Dongurigal

Dad, I double dog dare you to go snacking on peas in Tripoli, Lebanon

Around this time of year, you'll find my dad in mom's backyard garden snacking on peas picked right off the plant. If Willow, their half-vegetarian cat, is lucky, he'll scatter a couple at her feet so she can snack alongside him too.

The rest of us are not so lucky. I believe my mom said to me last year, hurry, get out to the garden and grab some peas before your dad realizes they're ready to eat!

I love peas too. Not frozen peas, but the ones still in the pod. I love how the pods snap open, how, with your thumb, you can pop each pea into your mouth. I love when they are sweet and crunchy and am disappointed when, having not been picked soon enough, they are bitter. Those I would give to Willow because she's not as fussy as I am. A pea is a pea, and not some salty day-old kibbly bit, to her.

The other day, I bought a huge box of peas in the pod from Lebanon, a country that exports a lot of very tasty fruits and vegetables to Qatar. Admittedly, I was disappointed. The peas were bitter, so I'll put them in salads or cook them instead.

I was also disappointed because the fruit  and vegetables I have been buying from Lebanon are, in a word, delicious.  The nectarines are juicy and sweeter than anything I've had from the Okanagan. I've been buying boxes of them and either eat them whole or get all Martha Stewarty and make a nectarine crumble, which Hubs loves but may be getting sick of already.

I bet you can't guess what I made for dessert tonight, Hubs, eh. EH? Go on, guess!

This is about as locavore as I can get, a concept I like the idea of, but that is probably unrealistic anywhere but in San Francisco and my mom's backyard, but only in the summer.  Wait, that's not true, I was pretty locavore in Vietnam, except when I took that gawddanged shuttle bus to Quang Ngai to buy milk or to Danang to buy peanut butter and roquefort cheese.

Today, in order to write this post, I went so far as to examine the box a bunch of plump, purple grapes were packed in. It's the same style of box, only smaller, that the peas are in.  The name of the company is LAMA (Lebanese Products Always the Best... is the motto and their ellipsis too), but I can't find their website on the internet (Google, c'mon, help me here. Quit giving me websites about the Dalai Lama) so I'm not sure if these grapes are grown up near Tripoli or if just the company office is based there, as is stamped on the box.

With the incessant fighting up in Northern Lebanon, I was all ready to write about what a miracle it is that we, in Qatar, even have the pleasure of eating fruit from that region.

And peas, even if they are bitter. 

Good News First

The good news is our broken dryer was replaced only one day after I put in a request for one.

The bad news is our broken dryer was replaced only one day after I put in a request for one. No excuses now for that huge pile in the laundry room.

So much for the perfect life.

Bad news first

The bad news is our dryer has stopped working!

The good news is our dryer has stopped working. What this means is that I can only do one load of laundry a day because we have only one drying rack and, not only that, I don't have to feel guilty about doing only one load of laundry.

My life is so perfect.

It's on a street with no name, no worries, you'll find it

A lot of cities and towns I've lived in have streets with no names. Or if they do have a name, the sign is non-existent or the town is so small that you are kind of are surprised to find out that, yes, indeed, I do live on Typepad Street and not,as you had always thought, on the first dirt road to the left of Main Street, which is not, legally speaking, Main Street but rather Blogger Road Way.

It's all very confusing, but you get used to giving directions like:

When you turn off the highway into Tiny Town, go down Main Street (all Saskatchewanians understand this to mean the only paved road in town) and turn left at the first dirt road. Drive down one block. We're across from the blue house. We have a trampoline in the side yard.

Giving directions in Japan, even in major cities, is much the same. You tell the taxi driver the ward you live in and the number too, if you want, but that doesn't help so much as a key landmark.

I'm just up the road from Mr. Donuts. Ah so. Nihongo ha jouzu desu ne!* Yes, thank you, just drive, buddy.

*I see.Your Japanese is good, eh. (Ok, unless you've lived in Japan, that doesn't sound very funny. It's a you had to have lived there kind of comment.)

Giving directions in Doha, Qatar challenges my powers of efficient description. It's not that there are no street names. There are, although not always signed. There are also many permanent landmarks. The roundabouts are also named, both official and unofficial, and as there are plenty of roundabouts here, you need to know where they are when you are driving somewhere for the first time.

