Dongurigal

In my dreams

Please, someone, anyone, explain the logic of my dream last night (or rather, early this morning)?

I'm on a lively street with cafes, shops, pubs. Hubs and Sproglette have wandered off somewhere. I have to go to the toilet. Next to an outdoor terrace teeming with diners, I see a toilet. It's not a public toilet with a coin slot, it's an actual white, ceramic toilet sitting out in the open, next to the terrace. I pull down my pants and sit on it to take a dump. So far, so good. But, when I poop, the sound of it plopping into the bowl is so loud, so splashy, I am mortified because all the diners have heard it. Everyone stops talking.  I sit on the toilet staring down at my feet until Hubs and Sproglette come back and then I try not to look at anyone because I am so embarrassed.

See, that's what I don't get about this dream. It was ok for them to SEE me taking a crap, but it was not ok for them to HEAR me take a crap.

I woke up, confused and so very embarrassed, but then Sproglette's squawking brought me back to reality. I had not just shat in public after all. What a relief.

This morning, after the poo plop in public dream, Hubs, Sproglette and I drove to the airport together. Hubs was jetting off to somewhere far far north and that's all I'll say about that for the moment. We went into the airport together and like airports everywhere it was a mess of luggage, stressed out passengers, line ups, announcements. As Hubs was flying business, he moved through the line quickly. When the agent handed him his boarding pass he told Hubs there was a special terminal just for business and first class passengers. He suggested Hubs skip immigration in the regular, plebian terminal and walk the 2 minutes to the fancy schmancy one.

Hubs had already checked his luggage, but if he hadn't, numerous hotel-style bellboys were waiting by the door with their red-carpeted carts to take the offending weight off his hands. The part of the terminal where passengers could say goodbye to friends and family was filled with low tables and comfortable chairs where everyone could sit and relax. It was quiet, subdued, calm. There was no line up at immigration.

My dream airport terminal.

After a saying goodbye and stopping off at a travel agent on the way home, Sproglette and I got stuck in traffic. I turned on the radio to keep both of us entertained and heard a breathless ad that went something like this:

You see an SUV flipped over on its back, the jackass driver is lying there, not breathing. In the distance, you hear the sirens but know there isn't enough time. You proceed to give CPR. When the ambulance arrives, the driver is breathing again. Now he's in the hospital in intensive care, but he is still alive thanks to you and the medic course you took at the College of the North Atlantic.

Definitely Qatar is a dream country for a paramedic. 

Conversations with Sproglette # 4

Sproglette: Hey dad, dad, DAAAAAD.

Hubs: Qu'est-ce que tu racontes?

S: Dad, we have to speak in English for the sake of mom's blog. Anyway, I love you.

H: Me too. Shall I dance? Doopidoopi doo, jiggly jiggly jig.

S: Ha ha. You're funny. You're more fun than mom, you know.

H: What are you talking about? She's fun too.

S: Yeah, ok, but she multi tasks her fun-ness. She doesn't just focus on me like you do. You know, yesterday, while she was washing one of my poopy diapers, she sat me in front of the washing machine to watch the laundry go round and round.

H: So? What's wrong with that?

S: Well, nothing, I guess. Actually it was kind of mesmerizing. But then she wouldn't let me chew on the laundry soap bottle cap.  And when we're in the kitchen she won't let me crawl into the dishwasher when she's loading it. I mean, that's not nice. She really shouldn't do her CHORES while I'm awake. I should be her sole focus.

H: Well, if she did that, then nothing would ever get done in this house. You gotta understand, she's addicted to the internet, so she lives for the times when you nap so she can go online.  She's not going to clean when you're asleep. Are you kidding?

S: I know! Once, when I was almost asleep, and she put me in the crib, and I just stayed there quietly, eyes nearly closed, I SAW her pump her fist in the air and do a happy dance. Can you believe it?

H: Yup. I can.

S: So, I cried. Then she had to pick me up and she couldn't go online right away. Hah! She thought I was gassy. She just doesn't get it. Hey dad, watch this...WAH WAH WAH...

