Creepy Card Lady, Human Penguins & Stimulants

.1. I finally got all of my Holiday cards out, and this year >> I had enough time to write special and unique notes in each and every one. I’ve been working on them for quite some time, so it was a great feeling to dump the last of them in the mail.

.2. Forgot to mention this. While in NYC, T, E & I were walking down the street discussing fortunes, futures and what-have-you. Then, suddenly, we found ourselves standing in front of a Tarot Card Reader’s shop and so – as fate had placed her before us – we had her read our cards.

I was the first in and this is what she said to me, The Creepy Card Lady With The Black Eyes And No Pupils:
- I was a leader.
- People are drawn to me.
- I will have a very long life.
- Am chaste (she used the ‘V’ word).
- I have been traveling too much & running away from something. What I need is to calm down and stop running. Instead, I must stay in one place long enough to work on my self and face whatever it is I am running from.
- I must let go of a man whom I have loved for the last three years.
- I will be with a man before November (she didn’t specify a year, and it’s obviously not November of 2005).
- I am not allowed to pursue him. Rather, he is the sort of man who has to come after me (otherwise, he will not appreciate yours truly). She kept repeating: “Let him come after you. This is very important!”
- Our relationship was going to be strong, intense and passionate from the get-go. This also means we will hit some rough patches at the beginning, but we will make it through them because we won't be able to walk away from one another no matter how angry either of us may be.
- He will be older than me.
- He will be rich.
- With this man in my life, she saw much travel and a lot of palm trees.
- I will be married within two years’ time.

I wish I could tell you that this is nonsense, but she nailed a few things on the head
(hence why we called her ‘Creepy’)…and not just with me, but also with T & especially with E. It really was: The Creepy Card Lady With The Black Eyes And No Pupils.

And she was pregnant, and I’ve always believed that pregnancy brings on special powers (not the kind that come with a cape and really neat boots).

.3. Was watching people at the bus stop today and thought how like March of the Humans it all appeared. Odd, really. First bus arrived, was filled rather quickly and left approx half of the line behind.

All in line donned dark coloured jackets & even darker knit caps, but wore light coloured scarves. After the first bus left, they slowly shuffled forward, in one single polite line, and waited for the second bus to arrive. No one turned to speak to an other, no one smiled, no one listened to music; they all just stared straight ahead, waiting for the bus to arrive and whisk them off to their…life, I guess.

Although no such thing happened, I half expected a penguin to walk out and greet them. Maybe hand them a cola, or something.

.4. Recall above mentioned “single polite line”.

Right. Well, when the second bus arrived, it pulled up not as it should have, at the beginning of the line, but rather, somewhere in the middle of the line.

Polite no more! The people started shoving and hollering at one another. Elbows were flying, toques were being ripped off, gloves thrown in the air. Several eye-glasses were crushed as bus riders prepared to roll whoever cut in front of them.

All of this may not sound so odd to you, but the reality is that it was all very strange to watch: After all, there were only four people in line.

.5. I have cut all stimulants from my life because – as D has said – I am already over-stimulated enough.

No more caffeine of any sort (e.g. coffee, tea and chocolate). This is quite difficult because am a bona fide coffeeholic. I once drank at least 5 or 6 (ok. Perhaps more & this was only last week…) cups a day, but last Tuesday, I decided to cut this out cold turkey.

So far, so good.

My heart isn’t racing as much, and I am quite a bit more calm than before. Although my energy level remains the same, it is a different sort of energy (meaning: I can catch my breath regularly).

.6. I must buy another Jeanette Winterson book, and soon. I finished Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit a couple of weeks ago and am already having withdrawal from her stories.

Reality Television in the UK (am now connected)

Remember my friend Charlie...

Well, I forgot to mention this, but he is on a reality (noooooooooooooooooo, Charlie!) television show in the U.K. It is called Space Cadets and looks to be absolutely hilarious (although I do hate reality television and would never watch it in a million years, no matter how much I like the participant in question). Take a peek and enjoy the mayhem.

I will tell you this much: I read the premise of this and thought it hilarious (& wickedly cruel).

Charlie is the third one in from the right; I do hope no one disliked him, he’s such a lovely boy in person…and I want him to marry Hannah.

Solace

Walking down the hall just moments ago a colleague who passed me said: Maha! I have to tell you, it’s so nice to see you smiling!

Suddenly, it hit me. I knew it, and I acknowledged it, I just didn’t think others had. The only way to describe it would be to write that: I have been a shadow of my true self for the past month (and for the two months prior to that, but not quite as painful or as obvious). And I don’t like that. I didn’t know I possessed the capacity to be such a person, but…we all learn and we all change and we all morph as the days and the years pass.

Only recently have I started feeling like I am stepping away from that shadow and back in to me. I guess that too is starting to show.

And as I type this out, know that I’m smiling, and that writing has been a source of much solace for me…

Look for this man in your grocery store

.1. There is new front desk staff at my yoga centre. I believe he belongs in a Saturday Night Live skit (or perhaps: he has just stepped out of one).

There is a sound made when something big is about to happen. Spelled out, it is this: Dun dun dun daaaaan. Do you know it? Say it out loud…

Like, you’re about to find out who the killer in the movie is. Right before they tell you his / her name, the music sings: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Ok. So. The new front desk staff, this boy, he keeps doing that. He asked my name, and I said: Maha, to which he responded: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Moments later, another woman handed him a form she'd just finished filling out...and he responded with: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Are you laughing? I was. All through yoga class, too. Every time my mind would wander, it would be all: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Imagine him in the grocery store: “The cereal aisle. Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

What about at the gas station: “I owe 18.75? Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

And when his girlfriend breaks up with him: “Did she just dump me? Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

Or worse still…when he’s being intimate…: DUN DUN DUN DAAAAN!!!!.

This world is full of weirdos (notwithstanding yours truly).

.2. Have you ever had to break an addiction either to someone, or to some thing? Maybe even an addiction to an idea, or to a dream? Let me know about it if you have…I will eventually write about this, and wanted to receive your thoughts re the matter first.

Dancing with Denis

On a slightly unusual day, this is Denis:



...on Saturday November 26th, when he turned 37. His partner threw a surprise party for him at Fairouz, which I attended with Di & her Peej. Excellent food, killer classic Arabic tunes & amazing (how can it be anything less) company. There was a total of 18 friends and the requested presents had to be:
.1. Hand made; and,
.2. Descriptive of what Denis brings to our lives...

I think this is brilliant. But it is unfortunate that you can't ask for this yourself. I must find a way to workaround the following email invite I may send next year:
"Hi everyone! It's my birthday next Saturday and I want you to join me in celebrating *my* life.
Actually...and since this night is about me anyway, I don't want you to buy me a gift! *Instead* (are you ready for it...I'm so excited...) I want you to MAKE SOMETHING that tells me how SPECIAL I am to you. Like, what I bring into your life! OMG this is so cool. I'm so excited. Did I already say that?

Anyway. Yeah. Just make me something that tells me I'm special...And then you can present it to me with a little speech (or a big speech, depending on how special you think I am!) explaining what it is and how special I am.

Like, uhm, if you bring popcorn, you can be all: And I brought popcorn because it's lively and, like, noisy and that's the special thing that YOU, MAHA, bring into my life. Thank you.

I'm SOOOO EXCITED!

Love,
Maha"

Yeah. See >> It just doesn't have the same flare it could have had were it to have come from a friend who was all incognito-like and sleuth about the issue. I hope someone does this for me some day...then I won't have to be narcissistic and ask to be told I am special; it'll just happen.

What was this about? OH! DENIS! It's about Denis.

Anyway, the evening was an absolute blast, the most memorable portion of which was Denis mimic belly-dancing (& can he ever) with the belly-dancer. I got to run around behind them with a digital camera, taking photos and knocking over dinner plates.







What a great time.

She Walked On Coral Sidewalks

She walked on coral sidewalks and looked through turquoise windows framed by cream eyelids. Her sky was yellow and cloudless. At the end, she could see the last house. Unlike all others, it had one drape drawn. The space was winking at her (knowing what was to come next, before she could dream it).

