Shopping with Ms. H

Like a woman who is constantly falling for the wrong kind of guy, I am sometimes very attracted to the wrong kind of clothes. This generally falls into three categories:

1. The Bohemian look. Maybe because I grew up in the 70s, I like the drawstring blouses, dainty beads, and elastic waist peasant skirts. This is a look that does not love me back. Instead of a delicate flowerchild, I resemble an overweight Earthmother.

2. Anything velvet. I look good in velvet. But it’s not the fabric to run errands in, especially as I live in very hot climates. More than two pieces in my closet is complete overkill.

3. Anything that’s 75% off. You do the math: 75% off for something that I wear 0 times equals a complete waste of money.

I first started researching wardrobe building when we moved to Moscow. My Scottsdale wardrobe of little tennis outfits and cotton lounging pajamas perfectly suited my lifestyle of playing tennis three or four times a week and working from home. But this was not exactly what I needed for trudging the sidewalks of snowy Moscow.

In the intervening years, I read a lot of books on clothes shopping. But even though I now knew better, I still made a lot of mistakes. Eventually, I developed a shopping persona. (Taylor does get his flair for the dramatic from me.) As I cannot be trusted to follow the rules, I no longer shop for myself. Instead, I am the personal shopper for a woman I call Ms. H.

Ms. H is the same size and coloring as me, but she is MUCH pickier. While she loves a sale, she would never EVER buy anything that wasn’t 100% wonderful on her. We are talking the kind of wonderful that STRANGERS (not clerks) in the dressing room feel compelled to say, “Oh, you should buy it. That looks great on you.”

Unlike me, Ms. H is very realistic about her weight. She buys clothes only that fit her current weight. She never buys anything that is a tiny bit too tight or too loose unless she plans to go directly to the tailor to have them altered.

She can afford to be cavalier about her weight. I’ve noticed that because her clothes flatter her body and fit so well, she LOOKS a lot thinner than she is.

Sometimes being her personal shopper drives me crazy. I once found a gorgeous skirt (75% off) that she refused to buy simply because it didn’t fit her lifestyle. In contrast, I once bought a little metallic bag perfect for evenings out dancing. I conveniently forgot that I don’t spend my evenings out dancing. I eventually chucked it out years later, having never once used it.

My biggest surprise about Ms. H is her shopping budget. You’d think she would spend a lot of money on clothes. Shockingly, she thinks nothing of paying full price. But because she is so picky, she buys very few pieces. And she gets a LOT of use out of everything she buys. There are no slackers in her closet. No dowdy peasant skirts, no pants that don’t quite fit, no velvet capes that haven’t seen the light of day in four years.

Someday, I’m hoping to have the confidence to shop like her.

A Tale of Two Lectures

As a way of maintaining my superior knowledge of useless information, I attend the occasional lecture. This month I went to a seminar on carpet construction and a lecture on Armenia.

An acquaintance of mine, an Armenian architect, invited me to attend her lecture. I agreed to go because I try to support people I know in their public endeavors. (Note: This support does not extend to commercial events held at home where Tupperware, Botox, or makeup is being hawked under the guise of a “party.”)

This Armenian friend is a very interesting and dynamic woman so it wasn’t a sacrifice to go hear her speak to a Cross Cultural group. The Cross Cultural group organizes monthly lectures. As 80% of the population here are expats, there are lots of cultures to share. Last month’s talk was given by the Swiss ambassador.

About 150 people attended the lecture at the Milenium Hotel where I learned a little about the history, architecture and culture of Armenia. I found out Gregory Peck is Armenian, which is a pretty good useless piece of information.

The most impressive fact to me is that most Armenians don’t live in Armenia. In fact, many Armenians emigrated during the 1920s. This means that 60% of the people who consider themselves Armenians today NEVER lived there. But they kept their culture. That’s why there are Armenian churches, schools, cemeteries, and streets all over the world.

She covered the subject matter well for her 60 minute timeframe. Yet, at the end of the lecture she got comments from other Armenians in the audience about other points of Armenia pride she’d omitted.

She ended with a quote from William Saroyan, the son of an Armenian immigrant: “I should I should like to see any power of the world destroy this race, this small tribe of unimportant people, whose wars have all been fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled, literature is unread, music is unheard, and prayers are no more answered. Go ahead, destroy Armenia. See if you can do it. Send them to the desert without bread or water. Burn their homes and churches. Then see if they will not laugh, sing and pray again. For when two of them meet anywhere in the world, see if they will not create a NEW ARMENIA."

The other lecture I attended was a four-hour seminar in handmade carpet construction. I can now tell you whether the warp is an S-thread or a Z-thread. This is literally whether the thread was spun left or right. Of course, this makes absolutely no difference to the look, value or quality of the rug. If THAT isn’t a useless piece of information, I don’t know what is.

