I shake my fist at the DAMNED penalty kick

I have always found the penalty kick to be the most disturbing aspect of a futbol match. When placed within the context of the World Cup it's morally reprehensible. There’s always been an internal debate re the validity of the penalty kick end between two worthwhile and strong opponents. I’ve long argued that there’s no place for the penalty kick fiasco in World Cup futbol as it’s based purely on luck.

Whereas the entire match (90 minutes, then the extra 30 minutes) is based purely on strategy, team work and endurance, the penalty kick comes in and distils the heart of the game. The teams need to keep playing until someone scores a goal (even if this takes 27 hours).

Today saw the cheapening of the World Cup once more; a pathetic end in penalty kicks provided Germany with a win over Argentina.

I guess this just means that Germany won’t get lynched by their fellow citizens for losing in the Quarter-Finals. And the line that I’m sure everyone will use in the newspapers, because we’re devoid of imagination: We can now cry for Argentina. Sorry ya Seedo & Uzi!

Approximately nine of us congregated randomly in one of the boardrooms and watched the match on a big screen television set. I’d never met any of them before 11 a.m. but we’re about to watch the Italy v. Ukraine game in a moment…Hurrah for big screen television and empty boardrooms!!

I have to redirect my hopes at this point: I’m placing my full weight behind Zidane. I hope France kicks everyone’s ass.

I want the others to lose because:
- Italy doesn’t deserve to advance after the dive taken against Australia. That was cheating. They cheated and cheaters shouldn’t win. Just like Argentina in 1986; Maradona cheated and they shouldn’t have won. “Hand of God”, my ass.

- As before, I’ve expressed my distaste for Brazil’s arrogance. They need to re-centre before I’ll support them again.

- I take back my original sentiment that I wish Portugal to advance. Both the Portuguese and the Netherland team should be disqualified after their match on the 25th, which I taped and just watched. What a disgrace to the sport: sixteen yellow cards, four red cards, two near brawls, slapping and FIGO HEAD BUTTING a Netherlands team member. I’m surprised these thugs were allowed to continue playing at all. If this match had been referred by Pierluigi Collina, he would have given red cards to every member of both teams AND THEIR COACHES.

- England. Blekh.

Aside: Anyone watch today’s match? Did y’all see Beckenbauer? He’s always so well put together and controlled and – even when in a rage – magnetic. Today was the first time I saw him slightly dishevelled > his tie was askew to the left. Odd that no one pointed this out to him. (I’m not at all being sarcastic here; Beckenbauer’s notorious for his sense of elite style.)

World Cup no. 3: My Seedo

My very first memory of futbol was as a baby of less than four years. My father played on a local team and my mom and I would watch and cheer while seated on the grass. Because my mother mistook me for some sort of a doll, she would dress me up like this before sitting me on the grass (notice the white socks, white shoes and white panties). For the most part, my memories were of men running off the pitch to smoke a cigarette and catch their breath. (Also, of my prissy dress attire as I sat on the GRASS with my beautiful mother.)

My more vivid memories were of watching futbol with my maternal grandfather in Gaza, but only the best kind of futbol: World Cup futbol. The elite of the elite is what used to – and still continues to - enthral me. While Gaza was (& remains) occupied and before even the first Intifadah (translation of which is akin to: Awakening from slumber), the Strip shuts down for the entirety of two months: Ramadan (on a yearly basis) and World Cup futbol (once every four years).

My grandfather’s favourite team was Argentina. It didn’t matter at what time the matches were being played, my grandfather would sit me down and make asha for both of us while we watched the matches together. Asha is a late dinner; in the Middle East, one ‘sups’ at around 2 or 3 pm and then eats a final meal, asha, at around 9 or 10 pm. Between these two meals, you usually drink a lot of sweet shai (tea) and ahwa (coffee).

Anyway…it was very special to me because with the highest level of patience, my grandfather would walk me through every single detail of each match we watched. Most fun was when he would become so engaged and animated that I would feed off his energy and we’d usually end up waking the rest of the house. Naturally, no one dared say anything about the ruckus coming from the family room.

My grandfather was a very gentle man, not religious and highly educated. He was a Principal with an exceptional reputation because he was instrumental in establishing several schools all over Historical Palestine. Although constantly approached, he refused to dabble in politics because of what he perceived as its corrupt nature. For him, education was the instrumental foundation on which the Palestinian people could one day hope to attain freedom and justice.

In 1990, during the first Palestinian Intifadah, it was the only time my grandfather ceased being animated. We would watch the matches quietly and tensely because the real-life 'backbeat' to the matches was that of Israel dropping bombs, using machine guns, flying Apache helicopters, and rolling tanks. Randomly, we were subjected to the shouts and blaring music of the Israeli soldiers outside our walls and at all times of the night (aaah, the terror that comes from psychological warfare!). The heartbeat of that Intifadah was the Gaza Strip, and the Gaza Strip you can cross by car in approx 35 minutes. A pin could drop at the other end of the Strip and you’d hear it. Imagine this, then.

That was also the first summer I had a machine gun pointed at my head (remember I would have been a teenage girl of 16 years) as I walked to the corner store to buy futbol cards. I still have the cards as a memory of that summer. I refused to return to Gaza for six years.

..and 1990, watching Germany win, was the last match of the World Cup I was audience to in Gaza. In the following three World Cups, I never made an effort to call my grandfather to talk about the matches. Now that my grandfather’s gone (he got to watch one last World Cup in 2002, a few months before he died) I regret this immeasurably. I miss him and I hope that he’s watching his team move forward with the rest of his friends in heaven.

In case you’re interested in understanding a little more what’s happening in Gaza at the moment, please read this.

World Cup no. 2 (True Story no. 1)

In the summer of 1994, friends and I rented a cabin and left the city during the semi finals of the World Cup (I WAS FORCED!). With us at the cabin was “Brazilian Jackie”, a girlfriend with whom I’ve since lost touch. No one but Jackie and I cared for futbol. Her boyfriend was with us and she'd already contextualised the cabin for him: "Futbol" (something which didn't deter him from taking a gigantic suck - that lasted the duration of the 72 hours - when she shusshed him as we were attempting to generate a signal...)

I brought with me a transistor radio, and for nearly 85% of our first day, Jackie and I ran through the forest trying to catch a signal. At one point, I put on my bathing suit and swam out to the middle of the lake, carrying the transistor radio in a plastic bag over my head, searching for a signal and finding none. I’m sure Jackie and I provided comic relief for the neighbouring cabins.

Missing the first game, we spent the last 15% of that day quite pissed off and so vowed that the following day (a day on which Brazil would be playing), we would trek all over the ‘village’ in an effort to find one functioning television set.

We did & we found one lone bar in the basement of the local “hotel” and watched the match in French.

We were the only two girls in this hole. Ok, FINE! We were the only two PATRONS in this hole but we loved it. We ate peas covered in maple syrup and french fries deep-fried at least 3 times, and soaked in vinegar and ketchup. While stuffing our faces and cheering the tiny television, we attempted a bizarre mix of French, Spanish, Arabic and English with the barkeep, who’d obviously not had contact with females in a perhaps troublingly extended period of time. After the match was over, Jackie and I were asked: “Would eww teww like to come to mon cabin ce soir?” Jackie froze (not a good wing man) and so I laughed and pretended I’d not understood, choosing to instead respond with “Yeah, we’re going back to our cabin right now. Have a great night! THANKS!”, as I ran up the stairs.

We laughed all the way back to the cabin. (The entire time we were lost in the forest trying to find our cabin, too.)

***

I’m hanging my head in shame because I’ve yet to catch an entire futbol game. I’ve been forced to watch snippets of games, and I’m not sure I can continue to call myself a futbol fan at this rate. But, in my own defence, it must be noted that I have been reading about all of the matches quite systematically and religiously. I’ve been much too busy to sit for any extended period of time, and when I have had a moment to spare, I’ve spent it writing because writing is my way to decompress.

Please consider this before you judge me: In order to remedy the situation, I’ve put a huge piece of paper next to my television set with the times & dates of Matches 57-64.

A little review from my original post...

Of my hoped for 16 teams, 10 advanced to the second round: Germany, England, Sweden, Argentina, Portugal, Italy, Brazil, Switzerland, France & Spain.

Of them, the usual suspects have advanced further (no underdogs in this World Cup, and so my interest currently sits on the backburner): Germany, Argentina, Italy, Sweden, England, Portugal and Italy.

I expect that Sweden and Brazil will also advance and am undecided as to who will move forward between Spain & France. I have a crush on Zidane and so lean towards France.

From there, I expect the following will make it to the next round:
Argentina v. Italy, with Argentina advancing
England v. Brazil, with Brazil advancing

…although I would hope the following is what really happens:
Argentina v. Italy, with Argentina advancing
Portugal v. France, with France advancing

That’s as far as I’ll go today. We’ll see what transpires between now and July 8th.

A Girl's Night Out

Because life has taken a very busy course for all of us, The Girls rarely get together anymore. We see one another individually, but hardly find the time to go out as a group. Trish (nicknamed: Kitty) now lives in Florida with her husband. She’s come ‘home’ for the weekend and tonight, we got together – minus one Girl, C, whose at home with newborn Trent – and went out for an exquisite meal and then found ourselves on a gorgeous patio for the rest of the evening.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve laughed as hard or for as long as I did tonight. There’s something to be said for 16 years of friendship, and these are all brilliant, hilarious and beautiful women who I cherish and love immensely.

Here’s Kitty


This is T


T, Kitty & E


Us. This picture I love because it looks like we’re about to be devoured by flames


E & T


& this shot of T & I, which is my favorite because it’s the picture to best describe the evening. We were about to shoot the same shot as the one above, with E and Kitty, only I was going to be kissing T. E was taking the photo and T and I were posed, until E pressed the button and my camera started flashing – an indication that it’s about to take the shot. What T doesn’t know is that my camera has a delay of a few seconds, and so she turned to me and stuck out her tongue because she thought that’s what the camera would snap. But due to the delay, the camera got our reaction to her action…


A few random notes about the evening:
.1. It’s confirmed, I am most definitely a girl drawn to men who wear jeans or cargo pants and t-shirts or button downs. Since when did men become so high maintenance? And who finds this attractive? AND WHY DO THEY CALL THEMSELVES MEN WHEN THEY’RE PLUCKING AND WAXING AND USING MORE HAIR PRODUCTS THAN I OWN?

.2. We saw a girl wearing a white Formula1 cat suit. I don’t really think I need to expand on that statement.

.3. As unattractive as the high maintenance man (the metrosexual), is a man who can’t hold his liquor. It’s probably one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. If you’re a guy and you can’t hold your liquor, then don’t drink and have a cola instead.

I met someone who can’t hold his liquor.

Over the course of the evening, this individual became increasingly whiney, belligerent and annoying as the night progressed and as he kept drinking. By about 11 pm, I was ready to start firing off comments to meet his own ugly ones, but out of respect for our mutual connection, I kept my mouth shut and opted to instead ignore him entirely and stay focused on any other conversation.

At one point, we were talking about breasts and the different sizes of breasts, and the following went down:
Girl: “My own boyfriend tells me I have small breasts!” (which we all heard as “My old boyfriend tells me I have small breasts!”)
T (thinking the Girl was talking about an old boyfriend): “Well, I hope you told him he had a small d&*k!”
Girl's Boyfriend The Guy Who Can't Hold His Liquor Or Maybe He's Like This All The Time: “Thanks!”
T: “Huh?”
Girl: “Oh my god! HA HA HA!”
T (realizing what just happened): “OH! NO! I thought you said your OOOOLD boyfriend. I’m sorry!!!”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT: “That’s okay, I forgive you.”

YOU FORGIVE HER FOR YOUR BEING AN ASSHOLE?, my mind screamed and so piped up and said “You tell Girl that her breasts are too small?”
Girl: “Yeah. He tells me I need to get more boobs.”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT, smarmy, smiling, greasy, bloated, looking at me.
Me: “You seriously tell her she needs larger breasts?”
Girl: “YEAH!”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT: “She does.”
Girl: “Seeeeeeeeeeee! HA HA HA!” (For the moment, forget about the raging stupidity of Girl.)

Maha, with a smile and a laugh: “You’re actually repugnant, but you know that.”
Girl: “Aaaaah, I hear a rant coming on.” (We’d joked earlier in the evening about my ‘rant’ on Paris Hilton’s raunch and young women aspiring to meet that porn standard.)

GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT, staring at me, still bloated and greasy and smarmy and probably just as T described…
Maha, still laughing: “No. No rant. I can’t even bother to give that sentiment of yours two more seconds of my time it’s so disgusting. I think you’re pathetic enough as is, without my pointing it out even further.”

Girl and GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT actually laughed. It’s amazing what you can pull off if you say it in the right way to people. Had I delivered it any differently than I did, it would have been understood for what it really was: a direct hit on this guy’s character. Instead, it was perceived as some sort of a joke, which is fine by me.

T, E & Kitty understood exactly what I meant and were laughing for different reasons.

Another example of this guy's classy ways: he gave our waitress the finger when she turned her back. He’s trash. Just complete and total trash. And that this is the first time I’ve ever ripped anyone on my 2+ year old blog says a lot.

.3. I’m so happy that we ceased and desisted from the bar scene a solid eight or so years ago. It’s such an ugly environment and watching the outright prostitution of most of these young girls was horrendous. They could barely walk, they were so drunk, and even worse, they could barely keep their clothes on they were so tight and ready to snap off like an overstretched elastic. And their make-up? WOW. They probably start getting ready at 8 am in the morning just so they can make it out on time at 10 pm.

And haven’t they figured it out yet? Most boys are into simple beauty. Most men like a woman who looks like she’s got her shit together and who – when she wakes up the next morning – will look relatively similar to what she did the night prior. If a guy isn’t attracted to a woman who doesn’t look like she’s got her shit together, then he’s got self-esteem issues and, chances are, he’s a prick who likes subservient women. If he likes you with 10 pounds of make up, then you’ll have to wake up at 4 am to “get your face on” and back to bed before he wakes up. How is any of this attractive to either of the sexes?

Oh. And before you ask…I look like I have a lot of make up on, but I don’t. I’ve always looked like this > so much so that when I was about 12 years old, my teacher took a wet tissue to my face to take off my “blush”…the blush I didn’t have on. In the above photos, I have on only: eyeliner kohl and lip-gloss.

Caught red-handed

For the last two days, I’ve been on course with a colleague. Today’s final exercises consisted of a test and then evaluation of the course itself. I was the first one out of the class and so waited for my colleague in a hallway near the exit.

Bored, I noticed a very pretty area on the wall, an area filled with boxes. Upon closer inspection, I realized that these were the old fashioned mailboxes. Four mailboxes across, there were ten rows. On each one of the wooden ‘faces’ was a little brass area where names would have once stood watch, and each mailbox had a very small round knob.

Because I oftentimes regress, my first instinct was to open one of them and peek inside. That first one whet my appetite and so then I opened a second one and also peeked inside. Disillusioned that there were no forgotten gems or secret messages within either, I took it upon myself to open all of the mailboxes in order to ensure that nothing had been left behind.

I was alone as I made a game of this and opened, in orderly fashion, each and every one of the mailboxes from the bottom up.

Once all were open and I’d confirmed that nothing rested inside of any of them (and to be certain, I’d pulled over a chair on which to stand and peek into the top row), I started to close them one by one. Maybe, not so quietly.

On the opposite side of the wall sat a gnome who heard nothing more than the undoing of and then the subsequent clickity clack close of each mailbox. The latch was in fact two magnets and so, the ‘click’, thanks to the echo of the stone wall, was rather loud where the gnome sat.

As I was approximately one third of the way through my closing of the mailboxes, the gnome appeared in a huff. She’d rounded the corner at full speed and was in search of the culprit (I).

Impossible that I could have lied about who was making the noise because I was the only person standing in the hallway. Worse still, she’d ambushed me and so as I turned my head (in slow motion) and our eyes met (in slow motion), I ‘click’ closed one more mailbox (in slow motion).

She stared as I froze. As a white flag, I offered: “It’s me”.

I’m sure that somewhere in the back of my mind, those two words denoted some sort of brilliant strategy. Somewhere really far in the back of my mind where even I couldn’t find it…

Standing like a ramrod with eyes the size of saucers, I was terrified by the gnome’s animosity.

“What are you doing?!”
“I lost a bet.”
“WHAT?”
“I lost a bet ‘cus I bet my classmates that there was something inside of at least one of the mailboxes and they’re still writing the test inside and because I finished early I told them I’d check and take the hit and now I’ve lost I’m sorry.”
“You’re being really loud.”
“I lost the bet I’m sorry.”
“You know sometimes people write tests in here and you’re being really loud.”
“Yes I’m sorry. I lost the bet. There’s nothing inside the mailboxes.”