(from kitchen) Dongurigal:  Oi, Sproglette, what's the matter?

S: Wah wah --psst dad, you still watching, I'm going to crawl toward the kitchen, crying at the same time. Watch. Wah wah, you watching? Huh? I can see you watching the Olympics, watch ME dad.

H: Ok. Ok. I'm watching YOU.

S: WAH WAH WAH...

DG: Hey sweety, hello there, what's wrong? You hungry? Gassy? Hot? You miss me? You want a cuddle?

S: Wah. Mmmmm, mommy, your so cuddly. (Pssst, hey dad, do you wanna play the poop game. Make an excuse to go downstairs for a few minutes.)

H: Gotta get something from the car, back in a minute.

DG: Ok....

S: Pffffffffft, splurt.

DG: Oh, jeez. Oh, God, why do you always wait until your dad walks out the door to take a shit. Always, always!!! Why? WHY?

----5 minutes later

H: Stinks in here, did she....? While I was downstairs?

DG: DO NOT EVEN TALK TO ME. Next time, I'm letting her stew. I swear to God.

S: (Winks at Dad).

H: (Winks back at Sproglette).

DG: Hey, I saw that.

My SUV, my master

Can I be honest? I hate it here.

I'm so tired of hating where I live.

Last week, I invited various SAHMs and their sprogs over, three days in a row. On Monday, I invited a mom with her six week old sprog. On Tuesday, I invited another couple of moms with their baby sprogs. On Wednesday, I invited a mom with her 2-year-old sprog as well as the Monday mom / sprog combo to go for a swim in our apartment complex pool.

Three days of moms and sprogs. Three days of avoiding traffic and jackasses. Three days of sprog heaven for Sproglette.

I'm not living a dreary, isolated existence, is what I'm trying to say. Sproglette is not stuck in the house with a depressed mom. But man, I hate it here. Maybe I won't hate it here as much in a couple of months when the heat and humidity die down and we can go outside rather than to a mall during the day, but I'll still hate it.

Why? Because I have to drive.  All.The.Time. I have to force Sproglette into her car seat. Which makes her cranky. And she's hot and sweaty when we arrive. And she's teething. And she's not napping very much right now. Which makes her even crankier. Which makes sitting in a cafe for a cuppa about as pleasant and relaxing as taking a shit when you have a hemorrhoid.

Trust me, I know.

On a forum I visit (not you, Las Mujeres), I came across this article on how stay at home moms are stuck in the house even more due to rising gas prices.  A lot of moms in the 'free world' are cutting down on play dates, soccer lessons, trips to the mall, how frequently they grocery shop. These women are experiencing the kind of isolation I experienced in Vietnam and in Algeria not being able to get anywhere, of course, for different reasons, and it's a worrying trend.

Doesn't sound very free to me.

The term 'stay at home' should remain ironic, tongue in cheek. But it's become literal.

Obviously rising gas prices are not a problem here. I have a SUV car. I'm not isolated. I can get around. But articles like the one above reinforce for me that the next place(s) where Hubs and I live must be civilized enough to have the basics like a library, grocery stores, schools, parks, patisserie, all within walking distance.

It's not that I won't settle for less. It's that I can't.

And really, why should we humans settle for less? But we have. We've allowed our communities and our commercial centres to be built for drivers in mind. To even be able to choose to live in an area, regardless of country or city, that is accessible on foot requires a lot of money.

I'm witnessing the birth of a downtown core, here in Doha, that has, at last count, only one intersection with traffic lights, and it's not even a pedestrian crosswalk. I live so close to a major shopping mall that it would be faster for me to walk than to drive, if it was safe to walk there. But it isn't.

Can I be honest again? It's making me crazy. Why have we let cars rule our lives? Why?  Mine's ruling my life. Without it, I can have no life here. So, it rules. It dictates what I am able to do. I want my legs, my muscles, to dictate what I'm able to do, not a gas guzzling beast.

I think I'll go sit in the corner and rock back and forth now.

