Farts Really CAN Cause Writer's Block

I've got writer's block tonight.  Nothing is inspiring me, not even the glass of white wine I've been sipping for the last hour.  

I'm checking out some of my favourite blogs, skimming the news, scanning Facebook, trying to find some divine inspiration that will catapult me into blogging bliss.

Nothing.  Nada. Zilch.  Zip.

I took a picture of my cat sitting at the bar, keeping Smilin' Vic company as he nursed a weekend beer.  I thought that might prove at least half-decent fodder for this forlorn blogging space.

Nope.  No inspiration, no injection of literary grace, no ensuing mad typing fury.  

If Bar Cat's halo doesn't inspire, what in the world will?

Actually, quite the opposite, tonight I've pretty much given up on any hope of ever writing about something meaningful or changing the world one day with the confusion philosophy behind my ramblings prose.

Some, not all, of my disenchantment comes from this daily odd occasion I check my viewing stats.

Squarespace doesn't give much background information on site traffic, but it does provide some generalities such as total number of views per day, search query (e.g. 'why does my mom dress like a gypsy) and state/country in which the search originated. 

And these tell me that about half the hits on my blog:

  • are on THIS LINK about gas at high altitudes,
  • originate from Colorado, and
  • are the result of a search query containing the word 'flatulence'.

And though I keep on trying to convince myself I've got a great story to tell, a story that is funny, moving, inspiring, maybe even empowering, my stats show me that the only tome I'll ever successfully market will have to bear a title like 'The Great Book of Fart'.

And while I have a lot to say on the subject that could surely complement other best-sellers such as ''The Fart Book'' and ''The Gas We Pass'' (look them up ...), I'm not sure  the few minutes of creativity my brain eeks out a week are enough to do this highly explosive subject matter justice.  

So this is this week's score:  Me - 0  /  Farts - 52.

A Day in Doha Fitness

I know and work with a lot of very fit people.  Even in Qatar, the land made famous for its Doha Dozen, loads of people are bound and determined to make fitness a priority and a lifestyle.  

Every single last one of them has admitted at some point that there are days that are harder than others to commit to their health.  Every one has had days where they struggle to keep the motivation going.  They all say a tough day here and there is normal.  

Unfortunately for me, it seems like every moment of every day is a push and pull of emotions when it comes to fitness.  Each day brings with it a continuous flow of bipolarity that has me simultaneously loving and hating my newfound commitment to fitness and health.  I've included below for your reading entertainment a typical day in my Doha Fitness Journal, with its glorious multitude of manic and depressive epiphanies ... Enjoy!

Courtesy of memecrunch.com

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4:00 a.m.  the Bell Tower tone chimes on my i-phone ... I coax one eyelid open.

''This is just wrong.  It's not even the crack of the crack of dawn.''

I swipe the 9-minute snooze option.  At minute 8, I fall back into the deepest sleep of the night.  

Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding dong, ding, dong ... Drat that alarm.

Pull myself begrudgingly to a sitting position as Smilin' Vic grunts and pushes off the covers ''I'm awake, yup, yup, ...''.

A muffled call to prayer sounds through the closed bedroom window, making itself heard over the droning of the a/c.  

Smilin' Vic and I narrowly avoid colliding as we stumble past each other at the foot of the bed.  Fumble through my drawers in the darkness.  '

'Why the heck didn't I lay out my sweats and runners last night like I'd promised myself?''

Strap on 1kg wrist weights and program the Runmeter app to 'Al Waab 6.2 km route'.  Guzzle down 16 oz of water and fill up my CamelBak.  Mentally motivate myself for the walk ahead.

''Yes!  I'm awesome.  4:20 a.m. and ready to roll.  Come on big wide fitness world, let's start the daily Doha fitness journey!''

Step out the door.  Instantaneously drenched in a bath of humidity.  My glasses steam up.  My toenails start to sweat.  

''This sucks.''

Smilin' Vic's in fine form this particular morning:  ''Wanna run this morning, Babe?''

I try to muster a smile ... something in my sleep-deprived eyes scares him.  

'Or we could just walk at a brisk pace?''

0.2 km in.  Droplets of sweat cling to my eyelashes.  

