From Um to Om to Ohms

Hello party people. It's been a few minutes longer than a really long time since I added any stories to this blog. I do apologize. So much has happened since May 2009. I didn't write because I didn't know where to start. But, as the great Master Yoda says: "Do or don't. There is no try." So, I start at the present and I'll add a montage of back-story as we carry on in the current happenings. So, with no further adieu...

From Um to Om to Ohms

"Um" is the Arabic word for "mother." In tradition, when a woman gives birth, her given name is replaced with the title Um (first born child's name), as in Um Yousef, or Um Sherifa. However, if Yousef is born after Sherifa and her sisters, Shuruq, Farah and Sarah, her title changes again to reflect the first son's name. In this way she pays respect to her future caretaker and decision-maker for the family when her husband has passed on. That's a little something I learned in the last three years. Maybe you already knew about that, but it was news to me. Hey mom, if you're reading this, prepare to be called Um Ryan at least once in the near future.

Now there is both time and distance between me and Kuwait, I am grateful for everything I gained, everything I lost, and people I met while I lived on those rich and polluted shores.

I went forth with our crazy plan to quit our good jobs, stacking papers as they say--making the big money--and I am now enrolled in the Aviation Maintenance program at Tarrant County College NW Campus. I am in a building of mechanic students, sandwiched between the police academy and the largest firefighters training facility in the area. A shout out to all my single, lady friends: If you're looking for some hearty, useful, good-ol-boys, come find me at TCC. I'll give you a tour. By the time we walk from the front door to the hangar door, everyone will know your name and wonder if we're married. Those boys spread gossip faster than a prayer chain and anyone seen talking to me runs the risk of being rumored as my "more-than-friend."

The similarity of Ohm and om is about the only visible connection that can be made between my two opposing lives as founder of a yoga non-profit and an aviation mechanic student. Ohm, as in Ohm's Law which defines the relationship between power, current, resistance and voltage; and "Ooooommmm," as in the origin of sound, often recited three times at the beginning and end of a yoga session.

How does one reconcile the vast scape from yogini to mechanic? Well, for the first week or so I had a strange sort of insomnia wherein during sleep my brain tried desperately to find a connection between my yoga knowledge and the incoming aviation information. I would wake up assigning part numbers to yoga poses and categorizing muscle groups into NPN or PNP transistors. It was maddening. I got over that and now I'm devising a series of yoga articles based on the principles of electrical circuit resistors. Stay tuned for those...

Overall, life is good. We are at the very limit of how long we can go without income, but Doug is just about to save the day with a job doing what he does best: Webmastering. The interview was yesterday, it went great, they said "he's our man" and now it's just a matter of waiting and wading through the paperwork. We've had about six months to resettle into the American Life. We moved to Fort Worth, TX, bought a Ford and got a dog. He's a 6-month old boxer puppy, aptly named Ruckus.

Today my schedule looks like this:
Wake up around 7:00-7:30am, take dog out.
Make espresso in my Italian stove-top espresso pot while Doug makes a delicious breakfast.
Watch an episode of Dead Like Me from 2004 on Netflix Live.
Update the the DCY website: www.dirtcheapyoga.com.
Open an early birthday presents from Doug and Ruckus. Highlights: The Zen of Zombie: Better Living Through the Undead. and piano sheet music for MUSE and Fiona Apple.
Write a personal blog.
Write a DCY blog.
Take Ruckus out again and then go to the gym.
Write a Examiner article about neti pots.
Attend Basic Electricity class at 5:30pm.
Celebrate my 11th wedding anniversary a few days early with Doug and a romantic late dinner in Fort Worth.
Take Ruckus out and let him play with his best friend and neighbor, Poncho, the pit-bull.
Have a nightcap or two and call it a night.

Not a bad day. And it not a bad life to live and learn from Um, Ohm, and om.

One-way Trip to Angelo... And Back.

My car is my home; the road is my companion. Until that blown tire. Now my car feels like a dead-weight mortgage and the tow truck driver my new bestie.