“You lost a bet?” came the query from my colleague who’d come around the other corner.
“Yes, I lost a bet. THE bet.”
“What bet?”
“The one about the mailboxes. We should go.”
“Ok?”

As my colleague and I walked past the gnome (in slow motion), I looked over my shoulder and our eyes met once more (in slow motion) as she scowled (in slow motion). I could tell she’d recognized I was as full of hot air as those mailboxes.

The smell & sound of rain

If you visit my blog regularly, you’re already aware of the affinity I have for bodies of water. I’ve often said that I’d be happy living in either a shed near the water or in a boat in the middle of nowhere. One thing I’ve not often mentioned is the smell and sound of rain either late at night or early in the morning.

There are three different occasions on which this particular feeling comes to mind. I write ‘feeling’ because it extends beyond all senses and touches something deeper.

First was about four years back when Alisa & Ryan were married in Lake Placid. A friend and I stayed at the Trail Head’s Inn in the Bigelow Room. I’ve noticed that the Inn has since changed ownership; while there, it was owned and run by a young couple from Australia who had a beautiful little boy.

My beautiful friend ended up staying with some of our friends at the Blueberry cottage (a common affliction of weddings?) and so I had our room all to myself. The room was in fact split into two areas, one of which was called the ‘Adirondack sleeping porch’.

The porch was once a balcony with an old, squeaky and washed out grey wood floor and a very thin steeply sloped wooden roof. The railing of the balcony was a faded white painted wood, and all open areas of the balcony were covered with a thin fine green mesh. The room held the four following items: a queen-sized bed with white bed coverings & a duvet, a small old and worn rug which – I later found out – was purchased from a Moroccan market, one forest green reading chair and a beautiful antique cherry wood night table.

This room sat on the opposite side of the entrance and where the family lived, and so was completely silent. Due to the height of the balcony, I couldn’t see anything but the forest’s tree tops as I sat on the bed. For the duration of the night and the next morning, it rained and all I could smell was that rain and its translation on the forest surrounding me. I was alone in the world for a few hours and I was mesmerized. There wasn’t a sound beyond this and between the haze and the mist was a very cool breeze that kept me buried beneath the duvet until around 11 a.m. the next morning. To get back into the room, I had to tiptoe across the floor or risk freezing my feet. Honestly, it was heaven and I’m glad my girl found alternative lodging (as I’m sure she was the evening prior, but not necessarily the morning following…).

The second time was the first morning Dianna and I found ourselves in Scotland. We’d decided that, since we’d be traveling overnight, we’d not make any plans for that first day, instead opting to play it by ear and get to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended, for those with eclectic taste: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest bedrooms.

This is the entrance of our little home while in Glasgow:



The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor (Mr. Morrison is an artist).

Our room had attention deficit disorder in the form of a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a gigantic Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, one too many paintings on the wall and different paint colors all over the walls. We loved it.

I like to sleep next to windows, otherwise I find that I get claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous. It did have a thin sheer white curtain beneath three other heavier ones and so we pulled back the heavy curtains and left the window wide open with only the sheer covering it. I woke up to the sound of that Scottish rain and found that because we’d left the window wide open, the room was filled with a fine mist. It was a luscious morning to wake up.

This is my side of the bed, next to the window:


& here’s what you saw if looking out of our window:


The third and last time the scent and sound of rain washed out the world was two nights ago, Friday evening. I’d finished writing my final exam and walked the two hours home so that I could unwind and get my thoughts in order. Having taken a shower, I was utterly exhausted and don’t actually remember getting into my bed. At some point in the middle of the night, I was awakened by my friend and all of his welcome trappings, including the chilly breeze and the way the pavement talks back to him.

Although exhausted still, I sat up in bed next to the open window and was kept company by rain for the next hour and before I fell asleep again.

The Boy who intimidates me

About a year ago, I met an interesting person. In this last year, I’ve seen him a handful of times, maybe on six or seven different occasions. When we do see one another, we don’t talk much because he’s not the overly social sort.

There’s something odd about the situation, though, and to be quite honest, I don’t know if this oddity is him or if it’s me.

I’ve never rattled easily. In fact, I can name the number of times that someone’s intimidated me or around whom I’ve become introverted and shy. When that has happened in the past, I’ve gotten over it relatively quickly and it became a non-issue.

It’s also not in my nature to be quiet, and it’s definitely not in my nature to feel as though – were I to open my mouth and speak – I were less intelligent than I know myself to be.

But. When around this individual, I become someone I don’t recognize. And in my 31 years, he’s the only one who’s managed to have this effect on me.

Like I said, he’s not the overly social sort and so my impression is that if I don’t have something intelligent or relevant to say, I should just keep my mouth shut. I dig comfortable silences because they’re rare and the people with whom they occur are rare; it usually means that between two people there exists an honest sense of comfort and ease. In this instance, it’s not a comfortable silence…I mean, it may very well be for him, but not for me. He may be thinking of the next big thing while I stand there wondering when someone we both know will intervene so that my focus can shift from my discomfort to that third party.

And the thing is, he seems like a genuinely nice boy. I just seem to react quite oddly to him, is all. It’s like some sort of chemical reaction that takes place and I have no control over it and it's really frustrated me.

A prime example just occurred. Surprisingly, and for the first time ever, he greeted me as friends do, by kissing me on both cheeks. Surprising for two reasons, the first obvious one because he’d never done it before and the second because I’d anticipated nothing more than a smile as he just walked past. But he greeted me hello in this way and then stood and chatted with me. And worse still, he was standing close enough for me to see his eye color, which I’d never thought about and I guess sort of assumed was brown. But his eyes are blue. And not just any shade of blue, they’re that weird crystal-like opaque shade of blue. I wanted to poke him in an eye to see if it was glass.

