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Well howdy campers.
A great, big ‘marhaban’ to everyone from the heart of sandland: euphemistically called “Don’t sell” (think of the flipside) in the ridiculously sunny United Arab Emirates.
Been a while since I last wrote, but with one thing and another (such as looking for a new job, wanting out of the Middle East, getting Daughter #2 into University (Forensic Science, no less…) and Daughter #1 into Veterinary Graduate School, & such and so forth)…I’ve been just a wee bit busy.
Long story short (I know: “Too late.”), I have accepted a position as Senior Geological Advisor for an oil company which just so happens to be headquartered in Don’t Sell, which is, again, most emphatically in the Middle East.
Well, I had wanted to depart this region after nearly 15 years for more verdant (and cooler) climes; but I guess what with this and that, I’ll just have to suck up the insane driving, the intolerable heat and tax-free income.
Like I have always maintained as an expat (expatriate: a person temporarily or permanently residing in a country and culture other than that of the person's upbringing. From the Latin ex- ("out of") and -patria ("country, fatherland")):
I am not here for your:
1. Culture,
2. Climate, nor
3. Cuisine.
I’m here strictly for the cash.
(At least, I’m a truthful mercenary…)
Anyways.
Since July, we had all our Middle Eastern worldly goods packed from our domicile in Muskrat (Oman), removed and put in storage while we had a long-overdue visit stateside. Come August, it was back to the desert, to our new Don’t Sell digs.
Roughly 1 month later, our “shipment” (i.e., stuff we had packed and stored previously) meets up with us and is unpacked, ready for use.
If only.
If only.
After opening and inspecting our 248 boxes (we tend to travel light), we discover over US$20,000 in damages & loss to our personal effects. My trinocular polarizing petrographic microscope was destroyed. Pictures and their frames shattered. My 1984 LA Olympics Canon F1N had disappeared; along with a couple of T-90’s, an AE-1P, an A-1, a multitude of Canon FD lenses and several irreplaceable Russian Zenit, Rubinar and MTO lenses.
Ah, well, that’s what insurance’s for. Hi ho.
So, after a lot of bad noise, veiled threats and serious inquiries into the genetic and familial backgrounds of the chuckleheads that packed and moved our stuff; the insurance company caved and deposited, well, not a princely sum, more dukeish, but the upshot was I needed to go shopping to replace some errant items.
Which finally brings us to the cavalcade of suckuosity that descended when I visited the local hardware store (an ace of a place) in search of a new smoker/bar-b-que grill.
Dramatis personæ:
Me: your humble scribe
LEW1: Local entitlement whore, male; tricked out in a stunningly white dishdasha (i.e., thobe, kandura, tea-towels, bedsheets), ghutra (headscarf, Italian table cloth), iqbal (egal, black crop-like cord, fanbelt), and taqiyah (crocheted cap, yarmulke…).
LEW2: LEW’s significant other, female (i.e., ‘Ninja Mommy’), duded up in her black abaya (chandor, burqa, Glad Lawn-n-leaf bag (extra-large)) and niqab (veil, mask, facial snowplow)
LEWs 3-7: Results of intercourse, other than social, of LEW1 & LEW2. Feral and completely unmanageable or constrained.
HSW: Actual hardware store worker and,
HSM: Actual hardware store manager.
At this point in the drama (and for the sake of completeness), it should be noted that I am attired in tan (beige, brownish, khaki) chinos, black (coal, onyx, jet) size-54 Cat Driller’s boots, and a indistinctly red (crimson, carmine, cerise) polo shirt. Little did I realize that my outfit sort of, kind of, in an oddly unusual manner, vaguely resembled the uniform of employees of this fine establishment. However with my extraordinarily Norteamericano bearing and demeanor (I cannot be an “Ugly American”. I’m overqualified.), Grizzly Adams-style beard, not to mention age (card carrying member of the “Old phart - Hey you kids, get offa my lawn” club), and total disinterest in anything other than the smoker I was pondering; it was glaringly obvious to anyone with the merest moiety of their marbles that I was not an employee.
