protective bit of skepticism which I shall pronounce as healthy. Should Ms Wright turn out to be a complete fraud (or even half a fraud) I will not say, "I told you so," but I will not experience a sense of betrayal either. Disappointment, maybe, but no trauma will be involved. My view of the world has already experienced a paradigm shift thanks to people like James Frey and Greg Mortenson.

Anyhoo. She seems like the real deal.

Rock the Casbah: Rage and Rebellion Across the Islamic World is newly published, and it's making a big splash. (Check out the LA Times review) Did you know that on average, 50% of the world's Islamic populations are under 30? In some countries, i.e., Jordan, Palestine, and Egypt, the number is actually closer to 70%. That's a lot of young people. And this isn't just about the Arab world. In fact, there are more Muslims in China than in the entire Middle East and there are more non-Arabic speaking Muslims than those who do. This book is about Muslims taking back the tenets of their faith from extremists and terrorists. Living as I do in GulfTown and having experienced the fringes of "Arab Spring" first hand, this book has been an amazing opportunity to fit the pieces of the puzzle into a global whole.

And just for HandyMan, who regularly points out how his life would be sooooooooo much better if he had an iPad... this book is already on Kindle, and I downloaded it from Amazon (UK) last week. For the first time, while reading a book, I took advantage of the fact that a simple click switched me to Google, which allowed me to look up the people/places I didn't know or recognize.

A part of what has profoundly impacted me is the result of reading about Khaled Mohammed Sa'ad in book, and going to Google to find he is the young Egyptian engineer whose death on June 6, 2010 became the rallying cry of the January 2011 uprising. Being able to switch back and forth between what I was reading and the news reports of the actual events makes for a very different processing experience. Though I had followed the events surrounding the death of Neda Agha-Soltan when it happened, to read the backstory in Rock the Casbah and review the news and blogs that reported the incident gave me a much broader understanding of the forces that conspired to bring Iran to that point.

Nuff said. HandyMan is justifiably envious. Read it for yourself.

Logorrhea

2011-08-01T14:03:00.000+03:00

Not Thursday's Child... but close

Thursday's Child made a comment on Killer A/C that reminded me of how much I like words. She was somewhat scornful of a local urban myth, and admitted this feeling was accompanied by "eye rolling" and she feared her eyes might become permanently stuck from her tendency to disdain such legendary untruths.

What she's actually talking about is gecking. Verily. There is a right, and proper, word for TC's action. The Oxford Encyclopedia of the English Language says, "Geck (v) to scorn with a toss of the head or a roll of the eyes. An expression of disdain or contempt." We've used this word for a long time in our family, and Fairy Girl reigns supreme as the Queen of Gecks (though I noticed this trip that AMG must be close to challenging for that particular throne. Maybe there's something about raising little boys that ups the geck quotient.)

Dv8ed also likes ancient, esoteric, forgotten, and strange words and he introduced me to a website that I consult quite regularly in the process of writing. I try to use one "weird" word a day, somewhere in my paperwork, correspondence, or notes. I always know when someone has actually read what I've written because they'll make a comment about it.

"What the heck is this word?"
"Which word?"
"This ridiculous, eleven syllable atrocity."
"Oh. That word. Pulchritudinous."
"It's disgusting. Sounds like someone threw up in the middle of the sentence."

capric

"It means 'beautiful,' and pertains only to the human face and form. I'm assuming particularly females, but hey. It's an old word. Maybe ancient men were pulchritudinous, too."
"Groovy."
"That's not an interesting word at all. It is dated, though. I'm thinking... sixties?"
"Ha ha. How about you give me a word I can actually use?"
"Well, you could ask Le Grande Fromage over there what it's like to be fatuous, inept, and inane."
"Sounds bad. Will he hit me?"
"Probably. But at least it would liven up our waiting."
"I'll pass."
"Ummm... How about capric?
"What's that?"
Well, I was looking for an exotic word for 'chicken' as in "You are..." but no luck. So I settled for 'goat-like; smelling of goat."
"You're so funny. I may hit you to liven up our waiting."

The Phrontistery is a worthwhile place to visit, even if you don't care about strange words. The blog roll is marvelous, and most of the entries are funny. You might even find the perfect word.

Cause & Effect

2011-07-29T22:26:00.001+03:00

We cannot live for ourselves alone. Our lives are connected by a thousand invisible threads, and along these sympathetic fibers, our actions run as causes and return to us as results.

~Herman Melville

Moby Dick revisited

I was writing in my journal this morning and this was the quote on the bottom of the page. That started me thinking about Herman Melville (he of Moby Dick fame).

Apropos of nothing, this is church day in GulfTown. Since HM and I were up at 3:30 am, we swanned off early to get gas/petrol/fuel (I'm multi-lingual now). I was still thinking about Herman Melville and lamenting that I had not brought my iPad so I could Google him. (The fuel stop for Blue LaZoom set us back the princely sum of 4.500KD ($15.75)- definitely not the eye-popping $85 to fill up the rented wreck of our recent road trip!)

TBP was in fine form this morning, preaching to the much reduced summer crowd, but I confess I missed his most salient points because I was thinking about Mr. Melville. Specifically, what kind of man he might have been to produce such a lovely thought. Having soldiered my way through Moby Dick, this glimpse of his poetic soul didn't fit with my opinion of the author of a tome best used as a door stop.

Turns out I'm not alone in that. Moby Dick "...sold poorly" earning the publisher (not Melville) the grand total of $566.17 during Melville's lifetime. Eventually, Melville's wife and her family used Wasta to get Melville a job as a customs agent. A "...humble but well paying position." He was there 19 years and soon earned a reputation as "...the only honest man in the whole custom house." He died in 1891 at age 72 of cardiac arrest.

Though he never had anything significant published after 1866, Melville continued to write poetry throughout his life, self-printing several poorly received volumes of his poems. After the loss of his oldest son to an accidental gunshot, and his second son "Stanwyx" (what kind of a name is that?) to illness, Melville experienced severe depression and eventually became an alcoholic. His wife weaned him off the sauce, but not before his persistently vociferous critics declared him a "...raving lunatic and madman." At some point after his death, somebody decided the whale novel was one of "...the greatest literary works of the era." Whatever. A number of his efforts were published to critical acclaim, and Melville is the first author to have his writings collected and published by the Library of America.

Utoya Island. Formerly totally anonymous bit of Norway

Back to the quote - all this thinking led me to the Norway shootings. Noodling at its finest to be sure, but nonetheless, that's where I ended up. There are those that say Anders Behring Breivik was living for himself; selfish, self-centered, narcissistic, deranged, insane, fanatic, extremist... (insert pejorative adjective of the day)and they might all very well be accurate and the contention true. It occurred to me that his actions, however inexplicable, reveal the tangled web of Melville's statement. All those people on that island had no idea who he was but now, the "...thousand invisible threads..." connect them and their families to this stranger for the rest of their lives. Actions returning as results.

I have spent the day wondering about the "invisible threads" connected to me and how I may have impacted others in ways I didn't recognize, comprehend, or acknowledge. Sophisticated and complex manifestation of the law of sowing and reaping, maybe? Brings to mind John Donne; "No man is an island..." Sobering thought.

Melville couldn't be too crazy - he honeymooned in the Great White Up.

P.S. HandyMan thinks if he'd been one of the policemen who responded to the carnage on the island, there might have been an "accidental" gunshot right about the time Breivik surrendered. Oh dear. I don't know HOW that happened!

Bragging Rights

2011-07-28T23:49:00.001+03:00

AMG gave in and started writing her own blog. I whined long enough about no comments on my own blog that she took pity and tried to let me know she faithfully reads what I write. Blogger wouldn't let her comment for some reason so she ended up signing up for her own blog. She's wise, personable, and funny like her father. She writes, however, like her mother. I'm good with that.

Check her out - especially family. You just might find yourself featured.

Killer A/C

2011-07-28T14:53:00.000+03:00

Eleventy-three people have now told me that I am sick because of the A/C. While politely listening to this sage pronouncement I inwardly geck. This diagnosis is always made with firm conviction as if sincerity alone makes it true.
Not.
One is likely to get cold, but catch a cold? Not unless some germ laden friend snotted or sneezed all over me while we were standing in the hurricane A/C at Avenues Mall.
This little pet peeve led me to think about Snopes.com and the whole urban legend thing. (Check out their great list of medical rumors - "Bananas carry flesh eating disease!" - hilarious) Illness comes from pathogens. It does not come from just being cold. Granted, being cold or chilled may lead to hypothermia, which medically qualifies as an illness, but warm up that frozen body and voile! everything works again.

Mutating rhinovirus - courtesy University of Maryland

According to WebMD, the common cold is caused by one of over 200 different viruses, the most common being rhinovirus (and all its mutant progeny) and coronavirus (and all its mutant progeny). One can get serial colds because the virus has 110 variants, all of which are different enough that one's immunity provided by a recent cold is useless against the latest version of the virus being passed around. Furthermore, the causes of 30% to 50% of adult colds, presumed to be viral, remain unidentified. Air conditioning has been ruled out. Well, simple A/C has been ruled out. Just blowing cold air on someone's head will not cause a cold. (It will cause muscles spasms in the scalp and neck, leading to excruciating headaches and severe muscle pain, but that's a whole other deal.)
The old wives' tales passed on from generation to generation say colds are caused by going out without your coat on; not wearing mittens or a scarf outside; going out without a hat; going out with wet hair; not wearing socks in the winter; going swimming after Labor Day; winter camping; not wearing longjohns; standing in the rain; getting wet feet; the list is almost endless. It actually appears to be a litany of ubiquitous rules created by mothers to control recalcitrant children.
The tenuous link between A/C and any kind of illness is the fact that forced air, whether hot or cold, dries out the mucous membranes of the mouth and nose, making them more susceptible to injury allowing an airborne virus to enter the body. Ergo, sniffling, sneezing, and inconvenient snotting.
Have I mentioned how much I hate being sick? I also hate being cold, so my very own HandyMan has blocked off the A/C vents just above my head. This has resulted in a warmer office, no more headaches, and a much nicer work environment.

I'm sick

2011-07-28T09:07:00.001+03:00

Not me ...but close enough

I hate being ill. Sick. Under the weather. Whatever you call it I hate it. I have much to do, places to go, and too many people to see to be lollygagging around in my housecoat wishing I felt better. This feeling (and the crankiness) only evaporates with the judicious application of good drugs and HandyMan's "gentle" persuasion to lie down "...until you feel better." Having just been away for nearly three weeks, I will be going into the office later today come hell or high water. HandyMan cringes.

Where do we get the idea that it's not okay to be ill? I was trying to remember how it was when I was growing up. (Thinking through the fog of these good drugs is proving difficult) I remember that the mantra in our house was, "No blood, no bandaid;" a position I maintained with my own daughters, foster children, and various other seekers of succor in my home. I do remember being quite ill on several occasions, being subject to ferocious bouts of tonsillitis at the most inconvenient moments. But I don't remember any specific pronouncements or behaviours which might form in me the opinion that being ill is for wimps and weaklings. Mind you, I don't remember anyone in our family being truly ill.

An oxymoron, eh Dad?

We lived on an acreage (which Most Marvelous Father constantly referred to as "The Money Pit") and no matter what else was happening, there were always animals that needed to be fed and cared for. My father was known to point out that "A righteous man careth for the life of his beast" a concept I found hilarious as a child, since I was not a man, and we didn't have beasts. We had Dolly the cow, Arrow the horse, Mama and Freckles the sheep, Granny and Lady the goats, ....chickens, pigs, and too many rabbits to count. (My father had a fool proof method of discerning when the pigs were ready for market - if they were too big for my little brothers to beat off with sticks at feeding time and he was going to have to feed them, they were ready for market. Funny, that.) Eventually, I learned that King James English allows 'man' to encompass all human kind, and 'beasts' are animals, not just dragons, krakens, and dinosaurs.

Anyhoo... back to being sick. No amount of psychoanalyzing has produced a satisfactory answer about why I so despise being sick. Maybe it's just natural - I am driven, governed by plans, goals, and aspirations, all of which are thwarted temporarily while I swan around wishing the A/C worked better. HandyMan is an ice cube which apparently indicates that I must be feverish. Argh!! I guess I will really go lie down and hope I feel better in an hour. Otherwise, it'll be more drugs and cottonwool for brains this afternoon.

I wonder if my clients will even notice.

The Essence of Me

2011-07-28T08:29:00.002+03:00

Recently, the King of Beans had occasion to be schmoozing with Thandie Newton at TEDGlobal after hearing her speak on "Otherness." On his Facebook page, he recommended her talk, saying it gave him a new perspective on self.

I listened to it, and while I don't think it gave me a new perspective, it did provide me with some food for thought. I like to think about things. New ideas, old facts, different paradigms, and opposing perspectives. Ms Newton does a great job of expressing the innate fight for the expression of every human being as unique. Priceless, worthwhile. I was really captivated by her description of self. She eloquently explains her conclusion that 'self' is a construct. She posits that my idea about my self is merely the projection of what others have said about me, of my need to fit in, my need to be accepted, and that self will 'morph' to become something different if the environment or circumstances dictate this need. She even goes so far as to characterize the effort to prop up 'self' as trying to breath life into something that's dead. (I'm paraphrasing here). Interesting analogy.

That got me thinking about Imago Dei - humanity being made in the image of God. Thandie's description of the 'essence' of life sounds an awful lot like the belief that we are made in God's image, and her description of putting on and putting off 'self' reminded me immediately of Romans 6. Wikipedia (that source of all that's right and true in the world) has a spiffy little homily about the three ways that Imago Dei might be interpreted. It's interesting reading, and in so far as it goes, basically accurate. (I find most of the religious writings on Wikipedia tilted decidedly in the direction of Catholic theology...sometimes palatable, sometimes not.) Ms Newton uses language beautifully, crafting a picture which does away with the need for attributing the source of self, essence, or otherness.

In any case, Ms Newton's thoughts on her personal journey sparked an enjoyable period of reverie for me. And I always appreciate that. Right now I'm thinking about Truth (John 14:6) repackaged as 'Spirituality Lite' - taking advantage of the promise in James 1:5,6, all without acknowledging the One who made real life possible.

Michaelangelo's "The Creation of Adam"

And I used to think I hated philosophy.

Things I learned on Vacation

2011-07-27T15:53:00.000+03:00

This vacation was a combination of all the things we love - family, driving, adventure, the open road, and fun. We haven't done this in awhile, our three girls being grownup and all. It's not so easy to shout, "Tallyho, pip! pip!" and head for the hills. But we managed to do it this time.
I learned some things on this trip. Some things I didn't expect to learn, some things were TMI, and other things were just surprising.

Unfortunately, no pictures of dinosaur poop

Like, did you know that little boys feel the need to announce, "I farted?" This is incomprehensible to me but hilariously funny to male siblings, cousins, and Opa. And Dman entertained his cousins at various times during the trip by making dinosaur growls and shouting, "Big T-rex poop!"

I learned that little boy giggles are infectious, even when the subject isn't funny (at least not to a mere girl). The whole T-rex thing became the theme of the trip. The boys ordered big T-rex burgers, had big T-rex muscles, big T-rex fights ...always accompanied by the right amount of growling and posturing. Incredibly entertaining.

Another thing I didn't know is that small boys appear to believe that verbal aggression or physical fighting is the most efficient response to everything.
"Find stick, Oma, see? I fight!"
"You do? Why?"
"I fighting!"
"I see that. Who are you fighting?"
"Big T-rex!"
"Ah."

"Do you want a drink?"
"NO!"
"Okay."
"GIVE ME JUICE!"
"Oh. You want a drink?"
"NO!"
"Do you want juice?"
"Uh... YES!"
A 'drink' is not 'juice' to a two year old. Precision is clearly the key. And it's best to shout at the old people. (Opa needed to be shouted at... truly.)

Did you know that adult daughters are the most amazing people, ever? It was so very cool to watch my girls (who, as small children did NOT announce the occurrence of any bodily function) be moms. They are so proficient as they interact with the little people they love. The boys exhausted me but the girls managed to find the energy to "do something" after the boys were in bed.

I learned I am too old to be responsible for toddlers. Not that these boys 'toddle' anywhere. Oh. no. I have lost the stamina required to chase after quickly moving two-legged Houdinis. And I don't have enough hands/arms/fingers to stay ahead of this octopus masquerading as a human boy. (Where DO all those arms come from?!)

Not our boys but the giggles are similar

Small children have the lock on funny. Even when they are being serious.

"What dat?"
"A gopher."
"A go ser? What dat?"
"A squirrel."
"Sqirl? What dat?"
"A rodent."
"Oh. What dat?"
"I don't know."
"I ask mommy?"
"Good idea. You go do that."

Both the little boys are in the "That's mine" stage so everything is "me, me, me" or "mine" or "I do it." Which can be hilarious, frustrating, and sometimes a little dangerous. The Owl is insistent on doing everything his big brother does, which means he often gets himself stuck, or perilously perched in some locale that produces shouts of distress from his mother and grandmother. Which he ignores. Dman is a little more cautious but not much. He's more likely to be shouting, "No! Mommy do it!" He's also much more articulate than The Owl, but says way less. During one particular stretch of highway while his brother and cousin were napping, The Owl talked non-stop and cared little that we weren't listening very well. Of course, it wouldn't have helped if we were - he's got this delightful lisp which makes most of his speech unintelligible to everyone except his mother. And she doesn't always get it right either. We did a lot of guessing. His favorite response? "Uhhh....no!" (The Owl's mother at the same age used to tilt her head to one side and say, "Well, akchally..." We used to say AMG sounded like she was from Georgia.)

Mr. Wonderful and I worked on his diction - one, two, sree, sore, sive, six does not bode well for play school. Neither does sire truck, or any other word beginning with 'f.' He thought Oma was shriekingly funny when she put his fingers on her mouth to hear the phhht of the f sound. That was far more fun than actually saying 'f' himself.

In the middle of our road trip we attended a family wedding. A good time was had by all. The boys learned they could get themselves juice, and that they could reach the snacks (chocolate) and by 10 pm they were zombies. The Rancher's Wife waved her hand in front of Mr. Wonderful's face as he walked by and he didn't even flinch. Lights were on but weren't nobody home. AMG and I threw the boys in Betsy Ban, drove up the highway and back, and voile! off to dreamland. We parked the van right outside the door (small town) and went back to dancing. The boys were good to go in the morning...

I learned that two weeks with Oma and Opa is enough for everyone. The boys were so excited to "go on cation with Oma and Opa" and just as excited to "get home from cation with Oma and Opa" two weeks later. One of the hardest things about living here is the long stretches between seeing our girls and their families. Having just had a wonderful time with them, I learned that it's possible to say goodbye and be okay with going home.

I learned it's possible to be happy with my choices and sad at the same time. Life is such a paradox.

Don't Forget the Bikers

2011-07-27T14:04:00.000+03:00

As a family, we expect adventure. Years ago in a time of what felt like unremitting stress, we unanimously (and shamelessly) adopted the code of the US Navy SEALS - 'Improvise, Modify, Adapt and Overcome." This was soon shorted to IA&O though none of us can explain just where 'modify' disappeared to. Consequently, whenever we encounter the possibility of adventure, someone inevitably shouts, "IA&O." It would not be a "proper" family trip if there were no need to improvise, modify, adapt, and overcome.
Certainly not.
We had a near miss at Saskatchewan Crossing (which is not a crossing and nowhere near Saskatchewan) when the rented wreck gave a dyspeptic wheeze and refused to restart after a pit stop. HandyMan has acquired a lot of mechanical skills over his lifetime, but he wasn't prepared for this type of adventure having no tools, no time, and no clue. He lifted the hood of 'Betsy Ban' and stared at the motor.
If you've ever owned a van, you know the motor is crammed into the space between the front wheels in such a way that you can only look at a small part of it, and can reach even less. He pushed and pulled a few things, then said, "I'm going to see if this place has a mechanic."
In the space beside us were two motorcycles (neither a Harley) and two rather grizzled men (Wild Hogs comes to mind) guzzling Gatorade or something equally disgusting. Actually, I think one had a Red Bull. Ick.
Anyway, Fairy Girl alighted from the van and went to look under the hood. As soon as she did, one of the bikers bestirred himself to come and gaze at the motor as well. (He did not move while HandyMan was looking under the hood. Nooooooo) FG suggested we try to start Ol Betsy again, which we did, same disappointing result. The almost-going-to-go-damn-it-won't-start thing. The biker said, "Sounds like it's not getting fuel."
Duh.

"Maybe it's the manifold sensor thingy on the side of this here doohickey." (He actually used all the correct vocabulary but I forget what it is, so you get my version) "If you disconnect it, I bet the van would start."
FG promptly yanked the offending wire and then suggested her sister try again.
VROOM!
"You'll need to get that looked at but it should run okay until you do. Might be a little rich on gas, but it's better than sitting here for the weekend."
No kidding. I didn't want to sit there for the weekend given that we were trying to get to SkinnyWhiteBoy(West)'s wedding, but after spending about $12 per fill up in GulfTown, both HandyMan and I were left dizzy and gasping at the $80+ it took to fill the van.
Fairy Girl put down the hood, did a little victory/end zone move.
"IM&O. Where's dad?"
"Still looking for a mechanic."
We found HandyMan and as we were getting ready to leave, Fairy Girl asked the helpful biker his name.
"Ed." ('Ed?' What kind of name is that for a leather-clad, 50s something biker?)
"Well, thank you, Ed."
"You're welcome. When you're on your trip, don't forget the bikers."

