Christmas, wrapping paper, and why Santa gets too much praise...

Christmas is coming and I am still fat.  In spite of my best efforts, there is still too much of me and those slinky numbers which hang, corpse-like, in my wardrobe remain as strangers. Of course there’s not much hope of anything changing until January at this stage as the season of overindulgence beckons.

I do love Christmas, or the feelings and memories the season evokes. A time when, even in the desert, we can pretend we live in Dickensian London -of course sidestepping the fact that life at that time was actually nasty, brutish and short- instead believing that tartan is a good choice for the living room and fake garlands are a tasteful addition to the staircase banister.

It’s also a time of shameless over-spending in a manner which would make even Paris Hilton blush; of throwing things into our trolley’s, virtual or otherwise, without stopping to analyse the long term benefits of such items as a set of bath towels with snowmen on them or a family set of matching reindeer pyjamas (yes, such a thing exists and yes, I must admit I was very tempted).

Ah yes, I love it! Every year I insist to DH that I need at least one Christmas party dress even though we never get invited to any actual parties.  This year we're holding a party in the house which I have grandly entitled a 'Mulled wine and mince pie' party, which basically means that on arrival my guests will be offered a glass of gluwine and a mince pie: my duties as a hostess complete, I can get on and enjoy the rest of the night.

In fact, the only Christmas party I’ve been invited to since I got to the Middle East was DH’s work party at the Hilton in Abu Dhabi, the first year we were here. We were very excited about this party as his employer had organised a suite in the hotel for us, we had a babysitter booked to the room, a new dress from Reiss was purchased for me, and we were good to go.

When we got down to the party room we were dismayed to realise that since his company were a Saudi company, there was no alcohol being served -( isn't a non-alcoholic Christmas party an oxymoron?)

To make matters worse, the lights were on full so it felt a bit like a daytime convention.  It’s one thing to sit there wearing a party dress and a silly hat if everyone is half-cut on mulled-wine, but quite another to sit there under the glare of the overhead lights sober as a judge.

Sitting at a table surrounded by some very nice Muslim men and women, I attempted to start a debate about the relevance of the hijab in modern society but since this failed to stir up much dialogue I dropped the subject, grabbing a passing waiter instead, in the hope of a clandestine drink for DH and me.

Luckily he was amenable to this as long as we were discreet – turns out there were discreet people dotted all over the room. However, discretion gets trickier as the drinks go down and by the time a Malaysian guy on the next table started sculling brandy from the neck of a bottle, trying to hide our glasses of wine seemed a tad unnecessary.

I ended up on the dance floor believing I was Olivia Newton-John to DH’s John Travolta while the sobre on-lookers made their excuses and left.  Oddly enough, that was the last time his employer held a Christmas party.

This year we’re staying put in the UAE. Last year we went home to Ireland but it was too expensive and too cold and frankly it took about five minutes to say hello to all the people I wanted to say hello to, after which we were just filling in the time eating, drinking and buying clothes which would be totally unsuitable once our two week trip was at an end.

On Christmas eve I made the mistake of visiting my sister for ‘a drink’ before going home to do some serious gift wrapping.  I was shaken awake at two in the morning by a pleading DH

-‘please wake up, I’ve got two dozen toys here which all need wrapping and I can’t do it alone’.

-‘What?  What time is it?  How did we get home?’ I was completely disoriented.

-‘You and your sister got drunk – difference is, she’s already done all her wrapping!’ (my sister is the sort of drinking companion who insists on topping up your glass the second it becomes half-empty!)

I stumbled out, helped wrap a couple of toys then decided that this year Santa Claus was trying to be environmentally friendly and was not using wrapping paper.  Throwing the pile of toys under the tree, I staggered back to bed.  The following morning it was a bit of a free-for-all as the children scrambled under the tree for their toys.

Fortunately with three boys, the gifts were pretty much interchangeable so they didn't mind too much; and my daughter easily deduced that if it was pink, it was for her. All the while I sat there, hungover and shame-faced,  while DH glared at me accusingly.  He will never let me live it down.

It was a lesson learned – this year I’m wrapping as I go; although hiding the presents as they come in to the house is proving to be a tad difficult.  We had a baby-swing hiding in the back of the car the other day:  DH was hoping to smuggle it in while the children were asleep; but alas, it was spotted by my helpful and curious six year old while he played outside.

I was out at the time but received a call from DH who was obviously surrounded by a gaggle of children-

-‘You’ll never guess who’s visited early’ he began.

-‘Huh?’

-‘Santa has left a baby swing...hasn’t he kids...in the car...would you believe it?’

-‘Wow, that was early’ I countered.

-‘Yes, he must have meant for it to be an early Christmas present....now he’ll have to get the baby something else for Christmas day (code for- 'get something while you're out')’

Santa Claus is an expensive and praise-sapping scene-stealer, greedily pinching the credit for all the hard work that us parents put in, during the run up to Christmas, for himself. Where else in life would you put a ton of work, time and money into something and then turn around and happily attribute all praise to some mythical creature? Madness!

As is the birthday fairy, another fictitious character invented by my sister, who takes full credit for anything she buys her children for their birthdays, and one that I foolishly adopted for my own children.  On more than one occasion the birthday boy or girl has ripped open their birthday present- kindly left over-night from the birthday fairy-  turned to me and quietly asked ‘and what did you get me for my birthday mum?’

Mind you, they are becoming suspicious of Santa Claus as they get older, so when eight year old boy quizzed me the other day, I must admit I struggled to come up with an answer –

-‘Mum, do the Muslim kids get presents from Santa?’

-‘Err, no, they don’t, they get their presents at Eid’

-‘And Jews don’t celebrate Christmas, do they?’

-‘Err, no, they don’t, they have Hannukah’

-‘So who has Christmas then?’

-‘Well, Christians do....’ (I could see where this was going)

-‘Are we Christians mum?’

-‘Well, no, we’re not anything’

-‘So why does Santa come to us?’

-‘Umm, well, it’s a good thing you asked (thinking rapidly) .... he comes to us because my parents were Christians so we’re still on his list’ (phew!)

Thankfully he accepted my explanation and wandered off.

And now I must finish....there are gifts to wrap, wine to mull, pies to mince and party dresses to try on.... don't you just love it!

Sleeping, breathing and the pursuit of Starbucks....

DH assures me I’m ‘ready to calf’ which is culchy-speak for ‘childbirth is imminent’ and, bloodcurdling as that thought is, I’m just looking forward to a proper night's sleep.  My nights are currently a revolving door of bathroom-bed-bathroom-bed and my sleeping positions have been reduced to a choice of precisely one: the left side, since sleeping on my back feels like there is a baby seal crushing all my internal organs and sleeping on my right seems to bring about all the symptoms of a minor stroke.  And it's been several weeks since I've taken breathing for granted.

Yes, nature has cleverly conspired to ensure that the closing weeks of pregnancy are so utterly uncomfortable that the agonising and horrific ordeal ahead is seen as a blessed relief.

I am slightly concerned about giving birth here in the UAE though - just ordering a coffee can be trying at times - so the idea of trying to explain my wish for an epidural could prove to be challenging.  I have this reoccurring nightmare where I'm yelling for an epidural while a smiling Filipina nurse sing-songs ‘sorreee ma’am, it’s Ramadan, you can’t have any pain relief until the sun goes down’ like some demented character in a Stephen King novel.

I can’t help but feel that might actually happen.

At the very least I fully expect to be told the anaesthetist has left for the day and I'll have to wait until the next day, and do I want a Panadol...

I’m not making out that childbirth is always smooth going in Ireland either; I’ve had good and bad.  On the birth of boy-child number two I arrived at the hospital in the throes of labour to be told by the nurse that they had lost my records and did I mind answering a few questions.  So there I sat opposite a woman holding clipboard and pen as she went through my name, date of birth, address.....

-'When was your last period' she inquired.

-‘Seriously?' (clearly I have issues remembering this sort of detail at the best of times) '...ah nine months ago I reckon’ I sniggered....'OWWW!'

-‘But we need a date’ she insisted.  I hazarded a guess.

-‘Well, in that case you’re not due for another three weeks’ she said, ‘you’d best go home’.

Ten minutes later my waters broke and boy-child number two was with us within an hour; had I taken her advice I would have been in my living room in front of 'Who wants to be a millionaire' by the time I was at the point of pushing.

I’m due to attend a hospital in an area of Dubai optimistically called ‘Healthcare City’, which is basically a number of hospitals and clinics surrounding a parking lot.  