Which lead to this little scene of verbal vehemence…
LEW1: <snapping of fingers> “You! Yes, you. Load 15 of these drip system pipes (for irrigation of botanicals in a desert environment – Ed. note) and take them to the checkout! Now!”
Me: <Hearing, but not listening and pondering the relative merits of the Weber Silver Bullet and the Charbroil Grillmaster…>
LEW1: “You, boy!”
Me: <”Well, the Grillmaster is bigger…”>
LEW1: <waddles over and punches me on the shoulder> “ARE YOU DEAF!?!”
Me: <Shock & awe, but reacting fast enough before years of Hapkido training automatically kicks in > “What the hell is your major malfunction, Jack…?”
LEW1: “You do not speak to me in that manner! You will load 15 of these drip system pipes and take them to the cashier!”
Me: “Look, Herr Mac, you’re obviously deeply confused <and bone-deep stupid>. I DO NOT work here. I am a customer…”
LEW1: <to LEW2>: “Such insolence!” <to me> “You will immediately load these pipes and take them to the front…!”
Me: “No, I won’t. Listen carefully: I DO NOT WORK HERE.”
LEW1: “Load my pipes! Load my pipes Load my…”
Me: “Listen Chuckles, which word confuses you? I…DO…NOT…work here!”
LEW1: “I will have your job!” <doubtful, as it requires intelligence and the capability for independent thought> “I demand your manager! Fetch him now!”
Me: <exasperated> “I do not work here. I am not an employee of this establishment. I am a customer, and one who is tiring rapidly of dealing with you. Got that?”
LEW2: “Call the manager… Call the police…Call the manager…” <begins to ululate in that particularly annoying Middle Eastern fashion that resembles off-balance air-raid sirens; causing canines to howl uncontrollably and sheep to spontaneously detonate at 1000 meters.>
LEW1: <nearing apoplexy>”Load my pipes. Load them!” <all the time yanking on my shirt like I’m some delinquent adolescent (much like his unrestrained offspring currently upending everything in the paint department and playing catch with items from the Black & Decker display)> ”Load them! Load them! Load them!”
Me: <spying someone who actually is employed at this fine establishment> ”’Scuse me, but could you possibly help this ‘gentleman’? He seems to think I work here and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
HSW: “Yeah, certainly. OK (to LEW1), how can I help you?”
LEW1: “I do not want to talk to you. I want this insolent “ya weld elgahba” (i.e., ‘SOB’) to do what I tell him. Load my pipes…” ad infinitum.
HSW: “Sir, he doesn’t work here…”
LEW1: “I do not want to hear that. I do not care. I want my pipes loaded. Make him load my pipes…!”
Me: <to HSW> “I think it’s time you called your manager (or a zookeeper…).”
LEW1: “Load my pipes. Load them! Load them!”
LEW2: Ululate, ululate, ululate…<a wolly whoomph in the distance is heard…>
HSM: <a Brit and someone who seemingly will brook no nonsense> “Right, what’s all this then?”
Me: “Well, it seems that…”
LEW1: “SHUT UP! You will not speak! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
LEW2: Ululate, ululate, ululate…<bahhh….foom!>
Me: “Завершение ебать до вас мудак! <I wisely switch to Russian as in this benighted place, telling someone to perform autofertilization (i.e., “go fuck themselves”) or simply flipping someone off is reason enough to get you fined, jail time and deported if the flipee is a local. Nos hit!> Now, have I your attention?”
LEW1: <sputter> “What?” (Non-fratching note: many individuals of Arabic extraction are leery (read: scared shitless) of Eastern Europeans, and particularly more so of Russians (something about activities in land wars over the last 125 or so years in places like the Trans-Jordan, Trucial States and Afghanistan…)
Me: “I don’t work here. I don’t appreciate being pawed by you and I don’t appreciate being called a son of a bitch by a retard like you. <drawing up to full stature and getting right into his face, Middle Eastern style> Got that, Herr Mac? You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
LEW1: <to HSM> “Fire this insolent beast immediately. I demand you fire him, revoke his visa! Fire him! Fire him!”