Of course not. The near miss is now the stuff of family legend.

Horse poop and herons

2011-07-13T21:36:00.000+03:00

KTown has a beautiful series of trails along the creek, and AMG happens to live close enough to access these trails on a sauntering-type of walk. This is the only type of walk that we can manage, and it seems to be just about the perfect pace for small boys. After carefully explaining that "This grass is dangerous, don't step here," (on the street side of the sidewalk) off we went. The Owl had an large bottle of Dr. Pepper this morning before anyone else was up, so he's two years old on speed. He raced away from us up the sidewalk yelling, "No! No! No!" to nothing in particular since we were not currently requiring anything of him. Mr. Wonderful walked with Opa (HM) providing a running commentary of the ennui in the scenery. It's astounding what four year olds notice.

This walk was exhausting. In fact, HandyMan and I discussed how we are no longer blessed with the stamina or strength to chase children, as we watched the little boys run around trying to find stones to throw in the creek. Then Mr. Wonderful discovered he could climb on the retaining wall under the bridge, and the Owl went to do the same. This required extensive wiggling on his tummy in the dirt, with Mr. Wonderful attempting to keep his brother from joining him "...on top of the castle." A conflict vaguely resembling World War III ensued. Opa negotiated a truce.

Since I had the camera, I mostly talked with the boys and HandyMan was the one who did the actual interventions and chasing. Having raised only girls, I was astounded at what boys will do, try, trash, trap, or tackle. My cousin had just commented on Fb how she so preferred to raise boys (having some of each gender) but I wouldn't know - I only had girls - but watching these little boys be themselves, I couldn't help but think about the whole gender thing. These boys are so little. Some people would have us believe that by this age already the whole modeled, gender-biased treatment blah, blah, blah has imprinted these tabula rasa minds and created stereotypical boy behaviour - nurture being the source of their actions.

I think not.

I definitely tend toward the nature camp, with the codicil that nurture can profoundly influence manifestation of what is natural. HandyMan played with his girls as he plays with his grandsons, but the boys seem to naturally take it to a whole other competitive, stomp-the-loser level (in this case, the loser is a sibling). Mr. Wonderful reported that "horses pooped" on the sidewalk prompting the Owl to admonish us "Don't step on it!" whereupon Mr. Wonderful did exactly that. This grossed out his grandmother and made his grandfather laugh. The 'nurture' part in action, I'm sure.

Not my picture. I couldn't get this close.

A Great Blue Heron watched this foolishness with a jaundiced eye from the pond, and I wished again for a telephoto lens.

Earthlings make me very, very angry!

2011-07-13T01:04:00.000+03:00

Here at AMG's house, we are entertaining two little boys who love Bugs Bunny cartoons. It's like a flashback to a whole other time and place to watch Marvin the Martian become frustrated at the deliberately obtuse antics of Bugs Bunny. Watching these cartoons as an adult one is struck by the fact that Mr. Bunny is very adult in his witty replies and innuendoes. Furthermore, this is really, really violent stuff. It's not video games that taught children that violence has no consequence. Nooooooooo....Warner Bros. has been teaching generations of children that getting bonked, banged, dropped, shot, blown up, run over, or otherwise mangled is no big deal. Sylvester and Wile E. Coyote just pop back to normal afer being flattened like a pancake, ready to continue chasing Tweety or Road Runner.

How come he never got it?

Mr. Wonderful runs around repeating lines from the cartoon, and the Owl runs after Mr. Wonderful repeating him with the cutest of lisps. Opa (aka HandyMan) is already tired. He has read to the boys, played trucks, fooled around with a fake thumb, and refereed several prize fights.

Grandparents are not in the same league as parents. We no longer have the stamina it takes to keep up with small children. Truly. They're like the Energizer Bunny on crack. And they're normal. It's difficult to remember ever having the wherewithal to manage our own active girls. AMG and Fairy Girl do a great job.

We are off to vacation with the girls and grandsons, and we're so looking forward to it. But first, I'm going to catch up with Miz CEO, and Fairy Girl is going to host a potluck at the park to bring all of her friends together to meet her parents. It's going to be a busy two weeks. If things go as they usually do, many, many lines and phrases from cartoons, movies, and books will be trotted out with perfect timing. Our girls both have a witty streak they come by honestly. This road trip will be a riot.

P.S. It's CHILLY here. What's with that?

Progeny

2011-07-11T07:02:00.000+03:00

Drama Queen (19)

The Other Brother and Mrs. Modest have absolutely gorgeous children. They are, in order of birth, Drama Queen, World Trekker, SkinnyWhiteBoy(East) and Model Child. We've had the wonderful privilege of being a part of their lives since they were born, and on and off we've been able to spend time together solidifying our place in their hearts.

World Trekker (18)

Tonight at the new house, it was so much fun to watch them interact (they are still excited to be back together as siblings) and Other Brother and Mrs. Modest are seeing the shape of the future as their almost grown children move outwards into adult life. They have their own family vocabulary and their own short hand when communicating, which to an observer, is both funny and puzzling. HandyMan never lets this stop him and he inserts his two-bits worth which produces more hilarity... or total silence as all of the conversants turn to look at him with blank expressions. Other times, the contribution to the family discussion has resulted in uncontrollable mirth and a new word ('ackerman' (acronym); intoxicate (antagonize)) for the family lexicon.

SkinnyWhiteBoy(East) (17)
aka "August Rash"

Model Child (16)

It has been a privilege and a joy to see them again in person. Older, taller, slightly more mature, and certainly more individuated than last visit. How cool.

It is bittersweet to rejoice in the emergence of their personalities, interests, and passions pointing at the future for each of them because it means next time I come, everything will be different.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate goodbyes?

Rogue

2011-07-11T06:31:00.000+03:00

On our last night with the Other Brother and his delightful family, we made a pilgrimage to the new building site to "have a fire." The house has been backfilled by a track hoe (apparently called a 'High Hoe' here - someone influenced by the Seven Dwarfs?) and therefore safe for Mrs. Modest and myself to walk the plank onto the newly laid subfloor. There's even a wall or two up, creating the corner of World Trekker's and Model Child's potential bedroom. Drama Queen and World Trekker are planning on emancipating in the fall, leaving SWB(E) and Model Child. One notes that both soon-to-be-independent daughters still staked claim to personal space (and the right to choose wall colours) in the new house. Having experienced this season ourselves with the Amazing Girls, we did not offer any advice to Other Brother or Mrs. Modest. Nooooo. We did not.
A bonfire is a Canadian tradition involving combustibles, green sticks, and various and sundry items some people call 'food.' This entails PORK smokies of some flavour and marshmallows. The Other Brother gathered up everything he was going to burn and started a massive fire on the dirt where the lawn will eventually be ("ashes make good fertalizer") using a tree root ball, paper and one match. Apparently, the boy scouts rule. While we were waiting for the fire to be suitable for singeing sausages and charring marshmallows, we had a (very) random discussion.

This witty and hilarious sparring was interrupted by the neighbour's dog, allegedly called 'Rogue.' Certainly seemed suitable to the animal question, being a huge Italian mastiff. The Model Child informed me that said dog was "very nice" and commenced to try to entice her over to the dark side. HandyMan put on his best authoritative voice and ordered the dog to stay away. HandyMan prevailed. I like dogs, but this one was huge and actually didn't look too nice. Rather menacing in fact. She had announced our arrival in a bark loud enough to be heard in Brighton and had not quieted until it was clear we wee4re not about to transgress no man's land between us and her. She watched us intently as we went about our preparations for supper. The house Rogue was guarding used to belong to Other Brother and Mrs. Modest. They built it in 2005 and had recently sold it in favour of downsizing into a home of their own design. It is this sale which resulted in all of us currently being installed in the home of the Saintly In-laws.
As our noise level rose, the dog became slightly agitated, intently watching the interlopers across the pile of dirt. After one particular loud outburst, Rogue barked at us, clearly unhappy with the whole business. Model Child waved her hands and began yelling.
"Calm down, everyone! We don't want to intoxicate the neighbours!"

No. We surely don't.

Ubiquitous Tourism

2011-07-08T16:06:00.000+03:00

"Ubiquitous" - the state of being everywhere at once (or seeming to be everywhere at once).

North Beach, Lake Ontario is beautiful. Then again most of Canada's provincial and national parks are beautiful. There's a surfeit of trees, lots of water, occasionally sand, often rocks, and always animals. This particular trip we saw gulls (known colloquially as sh&thawks here - deservedly so.) and a fox.
Yes.
We saw a fox.
It was busy crunching on something and appeared unconcerned with our presence. Scooter decided she wanted a closer look, but the fox wasn't too keen on that, picked up its dinner and melted away.
We barbecued, Kuwaiti style, on the beach. Most of us were convinced this is illegal in a Canadian provincial park, but we did it anyway. We barbecued pork tenderloin. Because we could. Indeed.
And I took pictures. Lots of them. People are funny when photos are happening. Some people ignore the camera and carry on, some people moan and flap their hands.
"Go away! Stop taking pictures of me."
"What makes you think I'm taking pictures of you?"
"You're pointing the camera at me!"
"This is true. But I'm not technically taking a picture of you. I focused this 300x zoom on your beautiful green eye. If you continue to complain, I'll focus on your nose. So ha."
And then there are those who have a camera smile. Surprisingly, Mrs. Modest is one of these. She has 'camera radar.' She seems to sense whenever there's a camera pointed at her, and one either gets a photo of her long hair covering her face (the 'profile') or her camera smile. If one were to read anything into this smile (not that one does because that would be all about one's own baggage... right?) one might say there is a flavor of 'picture this' in that smile. But one is not reading. No. Nooooooooo...
Much posing goes on in the younger family members, and in the really young, it's "Aunty Daisy, picture me!" They want to see the photo as soon as it's taken. The older ones say things like, "You better not post that on Facebook!"
Puh leez. If I take the pic with my Blackberry, it's already posted. Protesting is futile. If I take it with the Sony, it has to wait until I get to a computer. Everyone knows that. Sheesh.
The wonderful advent of global connectivity means that no matter where I am, I'm everywhere else; or seem to be. Mr. Hyperbole commented from Kuwait about three milliseconds after I posted a photo. The Aussie Redhead threw in her two-bits from somewhere in Europe, and our Chinese friends are all agog over the sunsets.
Ubiquitous tourism...seeing the world from the comfort of your current location. It's great. Except when MathMan blogs about swanning around France. Then I actually want to be there. Just looking at it through his lens (he's so totally cerebral and mathematical) is not enough. I want to see it for myself. I'm sure I'd take photos of totally different stuff than he.

Sunset on North Beach, Lake Ontario (Dancer is family)

Morning Routines

2011-07-08T15:23:00.000+03:00

"I think your smile is in the sink. Go wash your face."
So pronounced Mrs. Modest to her oldest (and not-morning-person) daughter.
Bwahahahaha!!!
I wish I'd had such witticisms ready to tongue first thing in the morning. It's not that I'm not witty in the morning, I'm sure I am. (I'll just have to check with HandyMan to confirm this) It's that I am such a morning person that I freak out the non-morning people. And truthfully, I truly don't understand how one is NOT ready for the day. Early.
Living with HandyMan has been, on occasion, an exercise in frustration. Early in our relationship we had several conflicts vaguely resembling both world wars and the Korean conflict. He would be getting his second wind at about 10 pm, right when I was thinking that if I stayed up much longer I'd turn into a pumpkin. I would go to bed after crankily resisting HM's attempts to stay up and "...keep me company."
In the morning, the tables were turned. But the extra twist was that HandyMan had to get up for work. It usually went something like this.
"Get up. The alarm has gone off. Get up!"
"Mooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan."
"No. I mean it. Get up! The men are here for coffee and then you're supposed to be on the job site in about, oh, 30 minutes ago."
"I'm up. Leap! Sproing."
"You're not either. You're still laying here pretending I'm a figment of your imagination."
"You're real?"
"I'm real. Get up!"
"I'm getting up, Woman! I don't need you to get me up."
"Surely you jest. What is this then? You're still not up and men are downstairs slurping your coffee."
"Is there any left?"
"As if. You're too slow. I have to make more."
"Go make it, and I'll be there."
"Right. I'm not holding my breath."
"You wound me."
"Whatever. Just get up."
HandyMan will read this and protest that I am exaggerating. Trust me. I'm not. This is a typical example of an oft repeated conversation which has happened over the course of 30 years. And it's my blog so I can revise, redact, and interpret as I choose.
One of our lovely daughters leaps out of bed, the other wishes, like her father, that morning didn't begin until after 10 am. At least it was like that when they were growing up. Now, I think both of them try to avoid mornings if at all possible. Not sure what happened there.
Being here in Upper Canada with four teens reminds me of the days when getting up in the morning was important. And like I said, I wish I could have been as witty as Mrs. Modest. I just ended up getting grumpy because my beautiful, early mornings turned into a battle field WAY too often.
Fortunately, our current life means that we don't need an alarm. I don't have to get HandyMan up as we are privileged to start work at noon if we choose. My mornings still start early, and HandyMan joins me when he wakes up. Which is almost always much later.
I'll have to remember that his morning smile is probably in the sink.

So many choices, so little money

2011-07-07T17:59:00.000+03:00

The Other Brother is building a house. In a past life, he had his own business, designing eco-conscious homes (which gave me the opportunity to mock him as a "watermelon head" - green on the outside, red on the inside. So not true, but I never let that stop me before) and generally doing a bang up job of being important. Due to the economic downturn which affected all of the world except Kuwait, he gave up the life of Riley as a self-employed man, and got as he put it, "a real job."

One of the things he did while working for himself was design and build a lovely house on Telephone Road outside of Brighton. It was thoughtfully conceived, carefully built, and lovingly made into a home by his all-round gifted wife. We had the privilege of staying there a few times, including the last time I was here, two years ago. It was great fun.

This year, as we're planning our annual pilgrimage to the land of our nativity, HandyMan receives a BBM.
"I've sold the house!"
"Hallelujah! When do you have to be out?"
"Next week." (Not really but it was a very short closing)
"So where will you be going?"
"To the In-laws basement."
"With four teenagers?"
"I know. I'm going to build another house on the lot next door. I'll make it quick."
"Where will we be going?"
"To the In-laws. I've got it all covered."
"Sheesh. These are saints, not people."
"I'll try to remember that. Might help."

So here we are. Thanks to the gracious and genuine hospitality of the In-laws (not even our In-laws), we are installed in a bedroom of our own, bringing the number of occupants in the house to 10. Two bathrooms, but 6 of the occupants are female. There is much knocking and yelling of "Are you done yet?" which is totally disregarded by the current occupant of the most important room in the whole house. Possession is everything.

Anyhoo... HandyMan skittered off this morning at a non-vacation hour to help put on the sub-floor on said new house. As always, this project first necessitated a trip to the local Tribal Center, where Other Brother informed the plywood salesman that he'd made it to this point in the building process "...without looking at a blueprint." For anyone else, this would spell disaster or a house that looks like something designed by Dr. Seuss, but Other Brother surely sees blueprints in his dreams. So HandyMan wasn't worried.

Now, they've come back and collected their "volunteer labour" (SkinnyWhiteBoy(East) and have hied themselves off to deck the halls. HandyMan will love it, being a former woodworker his ownself before arthritis took him down. He will happily shoot nails into the floor joists (no more hand banging) and supervise SWB(E). The Other Brother will revel in the novelty of telling his elder what to do, and there will be much laughing and jesting and quite likely, shooting of nail guns.

Mrs. Modest (she is lots of things I'm not... modest being one) and I have been charged with providing lunch. Thus, we will appear with food, expecting to be lewdly whistled at and generally drawn into the foolishness that always happens when we're all get together.

And the choices/money thing? We are trying to decide what to do when we come back to the Great White Up. If you've been reading my previous posts, you know this is a topic on which HandyMan and I are quite widely separated. "Chasm" comes to mind. So far all we've done is decide we're going to follow the example of the Other Brother and stay within our means (less is more) but have definitively ruled out the XS-House (Plans $99, building cost $38,000). Too small. really.

I'm sure once we decide what we're doing, we can count on various and sundry relatives to help...provided of course, that we offer Baileys for breakfast and lunch from "the girls."

Oh yeah. This we can manage.

We might even be able to get Dv8ed and Other Brother back together for a reunion. They're a lot alike. Both being youngest bothers, and all.

The joy of family

2011-07-07T17:08:00.000+03:00

"I'm thinking of doing something important tomorrow." So states the Youngest Child of the Clan, age almost 16.
"Really? What?"
"Oh, getting out of bed and going to work. I have a real J-O-B."
"Well. How lovely. What exactly does J-O-B stand for?"
"Wha...? You know, a job. Work. Get money."
"Oh. With all the ackermans* floating around, I thought it might be secret code."
"No. SkinnyWhiteBoy(East) has a J-O-B but he's not making any money. He's doing it because he's family. And he wants dad to let him live in the house when it's finished."
"Ah. Russian volunteering."
"Pardon? What's that?"
"That's when a parent says, I need help. You, and you, and you. My own Amazing Mother is very accomplished at this skill."
"Ha ha. Mom and dad do that all the time."
"Of course they do. It's a parent's prerogative. It's a child's J-O-B to try and get out of it, whatever IT is."
"True, true."
[snickering]
"Don't ackermans have to stand for something real?"
"I suppose. But since a family isn't a democracy, I think we can pretty much decide what we like about ackermans."
"You mean like Uncle HandyMan's 'DICs?" [more snickering]
"Indeed."
"Cool."

It is delightful to be back with family (the "Out-laws" as Most Marvelous Father calls HandyMan's family). This is a sort-of-accurate but heavily edited version of a whole day's conversation with witty, well-adjusted almost-grown children who are related to me. Somewhere in there we ended up latching on to the phrase, "Don't tongue past your think," after several people had problems coordinating brains with speech. Much hilarity ensued. Gentle insults and witty retorts were exchanged which produced more giggling (or haughty protests at being the target of a particular conversation).

There's a kind of shorthand in families that is so comforting. I haven't been here for two years. Everyone has grown, they're more mature, grayer, deafer, more individuated, more emancipated, and sadly, more frail than they were last time I saw them. And of course, Andy isn't here at all (See previous post). But the circle opened seamlessly to welcome me back with hugs and kisses, and exclamations over my hair (grayer), HandyMan's spriteliness (he was so totally crippled when we lived in the Great White Up) and our plans for the future.
"How much longer will you be on The Far Side of the World?"
"We don't know. Longer."

I'm thankful for the place I hold in HandyMan's family. They've been good to me in spite of the fact that I've caused their son/brother/uncle/cousin to behave in ways that were very contrary to their lovely Dutch/Canadian culture [keeping him in the West when everyone moved back East] and to go haring off to foreign climes on The Far Side of the World.

There's WAY more of us than this. Way more.

As I sit here talking to favorite sister-in-law (I have three favorites in this category) about making Baileys, I am reminded that I've introduced a few traditions to this family of in-laws (Don't y'all have Baileys in your coffee at breakfast?) and how after thirty-one years with HandyMan, I'm truly blessed to be a part of two great families.

------------------------------
*acronyms. She of the World Trekking fraternity was so tired she was "floaty" as she put it. She totally 'tongued past her think' the whole afternoon. Very hilarious. Of course, immediately after she said it, the whole family adopted it, thereby gently mocking her until she went to bed. Such is family love. =)

Limits of Rehab

2011-07-04T14:11:00.000+03:00

Ours is plaid (but not beige)

His Evilness has been transported, yowling and clawing, to rehab. He did not want to go. Normally, we have to shut all the doors, block off the exits, and try to catch him. It seems he can smell when something's up, and makes a good job of hiding. We've discovered he hides in the lining of the sofa, so HandyMan just lifts up the front, which freaks HE out, and he scrambles out of his hidey-hole and heads for under our bed. But... we shut the door. Usually, that's the end of it. His Evilness makes like a rug in front of the bedroom door and drops 2 pounds of hair in the process. (All of which gloms onto the ends of HandyMan's dress pants. HM can't win.)

Anyway, this morning while I was curled up on the sofa at the crack of dawn, as is my wont, HE came and garnered my attention by climbing into my lap and sitting on my iPad. (When he lays on it, nothing happens, but when he actually puts his paws on it, it goes nuts because his pads must be recognized as fingers. He really messes things up.) Today, he draped himself across it, and I thought, "Hmmm. This might be an opportunity." I let him get settled, then as I usually do, I got up to go to the kitchen. His Evilness always stretches, then hops down to follow me. This time, when he went to hop, I caught him and whisked him into the cat carrier. Voile! One quick zip and he was trapped.

Holy cow

If I could understand cat, I'd probably have washed him mouth out with soap. I mean, really. He was swearing; making exactly the same noise as when he's fighting with HandyMan. When I didn't respond immediately, he began ripping and shredding the inside. I worried for a moment that the poor vinyl box was going to be destroyed and we'd have to find another way to transport him. But no, it withstood the assault and His Evilness eventually stopped and took to yowling. He is surprisingly loud. But our neighbor is gone, and the people downstairs can't hear anything so I didn't care.

