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: