Noncapacituous Crosswurdus

When I was born, mama’s Doctor had to break the following news to her: “We are really sorry about this. Truly. But it appears as though your daughter may be afflicted with Noncapacituous Crosswurdus, one of the rarest diseases known to humankind and for which there is no cure. Not even a Master of Arts can help her, I’m afraid.”

At the delicate age of 8, my mama and baba came into the living room where I was seated staring blankly at a Crossword puzzle and mumbling “But I don’t understand the Q. How are you a clue?”. Baba took the Saturday paper from my hands and mama began with:
“Maha, we were hoping we’d never have to tell you this, but. OH MY GOD, I JUST CAN NOT TELL HER, BABA!”
“Maha, your mother can be quite melodramatic at times, or maybe she’s drunk. I don’t know, but…uhm…so…so let’s just get this over with, shall we? Right. Ok. Well, you know, I don’t really think I can tell you either. Isn’t this strange? What is this I’m feeling? Emotion? What a peculiar feeling it is.

Right. Well, look darling, look for a letter for me explaining all this, won’t you? I fear that were I to continue, this Emotion thing may take over or something.”

Two days later, in the post came the following typed note from baba:
Meesho.
When you were born, you were born without a button in your head. This button is responsible for the completion of Crossword puzzles. Sorry love, but you are afflicted by 'Noncapacituous Crosswurdus' and will never be able to finish a Crossword puzzle successfully. It’s just not possible.
Love,
Baba
P.S. This ‘Emotion’ thing really is bizarre, yeah?
P.S. It must be something you've inherited from mama because I am a GENIUS at Crossword puzzles. But we won't mention that to her, ok?

I read the letter and then charged around the house to find my parents. I had short legs at the age of 8 and so movement wasn’t quick. I was also a little tubby, but we don’t like to talk about that anymore. And by ‘we’, I mean ‘me’.

I found mama and baba seated in the living room watching the news. In my pyjamas and eyes brimming with tears, I lifted my little fist at baba and swore to him that I would prove to be a medical miracle, featured on CNN “some day!”. I would be the first person to ever overcome Noncapacituous Crosswurdus.

And so I’ve struggled for the last 14 years. Fourteen years filled with unfinished Crossword puzzles, ripped up New York Times, run over Chapter’s ‘Puzzles’ sections and sleepless nights filled with two word clues meant to generate a 27 letter word.

At the age of 32, do believe it is time I finally accepted that I will never, ever, for the life of me, complete a Crossword puzzle. I am comfortable enough to admit that I am a Crosswurdus Dorkus Extraordinaire, one who has failed miserably her 8 year old self.

Have you a similar affliction?

Two political bits

.1. How ridiculous this notion of Quebec as a 'Nation'.

.2. I am very happy about Correa's win.

& I've had a lot on my mind and hence the 'no blog zone' as of late; I promise to write something soon enough...

There’s nothing ironic about losing your heart

.1. On Sunday, my heart took a hike. She flipped me the bird and left.

Do think she’s gone to the Azores to visit with Hannah and Charlie and I shall leave her be until she’s ready to come back to the comfort of her home. There’s never a point in forcing her to do anything because she is as stubborn as a mule and will always win out in a fight if I challenge her to change her mind at my whim.

.2. Recently, someone said to your blogMistress: “I have something “ironic” to tell you…”

Under different circumstances, I would have cut this person off and offered:
“(A) Misuse of the term ‘ironic’ because you are not telling me the opposite of that which I expect. You really mean coincidental, or interesting, or mind-boggling, or funny or neat. You do not mean ‘ironic’.
&
(B) Ill use of the finger quotes. You are not emulating a written quote. I understand that Hemingway used the word ‘ironic’, properly, but there really is no need for you to use your fingers and make little bunny ears at me in this way.
&
(C) Pick up a book, please.
&
(D) Maybe just stop talking altogether.”

