What Am I Doing Here? and Other Questions I Ask Myself Daily

Have you ever had one of those moments in your life when you're like, "How the hell did I get here?"

I had one of those moments last week at work (moving to another country will increase these moments exponentially, by the way.)

Here's what happened:
My hotel, like many Ritz-Carlton hotels, is extremely popular for weddings. But here in the UAE, men and women separate for their wedding celebrations. At a "ladies' wedding," only women only can work. No men are allowed in the room, including male chefs, banquet servers, or anyone else who is paid to be sure these things run smoothly. It makes for an interesting scene when banquet managers can't actually be on the floor to manage, and tiny Filipino women carry trays of food that weigh as much as they do.

Thursday's wedding was for 850 guests, so all ladies in the hotel, including those of us on the sales team with no veritable banquet experience, were asked to help.

In typical Dubai fashion, there was no actual instruction until about 30 minutes before the event. We thought we would be showing guests the way to the restrooms or safe in the coat check room with 850 black abayas, but were shocked to discover that we had sections, and tables, and trays full of Champagne glasses (filled with mocktails, always mocktails.)

I had to steal a stranger's pants from the dry cleaning rack 20 minutes beforehand because the pants they tried to give me were no less than 10 sizes too big and were so short that they would have stayed dry in a flood. In those pants, I looked like Billy the Hobo Clown. But in the stranger's pants, I reluctantly put on the requisite vest and neck tie. They ran out of cufflinks so they had to sew my cuffs together.

If I've painted the picture correctly, by now you know I was looking H-O-T hot. Here's my friend Karen in the amazing outfit. (Her smiling face indicates that it was still very early.)


Even more of a problem than us looking more like men than ladies was that we don't know a damn thing about working a Ritz-Carlton banquet. But no matter. It was showtime and they threw us to the wolves. The wolves in this scenario were ridiculously attractive Emarati women in five inch heels, designer gowns, and enough diamonds to blind you if you stare directly at them.

It was about halfway through the night, after my first spill but before the Bollywood-through-the-ages entertainment, that I asked myself, "what the hell am I doing here?

But even though I don't know what the hell I was doing there, I'm kind of glad I was, even as the time passed into my 17th hour of work that day.

Memories of Music Past

Tonight we were sitting on the couch watching American Idol. Yeah, we do that here. It airs one day late and we can't vote, but we (well me, but Rob by association and force) are still big fans.

For fellow fans, here are some answers to your pressing questions: Loving Keith Urban (what's not to love, am I right ladies?), irritated by Nicky Minaj, can take or leave Mariah Carey, love love will always love Ryan Seacrest. And I miss JLo.

Anyway, tonight's special guest was Bon Jovi (which doubled my American Idol pleasure if that's even possible) and I got to telling Rob about how I owned the Bon Jovi "Always" single cassette when I was 14. I would play it on my Walkman more times than was probably healthy for both me and the Walkman on which it played.

This reminded Rob of his days spent with DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince at about the same age. And this is what it looked like:

He's pretty sick with a nasty head cold, but isn't too sick to hold the iPhone on his shoulder like a boom box from the early 90s (not pictured, unfortunately.)

And so our night went. A DJ Jazzy Jeff song (usually about trivial teenage angst), interrupted by one of my Bon Jovi songs (usually about lost love and heartbreak), interrupted by American Idol back from commercial, and on and on like so.

I know. We're indubitably the least cool couple in Dubai, but all in all, not a bad Friday night.

Buses, Trains, and Shoe Leather: The Story of My Work Commute

My husband is already tired of what he calls incessant complaining about my commute.
I know it's only been a week, but I'm obviously very spoiled and feel as if I've earned the right to complain. Now you too can experience the enchantment of Dubai public transportation!

7:10 a.m. Walk across the street and onto the sidewalk to wait for the bus.

7:13 a.m. Stand nicely on sidewalk, even as people begin to invade your space.

7:15 a.m. Use dirty looks and/or shoulders to protect your postage stamp-sized space on sidewalk.

7:20 or 7:25 or 7:30 a.m. Bus arrives. Do anything in your power to get on the bus. Relent only for the elderly, the pregnant, and possibly women with very young children. Being nice won't get you to work on time.

7:30 a.m. Look straight ahead. Remember to breath through mouth. Looking for something to hold onto is unnecessary as the sheer number of people on the bus will keep you in place.

7:32 a.m. Official-looking man from the government pulls bus over. Checks to make sure everyone on the bus has paid.

7:42 a.m. Run off the bus to the metro station. Run faster than the person next to you.

7:43 a.m. Stand as close as humanly possible to metro doors so that when they open, you have a snowball's chance in hell of getting a seat for the ride. Feel free to use shoulders again when people push ahead of you.

7:45 a.m. 35-minute metro ride in the ladies' car. Always the ladies' car. Ladies smell better and don't stare as much. And thank the good lord for iPhones and NPR.

8:20 a.m. Run off metro. Pay half day's wages for a coffee at Starbucks.

8:25 a.m. Run like hell to get to your office by 8:30. Try to keep coffee in your cup. Don't trip over high heels. Be sure to look perfectly presentable upon arrival.

7:15 p.m. Repeat in reverse.