'Happy Birthday Israel"

"We have come and we have stolen their country...We must do everything to insure they never do return."
- Israel's first Prime Minister David Ben Gurion

"apartheid nature of Israel state"
- UN Resolution 338/339

Not everyone in the Jewish community celebrates this day. Please visit NION for more information.

Update on my office friends

I've been meaning to write about them for a while, and I've both kept forgetting and am so busy that time is slipping away at a fantastically rapid pace...

But tonight, I'm posting!

Recall Penelope, my orchid, who I had previously assumed was dead? Well...I thought that Penelope was nothing more than her stem, from which her pretty blooms peeked out and then fell off into oblivion. Now that I've articulated that, I am wondering just how stupid I really am.

So. I saw the pretty green leaves, but didn't think they were associated with Penelope. I assumed that the flower people had added them next to Penelope to keep her company. I honestly didn't think they were a part of her, not even when I started noticing that they were growing stuff. And by 'stuff', I mean more leaves. I was so excited that I immediately took photos of The Leaves Next to Dead Penelope and emailed them around with the subject heading: Can anyone tell me what kind of leaves these are? while the email itself asked aloud: What plant do they belong to, please? I'm confused because they were sitting next to my orchid and I don't really know why. (I've never been one to shy away from sharing my stupidity with anyone willing to listen or read. Alhamdulilah.)

My friends are really lovely people with a great deal of tolerance, and so it was with slow and kind words that they told me those leaves were not mere company to Dead Penelope, but are in fact, a healthy and vibrant part of ALIVE PENELOPE!! SHE ISN'T DEAD!! SHE THRIVES AND IS BLOOMING LEAVES!! I can't express to you my complete and total excitement about Penelope...

I didn't kill her. (I was having panic attacks and that's why I kept watering her once a week, because I didn't want to be culpable for something over which I was a little custodian. It's like some of the perennials I planted a few weeks back; three of whom I had accidentally planted above ground - not deeply enough into the soil - were dying and when I saw them last week, I thought of myself as a killer. I immediately took them out of the ground (it was so sad because I didn't even have to dig. I just pulled and they came out. Like magic, only not.) I dug more, and then mixed their soil into the new soil and pretty much close to buried them. At least they're not dead. And you can't call me a killer.)

Look:





As for Hussy, my Cala Lilly, she is currently napping and will remain so for the next little while. While making certain I don't disturb her sleep (so that when she wakes up, she's well rested and ready to bloom beautiful flowers), I have to also be careful that I not completely forget her and kill her with neglect. Watering in very small amounts to keep her alive is key, apparently.

Here she is napping:



Also! I've purchased a spathiphyllum wallisii, or a 'Peace Lily', who I've yet to name (all suggestions are welcome). She is protected by this little hanging delight (previously a postcard, and now made to hang, I have different ones propped up across my office space):





Finally, KY. He's doing just fine and sends his regards from his little corner in my office. You know he's grumpy and likes to be left alone; please forgive him his not coming out this evening.

**********

In keeping with the theme of the above, please consider donating one or two dollars to this excellent cause.

The Most Popular Game in 2008

It's called: Bash The Muslim, Just Because. (Soft sell bigoted rhetoric that serves as foundation for hate mongering.)

Maz Jobrani, Ahmed Ahmed & Dean Obeidallah

Three names from The Axis of Evil comics (missing was Aron Kader who I think is a bona fide Fox); three men that mama and I watched last night from the front row.

Ahmed Ahmed was our M.C. for the evening while Dean Obeidallah (1/2 Palestinian, 1/2 Sicilian. Adorable. Hilarious. Ethnically confused...in a very good way.) and Maz (1 Iranian. Hysterical. Flexible, too.) were the headliners.

They had three opening acts, one of whom nearly made me fall out of my chair; some Lebanese kid who, I swear, was either high on speed or had spent the duration of his day drinking Red Bull and coffee. I didn't know whether to hose him down or just sit back, laugh, and thank God I wasn't in a small confined space with his ass. (In case you're wondering, I chose the former.)

Ahmed Ahmed has a dry sense of humour, the kind that catches you off guard and makes you wonder what he mumbles about you as soon as you're out of ear shot. Kind of hot, too. Unfortunately, he dates retards. Or so he comedic-s.

Dean Obeidallah is the kind of boy you want to bring home to mom. He has a natural ability to charm everyone, and is super clever, it seems. Softer sense of humour until he starts talking about and imitating W. He also carries around a little notepad in which he writes things. Gold Star for The Nerd; it takes one to love one. (I'm pretty sure mama wanted me to slip this guy my number. She's such a pimp.)

Maz Jobrani? Oh my God. This guy is a piece of comedic genius, with a side dish of the world's greatest giggle. I lost my shit when he started talking about how he married a "defective Indian" because his wife doesn't know a thing about technology. Lost. My. Shit.

If they're coming at you, make sure to run towards them and catch their show. You won't regret it and you may learn a thing or two. Trust in that.

(Russell Peters, too, because how can't you love a man whose designed a crest for his name? I saw him Saturday night and was laughing so hard I'm pretty sure I drooled. That's the way I roll towards The Hot, kittys.)

As an only child, I have a hard time maintaining only one train of thought (Sparkle = Good)

People hold the very strange assumptions that being an only child renders one somewhat spoiled and incapable of sharing.

As most of you know, I am an only child and this "opinion" is one I have heard my entire life, most recently from an individual who also put forth the sweeping generalization that if someone's parents are divorced, that same child's ability to take marriage seriously isn't actually possible because a child from a 'broken' home is not a 'healthy' individual inside of a relationship.

Unlike him whose parents are still married. Naturally, according to his stellar reasoning ability, he is therefore a 'healthy' individual inside of a relationship.

To prove that he's so healthy, he pointed out that he's not afraid of relationships.
It doesn't matter that he's an emotionally retarded monkey who is incapable of being alone and so must always be in a relationship.
It doesn't matter that he's spent his thus far 'adult' life jumping from one relationship to another and to another and to another and still, to another without the fear of committing for longer than a 2-3 year period.
It really doesn't matter that by this point in his relationship career he's an "I Love You" slut and has shared these words with at least a dozen different women. (Oh Romeo! Willst thou e'er make me thy number 13? Siiiigh.) All of that = He's Healthy And Would Take Marriage Seriously Because His Parents Are Still Married.

And before any of you ask, the answer is: NO, I did not date him.

But I digress as an only child is want to doing because unlike the rest of the normal world, we follow our whimsy, see.

