The 6 Girlfriends Every Woman Needs

cropped-1454943_10151811784198440_1420869117_n.jpgEvery girl needs a excellent woman in her life. Seriously, how can we make it through the chaos without a gaggle of girlfriends? They are there for us in a variety of ways. Maybe not the same girlfriend every time, but a different one for a different need or a different chapter in our lives. Where ever we find them or for whatever reason — life is always better with your girls.

THE 6 GIRLFRIENDS EVERY WOMAN NEEDS

1. Mamma Bear: She bakes cookies, wears mom jeans and she’ll babysit your kids when you’re out of town. If your plane crashes on the way home you’ll leave the kids in her trusted hands. She quilts, scrapbooks and does other crap like that. When she drives she probably doesn’t exceed the speed limit unless she’s rushing a feverish kid to the urgent care. She thinks dressing up is putting on lipstick regardless of whatever else she is wearing. She wears a fanny pack stocked full of bandaids and neosporin and totes a snack cooler full of orange slices and avocados. She’s an old-fashion mother who sets rules and sticks by them. That’s why you’ve willed both the kids and the insurance policy to her  —  who else could handle 1,2,3 more kids?

2. Mrs. Perfect: She is perfect. Period. She never has a hair out of place, mismatched clothes, or a handbag that isn’t perfectly appropriate. Rock climbing? There’s a bag for that. Rolling Stones concert? Something functional; yet just a little edgy. Her car smells like L’Occitane. Her closet is colored coordinated. Her sheets are sprayed with some foo-fooey, lavender-scented Pottery Barn scam in a spray bottle. She’s the perfect corporate wife who will win her husband a promotion by smiling appropriately at a dinner party. She’s the friend you call when you have no idea how to decorate your new house. She’ll match your drapes to your sofa and your pajamas to the bed comforter. She will go ape wild in Williams Sonoma whipping up a housewarming basket that is so gorgeous you’ll never want to unwrap it — so you’ll just sit it in a corner of the kitchen and dust it until the cellophane cracks open.

3. The Mysterious Girl:  She wouldn’t be caught dead doing strenuous activities like tennis and zumba. “I’ll catch you Pansies at the club.” She wears sky-high heels, tight pants and has every cosmetic compact produced by MAC. She is too cool for school and doesn’t try too hard at anything. She sits quietly when all the other girlfriends are cackling over something pointless. Nothing really bothers her and she behaves like nothing really surprises her. She’s level headed and doesn’t rush into things. When she loves you: she loves you dearly. But when you get on her bad side — you are there to stay. There’s always something secretive about her — kind of like she buries her past lovers in the back yard. She’s the friend you go to when you have really big problems because she’ll hide you from the authorities and she has a few “key people” on speed dial.

4. Miss Innocent: She wears a cross around her neck given to her by her grandmother when she was in 10th grade. She covers her mouth a lot because she is astonished by most everything she hears yet soaks in all the juicy details like a dry sponge. Strangely, she sings all the words to the most explicit rap music as she twerks till dawn at all the ladies nights. She doesn’t drink because it’s against her religion yet will shockingly light up a cigarette as if she’s had the habit all her life. She buys her clothes at the grocery store and still manages to throw it all together. She’s the girl that reminds you that life is good. Just roll with it, flow with it and everything will be just fine. She silently assures you that it’s okay to be yourself regardless of the situation, the location or the company. You are you and that is good enough.

5. Burpee Queen: On the otherhand, Miss Burpee reminds you that you are not okay the way you are. She’s the girl who shames you out of wearing sweatpants to the grocery store. Who challenges you to put on the heels that are way beyond your comfort zone. She researches the new cellulite cream and reminds you that you should use it. She knows all of the gym instructors by first name and spends her spare time flexing for selfies with a selfie stick. There’s not an ounce of fat on her tomboy body and yet she is still at the gym every single day. She does pole dancing, windsurfing, kayaking all with equal skill. You hate her. You love her. You want to kill her but she’s the friend who kicks you in the bum when you need it and is a living example that you can be better you if you just get out of bed and do it.

6. The Diplomat: Brings up the probing questions. She’s got the MBA hanging on the wall at home and had she’d not been more interested in having fun in life, might have went on to law school. She’s the one that keeps you in check. Did you ask this question? That question? Do you completely understand what is going on? She seriously never wants to be the one that rains on the parade; but then again, how do you know for sure that this is what it seems….she might ask. You love her because when you need to be serious you give her a call. When you need a confidante or an informal advisor, she’s there with her thinking cap on. And when you need to have fun. She’s there too. She’s cool, she’s calculated, and she’s J. Crew all the way.

