End of My World as I Know It

The Rose of Teheran town this week to help me scout out a place to live. She returned to Kuwait and the furry menagerie of 7 Felines and one yappy K-9 we have collected in lieu of a human youngin'. After her first day, her woman's touch breezed through my guest house. A basket in the bathroom now contains my razor, toothbrush, toothpaste and a complete nail clipper/file set. I thought I'd arranged the shit neatly in a row on the sink and that worked for me.

What also worked for me was washing my clothes, drying them and stuffing them into a hamper--wrinkled beyond recognition.

Mornings, I would do what I have always done.

I have two brothers. We all went to high school in the 70s--a great era for my parent's budget and their sons' back-to-school wardrobe. T-shirts. Jeans. White socks. Boots. In the winter--a flannel shirt. Pre-grunge grunge I suppose. Mi Mere would wash and dry our clothes-outfits which held up to lunch period squatting behind bushes or sitting in ther grass on a football field, far enough out on the sports field so that I and my soft narcotic compreres (who did indeed inhale most ebulliently) would have no trouble swallowing evidence if "d'man" tried to make a run for us.

So then as now, my cleaned and dried clothes go into a basket near the dryer--whether I was a dazed and confused lad or a crazed and diffused man.

Mornings: Getting in to gear post-coffee is a multi-tasked process involving

1. regulating shower temperature, 2. unearthing the clothes from the clean and dried but not ironed basket, 3. tossing the items into a dryer on a high heat, 4. into the shower, 5. followed by face shaving, teeth brushing , a little de-stinkum spraying, 6. be-robed self trotting to the dryer, grabbing each item and giving each a vigorous shake or two, 7. dress, 8. locate briefcase, keys, wallet, reading specs and 9. out the door, a relatively wrinkle free man.

Not so long ago, I used to slot a few minutes for a torpid toss--just to get my heart started and ease into a stress free morning; this has been replaced with less time consuming selection of mood stabilizers which require only a glass of water and no post-emissions clean up.

But I transgress.

Anna Z. does not approve of a clean and dried basket full of wrinkled clothes. I have hangers, sa?

I own an iron and ironing board. Sa?

If the drudgery of ironing is too much for me, pay one of the Bengali blue suits a shekel or two; I can find one most times hanging around the utility room on the Mezzanine (usually standing while dozing on a broom handle).

Anna Zoija also went after my guest house kitchenware. She bleached every thing. Once bleached, she assigned everything--plates, bowels, glasses, cups utensils to more convenient and sensible locations--forks lined up in a fork place, spoons in a spoon place etc.

Flowers bloomed on the kitchen table.

Dishes were washed, dried and put away daily--sometimes twice daily. Shirts and pants were ironed.

The Atkins diet became my diet.

And I learned a few new words in Arabic.

Life in Abu Dhabi, she says, is pretty cash cow. I may not be pronouncing it right--it's my neumonic device. I think it's more like Kashka which, in Q8T Arabic means "posh"--I think.

I also learned how to say "It's none of my business." I like this one.

Some--in fact many Muslims feel Paradise and rivers of hang-overless wine can be attained by avoiding pork, being seen by others praying in a mosque, and starving by day (while being gluttons by night) during Ramadan.

I focus more on the peace, charity, willingness to assist others in need stuff. I also try to avoid the devilishness of gossip, which astonishes me because as far as I read into the messages delivered to the son of a woman who salted her meat many years ago, pork, like booze and gambling, is a gateway to naughtiness while gossip and back stabbing is at the core of naughtiness.

Now I have a phrase to slash through office "Shinu hadas? and Minu hadas?"

I use another bovinary neumonic:
Moo Chocolatey. I think it is more accurately pronounced, "Mushaqali". What I hope I am saying is, "Ain't none of my bidness."

Hank Williams Sr. (Peace Be Unto Him) said it succinctly in English: "Cuz if you mind your business you won't be a mindin' mine."

In Arabic, I believe this is expressed as Moochocolack. Something to that effect.

I do not feel I have to blow myself to tender vittles to be holier than thou. A polite "shut the fuck up" will do.

Well, back to solo living and another rapid descent (or arguably an ascent) into eschatalogical morbidity and impatience.