How to blog with a sprog and other key life tips

Now that I have a sprog, I consider myself an expert in sprog-rearing and SAHMing. As such, I would like to share my tips.

How to stay on top of household chores with a sprog

Don't do them.

or

If you MUST do them, do not do them when your sprog is asleep. What a waste of perfectly good aimless internet surfing or nap time (but remember, your sprog will hear you lie down to take a nap, so back to aimless surfing, please). Do your chores when your sprog is awake. Sit her in the middle of the kitchen floor with a strainer and a spoon while you do dishes and intermittently flick oily drops of water at her yelling, 'it's raining!'

(This is especially important if you live in a desert and want your sprog to understand that it isn't hot and sunny every single bloody day of the year.)

Another popular chore game is dump a (small) load of laundry to be folded on her head. She'll wave daddy's undies around. Maybe chew the edges.  By doing this, you can even consider yourself a 'FUN' mom without actually having to be FUN. How great is that!

How to exercise with a sprog

(This is especially important if you live in the desert and cannot go outside EVER for a stroll around the block. But anyone can benefit from this tip. Anyone).

Do not baby proof your apartment or house.

Quite simply, if you do not baby proof your house and your sprog is crawling, squirming, standing up or moving forward in anyway, you will have no choice but to get up off your butt, away from the computer and the bon bons, to move her away from the danger zone. You will do this 30 times in a five minute span, even if she's bonked her head twice in the danger zone and bawled, all while you were trying to surf the net aimlessly or watch CSI Las Vegas. You'll be sweating, even if the air conditioner is on high. I promise.

How to grocery shop in order to make a nice dinner for that special someone in your life with a sprog

Look at a recipe book. Make a list of things you need. Go to the store. Realize you forgot your list. Get frazzled because the store is basically Walmart with a French twist and your sprog is screeching. Put random things such as dried apricots, a tin of sardines, a bag of rice in your shopping cart. Give up and go to check out counter. Go home. Get into a near accident that might even be your fault for once (now who's the jackass). Realize you forgot to buy some key ingredients for the nice supper you promised to make Hubs. Make scrambled eggs. Look apologetic.

----
Well, those are all my tips for today. I'm tired. I need a nap. It's hot. I have visitors coming over this afternoon, including sprogs, so I had better clean up. But I'll wait till Sproglette has woken up from her nap first, which will be as soon as my head hits the pillow.

It's the feathers, not the dump trucks, that wake her every time

Ssssh. Sproglette is sleeping. Ach, we don't have to be quiet. Once she's asleep, nothing wakes her, not the call to prayer, not the Who Are You soundtrack of CSI Las Vegas, not the crunch of big truck tires over sand and diggers clanging and varooming all night long, not the vacuum cleaner sucking up shards of a broken wine glass. Not the sound of the glass shattering in the first place. Nothing.

Except the telephone. But the only one who calls me is Hubs and he double checks by texting me first. Still, even with fair warning and the portable receiver in my hands, the single ring wakes her and I can't figure out how to turn the sound down.

(She's still sleeping. Bliss! And I don't think Hubs will call. He and his visiting friends are out for a buffet breakfast and will come back when they are done. So I can drop the red alert stance for now.)

There are a couple of other things that wake her up. The laptop turning on. Or off. Or if I click on a website that has music on it. That makes me crazy with rage if her nap is interrupted by a stupid, noise-making website. So I always keep the mute button checked. Funny that computer related noises will wake her up (even typing, if she naps in the same room where I'm surfing the net. I stopped that pretty quickly!) I think she must sense that the computer is a direct challenge for my attention.

The last thing that wakes her up, and I don't even think that it's noise per se but perhaps some sort of vibrating energy wafting from my bed to her crib, which is now in her own room, but still...is the act of me lying down for a nap. The moment my head--softly, quietly, delicately--hits the pillow, she's awake.

These sprogs, they just know, don't they.

Ohohoh OH What a Feeling, Toiiii--fucking--yota and etcetera

Toyota has the niche market on jackasses, here in Qatar, no question. The Toyota Land Cruiser is the Qatari hoser vehicle of choice and it is with this said vehicle (and always this particular colour scheme too, for some reason) that I have had too many near misses to count.