Only instead, I let this individual proceed because I was quite literally having a panic attack and was left with no choice but to smile wide and feign both happiness and interest.

.3. Nanno’s wake is this evening.

.4. If any of you have ever feared that your actions and/or words may be misconstrued as bitter, please take a moment to absorb Liza Minnelli’s following statement, in which she expresses her hopes for ex-husband David Gest (who is to do a reality-type show in Australia): "I hope he gets f*cked by a kangaroo and eaten by crocs."

.5. Rock is in Arizona studying his a*s off in some special homeopathic schooling thing. Upon his graduation in four years, he will be a chiropractor, a homeopathic doctor, an acupuncturist, a super masseuse, a rock star and Heidi Klum. I am really quite excited for him…and for me, as he will be my free “homo doctor”. He doesn’t know I call him this thinks it funny that I call him this.

Of my entire family, he is the one who understands me best and who reads me like an open book. Yesterday was his birthday and I rang and left him a very brief message. In his ‘thank you’ email, which he will kill me for sharing with you, he wrote: “ You seemed a little all over the place on your message and I'm thinking you need a vacation yourself. (…) So who's giving you grief? (…) I can schedule a trip down there and break some knee caps if you want me to. I've been throwing the big f*ck you around to anyone that rubs me the wrong way lately so you can try that approach too. I've got numbers in my phone down to 8 now. I figured I've got too little time and way too much sh*t to get through the next few years to have negativity brought into my world, so I warned people not to f*ck with me. I'm an asshole though and you’re a princess so if you want I could be your ambassador of a*s whippings. Let me know.”

Aren’t you in love with my cousin, then?

A little after 3 am today, nanno died

An update to my previous post.
Writing calms me so I'll be back when I need it.

I hate hospitals

I spent the better part of my evening in the hospital.

T’s grandmother – who we have always called ‘nanno’ - went in this morning and we’re not sure what will happen over the course of the next 24 hours.

We went into the ICU area to see nanno…

From there, we headed to the seating area.

As we were walking in, all of us were quiet and…crying.

I’m not one for sadness and I am relatively uncomfortable in a space where that emotion overflows and so it was no surprise to anyone that a certain magazine caught my eye.

I was the last one to walk into the room and so grabbed the magazine and brought it in with me. As The Girls seated themselves quietly, I asked “What do you think an inappropriate name for a magazine might be?”

My question was met with silence and curiosity until I turned the magazine around and showed them “The Beaver”.

Not surprisingly, The Beaver is a Canadian magazine.

It worked. The Girls laughed and the tension slipped away like a satin sheet. T wanted conversation that had nothing to do with nanno and so we spent the rest of the evening chatting about what ails our hearts and spirits and laughing at our choices and circumstances, men and boyfriends.

C did her thing by playing the psychologist while T & I kept things light by finding the humor in it all.

There was a moment while C was leaned forward and speaking rationally with T – because I most certainly don’t have the capacity for rationality – and I thought: These are the women who have been with me through thick and thin. These are the women who sat with me when mama was ill and also in the hospital years ago. These are the women, adult, no longer girls, who I went through high school with, who I have spent countless hours on the phone with, with whom I have seen endless reels of film, shared drinking boxes, watched get married, and whose hearts I picked up after they were shattered.

These are the women who my own children will call when they can’t deal with me or talk to me, because these are my sisters, born of different mothers and fathers. But sisters no less.

This is the first time we’ve all faced death together. The first time we’ve all sat around with coffee and tea in the hospital lounge, while someone we loved was laying in a bed a few feet away, waiting. This is it. This is where it begins…

She did this too, nanno. She once sat with her best friends and waited while someone they loved was falling. None of them were there tonight, they left a long time ago, but I bet they would have also found The Beaver an inappropriate name for a magazine.

am i working properly?

I see me on the Dashboard...

hm.

See explanation here, please...

Will be back later to see if all is well >> would you please confirm you can see this post via email or comment. Thx.

Cellist in crack, laughing with Baby J & Waldo

.1. I’m terribly excited about this and have kept it a secret for a little because am nervous. I start my cello lessons in January! I spoke about this around a year and a half ago and have finally committed to finding out if I am tone deaf. My heart beats a little faster every time I think of how much fun this is going to be.

The cello is my favourite instrument because it is the one instrument that jives 100% with crack. Speaking of which, I just purchased some more:



(Imagine these babies wrapped around a cello!)

.2. Today, someone posed the following hypothetical Q: 'What do you need to do to make sure everything's finished with a contract?'
…to which I responded: 'Get rid of the incriminating evidence'.

No one laughed as hard as I did.

.3. When we say
“I really want to see him/her/undecidedOne”
we really mean
“I really want him/her/undecidedOne to see me and to think fond thoughts of me and to comment on how lovely my crack is.”

Being such egomaniacs is what makes us interesting, and I hate Ayn Rand.

.4. Out of familial obligation, Baby J was recently stuck dealing with a different kind of Boy, the kind that says “I’m sure you’re seeing a lot of other guys, ha ha ha” and leaving a message, only to call back a little later to ask “did you get my message? Did you like my message?”

For the love of God, man, don’t you know the least attractive quality in a man is neediness? (I’m sure it’s not that attractive on a woman, either.)

Baby J is one of the most fiercely independent women I know. At the sight of her, you understand that like me, she’s an Alpha, and female Alphas need their men to be Alphas, or else it’s quite nearly impossible for us to be attracted to them. We like men who take charge and are focused, the last thing they need being our validation.

But she’ll do her thing and eventually this will go away.

Her life is changing at the moment and I’m excited for her because she’s made a rather impressive and critical life-altering decision and one which will bring me many Hello Kitty items, the list of which I am already compiling. I have absolutely no doubt that she’ll completely excel at all that’s to come.

.5. Two honourable mentions.

I sent this email out:
ATTENTION!
ALIENS ARE COMING TO ABDUCT ALL THE GOOD LOOKING AND SEXY PEOPLE.
YOU WILL BE SAFE, I'M JUST EMAILING TO SAY GOODBYE.

Baby J responded with:
“This message has been automatically generated by the aliens that also abducted Baby Jane. We will return her to your planet as soon as we figure out how to clone her so that we may have an entire race, inspired by her beauty.

Please do not reply to this message.”

& Waldo came back with:
“ha ha...oh my god, they're here!!!! see you on the other side!”

Is it any wonder that I’m in love with my girlfriends?

I believe

in love stories, actually.

Even with everything I've just written about keeping myself so totally guarded.

Do you?

PostSecret

Thanks to Anjum for pointing the way to the incredible project titled PostSecret. I’ve just placed my order for the three books (two already published, one to be released in January 2007).

I’ve decided to buy a stack of postcards and send them into this thing; recommend you do the same. It’s cathartic to just think about what I’d write.

Rough night, excellent reason to shop

Mama wasn’t feeling well last night and so she woke me at 2 a.m. After a difficult few hours, she finally fell asleep at around 10 a.m. but I’ve not yet had any sleep.

Too wired to crash, I instead spent a couple of hours and made it through one too many emails that have sat in my Inbox far too long. If any of you receive incoherent messages – Shawn – this is partly why. Please forgive my sloppiness.

If tired or sad, I shop. I caved and went to IKEA to purchase the ektorp Slite Red armchair and the ektorp bromma Leaby Red ottoman. IKEA’s to deliver them on Monday, inshallah.

After everything I wrote about that shade of red, I caved. I’ve been looking everywhere and have been incapable of finding anything that was as cozy and comfortable as that chair. I’ll eventually buy different coloured slip covers, but I’ll just have to accept that my daughter may be a wh*re because I needed to shop today and so purchased that shade of red.

