I've had a lot of culture shock since I've moved to the UAE. Dudes here touch their noses in greetings. Very shocking. People wear so much perfume it makes my nose twitchy. Itchy plus shocking. You can get camel milk in the grocery store. Scary and shocking.

It's a foreign country, so having my moments was a given. What I wasn't expecting, though, was um, religion shock.

I am the only practicing Muslimah in my newspaper. So far as I knew, I was the only Muslimah period, until some of my short-skirted colleagues asked me where the prayer room was. Shocking.

It's not that I haven't met non-practicing Muslims. Shoo, I used to be one. But what I guess surprised me is that there are good people here who want to be Muslim, enough that they pray semi-regularly, and yet they still don't feel comfortable enough to be different. They still feel like they have to conform to society's standards, even in a so-called Muslim country. Sad.
*********
My coworkers like to party when they're off. Before the week is even over they're already arranging which club or bar they'll be meeting at. That's not surprising or offensive, to each his own and I don't care what people do on their off hours. What is amazing though is that they keep inviting me. I say no, and they try again.

These are people who have been living in a 'Muslim' country for a good many years now. You would assume that along the way they'd have picked up a cursory understanding of Islam and Muslims. No drinking and mixing is a basic tenant of Islam and my headscarf should let people know I'm trying to live the tenants. Yet they still don't get it.

Stupid dialogue
"Aniraz, when was the last time you got drunk?"
"How about never."
"You're kidding!"
********
"I love your boots! They must be great for mini-skirts."
"I wouldn't know."
"What?"
*********
"Haha, the Ed must think I'm totally anti-social."
"Don't worry. There are lots of Indian girls here. The boss understands that you have really strict parents who won't let you out."
"It has nothing to do with my parents."
*********
"Haha, eating a big sandwich in hijab is easier said than done. When I open my mouth I open the pin under my chin."
"So why don't you just take it off?"
*********
"So your mom is Mormon and your dad is Muslim."
"Yeah."
"Which one are you?"
**********
"Got a smoke?"
*********

Chalk it up to cloistered microcosms of foreign labour and absence of Islamic culture in the media. I feel like I'm visiting smalltown America. Time to put on the dawah hat. It's a shame I'm so rusty.

What is age? It's the number of years you've spent breathing air. It isn't really a measure of anything but that. Sure, knowing someone's age can give you some helpful heads up, like don't expect a 15 year old to remember the horror that is Small Wonder. But aside from that, it is a guarantee of little.

So why do people think they know everything about you once they know how old you are?

I don't generally tell people I work with how old I am. It's not important. I don't come to work as anything but my intelligence. I leave my gender, age and personal leanings at the door. I don't access them at work and I don't appreciate other trying to do so.

But they insist on knowing don't they. When I turned 23 I brought cake to work. People are always sharing things with me I thought I'd share something with them. I wasn't even going to tell people what the cake was for, but you can't wear a new shirt or smile secretively without idiots breaking into that irritating off-tune song.

Of course, the standard question did come. "How old are you now?" When I was in school, I always told people I was 102. They knew I was lying, but left it alone. I also told them I was a black Jew from Peru, but that is another story for another day. This time I thought I'd be a bit more believable. "Thirty-two," I answered.

The men took the answer in stride and congratulated me. Really, all they wanted was cake anyways. Many had the traumatised look of a male who delved too much into the forbidden zone of female mortality. They took their piece, smiled blankly, and ran for the hills.

The women were a bit more discerning, turning their hawk-like eyes on my person, checking for wrinkles or artful makeup application. "I heard you were 26." "You can't be!" "Naughty girl!" Some already knew how old I was from my paperwork. "But you're just a baby!" says a 26 year old. *rolls eyes* And then it was out.

It isn't that I'm ashamed of my age. Gone are the early years of my career when I was decades younger than my coworkers. I am not so young now to constantly second guess myself nor am I old enough to envy the youth of teenagers. I am not the little kid in a room full of bigger, stronger ones, hiding the fact they've been skipped two grades.

But I am also not proud of my age. I am not 23 by any virtue of my own. It isn't because I'm any better or worse than anyone that I am this old. Time has simply passed and we have foolishly tallied it against ourselves as it went by. To wave the banner of '23' would lack foresight, as I'll only be that many years old for 364 days, with my age growing with each passing moment.

I simply wish to avoid the drama. Why does the knowledge of how old I actually am usually result in different treatment? Does it change my value at all? Does it mean I'm worthy of less consideration? Does it mean you can try and stare me down when the submission tally is being discussed? Does it mean you can wear a patronizing smile when you're talking to me even though I whupped you in all the editing and reporting tests? Does it mean you can give me your overflow when I've got stuff of my own to manage like I was an assistant hired especially for you?

It doesn't. So don't try.

I was presented with a New Office Survival Kit for my birthday, with each junkfood goody including its own ingenious message. My mom is the bomb. Judge for yourself…

Keep up your MENTOStimulation

Always be an AMIGO TORTILLA CHIPS

Those three magic words … I’m on BREAK CAPPUCINO CANDY

ORONAMIN C don’t DRINK me. Pull the ring, count to five, toss into a croded s taff meeting and run! Danger: not for human consumption.