When I could not find the spare tire anywhere in, on, or under the car I called our insurance company and asked them to send a tow truck. An hour later, Michael - my new best friend - arrived, picked up the Z and I, and drove us to the nearest town of Cisco. Cisco has three car repair shops and Michael and I visited all three before I found a used tire in the the right size.

I then found the spare tire.

It was hidden in the side of the car... very hard to see. It was deflated to save space, so it wouldn't have done me any good anyway. The canned air next to it was old and rusted with a label that was peeling off.

I later found a new can of tire-inflating air in a different hiding spot. But that was days later, after I dropped my USB thumb drive behind the passenger seat and went digging for it.

Back on the road, I took a different route from Abilene to San Angelo, through Balinger and cotton country. This section of two-lane highway feels like America. Good ole boys in duely* ranch trucks generously move to the shoulder, allowing faster drivers to cruise around them. It is customary to give a little wave through your back windshield. A small gesture of thanks left-over from cowboy code.

A strange phenomenon happened as I sped along these country roads at twilight. God started talking to me. How did I know it was really Him speaking? He signed his name, of course. Plain as midday sun, readable as black and white letters, he said: "If you're going to swear, use your own name." ~God.

Good one, God. I get it. Touche. And then, a few miles farther, he spoke to me again. This time the message was less jovial and more inspirational. He said: "Don't worry about the future; I've already been there." ~God.

Wow. Just like John Connor. Unlike John Connor, though, God has a marketing budget and his media booking agent, apparently, is The Baptist Church.

I guess that's all God had to say to me that day. The awkward silence at the end of conversation was replaced by my other new best friend, Sirius XMU satellite radio. Here's a sampling of some of my favorites:

Santigold: "Shove It"

The Rapture: "No Sex for Ben"

The Thermals: "Now We Can See"

Neko Case: "This Tornado Loves You"

*The term "duely" refers to pick-up trucks with a set of duel rear tires.

I am; Spirited Away

It's been raining. I haven't seen cumulus clouds since our trip to Jordan in October. As a passenger of Braxton's Buick Rendezvous on the drive from Dallas to San Angelo, Texas I can watch the patches of clouds and light. Boring Texas has never been so beautiful. Reality truly is the current perspective.

I remember my first drive to San Angelo, June 30th, 1997. Compared to the rain forest-like summers in northern Wisconsin, I found this part of the country to be lacking in color and character. Who would live here? I asked myself. Bryan Douglas Fore, Jr. had not yet entered my reality. Eight hours later a twiggy Ralf Macchio look-alike in a bright yellow shirt and scuffed blue Doc Martins altered my existence forever.

Here I am again, nearly a full 12 years later, on the same road. Wind mill farms have now replaced some of the cattle ranches and pastures. I have changed as well. I spy an old wind mill in the foreground of a field of the new, slick, alien-like power producing variety. I can relate. It's my 3rd day back in Texas after leaving Kuwait "for good" and I feel that a pair of wind mills really get me.

Two wind mills. Two eras. Two realities... I've been thinking about Chihiro in Miyazaki's Spirited Away. I relate most to Chihiro. "Moving to a new place is an adventure," says her mother in the car on the way to their new home.

The adventure starts when the family takes a detour and Chihiro reluctantly follows her family into a strange city of gluttony and decadence inhabited by spirits after the lamps are lit at night. Her parents become trapped and to stay she has to get a job at the bathhouse working for Ubaba. She's awkward and in the way. The characters she encounters are odd; like the Radish Spirit who fills up the entire elevator and the stingy toads supervising the bathhouse and running the kitchen. She doesn't understand their world and misses home, but by the end of the story she's tamed the jealous rage of a lonely spirit, won the hearts of some unlikely allies, made friends, inspired change and outgrown her fears. She reunites with her family and they return to their car parked at the edge of the real world to find it covered in dust, but otherwise un-aged.

Outside of that city no one would comprehend her adventure if she were to tell them the story.

I can relate. My reality has glitch, an animated short spliced into the feature film. I was there. I saw it and it was real. It was real and now it is obsolete; like an old rusted wind mill in a field of new, slick, alien-like power producing ones.

It's Complicated

The first question asked and easiest questions to answer started as a bump in the road and have escalated to a tire-sized pot-hole on Converstion Street.

