Toilet Talk ...

Sometimes I want to use bad words when we fly back into Doha from Canada.  Not because Doha's such a bad place, but because it's at the back end of a 13-hour flight.  Because it's so far from family.  Because it's hot and humid.  Because the traffic's insane.  Because it's crowded.  Because even though it's home, it'll never be HOME.

But a 9-year-old is good enough reason to keep my potty mouth to myself.  At the very least, any toilet talk takes place in my head.  Any expletives that might want to leap off my tongue are drowned out by enthusiastic claims of ''isn't it great to be home?'' and ''can't wait to sleep in my own bed.''  Kiddo's joy at coming back to her kitty cat, friends and toys is always reason enough for me to keep my disenchantment firmly buried.

Our maid is a wonderful woman who always puts up balloons and ''welcome home'' signs for our return home.  I'm slightly ashamed that I can't muster up more enthusiasm when I see those signs as we walk through the front door.  

I wish I weren't so disappointed that it's still so darned hot and humid.  How quickly I've relegated to the back of my mind the 45C heat and 85% humidity of August.  How quickly I've forgotten the frigid winds and 8C temps on that one afternoon in Callabogie, Ontario last week.  34C and 54% humidity isn't good enough for spoiled me today; I was hoping for a perfect 25C, with big white puffy clouds, a gentle dust-free breeze, and no humidity - oh, and maybe a light shower lasting no more than 30 minutes at some point in the afternoon.  I'm nothing if not demanding.

Even the a/c is a major disappointment.  I go to bed just knowing that the frigid forced air will have me clogged up like an old sink come morning.  

After a 14-hour sleep to rid me of jet lag caused by a 7-hour time difference and 13-hour sleepless red-eye flight, I drag my stiff back out of bed, try to brush away the fur in my mouth, wash the grit from my eyes, and set about trying to re-adjust to life in Doha.  Too lazy to go out for groceries, I set about thawing some bread for toast, crack open a few eggs, and sit down to 'breakfast' at 2:00 p.m.  

Then I head up to unpack.  Always my least favourite part of the return home.  And I see that Smilin' Vic has already started undoing his luggage.  And I'm brought to tears.  This is what he's taken out of his suitcase.

Kind of like my memories, I haven't even dusted it off yet.  I was so excited to see this quirky little memento.  Smilin' Vic always manages to do these little things that make my heart sing.

It's a toilet paper holder.  A toilet paper holder made for me by my Dad.  All those years ago, when he first started scavenging for little pieces of discarded wood to indulge his newfound love of woodworking.  I think this is one of the first pieces he carved out successfully.  He made one for each of his kids, and probably for each of his friends.  I wouldn't be surprised if there are dozens of my Dad's little toilets scattered around the world.  I'm sure he's getting a good laugh up there in heaven, knowing that he's catching people at that one moment they're sure to be alone, when he's guaranteed to get their undivided attention.  

This one had been left behind in our little summer cottage over 8 years ago.  Given that the cottage has been rented out to a number of tenants who would have had no idea that a wooden toilet paper holder shaped like a toilet could hold precious memories, I figured it would have been used for firewood ages ago.

But on our very short trip to Canada last week, Smilin' Vic had to fly out to the East Coast to sort out the cottage for some new tenants.  And while there he found the little wooden toilet paper holder hidden away in the damp recesses of a basement closet.  And decided to secretly fly it back to Qatar to surprise me with it on the return 'home'.

And all of a sudden, toilet talk has taken on a positive twist.  Smilin' Vic is upstairs working out, Kiddo's watching a movie on Mac TV, I'm sitting outside blogging, and it's actually cool enough that I'm not sweating.  Our kitty cat is sitting at the screen door, preening as she watches me type.  I'm catching up on pictures my nieces have posted of my nephew's wedding, the one we flew back to Canada for.  I don't feel so groggy, and life doesn't seem so bad at all.  

And in an instant it hits me.  We're back 'home'.  With all our quirky little mementos, our sweet little cat, our comfy couches, our own frames on the walls, a few more memories of another great trip to Canada, and 'us'.  That's all we'd ever need anywhere I guess.  

I guess a little toilet talk was all I really needed to figure that out.

A Day in Doha Fitness

I know and work with a lot of very fit people.  Even in Qatar, the land made famous for its Doha Dozen, loads of people are bound and determined to make fitness a priority and a lifestyle.  

Every single last one of them has admitted at some point that there are days that are harder than others to commit to their health.  Every one has had days where they struggle to keep the motivation going.  They all say a tough day here and there is normal.  

