"F" Me in the ME! ...

No need for a disclaimer on this one ... bear with me and you'll decipher it soon enough.

A few weeks ago, Smilin' Vic, Kiddo and I were seated at an upscale restaurant, enjoying a leisurely and rather costly meal.  We had fibbed to get kiddo in ... minimum age is 10.  On our way to the restaurant we grilled her mercilessly:​

Us:  "How old are you?"​

Kiddo:  "Seven."​

Us:  "No, you're not seven.  You are TEN.  Do you understand?  Anyone asks, you are TEN.  Let's try again.  How old are you?"​

Kiddo:  "Seven."​

Us:  "For goodness sakes, you are TEN.  Just for tonight, you are TEN!"​

Kiddo:  "But that would by lying, Maman, and you said I'm never supposed to lie."​

Me:  "I lied." ...

"Just bear with us, ok?  It's a white lie. If we don't lie tonight, we can't get into this place, and that would be horrible.  So 'how OLD ARE YOU'?'"​

Kiddo:  (Crosses her arms against her chest, extreme look of disappointment as she tries her best 'I expected better of you' look on me) "Hmmmmph.  Ten, I am ten years old."​

Us:  "That's good, better, now let's practice a few more times ..."​

Anyhow, we made it in, and no one bothered to ask her age.  Once she got over her initial disillusionment at being born to lying, scheming, conniving parents, she was actually quite stoked at her newfound maturity.  She spent the evening trying to do things that made her more "ten-like", leaning in to me and quietly asking "Is this how a 10-year-old would hold her fork?" and "Since I'm 10, can I go to the bathroom on my own?" and "I don't think 10-year-olds have to eat what their parents tell them to."  ​

But the reality is a 7-year-old can only fake it so much.  So as kiddo was enjoying dessert and Smilin' Vic and I were finishing off the last of the wine, she suddenly gasps and exclaims "That man over there just said the "C" word."

Now just stop for a minute, and picture Smilin' Vic and me simultaneously spitting out our finest red ...​

Smilin' Vic:  "Shhhhhhhh!  Where did you hear that word?"​

Kiddo:  "Well, you say it all the time Papa, but you told me not to say it."​

Now don't get me wrong, Smilin' Vic's repertoire is occasionally peppered with profanity, a throwback to his years in the barracks.  But some words he has forever relegated to the literal battlefield, the "C" word which immediately springs to mind being at the ​top of the list.  So Smilin' Vic is visibly flustered.  "I DO NOT, nor have I EVER, used that term in our house."

Kiddo:  (loudly enough for fellow diners to hear and cast disdainful glances our way)  "But you DO, Papa; you say the "C" word all the time.  You even said it about another driver when we were coming to the restaurant."​

Smilin' Vic:  (well, at this point he's not actually saying anything out loud ... he is silently, mentally going through his entire collection of curse words, spewing them in his head, where only he can hear them and appreciate their true significance ​... he does this regularly ... it is a kind of mantra for him in those moments where he is particularly flustered - but I can almost hear the expletives myself, so loudly is he thinking them).

I have never heard Smilin' Vic use that particular term; I'm thinking we may be on the wrong track and I need to diffuse the situation.  I lean in to kiddo.  "Kiddo, can ​you whisper the "C" word into my ear?  I promise I won't tell anyone."

Kiddo leans in, cups her little hand around my ear and whispers softly:  

"Crazy."  

"That man said "crazy" maman, and he said it two times, and Papa's not telling the truth, because he says it too, he does, I swear."

And this folks, is what you get when you try to do the right thing by teaching your child not to use certain words.  We should have known; this isn't the first time this has happened.​

There was the time kiddo announced to her nursery school teacher that her nanny uses the "F" word all the time.  

While the "F" word can be considered offensive in North America, it is brandished quite liberally, and more often used as a common adjective than a curse.  But here in the ME, it is construed as extremely offensive.

Our poor nanny used to pick up kiddo at daycare every day, and really couldn't understand why everyone was looking at her funny.  

When her teacher brought it up ​casually one morning as I dropped kiddo off, I had to explain that the "F" word in our house is actually:

"Fat."​

Our nanny is Philippina, and like most Asians we've met here, has no compunction whatsoever against using the word; going so far as to gleefully tell me or Smilin' Vic we've gotten very "fat" upon a return from Italy or Switzerland or another of those indulgent countries that serve up the most delicious, unctuous, cheesy, and creamy of dishes.  We've had to explain a few times that while it may be quite normal in this culture to tell someone they're fat, most Westerners tend to find it rather offensive, actually more offensive than the 'other' "F" word.

We also have the "S" word:​

"Stupid."​

The "D" word:​

"Dumb."​

The "H" word:​

"Hate."​

But yesterday, I heard kiddo conspiring with her two friends by the pool.  They asked me to pretend I didn't know them, to pretend they were just teenagers enjoying a day out.  I thought it was the cutest thing ever.  

They lounged in their chairs, taking in rays.  They introduced themselves to me, explaining that they were triplets.  Their mother had a very difficult birth, so they had to take the bus straight from the orphanage to get money and jobs.  One was an artist engineer.  The other was a doctor who cleans beaches.  The last went to beauty salons, but was also an artist.  

Then a little boy walked by with his mom.  I heard kiddo exclaim to her friends: "Hey, I know that guy, he's my friend."  The second girl answered: "Yeah, he's in Grade 1, my mom was his substitute teacher once."  The other girl whispered:  "Your friend's HOT."​

Once I had recovered from falling off my own lounger, I realized that

"HOT"

is now the new "H" word in our house.  ​I watched the three girls (who I did not know) saunter over to the boy and his mom.  They engaged him in a few moments of 7-year-old flirtation as he looked at them eagerly as only an oblivious 6-year-old boy can ... he was obviously thinking that since there were four of them, they might be able to play a game of chicken in the pool.

So I'm reconsidering our strategy.  Kiddo's seven, going on ten.  Perhaps it's time to let her expand her repertoire and welcome her to the real world.  ​We've introduced the white lie, we've taught her that she actually can point as long as she's pointing at something, not at someone.  So maybe the time has come to introduce her to the concept of "term appropriateness based on context".

Or we could ​shelter her for the next twenty years and do our darndest to hold on to the toddler forever.  I like that option, I like it a lot.  

Fortunately, I love kiddo more.  And I want her to lead a productive life in society, be able to mix with the masses without coming across as a complete dork (though in fairness, I've made it this far with a fair amount of naïveté to my credit).  So chances are I'll start letting "stupid" slide into conversations, as long as it's directed at things or situations, not people.

I will say this:  the ME has been a blessing to us and to her as far as allowing her to be a kid.  She is probably enjoying her childhood innocence a lot more here than she could in the West.  Kids here get to remain kids here a lot longer ... remaining blissfully oblivious until now to the "F" word of my forefathers.  

And now you know.  "F" me in the ME is all about weight, folks, not about getting screwed (oops!  is that the new "S" word??????).

​7 going on 10 ... the artist engineer, doctor beach cleaner, beauty salon artist ... and HOT is the new "H" word ...

Ferrar"ME" ...

It was the logical next step in the quest to capture bad guys ... you just know this all started with one female cop putting up her hand and saying "I'm not sure the Lamborghini is for me; I was thinking a different color, something that's been around a little longer, something that says fast with class."  

Click here to link to previous post on the introduction of Lamborghinis to the police fleet ...

And when you live in a part of the world where money is absolutely not an issue, the police captain just naturally replied "Ok, we can work on that.  Let's look at the options here.  How would you feel about a Ferrari?"​

It's impressive to see affirmative action at work in the ME ...​

Only in the Middle East ... where else could you say you've been pulled over by a female police officer in a Ferrari?  Doha Gulf Times, April 26, 2013

Lamborghin"ME", Why Don't You?

Other than the sand and the heat, life in the ME can often seem quite like life in Canada. 

But once in a while, you get these reminders of exactly how different things are.  

​From this ....

Smilin' Vic recently told me that ​the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were retiring the Crown Victoria ... don't quote me on this, but I think the RCMP have been popping into Tim Horton's in Crown Vic's since the 70's or 80's.  It truly seems like the end of an era.

But Smilin' Vic said that the RCMP's new ride, the "Inceptor" (cue 'dom dom DOM'), was a mean beast, and would outshine the Crown Vic by far.

to this ....

I was impressed.  ​Super cool AWD mean machines meant to brave the harshest Canadian weather and deepest potholes in the RCMP's quest to eradicate crime for once and for all.  Real bad-ass police wheels.  Canadian cops rock!

While far, far away, in another universe ....

Lamborghin"ME", Why Don't You?​  (Doha, Gulf Times, Saturday, April 13, 2013)

All of a sudden, the RCMP's wheels don't seem quite so fierce?​

​Why does Canada's new cop ride suddenly look more like this?

I Failed Me a Little Today ...

Every day, I'm confronted with something I've failed at.  My days are filled with mistakes and failures of varying degrees.  Some days it's something small, like failing to remember to put the water bottles out for the water delivery truck on Wednesday.  Some days it's something big, like failing to read the e-mail from kiddo's teacher reminding me that today is "Crazy Hair Day" at school.  And some days it's something monumental, like failing at my job.

But one thing ​I've learned from failure is that 9 times out of 10 it teaches me something.  I like to believe I've actually grown from my failures, that I've become a little bit better at some things.  It might be that I've only become more accomplished at failure itself, but I'll take any success I can get.  Surely my failures have made me somewhat smarter than I once was?

For example, I once ran freely through my mom's yard wearing jelly shoes.  We had a huge Husky/German Shepard mix back then.  I failed to realize there was a chance I would collide with one of the doggy land mines littering the yard.  I realized my mistake as soon as the poo started seeping through the gaps in my jelly shoe.  I've learned not to run through open fields wearing jelly shoes.

I once rubbed my eyes after basting ribs in hot sauce with my bare hands.  I failed to heed the warning label that said "Avoid contact with eyes.  If product comes into contact with eyes, immediately flush liberally with fresh water."  Lesson in self-macing quickly learned.  Tabasco BURNS!

​I failed to wait until AFTER pulling a shirt over my head to apply lipstick ; I learned that you can remove a lipstick stain with hairspray.  

I failed at freely acknowledging a mistake; I've learned that you can avoid a lot of pain with a sincere "sorry".  

I failed at admitting that I didn't know what the hell someone was talking about; I've learned that you can avoid a lot of frustration by just admitting that you don't have all the answers.  

I failed at telling a lot of people exactly how I felt; I've learned that when you stop pretending, life becomes a lot simpler.

There are always exceptions; e.g.  ​I repeatedly fail to get to work on time.  That is the 1 time out of 10 that I just can't seem to learn from.  I figure I more than make up for it on the one hand, staying late on the job more than my turn.  However, this usually perpetuates the cycle of failure, with me arriving consistently three minutes behind the school bell most every day as I rush for after-school pickup.  On good days I convince myself that one could consider my tardiness a success if measured in terms of consistency.  

Then there are other failures, bigger failures, monumental failures, that make me rethink the implications of my actions on my life and that of others.

Yesterday I failed at sunscreen protocol.  Up until then, I could boast almost eight years of immaculate protection of kiddo's pearly-white skin in the ME.  I started off well, immersed Kiddo in spf 50 as is custom.  But then I let her swim and play in the desert sun for just a little too long without re-applying.  Her red shoulders and the pink hair part on her skull were the first indication that I had failed.  Her desperate attempt to rouse us at 1:00 a.m. by vomiting profusely over Smilin' Vic and I and our bedding was ​the second sign.  Her dry sunstroke heaves throughout the early morning hours lent credence to the epic proportions of my failure to protect this amazing little translucent being.  (I'm happy to report she's back to running about care-free as I type this post.)  I consider this a MONUMENTAL failure.  I am supposed to keep her safe.  Safe from the bad guys, safe from harm, safe from the elements.  Lesson learned: Failing my child is not an option. 