LEW2: Ululate, ululate, ululate…
Me <to HSM> “This guy a broken record or what?”
HSM: “Unbelievable. Sir, I assure you he does not work here. He’s a customer just like you <Way to go, ace. Throw kerosene on that fire…>.”
LEW1: <to HSM> “Fire him! Fire him! Fire him!”
HSM: <to me, quietly> “Go with me on this…<louder> Right. You’re fired. Clear out your locker, hand in your cards and leave immediately…<wink, wink, nudge, nudge>!”
Me: <going along with the charade> “Oh, dear. Dear me. Whatever shall I do? Fired. Oh, the injustice! Oh, the unfairness. Oh me! Oh, my! Oh, forbear; the outrageous slings and arrows…”
LEW1: “That will teach the insolent dog. Now, you <to HSW> load my pipes and take them to the cashier.”
HSW grudgingly complies, LEW2 finally wears out her ululator as LEW1 and LEW2 waddle down the aisle, carefully avoiding the carnage provided by their charming little feral whelps.
HSM: “Sorry about that. Some people. Unbelievable. Thanks for putting up with all that…”
Me: “So. Fired, ‘eh…?”
HSM: “Yeah, sheesh, what a joke. Sorry…”
Me. “No worries <snort>. But there is one question: where do I pick up my severance package?”
HSM: <gobsmacked> “Wha…?”
Me: “Seriously; if nothing else, I think I’m in line for little hazardous duty pay.”
Well, most everyone went away happy from all this. LEW1 and LEW2 finally got their damned drip system pipes (PBUT…pox be unto them), LEWs 3-7 had a field day destroying the Black & Decker™ and Halloween displays and I got my new smoker and batch of accessories for 50% off list.
“♫ If it wasn’t for the money, I wouldn’t be here.
I’d be back home in the last frontier.
Getting away from all this culture shock,
listening to some Cheesehead talk… ♫”
Damn, I need a shot and a beer, or 8…
*30*
A great, big ‘marhaban’ to everyone from the heart of sandland: euphemistically called “Don’t sell” (think of the flipside) in the ridiculously sunny United Arab Emirates.
Been a while since I last wrote, but with one thing and another (such as looking for a new job, wanting out of the Middle East, getting Daughter #2 into University (Forensic Science, no less…) and Daughter #1 into Veterinary Graduate School, & such and so forth)…I’ve been just a wee bit busy.
Long story short (I know: “Too late.”), I have accepted a position as Senior Geological Advisor for an oil company which just so happens to be headquartered in Don’t Sell, which is, again, most emphatically in the Middle East.
Well, I had wanted to depart this region after nearly 15 years for more verdant (and cooler) climes; but I guess what with this and that, I’ll just have to suck up the insane driving, the intolerable heat and tax-free income.
Like I have always maintained as an expat (expatriate: a person temporarily or permanently residing in a country and culture other than that of the person's upbringing. From the Latin ex- ("out of") and -patria ("country, fatherland")):
I am not here for your:
1. Culture,
2. Climate, nor
3. Cuisine.
I’m here strictly for the cash.
(At least, I’m a truthful mercenary…)
Anyways.
Since July, we had all our Middle Eastern worldly goods packed from our domicile in Muskrat (Oman), removed and put in storage while we had a long-overdue visit stateside. Come August, it was back to the desert, to our new Don’t Sell digs.
Roughly 1 month later, our “shipment” (i.e., stuff we had packed and stored previously) meets up with us and is unpacked, ready for use.
If only.
If only.
After opening and inspecting our 248 boxes (we tend to travel light), we discover over US$20,000 in damages & loss to our personal effects. My trinocular polarizing petrographic microscope was destroyed. Pictures and their frames shattered. My 1984 LA Olympics Canon F1N had disappeared; along with a couple of T-90’s, an AE-1P, an A-1, a multitude of Canon FD lenses and several irreplaceable Russian Zenit, Rubinar and MTO lenses.