My main point is that although it is and will always remain a complete and total honour that I am the only child to two people (because in this day and age, 'two' seems the anomaly), it can be relatively difficult at times because on occasion, I would really welcome being the black sheep seeing as how I am and will always remain the only sheep and every sheep.

There's no one to shoulder the blame. I can't fail since there's no one else to succeed.
All of mama and baba's dreams and hopes rest on my shoulders.
When the Parental Crazy comes out, there's no one to deal with it but me.
I can't deflect anything.
And: When mama and baba are elderly and need taking care of, it will be me and only me who will take care of them. (This duty I will complete with pleasure and honour, Inshallah.)

(I also expect that my husband will be a man about this and do the same with his parents since I don't plan on marrying a shit who would ever even remotely contemplate not taking care of his parents and instead throwing them into an old age home. [Because last I checked, when you were an annoying whiny sick drooling and poo-pooing infant, your parents didn't chuck you toward the Children Annoy Me And By The Way They Smell Funny home.])

See. I'm off topic, again.

Anyway, as I was saying: I pity me. Ha! Ha!

Oh! The other day I was sitting around thinking about how blessed I am. Honestly. Super Duper Incredibly Blessed (SDIB). There's not one thing in my life that I can complain about...isn't that amazing? Honestly: Amazing. I have all of my limbs. I am healthy. I am pretty looking. I am relatively intelligent. I have an incredible social circle of friends. I travel a lot. I think I am funny (and when compared to: 'I am funny', that's good enough for me). I'm kind and I like most people, too, and that's a blessing because I can't imagine being one of those miserable bitter people who don't like people. (It's not a secret that no one actually really liked Sartre, anyway.) I also have an incredible job. I have a blog! Just being here and possessing the ability to push myself and attempt to improve is pretty spectacular (because, uhm, no, generation Chopra: 'you, just as you are' is not perfect and you can always be improved).

Mein Gott! (Thank you, Yaznotjaz.)
Imagine! I don't have to worry about imminent threat, shelter, food, or water. I have the unbelievable luxury of going to a movie theatre when I need to escape because I'm sort of a wanker and even though my life is brilliant, I sometimes need to escape. Amazing. SDIB. Alhamdulilah.

Tangent over.

As for people thinking that an only child can't share; I can only speak for myself here and say that sharing has never been a problem. I have no problem giving anything away and I have no problem bringing people into 'my' space.

Admittedly, though, my problem has always been controlling a situation. Because, as an only child, we shoulder everything and we can't deflect anything, we try to control that thing in an effort to ensure it happens properly (however we define 'properly'). Years back, I was around someone man enough to take control and take charge without hesitation or fear. Turns out that I actually had no problem letting go of that control - in fact, I enjoyed that someone else was taking that control. This man, though, was a man who had proven that he was worthy of responsibility and so never once shirked it; it's why we're such good friends today. (Warning! When you load responsibility on a man unworthy of it, he will eventually tuck his tail between his legs and run.)

Another tangent is over.

Right. So, even though I greatly appreciate the spotlight, I really wouldn't mind having siblings on some days. Hopefully I'll make up for being an only child by having a litter and / or marrying a man who has a lot of siblings (preferably boy siblings. I always wanted a lot of brothers). That's all I was trying to say in the first place...

Quote Unquote

"Faith is the daring of the soul to go farther than it can see."
- William Newton Clarke

Groundhogs don't vibrate

I used to think groundhogs were cuddly and cute, until this past weekend when I started battling mama's groundhog.

Actually, he's not my mother's and I'm not quite certain it's a 'he'. To be fair, I'm going to give it a gender neutral name such as: Evil.

Evil lives beneath mama's neighbour's back yard deck. Between mama's back garden and that of our neighbour, there is a fence. Through a very small and narrow area between the two fences, Evil comes and goes.

Last summer, mama would call me almost daily to discuss her woes. The most notable phone call came when she decided to share her Plan To Get Rid Of Evil. It consisted of her trapping Evil in a garbage bag (because it's strong, you see) and then placing said garbage bag filled with Evil into the car and driving Evil out to a farm where she would then set him free to run wild with his groundhog mates.

Naturally, she would have done this while wearing her gardening gear, complete with sombrero, because that's just the kind of special that defines mama.

The Plan To Get Rid Of Evil never came to pass and we are now entering another summer where Evil lives and breathes and eats all plants and vegetables.

I attempted to spend this past weekend in radio silence (with phone turned off) and gardening. Unfortunately, that radio silence was killed by our Evangelist neighbours who blasted the "Family" radio channel which is code for: If you don't accept Jesus as your saviour, you're gonna burn in hell, tee-hee. I don't think I've heard so many 'His Glory' and 'His Mercy' and 'His Salvation' and 'His Crucifixion and 'His Beautiful Face That I Look Upon Which Had Better Be White, Hallelujah' in such a short span of time. And no mention of God, either, because He's sort of inconsequential, yeah?

Do you accept Jesus as your saviour? I do. In fact, technically, all Muslims do. Because: We believe he will come back...as a Muslim. Which isn't so bad, right? (Better than those who still consider him an impostor so BACK OFF of Islam. OMG! Or the lunatics reading books on how to "vibrate" at a higher frequency in order to reach enlightenment. Because: This world is all about you and your enlightenment, you self-involved asshole. It has nothing to do with community or getting into the trenches and learning through living, but rather learning through disassociation. Really excellent philosophy there; don't become the master of your self, just vibrate and hide away from it. Remember: It's all. About. You. So whatever YOU choose is brilliant.

Wow. I think I've just dropped 10 pounds thanks to that sarcasm.)

Anyway, there I was upstairs doing something important like staring at the wall when mama shrieked "Maha! Look outside!"

Can you hazard a guess as to why?

Evil had returned. In all his / her glory it sat eating one of my perennials. Munch munch munching away as though he was Jesus himself (praise be!). For a few moments, Evil didn't know we were watching and then some sort of instinct kicked in because it stopped eating, slowly lowered it's paws while in tandem sneaking a peek up at the window. As soon as it spotted my mother, it let go of the perennial and ran away as fast as it's fat evil a** would carry it.

Off to Home Depot I went where I spent nearly 45 minutes with three men who were discussing the best way to rid one self of a groundhog.

The first male instinct was to kill it. But apparently, that's illegal. Besides: Just because it's evil and it eats perennials, I can't kill it. It's one of God's fat little creatures and it too needs to eat so that wasn't an option. Fat groundhogs aren't interested in vibrating at higher frequencies so that alone makes them admirable; Evil's just doing what it's been naturally programmed to do and so I can't fault it for following Order.

The second, really spectacular option was for me to: Solicit one of my male friends and have him / them pee all around my garden. Evil would smell the testosterone and leave the garden alone, because it would respect that some other creature had marked that territory.
Isn't that fun?

Third was for me to purchase a steel trap that would trap Evil. I would then drive Evil out to a farm and set him free. Really, this is a variation of Mama's original plan only with a steel trap rather than a plastic bag. Although I sort of like Evil, I don't really think I would be comfortable driving around with it in my car, caged or otherwise.

Fourth: Tossing a gas bomb in his burrow.
Wow.
Knowing my propensity for confusion and cartooning, I would gas myself before I ever got close to Evil. (Any option that would associate me with any type of "artillery" is a natural 'no, thank you'.)

The final option, which is what I chose, was to surround the garden with a "repellent smell". I had two choices: coyote urine (hurrah!) or black pepper-based 'stuff'. I chose the later and he's not been back since, Evil.

I really do hope he doesn't starve to death, though; will keep you posted as to this endeavour.

(Find a photo of Evil here, if it pleases you.)

P.S. Here are my first two little garden patches:

Hostas, which are bushes. Or something.


At least thirteen varieties of perennials. Inshallah over time, this little back area around the patio will expand and be filled with tons of flowers that are messy and colourful.

Search search search

"random female ass"
I guess s/he was bored of the specific one they've carried around for the last x amount of years.

"secrets about boys every girl should know"
There's only one secret that matters, and it is: Boys Lie (whereas Men do not).

"he she her Ibiza met attracted went ate tried liked love came over"
you him her internet bad repellant fool go away.

"HAS A NYONE WASHED THE IKEA SLIP COVERS"
I'LL TELL Y OU BUT ONLY IF YOU STOP YELLING.

"who is gerald butler's girlfriend"
Who is geraLd butler?

"he touches my hair"
Uhm. I guess this is alright so long as (a) his hands are clean; (2) he is a friend; and, (3) he pats and does not tug or pull or twist or rip or drag.

"extra large woman absolutely no porn"
You are weird. (Absolutely no question about it.)

(I am battling with a groundhog; real actual entry coming very very soon...)

"Obliterate" Iran?

Thanks for this, Hillary: "Clinton told ABC News: "I want the Iranians to know that if I'm the president, we will attack Iran.

'In the next 10 years, during which they might foolishly consider launching an attack on Israel, we would be able to totally obliterate them.'"

I love that! "Obliterate". She will "obliterate" an entire country.

Less Muslims in the world. Hurrah!

100 acres of land

Is one of the properties my (father's) family owns in Gaza. On this land were thousands of orange, grapefruit, lemon, olive & valencia trees. We've owned this land for generations and it has fed and housed generations.

There are pictures of me as an infant playing and sleeping among the trees, covered head to toe in dirt.

It was where we welcomed guests; it was where my cousins and I ate fresh cactus fruit and hid from the adults.

It was there pictured my mother and my father and a newborn infant, still a happy couple.

It will always be there that my favourite picture of my paternal grandfather and I was taken; it's a black and white photo of him seated shelling peanuts and handing them to a four year old me in bloomers and a sleeveless dress covered in flowers. I was looking at the camera squinting, smiling and waving with a fat hand because my grandfather was spoiling me.

My paternal grandfather commanded respect, not love. As an infant, the barriers paid attention to by adults meant nothing to me, though I would later grow into a teenager who was scared of this man, who held her tongue in his presence and who often wondered why he'd bothered having children.

I have become a woman who understands that the choices we make in this life define who we are, and even though his choices made him a difficult man to love, I hold on to that photo, on that land, in that summer house, and let it guide my heart when I think of this Seedo.

This past weekend, the Israeli Defence Forces went on to our property and uprooted each one of those trees.
They demolished our home.
They have left: Nothing on 100 acres of land.

There is no justification, but there is an explanation: Apart from the psychological warfare in which Israel is engaging against the Palestinians, so too does it every day engage in economic warfare. This instance is one of them. The land was viable. The land was productive and healthy and offered fruit and vegetables to Palestinians. That is reason enough for the State of Israel.

Our property is not unique, we are not to be pitied for this loss as there is nothing 'special' about it (only that we've managed to escape the bulldozers for so long); our land is one of thousands that has been raised. It will not be mentioned in history aside from a default into the land that was destroyed by the State of Israel.

Only, it is unique to us, my family; it is a part of our history and no matter the size of that tank or the size of that bulldozer, that is one thing that - try as they might - the State of Israel will never occupy or demolish.

"Stop, O people, that I may give you ten rules for your guidance in the battlefield. Do not commit treachery or deviate from the right path. You must not mutilate dead bodies. Neither kill a child, nor a woman, nor an aged man. Bring no harm to the trees, nor burn them with fire, especially those which are fruitful. Slay not any of the enemy's flock, save for your food. You are likely to pass by people who have devoted their lives to monastic services; leave them alone.”
-Islamic rules for engaging in warfare. (If only...)

Comments here are closed.

All pictures from our Middle East trip in December past...

Finally! Find all thirteen sets here...

Comments here are closed.

Reimagining Space

When I was younger, I sketched all the time. Most of my sketches were of houses made of glass. All domed, the insides of which were concrete, steel, black leather and heavy velvet draping shaded gold and deep reds. Most certainly a psychologist with nothing better to do would make something of the fact that all of the houses were fabricated of glass.

As I grew older, both the color scheme and the designs changed. Although the houses remain spacious, they have become cluttered with book shelves, Persian rugs, candles, deep sofas no longer leather covered but heavily cushioned. Wood stoves have been added, and enormous mantle pieces placed over the newly acquired fireplaces. Within each space is the lusciousness of comfort rather than the sterility of emptiness; large single-person sofas have found their way into the kitchen, as they have into the bath area (not to be confused with the toilette area) that always situates the bather beneath a candle-lit chandelier and overlooking private green space.

For quite some time, I thought to become an architect; often still, the thought still races through my mind and is then immediately followed by 'but what about flying a helicopter?'. My architecture inspired dreams changed when my father - who was at different points in his career VP of two of Ottawa's largest construction companies - told me that women architects were quite poorly treated and immensely disrespected. Construction was a man's world and women who were involved were involved against their own welcome.

I was young and he was trying to look out for me.

If we were to have that conversation today, he would instead counsel me to ensure that I: (1) excel in an environment where the odds are against me; and, (2) not wear shirts that are so tight. If we were having that conversation today, I would have told him that precisely because my sex wasn't welcome, I would pursue the option.

But we're not having that conversation today.

