The new normal

My lovely friend Becky Beach introduced me to a new phrase early on in my time in Dubai – ‘the new normal’. It’s so relevant here because it’s amazing how things that are so freakin’ weird can quickly become flat out unremarkable.

Here are a few.

Ugly is the new normal

I come from a land of rolling green hills, crystal blue waters, sweeping plains, far horizons, yadda, yadda. I never failed to draw in my breath with delight as I drove home over Good Dog Creek, past Cambewarra Mountain, whether fog was seeping over the ridge or the golden rays of the setting sun were gilding the peaks.

Now I drive home past this.

But what’s weird is that I hardly notice it now. In fact, I find myself thinking, oh, those high voltage power lines look kind of beautiful in the twilight.

Servants are the new normal

At first I found being called ma’am multiple times a day disconcerting, to say the least. I found the swarms of gardeners, maids, shop assistants, labourers and cleaners both disturbing and overwhelming (because you should never have one person do a job that can be done by ten). I found the fact that anything I wanted made, delivered or serviced could be done, on the double, very surprising.

Now, a line of gardeners cycling down the freeway, each pulling a lawn mower behind them – ho hum. A man offering to put my groceries in my car – but of course. Coming back to a freshly washed car in the mall carpark – yawn.

Hot is the new normal

If it’s under 50, you can still actually breathe outside. If it’s under 40, you can walk, run or play outside. If it’s under 30, you need a cardigan. If it’s under 20, you must be out of the country.

When I open my wardrobe, a wave of heat rolls out because the air conditioning can’t get inside. I have become used to putting on clothes that feel like they have been on a slightly warm towel rack.

Automatic is the new normal

I have nearly walked into glass doors that don’t slide open for me. What? I have to push them? A broken escalator stops me dead in my tracks. I have used toilets that flush automatically, soap that dispenses automatically and taps that turn on automatically. Just stand there, it’s all automatic. And if it’s not, there’ll be an assistant to do it for you.

Crazy driving is the new normal

You could call it ‘cultural differences”, you could call it bad manners, or you could call it sociopathy. Whatever you call it, it certainly gets the blood pumping. Just in case you missed it on my Facebook, here is a picture of a kid travelling in his sunroof.

As you do.

And my kids are so attuned to this normal environment that they chant (before I even get a chance) “Your parents don’t love you” when they see toddlers roaming seatbelt-free at 100 kms an hour.

Aah, I could go on for hours. I think we’ll revisit this topic sometimes soon. The possibilities are endless.

What is normal for you that would have shocked you a few years ago?

The amazing lizard lady

Me at my mirror in the morning.

I have long thought that I have a little reptile in me. Not that I lay eggs or eat insects, but there are other, more subtle, signs. Such as the need to go and sun myself after sitting in the frigid conditions of air-conditioned offices (yes, that’s you, South Coast Register). And a preference for hibernation during cold weather.

But the lizard-like characteristic that has come most to the fore in these days of ‘late youth’ (ahem) is that I now have scales rather than skin.

I can no longer apply foundation or powder to my face without moisturising like a bandit for half an hour beforehand. Otherwise the scales show. And I’m not talking a little light Oil of Olay daily moisturising fluid. I’m talking night repair cream. In the morning.

I now not only constantly rub paw-paw ointment into my lips. I have to run it across my hairline because it’s always peeling. (Yes, Mum, I know, I should wear a hat. But I can’t wear a hat, because it scrapes against my poor hairline. And so it goes.)

The backs of my hands are so dry I actually shed skin there like a snake, and my feet – well, it would be in poor taste to describe them. Let’s just say that hot footpaths don’t bother me overmuch.

I also have this rash that comes and goes (can you tell me what it means?) on my décolletage (love that word), and when it comes it makes me look like a freshly plucked pterodactyl*.

And I know reptiles don’t have hair, but if they did it would be like mine. You could scrub pots with it.

I can’t blame the fact that I live in a desert for all of this either. The scales were growing before I left my bit of Australia, which was so wet you could get foot rot from going without gumboots.