It was in this dream he found himself. His dream had become fragmented, the grey trees shattered by an oddly colored canvas of coral, cream, turquoise and yellow.

There was a girl walking down the street.

When she found him in her dream, he had bled grey.

Crying, he was seated on grey grass, beneath a grey sky and shaded by (what else?) a grey tree. Crying, his dream faded as she came closer – only, this he couldn't see because he had, once more, buried his face in his hands in search of tortured loneliness.

She had never had a boy in her dream. Must be some sort of a man, she thought: he was too large for any boy of sorts.

A scarf, her landscape of colors traveled and filled her surroundings until she found him seated on the coral sidewalk by the winking house.

There was no hesitation in her movement as she reached down and placed her hand on his shaking shoulder. Innocence allowed people to do this; innocence allowed her to be free, and to trust. To trust.

To trust her would have meant he could eventually love her. To love her meant walking away with her. Grey threatened, he thought. Or perhaps: Grey, threatened, he thought.

So he didn’t trust her, and therefore never knew what it meant to love her. Choosing comfort of loneliness over the challenge of unknown, he shook her hand away and turned toward Grey.

Strangers, they faced one another in his bed.

Alone, she cried over her sullied scarf.
*
*
*
*
*
*
I don't really know what the above is, I think it was a dream...it just sort of makes sense written this way.

Ugly Girls in Montreal

Very recently, we dined at one of my favourite restaurants in Montreal. On St-Laurent, close to Sherbrooke, this place is rather small, but packs in quite a group, and is turned into a dance club much later in the evenings.

I was wearing a new black chiffon dress with a relatively low and square décolleté, returning to our table from the washroom. Heading towards me was one of the female wait staff carrying a full tray of drinks (it looked as though she had taken it to the wrong table).

Immediately in front of the waitress (to her left & my right) was another woman (clientele) who was wearing fake breasts and one of those tops that make me laugh (the ones that have no material in either the back or all the way down the front, until the woman’s belly button; essentially, the top looks as though it’s made of two strips to cover breasts and a band to hold it around the waist). Women such as this tend to live la vida loca and so they’re usually fun and interesting to watch, but deadly to chat with.

On this evening, however, this woman was both hideous to watch and be yelled at by…

Let’s situate ourselves once more: I am walking toward the waitress, who is headed towards me. In between us, to my right and to the left of the waitresses is The Woman, standing and chatting to people at a table.

The waitress reached The Woman moments before I did; I slowed down to let the waitress pass. As I did this, The Woman turned toward the waitress and started moving at high velocity.

Crashing into the waitress and her full tray of drinks, The Woman did some intricate dance move to ensure that I too was covered in drinks. I was soaked from the collarbone down, the waitress had drinks on her face and a little on her top, and The Woman had some drinks on the front of her top, but mostly on her left arm. There was no one seated to the left of The Woman and I or else they would have been covered in what was left of the drinks.

It took me a moment to realise what had occurred and why I was suddenly a wee bit chilly.

And then I started to laugh because it was a ridiculously funny situation.

Until The Woman started yelling at the waitress.

I was helping the waitress pick up some of the broken glass and so I didn’t hear everything, but did catch: “YOU F****** IDIOT!” and “WHAT KIND OF F***** WAITRESS ARE YOU?” and “YOU’VE RUINED MY OUTFIT!”

The waitress was in near hysterics because of the screaming banshee; completely discombobulated, she was at a loss, trying to pick up glass and wipe down Breasts, letting out a flow of “I’m so sorry”s.

Now. Women like Breasts – to me, anyway – give The Sisterhood a very bad reputation. Very Bad. And I have a problem: I can’t keep my mouth shut, most especially not if I feel as though someone is being abused or oppressed or generally treated as an inferior human being.

Breasts was doing just that to the waitress. Had it in fact been the waitress’ fault, Breasts would still not have been justified in her behaviour.

And so. I turned to Breasts and calmly said: I don’t think you should speak to her that way; she’s trying to apologise. To which Breasts retaliated with: F*** YOU.