This seminar was conducted by an American college professor with a passion for nomadic weavings. And no matter how dry the subject, it’s always fun to hear a good teacher talk about something for which they have great passion.

The audience consisted mostly of Americans who were probably just trying to get enough information so they wouldn’t get ripped off too badly buying carpets for their bare floors. But there were also a sprinkling of true carpet afficiandos who not only brought in their rugs from home for us to examine, but who also stuck around the whole FOUR hours.

There was no cost for either lecture, except for a small fee to cover the cost of coffee and fruit tartlets at the Milenium Hotel. Fruit tartlets are forever linked in my mind to expat life, along with the many easy opportunities to gently expand my horizons.

Gym Dandy

I have been working out at a place I call the Lazy Ladies gym. I am a loyal member there, at least until my three month trial membership expires.

I like this gym. Not only because it is across the street, (I am, admittedly, somewhat of a lazy lady myself), but because I get the equipment all to myself. While I sometimes have to move my mat over to accomodate the crowd at the Pilates classes, the machines in the fitness room are like pieces of sculpture which never seem to be touched.

On the other hand, the gym attracts a big crowd in the relaxation room where ladies gather for a leisurely lunch. This is no raw veggie crowd. They bring in very high caloric dishes from home which they'll spend the next two to three hours eating. This drives the fitness instructors, who have an average body fat of 18%, crazy. They are plotting to ban food from the gym.

My other friends belong to gyms in town where people actually go to exercise and nobody would dare bring so much as a carrot stick to share. But the Lazy Ladies' Gym is much more interesting, a reason that keeps me looking forward to my next workout there. And what more can you ask of a gym?

American Stereotypes

This week a South African acquaintance said to me, “I hear Americans are arrogant. Is that true?”

How to answer? “Well, Americans DO think they have the best country in the world,” I began. This is a statement with which I completely concur. But I left that part out for fearing I’d sound, well, arrogant.

“And Americans often tell you within the first five minutes what they consider their most impressive achievement.” In contrast, I am always discovering interesting facts about non-American friends of mine MONTHS after meeting them—like they speak six languages or work as a journalist for CNN or have published books on Middle Eastern ornithology.

Do I come across as arrogant? I consider it a bit of a responsibility when I am the ONLY American someone knows because whatever I do reflects not only on me as an individual, but on Americans in general.

I thought all Parisians were warm and friendly because the first Parisian couple I met were like that. This stereotype was spoiled only when I actually WENT to Paris.

I asked Taylor if he thought Americans were arrogant. He didn’t. He thought that arrogance had a snob factor uncharacteristic of our nation. He suggested Americans were cocky. And that’s what we are.

Americans are also friendly, optimistic, ingenious and generous. And that’s quite a lot to be cocky about.

Seven Things to Do Before I Die

Photos: Larry and Nancy in Cairo (2007) and Budapest (2005).

Yeah, I know. I’ve had a lot of adventures. But somehow, they just whet my appetite for more.

This year, I’ve started a list of things I’d like to do before I die. It was supposed to be a list of at least 10 Things, but after careful consideration, I narrowed it down to seven.

Several things on my original list didn’t make the final cut because they weren’t special enough to me. For example, I’d like to dive the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. I’d like have dinner at the White House. And I wouldn’t mind watching Roger Federer play at a major tennis tournament. While they all sound like fun, I don’t have a passion for them. They don’t make me sigh and say, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Other things got cut because I simply wasn’t willing to make the effort. For example, I’d love to be able to speak French. Unfortunately, to speak French you have to LEARN it, something I wasn’t so keen on. So “Speak French Fluently” got marked off the list.

Incidentally, “Learn to Tango” survived the cut. I just have to wait until my favorite dancing partner isn’t always traipsing off to Brussels or Saudi.

Not surprisingly, four of my Seven Things involved travel:

1. See a really good Aida performed at the Pyramids. If Zubin Mehta wants to get a gang together to mount a production there, I’ll do my best to attend.

2. Hike the Inca Trail to Machu Pichu in Peru. And, Brenda, I’d love to have you come with.

3. See Rio from Sugarloaf Mountain a la Alec.

4. Go into space. (This is a dream list so why should the sky be the limit?)

Photo above: Diane W. and Nancy at Ankor Watt (2006).

Ladies Who Laze

I keep trying (and failing) at Yoga. I think this is because I have all the flexibility of a package of uncooked spaghetti. Whenever I tried to do the movements I became nauseous. And this was not just any nausea. This is the same nausea I had the first trimester of pregnancy. I figured it was my body’s way of saying, "Whatever you're doing, cut it out!”