"So, where do you live?"

"Uhhhh... I'm sort of between domiciles at the moment."

"Really. So, what do you do?"

"You mean as a job? Well... I don't really have one of those either. No, no... Both are by choice. The Big Bad Economy has claimed me its victim. Yet."

I feel like a divorcee who recently left her rebound boyfriend for the ex-husband only to realize that the plan to win him back isn't going to work, but wants to try to keep it together for the kids. The only accurate response in either situation is: "It's complicated."

Inside My Room

This is my room. This is where I've been hiding out for the past two years. Before this I hid in a different room (not pictured). Now that it is time to pack it up I realize just how much I'm going to miss it. I'll make a new hiding spot. Sure. But this one was special.


While living here I discovered Neil Gaiman novels and ordained him my new favorite author.


While living here I conquered the Friday Market, Kuwait's haggling megadome. I bought that rug on the floor for KD13 ($45). Trish Harris and I chipped down the price from KD20.


My friend Zahra asked "What's an Appa?" when she sat on our little couch one day and I introduced her to Avatar: The Last Airbender.



The orange scarf hanging under the cowboy hat was a gift from Silvia and Nino after sharing salmon, wine and chocolates in her tiny Paris flat.

Optimus Prime, who stands resolute on the corner of our IKEA bookshelf made surprise appearances in all sorts of places around our place. One day he'd remind me to take my probiotics or stand in my dresser drawer holding his suggestion of which panties I should wear for the day.

My art easel was remained, "Arch Weasel" when I told my husband I was giving it to Yusra and the static-ridden phone lines in Kuwait distorted my words.

We were living here when we decided to become helicopter pilots and move to Arizona. In the evenings after work we'd stretch out on the bed and talk about flying, listening to The Eagles of Death Metal.

We had celebratory bootlegged date rum cocktails when we paid off the last of our debt. Four years in Kuwait and we were able to accomplish what would have taken twenty in the US.

On my laptop in this room we sat scanning our 100-page mortgage document, trying to email our lending company during the Great Internet Outage of 2008.



In this room we planned our trip to Jordan to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary where we would spend six hours on The King's Highway from Jerash to Petra where we encountered jinn and reminisced on the mistakes and triumphs of our twenties.


I spent hours, a few moments at a time, perched on this balcony, thinking about what to do next.



It's all boxed up now. I'm quiet, but smiling.

What Time?

When it comes to planning there are two kinds of people: The "What-timers" and the "Wheneverists." At some point I migrated from the former to the latter group. This realization came when I analyzed my annoyance with the repetition of the question, "What time?" Most often, my answer is simply, "I don't know yet," or maybe a guess, "...around this time-ish." Most of the time I'm good with that. I have to be.

True, there are times when time is vitally important. Like, for example, when trying to squeeze in one more beer at Irish Village in the Dubai airport before your flight to Kuwait, or when dealing with Americans. We Americans have got to know what time. It's the knee-jerk response to any invitation. In Kuwait, and in many other countries I suspect, time is as inconsequential as the weather. It comes, it goes, it doesn't matter what you have planned.

Take this spring/summer for example: My flight leaves Kuwait on April 24th at 8:15am. Doug does not have his ticket yet. We are planning to be in Beaumont, TX on June 6th and in St. Cloud, MN on June 13th. Everything before, after, and in between is a big question mark. Along with all the other details in life.

Where are we going to live? In either a house, condo or apartment; somewhere in Chandler, or Mesa, or Gilbert, AZ.
When will we get there? Sometime in July, mid-August at the latest. School starts sometime in August and we should be there for that.
When are you going here?
When are you going to make it there?
When will you stay with us?
When will you see them?

The answer is: I don't know. Even if I did know, it would probably change before the actual when actually happens. I know it's hard for all you What-timers, but try to relax... not knowing is fun. Not needing to know is even more fun.

Becoming a Wheneverist is sort of like becoming a nudist; only less embarrassing for your friends and neighbors. Sure, you may need to carry a towel to sit on and have your cats declawed, and, sure, you might irritate less liberated individuals, but you don't give a damn. Cares to the wind, quite literally.