Instead, I find myself inclined to behaving a certain way when I walk into any space...I re-imagine it. I tear down walls and erect half ones. I repaint the ceiling, widen the windows, move the bookshelf to another room and rearrange the books so that dispersed among them are photos of friends and family. I add a single reading chair to the kitchen, change the counter top, punch a hole above the sink to add a new window.

I cover the hardwood with the right carpet and remove the television from the living room so that people, rather than not, are the centre of attention.

I add a mud room filled with plants and a sunroof in the kitchen.

I remove closet doors and replace them with heavy draping to soften the contour of the room.

I insert a claw-footed tub and fill the bath area with pillows and candles, oils and mirrors.

I also change the curtains. Often, in fact, I change the curtains, because curtains are the Crack of any home and anyone who doesn't know that doesn't have a clue about space.

While this is happening in my head, it's sunny outside and there's music playing, usually an old and scratched Josephine Baker vinyl. The space within which I quietly reimagine, I find precious comfort, peace and calm as they are the drivers for the end result.

And so...it was with the greatest pleasure that I accepted my girlfriend's offer to do just that, in real time, to her new home.

Another project, another chapter; more creation and art.
I am excited.

I am looking forward to the day when

The sighting of "Jesus" is the sighting not of the European white male version of him (which, I believe is version 2.7), but of, perhaps, a man who looks a little more Semitic. A little more like Adam Sandler, Steven Spielberg, Tony Shalhoub or even Omar Sherif but with longer hair and a little wee beard, too.

But then will anyone recognize poor Hay-zeus (blessings be upon him)?

A special note to Baby Jane

Love you.
Miss you.
Thinking of you, always.
& ready to open a can of Texan-style whup-ass on your behalf, if requested. Or just bake you a cake. Or braid your hair? Exchange most excellent photo angle tips & tricks? Buy you some Crack? Play tennis? Whatever. It's yours.











Greatly appreciated if everyone who lived here sent their best energy toward Toronto for my beautiful Baby Jane.

xox

Quote Unquote

"The willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life is the source from which self-respect springs."
- Joan Didion

Something F*cked Up This Way Comes

Have you read about this yet?

These are teenagers. They are no longer children. Although - clearly - their minds have not yet developed fully (and I can't help but wonder if with this much stunted growth already, what kind of stellar brain power they will have in the future), they are old enough to know what's right and what's wrong. Albeit a lacking one, they possess the ability to distinguish which actions are acceptable and which are not.

And yet...and yet...

And what of their parents?

Well. According to the Trash Mother of one of the Trash Teenagers, the Trash Teenager was provoked into this behaviour. Forget that the Trash Parent isn't sophisticated enough to make a distinction between justification and explanation, and is not attempting her speak to help us understand, but is rather using her Trash Tongue to justify her Trash Kid's actions...

Well done, mamas and papas. Well done! You get an A for A**hole. Thanks for the exceptional future you're building through your children.

And if the woman who was beaten did in fact post something inflammatory on her mySpace, then where the hell is her parental control? (Am I blaming the victim, here? Because. Seriously? Seriously. If she is indeed talking sh*t about the other kids, then her actions need to be brought under speculation so that the situation may be traced back to the source. Something, somewhere would have set this off. Something, somewhere went wrong and that - whatever it is - remains the catalyst for what we're seeing today. And if that very thing isn't rectified now, then this situation will never cease.)

If anyone wishes to dispute the level of control you can exert over your child - and that this is in no way to be associated with / blamed on / traced back to the mamas and the papas - then bring your stupid, disassociated, uneducated, wanting excuse for a life-view on. There is nothing I would enjoy more, at this moment, than discussing the messed up individualistic, alienist, Leviathenesque jack-ass behaviour of these teens and the direct correlation of this behaviour to their parents' lack of direction, lack of morality, lack of kindness, lack of humanity and lack of making clear accountability and responsibility. I can guarantee that these kids have never understood the concept of either the later.

...and an excellent Monday morning to you, sunshine...

Shifted Perspective (& the Border Fox)

I've never understood the concept of a fan event. In fact, I would have to say that until Saturday evening, I have - on occasion - been a little cruel about them.

In early February, T invited Mo & I to visit her family. Having heard so much about her two baby girls and The Husband, James, I couldn't pass on the opportunity. Adding more seduction power was that Mo would be there as well. Around a month ago, T asked if I would be interested in attending a dinner comprising a few hours out of a multi-day fan event. My initial reaction was 'no' until she confirmed that it would be an 'in and out' sort of deal. Mo promised to serve as a buffer and if necessary, I would have T's husband to whom I could escape. Albeit a little nervous, I agreed. The bottom line was I was scared-ed of what I might see.

And so we went to dinner. I still don't understand it and I would still not attend (to each his own) if not for the necessary involvement of my dear and wonderful T. But, now that I've been witness to one such event, a few things have shifted in my perception...

I respect the women involved in the impeccable organization of the event. It took them EIGHTEEN MONTHS to prepare. EIGHTEEN MONTHS without the hint or illusion that the actor in Q would ever drop by. EIGHTEEN MONTHS, the result of which was an exquisitely organized and seamless evening where the over 250 individuals in attendance had the pleasure of escaping reality and stepping into the fantasy shared with friends who totally 'got' it.

I saw women cry and squeal with joy because they were finally meeting one another after a long virtual friendship. I saw as others spilled over with joy and gratitude because the actor had graciously personalised notes to the women for their hard work. Most importantly, I watched how value and purpose was received from this event...and, quite honestly, I was moved. Even as I type, I am moved by their experiences and a little ashamed at my previous cruelty.

So. This is just a very short note to say that between the beautiful baby S's ballet class and occupation of my lap for the purpose of a nap, Eddie Izzard at 2am, James' exemplary cooking, talking 'shop' (politics & religion) until 3am, Enchanted, L's beautiful built-for-a-girl room and ability to give the world's greatest and warmest hugs, Mo's warmth, humour and secret-keeping and T's generosity of heart, spirit and crafty ability...I attended a few hours of a fan event and even though I did indeed escape rather early so as to hang out with James while Mo & T2 got busy on the dance floor and T took care of more business I was warmed by the experience of watching the palpable pleasure of those in attendance.

Apart from creating bonds and friendships that span continents, they have found purpose and value in entertainment; this later serving as the most important of all, most especially in a time when so much of entertainment and most all of entertainers have actively engaged in cheapening themselves.

From the small rumours I've heard, they're expecting to crack an unbelievable amount of money, each dime of which will be going to a charity supported by the actor himself. I will provide you with the exact figure once it's released. If for no other reason, any effort that raises any money for any charity must be admired. And neither that it is needed nor does it matter to them, but for that, the women have earned my admiration, and so Bravo to them and their amazing work.

Gorgeous Mo, who when she visited me over a year and a half back left a little note for me on my dresser - a note I carry around with me everywhere I go because I love it so much:


& even though I will not blog the photo of T for personal reasons, I will add this photo as I have tucked her safely and securely beneath the mauve dot (& if anyone tries to touch her, I'll break their envious and pathetic little fingers):


One small special mention very worthy of your attention: On the raffle block, there were thirty beautiful and overflowing massive theme baskets, each one of which was stained individually by one of the fathers of the women who organized the event. He is wheelchair bound and requires an oxygen tank. And yet, he stained thirty wooden baskets for this event. I wanted to walk over and give him a hug, but felt a fool for even thinking it. So, choosing to be creepy instead, I merely stared at him in wonder when he wasn't looking. (And just to confirm that I am in fact a Super Creep I also took a photo of him because I think he deserves to be acknowledged when the actor in whose name this was done is told about the event with a special mention made re the man who stained the baskets.)

******************************

Two unrelated further asides.

First. I tried to take a photo of Mo while she was dancing. I don't know how to work technology very well, most definitely not something like a BlackBerry. But I tried anyway and couldn't figure out how to turn on her camera though I did somehow turn on her video camera instead. And so, I managed to take a video of her, only she's not in the picture because I'm that stellar. In place of that, you hear me jabbering on about why I can not take a photo, then turning to T who 'threatened met me' with her own BlackBerry and finally declaring "I wanted to take a picture of Mo & T2 but I don't know how and now I'm taking a video ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA" or something like that with a lot of laughter. Mo has threatened to post said video - will let you know if she does indeed.

Second. If you are interested in meeting hot men, I strongly recommend you hit up the Customs Area at the Ottawa International Airport. I was standing waiting to be questioned as to my trip and couldn't decide to which 'window' I was hoping to be called. (When did the border guards become the Border Foxes? And with such excellent hair, too?) Lucky I was called up to the Hottest of The Border Fox crew who asked me where I went and then why I went there and finally if I'd done any shopping because I declared '0' on my customs form. Because I didn't buy anything. Because T has babies and babies are made for attention taking and not shopping. So. Border Fox leaned over and looked deeply into my eyes with his beautiful blue eyes. To this I leaned in and stared right back at him and his lovely eyes expectantly as he asked "You went to visit for a girls' weekend? And you didn't buy anything? Even though Mo came up from Los Angeles? And Trish from Florida?" (Yeah, seriously, I gave names...) He thought I was lying and the Border Foxes are trained to sniff out a liar and so I started thinking Oh my God, thank God I'm not a liar or else Border Fox would read it on my face as he is trained to do with those foxy blue eyes. Like, if I'm lying, I would respond and look to the left or maybe to the right or maybe at my shoes and then he'd know I had been shopping and was lying on my customs declaration. How clever of the Border Fox with the fantastic blue peepers. Lucky me I am not a liar. Though I do wish we had shopped. I like your hair. And your pretty blue eyes. I also like anything that sparkles if you spin it. Vanilla cake, too... This internal monologue while I was staring and smiling at him. And so I forgot to answer his Q. Really fancy of me, yes? I guess Border Fox could tell I was not fibbing, because he let me walk though I wouldn't have minded much if he'd decided I was a liar and held on to me for further questioning. (Really, seriously, next time you fly into Ottawa International Airport, pay close attention to the new breed of The Border Foxes and get back to me.)

MEEEEP!

I am off to the first Most Fantastic Weekend of The New Year.  Heading out of the country to warmer climates for a few days so that I may chill out with two of three of The Other Girls; I couldn't pass on this invitation to visit them as we've not all convened in the same room for quite some time. I am excited to poke and squeeze both (missing and missed will be K).
 
Have a safe and spectacular weekend!
 
Comments here are closed.

'Caramel'

Except for the occasional political one, I rarely recommend films on this blog. But if you are free tonight, this Thursday evening, tomorrow or Saturday and live in Ottawa, then please find the hour and a half needed to head over to the Bytowne Cinema where you can catch Caramel. (Tonight it's on at 5pm, Friday at 4.30pm & Saturday at 2.15pm.)

Later, I will insert here why I loved this movie as much as I did...check back.

I'm Out of Touch

Hi all - okay...

(1) For those of you new to me, please understand that the mobile is perhaps the bane of my existence. I rarely have it on and check my voicemail perhaps once every two weeks. Last year, and for reasons beyond my control, I had to make myself accessible as best as possible.

Now that I no longer have to do that, it also means that my response time has slowed.

Please don't feel ignored...it's not you, it is most definitely me...

(2) I've not been blogging much because I've had a super crazy schedule and I am planning a super busy summer. Trips to NYC, Vermont, Toronto, Montreal, Washington, (perhaps) Thailand, definitely the Azores, all forthcoming.

Now that curling is over, I am back to boxing once a week. In five weeks' time, boxing will be upped to twice a week. (Please note: this is not faerie boxing, nor is it kick nor muay. It. Is. Boxing. And it beats the shit out of your body.)

I try to have dinner with only one friend a week, but that's turning a little impossible, so now it's two a week.

C and I will be training to run a 5k in mid-June. This is a first for both of us and so terribly exciting and awkward and hilarious.

I will be taking my first sailing classes in July / August.

I will also be taking care of a very specific region in mama's garden. (More on this in the future months as it is a very big deal for me.)

I am maybe going to try rowing, depending on whether the schedule fits my own. Neither for competition nor dragon boating, but simply rowing. I hear it's excellent for your arms and shoulders...and those are two key muscle groups for girls.

So all this to say that I am currently a little busy. Not to mention that I still have books to read.

If I am out of touch, please know that I'm not ignoring you; it's only that I'm living a perhaps-to-you-but-not-to-me hectic schedule. There are only 27 hours in my day and I enjoy making the most of them. "Idle" = "lazy" and though that's an excellent way to pass maybe two days a month, it is no way to live a life. (At least not mine.)

(3) Please visit following album sets to see what's been happening.

As promised previously, photos of Sophia and I have been uploaded (simply click on the picture):


Aalya / Sophia's baby shower photos linked here:


Muslims, They're Just Like You! They Shovel Snow! (Click the picture to see what has buried Ottawa this past winter, and also to check out my stellar shoveling outfit that consists of pyjamas, mama's panda bear coat, her boots and her headband.)


More to come (including the images from my trip to the Middle East this past December).
xox to each...

