Ask Me About My BFF

My daughter gave me a green rubber BFF bracelet tonight as I towel-dried my hair.​  She was wearing a matching pink one.  A made-for-the-big-screen moment.  Next year's blockbuster titled "A Maman and Her Kiddo Against the World".  I was moved to tears.

She then told me she was sorry that she'd had to give the blue (my favorite color) rubber BFF bracelet to Smilin' Vic because he ​liked that color best.  The flow of tears ebbed, but I was still quite chuffed.  We'd simply change the title to "The Gypsy Clan Take on the ME."

She then pulled ​out another FIVE rubber BFF bracelets that she proudly announced she would distribute tomorrow at school to her other BFF's.  

The air of novelty and uniqueness pretty much wore off as it dawned on me that the rubber BFF band was more akin to a street gang tat' than a promise of undivided and lifelong commitment.  Quick thinking was in order if I was to get anything out of this moment:  let's make it a straight-to-video release titled "Another Maman Exclusivity Bubble goes 'POP'"!  

But once again my insightful seven-year-old got me thinking.  Thinking about my own friends, and what makes them unique.  Thinking about what makes a friend a 'Friend'.​  Thinking about what my BFF is all about ...

I've been asked a few times if it gets harder to make friends as an expat as you get older (hmmmmmph!).  ​Other than being mortally offended at the assumption that I am conforming to the human aging process, I've never really given much thought to the question.  I've never really stopped to think much about how friends are made, whether in the West or in the ME.

The thing is, I'm not generally the type to run with a posse.  ​I have what I consider a fair number of great friends spread across the globe, but I am definitely not Miss Popularity, nor am I the life of the party.  I don't gravitate towards most people naturally, nor they to me.  I have in fact been referred to as somewhat standoffish.  Most of my friendships have actually started off very badly indeed.  

But somehow I do end up making and keeping lifelong friends.  Friends that I cherish.  Friends that have helped define my past, get me through the present, and carry me into the future.  And my daughter really got me thinking tonight:  

"Who ARE these women?"  

​And what makes them so special?  

There is the cousin from forever.  I remember her biting me hard on the shoulder when we were both about 4, and I reciprocated by hitting her on the head with one of those wooden toy phones with a dolly that would pop out the top.  Once that was settled we went right back to making cheese melties in her Easy Bake oven.  Much of our childhood was spent concocting devious plans against her brother, like stuffing popcorn up his nose as he slept.  We later became blood sisters.  Ours is a bond that can't be explained.  I chalk it down to knowing I can always count on her to play Barbies with me no matter how many times I bonk her with a plastic baseball bat.  Our friendship is truly unconditional.  

She is steadfast.

Then there is the childhood expat friend from Grade 4.  The one whose idea I stole.  Back in 1979, when we still wrapped our classroom books in brown kraft paper.  I was seated next to her in Miss Gulacci's class, surreptitiously eyeing her book wrapping technique. Whereas every other kid in class simply taped the paper to the inside of the book cover with masking tape, she wrapped the masking tape artistically and diagonally around each outside corner of the book cover.  Her solution was not only artistic, but much more resilient.  I shamelessly copied her technique, then proceeded to receive Mrs. Gulacci's undivided and glowing praise at my extreme creativity.  It was not the best of starts to a friendship.  But somehow, a bond was firmly cemented.  She is the friend who used to ride horses bareback with such abandon, the friend who had a houseful of exotic pets, the friend who introduced me to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" when we were 11.  Our friendship is largely built on my awe and amazement of her.  

She is unique.

There is the friend from high school.  The one whose boyfriend I dated.  In fairness, I didn't know they were dating at the time ... Another friendship off to a rocky start.  We ended up rooming together for four years in university.  She is the one who I can share ANYTHING with and NEVER feel judged.  The one who simply, really, truly 'gets' me.  The one I can go for months without talking to and then start off right from where we stopped last time.  ​She is my left lung, my sister from another mother.

She is true.