By the time I stopped getting nauseous, our instructor had to go back to India to wait for a new employment visa. Apparently, being a Perfect Master does not have job security in Abu Dhabi.

In the meantime, I gave up Yoga and decided to join a gym. My new gym is on the third floor of the high-toned Paris Gallery department store. I never shop at Paris Gallery, mostly because I never seem to be in the mood to spend $500 on a handbag. Besides handbags, the Paris Gallery also carries stuff like Mont Blanc pens; Lalique Crystal; very expensive brands of sunglasses, cosmetics and perfumes; and a humongous selection of French candies.

The third floor, which is forbidden to men, offers various exotic spa treatments, a salon and a small gym with very good equipment. I chose the gym because it meets my main criteria—convenience. It’s across the street from my apartment.

Since joining, I have taken to calling it “The Lazy Ladies’ Gym.” First of all, it doesn’t open until 11 a.m. because all the members are sleeping in. Next, it comes equipped with a lovely relaxation room in which to rest and drink coffee.

“Who goes to the gym to rest?” I thought. Apparently, some of the women in my toning class. While I seem to be the only American, the gym does attract women of various nationalities. But wherever they are from, some of them put forth surprisingly minimal effort. It reminds me of junior high calistentics where nobody wanted to “Give that chicken fat back to the chicken.” But unlike gym school classes, nobody here is FORCED to go to toning classes. If you can’t be bothered to make any effort, why show up at all?

Besides, nobody told the fitness instructors that this is a lazy gym. I went to the Pilates class which was held in a darkened fitness room ringed with scented candles. Yanni-type music played in the background. Our instructor led us in slow stretches and breathing. Just when I really started to relax, she then took us through thousands of itty-bitty movements that left my muscles screaming. One woman marched out in a huff, complaining, “This hurts!”

Being a glutton for punishment, I signed up for personal training. The instructor put me on some fancy machine that in three minutes spit out a print-out that told me that my nutrition and fitness levels were good, but I really needed to work on muscle tone.

The instructor talked about sculpting my body as if I were a big lump to which she’s anxious to take a chisel. My goals are much more modest. I just want to be strong enough to haul my Scuba equipment around like everyone else. And I’m hoping the Lazy Lady’s gym will help.

SuperBash

The American Women’s Network did a joint Superbowl party with the U.S. Marines. As we don’t want to get up in the middle of the night, we tape the game and show it on their projection TV Monday evening at the Marine’s bar on the embassy grounds.

If you knew the score, you were to keep your mouth shut. Staying in the dark was surprisingly easy. The Superbowl Game was too late to make my local morning newspaper, and the score wouldn’t be reported on TV unless I accidentally tuned in CNN.

I arrived early at the embassy, having been roped into the decorating committee. We had a long wait outside the gate as we were not on the visitors’ list. This was sort of a surprise as we had supplied the embassy with this list and we knew we were definitely on it. It turns out, the names were listed alphabetically by first name and the guard was looking for our last names. Not being American, he couldn’t tell which was which.

After being admitted, we noticed there were no directional signs to the bar. Not wanting our group to be shot for traipsing around the embassy grounds, we made that the first priority.

Then it was time to decorate. We had wisely decided on a minimalist approach as people probably weren’t coming to a Superbowl party for the decorations. We blew up a few balloons in team colors, strategically placed them out of the way, congratulated ourselves on a job well done and retired to the bar.

In the meantime, one of us got a call from someone wanting to come in their friends’ place. All partygoers had to have their complete names as shown on their passport and nationalities sent to the embassy days in advance for security purposes. After the list was approved, the names were matched with passports at the gate. The names aren’t transferable at the last minute, a concept the caller just didn’t get.

We were expecting an overflow crowd so I saved a seat for Larry, who was coming back from Saudi Arabia. About an hour before the game, Larry texted me that he was still out of the country. I decided to bag the game (well, it wasn’t like OU was playing) and go home.

On the way out, I met my friend, Julie, and her husband. “I thought you and your husband were going to the party,” she said.

“No, Larry can’t make it so I’m going home,” I said. Larry’s business travels have an uncanny knack for exactly coinciding with American Network social events. I go to so many of their events on my own that Julie calls Larry “Mr. Snuffleupagus.” Mr. Snuffleupagus is a character on Sesame Street that everyone thought was imaginary because nobody but Big Bird ever saw him.

I had assured Julie my husband existed and that another mutual friend, Cynthia, had actually seen him with me in the grocery store. Cynthia verified this but claimed that I could have just been dragging over some stranger from the next aisle.

I caught a taxi back into town where I could finally find out the final score. (The Colts won.) As nobody would be honking their horns and backfiring their cars in celebration—at least not in Abu Dhabi—I looked forward to a good night’s sleep.