 

Girlfriends. My girls are intelligent. Nothing gets past them. They enrich my life and they have a huge heart. Always quick to lend a helping hand to someone who needs it. They are nurses, teachers, marketing gurus, artists, and managers. Thick as thieves. Stuck like glue. Birds of feather. Six different countries. Six different languages. Together by choice or by necessity. My life is always better with my girls.

These are my girls. Tell me about yours.

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Be Careful Over There – What?!? I Live in the UAE!

Be careful over there! my American friends said to me. As if the Middle East is simply one big mosh pit of danger, mayhem and debris.

Be careful doing what? I thought to myself. Choking on lobster, slipping on a marble floor, or poking my eye out with a canape skewer?

What exactly do they think could happen to me? — I LIVE IN THE UAE!

Oh, no, you’re mistaken. I don’t live in Saudi Arabia. I can drive here. It is fine. And I don’t wear an abaya. Although on a bad hair day it sure would be a snap. And if I decide to do so it does not effect my feminism. My human rights are not limited as you might think they would be. I just can’t look like a harlot when I’m walking the streets. So far that hasn’t been a problem for me.

None of the craziness you see on TV is anywhere near me or my family. This is the wealthiest place in the world. There are no beheadings or prison camps or things like this you might read. I am perfectly safe here — I LIVE IN THE UAE!

In the UAE, they prefer that I not scream obscenities or flip my middle finger at the crazy new driver that cut me off at the pass. Yes, in the States I would shout, shake my fists, and tell them to kiss my arse.  But I really don’t miss that privilege and it is okay by me, if we all focus on a little more civility. You see, it is a conservative place in many regards. They prefer if we all do not behave like total schmucks, lugheads or goofs. In fact, everyone here uses their manners and are extremely gracious; they call me madam and my husband sir and they go out of their way to please us.

They must be thinking about Iraq or Iran and they are as close to the UAE as New York is to West Virginia; although, you must agree, there is a huge difference between them. If you lumped New Yorkers and West Virginians together, any American would tell you they have nothing in common. They may be the same religion and in the same country but there is a world of difference between them. We live in a bubble, a very expensive bubble it may be; that separates us from the rest of the Middle East. Life here is grand we have no complaints. We live in a world of over-the-top excess. Free from the badness many nations face.

There’s no danger here. We are a very happy bunch. We shop and we explore and we eat fancy brunches. Tell the media how happy we are and to stop lumping Muslims together. There’s nothing threatening about being here. Get out your maps and look into it. Get on a plane and come visit us.

We are here of our own choosing we like our little Utopia. Please save your be careful over there for someone who needs it. We are living the dream. Please come and see it!

We love living in the UAE!

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5 Things to Remember When Your Expat Family Comes Home For the Summer

 “Gone Girl” was filmed in my hometown…how exciting! Stay tuned for more on this subject.

Whew! The summer has come to an end. And for most expats we are very excited to get back to our own lives. Not that we don’t love you. Not that we didn’t love visiting you. But the summer exodus to our hometown is absolutely, positively, exhausting with a capital “E”. Ever wonder how it feels to be a displaced person no place to call your home roaming from place to place? Well, we do. Not that we don’t love you. Not that we didn’t love visiting you. But coming home is kind of weird.

Continue reading “5 Things to Remember When Your Expat Family Comes Home For the Summer”

It Was Absolutely Lovely… And Then We Showed Up

A Palace

I attended my first women’s gathering at an Emirati’s home. It was like a baby shower on steroids. It was a mix of about 40 local and expat ladies; friends, families and acquaintances held at the magnificent home of one of the local ladies.

It was pouring rain and Brenda, Samia and I all rode together in Samia’s car. We arrived like a band of hooligans. Rolling in like a pack of wet mutts. Unable to find a parking spot that wasn’t in the middle of a small pond, we kept pulling in and out trying to find a better option, and each time we struck out, the more embarrassed Samia became. It must be a South Asian/Middle Eastern thing because as an American, I found it all amusing, as a South African raised in the apartheid, Brenda found the puddle a small problem by comparison — but Samia wasn’t so nonchalant.

“Brenda, please pull your umbrella inside the car!” In the crazy, wind-blown, rain splattering event of getting from the car to the “palace” Brenda’s new umbrella was turned inside out and it resembled more of a white flag than it did an umbrella. While we were pulling in and out of unacceptable parking spots Brenda stuck her umbrella outside the car window as if a symbol of surrender.