There is the friend from university who studied with me, shared with me, laughed with me, cried with me.  She is the one who introduced me to the wonders of dipping battered onion rings into vinegar and gravy.  She is the one who would always drop anything to come join me for a coffee.  

She is compassionate.​

There is the friend who worked with me and counseled me and largely carried me through the breakup of my first marriage.  She is the one who would open her door for me at any time of night or day.  

She is loyal.​

There is the ​childhood expat friend who met up with me in Europe THIRTY years after we'd seen each other last.  

She is amazing.

There is the friend who has survived unbearable loss and is making the world a better place because of it.  

She is unbelievable.​

There is the friend who drops the "f" bomb in every sentence without offending me somehow.  

She is hilarious.​

There is the 'shy' friend who revels in sharing the best parts of Shades of Grey during girls' night out.  

She is surprising.​

There is the glamorous friend with perfect glossy hair, a body that rivals Halle Berry's, a heart that cannot stop giving and a conviction that no one should leave her house until they've had at least one shot of vodka straight from the freezer.  

She is beautiful.

​Thank you kiddo, for getting me to stop for a moment to think about each of these women, and about so many others.  To think about what makes them so special, each on their own and all together.  Because none of the women in my life, none of my friends, is only that one bolded statement.  Each of them is a little bit of every single one.  Yet each of them is unparalleled.  

So, go ahead.  Ask me about my BFF.  

She is one of these, she is all of these.  She is steadfast, unique, true, compassionate, loyal, amazing, unbelievable, hilarious, surprising, and beautiful.  ​

BFF Bracelets ... as depicted by a a 7-yr-old.​

Dear Daddy, These Are a Few Things You Taught Me

Dear Daddy,

I know your memory's not quite what it used to be. I know some days you are tired and it's hard for you to remember all the fun times and the hard times we've shared. But that's ok.  Because what you've taught me, I can never forget.

These days, when I talk to you, you ask me where I'm living now?  

"You're in China, aren't you?", is what you ask me on a good day.  On a bad day, you just ask me "Where are you, are you coming to see me soon?" 

I always answer "Qatar, Papa, je suis au Qatar."  And you always say, "Yes, yes, Qatar.  It's late over there, isn't it?"

And you usually say, "I'm so happy to hear your voice.  You know, you're all special to me.  All my kids.  But you, you were the baby.  And I can't forget holding you.  You were my baby.  You're still my baby.  I'll never forget you.  You're special, you know?"

And I don't know what to say.  Because my heart is breaking.  Because I know that eventually, you will forget me.  And I curse myself for hoping the cancer takes you before you lose the memory of me. 

Some days you forget my kiddo.  Some days you mistake Smilin' Vic for my first husband.  But I guide you slowly back to the pictures on your wall of my family today.  I give you their names.  And then you remember how much you love kiddo; how she sings to you sometimes.  You remember how good Smilin' Vic is for me.  And I laugh with you as you remember.  And a little part of me dies inside.  Because I know when I hang up, you will forget again.

Then you recall that I still have to be in the ME for a few years.  You recall that you lived your life as an expat.  The other night, I said "I'll see you soon Papa, real soon."  And you replied "No, no, you don't have to come.  I know you're doing what you need to do; you're making a life for you and your family.  I've been there.  I did that.  It's ok; you're like a recording of me.  But you know, sometimes in life you realize that it's harder to be the one receiving than giving." 

And I was crying inside, Daddy.  My heart was breaking.  But we both managed to laugh out loud. 

And that's one of the things you taught me.  

To laugh even when it hurts.

 Because usually when it hurts, it means we have the memory of something good.  We have the memory of something better.  You always told me that there was a balance in life, a full circle, that a loss meant you actually had experienced something great.  And that I had to learn to appreciate what I had lost.