In the UAE, if they can give it a theme and grandly call it a ‘City’, they will.  We have ‘Academic city’ which is a college surrounded by sand as far as I can make out, ‘Motor City’ which is basically a car racing track (not sure why they need this...they have the roads don't they?) and here in RAK the 'RAK Media City' which is an office on a piece of wasteland outside the town which houses several people who have no idea what to do all day.

Mind you, the emirate of Umm al Quawain is called a city and I’ve seen towns in Mayo consisting of a sub-post office, pub and undertakers all-in-one which have more life in them.  But they like to think big here so it’s not so much what you see but what you will see in the future that inspires them when naming things.

But it’s Ramadan once again and that throws up the same challenges as it did for the last two years.  It’s not politically correct to be negative about Ramadan here since there is a certain quarter of expat who insist we stifle any grumbles or grouses about what are, in my view, the undeniable inconveniences associated with it. If you complain you are being, at best, ethnocentric and culturally ignorant, at worse committing a hate crime and are therefore a small-minded, bigoted-racist who should be escorted to the nearest border and never be allowed to return.  

It has been argued that 1.5 billion believers can’t be wrong, but then I have little faith in the wisdom of crowds: just look at some of the winners of Pop Idol.  Besides, I find Ramadan and it’s application a little too arbitrary for my liking.  A group of guys with beards study some lunar cycles and decide its Ramadan and suddenly, although you can still buy a Burger King meal at the mall,  you have to eat it in your car as sitting inside Burger King has over-night become as unthinkable as walking around with your knickers on your head.  And why is it you can’t  have a coffee in Starbucks but you can at the Hilton?  The only difference I see is the price, but then maybe that’s the point.

Also, if you must only fast during daylight hours, what’s to stop you going to the South Pole where you might only have one hour's daylight a day and doing your fast there?  Not much of a challenge is it, an episode of House and your done!

But we shall struggle on and make the most of it and next time I post there should be one more flight to pay for next time we decide to go on holiday.  Bring on the agony, I need a proper night's sleep!

Planes and ageing brains

I've had bloggers block.  I think my brain atrophied and died slightly over the festive season from the massive consumption of alcoholic beverages I consumed.  It's not my fault; Ireland was so cold that anything more ambitious than sitting in front of the fire in a pub drinking hot whiskeys seemed sheer madness. 

My brain was further destroyed by the return trip from hell which featured an ill-advised stopover in Istanbul, something which I quickly told myself would be an experience when I saw the cost of the flights (half that of a direct flight).  The reality was something similar to childbirth in terms of the cyclical agony as the children ran the wrong way down the travelator in the departure lounge, over and over and over...

Predictably our plane was delayed,  and so as everyone gathered around the departures screen anxiously scanning it for updates, we started pushing our way to the priority boarding point to avail of our right to board first since we suffered the tragic affliction of 4 very lively children.  As the children, now thoroughly bored, rolled around on the floor, stopping occasionally to thump each other, a kindly greying gent approached my very cute three year old and patted him on the head 'go away athh hooole' he lisped, as the entire group looked on, furiously hoping they wouldn't be seated beside us.  Blushing I ushered three year old away but what can you say to that?  Like I said, childbirth.  Without the epidural.

The flight itself wasn't too bad, although a wriggling three year old wouldn't be my travelling companion of choice, not least because of his insistence on repeatedly flipping the table on the back of the seat in front of him up and down.  After the 89th time it just gets old and one grows tired of apologising to the person in front.  This tedium was only relieved by the appearance of a 'gift' from the airline to all the children on the flight.  This gift featured a plastic bag containing a mini Turkish Airways plane with stickers and an inflatable Turkish Airways plane.  The boys fell on these gifts enthusiastically although I had to clamp my hand over 5 year old boys mouth as he held up the inflatable plane and announced, loudly-

'mummy, I know how to blow up this plane!'

But age does take its toll on mind and body and I find myself becoming increasingly desperate to stop this slow march toward inevitable decrepitude and a slow painful death.

