Though having said that, a fruit salad is never diminished by the grape.
Author: ThirdCat
And the same goes for pineapple
I’m a big fan of the grape. But not in a salad.
Not that he’s complaining
That the mister walked and talked straight through the afternoon, the black of the night and into today, is proof enough that those mojitos were not of pure Cuban descent.
aquarius
The mister was even less impressed by my decision to pay for a horoscope chart than I thought he would be.
Always end with the good
One bad thing: in typical Abu Dhabi style, the gym of which I am a member has just implemented some enormous changes without really thinking through the impact of those changes. They seem, for example, to have given reciprocal rights to members of the Ladies’ Club which means that now all of those women come over for classes. The result is that the numbers of people at the morning classes have increased to completely unsustainable levels. I think it would have been more sensible to run more classes over at the Ladies’ Club because there just isn’t room in the studio anymore and it’s getting very rough and tumble as people jostle for position. I’m enjoying the classes less and less, and every day I find myself less inclined to return. I’m not entirely sure what to do about this, as my mental wellbeing rests absolutely on my attendance at those classes, and I am not at all sporty or athletic, so don’t know what I could do in their place.
One good thing: flickr has just been unblocked. Can anyone send me the user name of my account? It’s been so long since I used it, I can’t remember who I am!
If only my subconscious would apply itself more productively
I was surprised to find my brain asking of itself, this 2010 morning, ‘Who shot JR?’, but shocked to find it answered quite uncertainly, ‘Was it Kristin?’
For a few years when it was started, I was still young enough that I was supposed to be in bed when Dallas was on, so I had to watch it through the crack of my bedroom door being careful not to shift my weight on the creaking floorboard or, without a word, my mother would push the loungeroom door closed just to the point that I could no longer see the television. In such cases, I would go back to bed, my radio under my pillow because, for some reason I never understood, our local television station, GTS BKN could also be heard on the radio.
Now of course, I can watch Dallas any old time.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rb0Se8NaYlE&fs=1&hl=en_US]
One foot in front of the other
Yesterday, as we were watching the final soccer trials, I moved from chatting to conversation with a woman I would count amongst my Abu Dhabi friends, though I don’t know her all that well. One thing led to another, as it does, and we were discussing fortieth birthdays. She is approaching hers and, as you know, for I am fairly certain I have acquired no new readers in the last three years, I had my 40th not so long ago.
‘Did you find it difficult?’ she asked. ‘Turning forty?’
And here is where I found another sign that my state of mind is greatly improved because I felt no need whatsoever to tell her of everything that happened in the year or so leading up to my fortieth birthday. What details I did tell her, I chose carefully and consciously with absolute awareness. As I spoke I was seeking no particular reaction or response and needed nothing from her.
This time last year, I would not have thought twice about what I told her. This happened, and then this happened, and then this and this and this and before I knew it I was living in Abu Dabi, I would have said. Confession was a compulsion. I have no idea what this compulsion was supposed to achieve, but there it was, all ready at the slightest hint of an audience.
My life, or at least my focus, has expanded.
The mister must have noticed things have changed, because last night, when he came home and I said, how was your day, he said, ‘You know, so-so.’
I don’t remember the last time he told me he’d had a bad day. Or perhaps I don’t remember the last time I heard.
One thing leads to another
On the same day my child had to go to school and tell the teacher, ‘My mom threw my homework out because she thought it was rubbish trash,’* because I did and so I did, I read this in the paper.
You really need to follow that link, yes, yes you do. Read on its own, that article actually gives a false impression of higher education here in the UAE. I don’t have the figures and things to hand right now, but young women are taking up higher education opportunities at a very high rate. I would tell you more about this, but I don’t have time right now. It’s 11.26 and I have promised myself that I will be at my desk – the one without the internet connection – ready to work at 11.30.
*serious language influences at work in youngest child’s vocabulary
Me and sport, we’re like this we are
I do know how those AFL players are feeling right now. In my first ever game of netball, the score was declared as forty nil, and for the rest of that week I believed that nil meant draw. Apparently oblivious to the fact that I had not witnessed our team shoot a single goal.
On smoothies, milkshakes and grenadine syrup
We were at Lips the other day after school (Lips is the one just on the right of the fountain after you’ve walked in the entrance of Marina Mall).
We had a long discussion about the merits of milkshakes versus smoothies versus juices. I know I’m kidding myself ever so slightly, but I feel that the smoothie is packed full of goodness – on account of using the real fruit – while the milkshake undermines itself with the use of that rubbish flavouring. In addition, in this part of the world, the milkshake or iced chocolate tends to arrive smothered in that dreadful fake cream. In short, apart from the milk, the milkshake is just a glass of fake food.
The conversation ended when I agreed that we would order milkshakes this time, smoothies the next time. Eldest child ordered strawberry rather than chocolate and tried to tell me that was healthy because it was strawberry. Yeah, not so much.
Anyway, we’d just finished the discussion and put in our order when a reporter from The National came and asked whether we could give our opinions about some new regulations (or rules or guidelines or legislation, not sure exactly which) governing foods in schools and interviewed my children about their school lunches.
After she had gone, I had to endure yet another conversation about how *everybody* else gets donuts and muffins from the store.
Youngest child’s current coveted foodstuff is ‘cheese dunks’ which is a packet, and you peel the top off and then you dunk your crackers in the cheese (and I’m sure that cheese is more ‘cheese’ than cheese).
‘No chance,’ I said. And then the milkshakes arrived.
(For the record, I ordered a drink called an Arabian Night which is fruit juice and I suspect a fair lashing of the grenadine syrup you often get with your lemon mint juice, a syrup to which I am more than a little partial).
PS The mister and I diverge even more wildly on the merits of fake cream than we do about Coke. The mister has something more than a soft spot for the kitchener bun and is outraged whenever a bakery gives him one that has real cream and not that other dreadful stuff. Myself, I am happy to dip my finger into the kitchener bun, remind myself about the fake cream and move on.