I had two choices: I could either ignore her or engage the F*** YOU and deal with her on her level. It wasn’t a hard decision, and by this point, her two girlfriends had come over, as had the manager.

I ignored the comment (although I must have been smiling because I heard: WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT?), and turned to the waitress who had begun to cry. I tried to talk her down. I mean, really, it was such a non issue that the drinks were spilled. She was apologising to me about my dress but I couldn’t have cared less. Dress = material = cloth = who cares?

We were pulled out of our little chat because Breasts had begun yelling at both the manager and her two girlfriends, ‘explaining’ how the waitress had spilled all of the drinks on her.

The girlfriends sucked their cheeks in in horror, and the manager apologised profusely for his “new staff”. Breasts kept yelling and wiping at the space between her fake rack.

Before the manager could say anything, I added my two cents: Your waitress didn’t spill anything on her; she smashed into the waitress. Turning to Breasts, I added: You're rude and you need to apologise.

Right after an “I DID NOT”, I got another "F*** YOU", which was the last straw. I don't know why I said it, but I felt obligated. I said: No thanks, I don't like the texture of fake breasts.

It should come as no surprise that she launched into a full-out verbal assault (at a much higher pitch) that I didn't take note of because I turned back to the waitress. Before I knew what was happening, two of the men seated at the table with whom she had previously been chatting, had confirmed to the manager that it was Breasts who'd crashed into the waitress, and not the other way around. Boys rock!

They got the F*** YOUs at this point.

The manager offered to pay for our dry cleaning, which I declined, and to which Breasts railed: IT HAS TO BE HAND WASHED.

The top was metallic, and so where she got “hand washed” is beyond me.

In a huff, Breasts declared that she had to go home and change out of her “RUINED TOP” and how she would “NEVER” come back to (insert name of restaurant) where there was “SUCH POOR F****** SERVICE”.

As she yelled randomly that they wanted their orders cancelled, her girlfriends grabbed jackets and proceeded to storm out. The restaurant was left quiet for a tense 15 seconds, until the first giggle broke out.

The manager, the waitress and I stood staring at one another, with the waitress shaking and wiping at her eyes. The manager looked at a complete loss and so…

I took the waitress into the washroom and helped her get cleaned up, made sure she stopped crying. I also had to wipe down my collarbone and surrounding area because the drinks had dried and I was sticky. I gave her a little pep talk and told her that it wasn’t her fault, and even if it were her fault, no one deserves to be yelled at in that manner. And that one day, she probably would spill a tray of drinks on someone, and it really doesn’t matter.

The rest of the evening was smooth sailing and the manager & I had a brief talk; I wanted to make certain the waitress didn’t get stuck paying for the spilled drinks, or wouldn’t be reprimanded for something she didn’t do.

When it was time to leave, I realised how much nicer the place had become without Breasts or the likes of women she represents. For such a pretty girl, she really is ugly.

Cookies & ice-cream or Coke & whiskey?

What do you do when you feel down? Forget about the reason behind your feeling a little blue, just tell me what you do to make yourself feel better…

For some days, I have been a little more morose than I would like; yesterday I stayed home.

All day, I stayed in my yellow flannel pj’s covered in ducks. I sat in front of my television set, turned up the heat (literally, not figuratively), brought out my largest fluffiest pillow & warmest fluffiest wool blanket and watched back-to-back episodes of the Gilmore Girls and of Felicity (God bless her, for she is a bona fide retard; and although I can relate, I found myself talking to the television and saying things like “STOP TALKING, FELICITY!”).

Am not a television girl. (Due partly to mum’s imposed “half an hour of television only” per night rule, coupled with her “no television on the weekends” rule when I was a little girl. I was dragged to museums instead; something for which I am grateful today.) There are very few shows I make a point of watching, preferring instead to pay attention to my own life, rather than that of others.

But the above two shows have always, and I think, will always intrigue me and create a sort of *safe space* for me when am blue. They have the ability to generate a feeling, an aroma of health or something. Christ, I sound as though am living in L.A. (sorry, Mo!).

Right. They have the capacity to remove me from current affairs and bring me back to the time when I watched them as they aired in real time.

Not since either of these shows have I been intrigued or seduced by any other television show…except for Nip / Tuck, but that’s not the sort of place I like to go to when am blue (rather, when am psychotic, disassociating, pornographic, violent, self-abusive, self-loathing and generally just. Not. Happy.). Seeing as how I just listed off some rather gross references, it should come as no surprise that I stopped watching Nip / Tuck.

I also ate D’s spectacular ginger-bread-cookies with vanilla ice-cream to make them melt in my mouth.

And then I spent a few hours on the phone with some fabulous women.

And then I went out and saw some other fabulous women, late in the evening, over warm milk and more cookies.

What do you do?

Comments...

I was wondering if you’d all forsaken me…since no one was posting comments any more.

And then, I was told by M, thank you love, that she’d been posting comments, only blogger was telling her that they had to be approved before they could be posted.

Which means I accidentally turned something on and so forgive me for I did it behind my own back. (On your behalf, am shaking my own fist at myself.)

I just tried to show all of the comments, and so if yours is missing, please do repost. I think I changed the settings again to allow y’all to comment without moderation.

Can someone test this, please…

2nd Annual Girls’ Holiday Dinner

Last year, I started a new tradition for my dearest girlfriends. On the first Saturday of December, I have the Annual Girls’ Holiday Dinner.

Here we are:







Missing was E, who was sick and bed-ridden in Montreal, T, who is in shorts in Florida, and another gorgeous E, currently in Vermont with her husband and new baby. Next year will also include O, who has recently moved back to Ottawa from Toronto.

My requirement for last year’s attendance was “something sparkly”. This year, it was “something sparkly, and something red”. (I will keep adding items to the list because the ultimate goal of this tradition is to one day have the girls show up looking like Christmas ornaments (e.g. Year six, the invite will read: “Something sparkly, something red, something feathery, something sequined, something jingly and something felt.”). I’ll be dressed in black, and laughing.)

In keeping with the spirit of the invitation, I decorated the dinning area with “something sparkly, and something red”. I went a little overboard and hung ribbon and streamers from my chandelier to match the occasion. Also, I covered the table in much sparkly, candles and bows. Actually…I’m still covered in sparkles (& so was D).







The scent was of vanilla, cinnamon and apples.

The soundtrack of our evening was: Essential Ella, Fila Brazillia, Colin James, Electric Oasis, Enigma, Kumharas Ibiza, Portishead & some solid disco.

Electricity was allowed in only one form: that of two small lamps I had added to the dinning table for vibe.

Dinner was wonderful, but served as a side-note to six hours of gross (T: “We walked into a sex shop in Montreal and saw…”), shocking (L: “Having your salad tossed means…”), emotional (D: “Women script and men haven’t a god damn clue they’re being held to this script in our heads…”), enlightening (C: “You’re a Libra?”), charged (Me: “Colin Farrell is disgusting and diseased. I can’t believe you’d touch him!”) and always hilarious (T: “I’m not playing with myself, I’ve only lost a grape.”) conversation.

At 10:30, we moved from the dinner table to the living room. I pulled out the blankets, the hot drinks and roasted chestnuts with a mix of cheese and fruit for the duration of the evening.









D stayed the night and this morning we woke up to leftovers, coffee, shopping and Pride & Prejudice. (God bless the white button-down shirt in the field; see the movie and you’ll understand.)

I am, every day, reminded of the beauty, warmth, loyalty and hilarity of the women who have come to mean so much to me. This weekend was no exception.

Here are some more photos…

Disgruntled Boys, Whores & Petrol Samosas

.1. I pulled out all of my U2 CDs and loaded them into my iTunes. While doing this, I found that I had two copies of the Achtung Baby CD.

And then I remembered why.

I pulled out the inside covers and found a note in the proper one.

While in 4th year university, I was given this second copy of the CD from a boy whose initial I won’t even place on this blog. He was…a little agitated with me…and decided that:

“Maha:
Tracks 5, 6 and 11 should be your national anthem.”