Unfortunately for me, it seems like every moment of every day is a push and pull of emotions when it comes to fitness.  Each day brings with it a continuous flow of bipolarity that has me simultaneously loving and hating my newfound commitment to fitness and health.  I've included below for your reading entertainment a typical day in my Doha Fitness Journal, with its glorious multitude of manic and depressive epiphanies ... Enjoy!

Courtesy of memecrunch.com

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4:00 a.m.  the Bell Tower tone chimes on my i-phone ... I coax one eyelid open.

''This is just wrong.  It's not even the crack of the crack of dawn.''

I swipe the 9-minute snooze option.  At minute 8, I fall back into the deepest sleep of the night.  

Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding dong, ding, dong ... Drat that alarm.

Pull myself begrudgingly to a sitting position as Smilin' Vic grunts and pushes off the covers ''I'm awake, yup, yup, ...''.

A muffled call to prayer sounds through the closed bedroom window, making itself heard over the droning of the a/c.  

Smilin' Vic and I narrowly avoid colliding as we stumble past each other at the foot of the bed.  Fumble through my drawers in the darkness.  '

'Why the heck didn't I lay out my sweats and runners last night like I'd promised myself?''

Strap on 1kg wrist weights and program the Runmeter app to 'Al Waab 6.2 km route'.  Guzzle down 16 oz of water and fill up my CamelBak.  Mentally motivate myself for the walk ahead.

''Yes!  I'm awesome.  4:20 a.m. and ready to roll.  Come on big wide fitness world, let's start the daily Doha fitness journey!''

Step out the door.  Instantaneously drenched in a bath of humidity.  My glasses steam up.  My toenails start to sweat.  

''This sucks.''

Smilin' Vic's in fine form this particular morning:  ''Wanna run this morning, Babe?''

I try to muster a smile ... something in my sleep-deprived eyes scares him.  

'Or we could just walk at a brisk pace?''

0.2 km in.  Droplets of sweat cling to my eyelashes.  

''I must be mad.''

We achieve a decent pace, my short little legs struggling to keep pace with Smilin' Vic's long ones.  I finally find my groove.  Endorphins rapidly kick in.  A huge wave of positivity follows.

''I am sooooo amazing!  If you don't work for it, don't bother wishing for it, Gypsy.  No pain, no gain.  I'm a fitness queen!''

Lost in my newfound awesomeness, I narrowly avoid the sinkhole that has appeared overnight  on the sidewalk just outside our compound.  Twist my foot on a rock as I sidestep the diversion and hear the ''whoosh'' of a mini-van race by us at 100km an hour down the city street.

''Seriously?  Why do I put myself through this?  It's like Death Race 2000.''

3 km into our walk.  The proper English voice on the Runmeter app mechanically informs us that we're 36 seconds ahead of best pace.  Exercise euphoria is back.

''Wooohooooooo!  I rock.  Bring it on!''

750 m from home.  A speeding car lays on the horn as he approaches from behind, likely for the simple thrill of watching us jump out of our runners.  

A stupid fly has been continuously taking nose-dives at my head for the last kilometre.  I try to swipe the quarter-inch nuisance away, hands batting futilely at thin air, waving madly around my head as the buzzing reverberates in the sweat in my ears.  I swat without success; the annoyance drones on ceaselessly.

''Arghhhhhhh!  I hate this.''

Make it back home; somehow we've managed to fall back on our pace; 16 seconds behind median.  That's ok.  I blame it on the annoying fly.  

Check my watch.  It's 5:25 a.m. and we've clocked 6km, burned 300 cal and lost 2kg of sweat.

''Yes!  I'm invincible!''

I savour the chill of the a/c.  Throw beets, carrots, oranges, lime into the juicer.  Fill up on water. Smilin' Vic gets the coffee going.  I head up for a shower.  Great start to the day.

''No taking the lift for me today.  Only stairs.  I am fitness personified!''

Try to ease my way into Doha traffic.  Get locked into a 45-minute jam, no one coming, no one going, no one moving.  Arrive at work 5 minutes late.  End up parking on the 7th storey of the parking garage.

''I could clock a lot of steps if I took the stairs.  But the ride up made me slightly dizzy.  It might not be safe to take the stairs with vertigo.''  

''Stop making excuses!  Ok, I'll take the stairs.''  

''Wait, no time; I'm already late.  I'll take the lift down; I can walk up on the way out tonight.''

''I suck.  Excuses, excuses.  I really need to smarten up.  I'll take the stairs to our 9:00 a.m. meeting.''

I stand firm on my promise to myself.  I take the three flights of steps down to the meeting room.  

''I am invincible!''

My newfound smugness at all things physical prompts me to bully my co-worker into taking the three flights back up with me.  She chats effortlessly as we make our way back up to the office. I break into a sweat one flight up.  

Two flights to go.

''Why does she have to ask so many questions.  Can't she just shut up?  I can't catch my breath.  Much less hold down a conversation.''

''Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah ... And you?'' She asks. 

I grab onto the handrail, pause, sputter ''yeah, sure.''  No clue what she was asking.

One flight left.  My mind's gone blank.  Breathing is simply no longer an option.  Just reach my destination and work it out from there.  I can worry about oxygen supply once the uphill climb is over.

''This sucks.''

Make it back to the office without completely depleting my stocks of O2.  Brain function is still relatively intact.  I ease my burning thighs down into my office chair.  I made it!

''I rock!''

Workday over, I head back to the parking garage.  Can I keep my promise?  Those 7 flights of stairs would, after all, do wonders for my FitBit stats.  And I did manage 3 flights earlier today.  And there's no obligation to hold down a conversation this time around.  My mind's made up.  As I open the door leading to the stairwell, I can't help but cast a slightly smug glance at the hordes waiting in the lift lobby.  

''I rock!''

Two flights up. 

''If I took the elevator now, it would still be better than having taken it all the way up.''

''No, you're committed.  If you don't work for it, don't bother wishing for it.''

Four flights up.

''Well this was stupid.''

''No use quitting now, you're past halfway.''

Six flights up.

''Interesting how my toes have gone completely numb.  If that numbness could work itself all the way up my legs to my lungs, I could probably manage 20 flights.''

Seven flights.  Final destination!

''Yes!  I am queen of the fitness world!''

Get into my car.  Take 5 minutes to catch my breath.  Tap on my FitBit bracelet.  

''Two crappy blinking lights?  Seriously?  Those stairs alone had to be enough to earn me 5 blinking lights.  This sucks!''

Wind my way down the parking lot ramps.  Ease my way into Doha traffic.  Listen to my Michel Thomas Arabic CD as I make my way slowly back home.

Arrive home at 5:30 p.m.  Get a text from the chatty stair-climbing insanely fit co-worker reminding me that I've signed up with my office peeps for a motivational Boot Camp at 6:30 tonight.  

''OMG, is this what I agreed to on my oxygen-deprived trek up the stairs?  Surely they can excuse me for being mentally impaired at the time?  What the heck was I thinking?????''

''No, Gypsy, no excuses.  You can do this.  It's a case of mind over matter.  Go girl!''

Quickly check on Kiddo's homework.  Change into my sweats and runners.  Grab my workout bag.  Kiss Kiddo and Smilin' Vic as they encourage me in my fitness quest.  

''I would sooooo trade this for a glass of wine, a fuzzy blanket, some Kraft mac and cheese and an evening watching mindless TV.''

Fight my way back into Doha evening traffic.  Make it to the park with minutes to spare.

Indulge in 45 minutes of outright humiliation as my peers get a true glimpse of the chaotic spastic thrusts that I'm trying to pass off as 'coming to grips with my health'.

''I'll never live this down at the office.  My eyeballs are sweating.  I could be sitting alone shamelessly on my couch at home watching 'Come Dine With Me.'  Why am I putting myself through this?  I'll never be fit.''  

''No, I need to pat myself on the shoulder.  No pain, no gain.  I could be home, doing nothing.  I should be proud of myself for making the effort.  The heat and humidity and humiliation are making me STRONG.  I rock!''  

''If that clean-eating, paleo-touting, knuckle-head jock, cut-to-the-bone coach makes me do one more burpee I will hunt him down, tie him up and stuff an all-dressed pizza down his throat in one sitting.''

''Hey, I just did 1 more burpee than my 55-year-old boss with the bum shoulder.  I rock!''

''I really hate that coach.  Wait 'til you hit your 30's buddy, then try and give me 5 more yourself!''

''I think I just had a heart attack.  Seriously, my left lung just rolled out onto the grass over there.''

''Yes, 'cool down'.  I made it.  I rock!''

7:30 p.m.  

Pick my left lung up off the grass.  Dust it off.

Ease my way back into Doha traffic ...

Me ... aka that Hot B*%@h

Uhmmmmm, yeah.  

Yup.  

Okayyyyy.  

In another lifetime maybe.

What the lonely labourers on the bus see ...

I'm actually a 44-year-old wife and mother with an office job.  The hottest thing about me these days is probably the occasional inferno flashes that threaten me with spontaneous combustion at the most inopportune moments.  

Even my footwear has become decidedly un-hot, since I mostly wear sensible heels to work so I can take the stairs in an effort to counter my expanding @$$.  My grey roots are an inch long because I'm trying to time a dye job perfectly for a wedding in October.  