In truth, I'm just guessing - I've never tried nudism, but Wheneverism is quite nice.

That's yoga, Baby. Flexibility of the mind.

Screwtape Bird's Nest

It’s spring in Kuwait. Well, according to the calendar, it’s spring everywhere, but it’s been spring in Kuwait for a while – despite the occasional emails from home with news of the latest snowstorm.

The birds and bees in Kuwait are ignorant of snow falling on other continents. How could such knowledge possibly affect them, and, really, should they care? The birds of Kuwait are busy doing what they do best; nesting.

As I walked from the parking lot to my office building the other day I saw a modest brown sparrow bobbing between car tires, carrying a single, dried palm blade in her beak. The clack of my shoes sent her into the air, fleeing in awkward busts with the narrow leaf tagging along. Life, for this bird, is not unrelenting text messages, guiltily avoided gym sessions and financial worries; it is a simple mission, repeated year after year.

A few days later, driving to work, I saw another bird gathering materials to build a better nest as I slowed to roll over a set of speed bumps. She bounced and pecked, gathering the ribbon remains of a cassette tape before flying over the hood of my car. The tape flickered like a string from an Autobot’s kite.

I imagined speckled bird eggs hatched onto a bed of cassette tape ribbon and other bits of modern waste. Paper napkins might make a nice nest lining and the recycled-paper-brown type would be nature-camouflaged. Cigarette butts could act as lightweight filler for mud dauber’s adobe nests. Innovative and avant garde architects hype the genius of building with “found materials.” Perhaps a little bird told them where to look.

Bothered hippies see the downfall of the planet in a cassette ribbon bird’s nest, but I think they’re missing the lesson here. Take the human example of computers: sure, they may very well lead downfall of humanity, but imagine of all the other possible uses for such equipment, post apocalypse.

Cannibalized laptops could provide keyboard lettering for store names or residences. People would either fight over the A’s E’s and R’s or get creative combining the leftovers of X’s, Q’s, V’s and J’s. I see bicycle paths of flat screen monitors and stairs made of CPU's. Pagers will still be useless, but the nice artist-type woman living in the water bottle house next door might make a hobby of decorating them as Christmas tree ornaments.

The little bird with the cassette tape ribbon reminded me of a stand-up routine by the late George Carlin when he claimed, with all effing certainty, that "the earth will be fine."

"The planet will be here for a long, long, LONG time after we're gone, and it will heal itself, it will cleanse itself, 'cause that's what it does. It's a self-correcting system. The air and the water will recover, the earth will be renewed, and if it's true that plastic is not degradable, well, the planet will simply incorporate plastic into a new paradigm: the earth plus plastic. The earth doesn't share our prejudice towards plastic. Plastic came out of the earth. The earth probably sees plastic as just another one of its children. Could be the only reason the earth allowed us to be spawned from it in the first place. It wanted plastic for itself. Didn't know how to make it. Needed us. Could be the answer to our age-old egocentric philosophical question, "Why are we here?" Plastic...a**hole."

3 Hours in Istanbul

I've got three hours. Tell me your life story. How well could you know a person in three hours? I can usually tell if I'm going to like a person in about three minutes, but I still learn new things about my husband after ten years of marriage. For better or worse, in the rain and after an exhausting girl-trip to Europe, I had a three hour window into Istanbul, Turkey and I took the chance.

Not one for planning ahead, I texted a few friends who had recently visited the city, asking for their recommendations as I waited in line at the visa desk. My coveted blue passport was all the credentials needed for entry into the country. Yusra, my traveling partner with the ugly green passport, was not trusted outside the confines of Istanbul International Airport: A dirty terrorist whose civilization once ruled the world with technology so advanced for its time they were thought to be aliens from another galaxy. Today, their hand-written official documents denote a fall from grace and long, boring stays in airport cafes while their friends go exploring. I did let her borrow my new Neil Gaiman book.