Obviously the only way to deal with this decline is through a healthy diet, no alcohol, lots of exercise and positive thinking.  Personally I prefer over-priced miracle creams and moisturisers.   Although I must admit to being quite baffled by the huge variety of creams on the market.  What happens if you use a 'night cream' during the day for example?  Or 'hand cream' on your face? (I do both regularly)

And what are the seven signs of ageing?    They never tell you in the ads.  Could it be memory loss..(.lost keys, anyone)?  Or perhaps difficulty in straightening up when you stand up too quickly?  Maybe it's feeling invisible to the opposite sex (although the obvious formula to that is move to the Middle East where any woman, ugly or not, will most definitely be stared at with a curiosity usually adopted by your dentist or gynaecologist)?  Perhaps it's a gradual depression which descends slowly as it dawns on you that all your dreams have been unrealised and your life has been ultimately empty?  Or maybe it's wearing nylon-elastic-waisted pleated-skirts thus becoming an embarrassment to your family... or stress incontinence.  I could go on...

Another nuisance with the whole ageing process is the inability to drink more than half a bottle of wine without suffering from a hangover the next day.  I'm beginning to gravitate towards the whole never drinking again thing, as it seems the only sensible solution to these lost days spent quietly dying on the sofa.  Although, on the last day of our trip, we met with one of my oldest friends for a drink in our hotel.  I looked forward to a few swift ones while catching up.

During our hey day we shared a flat and my god could she drink.  Her favourite tipple for getting drunk was a pint of Smithwicks with a shot of whiskey thrown in to it.  She used to regularly fall into bed with a half eaten takeaway and a bottle of whiskey surrounded by dog ends and debris.  And vomiting in the street was no foreign country to her.  A sort of walking-talking real life version of Tracy Emmins 'unmade bed'.  She always made me feel pure and wholesome by comparison by virtue of the fact that she was so god damn unhealthy.  However,  to my dismay on this occasion she swept into the bar looking radiant with health and ordered a mineral water as myself and DH looked on open mouthed.

-'Don't you want a real drink?' I asked.

-'God no, I'm not drinking' she replied.  'Nobody I know drinks any more'

-'Really? Whoops!'  I gestured toward my half empty glass.

-'No' she continued, ’all my friends talk about now is running.  And community gardening, don't you know we're too old for this, have to start thinking about our health'

This was news to me.  Suddenly myself and DH felt as outdated and anachronistic as a pair of old drunks sitting at the back of the pub droning on about the 'good ol' days'.

DH got up to go to the bar and made a sly 'drink?' gesture as he passed.  I nodded guiltily.  But hey, it was the last day of our hols, we felt entitled, didn't we?

'I don't know how you do it to be honest, with four kids and all, since the baby I just can't keep awake long enough to drink' she observed.

She's not alone in these observations, practically everyone I know says the same.  Which makes me wonder if I'm hanging on by my broken fingernails to a youth which has passed.  Is it, in fact, time to hang up my dancing shoes, throw out the Chablis, and settle down to the task of being a grown up? 


Perhaps it is, but I resist with every fibre of my being and bristle at the 'I don't know how you...' speeches I so frequently encounter.

Here's my top 6 most hated 'I don't know how you's....'

-I don't know how you manage to read books, what with four kids and all  (why, did they remove my brain in the delivery room along with the child?)

-I don't know how you manage to email me regularly, I'm just soooo busy with my pregnancy/one child/school run' (I suspect there's time for Oprah and Dr. Phil)

-I don't know how you manage to go to classes and learn new things all the time (currently piano..and why do you have to stop learning new things after you leave school?  Assuming you live for 80 years, and you finished school at 18, that reasoning makes the assumption that you've learned everything you need to know in less than the first quarter of your life.  That's illogical )

-I don't know how you manage to go shopping and buy actual clothes (well frankly neither do I considering what's available in the shops these days, but you know, Boden DO deliver to the Middle East)

-I don't know how you can still go out to dinner, get drunk and end up in a night club (very occasionally, but still nice to bop around a dance floor believing I am THE disco queen)

-And my favourite 'I don't know how you can type at the computer with all those little ones pulling at the keyboard'  (err, well, I made a pact with the children from the start, 'I do what I'm doing, you do what you're doing' and never the twain unless they need feeding, changing, comforting....the result, quite independent and creative children who do not rely on me to entertain them...oh, and a huge amount of telly helps)

Anyway, as I recently pointed out to a friend after the 'I don't know how you do it ...' speech, 'I don't know what else I'm supposed to be doing'.  And that, dear reader, is the truth.

So anyway, it's a new year, new opportunities and lots of drama ahead methinks.  But that's for next time...