'Needful' in the ME ...

OK.  Let's get this straight.  Before arriving in Qatar, the only time I'd heard the term 'needful' was in reference to Stephen King's "Needful Things".  

And even then, it was a weird word.  Because it came from Stephen King.​  And let's just face it ... Stephen King is decidedly weird.  But because he is who he is, and because I devoured his books shamelessly as a teen,  I accepted 'needful' as an adjective.

But in reality, it is a word that ​insinuates desperation.  As in:  "She is very needful."  Or "That is one 'needful' dude".  I'd just never heard this word in any positive, 'normal', 'day-to-day' conversation.  

Flash forward to Qatar.  The term 'needful' is used in the workplace at least 26 times a day.  ​

​My first experience at work with 'needful' was after sending a complaint to the maintenance department.  I had sent an e-mail explaining that we had a problem with a tree that had grown to the point where it was blocking our facility's extraction system.  

They wrote me back the following:  "Thank you for expressing your concerns.  Kindly do the needful and we will be happy to follow up."​

????​

Being extremely naive, I thought long and hard about this.  I didn't actually know what needful meant.  I thought they might have some strange insight into my character flaws.  Perhaps the Maintenance Department had recently hired on some psychotherapist to more fully understand the tormented demands of 'needful' individuals such as myself.  So I turned to my ever faithful, ever erroneous friend 'Wikipedia'.  (Let it be known that I turn to Wikipedia daily for unreliable information.)

Here is what I found:  ​

Do the needful" is an expression (considered archaic in some regions) which means "do that which is necessary", with the respectful implication that the other party is trusted to understand what needs doing without being given detailed instruction.

The expression is currently used mainly in South Asian English particularly (Indian English). The expression was current in both British[1] and American English[2] well into the early 20th century. In later years it was sometimes used as a parody example of contemporary South Asian English.

So there are a few fundamental flaws with this expression, particularly if you are applying it to me.  

First of all, you are assuming that I will be trusted.  Ummmhummm.​

Secondly, you are assuming that I will take on whatever responsibility I have asked you to assume in the first place.  Ummmmhummm.​

Ok, just for the record, even if I only have the nerve to say it in my blog, which NOBODY actually reads, but I don't care because I actually get to vent:  "NEEDFUL is NOT an actual WORD!"  "Got it?"  "NOT a WORD."  It is a weird alien concept concocted by Brits living in India who were thinking "Let me invent a word to totally screw these guys up while actually sounding like I know what I am talking about."​

​But seriously folks, NEEDFUL is NOT a WORD!!!!!!  And take it from me, if you ever want to advance in your career, do NOT use "Do the needful" when responding to your boss or to any colleague who has half a brain.

I have studied languages.  Don't get me wrong ... often I have to look a word up.  But trust me when I say that if I don't get it, I don't use it.  Or at the very least, I look it up... in depth.  Believe me, when your google search turns up only "Indianisms" or "Wikidictionary" as your source, chances are the term had not gone viral or been popularly accepted in the Oxford English Dictionary.

I Hate ('hate' is the 'h' word in our house ... technically, as a mom, I'm not supposed to use it ... if I do, I'm supposed to put a coin in the jar ... but let's assume that only applies to verbal utterings and not the written word ...) ... where was I?  

Oh, yes.  I Hate "Doing the Needful".  Because It Means Doing NOTHING!!!!!!!!!​  Or doing something that I may assume is required without actually understanding what is required.  Or doing something that is not required when it actually wasn't, but I assumed it was so I did it anyways.  Most often, it ends up being doing something which no one else was willing to understand or be accountable for.  And I will end up being crapped on for it.  Really, no matter what, I avoid doing the "needful" because it is most certainly going to end up being the wrong thing, something which was none of my business to begin with.  But mostly, when I end up doing the needful it is because neither the author of this request or me truly  understand what needs to be done.

Case in point:  I  tell you the tree is blocking our ventilation system.  You tell me to "do the needful".  So what exactly am I supposed to do?  Pull my chainsaw out of my handbag and chop it down?  Spray it with the handy weed killer I carry around with me 'just in case' I encounter tangle weed on my commute to work?   Zap it with my Zombie spray?  Call the gardner and tell him to stop watering the damned thing and just let if f&()ing die?  Get staff to pee on it as a show of ultimate disrespect?  Host an annual office picnic under its shaded branches?  Dance Gangham style outside our building, holding up a poster warning visitors of poor air quality in our building?

