Occupied Bombay

.1. I’ve decided to redecorate my room and give it more of a Bombay-While-Occupied-By-Britain feel. The Colonialist /Oppressor feel will be brought about by many multi coloured items, all lined with gold (naturally), a lot of large green plants sitting comfortably in brass or copper pots all of which will be intricately worked (naturally), chairs made of wire and one or two easy-to-sink-in-to reading chairs, the fabric covers of which will take me some time to figure out. I have to also get around to finally purchasing some artwork for my room.

Last I thought about this, I quite nearly purchased one very modern piece titled Hollywood Is Burning and am now thankful I didn’t. God only knows where that would have ended up with the new Occupied Bombay room.

I’ll post photos once the work’s complete, in about 42 years.

.2. Although I’ve previously discussed my baba, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned his personality to any of you. If I take after anyone in the family, it is most definitely him…

We broke fast together a few evenings ago and were being served by a very beautiful young woman. In the middle of our conversation, my father stopped, called her over and told her that: “[you] are a very beautiful woman”.

Jeesus, dad.

He does this all the time and women love him for it. If ever there was a definitive player, it’s my father. It’s astonishing to watch women fall at his feet; they adore him, as I sit back and roll my eyes (occasionally wanting to block out many of the images). Very charismatic this man; my dorkiness gene comes from mama, the kindest woman to grace this earth.

I’ll write more about baba soon, I promise.

.3. A list of five weird things I do:

(a) I am constantly sharpening pencils in class. It’s a lot of fun and I hate using a round tip to write.
(b) Count. I count everything I see. If there’s more than one, I’ll count them. It’s a game I play with myself when no one else will pay attention to me everyone’s busy.
(c) I write things with my finger while speaking. It’s a strange twitch habit, where I’ll be speaking and I’ll choose a random word and calligraphize it while speaking. T often times says: “Stop it. You’re doing it again with your finger.” I only do this when I’m most comfortable and relaxed; it’ll never happen in a meeting or while I’m lecturing…
(d) I organize everything. D calls me the “folding gnome”. There’s a scene in Elektra II where she organizes food and bananas and stuff; that’s me. That scene warmed my heart.
(e) As soon as I see someone wearing a nametag, I run over and call them by their name. With the utmost familiarity, I ask them about “mom & dad”. This often times confuses people but always makes me smile.

On Buying A Bra

This may appear to be an inappropriate topic for Ramadan, but I have to do this for the greater Sisterhood.

Precursor: For a little over five years, I was the manager of the most expensive lingerie boutique in Ottawa (if we didn’t carry it we’d order it for you, or you had to get to Montreal). We carried only the best lines, consisting of Aubade, Chantelle, and Lejaby. A regular bra sold within the range of $120 - $175, panties & tangas upwards of $75. I was spoiled then and I continue to be so today with respect to my undergarments; last bra I purchased was a Rigby & Peller that cost over $200.

Having said that, I’ll also let you know that I worked at that lingerie boutique between the ages of 18 to 23. Every single piece purchased then is still in top form today. With these, you really do pay for quality.

Did you know that an excellent bra is made up of over 120 small pieces? Maybe that sort of ammunition will make you pay a little more attention to the item which holds the most precious part of you where men are concerned.

Today at lunch I strolled over to my local shopping centre where I made the horrendous mistake of walking into a lingerie shop (it’s not a boutique when they sell shit). I was dismayed by what I found.

And terrorised by what I saw behind the counter. The salesgirl was wearing a low cut v-neck blouse with an ill-fitting bra. I stood still staring at her for a good three minutes contemplating the trauma she was unleashing on this world.

There are other problems we must contend with like war in the Middle East, famine, poverty, the concept of globalization, Ricky Martin and natural disasters. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but trust me, as a woman, you need to pay attention…if not for your sake, then for the sake of the Sisterhood.

