Last year, when I made the list of what I wanted in my life....the one that included living in another country (Dubai listed as one of my three preferred locations) and the same one where I wrote that my dream job was to be a writer, I really had NO idea the power of my words on paper. Not even a week later, I was offered the interview for the position in Dubai...and not even a month and a half following that, I was living here. SINCE I've been here, I've been offered the opportunity to write for three online magazines, one of them being SPIN's global magazine.
In the next month or so, I am to have my own little column about "Dating in Dubai" located on WalkaboutJones.com and HOPEFULLY, I will get off my ass and complete the article that I'm doing for Spin Earth, which can be found on Spinearth.tv under their "Middle East" section (among other articles to follow).
But until then.....I'm having a bit of "writer's block" or "page fright", if you will. So...I'm asking my friends to wish me words....wish me lots and lots of WORRRRDS!!
PS If you read anything that I post and feel like you have some creative, constructive criticism, PLEASE don't hesitate to give it to me. It really is my dream to finish my book while I'm here and trade Architecture school for a Publishing House. I know my blogs are 'lengthy'....this I've already been told. I'm trying to shorten, sweeten and get straight to the point, but also keep in mind that ultimately I want to be a NOVELIST. Not a blog writer...and books are created with lots of words. Lots and lots O words.
Wish me MANY! :)
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
ear-waxing unphilosophical
Today I had to go to the local hospital to get medical clearance in order to be an official Dubai resident. I had been putting it off, frankly. Being in a line of any kind gives me anxiety and makes me frustrated. Being in a line in a local Dubai hospital…? Well….the thought of it gave me the same feeling that thoughts of lying naked on a big wooden block table while being tortured to death by large Viking men gave me. It’s not on my top ten list of ‘fun things to do’. In fact, the only way it will register on any top ten list of mine is perhaps as one the top ten things I would like to never experience again.
However, I woke up this morning knowing that I had to go, so I decided to make the best of it. I threw a book, some candy and a bottle of water in my purse—hopped in another B.O. saturated taxi and was on my way by 9.00 am. My colleagues had assured me that since I was female (and a blonde one) that I should have no issues whatsoever in going to front of the very long line of people that would be there. That mostly didn’t make me feel good, but today I was all too happy to ‘work it”, so I donned some extra feminine clothes and put a few more than normal curls in my hair that were enough to make even Miss Texas proud. I know it’s pathetic…trust me…no one knows it more than me. However, if it was gonna get me out of a literal stinking long line, I was more than happy to feel guilty about for 5 minutes rather than sit there holding my breath for 5 hours. I walked in, curls a flowin’ and quickly went through the first line, got to the counter, paid for the exam, signed some paperwork and went to my second line…….which had chairs. This, I thought, was NOT a good sign. This did not signify “fast service” to me. This signified that my ass was about to get so tired of standing that it was going to need a place to sit down, so they figured if I started in a seated position maybe I wouldn’t complain. That’s what this meant to me.
“Ok”, I thought…”lets do this”, and I pulled out my book to notice the title of the book that I had randomly selected on this fine day in Dubai. It was called, “Killing Yourself to Live”. Apropo. I selected it because it was written by a senior writer at Spin Magazine, Chuck Klosterman…and since I’m doing a story for them, I figured that I should familiarize myself with what they deem as “good music writing”. Plus, it was about music and he is sarcastic as hell, so I thought it looked like a good idea all the way around. Only about 5 minutes into the inner-workings of Chuck’s demented head (which I love, by the way) did my biggest fear of this kind of place start to take place right in front of me. I sat there in a room full of men mostly….Pakistani, Indian, Morrocan, Eqyptian, Arabic men. There were only a few women sprinkled into the mix, and while you might think that my fear would be based on something having to do with one of the many unbathed men in the room, it came from a tiny local women, dressed head to toe in a very fancy and elaborate Birkha.
I watched as she turned from the counter and began walking toward me. She was on the phone, her black birkha flowing beautifully behind her, the edges embedded with rhinestones and her Fendi bag swaying. She stopped in the middle of the room to finish her loud phone conversation, sunglasses still on. I could see her jeans underneath the Birkha, complete with high heels that would make Fergie look at least 5’ 5’ tall. She put the phone into her purse and then my world went into slow motion as I saw her finger come out of her purse and right into her ear. Maybe you know, maybe you don’t: I’m a complete and utter germaphobe. It’s not something I’m proud of. The level of my germaphobedness disturbs even me. It’s not quite to the level of my friend, Cori’s fear of midgets. She has a fear of midgets that ranks up there with Howard Hughes’ Mysophobia (official term for the fear of Germs). Sometimes I would fear being in public with her because if she saw a midget, a loud shrilling scream would come out of her mouth and she would do the whole shiver dance right there in front of the midget, if need be. It was as if she had a fear of spiders and there were an 8’ spider standing in front of her. At least I don’t scream and shiver when I see germs…but I’m not far off.
It’s amazing to me that I’ve ever at all been engaged in any sexual activity with another person in my entire life as the very thought of another human’s bodily fluids, excretions or salivations of any kind are nearly enough to send me into a full-on seizure. Smelling other people sometimes makes me want to vomit…especially the way they smell in Dubai, but I’ve gotten somewhat used to it. I’ve even gotten quite used to watching precisely the spot on the ground where I place my feet while walking so as to avoid the numerous random “loogies” that spittle their way across the streets and sidewalks and parking lots of Dubai.
Today, though…while sitting and reading and waiting for the hospital to stamp me, “Dubai-worthy” my attention was completely and utterly focused on one feminine finger and the ear that it met. This was not just a little quick finger in the ear situation going on there in front of me. This was a forefinger meets ear situation. The forefinger screamed “determination” to me. It wasn’t just some light little tickle of the ear that the pinky finger could take care of. Not just a quick little pinky-in, pinky-out. The forefinger meant serious business.
I watched in slow motion horror as she rotated the finger four of five times – then gave a couple of inevitable ‘up/down’ scratches, then went back for at least two more rotations before she pushed it further into her ear for one more good tug. My skin got into it’s crawling position as I then saw her remove the forefinger, reach under her Birkha and wipe it on her jeans. I didn’t care about the jeans. I was happy that the Birkha was making extra good use of itself today and I didn’t have to see the area on her jeans where the ear wax met the threads. All I cared about at this moment was that forefinger.
The slow motion stopped and she walked quickly back over to the counter, my eyes fixated on that forefinger, as I knew I was going to have to be back at that counter sometime very soon…..and that’s when it happened: the slow motion started again as she picked up the desk pen with that forefinger. She signed her papers with that pen that was being used by that forefinger. The forefinger that had just been in her ear. I had used that pen not 10 minutes prior to her using it. She put it down and some unsuspecting guy picked the pen up right after her. I could feel the whites of my eyes dry out as I had been staring at the whole situation…freaked out completely. I made it a point to not get anywhere near the counter when I went back and to make SURE that I didn’t touch that public pen. Or any public pen. Ever again.
I went back to reading Chuck while I waited. I needed something funny to help me out of my little cootie-phobia. I needed something so funny that my brain cells didn’t burst over the idea of some ear wax on a pen. By the way RE: the curls…not helping. My hair’s near “Aqua Net” status only looked good on the passport photos I took earlier this morning before coming here. The typist working on my application doesn’t give a shit about my curls OR my blond hair. His computer is down. Thank God for the chairs.
He finally finishes at 9:45, and I then get surprised by an Emirate man that comes over to personally escort me to the next line. The nicest surprise, however, was how he smelled. He smelled GOOD. He didn’t look good, but he smelled good. It doesn’t take a lot to attract me here, it seems, although it’s more rare than you can imagine: just smell good. That’s it. Just bathe for the love of Allah! With SOAP!
I get to the next line where there is a section for men and section for women. There were about 100 men. There were two women: me and this other chick who was wearing a shirt that said, “This could all be yours” written across her breasts and stomach. I’m wondering how these shirts work with men when they read them. Does knowing that “This could all be yours” make you want it? Whatever…at least her fingers weren’t in her ear. The Germaphobia was now in full affect. I was watching everyone and everything. I wouldn’t even let my elbows inadvertently touch the frames of the doors as I went into the blood collection room. Why? Because after taking my blood, they did not give me a band-aid. They just wiped a little cotton swab on me and told me to “hold it”. I’m thinking more than half of the people coming in and out of there didn’t “hold it”…in fact, I knew they didn’t because you could see random little cotton balls all over the floor.
I was in a live version of Super Mario Brothers, only I’m not getting points for this shit. I’m probably being deducted points somewhere for being such a weirdo…and there were no options for me to jump over the balls or run into those little mushroom looking things that gave me super germ-evading powers. I was just some curly haired blond chic walking around holding my breath with my bloody cotton ball held tightly to my vein dodging public pens and loogies and used cotton balls on the floor.
