Ladi Dadi We Like to Pahty

This weekend, I thought I would bring my 2 groups of buddies together to see what would happen. Sometimes it is just fun to stir up the shyt.

So, I brought together the crazy bowling group, consisting of 2 Lebanese sisters (who I can’t really figure out because they just STARE at me all the time – oh, one is the Public Singer also), my friend, Moh, and his friends Habib and Hash. Mohammed totally dissed me – didn’t even bother to call before blowing me off. Didn’t even SMS. Hash brought a very funny friend (with disturbingly small hands) that I hope we will see more of (the guy, not the hands).

From the other gang was SheeshaGirl and her Moh, MuslimArtist and the Greek, Naz, Bobarino and FishGirl. I sat in the middle incase any really bad fights broke out.

It was fun to begin with because we went to my favorite restaurant in the whole world, Sakura, and sat in one of their party rooms where you have to sit in Weird Chairs with No Legs and put your legs in a hole: It was buffet day (Fridays between 12-3, all you can eat sushi for 8.900), so seeing all your friends suffer to get up and down from that weird table was truly amusing in itself.

Low and behold, everyone got along. I particularly liked the new guy they brought along (with the disturbingly small hands). Very funny and kept me motivated to pick on people – like Naz, who will kill me one day with an aikido move if I don’t leave him alone (‘waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa’ – as I move my hands through the air like a ninja warrior). The only person throwing anything was me – at opportune moments when I could throw a napkin at either SheeshaGirl or Naz.

The 2 Lebanese chicks were staring down SheeshaGirl and/or Moh (we later discovered that they knew Moh from his former party days). Public Singer Girl leaned over about 5 times to ask me where the men (and only the men) are from, and their stories. What am I – the National Enquirer?

At a lull in the conversation, Public Singer Girl broke into a very loud rendition of something [as one member of our group (you know who you are!) said, “Who the fu.. does she think she is – Fairuz?”]. I couldn’t get my legs out of the hole in the ground or out of the Funky Chair With No Legs fast enough to perpetrate a call or run from embarrassment to the bathroom. No, I had to stick it out and watch MuslimArtist’s and SheeshaGirls’ faces as the song wore on. Both had what appeared to be Kermit The Frog faces on (you know, big eyes popping out and their lips disappeared into a funny line). I was laughing and crossing my eyes at them. Maybe she smokes crack. I don’t know. Maybe it is a pathetic attempt to gain attention (I would imagine MALE attention). Alls I can say is THANK GOD WE WERE IN A PRIVATE ROOM because as it was, I happened to know 2 of the cute guys outside at one of the tables (they are both jerks) and that would have really been embarrassing. Kids: Don’t do drugs!

During the middle of the meal, my friend Moh called to apologize, but I was relatively pissed off (I hate being publicly dissed – ok, I hate being dissed at all, but much worse in front of a group of friends), so I handed the phone to one of his buddies. (Get this – he was later mad at ME for being mad at him – AS IF, DUDE!)

As it was, the Brazillian and her monster husband were supposed to show up – and didn’t. I’m tired of those 2 letting me down; you can only extend so many invitations before you give up. BAM!

So, anyhoo, we had some coffee and everyone parted ways, promising to get together again soon.

I was supposed to get together that night with someone (I won’t mention who because he has let me down so many times before that I have now shocked myself for allowing him to get away with it), but he dissed me too. DAMN HIM! He made me mad at myself for believing him again.

It was one of those weekends.

The good thing was that I sent my sister her birthday presents ON TIME for once and got them off in a FedEx package. I hope she likes all the really cool stuff I have been saving for her (are you reading this, Booberry?). I try hard to get things in the mail in time, but I usually don’t get to it, even though my intentions and my plans are always good.