LA VACHE QUI RIT – Leave ‘em laughin’

Be EXTRA CHEWING GUM professional at all times.

Stay on TOP JUICE of breaking news.

Be a MOUTH AWMIGHTY LOLLYPOP at staff meetings.

MISSBON CHOCOLATES: Top secret, for your eyes only. (Inside) Your missbon, should you choose to accept, is to infiltrate XXX newspaper and pretend to be a news reporter. His candy will destruct as you eat it. Good luck.

The pressure is on! Deadlines loom! Time to play HIDE AND SEEK CHOCOCHIP COOKIES.

Every office is full of VAN HOUTEN FRUIT AND NUTS. Join the fun!

Remember, it’s a ZOO ANIMAL CRACKERS, out there.

Don’t be afraid to toot your own BUGLES CORN SNACKS

Always SALTLETTS STICK it to the competition

Don’t let stress drive you SPICY NUTS-y

Join the CLUB CRACKERS, but stay ORIGINAL. Never be one of those EASY SERVE CONVENIENT SINGLES.

Don’t forget to have FUNZELS.

Don’t take any RED BULL from anyone.

Check the facts and get the CHOCODATES. Remember, the only safe date is a CHOCODATE! Love, Mom,

Things what have been discovered...

A peanut butter/ maple syrup/ banana sandwich is the breakfast of champions. Or happy crumpled reporters.

Owl is socially repellant. She should have been a bouncer or perhaps a spelunker, not a reporter. No one wants to tell me anything. Hrmph.

Things that go beep are horrid.

The Dubai Zoo is overrun with African gray parrots. If they were smart they'd s buy my silence with one.

The lil bro says jellybeans are girl food. Their poshy flavors are wasted when you eat them by the fistfuls. Try it.

Anglo American + Pathan Pakistani = Arab. Or rather, it equals a chick who’s unwittingly convinced all Arab coworkers that she’s one of them despite her loud denials of any Arab origin.

All local kids play soccer a billion and seventeen times better than I ever could.

Never trust a man with a fake beard. Or a woman for that matter. *wiggles eyebrows*

I am in serious need of go-go-gadget extending arms. Perhaps then I could dunk.

There is a huge niche in the animal food chain in the UAE that can only be filled by miniature feral camels. You heard it here first.

Smurfs are among us.

I am equipped for all weather. This country is not. One time we had a cool breeze, but then it was gone.

The closest thing to instant happiness is Pop Rocks. *fzzzz!*

Today we are twenty-three. We had cake. And maybe we'll have a kitten. Bought, not eaten or concieved, thankee very much.

My dad is a silly guy.

My brother and I went to go pick my dad up from the airport the other day. We weren't exactly sure when he was arriving and he hadn't told us the flight number, so we were a bit uncertain about the whole thing. When we pulled up the only flight from Islamabad had already landed and most of the passengers had disembarked. The brother quickly parked while I ran in to try and find my dad.

He joined me and we both stood there in a throng that looked and smelled a bit like home – dusky, overly-perfumed, slightly sweaty and a bit like fried onions. We searched the crowds, me on tiptoes, him on his towering legs, and sought my dad in vain. Lots of laborers in rumpled shalwar kameez, women in burqa and children in clashing colors rolled out of the arrival area but not our dad.

I did see a number of dad doppelgangers – older men in cheesecloth shalwar kameez with short white beards and saintly faces – and as tempted as I was to simply call one of them abbu and bring him home, I knew my mom wouldn’t be pleased.

We were even further confused by decoys – men that walked that muscle-bound waddle that is my father’s, men of the same height and build, men in the right clothes – with one even having the right walk, build AND clothes – but wrong face. That one I pointed out to lil bro, who nodded at the similarity, and moved on.

The flow of passengers eventually fell to a trickle and we still didn’t have my dad. Lil bro and I had turned around to go outside and check if he was in the taxi stand when someone called out to me. “You don’t even recognize your own father?!” I did an about-face and saw the man who had everything but the face right. I looked a little harder and beneath a hastily-tied black turban and above the long Amish-style brown beard I saw my dad’s mischievous eyes laughing at me.

“ABBU! What have you done?!” He erupted in giggles, thoroughly enjoying ‘the joke’ and couldn't wait to try it on momma and Abez at home. *rolls eyes*

My dad has always loved a good prank. Back in 1992 we had gone to pick up my dad from the airport and had a similar shock. No grey-haired, bearded gentleman was to be found at the arrival gate. Instead out walked my clean-shaved dad with raven black hair in a sweater so technicolored we knew he’d bought it by himself. For a ten-year-old this was tantamount to betrayal. Parents can’t change their looks on kids – it’s too much. Yesterday, I felt the same little girl, bewildered by the foreign face staring at me.

Parents these days. *sigh*