$20 and a what looked like a 1994 postage stamp in my passport and I was on my way to The Blue Mosque... as soon as I figure out how to get there. The only map I could find at the airport was an Istanbul shopping guide with all the luxury brand outlets marked with color coded circles. No good. Where's a Metro map? The lone white-girl tourist turning an over-sized map clockwise in 90 degree increments at the arrivals area must have been a sight for sore tour company eyes.

"You looking.... for what?"

"The Blue Mosque." Question marked face in response. "In English we say Blue Mosque."

"Come, come. My friend, he have shuttle bus. Free for you. Come."

It wasn't a shuttle bus and it wasn't free, but it was a guaranteed taxi ride to the touristic center of town, Sultan Ahmet, and the Blue Mosque. The taxi driver, Mustafa, was born and raised in Istanbul. Fighting through a formidable language barrier, he pointed out the significant landmarks on our twenty-minute drive to Sultan Ahmet; the protective wall that still stands around the city, the fish market and the "other side" of the city where I should never visit. Mustafa dropped me off in the parking lot between Istanbul's two most famous mosques.

"Eight-o'clock. Here. Taxi to airport." I put the receipt for my prepaid return ride in the left breast pocket of my jacket and pulled up my hood. I had forgotten my trusty green floral umbrella in Yusra's backpack... secure at the airport.

As a gray dusk settled around the mosque I stepped carefully along the wet marble stones made slick from the wear of so many feet visiting this spot before my trusty Converse ever left their box - before the poor parents of the poor kids who made my Converse were even born. It was prayer time and I stood outside the courtyard, eating a banana and watching men of all ages roll up their sleeves and pant legs in the damp cold to wash before entering through the ancient doors.
"Bon appetit." A man in a rain coat with an umbrella called from behind me. "Where are your friends? Don't you remember me, from yesterday?"

"No. Not me. Sorry." The hecklers had noticed I was alone. It was time to move on. A building built before rain gutters has no concern for protecting visitors from water balloon sized rain bombs as they pass through arches and doorways. I was getting soaked and it was now too dark for sight seeing. Time for one last beer before Kuwait.

"Hello. Do you speak English? Can I talk to you for a while?" Another man with an umbrella followed me across the street. "I just want to practice talking English. I not selling anything."

"Find another tourist," I said without eye contact.

Walking up the hill from the Blue Mosque was a veritable buffet of foreigner delights: restaurants with their pictured menus displayed in lighted cases facing the sidewalk, hand-made jewelery shops selling earrings and barrettes, falafel stands and rug stores. Everyone wanted to know where I was from and if I would like to take an authentic Turkish souvenir back there. I was not afraid or offended at their forwardness; it was their job to hassle me and it was my job to ignore them or coyly decline.

In a quiet corner a man sat under a work light, cutting pieces of metal into the beautiful jewelery pieces on display. He looked contently busy, unconcerned with the passing of a red-haired American. I took a step closer to some sparkly green and red drop earrings.

"There are more inside," he said without looking up. He kept his head down, but smiled as I pushed back my hood and stuffed my gloves in a jacket pocket. I bought several pairs and he agreed to let me take his picture. Nice old man.

A few blocks farther and I found a shop selling glass lamps like the ones I'd been searching for, without success, at Kuwait's Friday Market. The owner of the store was a young Turkish man who spoke Turkish, English, Spanish and Portuguese. He offered me green baklava covered in clear sugar syrup as we tested the light from different lamps.

"How old are you?" He wanted to know after I told him how many years I'd been married. He was several years younger and looked visibly disappointed with both discoveries. Regaining his graciousness after giving me a long hard look, he offered me an apple tea and his thoughts on bearing children. I paid for my two lamps with a combination of US dollars, Euros and Turkish liras and waited while he ran to a neighboring shop for change.

Also waiting under his glass lamps was a girl, about my age, who had just moved to Istanbul from Rio de Janeiro to write for the Star Tribune. We talked about working in journalism and living abroad and my plan to fly helicopters. For a second I thought of inviting her to join me for dinner and a brew, but changed my mind. I get tired of telling my life story in abbreviated Q&A and thirty minutes of saying nothing sounded nice.