The following excerpt from my life is dedicated to my friend, Kuwaiti Chopper Dude:

I was with Bobarino the other night, going to the Sultan Center (which is now TOTALLY on my shyt list). Bobarino was driving his Urban Assault Vehicle (built for a family of 16). He stopped to let a guy in a Prelude (which is a CHICK CAR anyways) into one of the 2 parking spaces that was opening up in front of us. The 2 cars that were leaving were parked next to each other, so there was plenty of room for Chick Car Dude to leave us a space. What does he do? He parks sideways between the 2 spaces. Ok, I kind of knew (I guess) that the window was open when I blurted out, “F-ing Moron!”. (I know – not too “lady-like” eh?) Soooo, we proceed into the Sultan Center and guess what? Chick Car Dude comes in and accosts me in front of people at the produce counters, asking, “Do I look like an F-ing moron to you?” - in a very loud voice. I demurely said, ‘Why yes, actually you do,’ with a slight smile. So, he was starting to get up in my face and I was looking for my partner in crime, Bobarino (who is equally as pissed off at the world as I am right now). Chick Car Dude sees me look around and immediately launches himself at Bobarino. Bobarino asks him politely 3 times to back away, before removing his glasses and telling the guy that he will beat the crap out of him if he doesn’t leave (which sent the produce guy into a giggle fit, “You are American, sir? That man wanted to fight you, but was afraid when he saw you would fight him.”). People were moving out of the area when they saw what was taking place. Meanwhile, I was trying to explain to the VERY stupid Sultan Center Door Greeters that they needed to call security. They just stood there looking at me (no, I am NOT asking you for your phone number!).

Ok, this was all my fault. I admit it. I apologize for it, but hey…. He WAS a f-ing moron. I couldn’t help it.

Which brings me to another reason why I am not very fond of the Sultan Center at present: Last week, I walked into TSC with my friend, SheeshaGirl. She walked in front of me. As I was walking through the door, a TSC Greeter Dude stepped in front of me, all smiles and flirty-like and says, “Don’t buy any chocolate. You’re too fat.” Because of the expression on his face – I really don’t think he meant anything bad by it, but when you are going to a store with the sole purpose of purchasing food items, it is kind of a major appetite depressant. I told SheeshaGirl and all of a sudden, it was as if I had a Jewish God-mother: “Oh my GAWD! He did NOT say that to you! Eshtaaaaaaaawaaaaa? Ayeshey! La! La! La! Ayeshey!” We walked up to the customer service counter and I asked to speak to the very-nice manager on duty who apologized profusely to me and had a big bag of chocolate waiting for me at the check-out line. Ok, I might have a leetle baby fat, but no way am I worthy of that kind of comment. What Greeter Dude SHOULD have said was, “Don’t buy any chocolate – you’re too sweet,” but alas, he too was a F-ing moron.

SheeshaGirl called her mom on speed dial and they were ready to have the entire SheeshaGirl tribe at Sultan Center to avenge me, but it really wasn’t necessary (although really, very cute). Following the call to SheeshaGirl Mom, she called her boyfriend, Mohammed (also on speed dial), who only laughed and told her that it was Greeter Dude’s F-ed up way of trying to pick me up. That is just the lamest thing I’ve heard of in my whole life. Why not, “Hey girl – you smell bad. I know you want me, baby.”

So yes, Kuwait, I AM in desperate need of a vacation. I’m either on the verge of tears all the time, or I want to go postal.

And now.... More on Chick Cars

Iin the Desert Girl World, real men don’t drive the following cars:

• Cabriolets: they scream, “girlie man”
• BMW 318i: watch re-runs of 90210. Girl car. I saw a very tuff friend of mine driving one of these recently and it has completely ruined my image of him.
• Preludes: “bella dude”.
  

There are probably more, but I can’t think of them right now. AND, if you are a man and you drive any of the aforementioned vehicles, I sincerely hope that you do not wear pastels or capri pants. (shivers down my spine)

Is that enough for today? I think so.

Happy Birthday, baby sister. You are the brightest star in my universe. Your kindness and compassion for so many people and the way your touch our lives is a true blessing. You are always with me, even when we are apart.

