Stories from the Telephone Lines

Three summers ago, I worked with UNRWA in the Gaza Strip. I was visiting my family and I took a taxi to the UNRWA building and told them I wanted to volunteer. I did.

The people in Gaza are, unfortunately, quite used to the situation and the sounds of war which range from machine gun fire and Apache helicopters, to screaming missiles and exploding bombs. At most, people would hear the sound of a fighter plane and wait quietly for 15 minutes; if they were still alive after those fifteen minutes, they knew someone else was dead. The nature of war and the situation dictates that no one exhales a sigh of relief…

I never got used to that. My return to Canada was traumatic, because I have Palestinian blood and I felt guilty to be among the lucky who live elsewhere. I’ll always carry that guilt.

That, and my academic connection and political writing are as close to war as I’ve ever come. I wasn’t certain what to expect when I started working these telephone lines, but whatever my expectation was, it was the farthest thing from the reality in which I still find myself.

It's one thing to watch the news and ‘see’ those who have been killed, those who have lost their homes, those who are imprisoned within the villages and who have no access to the most basic necessities to survive. It’s another thing entirely to take the call of someone who can’t find their family members because their area’s just been hit.

This Crisis Line has fielded over 31,000 calls, and I have taken anywhere between 100 and 300 daily, depending on the nature of the calls and the day in question. One of the worst days we had was when Israel bombed telephone towers and we couldn’t receive any calls; the silence was terrifying.

If you were doing this, you too would remember every story and name you heard. I won’t ever be able to forget them and I’ll share a few of them with you…

- The elderly man who called me crying because he couldn't find his wife after their village had been hit.
- The elderly woman who called me and begged, begged, begged me through tears to please help her because she was alone and stuck in the South of Lebanon.
- The woman who called me and told me that she couldn't leave Lebanon without her mother, who was dying of cancer at the age of 83.
- The pregnant woman who called me from the South of Lebanon to tell me she couldn’t get out. I was taking her coordinates so that I could, at the very least, contact the Red Cross to see if they had any power to do anything. While on the phone, I could hear the bombs dropping and could hear them getting closer. The line kept cutting up and so I was having a very difficult time taking her information. We were cut off before I could get most of her information, and although I tried to call her back repeatedly for two days, the line never connected.

These are some of the stories…and I don't know if any of them are still alive.

And then there's everyone else; the people who can’t call, who will never be found and whose names we'll never know and whose stories will never be told.

I believe one of the worst phone calls I had to take was from a Lebanese citizen who’d been given this phone number by a neighbour. The man is 87 years old and was terrified and was asking for Canada’s help. He doesn’t have family and has nowhere to turn and was hoping that we could help him. I had to tell him we could not…and instead provide him with the telephone number of the Red Cross. When I told him I couldn’t help him, he started crying and he thanked me. He fucking thanked me and then said “Allah yi7meeki” which means “God protect you”, and I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t say anything because I was crying so hard. I’d lost all decorum and professionalism and couldn’t stop crying or shaking. I took his number down and I tried to call him for several days, but I couldn’t reach him. I keep trying to call him, and as of this morning, I still couldn’t reach him.

For each one of the stories listed above, I had to hang up and walk myself over to the washroom with my head down because I was crying. I had to take a ten minute break after each one of these – and so many others - to recover from having to tell people that I was incapable of helping them.

I often times found myself staring at the release button for too long, scared that if I press it and hang up, that's it. They're gone, there's nothing to hear anymore or hope for. The only reason I manage to press it is because I know there are others waiting to hear a voice on our end.

Most of the time, I feel impotent, seated with a headset on and ending every call with either "bon courage" or "God protect you" and choking on my words because I don't know if these people will be safe, and if they are safe, I know there's others who won't be. And so one is safe for the 100 who are not?

Naturally, there are “good” stories with happier endings; families with whom I spoke last week, and who called back this week to tell me they’re home and they’re safe…and as happy as I am for them, all I can see are the ones who can not escape.

I’ll leave you with a happier moment, which occurred only this morning. I was on the telephone with a father who’d lost contact with his family for several days. He wasn’t capable of speaking with them because the phone lines were not functioning. Since I couldn’t help him directly, I suggested we try a conference; I could at least comfort him by trying to let him hear the voices of his family. Sometimes the phone lines come and go for 10 or 15 minutes and you just have to hope for the best and take a chance.

I rang and his young boy answered. I spoke to his son briefly and explained who I was and that his father was on the line. The father said “Allo, Mohammed?” and the boy said “hi dad!” and then the father started crying. I broke down and couldn’t speak for a few moments to let them know that I would release them and leave them to their privacy. I didn’t have the energy to walk myself over to the washroom to cry…so I just sat here and cried quietly out of happiness, fear, sadness, uselessness…everything and nothing…

At this point, all I can do is wish everyone in all of the affected regions safety.

Some of this blog entry was originally part of an email sent to a small group of people.

Crisis Line: Lebanon

I've been working the Crisis Line at Foreign Affairs; we're fielding the calls from the 50,000+ Canadians in Lebanon and their respective families. I don't actually work in this area, but I have a friend who does and he asked me to volunteer because there's only a handful of individuals who speak Arabic. Luckily, all departmental employees were asked to be available for any/all help as was required. The 'situation' in Lebanon is the top priority for everyone...

It's shift work and the schedule's looking more and more like: 1 AM to 4 PM for the Arabic speakers because that's the core hours with the time difference.

...will be there again on Sat & Sun, with Sami’s wedding serving as a break.

I won’t be blogging, but will be as soon as things slow down.

So far, the calls have ranged from angry to heartbreaking, some of which have left me in tears more than a handful of times…after I’d hung up.

We don't have many Arabic speakers and so that I can flip between French, English and Arabic means I'm somewhat of a necessary commodity at the moment and this translates into very little sleep in the coming days. I don't mind in the least...I actually welcome it because it's exceptionally rewarding, even though equally difficult. That I fielded over 84 (that's where I lost count) calls today alone has left me feeling as though my head's going to split open in half.

Have a good few days and I'll speak with everyone soon.

My Childhood Memories: That of a geek

Since ‘running into’ Elana Trainoff, I’ve had the pleasure of reliving some memories from my childhood. For your amusement, these are the most vivid of these memories:

.1. The very first time I carried a UNICEF box, I was mesmerized by it. Proportionally, I was about the same size as the box itself, only it was orange. Bright bright orange so that when children carried it while trick or treating, people would see it and not run them over.