Respectively, he’s talking about:
Whose Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses
So Cruel
&
Acrobat

My initial thought was: Can I have three anthems?
And then I contemplated: Should he have an ‘s’ at the end of ‘anthem'?

Today I’m thinking: He must have really disliked me.

Anyone want a used Achtung Baby CD? (Disgruntled Note included.)

.2. I’ve recently thought about Damiana and the 90 year old in Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores, and unlike my initial impression, I gotta tell ‘ya…I’m not all too pleased with either of these characters at the moment.

It really must have been my mood and the atmosphere, because now I think: Damiana’s an idiot for loving anyone for 20 weeks, let alone 20 years (!), who couldn’t love her back; and the 90 year old is just a coward.

“We would have made a good team”; Who takes themselves seriously enough to say shit like that? Not even characters in books should be so imbecilic.

And apparently, I need a little more romance in my life.

Erm. I still do recommend you read the book. If not for anything, the writing is beautiful (or, I should write: the translation is beautiful).

.3. Remember the dudes who gave you my last musical recommendation?

Michael, who is a part of Petrol Bomb Samosa sent me an e-mail, thanking me for mentioning them (how kind!) and pointing me to their home on the interWeb (www.downdogrecords.com): Down Dog Records.

Go take a peek & make certain to listen to the mp3s; these guys are brilliant!

Support them by purchasing from them directly…

.4. The Philosopher Kings are finally working on new tunes (finally!).

In preparation for what will hopefully be an excellent new set from these masters, download The New Messiah (but not the live version). It’s good for nights like tonight, when the wind’s rattling your windows…

The time I inappropriately slapped my boss

Two points of note:
.1. I was both the only female, and the youngest manager within the team.
.2. When I don’t want to forget something, I scribble it on the inside of my palm.

Seated at our weekly management meeting, I was to the immediate left of the Head Honcho, M, and in a room of 11 men.

M sat down next to me and we dove right into the Agenda. Half way through the meeting, M started talking about how he was very pleased with the implementation team. As soon as he’d finished this, he turned and faced me with his right palm up and toward me.

Because I have never pretended to be anything but a complete dork, I reacted in kind. I somehow slipped under the mis-impression that M was so excited by the implementation team, that he was requesting from me – who is completely unrelated to the implementation team – a high five. And so.

In the middle of the manager’s meeting, and without a second’s hesitation, I smiled and high-fived the Head Honcho, finishing with a little giggle.

He then said something which I missed because – like I just wrote - I was giggling and looking down at my notes. I was obviously too busy to pay proper attention.

When I looked up, he had his other hand up, palm toward me.

Again, and without taking a moment to think about my actions, I thought to myself: I guess I didn’t slap him hard enough. In an effort to remedy this, I pushed my chair back a little bit so I could put more force into my high-five.

It was so exciting that my Head Honcho was such a cool guy.

Until I missed his hand because he pulled it away and said – much in the same tone you would use when speaking to a retard**: No, Maha. I just want to know what’s written on your palm!

For at least one month after that, all of the managers would high-five me as I walked past them in the halls. Worse still, they clandestinely agreed to sign off all of their emails with:

“…blablabla…

Thanks Maha!

*high five*,
John”

(**This is not to be taken as a slur, for they are much more intelligent than yours truly.)

Patching up my heart

A few days ago, I’d mentioned my interest in working with the UN; I’d promised to tell you why…

I’ve recently questioned what I do with my time & what I’m contributing to the lives of others, globally. I’m not happy with the answers to those two questions and so: It’s time for change.

I can’t explain it any better than this, but I’m feeling as though I have holes in my heart, or soul, or whatever part of us brings about physical pain from emotion and thought.

My current job is brilliant and lucrative; it’s also afforded me the opportunity to travel quite a bit. But…that’s not enough when you’re actually feeling empty.

Empty. It's such a gross space to be in, and it's left me exhausted.

I feel it's time to do something that’ll feed and patch up a little bit of what feels as though it’s been breaking everything inside of my chest.

I’m not entirely certain where I’ll be in a year, but I do hope that by then I’ve found more solid ground on which to stand.

I promise to blog something more up-beat quickly…