Don’t Pick Me Up – Eurostar Eavesdropping

Riding the Eurostar through the Chunnel from Paris to London I mused on how technologies continue opening our private lives to the general public.

After thwarting the Gare du Nord pickpockets, we waited in the Duty-Free lobby for our train.  Sipping my latte, I people watched and noticed a young woman.  Her platinum Annie Lenox (who sang at the Queen’s Jubilee Party) haircut and high-heeled boots with 4-inch metal spikes caught my attention.  As she sashayed through the lobby, Mojo looked up from his Ipad.

“The walk of shame,” he grinned, referring to people/women caught in the morning wearing their party clothes from the night before.

Of course – on the train she ended up sitting in the seat in front of Mojo and across the aisle from me.  Mojo again mouthed “walk of shame” as the smell of alcohol wafted in our direction.  I giggled remembering my own days of wine and song.

Fumbling through her enormous handbag that carried everything a girl needed for a quick trip to Paris, she pulled out her mobile.

“Hello Brian.  I just wanted you to know that I am on the train from Paris and will arrive at 10:30.”

“You lost your debit card?…You don’t know where?….So you cannot pick me up.  I don’t need you to pick me up….You don’t have to be sorry…….Brian, I just wanted to tell you, it’s over.  I am tired of it all…..No, don’t pick me up from the station.  I was out last night and I am tired.  I am just going to go home to sleep…..Of course, you go and pick up your card.  I can get home by myself.  It doesn’t matter.  I am done with it all. You and the drama.  I am done.  That’s it…..No, don’t pick me up from the station.  Go get your card.  I am tired, all I want to do is sleep.  I will talk to you after I have slept… I just wanted to tell you I am going to be in London at 10:30.  But don’t pick me up.  I will go home and sleep.  Okay good-bye and don’t pick me up.”

She fumbled through her bag and the phone rang again.

It was Brian.

“Yes?…I don’t want to talk to you until I have slept. …. I called to tell you I am arriving at 10:30.  I don’t need you to pick me up….. Look I am shattered.  And I am sick to death of you and your issues.  I cannot take it anymore.  I am done. That’s it.  Finished……I don’t need this in my life.  You go and get your card.  I am arriving at 10:30 then I will go home and sleep….I don’t want you anymore.  It’s over.  I am finished….I understand.  Go get your card but I am done.  Don’t pick me up.  I need to sleep.  Okay good-bye.”

Ring, ring.

“Hello?  Hi darling… I am great.  How are you?….. I am on the train coming in from Paris.  I went for a quick visit….No, without Brian.  It was great…I will be in London at 10:30.  Sorry, I am exhausted after last night and I need to sleep when I get in.  But I can meet you around 5:30…..Yes, I just need a little nap and I will be fine…. Okay see you at tea.  Bye-bye.”

She turned her phone to silent but felt it vibrating and swiped her finger across the face.

“I wasn’t ignoring you.  I was talking with someone else.”

Brian.

“I cannot talk to you now.  I am not interested in your drama.  I’m done.  Finished.  I DO NOT CARE.…..Go get your card.  I can get home by myself….I will arrive in London at 10:30…. No – don’t pick me up.  Good-bye.”

Emotionally and physically exhausted, she slipped her phone into her bag.  Lulled by the train, she snored within seconds.  She woke up in time to powder her nose and to check to see if Brian had called before the train pulled in at 10:30.

You Can’t Take the Lebanese Out of the Yogi

On Thursday, the 2012 Bahrain Yoga class held its graduation.  Our Lebanese yogi suggested the Ritz Carlton Mai Tai Lounge as our celebratory venue.

A real Lebanese, after four hours of celebrating, she also suggested we go for an après-party at Bushido.  Bushido was having a big invitation-only party and DJ Ravin was supposed to make an appearance.  Of course she “knew” someone who could provide us passes.  After much discussion four of us climbed into my car to party on.

Outside the club, there was a big ta-doo about the full parking lot.  After security searched our clutches, names were mentioned and we found ourselves directed towards our black wristband’s proper entrance.

The party desperately needed women.  As usual about 80% of the guests were men and the women who came, came with a date.  Unfortunately, our party of four married women really did not improve the men to women ratio.  After collecting our complimentary hats and tee-shirts we formed a small circle off to the side of the dance floor.

A blond woman was screaming into a microphone that it was only 3 MINUTES UNTIL THIS PARTY REALLY LETS LOOOOOOOOSE!

I didn’t understand why the party hadn’t started yet.

At one minute until midnight, she screamed at the men to MAKE SOME NOISE and began counting down.  I finally understood the theme – we were counting down for THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF BUSHIDO!  WHOOHOO!

When the counter turned 12:00, a birthday cake popped open and a tall, blond woman who looked like Barbie dressed in pastel marshmallows jumped out.  A couple, sexy friends joined her and before we knew it, the three of them were dancing like it was   –  their job.

Our Lebanese friend grabbed our hands and we started our own little party.

A young man wearing a yellow polo shirt danced his way through our circle.  Thinking he was meeting his friends, I watched him go.  Then he reversed and danced his way back.    On the third fly-by, he positioned himself in the center and let loose.  Although he was young and was wearing the fashionable, black-framed nerdy eyeglasses, his flappy man-boobs were not yoga-chic.

My friend stopped dancing and stepped towards him.  Like all Lebanese women she knew how to handle men.

Placing her hand together at her chest in prayer position, she closed her eyes and gave a gentle bow with her head.

The man did not get it.

She pressed her hands onto his shoulders and looked him in the eye.  Then, again she brought her hands into prayer position and slowly bowed more deeply.  The man paused then POOF! – disappeared.

You can’t take the tranquility out of a real yogi either.

I Know What You Like

Leaving Geant with my cartload of groceries I noticed this couple.

His shirt said “I Like Girls Who Like Girls” – on both sides.

But I didn’t say “Ugh” because her shirt said “I Like Boys Who Buy Me Jewelry.”

Match made in heaven.

Who Stole the Cookies From the Cookie Jar?

The Evidence

Ace and Mark bake the BEST Neiman Marcus chocolate chip cookies.  They are so delicious an afternoon batch of two dozen is usually finished by 7pm.  When Mojo gets home all he finds is an empty cookie jar.

Sunday night as I was walking out the door to yoga class, the boys were baking again.

“Please save some cookies for Dad,” I told them.  “He feels bad when he gets home and there is nothing left for him.”

“We promise,” they chorused.  “We will leave him FOUR cookies.”

Hungry after my yoga class, I wandered into the kitchen around 9:15 and found a plate with a few crumbs.  I was surprised Mojo would leave even a single chocolate chip crumb.  I thought it would be a funny photo so I took a picture then ate the remains.

When I went upstairs to say hello, I gave Mojo a kiss.

“You smell like chocolate chip cookies,” he said accusingly.

“Yes, I ate your crumbs.  That was all you left me.  Did you enjoy your cookies?” I said sarcastically.

“Cookies?  Where?”  Before I could say anything he was running down the stairs.  I followed.

“Where are the cookies?” he asked me as he searched the cabinets.

I showed him the yellow plate and said “You ate your cookies.  The evidence was sitting right here when I came home.”

He glared at me.

“I cannot believe you ate my cookies!”

“I didn’t.  I came home and found the plate.  See I even took a photo.”  I showed him the picture on my phone.

“The evidence!  You ate my cookies and then you took a picture of the crumbs.  How could you?”

Hearing the boys above us, playing in their dark room, I said “Go ask the boys.”

He went upstairs.  Within a minute both boys ran into the kitchen.  Giggling they looked at the plate then started pointing their fingers at me.

“You ate Dad’s cookies!  We left them here for him.  Why did you eat his cookies?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Mojo comes into the room smiling.  “See I knew you ate my cookies.  How can you do that to your husband?”

Looking at the three of them, I knew I would not win.  I gave up.

The next afternoon, the boys said, “Mom since YOU ate all the cookies yesterday, can we make some more for Dad?”

“Sure.  Just save one for me please.”

“No way. You ate all of them yesterday.  These are for Dad,” they snickered.

Against three lawyers bonded by sugar and chocolate chips, how can justice prevail?

How Much is That Pearl in the Window?

Coming out of the Newport Beach post office last summer, this Golden Retriever pulled up in his chauffeured Bentley.

We started chatting and I asked him how did he get his car.

Bahraini Pearl Necklace

He said “I inherited my Mistress’ pearl necklace.  Those Bahraini pearls were a good investment.”

At least that’s the way I told the story to Ace and Mark when they asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day.

Handmade Nation

Faythe Levine created a documentary about the “new” trend in America – handmade crafts and art.

Trend is probably the appropriate word since it usually refers to what Americans are buying today.  But two generations ago Americans, like my grandmother Louisa Burns, who crafted their own food, clothes and entertainment were the norm.

Growing up in Saudi Arabia before the Rashid Mall existed, my own mother used to sew clothes for us.  Once she sewed me a bathing suit.  Granted the moment I entered the sea, I wished she had spent the $20 to buy me a suit from Sears.  The material she choose stretched, and my bikini quietly floated off my body with the same leisurely stroke as the jelly fish around me.

Although I haven’t seen this film, my guess is this is about Americans who are discovering joy and pride in making their own stuff, instead of buying cheap, mass produced goods imported from China.

Calling this trend the RISE of Do-It-Yourself Art, Craft and Design seems a bit grand.  However, if you are of Ms. Levine’s mid-30s and under generation, maybe you are unaware that it is possible to knit your own socks, can fruit and mold your own soap.

Potentially this film may highlight the fact that many Americans, including young Americans, are out of work because corporations have moved their manufacturing and service jobs outside the USA.  If Americans are not highly educated, they are having difficulty finding high-paying jobs that can support them.  And like people in developing countries who do not have the cash to buy manufactured goods, these Americans are re-learning the art and craft of handmade items.

Whatever the message it is an excuse to enjoy a short film that may inspire you.

The Sweeter the Juice

Thursdays I read with Mark’s classmates at school.  As I waited, I perused the healthy eating posters someone created.  Pineapple was this week’s chosen fruit.

Pineapple is full of vitamin C, vitamin B and magnesium for helping our immune system.  Bromelain aids digestion.  And the poster said pineapple sweetens and improves the taste of seminal and vaginal fluids.

WHAT?!?

I called Mark’s teacher over and asked her whether or not she knew this much about pineapples.

“OH my GOD!” was her response.

She poked her head into Ace’s teacher’s room and called him out.  We watched him mouth the words and his eyes widen.

“Someone must have copied and pasted without reading this,” he said.

They scooped up the poster to put in its proper place – in the teacher’s lounge.

I wondered how an adult making a poster for children could have made such a mistake and Googled pineapple.  Generally none of the sites touted those benefits.  Only when I added vaginal fluid to pineapple did I find articles extolling that particular virtue.

Perhaps the mysterious poster creator did not understand English.

Or perhaps some 10-year old student knew exactly what he/she was doing and wanted to see whether the teachers were paying attention.

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