Before I give you my top ten tips for choosing the proper bra, let me provide a small preface wherein I acknowledge that there is no magic size, but rather that every bra and every material may mean that you will need a different size. Any salesperson who tries to tell you otherwise is an idiot who knows nothing about either a woman’s body or the delicate make up of an excellent bra.

Notwithstanding the alien constructs glued to Pam Anderson & Posh I’m-Married-To-The-Fey-King Beckham, there are for the most part two sort of natural breasts. These represent my sad pathetic attempt to illustrate them:



Whereas ‘A’ looks best in a demi horizontal cup (usually called a ‘balcony’ or a ‘half-cup’ bra), ‘B’ looks best in a demi diagonal cup (usually called a ‘plunge’ bra). The reason this is so is because the different bras highlight the best in the different types of breasts. Say that really fast ten times.

With ‘A’, you should be working on creating cleavage that looks as though it fell out of Hugo’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses, whereas with ‘B’ breasts, you really should be working on creating a more plunging neckline feel, one best suited for the days when you’re more inclined to unbuttoning a few more buttons, you hussy.

Ten Tips For Bra Shopping
.1. Take your best friend, because she will tell you when your breasts are falling a little too close to your armpits.
.2. Bring a tight t-shirt with you. When you’ve tried the bra on, wear your t-shirt over it and make sure you like what you see.
.3. The wire of your bra should never poke you in the armpit. If it is, then you’re wearing the wrong cup size.
.4. There should be no ‘extra’ material in the cup. This means there should be no puckering in the cup. Instead, the cup should be stretched perfectly across your breast.
.5. The band of the bra (the 32”, 34”, 36” measurement) should sit at the tiniest part of your back, the area directly beneath your breasts. It should wrap around your body evenly and so where it sits in the front is exactly where it should sit in the back. If the back of your bra crawls up toward your neck, it means you need to try a size smaller band.
.6. One breast will be mm larger than the other, making a huge diffrence, and so when trying on the bra keep this in mind and adjust the straps accordingly.
.7. Move around. Life your arms, move them over your head, bend over; make sure you’re comfortable in the bra.
.8. Your wire should sit completely flat against your rib cage. NOT ONE PART OF IT should be cutting into ANY part of your breast. The wire is supposed to “cup” your breast, (hence why it’s called an A, B, C, D, etc “cup”). If it’s cutting into your breast, you’re wearing the wrong size.
.9. When you try on a bra, the band should be snug around your ribcage. You should buckle it on the loosest hook and your straps should be at their middle point as well. Like anything made of material, your bra will give with time, and this must be taken into account when you make your purchase.
.10. If it comes in a box, just don’t bother coming back to my blog. You need to buy yourself one bra that’s hanging on a hanger. Just once in this lifetime indulge yourself and you’ll understand my fetish.

And here's a free bit of advice: Never let a man loose to buy you a bra on his own. Teddies, panties, garters, tangas, ok, but for the love of God, not a bra. If he must, then you have to accompany him in order to ensure it's the proper fit, because remember: There is no such thing as a magic size!

Now. Back to world order, peace and humanism, please.

A Blogger Blocked

I’m not quite certain what’s happening to me, but I’ve started writing over eight blog entries, none of which I’ve been able to complete. I stare at them daily, adding a few words in each paragraph, never really knowing where the story or the anecdote are headed.

It’s my form of reverse writer’s block; I can start, but then I have no idea where to go. So all of these entries are just sitting around doing nothing. Staring at me. Begging me to tell them what happens next.

It’s a little creepy.

Right. So. Is there anything you want me to write about? Email or comment…

On Getting a Wedgie

I’ve never received a wedgie before today, and although this may not be the definitive ‘wedgie’, I pray it’s as close to one as I’ll ever come.

A door gave me the wedgie. Due to this intimate experience, I’ve named this door: ‘Bob’. Bob was improperly constructed; his hinge was in the wrong spot. Hinges ought to sit on the edge, so as to not throw Bob’s balance, oui? If a hinge were meant to sit in Bob’s middle, we would’ve called the hinge a “minge”, derived from the Latin word MIDDLE, instead of the Latin word IHAVENOIDEAWHATI’MTALKINGABOUT.

As I rushed to open Bob, I miscalculated his weight and the positioning of his minge. As I pulled Bob toward me, I began to walk through the small gap I’d made, only to realize that Bob was much too heavy for the effort I’d originally exerted. My arm was at an awkward angle behind me, because it was busy opening Bob, at which point Bob’s minge took a hissy fit and decided to take a Kit Kat break.

And so it came to pass that I was immediately wedged in between Bob and his frame, Martha, while his minge stuffed it’s fat-without-equilibrium ass with more chocolate.

I started to laugh because I knew how ridiculous I looked to everyone within 12 km of me. Laughed hard enough to lose what little strength I had to push through the rest of Bob. I stood wedged for about eight seconds until a nice boy came over and unwedged me. It took me another eight minutes to stop laughing and thank him.

He asked me if I’d been drinking.

Well, not really.

But he should have.

The boy, not Bob.

"As a Jewish atheist...

..., I do not intend to enter the fray of this debate. It is much beyond my humble abilities to understand the logic of the Pope. But I cannot overlook one passage, which concerns me too, as an Israeli living near the fault-line of this 'war of civilizations'."

For those of you familiar with Uri Avnery's writing, it will come as no surprise that he provides the best response to the Pope's recent quote (quote-unquote)** mistake.

Please take a moment to read the article.

**thanks, Espy.

Kul 3am wa antum bkheir & an art show in Montreal

This weekend begins Ramadan and so a Ramadan Kareem to each and every one of you, Muslim, Christian, Jewish, agnostic, atheist & trans-religioned.

I wish you both inner and external peace.

And for those of you busy hating, I hope you chill the f*ck out I’ll keep you in my prayers.

Oh! And if you want to keep me in your prayers, you can ask that I receive any one of the following items, please:
- Yusturni
- Yi7meeni
- Ywafi2ni
- All of the above for my family, especially mama
- Lots of super hot shoes
- Peace in the middle east
- The perfect shade of rose lip gloss
- A dude

Also, if you can make it to Montreal on the 12th of October, please try to attend the Between States event. If you care about your civil liberties, come out and show your support for Darren Ell’s exhibition opening, where there will be a discussion on immigration and the national security policy in Canada.

October 12, 2006
6 pm
@ Dazibao
4001, rue Berri, espace 202

Superficial C*ck-Ninjas & Angry Ferrets

So here’s the trail…

Every few weeks, and when I’m in need of a good laugh, I head over to The Superficial. Until recently, I was under the impression that it was one guy who was blogging. Actually, I was fully convinced it was the husband of one of my best friends (the one who, while we were standing on a street corner one evening trying to decide where to go, recommended we head “up [his] bum”). Apparently it’s not, and I never claimed to be a sleuth.

I’m not sure I get it yet, but it appears to be several individuals, a sort of community of bloggers who post absolutely the most hilarious and insane commentary about stars & starlets and all those in between. The Superficial is to Hollywood what The Peanut Gallery was to The Muppets.

I can’t check that site at work because I laugh too hard. Besides, were I to close my door and continue to smother my laughter, it would sound as though I were watching snuff porn. And I don’t even know what snuff porn means, but I know it’s not good. I’m pretty sure it has to do with turkeys.

Two days ago, I finally took the plunge and posted one tiny comment at The Superficial.

And from that, I have received hysterical emails from three of the boys, pointing me to different locations where these same bloggers congregate. The two sites are C*ck-Ninja and also Angry Ferret. One of them mentioned his age, but I think he’s not being truthful because his sense of humour is too young. I’m guessing this group is in their early thirties.

