If it smells like camel poop ... it probably is.

Why is it that men don’t talk? I mean, you get into a relationship, and they become clams (the only way you can get them to open up is with a lot steam and heat – or so I thought – see below). What is UP with that? I have a California roll and a cup o’joe and I can debate about anything tirelessly. My Man: I had something bad happen to me today. Me: Really? What? Man: Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it (oh my God – he is such a typical cop!) So, the next thing outa my mouth is, ‘Ok – wanna go to bed?’ (if he’s not going to talk maybe the other noises will suffice?) but that isn’t even working. I guess we are in a rut. TALK DAMN YOU, TALK! I can take it! Thank God the frickin World Cup is over. Yeah yeah – mabrook Italy and all that crap. Now at least he’ll have something less to gape at without speaking.

I’m bored and dangerous.

I have been in an absolutely foul mood for several days now. I even threw things/broke things yesterday (felt kinda good actually). I am mean and nasty. A lot of it centers around my need to find a new job all of a sudden (and the rut of course). It appears that the gentleman who hasn’t paid me on time in the past 14 months doesn’t have enough left to pay me at all. Not that I didn’t see it coming – I was just riding the wave and making suggestions to get things turned around (which, of course, no one ever listens to). I think the blondeness makes them not take me seriously. So I am looking for a job – again. My interviews go something like this: Employer: I see you have changed jobs a lot. Me: Yeah because the fuckwits that I have worked for never listen to my recommendations and occasionally mismanaged their companies into the ground. Well, not really, but that’s what the voices in my head say.

On another front, the fuckwitted HR Director (affectionately called, “Nasshole”) at KGB Logistics and 7 of his fellow thieves were arrested and fired (or vice versa) – taken out of KGB in handcuffs for receiving bribes and kickbacks and embezzlement. This is the same fuckwitted HR Director who managed to get me fired from there (along with a multitude of other Americans because he hates us). Yippeekayyeah! I say this rolling on my floor, laughing a very sizeable chunk of my ass off (both cheeks). Did my former boss LISTEN when I told him about what was going on????????? Noooooooooooo. Because I am blonde. I am so glad I am out of that mess.

How about this weather we’re having? Serious dust and 120 degrees. Have you heard that Cheech & Chong skit about dogshit? Long-story-short, if it looks and smells and tastes like camel shit (in this case – not dog shit), then most likely it is. For all you newcomers to Kuwait: Keep your mouths shut when walking outside. You don’t know where the funk is from. Yet another aspect leading to my meanness this week: My hair looks like a cross between Farah Fawcett and Bozo this week. It aint purty. I might as well have been rolling around in a jakhoor (again). Tee hee.

Does this kinda thing happen to you? ….. an American friend called this week to ask me if I had dated a guy several years ago (H). I haven’t met this friend in person – she is one of those people who I have helped along the way and then she has subsequently helped me in return, but we have never met face-to-face. She’s a wonderful lady and I like her a lot (makes me laugh) and I am dying to have coffee with her. So anyhooo (Purgy!), she asked if I had dated this guy and she knew particular details about me and desert dawg that I hadn’t told her. Turns out H is her x-husband and I had gone to Malaysia with him about 4 years ago (thankfully – this time – AFTER their divorce!). H and I used to be movie buddies until we won a trip to Malaysia as a prize at a party. Our physical relationshit lasted all of 2 weeks (snore) and I have never seen him since. (Let me just tell you that I don’t believe in building up to something over several years because you’ll always be disappointed – usually by some teeny weeny ….. detail.) At any rate, I had met her kids several times on trips out with H. Turns out the poor young-uns needed therapy because their daddy was introducing them to 7 women at a time and asking them to lie to everyone in the family. They were such great kids and I never figured Mr. Small Detail to be such a Don Juan (Don Gerkin – Juan’s cousin? LOL). That is just pathetic. At any rate, I loved Malaysia and would love to go back there. I don’t remember much about H there – other than the fact that he let the monkeys steal my peanuts (another story) and that he laughed at me while I was getting a very uncomfortable reflexology thing done to my feet that made me cry (there is NOTHING wrong with my area 29 on the reflexology chart, by the way!) Does this stuff happen to you or is it just me? I swear to God – people in the States think I am making all this up. My family already believes I am schizophrenic, but this kind of story just adds fuel to the fire.