Ah, well, that’s what insurance’s for. Hi ho.
So, after a lot of bad noise, veiled threats and serious inquiries into the genetic and familial backgrounds of the chuckleheads that packed and moved our stuff; the insurance company caved and deposited, well, not a princely sum, more dukeish, but the upshot was I needed to go shopping to replace some errant items.
Which finally brings us to the cavalcade of suckuosity that descended when I visited the local hardware store (an ace of a place) in search of a new smoker/bar-b-que grill.
Dramatis personæ:
Me: your humble scribe
LEW1: Local entitlement whore, male; tricked out in a stunningly white dishdasha (i.e., thobe, kandura, tea-towels, bedsheets), ghutra (headscarf, Italian table cloth), iqbal (egal, black crop-like cord, fanbelt), and taqiyah (crocheted cap, yarmulke…).
LEW2: LEW’s significant other, female (i.e., ‘Ninja Mommy’), duded up in her black abaya (chandor, burqa, Glad Lawn-n-leaf bag (extra-large)) and niqab (veil, mask, facial snowplow)
LEWs 3-7: Results of intercourse, other than social, of LEW1 & LEW2. Feral and completely unmanageable or constrained.
HSW: Actual hardware store worker and,
HSM: Actual hardware store manager.
At this point in the drama (and for the sake of completeness), it should be noted that I am attired in tan (beige, brownish, khaki) chinos, black (coal, onyx, jet) size-54 Cat Driller’s boots, and a indistinctly red (crimson, carmine, cerise) polo shirt. Little did I realize that my outfit sort of, kind of, in an oddly unusual manner, vaguely resembled the uniform of employees of this fine establishment. However with my extraordinarily Norteamericano bearing and demeanor (I cannot be an “Ugly American”. I’m overqualified.), Grizzly Adams-style beard, not to mention age (card carrying member of the “Old phart - Hey you kids, get offa my lawn” club), and total disinterest in anything other than the smoker I was pondering; it was glaringly obvious to anyone with the merest moiety of their marbles that I was not an employee.
Which lead to this little scene of verbal vehemence…
LEW1: <snapping of fingers> “You! Yes, you. Load 15 of these drip system pipes (for irrigation of botanicals in a desert environment – Ed. note) and take them to the checkout! Now!”
Me: <Hearing, but not listening and pondering the relative merits of the Weber Silver Bullet and the Charbroil Grillmaster…>
LEW1: “You, boy!”
Me: <”Well, the Grillmaster is bigger…”>
LEW1: <waddles over and punches me on the shoulder> “ARE YOU DEAF!?!”
Me: <Shock & awe, but reacting fast enough before years of Hapkido training automatically kicks in > “What the hell is your major malfunction, Jack…?”
LEW1: “You do not speak to me in that manner! You will load 15 of these drip system pipes and take them to the cashier!”
Me: “Look, Herr Mac, you’re obviously deeply confused <and bone-deep stupid>. I DO NOT work here. I am a customer…”
LEW1: <to LEW2>: “Such insolence!” <to me> “You will immediately load these pipes and take them to the front…!”
Me: “No, I won’t. Listen carefully: I DO NOT WORK HERE.”
LEW1: “Load my pipes! Load my pipes Load my…”
Me: “Listen Chuckles, which word confuses you? I…DO…NOT…work here!”
LEW1: “I will have your job!” <doubtful, as it requires intelligence and the capability for independent thought> “I demand your manager! Fetch him now!”
Me: <exasperated> “I do not work here. I am not an employee of this establishment. I am a customer, and one who is tiring rapidly of dealing with you. Got that?”
LEW2: “Call the manager… Call the police…Call the manager…” <begins to ululate in that particularly annoying Middle Eastern fashion that resembles off-balance air-raid sirens; causing canines to howl uncontrollably and sheep to spontaneously detonate at 1000 meters.>
LEW1: <nearing apoplexy>”Load my pipes. Load them!” <all the time yanking on my shirt like I’m some delinquent adolescent (much like his unrestrained offspring currently upending everything in the paint department and playing catch with items from the Black & Decker display)> ”Load them! Load them! Load them!”