I was so thrown by the greeting, the small talk and the eyes that rather than being an engaging conversationalist, I instead kept staring at his shoes. They were a nice brown leather square toe that looked quite soft to the touch.

It was so bad that at one point I enquired “what are you doing here” when what I wanted to say was “I’m really happy to see you here”.

And he doesn't laugh. And laughs are my ammunition; it's how I get to people, it's how I break the ice and create warmth and comfort and ease. But I don't think I've ever gotten a laugh out of him. Maybe a grin or a smirk, but he's no Pillsbury dough boy, that's for sure.

And it gets even worse. Out of timidity, I sort of ignore him and for whatever reason, he makes no effort to engage me and instead offers one or two word responses. I’ll give you an example of this as well. The time following the above mentioned spastic response from me to his greeting and stopping, we saw one another a few days later. We were standing next to one another and he neither looked at me nor said hello (he doesn't have to, I know...). So, although I hesitated at first, I finally offered a simple "hey", and he then he shook my hand and again kissed me hello. And it was sort of funny, because when he let go of my hand, he pushed it (& me) away. Look: I'm a big believer in body language.

What ensued was so awkward…

One word answers…

Not much eye contact…

& me trying to shift positions quietly and away from him because I really felt as though I was bothering him or he was being bothered or I was in his space or something…

Then these two old men came over who, I think, he knew. He knew at least one of them, because the other one called him by the wrong first name. He chattered with them like he’d swallowed some sort of a radio. When they were gone, more silence and one word answers. JEESUS!

And so then I became hyper self-conscious and slowly kept trying to edge away inconspicuously because I felt as though I were imposing and thought to myself that if he’s not speaking with me then it means he doesn’t want to speak with me. It’s that simple and there’s no need to complicate matters. I should just get out of his space.

We saw one another the following day and neither one of us said hello. I couldn’t even look at him, to be quite honest. His colleague, who may be a friend outside of work - was present and I had absolutely no problem chatting with him and being myself and he came into the same room as me and sat with me and he’s so different than the other one…

And you know what? This guy who makes me feel really awkward and tense, he’s a political guy and so once in a while I’ll send him some information about an event I think he’d enjoy or be interested in, and I have no problem doing that. I don’t even hesitate or think about it and am quite comfortable writing to him something I would never actually say. And I don’t even know if he checks the emails, he’s probably much too busy to read them until weeks later…if at all, but that’s fine. There’s no immediate awkwardness with email. You hit the Send button and it’s done. When you’re facing someone and you receive one word answers without eye contact, there’s a level of tightness there that can’t be matched by technology.

I don’t know why this is bothering me as much as it is. I don’t understand it and I don’t know if I’ve offended him or what the hell. AND this is someone I have come to respect and admire ten times more in the last year, which makes it that much worse; his mind is fierce and astute, and yet there’s this weird gentle quality about him that’s hard to pinpoint, but I think it’s in the way he treats people. He seems a mix of all these opposing qualities, like when speaking about a certain subject about which he's passionate, he’s this strong charismatic focused (almost to a point of impatience) individual, and then all of a sudden he's completely introverted and shy.

Anyway…I’m not really sure why I’ve ranted like this. It’s something that’s been bothering me this week and I don’t know why because I don’t understand it myself and he’s bothering me because he’s a Sudoko puzzle with blue eyes. And you know, it’s not like he’s got nothing to say, he’s a prolific writer, so his mind’s obviously full of words that he just won't use with me. I'm sure he doesn't even think about this, and I'm just giving myself way too much credit; even if it is a negative sort of credit, I'm being a little self-centred, forgive me...I'm just a little weirded out. And, I think moreso because this is someone I'd like to sit with over coffee and talk shop.

I can’t believe how all over the place this entry is. There’s no structure and I’ve got poor syntax. And I’m quite comfortable writing about this here because there’s no way in hell this particular man has the time or the interest to check this place out and I can't discuss him with my girlfriends because they'll all know who he is and I'm not interested in that can of worms opening up.

(And yes: This means that my girlfriends don't check my blog unless I send them a direct link to a piece of it. They get the real deal, anyway...)

Thanks for indulging my rant.

What a day

I’ve spent most of my day seated cross-legged on my front step with my PowerBook for a companion. All I’ve done is write, write and write. On occasion, I got up and walked barefoot through the grass just to find a sense of green.

I managed to finally:
- Uploaded some photos from my Scotland travel diary which, as you can see, is no small measure (if you click on the images, you’ll be taken to the larger shot where you can actually read the text, which is pretty cool):



















- I’ve started writing out some of my notes from Scotland (a year later) in order to share them with you in the coming weeks.
- Mail out some gifts that had been wrapped and ready to go for the last three months.
- Got to Bridgehead for some more quiet writing time over an iced latte (am officially addicted).

And the highlight of my day was running into a very old friend who I’d not seen in around 8 years (she’d moved to Japan for two years and then to Italy). I was driving down the street when I whipped right past Doris and recognized her beautiful face and…oddly enough…her hair. I did a quick u-turn and we chatted for about 10 minutes, promising to get together very soon. Seeing her smile brought back a lot of memories and, erm, Duran Duran’s ’Come Undone’.

You’ll be seeing quite a bit of me over the next few days and so I hope you won’t tire too quickly.

In keeping with my once-in-a-while recommendations, a little rough rock n roll today. Download Stone Sour’s following five songs: Through Glass, Inhale, Bother, Blue Study, and Take A Number.