When cats go bad

So His Evilness is safely out of the way for three weeks, and when I come back, I will expect that he's forgotten all about it, and will be glad to see me for... oh, about seven minutes. HandyMan doesn't even get that long.

Rehab is reasonably priced, His Evilness comes home clean, free of diseases, and slightly more grateful for his home than he normally is.

Just about all you can ask of rehab... any kind, anywhere.

Noise du les Quebecois

2011-07-03T09:06:00.000+03:00

THE CANADIAN PRESS - MONTREAL - There were a few middle-finger salutes and vulgar chants about the Queen. Loud boos.

And forget those fancy fascinators: here, crowd members dressed like Middle Age peasants to ridicule an institution they derided as archaic.

Bienvenue au Quebec, Prince William and Kate.

As they arrived in Canada's only predominantly French-speaking province for a two-day tour, the royals were given a loud, raucous reminder that not everyone in this country likes the monarchy.

The sea of adulation they had encountered so far during their Canadian tour instantly gave way to a choppier response the moment they entered Quebec on Saturday.

The conflicted cacophony of reactions was perhaps best summed up by 59-year-old Guy Ebacher.

Describing himself as a Quebec separatist, Ebacher affectionately held up a cardboard cutout, shaped like a heart, picturing

William's late mother, Diana, at the centre of it.

"I wanted Prince William to see that, in Quebec, his mother is loved and remembered and it's my personal homage and tribute to Diana," he said, standing on a crowded, blocked-off street.

"I had to do it, I really had to."

As for the protests: "I have no problem with ... the monarchy because I don't feel the threat. I don't understand their fuss and why they're so aggressive. I really don't get it."

There were mostly admirers at the royals' first stop at a children's hospital, as cheering supporters and camera-snapping onlookers far outnumbered anti-monarchist protesters -- by about 10 to one.

But that small, vocal contingent of naysayers managed to make itself heard; the unmistakable sound of jeers echoed among the cheers as the young couple quickly entered the building.

Dozens of Quebec sovereigntists were gathered outside the Sainte-Justine hospital, some carrying signs -- in both French and English -- calling the royal couple "parasites." There were chants of, "Abandon the monarchy." Some cars honked in support of the protesters as they drove by.

The demonstration was far more vociferous at the next stop.

Hundreds of people, the loudest being protesters, waited outside a downtown cooking school, booing and chanting as the motorcade arrived. It was around that moment that some people began flipping middle fingers and bellowing foul-mouthed slogans about the Queen, William's grandmother.

One man, perched above on a balcony, earned cheers from the crowd as he shouted before the couple arrived, "Vive le Quebec libre!"

Puh leez. These are people with sour grapes because the last separation referendum was so soundly defeated. The rest of us really like being associated with Britain and the monarchy. Lovely to see Will and Kate carry on the tradition of our particular royal family's love of the Great White Up. Aside from the whining minority in Quebec, we love them back.

Love the maple leaf hat

Hope for Change?

2011-07-03T08:55:00.001+03:00

'Cristy' may actually get some justice. This woman is a college graduate (this is important), the mother of three, and new to Kuwait; she's been here exactly three months. Since immediately after her arrival, she has suffered torture at the hands of her 'Madame' (the sponsor), Madame's mother, and brother. The partial story is here. I say "partial" because the reporter in question kept saying, "I can't print that!" Suffice it to say that 'Cristy' suffered indignities, pain, and humiliation that can (and should) be filed under aggravated sexual assault, assault & battery, and torture.
Two weeks ago, 'Cristy' endured the ordeal of the justice system (she doesn't understand or speak Arabic) and gave testimony in open court. The Attorney General heard all the evidence on both sides, and upgraded the charges to attempted murder. This has caused ripples through the whole of Kuwait. Read here
Today, I learned from the Labour Attache at the Embassy that all three of these people have been taken into custody. As in, they've been in jail for almost a week now. Colour me (and others) speechless.. The Embassy staff are hopeful that this case will stand up to the corruption and influence peddling of the legal system here and justice will happen for a lot of domestic servants because 'Cristy' is so adamant and so articulate about her refusal to be treated as less than human.

I struggle to find any shred of rationale for the systematic torture of another human being. Mind you, it occurs to me at this moment (if there's any truth to the myriad rumors and photos floating around) that the country to the south of the Great White Up may be engaged in similar practices under the guise of "The War on Terror." Apparently, those making decisions in this regard have not read just how notoriously unreliable confessions gained through torture actually are. (Just read somethng like When Hell was in Session by Jeremiah Denton) But I digress.

This truly is good news. How many fingers can the Philippine government point at Kuwaiti sponsors when their own staff are abusing and trafficking their fellow citizens? Part of this problem is happening because the previous POLO was (allegedly) corrupt and was unceremoniously shipped back to the Philippines under a stinky cloud of bribery, human trafficking, and just general all round nastiness - all rumors, I admit. I have no inside track on the truth, I'm just repeating the buzz. I don't know if anyone other than God has the whole truth.
The new Labour Attache, David Des Dicang, a long serving diplomatic veteran from the Embassy in Saudi Arabia appears to be on the ball, and seems committed to restoring the credibility and effectiveness of the Kuwait office. I wish him luck and hope he's successful. Anyway, it will be interesting to see how this resolves. David admitted that with a case this high profile, the Embassy is taking advantage of the "shame factor" and pressing hard for reforms to the way domestic hires from the Philippines are treated. He's also been able to finalize the paperwork for nearly a hundred stranded women in the shelter, and he's hoping to ram through a few hundred more before this case gets dropped ...which sadly, most of us expect will happen at some point. But maybe not. These latest developments are definitely "off script" so nobody is really sure what's going to come of it.
Cynically, I suspect that if the sponsor's family name were Al Sabah, or Al Ghanem, or Al Shaya, or some such, this situation wouldn't even make the news. Being a large family from Jahra the likelihood is that the family is Bedouin though I willingly admit this is speculation on my part. I imagine that 'Cristy's' Madame will be sitting in her cell moaning, "This is only happening because I have no Wasta."
Well, neither does 'Cristy.' We (maybe) foolishly hope that Justice will be truly impartial this time and the balance of the law tilted in favour of the victim.
Hope is good. Sometimes, it's all we have.

Blog Buzz
Expats in Kuwait
Crossroads Arabia
MyTelegraph-Expat
Indonesia Updates

DICs Revisited

2011-07-02T11:29:00.000+03:00

Goth Tinkerbelle

"I am a victim of my own mind," announced the black clad person next to me, apropos of nothing. I was bored while waiting interminably in yet another Ministry office and since I am never without my iPad, I was amusing myself. I guess my brief glance up from the Mah jongg was invitation to conversation.
"Oh?" says I, "How so?"
"I wrote down all the things I was thinking yesterday morning and I was creeped out. It's so weird." The ring in her nose (I'd determined by stealthy observation that this was a female adolescent of indeterminate age) wiggled as she wrinkled her face.
"What's weird about it?"
"Well, it's all so twisted. I'd never really thought about what I think... can you say that? Thought about what I think?"
"Sure. It's called metacognition - thinking about thinking."
"Cool. So I was doing that. And when I actually wrote down what I was thinking, it dawned on me that most of it isn't real. It's just what I think about stuff, and it's making me crazy. I don't talk to anyone about it, and it occurs to me that all my friends are probably doing the same thing."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I only have friends through a box. I don't have any friends in real life. You know, the old fashioned kind. Like old people. The ones who don't know about Facebook or Twitter." Black tipped fingers pushed at her jeans.
"You have no real friends?"I asked rather skeptically.
"None. In fact, I find myself really, really anxious in gatherings of real people. I don't know what to do. And that's what all my thinking is about. How will I look? What will I say? What will people say to me? All very scary." My neighbor flipped her hair and I got a look at a little pixie face with crooked teeth, multiple piercings and a small tattoo in front of her right ear. By the look of her and the accent, I'd say British mother, Kuwaiti father.
"How fascinating. I don't have any friends on Facebook that I don't know in real life. I love how the two worlds overlap and intertwine. I don't do Twitter because I think it's just too much like narcissism."
"You do Facebook?!"she said, apparently stupefied.
"Certainly, " I replied with great dignity.
"Wow." This was a bit much. I began contemplating whether or not I should dye my hair again. "I'm curious about the first thing you said - about being a victim of your own mind." (Nothing like a busman's holiday)

"Well, I wrote all that stuff down and when I reread it, I thought, 'I don't think any of this is even real, but I act as if it is,' and that made me think about all the times I could have done stuff with real people but didn't because I had all this weirdness in my head. I only know how to interact through a box of some sort. I have an iPhone, Facebook, Twitter, MSN Messenger, What's App?, and Face-to-Face. But when I try to talk to people in real life, it's like they're way bigger than me. I don't know where they stop because they're not inside a box."
"Ah. My husband calls those friends Digitally Imagined Companions."

[Silence]

"DICs?" she said snickering. "Oh, that's funny."
"I thought so. He's a very funny man. My friends are both. I know them inside and outside of the box."
My companion pulled her coat around her, and folded in on herself. "I'm thinking I need to get out more."
"Couldn't hurt."
"I know, but it's scary. I don't think I have very good social skills. I'm 18 and I have no idea how to be a real friend." She stood up and headed for the door. "I need a smoke."

I've been thinking about this for awhile - even before my conversation with MathMan and HM. There's got to be a book in there somewhere. Something about raising generations of people who only know how to interact with talking heads or text.

Ick.

Happy Birthday Canada!

2011-07-01T14:21:00.001+03:00

Today we celebrated a lot of things, not the least of which is Canada's birthday. CommandoMan has finally shaken off the djinns of bureaucracy and gotten his visa situation sorted and starts his new (old!) job on July 11. Amazing Grace has no more school age children (which means of course that Harley Bad Boy has none either), Jazzman's daughter has just recorded a song she's written, and we all made it through another year.

The ostrich egg was huge, and the resultant scrambled egg dish very tasty. Our brunch included bacon (gasp!) thanks to Ol' Kentucky, biscuits and cream gravy, Canadian pancakes & maple syrup, muesli from Sweden, sweets from Hungary, and cheese from Spain. How could it get any better?

I do admit that the celebrations were tainted slightly by the fact that MathMan is swanning around Europe with Gipsy, and Minor Royalty and the French Princess have been unceremoniously shuffled out of the country for good. (I am reminded that this sad turn of events means that come fall, we can return to a certain unnamed cafe in Marina Crescent since Minor Royalty will not be here to whinge about it)

Once again, the absolutely stellar enjoyment of a multi-cultural social circle makes a lot of the bad things about GulfTown bearable. And soon, (4 sleeps) we're off to the Great White Up ourselves, there to smoosh our lovely daughters and lavish loads of grandparent type attention on three little boys.