''I must be mad.''

We achieve a decent pace, my short little legs struggling to keep pace with Smilin' Vic's long ones.  I finally find my groove.  Endorphins rapidly kick in.  A huge wave of positivity follows.

''I am sooooo amazing!  If you don't work for it, don't bother wishing for it, Gypsy.  No pain, no gain.  I'm a fitness queen!''

Lost in my newfound awesomeness, I narrowly avoid the sinkhole that has appeared overnight  on the sidewalk just outside our compound.  Twist my foot on a rock as I sidestep the diversion and hear the ''whoosh'' of a mini-van race by us at 100km an hour down the city street.

''Seriously?  Why do I put myself through this?  It's like Death Race 2000.''

3 km into our walk.  The proper English voice on the Runmeter app mechanically informs us that we're 36 seconds ahead of best pace.  Exercise euphoria is back.

''Wooohooooooo!  I rock.  Bring it on!''

750 m from home.  A speeding car lays on the horn as he approaches from behind, likely for the simple thrill of watching us jump out of our runners.  

A stupid fly has been continuously taking nose-dives at my head for the last kilometre.  I try to swipe the quarter-inch nuisance away, hands batting futilely at thin air, waving madly around my head as the buzzing reverberates in the sweat in my ears.  I swat without success; the annoyance drones on ceaselessly.

''Arghhhhhhh!  I hate this.''

Make it back home; somehow we've managed to fall back on our pace; 16 seconds behind median.  That's ok.  I blame it on the annoying fly.  

Check my watch.  It's 5:25 a.m. and we've clocked 6km, burned 300 cal and lost 2kg of sweat.

''Yes!  I'm invincible!''

I savour the chill of the a/c.  Throw beets, carrots, oranges, lime into the juicer.  Fill up on water. Smilin' Vic gets the coffee going.  I head up for a shower.  Great start to the day.

''No taking the lift for me today.  Only stairs.  I am fitness personified!''

Try to ease my way into Doha traffic.  Get locked into a 45-minute jam, no one coming, no one going, no one moving.  Arrive at work 5 minutes late.  End up parking on the 7th storey of the parking garage.

''I could clock a lot of steps if I took the stairs.  But the ride up made me slightly dizzy.  It might not be safe to take the stairs with vertigo.''  

''Stop making excuses!  Ok, I'll take the stairs.''  

''Wait, no time; I'm already late.  I'll take the lift down; I can walk up on the way out tonight.''

''I suck.  Excuses, excuses.  I really need to smarten up.  I'll take the stairs to our 9:00 a.m. meeting.''

I stand firm on my promise to myself.  I take the three flights of steps down to the meeting room.  

''I am invincible!''

My newfound smugness at all things physical prompts me to bully my co-worker into taking the three flights back up with me.  She chats effortlessly as we make our way back up to the office. I break into a sweat one flight up.  

Two flights to go.

''Why does she have to ask so many questions.  Can't she just shut up?  I can't catch my breath.  Much less hold down a conversation.''

''Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah ... And you?'' She asks. 

I grab onto the handrail, pause, sputter ''yeah, sure.''  No clue what she was asking.

One flight left.  My mind's gone blank.  Breathing is simply no longer an option.  Just reach my destination and work it out from there.  I can worry about oxygen supply once the uphill climb is over.

''This sucks.''

Make it back to the office without completely depleting my stocks of O2.  Brain function is still relatively intact.  I ease my burning thighs down into my office chair.  I made it!

''I rock!''

Workday over, I head back to the parking garage.  Can I keep my promise?  Those 7 flights of stairs would, after all, do wonders for my FitBit stats.  And I did manage 3 flights earlier today.  And there's no obligation to hold down a conversation this time around.  My mind's made up.  As I open the door leading to the stairwell, I can't help but cast a slightly smug glance at the hordes waiting in the lift lobby.  

''I rock!''

Two flights up. 

''If I took the elevator now, it would still be better than having taken it all the way up.''

''No, you're committed.  If you don't work for it, don't bother wishing for it.''

Four flights up.

''Well this was stupid.''

''No use quitting now, you're past halfway.''

Six flights up.

