Punch Your Way To The New

.1. Out with the old and in with the new.

.2. I’ve booked myself a full-body massage for tomorrow. Yippee!

.3. Inshallah, when I have children, I’m going to sing them this song:

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high are the dreams that you dream of, once in a lullaby. Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly and the dreams that you dream of, dreams really do come true.
Someday you’ll wish upon a star. Wake up where the clouds are far behind. Where trouble melts like lemon drops. High above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me.
I see trees of green and red roses too. I’ll watch them bloom for me and you, and I’ll think to myself, What a wonderful world. Well I see skys of blue and I see clouds of white and the brightness of day light the dark and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
The colors f the rainbow so pretty in the sky are also on the faces of people passing by. I see friends shaking hands saying ‘how do you do?’ they’re really saying ‘I love you’.
I hear babies cry and I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than we’ll know and I think to myself What a wonderful world.

.3. Had my first Level II boxing class today. The main difference between Level I and Level II is that you have to now: (1) do push-ups; (2) learn upper left cut; and, (3) change your normal stance from left foot forward to right foot forward.

The class is only 1 hour long, but I always walk out completely drenched in sweat. And that’s not just a figure of speech, I mean it literally. There isn’t one item of clothing on me that I don’t ring out after class.

Today was a day that I needed to face a punching bag. I pushed my body so hard that half way through the class I had to stop and take a breath or risk vomiting.

It felt absolutely incredible, and I mean that in the best way possible.

Here are the funny things about this night’s class (apart from me nearly vomiting, naturally).

(a) Am not ambidextrous. I don’t really even know my right from my left. When you’re used to standing with your left foot forward and then are forced to switch your entire body around in order to place your right foot forward, you quickly realize that not only are you not ambidextrous, but you’re also not coordinated. I started chattering with the punching bag while no one was looking. I was saying things like “left?” ,“right?”, “but?” ,“the hell?”, “christ”, “god damn it” & “ohmygod I’m retarded”.

(b) Skipping rope is nothing like riding a bicycle. If you haven’t done it in a while, it’s not that easy to jump right back in there and if you’re not careful, you will most likely whip yourself in to a state of shock and maybe even get so tangled up in the rope that you won’t be able to see parts of it.

And man can those ropes really whip your ass. Again: literally. I have welts. But I can’t see them. They’re back there.

(c) The push ups we do in class are not your normal back breaking push up (that’s not good enough for my coach because HE WANTS YOU TO DIE).

Here are the steps (I strongly urge you to print this up and try it…):
.1. Spread your legs as far apart as possible & keep your heels on the ground.
.2. Throw yourself forward. Better yet, propel yourself forward and attempt to land square on your palms. Your palms should be as far away from your legs as possible, and square with your shoulders.
.3. Stick your ass way up in the air, while keeping your heels and palms on the floor.

Now you’re ready for the hard part!
.4. As you exhale,
bring your chest down to the floor
and slowly move it forward toward your arms
and much like the famed breakdance move known as ‘the worm’
start to bring the rest of your torso down
so that by the time your groin is touching the ground
your chest and face are facing the wall opposite you
and you’re looking up at the ceiling.

Now. Inhale and get back in the starter position FOR THE CRAZY WORM/PUSH UP. And to quote Chris, my coach and the man I adore and worship and think is the bomb even though he’ll bust your ass, “25 is good. Anything below that isn’t good enough. If you have to stop, stop only when you’re shaking and can’t DO anymore.”

I managed 8 right before I passed out and cracked my nose on the floor. Not really. I did manage 8, but didn’t crack anything. I just laid there and cried. Heh.

My body will be magnificent when he’s done with me. I love that.

.4. Should I tell you about my shower experience?

Not Quite A Bag of Tricks Up My Sleeve

.1. I’m back and at level II. I can do a pretty mean speed bag.

And “no”, my wraps aren’t red.

.2. Eep! This will be held against me, I know. I LOVE PAUL WALKER. Is there rehab for this?

I watched Into the Blue twice. That’s how much I actually loved this film.

And for the record: Jessica Alba has a great bum. So too does Paul, though. And lucky for them that their bodies are so accomplished because their acting talent is so not.

You should still see the movie. Paul looks fabulous without a shirt on.

.3. Jack Black is Nacho Libre and he may just rival Gerry Butler in this girl's books. The trailer for Nacho Libre actually nearly made me wet myself.

Uncertain as to whether this is because of Jack Black’s hair, his accent, the ‘training’ pants you see below or the white pants…you have to see it to believe it.





You’ll snort. Because it’s that funny.

