The Most Important Election of Your Lifetime: Panda Edition

With all the hullaballoo about the U.S. Presidential Election, many of you may have missed the actual Most Important Election of Your Lifetime:  The naming of the newest baby panda cub at the San Diego Zoo.

"You had your chance"

The (now) little ball of fur was born on July 29, and yesterday was 100 days old, the traditional time for the naming of a Chinese baby.  I guess you don't want to get attached before that; babies are so freaking fragile.  Anyway, there was an election for baby panda names.  The zoo received 30,000 emails about name suggestions and then whittled it down to a few choices and you could vote online.  Did you vote in the baby panda name election?  I sure did.  I voted for Water Dragon (Shui Long), because that's the best name.  I thought it had a good chance to win because it had so much meaning.  You see, this is the Year of the Dragon, and the cub was conceived in a rare Southern California rainstorm.  Thus, Water Dragon.  Well, Water Dragon didn't win because people who love pandas are generally more sentimental than I, so the name Little Gift (Xiao Liwu) won, even though he won't be little for long.  Dan and I are calling him Charlie Woo to cover our disappointment about Water Dragon.  In the same spirit as the name Water Dragon, I propose all children should be named regarding the circumstances of their conception.  Here are a few samples:

Heathrow

Radisson

Cortéz

John

Vicky

Southwest Flight 482 Service to Albuquerque, Junior

Abu Dhabi Dunebillies

Forty-one years ago the UAE wasn't even a country.  It was just a little part of the Arabian peninusula with family tribes.  Then they found oil, and Mohammed bin Zayed, who must have been a helluva negotiator, decided they should be their own country.  I would have thought Saudi Arabia would have had something to say about that, but I guess they looked at their own oil fields and shrugged.  Thus, the UAE was born.  Maybe Saudi didn't think they'd do anything with this tiny little country on the coast, but then they built this:

Burj Khalifa at night

and this:

Chandelieriest Chandelier in the World (Crystal Category)

and all this:

Even the beach is an award-winning construction

Now they are pretty much the only place in the Middle East you might want to go on vacation. 

Even Kim Kardashian Kthinks Kso!

But lets go back to the beginning.  When the tribes first got rich, they were living out in the red dunes, tending herds of camels, picking dates, and making rosewater.  Then... OIL!  And what do you do when you strike oil?

You move to the coast!

Unlike the Clampetts, when the tribes decided to go back to the dunes from whence they came and honor their heritage, they did it in style, building an amazing resort deep in the desert.  First-class accommodations, exceptional service, "authentic" arabian experiences, and all self-contained. That's where Dan and I went to celebrate our first anniversary where we didn't have to feel guilty about spending too much money (Abu Dhabi has been good to us): Qasr Al Sarab*

Every room has a view of the sunset.  Every room.  Dan and I had the cheapest room in the place, and it was still the most amazing hotel room I've ever been in.  When you arrive (since there's no where else to go), valets swarm your car, taking your luggage, and offering water and cold towels.  Then you're whisked into the foyer to relax with a glass of "welcome beverage," which I later learned was camel milk and dates.  I didn't care for it, but Dan loved it.  Guess I need to start keeping camels for fresh milk.  It was a little overwhelming for me, but I guess when you're building a resort to honor your heritage you want it to be amazing.

And profitable

There's a part of the property reserved in perpetuity and kept always ready in case any of the sheiks want to drop in.  You'll know they are there if there's an extra helicopter sitting around.  There's always one on hand in case of a medical emergency.  This place is in the middle of nowhere.

There are approximately 100 miles of this between you and a hospital

We took a sunrise dune walk (because I'm crazy and plan things like that).  It was a bit much for me, a sunset ride, a late night, sleeping in a new bed, then getting up at 5am, but it was worth it to be the only two people on the outing.  Our guide was great.  He took us to see the gazelle (wild, but they put out food and salt licks so they hang around), and pointed out the tracks of the animals that inhabit the desert: gerbils, scorpions, lizards (no snakes, fortunately).  He also told us about a visit he had from a sheik who was showing an American guest around.  The Sheik wanted to go dune bashing and thought that the guide wasn't driving fast enough, even though the American was obviously uncomfortable.  The Sheik demanded his own vehicle, and the guide refused, as it was against the rules and he would lose his job.  The Sheik responded "This is my vehicle, this is my hotel!"  He still didn't get another SUV.