Thankfully, they finally released me and I got to get back into another BO saturated taxi (it’s amazing to me how many flavors of BO there are in this city) that drove maniacly while nearly choreographing his near-death driving to the sounds of P-Diddy's “Shake Your Tail Feather”, which conjured images of my ex-colleague Michael, that when dancing to this at company parties, would actually make little ‘feathers’ out of his hands behind his ass while he danced around the room…. At this point, I’m still clutching my cotton ball, trying not to breathe or touch anything and I think to myself, “I might have a problem”. “I should probably see a doctor”. He’d probably just want to inspect my ears….and then I’d have to suffer through the thoughts of “how clean are those ear inspecting sleeves?”…”how do I know that someone else didn’t have one in their ear first?”…..and upon leaving I’d look down at the pen and wonder whose ear wax might or might not be on it.
I think Dubai is not the place for me. Perhaps anywhere besides a clean room isn’t the place for me. Just don’t put me in one with a midget and my friend Cori, please. But please….do put me in it with Chuck. Just make sure he has deodorant on and that his ears are clean.
However, I woke up this morning knowing that I had to go, so I decided to make the best of it. I threw a book, some candy and a bottle of water in my purse—hopped in another B.O. saturated taxi and was on my way by 9.00 am. My colleagues had assured me that since I was female (and a blonde one) that I should have no issues whatsoever in going to front of the very long line of people that would be there. That mostly didn’t make me feel good, but today I was all too happy to ‘work it”, so I donned some extra feminine clothes and put a few more than normal curls in my hair that were enough to make even Miss Texas proud. I know it’s pathetic…trust me…no one knows it more than me. However, if it was gonna get me out of a literal stinking long line, I was more than happy to feel guilty about for 5 minutes rather than sit there holding my breath for 5 hours. I walked in, curls a flowin’ and quickly went through the first line, got to the counter, paid for the exam, signed some paperwork and went to my second line…….which had chairs. This, I thought, was NOT a good sign. This did not signify “fast service” to me. This signified that my ass was about to get so tired of standing that it was going to need a place to sit down, so they figured if I started in a seated position maybe I wouldn’t complain. That’s what this meant to me.
“Ok”, I thought…”lets do this”, and I pulled out my book to notice the title of the book that I had randomly selected on this fine day in Dubai. It was called, “Killing Yourself to Live”. Apropo. I selected it because it was written by a senior writer at Spin Magazine, Chuck Klosterman…and since I’m doing a story for them, I figured that I should familiarize myself with what they deem as “good music writing”. Plus, it was about music and he is sarcastic as hell, so I thought it looked like a good idea all the way around. Only about 5 minutes into the inner-workings of Chuck’s demented head (which I love, by the way) did my biggest fear of this kind of place start to take place right in front of me. I sat there in a room full of men mostly….Pakistani, Indian, Morrocan, Eqyptian, Arabic men. There were only a few women sprinkled into the mix, and while you might think that my fear would be based on something having to do with one of the many unbathed men in the room, it came from a tiny local women, dressed head to toe in a very fancy and elaborate Birkha.
I watched as she turned from the counter and began walking toward me. She was on the phone, her black birkha flowing beautifully behind her, the edges embedded with rhinestones and her Fendi bag swaying. She stopped in the middle of the room to finish her loud phone conversation, sunglasses still on. I could see her jeans underneath the Birkha, complete with high heels that would make Fergie look at least 5’ 5’ tall. She put the phone into her purse and then my world went into slow motion as I saw her finger come out of her purse and right into her ear. Maybe you know, maybe you don’t: I’m a complete and utter germaphobe. It’s not something I’m proud of. The level of my germaphobedness disturbs even me. It’s not quite to the level of my friend, Cori’s fear of midgets. She has a fear of midgets that ranks up there with Howard Hughes’ Mysophobia (official term for the fear of Germs). Sometimes I would fear being in public with her because if she saw a midget, a loud shrilling scream would come out of her mouth and she would do the whole shiver dance right there in front of the midget, if need be. It was as if she had a fear of spiders and there were an 8’ spider standing in front of her. At least I don’t scream and shiver when I see germs…but I’m not far off.
It’s amazing to me that I’ve ever at all been engaged in any sexual activity with another person in my entire life as the very thought of another human’s bodily fluids, excretions or salivations of any kind are nearly enough to send me into a full-on seizure. Smelling other people sometimes makes me want to vomit…especially the way they smell in Dubai, but I’ve gotten somewhat used to it. I’ve even gotten quite used to watching precisely the spot on the ground where I place my feet while walking so as to avoid the numerous random “loogies” that spittle their way across the streets and sidewalks and parking lots of Dubai.
Today, though…while sitting and reading and waiting for the hospital to stamp me, “Dubai-worthy” my attention was completely and utterly focused on one feminine finger and the ear that it met. This was not just a little quick finger in the ear situation going on there in front of me. This was a forefinger meets ear situation. The forefinger screamed “determination” to me. It wasn’t just some light little tickle of the ear that the pinky finger could take care of. Not just a quick little pinky-in, pinky-out. The forefinger meant serious business.
I watched in slow motion horror as she rotated the finger four of five times – then gave a couple of inevitable ‘up/down’ scratches, then went back for at least two more rotations before she pushed it further into her ear for one more good tug. My skin got into it’s crawling position as I then saw her remove the forefinger, reach under her Birkha and wipe it on her jeans. I didn’t care about the jeans. I was happy that the Birkha was making extra good use of itself today and I didn’t have to see the area on her jeans where the ear wax met the threads. All I cared about at this moment was that forefinger.
The slow motion stopped and she walked quickly back over to the counter, my eyes fixated on that forefinger, as I knew I was going to have to be back at that counter sometime very soon…..and that’s when it happened: the slow motion started again as she picked up the desk pen with that forefinger. She signed her papers with that pen that was being used by that forefinger. The forefinger that had just been in her ear. I had used that pen not 10 minutes prior to her using it. She put it down and some unsuspecting guy picked the pen up right after her. I could feel the whites of my eyes dry out as I had been staring at the whole situation…freaked out completely. I made it a point to not get anywhere near the counter when I went back and to make SURE that I didn’t touch that public pen. Or any public pen. Ever again.
I went back to reading Chuck while I waited. I needed something funny to help me out of my little cootie-phobia. I needed something so funny that my brain cells didn’t burst over the idea of some ear wax on a pen. By the way RE: the curls…not helping. My hair’s near “Aqua Net” status only looked good on the passport photos I took earlier this morning before coming here. The typist working on my application doesn’t give a shit about my curls OR my blond hair. His computer is down. Thank God for the chairs.
He finally finishes at 9:45, and I then get surprised by an Emirate man that comes over to personally escort me to the next line. The nicest surprise, however, was how he smelled. He smelled GOOD. He didn’t look good, but he smelled good. It doesn’t take a lot to attract me here, it seems, although it’s more rare than you can imagine: just smell good. That’s it. Just bathe for the love of Allah! With SOAP!
I get to the next line where there is a section for men and section for women. There were about 100 men. There were two women: me and this other chick who was wearing a shirt that said, “This could all be yours” written across her breasts and stomach. I’m wondering how these shirts work with men when they read them. Does knowing that “This could all be yours” make you want it? Whatever…at least her fingers weren’t in her ear. The Germaphobia was now in full affect. I was watching everyone and everything. I wouldn’t even let my elbows inadvertently touch the frames of the doors as I went into the blood collection room. Why? Because after taking my blood, they did not give me a band-aid. They just wiped a little cotton swab on me and told me to “hold it”. I’m thinking more than half of the people coming in and out of there didn’t “hold it”…in fact, I knew they didn’t because you could see random little cotton balls all over the floor.
I was in a live version of Super Mario Brothers, only I’m not getting points for this shit. I’m probably being deducted points somewhere for being such a weirdo…and there were no options for me to jump over the balls or run into those little mushroom looking things that gave me super germ-evading powers. I was just some curly haired blond chic walking around holding my breath with my bloody cotton ball held tightly to my vein dodging public pens and loogies and used cotton balls on the floor.
Thankfully, they finally released me and I got to get back into another BO saturated taxi (it’s amazing to me how many flavors of BO there are in this city) that drove maniacly while nearly choreographing his near-death driving to the sounds of P-Diddy's “Shake Your Tail Feather”, which conjured images of my ex-colleague Michael, that when dancing to this at company parties, would actually make little ‘feathers’ out of his hands behind his ass while he danced around the room…. At this point, I’m still clutching my cotton ball, trying not to breathe or touch anything and I think to myself, “I might have a problem”. “I should probably see a doctor”. He’d probably just want to inspect my ears….and then I’d have to suffer through the thoughts of “how clean are those ear inspecting sleeves?”…”how do I know that someone else didn’t have one in their ear first?”…..and upon leaving I’d look down at the pen and wonder whose ear wax might or might not be on it.
I think Dubai is not the place for me. Perhaps anywhere besides a clean room isn’t the place for me. Just don’t put me in one with a midget and my friend Cori, please. But please….do put me in it with Chuck. Just make sure he has deodorant on and that his ears are clean.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)