Babies are collapsible as well as spring-loaded

Please say hello to my niece Sophia:



Whose papa called me a few hours after the above photo was taken on March 8th, 2008, to leave me the following message:

"hi maha it's dietrich and i just wanted to let you know that our baby sophia was born early this morning at about twenty to one a.m. and she's a beautiful baby girl and she's very happy and she has dark curly hair and long eyelashes and her mother's nose - lucky her. And she's just wonderful and she was 7 pounds and 13 oz and her and Aalya are doing just fine they are sleeping here in front of me right now and they're both just so beautiful (voice cracks) and we wanted to let you know and we can't wait to see you as soon as we get home. Bye bye."

I started crying.

After a C-Section / See-Section / Sea-Section (because, really, all of them could arguably apply), mama was satiated and calmed and bonding with baby Sophia:



As was papa:



These next two photos break my heart because while I was carrying her, this is how she looked



and she was collapsible as is apparent in this photo



Funny this, that she is spring-loaded. When you tap Sophia's little round belly her arms flip out and up, much like The dude crucified in the image of Jesus. I couldn't stop myself poking and watching the spring load.

I am in love with Sophia and I think it'll be so much fun to grow one of my own, inshallah. (Pics of her and I forethcoming.)

Gone Green: My New Friends

Unlike mama, I've never been one for foliage. I've tried having plants in the past, but like my goldfish, I've killed them all.

Last year, I took an interest in a situation that had an interest in plants and gardens, which led me to a thorough enjoyment of Green and all of the chemistry involved within. It also made me ask some questions about Islam and nature / environment and I was quite satiated to find that there are over 700 verses in the Quran that discuss the environment, our link to it, and our duty to protect it. Furthermore, there are many hadiths that discuss Muhammad's (pbuh) many references to nature, my favourite being: "Whoever plants a tree and looks after it with care, until it matures and becomes productive, will be rewarded in the Hereafter" because I need all the help I can get in my effort to make it to Heaven and so if there's anything I can do to give me a better grade, I'm all over it. (I'm so excited to share with you my recent discovery that I'm almost hyperventilating; Please click here.)

Since arriving in my new place of work, I've been looking at my office space and noticing that it's missing Green.

I made My New Friends over three weeks ago and I'm still scared because I don't want to kill Them. Luckily, it appears that it's only Penelope who seems to be going to sleep - quite likely never to wake up again. In my defence, I believe I was over-reaching when I decided to purchase a phalaenopsis amabilis. (Two words that I can't pronounce but provide me the aura of a Hogwarts student and who doesn't want that?)

I have looked up and studied care instructions because not only do I not want to kill My New Friends, but I don't want to hurt Them, either.

A couple of tricks I've learned from television, such as: chatting with My New Friends in the mornings. I come in relatively early and so there's no one around to hear me as I tell My New Friends about my evenings. I even purchased a spritzer / schwooscher that mists out water, because that's what They enjoy. Isn't that great? The woman who introduced me to Them for an arm and a leg said "mist their leaves. The leaves like that". After paying very close attention to the sounds made by the leaves, I can now confirm that They are a composite of really small beings that laugh and giggle when it mists all over them exactly the opposite of me, because mist makes my hair fizzy. In case you're wondering, I mist Them each morning as we have our chat.

Please wave to:

Penelope, my Orchid (Phalaenopsis amabilis)


Hussy, my Calla Lily (Zantedeschia aethiopica)


Kuan-Yin, my Chinese Evergreen (Aglaonema pseudobracteatum)


If you stand next to the sunshine, they'll wave back at you (except perhaps Kuan-Yin who prefers his quiet and usually in the dark 'alone' time).

'Sin' means 'tooth' in the Arabic language

This is something new; I've received quite a few emails quite recently asking what Muslims believe about Hell. Specifically, people are interested in knowing if - like Christians - Muslims believe that everyone but them goes to Hell. (Perhaps this question is due to the latest and greatest list of sins that will send you to Hell, as just published by The Church.)

The answer to the Question is: No, Muslims do not believe that everyone but them goes to Hell.
Muslims also don't believe that by virtue of you being a Muslim, you are guaranteed a place in Heaven immediately.

Where you end up is based on your behaviour in this world. It's a simple equation: If you believe in the unity of God in all things ('there is no god but God', which is not, by any stretch, exclusive to Muslims) + if your good deeds outweigh your bad deeds, you're going to Heaven. We don't believe in purgatory (it's either Heaven or Hell) and so if your bad deeds outweigh your good, then you pay your dues in Hell and then when you've served your time, you go to Heaven.

When one thinks about it, it's actually pretty difficult to land your ass in Hell, according to Islam. (No doubt, when one reads the Quran and compares it to either the Torah or the Bible, the God presented within the Quran is a much kinder, gentler, friendlier, forgiving and merciful One than the one presented in the other Books. (Don't just take my word for it; read the Books and compare for yourself in an effort to form your own opinions.) For a Muslim, the answer as to 'why' this is the case is simple: It's because the other books once did have this same representation of God - until the actual texts themselves were edited to meet political, social, cultural, and gender-specific agendas driven by men. More importantly, as a Muslim, you believe that the Quran is the literal word of God and it's this text that we trust in more than others (literal word of God, yes, though it's our duty to recognise that much of the text is written in metaphor - something stated within the Quran itself)).

Of note is that Muslims believe that everyone eventually ends up in Heaven except for the non-Believers. (If you tell someone you don't love them, would you expect them to take you to their bed? If you don't love God, why would you expect Him to take you to his most precious place? Ultimately, in Islam, when one turns from God, one turns from Love - 'L' as Plato would express. But if you're an atheist, this doesn't matter because you don't believe in Heaven or Hell and so I don't even know why you're still reading. And I a have here just created a terrible analogy between Heaven and someone's bed, God forgive me.)

And even then, most all Muslims accept the fact that God's mercy is complete and unbound and so the statement of "...except for non-Believers" has to end with "W'Allahu a'llam".

Aside no1: For those of you currently reading the Quran in English - remember that you're reading an interpretation and not a translation. To truly understand the Quran, it must be read in Arabic. Sorry - it's just the way it goes, since translation is tainted by time and subject. The interpreted translation written today will differ from that which will be written in ten years from now whereas the Quran is as it was 1400 years ago, is as it will be 1400 years from today. This is why those who convert are usually interested in learning Arabic eventually (because, honestly, why would you ever rely on secondary sources when the primary source is available, if only you did the work?).

Before you say it, let me write a pre-emptive note to your thought: Les Miserables reads better in French, and Habermas actually makes more sense in German (or so I'm told), so chill out with the rhetoric about 'why Arabic? Arabs are trying to maintain a monopoly on and thus create a hierarchy in Islam' because Arabs only make up 21% of the world's Muslim population and (1) you don't need to learn Arabic in order to become a Muslim, and (2) no one expects you to learn Arabic after you become a Muslim, unless you're engaged enough and interested enough to do learn of your own desire to do so. Not to mention the fact that the two other Books were not sent to us in Arabic, but rather Hebrew and Aramaic. So seriously: chill.