Do you remember the UNICEF boxes?

I don’t really know what I was doing, but I was staring at it hard enough to walk right past the Principal’s office and in to the adjacent wall. I crushed my very first UNICEF box and my mom helped me tape it back together. She didn’t do the most bang-up job because as I walked around the neighborhood with my tiara, wand and ballet outfit, I was leaking pennies.

.2. Without argument, I made the world’s most shittastic paper Christmas tree.

Whereas all other trees were perfectly defined and color coordinated, mine looked like I’d thrown up all over it. I tried to tear it apart and pretend I never made it, but my teacher pinned it much too high on the wall for me to reach.

Inconsolable for the rest of the season, I’d stare at my shittastic Christmas tree for the duration of every one of my art classes and will it down with my eyes. It never fell down and was eventually replaced by my even more shittastic Easter Bunny.

What was a little Muslimah going to know of either the Christmas tree or the Easter Bunny? I could’ve made a better menorah, but no one ever asked.

.3. Being very proud to learn that many French and Spanish words have Arabic roots. In particular, ‘pantalon’ in French is ‘bantaloon’ in Arabic.

For the rest of the year I told everyone that Arabs taught the French and Spaniards their respective languages. I also lied and told everyone I was fluent in French and Spanish, because I was Arabic and genetically predisposed to speaking these two languages.

.4. Watching Dr. Who and then talking about the episodes with my Dungeons & Dragons costars.

.5. Kabala wasn’t “hot” yet and Madonna was still a virgin, but I, yes I, your blog mistress, wore a red string. And not just any red string, but rather: a red string. Around my head.

I honestly can’t believe my mother let me do this in public. There’s a lot to be said for the fact that there are no pictures in the family album of me in the red string, or the red string on it’s own. I revered that red string because it was shiny and made of rolled satin. MY GOD I was such a geek.

At the age of seven, I was under the impression that if Olivia Newton John had been graced with a red string, she too would have tied it really tightly around her forehead and made a pretty extravagant bowtie in the back.

.6. And speaking of ONJ, MY GOD how I wanted black leather pants wrapped around my baby fat. Those leather pants would have solved all of my problems. And I wouldn’t have to get physical…just wear the leather pants with my white running shoes and my red string and maybe my teddy bear shirt. That would have been hot, with a capital ‘h’.

Have I mentioned that MY GOD I was such a geek.

This is my best friend

Last week, I was sitting at Bridgehead enjoying my iced latte as T stared quietly at the bicycle shop across the street. With a little peanut butter cookie crumble on her otherwise perfectly rouged lips, she said: “I think I’ll buy a bicycle. We should both buy bicycles. I know that’s a children’s shop, but we should buy bicycles and ride them together. We can visit each other on our bicycles and ride up and down the street together. On our bicycles.”

“So we should buy bicycles?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok.”

…

Later another evening, I was sitting at Bridgehead enjoying my iced latte as T stared quietly at a passing cyclist. With a little grilled chicken and red pepper jelly sandwich crumble on her otherwise perfectly rouged lips, she said: “Cyclists. They have that dreamy fucked up semi retarded expression all the time. And the helmet doesn’t help.”

“So we’re nixing the idea of buying bicycles?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok.”

…

And on yet another evening, I was sitting at Bridgehead enjoying my iced latte as T stared quietly at the man eavesdropping on our conversation. With a little biscotti crumble on her otherwise perfectly rouged lips, she said: “So I was flipping between Bleu Nuit and the Lobby”
“Bleu Nuit’s still on?”
“And they bring it!”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“And you still watch it?”
“Yeah. Don’t you?”
“No. I think my mother’s got that channel blocked.”
“That sucks because they really bring it. Anyway. So, sometimes, when I’m going into my building, I’ll hear someone whistling at me through the intercom and other times someone will open the door for me, magically and I think it may be him.”
“I hope he’s not watching The Lobby Watch Channel.”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s great. Didn’t you watch it when you lived in the apartment building?”
“No. But my mother did.”
“Oh. So I was flipping between Bleu Nuit and the Lobby Watch Channel when he”
“You really watch it?”
“Yeah. And he was in the front door and couldn’t find his keys so I quietly buzzed him in.”
“Wow.”
“I know! And when he walked past the camera, he gave the camera a thumbs up and said ‘thank you’”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, isn’t that great?”
“Wow. You really watch The Lobby Watch Channel.”
“I’m not turning 32 next month, I think I’m turning 92. I’m a 92 year old woman who watches The Lobby Watch Channel on Saturday nights.”
“And Bleu Nuit.”
“Okay, so maybe I’m a 92 year old man.”

A wedding, a garden cinema & some randoms

.1. We completed the second wedding of the season on Friday evening (only one left!). It was very small and intimate and just my two cups of coffee. My wedding date, M, was there with her husband and two daughters; Princess Brownie Locks and Princess Goldie Locks. These girls are the most precious little things I’ve laid eyes on in the longest time; they’re both not only beautiful but exceptionally well behaved. Princess Goldie Locks walked around with a white rose all evening. If you were lucky enough, she would stuff this rose up your nose so that you could smell it. She did this to me while I:
- Was eating
- Was having my second cup of coffee
- Was in the loo
- Was sleeping

Once the scent of the rose was lost, she discovered the texture of the rose and so then began rubbing it on our cheeks, while we were eating cake and later dancing, and later still: this morning.

Princess Brownie Locks was a little shier, taking a slight more time to warm up and open up. I tried to kidnap both girls and bring them home (mama’s having a third one, anyway!) but there were too many people in the room. I will have to eventually have my own, hmph. I do hope the gene pool from which I pluck is equally pretty and well behaved.

Beyond these two exquisite little girls was my table itself. Sami & R were also seated with us and we had an incredible time. Last week, I crashed their table and we had an equally great time. I shall miss them next weekend, since it’s their wedding I will be attending and I can’t crash their table although I may very well try...

We danced quite a bit, and I don’t usually do that. For the most part, I remain seated at weddings because I don’t particularly enjoy shaking my ass in front of massive groups of people who have nothing better to do than watch and make fun (as I do while seated). And don’t get me wrong, I love dancing, just not at weddings when the lights are all still on and there’s an audience hiding placards with no 1-10 beneath their tables.

There’s also something else that makes me uncomfortable about dancing at weddings and I couldn’t put my finger on it until Sami articulated it perfectly on Friday evening.

He turned to R & I and said something akin to: “Don’t people know that they can’t dance at a wedding like they do at a club?!” and I very nearly fell out of my chair because he did it! He nailed it for me…he said what I wasn’t able to make out in my own head! Allah yi7meek ya Sami!

And so, as a sign of gratitude and respect for Sami, here are some rules of engagement for those who will undoubtedly bust a move at the next wedding they attend:

.a. Do not bring a whistle or a glow stick
.b. Do not throw your hands into the air and attempt to ‘raise the roof’
.c. Do not make any variation of the following sounds (either loudly or quietly): “Yeah!” “Ooo Ooo” “Whose your daddy”
.d. Do not make the ‘I’m slapping your bum as you’re bent over’ hand motions
.e. Do not ride a horse when there is none
.f. Do not vibrate your ass a la any 50 cent video
.g. Keep your clothes on
.h. As a hetero female, do not grind up against your female bff in an effort to (miserably) be sexy

Think I may request these be entrenched in the UN Charter as offences against humanity should they be committed. If you have any further recommendations, please add them as you deem fit.

.2. The night I wrote The Man & the impression he left was the first evening I’d sat in my mother’s garden after the sun had set. Since then, I’ve been spending a little more time out here because of how beautiful it is, because I dislike air conditioning and because I enjoy films. What’s the last one have to do with anything? Well…my babyMac is my cinema screen. I’ve brought it on several occasions after the sun has set, dropped in a movie and enjoyed outdoor theatre with the following twists: candles, a very comfy chair and a light blanket for the one night when it’s been a little chilly.

If you can, I recommend you do the same.

.3. In uni, I had a very good friend (more than just one…but am only mentioning one this entry). His major, my minor was Philosophy; Wednesday mornings at 8:30 am, we’d study Existentialism together. I used to think Sartre was sexy…until I got a clue.

Oddly enough, we had interesting first opinions of one another; whereas he thought I was bored and clueless, I thought he was a jock and clueless. Over time, and post communication with one another, we became relatively good friends with Kantian philosophy (beyond existentialism, thank God) always one of the main topics of conversation between us. He was a brilliant guy who didn’t apply himself, and I hid the fact that I was offered a scholarship to do my M.A. in Philosophy; I declined and he never bothered writing what he knew on the exams, although he could take to task any one of our snotty colleagues.

Since regularly spending time with one another approximately eight years ago at university, we ran into one another two or three times in the downtown core. More importantly is that he would drop in to my life on a somewhat regular basis beyond this. I would receive a phone call, possibly yearly, to say hello and get caught up.

Two months back, he began working in my building, and what a welcome and pleasant surprise it was to see his name on my phone screen one late Friday afternoon. I’d not heard from him in well over 18 months, and I discovered this was because he was in India with his girlfriend.

It amazes me how, with some people, you just fall right back into the same level of friendship and trust you once had…no matter the lapse in time. At work, it’s nice to have a “friend” beyond my colleagues. Although I really do enjoy the company of my colleagues - and I understand I’m blessed this way – it’s nice to have him in cases of emergency. As Micha puts it: he’s an excellent addition to my Emergency Kit. And…I covet his girlfriend’s name: Giselle.

.4. I’m in the garden right now. There’s a car that just almost nearly drove up and into me over the entire front area of my mother’s garden. There’s two guys in the car; one of whom is teaching the other how to drive stick. This is what I’m hearing (am typing as fast as I can):

“AHAHAHAHAHAHA.”
“HAHAHAHA”
“Do THIS AHAHAHAH TO the CLUTCH MAN! Just push on it, HHHHHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAH”
“This? To this thing here?”
“Yeah. That’s the CLUTCH. AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA”
“What about the gas?”
“THE GAS? THAT’S the gas. AAAAAHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHHAHA”
“DUDE! How am I going to pick up Lisa tonight? DUDE THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”
“HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAA”

I very nearly piped up and responded with “On a bicycle, guy.”

.5. And that reminds me of the time I attempted to teach T how to drive. We were in a parking lot and my instructions were a little like:
“NOOOOOO.”
“STOOOOOP.”
“WATCH THE CAR.”
“WATCH THE POLE.”
“WATCH THE FENCE.”
“SLOOOOOW SLOOOOOOW OH MY GOD STOP.”
“GET OUT OF MY CAR.”

…you know, the usual.

.6. And that brings me to an even greater tangent: the first time my father took me out for a driving lesson.

He took me on the highway and that’s where he taught me how to drive. Needless to say, every time I changed lanes, he was plastered belly–first to the passenger side window, his right hand holding on to the top hand rest and his left desperately clutching the door handle. He didn’t say much. It was a lot of fun.

.7. Thank you to every single one of you for the influx of sweet emails regarding The Accident. I’m everyday reminded of how heartbreaking individual acts of kindness really are.

The only update I have is that the accident was not fatal. I don’t know what that means, other than I didn’t watch anyone die that evening.

It never made the news; yearly, there are multiple accidents of this sort and it’s apparently only the fatal ones that make it into the papers.

The Accident

Earlier today I was on the OC Transpo bus which hit a girl.

We were booting along at what appeared to be a relatively normal pace, until the bus had to come to a painfully abrupt halt. It was rush hour and the bus was packed, the aisle filled with people standing when the bus driver used one motion to pound the brake. I was thrown forward and very nearly out of my chair, everyone standing did fly forward, several of whom hit the front windshield of the bus and fell on top of one another.

Because of the people standing, I couldn’t see what had happened. I made the mistake of standing up and looking over to the side, and what I did see was the face of the woman we’d hit. She was laying on her back with her eyes closed; I didn’t know if she was alive. Even though many people were curiously looking out the window, I automatically sat down because I wasn’t sure how I’d react if she was dead or if she was bleeding. I just couldn’t bring myself to look at her for more than that moment, when I realized what had happened.

The woman seated next to me, H, was a stranger and was staring at me. I looked at her and noticed she was shaking, so I asked her if she was alright. She answered, a little frantically, “no, I don’t want to see the person we hit, I can’t see the person we hit.”
“Ok. That’s ok. You don’t have to.”
“I’m really scared.”
“I’m not, so I’ll make sure you’re ok. Is that alright?”
“Um-hm.”
“What’s your name?”
“H.”
“Hi H, I’m Maha.”
“Hi Maha.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I just don’t want to see who we hit. Is it a girl?”
“Yeah, it’s a girl.”
She said “Ok” and nearly started crying. So, the only thing I could think to do was to get her off the bus and away from the situation as fast as I could. It was very bizarre because she was too scared to look away from me, so I found myself navigating her while not trying to trip over anything or anyone, just so she could maintain eye contact with me since it seemed to be what she needed.

“H, we’re gonna have to get off the bus now. Can you do that?”
“But I’ll have to see her if I get off the bus.”
“No. I’ll make sure you don’t. What we’ll do is I’ll lead you out and you can just keep looking at me and you won’t have to see the girl. Ok?”

She nodded ‘yes’ and so I stood and helped her up. I moved a little forward, and although we were closer to the front of the bus, I instead walked toward the back exit so that H wouldn’t have to see anything. As soon as I started walking, she instinctively reached for me and then immediately pulled back after she touched my arm. I think she was scared that someone might get between us if we weren’t physically connected.

It’s funny how humans relate to one another, most especially in traumatic situations, isn’t it? I understood she needed some sort of contact or something and so I smiled, grabbed and held her hand and walked out with her. She smiled back and asked “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all…I don’t usually hold hands with anyone on a first date, but these are extenuating circumstances and you look like a nice enough girl!” in order to lighten the mood. She laughed, but was obviously still freaked out.

We got off the bus and I pulled her over to the side and further back. I made sure she kept her back to the girl and I tried to talk her down little by little. By this time, the girl we’d hit was awake; there was no blood anywhere, and until we read the news tomorrow, we won’t really know her condition.

Still shaking and almost crying, H asked me if I had a phone that she could use. She called her mom and dad and asked that her father pick her up from a nearby location, which she was going to walk to. (She’s probably in her late 20s and appeared to be a woman who has a natural – and beautiful – innocence) When she hung up, she offered me a ride, which I declined. She then said “God, you’re so nice and you’re so calm, you must be some sort of a care giver.”

To make her laugh a little more, I said “No, actually, I’m just used to spending my summers in the Gaza Strip.” It worked. She laughed. We hugged before she walked away.

A lot of people were standing around staring at the girl we’d hit, and it felt ugly. Standing there made me feel like a pervert. There’s nothing to see, and this is the life of a young girl, it’s not some fucking reality television show; it’s someone’s pain laid out on concrete. I saw one asshole take a photo of her with his mobile and I walked over and told him that was inappropriate, that he was encroaching on her privacy and that he should delete it. I was furious. He stared at me for a few seconds and then apologized and deleted the picture. Chances are, he probably took another one as soon as I turned my back, but I can only be held responsible for what was happening in front of me.

I walked home the last hour in order to clear my mind. Before leaving, I took my second glance at the girl hoping to see that she’d stood up by this point, thinking that maybe she was a little better. Unfortunately, she was still laying on the ground and now crying hysterically – probably equal parts fear, panic, and pain; I walked away thinking the worst, wondering if there was internal bleeding and whether tomorrow’s headlines would tell me that I’d just watched a young woman die.

I’ll post whatever hits the news tomorrow…

Further Update: Zizou

We can delete the "(alleged)" from anything around Materrazi's name. He didn't say anything racially or religiously motivated; but rather, Zizou stated that:

"(Materazzi) pronounced very tough words about my mother and my sister. I tried not to listen to him but he kept repeating them."

A sigh of relief is heard the world over because Materazzi was merely being a Zidanist rather than a racist or a...religion-ist. Someone fire those stupid lip-readers, already.

And from me to Materazzi, because I know he's been braced and waiting for this: I apologise for thinking you lied re the racial/religious slur.

*phew*

Now we can rest easy that a fut-wah will not be called against the Italian national soccer team (because they really are the most beautiful to look at I am convinced that Cristiano is secretly Italian), and so we may commence making fun of our beloved and tempermental Zizou. Making fun of, in much beloved fashion, activity no 1: Watch this, sent to me from JaneH (thanks JaneyH & welcome!).

Making fun of, in much beloved fashion, activity no 2: Zizou?! Akeed you've heard such nonsense on the field before! WHY NOW? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? Was it too much pressure? Were your shoes too tight? WHY?! France must be banging it's head against...everything. I believe it was Pele who said that "in futbol, as with all sports, you must be willing to take both the "yo mama" and the "yo sistah"; the only item being off limits is the "yo daughta". Ole! Ole! Ole, Ole, Ole!"

And, seriously: dubilu tee a'tch, Zizou?

Unfortunate that beautiful Elana Trainoff isn't Gerry Butler

One of the greatest things to come of this blog - apart from meeting all of you wonderful individuals over the last 2+ years - was an email I received last night from Elana Trainoff. For those of you who visit regularly, Elana was my one and only 'war' story, and I mentioned her as thus, please note that Elana and I were seven years old:

"...it...was in grade school. Her name was Elana Trainoff (I'll never forget her name). I was in class and "the girls" were chatting and I zoned out. When I zoned back in, I heard only the end of the conversation about someone "not telling the truth" and so I said "maybe she lied?" Little did I know we were talking about the teacher.

So Elana cruelly told the teacher I called her a liar. In front of the whole class. And I cried. Because I thought that was a mean thing for her to do. And in the hallway, she taunted me and she laughed some more. So I punched her in the face. I was 7 and the punch was more like a weird slap that started about 12 feet away and somehow landed on her head. But she cried and that made me feel better.

But then we both got sent to the principal's office and we both cried."

Good God, the perils of being a seven year old child!

It turns out that Elana is now a - brilliant, am certain - Talent Agent and she is occasionally Googled (the Googlers end up here, reading about our antics as seven year old girls).

After having a very engaging and fun interaction with her yesterday evening, I would like to say that she is nothing like her seven year old self. And for that same record: I too am nothing like my seven year old self; although I remain a flake, I can throw a pretty mean punch that lands on target.

Because she's such a lovely woman, she sent me this note (and I have her permission to post this): "I do sincerely apologize for making you cry and bringing you to a point where you had no choice but to punch me. I'm quite sure that I'm nicer now
and that I'm tough enough to at least pull your hair in retaliation!"

Heh! My kind of woman: With a sense of excellent humour.

We're set to rumble over a coffee next I am in Toronto, which should be at some point in August.

Notwithstanding what will inevitably be her brilliance as an Agent, please allow me room to objectify her. One of my clearest memories of Elana is her beauty, even as a little girl. She has the combination of blue eyes and dark hair, with naturally tanned skin I hate her for this and don't want her to stand next to me in public where she may overshadow me. I can't wait to see her again!

One thing of note, and that is so typical of little girls, is that Elana and I became 'best friends forever' until that school year ended and we never saw one another again. My family moved and I went to a new school...and here we are 24 years later.

It's just the strangest thing.

Note 1 to Elana: Holy Christ! I forgot that we had Mr. Thicke as a teacher. What a scandal, this! Years later, I coveted that he was my gym teacher because I was in love with Kirk Cameron (before he went suuuupah religious), and he was Alan Thicke's son in Growing Pains, and Alan Thicke was the brother of my old gym teacher who used to always wear black track suits. It wasn't six degrees of seperation, but rather TWO! Apparently, this still excites me.

Note 2 to Elana: Do you remember the boy almost all of the girls used to have a crush on? It was a form of collective stupidity, not allowing any of the females to see beyond: Tommy St. John! I think he liked you (I shake my fist at this until today). Tell me you married him!

And for the record: I do look forward to the day that Gerry Butler finds me by way of Google and falls madly in love with me. I can never allow him to meet Elana 'cus she's too pretty.

Update: Zizou

.1. For the Quarter & Semi Finals of the World Cup, I found my soul mates in two men (who’d already found soul mates in one another and some other colleagues). In our building there are television sets all over the main floor. For the duration of the World Cup, the channels were turned to the matches, with people milling about on break, on lunch, and before and after work.

As did others, I too worked my schedule around the matches (spending extra time at the office to ensure no work was missed, but no game either). For Argentina’s final game (the one against extraordinarily beautiful beautifulCristiano Portugal), I was planted firmly in the middle and in front of one of the screens.

Out came N & R to watch the game with me. I do believe beautiful new futbol based friendships have been born.

.2. The three best things I’ve heard about Zizou’s head-butting of Materrazi come from:

Coquette, who examines (a) the inevitable WZF, Zizou? and references the head-butting incident as "the thing of which we can not speak.
&
Chester, who says he is happy re the Zizou move because:
"- He fucking head-butted a guy while one fifth of the world’s population watched on TV!
- As Ninos noted, Zidane totally used my “El Toro” move. Instead of wondering what Materazzi said to Zidane, perhaps the world should be wondering if it was a wise move for Zidane to do tequila shots during halftime.
- Finally, to the very end of his career, Zidane’s being was infused with football to the very core. So much so that he even fights like a football player: no hands!"

Brilliant! Hilarious! Check out both their sites; am adding Chester to my Interesting Places.

.3. Also from Chester, he says: “according to one newspaper’s hired lip-reader, Materazzi said some pretty nasty stuff and ended things with calling Zidane a “son of a terrorist whore”. Further information suggests that Zizou’s mother is currently very ill and in the hospital, and Materazzi (allegedly) wishing Zizou’s family an “ugly death”.

Which is so far beyond what any of our minds had allowed us to imagine as we watched Zizou head-butt the (allegedly) racist and ignorant Materazzi. When Zizou rammed Materazzi, people’s reactions varied from a “huh” to a “wuh” to an “eh?” (heard all the way from France) and then the mumblings began, all of which acknowledged that whatever Materazzi said must have (allegedly) been either racially/religiously motivated, or about Zizou’s family. What we didn’t expect was that Materazzi (allegedly) used, as Chester put it, both the ‘racism and “yo mama”’ cards.

What’s amazing is that Materazzi’s (allegedly) denying this, when there’s camera footage of the incident, and erm, that really interesting group of people, otherwise known as: lip-readers. His (allegedly) lame defence is that he’s ignorant and has never “heard” of the word ‘terrorism’. Wow. Way to (allegedly) lie, Materazzi.

There’s a saying in Arabic that is: “Ijjat itka7ilha, (not allegedly) 3amatha”, which when translated means “she tried to use eyeliner and totally (read: not allegedly) blinded herself instead”. It’s really much more masculine than that, but the essence of the statement is that the lie is so so so big, that it’s blinding and impossible to miss the (alleged) truth.

Aside: Isn’t that the weirdest saying? It’s like saying “she tried to use lip-liner but overdrew her lips” to say ‘she missed the point entirely’.

Note to Materazzi: EYELINER DOESN’T BECOME A (allegedly) RACIST IGNORANT SUCH AS (allegedly) YOURSELF.

But still…Zizou’s actions were not excusable, and I think he should have controlled his temper and rolled Materazzi in the parking lot later, mano-a-mano. Futboler to futboler, No Hands.

.3. Zizou is still my hero.

MomosanLA

On June 28th, 2006, Ottawa brightened.

Why?

Because my dear beautiful wonderfully imaginative friend Maura dropped in for a little under 24 hours. Mo was approximately five hours away visiting her – I’m certain – hug worthy mum and dad and drove over for the day and night.

We spent the day gossiping about Hollywood, getting caught up on one another’s relatively quiet (& mine: boring) personal lives, staring at each other just because we were so happy to see one another (Ok, maybe I was staring at her and she found me creepy…), eating really yummy food, sitting in the rain and watching “Omen 666”. For the record, Mo is as solid as they come and I highly recommend you sit your ass next to her next you’re at a movie theatre. If possible, follow her and befriend her and take her to movies with you because she’s AWESOME that way.

Whereas I was watching Omen 666 through the small slits between the fingers of the hand I had splayed before me, Mo was casually reclined back and enjoying the film with a thousand times more grace than I. Mo: Did you jump once? I think I recall a slight jerk, but only once? Correct me if I’m wrong.

Anyway, the point of this blog entry is two-fold: (1) for me to tell you about a woman I adore; and, (2) for me to point you to her SUPER EXCITING videos. Seriously. Johnny Depp is so pretty. Go; GODSPEED!

Merde A La Puissance Treize!

Congratulations to Italy, the team that didn’t deserve to win.

For the duration of the first 45 minutes, I fully expected Italy to win because they dominated the field, holding on to the ball at an approximate 60% rate. But France controlled the second 45 minutes, and the first and second 15 minutes of the Extra Time. So, in essence, France dominated and controlled the pitch a much stronger and longer 75 minutes.

In terms of strategy, coordination, execution and timing, France was the stronger of the two teams. But, Buffon is immaculate, and Barthez is old; there is no comparison between the skill of these two men, Buffon being the stronger and faster of the two.

You already know how I feel about the damned penalty kicks and so now I’ll offer you my proposed alternative to the damned penalty kicks: Instead of whittling this team sport down to one-on-one luck, allow them to play the Extra Time as they do now. Then, shorten the periods down to 5 minutes, and allow for sudden death…only, before the first 5 minute period and in between every period, remove one player per team.

Unlike the damned penalty kicks, this allows for the strategy and team-work to dominate and play out, the two elements that are the heart and the essence of futbol.

Now. Naturally, the pressing question is: Merde a la puissance treize! Mais pourquoi est-ce que vous avez fait ça, Zizou? This is a man whose futbol career has been notoriously calm, without violence or altercation, a man whose reputation has been built on both his skill and demeanor. Because his is one of the few careers I’ve followed and because it’s always been clean and within the spotlight of grace, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Anyone who knows anything about futbol and Zizou will argue that Zizou’s bull-like attack on the Italian player had to have been preceded by something exceptionally foul on the Italian player’s part.

Although I want to know what the catalyst for Zizou’s reaction was, he deserved that red card and I clapped when the referee issued it. (There has never been, and there should never be room for this sort of violence in futbol.) No matter what was said to him, his behavior was unacceptable. Whatever happens now should serve as an explanation for his action, but never a justification for it.

I expect an official statement will be issued; Either Zizou will explain why he did what he did and France will start WWIII will require an official apology from the Italian player, or Ziznou will simply state that there was no excuse for his action and so merely issue an apology to both the Italian player and to France.

Unfortunately, the image of Zizou attacking the Italian player will become among the most notorious moments in the history of World Cup futbol. Notorious because it came from the most unexpected of individuals, near the end of the second Extra Time of a final match, and at the retirement of one of the greatest futbolers my generation has seen.

Chirac has just issued this statement and I think he's made it clear what and who Zizou really is: "I would like to express all the respect that I have for a man who represents at the same time all the most beautiful values of sport, the greatest human qualities one can imagine, and who has honoured French sport and, simply, France."

Salaam Zizou: may retirement treat you well and I’ll be looking for your face in the sea of South Africa’s audience. (& even though you headbutted another guy, you're still my hero.)

The man & the impression he left

I’m listening to The Best of Bill Evans on Verve as I sit in my mother’s garden and type. I wasn’t certain where to begin with this entry, and Bill’s served as a sort of catalyst for the flow of languid energy you may feel tonight. Just so you’re here with me, here’s a fraction of my view…



I recently wrote about a man who intimidated me; whether that was a crush or just feeling like he was way too much of a smartie pants, I don’t know. Either way, it’s left me thinking a lot about another individual who I also met in 2005 (an eventful year if ever there was one!). He had the exact opposite effect on me, leaving me feeling like a million dollars in both his immediate presence and always in its residual.

It was my first time experiencing the following: seeing myself through someone’s eyes as they saw me. It is, undoubtedly, the most unique and sensory heightened experience of my life. The reaction of one another to the other was instantaneous and very clichéd, bringing to mind the terribly tacky ‘…across a crowded room…’ only he smiled and waved and I actually thumbed my nose at him, because the last thing I am is any dimension of sexy, preferring to instead get in touch with the buffoon inside. Mac in lap, were I to script the words that transpired between us and the subsequent serendipitous nature of our paths crossing at different times, I couldn’t have written it better than God did (but then again, we can’t argue that he’s anything but the most brilliant of authors…).

Oddly enough, he was more aware of me, than I of him, but I think that’s only because of the women he may otherwise be used to. Taking a hazardous guess, I believe that these women are very careful with their words and looks, are cool and well put-together and very aware of their sexuality, using it in both strategy and execution of will. He’s relatively aggressive and extremely sure of himself, but not to the point of cockiness or arrogance, just a very attractive masculine assuredness. This, coupled with his looks, makes women react to him strangely, and under ‘duress’, most likely constrained in their behavior because they want their portrayal of themselves to be whatever they think he wants.

I, on the other hand, came tripping along laughing relatively loud, telling him not to take either himself or his life seriously, because one day he’d be fat and unattractive (but he should still enjoy today’s pleasures while he can), and then telling him I wasn’t all that interested in the fact that he thought I was “sexy” because it’s usually – more so than not – a line. (I was flattered and it made me blush, but at the end of the day it’s not the sort of thing that hooks a woman like me.) More bizarre was that I wasn’t really paying much attention to what little he was saying, but noticing that he was repeating lines I was putting out there for consumption (a definite score for the sisterhood…). It’s really intriguing to see the person before you enveloped in your own energy, caught up in it and sitting back and along for whatever ride you seem to be taking, because they want to. Have you had that experience? It took me 30 years to meet it…

Now, what does hook a woman like me is a man’s eye, but not the one they use to check out your ass as you walk away or your chest as you lean over. I’m talking about a man’s ability to size you up and do it well. Never has a man been able to do that with me…until this gentleman came along. On the third occasion of seeing one another, and within the first half an hour of our conversation, he told me what he thought of me, using several different descriptive words and the following unique and troubling one: ”vulnerable”. Unique because it’s the first time a man’s ever said that (for the most part, both men and women perceive me as abundantly strong). Troubling because it’s true. Cat’s out of the bag, y’all.

I was immediately put on edge, because he didn’t know me well enough to see that; people who have known me for years haven’t seen that. My family and my best friends, my core inner circle, are aware of that because I leave whatever defenses I have at the door when I see them. I trust them not to take advantage of that vulnerability, but that’s a trust that’s been earned over years. This bastard came along and he nailed me with that one word. I have to admit, it was a difficult word to swallow and accept because he was a relative unknown at that point. I denied it with a really mature “am not!”, but he kept repeating it…and later, somehow that initial impression of me became more solidified for him.

In hindsight, I can tell you that he was able to read that of me because while interacting with him, there was nothing about me that even I could have called ‘pretentious’. I was incapable of wearing a mask with this man. It was beyond my capacity to be anything but exactly who I was, and I think that just translated – without my consent, actually – into me opening up and letting my guard down. More importantly, though, I knew that I was in the presence of a man who wouldn’t hurt me and someone who wasn’t a predator (although he’s often times perceived as just that)…someone who could protect me, should the need arise (and not just physically). I was with someone stronger than I on all levels, and so, I think, my vulnerability just perked up and sat squarely on my shoulder waiving at him and smiling. Sadly, that’s not a feeling I had ever had before. Never; not once. It’s not something I’ve felt since.

Oddly enough, and even though it began as something which placed me on edge, it became liberating and was a breath of fresh air.

The sun’s set now, and Bill’s almost finished playing the piano. I’m about to blow out the candles and head inside. Sweet dreams, everyone…

The boy at the Chateau Laurier

A few days back, my colleagues and I had to attend a session on Performance Management Agreements. At this coaching session, we had to complete an exercise that was a ‘what if’ scenario. My group’s ‘what if’ had Antoine as the employee.

As a group, we came up with the answer, and then I presented our response to the rest of the class. Later that day, one of my colleagues said she loved the way I was speaking about ‘Antoine’ because it was as though I actually knew him and really cared how he did in his career. That whereas the other presenters talked about their ‘staff’, I kept talking about ‘Antoine’.

That evening, I had to attend a special farewell dinner in honor of a friend who was leaving to be an Ambassador. On my way out of the party, I headed over to the Concierge’s desk to ask a question. As I approached the desk, I was greeted as thus by a shockingly beautiful young man (he couldn’t have been over the age of 22): ”Aaaaah Mademoiselle! You brighten up this evening! What can I do for you? Anything!”

And so we chatted…and he turned out to have studied some Arabic and after enquiring about my nationality, he spoke some impressive Arabic. His name? Antoine.

He’s the first I’ve ever met, and I don’t think I’ll forget him easily.

Aaaaaaaaaand we’re off!

Last night, we had our first of three weddings this summer. Before getting to the comedy, I’d like to say that the company at my table was extremely fun and funny. SAMI (of this very blog) was one of them, as was Reem his fiancé, Ziad and Tania (a new couple we all met last night) and Hani. We all connected immediately and enjoyed our evening at great length.

The bride was stunning; she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. She wears hijab and it accentuates her beauty because you’re forced to concentrate on nothing but her face, which is in fact. breath-taking. Above and beyond her outer beauty is her personal character and she’s one of the few individuals to whom I’ve responded immediately. I’m happy she’s found the man of her dreams.

Before I get to the bits and pieces, I have to give a huge WORD UP to the chef because dinner was exquisite. EX. QUI. ZIT.

Pretending to Know What the Hell I’m Saying: When someone says ‘thank you’, the standard response is ‘you’re welcome’. I don’t know what this sort of official banter is called, but it exists in most languages, the Arabic language as well. Last night, the common denominator was me, and my Arabic - although strong - is not of the same strength as my English.

Most of the banter occurred while we were greeting people hello or goodbye. Individuals were saying random things to me and I had absolutely no clue how to respond. I found a trick (which is worthy of the MI: Maha folder) that you may utilize as you may see fit…

.1. Smile, maybe laugh a little.
.2. Make random shapes with your mouth without noise.
.3. Smile some more, even laugh a little more.
If you can manage it, maybe throw in a little wink and/or a nod with an extended closing of your eyes, with an expression that says ‘respect’ (you should be able to gage which one depending on their facial expressions).

Obviously, and depending on whoever I was doing this to, I was getting varied reactions starting at full-out laughter to a quiet look of confusion. But at least no one can say I’m not responsive.

The Fog Machine: I was sitting back and watching the dance floor, committing the “dancers” and their funktastic dance moves to memory when I noticed the massive flow of fake fog coming from the side of the stage. It’s not sexy and it doesn’t add an air of mystique to its surrounding and so I wonder if any of you can tell me why it exists, why it’s at every wedding and party and what ‘environment’ it’s supposed to generate.

A few years back I was at a party and I was walking past the stage when the fog machine decided to hurl it’s fog out through that strange round hole. Naturally, I was face-forward smack dab in front of and in the middle of the machine because I was looking over my shoulder at someone else. I think I can safely say that I swallowed all of that fog and I nearly passed out. As with many things, I shake my fist at the damn fog machine.

The Carrying of the Bride & Groom Above the Shoulders of Guests Who Are Equally Shitting their Pants: The bride and groom are being carried above the heads of guests, bounced around to the un-beat of the music. Usually, the bride has her arms out in front of her and she’s frozen and has a look of terror on her face. The groom usually has his hands splayed in the air, much like the orange Singular logo, and is sweating profusely.

The shoulders on whom the couple is being carried usually hold the same problematic and equally terrified expressions. Yesterday, one of the carriers was standing behind the bride and holding on to the back two legs of the chair. He didn’t have forearms of steel and so had the bride tipped forward and over, he would have been impotent to do anything.

And speaking of impotence, the terror generated by this ‘trick’ stops dead both the male and female capacity for procreation. I don’t think it’s the greatest way to start off a life together.

As Equally Bad As Air Guitar: …is singing to songs while you’re on the dance-floor, unless you’re Paris Hilton. And when you’re Paris Hilton, you do it and still manage to look like a jackass. But at least you’re Paris Hilton, which seems to mean something to some people in North America. But you’re not and Paris Hilton means shit to me. And so, like the machine of fog, what is the purpose of the air-song? After watching people last night, I can only think of one thing: they believe the air-song to weave a magical web of fantastical dance moves around them as individuals…when the reality is that they just end up looking awkward. Especially when they do to the lyrics as I do to people when I’m Pretending to Know What the Hell I’m Saying (see above).

My Father, the Man with Exquisite Taste in Jewelry: Among the bracelets I was wearing was a yellow, white and pink gold bracelet approximately 2.5 inches wide. I found out last night that my father had purchased it for my mother when they still liked one another and were married. I went over to his table and placed an ‘order’ for future jewelry of this sort. Will let you know as soon as the order’s mailed in.

The Woman Whose Arse Is A Bustle: We already know I’m going to hell and so this will just ensure that I get there faster. There’s one woman who I’ve seen at many events. I call her ‘ducky’ because her bum looks like that of a duck with it’s upturned tail. This is most evident when she’s seated, walking, standing still, crouching, dancing, jogging, laughing, eating and/or breathing.

My reaction to ‘ducky’ is to run away as quickly as my stilettos will take me because I fear that she’ll back into me. Yesterday evening, there was an added layer of awe to ‘ducky’ because she wore what appeared to be a wig. (But she wasn’t.) That image is seared into my retinas for the rest of my life.