Instead, I blame the fact that I had oily skin in my youth and so developed an aversion to icky moisturiser that I didn’t overcome until my late thirties. Too late!

But I’m trying to see the bright side. Snakeskin clothing is in fashion, so I’d better get me some of that. And I guess I can claim to be wearing very expensive gloves made from the tender bellies of baby crocodiles, which would be a very ridiculous and Dubai-ish thing to do. Ditto shoes.

Finally, I am prepared to offer my skin (post-mortem, preferably) to makers of handbags. I think I would look quite stylish.

Is there something you are starting to resemble as you reach ‘late youth’?

* Yes, I know pterodactyls didn’t have feathers. Just messing with ya.

The good, the bad and the ugly

I’m feeling a bit stuck. I thought I would get a few more blog posts out this summer (since my kids are now so big and self-sufficient – ha! – leaving me with time to write – ha!). But aside from the lack of time, mental space and working brain cells, I have also been paralysed by a growing sense of unease about how we (meaning, really, ‘I’) present our lives online.

Looking back over my Instagram pics or my Facebook posts, there are lots of smiling faces and cute poses. 

There are, naturally, no pictures of my children trying to drown each other in the pool, or of the scratches (from a sibling’s nails) that drew blood on their backs. 

There are tales of fun family activities but none of the hours of time in-between that are filled with the repeated cry of the vacationing child. It goes a little something like this: ‘I’m hungry, what can I eat, I’m starving, Mum! MUM! What can I eat?’ Repeat, dawn til dusk, then throw in one or two at 10pm for good measure.

The pictures don’t show the moment, a second after I press the button (or, rather, tap the camera icon), when that arm around a sibling’s shoulder becomes a hand around their neck.

If I try and balance out the coverage by actually telling the truth about the tedium and terror of ten weeks of holidays, I’ll embarrass my kids (I mean, embarrass them more than I already do by, say, dancing in the car), and you, dear reader, will think I hate them and am an unfit mother.

If I focus unrelentingly on the positive, I’ll be living an online lie. And – judging by how inadequate I often feel when I look at everyone else’s Facebook – that’s no good for anyone.

So which would you prefer? Tell me!!

Five reasons to spend summer in Dubai

Yes, it’s hot. Like, really, really hot. Even I think so. And, yes, the children are on school holidays. Every day. Yes, most of our friends have left town. Yes, this year summer has happened to coincide with Ramadan, so even if there was something to do, it couldn’t involve the public imbibing of fluids or eating of food (although bending over and pretending to tie your shoelace while surreptitiously swigging from a water bottle is working out quite well for us so far).

But there are a few wins to spending the summer holidays in Dubai. Here are five of them…

1. There are no queues

Now is your chance to visit every Dubai attraction that is normally too crowded to enjoy. Put off taking the kids to the ice rink because of the crazy teenager speed skaters playing tip between the toddlers with over-sized penguins? Worry no more. They have all gone home to Europe or Africa or wherever, leaving the ice free for your precious offspring. Don’t want to spend half an hour in the line for every ride at Wild Wadi? Visit over summer and the whole water park is yours. Etcetera. WIN!

2. There are no cars

Honestly, the roads are like Nowra on a Sunday afternoon. Vacant. Empty. Deserted. Over summer, you only feel like you are about to die once a day. It’s a big improvement. WIN!

3. Your family will bond

In Australia, summer holidays mostly consisted of driving the kids to their friends houses, or else picking the kids’ friends up to bring them to our house. In between, there were trips to Sydney, people to stay, work and all sorts of other reasons to spread the five personalities in our family around more thinly. But at the moment, we really only have each other. Okay, Graham actually has a life, but the rest of us don’t so much right now. No one can say I am not spending enough time with my children. And actually, we quite like each other. WIN! (Now, if I could just convince them that lying on a bed reading a book all day was a good use of holiday time, we’d all be happy.)