Aside no2: 'Islam' is the name of the tradition. 'Muslim' is the title of the individual practicing the tradition: The Muslim Ummah (all Muslims the world over as one nation (never to be confused with the movement of supremacy known as The Nation of Islam) barring citizenship, and thus erasing the concept of nation State) is spoken of in the masculine, because Arabic - as with French - talks of a group in the masculine if 99 of them are women and only one of them is a man. 'Muslimah' is the female of the word 'Muslim', hence why I am a Muslimah.

Thanks for your questions! They're really interesting and thought provoking.

**********

Sin = One single tooth
Sini = My tooth
Sinak = Your tooth (if you are a boy and you are present)
Sinoh = His tooth (if he is absent)
Sinik = Your tooth (if you are a girl and you are present)
Sinha = Her tooth (if she is absent)

Snaan = All teeth
Snaani = My teeth
Snaanak = Your teeth (if you are a boy and you are present)
Snaanoh = His teeth (if he is absent)
Snaanik = Your teeth (if you are a girl and you are present)
Snaanha = Her teeth (if she is absent)

etc. ad infinitum to the tip of the Arabic grammatical iceberg (& you thought French was complicated?).

Secretly wishing someone would "mist" Dr. Phil

.1. My body is still hibernating. It sees a potato and angels start singing.

.2. A "Bacetto" chocolate is not a Baci chocolate. They are both made by Perugina and they are both packaged in exactly the same way. They are also both hazelnut focussed.

Only: The Bacetto does not have a poorly translated and usually hilarious "fortune" within, leaving the chocolate eater to wonder if they accidentally chewed up and swallowed the paper fortune.

Don't be fooled and don't settle for anything short of a Baci.

.3. Someone gifted me "an aromatic spa refreshing facial mist [that is] ideal for toning the skin and awakening the senses!" (exclamation mark theirs not mine). It comes in a small spray bottle which one is meant to point at thine face and spray.

I did this and found it neither 'refreshing' nor 'misty', but rather aggressive and hostile.

I tried it several times, hoping I would soften and get used to the on-slough of spray. Only, the more I sprayed, the greater my recoil and shock at the force of the "mist", and the greater reason my skin will have to wrinkle as I scrunch it up in anticipation of the "pure essential oils of ORANGE & GRAPEFRUIT & natural GREEN TEA" (yelling theirs not mine). I was holding it up to my face this morning and I couldn't actually bring myself to mist; same paralysis I would encounter if I tried to bite myself (near impossible to draw blood unless you have psychological issues that would permit you to set aside your body's natural biological reaction to fight and ward off the potential hurt bla bla).

It may have to do with the fact that I sprayed a direct line into my left eye and nearly drowned myself in it because I forgot to close my eyes and my mouth and plug my nose.


.4. If you know an under-ten, please take them to see Dr. Seuss' Horton Hears A Who. It's one of the books I always gift under-tens and it's a message most adults could use to learn.

.5. I used to think Dr. Phil was good, until I watched a complete show around a month back and it hit me like a ton of bricks that: He's all about "owning your sh*t" and that this is a novelty in this day and age is the reason people like him so much.

So...essentially, the reason he's so popular is because we've turned into a society that does nothing more than enable crap behaviour, and when a normal thought pattern comes on to centre stage (such as: Own. Your. Sh*t.), we think it's some kind of miracle.

So. I'm officially removing my support for Dr. Phil because I think it's lame that we've propelled to stardom a dude who is selling what should be so obvious to anyone who thinks they are a functioning part of and contributor to a healthy society.

OWN IT, ALREADY. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BY NOW. IT SHOULD NOT BE YOUR END POINT, BUT YOUR FRIKING BASE-LINE. (And if you, for one second, believe that anything worth having can be found in a 42 minute show and without hard work and life-long commitment, then you're a bigger loser than...the biggest loser in the world.)

(It's like The Secret. It was NEVER a "secret". I'm rolling my eyes so hard that they look as though they belong in the head of the person sitting next to me and they've accidentally landed in my sockets and are trying to find their way out. Roll. Roll. Roll. Never. A. "Secret"!)

.6. In case you have yet to notice: I am intolerant today.

I once wrote: 'I believe in love, actually'

I still do; perhaps more so now than ever before.

(Please befriend a leprechaun and shed the weight of your bitterness on your way out...)

Books I am currently reading

Special Note no1: Upon completing the following, I will be settling down to read - and only read - "Cricket In A Fist". I can't read it with any other books as Naomi deserves my complete attention.

Note no2: If I've mentioned these books previously, it's only because I tend to read books two or three times in an effort to sink into them and take as most as I can.

Behaving Like Adults
Anna Maxtead

Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures: Stories
Vincent Lam

Dispatches
Michael Herr

My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, from Chekhov to Munro
Jeffrey Eugenides

Remember Me?
Sophie Kinsella

Soul On Ice
Eldridge Cleaver

The Dialectics of Secularization: On Reason and Religion
Joseph Ratzinger & Jurgen Habermas

The Path of Muhammad: A book on Islamic morals & ethics
Imam Birgivi (16th Century Islamic Mystiic)

The Trial
Franz Kafka

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: A Novel
Haruki Murakami

The Year of Living Biblically
A J Jacobs

Unity, as taught by Islam

"It became clear to him that every [species], although apparently a multiplicity - if one considered all its separate organs, senses and movements - was really a unity if seen in terms of that spirit which emanated from [the heart] and spread from there to all other organs.

He concluded that the spirit indwelling [all] species is a unity but divided among many hearts.

Considered in this way, [all] species [is] a single entity and its many members were as the many organs in one individual: thus, not a multiplicity but a unity."
- Ibn Tufail, "The Journey of the Soul" (a short 62 page story that may be one of the most important I've yet to read. A strong recommendation for you to order, read and reflect upon.)

********************
Philosopher Ibn Tufail is better known in the West as Abubacer, teacher of Averros, teacher of Avicenna. For those of you interested in philosophy, you already know that these are among the Greats. This short story is worth your time as it is considered a part of the foundation on which stood many of the later philosophers.

The Stand-Up Guy

His name is Daemon (Scott) Fairless, and he recently married Lyana, a beautiful and brilliant gynaecologist (as Scott says: "It's nice to have a shared interest") who I can't wait to squeeze next they're in Ottawa.