''Interesting how my toes have gone completely numb.  If that numbness could work itself all the way up my legs to my lungs, I could probably manage 20 flights.''

Seven flights.  Final destination!

''Yes!  I am queen of the fitness world!''

Get into my car.  Take 5 minutes to catch my breath.  Tap on my FitBit bracelet.  

''Two crappy blinking lights?  Seriously?  Those stairs alone had to be enough to earn me 5 blinking lights.  This sucks!''

Wind my way down the parking lot ramps.  Ease my way into Doha traffic.  Listen to my Michel Thomas Arabic CD as I make my way slowly back home.

Arrive home at 5:30 p.m.  Get a text from the chatty stair-climbing insanely fit co-worker reminding me that I've signed up with my office peeps for a motivational Boot Camp at 6:30 tonight.  

''OMG, is this what I agreed to on my oxygen-deprived trek up the stairs?  Surely they can excuse me for being mentally impaired at the time?  What the heck was I thinking?????''

''No, Gypsy, no excuses.  You can do this.  It's a case of mind over matter.  Go girl!''

Quickly check on Kiddo's homework.  Change into my sweats and runners.  Grab my workout bag.  Kiss Kiddo and Smilin' Vic as they encourage me in my fitness quest.  

''I would sooooo trade this for a glass of wine, a fuzzy blanket, some Kraft mac and cheese and an evening watching mindless TV.''

Fight my way back into Doha evening traffic.  Make it to the park with minutes to spare.

Indulge in 45 minutes of outright humiliation as my peers get a true glimpse of the chaotic spastic thrusts that I'm trying to pass off as 'coming to grips with my health'.

''I'll never live this down at the office.  My eyeballs are sweating.  I could be sitting alone shamelessly on my couch at home watching 'Come Dine With Me.'  Why am I putting myself through this?  I'll never be fit.''  

''No, I need to pat myself on the shoulder.  No pain, no gain.  I could be home, doing nothing.  I should be proud of myself for making the effort.  The heat and humidity and humiliation are making me STRONG.  I rock!''  

''If that clean-eating, paleo-touting, knuckle-head jock, cut-to-the-bone coach makes me do one more burpee I will hunt him down, tie him up and stuff an all-dressed pizza down his throat in one sitting.''

''Hey, I just did 1 more burpee than my 55-year-old boss with the bum shoulder.  I rock!''

''I really hate that coach.  Wait 'til you hit your 30's buddy, then try and give me 5 more yourself!''

''I think I just had a heart attack.  Seriously, my left lung just rolled out onto the grass over there.''

''Yes, 'cool down'.  I made it.  I rock!''

7:30 p.m.  

Pick my left lung up off the grass.  Dust it off.

Ease my way back into Doha traffic ...

Me ... aka that Hot B*%@h

Uhmmmmm, yeah.  

Yup.  

Okayyyyy.  

In another lifetime maybe.

What the lonely labourers on the bus see ...

I'm actually a 44-year-old wife and mother with an office job.  The hottest thing about me these days is probably the occasional inferno flashes that threaten me with spontaneous combustion at the most inopportune moments.  

Even my footwear has become decidedly un-hot, since I mostly wear sensible heels to work so I can take the stairs in an effort to counter my expanding @$$.  My grey roots are an inch long because I'm trying to time a dye job perfectly for a wedding in October.  

If I sit a certain way, my belly forms three rolls that vaguely resemble a burger between two buns.  Oh, and for the last four days, I've developed pitted oedema in my feet ... apparently no reason to be exceedingly alarmed according to the disinterested doctor I consulted yesterday, but enough to furrow those wrinkles on my brow just a tad deeper. 

And yet despite the granny flats, frizzy hair, constant air of bewilderment and exhaustion, ever-expanding posterior, Shrek feet and muffin top, I had a busload of labourers ogling me with unbridled lust as I got stuck behind them in traffic on the drive home from work.  

These are the moments when I realise how truly lonely their life must be here in the ME.  And while their sad plight leaves me disillusioned, I have no illusions that I'm the hottest thing to have crossed their path since Indonesian curry.

It's one of those things that's always irked me about Qatar: the inflated ego of many a woman in the desert.  An impression that they're suddenly irresistible to the other sex.  It's like a warped episode of Mudd's Women from the original Star Trek series ...

It's a scary sense of false flattery that's born of the shameless stares of a breed of desperate labourers thousands of miles from home.  Men sharing living quarters with thousands of other like men.  Men with no other distractions or real entertainment to speak of.  Men who often don't even have a TV to watch in the evenings.  Men exhausted from long hours of hard labour in exasperatingly hot conditions.  Men who sometimes go years without seeing their families/spouses back home.  Men whose noses have become so congested with the smell of their male roommates' sweat and stinky feet that they could smell a splash of Channel No. 5 from 20 miles away.  Men in a country where the ratio of men to women is 4:1.  Men in a country where approximately half of that female ratio is either veiled, under the age of 5 or over the age of 60.  

So those dudes whistled at me on the drive home yesterday?  No s&*t Sherlock!  They'd likely flirt with a rotting papaya fruit if you sprayed it with perfume and put a blond wig on it.

Then there are the other men who hit on me shamelessly.  Like the strange Turkish dude at Carrefour who shadowed me down the fruit and veg aisle one day.  At first I thought I must be mistaken.  He couldn't seriously be staring at my toes, sinfully bare and peeking out from under my floor length skirt?  But sure enough, when I turned back with turnip in hand he'd edged just a bit closer and was by then completely transfixed by my left foot.  I shooed him away with a cry of 'haram' and a threat to take his picture with my phone and report him to mall security.  A few days later, sharing the embarrassingly sordid tale with a good friend, she realised she'd been trailed by the same guy at another Carrefour across town.  I later learned he was a known freak with a specific MO and a preferred 'type'.   I've hesitated to wear open-toed shoes while grocery shopping ever since.  Blechhh!

The male fascination with me doesn't end there though.  Once in a while the 25-year-old guy working on commission at the cosmetics centre at The Mall will wink at me as he tries to spray me with Coach perfume, whispering seductively that all Dutch women love this scent because it's so 'sexy' (imagine not-so-subtle purring as you read the word 'sexy').  This really turns me off.  Number 1, I'm not Dutch.  Number 2, I'm actually just passing through on my way to MegaMart to buy spaghetti squash.  Sorry dude, wasted breath, no commission from this cantankerous Canuck ...

Should I even start on nightclubs?  Let's just say that if a group of women between the ages of 25 to 50 decides to go out for drinks and dancing in Doha, they're sure to get hit on at some point in the evening. That's because in Doha nightclubs the ratio of men to women is likely to catapult to 20:1.  And chances are half the men in the room are wearing beer goggles, have just returned from a 30-day stint offshore and haven't seen a woman in just as long.  The other half are the guys who work at the Coach counter at The Mall; they're just hoping to bag a few free drinks from a disillusioned middle-aged expat wife.  No amount of physical negligence will manage to make you unappealing to this crowd.  Un-manicured nails, forty lbs. overweight, zit on your chin, greasy hair, cankles, hairy legs, smelly pits, baby drool staining the front of your dress, a run in your stockings ... there is truly no effective deterrent. 

Finally, there's the gym.  After 8 years in the ME, I've come to the conclusion that there's a running betting game amongst gym rats as to how many desperate housewives each can entice.  Does the attention of unfettered muscles fool me into thinking I'm all that hot in my grey sweats, mismatched socks, 1980's sweat band and decades-old tattered Gold's Gym sweatshirt?  Uhmmmm.  NO.  

It's a strange, strange world we live in here in the ME.  The occasional reality check never hurts.  A trip abroad is a must if one hopes to remain even remotely connected to the real world.  I need only spend a single day in London or Montreal to realise that Mr. Mudd's Venus pills just don't work in other hemispheres ...

What I ACTUALLY look like ... on a good day :-)


We All Bleed Red ...

Some days it's really just too much to turn on the news.  The atrocities committed by humanity are of seemingly apocalyptic proportions, and I can't help but wonder if the alien invasion portrayed in so many a science fiction film is actually upon us, with the alien having taken on the form of unfettered indulgence and hate. 

On days like these, I wonder at the futility and banality of my blog.  I feel guilt at my self-interest, at writing about how I'm striving and sometimes struggling to be happy and healthy.  I try to imagine what others in dire straights might think if they happen across my silly musings.  And I begin to fill up with shame; shame for my blessed life, shame at being born with a passport that allows me to travel freely, shame at having a healthy family, shame at living in a lovely house, shame at the ability to express myself openly, shame at my intact limbs, shame at my relatively scar-free spirit.

These are the days where I almost decide to chuck it all in for the worthless exercise it would appear to be.  And these are the days I reel myself back in and tell myself to smarten up.  These are the days when I tell myself that a little introspection, self-questioning, self-doubt, self-awareness and self-appreciation may be in short supply.  These are the days I tell myself that little blogs like mine might be helping the author, maybe even the readers, reflect a little more and make slightly more positive choices as a result.

These are the days where I try to remind myself it's important to take control of what we can take control of; that every little bit does make a difference; that if all we focus on is the ugly of the sensational, we'll lose sight of the beauty that often shines from the ordinary.

It's like the scene outside your living room window; will you stop looking out forever if a hurricane passes by?  Probably not.  For a while you'll look out and focus on the destruction, on what's been lost, but chances are you'll eventually start to see little changes in the landscape, little blossoms appearing where the earth had been so violently turned over.  And then, hopefully, you'll look out and see the ordinary landscape transformed by an amazing sunset.  All of a sudden, that seemingly bleak terrain outside your front door will morph into a majestic view, magically filling you with hope.

I can't hide from the sensational events that feed the newswires these days, but I can choose to focus my sights on the glorious ordinary.  There have been many such ordinary moments these days, starting with a recent community ALS Ice Challenge that Kiddo and I attended a week back.  

About 100 ordinary expats and locals, on an ordinary beach, wearing ordinary clothes on an ordinary morning.  Filipinos, Qataris, Canadians, New Zealanders, Brits, Indians, Dutch, Scots, Lebanese, Russians, and more.  All sweating, all waiting, all donating, all finally drenching ourselves with sea water and ice, all shouting in unison, and all laughing and coming together in one small moment of solidarity, in one small gesture that allowed us to make a small difference in someone's world.  Glorious ordinary.

Photo credit: www.iloveqatar.net

I got a chance to talk to some labourers at their worksite this week.  Men of all ages hailing mostly from the Subcontinent, toiling for long hours in the heat to earn the wages that will support their families back home.  I got to listen to some of their concerns (through an interpreter).  Some blinked back tears as they shared a few stories about 'back home'.  We even got to share a few laughs.  Glorious ordinary.

My ordinary days have continued on these past few weeks just as ordinarily as they have all summer.  Working out, eating healthy, consciously stopping myself from shouting obscenities at the reckless driver who cuts me off blindly in traffic.  I've started wearing my Fitbit Flex again over the last five days, and it's motivating me to take the stairs, get up from my desk and walk around the office a bit more, stopping to talk to colleagues and ask how their day's going so I don't feel like I'm wandering aimlessly.  The Fitbit has started clocking in 5,000 steps daily in addition to morning walks and workouts, and it sends me little messages of encouragement and congratulations on my efforts.  Glorious ordinary.

We organised a blood drive at work the other day.  For the first time in my 44 years, I decided to stare my fear of needles in the eye and step up to the plate.  I am now officially a blood donor.  I stood in line to register with Europeans, Eastern Europeans, Asians, North Americans, Africans, Arabs, South Americans, Australasians.  I lay in the mobile blood donation unit, my blood flowing out of me next to that of a tea boy and a chief executive.  People like me, of different classes, sexes, races, cultures and religions, vied anxiously for the chance to better or save a life other than our own.  Perhaps in some cases that was the only thing we had in common: our desire to make some minuscule difference.  That, and the fact that we all bleed red.  Glorious ordinary.

This is my blog.  No sensationalism, no real excitement, no penchant for drama; no beheadings, no downing of planes, no civil war, no random shootings.  Only the view from my living room window, sometimes on the inside looking out, sometimes on the outside looking in.  Letting the little moments of majestic sunshine cast a shadow on the ugly so the glorious ordinary can shine bright.  

Glorious ordinary, where we all bleed red.