The rain had softened. Rug vendors and jewelery makers were packing up their genuine authentic Turkish wares as I retreated towards The Blue Mosque. A few called to "come look," but their pleas lacked enthusiasm. They passed their verbal torch to the restaurant hecklers and the relay to win foreigner's business got a second wind. I chose a nearly empty restaurant with with pictures of beer bottles I didn't recognize.

The dinner was good. The beer was better and it was time to go. Down the hill, across the street to the parking lot between the city's two most famous mosques; I searched for my return ride receipt from the left breast pocket of my jacket. A taxi's headlights blinked at me and I smiled at a familiar face.

"Hello Mustafa." I tossed my backpack and lamps in the backseat. "Do you mind if I sit in the front?"

Does This Tailor Make My Ass Look Big?

"Too much beeg heer," said the tailor, making parenthesis-like motions around my hips. "Very smoll heer." He added, gesturing to my waist. He tsk-tsked and tugged on the hem at the back of the dress.

"Too much beeg. Make too much problems for me." This was round-two of verbal abuse and adjustments to a simple, satin, red, strapless dress I'd hired Abdulhaq, the tailor, to make.

My friend Mai brought me to his tiny shop, littered with stray threads, scraps of fabric and a mound of yellowing magazines and catalogues with random pages torn out of them. I brought my fabric and a few sketches of the dress I imagined. Back and forth, in English and Arabic, the three of us argued over the number of seams and whether or not there would be enough material to even make a dress. I said it could be as short as it needed to be and we finally settled on a design.

"Anyting you not happy; I am heer. I make feex." He handed me a business card as I made my exit and said to call to see if the dress was ready.

"Don't you need to know my name - for when I call?" I asked. We had covered the standard questions: Where are you from? When did you move to Kuwait? Why did you move to Kuwait? How do you like Obama as president? Etc. etc. But, we skipped over the name-exchange and hand-shake part... Straight to commenting on the size of my bodacious backside. I guess lady's tailors can't be an overly formal bunch. No need for names even. Apparently, I am Abdulhaq's only American customer and one of only 3 White women to ever visit his shop.

The first fitting session of "too much beeg" was sort of funny. I laughed. This happens a lot; people think I'm smaller, lighter, weaker than I actually am. The first two are sort of flattering and the last one doesn't bother me either - I know how to wear clothes at compliment and I prefer to be underestimated. However, after the second fitting session when the dress was still rolling up into creases at the small of my back, just above the "pa-pow!" as my husband calls it, the "beeg" comments started hit a nerve. I mean really, man... Why do you think I went to a tailor for a dress? I know my long distance runner proportions of yesteryear have, well, shifted some. Now, please make me a dress that fits, kay?

I tell this story much better in person. I've perfected my Arabenglish accent and the hand gestures make it so much funnier. As I relayed the tale to friends, most did, actually, LOL at my BOB (laugh out loud at my big ol' booty). This was usually followed by a "Yeah, but it's not that big." I have to agree; we're in Kuwait, the land of Kuwaiti women. Speaking generally, Arab women aren't known for their lithe figures and tight, athletic tummies. Have you ever seen a real belly dancing show? It ain't like Shakira. Maybe it's just that Caucasians have the reputation of a somewhat "uneventful" figure...? The answer is unclear.

So, I ask every man's most-dreaded question: Does this make my ass look big?

My man's response: "Yes. A bit. Don't change a thing."

Well, there you have it, Ladies; big is in the eye of the butt-holder. Here's to breaking the mold.

Umm...Excuse me, Kuwait? I Think You're Doing it Wrong

I struggled to come up with an interesting commentary on this post. I uploaded the photos about 5 days ago and each day I started to write a snidely clever something about them and each day I saved it as a draft and gave up. Maybe I should change the post title to: "Umm... Excuse me, G4? I Think You've Lived in Kuwait Too Long."

If you're wondering what exactly you're looking at, yes, that's a construction crane turned on its side. Nevermind that parking such equipment in the middle of a busy city street, without "under construction" signs or even a beat up old orange cone, is standard operation - yeah don't worry about that, just drive around it and watch out for falling building materials. My guess is that the operator over-estimated his load/reach ratio and toppled like a 6'3" junior high kid whose shoe size hasn't caught up with his last growth spurt trying to lift a backpack over his head. Did you see that little soccer shop? It now has a nice, dusty skylight.

I cruise down this street everyday to and from work dodging alley cats, kids on bikes, guys crossing the street while texting on their mobiles, other cars unconcerned with right-of-way, guys with wheelbarrows, guys who stop in the middle of the road to stare at me and, oh yeah, bigass construction cranes. On this day I turned the corner, almost to my apartment, and saw this. I went home, grabbed my good camera and snapped these photos. Just for you.

You know... When you reach the point where an overthrown crane is an event is so typical, so situation-normal, that it scarcely causes a flutter on the interest scale, what do you think, maybe it's time for a change in scenery?

The Sacrifice: My effort to play with others

I watched the Sex in the City movie last night with two friends as the feature our first ever Girl’s Night. It was about 90 minutes too long. The movie is actually a whole 120 minutes of girlfriend torture, so I entertained myself by looking for inconsistencies in the plot and counting the veins in Sarah Jessica Parker’s man-hands.

Next time, I’ll bring the movie – does Frank Miller’s The Spirit count as a chick-flick? I’ve got my DVD-Guy minions on the prowl for a good copy to sell to me. Whoever brings it to my office first gets the 1 Dinar prize. Now go be good little pirates and bring me a DVD that won’t freeze my 3rd World Regional DVD player!

After watching that abysmal Sex movie I had the urge to un-materialistically clear out my closet and crammed dresser drawers, ditching the crap I never wear and those cute shoes that kill my feet. Okay, I admit that I did so while breaking in my brand new Diesel Sound ankle-boots that just arrived from Amazon.com, but those are awesome and I need to practice wearing heels before the next Girl’s Night.

As I weeded out some of my least proud purchasing decisions I came to the realization that I’d bought most of this stuff while trying to bond with other women. In an effort to make friends I resort to all sorts of un-me-like behaviors. One time I even agreed to go jogging with a 25-year-old practiced runner in 120 degree heat and 80% humidity, just because she asked me to. I threw up on my Asics – haven’t heard from that girl recently. But, mostly, I end up going to stores I’d never shop in otherwise and buying stuff I’ll probably never wear. Here’s a short list of shopping sacrifices:

Denim vest
Price: KD 15 ($55)
Store: River Island
Friend attempt: Monica, the wife of my husband’s coworker.
Monica is a born shopper. She’d been in Kuwait for about 2 weeks when we decided to hang out and go shopping one night. Everywhere we went the sales clerks knew her by name. She is 5’9”, mostly legs and boobs, born in Yugoslavia and raised in Germany. On this outing I bought a denim vest that I’ve never worn once. I’m bummed that she moved back to Germany, but there’s no way I could have survived her mall fetish.

Western-style shirt
KD 12 ($44) On sale!
Store: Sfera
Friend attempt: Sarah, the 22-year-old Graphic Designer at the magazine.
Sarah is a sourpuss. I didn’t realize this until later; after we had made several friend attempts and then concluded that we were just too opposite to stand each other. She was the person who inspired the description: “A personality that can blow out a sparkler.” I took her advice, against my better judgment, and bought a white cotton Western-style shirt that was 1 size too small. Now that I’ve increased my bench press to 3 sets of 80 lbs (yes, I’m bragging – that took a lot of work) it is way too small. I can’t even button it in the front and the shoulders feel like they’ll rip apart if I reach for the steering wheel too fast. She quit her job as our designer and I’ve not spoken to her since.

Black and white striped shoes
KD 3 ($11)
Store: Some cheap creepy basement place in Hawalli
Friend attempt: Zahra, the former girlfriend of a friend of husband’s coworker.
Zahra has 3 or 4 mobile phones, each with a different phone number. I have no idea how she keeps them all straight and she’s always running out of credit on the number I use to call her. We actually are friends now and I’ve seen her through 4 apartments, 2 car accidents, 3 jobs, a couple of boyfriends and 1 total meltdown. She did her laundry at my house for 4 months and then we took a little break from each other. Now we go out for eating or stay in for cake-baking rather than shopping and she never leaves her soapy bras in my bathroom sink. She makes the best sheesha. I’ll keep the friend and lose the shoes.

