The Final Journey: Leaving the Land of Sand

The time finally came to say goodbye to Bahrain.  Orders to Parris Island received.  Packers packed and moved.  Kids withdrawn from school.  There was only one hitch in the giddy-up to get gone and his job title was “husband.”

From the time we got orders I was on him like white on rice to get our travel booked.  Everyone that knows me already knows that this, all by itself, was a process of hair-pulling, nail-biting, husband-slapping proportions.  Why?  I don’t know why.  What I do know is that if it can be made complicated, it will become complicated.

Two months ago…

“Babe, when do we get our travel arrangements out of Bahrain done?” I asked oh so innocently.

“I’ll talk to Gunny and find out.  It’ll probably be the rotator, though.”

The rotator.  That military sponsored fun-flight that leaves Bahrain on a certain day every week and hippity hops all over God’s earth before landing in Norfolk.  I didn’t want any part of it.  To my way of thinking, the Marine Corps flew us to Bahrain on a commercial flight, they could fly us back to the States on one.  Oh, and since they didn’t fund our FEML (Family Environmental Morale Leave), they owed me a commercial flight.  Not that they’d agree with me or anything.

“Talk to him, but tell him to at least try to get us on a commercial flight.  Do whatever you have to.  WHATEVER. YOU. HAVE. TO,” I responded.

I wasn’t asking him to break any laws, but I wanted him to do more than walk in the office and say, “My family is leaving.  Put ’em on a plane.”

One month ago…

“Any tickets yet?”  I asked slightly innocently.

“No, Gunny is still checking to see if you will be allowed to leave before me,” he said.

“I can.  Just get me some tickets.  If it has to be the rotator, so be it, but don’t make me leaving before you a big deal.  People do it all the time,” I responded.  He sighed, all put-out like.

It just so happened that around this time of infinite waiting on the Marine Corps that we attended a surprise party for my friend, Christina.  She finished her doctorate in physical therapy, so we went over there, and in the course of conversation (namely people asking when I was leaving and me rolling my eyes so hard there was some tension and strain to the movement and uttering “Not sure since someone hasn’t gotten me tickets yet”) that I learned from a friend, who also serves in the Navy, that the military can’t force dependents to fly the rotator when PCSing.  I was all over that information like a fat kid on the last cupcake.  She said she could provide that in writing, so I emailed her for the information and she emailed me back exactly what I need.

See, I’m a Marine Wife.  I’m proactive like that.  I’m not going to sit around and do nothing if I can support my husband by providing him the tools necessary to do my bidding.

I forwarded that information on to my husband and received no confirmation of it’s receipt.  There should always be confirmation of receipt.  It annoys me that he never does that.  For all I know stuff is lost in cyber space, because when it comes to me, he figures that if he has nothing to say or add to a conversation, then he says nothing at all.  If I text him “bring home milk.”  Do I get an “ok” back?  No.  He’ll just walk in the door with milk.  Usually.  However, sometimes he’ll be without and say, “Oh crap.  I forgot” or “I never got your text.”  But how am I supposed to know he did get something I send if he doesn’t respond back?  It’s a crapshoot, I tell ya’.

Three weeks ago…

“Oh, by the way, I spoke to the CO and he’s cool with y’all leaving before me,” he said.

“Well that’s mighty kind of him,” I sarcastically responded.  “So, now can I get some tickets?”

“Gunny is checking on the commercial thing.  I’m not sure if they’ll do it or not.”

“Babe, you do realize that I want to leave after school lets out and the rotator flies out the day after school lets out.  Do you know how busy that’ll be?  Plus, I sent you the order that says I don’t have to fly the rotator and they can’t make me.  What did you do with that?”  See, now I’m just irritated and not saying anything innocently.

“Can you resend that?  I’m not sure what I did with it,” he said.

Annnnnnd, there it is.  No confirmation of receipt means I have to resend it.  So I did.  That second.

At this point, we had arrived at the phase where I asked him about my tickets daily.  He went from humoring me with answers to eye rolling to getting snippy with responses like, “I will deal with it” or “I’ll $%&# handle it.”

Geez.  Moody much?

HAHAHAHAHAHA!  Yes, I can be that little devil on your left shoulder when I want to be.

Two weeks ago…

“Seriously, where the hell are my plane tickets?”  I asked in a very annoyed fashion.

“I’m working on it.  I have to wait for approval.”

“APPROVAL FROM WHO?” I yell.

“From HQMC.”  HQMC.  Headquarters Marine Corps.  Whyyyyyyyyy?  For the love of God, whyyyyyyyyy?  Does my leaving Bahrain really require the input from headquarters?

Yes.  Yes it does.

Then it happened.  Wednesday night, one week to the day before I actually left Bahrain, we were sitting around the house when a text message came through on my husband’s work leash (aka:  the Blackberry).  He said, “Hon, just got the official approval.”

“Approval?”  I asked.

“Yup.  Approval for y’all to leave and to fly commercial.  Now we can get the tickets booked.”

“And they’ll fly me to Dallas?  Did you check that part?” I asked.

“Oh, they’ll only fly you to SC, but we can take them over to SATO (travel office) and see if they’ll change them to Dallas.”

I was so excited.  So happy.  I blasted it out on Facebook.  I told all my friends.  I almost hired a skywriter to put it in the sky above Manama, but I restrained myself.  I’m almost positive the clouds did part, though, and the Heavenly choir sang for me.  I heard him on the phone talking to Gunny about getting our tickets ordered.

Then it happened.  His radio went off.

Radio?

Yeah.  Work thing.  Not good.  Just so you know, happy news is delivered over the phone.  Shitty news is sent by alert over his radio. Okay, and also by phone.  The phone thing is hit or miss.

That was Wednesday, June 11, 2014.  Check your local news archives for more details, but to simplify, Iraq hit the world stage again.

I hosted a barbecue the very following Friday evening, and my husband showed up at the tail end, grabbed a plate, ate whatever was left, and went promptly back to the office.

On Saturday night, he called me at home at 8:30 PM to ask me to deliver food to him at his office, like I’m the Hungerline deliver boy.  Whatever.  And, yes, of course I took him some food.  I’m not that callous.  He had irritated me for almost two months over my tickets, but I still love him.

Got to the office and his new 1stSgt’s first impression of me, I don’t think, was a good one.  Because he walked in just after the man had asked me for a favor, and I was busy ripping him a new one over my tickets, and I think the new guy might have heard something like, “Let me get this straight.  You want me to do you a favor but I don’t have any damn tickets off this rock yet?  Is that right?  Am I hearing this correctly?  I mean, if I’m wrong, please correct me, because you know I just hate to be wrong, and you know you just love to correct me, so favors but no tickets yet, right?”

Or something close to that.  I was seeing red so I might have a word or two wrong.

It’s also entirely possible that I had a snarky comment or two, but one that was uttered for sure was, “I’m gettin’ real tired of Iraq inconveniencing my life.”

And yes, that was meant to be a joke, not only to him, but to you, my audience.  So don’t take that simple statement and attempt to crucify me for being completely insensitive.  In this business, sometimes you need a sense of humor.  It’s either laugh or cry.  He took it as it was intended.  Hardy-har-har.

And he swore I’d have tickets on Sunday.

Sunday.

I said, “You really know how to cut it close.  If I have to take those tickets to SATO to get them changed to Dallas, and I’m leaving on the 19th (Thursday), this is really cutting it close.”

“Oh, it won’t be the 19th.  It’ll be the 20th.  I think that’s the date I requested.”

Honestly?  After the 2-month nag session he didn’t even put the date on the request that I wanted?  Did that really just happen?

Oh.  It did.

“But babe, I swear you’ll have tickets on Sunday.”

Only a wife would pile on the grief while the husband is so busy with world events that he hasn’t even slept.  And only a wife would feel no pity over that.  I was out of pity.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I did feel bad for him.  He was swamped.  He needed sleep.  It is just that he was stressed with work, but I was stressed with trying to get our family moved back to the U.S, and the timing of those two things crashing into each other head-on was really crummy.  Sometimes, that’s just the way it is.  Murphy doesn’t give 2 plug nickels about your life, your schedule, or what is convenient or not for you.

But the hubby came through and on Sunday afternoon, he called to tell me he had my itinerary.

Yes!  Thank you, baby Jesus.

I promptly called SATO to if they’d be able to change my final destination from Charleston, SC to Dallas, TX.  Oh, and just so you know, procrastination is not a word I’m personally familiar with, unless talking about my husband.   I mean, it’s the Sunday before I was set to take flight.  Stuff needed doing.  I needed to manipulate the course of events.  My call to SATO was placed while sitting in my hair stylist’s chair, getting my hair done.

I get my hair colored, so that was fun.  I had goop all over my head, and a phone to my ear, pen in my hand, talking to the agent at SATO.

Goop be darned, though, I was victorious!

In the words of William Wallace in Braveheart, “They may take our lives, but they will never take…our FREEEEDOM!”

I got my tickets not only changed from Charleston to Dallas, but also instead of flying out on the 20th, we wound up flying out on the 18th.  The last day of school.

Because that’s how I roll.

My final week in Bahrain included either breakfast or lunch each and every single day with friends.  It was a reminder of the connections and friendships developed over the last two years.  It was the farewell tour to all the wonderful places to eat and kick back in Bahrain.  It was a long goodbye.

Packers showed up once again to pack the last of our things, leaving our villa empty except for the clothes my husband needed and the furniture provided by the landlord.

After working almost continually from Wednesday, June 11 until Tuesday, June 17th, my husband was finally able to come home and spend a few hours with us.  The night we left for the airport, we had one last meal at CoCo’s.

We got to the airport and up to the ticket counter where I had one last hurrah in the way of arguing with a service person before leaving Bahrain.  Had to go out with a bang, right?  Right.  According to the airline website, active duty and dependents traveling on PCS orders are allowed to have up to 4 checked bags per person.  4.  Four.  For 4 of us traveling, we had 7 checked bags.  We got up to the counter and he asked how many bags we had, my husband said, “They have 7.”

“You are each allowed one” he said with a bit of a ‘tude.

Um, drop the ‘tude,  Dude.

I said, “We are PCSing, on orders, and your website clearly says we’re each allowed 4.”

“Do you have your orders?”

I said, “Yup” and literally slapped them on the counter.

He kind of got pissy and said, “Can I see your ID?”

I said, “Yup” and literally slapped it on the counter.

He didn’t say another word except to tell us to start giving them the baggage.  When he finished with printing our boarding passes, I asked, “Are our seats together?  Because it’s just me with three kids.”

His answer?  “Yes.”

He still had a tone.  I sensed a tone.  I didn’t care.  He can cram his tone where the sun doth not shineth.

We said goodbye to dad at the security gate and went on our merry way.  My youngest cried all the way through the security checkpoint.  She was very sad to leave her daddy behind.  We all were.  If we’d had our way, he would have been leaving with us, as he should have been.  Leaving in June, that is.  He really should have left in June.

And in the spirit of Bahrain being a small island, wouldn’t you know that we shared a plane with friends from Bahrain to Frankfurt, Germany?  My friend, Terry, was also PCSing, sans her husband, with her three kids, so we had friends to hang out with at the gate and during our layover in Frankfurt.

That’s how it’s done for those stationed in the Land of Sand…always with friends.  Even the leaving.

23 hours of flight time later, we landed at the Dallas/Ft. Worth International Airport, and with impeccable timing, my in-laws, brother-in-law, and my mom arrived just as we were walking out of the customs check point.

Back in Dallas, where our journey 2 years ago began.

For as long as I live, I will never forget these two years in Bahrain.  I will never forget my utter shock when finding out we were going there.  I will never forget what it was like to learn to drive around Bahrain.  I will never forget exploring all the new places, learning new things.  I will never forget the people and the friends made there.

I’m not a summer person.  I don’t like being hot.  It’s funny now, looking back, that when we found out we were going to Bahrain, the first thing I dreaded was the impending, oppressive heat of living in the desert of the Middle East.  I mean, I named my blog after that notion.  Summer 365: A Journey in the Land of Sand.  I did acclimate a little, but at the end of the journey, looking back already, it’s not the heat I will remember the most.  It is the sense of community and bonds formed that will never be broken.  I’m tearing up now just thinking about that.

Going forward in life, if anyone ever asks me if I regret it, the answer will be no.  If another military family asks me if they should take the orders to Bahrain, the answer will be yes.  Embrace the opportunity.  I know I never regretted it.  I will look back fondly on my time in Bahrain.  I’ll look through my pictures and maybe even these old blog entries, and I’ll smile, and I’ll laugh, and I’ll cry.

Life is a journey, and it is a short one.  Don’t just stick to the highways and byways that you know and are comfortable with.  Sometimes, take the detour.  See where it’ll take you.  You never know.  That could wind up being the journey of a lifetime!

I know mine was.

Reality Sets In

Two weeks left of my grand adventure overseas.  Can you believe it?  Can you believe it’s been two years or is it just me?  Am I the only one living in a state of denial?

It can’t possibly be true, but it is, and while staring at my calendar after working on our household budget for the next couple of weeks, reality slapped me upside the face with a cast iron skillet.

I mean, what the hell, Reality?  Why ya’ gotta be like that?  See?  It’s stuff like that, right there, that’s why no one likes you.

Now don’t roll your eyes and ask what I’m ranting about now, because this isn’t a rant.

I have enjoyed so much lazy time while in Bahrain.  Honestly, I laze about like you read about.  Or like I read about, because <HAHAHAHAHAHA> I read like I get paid for it.  Full time, with rockin’ benefits.  And when I’m not doing that I’m twisting the arms of friends to do things with me like shop, have lunch or brunch, and yup.  Go to the spa.  I never did that in the states. It cost too much, but that’s just not true in Bahrain.  Here’s the lowdown in Sandtown…groceries are expensive, clothes are expensive, but gas is cheap and services are affordable.    Part of the Reality Smackdown is the sudden realization that I’m soon returning to the States and things I spend money on are about to do a 180.  Groceries will be affordable, clothes (comparatively speaking) will be affordable, but gas and services are gonna hit me in the solar plexus.  And I’ll be drowning in a car payment.  Okay, “drowning” is a little strong, but I’ve had no car payments for more than 6 months, so it’ll feel like it at first, okay?  Being in Bahrain has meant income-tax free, COLA (cost of living allowance), OHA (overseas housing allowance), and other little extra allowances.  Believe me, all of that has been necessary to afford rent and food, but it’s also provided a cushion to grow our savings, take a couple of truly amazing family vacations, and purchase beautiful pieces of furniture and rugs that will potentially be family heirlooms in a couple of generations.  Going back to the States is going to mean a copious amount of tears when the paycheck is refigured.  That’s the skillet slap I referred to earlier.  But having said all of that, that’s not even the biggest reality check I face.

I spent the most glorious day this past Saturday with girlfriends at the spa.  No, this did not involve naked time in a Moroccan bath.  This was all about massages and facials and time in the pool while Abdul the pool boy fetched us drinks.  In the States, my pool boy’s name is often hispanic and changes frequently.  Sometimes he’s Enrique.  Sexy, right? Roll your “r” with me.  Enrrrrrrrrique.  Yes, he’s a total figment of my overactive imagination, but Enrique is a young 20-something stud muffin, with killer eyes and hair, and his only mission in life is to bring me drinks by my imaginary pool and fan me with big palm fronds, because I’m a delicate flower who needs to stay cool why staying rested by the crystal blue water.  I’m happily married, you gutter-thinkers, so that’s Enrique’s only job, okay?  Geez.   Sometimes the pool boy’s name is Pablo.  Pablo is very suave.  He cleans the pool and the pool house, so I don’t have to.  That keeps my time freed up so I can sit in my chaise lounge with a good book, and pretend the world doesn’t exist outside my pool area.

But Abdul was real at the spa on Saturday.  I’m just not sure that’s his real name, but just go with it for the purpose of enjoying my tale, okay?  Rolllllll with it.

The spa we visited was at the Intercontinental Hotel, and it was (as my son said yesterday), “Fabu.”  Fab-oooo.  Fabulous.  We arrived, selected what kinds of massages and/or facials we wanted.  We were given drink concoctions made of ginger, honey, and lemon grass, which I must confess sounds like something hippies drink, but if that’s true, well, slap me in tie-dye, braid my hair, and call me Moonbeam, because it was delicious.  The key to a good spa day is letting go.  Sure, feel free to burst out in song right now…”Let it gooooo, let it gooooo, can’t hold it back any mooooore….”   And boy did I relax.  I think I fell asleep a couple of times during the facial.  And I’m not embarrassed about it.  Why would I be?  This is what you do at the spa.  After my treatments I met up with friends by the pool where we enjoyed some sun, drinks, and conversation before heading to lunch at a restaurant in the hotel called Selections.  It was a buffet, but this ain’t no Furr’s or Luby’s cafeteria.  It was delish.

Look at me.  Look at what I’m becoming.  “Fabu” and “Delish.”   They are apt adjectives that can be used to describe the state of my stress-free Saturday, though.

Bahrain has been two years of living a life I’ll never have a chance to live again.  If you think to judge me for acting like I belong on a new hit reality TV show called “The Real Military Housewives of Bahrain,” well don’t.  The real story is that we take our fun where we can get it.  We take our moments when we can.  Bahrain has been new, it’s been tiring, it’s been exciting, it’s been claustrophobic.  It’s been all of these things all rolled into one.  During our tenure in Bahrain, my children have learned what a Molotov cocktail is, what tear gas smells like, what a tire fire looks like, and how to spot a car full of Saudi men picking up a hooker on the street corner.  We’ve put up with entire weekends being taken from us in the name of “safety” because that weekend happened to fall on the anniversary of some clash between Shiite muslims and local government, and protests abounded.  There’ve been many occasions when I’ve made plans with those same girlfriends to go shopping only to discover the souq or the mall is temporarily off limits due to the potential for protests.

None of these things have ever been aimed at Americans, and I’ve never felt unsafe in Bahrain, but what it did do was make me gain a profound respect and appreciation for the freedoms I have in the U.S. I’m not talking about Constitutional rights and political freedoms.  It wasn’t the Bahraini government telling us where we can and can’t go.  It was just safety protocol of the State Department and/or base.  I’m talking about the everyday ability to do what you please simply because you’re a grown up.  My daily life in the States has never, not once, been affected by anything even similar to what I’ve experienced while living in Bahrain.  I never got a text from the school that buses would be late with my kids because they were leaving the school late, and the reason they’re late is because they’re waiting for MOI (Ministry of the Interior–government police) to put out a tire fire or break up a protest, even though the text will read “Buses have been delayed due to traffic congestion.”  I was never told I couldn’t go to a movie on opening Friday night, because that neighborhood is currently banned due to safety concerns.  I never, not once, received an email or text telling me to stay home until further notice.  Think about it for a minute.  Imagine going about your daily life, getting ready to go to Walmart, and then you get a text that says, “Stay away from Walmart.”  Imagine having spent a month planning your child’s birthday bash only to have to cancel because no one can come due to “restricted travel.”  Your first thought is going to be , “WTF?” followed closely by, “Who the heck does so-and-so think they are to tell me what I can and can’t do today?  I had plans, dang it.”  It’s those sorts of everyday, mundane things.  Until a higher power yanks that from you, even once, you don’t even realize you had it to begin with.

After my first year in Bahrain, I got used to all that, and so does everyone else.  It might even sound worse than it is, but living in Bahrain, at the complete and utter indulgence and invitation of the U.S. Military, you realize that not only are you the child to their parent, and you have to follow the rules that are there only for your best interests, but you are in the same boat as every military family stationed here right alongside you.  It bands you together, and you become close.  And you discover you live in a fish bowl.

Someone asked me recently what I’ll miss most about my time in Bahrain, and hands down, without giving it a thought, the answer was quick and automatic.  The friends I’ve made here.  I’m not in a combat zone.  I’m not at war.  However, the kinship that’s developed is unlike anything I’ve experienced at any other duty station.  There’s always someone willing to keep you company, celebrate with the highs with you, and help you shoulder your burdens.  I’m quite content with my own company, and I still enjoy my alone time.  Back in San Antonio, and Jacksonville before that, I would often go to the coffee shop or go to lunch by myself with a book for company.  I’d go and peruse the shelves at the bookstore for a couple of hours.  No company required.  And while I enjoy that, I’m also very extroverted and enjoy being social.  My husband told me a few months ago that I was going to have withdrawals when I leave Bahrain and don’t have so many friends to do stuff with at a moment’s notice.  Yes, I’ll make friends at the next stop, but that’s not the point.  I’m going to miss my friends in Bahrain.  It’s that simple.

So while spa day was relaxing and fun, it hit me that soon I’m going to say goodbye to something that’s become very near and dear to me.  The friends I’ve made here that have become lifelong friends.

Going back to the States will be exciting.  I look forward to the homecoming.  I look forward to seeing family.  I’m anxious to establish yet another new home in a new community.  But the reality is that no community will ever compare to the community that became a second family in Bahrain.  I’ll cherish these memories forever, and I refuse to say “goodbye.”

Instead, I’m going to say this:  Reality sucks, and the friends that I’ve made here in Bahrain will always be welcomed with open arms wherever I call home.  We will see each other again, and that’s a reality I can live with.

Unwanted Houseguest

You know when people play games like 20 Questions or you take some innocuous quiz and you get asked, “Dogs or cats?”  Well, I’m a cat person.  Big time.  I love cats.  Love ’em.  They’re fiercely independent, they’re clean, they’re easy to teach to use a litter box, and they keep pests away.

So, how in the heck do I have three dogs?  Oh, riiiiight.  Because I have three kids.  Four if you count my husband when he’s in a lively mood.  No, that’s not an insult to him, but he is the one responsible for teaching the aforementioned children how to shoot spit wads.  And thanks for that, Love of My Life.

Three dogs.  I don’t care for dogs.  I don’t hate them, but they were never my first choice of pet.  Now, make no mistake, I happen to love our dogs, but how did it happen that I have three of them and no cats?

When my oldest was three years old, we moved to Albuquerque, and she decided she wanted a puppy.  I mean, what three year old doesn’t want a puppy?  However, she’d been saying that for a year, and I held firm.  No.  No puppies.  I must be the Puppy Grinch, but let’s keep it real, shall we?

We all know that when your young children get a pet the responsibility inevitably falls to mom and dad, and in my case, mom.  Me.  Hello!  The lady that doesn’t care for dogs.  The short of it is that I got overruled by a three year old, a pair of puppy dog eyes, and a husband freshly returned home from a deployment.  I never had a chance, did I?

Oh, the man promised he’d house train the dog.  He promised to take him to obedience classes and train him up good and proper.  Um, well, none that ever happened because he was on recruiting duty, which meant he was never home, and I know less than zero about training a dog.  So, after a week of being inside the house, chewing everything I owned, attempting to tear up my furniture, and leaving me “presents” all over the house, I opened up the backdoor one day and said, “Danny Boy, get out.”  Danny is 12 years old now, and for all these years he’s been relegated to being a yard dog.

As for the other two dogs, they’re Chihuahuas.  Not my first, second, or even third choice for a pet, but they’re cute.  My youngest daughter was either two or three when that blasted movie, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, came out.  She saw it, and all I ever heard after that was, “I want a Chee-wow-wow.”

At least then, daddy was on board the “NO” train with me.  Actually, he was the engineer of that particular train.  Calling Chihuahuas “yap dogs,” “ankle biters,” and just in general, obnoxious little dogs.  So, again, how did I wind up with two?

God laughed at me, that’s how.  Christmas Day 2010, the kids were in the front yard of our San Antonio home and they wondered into the yard.  After a trip to the vet to check to see if they were chipped, the rest is history.  And there you have it.  Three dogs.  I do wonder if we’d said “yes” to the youngest getting a Chihuahua when she initially asked if God would have smiled and not saddled me with two.

Am I being hateful?  I hope you don’t think so, because I don’t mean to be.  We love those dogs.  Albeit, I’ve come to love the Chihuahuas immensely, especially the gray male we dubbed Rufus.  He’s epileptic and has other health problems, but maybe that’s why I find him so endearing.  He’s a cuddle bug and he needs me.  Chloe, the blonde Chi is a diva.  And Danny, the Lab-mix mutt, well, he’s such a good dog.  He’s very easy-going.  Always has been.

When we moved to Bahrain, we opted to leave our dogs behind in Texas for a few reasons.  Danny went to stay with my brother-in-law and niece, and the Chihuahuas went to stay with  my brother.  They’ve had good care, and I hope a good time.  We’ll be getting the dogs back when we return to the States, and the kids can’t wait!

Having said all of that, now you know that I’m not anti-pet.  I like animals.  But I have enough.  Three is more than plenty, and the pet deposit I’m paying for our rental home in South Carolina confirms that.   Oy.  $250 per pet.  I should make the children cough up that money.  Only now, my daughters have decided to start harassing me into letting them get gerbils when we get back to the States.

Gerbils.

Not no, but HELL no.

They even put together a Power Point presentation on all the whys and hows of it.  (Thank you to those responsible for teaching the youth of today about Power Point.  <——sarcasm)

I told them no.  They persisted.  I told them to talk to their dad.  They didn’t even finish asking the question when he said, “Nope.”

They’ve begged.  They’ve pleaded.   The answer is still no.

(Please do not let two gerbils show up on my porch on some holiday in the future with sad eyes begging for a home.  That wouldn’t be funny.)

My kids love animals.  All animals.  And I know this is true, because while we didn’t bring our pets with us to Bahrain for a few reasons, it seems we have a critter that has shown up and refuses to leave.

A lizard.

A small, freaky deaky lizard.

Meet the reptile that’s invaded my space. He’s tiny. Yup, that’s him. That speck at the top of the wall.

My husband and I were sitting on the couch watching TV one night when I spied something at the top of the wall, near the ceiling.  Crap!  Is that a lizard?  Yes.  Yes it was.

“Um, Babe, there’s a freaking lizard up on the wall,” I said.

He said, “Huh.  So it is.”

I said, “Well, do you think you could deal with it?”

My nearest and dearest’s response?  “Nah.  He’ll eat any bugs that might be around.”

There’s two things about his response that bother me.  “Nah” and “bugs.”

I just glared at him, meanwhile, as the TV show is playing this lizard starts making his way around the room.  Like he’s circling a race track.

Yeah, it bothered me.  When we lived in North Carolina, we’d get the occasional lizard in the house, but I was always able to shoo them back outside with a broom.  Not this time.  It won’t come down from near the ceiling.  I think it’s using my air vents as a travel portal, because one day he’ll be in one room, and the next, he’ll be somewhere totally different.  I never know where his little ass will show up, and that disturbs me too.

A fuzzy, but zoomed in shot of the unwanted houseguest.

I mentioned the lizard to the kids, and what did my oldest say?

“Yeah!  Ricky!  We know about him.”

Good grief.  They named him?  Am I the only one that has a problem with this unwanted houseguest?

It would appear so.

To quote my friend, Kris, on this, “unless he speaks with a cute British accent and is trying to sell me car insurance” he needs to get ghost.  Get out.  Find a new hovel to call home.

A few days ago, I woke up and as part of my normal routine, I came downstairs and started opening up the drapes.  (I like natural light, whereas my husband and son could live like vampires).  I went to reach for the pull string at the window next to the front door, and jumped out of my frigging skin.  There was “Ricky.”  Geeeeeeeez!  I’m awake, I’m awake!  So like any modern woman, I did what most of us would do.  After my heart stopped fluttering, I took a picture.  HAHA!  No matter the event, disaster, or scary moment, we always pause to take a picture, don’t we?

He scared the crap out of me. Dammit, Ricky! Get a job, get your own place!

He won’t leave.  I’m becoming resigned to the fact that he’s never leaving.  He might outlast us all.  And I seem to be the only one that even cares he’s here.

You know the Elf on a Shelf at Christmas?  Yeah, that creepy little doll that parents move around in the night and the kids have to find him the next morning.  I got sucked into that, by the way, but that’s an entirely different blog post.  Anyway, Ricky has become a game like that to my kids.  Every. Dang. Morning…”Where’s Ricky?”  “Anyone seen Ricky?”  “I wonder where we’ll find Ricky today.”

Help me.

Please help me.

They’ve named it.  They’re forming some sort of weird bond to it.

Yet all I can think is “there is a disgusting reptile from outside now taking up residence in my house.”  You wouldn’t find it cute if it were a mouse.  Or a snake.

Okay, let me just say if it were a snake, I’d burn this mother to the ground, cement or not.  This place would be toast.  I hate snakes.  Hate them.  They aren’t cute.  They aren’t cuddly.  They have no legs.  They are straight-up evidence that while God makes everything and everyone, not all of it is particularly good.  At least not to me.  Snakes=evil, as far as I’m concerned.

But I digress.  I hope you see my point.  At any rate, I’ve only got a couple of weeks left in Bahrain, but before the kids even go there, let me state for the record, Ricky is staying in Bahrain.  He better not hitch a ride in the suitcase of any of my children.  I want to take a moment to threaten something, but I have no idea what.  I got nuthin’.

Just know that if he wants the house, he can have the house.  I quit.  My only advice to Ricky:  I hope you can make a good living selling car insurance, because you’ll need it to pay the rent.

The Inevitable Hit to the Pocketbook

I’ll just be up front with you.  I have two blogs going and I didn’t know where to put my latest ramblings, but I decided that since I’m sitting on my cozy couch in the Bahrain desert, I’d put it here.

My family’s time in Bahrain is really starting to spiral downward.  Like flushing paper down the toilet.  Starts out kinda slow, then WHOOSH!  Gone!  Did ya’ like that analogy?  No?   Then you should really loosen up.  And if you did, well, hey there!  Welcome to the Gutter, where our brand of humor is of the frat-boy, kegger party variety.  I’m Stacey, and I’ll be your guide.

Oops.  Sorry.  My bad.  Got off track again.  My point.  I know there’s one here somewhere.

Time.  It’s slipping by.  I’ve marked a lot of things off my check list since we last met here in cyberspace.  The packers have packed up most of our things.  I’ve notified the schools that the kids will be withdrawing at the end of the school year.  My request for travel (aka: plane tickets) has been submitted, though I’m still waiting on that, so I have no actual travel itinerary yet.  We have found a house to lease in South Carolina.  We’ve notified the moving company and storage company of said new address.  My calendar has been filling up with end-of-school year activities.  Did you know there were so many different awards programs, plays, dinners, suppers, banquets, requests for blood samples and DNA before the school year could end?

No?

Well, me either, or more specifically, I seem to forget that fact every year.  But there is.  There’s a lot of stuff!

I’m happy to be heading back to the States.  I am.  Honest.  But as I’m checking things off the list, I’m also thinking about what will be going onto the relocation check list for when I’m stateside.  What am I talking about you ask?

Oh.  You know.  All the money I’m going to hemorrhage.  The money will just pour, and not in my favor.  No, no.  It won’t be like some glorious movie scene of the beautiful, breathtaking woman standing beneath an invigorating waterfall, as her hair is washed back and she sighs in bliss.  Nah.  I’m thinking more like standing in a Moroccan bath as the attendant hits you in the face with a water hose.

Now see, it is fair to say that the military pays for our move, so I don’t have to worry about actual moving expenses.  No moving company, no rental truck, nothing like that.  We just have to pay for everything else.  It is also fair to say that the military gives us a small allowance for what should over out-of-pocket moving expenses, like hotel stays while we are displaced from our home, for example, but also just “stuff” because they know it costs to move.  That kind of thing.  However, there’s just a lot of, well, crap that comes up when you move.  Stuff you really don’t think too much about until you are staring down the barrel of the PCS rifle.

What am I talking about?  Well, come with me and I will explain.

We have to have a place to live, right?  That means either buying or renting, and since we currently already own something, we are renting our next home.  Security deposits and pet deposits are not covered as moving expenses by good ol’ Uncle Sam, although the allowance we receive when we move will help offset this.  I say offset because it might not pay for it all or you might have more time in a hotel than anticipated, so you have to budget to cover this yourself, if you’re at all responsible.  I’m not bitter.  Nah.  This is just a fact of life.  So securing a house is Expense 1.

My husband and I have owned the same boxed springs and mattress for the duration of our marriage, plus some.  So 14 years. And I looooove it.  Love it.  I’m greedy about it.  I remember Oprah telling us via her show that they’re good for about 6-7.  Well, Oprah, dang it, woman!  I’ve had other priorities.  However, to ditch weight AND because of their age, my husband and I decided we would not take our current set back to the States with us.  Nope.  So we’re buying a new set.  Expense 2.

The Marine Corps only offered to pay to ship one of our vehicles to Bahrain when we moved here, and because our family car, a Ford Expedition was getting on up there in mileage, we sold it before moving.  That means my family only has one mode of transportation, and that just won’t do Stateside.  Nope.  So, I’m buying a new car when I get back this summer.  A NEW CAR!  I’m by turns excited (okay, I freely admit I’m really frickin’ excited) about a new car and a little green in the gills about having a new car payment, plus, the money that will bleed out of my bank account in the form of a down payment.  EEK!  Expense 3.

Since I started having our truck serviced in Bahrain, I’ve learned something.  My mechanic believes that rotating tires on a vehicle is unnecessary and frivolous, and has yet to do it, despite my directions.  I stopped telling him to do it when he said, “Okay, madam.  Fine, fine.  I’ll just move that one there and that one over there.  Criss cross.  Fine fine.”

No, not fine fine.  You don’t just willy-nilly move tires around.  There is an actual pattern to each different make and model, and honestly, it disturbs me that I know more about this than the mechanic.  (Quick!  Is my redneck showing?)  What it boils down to is that for 2 years, our truck tires, which were brand new before shipping the truck, haven’t been rotated.  Not once.  What happens when you don’t rotate your tires at least every other oil change?  Right.  Uneven wear and tear.  I anticipate needing new tires on my husband’s truck within a couple of months after its return.  Expense 4.

My 11-year old son is going to be a big boy.  I’ve said that since he was 2 years old.  He was a long baby.  He was a tall toddler.  Then he became average, and then he shot up several inches over the last 2 years.  What’s this mean?  It’s time he got a new bed, which leads to a bedroom suit, because, well, he’s never had a new bedroom suit.  Not since I bought his crib.   Is this a required expense?  No.  Not according to my husband, the warden of our checking account jail cell, but in reality, I’m the keeper of the home and hearth, the nest if you please, and I say the boy needs new furniture.  I factored that into the budget 2 years ago.  So, when we get back, he needs new digs.  Something he can grow into and be able to use for years to come.  So, babe, though you never read my blog, just know that means Ikea is out.  Bedroom furniture is Expense 5.

I’m a TV ho.  Ours is outdated.  Nuff’ said.  I’m buying a new one.  I don’t really feel I owe anyone, including the warden, an explanation for this.  Expense 6, frivolous though it is.

In addition to my old mattress set, my bedding set is old and torn up.  And with Brayden getting a new bed, his current stuff won’t fit.  That means new bedding sets.  I have a feeling the girls are going to whine and complain, too.  However, I’m first.  Cuz’ I’m the mom.  Brayden’s next, because of Expense 5.  The girls can talk to Santa.  New bedding.  Expense 7.

As you may already know, 90% of my worldly possessions have been sitting in a non-climate controlled storage facility in San Antonio for two years.  Leather furniture, along with what was a 6-month old washer and dryer set.  I’m a little nervous about that.  Yeah, those things are supposed to be covered by the moving company, and though I’ll double check this, I believe also by my renter’s insurance policy, but I’m still nervous.  At the VERY least, I’m anticipating replacing hoses on the washing machine.  At the very least.  If the seals on the set are shot, though, I might suddenly find myself perpetrating a jail break for some cash to buy yet another new set.  And I love my current set.  I didn’t go with the front loaders.  I think they’re over-hyped.  Nope.  Mine was a top loader with a stainless steel tub, no center agitator, energy efficient, with bleach and softener dispensers, all sorts of settings that requires a mastery in engineering to navigate, and that’s just the washing machine.  *sigh*  Let me keep it simple here:  replacing damaged, destroyed, lost, or stolen items from 2 years in storage…Expense 8.

I’ve also got to do things like get utilities turned on, reestablish our cell phone service, register the truck and get it inspected, etc.  I use Etcetera, because I’m quite certain there’s a thousand other things I am forgetting right now that will spring up and slap me in the face like a rabid Jack-in-the-Box.  Let’s just call these “re-establisment incidentals” and slap Expense 9 on it.

Finally, while maybe 5% of our belongings came with us to Bahrain, the last 5% remained with family in Texas, because I didn’t want to risk sending it overseas or leaving it in storage.  That means for the drive from Texas to South Carolina in my new car this summer, we’ll have to rent a moving trailer. Not huge, but big enough.  Expense 10.

That’s what I’ve got going on right now.  You know how just before you really let loose on a flood of tears, you might get that lip quiver, eye-fluttering, trying-to-prevent them falling thing going on?  You’re trying hard not to cry.  Don’t cry.  Do not cry.  I will not cry.  Crap.  I’m going to cry.  

That’s what my pocketbook is doing.  It’s trying not to.  Trying valiantly, but in the end, it is going to cry like a Texas beauty queen being crowned this years Gertrude County Peach and Watermelon Festival Queen.  Tears.  Mascara runneth.  It’ll be ugly.  But in the end, there’s a shiny crown and a satiny sash.  Aka:  a house to call home, a new car in the garage, a blissful new mattress and soft bedding.  Etcetera.

Why don’t recruiters put all this in the brochure?

Join the military!  See the world!  Serve with pride! 

Oh, and sell a kidney, because we’re going to move you every couple three years and you are going to wish you got paid a senator’s salary in order to just break even at the end of all of that.  Hope your spouse is independently wealthy, because your military service paycheck is going to feel like a pittance for a hobby when we’re done with you.  But, as a parting gift, here’s a lovely straw to suck it up with.  

Semper Gumby!

No?  Hmm.  I thought that was advertising gold!  Darn.

Packing Out—Our Bahraini Moving Company Experience

Permanent Change of Station.  PCS.  If you follow my blog, by now you know what that means.  We’re moving.  For the last week, I’ve purged through the belongings we brought with us to Bahrain, I’ve sorted, I’ve trashed, I’ve separated.  Oh, and I also built a bonfire in our little landlord provided hibachi grill, burning lots of old, no longer necessary documents.  Burn, baby, burn!  Pass the marshmallows.

I spent the two days prior to the movers showing up at my villa turning my dining room into the “Kitchen Forward” zone.  Why?  No, I have not lost my mind.  I just happen to know something about moving, since I do it often enough.  For instance, I know that I have more crap in my kitchen than all the other rooms combined, with the exception of my youngest child’s bedroom, and that’s only because she’s still young enough to have more toys than a Chinese toy factory.   Honestly, why?  It’s not like she plays with half of them, but let’s not get started down that road.  I’ve traveled that road with every single move, and it never ends well. *shivers*  I also know that when you move overseas or move back to the States from living overseas, you have two pack outs.  The first is your HHG (HouseHold Goods) and the second is the Express or Unaccompanied Baggage.  To make this easy to understand, the Express is all the stuff you need up until you depart your abode and the stuff you need immediately upon moving in to the next abode.  It travels by air, and gets to the next destination much faster.  The HHG…well, that’s all the crap you have that you move with you everywhere you.  I shouldn’t say crap.  It’s your stuff.  It’s the stuff that makes your house homey.  The Express shipment is limited in the weight allowance.  The active duty member in Bahrain is allowed 600 pounds of goods. Each dependent is allowed an additional 200 pounds.  Thus our family of five can pack 1200 pounds into our Express shipment, and that, boys and girls, means that my entire kitchen can not possibly go the Express route.  After all, we’ll still have linens and entertainment items that keep us sane while still living here.  So, I divided my kitchen up.  Most items are going via HHG.  To make this entire pack out day simpler, I spent the day prior taking all the stuff I needed the packers to pack and put it in the dining room.  It was time consuming, but I figured it was better than spending the entire day in the kitchen saying, “yes that” or “no, not that.”

Kitchen Forward. The piles of stuff around my dining room. Every surface was covered, including the floor.

Oh, and here’s where I insert a little diddy about my teenager commenting that I didn’t do much to prepare for this move.  She knows everything.  After all, she’s 14.  She didn’t see all the paperwork I sorted.  She didn’t see all the clothes I sorted and separated, the books I went through, the toys, the movies, the games.  Nope.  I didn’t do that much.

The big day arrived at 8:30 AM.  A crew of 5, to start with.  A couple more folks showed up a few hours later.  The crew was comprised of TCNs (Third Country Nationals), and I want to take a moment to state that before their arrival, one of my biggest dreads about it was the potential for impending Body Odor Offendus.  You think I’m being snide?  I’m not.  It’s a reality in the desert.  It’s already hot in Bahrain, and that means that the sun is out, the temperature is up, and the body odor is overwhelming.  However, I was pleasantly “not offended.”

Wow.  What am I doing with my life if not being offended by body odor rates a special mention in this blog?

I was amazed at their efficiency in packing my stuff.  Honestly, they were the most efficient packers that have ever worked for us.  Ever.  My dining room was “Kitchen Forward” and my entry hall contained an assortment of things gathered from various rooms.    They worked non-stop until about 12:30 PM.  My husband and I had bought two cases of bottled water for them and stored it in the second refrigerator in our storage room/maid’s room.  They just helped themselves as desired.  It helps to keep the staff hydrated, I say, and it’s just a polite thing to do.  These people are charged with packing up your personal belongings.  You want them to treat you well, so you treat them well.  My husband and I discussed about whether or not we should handle lunch.  I only had about 8 BD to my name and he rarely carries any BD, so my husband said he would talk to their crew supervisor and ask what they might like.  My husband had a hard time understanding him, so we gave him the 8 BD and told him to order what he could.  Was that tacky of us?  Probably just a little, but it might have been tackier to do nothing at all.  And the crew was happy, so it was a win as far as I’m concerned.  Local TCNs know where to order plentiful food for not much money.  The entire crew ate on 8 BD.

I think the crew thought I was a little strange, though.  Why?

Because I took pictures.

Of what?

Things.  My things.

Why?

Because I’ve lived and I’ve learned, people.  When we PCS’d from North Carolina to Texas, we had several items arrive broken and one item completely missing.  The missing item was a $400 solid cherrywood gliding and swiveling rocking chair that I bought for my son’s nursery when I was pregnant with him.  I bought it at Babies ‘r’ Us, several years prior.    I couldn’t produce a receipt to give the mover’s insurance people, and I couldn’t find a decent picture, so they paid me $60, which was the equivalent of a white laquer piece of crap rocking chair they found at Walmart.com.  I’m not making this up.  They sent me a link to it!  The email said, “Since you can not produce a receipt or a picture, we are forced to find something of equal value.”  Equal value, my ass.  They ripped me off!  So, I learned to take a picture of every single piece of furniture I have that’s being moved by a moving company.  I have a file on my external hard drive.  I also have receipts now for every piece of furniture I’ve purchased.  Fool me once, shame on me; fool me twice, the fires of Hell will rain down upon you and all your kin until you pay me what you owe me.  I move because we have to.  I don’t do it because it’s my favorite pastime, so next time, I’ma get my money.

So there I was friends.  Taking pictures of stuff while they packed up my house.  For kicks, and because I was completely enthralled with how they boxed everything, I took pictures of that, too.  And because I’m a giver, I will share some of them with you.

 

O’Humphrey the Camel. He’s a hand carved, Rosewood camel that was gifted to us by the nice folks at Al Barasty furniture store. Because I’ve spent my husband’s retirement shopping there. I deserved a camel.

Here’s O’Humphrey all packed up and ready to sail to his new home in South Carolina!

Let me say it again.  They. Boxed. Everything.  Even the furniture.  That’s right.  They built boxes around our furniture.  I’m not kidding.  I’m not exaggerating.  Can someone please tell me why they don’t do this in the States?  The moving company in Bahrain took better care of my stuff than I do.  I was so impressed.  My husband and I watched them with all the intensity and focus of an 18-year-old Marine at his first strip club.  If I’d had popcorn, I’d have been shoving it in my mouth while not blinking.  It was mesmerizing.

Our new game table. Delivered by Al Barasty one week before our pack out.

This is part of my living room, all boxed up. The big square box in the middle? Yeah, that’s my game table. And the odd shaped box next to it? One of the chairs.

Okay, and now I’m just being weird about it, but you get it, right?  I’m used to them just taping a box, putting a wadded up piece of butcher paper in the bottom, tossing in my trashcan with the trash included (because they’re givers,too, don’t ya’ know), throwing another piece of paper on top, and sealing that puppy closed.  These guys packed the furniture so carefully.  Perfect, tight fit.  Don’t believe me?  Check this out.

See the big boxed piece? That’s the headboard that goes to our bed. See how that cardboard is wrapped around the round posts?  Perfection!

They packed and wrapped it all, friends.  Even my youngest daughter’s hula hoops, as proven by this photo.  I present, Exhibit C:

Everything is sacred and deserves special packaging. Even the lowliest of toys.

Oh, and that weird shaped item the hula hoops are resting on?  Her toy tub.

This had to be the easiest pack out day I’ve ever had.  They spoke another language, so they didn’t try to make conversation with me all day and thus get distracted from the work at hand.  They didn’t take breaks to critique how I have my storage bins packed.  They didn’t complain that their bosses require them to unpack my carefully packed storage bins and put my belongings into disorganized boxes that I’ll have to unpack and put back into storage bins when I unpack at the new location. <gaaaassssspppppp…deeeeeep breath>  Can you tell that’s happened to me before?  Yup.  Albuquerque–2005.   They didn’t stop for cigarette breaks.

No joke, I spent most of my day parked on my butt on the couch in the thick of it, reading my Kindle, and looking up every few minutes to check on things.

I even baked friggin’ cookies.

IN THE MIDDLE OF MY PACK OUT.

That’s madness.  Honestly, you wouldn’t do that with Stateside movers.  You wouldn’t take your eyes off of them.  You wouldn’t hand them money and say “order yourself something to eat.”  That would be lunacy.  Unheard of!  Why?  Because I was in the kitchen staying out of the way and I decided to play Henrietta Homemaker.

PROOF!

Ugh.  I can’t believe I baked.  What is wrong with me?  I have a sickness.  I bake when I’m bored, and these movers were so efficient I was bored!  I’d done so much prep work ahead of time, I didn’t have much to do while they were here.  I bake a lot, really.  That doesn’t say much about my life.  I must be more bored than a hormone-crazed teenage girl during a month long grounding.  Don’t judge me.

Anyway, back to my story.  After lunch, I walked into the dining area and saw one of the crew asleep on my floor, and as I walked around the house, I found dudes crashed in various corners, using flat boxes for beds. Apparently, siestas don’t just happen in the Latin American World.  This was a bit disconcerting, but they relaxed for probably an hour and then it was business as usual.  I have to admit, after about 30 minutes I started to get antsy and all American Impatient about them getting back to work, but never fear.  They promised me they’d be done before six, and by 5:30, they were done.  They spent 98% of the time boxing everything, and 2% loading it up.  Honestly, I blinked and they were done.  At that point, they had 12 guys here working.  They formed an assembly line, passing boxes off to each other from various points in the house, staging everything on our porch/walkway and the sidewalk in front of our house.  Then, they simply began crating it into the crates loaded onto flatbed trucks.

Just our stuff…hanging out on the stoop taking in the weather and watching the world go by.  See the odd shaped box in the front?  That’s a TV.

This was the most chilled pack out ever.  As far as moves go, the Al Dana Freight Forwards company gets a A+ from me.  Now, that grade is simply for the work they did today.  I’m reserving judgment about how well it’ll hold up, and I will update you on how good it was for the long haul when my stuff arrives and I have to unpack it, so stay tuned.

I feel like I had the day off.  Two days prior to the pack out spent staging my stuff.  Now comes the post-pack out.

Whatever do you mean, Stacey?

I mean my house is close to empty of all my belongings.  Sure.  There’s still furniture, because we rent a furnished villa, but so much is missing, including my bedroom furniture.  We kept our boxed springs and mattress, which are now stacked on the floor in the middle of our bedroom, and I’m using a cardboard box as a nightstand.  No, you can’t make this up.  I’m calling it, “Frat House Couture.”  My teenager said, “Hey!  I think I actually like that better.”

Of course she would, because the “frat house” look appeals to teeny boppers.  Whatever.

So what I mean by the post-pack out is that I need to clean up the aftermath of the pack out.  Lots of furniture was moved out, people.  I live in the desert.  There’s dust living here I didn’t know was living here.  There’s remnants of cardboard and butcher paper and tape.  All of that means…that’s right…you guessed it.  Dang floors!

ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!  I had the day off but tomorrow, oh yes, tomorrow I have to mop.  All of it. Wall-to-wall marble.  Stairs.  Children’s rooms and living rooms.  Kitchen and bathrooms.  My back is already protesting.  Despite that, though, I learned a little something about myself this evening, looking at my house with half the stuff gone.

I’m a minimalist.

It’s no secret that clutter stresses me out.  I don’t like it.  I am also not a very sentimental person when it comes to things.  I don’t save baby clothes.  Not even the ones my children came home from the hospital in.  I haven’t kept every single card or hand drawn picture ever given to me.  It’s clutter.  I keep a few, but not all.  When my house is messy, it stresses me out.  You wouldn’t know it to look at my house on a normal day, but I’m kind of a neat freak, but my children are my polar opposite, so I spend a lot of time being frustrated or harping on them to pick stuff up.  It’s a constant battle, and I’m outnumbered 3:1.  Now, there’s not so much in here, and the incredible sigh of relief I experienced can not be retold.  I couldn’t do it justice.

And just like every time I move, I’m left sitting here thinking, “We have too much stuff.  We don’t need this much stuff.  Why do we keep dragging so much stuff with us every 2-3 years?”

But it never fails, we’ll get to the new house, and as I unpack, I’ll be joyous about reuniting with my stuff, and loving my new digs for a week or so.  Because everything will be in it’s place.

And then the children will happen.

Never fails.

However, all of that is for another day and another blog post.  For now, I’m reveling in a great pack out experience, and enjoying my time with little around to clutter my house.

Next pack out is the Express shipment in June.  I hope it goes as smoothly. 🙂

Dear Diary, The Patients Are Taking Over the Asylum

I have to vent for just a minute or three.  Or maybe a half hour.  We’ll see how this goes, but I find myself needing to vent some frustrations before I implode.  It is PCS time, and that always brings a multitude of crap to deal with, and today I find myself losing what is left of my very own beautiful mind.  I feel frustrated, annoyed, and maybe a little cray-cray.

I’ve been sitting around my house for the better part of the day telling myself about all the things I must get done.  I started to tackle a few of the items, but that petered out.  I’m just not feeling it.  You know what I mean?  You know you have a crap ton of chores that you need to do, but eh.  Whatev.  That mess ain’t going nowhere.  I feel a little like Scarlett wanting to just deal with it tomorrow.  And I’m not a procrastinator by nature, so that annoys me.  Yes.  I’m annoying myself.  However, I married a procrastinator, so ask me if he has started purging through any of his, um, precious stuff in preparation for our pack out?  No.  He has not.  Our pack out is 8 days away.  He’ll get to it the night before at around 11:05 PM, as I’m trying to unwind and pray desperately to just fall asleep.  And I will eventually fall asleep to visions of poking him in the eye with something sharp.

Here’s the thing.  Pack out.  Eight days.  As I type this it is Friday, virtual Saturday in the Land of Sand, and my dear husband has been at the office all day.  All. Day.  Why?  Because, people.  The pack out is eight days away and Murphy, that rat bastard, decided that this would be the best time for my husband’s unit to be very busy.  He’s actually supposed to be on a trip, but it’s been delayed.  It is the God’s honest truth when I tell you that every single time we PCS that man’s schedule has a head on collision with our move, thus he is never around when it’s time to pack or unpack, for that matter.  I think it was during our third PCS that I decided it was completely intentional.  He will argue that it most definitely isn’t and that he’d love to be here to help me with the movers.  He would argue emphatically that he would prefer to be here at home helping with all this stuff.   I asked if he was taking the day off on the day the packers are here.  Answer?

“Yeah.”

I feel sold on that answer.  It was just so affirmative, wasn’t it.  “Yeah.”  He will not be off.  I know it.  You know it.  He knows it.  So, here I am.  Prepping for the pack out.  Alone.  Again.  And as much as I am desperately ready to PCS back to the States, I am tired of even thinking about all the stuff I need to get done.  By. Muh. Self.

Are Marines taught in boot camp or Officer Candidate School how to avoid the packing and moving process?  Because my husband aced that.  Aced it.  If college or the Marine Corps taught courses called Avoidance 101, 202, and 303, he took them, aced them, and should now consider getting his PhD and teaching it to the younger grasshoppers.

Avoidance 101:  Making Yourself Scarce During the PCS Process

Avoidance 202:  How to Skirt Giving Your Spouse Information She Might Consider Vital Regarding Your Schedule

Avoidance 303:  Opting Out of Attending School Programs

Man, I feel bitchy.  He’s a good guy, and he’s ticked that he’s so busy these days, too, so I’m not mad at him.  Again, I’m just looking at the stuff around my house and thinking about how to decide what goes, what stays, what’s sold, what’s trashed, and like a teenager being told to clean their room…I don’t wanna.  And unfortunately, my pet name for my husband is Target.

Then there’s my Bahraini Villa.  It has become what I believe to be the Pit of Hell.  Or close.  I was in the kitchen trying to tackle the dishes and laundry, and for the love of Peter, will someone explain to me why my water is at a trickle?  TRICKLE.  There is no water pressure.  None.  I tried to wash my towels, because I’m down to a wash cloth and that just doesn’t do it for me when I’m fresh out of a trickle shower, but unless I want it to take hours to wash the load, I’m out of luck.  It was quite literally dripping into my washing machine.  Dripping, people.  I may cry, but if I do, I can assure you that I will cry harder than the water that was struggling to fill the washing machine tub.  How clean would towels be if I washed them in the tears of my despair?  They can’t be any saltier than the water in Bahrain, so it might be worth a try.

So, I decided to just try again tomorrow.  On to the dishes.  I opened up my dishwasher to unload it, and can someone please explain why the inside of my dishwasher stinks?  It’s a dishwasher.  It washes things.  It should not stink.   The only exception to this rule should be if you’ve got it loaded with some dirties and you forgot to start the thing.  If you have washed your dishes, the inside of it shouldn’t stink.  On top of that, my dishes weren’t that clean.  So there I was with my soapy sponge, scrubbing the inside of my stupid, annoying, water trickling, no drying, barely washing piece of crap dishwasher.

And I need to mop.  For about the 10th time this week.  I swear on my honor that I will not miss the floors in this villa.  But did I mop?  No.  Do you have any idea how long it would take to fill the mop bucket?  I ain’t got that kinda time.  Job was a patient man, and I don’t think he had that kind of time.  Stupid water pressure in my stupid kitchen, with the pile of dirty towels, the stinky dishwasher, and the dirty floors.  Enshallah, I will do it tomorrow.

I decided to take a breath and curl up on my couch and read a book on my Kindle.  I needed to just take a step back from it all, but hey, the neighbors are having a party.  Outside.  They aren’t obnoxious neighbors, but our villas are close together, and they were quite literally on the other side of the wall from my couch, partying outside.  Did I mention they were outside?  And when I left the house a little while later to take my daughter to her babysitting job, I almost couldn’t get my truck out of my own driveway, because their guests are parked all inside the compound, tight as you please.  At least when I have people over, they have the common courtesy to park outside the compound and not clog up the tiny street inside it.

So there I am, friends.  I’m in a mood.  I’m tired of my own attitude.  The only shining beacon, the only ray of light in this day is that my kids have actually been well behaved today.  The teen has been gone all day, because unlike her mother, she has a life.  I took the younger two to a birthday party, and that was fun for them, and I enjoyed the adult conversation.  We got home and they went to separate corners, and have kept themselves entertained all day.

Hmm, do you think that kids sometimes just know when they really need to back off?  I mean, like, seriously back off?  I mean sometimes, sure, they seem to know when and how to push my buttons, but they must have picked up on the idea that it wouldn’t end well for them today if they behaved like fools.  Thank goodness for small favors.  I’d hate to hurt them.

After all, I’m going to need them to help me with the pack out.

Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll make them mop the floors.  Tomorrow.

 

Spring Break Staycation, Part 2: Moroccan Bath & Spa Day

The second day of spring break didn’t involve my kids.  Hey, moms need a break, too.  Ya’ feel me?  You know what I’m saying.  My friend, Kris, and I thought it would be a great day for a spa experience.

Experience.

And wow.  It was indeed an experience I shan’t soon forget.

Kris found us a local ladies salon and spa in the township of Mahooz.  It’s not far from the American Embassy, but I never would have found the place on my own.  Fortunately, Kris had scoped it out before our big spa day, so she knew right where we were going.  The salon du jour was called Al Bahia Salon and Spa.  They were running a special.  For BD 25 (approximately $66.00) we could get a hair treatment and blow dry, 1/2-hour facial, 1/2-hour massage, threading, and a Moroccan bath.  It could also include a mani/pedi, but we opted out of that since we both have our own techs for those services.

The appointment was at 10:00 AM.  We arrived and got started.  First up was the hair treatment.  Really, it was more like a scalp treatment.  Scrub-a-dub the locks and scalp, apply a little conditioning treatment, and wrap it up in the towel.  I really feel that it’s important to note that I, um, had a hard time understanding the lady’s English.  I’m not sure where she was from, but somewhere in Asia.  This is important.  Very. Important.  Because, you see, while Kris was getting her hair treatment, the lady asked something about the steam and bath.  I thought she was asking if we wanted to go into the steam room separately or together, and well, that  might have been what she asked, but I soon found out that my idea of a steam room and the reality of this steam room were not the same.  Um, because I answered that we would do the steam room together.  Kris and I were both kind of envisioning a Sex in the City sort of steam room.  We’d go in wrapped in towels and sit and chat while the steam opened our pores and helped us settle into relaxation mode.  I assumed it was a safe choice.

I really should stop assuming things.  Especially in the Middle East.  Really.  I have to stop.  Why does no one ever stop me?  Again.  My life as a cautionary tale.  For reals.

After the hair treatments, we were led back to a room that had some lounge chair/sofa things and the lady looked at us both and said, “Everything off.”

I said, “Um, excuse me?”

She said, “Off,” as she’s waving her hand in my general direction.  “Clothes.  Off.”

I looked at Kris.  Kris looked at me, and I said, “Um, can I go in this other area?”

(There was a curtained off area that was separate from where my friend was standing.)

The lady said it was fine so I wondered off while muttering something about there not being a reason for everyone to see all my girly bits on display.  Little did I know this was only the beginning of what would feel like a special kind of violation of said girly bits.

I’m standing on one side of the curtain, my friend is on the other, and we asked the lady for towels.  She brought us these nifty terry cloth deals that fastened at the top, kind of like strapless gowns.  Perfect.  I could rock that in the steam room, right?

Right?

Wrong.

So, *sniff, sniff* so very wrong.

We were then ushered to the steam room.  Boy, was it steamy.  Think “huge walk-in shower.”  Completely tiled, drain in the middle of the floor, with two stools and this built-in tiled ledge/table/sacrificial altar kind of thing.  The lady was wearing a bikini.

Hello there, red flag #3.  Red flag #1 was asking whether we wanted to go into the steam room together or separately.  Red flag #2 was telling us to take everything off.

Oh, and by the way, red flag #4 was when she shut the door behind us in the steam room and said, “Please remove the towels.”

I looked at Kris.  Kris looked at me.  We both looked at the lady.  Then back at each other.  I haven’t stammered and stuttered that hard since my husband broke the news we were moving to Bahrain.  I said, “Umm, n-n-no towels?  Take them o-o-off?  I hadn’t really planned to parade around sans clothes in front of my friend here.”

At this point, Kris and I were letting off those  nervous giggles.  You know the kind.

Honest to goodness…was this actually happening to me?  I really need to reevaluate my life.  I’m always up for new experiences, but damn!

Finally my friend said, “Let’s just do it.  When in Rome.”

Off went the towels, but I sat on my stool facing one way, and my friend sat on hers and faced another way.  This was not your ordinary country club sauna and steam room.  Nope.

Welcome to the Moroccan bath, traditionally called a Hammam (Hu-Mom).  Traditionally in Morocco, the hammam is an important part of their culture.  A throwback, of sorts, to the ancient Roman bath houses, the hammams of Morocco are also places where women go with friends and family to socialize, as well as get clean.  As westerners, we are much more modest with our bodies, but in Morocco, the people are not shy about their bodies at all.  And, I’ve read that in Morocco men do this.  Do they do this in Bahrain?  I’m trying really hard to imagine my husband, or any American dudes I know, going to have this done.  Who rubs them down?  Is it a woman?  That would be awkward, and I can already tell you that most men I know would be all “nooooo way” about having a stranger bathe them.  But then is it a man doing the bathing?  Cuz, well, that would be more awkward wouldn’t it?

Geez, someone stop me from this train (wreck) of thought.  My mental faculties can not take it.  I just can’t go there.

To use an analogy my friend tossed out during our experience, you know how during child birth all your modesty flies out the window, because everything is just kind of out there on display?  Welllllll….do the math.  By the time this experience was over, I had no modesty left.  It’s kind of hard to cling to when someone is rubbing you down from top to bottom, over and under.

And let me say that our attendant was actually from Morocco.  Hey, check it.  We actually had a pretty authentic Moroccan bath.

First we were rinsed thoroughly with a shower hose.  Then, the attendant used a traditional soap called Black Soap.

Black soap has been used for 3,000 years. First made in Syria, it made it’s way to Morocco, and is made from olive oil and vegetable soda.

You know the gunk that lives inside a car engine?  HA!  Oh, or better yet.  If you have a mechanic in your life, have you ever seen that special degreaser soap they use to remove the gunk that gets all over them when working on engines?  Yup.  That’s what this stuff looks like, and it had the same consistency too.  Thick, a little slimy, but it does the job.  Oh, by the way, the point of the black soap is that it helps to exfoliate and deeply cleanse, ridding the skin of bacteria and dead skin.  It does it’s job well.

She soaped me everywhere.  Everywhere!  Well, dang near everywhere.  Hey, a lady just has to keep something to herself.  You know what I mean?  You do.  I can tell.  You’re a smart cookie.

After the soap was rubbed everywhere, or what I now call the “gentle part of the experience,” it was time to lay on the sacrificial altar.  The scrape and scrub altar.  Time to purify the goat.  Namely me.  For an extra BD 5, we had each bought a special glove that would be worn by the attendant to scrub our skin.  And boy did that woman scrub.  Honestly, it felt a little like being scrubbed with an interesting combination of sand paper and steel wool.  It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but I can’t say it was relaxing.  And I don’t care who you are or how clean you think you keep yourself, you will be thoroughly disgusted by the time your special bath time is over.  I kind of think she simply removed a layer of my epidermis.  Maybe all of it.  There was certainly a lot of dead skin being washed down the drain, I do know that.  All I know is that I went in with a henna on my arm and hand and foot, and I left without any henna at all.  However raw I felt after the scrubbing, one thing is true:  my skin glowed.  I have never been so thoroughly exfoliated while being violated in my life.  In. My. Life.

First she had me lay on my back.  Okay.  Whatever.  I can do that.  And then she started scrubbing me.  She started on my face, moved down my shoulders, arms, lifting my arms to get to those armpits, over and under, around and around.  And then down to my boobs, stomach, lower and lower.  And then the legs, which she yanked apart like I’d given consent.  But then I probably did, but just NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE QUESTION!

 

I had to slam on the breaks as she encroached on Va-jay-jay-Ville.  Listen, I can handle some things myself, thankyouverymuch.

Then, it was time to roll to my side, where she lifted a leg in the air and continued scrubbing my legs, but from another angle.  Because apparently the other angle wasn’t enough.  Oh right.  Roll to the other side now, madam.

After that, it was time to lay on my stomach.  That makes sense.  If you do the front and sides, you’ve gotta do the back.  Unfortunately, I don’t just mean my actual back.  Okay.  Fine.  I’ll say it.  She became intimately acquainted with my ass.

Is it over yet?

She rubbed my skin raw!  I’m kinda thinking that I turned way more red than Kris (I am a delicate flower, after all), because after the scrubbing she soaped me up again to help soothe my skin.  Thank you, Bath Lady.  My skin appreciates the post-bath cuddle.  Call me! xoxo 😉

Then came the final rinse, and I don’t know if it was on purpose or accident, but she nailed me in the face with water from the hose.

Seriously?  Yeah, I yelped.  Kris laughed.  Thanks, Kris.

Was I receiving a spa treatment or was I being hosed off at the pet groomers?  Kris said we were having a prison experience.  I believe it.  I felt like I should have given up some state secrets just to keep her from pelting me in the face again.

Daaaaang, lady!  Okay, okay!  UNCLE!

I don’t mind telling you that my friend and I kept up a steady stream of chit chat to cover the awkwardness of the situation.   Having said all of that, though, if there are two words for my Moroccan bath (Hammam) experience, they’d be:  Invigorating and Molested.  I’m a very western girl with very western ideas of good touch and bad touch.  I’m still trying to decide what to tell the shrink about the experience.

I kid.  She didn’t do anything that would require I get therapy, but it was certainly, ummm, a virgin voyage for this Texas girl.

After the bath, it was time for a massage, followed by the facial.  Both were pretty typical, but there was this one moment during the facial where she had cucumbers on  my eyes, some sort of paper on my forehead and cheeks, and then she turned on this hot steamer blowing thingamabob.  I don’t know what it was.  Probably exactly that.  A very hot steam blower aimed directly at my face.  I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  I kept gasping for air and willing myself to get it together, man!  Again.  Delicate. Flower.  <——That’s me!

Then she applied fresh cucumbers and a mask treatment and I fell asleep.  Not that deep REM kind of sleep.  More like a rejuvenating power nap.

By the time that was over it was time to ditch the towel, get dressed, and get my threading done.  Have you ever had threading done?  Instead of tweezing and waxing, threads are used to remove unwanted hair from your face.  I had the eyebrows and lip done.  Don’t judge.  You know if you’re a woman you get your unwanted hair groomed too.  Beauty is pain, people.  Spanx sucks in the gut.  Stilettos make the butt look fabulous.  And the removal of unwanted hair makes it all smooth.

And I’m a baby about any kind of pain.  And my brows must have been out of control or something.  It hurt, but I survived, obviously, because I’m sharing my tale with you now.

After the threading it was time to blow dry my hair, and man was that a thorough experience.  I have a lot of hair, so that took forever, but I will say this:  my hair is shiny smooth and silky soft.  Kris and I were rockin’ that post-spa glow.  I was relaxed.  I’d been buffed, scrubbed, massaged, and dried thoroughly.  The question that remains is would I do the bath thing again?  Would I recommend it to my friends?

Honestly…yes.  I would just recommend you say, “separately” if asked if you’d like to use the buddy system.  This is not the gym sauna.  The steam room actually translates to mean The Bath of Ill-Repute.  But you will come out on the other side clean like you have never been clean before.  And honestly, a little horrified at how dirty you actually were.

At the end of it all, we spent the entire day at the spa, but it was worth it.  This wasn’t a particularly fancy spa, but likely very much a local place.  It felt authentic, if I could describe it that way.  This was a place where local women go to have their customary spa treatments done, and it didn’t cost a fortune.

Now I feel like I can tackle the rest of my time in Bahrain.  Okay, I doubt the effects will last that long, so let’s just say I’m ready for the rest of our Spring Break Staycation.

Bring it!

 

 

Spring Break Staycation, Part 1: Al Dar Island

You’d think that being an island nation would mean tons and tons of beaches.  Miles of beaches.  Sandy shores and beautiful seascapes.  Unfortunately, that’s not exactly true.  To really enjoy the beach in Bahrain, you have to leave the main island.

It’s spring break at the Bahrain School in the Land of Sand, and while many fellow military families fled the island like hippies during the draft, we were stuck in country.  I decided to take advantage of the week off and do some fun things with my kids that I haven’t done in Bahrain yet.  First day, my goal was to find a beach.  Turns out I wasn’t the only one wanting to find some sun and beach sand.  So, I met up with some friends, and we convoyed to Sitra, a township in Bahrain, where we were to hitch a 5 minute “sea taxi,” aka: ferry, ride from the main island of Bahrain to a small man made island called Al Dar Island.

Al Dar Island.  A magical place where you can forget for a moment that you are in the middle of the Middle East.  Ahhhhhh….

To make the journey, we had to take along our passports so they could verify our visas and pay a small entrance fee.  BD 5 per adult and BD 3 per child.  Since my husband was not staycationing with us, that meant I only had to pay BD 14 for myself and my heathens, er, children.  Speaking of children, I thought they’d be excited.  One was excited, one was eh, and the third did nothing but gripe for two days about my planned adventure.  I was interfering with his spring break schedule of events, which apparently included (1) sleeping late, (2) having bacon for breakfast, (3) playing some video games, and (4) a marathon of Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and something else.  I don’t know.  I tuned him out sometime after marathon.  I’d had enough.  He was going.  He needed to get off the couch and reengage with the world.  The sun would be good for him.

Back to the trip…

It was a truly beautiful day.  Not a cloud in the bright blue sky.  It was a little windy, but it kept it comfortable outside.  Not too hot, not too cold.  I’m hard to please like Goldilocks and her B&E, thieving self, so I found it just right.

After arriving at the Al Dar Island office and paying our fee, we boarded a van that drove us 20 feet (okay, a little further, but it felt like 20 feet) to the ferry boat.  All aboard the ferry!

Life vests were critical during the ferry ride. Off we were on an adventure in the sun!  And yes, the teen and I do have the same kind of sunglasses.  *sigh*  She wants to be just like her mother.  Inspiring, huh?

My youngest daughter, Kayla, enjoyed the ride over to the island.

 

The ferry ride really wasn’t that long.  And we were so excited.  Well, most of us.  My son still wasn’t happy with me jacking his flow.  Or whatever.

Destination: Al Dar Island

Pulling up to the pier at Al Dar Island.

This is one of the beach areas where you could set up and enjoy the day. Look at that cloudless sky. Looks like something in a credit card commercial. “Sometimes you just need to get a way…”

After landing on the island, our tickets were checked and off we went to find the perfect spot on the beach.  You can bring whatever you want to out to Al Dar, but you can’t bring outside food and drinks without paying a small fee.  We opted to just buy food and drinks there, since there’s a restaurant/snack bar.  And honestly, it’s simply awesome.  We reserved a bunch of beach lounge chairs for BD 1 each and set up camp.  I didn’t have to move from my perch if I didn’t want to.  They brought the chair to me.  They set it up.  They brought me menus for food and drinks, they came to me to take my order, and then they delivered to me while I happily lazed about the beach.  It. Was. Awesome.   The only thing missing was a cabana boy named Raul to give me a massage.  The food was reasonably priced, and quite delicious.  There were burgers, chicken burgers, nuggets, pasta, salads, different dishes off the grill, like tikka, lamb, steak, and they also had a small selection of curry dishes.  As for drinks, you name it.  My teen had an iced latte.  Only my coffee addicted oldest child would get that at the beach, but to be fair, it was more like a milkshake.  Everything from the chairs to the food are added to your “tab,” and you simply pay the tab when you leave.  Easy peasy.

Al Dar Island was perfect.  Comfortable.  Relaxed.  It was clean, plenty of umbrella shade.  You could rent jet skis or kayaks.  Some of the kids did rent the kayaks and kicked around.  I think the jet skis were a little pricey.  To be honest, I barely looked up from my Kindle.  Yes.  I took my Kindle.  Sue me.  That’s how I relax.  But the kids had fun digging in the sand, playing in the water, which was perfectly shallow all around the island making it perfect for kids, and searching for crabs.  There was also a playground for the kids.

That’s my son, the one who wanted nothing to do with the beach, tromping around in the water.

He just looks miserable, doesn’t he? I knew he’d wind up having a good time. The boy is part fish.

And the playground. When Kayla got bored with the water, she kicked it on the slides and swings.

Even though we just spent the day there, there are also cabanas that can be rented out for overnight stays.  I left thinking I might have to give that serious consideration.  It would be the perfect little getaway without having to go very far.  And don’t we all need that sometimes?  You may not have the time or the energy to take a vacation, or maybe it’s about the money, but at any rate, you are sick to death of staring at your own four walls.  You just need a break.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  So, hey!  Why not spend the night at the beach?  I can’t think of a reason why not, but I do have a question.  Do I have to take the kids?  I mean, I’m just sayin’.

My teenager looks around for sea shells. There were a few to be found.

My husband is not a beach person.  However, I don’t think his dislike of the beach scene kept him from being a tad bitter.  Not sure if it was the fact that we were funnin’ in the sunnin’ or that he was having to work.  Probaby the latter, and I hate that he had to work on such a beautiful day.  Maybe we could drag him back to Al Dar Island for one more hoorah before we PCS.  Pssssshhhhhfffffftttttt!  Not likely, but I can dream.  I do find myself wondering why it took me so long to go and check it out.  Why did it take me almost my entire 2 years here to go?  I have no answer for that.

I’m glad I got to enjoy it with my kids and with friends.  I feel energized and ready to see what lies in store for us.  And if you visit Bahrain or you already live in Bahrain, but haven’t been to Al Dar Island, go!  Especially if you like the beach.  Just go.  Just do it.  You know you want to, you procrastinator.

Sun, sand, and sea.

 

Henna: A Timeless Art

Have I told you about henna yet?  No?  How did I miss this?  I must be getting old or something.  Wait.  No.  I’m forever young, because I’m young at heart.  Or some such thing.  Anyway….

When we arrived in the Land of Sand in the summer of 2012, we quickly approached our oldest daughter’s 13th birthday.  Baby girl was going to be a teenager.  (Seriously, I’m not this old.  It just seems that way.)  When I asked what she wanted for her birthday she said she wanted a henna.

Henna.

I’d seen them and I’d heard the word before, and I thought, “sure, why not?”  So I set out to find out where I could go to get my daughter a henna for her birthday.  It was recommended that I go to a place in Adliya (one of the townships in Bahrain) to a salon called Rachna’s Henna Beauty Salon.  

It’s important to note here that salons in Bahrain are separate and not equal. There are salons for ladies and salons for men.  Men are not allowed in the ladies’ salons (generally speaking), and vice versa.  Muslim custom is that women cover their hair and sometimes their faces with veil or burka when in public, but when they go to salons they uncover whether to get their spa day on or just to relax with other ladies.  Can’t be lettin’ the menfolk view all that hair and skin now.  Rachna’s is one of the many “ladies only” salons.

We arrived and it was a little busy, and honestly, we stood out among the rest.  We were the only women not sporting abayas (black robes worn by women).  It definitely appeared that Rachna’s does a good amount of business.  I went to the counter to find out how much for a henna for my daughter and took a seat to wait.  Soon, it was her turn, but in the meantime, a very nice lady struck up a conversation with me.  She was visiting from Abu Dhabi, and as I discovered while talking to her, I totally got screwed on pricing for the henna.  This lady had both arms and hands done (both sides) for BD 6.  Meanwhile, I paid BD 6 for one arm, one side.  Special American pricing, I’m sure.   I haven’t been back to Rachna’s since.  Not because it was BD 6, but because I was obviously charged more for less.  I don’t like the unfairness of that.  My new friend from Abu Dhabi recommended that next time I ask around the salon what others were paying before negotiating my price.  I was new to the island, so live and learn.

The teen’s first henna, done at Rachna’s Henna Beauty Salon.  Initially, it looked very dark, but that flakes off and you are left with the final product.

So what exactly is henna, you might be asking?  Allow me to give you a very brief and condensed history.

Henna is considered an herb and is from a flowering plant from the plant species Lawsonia genus.  The English name henna comes from the Arabic word hinna.  Henna produces a natural cooling property, so people of the desert have used it as a paste for centuries to soak their hands and feet as a means of cooling off from the heat.  Since henna stains, over time it became used as a way of decorating the body, a precursor to tattooing.  It is not permanent, and can last anywhere between 10 days to a month, depending on how frequently you wash that particular area.  Henna has been used for more than 5,000 years in India, Pakistan, Africa, and the Middle East.  It has also been speculated through archaeological finds that henna was used more than 9,000 years ago in Egypt, even by Queen Cleopatra herself.   These days, henna is used as a means of decorating the body in celebration (weddings, pregnancies, birthdays), as a means of self-expression, as an inspiration, and blessings, and is practiced by both the rich and the poor.  After all, it’s cheaper than jewelry.

When I was at Rachna’s that summer two years ago, there was a woman having henna done for her wedding.  When it comes to weddings in this part of the world, henna is as important as the wedding dress, it seems.  They practically cover themselves in the artwork, and it can be quite intricate.  This woman had 4 artists working on her henna.  Both arms (full sleeves) and hands (backs and palms), feet, legs (up to the knee).  That’s all I could see, but who knows.  Maybe it was elsewhere as well.  Wedding henna can take hours to do.  One particular henna tradition is called Mehndi Night.  It’s a night prior to the wedding ceremony when the bride’s family and friends would gather and celebrate the upcoming nuptials with games, music, and dancing, while the bride had her henna applied.  These days, brides usually have the henna done before Mehndi so that she can enjoy the festivities as well, and so the stain will be a more vivid during the wedding ceremony.

 

Typically, henna is purchased in tubes.  The end of the tube is snipped off and the artist uses it like a marker, painting the pattern onto the skin.  It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t burn, no tingling sensations, but it does feel cool to the touch.  Its wet, like a thick paint, but it dries into a crust.  Have you ever used a mud mask on your face?  That’s what it feels like. It’s thick and pasty, and when it dries it gets crusty.  Most pictures you find on the internet of henna are taken while the paste is still drying.  Once it’s dry, it flakes off leaving a stain on the skin.  The color can vary, but most I’ve personally seen or had done while in Bahrain have been a light brown color.

Henna on my foot. Personally, I like having it on my feet best, although I usually hate feet as a general rule. Feet are ugly, but henna on the feet lasts a little longer than the hands, and I get tired of looking at it on my hands after a few days. As you can see, after the paste chips off, the stain is much lighter in color.

Since that initial trip to Rachna’s I found another henna service I like called Henna Designers, owned by Mr. Mustafa.  Mr. Mustafa is a very nice man that owns an art gallery and framing service called Sheema Framing.  That’s where I first met him.  His lovely wife is the henna artist of Henna Designers.  When my youngest daughter celebrated her 8th birthday, she wanted henna done at her party.  I contacted Mr. Mustafa, and his wife came to my house and did henna for the birthday girl, her friends, and some of the moms.  Everyone really enjoyed it!  I’ve also had henna done by her at other friends’ events in their homes.  It’s so comfortable doing them in a private setting, and she’s quite talented.

My youngest daughter’s first henna, courtesy of Henna Designers.

Here’s my hand. Check out that henna, again, by Henna Designers. Oh, and my lovely manicure. Did I ever mention that my friend, Michelle, is also my nail tech here in the sand?  Well, she is. 

My kids have fallen in love with henna.  I just hope it doesn’t translate into wanting a tattoo when they’re 18.  Why?  Oddly enough, I don’t fancy tattoos.  Perhaps because they’re so permanent.  I have a hard enough time deciding which pair of undies to wear and no one has to look at those.  I can’t commit to a tattoo.  Henna, on the other hand, not-so-permanent.  That is cool.  That’s okay.  Temporary, I can do.   And I have yet to see anyone in Bahrain sporting a henna that’s a fire breathing dragon or a barbed-wire band around their arms.  Hennas are usually more of the flowers, paisleys, and swirls and squiggles variety.  Squiggles.  You like that word don’t you?  You’re repeating it out loud right now, right?  Squiggles.  It’s a technical term.

I’ve decided that when I leave Bahrain, I’m going to pull a follow the leader maneuver and get a henna right before my flight takes off.  Why?  So I can show up in the states sporting it, and my family will see it, make some snarky and sarcastic comments about it, and say things like, “So that’s a henna.  I read your blog post about that.  What’s next?  A tattoo?”

And I’ll answer equally snarky with a, “Maybe.  I was thinking that a nice picture of your lips on my backside would be nice.  That way you can kiss my butt.”

Call it a conversation starter.

We’re family.  Good conversation is how we show love.

I Love You, I Love You Not…Reflections On A Duty Station in the Sand

Moving around every few years, I often find myself reflecting on what it is I like and dislike, love and hate, and what I’ll miss and not miss about a particular duty station.  Our time in the Land of Sand has been a unique experience.  I’ve had so many conversations with friends here in Bahrain that have also done tours in places like Japan and Germany, but one thing they always say is that Bahrain hasn’t been like any other overseas tour they’ve had.  I wouldn’t know.  This has been our only overseas duty assignment, so I can’t personally compare it.  Nevertheless, as our time is winding down on this tour, I do find myself doing a lot of reflecting.

One thing about each of our various duty stations that is true of them all is that as the time neared to move on, I was ready to do so. I don’t know if that’s true for everyone, but it is true for me.  Maybe it is self-preservation, a way to prepare myself mentally, but I find myself focusing a lot more on what irritated me about where I was living at the time, rather than all the good things about it.  The focus on the good things seems to come long after being settled into the next duty station, when I reflect back.  Isn’t that true for a lot of people, though?  While in the midst of something, it’s just easier, isn’t it, to think about the crap instead of the good times?

When we lived in Jacksonville, North Carolina the first time, I couldn’t wait to leave and move to Albuquerque, New Mexico.  I was tired of the trees and the street system.  It’s like everything ran on a diagonal instead of a grid, and for a woman with less than no sense of direction and no GPS in the car, getting around was tiresome and aggravating.  When we were in Albuquerque getting ready to PCS to Quantico, Virginia, I couldn’t wait to get away from the liberalism of New Mexico, the drunk drivers, and I was tired of looking at Sandia Peak.  Here I had this beautiful mountain scenery while sitting on my back porch, and I was sick of it.   Leaving Quantico meant not having to deal with the NOVA (Northern Virginia) traffic.  It’s madness.  Honestly, I still don’t miss that.  Even when I left San Antonio, I found something to dislike.  I was tired of having to drive my kids to and from school.  So ready for them to ride a bus.  I was tired of weekend long soccer tournaments.  I was sick to death of my backyard neighbor’s back porch spotlight that lit up my bedroom at night.  Honestly, I don’t miss that either.  You could guide planes in to a runway with that thing.  Ridiculousness.

And so it goes.

But after I get moved and settled, the memories begin to flood.  Albuquerque meant good times with good friends, a great church family, growing in my faith.  Of all the houses we’ve lived in and owned, that house remains our favorite.  We had two babies in Albuquerque.  Good times.

Quantico was a close-knit community, so many great friends and good times.  San Antonio was Texas.  It was the closest we’ve lived to family.  The schools that I hated driving to were fabulous.  Weekends spent in College Station visiting friends.  The River Walk was 20 minutes away.  And the Tex-Mex food?  *siiiiigh*  I miss it so much!

And now, Bahrain.  The Land of Sand.  I’m trying really hard to not simply focus on what I hate right now, but I can’t help it.  I’m trying to be more conscientious of what I like about Bahrain.  I have had so many memorable moments here, I know I have.

I decided to make a list.  I thought I’d share with you my opinions, good and bad, about this place that has been my home for almost 2 years.  Join me on this journey, won’t you? 😉

Let’s start with the bad news first.