Here is what one of the C*ck-Ninjas wrote about me, which is such a nice thing to say considering…I don’t even know considering what…considering the kind of stuff they post on their site and the comments they make about folks in general. I am so completely flattered; this is the best formulated compliment I have received:

A special surprise guest, our newest member of C*ck-Ninja's Fun Town, one Miss 'Just A Girl'. One fu*king hot girl I might add. A Palestinian Canuck who wowed us with her famous fully-clothed and veiled strip-show, teasing us by showing bits of her gorgeous face. Shouts of arousal and phrases like, "Show us your face" and "Get that nose out there" were heard. Thanks for coming out.

Way cool.

& several post scripts:
- am a shit emailer, so forgive if I don’t respond.
- I almost passed out at the jogging picture.
- last to T, even if you can’t log in as a blogger, I hope you still comment.
- nudity has nothing to with seduction, gentlemen.

Not before I have my coffee, please

.1. French is starting to take it’s toll on me. It should come as no surprise that I’m a geek. Maybe even, a nerd. I like school and I like to learn and I am a voracious reader who tends to be a little anal some times. Shut up. All of you.

Hence why I’m having trouble at French. I understand that it’s only been two weeks (out of 10 months), but I’m frustrated that I have yet to master it. I’m already fluent in the damn language, only I am this way because I’m an auditory learner. This means that I have perfect enunciation, I comprehend everything (they tested me yesterday and these points came as a result of that test) and I know when something is wrong because I can hear that it’s wrong, and not because I know its proper grammatical sentence structure.

In the mornings, my hot & tall Prof pounds us with verbs. He chooses random ones and then we have to:
- give him the “construction” of that verb (e.g. parler à quelqu'un de quelque chose); then,
- make a sentence with the verb in the present tense; then,
- he chooses a random tense and expects us to make a new sentence; and finally,
- replace all of the ‘pronoms personells’ of the second sentence in that same tense.

It really stresses me out because I'm a geek and I don’t like making mistakes. And I’m not even really awake yet and I hate that I have to do it before I've finished my first cup of coffee. This morning I had to control myself to not throw my large Larousse at him and scream "I’M HUNGRY AND WHAT’S FRENCH FOR YOU ARE BUGGING ME?” and go have my second coffee in peace.

.2. This evening I was out with my friend S. Oasis’ Champagne Supernova came on and I said “This is one of the greatest CDs of our generation”, to which S responded:

“They look like The Monkeys.
(beat)
But uglier.
(beat, during which I could see the light bulb flash above S’s head)
They look like the retarded cousins of The Monkeys!
(beat, and the light bulb disappeared)
I must’ve been on drugs when they made it big because I don’t remember it. It mystifies me.”

I laughed for almost 10 minutes straight, and maybe even drooled a little. When I caught my breath, we got back to talking about S’s latest screenplay.

.3. I love it when my friends forward astrology-based personality characters my way. (So if you have any you wish to send, please feel free to do so…)

As a baby born in October, I am someone who:
“Loves to chat. Loves those who love them. Loves to take things at the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn't pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Brave and fearless. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does
not care to control emotions. Unpredictable. Extremely smart, but definitely the hottest AND sexiest of them all.”

Rock on!

Dozers & Demons

As has previously happened on numerous occasions, I found myself in public alone laughing like a maniac. Although some people walking past shot me looks of pity or disapproval, a few started laughing at me alongside me.

I was recalling two recent snippets of conversation had with different people.

A variation of the first conversation...

“Sweet jeesus. Is his collar turned up? Why. Is he. So 80s? Sometimes, I just don’t understand.”
“That’s okay. So-and-so carries a fanny pack.”
“What? No!”
“I swear to God. Now don’t mention that sh*t to anyone. When I want to stop thinking about him, I picture the fanny pack.”
“No kidding.”
“Shut up.”
“You do understand that the fanny pack will be a third party to your relationship, eh?”
“Stop it.”
“No, seriously. It’s coming with you to dinner. And to the movies. And maybe even when you travel together.”
“Seriously. That’s not funny.”
“Give the fanny pack a name. Endear it to you, early on in the relationship.”
“Get out of my apartment.”

The second conversation went a little like…

“Do you think maybe he took something?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because while I was in his washroom, I went through his stuff.”
“You whaaaaaaaaaaat?”
“To make sure he doesn’t have some kind of a weird disease.”
“LOLOLOLOListen f*cker, you wouldn’t even know what to look for! Jeesus, I can picture you walking out of the washroom with a thing of antibiotics being all smug and shit and declaring ‘And for what is this, prey tell?’ and he’d be all ‘my toe infection’. You don’t have a CLUE what difratel, zythronol, asfixitall, or fu*krectonal or I-Don’t-Know xanafrunu are! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”
“I don't really know.”
“Wow. So, how would you have explained yourself had he walked in and found you rummaging through his stuff?”
“I planned to knock it all over and make it look like an accident. He’d have never known.”
“WOW. WOW. WOW.”

And as an aside, I’d like you to know that as a child, I ached that a real live Dozer would somehow magically appear and become my friend. No Dozer ever showed up at my front door, and so in homage to the idiot child I was, here is a photo of a Dozer:


To provide you with a real sense of show ‘n tell, I’d like you to also know that this photo scares the sh*t out of me. If I came home and found my child doing this, I would kill it and then rip out my ovaries. And by kill it and rip out my ovaries, I mean exorcise the demon within:

Fundraising with pappy

Whenever my dad picks me up to go somewhere, I usually try to pimp his ride. He has a nice little Mercedes and so it’s only natural that I try to embarrass him.

Yesterday, I decided to play Akon’s Bananza (Belly Dancer). Daddy usually ignores me and pretends nothing’s changed in the car. This leads me to believe I may have to do something more drastic like taping a spoiler to the car before I get in and then taking it back with me before I leave him. We’ll see.

The Fundraiser was quite nice, and it was put on by a well-reputed 26 year old Muslim organization . I wasn’t really paying attention to one of the speakers, but didn’t think it was all that obvious until my father leaned in and asked me what I was doing.

I asked him what he meant by his question and he told me I was swaying and he wanted to know why. I told him I was feeling dizzy and excused myself to the washroom. I don’t even know if people actually sway when they’re dizzy, but I bet my dad doesn’t know the answer to that either. In reality, I had actually been bopping to abovementioned Bananza in my head.

Best part of the evening was when I as usual made a complete fool of myself at our dinner table. My dad had another engagement last night and he told me that he had to leave at 8:30 pm. And so, like the good little girl that I am, 8:30 pm rolled around and I put my fork down, packed up my purse, looked at everyone seated with us, indicated how lovely it was to meet them, shook some of their hands and proceeded to stand up.

My father looked at me and enquired: “Where are you going?”
“It’s 8:30, baba.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. Not until dinner’s over, Maha.”
“Oh.”
“It’s rude to leave in the middle of dinner.”
“Oh. Ok.”

Whatev, daddy. I sat back down and continued eating my salad, but not before I said to the table at large: “It is nice to meet you”.

And remember how my dad forgot my birthday last year? I told him I’d send him a reminder this year and that he could either buy me a condo, or just give me a lot of cash next month. He laughed at me as I ate my salad and stared at him in wonder.

Beats: Purchase Karuan’s Dohuki Ballet cd. It’s classified as Electronic, but I think the music industry should come up with a new term for the East meets West genre that’s growing at an insane pace. Something as simple as ‘Eastern Lounge’ would be enough to draw my eye.

Random Thoughts (because I’m simply too tired to write one long essay)

Q: Who would you rather date? Mr. Stealth or Mr. Manipulative? Once you’ve thought about this, come back and let me know which is best in your opinion and why.

Comment: Yo! What is wrong with the Pope, that he says something so completely off-base and potentially devastating?

Download: ‘Chasing Cars’ & ’Run’ by Snow Patrol, as well as ’Comin’ Home’ by City and Colour (Dallas Green).

A recent conversation, after a cluster bomb fell on my personal life a couple of days back:
“I see a nugget! It’s that abcdef didn’t happen.”
“…silence from your blog mum…”
“What is it, Theirblogmum?”
“I don’t see it?”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t see the nugget.”
“What do you see?”
“I still only see the pile of shit.”
“LOOK FOR THE NUGGET.”
“…more silence from your blog mum…”
“No. I don’t see it.”
“Actually, neither do I. I can’t see any fucking nuggets. Golden or otherwise.”
& the inevitable eruption of laughter and strength in sisterhood which only comes with years and years of a trusted friendship.

And on to my random thoughts…
…about People:
.1. This morning, I came across a girl wearing a sweater with COMMERCE emblazoned on the front. Just to be a flake, I enquired if she was studying Art History. She didn’t get it. I still think it’s funny.

.2. People without eyelashes freak me out in the same manner that people who blink too much make me dizzy. They hold a vacant, doll-like appearance and are hence really creepy. I see one of these ‘individuals’ regularly and they fascinate me to no end.

This same person incorporates in to their speaking mannerisms one of my biggest pet peeves…

.3. The shrugging while talking pet peeve. You know this person; they speak and shrug in tandem. It’s the physical equivalent of the comment “I’m too week to stand by my opinion. I like beer. And McNuggets. Kind'a.”.

One verbal example of this action: “I think that politically, they hold the moral high ground. But I could be wrong, maybe? I don’t know. I’m not really sure about my opinion. I hope you’re not paying any attention to me. Let me shrug it off, because I’m a big pansy”

It’s the physical embodiment of sitting on the fence.

Get an opinion and stick to it, already. (But if it’s wrong, be prepared to learn and change…because you want to, and not because you feel pressure to do so. If it’s pressure, then you really are just a pansy and ought to stick to shrugging.)

.4. AND MAKE EYE CONTACT. For the love of all things transparent and concrete, MAKE EYE CONTACT AND HOLD IT. I find it so unusual when someone doesn’t make eye contact with me, as we’re having a conversation. What’s on the white wall? What’s so fascinating about the brown berber carpet? What's on your knee? I'm usually inclined to ask.

I get this annoyed when speaking with someone whose wearing sunglasses. It’s rude and puts me on edge because warning bells go off: fear, insecurity, indifference, staring at your boobs, malice and/or lying. Take your pick, cus the sunglass wearer is sure to be up to at least one of them.

Am off to a fundraiser with my pappy; I hope he doesn't bid on anything hideous. Will be back later to fill you in on the details of our evening.

On taking French class

For those of you not in the know, your blog mistress is on French language training for the next 10 months.

Mon-Fri (inclusive)
8:30 am – 4:30 pm

I’M SO EXCITED!!!! I purchased a new pencil case with TWO zippers, a bunch of pencils, two pens, four highlighters, two erasers, one white out and a pencil sharpener (the kind that has a holding cell for the shavings!). Oh, and a book to make mistakes in!!!! The pages are so crisp and clean and new. *sigh*

Then I became even more excited and purchased two more pens, with a thinner nib (so cool!), and an even larger book with unlined pages! Being a geek really does have it’s advantages.

To answer your question, the reality is that although it’s not as exciting as being ON CAMPUS, I am getting all Felicity over the situation. Only, no Speedie (just yet).

.A. I woke up this morning and found myself conjugating verbs.

.B. I have a crunch on one of my (taken) French instructors. He’s really tall and athletic. I’m sure I’m crunching on his personality and not body.

.C. Our class is tiny and consists of four individuals, including myself. That I like my classmates is something for which I’m grateful.

I am a relatively large a dumb ass because I say things like “Quand j’avais 16 ans, j’ai eu mon premier travaille. J’etait concierge a l’hotel. J’ai ‘greet’ nos partons and j’ai manger aux resto beaucoup pour que je puis dire a nos patrons les quelles sont beau.”

I was so proud that I’d told the class my first job was as a concierge at the hotel where I didn’t have to do anything but greet the clients and eat at different restaurants so that I could then tell the clients which ones were best. (It was such a sweet job; my dad was vice president of the hotel committee or something big-shotty like that.) Only, I quickly found out that what I’d said translates to: “When I was 16, I had my first work. I was the janitor at a hotel. I greeted my bosses and I ate at restaurants a lot so that I could tell to my bosses which ones were beautiful.”

.D. Because I’m forced to pay attention in class, I can no longer daydream. This is making me sad and a little anxious, since my life hinges on imagination. At times it’s left me feeling as though I’ve run out of oxygen, and so I’m doing my best to split my mind in two during class, finding it possible to learn and pay attention with one half while allowing my imagination full reign in the other half. I think it’s the only way out of the coffin that could potentially close around my imagination. (And if that happened, that would be the end of this blog.)

Self Reflection: Beirut’s fingerprints

I’ve begun writing the Wrap Up on Beirut and I realize I’m not ready to do it just yet. It’s really too heavy for me to deal with at the moment, and I’m currently more inclined to deal with me than I am to deal with politics. What else is new?

But, I finally responded to each and every one of your emails and I’ve started (backwards) responding to the comments you’ve all left (up to and including the blog entry No 8: Sabra & Shatila; In the coming week, I’ll get to all comments posted after that date).

Right. So more about me, hurrah! While in Beirut taking photos and being a scardey cat working, I thought it was the ideal time to engage in a most exhausting personal battle. Because, you know, aerial bombings are such a bore and leave you with quite a bit of time on your hands and energy to think.

The only words I can use to describe me are ‘reckless’ and ‘defensive’, and until Beirut happened, I never realized just how reckless I am, and how the bizarre flipside of that is the reality that I am, in fact, completely defensive. It plays itself out in a strange hypocritical script where I equal parts open myself up completely, while setting up a situation in a way that ensures it will fail (& where I don’t set it up myself, I look for the situation that’s already set up in that manner). Not that I aim for failure, but rather that should ‘circumstance’ dictate failure, then it’s not a reflection on me but on circumstance. I remain intact and safe and secure and can throw my hands into the air and squeal “it’s out of my hands”, when in fact, I’ve obviously created a situation in the likeness I wish to see it. I have no idea what the last part of that sentence means, but I’m leaving it in there because it makes me giggle.

In the past, this has backfired and the scenario of failure ends up being a recipe for success. That’s been fun, in a strange twilighty sort of way.

I can guarantee that any psychoanalysis of this girl would conclude that: on a much deeper level, I actively seek out what’s reckless and what’s difficult and complicated, dramatic and maybe even devastating to a certain degree. A part of me must enjoy the twisted ends that come of my own doing…

Hey, at least I’m not into self-mutilation yet.

OH MY GOD, have you seen Nip/Tuck season 3? Holy moly, it’s crazy and ya ilahi thank you for Christian Troy. Because I obviously have a weird fetish I picked up Season 3 on Sunday and have managed to already watch it. SEE IT. Godspeed, kitties.

Right. So we were at: I’ve always understood that I’d much rather live hard and feel and hurt equally hard, than to be numb. Isn’t that where we were?

But clearly, I’m only willing to engage hurt when I’ve inflicted it by my own hands (e.g. not me giving 100% percent to something good and healthy and then having it fail; but, rather me giving 100% to something meant to break down, hence me actually seeking it out).

And for the record, although I don’t know what this does mean, I do know it doesn’t mean that I don’t want something to succeed, and it doesn’t mean I don’t want things to work out. It’s sort of messy, but to a great extent, it allows me a semblance of control and order in an otherwise messy situation, oui? Engage in and expect failure, and when you fail to receive failure and instead receive success, then even better…

In other speak, this means my willingness (& affinity) for taking really stupid risks. Did I not have the cultural and religious graces of my family, my risks taken would be much greater. This is somewhat of a double-edged sword for although it’s kept me safe from much, it’s also held me back from so much more.

Anyway, what I haven’t been able to understand is where the defensiveness comes in. Seriously, I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the past couple of weeks and I’m happy I’ve figured out the first half, because I like that half. I actually enjoy being reckless. What I need now is a means to understand where and why the defensiveness kicks in and how to ensure I stop allowing it to be a part of my life. Because ultimately, I’m still getting hurt even though it is by my own hand, so I think that it’s time for me to stop being defensive. I think I’ve hit a new level of maturity and I’m really looking forward to engaging it and those around me based on this new principle…

...while wearing this spectacular new shirt I picked up in Dubai. Isn’t it stunning?





I’m not entirely sure I know what this blog entry’s about. I just have a lot to say and thought I’d throw it out there for you to laugh at. Being in Beirut forced me to face it because thinking you may die makes you a very large weirdo.

Postcard from Dubai

I will pool my thoughts on the political debate I’ve been having in my head soon enough, I promise. Many of you have – and continue to – ask for a sort of ‘brief’ on the already mentioned idea of Jewish fear/identity that I touched on in several personal conversations, referenced in a couple of my Beirut dispatches. I promise that blog entry is coming. In the next couple of days, I’ll force myself to do this, but for now am still enjoying the residue of Dubai that sits on my skin.

And here’s a little bit of that for you…

Mornings handed me quiet swims in the Arabian Gulf, lunch offered fresh grilled fish and vegetables, afternoons took my money to shopping malls and evenings swallowed whole by family.

Although it was a much too short trip, it was one I needed desperately and which went to prove that I simply can not stay in one place for too long. Had originally made a promise that I would not travel for a year, but that took flight a few months back and I’m a happier girl for it.

Wanderlust is something I believe I’ve finally come to terms with, quite happily.

Most interesting about this trip to Dubai was that it was the first during which I’ve ever beached. My trips always amount to discovery; a lot of walking, hiking, walking, walking and walking…with the occasional run for a bus or a train or a car or some place where I can plant my ass and take a break. There’s always a full schedule with things to do, sites to visit, restaurants to sample and people to meet up with. To better understand how I usually travel, just visit my 35 things to do in London, and forgive that your webMum obviously needs to learn how to relax.

But not this time. In fact, I would say that this time, I could have taught people how to relax, as my entire trip sort of reminded me of Baby J’s retelling of her vacation to Hawaii. And if anyone knows how to relax, it’s Baby J. Although I can’t remember which part of Hawaii it was, it sounded like a paradise, filled with great music and food, where everyone surfed during the day and sat out on the beach at night, eating and drinking. (Sounds like the ideal place to live, not merely vacation.)

Swimming in the morning was a little surreal. Since I was alone with the water for the most part (except for one morning), it felt like I had the entire beach to myself. My uncle didn’t know because he feared I’d get sunstroke (for god’s sake!) and so this was kept quiet, and before the kids woke. There was no one out in the waters and I would lay out on the beach like a little whale, or should I say swan? or maybe a seal? do they beach? Anyway, whatever animal it was, I was imitating it quietly and happily so. I didn’t think about anything or anyone or Beirut or Palestine or politics or even tomorrow.

And then there was the outdoor shower, something I’d never used before. Now I want one in my backyard, even when it snows. Actually, especially when it snows. The water is scalding, and in the desert heat one would think that a bit of a nightmare when it is, in fact, ideal. You have the hot air, the hot sun, and the hot sand between your toes and then this boiling water pouring over you.

Obviously, I enjoyed “beaching” and being completely unaware of the world outside. Don’t know when I’ll have the chance to do that again, but right before I left for Beirut, H had finally officially purchased that home in the Azures, and she’s invited me up for New Year’s celebration. It would be friends from all over the world, doing nothing more than excessive drinking and lounging, it sounds. After this recent experience, that seems the perfect holiday and is something am seriously considering at the moment.

Wrap up on Beirut coming soon, I promise.