I don’t have girlfriends like the characters on Sex in the City. Am I supposed to? Are girls supposed to aspire to be like those women, living a life based on the two l’s: love and labels? I think I’d prefer liquor and lunacy. Or maybe leather and lazers...

Search for a Yoga Teacher… fil Koowayt: Joshy P. Joseph

All teachers need a teacher and all teachers need to be students of someone or something. It’s the only way we stay fresh. Someone once said that you must “return to the well” or your knowledge will run dry. That makes sense. And being humbled by our ignorance can only make us more compassionate to the struggles of our students. I stopped teaching because I am without a “well” and my bucket done run dry. So, I search for a teacher… in Kuwait.

That's me, to the left, back when I was yoga-awesome. Vain as it may be, I liked being able to float my entire body weight on my hands. I felt like, if I could do that, then I could definitely haul my own over-packed suitcase from trunk of the car to third-floor bedroom without pulling a hamy or something. I'd like to be yoga-awesome once again. Help me Joshy P. Joseph; you are my only hope.

Joshy P. Joseph is a yoga teacher in Kuwait. Even better; he’s Indian. That origin is distinct a plus if you ask a lot of yogis in the biz – let’s face it, learning from a guy with an accent feels more authentic, right? According to Joshy’s website, yogaq8.com, he has “completed YIC [Yoga Instructors Course] from SVYASA Deemed University, Bangalore,India, and has substantial scholarship and handiness in Yoga and Meditation.” All nit-picky grammatical blunders aside, I like a yoga teacher with handiness in yoga. This could be good.

How Course Planned ?

Just make a call for fixing date and time . Deliver classes upto learners caliber . Usually single session contains 8 postures. Recommended one session weekly.

Where course conducting?

Learners have two options, you can come to salmiya studio or class will be conducted at your home/villa .

God bless the internet; everything I need to find a yoga teacher is right there on yogaq8.com. I made the call. No answer. No worries. I’ll start with email; less miscommunications anyway. I explained that I was a former yoga teacher and now work for a popular local magazine. My message received an excited response and he asked me to call later this week for to make fix the time.

Later that week I called and must have woke him up. At 11:00 am. Maybe he was meditating? He sounded groggy and disturbed and asked that I call him later that day. I called back at 3:30 pm. His bright greeting became perturbed annoyance as soon as I announced my name. He said he was very busy and couldn’t talk just then. I told him: “No rush, you have my number – take your time and call back when you’re free.” That was the last I heard from him. I called once more, emailed once more - nothing - and then, like the enlightened being I am, I took it personally.

I couldn’t let it go. How "yoga" is that? He led me on and then blew me off! I can sympathyze with not wanting to add anymore classes or not wanting to take on anymore students, but who turns down free, positive magazine coverage? There must be more to it and was determined to find out it was.

I involved a friend, an accomplice for my yoga teacher espionage. She called Joshy and scheduled a class for the following Saturday for her and a “friend.” I had it all planned out. We’d go and I’d bring the latest issue of the magazine with me, as if I’d just picked up for some casual reading, and bait him into commenting on it. Or that silly girl that works there… I would be cool and composed, of course, nonchalant and forgiving of the swami-wrapped yogi who just dogged someone he’d never met – a karmic faux pas much bigger than any website typos. We’d laugh it off and then I’d have a yoga teacher. I waited for Saturday.

Saturday came and went without a yoga class. The last conversation between my friend and the elusive teach was that they’d talk on Friday to confirm the class time and get directions, but Joshy didn’t answer his phone or return any calls or messages. Rascally P. Rabbit made the slip a second time.

I give. You can’t make someone like you, you can't do favors for someone who doesn't want them and you can’t make a teacher give you a class. Joshy, if you’re out there reading this, don't make me send C3PO after you too (he's really bad at yoga), please call back. Until then…

*All quotations from yogaq8.com were taken as-is. In my research I discovered that Joshy P. Joseph is a very common name, especially among the computer programmer crowd. According to what I found, the teacher in question could be one of these two handsome fellas: