"Clemency is the Best Resource"

I've always been fascinated with the "flight or fight" dilemna and the type of personalities that would correspond to each of these choices. Personally, I usually opt for "flight" in the face of any confrontation (I know, that is sooo unlike my starsign) unless of course it is a serious blatant injustice committed against me. But there are some people that adamantly "fight" even when they inflict the injustice themselves, and they do it with such endearing flare! The endearing element lies in their nonaggressive approach where they carefully disguise the "fight" initiative through ultra sweet smiles and palpable charm, thus maintaining a friendly pleasing disposition, very much like our charming friend BullPoop . The unexpected clemency in this case leaves the opponent confused, dumbfounded, yeilding, and hence, defeated.

While I was riding the subway, or according to the british, the "tube" a young british chap was kind enough to reach his hand through the crowd of entering passengers and spiritedly, grab my ass. Now I've had experiences with sexual assault before (I live in a country full of sexually frustrated men, its bound to happen a few times in empty parking lots and Bakalas), and so usually with these groping experiences I have a somewhat predictable process: I register that I was groped, I turn to my offender, I unleash a bitchy nonsensical tirade, I become impassioned with a burning desire to phsycially strike back, I attempt to execute the ambitious attack, the perpetrator conveniently flees the scene before commencement, and I feel like crap.

So this time I was pretty much expecting my subway assailant to disappear through mass transit by jumping out of the train, and hence escaping my wrath and (his) subsequent humiliation. But to my utter surprise, the bloke did not flee; he remained sturdily in his position, willing to face the fire, with a bright sparkly smile plastered on his face. I was so stunned at his courage I almost suspected that I imagined the whole affiar untill he winked at me mischieviously! I suddenly blurted out "why did you do that?". His smile widened as he looked at me with alarming confidence and then responded innocently "did what, love?"

Ok, our cheeky friend wants me to say it out loud. I bet he is dying to hear the words out of my mouth, and have me make a comedic scene in the bloody tube like a mad woman on Paxil. I was not going to give him such a show.
I responded calmly, "you know what you did! Its disgusting to say the least" I walk away from him to the other end of the train, find a seat and plop myself down. As I replay the whole scene in my head, I realize how his smile and blatant confidence caught me off gaurd, successfully confusing me, and disarming me of the impulsive aspiration to slap the bastard.

Later on in the train ride, I manage to forget all about it, and trot back to mental planning of shopping escapades, untill our dear BullPoop walks over to my end of the train, and plants himself in the seat right next to mine. I turn to look at him, and find the warm smile still intact, which sent me a subconsious trigger to return the smile, untill he whispered quietly:
"will you forgive me?"

I was dumbfounded for a brief moment at his admission, and then at his amiable manner in treating the situation. I seriously considered that he might have been delusional enough to believe that when he squeezed my behind on the train, he actually did me a favor. I didn't know what to say to dear BullPoop. I was speechless. So I got up at the first opportunity, and exited the train. When I heard the automatic train doors shut behind me, I couldn't resist turning around to glance back at him.... And there he was, sweet cute BullPoop, smilling at me behind the glass windows of the moving train, and waving goodbye, knowing perfectly well that he just got away with assault, and more importantly, that he just won!

Acceptance

Unfortunately, when I travel for work it is mandatory that I fly kuwait airways, even if there are no direct flights but anyway, I've moved on from this painful requirement and accepted it as an interesting experience I wouldn't otherwise normally have!

I mean what other airline would you ever find a bunch of hippie tourists coming back from the far east with their backpacks and dreads, and then a string of niqab wearing women with their numerous noisy children and beard sporting husbands all cramped up together by the gate, waiting for Godot. Then you have the well connected group travellors that take discounted or sometimes free trips from Kuwait Airways for supposedly having serious emergency illnesses in need of a fully subsidized out-of-kuwait medical check-up, but then you somehow spot them shopping across the street. Out of this melting pot of organisms about to embark on kuwait airways was an interesting fella that i really would have liked to know.

This fella had multiple highlights, long hair that fell to his shoulders and a pierced lip. He was sitting down fiddling with his iPod, and i could have sworn he was anything but Kuwaiti, untill I saw him speak to his dishdasha-and-qitra-wearing father with an overcoat on his way to a european country. The clash between father and son was so splendid, that other people noticed too. In fact, one of these people even dared to go as far as snapping a photograph.

The young pierced lip dude noticed this effort and made a scene. He rose up from his chair dramatically to chase after the sneaky photographer, but alas, the security men had to act all mighty and powerful and grab the young man to question his outburst. They were blatantly mocking him as he was relaying to them his grieviances, yet he kept persisting his pleas unthwarted, with full confidence and conviction telling them "no matter who you are, everyone deserves the right of privacy and the right not to be photographed". The security men still weren't taking him seriously, with their nonending disgusting snickers and sarcastic remarks like "enzain itha 9idt il mu9awir, ishbitsaweela wiya wayhik!". I'm not saying that the security men should have pulled out their guns and run after this alleged photographer james bond style, but deriding the guy with such direct ridicule is totally unnecessary and disturbing to me personally.

Its interesting when the young man's old father emerged into the scene, proper decorum and decent language suddenly burgeoned among the security men. But they were not subtle when they fiercely eyed the father and son back and forth in the attempt to make sense of the dichotomy. Their thought process in that mili second was so transparent that the father immediately realized that it was useless, pulled his son away and maintained his dignity. I was touched, and I wistfully fantasized of the day when people in kuwait will treat everybody with the same respect without loudly displaying narrow minded judgements based on somebody's unorthodox appearance. But you see, we are a culture that thrives on behavior homgeneity, and we love to take absolute hegemony in dictating how one should be and how one should look like and conveniently wave it under the flag of 'tradition' and 'religion'.

I think this as I walk down the streets of a modern city, with people of all kinds of differences. An old african man with dreads cascading to the floor is playing merrily on his drums, a young well dressed blonde woman passes him, stops to admire his musical flavor, tosses him a coin, a shabby looking man with a visible tatoo on his neck banging his head to the beats of his CD player flashes me a smile and keeps walking on by, and a clean cut jogger kindly stopping to give a young woman with black lipstick and gothic jewelery directions.

I wanted to go back to that young fella from the airport with long highlighted hair and peirced lips to tell him that he had every right to be angry, and then beg him not to be dismayed.

Wayh 3areeth

The time has come for me to rant once again, and this time it will be a variation of the "Vampires Congregation" theme that I briefly introduced in the previous post. There is a circle of vampires in Kuwait and their main qualities are as follows:
1-Middle aged kuwaiti women that love to gossip and show off their wealth at each other
2- They are all supposedly 'friends' but secretly are envious of each other's social popularity, husband's business, children's success, family names etc.
3- They congregate every so often in hotel tea rooms to sip tea, eye each other's jewelery, and ever so delicately shred each other's egos like razors cutting through cotton.
4-They feed on their sweeter nicer friend's energy and use them for all kinds of favors!

Mother is one of their sweet sweet niave friends, and has succumbed to be the victim of the evil head member of these vultures, a charismatic but crippled fat woman that nags on my mother's soul to death. Every so often, this evil vulture calls my mother to complain about her tumbling health, criticise my mother indirectly (through me sometimes) and asks for favors. A recent favor this bitch is asking my mother is to have me drag her suitcase with me when I travel to give to her nephew who is living abroad. My mother being the sweet nice woman she is couldn't say no. But you see, I am not my mother. And I can say no. So I picked up the phone and called the Evil Vampire:
CD: Hi Aunitie Vampire, how u doin?
Vampire: I'm so sick, I'm in pain, I've been in bed the whole week, I took two shots of cortizone and I was crying all night, the doctor says that it will take three days for the medicine to take effect...

at this point, i tuned out completely and retreated into my own mental hemisphere untill this old bitch finished reciting her monologue, then I interjected:

CD: uff, ma tistaahlain habeebti. I'm so sorry, wish there was something I could do.
Vampire: Yes there is, I spoke to your mother because I have a package to send for my nephew in X country.
CD: Yeah, how small is this package?
Vampire: its a suitcase
CD: i'm afraid I won't be able to take it with me. I'm checking in two suitcases already.
Vampire: Wow, two suitcases, how long are you going to be gone for?
CD: X days
Vampire: You don't need two suitcases! CD, darling, how about you try to reduce your packing to one suitcase?
CD: No thats not possible, the weather there is cold and i need all my coats, boots etc.
Vampire: How many coats are you taking?

I CANT BELIEVE SHE'S ASKING ME THIS QUESTION. FINE I'LL LIE THEN!

CD: I'm taking 6, three of them are formal, the other three are casual for me when i go out.
Vampire: Oh, so you'll be going out over there huh?
CD: yeah, I will. How about you pack up the things you want to send to your nephew into a small suitcase and I'll just carry it in my hand on the plane?
Vampire: Thats not possible!
CD: well you can ship the suitcase then (you cheap bitch), I think it will only cost you 30kd.
Vampire: But your mother said that you will take it with you.
CD: i'm sorry Auntie Vampire, my mother is not aware of how many suitcases I'm taking with me.
Vampire: Laaaa, tara ana za3laana 3ala umich. Let me talk to her now.
CD: Khalti, 7aram 3alaich, umy ma tadri.
Vampire: 3a6eeniyaah, bakilimhaaaa

So Mother talks to Vampire and I hear mother agreeing with her saying "ee adri, CD wayid 3aneeda, shesawi feeha" (I know CD is very stubborn, what should I do with her?). Rage rage rage! I don't care what kind of pressure the vampire puts on my mother, I don't care how much she will feed on my mother's energy and sympathy and I don't care if she manipulates her into feeling incredibly guilty THERE IS NOWAY ON EARTH I'M TAKIN HER SUITCASE!

and thats that!

Weddings Galore

Don't you love November? T'is the season to mate, legally, with a grand +20,000 KD opening celebration. And in comes with this celebration(s) is my wretched obligation to attend. Allow me to elaborate on why I am so excited to participate;
1-I have to scan the Kuwaiti retail market like a hound dog on Paxil for a ludicrously priced dress.
2- I will then commit the transgression of dropping more than a month's paycheck for this gown that will only be worn once, maybe twice, but definitley not more than thrice.
3-I will have to endure endless scrutiny, inspection, and evaluation from middle aged women, on the hunt for aspiring 'wives' or maybe just enviously nostalgic for my youth.
4- I have to pretend to enjoy the Kuwaiti 7areem disco when I don't even remotely enjoy the music: nagging lyrics, recycled beats, and redundant meaning (love, desire, pain etc - what century do you live in, O dear singer?).

No thanks, unless you are somebody that I personally know and am genuinely happy for , why should I attend? Why! Well, our mothers graduated the same class umm 30 years ago, they're not bestfriends but they were neighbors in ancient Jiblah, with faint memories of skipping together hand in hand on the way to elementary school, and last but not least, they happen to mix in the same presumptious social circles that I rightfully call "Vampire's Congregation". For that reason, the bride's mother is perfectly entitled to question my absence in social events, adding the biting comment "bintich laish moo ijtima3iya" ("why is your daughter anti social") to my mother. My mother will then feel incredibly insecure, and will launch a verbal lashing at me immediately via phone, ( I should stop answering her calls when she's at social events) to express severe disdain at my atypical social isolation.

So whatever, I don't need the drama, I'll sacrifice my nights for 4-5 weddings of individuals I hardly know (or care for). And you may think I'll be admiring the theatrical display of ultimate sophistication ( and financial capability -worth a brand new sportscar, 3 kidney transplants, and a bonafide sex change) for a couple of hours for just one bland evening, BUT KNOW THAT I AM ONLY THERE TO AVOID MOTHER'S ENDLESS BICKER, and that I really could care less about whats her names marriage.

Making up for lack of value

I've been burying my nose in graduate essay writing guidelines, trying to figure out the best angle that would mesmerize an admissions officer enough to turn a blind eye to a mediocre GPA (damn those Monday, Tuesday Thursday nite college frat parties senior year -what good have they delivered to me now, other than fading memories of intoxicated glory). So I wrote a contraversial topic on the ironies of arab women and sex (it is a subject that constantly surrounds me, just look at the pornographic arab music videos on TV) but then I thought it would make me sound like a raging feminist that is sexually furstrated, which is not a good thing, and definitely not who I am (except for the sexually frustrated part).

Feeling frustrated, blocked, and completely overwhelmed with pressure, I decided to give in to mother's ridiculous nagging to complete some of her errands. Getting out of the house would be a nice refreshing break, one that I definitley cannot afford, but will nevertheless find rewarding. So I slipped on my casual wear: jeans and a light jumper with of course my standard uniform high heels (I walk like a donkey in flats, even in college I would wash my car with shorts, t-shirt and High Heels)

While I was rummaging through the different stores in the city, and talking to Mother on the phone to understand her requests, a ginger young man, 22 tops, is eyeing me suspiciously and signalled to speak to me. I asked my mother to hold on so that I see what he had to say, he really looked concerned and curious:
Him: it7ibeen il wath3 il 6abee3y? (do you like the natural phenomena?)
CD: Excuse me?
Him: why aren't you wearing any make-up?

It took a 2 minute pregnant silence for me to register that sentence, I immediately turned away and tried to ignore the fact that this man actually stopped me on the street while I was having a phone conversation to say that to me. But mother did not ignore it! She just couldn't resist:
Mother: CD, I heard that! Why aren't you wearing any make-up?
CD: huh?
Mother: If a man stopped you on the street to give you that comment, that means you must look horrendous.
CD: mom, just give me the name of that store so I can get your errands done.
Mother: do you at least have lip gloss in your bag, dab some on your lips right now!
CD: ok, I will, whats the name of the store Mom?
Mother: every year, I buy you all kinds of make-up and you never wear any! Why don't you act like the other girls?
CD: mom, this man is used to seeing clowns with make-up caked on their faces in heaping layers of atrocious colors, of course he's going to comment at me for not wearing any so chill out and give me the name of the store, please.
Mother: you know, all the girls here take make up lessons, and know the names of the best make-up artists, and they wake up early in the morning to have time to apply their make-up, but you're always in a rush. What does that say about you?

Silence.

Then, a pressing question: Is it pure unadulterated vanity that drives these girls to such lengths of beautification...or is it the understanding that their only value is being a sexual object, that leads to behaviors such as strange clown make up, softened voices expressing immense horniness, and highly suggestive yet very tasteless glitter outfits?

Probably both............

CD: Mother, it says that I have confidence, and an immense appreciation for my brain.

Guilty by Nationality

There are times when I have a voracious urge to pick up the phone, call up the minister of foreign affairs to suggest that we imprint on our shiny blue kuwaiti passports an apology that reads something like this:
"Luck had it that I was born in a desert overflowing with overpriced oil, sorry if that offends you."

Maybe that would put an end to the arab saleswoman in the fashion boutiques from manically dropping all of her non kuwaiti clients and attacking me with unbridaled passion. The attack commences with flattery, overexaggerated gasps on how wonderful my selection is, followed by full blown nagging. It doesn't take more than 2 minutes for this sycophantic behavior to insult my intelligence and make me re-evaluate my own self esteem. And while I struggle to fight this mental negativity, the saleswoman continues to shove outrageous garments in my face emphasizing that all the other young kuwaiti girls are snatching the winter collections.

Whatever
I wouldn't dare wear this crap even if it were halloween. And I already told you I dont like wearing pink flourescent mini skirts on top of jeans. So you can end your foolish garment layering propaganda that misuses the words 'funky" " style" and " creative". And someone needs to tell you that the only creative thing about your merchandise is the triple digit price tag.

but when i finally give in to her BS, and go into a fitting room to try a few items, low and behold the bitch jumps right inside there with me. I have no problem stripping in front of females or doing the female nudity thing in gym locker rooms, but I do have a problem when someone's disgusting chipped manicured nails is all over my breasts:
"excuse me, what are you doing?"

"I'm just fixing the buttons for you"

Damn, girl, what did you have for breakfast. Ugly nails, funky breath, and squashed in a 4 by 4 cubicle with you while I am half naked is not my ideal fantasy of shopping. Sorry your life is tough, but i'm not buying your shit.

Moving right along to my weekly pedicure, I am stuck with Lamees the Leech to take care of me. What was supposed to be my 'me time' to relax, and pamper myself turns into a sympathy therapy fest for the Leech as she unleashes a long winded diatribe detailing the financial difficulties of raising 7 fatherless children back in her home country. Then she tells me that she worries she won't be able to pay her rent for the month, and how only a few kuwaiti women have been kind enough to pitch in. I advertantly pull out an ancient magazine to avoid talking to this woman, but her monologue continues, and I learn all about her tyrannical boss that didn't pay her salary, and how she had to settle for bread and milk for dinner for two weeks straight.