You told me a story once.  About how as a young boy, you rode to the "city" with your father.  You and your brother, seated in the back of a horse-drawn sled, with hot bricks to warm your feet and a woolen blanket to stave off the cold.  As you rode into the "city" (a Northern New Brunswick town of about 6,500 pop. in 1935), you marveled at the homes of 'rich folk' built on foundations.  And you told yourself that if you ever had a foundation on your house, you would be a rich man.  And you told me that you'd been a rich man from the moment you built your first house and home, because you built it on a foundation.  You never wavered from that conviction, no matter what riches or temptations came your way.  And that's another thing you taught me.  

Realize what's important, and stick to it.

When I bought my first house, you said something scary to me.  "The happiest days of my life were when I had a mortgage with the bank, mouths to feed, bills to pay.  I had a reason to get up every day, a reason to go to work, a reason to come home."  And I thought "How very depressing, that these are the best days of my life, worrying about the bills."  But I've realized since that you were teaching me something very different.  

Understand your reason for being, embrace it, and live up to it.

After my first husband asked you for my hand in marriage, he told me that you had said this to him:  "Son, I know you love her for her qualities, but can you live with her faults?"  When I told you I was divorcing him, you listened to me quietly.  You didn't judge.  Even though I know it made you sad.  Even though it went against what you believed in (though in fairness, you hadn't been successful in the relationship department yourself!).  A few months later, you said to me "Well, if you ever remarry, make sure you get a diamond big enough to skate on before saying yes!".  And years later when I told you I was getting remarried, you said to me "Make sure he's not marrying you for your brains."  You left me totally confused.  Surely I didn't want to marry a man who loved me purely for my feminine wiles?

I only pieced it together a few years later.  I think I know now what you wanted for me.  Someone who would take nothing from me.   Someone who would love me because of, not despite, my eccentricities, my failings, my shortcomings.  Someone who would protect me.  Someone who would keep me safe.  No matter what.  No matter if I had nothing to give back.  Like you had done.  You wanted to be sure I would always have a safe place.  And what did I learn from that?

Always have a safe place.  And if you can, learn to BE that safe place for someone who needs it.

When I got my first job, you congratulated me, encouraged me, told me:

"If you find a job you love, you'll never work another day in your life."

 No truer words have ever been spoken.  

Here in the ME, I have struggled with my job.  For the first time in my life, for the last two years, I have gone to work day after day, hating what I do.  Three weeks ago, I handed in my resignation.  There may or may not be other opportunities out there, but for the time being, for the sake of my family and everyone I love, it is better to forsake the salary in the hopes of something better.  For a while, at least, I know I can turn to a job I love:  being a mom and a wife.

You have taught me so much.  

You have taught me that

silence shared with someone you love speaks to the heart.  

You have shown me that

there is merit in a hard day's work.  

You have shown me that

loving someone is truly letting them go.  

You have shown me that

laughter IS the best medicine.  

You showed me that

the best qualification for any job is "desire".  

You showed me that

the best way to live is without regret.  

You taught me that

all the degrees in the world don't compensate for lack of common sense.  

You taught me that

disrespecting my mother is unacceptable.

But the biggest thing you taught me was to enjoy the moment.  No matter how big, how small.  Enjoy the moment.  Don't ask for more.  Don't curse its passing.  Don't question it.  Simply enjoy the moment. 

Enjoy the moment. 

And tonight, as I think of you, trapped in that veil of forgetfulness that clouds your days and nights, I think it's appropriate that you should have been the one to teach me such a valuable lesson.  Because today I know that moments are all that remain.  Moments of pleasure, moments of pain, moments of anger, moments of sadness, moments of joy ... but all moments. 

There is no more continuum, no more sequence of events leading up to the end of your day.  Every moment you experience is a gift; every moment you experience is instantaneously forgotten, magically trapped and stored in a vault.  A vault to which no one has a key, not even you.  And I pray, I pray with all my might, that every moment you have left is a good one.  That you may experience only good moments from this moment on.  That at this very moment, as I write, as my heart aches for you and tears stream down my face, you may be experiencing an amazing moment of joy and love and rapture.  I pray that you may have peace in every single remaining moment; peace, laughter, joy, and rapture.

I pray that in those moments there is an occasional flash of all that you have taught me.

I love you Daddy. 