Oh Canada!

Sandy Toes and Dusty Feet

2011-06-24T22:59:00.000+03:00

Sandytoes and Dustyfeet

Mr Planner and Mrs PhD have produced a lovely child who is the object of much attention and comment when she is out and about, being very different than the average baby here. Dustyfeet is tiny, with huge blue eyes, white hair, and an engaging smile that hints at planning mischief; just having caused mischief; or possibly looking angelic so that one will not think of the mischief in said tiny girl. She's beginning to really talk, and as the only baby involved in the Friday Social Circle, she is beloved, kissed, and coddled by all. She is also very entertaining.

Mrs PhD and Dustyfeet are currently stuck most days in an apartment in GulfTown, trying to find ways to amuse themselves. To that end, Mrs PhD has taken to combing the World Wide Web for ideas, doing them, and blogging about it. She's funny, helpful, and a source of ideas for any mom with small children to occupy. My own girls come to mind and so I offer her blog here for anyone who might enjoy a delightful almost-two-year-old and her very articulate mother. Bonus arts & crafts ideas for toddlers... with instructions and demonstrations.

Another perspective on The Far Side of the World. Click the link under the photo - even if you don't have a toddler, Mrs PhD is worth reading.

Subliminal Message Alert

2011-06-24T17:51:00.001+03:00

'Followers' are nice little warm fuzzies all lined up on the right side of my blog. I have 12 of them. Well, at least 12 that admit to it. According to Google, I actually have 50 different ISP addresses that regularly check my postings - don't worry. That's all Google will tell me. And then there are some random hits (usually when I post an entry on Facebook because I think it's so good everyone should read it.) which brings my counter up nicely each time I post.

So here's the sad part (at least to me). The only one who comments on the blog is MathMan (You so rock). I get quite a few emails about different posts, but almost nobody else posts on the blog. I love the email comments, and I try to respond to them, but if those comments were posted on the blog, the "conversation" keeps going in more-or-less real time. I love some of the things you've written to me in response to posts about the maids, some of the observations you've made about what it's like to live here, and I even enjoy the responses which have been less than complimentary (usually about religion, and usually on posts that were germinated from reading one of MathMan's theological rants). But no one else gets to read them because they weren't posted on the blog.

'Where is DaisyMae going with this?' you ask. (I just know you are).

I blog because I use it to process what it's like to live as an expat, to live in the Middle East, and to do what I do here. I feel it connects me to my family and friends far away. I really don't think that many people stumble across a blog called "Aston Martins and Cat Spit." It's just not likely. I don't care. I write for myself and for the sense of being related to home. The blog is (mostly) anonymous because of where I live and what I write, and there are times when living here is hard because of the things I write about. When I get an email about a post, I feel connected to, and supported by, those who love me and care about me. Because you're reading what I wrote last night... this morning... and you know who I am - that's important to me.

Of course, if you posted your comments on the blog...

What Fun

2011-06-24T17:16:00.002+03:00

Recently, our friend Trek Maester returned to the sunny land of sand and sea. He pops in on "this or that project" staying for a week, a month, six months, then popping back out again to the much wetter and gloomier climes of home.

"So," says I, "where have you been?"

TM - "Oh, out and about. Mostly at home. I'll be here for two months this time."

DM - "Ah. So you get to experience Ramadan. How fun for you."

TM - "I suppose so. No more trekking in the sun because I won't be able to have my water."

DM - "Right. 'Mad dogs and Englishmen' comes to mind but that would be an incredible insult to your nativity, so I won't say it. I'll just think it. When did you leave?"

TM - "Oh, April 12th I think."

DM - "April 12th? Where else did you go?"

TM - "Well, straight here, really."

DM - "Straight here? But that's only, what? 10 hours. Did you walk?"

TM - "Cycled."

DM - "Cycled?! No way."

TM - "Yes, I'm a bit ashamed of myself. I gave up in Istanbul because I ran out of time. I planned to ride right here."

DM - "Ah. You just put on your trekkers [you should see his feet...'tanned' hardly begins to cover it] and grabbed your trusty bicycle and headed for Kuwait."

TM - "Pretty much."

DM- "Did you do it for charity or something?"

TM - "No. Just thought I would ride since I had the time."

DM - "Uh huh. I'm thinking if I had two months to kill my first choice would be to ride from the Hebrides to Istanbul. Certainly. Of course it would. I couldn't possibly think of anything more fun."

Enter HandyMan

HM - "So you rode across Holland?"

TM - "Yes. Took me 30 hours including my stay in a lovely hotel. I spent most of my time in Holland sleeping. It's really very flat."

DM - "Right. So we could go cycling around Holland if it's that flat."

TM - "You could. And cyclists have the right of way. Very nice place to be biking."

HM - "And will you ride back?"

TM - "Oh, I don't think so. One way was enough."

HM - "How are you recovering? Did you camp every night?"

TM - "Oh no. I stayed in proper beds. I'm recovering. It's been two weeks since I got off the bike and I'm still a bit wobbly."

HM - "I bet."

I'd be "wobbly" until I died if I did something like that.

I caught Trek Maester with my BB camera today at the UN of Friends, but I'm not going to publish the pic. He's a shy and quiet man (a "dour Scot") with a wicked sense of humor and a very solitary life. Which includes riding across Europe from Scotland to Turkey by himself, without fanfare, publicity, or brouhaha.

He's never going to sell his story to anyone, nor is he going to get any attention for this or any other of the quite amazing endurance feats he accomplishes under the guise of "having fun." But if you're interested, this book is funny, poignant, and covers just about the same ground, for a good cause.

What to do?

2011-06-24T09:02:00.000+03:00

Lately, HandyMan and I have been discussing our return to Canada (note to parents and offspring - don't get excited. This is future planning...2017 is still our 'Back-by Date' though we concede it may happen earlier if the right opportunities come along) and we've realized we have a bit of a dilemma on our hands. HandyMan wants to live as close to his grandsons as possible (preferably right next door, I think), and I, horrible as it sounds, want to be somewhere that includes many cultures, many languages, ethnic food, and world colour. If it could all happen together, life would be perfect.

This is NOT, however, the Okanagan. In the years we lived there, "culture" meant the First Nations' band across the lake, and the only 'people of colour' in the area attracted gawkers. Really. Unless you include the counter-culture of druggies, runaways, and Arctic refugees living in the warmest place in Canada (which still gets too cold for me). My current hometown is white, Protestant, and micro-focused on the cachet of "Living in the Sunny Okanagan." There are really great people who live in KTown, but like Miz CEO, they escape as often as possible. To New York, Las Vegas, Hawaii, Thailand, London (UK), Edmonton... where they absorb the frenetic energy that comes from a cultural ethos that just isn't available in small towns in the Great White Up. Given that I am also averse to freezing, our choices for potential residence is narrow. Factor in the need (even for me) to be a part of our children's and grandchildren's lives, the choices are even less.

This conversation began after I received a notice from the recruiter I used to get to Kuwait. He informed me that the perfect position was just waiting for me in New Zealand. Did I want him to send my CV? New Zealand? Hmmm... I did, but I said, 'No.' I am not ready to leave the incredibly exciting and challenging position I have here. But that started another round of "What if" and "When will we" questions. Still can't answer them but it's fun to discuss the possibilities, and our list of criteria continues to grow and will eventually I'm sure, morph into guidelines that might have some bearing on when I say 'Yes' to Mr. Recruiter.

Lest I heap to myself scorn and vitriol from current residents of OK, let me hasten to add that KTown and all its little sister villages is beautiful. There is much Canadian culture due to the old orchards, the wineries, the lake, and of course, the influx of Europeans who have sold their tiny properties in freezing climes across the Pond and purchased gargantuan lake front properties in KTown add some Other World flavour. Don't get me wrong. I like KTown. I'm just not sure if I live there after being part of the UN of Friends that I won't end up joining Miz CEO on regular junkets to more diverse locales.

It's a dilemma...

The End of the World as We Know It

2011-06-24T08:08:00.000+03:00

With apologies to R.E.M., I offer this latest little tidbit courtesy of HandyMan. Apparently, the end of the world is the theme of his current contemplations. Well, if not the end of the world, certainly he's considering how all these people are going to make finding decent parking so much more difficult.

Freud Rules

2011-06-24T07:37:00.000+03:00

Most Amazing Mother emailed me this morning. "Been enjoying your blogs of late. One small point. You have a bother with a birthday in January, as well as Le Heldantenor." Oh dear. Since it is popular (and Freudian) to blame mothers for the ills in the world , I will say in my defence that in our family my bothers were "the boys" as I and my sister were "the girls." I'm quite certain if this had not been the case, I would not have been thinking of my beloved bothers as a unit and inadvertently assign them both to the same birthdate in June. (Sorry, Mom. In the spirit of the age, it certainly cannot be my fault. I'm sure you understand ;p)

This is not as unusual as it sounds. I have several friends who have children born many years apart on the same day. One of these sets of "twins" is hilarious (the whole family is madcap) and the older one tells his mother quite regularly when there's a dustup of some sort that he is irreversibly scarred from her departure in the middle of his 5th birthday party in order to produce a sibling he did not want. She soothes his wounds with chocolate... which he shares with his own beloved little bother.

Sorry, MusicMan. Really. I have you marked in my calendar (though I am currently wracking my overworked mind to try and recall if I remembered to send you a card)and I certainly think of you with love and much affection on that day. I'm hoping that counts for something.

Amalie Freud...boy does she have
a lot to answer for.

Digitally Yours

2011-06-23T09:20:00.000+03:00

Dv8ed recently celebrated his birthday. I sent him a digital card (being all techy and stuff), the sentiments being a reflection, I believe, of my regard for him. I even wished him a long life. Since I don't recall ever actually wishing either of my bothers dead, this was not difficult.

I was thinking how significant May and June are in our family calendar. I was born in May which makes it significant to everybody, but I'm actually thinking a little more globally here. Lots happens in May and June. But then I realized if I didn't include February and December, I'd be neglecting a daughter and a grandson in the grand scheme of things. Then I thought 'I'm excluding HandyMan,' (oops) and threw in September. Now, just in remembering birthdays, I've got half the year covered. Have to add March (Most Marvelous Parents); July is out unless I count Canada Day; August, October, and November are all in. That leaves January, which I could certainly add on account of Le Heldentenor.

So what to do.... if I were rich and entitled, I could spend the year joyously celebrating the existence of various members of my family with extravagant parties involving ponies, Cirque du Soleil, or bungee jumping in Borneo. I'm. Not. Rich. (slightly entitled, maybe).

Digital cards will have to do. And don't be surprised if they're late.

What She Said

2011-06-23T08:57:00.000+03:00

Sometimes, somebody else says it way better than I might have.