The Sprite on the Dance Floor Who Fascinated Me: There was a boy on the dace floor wearing green and jumping around a lot. I think that, were there no music, he would have still done this. Lucky for him that he was nowhere near ‘ducky’ because he wouldn’t have been able to jump high enough above the rear bumper.

Mona, my wedding date was not invited?: I was shocked and dismayed and I missed her but quickly got over it because I’m fickle that way.

"Allez Les Bleus!"

.1. Zizou scored via penalty kick against Portugal today. Cristiano goes home, and I’ll be surprised if Figo sees the 2010 World Cup. It was a clean game, as futbol should be; there was no animosity on the field and not too many dives (those that occurred were primarily from the Portuguese).

King of the Fey, David Beckham, has resigned as England’s National Team Captain. He can now concentrate on selling his soul for a little more money. Personally, I think he should first help Rooneeeeeeeeeey with his lacking PR skills…a little bit of advice such as “don’t use another futboler’s testicles as a foot-rest…” is where I think Beckham should start.

I’m terribly excited about Sunday.

.2. But before that beautiful day comes, I have a massive poshy embassy event to attend at the Fairmont Chateau Laurier tonight, (providing a gentle reminder that I’m single) and my first wedding of the summer on Friday evening (providing a Titanic reminder that am single). These two interesting events should provide for much blogging and humor, I hope.

Yalla, allez Les Bleus! (don’t have accents on here, sorry…)

.3. Doris! Forgive that over the years, my loyalties have shifted and I no longer support Italy (but I would be behind them 100% were they to face either Brazil or England). It ended when Walter (when there are so many sexy Italian names, why did his parents opt for WALTER?) Zenga and "Toto" Schillaci left...Forgive me. I still love Russian authors, though, and so that should count for something?

I’m in class, shhhh!

…there’s wireless and I’m “taking notes”. I can barely see the screen because since I’m ON CAMPUS, there are other students who are seated behind me listening attentively to our macroeconomics prof and so my zoom on this is quite tiny. I know they’re curious and want to see what it is I am madly typing since no one can understand a word my Prof says.

Why?

Because he has the world’s strongest Far East accent. (If there were a World Cup of accents, he’d win and maintain a Virgin Goal Zenga style, circa World Cup 1990.) The cutest thing about him is that he’s bouncy. Literally. He’s always bouncing everywhere; I really need to check out what sort of crack he’s wearing.

I’ve popped in to let you know that Germany, the futbol monster, lost to Italy in a spectacular game earlier today. The game flew into extra time and in the last near three minutes of the second extra time, Italy scored two goals. GOD DAMN IT. Shhhh! We’re ON CAMPUS. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to be on this network…am half expecting the Uni police to storm in here and wrestle me down. (That too would be very MI: Maha.)

I didn’t really want Germany to win, but it was like choosing between two hookers, or so I’ve been told. I just want France to win that beautiful golden trophy that looks like it was made by a lazy person who got drunk and didn’t finish it but then lied to everyone and said “VOILA, my masterpiece of gold!” and no one had the courage to pipe up and ask “the hell is THAT?”

Back to today’s game: I’ve never seen anyone spend as much time rolling around on the ground like Totti the metrosexual. Actually, all Italian futbolers are metrosexuals who drop and roll like their asses are on fire. At least Germany played a clean game and they deserved to win, but didn’t. Odonkor was crying like a baby after the match was over and I got all teary eyed and I don’t even like him…futbol does that to me, though. And for the record, let me add that this is one those rare times your fascist blog mistress finds it acceptable for a grown man to cry: When his national futbol team looses in the World Cup.

And another the record: The German coach is a Fox. He’s in incredible shape and should have cycled one of his players out for himself.

Tomorrow, inshallah, Zidane will kick Cristiano’s beautiful ass all over the field. And if he doesn’t, I’m not really certain I’m interested in watching the final match. Actually, I’m lying. Of course I’ll watch the final match > I’ll then be forced to root for Portugal only because I have a soft spot one Carlos Mateus.

MI4: The Maha Factor

This entry comes from my recent 'activity' in an outhouse where, due to the height of the toilette seat, I was forced to scale the wooden bench of the toilette seat area that holds the toilette seat in place. I’m 5’6” and couldn’t daintily reach the toilette and so am convinced it was built by some Viking whose ancestors ran – and probably still run – through snow.

Vikings are large, can weather the cold, are blonde, have horns, and are relatively dirty - don't blame me, blame Hollywood - and so peeing and having bowel movements in such conditions is ok by their standards. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Viking > Just look at my photos > I don’t have visible horns. And honestly, I’m not being Vikingist; some of my best friends are Vikings. But. See. I have a bidet in my home. Please understand that both I and my bum are spoiled (& very clean).

To confirm am not a Vikingist, Gerry Butler, the man I covet and whom I apparently bagged behind my own back, once played a Viking. At least I think that’s what Beowulf was. I dunno…maybe he was just a Scotsman lost at sea and forced to wear chain and make out with Sarah and get hit in the head with stones and question authority and ask “But what is a troll?” with a straight face.

And did I mention I have a bidet in my home?

Anyway, where was I?

Right. So, as I was using magic to hover, balance and ultimately scale the side of the wooden bench of the toilette seat while my pants were down and not touching any part of the outhouse and repeating the “I’m a Princess…” mantra, I thought: How very Tom Cruise of me, à la MI when Tom was still cool and not with Syrian child and KATE and hanging out above LA in his space ship.

Wait, what?

Anyway. So while I was doing the above, I was thinking that although I’m no Viking Tom Cruise, I sure do some interesting stunts worthy of MI behaviour. The most illustrative of this is that of the constant tripping and falling (case in point: Yesterday afternoon a few of us lunched at an upscale restaurant. I’m a spaz and wore flip-flops…and naturally, I tripped. But only once. In front of the entire serving folk. Who all smiled kindly at the handicap tripping up the steps.)

So I’ve started to play a new game, just to honour the MI part of Me. I now run at doors that are slowly closing and try to make it through them before they close completely or on me. This doesn’t always work, and I usually trip, but it’s still a lot of fun. And you know, it’s not that I have to even go through that particular door – because I usually don’t – but that’s ok, because I’m Me, and Me = some kind of handicap).

Just moments ago, I saw the men’s washroom door closing…beckoning me. And so I ran to it; I had to gently slide up against the wall and not move until the door made it past me as it closed. BUT I WAS IN! And there were only two men in the washroom. How great.

Isn’t that a rad game?