GyspsyInTheME

​Images fade ... memories fade ... but everything you taught me Daddy, will be passed on.

It's Not All About Me

I've found a blessing in blogging.  An honest to goodness blessing, a re-awakening of the senses, a newfound appreciation of the great and the horrible that surround me, a conscience regained, a faith renewed.

I started blogging about three months ago in the hopes of re-discovering myself.  I was hoping that somehow the writing would help me come to grips with the inexplicable invisible cloud that had woven its way into my ​heart.  I was desperate to get to the bottom of whatever disease of the soul was ailing me.  

I started writing all about me, all about me in the ME, trying to find out what was wrong with me.  But somewhere along, quite quickly in fact, my take on 'me' began to change.  Three months in I obviously still write about me (that's more than obvious in every single post title), but my take on 'me', my approach to 'me' is rapidly changing. ​

I'm not looking inward so much for inspiration these days.  More and more, my inspiration, my energy and my motivation for writing are coming from what is happening around me, from what influences me and from the influence I can have on what happens around me.​

It started with re-reading my posts (yes, I admit, I do re-read my posts occasionally; not only to boost my viewing stats, but also to try to gain a greater ​understanding of what I was feeling 'then' and what, if anything, has changed 'now').

I've realized that I don't like much of what I write.  I've realized that if I wasn't me, I really wouldn't want to read about me in the ME.  I've realized that ​I have become a bellybutton gazer, focused so much on my own navel that I've lost touch with what is really important: living and breathing.  I've realized that my writing is a reflection of what I've become.  

And I don't like it.​

Reading 'me' has led to a disinterest in all that is purely 'me'.  It has propelled me to read others who have a more meaningful, appreciative, humorous or positive tale to tell.  It's pushed me to slowly emerge from this cocoon I've woven around me, to seek out old friends and invite them over for a coffee, a glass of wine, a whine or a belly laugh.  It's made me to look at my Soldier and my kiddo with new appreciation, made me want to protect them from the frustration and desperation I see oozing out into this fibre optic page.  It's made me want to get back to the old 'me'.

I find myself making a concerted effort to seek out blog-worthy tales.  I find myself reflecting more on my day and what's happened around me, not TO me, that has made me smile or made me rage.  I ​find myself listening a lot more closely to what other people have to say.  I find myself rediscovering that others have much more worthy, interesting, tragic and funny tales than me.  I find myself appreciating tiny little moments that seemed meaningless just a few short months ago.  Some days these moments may be reflected in my blog, but on days where I can't find the time to commit them all to this screen, I hope these moments are simply reflected in me. 

It's nothing short of miraculous to me.  It's not so much what is landing on the page that is changing.  It's more what is going into the page that is changing.  It's not so much that I'm not thinking about me.  It's more that I'm thinking about the me I want to rediscover.  It's not so much that my writing has changed.  It's that my perspective is changing, my priorities are changing, my interests are expanding, my dreams are re-igniting, my hope is resurfacing, my faith is renewed.  

I'm regaining insight, I'm regaining an appreciation for what I have, and an appreciation for what many around me don't.

Last weekend, I listened as a woman I barely knew told me about her struggles in the ME.  About how she wrestled with what she knows to be right in her heart, and what she feels is wrong with the ME.  About how her marriage has fallen apart in the ME.  About how she's lost her identity in the ME.  ​

And it was just today that I realized that all I did was listen.  I didn't compare myself to her, didn't compare my struggles to hers.  I didn't try to put myself in her shoes.  I didn't try to tell her it would be ok.  We both knew it wouldn't.  I just listened.  ​

That's the biggest change.  That's the biggest blessing.  I'm learning how to listen again.  Because sometimes listening is truly the best I can do.  Because there are so many other tales to be told.  Because there are so many other tales that need to be heard.  Because ​it's not all about me.

So much out there that's not all about me ...​

Getting Sacked and Bucket Lists in the ME ...