Recently, I admitted to failing at my job.  This hasn't been my biggest failure ever, but it's been a really hard one to admit to.  Me, who has always prided myself on my ability to 'get the job done'.  But I finally found a job I just wasn't willing to invest any more of me into.  So I quit.  In case I forget how massive a failure this one is, kiddo has been running around telling everyone for the last few weeks "My Maman quit her job!'  Funny thing is, I feel ok about it.  Lesson learned:  There is sometimes victory in failure.      

Years ago, I failed at marriage.  This one nearly killed me.  Slowly.  The failure dragged on for years, and it hurt - not only me, but many around me.  But then I succeeded at divorce.  Life has a way of throwing curve balls like that.  Lesson learned:  Sometimes success doesn't look quite like we expected it to.

For over six years, I have been failing my family back home.  As an expat, I just don't think there's any way around it.  I am not there to listen to them, to help them, to wrap my arms around them, to comfort them when they most need it.  Lesson learned:  Sometimes failure is the only option ... and it sucks.

Yup, every day I fail me a little.  But as they say in these parts, "What to do, yannih?"  I take the good with the bad and move on, and hopefully a little growth will come of it.  Hopefully the multitude of failures accumulated over the years will help define a successful lifetime.

May we all fail a little so that we may grow a little, and ultimately emerge triumphant.

"You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space." - Johnny Cash

Disconnected in the ME

Unreliability, fickleness, irregularity, variability, change .... These are all constants in the ME.  As such it should be no great surprise that the Internet ​stopped at our house last week for no apparent reason. Nor should it be any wonder that my inquiries as to the malfunction are met with confusion, dismay, distress ..... but no solution in sight.  After endless calls to the Internet provider, with an agent on the other end walking me endlessly through ISN variations (what does that even MEAN????) and getting me to force log-off 42 times, it was finally determined that I would need a technician on-site to resolve the problem.  

Now I am normally a patient woman; Smilin' Vic ​will attest to that as soon as I start to get the half-crazed look in my eye.  But waiting for the phone company to show up here is akin to waiting for the snow to melt in Northern New Brunswick.  You know it will happen, it should happen in April, but on a bad year it might not be til nearly June.

 So by the time the repairman gets here, the chances are he may well be greeted by a half-rabid, near-mad creature who used to go by the name 'Gypsy'.

Chances are by then I will have gnawed through the upgraded, higher bandwidth, super-performing, ultra-fast fibre-optic cable we had installed a few months ago. I will have done this not out of sheer frustration, but more because it was something to pass the time while I wait for my "lifeline" to be re-installed.​

You see, I rely on the Internet for phone calls back home, for e-mail, for all sources of social media.  When the Internet is down in the ME,  I am down.​  Granted, I can use mobile access for a few things, but it isn't the most convenient of affairs given that I am working from an iPhone, with a touchpad roughly the size of a credit card.

This week it has also wreaked havoc with my blogging, and I find myself increasingly frustrated with the inability to just sit down comfortably and post at random on a slew of topics of varying degrees of meaninglessness.  How dare faulty code or wiring disrupt my litany of rambling and babbling?

So I decided tonight that I would.not let this tiny bump in the road stop me.  ​That I would write about nothing, just to prove a point.  And as I sit here, four hours after beginning this post, typing with the help of a toothpick on this teeny tiny iPhone screen, I feel strangely, oddly, wonderfully vindicated.  

And a little bit foolish.  ​There's just no way to look cool poking at a phone for that long.

But for now, at least, I don't feel quite so disconnected in the ME.​