Scott was the first boy I ever loved, though I never told him that. I believe I loved Scott, but wasn't in love with him. Being the first boy I dated, it was complicated and unclear at the time.

We met while he was working as bartender at Oliver's on Carleton University's campus. He was 6'2" and quite possibly in the most prime shape of his life, considering how he describes his physique today ("fat" - I've seen recent pictures and he's anything but (not to mention that it is relatively difficult to be "fat" at his height)), with green eyes and sandy brown hair. He made me laugh to the point of peeing myself, was a reader and a boxer and so proved the most beautiful combination for my 22 year old self.

We were both children then and I loved him the only way a 22 year old Maha knew how: Stupidly and confusedly. We argued about religion - he was then an atheist, though now believes in God - and poetry. He read to me, we had dinner with his step-mum and father who called me "gregarious", he read to me some more, he had dinner with my mother who called him "handsome", we argued more, we had dinner with his mother and he attempted to play the guitar only to find a condom wrapper inside of the guitar throwing us into a hysterical frenzy of laughter, he cooked, we read, I cooked, we argued even more, his love of Johnny Cash rivalled my love of Madonna, we made fun of each other, I was confused by him, we danced to really bad and fast pop music, we watched ER, he wrote his number on a piece of paper I still have today. He was beautiful and brilliant to me and he introduced me to Vietnamese rolls for which I am eternally grateful.

Essentially, it was exactly what two 22 year olds look like in a relationship.

Among the memories I hold of Scott, there are these two following particularly vivid spots in time: First, Cathy and Dino had come to meet me at Oliver's for a drink and to meet Scott, who was working that evening. I was walking past him when he pulled me over and whispered "you are so beautiful" to which I couldn't respond because I didn't know how. I was 22 years old and I'd never heard it from anyone but my mother because, essentially, I am a muppet. (In fact. Up until that point there had only been one other boy who'd ever referenced my looks, and that was George Logaras of Brookfield High School in Ottawa nearly 7 years earlier: He'd called me 'ugly' and 'fat' (I was a size 12), and referenced my 'four eyes' (glasses, yes) and my unibrow WHICH I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE HAD! I have never plucked between my eyebrows. The unibrow misobservation dumbfounds me to this day. He was a real dream boat, that one, aged 18 to my 15.)

Second, he was the first boy to hold my hand and when he did, I nearly threw up because it was so intense. (Remember: I am a muppet.)

Right. So, anyway, 22 year old Scott was also a self-absorbed idiot who didn't know how to communicate with my 22 year old self, loved Walt Whitman (snoooooooze), made fun of me for believing in angels (now only if I believe in the "Cherubs", which I don't), spent way too much time reading and believing Nietzsche (and then making me read Walt Whitman and Nietzsche), writing poetry and sulking in the way only a 22 year old boy can sulk. The world revolved around Scott, and if it didn't, he forced his mind to perform acrobatics so that the world became about him. In hindsight, he was a 22 year old clown...but he was my clown and I loved him for it.

Needless to say, 22 year old Scott trampled all over my 22 year old heart and then he started dating a woman much too soon after me. His actions did not set off a nuclear bomb because he neither deceived nor misled nor betrayed me; but his actions were indeed idiotic, hurtful and mean.

(I must say here that their relationship started by him cooking her dinner; she came over with a Tom Waits CD, flowers and her flute. SHE PLAYED HIM THE FLUTE. Talk about phallic. Likely, she went to band camp. (I still remember unveiling the news re 'the flute' to The Girls who proceeded to gawk at me as though I'd suddenly sprouted a second head and tipped forward due to the sheer weight of the new head combined with my existing head.) When he told me about their date (we were trying to be friends) I told him I was no longer interested in being his friend and that it was too soon and too hurtful. I hung up, went into my closet to find a lantern which he'd gifted me and then promptly propelled it down the garbage chute with enough force to knock down the entire building.

For approximately two months after he and I stopped speaking, I used to imagine taking a bat to his legs and burning her flute.

From what he tells me, he stayed with Her for a couple of years, and it was the "worst relationship of his life".

Ha! Ha! (That's God batting for Team Maha, kids.)

I'm being mean because I've suddenly lost interest in my 33 year old self and found my inner 22 year old instead.)

Right. So six years ago, I received an email from Scott after he "Googled and found [me]". He contacted me to apologise for all of his shit behaviour years back, as he should have. It wasn't something I had waited around for, as 22 year old Maha wasn't the same as 27 year old Maha nor was she the same as 33 year old Maha who is currently thinking that speaking about herself in the 3rd person is really strange and so Maha will stop.

I accepted because his apology was honest and clear and true, appreciating the fact that it had played on his mind for five years (look: if a boy becomes a man at 27, then that's pretty damn impressive). Since then, we've remained in contact at a relatively good level - though it's not regular contact, it is worthy contact when it happens (quality here, in fact). For the women who live here, I wish to share something with you, sent to me by Scott about men nearly a month and a half back. My mind was experiencing a logjam, and he forced me through it. (There is something to be said for those who knew our hearts intimately, no matter that with Scott it was 11 years ago. As with very very few others, he will always have an edge.) Take the following with you and keep it somewhere safe so that you may access it when you need it (this is something I've always believed and expressed without hesitation, but it's nice to have it confirmed and backed by a man):

"Fact is, guys suck most of the time. I don't mean to sound flippant but it's true. They are hard to trust. Their dicks are serious liabilities. It's that simple. Even the guys who don't want pussy want pussy. They'll go to great lengths to rationalize their actions but it really is that simple. The only guy you can kind of trust is a guy who is honest about that. I really think you can't ever fully trust what a guy says. At least until he's got one hell of a proven track record.

Also, guys tend to be kind of autistic and so they don't really understand how their actions affect others, at least not in the same way women do. (Again, I'm not being flippant. There's a male-autism-lack of empathy thing that's pretty well studied).

In my mind, there's a divide: males who know this is true of themselves can be called men. Males who aren't yet aware of this are called boys, regardless of age. A gentleman takes care not to harm others whether by taking precautions not to act on his biological imperative or not lying to himself or others about his inability to keep it in check."

Pretty brilliant.

Love that he's willing to step beyond the Male Code of Keeping Their Shit Secret and stand next to a girl who was once in his life to clarify a few points.

Love that it comes from the same man who "once made [his wife] lunch and included a can of beer so that when she opened it in front of her colleagues, they'd think she was an alcoholic".

Love that it proves that even at 22, I knew how to pick a good man...even if it took him six years to become that man.

Every girl should have one (and Scott is mine): The Stand-Up Guy to whom The Girls and you throw back as you discuss the m(e)n in your lives.

Really. I love it.