Vancouver E.R. nurse writes open letter to rioter: ‘Apology not accepted, d*****bag’

Rick Chandler

Jun 21, 2011, 4:31 PM EDT

On Monday another Vancouver rioter turned himself in to police: Tim Kwong (pictured) was outed by photographs and a video as “the first person to set a car on fire” in the riot. Knowing that the jig was up, Kwong issued a written apology on his Facebook page (since taken down), writing in part: I am ashamed at what i have done, I know i may never gain the respect of this town again. But I PROMISE that i will do whatever i can to make this up !! I am a big believer in Cleaning up your mess !!

But in spelling and grammar, not so much.

Anyway, the full text of Kwong’s apology can be seen here. In response, an emergency room nurse identified only as J.J. wrote this on her blog today. I show it in its entirety because it’s pretty awesome.

Tim: Just because you can string an apologetic sentence together does not mean you are sorry. Perhaps I should make you aware of the consequences of your action. To you, it’s just an overturned car that you set on fire. To me, it’s walking into an overflowing ER and helping treat a girl with a severe asthma attack because she was exposed to the noxious, acrid smoke of a burning vehicle. To her, it was just a chance to be a part of a group cheering for her team. Little did she know that later on, we were thinking of sticking a breathing tube down her throat if her condition did not improve.
To you (yes, I am lumping you with all the douchebag rioters in the ER that night), it’s a chance to congregate in the ER waiting room, pounding on the triage window demanding to be seen for teargas exposure and cuts from looting and fighting, while posturing and bragging about how you kicked the crap out of somebody and smashed shit up. To me, it’s taking my time away from the little old quiet lady having chest pain or taking time away from the person you “shit-kicked” for trying to stop the looting.
To you, it’s just a fight. To me, it’s the ER social worker looking for a teddybear to console a four-year-old girl because she just witnessed her dad get a broken nose as he was trying to get his daughter out of the hotzone.
To you, it’s writing a letter saying you “will do whatever it takes to help clean the city.” To me, it’s walking home after a long shift and seeing all these people at 7:30 in the morning armed with garbage bags cleaning up YOUR mess and realizing that these people have more class in their pinky finger than you could ever muster in your whole life.
To me, it’s getting home to shower, only to have my elderly neighbour knock on my door and ask me if he should make an appointment to see his doctor because he was experiencing shortness of breath, which later turned to chest pain in the morning. He did not think about leaving his window open as he went to bed at 9 o’clock. The smoke from all the burning cars made it to our building, into his room and triggered his asthma, which then raised his heart rate, which then became a small heart attack. I asked him why he didn’t go to the ER, and he answered, “I turned on the TV this morning and saw the rioting, I did not want to be a burden.”
To you, it’s just an overturned car that you set on fire.
Why am I blaming you for all this? Because you are the instigator. You ask people to leave your family, friends and co-workers alone? I think they need to know how much of a [expletive] you are. Remember that your parents worked themselves to the bone so they can move to this country and give you your god-given right to flip cars over and set them on fire.
You, Tim Kwong — apology not accepted.

She has a point: What would really impress me is if someone who wasn’t outed by photographic evidence would come forward and apologize. Anyway, more arrests, I’m sure, to come. You can follow the actionhere, and here.

You’re next, pal.

Shame & Disgrace

2011-06-23T08:56:00.001+03:00

At least the team has some class

The inclusion of the Vancouver Canucks in the Stanley Cup elicited rather a lot of excitement on The Far Side of the World. Not just in us, but for most Canadians in this arid, brown dustbowl where the "New Caledonians" Canadian hockey team reigns supreme on the men's side of the ice rink in Kuwait City. Suffice it to say that this particular Canuck team is compromised mostly of Newfies, working here with American contractors. The games are rough and the team is now having difficulty finding opponents. Lately they've taken to playing shinny hockey by splitting and playing against each other. I hear it's great hockey with a guaranteed minumum number of stitches after each evening. I haven't seen them yet (not being permitted on the men's side and all) but I've heard lots of talk...mostly reports of the on-ice shenanigans from incredulous non-Canadians.

So when Vancouver made the playoffs, we were excited. We plotted our time zones, figured out the game times, and tried to catch at least some of each game. Since we have to watch live streaming via the Internet and JustinTv.com, this can be a very frustrating exercise. But we saw some good games. It was pleasant to have people asking how the Canucks were doing, and to endlessly explain that 'canuck' is slang for Canadian, and where Vancouver is, and how there are a number of Canadians playing on the Bruins' team, and how Don Cherry is not your typical Canadian.

Then came game 7 of the finals.

It was fairly clear early on that for a number of reasons that Vancouver was unlikely to win. Nevertheless, we watched because it's good hockey. And in reality, in any contest there's a winner and a loser, but the fact that both teams got to the place of playing each other for the ultimate prize indicates a level of excellence, stamina, and skill which can't be overlooked or dissed. Somebody's got to lose...preferably the other guy, but hey. That's the nature of competition.

The aftermath of the loss was stunning. I would imagine being there would be a bit traumatizing. The images we watched on the Internet and on the world news were shameful, sad, and enraging. This was a hockey game!! It wasn't Tunisia where the self-immolation of Mohamed Bouazizi in protest of a wicked, oppressive dictatorship started a riot which led to the downfall of Zidane; or the rioting of Syrians sick of supression, poverty, and censorship; or the uprising of an entire country's youth against a corrupt and abusive government. No. This was a riot ostensibly sparked by a sports event. One of the many news articles included a quote from the mayor of Vancouver - "I believe this riot would have happened if the Canucks had won. I'd be very interested to know how many of these people were actually at the game or even know the final score. Not very many, I bet."

MathMan noted my total silence on the subject of the losing Canucks, and I thought about why I hadn't written about it. Let me rectify that.

First, I am proud of our hockey team. They made it to the Stanley Cup. Losing sucked, but oh well. We won the gold medal at the Olympics on our turf, and you can't have it all. Second, I have not had time to blog anything about anything these last few weeks. And third, what am I going to say about the punks, idiots, skinheads, junkies, and drunken louts who have shamed and embarrassed Canadians as a nation? And don't get me started on the opportunistic crime spree under the guise of "fan frenzy." One shopkeeper reported that 5 people spent more than two hours working at getting into his store. They clearly used the cover of the chaos and confusion to break in and make off with most of his inventory. (All of this was captured on cctv, and all 5 perps have since been arrested) What is there to say? OilersFan, my son-in-law happened to be at the game and he reported afterwards that he was pretty sure he'd witnessed a group of people toss someone wearing a Bruins' jersey off an overpass. Turns out he was right. That young man is now in a Vancouver hospital with "critical head injuries" and he's still unidentified. How sad and how senseless.

Olympic hopeful Nathan Kotylak doing his part for Canada

On the plus side, the people who showed up to clean up and restore the area were myriad. And they didn't just come from Vancouver. One retired couple flew in from Toronto to help because "...this is a black eye for Canada. Not just Vancouver." Just as there are those who care nothing for the privileges they have by simple virtue of their geograohical birthplace, there are those whose sense of national identity and pride in our beautiful country compel them to action. That includes all those people who have turned over hundreds of pictures and videos of the rioters to the police, who have already identified and arrested many.

People are still asking me about the Canada...it's just now, I can't answer their questions

DICs

2011-06-19T06:41:00.000+03:00

There have been a lot of goodbyes this week, some expected, some very unexpected. The weight of emotion that is produced by the whole scene is usually too much for me and I wimp out and go to work, waving goodbye to my friends as I pass their neighborhood, or I wimp out and end up sick. This year's flavor is 'sick.' Several families are leaving and being with the British Military Mission or the British Embassy, they've known for almost a year that this June would be Sayonara. Nobody really talked about it, but both families gradually withdrew from expat social life and commitments, and over the past three weeks, we've hardly seen them. The swan song party was planned, the date set, and we had all girded our loins for a last bash as a suitable farewell, when suddenly, Minor Royalty and The French Princess got added to the list.

What the...?!!

MR has been fighting with the Kuwaiti government for 18 months over his graduate degree. He has one. In history (this tells you something about MR but that's for another blog) He also has the PGTSEDXYZ (the British use a mouthful of letters for everything... I forget which ones exactly go here) the highest teaching qualification one can get in the UK. The rub? The degree is from Open University, which has a long and distinguished history of delivering education at a distance. It used to be called 'correspondence' when I was in school, then 'distance education,' and now 'digital delivery.' Whatever one calls it, the Kuwaiti government decided at some point in the past that degrees earned in any other way than sitting in a desk in a bricks and mortar building did not qualify as an education. There is unanimous agreement as to the reason for this decision, but it's difficult to explain to a government that issues with credibility are immediately resolved by simply applying this rule to non ex-pats (I am so PC). The French Princess, of course, is tied ('For better or for worse') to the fortunes of Minor Royalty, and must also leave tonight. This news came on Wednesday (whereupon my bad week went to hell in a handbasket).

Nobody likes to be sad (just ask the Irish - I think a Wake pretty much trumps all other cultural forms of saying goodbye) and the sadness quotient in the room on Friday night could have drowned us all. Enter comic relief. MathMan admitted to a Facebook page! He let it slip on his blog that he was going to strike off all the friends on Fb who disagreed with his rant of last week. (See Blither and Squiff) When I was reading his blog I admit my mouth fell open when I read that. MathMan has a Facebook page? Hokey doodle. (That's not really what I thought, but Most Marvelous Father also reads my blog) This news elicited many exclamations of surprise from all the Friday Social Circle and MathMan was hard pressed to explain why he had a Facebook page and none of us were his friends. The speculation was wild and most of it detrimental to MathMan's impeccable reputation. At this point, HandyMan declares, "Facebook people aren't real friends, they're digitally imagined companions. A small thoughtful pause after this pronouncement produced, "That would make them DICs?"

Bwahahahahaha.

Suffice it to say that good wine, better food, the human propensity to avoid grief, and the wonderful company of great friends produced a shriekingly funny round of frat house humor that lightened the evening, made us all cry (with laughter, of course), and allowed us to say goodbye to all our friends without the horribly embarrassing sniveling and weeping one so assiduously tries to avoid on these occasions.

Minor Royalty and The French Princess may land in Qatar, in which case we will inflict them with our presence, the British families are easily accessible, and MathMan is in for a rough ride. He's on Facebook!

I wonder how many Digitally Imagined Companions he has?