At the end of this pedicure, I felt so bereft, so hollow so spiritually exhausted and consumed, I found myself forking over a 10kd tip. She accepted it as though it were expected of me to give it to her. And even after giving her my money, I still sulked to my car feeling low, depressed, and empty. Then I became incredulous that I just wasted an hour and spent over 20 kd to be some poor woman's therapist, a woman that manipulated me into feeling guilty for being Kuwaiti and fortunate. And there you have it, the burning nostalgia brings me right back to my college days, passing by the Arab student union, whose prominent members decided to wage an anti US policy campaign, asking donations for poor Iraqi civilians. I nonchalantly passed their booths on my way to the cafeteria, as incognito as possible to avoid their attention, and luck would have it the impassioned leader catches me and calls my name:
"CD, would you like to donate some money for Iraqi women and children? (Waving a collection plate right in my face)
"Uh, I don't have any change"
"Thats ok, we accept checks"
"To be honest, I respect what you're doing, but I don't agree with the cause. Sorry"

As I walked away, right behind my back, she fired this insult a little too loudly:
"Selfish rich Kuwaiti bitch "

A Time for Schizophrenia

The morning of Eid is a morning that can summarize a woman's life in kuwait in a nutshell. It involves wearing many faces that don't actually belong to you, flashing what you got in your bank account in the form of an outfit, and feigning a sweet natured propriety to people that you hardly know. In such a morning I wake up in a drowsy cranky mode and stumble into the shower unpleasantly. The shower is the key component to beginning this day, for only with water splashing on my naked skin can I meditatively prepare to slip into a day of full fledged superficiality, faked amicability and socially overbearing expectations.

The role I am expected to play is of a prissy geisha, fully decked out and bling bling'd with overrated jewelry. I have to make rounds to 6-7 houses of extended family members, most of whom I don't know (and don't really care to). It is always embarassing to enter these houses because I have no idea what their names are, and who's related to who and how the hell they are related to me. I don't know who I'm supposed to call "khalti" since I am no longer a little child and I feel really awkward when a man only 15 years my senior offers me money. It is equally as uncomfortable that the very man that just shoved a 20 kd bill into my hands decides to offer me short-sighted career advice, drawing references from his own unimpressive experience. But I repress the part of me that is openly sarcastic and loudly objectional to unintelligent advice and resort to my 'calm non-fiesty' personality that smiles, utters thank yous, blushes, and then looks at the floor.

The final destination is Grandmother's house, who has her own set of unfamiliar guests that are supposedly relatives of ours. The male guests shun away from the sacrilige of shaking my hand, and deny me the respect of proper eye contact during their simple nod of a greeting. But they do not hesistate to stare at me behind my back (my sister always catches them) while I degradingly pour them tea and serve them sweets, as per Grandmother's orders. In this submissive role that I adopt , not only do I conciously deny my intellectual superiority and accomplishment over these men that I serve and dangle my existence for, but I also find myself sighing and batting my eyes, staring at the ceiling and laughing ever so delicately. When I unknowingly become out of character and do something as blasphemous as crossing my legs, (apparently it insinuates an attempt of seduction), Grandmother quickly advises me in private to 'sit properly' so as not to appear 'loose' to the guests.
"ya bnayah, 9eery thigeeela!" she barks at me, God bless her....

After my academy award winning performance at Grandmothers, I release myself from the confines of propriety, drive like a freed maniac, and go home to prepare for another role. The necessary role. The role that flushes out all of this fetidly faked behavior that I abhor (hence the blog title, 'maa7ib rasmiyaat') and indulge in a forbidden extreme, the needed extreme that will stabilize me back to healthy balanced normality.

I peer into my closet to find the appropriate attire for this event (the attendees of which are confirmed to be safe non-arabic speaking individuals -:) thanx 3asoobah). My immoral black pants are screaming to be worn. The thousands of mini belts and dangling chains that flutter on this scandalous fashion piece makes any reserved woman look like she just X-ed out of an underground rave in Russia. The perfect costume for the needed role. I'll wear them with spiked 5 inch heels, flop a blonde wig a' la miss cosmo's incognito (God, I love blogging) and creep out of the house quietly in a breeze...Too bad I can't wear the cat woman alter ego mask, Haloween was three days ago.

Now I'm off to execute, 3eedkum Embarak ow kil 3am wa antum bi khair!