.4. I was eating pizza during a lunch meeting the other day. On this pizza were onions. I was wearing my black velvet blazer.

Beginning to speak was the fellow Manager seated next to me. Because am unfamiliar with my own history, I chose that moment to take a bite from my pizza.

And that’s when several (& only) pieces of onion decided to make the great escape (Vive la Liberte!), via the sleeve of my velvet jacket. I was a little shocked by the feeling of the onions against my skin and so chances are, I may have potentially did some sort of a dance in my seat. Because everyone – including the aforementioned Speaker Of The Moment – stopped and stared.

I tried to explain. As I fished for the onions out of my sleeve. Which I couldn’t get at, because my jacket is lined with satin and so the onions kept slipping away farther and farther. That I was vertical meant they couldn’t hide in my armpit…but they probably didn’t know that because they’re onions and onions don’t think like humans.

So. There I am fumbling when I finally have no choice but to take off my jacket in search of the vagrant onions. Only to find nothing. Anywhere. Not in my sleeve, or in my pocket, or in my hair, or on the ground, or even in my mouth. Everyone in the meeting was searching for the missing onions, until someone said “But. There were no onions on the pizza.” like a Valley Girl and so it really sounded like “Uhm, duuuh? Like, there were noooo onions on the pizza? Oh my god?”

And so to her tone of voice I responded with “Listen Bitch, there were onions on my slice of pizza. I’m not hallucinating, you cow. I didn’t just make up the fact that some god damn pieces of onion FLEW INTO my sleeve through the NON EXISTENT window. Retard.” But it sounded more like “Uhm, ok. Maybe I made a mistake. Thanks.”

There were onions. For real. They’ll turn up sooner or later.

There’s a reason why I don’t grocery shop

Actually, there appears to be several reasons why I don’t grocery shop on a regular basis. For your consumption, here they are.

(a) I am constantly drawn to the Check Out By Yourself area because I really like making that beeping sound.

Look. I know that it’s not really me making that sound, but I’m responsible for it and that provides me with a semblance of control.

WHY?

(b) Because I can never find a grocery cart that I can control. Ever see that girl in the aisles, bumping into other grocery carts and all too often…people? That’s me.

WHY?

Because there can be 7,926, 832 shopping carts and I will choose the one cart that doesn’t work. And I’m too embarrassed to go back and change it because there’s usually creeps (ok. They’re children.) at the entrance of my grocery store asking for a donation. And I never have change (why did they invent interac?). “Fancy a lipstick?” just doesn’t cut it with the monsters.

So I trudge along with my bastard of a grocery cart, smashing in to everything and having absolutely no direction whatsoever. I end up buying diapers because that’s where the evil grocery cart takes me (and if you can’t find toilet paper…).

(c) Have you seen the swirly things on which you’re supposed to place the items you’ve already checked out? It measures everything by the gram and then screams at you if you’re missing a piece of lettuce that once sat on the other side of the machine before you swiped it. (If you take too long, dust accumulates on the ‘already swiped’ objects and the machine thinks you’re stealing. Cotton balls. One by one.)

Don’t ever place a long loaf of bread on the swirly thing. Or flowers for that matter.

WHY?

Because they will get stuck and they will break and split and draw everyone’s attention when you’re panicking and turning the little wheel to access the next shopping bag that you can’t open because panic means sweaty palms.

And you may as well have dipped your hands in trans fat because that’s what it feels like when you’re trying to open the plastic bags and there’s a crazy woman behind you tapping her feet and smacking her gum while she reads Soap Opera Digest and her offspring is screaming because their hands are stuck to the frozen turkey (not really, but they’re dumb and the natural instinct to ‘pull hands away from freezing object’ doesn’t register) and the machine is repeating Please place next item on tray and you can hear her giggle and the grocery store comes to a screaming hysterical halt to listen to your trans fat covered hands scrape away at the plastic bag right before you start blowing on the top of the plastic bag with the final prayer that maybe, just maybe, the air will magically open the bag for you. And when it finally does open, Chariots of Fire starts to play in your head and then. Then. You realise that it didn’t actually open, but that you managed to disjoin two plastic bags from one another and there’s still no bag for you to shove anything in to.

It’s really disturbing.

(d) People aren’t friendly in the grocery store. It’s all about them and their carts and me and my evil one. The other day, I was standing quietly in an aisle thinking about the effects of more cookies on my ass, when I got bumped.

HOW?

I was literally “bumped” by a man’s grocery cart. He was about 361 years old and he decided that rather than going around me, he would just go through me. Maybe he couldn’t see me.

