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 "