The unofficial names are better known:  Rainbow Roundabout, Independence Roundabout, (I think that's what it's called), The Roundabout with that Weird Thingy on it, That Evil, Where-You-Nearly-Die-Every-Time-You-Enter-It Roundabout, etc etc.

The problem is that the city is being built so fast that new streets appear, older streets close for road works, new lots get dug up, buildings are torn down.  What was a simple five minute drive home yesterday, is a 20 minute reroute past traffic cones and obstructive diggers the next day.

Directions to someone's house often go something like this:

If you're coming up from Rainbow Roundabout, turn left and drive straight. Try to stay in the left hand lane unless someone in a Landcruiser is bearing down on you, because you'll be turning left at the next and only set of lights. Ok, as I said, turn left at the lights and right at the next roundabout. Turn right onto the first slip road and drive straight. After the second speed bump turn right again. You'll drive past a new compound construction site. All the houses are partially finished, they may be putting new windows in, at least they were a few days ago, but that work seems to have stopped. After the unfinished compound is a sand lot, on the right hand side. On the left hand side are 2 villas. If you're driving a 4 x 4, go up over the curb and drive across the sandlot to the paved road on the other side. If you're not driving a 4 x 4, carry on down the road for another 3 kilometres, turn right at the gas station, go into the gas station, past all the gas tanks, and out the back way, drive all the way back until you get to the sand lot and turn left. (If you have come across the sandlot go over the curb and keep going straight). Count 6 villas on the right hand side, one sand lot with a digger on it, if it's still there, and then 3 more villas, also on the right. Ours is the second villa. We're across from a massive Qatari mansion with peacocks strutting about in the front courtyard. (You can just barely see them through the wrought iron gates).

Are you still reading?

Good luck finding me.**

**You'll never find me. First, this is a composite of directions (and any reference to actual villas and peacocks is purely coincidental), but it is not exaggerated. Second, we live in an apartment, anyway.

Conversations with Sproglette 2

Sproglette: Hey mom, hey hey. Mawwwwwm. Wake up. I'm awake now. I'm all refreshed. You were right, I'm all smiley, all happy. I'm not growling. But you. You look really crotchety. And you're growling!

Dongurigal: You call that a nap?

S: What? What's wrong with 22 minutes? It's long enough.

DG: Not for me, it isn't.

S: Well, it's long enough for me.

DG: Not, it's not.

S: Yes, it is.

DG: Is not.

S: Is so.

DG: IS NOT

S: IS SO.

DG: IS NOT IS NOT IS NOT LA LA LA

S: Mom, grow up. And get me out of this crib will ya.

DG: Fine. Now what do you want to do? 'Cause I can tell you what I want to do. Nap.

S: I think I'll crawl, thank you. Put me down. Please.

DG: I gotta change your diaper first. Ok, done. There you go, you're on the floor now. Have fun crawling.

S: Aren't you going to play with me?

DG: Nope, I'm too tired. I have no energy. You  didn't nap long enough, so I'm just going to sit here and watch you.  And read.

S: You mean you'll read and every now and then get up to move me away from the wires and back to the middle of the rug. 

DG: As you like.

S: Please play with me.

DG: Nope.

S: Pretty please.

DG: Nope.

S: With sugar on top.

DG: Ok, ok.O-KAY. Just for a few minutes, though.  Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo. Well, back to my book now.

S: Play longer.

DG: Nope.

S: Why not.

DG: Because I'm too tired. And I don't want to be awake. We're stuck in this apartment most of the day and napping makes the day shorter.  Really, Sproglette, it's such a tragedy that we're in Doha this summer. You can't be outside, it's too hot. We can't listen to birds, we can't go for a walk. You're missing out on so much. It's brutal, just brutal.

S: Oh, mom, quit being so melodramatic! What are you talking about anyway? This apartment is AWESOME.

DG: Sure it's nice, but I'm a bit stir crazy.

S: Stir, I don't know about, but you're definitely crazy. Look at all the exciting things we can do in this apartment. Crawl over here. Crawl under the coffee table. Examine the wheels of my high chair. You really should dust them, you know. We can chew wires! Chew the corner of the rug! We can scritch the rug! I love scritching the rug. Oh, oh, wait. Let's smack the ceramic tiles! C'mon mom, smack these tiles with me. You'll love it.

DG: Smack the tiles with you?

S: Yeah, listen smack smack smack. Isn't that just great.

DG: Smack

S: Harder

DG: SMACK

S: Three times in a row, really fast.

DG: Smacksmacksmack

S: Ha Ha mom.

DG: What?

S:  You're smiling.

Site seeing for dummies

Hubs and I are planning a trip to Japan in the fall. The extent of our planning is as follows: let's go to Japan. Yes, great idea. Let's.

Last time I went to Japan, as a visitor, rather than as a resident, was for 10 days in the fall of 2005.  I spent the whole time in Osaka. Ten days wasn't nearly long enough for all the things I wanted to do, so I prioritized. I hung out with friends, ate at Mr. Donuts, and walked around my old neighbourhood, following a favoured route that meanders past old-style Japanese homes, a teeny train station, and up a small mountain toward a local temple.

I had planned to go to Kyoto, site see a bit--I was officially a tourist after all--but never got around to it.  Travel to Japan, for me, is all about friendship and memories.

This time, however, we will have to site see too and as I scan a several year old Lonely Planet guidebook, I panic at the thought of having to combine tourism with memories and friends, which is why the extent of our plans so far is the above.

Let's go to Japan. Yes, great idea. Let's.

The other consideration, of course, is Sproglette. She will shape our visit just as much as Hubs' presence will.  When we went to Paris and London at the end of March this year, with plans to go here, there and everywhere,  we, brand new parents, soon realized we had to tone down our itinerary. In the end, I just wanted to go for walks in London's famous parks.  Look at the ducks and daffodils and cherry blossoms. Plus, it's just easier changing a diaper on the grass, even if the grass is wet.

More importantly, we wanted to visit the friends we have in both those cities, so full on site seeing just wasn't an option.

And I was ok with that.

More than OK, actually because, if truth be told, I don't really like site seeing.  I'd rather go for a walk and stumble upon a site--oh, hello, this is where the Millenium Eye is, this is where the Eiffel Tower is (hard not to stumble upon those, I guess)--than plan to visit them, get off at the correct tube/metro stop, wrestle open a flimsy map (hey hello I'm a tourist!) and make a direct beeline for the must see structure, ignoring all the other wacky things or people you might see along the way.

Speaking of stumbling upon, I stumbled upon this blog post by Stanley Fish in the New York Times today. I'm not quite as adverse to travel as he is, and I certainly wouldn't have his ailments in countries like Ireland and New Zealand, except maybe strategic fatigue (although I usually only get that malady in suburban shopping malls) but I could kind of relate to what he was saying. I'm not the best traveller in the world, either, in the sense that I just do not want to see all the places I should see when I visit a country.  I'd rather just hang out at a cafe, away from all the other tourists like me.

Or go to a park and people watch. (Or let's face it, duck watch).

Or best of all, visit a friend who might happen to live there.

In all fairness to Doha

To be fair to Doha, it's not its fault it's a hot, dusty, desert city, unbearable in the summer, somewhat palatable in the winter. It didn't asked to be turned into a suburban wasteland, all malls and SUVs and no sidewalks and indifferent public transportation. (Hey wait a second, says Doha, we're adding new bus shelters. And buses. So, cut it out, Dongurigal).

Doha certainly didn't invite Dongurigal to live here and blog about its flaws.  She's a wannabe tree-hugger anyway and the whole idea of Doha is poison to tree-huggers, both committed and wannabe.

But while Dongurigal is a big whiner, she's also capable of seeing the good side, if pushed. And she's being pushed.

And who's doing the pushing?  Why Dongurigal herself. There's only so much moping one can do.

So...(and back to first person singular.)

The best thing I can say about Doha is that it is one of the most child-friendly places I've ever lived in. Or noticed, now that I have a sprog. Kuwait's probably much the same.  I can bring Sproglette out for some fine dining or a fancy tea. We can go to a five star restaurant at an internationally renowned five star hotel. Sproglette can moan and bitch and generally be a big pain in the arse--she is a baby, after all--and it just doesn't matter. No one pays attention, not the Qataris, not the wait staff--except, and I'm not joking, to take your flailing, let-me-play-with-that-knife-now! baby out of your arms and tickle and cuddle her so that you can eat in peace. Not even do North American or European expats, who would not hesitate to tsk tsk you for bringing your sprog to the exact same hotel in downtown New York or Paris, pay attention.