May the road rise to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face.

And rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

Elf elf elf elf Mabrook Ya Kuwaitiat!

I guess because I’m working with all Americans that I don’t feel like part of the celebration – nor have I really noticed it around me. The newspapers seem kind of luke-warm about it. I am just so happy. Maybe people don’t understand the significance of the day. 100 years from now, they will look back and say that they can’t believe that women were not allowed to vote.

I can remember when the 1st go-around in parliament was voted down. One of my former colleagues at work, a young Kuwaiti guy, said, “I’m glad they can’t vote. What will they want next – to be in the military?” I looked him in the eye and said, “I knew some of the women that went to fight to protect Kuwait during the occupation. Where were you?” He turned bright red and walked away. I haven’t heard from him in a loooooooooooong time, so I sent him a congratulatory SMS. Tee hee.

It is so amazing to be here during these times. I wonder how the laws will change: divorce laws, women’s rights, social laws. Very cool times are ahead.

“…and now, for something completely different…”

A women’s rights issue of another kind; MY right to tranquility and “normal” friends. SheeshaGirl is now on my last nerve. For several reasons. (PMS again.) First, let’s start with the poor-pathetic-spinster-friend-pity, “Ooooh, maskeena. You’ll find somebody. You just have to go through some frogs first just like I did before I met Mohammed and look how wonderful he is…” Let me bitch about this for a moment, ‘kay? The reason why she had to go through “frogs” is because that’s all she dated. LOSER-FROGS. And, to her, they were all “woooooooooooonderful”. “Isn’t flan just woooooooooooonderful? I mean, he gets drunk, almost wrecks my car, and then wants to have sex with me, but won’t kiss me on the lips because that’s too intimate. That’s okay. He’s still a great guy, don’t you think?” NO! I’m not kissin’ any damn frogs to get to the prince. I want a one-way, non-stop, non-refundable ticket to prince-kissin’. I mean it. Second, she’s had her new job for 2 weeks. She’s had five major ailments. Call a waaaaaaaaaaaaambulance! She sounds like somebody’s grandmother. Let me count for a moment: “severe” sinus infection; neck pains, back pain, throat infection. As Bobarino says, “Under or over 34.” What? It means will she have her job under or over 34 days. I’m guessing under, but God love her, I hope not. I was wrong about the Sheesha – she quit cold turkey.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz SEGWAY…

Have you ever been totally in love (ok adoration) with someone that you have never met (kind of like George Clooney maybe) because … well…. just because. (You know who you are here.) I have this friend that I have never met who I understand and who understands me and for some reason, he has become like my mother or sister: he knows when I am thinking about him. There have been very few people in my life who could actually do that – and none at all who I have never met in person. My mom, my sister, my friends Naz and Ali, Shamlan, Bunny… they know/knew when I was thinking about them. Shamlan could tell when I was coming down with a cold from the other side of the continent without hearing from me in a week. Back to my story. This guy is dear to my heart and there is some kind of connection there, regardless what it is. I just hope you know that you are in my thoughts and my prayers and I am wishing for the sun to shine on you every single day. You have done small acts of kindness along your way and God will bless you. I love you, angel man.

Breaking into song. (another change)

Let me ask you something – does unaccompanied singing in a public place bother you? It bothers the crap out of me. For example tonight – I went out with some friends to eat dinner. One of the ladies with us is Lebanese and (I guess this is a Lebanese thing -???), she occasionally bursts into song while we are out eating. This bothers me on several levels. I get embarrassed. I don’t like people staring at me/us and I usually have to get up and perpetrate a call or just run to the bathroom to avoid having to sit there. I don’t even think I could stand it if the songster was at a table in close PROXIMITY to where I was sitting. Why do they DO that? There are appropriate times and places for unaccompanied song; like in the shower or in the car. Leave me out of it. I don’t even care if the songster was say…Andrea Bocelli or Mariah or a professional whoever. It just plain bothers me big time.

You know what else bothers me? Those pan-flute people at the Crowne Plaza. They follow you around until you throw money at them to STOP. One time (not at band camp), I was in one of the private restaurant rooms there with 9 other people getting wasted on 6 bottles of alcohol. The host simply adoooooores the pan flutists and was paying them to continue. I immediately lost my buzz. Well, I managed to get it back after some more saki (or was it vodka? Red wine? – I dunno).

Thankfully, I always take ear plugs with me. They are my own form of Kuwaiti fashion accessory; ideal for the unaccompanied singer, pan flute player, and ubiquitous loud Kuwaiti party. Fortunately for ME, I have found that they also work when whiny, AAP (Arab American Princess) friends start complaining about their various ailments. At least she can vote now, so maybe Kuwait will get better health care (preferably pshchiatric).

Ear plugs for EVERYONE!

Single Girl Lament

Sometimes I feel like my other half is right here with me. The “right guy” is right here, but I just haven’t met him yet. I can feel a presence, but he’s just not physically there. I’m wondering if maybe the chance was passed and he’s already gone; or maybe God is giving me some sign that I just shouldn’t give up hope – that the person who I am supposed to be with is within reach: That person who knows you without explanation or redundant talk; That person who you can just be comfortable with and who gets all your quirky jokes and odd outbursts and who laughs with it all.

Sometimes I wonder if the guy is actually a ghost: maybe it is the actual person that I know on “the other side” making himself known to me by little pieces of comfort – like dreams that you can’t completely remember in the morning, but leave you happy throughout the day.

Maybe it’s just projection. Days and weeks and months go by and you still live alone, eat alone, sleep alone and you wonder if your other half is only the other half of your brain matter talking nonsense; telling you that everyone is destined to meet the person right for them. All the thoughts of a busy work day turn into a cloud of noise when you get home, so you don’t feel quite alone with yourself. The noise of the office and the traffic and the construction down the street continues in your head long after it is finished for the day.

You get too tired to go out with friends and too bored with the same old places and superficial faces, so you make your nest and go to sleep till the next day. And then you realize – what the fu…: it is just PMS.

The Truth Hurts

I had more to write, since my friend, SummerQ8, got me fired up again.

More on married men: I've got a guy calling me right now, saying, "Please let me see you. I promise you - you are the ONLY one?" Well, chellooooooo - I bet your wife thought that when she married you and had your kids, right? Bet she still thinks she’s the only one.

Let's take my x-fiance for example. I thank God every time I mention him that I didn't marry him (thank you, God). He’s Kuwaiti and I’ve known him most of my adult life. I used to admire him. He was lonely when his father died, so he couldn't wait the 6 months it would have taken me to get to Kuwait to check out the family and the country. (And I’m HERE now, aren’t I and liking it just fine, but not because of him.) So, he married his sister's friend (who is really a lovely lovely person and I like her). They have 7 (as in SEVEN) children. That in itself is Jerry Springer hailag in my book. The last 3 kids were - in his words - "mistakes". I said, "What were you running across the floor, tripped, and your penis fell in her?" She has diabetes and the last 3 births almost killed her. After child #6, she had her tubes tied. (Why? Because it isn’t masculine to have a vasectomy.) Apparently, the tubes became un-tied (or whatever doctor did the procedure incorrectly). So, lucky 7 was a big mistake and almost killed her. After she gave birth and was going through the 40 day stay-at-home period, X-Dude calls me, and says (I still can not friggin believe he said this), “Do you know any girls you can hook me up with?” I know all his 5 sisters-in-law. They are my friends. I like his wife. As a woman, I was offended. Knowing them, I was even more offended. Having him ask me if I knew any girls, I was more more offended. THANK YOU, GOD!!!! I said, “Wow. You must really hate your wife.” He responded, “No, of course not. I love her.” Yeeeeeeeeaaaaahh, riiiiiiiiiiiight.

Divorce. If you are not happy, spare everyone else the unhappiness. Once you become parents, however, both parents DO have an obligation to raise their children as parents. I’ve got male friends whose x-wives won’t let them see their children and they have all but given up on trying. Keep trying. They are your kids. Just because a divorce takes place doesn’t mean that the kids no longer have a father or a mother. The responsibility of raising them – regardless – should be shared.

G, as far as the wife spending money so that the husband can’t afford to marry a second wife: I don’t understand this on either side. I know it happens. It happened to a good friend of mine and when he finally got up some cojones and got divorced, she set fire to their villa and vandalized his BMW, so he wouldn’t have anything left. Pshychobitch! If the guy knows that is what she is doing, why is he still married to her? And hey – here is some radical thinking – why doesn’t SHE have a job and get her own shit? If I were a man (if only), that kind of spending would get real old, real quick.

I’ve got friends who ask for (and receive) diamond watches and cars. What is UP with that? I can’t ask for a shawarma or a box of chocolates without feeling guilty about it. I go out with this particular friend, just to see if her group of men are any different humans: maybe there is a species of gift-giving men. When I met them, they seemed to be normal, intelligent men. Girlfriend has only worked for about 6 months in her entire life. She has an X5 and a Mercedes 350. Her furniture and wide screen TV were paid for. I know that she's pretty much gahaba and all that, but still – how does she do it?

I can’t even find a decent, single guy who wants to go to dinner. What is UP with this country?

Married Men & Other Stuff

Married men think it is okay to invite themselves over to your house - even if they don't know you - because they can't go outside for fear of being seen with you. Married men make up about a gazillion excuses as to why they are the way they are: I'm lonely because my wife doesn't understand me/give me what I need/care about me. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa somebody call a waaaaaaaaaaaambulance.

Then, there is my favorite: "I want to marry you too - muttaa." Great, where is my baby blue Ferrari with the kidskin beige interior for my mahar? I'm like, 'hey - is your wife marrying other guys muttaa right now too? Do you think she's like UNDER a temporary husband right about now? OH, forgive me - she's a woman and NOT ALLOWED. That's not a temporary husband she's under - it is just a fu...buddy. :D

"I'm just staying married for the kids." If I had kids, I would never never not ever teach them that it is OKAY to be unhappy. It isn't. Not for any reason when you can change it. Let's be realistic, unhappy-married-men: You are staying because you enjoy a lifestyle. You enjoy surrounded by a family and your kids, yet you still want a little on the side. You want your cake and you want to eat it too. It doesn't happen that way. Once you are unhappy, it permeates your home. Your kids feel it. They think that it will be okay to have the same kind of relationship once they are old enough to marry.

I just had to bitch about that because several of them are making me ill at the moment.

I'm bored. I'm really ready to get on a plane and get back to the US of Hey for a while. I miss my mommy. I miss not having dust in my room. I miss our swimming pool with all the trees around it and the deer that come by to graze at twilight or at dawn. I miss my nefew and his charming wit. I miss my grumpy dad and going to eat breakfast with him at the Silver Diner. I miss having giggle fits with my sister over a few glasses of wine and CHEAP sushi. I miss my brother-in-law's quiet presence around the house; doing whatever man-things he's got on his schedule. I miss the 2 big dogs and the little scamp dog.

And yes, I miss my country where there is sanctity of married people's lives. I miss knowing that when a man tells you he is single, he probably is - for fear of risking alimony payments in a lengthy divorce proceeding, leading way to the division of his shared ASSets.

I miss PITCHERS of margaritas and nachos (I LOVE that word). Nacho nacho nacho. And salsa. In the pool. Nacho in the pool fi Amreeka. tee hee.

Speaking of nachos - Did you know that I celebrated 05/05/05 by circulating an SMS with a picture of a guy's butt and the words, "Happy khamsa, khamsa, khamsa." Gay pride day???? hmmmm.....

I haven't felt like writing for a while. I haven't been able to put stuff into words. It just isn't coming to me. I hope you will pardon my incessant ramblings.