Those of you who know me well know that I have an extremely weak stomach and a very sensitive gag reflex to disgusting situations. The following is a list of things that have or will make me vomit:
1. Loogies. If I see a loogie abandoned on the street, if I see someone spit a loogie in front of me or if someone holds me down and pretends that they are going to spit a loogie in my face. Once I hear that hocking noise, I am a goner and I will instantly throw up.
2. Dog poop. There have been at least three times when I have had to not only pick up my dog's poo but I have also had to clean up my own vomit from gagging at the sight and smell of dog poop.
3. A Hair in my food. You know what is worst than finding a long black hair (or ugh a short twisty black hair) in your food? Explaining to the waiter that you need something to clean up your own vomit on top of said food.
4. Human feces all over the toilet seat, wall, and sink. This one goes out to Jason Wooden who knowing how weak my stomach is thought it would be hilarious to "show me something". What he showed me was the after effects of a 70 year old drunk man with explosive diarrhea. I can still hear Jason's malevolent laughter trailing behind me as I raced down the hall in that Japanese poop hostel to find another bathroom in order to vomit.
5. Watching old people eat or little babies eat. I know this one is sort of cruel, but bleh.
6. Being trapped with a really stinky fart. This actually happened last night after returning home from a late night. Lying in bed, I was convinced that the person lying next me had died a week ago as that could be the only cause of such a putrid stench. There is nothing like projective vomiting at 4:00AM because of man-gas.
7. Butt Chugs. Most of you are not lucky enough to have had the opportunity to witness a butt chug as you are not members of the elitist international running club that I am part of. One of the optional activities in one charter of this club is to drink a beer that is being dripped off someone else's butt crack. Yes, I know this is vile and thinking of it is making me gag in this chair. I myself have never agreed to do this act, but I have seen so many...and there are some things that cannot be unseen.... Oh god. Hold on, I will be right back.
3 minutes later after ridding myself of my breakfast, orally, I have returned to finish this blog.
8. Kissing someone who has eaten raw onions. Nothing says romance more like gagging and dry heaving during what is supposed to be a moment.
9. Seeing or hearing other people vomit. If the other vomiter also suffers from this empathetic vomiting, this cycle could go on for quite awhile. I am reminded of the time, my darling little baby cousin got car sick on HWY 17 on our way to Santa Cruz. She vomited in a left over food container, then I vomited into the food container, then my aunt nearly crashed the car to pull over to kick us out of the car and we both vomited together laughing at the weirdness of the situation between spews.
10. Milk.
11. Bali.
12. Hangovers.
13.Stress.
14. Laughing Too Hard.
15. Crying Too Hard.
16. Fear.
17. Over exerting myself.
18. Turbulence while Flying.
19. Rollerskating.
20. Peeps.
21. The mix of some people's shampoo and perfume.
22. Being in the bathroom with someone while they poop.
23. The smell on the flight from Dubai to Saudi.
24. When someone doesn't use food storage containers in their fridge and/or when there is moldy food in food storage containers in the fridge.
25. Thinking about how time travel works.
26. That one time Joanie's brother ate tuna out of a can.
27. The one time I ate a handful of Mike and Ikes candy and it was covered in ants.
28. The one time I accidentally used someone else's used toilet paper because I didn't understand that in some cultures they stack in nicely on the floor instead of flushing it. (In my defense, I was slightly intoxicated, really had to go, and there was no TP)
29. Meth mouth.
30. Dead Things.
* Honorable Mention goes out to the hash trail that went through 2KM of pig poo river where there were dad cats floating every hundred or so feet.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
It Souks not getting KFC
A few days ago at ladies' lunch on the compound, two nice women who live here invited me to join them to go on the ladies' bus to the Souk today. Every Wednesday at 900AM there is a bus that will take the women from the Nassim Compound to the Mall or the Souk for a few hours of shopping. I was under the impression that only my husband could take me shopping which was not the optimal situation, since I want to browse and investigate all of the items and my husband, being a man, just wants to get the experience over with as quick as possible.