But surely he could hear the “Excuse me”
bump
“Pardon me, sir?”
bump
“HEY! STOP HITTING ME!”
bump

It was really sad, not because he’s probably dropped dead since that day, but because I caved and moved. I NEVER CAVE. But I caved. It was either that or throwing a box of cookies at him. I moved.

(e) But back to the Check Out By Yourself Area. Why is this problematic? Because I’m usually the only reject that needs the 14 year old cashier girl to come over and hit the buttons for me.

And no matter how cool my outfit may be, there’s nothing hot about you when the 14 year old cashier girl comes over for the eighth time and you’re only buying three items.

I’ve decided to throw out my fridge and eat out from now on. P.S. I’ve not slept in two days and this is what I’ve come up with this morning.

greetings from NYC (sort of)

So it was an impromptu 24 hours. I'd really hoped I'd have a good time because the company is - as it is always - incredible. But this time, it just wasn't right, and I left nearly 48 hours prior to my original shipping out time. I'll have to return when I feel different.

I'm exhausted. My head's spinning and I need to write something funny.

I Crunched On Him

Oh my god this is just the most exciting news and I can’t believe I’ve not mentioned it before today (my ailing mind. Perhaps ‘tis just the multitude of Gerry Butler in 300 photos.)!

I’ve totally reconnected with the first boy I ever had a crunch on. Crunches are more fun than crushes. I was all of 6 years old and he was the resident hottie in my class. He totally looked like he was 7! *Swoon*!

He disliked me because I was better at English than he was. I tease him about this now…and will eventually stop. But not yet.

He used to pick me up on his bicycle. I had my own tricycle then; that was a lot of fun. Especially in Gaza. Because you never really ride a bicycle there, you actually off-road on sand dunes. Even when you’re 6 years old and on a tricycle that has tassels. And in a dress. You, not the tricycle.

I tried to show off and race him, but always landed on my face. Not very different from my contemporary dating antics. And I think he used to have a crush (not as much fun as a crunch) on my best friend at the time: Rana. I was devastated and drowned my pain by crunching on the cafeteria dude (because he used to feed me and water me as necessary). But he was married. And had children that were older than me. But that just meant more people to feed me.

Forget about the logistics of the how we reconnected…

Point is, he’s totally cool & lives in Dubai. And probably has a licence. And maybe even owns a car. And I’m guessing looks, like, way older than 7 now.

He calls me ‘Sweetie’. And I hope he doesn’t mean ‘Sweaty’, as in “she was always sweaty after we finished off-roading on the sand dunes”.

All those who think I need help, please say “Aye”.

are you there satan? its her, acee

Every once in a while I bump on to an exceptionally funny blog. Heaven just sent me are you there satan? its me, acee. There's not much there yet, but she's got potential...because she's absolutely hilarious.

Actually. She's hell-arious.

Wow. I'm so sad.

Love her.
Linking to her.
Read the one about yoga.

Get Played (& stay away from registered mail)

.1. I think it’s good for your soul to get really hurt at least once. It allows you to appreciate everything that much more (I promise!).

.2. Interesting discussion with the girls; the topic being ’When it's over, what do you do with his ‘stuff’?’

The outcome differed depending on the way things ended. For the most part, everyone seemed to default to their craziest moments and what they did to ‘stuff’ when they were treated not-too-nicely.

Hilarious (& somewhat disturbing) stories ranging from:
- I shredded it and sent it via registered mail.
- I threw it in a garbage bag and sent that via registered mail.
- I tore / painted / placed holes / took a knife to it and later told him what I did.
- I burned it and sent him the ashes (via registered mail).
- I threw it in the garbage, took a photo of it, and sent that to him (via registered mail).

Barring how popular registered mail seems to be, I would think the sane thing to do is return something in one piece.

Boy or girl, feel free to share your psycho actions or the psycho actions of others who may have sent you something (via registered mail).

.3. Musical recommendation: Esthero’s Fastlane.

Family

I’ve already mentioned one of my cousins who lives in Denver. There are two others whose nicknames are Major & Homer.

I don’t have any new photos of them, but will post some upon my return from Denver.

Each one of these boys has their unique & brilliant qualities and since I don’t have any brothers, these three are my support structure (if you will). They’re the ones I go to and can depend on entirely. They’re the ones I can share my secrets with and know that I have nothing to worry about.

Major is the hard-ass who sees black and white and behaves accordingly. When I need my ass kicked, he’s there to make sure it happens. Later, he calls to make certain I’m icing the bruise.

Homer is the softest of them. He’s the baby and he holds a special place in my heart because he reminds me of me. I always know where he’s coming from and what the truth is when he’s lying to me. Of the three, he’s the one I feel most protective of.

I love them to death and wish they lived that much closer to me…

Boys in Paris

I’ve been cleaning out all of my old photos and so every now and then I’ll probably post a strange photo. This one, my mother hates because she thinks I look terrible in it (she doesn’t like what I’m doing with my mouth)…

There’s a back-story to the photo and it’s as follows. This was taken at Le Mustang in Paris. I was with a few friends and we were seated at a table near the back of the place. It was completely overcrowded and filled with “les Americaines”.

I was staring at someone who’d been trying to get my attention for the duration of the evening. I wasn’t staring at him because I was interested in him, but rather because he’d taken off his shirt and had begun to flex…for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I was trying really hard not to laugh, but failed miserably immediately after this photo was taken when he jumped on to a chair and started “dancing”.

He had begun le grand seduction by blowing me kisses, big winks and playing an almost ‘queer as he gets’ role by pointing at my shirt and telling me loved it with two big thumbs up. He was insanely funny and not trying to be serious and so his actions were akin to those of Austin Powers (who we now know & love).

We told him he could join us for 10 minutes (we timed this because it was a girls only evening) and he graciously left with the following line coupled with another final wink, a smirk, and two smoking guns: “The reason you don’t dig me is because you’re not French. French girls LOVE my moves.” Then, he threw both hands in the air and pretended to be thanking a standing ovation.

There's nothing more appealing than a man who doesn't take himself seriously...

How will I know you're dead?

Someone needs to start an InterWeb Cemetery; but have it be a legitimate place where handles can be put to rest.

Was seated with T the other night and said out loud: “I should really give you my password for both my email and my blog, so that if I drop dead, you can send out a mass email and then blog about it.”

She agreed.

Neither one of us thinks this is morbid, but rather an excellent communications medium. And so, until someone decides to create a real InterWeb Cemetery – where the logistics of your death are authentic (e.g. We’ll tell ‘em yer dead once we see that darned death sertificut) – I recommend you give one of your best pals your email password and / or blog / live journal password so they can tell us.

Hope this post hasn’t made anyone sad or blue or filled with morose thoughts…

Manning up

Manning up is a term used by men with regards to other men. When loosely translated, it means ‘stepping up to bat’.

It’s important to note that ‘manning up’ doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll tell you what you want to hear. But in this instance, what it does mean is that he’ll do it like a gentleman, grabbing the bull by the horns and tackling the issue head-on.

I’ve started to use it in conversation and although both the male and female immediate reaction is a ‘Wuh?’, as soon as the term is explained, a look of recognition and acceptance kicks in. Today, I heard a fellow co-worker say ”He was supposed to deliver that to me. He knew we were on a deadline, and it was critical. But. He just didn’t man up.” Heh.

Mumism

“A Lice in Wonderland”, as in “Oh look, there’s an interesting movie on tonight. It’s called A *space* Lice In Wonderland. How odd.”

Happy V-Day

Thanks to Dribble UnLimited for the way...

Dancing Dwarves at the Dentist

My mouth is numb.

I’ve just come back from the Dentist and am a wee bit giddy because the right side of my bottom lip is frozen and it feels as though there’s 7 dwarves dancing on it. Strangely enough, my right ear also feels a little faint (that may be because Snow White has decided to nap there).

Keeping in line with my normal dorkiness, I tried to drink coffee after leaving the dentist’s office. That was a lot of fun, for both myself and my t-shirt. Thank god it was in private.

Flowers from Boys

This is my baby cousin, the only boy to ever send me flowers. He’s that unique hybrid of man that’s equal parts fighter and lover. He’s the guy that other men admire and women want to sleep with…


He’d kill me for writing this but for all of his masculinity, he’s equally sensitive, caring & pampered (something he gives back 100 times, making him that much more of a man).

He lives in Denver and has been my strength these last few days, reassuring me that although he was the 1st to send me flowers, he wouldn’t be the last. As if that weren’t sweet enough, and when I asked him where a girl like me sits on the totem pole of women, he told me I was sitting cross-legged on a mountain peeking down at the totem pole. Most likely with a book, a lip-gloss and utterly clueless re my effect on boys.

Naturally, and because I’m his cousin, he's biased and doesn’t really have a choice but to think so highly of me. Today, I choose to believe him because today is one of those days when I have to.

The woman he chooses to marry will be among the lucky & I can’t wait to meet her.

Disaster

As if the chocolate pudding weren’t enough…

I am in my black leather high heels, returning from a meeting. In between towers, I am walking relatively fast because I have to get ready for dinner with a friend.

Minding my own business, I hear *snap* and then. Suddenly. Find that I am that much closer to the ground. At least the right side of my body is.