Things I Will Not Miss About Bahrain (In no particular order)

1. The heat.  Pretty self-explanatory, but just to emphasize we are talking about 115-120 degrees in the shade in the summer.  That’s hot by most anyone’s standards.  That’s my own personal hell, and the one thing I dreaded about Bahrain.  So much so, I put that idea in the title of my blog.
2. Internet speed that’s slower than a snail’s pace and slows even further at the end of each month.  Honestly, watching paint dry would take less time during that last week of every month.  Dial up would seem like lightning speed.
3. The drivers and lack of rules on the roads. Saudi swoops, lousy parking (middle of the road), getting cut off, no turn signals, erratic driving, straddling the lines, and general disrespect from other drivers etc.  Babies sitting on the laps of the drivers, kids hanging out car windows or standing on consoles with their heads up out of the moon roof.  Stuff like that will make you nuts!
4. Having to go to several stores in order to complete your shopping list.  Honestly, I long to deal with the “People of Walmart” just to be able to get everything I need in one place.
5. Inability to keep appointments for delivery or at-home service.  If you’re lucky enough to be given a day and time-window, don’t bother writing it down or scheduling your life around it, because chances are good that the day and time mean absolutely nothing and they’ll get there when they get there, so you might as well go on about your business.
6. The convoluted method of figuring up a cell phone bill. Contracts change on a dime. There’s a single contract number you pay on each month, under that there’s each line, which can individually incur extra charges, etc.  Can you tell we recently had a cell phone bill debacle?  Yep.  I called to pay the bill of BD50 for the month, like I have every month, and they told me I had a past due balance of BD107.  Turns out, for two months back in the fall (October and November) my payment was applied to my husband’s phone number, instead of the contract number, so we had a credit, but I had already paid the past due balance, and now I’m supposedly paid up for the next two months.  Why they didn’t mention the credit months ago, I don’t know.  Why it was applied to one number instead of the entire contract is also inexplicable.  But it happened.  And if you are totally confused reading this, well, it’s not any clearer for me.  Welcome to my life.
7. The smell of B.O. in the summer, and even in the winter.  Ugh.  Showers, baths, a tissue and a spray bottle.  Something!  Do something!
8. 220 volt. It’s too much power for most things. We’ve burned through cords, batteries, and electronics quicker than we ever would have in the states. Plus having to connect everything through a transformer is getting old.
9. TCN engineering. Structures/buildings are not to be trusted.  You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen.  Scaffolding erected on top of stacked cinder blocks.  Buildings that catch fire and burn, but the  next day, they clean out the mess and keep building.  That building is finally finished and open for rentals!
10. Wall-to-wall marble floors. Hard on the feet, the back, and hard to clean!  And they’re just plain dangerous sometimes.  Especially when you’re accident prone.  Um, not that I’ve ever fallen down my stairs and shattered an unbreakable Corelle dinner plate.  Naaaaah!  That never happened.
11. Ramadan and it’s rules.  The no drinking or eating in public is a trifle trying at times.  It’s hot!
12. The roads and highways being blocked in front of the mosques on Fridays.
13. Having only one car for our family. Makes for some creative scheduling sometimes.  Luckily we live close enough to walk to base, but there have been some tricky moments.
14. The white leather sectional in our house. Who puts white furniture in a house with 3 kids? Who? Madness.  It’s not even white anymore.  I gave up sometime around week 2.
15. Carrying two different currencies and constantly converting BD to USD in my head or using the conversion app on my phone.  You leave a restaurant or store and think you didn’t pay that much, until you see the debit on your checking account.  Really?  I just paid $34 for lunch at TGIFridays for myself?  Geez!
16. Demonstration notices. Constant ringing of the phone with updates or text notices. The “red zone.”  While I do appreciate being told about where things are happening and areas to avoid, it puts a crimp in my style.  Playas gotta play.  You know?
17. Saudi Weekend. The roads suddenly getting clogged with the thousands that cross the causeway to enjoy the freedoms in Bahrain. Makes for busy roads, crowded restaurants & stores. If only they knew how to drive…
18. Did I mention the HEAT?  Let me reiterate that.  H.E.A.T.
19. Edited movies at the movie theater.  Hey, it’s a conservative country.  No hanky panky in the movies.  Don’t get too violent.  And watch your language.  Sometimes the editing is good enough that you aren’t sure if it was edited at all, and sometimes it’s so horrible you wonder why they even bothered showing it in the first place.  Shades of Gray will probably be 7 1/2 minutes long here.
20. Expensive groceries. No one will ever miss these grocery prices.  No one.
21. Sand everywhere, even in places it shouldn’t be.  I swear I will taste sand in my teeth for months after I leave Bahrain.
22. Most restaurants here don’t offer free-refills on your tea or cokes.  That adds up.  Yeah, this is a little thing, but I ate out this weekend.  I noticed and thought it was worth mentioning.
23. My husband’s stateside command often forgetting the 8 hour time difference, which means all phone conferences and video-teleconferences happen in the late evening, sometimes into the night. And the weekends. Friday is the weekend here; you don’t see them scheduling conferences for Sundays, do you?  No.  You do not.  Honestly, I don’t was trying to be kind when I said they “forget.”  No, they don’t.  They just don’t care.

But, I’m not completely negative.  Today.  There are some things I know I will miss when I leave here.  Follow along with me.

Things I Will Miss About Bahrain (In no particular order)

1. Everything delivers.  Everything.  We’ve talked about this.  You should just know this information by now.
2. Dining out is a relaxed, unhurried affair.  It took time to get used to not being constantly tended to by waiters, but I finally learned that they are allowing you to relax, and they never rush. You can sit and enjoy for hours if you choose to.  And I have.  At restaurants like CoCo’s, Cafe Lilou, Le Chocolat, Bushidos.  The list goes on.
3. Friday Brunch.  This is an event.  I even dedicated an entire blog post to it.  Movenpick.  Crowne Plaza.  Sofitel.  These are just a few places I’ve enjoyed the Friday Brunch.  Nothing I’ve seen in the States yet holds a candle to it, but perhaps I should investigate this further when I return stateside.
4. The base community.  Small town livin’.  My teenager especially enjoys being able to walk over with her friends to enjoy a movie, dinner, shopping, and just hanging out.  And they’re inside a secure compound.  She will not know freedom like that again for a while.
5. All of my friends. I’ve made so many here.  This is probably going to be the hardest thing about leaving.  Leaving behind the friends I’ve made.  We will certainly remain in contact, and hopefully I will see them all again somewhere else, someday, but no other duty station has provided me with the kind of network of relationships that Bahrain has.  I never have to be alone, unless I choose to be.  There’s always someone willing to go shopping, go for lunch, go for a spa treatment.  You name it.  We’re all in the same boat, and sometimes in the midst of the insanity around us, we know we can lean on each other.  It seems I never go anywhere that I don’t see someone I know.  There’s never any just “running into the NEX.”  I call it “running the gauntlet.”  No matter what time or what day, if I go on base to the exchange, I will see a minimum of three people that I’ll stop and talk to.  I’m a small town girl who couldn’t wait to graduate and leave the small town behind, but you know what?  There’s a comfort in being surrounded by people who know you, who care about you, or who are just friendly.  I never thought I’d have an appreciation for that after growing up in a community like that, but honestly, sometimes the biggest surprise of all is knowing that what you abhorred as a teenager is something you love as an adult.
6. Lemon Mint drinks. I’m carrying that with me to the States.  Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about?  Well, let me tell you.  Take your favorite lemonade and put it in a blender with fresh mint leaves.  A lot of mint leaves.  Puree it, then strain it.  Pour it over ice and serve.  Or, put it back in the blender, add ice, and have it frozen.  Ohhhh, emmm, geee.  That’s muh favorite.  And every restaurant on the island serves it.
7. Believe it or not, there’s more religious tolerance in Bahrain than in the U.S. And yes, I’m talking about off base.  True story.   Seems like every Christmas there’s story after story on the news about such-and-such banning nativity scenes.  Kids now have “winter breaks” and forget saying “Merry Christmas.”  Here in Bahrain, everyone will wish you a Merry Christmas.  When we were banned from having a live nativity on base our first year here, locals we talked to couldn’t understand what the big deal was.  You can buy bibles here.  There are churches and private Christian or Catholic schools.  There’s also a Jewish synagogue here.  Bahrain isn’t Iran or Yemen or Saudi Arabia.  You can buy books about the Easter story at local stores, um, the religious, bible-based story, not the bunny with the eggs.  Well, okay, those too.  You’ll hear Christmas carols over the speakers in stores at the mall.  Hobby Lobby is in the news because of their Christian-based business policies. Back in the States, its more socially acceptable to believe in and preach about the existence of “nothing,” and allow those folks to sue and thus dictate what the rest of us can publicly practice, but don’t talk about Jesus or Moses.  It is okay to allow the muslim students to pray at school, especially on Fridays, but do not get caught carrying a bible in your backpack.   And so, in my opinion, Bahrain is more tolerant  than  the U.S.  And to think…we’re the ones that tout religious freedom as a constitutional right.   I often think the word freedom needs to be redefined.
8. Shawarma.  Deliciousness wrapped in bread.
9. Not paying taxes (income or sales tax)
10. Cheap gas.  BD 9 to fill up my truck.  That’s approximately $24.03 for those of you taking notes.  To fill up a truck!  I’m going to cry when I get back to the states and it costs over $100 to fill up one truck, and then I’ll also be adding an SUV to the bill.  Yeah, yeah.  The groceries will get cheaper, but the gas will more than make up the difference.
11. Affordable services, craftsmanship, and artistry: tailor-made clothing, framing, custom jewelry, auto servicing, dry cleaning, custom rosewood furniture.  I will certainly miss that.
12. Not having to pay for utilities (water, gas, electricity)
13. Early sunrise, early sunset.  I’m weird, I know.  I’m one of the minority that likes an early sunset, but honestly, summers are ridiculous here, so even if you aren’t a fan of that, you come to appreciate that burning ball of hellfire in the sky going down early.
14. Caramel popcorn at the movie theater (City Center’s Cineco 20).  This is my favorite thing at the theater here.  I’ve never been a huge butter popcorn eater.  I’d go for nachos at the theater before popcorn, but not here.  Nope.  Here, they have caramel corn!  Or you can mix the buttered popcorn and the caramel corn together. It’s awesome!  I’m a pure caramel corn fan, though.
15. Crepes at the movie theater.  My husband listed this as his favorite thing at the theater.  Crepes.  Honestly.  Sometimes you forget he was raised in a small town in Texas.  Crepes.  Only in Bahrain!
16. Kono Pizza at the movie theater.   These are pizza cones.  CONES.  Pizza in a cone, people.   Google this.  Beg the local Cinemark to bring this to a theater near you.  Do not delay.
17. Concessions at the movie theater area  little more reasonably priced than in the States.  Yeah, I’m still talking about going to the movies, but the concessions at the City Center theater are out of control. We practically eat dinner there.  Between the crepes, the pizza cones, the popcorn, nachos, candy, and drinks?   For our family of 5?  Maybe $30.  Back in the states, that would cost $100.  Come on now.  You know I’m preaching the truth here.
18. The Souk.  I love walking the souk with friends.  Popping in to my favorite trinket store and purchasing Turkish pottery and lamps.  Maybe a Pashmina or scarf.  Stopping off for fresh fruit juice, and then swinging by the Gold Souk to see Hussain at Harmony Jewelry.  Cruising the fabric shops.  It will be missed.
19. Being able to bake homemade things for my kids to take to school for birthdays or class parties. Stateside schools are all about prepackaged, labeled things. It takes away the fun of providing for a class party.  I know, I know.  Sanitation, allergies, etc.  However, so many of us grew up with our moms having to bake things to send to school. Then we grew up and they stopped allowing us to do that, insisting we buy things with labels instead.  But here we can still bake and send.  It’s kinda nice.  No, I don’t want to do it weekly, but it’s fun.  Moms get creative, and homemade always tastes better.  We just all try to be more mindful of the allergies that might exist in our kids’ classrooms.  No one has died yet, so calm down, Scooter.
20. Having multiple central AC units in our house.  It’s great to be able to set our bedroom AC to one temperature, the rest of the upstairs at a temperature, and the downstairs set to something else entirely.  Face it.  Heat rises.  If you have a two-story house and only one central AC unit, the difference in temps from upstairs to downstairs can feel staggering.  And I like to sleep colder than my kids, so our master bedroom having a separate system is also handy.
21. Cheap massages.  They’re good massages, too.  They just don’t cost $50 for 50 minutes.  I don’t begrudge what the going rate in the States is at all.  My sister-in-law is a massage therapist, and she’s educated in the subject, licensed, and very good.  I just simply can’t afford them as often.

So, that sums it up for me.  The good with the bad.  My Best & Worst Lists for this tour of duty.  I know that at the end of it all, I’ll look back on this time as one of the greatest duty assignments we had in some ways.  For all the ways it hasn’t been great, the worst of it hasn’t even been due to anything related to Bahrain itself, but rather work-related issues originating in the States.  And for all the ways it’s been great, it was enjoyed and experienced alongside some of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure of getting to know.  I hope those that come to Bahrain after me enjoy it all to the fullest.