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.