'Goodbye' (Alfred Gackel)

Feral Teenagers & Cat Ladies

2011-06-18T08:03:00.000+03:00

The Aussie Redhead is going home for good. First though, she's going to swan all over the UK and Europe as a final homage to the vagabond and free life of an expat teacher. She will be missed. Today as we went off to our usual Friday Social Circle after properly genuflecting and acknowledging Trinity Sunday (on Friday...this place is so confusing) she was reflecting on her three years here. Actually, she was describing the state of her apartment ("a rubbish bin") and lamenting that her neighbor, apparently a woman of impeccable taste and severely anal tendencies, had dropped in to see how AR was getting on. (She was not getting on well at all, apparently, describing the condition of her flat as a "...cross between a feral teenager's room and an old cat lady's flat." This provoked mirth all round because AR is nothing like a cat lady (she doesn't even own a cat) and feral teenagers likely only exist in Australia or the wilds of New York.
One of the many delights of a cosmopolitan social group is the strange expressions one hears from different countries. Lately, I've been given a hard time myself regarding my Canadian "accent" (as if). I was informed that I say "aboot" instead of 'about,' and that my 'r' is strange. If I do say "aboot" (which I am NOT admitting) it will be because 30 years with HM has had a detrimental impact on my communication. "Aboot" is a typical Upper Canada affectation, and not generally espoused in the nether reaches of the northwestern portion of the country. I can't really speak for the coastal region of the West, being that the Far North and the Flaky Coast don't have much in common. They might speak a whole other language on the West Coast for all I know. This is certainly true of The Rock on the East Coast. But enough about the Great White Up. I have no accent.

My friends say things like "pear shaped" (something has gone wrong), "gob smacked" (astounded), "sticky beak" (nosy person), "done a runner" (vanished), "sticky wicket" (in trouble/a dilemma), "cor blimey" (apparently a unique British contraction of 'God blind me'). I myself cannot imagine using some of these phrases, especially since meanings change quite significantly once across the Pond. For example, "gob smacked" may mean astounded in the UK (as in someone covering their mouth (gob) in surprise or astonishment) but in Canada, "gob" is spit. So the first time I heard someone use "gob smacked" in casual conversation, I was... well, gob smacked. All I could imagine was someone being spit on which just didn't seem right in the context. Ewwwwwww!! Eventually I admitted what I thought and was provided with the alternate explanation amid gales of hooting and snickering. (My international friends are kind, gracious, and patient)
I have introduced a phrase as well, though I'm not sure I should be admitting it. TBP appeared somewhat taken aback when I said to my companion as I passed by the good Vicar, "The week was bad already, and then it went to hell in a hand basket." Oops. As I explained to TBP later, this is an American idiom, variously attributed to fire-and-brimstone preachers of the early 1800s, or claimed as a description of the descent into the coalmines of West Virginia. [Before health & safety became involved, miners descended to the coal seam sitting in baskets hung on cables. They were said to be 'going to hell.' (I'm sure if not the real thing, it was pretty close. Yuck)]
Anyway, the flip side of these funny English idioms is trying to explain them to non-native English speakers. Like, try telling someone what "deader than a door nail," or "gag a maggot," or "help yourself" means. There have been occasions of helpless laughter and fits of giggling while trying to help some poor soul make sense of our ridiculous speech. The other day, one of my staff, overhearing me say to another colleague, "You so rock!" asked, "Why do you say things in English that you don't really mean? I don't think I will ever understand this."
Me, either. And English is all I speak.

Stuff & some nonsense

2011-05-31T22:00:00.002+03:00

I am having trouble getting to blog. The speed with which the days fly by makes it very difficult to stop long enough to think through the ideas competing for space in my overtaxed brain. And, as I've already learned, if I don't write when the idea strikes, I lose it, never to be recovered. So amazing, hilarious, enraged, general interest tidbits have all fallen by the wayside, there to wither and die. Even MathMan has been on my case about the sparse pickings on AMaCS.

So I turn to drivel...

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This week, I saved one of the Zits panels I read, because it was funny, and ought to be shared.

In other news...
I saw an accident on the 40, a fender bender which then involved much waving of arms, loose language, and sole flapping. What made it interesting is that the four vehicles involved were in the middle lane of a highway where the minimum speed is 140kph. This is, of course, different than the posted speed but no one here reads the speed limit signs... not even MathMan. My theory is that he's done some complicated algorithm to determine the exact speed at which an accident is most likely to be survivable and will only drive that speed. Or something like that. How did I get off on that tangent? *shrug*
I was originally thinking how a small front-to-back fender bender on one of the most dangerous highways in the world had backed up traffic for many kilometers. As I drove by, the participants were all standing in front of the line of bashed and dented vehicles waiting for the police to arrive, while the cars whizzed around them. The vehicles could not be moved until a police officer had assigned blame or else everyone's insurance policy was null and void. The point of all this rambling is that I always expect some hapless person (mandated to stand waiting for the police) to become collateral damage of a minor fender bender. Thanks, God, so far that hasn't been the case. That I've seen.

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Friday during a farewell for the Aussie Redhead, we played a game. You know, one of those stupid parlour games that most people hate because one is left feeling dumb and dumber as the game progresses and one still can't figure out the "simple rule" that makes the behavior of the other players understandable. Anyway, Mr. Hyperbole was one of the "outs" - he didn't know what the rule was, and he was quite unhappy about it. As is his wont, being a poster child for Sanguines everywhere (let me assure all you of Sanguine temperament that you are ABLY represented by Mr. Hyperbole) he was whingeing. His wife, she of Longsuffering sainthood, was trying to help him, but he just wasn't getting it. Finally, she said, "I like the moooooooooooooooooooon, but I don't like the sun." She made circles of her fingers and put them over her eyes and ...nothing. Poor Mr. Hyperbole. There was much laughing and jesting at his expense. He was a good sport though... he always is. As long as we make it all about him, the Soggy Potato Chip Law rules. (I am so going to pay for this)

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My lovely sister-in-law posted pictures of the family cruise, and I got to see that MusicMan is alive and looking particularly well. These photos came right after Dv8ed posted pics of himself and my other lovely sister-in-law vacationing in Hawaii. They're such great people, my bothers. Completely different, yet obviously the offspring of our family gene pool. I like to think we were all spawned out of the deep end, seeing that our Most Marvelous Parents are not related closer than eleventy-three generations back so the DNA helix is mostly unsullied. Of course, Madame's Sister's penchant for bean counting and tax havens is completely inexplicable. Secretly she's my hero because I have difficulty counting more than 10 beans at any one time. My staff was surreptitiously correcting my basic math errors until I told them they needed to double check my numbers or we'd all be in trouble. So far, so good.
Somehow this year I have been fortunate enough to snag lovely pics of Madame Sister and her Rancher, Dv8ed, MusicMan, and the lovely sisters-in-law, HandyMan and I were captured for posterity at The Wedding celebration, and Most Marvelous Parents were digitally enshrined while here in December. I'm hoping that this is the year of photos - SkinnyWhiteBoy (SWB) has done his bit by deciding to marry La Artista, thereby creating the most wonderful opportunity for family photos. I'm anticipating.

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Amazing Middle Girl has turned the Monopoly board of life upside down and is now considering her options for the future. In the short term, these options include spending more time with my gorgeous grandbabies, enjoying the OK summer, and hanging out with her incredible parents. We plan a road trip to SWB's planned nuptials.
Road trips in our family are infamous and not for the faint-of-heart. We once decided to "go for a drive" on a Saturday and 1100 kms later we returned exhausted and satisfied. Fairy Girl is a lovely little party all by herself (did I mention she's a Sanguine by nature?) and so keeps the troops entertained. We are, of course, a captive audience so it's fortunate she's actually wonderfully talented. Apropos of nothing, she missed the memo from the her Creator about it being girls who like scars on boys, and has unintentionally collected quite a few mementos of adventures which would make any macho dude proud. They certainly are a conversation opener for Fairy Girl who, if you've read my blog, you know is the embodiment of Tinkerbelle, complete with buttons. Thankfully, she has developed the ability to avoid button bumps herself... finally. Am I proud of my girls? Absolutely. (A naughty word right there would have been appropriate punctuation...lol) Somewhere along the way, AMG plans to "hit the road." A long-lived family in-joke from a previous road trip involving vomiting, picnic tables, cold winds, and the most incredible music. I can't wait. Sadly, Spoiled Rotten Youngest Girl will not be able to join us. But she'll be at SWB's wedding so we'll take 10,000 photos. Might even be enough.

Turkey beckons, and the plane leaves early. We have business there, but will cut out and tour Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and the Grand Bazaar. As always, we'll be on the lookout for things our Glorious Girls will like.

I've already bought them shoes.

Kinecting

2011-05-30T16:39:00.000+03:00

The dude from "Pokerface"

We, old as we are, have moved into the world of virtual trainers, exercising at home, and yelling at talking heads. This morning, HandyMan has decided to do the Zen program. His avatar looks suspiciously like a computer-aged version of Burt Reynolds, including earring (did Burt ever sport an earring?). HM designed his onscreen self complete with jaunty fedora and six pack abdomen. The resemble to his real world self is uncanny. *coughcough* (You should see Mr. Hyperbole's virtual self. No ego disclosure there. Nope. None at all.) bwahahahaha
Anyhoo, HM sets up the Kinect, starts the exercise program and promptly throws away his salvation. The evil witch who runs the program says things like, "That's not quite what we're looking for, is it? We'll have to try this again." This prompts a torrent of unprintable noises from HM who seems to believe that the disembodied voice giving these instructions cares one whit about his opinion. I laugh.
The games themselves are actually quite fun and even though it feels a bit ridiculous to be jumping in the air and leaping around in the middle of the room while watching your virtual self balancing on a raft, the end result is overheating, heavy breathing, and cardiac endangerment. I suppose none of these things would happen if one were fit and limber, but that would not be either me or HandyMan.
Not. Yet.
I use Dance Central, which has a number of different avatars quite happy to dance their way through any number of routines. Currently, I rock out Pokerface, Funkytown, something by Kylie Minogue, and several other current pop tunes. But truly, I wish for the good stuff - anything by the Eagles, Bob Seegar, the Rolling Stones. I'd be quite happy to follow Whoopi Goldberg's dance routine to Jumpin Jack Flash in the movie of the same name. Now that's my kind of routine. I think I could really get down and funky if I liked the music but mostly, I don't know the songs, and I'm not really into Snoop Dogg or any of the other artists who think that rhyming and beatbox is music. (I'm showing my age, I'm sure)
The whole premise of Kinect is fascinating to my IT challenged mind, but it's fascinating to interact with the computer generated game in the form of a persona I created. There must be some sort of psychological research in there somewhere. I like to be myself, but there were no options for a chubby, middle-aged woman with two-tone hair. (Not that I would have made those choices, but still, the option wasn't there to reflect my authentic self.)
Currently, the program is set up to require us to compete. Which I do willingly, and sometimes I even win. HM looks very dashing in his fedora and earring, and I'm hoping over the next few weeks to figure out how to introduce his avatar to mine...who knows what might happen.
Hoo ha.

Sometimes, I get a "flawless" on Maneater