“Brenda, please bring your umbrella inside the car!” Complete embarrassment was all over Samia’s face. “No, really. Please, Brenda.” Chuckling Brenda agreed.

“Look at this place!” Samia marveled. As I said — it was definitely impressive. But I had more fun watching the expressions on Samia’s face. It’s like she was entering the Taj Mahal for the first time.

“Oh, my, we have to take our shoes off before entering the house! What do I do? I don’t want to take my shoes off! I am 4’11 if I take my shoes off I will look 15 pounds heavier!” Perplexed and horrified with her choices Samia’s Middle Eastern Cinderella’s Castle fantasy quickly came crashing down. “Well, I guess we do not have a choice. We must take off our shoes.” Brenda offers up advice in her years of international diplomacy experience. “When in doubt; don’t offend.”

I followed Brenda and Samia inside and noticed that at these types of events proper dress is either formal or national dress. Samia is in her best shalwar kameez, looking like a Pakistani princess, and Brenda is wearing a modest African dress accessorized with a small cocktail purse. They reminded me that I am a lost soul. Americans do not have national dress and until events like this, it never seems to be a problem. Aside from a Budweiser/American flag bikini, American women do not have anything to wear that says: I am an American. This has always been a huge problem with the Miss Universe pageant. Every other country looks like a million bucks in their bejeweled national ensemble and then there’s the American girl typically draped in the some fashion modification of the American flag.

As we entered into the palace our hostess greeted us in a beautiful leopard print floor length gown with a neckline too tempting for even most American ladies. She looked absolutely stunning and in a million years, I never would’ve guessed this was the same lady that could easily sneak past me in the school halls without ever grabbing a moment of attention. One by one, they arrived draped in abayas and then slowly removing them to reveal ridiculously elegant and some rather sexy gowns. I sat there feeling somewhat prudish, definitely under-dressed, and embarrassingly boring in my simple Ann Taylor outfit.

We sat in the ladies majlis, a formal entertaining room off of the center entrance hall, which was decorated in a bold rose decor and offered a variety of seating options for more than 30+ ladies. I could tell this wasn’t the type of event that only occurs when someone gets married or has a baby, or some other typical life milestone; but instead, this rooms gets a lot of use — these ladies gather frequently and this room offers all the accoutrements necessary for a super swanky tea party. Hired Filipina ladies served up Arabic coffee, tea, and dates in exquisite dishes as I relied upon Brenda to fill me in. What is this? What will it do to me? And should I partake? Which basically means, will this have me glued to the powder room while I am here at this super swanky event?

The bell rang for dinner. Yes, I am not kidding. A. small. bell. rang. to signify that we should all move to the enormously large extended-family Lawrence of Arabia dining room. The table itself was huge. Ever practical me, I am thinking to myself how many immigrants did it take to carry in this massive hunk of a dining room table? It was certainly larger than an operating table. It would’ve definitely been large enough to hold both Jack and Rose from the Titanic. It’s too bad Jack didn’t have this table. He would’ve made it to New York. One thing I am eternally grateful for is the towering baskets of fruit in the middle of the table. Thank goodness there wasn’t a baby animal on a platter laying peacefully dead in a mound of rice, dates, and a few random cashews —that would’ve blown the whole thing for me.

I looked around the dining room table to see the look of confusion on the faces of the expat ladies. What fork were the other ladies using? I think I was using the wrong one. If Martha Stewart would’ve concentrated more on these tid-bits of Middle Eastern etiquette versus insider trading, I probably wouldn’t be in this quandary I am in tonight around the Lawrence of Arabia dining room table. But no, the American capitalist let me down, but then again, Martha was probably never invited to a swanky Arab ladies dinner party. One-up. Fist bump!

After dinner, some of ladies were touring the upstairs of the villa. And I almost joined them but I caught the gaze of an Arab princess. Maybe she wasn’t a real princess but she could’ve been one. She was absolutely lovely. Far lovelier than Princess Di. Sorry Brits, but she was much more elegant. And she appeared to be staring at my small trio of hooligans. Either in amusement, interest, or dismay, her eyes followed me as I snapped (pre-approved) pictures around the magnificent villa.