It's why, in my defense, Sproglette's first word will be jackass. Or motherfucker. And her first phrase will be, "Get off my ass, motherfucker" or "Don't even fucking think about it, jackass."

I often explain to people who've never lived in this part of the world, that though the driving may be bad, real bad, there's very little road rage, save for phrases loaded with swear words. Road rage of the sort where you actually honk your horn in anger (rather than impatience a millisecond after the light turns green) or chase the offender, throwing cans of tomato soup at his passenger  window, just doesn't exist here.  Who has time to have that kind of road rage when you've got five other jackasses, all driving Land Cruisers, bearing down on you from all sides?

Merging is for sissies, people who drive Chevy Trailblazers, for example. A Land Cruiser never merges. A Land Cruiser cruises right into oncoming traffic and all the other cars, wimpasses with the so-called right of way, had better brake or get out of the way, or else, seriously, ohohoh OH what a feeling, TOYOTA. Crunch.

A Land Cruiser that has the misfortune of being stuck behind a Trailblazer that is carefully merging onto the highway, merely drives around and cuts off the Trailblazer, especially if that Trailblazer has a Sprog on Board sign suctioned cup to the rear window. Single merge lanes are also for sissies and Land Cruisers shouldn't have to wait their turn anyway. 

They certainly don't wait their turn at roundabouts either. Do I even need to describe the mayhem that then results? I think not.

-------------And etcetera

I'm not sure what to make of this headline:  Swords fly off the shelves as wedding season sets in.  I think I've been watching way too much CSI.

------------

I'm pleased to report that Villagio Mall, a shopping centre I find myself hanging out at twice a week because that's where I go with my mommy helper, who lives near there, has made Forbes' list of the world's best shopping malls. I feel so blessed. (But seriously folks, I do feel blessed to have a mommy helper. I never knew what a pain in the arse the simple act of grocery shopping or going to a public toilet could be.)

Conversations with the Sprog 3

Sproglette:� Uh, mom? Mom, what are you doing?

Dongurigal: Putting you in your car seat, honey. We're going to the mall.

S: No no no no, oh no, OH NO! Don't even think about it, JACKASS.

DG: EXCUSE ME?

S: I said "don't even thi...."

DG: Sweety, I'm being rhetorical. I know exactly what you said. And what I want to know is why you think that's appropriate.

S: What does appropriate mean?

DG: Don't change the subject. You said the J-word.

S: So? You always say Jacka...

DG: The J-word

S: Fine. The J-word. You always say the J-word.

DG: I do not ALWAYS say it. When do you hear me saying the J-word?

S: In the car. Pretty much every few seconds, especially when you see a Toyota Land Cruiser merging or entering a roundabout. In fact, mom, do you realize you always say, 'Don't even think about it, J-word.' There, you happy. I said J-word.

DG: Well, technically I don't SAY it, I whisper it.

S: Mom, please, you SAY it. I can hear you in the back seat.

DG: Well, then, it's a stage whisper, ok.

S: Sure. Whatever... and sometimes you even shout it. And sometimes you even say 'Don't even F-word think about it, J-word.'

DG: Sigh

S: You also shout Jesus H.

DG: Yes, I guess I do.

S: That's taking the Lord's name in vain, mom.

DG: Yes, I know. My bad.

S: What's His middle name?

DG: Whose?

S: Jesus'

DG: I don't know.

S: Well, apparently it starts with H. Harry? Harvey? Herbert?

DG: How about we move on, kiddo.

S: Ok moving on then. The other word you shout sometimes is Moth...

DG: That's enough.

S: ...erfu...

DG: I said, that's enough.

S: ...ck

DG: DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT....

S: JACKAAAAAAAAAAASS!� Keeheeheeeheeee.

DG: Oh, you are in trouble now, young lady.

S: Oooh, I can't wait till Nana hears my very first word.

DG: I heard that.

S: What? I was "whispering."

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.