If I sit a certain way, my belly forms three rolls that vaguely resemble a burger between two buns.  Oh, and for the last four days, I've developed pitted oedema in my feet ... apparently no reason to be exceedingly alarmed according to the disinterested doctor I consulted yesterday, but enough to furrow those wrinkles on my brow just a tad deeper. 

And yet despite the granny flats, frizzy hair, constant air of bewilderment and exhaustion, ever-expanding posterior, Shrek feet and muffin top, I had a busload of labourers ogling me with unbridled lust as I got stuck behind them in traffic on the drive home from work.  

These are the moments when I realise how truly lonely their life must be here in the ME.  And while their sad plight leaves me disillusioned, I have no illusions that I'm the hottest thing to have crossed their path since Indonesian curry.

It's one of those things that's always irked me about Qatar: the inflated ego of many a woman in the desert.  An impression that they're suddenly irresistible to the other sex.  It's like a warped episode of Mudd's Women from the original Star Trek series ...

It's a scary sense of false flattery that's born of the shameless stares of a breed of desperate labourers thousands of miles from home.  Men sharing living quarters with thousands of other like men.  Men with no other distractions or real entertainment to speak of.  Men who often don't even have a TV to watch in the evenings.  Men exhausted from long hours of hard labour in exasperatingly hot conditions.  Men who sometimes go years without seeing their families/spouses back home.  Men whose noses have become so congested with the smell of their male roommates' sweat and stinky feet that they could smell a splash of Channel No. 5 from 20 miles away.  Men in a country where the ratio of men to women is 4:1.  Men in a country where approximately half of that female ratio is either veiled, under the age of 5 or over the age of 60.  

So those dudes whistled at me on the drive home yesterday?  No s&*t Sherlock!  They'd likely flirt with a rotting papaya fruit if you sprayed it with perfume and put a blond wig on it.

Then there are the other men who hit on me shamelessly.  Like the strange Turkish dude at Carrefour who shadowed me down the fruit and veg aisle one day.  At first I thought I must be mistaken.  He couldn't seriously be staring at my toes, sinfully bare and peeking out from under my floor length skirt?  But sure enough, when I turned back with turnip in hand he'd edged just a bit closer and was by then completely transfixed by my left foot.  I shooed him away with a cry of 'haram' and a threat to take his picture with my phone and report him to mall security.  A few days later, sharing the embarrassingly sordid tale with a good friend, she realised she'd been trailed by the same guy at another Carrefour across town.  I later learned he was a known freak with a specific MO and a preferred 'type'.   I've hesitated to wear open-toed shoes while grocery shopping ever since.  Blechhh!

The male fascination with me doesn't end there though.  Once in a while the 25-year-old guy working on commission at the cosmetics centre at The Mall will wink at me as he tries to spray me with Coach perfume, whispering seductively that all Dutch women love this scent because it's so 'sexy' (imagine not-so-subtle purring as you read the word 'sexy').  This really turns me off.  Number 1, I'm not Dutch.  Number 2, I'm actually just passing through on my way to MegaMart to buy spaghetti squash.  Sorry dude, wasted breath, no commission from this cantankerous Canuck ...

Should I even start on nightclubs?  Let's just say that if a group of women between the ages of 25 to 50 decides to go out for drinks and dancing in Doha, they're sure to get hit on at some point in the evening. That's because in Doha nightclubs the ratio of men to women is likely to catapult to 20:1.  And chances are half the men in the room are wearing beer goggles, have just returned from a 30-day stint offshore and haven't seen a woman in just as long.  The other half are the guys who work at the Coach counter at The Mall; they're just hoping to bag a few free drinks from a disillusioned middle-aged expat wife.  No amount of physical negligence will manage to make you unappealing to this crowd.  Un-manicured nails, forty lbs. overweight, zit on your chin, greasy hair, cankles, hairy legs, smelly pits, baby drool staining the front of your dress, a run in your stockings ... there is truly no effective deterrent. 

Finally, there's the gym.  After 8 years in the ME, I've come to the conclusion that there's a running betting game amongst gym rats as to how many desperate housewives each can entice.  Does the attention of unfettered muscles fool me into thinking I'm all that hot in my grey sweats, mismatched socks, 1980's sweat band and decades-old tattered Gold's Gym sweatshirt?  Uhmmmm.  NO.  

It's a strange, strange world we live in here in the ME.  The occasional reality check never hurts.  A trip abroad is a must if one hopes to remain even remotely connected to the real world.  I need only spend a single day in London or Montreal to realise that Mr. Mudd's Venus pills just don't work in other hemispheres ...

What I ACTUALLY look like ... on a good day :-)