4. Lunch is the new breakfast…

We’re encouraging serious sleep-ins, seeing as the hot, empty days are harder to fill in than the relatively pleasant evenings (only 39 degrees. That’s under 40!). Turns out cricket after dinner is quite possible in the park by that time of day, finished off by an evening swim in the pool (which currently is for our exclusive use). This means that the first meal of the day, for those of us without livelihoods, is more like a (very slightly) early lunch. The kids eat afternoon tea, and then a good dinner, but so far no one has noticed the fact that we’re eating one less meal a day. This saves both time and money. WIN!

5. …And you can eat it in your jimmy-jams

If it has to be done in the morning, then it has to be done in pyjamas. That’s the new rule at our house. Whether we’re playing cards, playing Wii, playing Trivial Pursuit, cooking, cleaning (oh wait, that’s just me) or building houses both real (Lego) and imaginary (Minecraft), our pjs are de rigueur. And, because there’s no one in town, there’s no chance of the front doorbell ringing. WIN!

And finally, if I ever start counting down the days to the new school year, I just have to look at our friendly Springs 14 lifeguard (what? You’re pool doesn’t come with one?). He spends the whole day outside in temperatures around the mid-40s, and not only is he fasting for 16 hours a day (that’s no water, folks. NO WATER) he does it all in long pants.

What are your surprising holiday upsides?

Zombie apocalypse in Dubai - true fact

Yes, yes, it's been a while since my last post. Blame the end of the northern school year. Blame summer vacation. Blame Cyprus. Here's something to read....

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Wes on the Sky Trail at Playnation. No queues!

Almost every time I go to the mall (Aussies, that’s what I now call shopping centres – I’m sorry, peer pressure) I don’t buy anything to eat or drink. I happily do the groceries, run errands or window shop without feeling either thirsty or hungry.

But today, my throat is parched. My stomach is rumbling. And why is that?

It’s Ramadan.

Meaning, I can’t eat or drink (or smoke, but that's somewhat less relevant) in public for another three weeks. And it’s precisely because I’m not allowed to, according to the law of the land, that I really, really want to.

Some cafes are open with screened off areas to purchase food or drink, but I can’t figure out where I’m actually supposed to do the imbibing/ingesting part, in private. I bought a drink for my son at my small local shopping centre the other day and got told off for letting him stand where people could see him. I suppose I could just brazen it out, but I’ve heard of people actually calling security or police in these instances, so it doesn’t really seem worth it. And I really do want to be respectful of the people around me, who are mostly fasting. But I don’t want to stay at home all day, every day, in the middle of the school holidays. And there’s only so long I can go without a coffee. I’ll be sneaking into the bathroom cubicles any minute now. It’s high school all over again, but (thankfully) without the need for breath mints afterwards (which are not allowed during Ramadan, anyway).

We returned home from a trip to Cyprus the other day and it was an eerie feeling to enter a city you have lived in for months, but is now missing a key component – human beings. The combination of Ramadan and summer holidays (during which all ex-pats hop a plane for home) means the streets are deserted. It’s like the zombie apocalypse has been and gone. We are Legend. As Graham said when he went back to work on Sunday, he almost expected to see a tumbleweed roll down the highway.

Woooo-ooooo. That’s the sound of the wind through the ghost town.

Okay, not totally true. It comes back to life a bit after sundown, when all the restaurants and cafés open up again and do a roaring trade with starving, dehydrated locals. But by that time, we’re tucked up at home, in our neighbourhood of absent ex-pats. At least we have the pool to ourselves.

I’m attempting to shift the kids’ sleep patterns so that they fit in better with the current situation, but – while the older two have 10.30am sleep-ins down pat – Archie still wakes at 6.30am. And a family is only as happy as it’s youngest member, which in his case – on a night out – is not very.

I was curious to experience both Ramadan and a Dubai summer. It’s only been three days since we returned from Cyprus (where, by the way, Ramadan is also observed in the Turkish North, but with absolutely no impact on the non-Muslims. Even The Pork Shop (that’s what it’s called - true fact) stayed open, and all the supermarkets sell grog) and I think I’ve satisfied my curiosity. Bring on August 9 (which is not just a reference to mother’s birthday, but also my mother-in-law’s birthday – amazing coincidence – and, of course, to Eid, the end of Ramadan 2013).