As I walked through the store, I discreetly used my brightest red lipstick and ran it across all of the walls to my left (kind of like a dog peeing on things to mark his/her territory). Much thanks to my capital idea and rouge, I didn't get lost and it took me under one hour to locate the items, purchase them and then make my way out of The IKEA Matrix where Children Of The Corn run wild and Sarah hangs out to eat Swedish meatballs.

I forgot to mention that off my list are the chandelier:



& art work for one of my walls:



I was originally contemplating purchasing one large tapestry and went everywhere searching for just the perfect item. There was nothing to be found until that photograph you see in the bottom right corner. It’s a photograph in warm sepias and the frame is a little rustic. I fell in love with this and stood in the store staring at it for a few minutes until a cute little old lady accidentally ran into me with her face.

I purchased it immediately and thought how small it was to place on my relatively large wall, and so decided to give the wall an overall theme of trees and landscapes. Everything fell into place that very day and I found the one painting on the left and the other photograph at the top right (behind the mist of that photo is a castle).

Minister Peter MacKay

Oh mon dieu. If ever there was a sh*tty shot of me, this is most definitely it:



In my defense:
1st. I take poor profile pictures.
2nd. That's what I look like after working an 18 hour shift.
3rd. Compound that 18 hour shift by adding for nearly three weeks in a row.

The Honourable Minister Peter MacKay (technically, my boss) has got a photo blog, which is pretty cool.

You have my permission to look closely at my boobs where you will see a yellow sticky note. It read: Hi! I'm Maha :o) because I thought that was a really cool thing to do. I'm sure The Honourable Peter MacKay thought I was some sort of a mental retard because of it.

Circumstances leading up to this shot (which was taken in early August)? His office had asked us to take care of one particular case (in terms of evacuation) and I was charged with said case. After working with his cool Exec Assistant Christopher Gorman**, The Honourable Him came down to meet me and say thank you which was quite nice and completely unnecessary. He's tall and has a great tan, n'est pas? Nice hands, too.

Watch me get fired for objectifying His Honourableness.

**from whose blackberry I attempted to send a text message to Beirut but failed miserably. After trying for a whole two seconds, I very nearly threw it at him with a simple: "I don't know how to do this or work this thing. Take it." (18 hour shifts make you weird.)

Moka java is the perfect shade of grey

.1. Another weird story from my life.

Moka Java doesn’t like me. There’s a Treats beneath mon École and to which I go at least three times a day to grab a java. Without fail, the moka java always runs out as I am pressing the button. It’s since become a joke with the mother/son team who own the coffee shop.

When I walk in, they prep themselves to replenish the moka java.

It makes me a little sad. I thought I had a delicate way about me with the café, but apparently not.

.2. I’ve been hearing rumblings that are confusing me. These rumblings would appear to indicate that nothing is black and white, but rather this shade called grey.

Que?

I don’t understand this. Life is so simple when we slot and categorise and see only black and white. WHAT IS THIS GREY TAKING OVER MY LIFE AND WHY IS IT BOTHERING ME SO MUCH?

Frankly, it’s leaving me a little hysterical.

.3. Have you ever become emotionally attached to a person whose already dating someone else? Would you care to share your stories with me? BEAVER, this one’s for you…if you’ve got anything to give.

.4. Oh my god. The woman next to me just snorted and followed it up with a burp.

Aaaand she’s snorted again.

I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but isn’t this improper behaviour y’all? I mean, I get that she’s comfortable and all…and I’m really happy she is so at ease in such a public arena such as notre École, but “what ze f*ck, lady?”

.5. The elevator at mon École doesn’t have a number thing which lights up as you ascend and descend telling you which floor you’ve reached. Neither does it make that ‘ding’ sound as you move, so you don’t have any way of knowing which floor you’re on.