Pics from last few weeks (part 1)

As previously mentioned, I’ve had an extraordinarily busy few weeks past. This is the first ‘dispatch’ of some of the events which have kept me busy and that really stand out. In the coming days, I’ll post some more interesting bits and pieces from the Robert Fisk lecture, the Supreme Court hearings and the Secret Trial Caravan…

.1. My baby cousin was on a special exchange program between Occupied Palestine and the US. He’d lived in Kansas for the last year and came to visit us in Ottawa a couple of weeks back for a little under a week. He’s now finished his year of schooling and has returned to Gaza.

He. Is. Gorgeous. Look!



He’s 6’3” and has thick dark brown slightly long wavy hair. I kept pulling his hair because it’s just so damn beautiful. He has sun-kissed skin and huge black eyes that I’m certain the little girls at school get lost in. He’s 16 at the moment, and while we were out, I was watching girls (& women) react to him, and it was an absolute treat.

The best thing about Mustapha is that he’s completely oblivious to this sort of thing, preferring to instead talk politics and human rights.

When you’re from a place such as Gaza, or any place that’s war torn, occupied, or is in the middle of a revolution, your priorities are different. Chances are, you’re a lot more aware of world issues and where you fit in, because you have no choice but to be awake to your surroundings. He is more well versed in the world of politics at the age of 16 than most people at the age of 46.

I can’t help but say how proud of him I am.

.2. Daddy and I had lunch with Senator Pierre De Bane, who is an absolute doll. I’m sure that’s not how he’d like me to think of him, but he is. I constantly want to hug and squeeze little old men and women and he was no exception.

The day previous, he’d had lunch with his good friend, our ex Prime Minister, M. Jean Chretien and so he shared some funny stories about that. More intriguing was that he also mentioned another ex Prime Minister, who – as Senator De Bane tells it – was instrumental in bringing him into politics: M. Pierre Trudeau.

.3. I was invited to a discussion panel put on by the Palestinian Liberation Organization’s Negotiations Affairs committee. Although they didn’t present anything new, their means of presentation was excellent. To get a sense of what they were discussing and to better understand what’s really happening in the Occupied Palestinian Territories, I strongly urge you to visit PASSIA.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have no idea why or how I was invited!

And for good measure, here are some interesting and unique pieces of art that have been done on the land grab wall being built by Israel on Palestinian soil. It’s incredible how beautiful they are, when one considers the canvas on which they sit. Where international law is being ignored, one wishes that this level of imagination find its way into the negotiations…:


Larger version here.


Larger version here.


Larger version here.


Larger version here.


Larger version here.


Larger version here.


Larger version here.

.4. I can't recall whether I've already mentioned this, but Cleo recently had baby no. 2: Trent.

None of us are quite certain from where he came, because he looks nothing like his mother or his father.

In Arabic, there’s a very derogatory ‘joke’ (derogatory because we’re essentially referencing disregard for and abuse of slaves…but I’ll tell it anyway) that says “ibn el-shaghala” which means “son of the maid”. If Cleo had a pool boy, I’d say Trent was his.

Here’s a photo of Nora May, Trent and I taken on the first day I met Trent, Sunday June 4th:



While at Cleo’s, Nora decided that she wanted to make me a cat, and so out came the face crayons and on went my ‘cat face’, which amounted to nothing more than a bunch of blue and neon orange scribbles all over my face. Lucky I don’t wear make-up except for kohl eyeliner and lip-gloss. I left Cleo’s having forgotten that this was on my face until I got home and my mother squinted at me and asked “did you spill something on your face?”

Quick update

I’ve not been blogging regularly because I’ve had an absolutely hectic work, academic & social schedule these last few weeks.

Was at the Supreme Court of Canada the last two days (more on this soon), was asked to help at an event last night, have a very important lunch on Friday and then my final exam on Friday evening.

Although I like to keep myself busy with several projects on the go, this summer’s been a little difficult and I’m starting to feel the burn. This is due in part to the fact that I’m not writing creatively to meet the demands of my system…

I have a ton to share and I promise to be more consistent once I’m a little rested and back into the swing of things.

Mumisms

I’ve noted a few interesting phrases and words used by my mother. Feel free to adopt them at your peril. For fun, throw them into random conversations and then see if anyone else manages to pick up on the subtlety of the absurd.

.1. Mum’s coworker has a baby girl who my mother adores. She’s always talking about her and telling me how sweet she was. One day, she sent me an email, with a photo of aforementioned baby.

My mother had written: “isn’t she durable?”, to which I responded “I don’t know. Try throwing her against a wall and see if she bounces back unscathed.”

.2. She called me at the office one day and kept repeating “…Maha, there’s something wrong with our slop!! What are we going to DO with our SLOP?” She was a little panicked and I had absolutely not a clue what she was talking about. Instead of trying to decipher this particular Mumism, I told her we’d talk about it later.

When I arrived home, she was standing outside staring at the front of our yard. There’s a slope there and the slope was askew after our workers had put down the interlock and screwed with the angle of the slope.

.3. As we’re all aware, I harbor a strange love of trip. One evening, while walking with my mother, I tripped and although I didn’t fall on to the ground, I was doubled over laughing at myself hard enough to shake. Mum had stopped and watched this unfold and so was staring at me, doubled over and shaking when she quietly whispered “I hope you’re not broken.”

A Professoré Lost on The O.C.

As you are well aware, I have been ON CAMPUS for the past six weeks. Here are some of my notes from The O.C.

.1. I adore my ‘Professoré’ and my T.A. He’s in love with the subject matter (international politics / relations & globalization) and my T.A. has a killer sense of humor (more on her later). Starting with the Professoré, I will have to admit that I’ve needed some time to digest his unique language. Here’s a little taste for your amusement…

- Instead of “uhm”, “uuh” or silence, his elipses is “mmmmm”.