This was an interesting and eye-opening weekend.  Smilin' Vic and me, the most anti-social of anti-socials, attending two social gatherings on two separate evenings with two very distinct groups of friends.​

Our first invite, last night, was to a 'going away' party for a co-worker of mine.  A bitter-sweet occasion.  A harsh reminder of how occupationally dispensable we all are.  A co-worker whose job was reclassified and whose qualifications did not meet the new JD.  

"Shukran".  "Thank you very much".  Your services are no longer required.​

No mind that you are a dedicated and loyal employee.  Skip the fact that you have a flawless attendance record.​  Forego your attention to detail.  Poo Poo your positive attitude.  

Face the facts, someone wanted you gone ... and you're 'outta here'.  

We'll be nice about it though.  We'll give you three weeks advance notice.  Then we'll send you home to laze out your 2-months' advance notice so you can let the humiliation, regret, fear and shame ferment just a little bit more.  And then you've got three months to get your ass out of Dodge.  'Cos you ain't welcome here no more.

But in a sense, he's one of the lucky ones.  As a male, being sacked in Qatar means you can no longer stay in the country, nor carry on sponsoring your family to stay here.  Not only do you lose your job, you lose your house, your children's school, your spouse's job (she cannot work if you cannot sponsor her), everything.  If someone wants you gone badly enough, you could be gone within a matter of days.  

Yeah, he's one of the lucky ones.  He even got an NOC (non objection certificate), which means his current employer does not object to him seeking and gaining employment elsewhere in Qatar. ​

Scary what you can end up grateful for.​

So a few colleagues got together and did the only thing we could.  

We exchanged gifts; bought him a bunch of Harley Davidson memorabilia, seeing how he's a fan.  His Harley was a Bucket List item; something he'd always promised himself but never gotten around to.  But he'd finally bought himself a Hog here in Qatar.

Sadly, as we gave him the loot he revealed he'd sold his bike that very day.  Ended up being a somewhat twisted gift.

We'd arranged a going-away party fueled by Turkish takeaway, red wine, white wine, dark rum and Coronas.  Stood around telling stupid jokes, trying to act like all was cool and we knew he would be moving on to something better.  Tried to ​convince him and his wife that this was for the best ... that it was actually a relief.  He didn't have to worry anymore.  'Cos that's what we all tell ourselves, isn't it?  That if "they" eventually show us the door, at least we'll know in what direction were heading.

But in reality, we're all slightly crafty hypocrites.  In it for the bigger buck, the generous annual leave, the hope for early retirement.  We want to be able to choose when it's time for us to go home.  We want to know that we still have that much power, that much control.  But we don't.  At the end of the day, every expat, no matter how talented, no matter how popular, no matter how loyal, no matter how committed, no matter how willing .....  

... is ....

... expendable.​  

We wanted to say "until we meet again", but in the expat world we knew this was simply "goodbye".  No prettying up required.  We've seen it all before.

The night itself was a success.  We talked, we laughed, we told silly jokes and really tried to keep the mood light.  Hugs, slaps on the back, anecdotes and just a few near-tear moments.  He's got hard days ahead.  But last night wasn't the time to be bringing him down.  We needed to let him know how much we'd appreciated him, how much we'd miss him, and how much fun we'd had with him.​  We needed to let him know that he mattered, and that he would be missed.  Despite the sad undertones, the evening was filled with laughter and love.  Hopefully he'll leave knowing that for a select few he actually did make a difference.

​Fast forward to tonight.

Tonight was spent at my best friend's, for a purportedly completely different celebration.  

We were celebrating her husband's promotion.  His promotion to one of the most established and elite positions one could possibly hold within his company.  To a position that brings him international accolade and recognition.  To a position that few men of his age could even aspire to.​

A position that he's filled for the last two years unofficially.  But two weeks ago, he was finally given the title that goes with the position.  Officially.  

No company memo, no pay rise, no thank you, no bonus, no ​words of appreciation.  Simply a letter stating that as of "date" he holds the position of "_____".  Carry on.  Thank you.

