For the last 16 years, we have been in possession of an artificial Christmas tree. The first year we were married, we lived in an apartment in downtown Calgary. Fire regulations dictated that real trees were not allowed, and so we purchased an artificial one from the Hudson's Bay Company, along with a complete set of decorations. This tree served us well in our next home, too, as we moved to Norman Wells, NWT, and trees at that latitude were about 100 years old and four feet tall, and probably illegal to cut down.
A few years ago, we started buying real trees for our home in Calgary, and I swore we would never go back. We always set up the old artificial in the basement for the kids to decorate, but there was nothing better than the smell of a Balsam fir in the house.
So now, here we are in Doha, and the need for an artificial tree has never been greater. We noticed an online ad recently, selling real trees here - with only 44 available! Thankfully, we had thought ahead and had our artificial sent with our sea shipment.
Our trusty tree has been in a Rubbermaid container in our tent-shed for the last two months. On Saturday morning, I decided it was time to at least set it up. I took out its three large parts and set them on our living room floor.
A couple of hours later, I thought I would assemble it. Upon lifting one base of branches up, I noticed something scurry out from under it. I dropped the branches to the floor, and suddenly several other creatures tore across the tile. The scene quickly became reminiscent of the ant scene from Indiana Jones and The Crystal Skull, only instead of ants, the bugs were amber coloured beetle-type things, measuring about half an inch long with antennae growing out of their ugly, vile heads. Naturally, I handled it with grace. I stood, paralyzed, waiting for the hordes to carry me off to their sandy lair. Then I snapped out of it, screamed like a girl and ran into the kitchen. Ever the gentleman, Dan bee-lined for the living room and swatted as many as he could with his sandal. Too grossed out to stick around, I ran out the front door to await Dan's control over the situation.
Dan brought the tree, in pieces, outside, where it could undergo some pest control. This consisted of us lifting up the branches and then squashing each little weaselly disgusting creature that ran from its hiding place.
Three days later, the tree is now up and fully decorated. This is no small feat considering I had to first get my nerve up, and second, stand outside and check every box in every bin of decorations for evidence of more vermin. After much anticipation, the kids decorated the tree after school today. I only hope they checked their stockings for geckos.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow, for Pete's sake
It's a beautiful sunny day in Doha, with a temperature of 26 degrees Celsius. I'm sitting outside in capris and sandals. It is November 29.
Rumour has it that Christmas is approaching, but I have barely any reason to suspect it. If it wasn't for the Seasonal section at Carrefour with its abundance of artificial Christmas trees and coloured balls, I'd swear that either someone with the store was a little too eager, or it was still August.
Forty-plus years on Canadian soil have conditioned me to have an almost Pavlovian response to the seasons and the weather associated with them. Let's review:
Early Spring: Snow begins to melt, and crocuses pop up. This is my cue to register the kids for soccer, buy bedding plants, and dig out the flip-flops. Those among us who are organized get their winter tires taken off.
Late Spring: Snow from the second big spring snowstorm begins to melt. This is my cue to plan make-up games for snowed-out soccer games, purchase more bedding plants to replace the dead ones, and throw the damn winter boots back in the closet for the third time. Some of us will finally get our winter tires off, claiming foresight instead of procrastination.
Summer: Sunny and warm most of the time, unless you've elected to stay in Calgary. This is my cue to make travel plans, BBQ every day and have as many Starbucks Frappuccinos as I can shamelessly consume. Late in the season, I'll get the kids to try on hockey equipment, and start purchasing school supplies.
Early Fall: Sunny and warm ALL of the time, now that you've used up all your vacation days and the kids are back in school. This is my cue to watch copious amounts of professional and minor hockey, buy some new sweaters, and turn on the furnace.
Late Fall: Snowy and cold enough to freeze the bananas off a brass monkey (it's a family blog, folks). This is my cue to make cards, bake 22 pounds of cookies for freezing, and start Christmas shopping.