Me: <spying someone who actually is employed at this fine establishment> ”’Scuse me, but could you possibly help this ‘gentleman’? He seems to think I work here and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
HSW: “Yeah, certainly. OK (to LEW1), how can I help you?”
LEW1: “I do not want to talk to you. I want this insolent “ya weld elgahba” (i.e., ‘SOB’) to do what I tell him. Load my pipes…” ad infinitum.
HSW: “Sir, he doesn’t work here…”
LEW1: “I do not want to hear that. I do not care. I want my pipes loaded. Make him load my pipes…!”
Me: <to HSW> “I think it’s time you called your manager (or a zookeeper…).”
LEW1: “Load my pipes. Load them! Load them!”
LEW2: Ululate, ululate, ululate…<a wolly whoomph in the distance is heard…>
HSM: <a Brit and someone who seemingly will brook no nonsense> “Right, what’s all this then?”
Me: “Well, it seems that…”
LEW1: “SHUT UP! You will not speak! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
LEW2: Ululate, ululate, ululate…<bahhh….foom!>
Me: “Завершение ебать до вас мудак! <I wisely switch to Russian as in this benighted place, telling someone to perform autofertilization (i.e., “go fuck themselves”) or simply flipping someone off is reason enough to get you fined, jail time and deported if the flipee is a local. Nos hit!> Now, have I your attention?”
LEW1: <sputter> “What?” (Non-fratching note: many individuals of Arabic extraction are leery (read: scared shitless) of Eastern Europeans, and particularly more so of Russians (something about activities in land wars over the last 125 or so years in places like the Trans-Jordan, Trucial States and Afghanistan…)
Me: “I don’t work here. I don’t appreciate being pawed by you and I don’t appreciate being called a son of a bitch by a retard like you. <drawing up to full stature and getting right into his face, Middle Eastern style> Got that, Herr Mac? You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
LEW1: <to HSM> “Fire this insolent beast immediately. I demand you fire him, revoke his visa! Fire him! Fire him!”
LEW2: Ululate, ululate, ululate…
Me <to HSM> “This guy a broken record or what?”
HSM: “Unbelievable. Sir, I assure you he does not work here. He’s a customer just like you <Way to go, ace. Throw kerosene on that fire…>.”
LEW1: <to HSM> “Fire him! Fire him! Fire him!”
HSM: <to me, quietly> “Go with me on this…<louder> Right. You’re fired. Clear out your locker, hand in your cards and leave immediately…<wink, wink, nudge, nudge>!”
Me: <going along with the charade> “Oh, dear. Dear me. Whatever shall I do? Fired. Oh, the injustice! Oh, the unfairness. Oh me! Oh, my! Oh, forbear; the outrageous slings and arrows…”
LEW1: “That will teach the insolent dog. Now, you <to HSW> load my pipes and take them to the cashier.”
HSW grudgingly complies, LEW2 finally wears out her ululator as LEW1 and LEW2 waddle down the aisle, carefully avoiding the carnage provided by their charming little feral whelps.
HSM: “Sorry about that. Some people. Unbelievable. Thanks for putting up with all that…”
Me: “So. Fired, ‘eh…?”
HSM: “Yeah, sheesh, what a joke. Sorry…”
Me. “No worries <snort>. But there is one question: where do I pick up my severance package?”
HSM: <gobsmacked> “Wha…?”
Me: “Seriously; if nothing else, I think I’m in line for little hazardous duty pay.”
Well, most everyone went away happy from all this. LEW1 and LEW2 finally got their damned drip system pipes (PBUT…pox be unto them), LEWs 3-7 had a field day destroying the Black & Decker™ and Halloween displays and I got my new smoker and batch of accessories for 50% off list.
“♫ If it wasn’t for the money, I wouldn’t be here.
I’d be back home in the last frontier.
Getting away from all this culture shock,
listening to some Cheesehead talk… ♫”
Damn, I need a shot and a beer, or 8…
*30*
)
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