Employee: 1, Sheik: 0

I love this story so much, because I do like to think that rich people are spoiled, entitled jerks, and even though that's may not always be the case, at least I know now that sometimes it is. 

It was a wonderful weekend, all the photos are up on Facebook now, and now I have a good idea what to do when I find some Texas Tea or win the lottery:  Remember my roots with a ridonculous hotel.

Camels NOT optional

*Pronounced kay-sir all sah-rab, and said with the same emphasis and sing-song intonation as Que Sera Sera.

Love isn't blind, it's boring

Community is one of the best shows on TV right now.  It's witty, quick-paced, and hilarious, but it's not very popular, and I think it's poor showing in the ratings has to do with it playing on NBC opposite The Big Bang Theory.  If I'm watching TV with Dan, we're watching Community, if we're watching TV with our family, we're watching The Big Bang Theory.  I believe this situation is a common one.  Dan doesn't care for The Big Bang Theory, but I love mindless entertainment, so I watch it, and saw this little scene that inspired me to write this:

Bernadette and Amy, you are completely wrong.  Love can be "boring," you just don't know it yet because you're in the honeymoon phase of your relationships.  It can take years (and Penny and Leonard have been on and off for four years) to get to the boring part of a relationship.  That doesn't make it a bad relationship.  No, my heart doesn't pound and my loins do not catch on fire every time Dan walks in the room.  Just doesn't happen.  It's impossible for that to happen after being together for 10 years (in the event of such a happening, please see your doctor).  If all your relationship is about passion, then you are in for a HUGE shock when things calm down.  And they will. 

Dan and I are boring.  We're completely in love with each other, we're on the same page about all the important things in life (religion, politics, kids), and we like most of the same things.  Our taste in food is completely different, but we deal with that.  Now if he didn't like Disney movies....

We do some amazing things a few times a year, have a lot fun together, but on a day to day basis, we are boring.  Which leads me to Part II of this blog entry: What we did this weekend.

Literally:  Friday is the Islamic Sabbath

If I haven't mentioned it before, weekends in Abu Dhabi are Friday/Saturday.  On Saturday, we did absolutely nothing.  I read a book, Dan played video games, and we ate junk food.  I scrambled some eggs for dinner, and that's it.  Oh, I also did a load of laundry in my horrible washing machine.  It was boring, and it was fine.  The most exciting thing we did this weekend: We ate at a new restaurant in the mall we go to all the time.

Every restaurant gives you moist towelettes.

Red Star bills itself as an Asian-American Bistro.  The menu consists of food items that are either American OR Chinese, but despite the fancy description, there is no fusion.

Unless you count getting a side of stir-fried veggies with your country fried chicken.

The decor mimics an Applebee's, and the walls are covered in pieces of charming Americana and photos of famous Chinese-Americans (Red Stars!).

Not fooling anyone, John Cho. You're best known for "Harold and Kumar Go to Whitecastle.

This restaurant must be targeted at people who have never been to either to China or to the US.  It was ridiculous, and I loved it.  There was a statue of Elvis in the window, and the TVs were showing the Arizona State football game and Catwoman (both great Asian-American traditions!).  I traded seats with Dan so he could watch the football game, even though then I didn't have a good people watching seat (because that's part of loving someone: courtesy). 

Doesn't sound very exciting, does it?  But it was pretty fun for us.  You have to take pleasure in the boring-sounding things you do as well as the exciting things.  Sometimes you have to do boring things because you love someone.  I have to wander around electronic stores while Dan looks at every video game available, and he has to linger outside the women's dressing room when I try on clothes so he can tell me if it looks good or not.  That's love.  Sometimes it's boring, but it's also pretty great. 

And you can wear theme costumes!

Penny, stay with Leonard.  The Big Bang Theory is already starting to get stale, you don't need to throw in the standard sitcom troupe of a will-they-or-won't-they relationship. 

Because then you'll just be "Friends"

Rage Against the Machine

I am, at best, an indifferent housekeeper; at worst I am a terrible slob.  I sweep the floors every few days because the crumbs and dust and loose hairs on the tile floor get ridiculous, but I never do a super job.  I've lived in this apartment for over a year and a half and I've only ever mopped the kitchen and the bathroom.  I hate mopping, it's a man's job.  I did buy a mop this weekend, because I have good intentions about mopping the whole apartment sometime soon. 

OKAYWIFE brand.  Makes a contented family!

One thing I do keep up on is the laundry.  I'm very touchy about having clean clothes and I like to make Dan's life easier by keeping his clothes folded and neat so he doesn't have to play the puzzle game "Match the Black Dress Socks" every morning (it takes him long enough to get ready as it is).  So I do laundry.  A lot.  And I despise my washing machine. 

It's not just a washing machine, it's a washer/dryer combo.  "But that sounds great! You don't have to switch over the laundry, you just let it go and come back when it's done!"  You're right, hypothetical person, that does sounds great.  But that's not how it works.  Well, that's kind of how it works, but there are a few things about the machine that make it obnoxious to work with.

Excuse my while I freshen my drink.  I hate this machine so much it's driven me to drink.

First, the door locks on the machine while the cycle is in progress.  This makes sense.  You don't want to open the door while it's full of water and get water all over your floor or have a child sucked into it's spinning, or whatever.  Unfortunately, it doesn't unlock when the cycle is over.  It only automatically unlocks after a dry cycle  after it's done it's 4 hour "Wrinkle Reduce" cool down or you restart the cycle and pause it and wait 5-10 minutes while I scream "Gimme my freaking clothes!" at it.

Smug bastard.

Second, it takes forever to dry something.  Literally, forever.  I have put clothes in there to dry for 5 hours and I still had to hang them up to dry when they came out.  Here's the estimated cycle time for three regular size bath towels:

That 3 hours and 25 minutes is just an estimate, mind you.  It'll definitely take longer than that to run all the way.  I usually stop it during the last ten minutes and hang the stuff up to dry.  Some people hang dry all of their clothes here.  To that I say "Bah!" because that can take days.

I don't have a balcony, and even if I did, it would be against the rules of the apartment and the municipality to line dry my clothes out there (gotta keep the buildings looking nice for the sandlot outside my window!).  So I would have to hang them up inside my glacially cool apartment, in a country where the humidity is so high water routinely condenses on my windows or my sunglasses when I walk outside. So foregoing the dry cycle completely is out.

Third, and worst, is the condenser that you have to empty after every load.  See, the dryer doesn't have an outside vent so it works on some voodoo magic (or science) which requires water use on the outside of the drum during the dry cycle.  That water gets collected in the bottom of the washer and after every load you have to empty it.  This is what it looks like:

That's what all the towels are for.

So I hate my washing machine.  And I will never ever forgive it for being so horrible.

LG Washer/Dryer Combo:  Consider yourself on notice.

I'm too sexy for this country...

So today isn't a good day.  It's not a bad day, there's nothing really horrible about, but I'm not feeling too well (migraine/cold/medicine change combination), and I had to go to the grocery store, because that's where food comes from. 

They deliver everything else here, even Burger King, but I have to go buy my own apples.

So not feeling very well, I just kind of threw on some clothes (jeans and a gray v-neck t-shirt), ran a brush through my hair enough to get it into a pony tail held up with my most elegant scrunchie (maroon velour with satin edging and gold polka dots).  It's these days, when I put the least amount of effort into how I look that I seem to attract the most male attention.

I did my grocery shopping, then headed to Baskin-Robbin's for ice cream.  You can't trust ice cream from the grocery store freezer case.  There's a very good chance that it's spoiled or melted and refrozen or past the expiration date.  So ice cream is always take-away from the 31-derful world.  Today, as I was dragging my groceries through the mall in my wheeled bag (What? You think I carry all that stuff home?), I ended up walking next to a pair of gentlemen in Arab dress.  The kind of gentlemen who usually ignore me and go about their business.  This time, however, we were both headed for the same place and ended up doing that polite dance of "oh, you first, no you."  This lead to a deeper conversation, or at least what counts as deep in such a transient country as this.  Where are you from, what do you do, etc.  The man talking to me was from Tunisia and had gone to school at the University of Arizona. 

Which makes us biter rivals, as I am an Arizona State Alumna

It also makes it easy to banter and spend a few minutes in conversation.  He insisted on paying for my ice cream, to help bridge the gap between Wildcats and Sun Devils.  So I sat and talked to him for a few minutes.  I did this because I felt kind of obligated because he had bought me something.  This is a problematic mindset, that a woman owes something to a man, and it might have gotten me into trouble on occasion.  It might have even got me in trouble on this occasion as well.  Sal is a consultant, and our conversation was about him wanting me to market myself well and get a job, so I could be independent and "fly on my own."  I've met this type before.  The older man who wants to mentor you and talks big.  I smile and nod, and don't believe a word of it.  It's just like one of those internet ads claiming you can make hundreds of dollars per hour.  But he gave me his card and told me to call at anytime, day or night.  

He said he would be the genie in the lamp for me.

He said he'd like to meet my husband, if only to ask for my hand.  I told him I wouldn't convert for him, and he said that it wasn't necessary.  When I left because my ice cream was melting, he kissed my hand. I believe his Emirati companion was shocked, although I don't know whether it was because I was so friendly (or brazen for talking to a strange man), or because his companion was so obviously flirting with a married woman.  Maybe both.  He didn't talk too much.

He also had adult braces.

I did make the mistake of giving Sal my number.  I hope he never calls.  There is no possible way he could actually get me a job here, nor do I think I'd really want one.  I think he only wants me to "fly on my own" so that I might fly into his arms.  I've encountered that before too:  men who mistake my friendliness for flirtation and think I'd be happy to be their paramour.  My husband is laid back, likes me to do my own thing, and doesn't get jealous when I talk to other men.  That does not mean I'm available.  But I will let you buy me ice cream.

My Reading Rainbow

All my life I've been an avid reader.  That's not an exaggeration.  Before I could read myself, I made my mother read to me for hours and hours.  Then I learned myself and books and I have never been parted since.  I now have one of those fancy book readers, a Nook, which fits perfectly in my purse and travels with me everywhere.  I think I may have spent more hours with my Nook than with my husband, but only because my Nook didn't have to move to Abu Dhabi for work nine months before I came over.

I also have the best in official Nook accessories.  Pictured:  Nook bookstand in Panda and waterproofing bag by Ziplock

My normal reading list usually consists of fantasy novels, and I have quite a collection, both of books made out of paper and ethereal ebooks.  Recently, I've gone through a phase of reading books about things that could have happened.  Many of these books are called "Historical Fiction" and have lengthy author's notes, either at the beginning or the end, regarding all the in-depth research they did to make their novel as accurate as possible.  Then there's the disclaimer that the events are fictional, thus rendering the lengthy description of the author's research moot.  Nevertheless, I still enjoy the stories, since I prefer fantasy, and sometimes there is something to learn.

The Stolen Crown is about the Duchess of Buckingham Catherine Woodville (though the author spells it Katherine and refers to her mainly as Kate) during the War of the Roses or something.  Very little is really known about the woman's real life, so the author took a few historical details and wrote a novel detailing her feelings about her marriage as a child, her husband becoming a traitor and eventually beheaded, and her possible adventures. 

What I learned from this book (and other historical fiction written about England):  History for children in Britain must be terribly hard.  Seriously, there only seem to be about a dozen names to choose from, everyone is related to everyone else, and there are like a thousand years of wars and monarchs to learn about.  Compared to that, American history is pretty damn straight-forward.  We came, we saw, we killed the indigenous people, then each other in the Civil War, then we got into global politics in World Wars I & II, and now we dominate everything, as is evidenced by the fact there is practically no where you can go on the planet without seeing a McDonald's.

Foreign franchises have improved on the menu.

Pope Joan is based on a medieval folk tale about a woman who poses as a man so she can become a scholar (only available in monasteries at the time) and then rises up to become Pope. 

There are actually some historical clues that support the possibility of a female Pope.  The most compelling being the genital test for Popes, which might or might not be urban legend.  The author's notes for this book actually have me convinced it's a possibility.

More historical proof!

Alias Grace takes the few details surrounding a famous murder in 19th Century Canada and expounds on them, telling the detailed story of the murderess, though never establishing her guilt or innocence.

It's by Margaret Atwood (of The Handmaid's Tale fame), and I wish there were more books like this.  There are tons of great stories of murders in the 19th century that should get the novel treatment, not just Jack the Ripper.  Ever heard of H. H. Holmes?  He owned a hotel in Chicago during the 1893 World's Fair, and many people checked in to his hotel, and very few ever checked out.  Those that did told horror stories of screaming and smoke and blood, and years later H. H. Holmes had a very public trial and couldn't even estimate how many people he had killed.  Call me morbid (because I am), but I would read the hell out of a novelization of his life.  I don't really want historical accuracy in my books, I want drama and entertainment.

But I like accuracy and fact in TV documentaries. I wish The History Channel still did that.

My vacation from fantasy novels is now over.  I guess it was just a summer fling, and I'm back to my usual fare.  What am I reading now?  A novel about Scottish witches who bent time and space to travel to a new planet populated by fairies and other mythical creatures...

Flying horses anyone?

...where magic is actually possible and war breaks out between the creatures of the land and sea.  I'm sure it's entirely historically accurate and well researched.  Or not.  It honestly doesn't matter to me.

Confession of a Scrunchie Addict

I once read on Jezebel (a liberal fashion blog that I read pretty regularly), that the only appropriate time to wear a scrunchie is if you are performing gymnastics in the Olympics.  To this I say:  Jezebel, you are wrong.  Maybe it shows how non-existent my fashion sense is, or maybe it just indicates I've never left 1997, either way, the scrunchie is my hair accessory of choice.  Nothing but those fabric-wrapped loops of elastic will tame my mane of hair, especially in the morning when I haven't done anything with it . Or even in the evening when I want that elegant up-do without a lot of fuss.  Oh heck, all the time.  I wear scrunchies all the time.  No other hair accessory in the world has been created that can single-handedly hold up all my hair.  There is no clip, no headband, no magic wand invented that is capable of allowing my hair to defy gravity and stay off my neck the way I want it to.  There is only the scrunchie.  In it's natural state, my hair is long, thick, and slightly wavy. 

Like so, only usually without the straw hat.

Not only is each strand thick, they grow thick on my head.  Which is great.  I love my hair.  I occasionally get it cut so that it has long layers that brush my shoulders with the rest a few inches longer, but mostly, I just like it to grow in unabashed abundance until it gets gnarly at the ends, and I get it trimmed.  Sometimes I don't even bother paying someone to do it, I just give my patient, slightly OCD husband a pair of shears and let him carefully cut a straight line.

My stylist. 

I guess that might explain my love of scruchies:  instant hair "style".  There is no fuss.  My neck is free and open to the air, as it prefers.  And I have had to do very little to get it so. 

A scrunchie and I enjoying a cool mountain stream.

The biggest problem:  finding one.  I own about a dozen scrunchies, but to cater to fashion, most of them are dark or neutral colors.  That means they blend in to the surroundings like a baby deer. 

Where's my scrunchie!!!

They generally congregate on my nightstand, because I do take my hair down when I go to sleep.  No, I don't do the Little House on the Prairie thing where I braid it at night to keep it neat.

Although, maybe I should.

Unfortunately, I always seem to want one when my husband is sleeping.  And when I need a scrunchie, I NEED a scrunchie.  I'm also clumsy.  So clumsy it could probably be considered a disability if only the government would realize that I need to be protected from myself before an uneven sidewalk causes me to lose a leg.  So I sneak in to the dark bedroom, try not to bump into the bed, avoid knocking over my ever-present water glass, and search for a scrunchie.  "What are you doing?" Dan sleepily mutters.  "Nothing, go back to sleep," I whisper as my hand closes around my goal:  a purple glittery monstrosity with lace appliques.  Now said  monstrosity is holding up my hair as I type this, and I love it.  I will use this scrunchie all day, no matter if it matches my outfit or not.  It may not be in vogue, but so what?  I love it. 

Maybe someday my cosmetologist sister will teach me how to blow dry my hair so it's easier to manage.  But I'm not holding my breath.  Even if she succeeds, my scrunchies and I will continue to defy fashion (and gravity), on a daily basis.