Dongurigal

On hiatus, in case you haven't noticed

Is this blog on its way to the blog graveyard?

I don't know, but I'm on a break right now until I figure out whether I want to keep it going or not.

Writing Dongurigal these past couple of years has been therapeutic, fun, challenging.  It isn't that way now. Not sure why and I'm too lazy to think this one through to make it a blog post worth reading.

As for what's going on in Dongurigal's life--we've decided to settle in Asnieres, a quaint suburb just outside Paris. I'm really happy about this decision, even though it means I'm far from my family (they'll just have to visit, no hardship there, eh).  The only thing, besides dog poo, that has me stressing about the decision is dealing with French bureaucracy.

As for the blog, till I decide what to do once and for all---ta ta for now.

A PG 13 rant on life here, yet again

It's safe to say that I'm experiencing the mother of all mopes this week. I'd prescribe myself some happy pills if I wasn't fully aware that the reason I'm in such a black mood is because I live in Doha and not because of a chemical imbalance or an ongoing malaise of mysterious cause. It's no mystery why I'm down.

Take for example my extreme reaction to this news story about the opening night party for the new Atlantis hotel in Dubai, a party that cost a mere 20 million dollars. The fireworks alone were something like seven times bigger than at the Beijing Olympics.

All this for a f**king hotel. (Hubs has asked me to keep my blog PG13)

A hotel!

When I saw the report on BBC, I started crying. I was so disgusted by this display of nouveau riche wealth and excess. It's Dubai, not Qatar, but still. Same kind of glee for glitz goes on here too.

I hate this region of the world. Hate it...and I no longer want to be part of its explosive growth. What I am saying is that yes, I am more than willing, eager actually, to start scrabbling for cash, start paying some utility bills, start living frugally, start saving up for holidays just to live somewhere nice and normal, in a place that is not all caught up in how great it is to have so much f**king money that it can fete a hotel--A HOTEL--in a style grander than any Olympics.

Thank you.

Back 2 and half days and what do I post about....DRIVING

While in Japan, Sproglette started eating. She took to boiled daikon, teriyaki chicken, and miso soup like a fish to water, like a jackhammer to cement, heck, like a Qatari playboy to a Toyota Landcruiser. 

She's all growed up, already. What a change.

I cried all morning the day after we arrived back in Doha and then I fed Sproglette some porridge with cranberries in it. She ate it all up, just like Goldilocks.

Being in Japan reminded me of what I'm missing in life and that is basically the freedom to get up and go. We got up and went every single day. We walked, we took trams and trains and buses and ferries. We rode bicycles. But mainly we walked.

We needed to eat. We walked to a restaurant. We needed to relax. We walked to a park. We needed to take the train. We walked to the train station. We wanted needed some kinokonyama chocolate mushrooms. We walked to a convenience store.

We walked. Everywhere.

I didn't worry about getting hit by a car (although I probably should have as more than once I looked the wrong way before crossing the road.) Even when we were in a car, I didn't worry about getting into a car accident. It just didn't even cross my mind.

I didn't use the word motherfucker once in three weeks. I've already said it several times here. I may have said jackass in the context of 'wow, I can't believe he let you merge. He's no jackass.'

I can't tell you how many times I've said jackass in the space of two driving days here.

I hate that I have to pray to Allah and God, who are One and the Same, and do this little pagan ritual of circling my car with white light before I turn on the ignition so that I can drive to the Corniche just to go for a walk. I hate being scared shitless every time I get into a car, scared that my daughter will be hurt. Or worse.

Just to go for a goddamned walk.

Yesterday, we drove in manic traffic to a soccer match between Qatar and Japan--a soccer match we were denied entry to even though we had valid tickets. On the way, I told Hubs, these drivers are killers. They're not careless, they're not assholes, they're not stupid. They are killers. Murderers. They don't give a shit about anyone's life. Not even their own.

So ok, I do have a car and technically we can get up and go, but it's scares the crap out of me to drive here and put my daughter's life at risk. Unless I make a plan with someone else, I find it very easy to make an excuse that keeps us stuck in this apartment, our own personal guilded cage. And believe me, it's a lovely cage. But a cage.