- He uses the term ‘Voila’ quite often and pronounces it ‘Woila’ at random and unique moments in his speech patterns.
E.g. “So how are you, Woila!”
E.g. “And the hegemony is Woila here. Woila!”

The oddest times ‘Woila’ is implemented is when he begins a thought with it, such as: “(silence) Woila! And so the Westphalian Peace Treaty is the topic of today’s discussion.”

- He has a Bulgarian accent and you must listen carefully to what he says so that you don’t get confused. Ok. Well, maybe I do, because M (seated next to me) is always translating for me. Some examples are:
- “met cao” = “mad cow”
- “jen is is” = “genesis”
- “hijacker” = “hitch-hiker”
- "corporate" = "cooperate"
- "ate 'em" = "Adam"
- "manure" = "manoeuvre"

…and so you - Ok. I - end up hearing sentences as thus:

“I picked up a mmmmm hijacker, Woila! and we were talking about the jen is is of mmmmm met cao in the US and how it is mmmmm Woila! oddly affecting how we, Woila! trade between us and mmmmm America. How can we mmmmm manure and corporate properly, I dunno. Woila! This may be something that mmmmm may date back to ate 'em.”

You should see what my notes started to look like. Really. I stopped writing anything down approximately three weeks back and have chosen to instead sit perched on my seat, leaning forward and squinting my eyes as I stare at Professoré because that’ll help me hear better.

.2. While seated in this perched position, my hand is raised indefinitely. Usually, it’s as soon as I walk ON CAMPUS that my hand makes the up-towards-the-sky move. I still don’t understand why people look at me funny, most especially because this is what one is supposed to do ON CAMPUS. Raise their hand, no?

So, I raise my hand not because I have anything interesting or intelligent to say but rather because I feel this is a must, a duty, a right I should exercise while surrounded by Academia and books. At the end of the three hours, my arm usually hurts. But that’s ok, because it’s much better than when I took skiing lessons and I was always in the dive position (which is your right in the world of ski).

.3. Actually, I’ve started doing this in meetings at work. The ‘raise my hand right’, not the ‘dive right’. Unfortunately, I did this while seated with my supervisor. It was only he and I and I raised my hand to ask him a question. Lucky he’s got a sense of humour. He in turn looked around the room and said “Uhm, how about…you in the white shirt” and pointed at me.

And actually…this raising of the hand in meetings has taken on a life of its own. Whereas once my colleagues peered at me as though I were somewhat mentally challenged, sitting quietly with my hand in the air and waiting my turn, they’ve now taken to falling in line and doing the same.

.4. Nancy. My T.A. I don’t think they fashioned any T.A.s after her on Felicity and so I was uncertain of how to take her at first.

Why?

Because she has a hilarious sense of humour and very obviously battles it while in discussion class. She’s also doing her Masters degree on the EU and so I can learn a lot from her since I know nothing of the Europeans except that I really quite like their fashion sense and their cities and their progressive politics (for the most part) and their academics, journals and landscapes.

.5. There’s a little group of people with whom I’ve congregated. Well…more like, I tag along and they’re unaware of my presence. But I think that still qualifies me as a member of the group. I'm sure they like me because they're constantly pointing at me.

Two of the women are in law school. Both of them are very French (damn their sophistication and elegance, most especially when wearing scarves) and very intelligent girls who, whenever they speak up, always have something quite interesting to say.

One other woman has a spacey dopey feel to her, but with edge. She reminds me of one of my dearest girlfriends and so I took an immediate liking to her. She’s very ‘in your face’ and that’s equal parts due to her age and probably the amount of pot she smokes. Or not.

One boy is from the world of science and is an absolute riot because his enthusiasm is infectious. This is his first ever non-science course and he’s profusely excited about both the materials and the unstructured nature of the course. The other day he referred to the selling of young children (by their families) into prostitution as a “by-product” and I convulsed a little in my seat (& shot my hand up even higher into the air). After we left discussion group, he followed me out and chatted with me. When he finally understood my distinction between internationalization and globalization he very nearly imploded with glee.

As an aside, and only read this if you care, I was opposed to recreating the victims / individuals as commodities because I am opposed to the economic substructure and oppression posed by globalization. For me, the end is to address the economic arm of globalization and so in order for me to battle that arm, I have to be very careful with my syntax, with the language I use. To reference such a group as some sort of commodity is to dehumanise them and strip them of both history and consequence (specifically: their own at the cost of the globalization of poverty). So, I challenged his use of the terminology because it is the terminology of economic globalization…blablabla”

There are a few others who shall go unnamed, but one I do want to mention is M. He’s probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met; a walking encyclopaedia who must have an excellent diet to be so aware all the time! He’s a total nerd, but not as big as me. I hold that crown and he’ll have to wrestle me for the official dorkage of it. I’m looking forward to learning from him…

Next week on The O.C., we watch One Female Canuck grapples with Macroeconomics. While her classmates turn a critical eye to…important stuff…she’ll be working out her own model of supply, demand and the effects on her immediate love of Crack. Woila! Stay tuned!

That Gerry Butler Thing

I’ve already shared with you a variation of the conversation Gerry Butler and I had while at TIFF. After that blog entry, I received an even more entertaining influx of emails; I never responded to any of them and the last one, is posted here (minus a few words I'm not prepared to share):

so u r ignoring my emails probably because u have nothing to say? i think not but i think u r ignoring my emails because u know im right!

i KNOW that u were at toronto festival and i KNOW that Gerry liked u. i KNOW he kept looking at u. i KNOW that u 2 were cozy everyone there saw and that he whispered 2 u alot.

and u r always in montrael? i don't think this is coincidence. or that u were recently in NEW YORK WHILE GERRY THERE? coincidence? NOT!!!!

u r a bitch anyway. f#$k u.