The bus meets everyone at the CF (central facility) on the compound. I got there 30 minutes early in order to feel out the situation. The CF is about a ten minute walk from our villa, so I had packed my abaya in my bag to walk down there thinking everyone else would do the same. However, they all showed up wearing theirs and most of them were wearing veils or scarves covering their hair. In fact, only 4 of us did not cover our hair out of the 13 women on the bus. I quickly wiggled myself into the potato sack that is my abaya and went to meet the rest of the women. Some of the women had on sparkly abayas, some had on ones with slits on the side, some had on shorter ones where their ankles shown, and one woman had on floral pattern one that was awesome. I definitely need to get a more jazzy abaya and hem the ones I currently have because I am constantly tripping all over them.
On the bus, the majority of the women were Filipina. There were four Americans, a south African, and a Venezuelan. There was also one man on the bus who I felt sorry for because he had to endure all of the squawking and chatter of 13 women who were very excited about the big activity of the week. In Saudi Arabia, we as women cannot drive or go anywhere for the most part without our husbands. To be able to go shopping for a few hours a week with other women is the most freedom we get outside of the compound walls. The trip to the Souk was not long and the bus driver told us to be back by noon and set us free.
A Souk, Suk, or Souq (choose your spelling preference) is an open air market or bazaar typically found in arab countries according to webster's dictionary. When you go as a woman, you buddy up or get in groups. My group was with two American women and one of them, like me, did not cover her hair. We went to a pharmacy, to a spice and tea store (I still have not found saffran), a bunch of gold stores where the women I were with haggled and bartered and got amazing deals, and fabric stores with the most beautiful and gaudy fabric I have ever seen.
I do not know if it is because I do not cover my hair, or if it is because I am nearly six feet tall, or if it is because I am obviously not from here, but I have never been stared at the way that people stare at me here. The third country nationals (people from India, Pakistan, etc.) glare at me intensely as if they want to keep my head as a token in their freezer. The Saudi women seem to have mix feelings about me, some mean eye me through their veils while others (typically the younger women) will walk up to me, say hello in English, and then smile and walk away. Saudi men seem indifferent to me which is a nice relief. Rarely will you encounter a Saudi actually working in an establishment. The store clerks and always the restaurant staff are always third country nationals. I have seen Saudis working at jewelry stores, in administration roles at hospitals, and today there were some Saudi women in the lingerie store and bodyshop in the mall.
The scariest part of the day was not any encounter with any one person. In fact, for the most part I found shopping in the Souk like shopping in any other foreign country I have been in, just maybe a bit dirtier and with lots of women in black all over the place. The most frightening aspect of the day was crossing the streets. There are no traffic laws that are obeyed in Saudi. People drive fast, switch lanes, don't drive in a designated lane, stop when they want, go when they want, let 7 year-olds drive, don't pay attention, don't stop at lights...it is complete chaos. However, to really get your shopping on, you have to cross the streets.
Basically, what you do is jump in front of the first car and hope it stops and then proceed to play Frogger with yourself to cross the additional 3-6 lanes. I thought I might throw up after crossing the street to the mall, and for the next hour all I could think about was that we were going to have to do it again. I hear ex-pats talk daily about seeing people run over who didn't quite make it across the street here, and it doesn't help to be wearing a long black dress that is impossible to be stealthy in. I am just glad I was wearing tennis shoes today.
As it approached noon, we had to cross the death street again and returned to the bus. There was some confusion about the pick-up location and then the bus driver drove to KFC where all of the Filipina women were with buckets and buckets of chicken. By this point, I was starving and despite that I never eat KFC, it smelled so good and it was the only thing remotely American I have seen since I have been here. I sat there pouting in my Abaya in the back of the bus wishing I had got the KFC memo. I was comforted by the thought that I could get some if I really wanted to in two weeks, when the bus would return again to the Souk.
Once the bus comes back to the compound, the bus driver drives everyone to their apartments or villas so they do not have to carry their bags which is really convenient especially if you have 4 bags of KFC like some of the women.
Next week the bus will go to the Oasis Mall and the Panda. It is the little things here that you have to appreciate and have to look forward to.
The bus meets everyone at the CF (central facility) on the compound. I got there 30 minutes early in order to feel out the situation. The CF is about a ten minute walk from our villa, so I had packed my abaya in my bag to walk down there thinking everyone else would do the same. However, they all showed up wearing theirs and most of them were wearing veils or scarves covering their hair. In fact, only 4 of us did not cover our hair out of the 13 women on the bus. I quickly wiggled myself into the potato sack that is my abaya and went to meet the rest of the women. Some of the women had on sparkly abayas, some had on ones with slits on the side, some had on shorter ones where their ankles shown, and one woman had on floral pattern one that was awesome. I definitely need to get a more jazzy abaya and hem the ones I currently have because I am constantly tripping all over them.
On the bus, the majority of the women were Filipina. There were four Americans, a south African, and a Venezuelan. There was also one man on the bus who I felt sorry for because he had to endure all of the squawking and chatter of 13 women who were very excited about the big activity of the week. In Saudi Arabia, we as women cannot drive or go anywhere for the most part without our husbands. To be able to go shopping for a few hours a week with other women is the most freedom we get outside of the compound walls. The trip to the Souk was not long and the bus driver told us to be back by noon and set us free.
A Souk, Suk, or Souq (choose your spelling preference) is an open air market or bazaar typically found in arab countries according to webster's dictionary. When you go as a woman, you buddy up or get in groups. My group was with two American women and one of them, like me, did not cover her hair. We went to a pharmacy, to a spice and tea store (I still have not found saffran), a bunch of gold stores where the women I were with haggled and bartered and got amazing deals, and fabric stores with the most beautiful and gaudy fabric I have ever seen.
I do not know if it is because I do not cover my hair, or if it is because I am nearly six feet tall, or if it is because I am obviously not from here, but I have never been stared at the way that people stare at me here. The third country nationals (people from India, Pakistan, etc.) glare at me intensely as if they want to keep my head as a token in their freezer. The Saudi women seem to have mix feelings about me, some mean eye me through their veils while others (typically the younger women) will walk up to me, say hello in English, and then smile and walk away. Saudi men seem indifferent to me which is a nice relief. Rarely will you encounter a Saudi actually working in an establishment. The store clerks and always the restaurant staff are always third country nationals. I have seen Saudis working at jewelry stores, in administration roles at hospitals, and today there were some Saudi women in the lingerie store and bodyshop in the mall.
The scariest part of the day was not any encounter with any one person. In fact, for the most part I found shopping in the Souk like shopping in any other foreign country I have been in, just maybe a bit dirtier and with lots of women in black all over the place. The most frightening aspect of the day was crossing the streets. There are no traffic laws that are obeyed in Saudi. People drive fast, switch lanes, don't drive in a designated lane, stop when they want, go when they want, let 7 year-olds drive, don't pay attention, don't stop at lights...it is complete chaos. However, to really get your shopping on, you have to cross the streets.
Basically, what you do is jump in front of the first car and hope it stops and then proceed to play Frogger with yourself to cross the additional 3-6 lanes. I thought I might throw up after crossing the street to the mall, and for the next hour all I could think about was that we were going to have to do it again. I hear ex-pats talk daily about seeing people run over who didn't quite make it across the street here, and it doesn't help to be wearing a long black dress that is impossible to be stealthy in. I am just glad I was wearing tennis shoes today.
As it approached noon, we had to cross the death street again and returned to the bus. There was some confusion about the pick-up location and then the bus driver drove to KFC where all of the Filipina women were with buckets and buckets of chicken. By this point, I was starving and despite that I never eat KFC, it smelled so good and it was the only thing remotely American I have seen since I have been here. I sat there pouting in my Abaya in the back of the bus wishing I had got the KFC memo. I was comforted by the thought that I could get some if I really wanted to in two weeks, when the bus would return again to the Souk.
Once the bus comes back to the compound, the bus driver drives everyone to their apartments or villas so they do not have to carry their bags which is really convenient especially if you have 4 bags of KFC like some of the women.
Next week the bus will go to the Oasis Mall and the Panda. It is the little things here that you have to appreciate and have to look forward to.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Confessions of a Feral Dirt Child
Several weeks ago after our second bottle of wine, my sister Tiffini and I were having an emotional heart to heart while watching Katy Perry videos on YouTube. My sister and I have become very close now that we are in our 30s, but when we were children both of my sisters pretty much ignored me as soon as they got into those hormonal tween years. Gulping my last sip of jammy pinot noir, with Katy Perry's Roar in the background, I mustered up the courage and asked Tiffini, "Why didn't you guys play with me when we were kids?". Her answer was blunt but painful, "Well.....honestly, you were kind of a feral dirt child".
In hindsight, I guess I was expecting some sort of guilt-laden answer in which my older sister begged my forgiveness for not teaching me how to french-braid my hair and shave my legs, and then we would finish off another bottle of wine, watch more Katy Perry videos, and she would finally teach me how to french-braid my hair. Her actual response though was like being shown a mirror and for the first time noticing a huge disfigurement and thinking, "oh my god, how have I never noticed that?!". All these years, I had envisioned myself as this adorable little nature loving princess not a filthy Mowgli-esque creature, eating with my hands, climbing trees, and making friends with half-dead, baby jack rabbits the cats would bring in.
Memories are merely impressions of the truth, so I figured I need substantial evidence to prove that I was, in fact, a feral dirt child. I have found that pictures lie less than people, so while visiting my family back home in Magalia, I went through the album marked "Turner Girls". In my high school and college pictures, I was a bit grunge and sometimes thrown together (aka hungover), but not dirty. In my middle school photos I was awkward and had that typical adolescent struggling with puberty look, but looked clean enough. Then I found the ones from the years between ages 5 and 10 and there was definitely some truth to Tiffini's theory.
There I was-- matted hair; always somehow covered in dirt. Many times in the photos, I wore a large grin, proudly displaying or cuddling a random cat or dog who unbeknownst to the that smiling girl would inevitably come to some horrendous death --coyote massacres, heart worm, internal bleeding; car tires. Some of the pictures were family group photos and, to be honest, it was difficult in these to decipher if I was feral or if like the rest of the people in the photo, I was just an 80s fashion victim.
Looking at these pictures, a thousand memories came to me that I had long forgotten. My trusty generic Swiss Army knife that I would use to cut branches and boxes in order to build non-necessary shelters for myself and my stray animals in the desert mountainside. My walking stick/horse that I affectionately called Trigger and would ride all over my grandparents' property leaving long snake-like trails in the dirt behind me. The notebook my father gave me when I was six years old with koalas and kangaroos wearing safari clothes on the cover in which I would write nature poems and sketch animal tracks. Finding a puppy at the dump (why a child was playing at a dump, I will never know) and bringing her home and naming her April and my grandparents keeping her until she died 14 years later. My dad building me a tree house in a pinion pine tree by putting a pallet in a tree and making me a rope swing. I would spend hours upon hours in that tree playing make-believe until dinner time and my grandmother would then try to get the sap out of my hair, giving up and just cutting off chunks of sticky hair. The horror of finding out I had pin-worms that I probably caught from picking my nose and eating it after handling all of those wild and stray animals and the delicious bubble-gum flavored medicine I was given to kill the parasites. I remembered reading books in trees, on smooth rocks by rivers, and under my California Raisin blanket with a flashlight. Hot summer days lying on the cool grass in front of my grandmother's house with four little kittens crawling all over me, mewing and purring while I drew pictures of clouds and mythical creatures with my set of Crayola 64 colored markers. Catching my very first trout in the Walker River, naming it Henry and being so proud to get to eat it. Feeding horses and cattle at the farm kids' houses and the sweet smell of rain on hay bales when out of nowhere dark clouds would roll in, raining for just enough time to cool us so we could keep playing in the autumn heat . I remembered sleepovers with my best friend on her trampoline under the stars and the nights where the moon was full, believing that the reason the snow-capped peaks were glowing was because of magic, not moonlight, and making wish after wish until we both fell asleep hoping when we woke up we would have everything we ever dreamed of.
I had dirt under my finger-nails, and only bathed when my mother or grandmother forced me to, me insisting that all of my My Little Ponies join me in the bath tub. All my clothes became play-clothes with grass stains on the knees and permanent red dirt on the butt. I never brushed my stringy blonde hair or allowed it to be put in a pony tail except for on picture day, and even then I look a little disheveled. I stole items from my sisters' room, leaving smudge marks all over everything and hid their precious treasures in the sagebrush, making them arbitrary treasure maps to find their items and always forgetting where I actually hid them. I memorized creepy poems about the men dying in the Yukon and became obsessed with saloon girls and bordellos. My favorite outing was getting to go to ghost town graveyards so I could do charcoal rubbings of the prostitutes' and outlaw grave-stones. I was a little stinky and quite a bit odd. I was indeed everything Tiffini claimed--this feral dirt child running a muck in the Sierra Nevada mountains.
These past few weeks since this realization was made, I have struggled to imagine what my childhood would have been like if I was not the way I was--if I had been less of a weirdo and more like the other kids and my sisters. Would I have been a happier kid, had more friends, been less shy? Perhaps my sisters would have played with me more, but most likely they wouldn't have because I would have still been a bratty little sister and they still narcissistic teens. From the pictures, this little girl with her face covered in dirt wearing a ripped t-shirt and cuddling kitties is happier than she ever was when she worried what people thought of her. Her hair was messy, but she was always ready for adventure, believed she could do or be anything; didn't judge people or feel jealousy, shame, or regret. In a way, she was the best version of myself.
Other than the booger eating and accidentally losing Tiffini's two 1901 silver dollars on a failed treasure hunt, I do not regret being that feral dirt child. I think in times of need, it is that feral dirt child who has been the decision maker in my less traditional and more courageous life choices. I can only hope she comes around from time to time to help me travel the world, make friends without judgment, get dirty for fun, and keep me always just a little bit weird.
In hindsight, I guess I was expecting some sort of guilt-laden answer in which my older sister begged my forgiveness for not teaching me how to french-braid my hair and shave my legs, and then we would finish off another bottle of wine, watch more Katy Perry videos, and she would finally teach me how to french-braid my hair. Her actual response though was like being shown a mirror and for the first time noticing a huge disfigurement and thinking, "oh my god, how have I never noticed that?!". All these years, I had envisioned myself as this adorable little nature loving princess not a filthy Mowgli-esque creature, eating with my hands, climbing trees, and making friends with half-dead, baby jack rabbits the cats would bring in.
Memories are merely impressions of the truth, so I figured I need substantial evidence to prove that I was, in fact, a feral dirt child. I have found that pictures lie less than people, so while visiting my family back home in Magalia, I went through the album marked "Turner Girls". In my high school and college pictures, I was a bit grunge and sometimes thrown together (aka hungover), but not dirty. In my middle school photos I was awkward and had that typical adolescent struggling with puberty look, but looked clean enough. Then I found the ones from the years between ages 5 and 10 and there was definitely some truth to Tiffini's theory.
There I was-- matted hair; always somehow covered in dirt. Many times in the photos, I wore a large grin, proudly displaying or cuddling a random cat or dog who unbeknownst to the that smiling girl would inevitably come to some horrendous death --coyote massacres, heart worm, internal bleeding; car tires. Some of the pictures were family group photos and, to be honest, it was difficult in these to decipher if I was feral or if like the rest of the people in the photo, I was just an 80s fashion victim.
Looking at these pictures, a thousand memories came to me that I had long forgotten. My trusty generic Swiss Army knife that I would use to cut branches and boxes in order to build non-necessary shelters for myself and my stray animals in the desert mountainside. My walking stick/horse that I affectionately called Trigger and would ride all over my grandparents' property leaving long snake-like trails in the dirt behind me. The notebook my father gave me when I was six years old with koalas and kangaroos wearing safari clothes on the cover in which I would write nature poems and sketch animal tracks. Finding a puppy at the dump (why a child was playing at a dump, I will never know) and bringing her home and naming her April and my grandparents keeping her until she died 14 years later. My dad building me a tree house in a pinion pine tree by putting a pallet in a tree and making me a rope swing. I would spend hours upon hours in that tree playing make-believe until dinner time and my grandmother would then try to get the sap out of my hair, giving up and just cutting off chunks of sticky hair. The horror of finding out I had pin-worms that I probably caught from picking my nose and eating it after handling all of those wild and stray animals and the delicious bubble-gum flavored medicine I was given to kill the parasites. I remembered reading books in trees, on smooth rocks by rivers, and under my California Raisin blanket with a flashlight. Hot summer days lying on the cool grass in front of my grandmother's house with four little kittens crawling all over me, mewing and purring while I drew pictures of clouds and mythical creatures with my set of Crayola 64 colored markers. Catching my very first trout in the Walker River, naming it Henry and being so proud to get to eat it. Feeding horses and cattle at the farm kids' houses and the sweet smell of rain on hay bales when out of nowhere dark clouds would roll in, raining for just enough time to cool us so we could keep playing in the autumn heat . I remembered sleepovers with my best friend on her trampoline under the stars and the nights where the moon was full, believing that the reason the snow-capped peaks were glowing was because of magic, not moonlight, and making wish after wish until we both fell asleep hoping when we woke up we would have everything we ever dreamed of.
I had dirt under my finger-nails, and only bathed when my mother or grandmother forced me to, me insisting that all of my My Little Ponies join me in the bath tub. All my clothes became play-clothes with grass stains on the knees and permanent red dirt on the butt. I never brushed my stringy blonde hair or allowed it to be put in a pony tail except for on picture day, and even then I look a little disheveled. I stole items from my sisters' room, leaving smudge marks all over everything and hid their precious treasures in the sagebrush, making them arbitrary treasure maps to find their items and always forgetting where I actually hid them. I memorized creepy poems about the men dying in the Yukon and became obsessed with saloon girls and bordellos. My favorite outing was getting to go to ghost town graveyards so I could do charcoal rubbings of the prostitutes' and outlaw grave-stones. I was a little stinky and quite a bit odd. I was indeed everything Tiffini claimed--this feral dirt child running a muck in the Sierra Nevada mountains.
These past few weeks since this realization was made, I have struggled to imagine what my childhood would have been like if I was not the way I was--if I had been less of a weirdo and more like the other kids and my sisters. Would I have been a happier kid, had more friends, been less shy? Perhaps my sisters would have played with me more, but most likely they wouldn't have because I would have still been a bratty little sister and they still narcissistic teens. From the pictures, this little girl with her face covered in dirt wearing a ripped t-shirt and cuddling kitties is happier than she ever was when she worried what people thought of her. Her hair was messy, but she was always ready for adventure, believed she could do or be anything; didn't judge people or feel jealousy, shame, or regret. In a way, she was the best version of myself.
Other than the booger eating and accidentally losing Tiffini's two 1901 silver dollars on a failed treasure hunt, I do not regret being that feral dirt child. I think in times of need, it is that feral dirt child who has been the decision maker in my less traditional and more courageous life choices. I can only hope she comes around from time to time to help me travel the world, make friends without judgment, get dirty for fun, and keep me always just a little bit weird.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Blood, Urine, and Embarrassment in Saudi Arabia
I survived my first voyage into the "real world" off the compound today. I had to go to the doctor's office to get a chest x-ray, blood sample, and urine sample.
Lessons learned:
1) Although every culture book I have read tells me not to shake anyone's hand off the compound, every person I have met here off the compound American or Saudi has shook my hand. I did also have a really awkward hug/hand shake dance yesterday with a Filipina I met on the compound. I think I will just continue to do that as my own personal awkward greeting on the compound--maybe I will add a high five.
2) I have no idea when it is appropriate for me talk to Saudis, Indians, Nurses or when Paul is supposed to do the talking so I just sort of stand there wide-eyed in panic until someone directs me to do something. Today the Saudi translator helping us out kept pointing places and telling me to sit or stay. I did not get a treat.
3) When the x-ray tech asks you if you have anything in your stomach, the answer is supposed to be "No I am not pregnant" not "a protein shake mixed with coffee". Also you can keep your shirt on for the xray as long as you take your abaya and your bra off. You do not have to be standing there in the room in your jeans with your boobs hanging out. Learned that one the hard way.
4) To pee into a cup while wearing an a
baya over a squatty potty, take the bottom of your abaya and gather it up, then pull it forward and tuck it through the neck of the abaya and pull it down, sort of like you are making a sexy shirt out of t-shirt in the early 90s. Then drop your pants and your underoos around your ankles. While leaning forward to create an angle to catch the pee in the cup, you must also try to catch the abaya that is falling down from its tucked in position all while trying to maneuver your stream into the cup. Then use the one piece of kleenex they gave you as TP to wipe off all the pee on your leg and give them the cup back covered in urine. Or better yet, maybe next time, just take the abaya off and then pee into the cup.All in all in was a successful morning.