They're not allowed to tsk tsk. Their kids are behaving like monsters themselves.

I mean where else but in Qatar (and another Gulf State country perhaps) would you have to fend off a balloon sword attack from a menacing 6-year-old European boy while you're eating your fois gras on toast and roasted red pepper and tomato bruschetta?  You can't get mad at the kid, either. Sproglette's been wailing for the last half an hour and you and Hubs haven't done much about it except take turns giving her a cuddle (where is that damn waiter!) and promising to get her back home to nap, eventually.

Take her out into the lobby or to the bathroom to settle her down, away from the other patrons. Nah. For that reason alone, balloon boy knight gets away with it while his parents gulp down plate after plate of buffet delights.

Bonk bonk bonk. Boing.

Should I pop it?

Speaking of the five star wait staff--who hail from all over the world, but mainly the Philippines, Indonesia, and India--they just seem to get it when it comes to the sprogs. When I am served a scalding cappuccino, it is always, without fail, placed in the middle of the table, within arms reach of me, but not of Sproglette. Soup too. Steak knives, as well.

When I return to my so-called real life in Paris or Canada, a life I've been craving since I wrote this blog post nearly two and a half years ago, I'll probably remember my life in Doha with rose coloured glasses as someone is sure to make me feel very uncomfortable for daring to bring a squirmy sprog to Bob's Grill & Diner or Pierre's corner brasserie.

We can just forget about the Ritz Carlton.

Conversations with the Sprog (a la Cartoon Lounge)

SPROGLETTE:  Mom, mom, mawwwwwwwm, would ya look up from your blog for a minute and pay attention to me. Look, I'm chewing wires.

DONGURIGAL:  Gah, you're chewing wires!!! No no no no. Sit here.

S: When are you going to learn that you can't take your eye off me for even one minute, mom. I'm crawling now.

DG: You call that crawling? It's more like a cross between a baboon walk and beached seal.

S: Ya, but I'm fast.

DG: Ok, fine, you're fast. But it's not full on crawling. Gawd, you're only 6 and a half months old. Slow down already. I don't want you bonking your head on the TV stand like you did last time.

S: Ya, I'm fast, alright. Woohoo. That'll teach you for not watching me 24/7.  Look at me go. Zoom zoom. Vroom vroom....... Grrrrr.

DG: You seem tired. You wanna have a nap.

S: No. No way. I'm not tired.

DG: But you're growling.

S: So?

DG: And you're rubbing your eyes.

S: Yah? So?

DG: And you're yawning.

S: Soooooo?

DG: And your head keeps dropping to the floor.

S: Whatever, mom.

DG: Did you just 'whatever' me? Save it for your teens, kiddo. You're napping. Here I'll give you a cuddle first.

S: I like cuddling you, mom. You have soft boobies.  I got a question though, are you going to pull that Cry It Out crap like you've been doing the last couple of days?

DG: You betcha. Haven't you noticed how tidy the apartment looks right now. Even dad's noticed.

S: I don't get it.

DG: Well, I'm not all that heartless. It's not like I can go read a book or hang out on the internet while you're crying. 

S: And? I still don't get it.

DG: So, I tidy. Wash a pot. Get the dishwasher unloaded. Put in a load of laundry. Wipe the counter. And anyway, I always come into your bedroom after a few minutes to soothe you, so what are you whining about? And, chicken, I got a question for you, too: what's with not napping or  going to bed for me, but going to sleep immediately when your dad puts you in your crib? Huh, what's up with that?

S: Well, he's furry, mom. It makes me sleepy.

DG: But you're already sleepy.

S: But he's like one of my toys.

DG: Is that so.

S: It is so.

DG: Ok, sweety, we're done cuddling. Have a good nap. I love you.

S: Hey, hey, hey, haaaaaaay.

DG: Don't even think about it. It won't work. You know me, sleep's something I do not compromise on. And you are much nicer after a two hour nap. You just are.

S: Grrrrrrr.

DG: No really, you are. Smiley, happy, You don't growl or whine. You play. You crawl. If I let you get away with this, you'll be a basket case all day. And so will I.

S: Grrrrrr.

DG: I'm going to load the dishwasher.

S: Grrrrr. I'm going to cry. I will. You know I will.

DG: Whatever, kiddo. You'll fall asleep eventually.

S: Did you just 'whatever' me, mom.

DG: Yep, I sure did.

If you build it, they will come. Except the grizzlies, don't invite them.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm itching to get out of this apartment and go for a walk with Sproglette. Trees, ducks, ponds, pathways, fresh breeze, dog poo. I'll even take dog poo.

My friend J, the one married to S, sends me random links from time to time to keep me entertained and well read as I sit in this fusty apartment. It's fusty because Hubs, Sproglette and I fart a lot and we can't open our windows. They just don't open. And the four tiny ones that do open are never opened because of the dust and the incredible heat. So, while it's a perfectly nice apartment, it's fusty, ok.

The latest link J has sent me is this silly faux interview between Dubai, the person, and the New Yorker's Cartoon Lounge. It's funny because it's so fucking true. If you consider that Doha is Dubai's little brother in all things flashy, then Doha must have an even smaller penis than his big brother across the pond. That's a pond without ducks, I might add.

Dubai even has an indoor ski dome and I just read on that indoor ski dome's website that another one is being built. Two ski domes in the middle of the desert and the second one promises to have polar bears! I drive an SUV and don't eat local these days so I'm not going to even bother discussing the environmental, animal abuse atrocity this is.

But Big Brother Dubai and Little Brother Doha, I have one request. Just one. Since you're both in total denial that you are a desert and since you're going all out spending mula on building the biggest, the flashiest, the coldest, the glassiest, the obnoxiousist structures in the world, how about a massive, fuck off botanical garden. I'm talking acres and acres of boreal-forested, pathway- crisscrossed, squirrel-inhabited land under a gigantic dome to protect it from the desert sun.

Go on, I challenge both of you. Then maybe I'll shut my whining cake hole for once and get to go for a walk, in the middle of the day, in July.

Just leave the grizzlies behind, will ya.

Wasting away (I wish) my summer

I have a confession to make. It's not all that exciting or secret. In fact, it's a yawner, but still. It took me nearly 2 hours of Sproglette's nap time to figure out how to upload the Catalogue of Sproglette's Chew Toys, so that all the funny quips I had wanted to write under each picture, had left my brain, only to be replaced by a repressed, grumbly rage. 

When Sproglette naps, the last thing I want to do is spend 2 hours trying to upload a few photos. It's my free time.  I want to do something more productive, like watch an episode of CSI (Crime Scent Investigation) Las Vegas.

Something is wrong with TypePad's photo editing options, so I finally uploaded all of them through Flickr and that's what I'll do from now on.  Much easier, and then I can get back to watching TV.

I used to think, and sort of still do, that watching TV during the day was akin to drinking before noon. A real problem. A sign of a disorder. But now, I could care less. It's 40 plus degrees out, humid, and the thought of lugging Sproglette in and out of an SUV, the insides (and the outside for that matter) heated like an oven on high, has me shivering. A veritable shivery shudder. Ooowoooh.

The other day, at the Four Season's Hotel, where Hubs and I and some of his colleagues were chowing down at a 5 Star buffet, I looked out the window at the grounds, all green foliage, pleasant walkways, birds diving and swooping and further on, the placid Arabian Gulf waters, and said, that scene is a real cock tease. It's inviting you out, but once out, the scene is all, get away from me, go back inside, don't even think of coming near me. Then the scene turns away and waggles its bum.

It reminds me of the time I was in Regina one summer. The mosquitos were so bad you couldn't go outside for more than a minute before every inch of exposed skin was covered in red welts.  I remember driving into the small town where my parents used to live. It was the middle of a beautiful, sunny day and not a single child was playing in tag in the streets nor jumping through hoses in a front yard. It was such a waste of a summer, just as being here, in this place, is such a waste of a summer.

That's Canadian-think, I guess. We treasure our summers.

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And on to other rantable topics.  (Sproglette is still sleeping and if truth be told, I'm a bit CSI'd out).

Oh never mind, she's awake. I'll save it for another time.