Brenda really wanted to go upstairs to-see-what-there-was-to-be-seen. “B, I’m not going up there. I already feel like a third-class citizen.” I said, half jokingly. “Seriously, I don’t want to look like an uncouth and uncultured troll that’s never seen the inside of a place like this….really, we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves. Okay?!?……. Really, Samia is just now recovering from the earlier embarrassment.”

“Ladies, I think we should at least get a picture of the three of us before we go. Let’s sit on this beautiful sofa together. This is perfect.” Samia smiled elegantly in her national clothes.

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“Pardon me” I said. “Please, do you mind retaking this photo because it looks like I am breastfeeding my friend.”

OMG…….you can’t take us anywhere!

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*A very big thank you to our most gracious hostess*

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Why Have We Gone Away?

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The Adventure.

You’ve always know we crave adventure. Even as a child we got bored. Running, exploring and asking questions. Why is it now a surprise when we expect more?

There was always a new challenge to win, another adventure to seek or a new goal to meet: That’s why we have gone away.

There’s nothing more exciting than staking claim to a new city, a new culture, a new way of life — it is really quite exhilarating to see. Making new friends, new memories, and experiences; that’s the oxygen we breath.

The Money.

Who can blame us? Working the same hours for less pay? If there’s a better option why not take it and dig the treasure while we can exhume it, because someone values us, enough to pay us, for the knowledge and skills we have invested — that’s why we’ve gone away.

Do you know how badly it would hurt us to see the disappointment in our children’s eyes, if years from now we told them the story of the opportunity we abandoned which would’ve changed their perspective for the rest of their lives? That’s why we chose to go away.

The Disappointment.

Companies dispose us, banks abuse us, and our civil society has become far less humane.

Talent is ignored when the company becomes bored and restructures just for the fun of it. There are no gold pens or extravagant parties for 50 years of dedicated service. We are bought and sold. Disposable commodities of the frivolous. As our professional careers are left teetering on the edge.

Why have we gone away?

We’ve gone away because the world has become smaller and our options have increased exponentially. Now working in Dubai is as easy as working in Shanghai and all we have to do is open our minds to embrace it — that’s why we went away.

The Dream.

There once was a dream of the happiness one would feel at the end of one’s working tenure.

But traveling stinks with weak knees, irritable bellies, and exhausted stamina. As we wished we would’ve enjoyed this in our thirties.

Retirement is no given, and we prefer not to risk it, and never see the globe while we can enjoy it.

Instead we will show our children the world, and share our picture books of all of the places we’ve explored, and tell our stories to all that will listen.

That’s why we went away.

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A very big thank you to UAE Murals for the use of their beautiful artwork!

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Maria Hegedus is an American artist from South Carolina who lives in Abu Dhabi.

She has worked as a freelance muralist and has completed a variety of custom designed murals in businesses and homes.  She has done many commission pieces including portraits, watercolors, landscapes and more. She has painted on canvas, watercolor paper and various items including vintage luggage, pottery, mannequins, ornaments, etc.

She is expanding her client base in the UAE and is excited about focusing on “local” Arab-themed art.  She is intrigued with the rich culture and heritage of the region and will be featuring this in many of her upcoming pieces.

Please visit the UAE Murals website to see more of Maria’s beautiful work.

The Twelve Days of a Middle Eastern Oil Country Christmas

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On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
10 Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
11 Whispering Arabs
10 Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Ethiopian Housemaids
11 Whispering Arabs
10 Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver

P.S. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus in the Middle East.

 

 

Ramadan is Rama-Gone and Other Events from My Terrible Summer

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Where in the heck have you been? I am asked by friends and strangers.

Well, it’s been a difficult summer. While many of you were tubing on the river, shaking hands with Mickey in Florida, and basking in the sun in Bangkok — I was having an absolutely crappy summer.  It went south during my dream vacation in the Seychelles when my Granny died. Sniffle. Sniffle. The fact that I wasn’t able to go home for the funeral escalated the downward spiral. It then continued straight south when I found out we had to relocate to a new villa — during Ramadan! This as you may not be aware, is not good because life in the Middle East comes to a near screeching halt during Ramadan. It would be the equivalent of finding a plumber on Christmas —do-able —but not easy.  Unfortunately for us, the business that is conducted during Ramadan is limited due to the emotional commitment of the holiday. The work hours are cut short which is really good for the locals because fasting during 100° temps is only suitable for the camels and other nonhuman reptiles. The commitment Muslims make during Ramadan seriously puts all other religions to shame. The Hindus are in and out of fasting before you can say tandoori chicken and the Christians haven’t formally introduced fasting. In fact, they go the other way and either feed you wafers at church, cake in the basement of a church or biscuits at lunch after church.  The Muslims, on the other hand, deserve some recognition because it takes some award winning who-ha’s to stick to a month-long, 12 hour-a-day fast in 100° of miserable, humidity-filled temperatures.

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 You must have lost some weight, didn’t you? said one of my well-intentioned girlfriends who is no longer with us. No, I did not. Since I am a nervous eater and this relocation stuff makes me extremely nervous, I succumbed to the power of the French pastries (those damn French!) which are constantly peering at me from the glass counter of all the grocery stores. Since we are not allowed to eat or drink in public for the month of Ramadan, the holiday can breed serious eating disorders such as gorging crap in the car with the window shade up and generally eating like a malnourished Ethiopian. So during the Ramadan move when I wasn’t gorging in a sweltering hot car while looking for a new villa in the confines of the Ramadan hours, I was on the phone talking with people who are in a state of Ramadan fog because they are lacking the sufficient nutrients to carry on their daily chores. It takes far more effort to get something done during Ramadan than it does on any typical business day, and since it is an honor to be named after the Prophet Muhammad,  one must speak to at least fifteen different Mohammeds before reaching one that can help.  On a non-Ramadan day one must only go through four or so Mohammeds before finding one that is either in the department you need or one you can understand and they can understand you. So when I found one, I quickly became best buddies with Mohammed, my local ADDC (Abu Dhabi Distribution Council) representative who was a life saver in helping me connect my utilities.

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So I rushed home to somehow tell my non-English speaking Indian cleaning crew that the water and utilities will be on soon only to find them furiously cleaning the villa with the green, algae infested water from my swimming pool. Whoa! Wait! What are you doing? This isn’t the Ganga River. This isn’t okay! This isn’t acceptable! This is isn’t the way my mother would clean the house! This isn’t allowed. I am sorry. Get out! I felt like the fish in the bowl screaming at Thing One and Thing Two in The Cat in the Hat. And of course no nobody paid any attention to me because number one, they didn’t understand me; and number two, there is always a certain amount of hand waving, commotion, and chaos that occurs regularly so it takes quite a lot to alarm anyone. It’s not okay to clean with green algae water! I hand motioned to the cleaning man who lives in a human tuna can. He responded with a smile and in his version of the English language, he said he understood me — and then he furiously kept on cleaning. What you should understand about living here is that many people speak many different versions of the English language, but most are totally un-recognisable by the native English speaker. It’s like when I speak Italian, which I pretty much lift from all the Dean Martin songs I know, and what I need to say isn’t included in the lyrics of Volare such as; Penso che un sogno cosi non ritorni mai piu. Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu, I just throw in some English to top it off expecting that all Italians will understand me. I believe that I mistakenly tell people that my heart has wings for them, but I guess there’s no harm in that. So anyway, some Indians speak what I like to call Party-English. It sounds so damn happy that it makes me want to do a Bollywood dance. What are they saying? I have no idea. But there is so much head bobbing and happiness involved that whatever they are trying to say is lost in the festivity of it all.

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I frantically called my maintenance man Mohammed. Hello Mohammed, we seem to have a problem at our new villa. I do not have water. Miss Gina, Mohammed says like he is going  to tell me I have cancer. I am so very sorry for this inconvenience. I will send the workers over to your home inshallah. Inshallah?  You might wonder, what is inshallah? Well,  according to GrapeShisha it means the following:

You must have heard it multiple times daily. Inshallah literally means ‘If Allah wills it’, or generalized to ‘God-willing’, but really it is a term of fatalism, which you can’t really express in English, and it will be used to express an event in the future. This means that you could hear it peppered throughout conversations on a daily basis, since the future could mean in few minutes as well as tomorrow as well as next year. Let me give you an example: “I will see you tomorrow, Inshallah”. Or “We will work together, Inshallah”.

However, be aware, the term is not always used in this way, and in many instances when there is not a hope in hell of something happening, it is thrown in for good measure. “We will sign the contract tomorrow, Inshallah” or “Inshallah, you will get a pay rise”, implying that Allah does not want it so you don’t get it. It can even cover uncertainty – “Inshallah, the engineer will come tomorrow between 4 and 6”. That means you do not know if he will come before 4, after 6, at the allocated time or even at all! And if there is a pause between the end of the sentence and the Inshallah, it means either that the person is not so sure any more or really can’t be bothered.

So how exactly does this effect my water situation? Well, I wasn’t quite sure. I was really hoping that Allah was in my court and seriously pulling for me to have water at my house. And in the end, I guess he was because Mohammed said, We have located the problem. As if he were sharing an ancient secret that would flabbergast Indiana Jones. Your water tank is empty. Wait a minute! I have my own water tank? Where is it? It’s located on top of your villa. Like a cistern of sort? I haven’t seen a cistern since I was a kid. Oh my gosh! That should be on the PBS Antique Roadshow. I had no idea my water was on top of my villa. Yes, Miss Gina. Your water is located up THERE. Pointing upward as if my water tank is close to God in some sort of heavenly union. Maybe I am lucky and can shower in Holy Water on a daily basis? Miss Gina, we are here for you 24 hours a day. Any time you need support, please call me and we will be here. Mohammed says slowly with the intensity of a Italian mobster and the heart of a missionary.

Oh, my gosh, this place is too much sometimes!

Muslim-Man

Pazzo fottuto driver degli Emirati!

It sounded like a good idea. Kerstin, our little momma bear, decided to organize a desert safari for the PTA. “Steve goes dune bashing all the time by himself” she said trying to insert a little confidence into the plan. Well, I thought to myself, Steve runs 20 miles for no reason and is as thin as a Holocaust survivor even after a big meal — so that’s really not too comforting. The thought of tackling massive hills of sand in the middle of nowhere with an Emirati behind the wheel was more than a little frightening but if I didn’t do it, I looked like a ninny-boo-boo and everyone would gossip about me behind my back so I was forced into it.

Kerstin
Kerstin

We met in the school parking lot and began dividing people up into five car loads of five plus the drivers. Since HP is the only doctor in the group, we decided he would take the small children in case of a bloody nose or something like that, so he took the 5 elementary boys and the rest of us dispersed into the other SUVs. I was in the car with the Italians, Enrico and Laura, and Tonya, our Korean axis of evil (this is a story for another day) and her 4th grade daughter. I sat in front with our driver, Yousef, the Italians in the back seat and Tonya and her daughter in the third row.

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We stopped off at a camel farm which really wasn’t a farm more like a desert feed lot in the middle of nowhere. I guess I may have downgraded it from a farm because there were no tractors. But then again, there’s really nothing to use a tractor for so why buy one? It’s not like they are planting wheat or anything so as far as implements go, they were sparse. So, yes, it was a feed lot, in the middle of nowhere. With camels. And we stood and took pictures. So far the trip was pretty mundane.

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We piled back into the SUVs and headed on our way down a long sandy road which led to an even more deserted spot and as we drove the sand begin to get higher and higher. And all of a sudden the adventure began. The Emirati dropped the SUV into low gear and off we went! We started climbing a dune that had to be the height of a three story building. We drove across the very peak of a sand ridge which was barely a car width and then we would begin sliding sideways down the other side of the dune!

“How long have you been working here?” I asked the driver. “Four days!” he shouted with a smile.

OMG! OMG! I couldn’t breath. Between my allergies and the fact that I was scared I would let out an inappropriate blood curdling Stephen King scream, I couldn’t inhale air. I tried but it wasn’t happening. So I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see but this plan was subverted by Enrico’s praying in the seat behind me. As soon as we peaked and we were getting ready to fall down the other side, Enrico began to both pray and express himself in a way that only Italians can do.

Madre di Dio per favore non fateci morire dalle mani di questo pazzo degli Emirati Arabi!

Mamma mia! Stiamo andando a rotolare giù questa gigantesca collina di sabbia e morire.

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WTF! I was raised Southern Baptist so when we pray we don’t really want to ALARM God. We pray politely so not to inconvenience our Savior. Such as in a Jerry Falwell sort of voice. “Lorrrd,  Pleeease fiiiind the tiiiime in your verrry beeza schedule and hear our prayers our precious Lord” Where as the Italians pull the alarm, raise the roof, call the polizia! Some SH&%T is going down and we need GOD pronto, prego, allegra! And they speak fast, and loud, and close, and they have their hands going in a million different directions. When they discuss going to the supermarket, one would think the supermarket is on fire, not that they are simply having a sale.

So I am in the car with Enrico and some SH%&T IS GOING DOWN! And that SH%&T is us! We are going down a sand dune the size of the freaking Tetons in Wyoming. And my eyes are super glued shut and I would’ve been okay if it weren’t for the Italian in the back seat.