Don't go there, don't ask me to 'do the needful'.  I'll most definitely go postal if you push it.  ​

Most days I simply reply the following:  "Thank you for your insightful direction; it made all the difference.  I have done the needful on my end.  Kindly reciprocate so that we can consider the matter closed."

More crap, but you're dealin' with the best here.  I will not be left dangling and needful in the ME ...​


​All the things in this store were crap that no one actually needed ... 

​All the things in this store were crap that no one actually needed ... 

So Many Options ... One That Pleases Me ...

So I was asked to attend a Qatari wedding again this weekend.  Truth be told, I'm actually starting to enjoy them!​  (Check out the post on Weddings in the ME.)

I was a little disappointed.  Because I can't attend.  

Why?  Because my weekend schedule is fully booked.  

My 7-yr-old is registered for a triathlon tomorrow.  Entirely non-competitive, confidence-boosting, socially-energizing and self-validating experience for a 7-yr-old.​

For a 42-yr-old mom this translates into energy-sapping, frustrating, early-weekend wakeup.  I hate that good things have to happen so early on a weekend morning.

But my fun doesn't end there.  Nooooooo.  

Immediately following the triathlon I will embark onto a fun-filled Brownie overnight camping adventure in the desert, filled with all the requisite camel spiders, hard sleeping surfaces, boiling over toilet facilities and  para-military moms (not all of them, but there ARE a few).

I wish I could fake excitement.  I wish I could feign enthusiasm at braiding a friendship bracelet, leading a scavenger hunt, saluting the Brownie flag, taking on latrine duty on the 11th shift, scalding my hands as I scorch wieners over the campfire, wrestling with tent pegs and struggling to drown out the snores coming from Brownie moms who have managed to fall into a deep, dark sleep on the cold, hard ground.

But the truth is I will be out there with a few likeminded peers craving a gin and tonic, wishing I could sneak away for a smoke, dreaming of my bed and my Soldier's arms around me.​

I liken the Brownie camping weekend to Hell.  That probably makes me decidedly unworthy of anything worthy.  But it REALLY does suck.  

Yet my daughter dreams of it all year long.  It is a definite highlight.  She hyperventilates just thinking about it.  And the most amazing thing is ... she STILL WANTS ME TO GO WITH HER.

Other girls her age are quite offended to have their moms tag along.  My daughter begs me to.  She says it won't be fun at all if I am not there.  Check my blog next year to see if this still applies.  I am one of the lucky ones.  

And so my HELL becomes my REDEMPTION.​

I am faced with so many options this weekend ... yet only one that pleases me;  the one that displeases me the most.  To spend some quality time in the stinking desert with my totally amazing daughter.  To get to build some memories with her that will last a lifetime.  If not for her, at least for me.  

To watch her as she participates in something 'bigger than her' (see "Something Bigger Than Me"), and watch her eyes grow wide in amazement as she sees the older girls perform a skit around the campfire.  To see her eyes light up with wonder as we walk through a desert trail in the night, observing the constellations, wondering what lies out there in that vast unchartered landscape.  To feel her joy as she joins in in sing-along's she's practiced all year.  To sense her contentment as she lies down next to me at night, safely ensconced in her sleeping bag, head nestled on her princess pillow, knowing that she is surrounded by friends of all ages, all races, all cultures, all religions, all nations, knowing that they are her peers, her equals, her sisters from different mothers.

And I will spend a torturous and sleepless night.  And I will gripe about it; probably all year long.  My fellow cool Brownie moms who don't attend will thank me for it.  My husband will owe me for it.  My ​daughter will love me for it.  But in the end, I had an option.  And this was the one that pleased me.

In the end, we always have a choice.  And the choice makes the difference.  I've chosen to live my life with no regrets ... this always makes me think about my options and the choices I make.  One choice may give me immediate gratification and leave me with nothing in return.  The other choice may give me pain and hardship in the short-term, yet leave me with a lifetime of happy memories.  When you look at it that way, it becomes much easier to sort through your options.

Thank grodness I've got a galss of wine tonitgh!  It's the shrot-temr gartification that'l cronvince me that tomorrow's hrardship will leaf me happy!​  LOL!