Mary Larry

I'm having mixed feelings about this entire situation and thought perhaps you could help me sort it out. Although, you know, as usual, most of my feelings land in the pit of comedy.

Gerry Butler is somewhat of a public figure. Let's play devil's advocate and go with the more illicit scenario (they're the most fun, anyway) of what could be running through this woman's head. Let's say: I bagged Gerry Butler. What then? What does a woman such as this expect?

I think she expects me to blog about the faux scenario she seems to have concocted and so...
I'm going to appease this weirdo's needs and offer that faux and sacrificial blog entry.

Title: "I Bagged Gerry Butler and Just Found Out About It!!"

Body of Text: Dear Diary. OH MY GOD, I BAGGED GERRY BUTLER!!!!!!! I did it behind my own back and just found out about it this morning! He's really tall and has great hair. It was, like, something really important. Almost as important as, like, in those AWESOME Scottish Highlander Romance Novels and the guy's name is Girth McHung. Only in this case it was Gerry Butler (without the Mc, diary).

I don't know why no one's asked me for the gritty details because I really want the world to know that he's the size of a Tsunami. Heh. You don’t think anyone's going to think I'm dirty, do you diary? Gosh, I hope not, 'cus I really really really like Gerry Butler and I think we totally connected. I saw how he looked at me. He was SO INTENSE, like, with his eyes and stuff, and it couldn't have been because he was drunk, 'cus he doesn't drink. Maybe he was high and staring at me and wondering where he could find some peanuts? Or maybe drywall and cardboard 'cus I think that's all they're allowed to eat in Hollywood. To stay thin, you know? I dunno. It's cool, anyway, I could totally tell he was into me. Did I already mention that we had a connection? I totally felt it when he grabbed my boob. TOTALLY. We're soul mates. SQUEE. I BAGGED GERRY BUTLER!!!!!!!!!!

I think he feels the same way, too. He told me so! And you know that like because he's a GOD & an ACTOR, he would, like, never lie, diary. You know, 'cus that would make him some kind of gigantic meanie, and we already know that the 'gigantic' part belongs elsewhere. Get it? I mean, like he's Gerry Butler McHUNG. I mean he has a huge hoo hoo. HA HA HA!!!

Did I tell you we had a connection? He stared at my eyes (and I'm pretty sure he wasn’t thinking about peanuts).

I wrote a poem for him, diary. I'll find him and impale him on it give it to him even if he's lying because I'll totally be cool with JUST the memory that we connected. Totally. And I know Gerry Butler thinks about me every day. I can feel it!

Ok, so here's my poem:
I love you Gerry Butler
You make me feel like a piece of melted butter

i luv u Gerry Butler And you're totally intense

i heart Gerry ButlerAnd you should change your last name to McHung
Especially if the Hollywood thing
Gerry Butler ROCKSdoesn't
that's Mr. Gerry Butler to you!work out
And you have to do porn instead

we'll make pretty babies Gerry Butler and II love you
but we won't let their last name be McHungI love you Gerry Butler

...wait, diary. Maybe that's not a poem. Maybe it's a haiku? Don't you totally dig the way the lines aren't lined up? I hear that poets who do that are really smart. I don't know what it means, but that's okay cus I'm pretty sure Gerry Butler won't know either. He'll just stare at it and wonder where I've hidden all of the peanuts. But he'll have to highlight it to find the hidden poem in the empty spaces! I'm so smart, aren't I, diary?

I'm so happy I have you to write to, diary. Even if you're on-line and not password protected and my picture's on the side, I think this is the safest place to be discreet.

I have to go now, diary. I love you almost as much as I love GERRY BUTLER!
Xoxo
Maha

For the record:
Gerry Butler didn't "like" me in the McHung sort of way, he was merely pleasant and gracious because we met through a special individual.

Gerry Butler didn't have the time to look at me. If he glanced at me more than once it was probably while he was thinking "...she looks like someone who carries peanuts...".

Gerry Butler didn't whisper to me.

Gerry Butler and I were anything but cozy.

& p.s. because I've not done this in a while: Download B.B. King's entire album Makin’ Love Is Good For You. Although released only a few years ago, it's vintage.

We're Live! Update your links & bookmarks, please

John. John. John.

48 hours ago, I didn't know John. We "met" (virtually) and he has since been the one responsible for building this new place and ensuring that everything run smoothly.

He won't let me pay him and has labeled this a learning experience, a challenge that he's enjoyed (a lie this addition: "immensely", heh). My emails to him may not have been as enjoyable, and perhaps a little incoherent because, honestly, I don't know what I'm talking about when discussing technology. At one point, he very diplomatically sent me a photo of a bunny with a pancake on its head. The caption read: I have no idea what you're talking about...so here's a bunny with a pancake on its head.

So, all I can do is ask all of you to please buy an air conditioner from John.

Look. If you can’t buy that air conditioner, then please:
.1. Bookmark his site and send it to your friends (it's summer and the ideal time to purchase such an item); and then,
.2. Help me thank John for his amazing work and kindness (leave your comments...in the comments section).

John gets 25 gold stars. No one'll top him in that respect at this blog because if it weren't for John at this point, none of us would be here and neither would your comments, kittys.

Later this evening, I will finally write about the damn Gerry Butler saga.

UPDATE YOUR BOOKMARKS! (pretty please)
& p.s. For those of you who were previously linked to from my front page, you're still here, only I was told the less links on my front page, the better. So, click on 'Interesting Places' in my right column and locate yourselves...

I'm moving my blog

hi everyone.

In the next 48 hours, I'm moving to
http://www.onefemalecanuck.com/

...I am keeping my fingers crossed that all of your comments will still show up!!
xo
m