Wowzers! Madre di spaghetti ho bisogno di uscire da questa vettura o io potrei fare pipì miei pantaloni!

Odio la musica cazzo che questo ragazzo sta giocando!

I don’t understand. Enrico is excited, he’s happy, he’s crazy, he’s screaming and I don’t know if I should be concerned or enjoying myself. And then after an hour of emotional torment while listening to Arab club music (yes, didn’t know it existed either) it was over and we were delivered to a campsite, with food, henna, shisha, sand surfing, camel riding and a belly dancer.

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After we ate, danced, smoked, and drank (non-alcoholic drinks) and then we headed back into the city. Yousef, our driver, watched soccer on his phone while driving 90 mph on the highway. Yes, I could’ve said something. Any GOOD mother would have said something but this skinny Emirati guy took us on the most amazingly skilled adventure of our life. My guess is at birth he drove himself right out of his mother’s womb. He was that good! If you ever have a chance this is one adventure that you will absolutely never forget. Seriously, if someone ever says do you want to go on a desert safari? Say yes.

Pazzo fottuto driver degli Emirati!

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Gobble, Gobble!

It wasn’t long after losing the election when I was asked to chair the school’s Thanksgiving celebration committee. “Sure,” I said. “Who should I report to? Does the school have someone who coordinates the events?” And with that one little question, I came full circle. After losing the election by two votes I was appointed to the executive board of the Abu Dhabi PTA by the mere fact that nobody wanted to tackle the crazy job of organizing parties for 800 screaming children and their families. I had been in the Middle East approximately 1 1/2 months and I was throwing a dinner party for 1600 of my new BFFs. That week we kicked off the Thanksgiving committee with about twelve people in attendance. My agenda included the venue, the theme, the decorations, the donations, and of course, the menu. I was so wrapped up in the planning process that I failed to recognize the look of confusion on the faces of some of the attendees.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

No answer.

“Any questions?”

No answer.

And then it dawned on me. “How many of you do not know what a turkey is?” Several people raised their hands. “How many of you have never heard of the holiday Thanksgiving?” Several more people raised their hands.

“Okay, let’s rewind the meeting and start from the beginning.”

A turkey is a large bird that Americans typically serve for Thanksgiving. And Thanksgiving is a national holiday which celebrates thanks and community togetherness. It signifies the time before the settlers (now known as Americans) raped, pillaged, and spread sexually transmitted diseases to the local people.” I hope this helps clarify things for everyone. Now, let’s get busy organizing this very important event in American history. “Has anyone ever heard of a sweet potato?”

Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving

Planning the Thanksgiving celebration is a good analogy for the extra layer of difficulty that exists when living in the Middle East. Communication and cultural differences, although many speak English, is always a struggle. Just when you think everyone is on the same page the waitress serves a dish that you did not order, the dry cleaning you thought was ready on Wednesday will be ready on Friday, the BBQ grill that is being delivered to your house is accidentally in another part of town and although these mishaps occur regularly they are always followed up with a universal no problem because regardless of what happens accidentally it is typically— no problem. It will be fixed, remedied, repaired and delivered with a smile (usually).

For example, my friend Wlede went shopping with us two days before Thanksgiving in the ram-shacked plaza known simply as “The Pink Shops” (they are not really pink. not sure. don’t ask.) and she was carrying around the cushion to her dining room chair which she intended to get reupholstered before Thanksgiving. The idea that she was going to find fabric that matched, have it reupholstered and delivered to her home two days before Thanksgiving, boggled my mind. As it turned out, not only did this occur but the fabric didn’t match to her satisfaction (another story entirely because Wlede is a little bit of a diva) so they took it back, got new fabric and resewed it and delivered it again — in one day. And the whole thing, delivery and all cost less than $20 US dollars. This is the kind of stuff that does not happen in America.

Yes, regardless of where you live there are pros and there are cons. This is definitely a pro. The con would be I am shopping at a Pink Shop that isn’t really pink and it looks like it could collapse at any minute. Actually, it looks like one of those buildings on the news when they show footage of war torn countries. That’s definitely a con. Pro for America is at this time last year I was shopping at Scottsdale’s Fashion Square.

Want to know more about the PTA? Like our Facebook Page.

The Land of the Housemaids

There is a love/hate relationship that goes on with the housemaids in the UAE. I first became acquainted with housemaids while at my husband’s bosses house. Their housemaid, a 30-ish Filipina woman who has been with their family for over 3 years was sweet, polite, and an excellent hostess. Helen was everything I wanted in a woman and it was right then and there that I determined to find my own. Since I hadn’t made many friends yet I didn’t have the benefit of their housemaid experience so I was sailing in uncharted territory. I just knew I wanted my own Helen. Someone to serve food on toothpicks, clean up and smile like she loves her job and my child as if it came from her own womb. I ran an ad on the online site Expat Women. It was overly flowery making us look like the perfect American family complete with a golden retriever and a handsome boy (with a foul potty mouth, but non-the-less, handsome). It was the perfect ad that would entice any housemaid to want to move in with us. Only one small problem, depending upon a housemaid’s nationality they may not be able to read so all of my perfection was pointless until one American man happened to stumble upon my ad. As it turns out, this man needed to rehouse his housemaid because, I was told, whether it was true or not, that his wife unexpectedly became pregnant and the current housemaid did not want to deal with a new baby. So I invited the housemaid to an interview.

Joti
Joti from Calcutta

She arrived at the Westin with a lime green shirt that read “I love Abu Dhabi” red stretch pants and red lipstick. I almost put her back in the cab because the combination was painful to look at but I realized that was far too judgmental of me. We sat down in the lobby and she began telling me with an Indian accent that was difficult to understand, that she was looking for a Western family and that she was an excellent cook, an excellent cleaner, and a very responsible person. She said that she became a housemaid at the age of 13 and worked for an English family for 8 years and they sent her to cooking school, taught her how to run a proper house, and how to garden. The next night she cooked our dinner and brought it to our hotel room. We took one bite and decided to hire her. Joti obviously knew her business. She helped us move into our new villa and it was obvious from the start that Joti was a career housemaid and she did it with an enormous amount of pride. I didn’t have to tell her how, when, or where — she read my mind and got things done. The only thing Joti asked from us was to give her a month off in January to take care of her ailing father. “No problem!” we said.

In hindsight, I guess maybe it was problem but at the time my mind was thinking all Ghandi and Mother Teresa instead of thinking The Great Escape. My friend Maha, with her Lebanese accent says, “I will never hire another housemaid again!” Apparently, the last housemaid Maha hired was from Ethiopia and suddenly became possessed by some sort of strange demons and began having demonic seizures in Maha’s house and yard. Prior to the possession seizures she started loafing around the house claiming to be sick while Maha was left to nurse her back to health so she could resume the duties she was hired to do. Eventually, Maha became tired of playing nursemaid to her housemaid and cancelled her visa. As they took her to the airport to send her back to Africa, the housemaid started slapping herself while screaming “They abuse me!” Everyone stood there staring at the housemaid throwing herself on the airport carpet as she attracted a crowd and scared Maha’s children. This alerted the Abu Dhabi police to intervene as the housemaid screamed at the top of lungs, “No money, no food, they are hitting me. Allah, Mohammed help me!” Maha in her Lebanese accent says, “She used to sit, watch TV, and eat all day. Not even one hour of work a day. When we went out, she only ordered the Ribeye and the shrimps. One day she woke up and I swear she was possessed… Screaming Allah in the backyard and making cou-cou and ouah-ouah sounds…. the next day it got louder. I knew I had to send her back when she put a white towel on her head and started walking like a mummy. It was FREAKY!”

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Maha’s Possessed Housemaid

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Cou-Cou Ouah-Ouah

Maha's Possessed Housemaid
Demonic Seizures

And then my South African friend Elize added to the story, “Oh, Gina! You wouldn’t believe the things the housemaids do. We found out one of our housemaids was sneaking out and turning tricks at night. My husband caught her hiding underneath his car. He had to pull her out by her feet and call the police. Another one of our housemaids ran away while we were in Italy. We had just arrived and I planned a cathedral tour for us on the next day. When we woke the next morning and walked the baby over to her room she was gone. We arrived at the hotel at 8:00pm and the hotel security camera showed her leaving the hotel and getting into a car in front at 9:00pm. Apparently, she had made plans for her escape prior to our arrival.” My Liberian friend Wlede says, “Everybody knows you don’t take a housemaid to the USA because as soon as her feet hit the soil there is a welcome committee there to whisk her away.” And another friend Brenda says, “I have to tell Mary Anne all the time to use her inside voice. Her high pitched, overly excited voice drives me bananas! She asked if her boyfriend could stay over from time to time but we said, absolutely not. She can do the wild thing somewhere else — not in my villa!”

The housemaid saga is never-ending. Stayed tuned for “Where is Joti?”