Cheers!​

Crossing the Finish Line - Triathlon 2012!​

Crossing the Finish Line - Triathlon 2012!​

​Daisy Scout Campout 2012 - Al Shahaniya

​Daisy Scout Campout 2012 - Al Shahaniya

​Setting up the tent ... Al Shahaniya 2012

​Setting up the tent ... Al Shahaniya 2012

​Daisy Scout Fun ... 2012 Al Shahaniya

​Daisy Scout Fun ... 2012 Al Shahaniya

Only Half a Lunch for Me ... (a truly horrific tale of lunchbox letdown)

Anyone who's read my post on New Year's Resolutions realizes that I'm trying to live healthier and to be more accountable.​

I'm exercising regularly, setting out daily menus, keeping a food journal, really trying to live a healthy and more accountable life.​  Unfortunately, on occasion this turns me into a rabid beast.  Not grumpy, not slightly disconcerted.  No, it actually makes me 100 per cent, absolutely, totally, undeniably, rabidly INSANE.  

Exercising means getting up at 4:00 a.m.  Not good.  I am NOT a morning person.  But I find that I do best if I exercise in the morning in the ME.  Unlike Canada, where returning from work would be a welcome invitation for a run, what with fresh air, bustling crowds and cool hilly outdoor venues to lure me back out of the house, I find myself depleted of energy when I return home after a day's work in Qatar.  

So instead of looking forward to a run at the end of the work day, I drag my @$$ out of bed for it 2 hours before the sun is even thinking of showing its face.  Note that I am NOT a morning person.  I'm not happy about getting up when the moon is still bright.  But I do it.  Because no matter what, after a run, everything does seem a little bit brighter.

Coupled with this dubious and decidedly un-delightful activity, I have included menus in my daily routine.  As such, I plan out a weekly menu, and a set lunch every day.  Lunch is prepared the night before, ready to be placed into my lunchbox as I head off to work.  It is a balanced and sensible lunch, with dairy, grains, fruit/veg and protein.  It is the highlight of my work day.  As meager as it may seem, by the time 12:00 noon rolls around, for me it is as desirable as a 3-star Michelin meal.  I know exactly what awaits me when I open that teeny tiny little treasure trove of calories.

Which would explain my disenchantment last Thursday as I opened up my lunchbox.  In the small container that should have harbored 6 thin slices of Hillshire Farms turkey breast, 1/4 cup shredded cheese, and 1/4 cup green pepper, I found ​1 slice of turkey breast (these are paper thin), barely a teaspoon of cheese, and the requisite 1/4 cup of green pepper.  My slice of bread was still intact, I still had a Tbsp of mayo in my container, but I was decidedly short in the meat and dairy container.  

Could I have been that tired the night before as I put lunch together?  Could I have miscalculated somehow, or gotten distracted as I pulled together this integral part of my day?  I actually thought long and hard about it.  Then I realized that 'no', there was no way I would have skimped.  And I re-tracked the events of the past night.​  Where could everything have gone so wrong?

And a lightbulb went off in my head.  I placed a call to Smilin' Vic, who was in a meeting at the time. ​

Me:  "Can you talk for a minute, it's really important."​

He:  "Sure, I'll just step out.  What's up?"​

Me:  "Last night, you went to bed after me.  Did you happen to have a snack?"​

He:  (silence)  "I might have had a bite to eat.  Why?  What's up?"

Me:  "Well, 3/4 of my lunch is missing; I have enough to feed Barbie on a diet.  I'm just wondering if maybe you picked in the Tupperware container marked 'Gypsy's Lunch - DO NOT TOUCH' in bright red marker?"​

He:  (silence)  "Uhhhh, well, yeah, uhmmm, I had a bit of turkey, and then I realized it was really nicely packed, and then I thought, uhmmm, maybe this is your lunch, and then I put it back.  But I SWEAR, it was only after the 5th piece of turkey, and then I thought 'something's not right, I shouldn't be eating this'.  And I stopped eating then and there."​

Me:  ​"And you never touched the cheese?"

He:  (silence)  "Uhmmmm, well, yeah, uhmmmm, well I kind of rolled the cheese in the turkey, and it's really good that way, and, uhmmm, but I SWEAR, on the 5th piece of turkey, as soon as I realized that this was probably your lunch, I stopped."​

Me:  "Seriously?  Seriously?  ​Do you realize I am sitting here looking at a slice of bread, one paper-thin slice of turkey and 5 shreds of cheese?  Seriously?"

He:  (laughing)  "That's funny."​ (more laughing)  "No, seriously, that's funny!  Baby, I feel really bad, but did you seriously pull me out of a meeting for this?"

Me:  (foaming at the mouth, nostrils flaring) "You're an @$$.  Karma's a B*%($.  Don't ever touch my lunch contents again Soldier.  You'll regret it.  I love you, but I'm telling you now, you will rue the day you ever touch my processed meats and cheeses again."

I hung up.  Enough said.  ​100% absolutely, disconcertedly, rabidly INSANE!  

We haven't talked about this incident in our home again.  While I think Smilin' Vic tried to convince himself that my reaction was really cute and funny, I believe somewhere in his core he is afraid.  (I know I scared myself.)  I think he's realized deep down that you just don't touch a dieting woman's lunch.  You just don't go there - to do so is mad.  Next time, just reach for the peanut butter and jam.  Leave the pre-packed lunches untouched.  Or risk the wrath.

I can handle tight deadlines, a 7-year-old's meltdowns, flat tires, bad hair days, boardroom drama, bounced cheques, spilt milk, hot flashes, a burst water pipe.  But NOT lunchbox letdown.  Let it be known that every single shred of cheese counts.  I don't do well with only half a lunch.  

Don't mess with me and my lunchbox ....

Lunch as it should be ....

Lunch as it should be ....

It Wasn't Me!!!! (Who the F@(? Farted????)

You know those stories that make you laugh so hard you think you will bust a gut?  The ones that keep on giving, getting funnier and funnier as time goes by?

The ones that, God forbid you recall while at work, whether alone in your office or surrounded by colleagues at the boardroom table, will make you laugh out loud?

I live for those stories.  They literally make all the crap go away.  You may forget about them for years, but one day you'll be having a particularly tough time and all of a sudden "that funny story" will pop into your head.

A lady I love so much once told me such a story.  It was about eating homemade beans before boarding a train to go halfway across Canada.  She was laughing so hard as she told me the story that she was crying.

Before she was done, I was on the floor in tears.

She told me how she'd boarded the train and settled into her economy class seat.  The train wasn't too full, so she got two seats all to herself.  A disheveled man was seated and snoring across the aisle from her.  A lady was seated and reading behind her.  A few other people were scattered throughout the car, some reading, some sleeping.  The train took off.  All comfy and settled in, she opened her book and started to read.  The main lights in the train car were turned down.

Which is about the time the beans started percolating.  It is about then, far too late, that she realized she shouldn't have had those beans.  She realized this wasn't going to be a "one toot and it's over" kind of night.  Nope.  This train whistle would be wailing its way across Canada tonight.  

When the first cramp hit, she thought about going to the toilet.  She knew she'd likely be walking up and down the aisle all night, heading back and forth to the toilet to 'release a bit of air'.  The thought exhausted her.  She looked around her.  The guy in the seat across the aisle was snoring loudly, mouth open, drool trailing from the side of his mouth.  Up ahead, most everyone seemed to be sleeping soundly, some more restless, but overall she figured it was safe.

Safe to let the tiniest of silent toots go.  Release.  Stop.  Listen.  Sniff.  Wait for it, wait for it ...

Phewwwwwww!  It was bad.  But no comments from the peanut gallery.  Gentle snoring all around.  All clear.

A few minutes later, a bigger cramp.  It worked last time, surely this time would be no different.  She let another silent killer go.  OH MY GOD!  She admitted she feared this one was putrid enough to wake the Devil himself.  But as the fumes settled, no one stirred.

The third one was her undoing.  Motivated by her recent success, she pushed the envelope just a little too far.  She let loose a long silent killer that if bottled might have propelled the train all the way to Toronto.

And that's when arose the gravelly, belligerent voice of the woman seated directly behind her.  "WHO the F@(? farted?"

I admit I'm laughing out loud as I type this story.  Despite the fact that I realize that everybody probably figures I'm the farter (I swear to you I'm not ... remember, I'm easily mortified) and that I don't really have this 'friend'.

Anyhow, by this point, my friend can't help laughing out loud.  She's embarrassed, but also quite unsure about what to do next.  Does she raise her hand, stand up and shout "Yes it's me, I'm the Farter!"

No, she does what any woman in her situation would do.  She improvises with acknowledgement minus admission.  She says "Yeah, it's pretty bad, isn't it?"  She doesn't look back as she says this; she wouldn't be able to keep it together.

The woman in the seat behind her launches into a series of expletives.  My friend is quite shocked; she really hates profanity.  But she still has to fart.  She figures now is as good a time as any; she's already both feet in.  Silent release.  Instant relief.

This is the clincher.  The voice behind her is shouting now, really irate: "For the love of Christ and everything that is sacred what the F@(? did that guy eat?"

Surprised, my friend asks "What guy?"  Still not looking back.  She's laughing too hard.

Gravelly voice:  "The vagrant sitting across from you.  He's been snoring and sh!%%ing himself since he got on the train."

At this point, my friend totally lost it.  She couldn't stop laughing even though it was infuriating the lady behind her even more.  

But she admits she took advantage of this poor sod taking the blame; used it as a license to fart all night long.  The man woke up the next morning with the lady in the back seat glaring mercilessly at him.  He didn't have a clue.

She swears she felt bad for the guy, but insists that she never outright lied.  I guess she's right, and no one was hurt.  The guy never had a clue.  The woman behind her would have been irate no matter who was doing the farting.  There was nothing to be gained by confessing.  It's not like my friend shouted out "It wasn't me!"  

In the end, it probably made for a much better story anyways!

NeedToFartSoBad copy.jpg

Dear Me! Tinkerbell Lost Her Head ...

Nothing propels parents to their feet like the unexpected bloodcurdling screams of their child.

One minute she is playing peacefully upstairs with her dollies.  The next, an agonizing wail resonates throughout the house.  We jump up, terrified the worst has happens.  The piercing cry is followed by wretched sobbing.  

We rush up the stairs.  She comes running out of her room and collapses in my arms.  I grab firm hold of her, temporarily reassured that at least I see no blood.  

Smilin' Vic, the man with the deepest voice I know, shrilly shout-squeaks "What the hell is going on!?  What happened?"  (I never realized he had such range; the high pitch momentarily distracts me from my fear.)

"Tinkerbell's head fell off!"  Wails of despair.

I step back, hold her at arms length.  Get a good look at the tears streaming down her cheeks.  Stifle the hysterical laughter welling up in me.  I'm relieved;  I now find the whole situation incredibly funny.  I hug her close again so I can hide the smile that will inevitably break free.

Smilin' Vic does not see the humor.  The Big Voice returns "You scared the living crap out of us!  What's with the crying?  It's no big deal.  I'll fix it!"

My daughter's eyes grow wide.  Horror and disbelief at his callousness, his apparent indifference.  A fresh wave of tears is cresting.  "Not a big deal?  How would you feel Papa?  Tinkerbell lost her head!"

I can't take it anymore; I disguise my laughter with a snort, try to pass it off as a sob. I hug her closer.  Smilin' Vic turns and walks silently away in apparent defeat.  It's hard for a former military man to conceive how very intense a little girl's relationship with her Barbies can be.  I've lost Barbies' heads before.  I've lost my head before.  It's a big deal.

I pull myself together, take Tinkerbell's body in one hand, her head in the other, and inspect the damage.  Tinkerbell's head has, in fact, been viciously torn from her neck.  This was no simple dolly decapitation, the kind where you can pop the ball at the tip of her neck back into the hole at the base of her head.

No, the damage seems irreparable; it does indeed appear that her fairy days have come to a violent end.  I ask my daughter how this happened.  Between sniffles, she explains that she was trying to take off Tinkerbell's pants, had Tinkerbell's head squeezed between her knees as she was yanking on the pants.  That's when her neck shattered, pieces scattering into  Tinkerbell's now decapitated head.  My daughter is starting to fall apart again as she relives that horrific moment, that horrible 'pop' when Tinkerbell lost her head.

Obviously they don't make Tinkerbell like they used to.

Smilin' Vic reappears, a tube of Crazy Glue in hand.  He delicately picks up Tinkerbell's head, applies glue, and somehow sticks it back onto what is left of her neck.  It holds.  My daughter looks up at him, her eyes filled with amazement.  She hugs him tightly, then skips away, back into her room, with convalescing Tinkerbell.  Not a word is spoken.  And just like that, he makes everything better.

No matter that her head now sits slightly askew on her shoulders.  No matter that she no longer has the slightest range of motion in her  neck.  Tinkerbell may have lost her head, but Papa put her back together again.  All is well with the world.

Dear me.

In the weeks since her unfortunate accident, Tinkerbell has turned to her fellow fairies for support and is gradually learning to spread her wings again.  Her pants will not come off again, nor will her little green cape, which is now forever c…

In the weeks since her unfortunate accident, Tinkerbell has turned to her fellow fairies for support and is gradually learning to spread her wings again.  Her pants will not come off again, nor will her little green cape, which is now forever crazy-glued to her stunted neck.

N.B.  We've actually been through this a few times before.  The first Barbie our daughter ever got came out of the box with a leg severed at the hip (this was a gift from a doctor; even he was powerless to save her leg ... we improvised by tying a rubber band around Barbie's knees and always dressing her in floor length gowns).  Our neighbor split Disco Ken in two at the waist when our daughter was 4 (she retold the nightmare of that misadventure for at least a year).  A Belle (mini Disney Princess) was also severed in two at one point (unfortunately no glue was ever able to put her back together again).