I take two more steps and stop.

Turn around.

And like a war victim, find my heel lying wounded alone and unattached to the rest of it’s family.

My right heel has snapped off my boot. I’m staring at it as I type. It’s lonely and sad, and I’m killing myself laughing because of the insanity of my week.

Don’t they say that bad things come in threes?
.1. I locked my keys in my car on Sunday night.
.2. A horrible conversation ensues on Monday evening.
.3. I snap my heel today, Friday.

I expect things to start looking up immediately.

Have a good weekend, kids.

Chocolate Pudding

.1. For the last hour, I’ve been walking around the office with a smudge of chocolate pudding above the left corner of my mouth.

The only reason I know this is because I went for coffee with my colleague and he sincerely said to me: “I had no idea you had a mole above your lip. It’s actually really nice.”

.2. While at coffee, we were discussing yoga and so I decided to re-read my Rules for Yoga piece when I came back to my desk. I can be really funny sometimes. In Arabic, this means I have light blood. If this is your first time reading my take on yoga, enjoy!

Man & Woman

The 8th Wonder of the World: The confusion reigning supreme when a man & a woman try to communicate about something which scares both of them.

It is somewhat of a phenomenon how ideas, words and thoughts can become distorted.

When two people who are equally passionate and reactionary are trying to talk about something intense, things can become so skewed. I've been wondering: Is it better to just shut up or keep talking?

After some reflection, I think I now understood how, within a split second things can start to snowball and land in a pile of insanity. I believe it’s based solely on the non-verbal worries / fears people may bring to a conversation; worries and fears they do not share with the other, but ones which seep through their minds while the other one speaks. Usually, these worries and fears are based on monologues each individual has in their own head. Alone. Without their partner / girlfriend / boyfriend / whatever.

Much of the time, and rather than paying attention to one another, couples argue about the things which weren’t said. What they’re reacting to isn’t the conversation itself, but what they’ve already thought about / expected / have been worried about.

To answer the question I posed at the outset, I've come to learn that the way to ease the communication between two such people is to follow these steps (I recommend you print this up, laminate it and keep it in your wallet at all times):
.1. In the heat of the moment, it really is best to just shut up.
.2. Take some time to reflect and breathe.
.3. If there’s a real connection between the two of you, you should be able to honestly and sincerely consider: (a) the other person's feelings; (b) attempt to understand the 'why' of their reaction; and (c) hear their not-articulated worries and fears.
.4. When you're calm, come together to talk.
.5. When speaking to him / her, make certain you reiterate their fears. Let them know you heard them. Make them understand that you understand.

I’m an optimist and so believe in the power of connection when that connection is genuine and real; when you can step back and without words understand the thoughts and fear, trepidation and worry of your partner. Unfortunately, it’s that sort of connection which is a hell of a lot more scary for the two people involved (compared to a shallow connection when you look at the person in front of you and can’t see them in your life post the weekend). Should it work out, they’re in for an incredible ride; one which most others would envy, as few couples ever get such a chance.

Swinging Doors

.1. I’m not taking a hiatus because – WOW – I received way too many emails of concern (most of you, I’ve never met). This is so sweet…and I feel I should buck-up and keep writing. So I will. My entries may be shorter than usual, but I think that’s better than nothing.

.2. Don’t ‘hang out’ behind doors which swing toward you. I was doing just that this morning, when the following happened.

I was fishing for my pass when someone from the opposite side of the door opened it in a rush and flurry of activity. I almost tumbled over, but my colleague was standing behind me and he’s 6’4” (in order to move him, heavy machinery is required). He was able to catch me and keep me upright.

.3. Someone should develop a way to track text messages. Like, a way to tell the sender whether the message was read or not. It would take a little anxiety out of that communications vehicle...

Foam-covered Pipelines

At work, I park my car in an underground garage. There are some relatively low pipelines (all of which are covered in soft foam) under which I have to walk in order to reach the elevator.

I have good hand-eye coordination, but I don’t know if that’s relevant in this scenario. I just thought I would share that with you…because it’s my blog.

Where was I?

Right. So, every day, I perform a slight duck-and-shimmy manoeuvre as I approach and pass beneath these pipelines. Do believe am tall enough to require such effort.

This morning, I decided to test my belief, wondering whether I was being a slight egomaniac thinking I was too tall for the pipeline.

It was full steam ahead.

Right before my head bounced off – at what some might consider a high velocity – the aforementioned foam-covered pipeline.

This experience confirmed two things: (a) I am as tall as I think; and (b) I might need some help (seeing as how the “am a dork” excuse can carry me so far).