According to the schedule, I should be knee-deep in fancy ribbon and coloured sugar right now. I should also have purchased 90 per cent of the presents. Instead, I'm a captive of my own inertia, following the steady sandal-wearing, Starbucks-drinking cues I've been following for years. After four months of living here in current conditions, I need to ease up on the school-supply purchases. Also, the kids are threatening to snap if I make them try on their shoulder pads one more time.
So, for those of you experiencing the familiarity of a true pre-Christmas clime, I say revel in it. Enjoy the feeling of snow melting at the top of your socks inside your boots after shovelling for the third time on a given day. Relax while you sit in your car for 15 minutes waiting for it to warm up before making your move into traffic. And then, make yourself a cup of hot chocolate, put on some Christmas music and take comfort in the fact that you have completed all of your holiday preparations. As for me, I'd better get on it. And I promise I will. Right after I get back from lunch on the patio.
*Blogger's note: As always, I welcome all comments, with the exception of those of an irate nature, particularly from frost-bitten Canadians.
Rumour has it that Christmas is approaching, but I have barely any reason to suspect it. If it wasn't for the Seasonal section at Carrefour with its abundance of artificial Christmas trees and coloured balls, I'd swear that either someone with the store was a little too eager, or it was still August.
Forty-plus years on Canadian soil have conditioned me to have an almost Pavlovian response to the seasons and the weather associated with them. Let's review:
Early Spring: Snow begins to melt, and crocuses pop up. This is my cue to register the kids for soccer, buy bedding plants, and dig out the flip-flops. Those among us who are organized get their winter tires taken off.
Late Spring: Snow from the second big spring snowstorm begins to melt. This is my cue to plan make-up games for snowed-out soccer games, purchase more bedding plants to replace the dead ones, and throw the damn winter boots back in the closet for the third time. Some of us will finally get our winter tires off, claiming foresight instead of procrastination.
Summer: Sunny and warm most of the time, unless you've elected to stay in Calgary. This is my cue to make travel plans, BBQ every day and have as many Starbucks Frappuccinos as I can shamelessly consume. Late in the season, I'll get the kids to try on hockey equipment, and start purchasing school supplies.
Early Fall: Sunny and warm ALL of the time, now that you've used up all your vacation days and the kids are back in school. This is my cue to watch copious amounts of professional and minor hockey, buy some new sweaters, and turn on the furnace.
Late Fall: Snowy and cold enough to freeze the bananas off a brass monkey (it's a family blog, folks). This is my cue to make cards, bake 22 pounds of cookies for freezing, and start Christmas shopping.
According to the schedule, I should be knee-deep in fancy ribbon and coloured sugar right now. I should also have purchased 90 per cent of the presents. Instead, I'm a captive of my own inertia, following the steady sandal-wearing, Starbucks-drinking cues I've been following for years. After four months of living here in current conditions, I need to ease up on the school-supply purchases. Also, the kids are threatening to snap if I make them try on their shoulder pads one more time.
So, for those of you experiencing the familiarity of a true pre-Christmas clime, I say revel in it. Enjoy the feeling of snow melting at the top of your socks inside your boots after shovelling for the third time on a given day. Relax while you sit in your car for 15 minutes waiting for it to warm up before making your move into traffic. And then, make yourself a cup of hot chocolate, put on some Christmas music and take comfort in the fact that you have completed all of your holiday preparations. As for me, I'd better get on it. And I promise I will. Right after I get back from lunch on the patio.
*Blogger's note: As always, I welcome all comments, with the exception of those of an irate nature, particularly from frost-bitten Canadians.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Ohhhhh....maaahhnn
Holiday in Oman
Day 1 - Gee, I Hope I Packed My Banquet Pants...
Breakfast of Champions for Ben: pancakes with chocolate syrup followed by a chocolate milk chaser and a sugar donut for dessert. Morning at the pool, including 20-minute trips down The Lazy River followed by more pool, beach and giant chess for the boys, while I went to the spaaahhhhh. Or so I'm told. I have the bill to prove it, but I believe I was unconscious for most of it.
Day 2 - Finding Nemo
Snorkelling trip this morning, which involved a speed boat trip to a secluded bay in the Gulf of Oman. Saw some neat coral, sea anemone, stripey fish and leopard-spotted eels. Kids did brilliantly, and a couple of them may have lasted even longer if the ocean wasn't made of (surprise!) salt water. Sadly, alcohol will not be served at the hotel for the next 36 hours, in observance of the Muslim Eid Al Adha religious occasion, confirming that no matter how hard we try, we can't outrun the long arm of Islamic law. Buffet will be the end of us all, prompting Dan to declare that desserts will now be limited to breakfast and dinners only.
Day 3 - Inshallah All the Way, Baby
Best. Day. Ever. Hired a local Omani guide to drive us three hours to the desert. Ali was a great guy with a big heart, four kids, and a complete disregard for the posted speed limit. Partook in unscheduled/complimentary dune-bashing, then visited a Bedouin family in their home, where we were served dates and coffee. Camel rides followed with their young sons guiding. After, we stopped at a wadi (oasis) for lunch and a swim. Convinced of our imminent death on the return trip in the backseat of Ali's Prado, we were delighted to return to the hotel in one piece. Room service and mini-bar upon our return helped to take the edge off.
Dune Bashing - video (These take a few minutes to buffer)
Camel Riding - video
Day 4 - Mom, Can I Keep Him?
Rough seas postponed our plans to waterski. Kids spent the day in the pool, wave-jumping, giant chess, and making 76 trips down The Lazy River, newly renamed The Lemoing Competitive Swim and Extreme Tubing River. Ben has developed a serious camel obsession, and visits/rides the camels-for-hire on the beach daily. Potential crisis tonight at dinner when Nick had to wait two and a half minutes while NO ONE WAS MANNING THE COTTON CANDY MACHINE. And they call themselves a five star hotel.
Camel Riding on the Beach - video
Days 5 and 6 - Up He Goes!
Nick and Jacob tried water-skiing for the first time, while Ben was only a fraction of an ounce short of the gumption required. Nick went first and had success on his fourth try, making his parents very proud. Unfortunately he swallowed half the ocean, leaving little for Jacob to float in when it came time for his attempts. Parents and kids have ceased frequenting the same restaurants at dinner, sealing mine and Dan's expulsion from the cool crowd.
Nick Water-Skiing - video
Day 7 - So Long, Shangri'la
Hotel speed-boat driver now knows, without asking, our name and room number. Our Banana-boat ride for five started out at Mom-speed but slowly accelerated until we landed in the drink. Several times. Which apparently is the point of it, as demonstrated by Jacob's increased enjoyment with each repeated dunking. Family kayaking ensued until we ran out of rowing songs. One last chess game, with Ben crushing Dan, and then off to our evening flight to Doha. Ah yes, a plane ride. And me without my Ativan.
Day 1 - Gee, I Hope I Packed My Banquet Pants...
Breakfast of Champions for Ben: pancakes with chocolate syrup followed by a chocolate milk chaser and a sugar donut for dessert. Morning at the pool, including 20-minute trips down The Lazy River followed by more pool, beach and giant chess for the boys, while I went to the spaaahhhhh. Or so I'm told. I have the bill to prove it, but I believe I was unconscious for most of it.
Day 2 - Finding Nemo
Snorkelling trip this morning, which involved a speed boat trip to a secluded bay in the Gulf of Oman. Saw some neat coral, sea anemone, stripey fish and leopard-spotted eels. Kids did brilliantly, and a couple of them may have lasted even longer if the ocean wasn't made of (surprise!) salt water. Sadly, alcohol will not be served at the hotel for the next 36 hours, in observance of the Muslim Eid Al Adha religious occasion, confirming that no matter how hard we try, we can't outrun the long arm of Islamic law. Buffet will be the end of us all, prompting Dan to declare that desserts will now be limited to breakfast and dinners only.
Day 3 - Inshallah All the Way, Baby
Best. Day. Ever. Hired a local Omani guide to drive us three hours to the desert. Ali was a great guy with a big heart, four kids, and a complete disregard for the posted speed limit. Partook in unscheduled/complimentary dune-bashing, then visited a Bedouin family in their home, where we were served dates and coffee. Camel rides followed with their young sons guiding. After, we stopped at a wadi (oasis) for lunch and a swim. Convinced of our imminent death on the return trip in the backseat of Ali's Prado, we were delighted to return to the hotel in one piece. Room service and mini-bar upon our return helped to take the edge off.
Dune Bashing - video (These take a few minutes to buffer)
Camel Riding - video
Day 4 - Mom, Can I Keep Him?
Rough seas postponed our plans to waterski. Kids spent the day in the pool, wave-jumping, giant chess, and making 76 trips down The Lazy River, newly renamed The Lemoing Competitive Swim and Extreme Tubing River. Ben has developed a serious camel obsession, and visits/rides the camels-for-hire on the beach daily. Potential crisis tonight at dinner when Nick had to wait two and a half minutes while NO ONE WAS MANNING THE COTTON CANDY MACHINE. And they call themselves a five star hotel.
Camel Riding on the Beach - video
Days 5 and 6 - Up He Goes!
Nick and Jacob tried water-skiing for the first time, while Ben was only a fraction of an ounce short of the gumption required. Nick went first and had success on his fourth try, making his parents very proud. Unfortunately he swallowed half the ocean, leaving little for Jacob to float in when it came time for his attempts. Parents and kids have ceased frequenting the same restaurants at dinner, sealing mine and Dan's expulsion from the cool crowd.
Nick Water-Skiing - video
Day 7 - So Long, Shangri'la
Hotel speed-boat driver now knows, without asking, our name and room number. Our Banana-boat ride for five started out at Mom-speed but slowly accelerated until we landed in the drink. Several times. Which apparently is the point of it, as demonstrated by Jacob's increased enjoyment with each repeated dunking. Family kayaking ensued until we ran out of rowing songs. One last chess game, with Ben crushing Dan, and then off to our evening flight to Doha. Ah yes, a plane ride. And me without my Ativan.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Decorating for Dromedaries
Of the many experiences I expected to have while living in Qatar, a most unlikely one was made available to me last week that I had never previously considered. Through the magic and generosity of the company social club, I was able to participate in a Camel Decorating Class. Yes, you're reading that right. Those of you who know me well can attest to the fact that I'm just not creative enough to make this stuff up. Plus, I've got the photos to prove it. Be forewarned that my self-appointed Editor-in-Residence questioned whether I had a enough material to write a whole blog on the subject. But, since our marriage is mostly based on competition, rivalry, and a series of "I-told-you-so's", I'd be remiss if I didn't give it a try. Just skip through all the gratuitous anecdotes that don't pertain to the subject. Plus, I can stretch it out longer when I use words like 'gratuitous' and 'anecdote'.
How hard could it be? I thought. A glue gun, some scissors and a naked camel as my canvas, and I expected to be done well within the four-hour time period allotted to us. However, three and a half hours later, with fingers scarred from hot glue, sweat dripping from my brow, and my left eye twitching uncontrollably, I was finally able to declare my camel suitably outfitted for an Arabian night on the town, a casual lunch at the souqs, or a life-long existence on the corner table in my dining room.
Lucia, the Committee Chair of Camel Bling, spent a lot of time at the souqs finding just the right items to decorate our camels, and she did a great job. Each of the 12 participants was given a bag filled with tiny wicker baskets, brass jewellery boxes, beads, coins, carpets and buttons. There was also a table with items to share, such as nutmeg, ribbon, cinnamon sticks and frankincense (yes, real frankincense!). It's unclear what my camel's religious persuasion was before the makeover, but he has apparently converted to Islam as he now sports a tiny gold-coloured Qur'an.
Not wanting our camels to be uncomfortable, we each put a small woven blanket over their backs, which would serve as a 'saddle', to which we glued all the other items. But first, each tiny vessel (basket, vase, box) needed to be filled with even tinier things (pearls, coins, seeds), and each of those things had to be glued in place. Now, in the event of a freak camel mishap, the goods are going to be secure. Then, wielding our glue guns, we attached all the baskets, etc. to the blanket. Now I think the only thing he needs to make him look like the genuine article is a set of false eyelashes. Shopper's Drugmart Online, here I come!
The Camel Naming Contest is now open, and I welcome your suggestions. The kids have already named him Iowa (don't ask, it just sounds cool when you say it the way they do). Personally, I like the name that Dan and I came up with after a miscommunication between us, like a game of Telephone gone bad (or good, depending on your perspective): Mike Hamel. If this doesn't do it for you, try saying it three times fast. Sort of looks like a Mike, don't you think?
How hard could it be? I thought. A glue gun, some scissors and a naked camel as my canvas, and I expected to be done well within the four-hour time period allotted to us. However, three and a half hours later, with fingers scarred from hot glue, sweat dripping from my brow, and my left eye twitching uncontrollably, I was finally able to declare my camel suitably outfitted for an Arabian night on the town, a casual lunch at the souqs, or a life-long existence on the corner table in my dining room.
Lucia, the Committee Chair of Camel Bling, spent a lot of time at the souqs finding just the right items to decorate our camels, and she did a great job. Each of the 12 participants was given a bag filled with tiny wicker baskets, brass jewellery boxes, beads, coins, carpets and buttons. There was also a table with items to share, such as nutmeg, ribbon, cinnamon sticks and frankincense (yes, real frankincense!). It's unclear what my camel's religious persuasion was before the makeover, but he has apparently converted to Islam as he now sports a tiny gold-coloured Qur'an.
Not wanting our camels to be uncomfortable, we each put a small woven blanket over their backs, which would serve as a 'saddle', to which we glued all the other items. But first, each tiny vessel (basket, vase, box) needed to be filled with even tinier things (pearls, coins, seeds), and each of those things had to be glued in place. Now, in the event of a freak camel mishap, the goods are going to be secure. Then, wielding our glue guns, we attached all the baskets, etc. to the blanket. Now I think the only thing he needs to make him look like the genuine article is a set of false eyelashes. Shopper's Drugmart Online, here I come!
The Camel Naming Contest is now open, and I welcome your suggestions. The kids have already named him Iowa (don't ask, it just sounds cool when you say it the way they do). Personally, I like the name that Dan and I came up with after a miscommunication between us, like a game of Telephone gone bad (or good, depending on your perspective): Mike Hamel. If this doesn't do it for you, try saying it three times fast. Sort of looks like a Mike, don't you think?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Game, Set, Match
Yesterday I became The Accidental Tennis Fan.
Doha is again hosting the WTA, or Women's Tennis Association, tour. The top-ranked women tennis players in the world congregate in Doha for this competition, with names like Caroline Wozniacki, Kim Clijsters, and Vera Zvonareva making an appearance. Now, to be perfectly honest, the only two tennis names I recognize on a good day are Serena and Venus Williams, and since they are both injured and not competing, I thought we'd take a pass on attending any games. But when Nicholas had an opportunity to go to a match with his Grade 7 class on Tuesday evening, he jumped at the chance.
A kid with as much good karma as Nicholas doesn't just get to go to a world-class tennis match for free and hang out with his friends; he catches one of three balls lobbed into the crowd by the winner. And as luck would have it, his ball was not only autographed, but bore the word "Phone". Following the Dohaesque (read "unclear; ambiguous; vague") instructions by the announcer, this lead him and his group to come to the conclusion that he had won a cell phone. Despite his teacher's best efforts, they could find no one with qualifications above Clueless when it came to finding someone who could provide him with the alleged prize.
Knowing that this shrugging of shoulders in ignorance is a Doha phenomenon, Nick's teacher suggested that if we were to ask someone else on a different night, we would very likely get a different answer.
Last night we had a meeting to attend at the school, and afterwards decided, ball in hand, to go to the tennis Stadium and see what we could shake loose, so to speak. As predicted, when we told the men at the gate our situation, we were ushered into the mall area and shown to the Sony Ericsson booth. Still not exactly right, but two booths later we found our man. He said that all prizes were given out after the third match. Expecting it to be over by 10 pm, we purchased tickets and found our seats.
Self-admittedly, I've never been a big tennis fan. It's not that I don't think the sport is worthy of my attention, but it's just never been on my radar of sports to watch at leisure. Give me a hockey game, and I can stay semi-conscious with a beer in my hand in front of the TV for all three periods, overtime AND the shootout, and even explain icing to someone if asked. There was a big risk that the tennis experience would be wasted on me.
Not surprisingly, my ignorance of the rules and the finer points of the game became apparent as the evening progressed. The following is a sample of my running commentary, albeit in the hushed tones of the Tennis-Watching, during the matches:
But I'll admit, it wasn't half bad. I rather enjoyed watching a sport in an open-air stadium without requiring a parka, three pairs of socks and a thermal blanket. We were so close to Wozniacki and her coach that I think we may have picked up a little Danish: loosely translated, we think we heard him say to her "Kindly stop hitting it to her freaking forehand, you dolt! She's killing you!", or something to that effect. The computerized replay on the big screen after a challenge was pretty cool, too. Disappointingly, though, no Smooch-Cam.
At the end of the night, Australia'a Stosur beat number-one-ranked Wozniacki from Denmark in a surprise upset. When it was all done, we were able to get Nick's new phone, which is far nicer than anything we would have bought for him (touch screen, HD video, "YouTube Ready", makes waffles, etc.). His reaction this morning was worth every extra minute we were awake past our regular bedtime last night. And that, my friends, is why I now consider myself to be a tennis fan.
I suspect that Nicholas may be on a roll, which is why I'm considering sending him to the Doha Tribeca Film Festival, currently underway. Maybe he could win Kevin Spacey or Robert DeNiro for a day...I wonder if they do windows?
Doha is again hosting the WTA, or Women's Tennis Association, tour. The top-ranked women tennis players in the world congregate in Doha for this competition, with names like Caroline Wozniacki, Kim Clijsters, and Vera Zvonareva making an appearance. Now, to be perfectly honest, the only two tennis names I recognize on a good day are Serena and Venus Williams, and since they are both injured and not competing, I thought we'd take a pass on attending any games. But when Nicholas had an opportunity to go to a match with his Grade 7 class on Tuesday evening, he jumped at the chance.
A kid with as much good karma as Nicholas doesn't just get to go to a world-class tennis match for free and hang out with his friends; he catches one of three balls lobbed into the crowd by the winner. And as luck would have it, his ball was not only autographed, but bore the word "Phone". Following the Dohaesque (read "unclear; ambiguous; vague") instructions by the announcer, this lead him and his group to come to the conclusion that he had won a cell phone. Despite his teacher's best efforts, they could find no one with qualifications above Clueless when it came to finding someone who could provide him with the alleged prize.
Knowing that this shrugging of shoulders in ignorance is a Doha phenomenon, Nick's teacher suggested that if we were to ask someone else on a different night, we would very likely get a different answer.
Last night we had a meeting to attend at the school, and afterwards decided, ball in hand, to go to the tennis Stadium and see what we could shake loose, so to speak. As predicted, when we told the men at the gate our situation, we were ushered into the mall area and shown to the Sony Ericsson booth. Still not exactly right, but two booths later we found our man. He said that all prizes were given out after the third match. Expecting it to be over by 10 pm, we purchased tickets and found our seats.
Self-admittedly, I've never been a big tennis fan. It's not that I don't think the sport is worthy of my attention, but it's just never been on my radar of sports to watch at leisure. Give me a hockey game, and I can stay semi-conscious with a beer in my hand in front of the TV for all three periods, overtime AND the shootout, and even explain icing to someone if asked. There was a big risk that the tennis experience would be wasted on me.
Not surprisingly, my ignorance of the rules and the finer points of the game became apparent as the evening progressed. The following is a sample of my running commentary, albeit in the hushed tones of the Tennis-Watching, during the matches:
"Are the numbers on the screen the players' rankings?" (Apparently, no. It was the score.)
"Is there a Beer Gardens?" (Again, no.)
"How come she gets to wear that little sleeveless, knee-baring number, and I'd get deported if I did?" (No logical answer was provided by my better half.)
"Why does the judge keep calling her a Wus?" (Who knew that "Wus" sounds so much like "Deuce"?)
But I'll admit, it wasn't half bad. I rather enjoyed watching a sport in an open-air stadium without requiring a parka, three pairs of socks and a thermal blanket. We were so close to Wozniacki and her coach that I think we may have picked up a little Danish: loosely translated, we think we heard him say to her "Kindly stop hitting it to her freaking forehand, you dolt! She's killing you!", or something to that effect. The computerized replay on the big screen after a challenge was pretty cool, too. Disappointingly, though, no Smooch-Cam.
At the end of the night, Australia'a Stosur beat number-one-ranked Wozniacki from Denmark in a surprise upset. When it was all done, we were able to get Nick's new phone, which is far nicer than anything we would have bought for him (touch screen, HD video, "YouTube Ready", makes waffles, etc.). His reaction this morning was worth every extra minute we were awake past our regular bedtime last night. And that, my friends, is why I now consider myself to be a tennis fan.
I suspect that Nicholas may be on a roll, which is why I'm considering sending him to the Doha Tribeca Film Festival, currently underway. Maybe he could win Kevin Spacey or Robert DeNiro for a day...I wonder if they do windows?
Monday, October 18, 2010
Nice Work, If You Can Get It
I was never meant to have staff.
Under the heading of I Can't Believe She Has the Nerve to Complain About This, I reached this decisive and most certain conclusion today. My lack of spinal fortitude had me unsuccessfully terminating my housekeeper's employ for the second time in four days. Don't misunderstand: we LOVE Meena. She is a sweetheart of a lady, a grandmother from India who has been in Doha for 26 years. And, she cleans our house to exacting standards (not mine, as I don't possess any, but trust me, the standards of someone who's really, really picky). The singular problem leading to the attempted "letting-go" is that, when she is here for her one day per week, I have to drive her home. I know what you're thinking: "Get a grip, lady, she's cleaning your whole damn house!" This wouldn't be a big deal if it weren't for the fact that at that point in the day, I've just returned from the one-hour plus trek to the school and back (as I pick up Ben once a week) on the Expressway, and I've barely had time to pry my white knuckles from the steering wheel before hopping back in the car to return her home. The half-hour return trip to Meena's house is just enough to send me over the edge and force me to complete a bottle of wine in its entirety while making dinner.
I know who to blame for this whole mess. My loving husband arranged for this household help before I arrived, and dutifully drove her to our house and back once a week. When I arrived (note: before I had my license) it made sense to me to keep with the status-quo. Now that it affects me personally, it's a whole new ball-game. Besides, in the dividing of marital tasks, I'm pretty sure it's written somewhere that he's supposed to do all the hirin' and firin'.
This is a country where eHarmony would do well to launch a subsidiary, a virtual match-making site for the service industry, perhaps something like eForeignWorkersWhoWillCleanTheLintOutOfYourBellybutton.com. There is, literally, someone for everyone, if you're looking for that special person to do a task you'd rather wash your hands of, so to speak. Since arriving, we have not pumped our own gas, cut our lawn, swept our sidewalk, washed our cars, filled our BBQ tank, or brushed our own teeth. A friend recently referred to "the guy who cleans [her] golf shoes". I'm sure if I had asked the young man behind the counter at Pizza Hut if he could tune our piano, the response would have been, with head waggling in one direction and pointed index finger in the other, "Yes, Madame. I can do it. No problem." You'd think I'd be in heaven, but this place is not for the faint of heart. This culture of service has, in several instances, put me in a situation where I have to hire an individual for a job that we might otherwise attempt ourselves. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I suck at it: just last week I bartered 200 riyals over the asking price for our carpenter to build extra shelves in our kitchen. Note to the gardener: don't water her flowers for two weeks and she'll tip you, big time!
My negotiating skills are self-defeating, to say the least. After a 20-minute conversation with Meena, I've agreed to drive her for another month, at which point her taxi-driver friend will have returned from holiday and take over the driving duties. Expect subsequent posts to include reports of me driving her home, cleaning her toilets and waxing her legs. By Christmas, I should have a full-time job...that is, if her standards aren't too high.
Under the heading of I Can't Believe She Has the Nerve to Complain About This, I reached this decisive and most certain conclusion today. My lack of spinal fortitude had me unsuccessfully terminating my housekeeper's employ for the second time in four days. Don't misunderstand: we LOVE Meena. She is a sweetheart of a lady, a grandmother from India who has been in Doha for 26 years. And, she cleans our house to exacting standards (not mine, as I don't possess any, but trust me, the standards of someone who's really, really picky). The singular problem leading to the attempted "letting-go" is that, when she is here for her one day per week, I have to drive her home. I know what you're thinking: "Get a grip, lady, she's cleaning your whole damn house!" This wouldn't be a big deal if it weren't for the fact that at that point in the day, I've just returned from the one-hour plus trek to the school and back (as I pick up Ben once a week) on the Expressway, and I've barely had time to pry my white knuckles from the steering wheel before hopping back in the car to return her home. The half-hour return trip to Meena's house is just enough to send me over the edge and force me to complete a bottle of wine in its entirety while making dinner.
I know who to blame for this whole mess. My loving husband arranged for this household help before I arrived, and dutifully drove her to our house and back once a week. When I arrived (note: before I had my license) it made sense to me to keep with the status-quo. Now that it affects me personally, it's a whole new ball-game. Besides, in the dividing of marital tasks, I'm pretty sure it's written somewhere that he's supposed to do all the hirin' and firin'.
This is a country where eHarmony would do well to launch a subsidiary, a virtual match-making site for the service industry, perhaps something like eForeignWorkersWhoWillCleanTheLintOutOfYourBellybutton.com. There is, literally, someone for everyone, if you're looking for that special person to do a task you'd rather wash your hands of, so to speak. Since arriving, we have not pumped our own gas, cut our lawn, swept our sidewalk, washed our cars, filled our BBQ tank, or brushed our own teeth. A friend recently referred to "the guy who cleans [her] golf shoes". I'm sure if I had asked the young man behind the counter at Pizza Hut if he could tune our piano, the response would have been, with head waggling in one direction and pointed index finger in the other, "Yes, Madame. I can do it. No problem." You'd think I'd be in heaven, but this place is not for the faint of heart. This culture of service has, in several instances, put me in a situation where I have to hire an individual for a job that we might otherwise attempt ourselves. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I suck at it: just last week I bartered 200 riyals over the asking price for our carpenter to build extra shelves in our kitchen. Note to the gardener: don't water her flowers for two weeks and she'll tip you, big time!
My negotiating skills are self-defeating, to say the least. After a 20-minute conversation with Meena, I've agreed to drive her for another month, at which point her taxi-driver friend will have returned from holiday and take over the driving duties. Expect subsequent posts to include reports of me driving her home, cleaning her toilets and waxing her legs. By Christmas, I should have a full-time job...that is, if her standards aren't too high.
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