The celebration was marred by the lack of corporate enthusiasm.  He was saddened by the lack of appreciation.  We were marked by the ​undertone of disenchantment that pervaded the accomplishment.  The disappointment was deafening.

It reinforced my belief that there is no professional accomplishment to be celebrated or redeemed here.  There is no expat advancement or achievement that will be recognized or valued or celebrated.  Professionally, for an expat, this land is devoid of merit.

It was very sad in a way.  We should have been whooping and whaaping at his success.  We should have been breaking open a bottle of bubbly.  We should have been toasting his fortitude and drive.  ​

But instead, because of his disenchantment over how the whole deal had gone over, we sat sedately with our flat wine and shyly whispered our congratulations.  ​

Strange what you can end up disillusioned by .

But we still partook in meaningless banter.  We feasted on amazing Thai dishes, white wine, red wine and Coronas.  We exchanged gifts, both for the promotion and for a few missed occasions since we'd last seen each other.​

Since the hosts, our friends, had recently been to Bali, they brought us back Kopi Luwak coffee, referred to in "The Bucket List" (if you haven't yet seen this movie starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson ... DO SO NOW!).  It is coffee that has been ingested by and pooped out of a strange Asian wild cat named a Paradoxorus.  ......

And as the night progressed, and we sat there with our friends, we forgot ​about our reason for being there and got back to really enjoying JUST BEING THERE.  And my best friend and I drank wine, ate brownies, talked about cooking shows (Chopped, UK Come Dine With Me and Guy's Big Bite at the top of the list) and had some serious belly laughs.  Serious.  The kind of belly laughs that hurt, but in a good way.  The kind of belly laughs that remind you that no matter what crap is going on, a good friend can take it away.  The kind of belly laughs that stay with you for a lifetime.  The kind of belly laughs that make you cry.

And I was struck by the differences and the similarities of the two evenings.  But mostly the similarities.  

​The knowledge that, like the Kopi Luwak bean, all of us have been ingested by this country in some way.  And the knowledge that all of us will likewise be excreted in some disenchanting way ... fired, retired or promoted ... In some way each of us will move on feeling just a tad soiled.

We all want to think we've made a difference.  We all want to think we would be missed.  We all want to be supported.  We all want to know someone cares.  We all want to laugh.  We all want to cry.  We all want to laugh until we cry.​  

We all have a bucket list ... and that bucket list likely includes but is not limited to all of the above.

Tonight, to you, whoever you may be, I wish for you this:​

"May you laugh until you cry.​"

Odd what you may wish for.

Click on the link below "The Bucket List - Kopi Luwak" to see what life's all about.​

The Bucket List - Kopi Luwak 2

Somebody's Reading Me

As of this morning, I have a readership of four!  That's right, I gathered up my courage and shared my blog link.

All of a sudden my blog feels like a scary place.  For the last three months, it's been just me and the screen; my keyboard has become an outlet, a refuge.  

This morning, I see my blog for the window into me that it is.  It lays me quite bare, like in that dream where you realize that you are the only one in the room wearing no clothes.  Standing naked in a room full of onlookers, yet everyone carrying on as usual, no one noticing the nakedness except me.  It's quite discomfiting.

All the same, I go back to that dream time and time again ... I guess I'm determined to overcome the uncertainty, the lack of confidence, the self-doubt.  Keep at it, don't give up, forge ahead.  Write a little more, dream a little more, forge ahead until I am quite comfortable standing here, whether dressed to the nines or wearing nothing but my undies.  Keep on writing, keep on searching, keep on trying.

Stop worrying about whether someone is watching; stop worrying about whether anyone cares.  Just doing it because it is something I love to do, and because it is something to do; because it is better than the alternative of just thinking about it and not doing anything about it.

I hope somebody will find something they like in this blog, or at least something they can relate to.  But if they don't, that's ok too.  It remains a wonderful means of release, of personal gratification, of temporary escape, of reflection.  

But I must admit, I'm a little chuffed.  Somebody's reading me.

A window into my life ... pic Smilin' Vic took in Tuscany from the outside looking in.