I fucking hate it here and I'm turning off comments because really, what can anyone say to that.

After a day of walking, what better way to soothe aching muscles than to soak your feet in a free public hotspring foot bath in Kagoshima.

Self Control Safes

If Hubs wants crepes with nutella in the evening, he'll have to bring the nutella to work then bring it back home at the end of the day, otherwise I'll eat it.

Have some self control, he'll say. Clearly, he doesn't understand women and chocolate.

But it doesn't mean that I don't wish I had more self control. There are a few areas in my life where control is seriously lacking. Eating an entire jar of nutella, spoonful by spoonful, in under one hour, is one.  For that reason, I just don't buy it anymore. We can have jam on our crepes.

The other major area of lack of self control is the internet.  When I'm bored, when Sproglette is sleeping, or playing quietly, or sitting in her playpen, diaper soiled, starving and bawling her eyes out, when I'm stuck inside all bloody day long, I go on the internet.

(What? I was kidding about the playpen already.) 

The internet is just something to do when I'm home, I guess. It's not like I don't like reading. I love it. I just don't get to it all that often because I'm on the internet.  It's not like I don't like mucking about with paper mache. I just don't get to it all that often because I'm on the internet. It's not like I don't like taking long walks in the rain. I just don't get to it all that often because there's no fucking rain here. Oh, sorry, off topic.

There's a lot I don't do because of the internet.

Or rather, because of my lack of self control when it comes to the internet.

So, I've come up with a brilliant idea. I even checked online (using the internet) to see if my brilliant idea is out there, but I couldn't find any evidence of it.

The Self Control Safe.

You know when you stay at a hotel, there's a safe in the closet. The safe's door is open, you put your valuables in there, key in a password of your choosing, close the door and it locks. The Self Control Safe would work on the same principle only, instead of keying in a password, you would key in a time frame. (Of course, because it's your safe, you'd have to open it with a password anyway).

Are you following me? Good.

Right. You open your Self Control Safe, place your modem, internet cable or heck, the entire laptop, as well as the jar of nutella into it. You key in a time frame, say, 5 hours, then close the door. You will not be able to open that safe until the 5 hours are up, just in time for dessert.

The beauty of this safe is that it you can still eat some nutella, maybe one or two spoonfuls, or check your email and your favourite forum for an hour, but then when you're done or when Sproglette's diaper is disintegrating, the computer gets put away for as long as you think is necessary to change the diaper and finish up your paper mache Christmas ornaments.

For me, it's the internet enabling devices and nutella that would go in the safe. For another person, her credit card. And for Charlotte, her rabbit vibrator.

Have some self control, someone--not necessarily Hubs--will say. Ha.

That's what I want for my birthday or Christmas. A Self Control Safe.

Thank you.

I'm plugging my ears: la la la

Ramadan started on September 1st and what that means to non-fasters like me is now there really is nothing to do in Doha all day long, unless you love grocery shopping in stores that have run out of stock. 

Last night, at 7:52pm, Hubs, Sproglette and I went to one of the chi chi Doha malls to pay for our internet service. We had planned to go to the mall that would be a mere 5 minute walk, if you could actually safely walk there, but on the way we saw a long line of cars entering the parking garage. The line went all the way up to and included the main road. Skip that.

At the other mall, at 7:52pm, the outdoor parking lot was full. Full to capacity, with slowly driven cars looking all dejected and frustrated as they sought out a spot. Cars can look dejected and frustrated.

But I know of a secret, underground parking place that few people use. Yet. (I dread the day when people realize it's there).  So our car did not look all dejected and frustrated. It looked smug.

While our car looked smug, we did not. We arrived at the QTel desk to see two long lines of people also waiting to pay for various telecommunication services.

But enough on the trials of getting stuff done at the mall when you're tired, your husband is tired and your sprog is tired. Your sprog is tired because she has decided that waking up at 5 am and not napping most of the day is really really fun. And it's even more fun to be all whiney and miserable and drive mom around the bend because she can't even take you outside (except for the morning swim) until, until, untiiiiiilllll 5:50 pm when iftar, or the breaking of the fast, is announced. The roads are quiet then, the sun has nearly set, and even though it is so humid a single step causes you to sweat more droplets of water than a monsoon downpour, you drive to the Corniche to go for a walk because if you don't, IF YOU DON'T, well....and even then, your sprog is all whiney because she's probably hot, definitely tired, and doesn't want to sit in her stroller, but you're finally walking, you are really WALKING, and so you say to her, la la la, I can't heaaaaaaaaaaar you. 

Yes, you are actually telling your baby that you can't hear her in that la la la tone of voice.

And it feels good.

(FYI, she is awake now, awake since 5:30am, she's crawling around the floor whining because she's so bloody tired. I've read to her, I've played with her, I've chatted with her, I've cuddled her, I've fed her, I've changed her poopy diaper. And still she whines. So now I am ignoring her. Because she's making me crazy. This heat is making me crazy. This sitting around inside is making me crazy. So if you're not going to nap, fine. Don't nap. But mom's going to ignore you if you whine. Lucky for you, my friend is coming over later. Maybe she won't ignore you.)

La la la la laaaaaaaaa.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

-----

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.

Knees Up Mother Brown

Two evenings ago, Sproglette and I went for a hustly bustly walk on the Corniche. The sun was setting, people were out, picnicking, powerwalking, running. Little kids riding their bikes. It was good to get out because we had been in the apartment all day and both of us were antsy. I forced myself to attempt the evening rush hour drive because if I didn't, we would be stuck, inside, all day. Or stuck inside, at a mall, during none peak driving hours. I want to be outside. I want fresh air, even if it is sometimes sour and dusty.

The other reason I forced myself out of my comfort driving zone was that earlier in the day, I had squatted down to pick up a toy and was zapped by pain in both knees. Grunting, I straightened up and tried to squat again. The same pain, the same difficulty getting back up. I've never needed to grunt getting up from a squat.

I consider myself the queen of squatting (having lived for many years in Japan, yes toilets, yes yes, you get the picture). The only reason I can think of for the recent twinges in my knees is that I haven't gone for a proper walk in nearly a month. Walking is no longer part of my daily routine, nor is it easy to do as exercise because it is impossibly hot during the day (except on the treadmill in the air conditioned gym downstairs and unfortunately for me, I have absolutely no discipline when it comes to gyms. I'll go for a week and then BOOORING. Which means, I stop).

A friend of mine, who I used to teach with in Kuwait and who has just left Qatar for a big city in South East Asia (we had a one month cross over here, both yay--we saw each other briefly, she met the sprog--and oh well, c'est la vie, see ya), told me that after a day wandering around her new neighbourhood, her leg muscles were sore and stiff.  As she put it, she hasn't walked, really walked, in nearly 6 years of living in the Middle East.

I swim nearly every day for half an hour but it's not enough. My knees are rebelling against this new sedentary, indoor lifestyle. 

Though I'm fighting these feelings, I'm dreading the summer here.  I had forgotten how hot it gets in the desert. Indeed, I didn't even stick around for the worst of it, went home to Canada to enjoy the balmy 35 degree temperatures of a dry Saskatchewan summer.

In Regina, in the winter, a lot of seniors, those who don't go down to Phoenix, gather together in Southland Mall or Golden Mile, have a coffee and a chat at the food court, hog the tables and scare away scary teens. Then they walk around the mall, around and around and around.  You can spot them. They don't carry purses. They wear their walking shoes and work out gear.  Around they go.

And I think they're happy. And maybe their knees hurt a little less.

While I don't see myself the lone power walker at Villagio Mall, I should be like those Regina seniors and figure out what it is I need to do to keep moving and if it means keeping Sproglette awake 2 more hours at night and driving amongst jackasses, then that's what I've got to do.

And maybe my knees will hurt a little less too.