What happens when you get stuck and have to call that person in the little box from the black telephone?
“I’m stuck in the elevator”
“Which floor?”
“I don’t know”
“What are you stupid?”
“No, I don’t think so…but then again…”
“Seriously, just look up and tell me what number is lit up”
“There are no number things that light up”
“Oh”
“Yeah. Uhm. So…psst…there’s a woman in here snorting and burping. Think you can get us out relatively quickly? She keeps staring at herself in the mirror and it’s freaking me out”
“Yeah, we’ll come and get you. It’ll take us around 72 days to run up the stairs and figure out where you’re stuck”
“Cool, I have a moka java with me, thanks”
“bye”
“bye! You’re awesome!”

Ok, so really, it’s more like a basket than an elevator, but that’s neither here nor there.

The other day, I walked in to the elevator with three other people. Since arriving at l’école, I have always believed – nothing grey about that - that our elevator is awkwardly shaped. It’s narrow and long and so when people get on, no one really knows where to stand. There’s no proper Feng Shui to the elevator shape.

So, as I was standing there awkwardly with the three others (none of whom I know), I declared: “Don’t you think this elevator is awkwardly shaped?” to anyone who would respond.

I heard a few mumblings, saw a few eyebrows cock up into the air and was met with complete silence. It was obvious that they’d not heard me and so I decided to pursue the engaging topic: “I think it’s because it’s shaped like an ill-placed rectangle, much like a hospital elevator only there’s no beds coming in here or maybe there is? Ha ha ha.”

No one answered, two people got off some floor – can’t tell you the number, ‘cus, well, there are no lights to indicate the floor number – and one guy remained behind. He stared at me, I smiled at him and finally offered: “Maybe it’s just too early in the morning?”

He smiled and said “Maybe” as he got off on another floor, the number of which NATURALLY, I don’t know.

I love making new friends.

Baba (or: Pappy)

Often times on this blog I’ve written about Mama. I’ve never quite taken a moment to write about Baba because up until recently that would have been relatively difficult for me still.

Baba and I had an extremely volatile relationship during my adolescence. When him and mum divorced, I was young enough to understand the surface ‘why’, but not psychologically mature enough to disassociate myself from the divorce itself. At such a young age, my identity was wrapped up with that of my mother’s. I didn’t understand where I ended and she began, and so when my father left my mother, my mind’s eye watched him walk away from me.

For a little while following, my father and I would see one another infrequently. Inevitably, we would always fight. I have his temperament and am much closer in character and personality to him than I am to my mother. When he and I clashed, it was always a full-on battle. His leaving had set something alight in me and I took every opportunity to lash out and cut as deeply as possible. Looking back at some of the things I said and did, I am shocked by my capacity to be cruel.

Among the many unfortunate memories that seem to have surfaced as I write are the two following. First was at the end of my high school years. I had taken three weeks to collect the down payment on my high school graduation ring. I walked into baba’s office and handed him the outstanding bill. He told me he wouldn’t pay the outstanding amount because I’d not taken his permission to purchase the ring and that I shouldn’t merely expect him to drop money at my whim. I explained that I would lose my down payment and he matter-of-factly said “that’s a lesson [I’d] have to learn the hard way”.

It may seem bizarre to those of you who don’t know the long and short of the history between he and I, but that served as the end for me and I decided that our relationship was finished. I titled that time in my life The Ice Age because I have no imagination and also because it really was an era that ran the course of too many years. I figured if every time I left him was in tears, it would just be easier for me to bury him, and so he was dead. I would see him at parties and weddings and walk past him without so much as looking at him.

Some time later we had one further interaction over email. There was an ‘incident’, and he took so much time and care to explain something to me, sending me pages of explanation. I responded with the horrendous: “Sorry you took so much time to respond, but you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. I can’t be bothered to read this.”
He came back with: “You’re not my daughter.”
And I ended it with: “Thank you for finally articulating how I’ve felt for the duration of my life.”

Quite honestly, I was okay then. I didn’t realize how much I needed my father because I’d never really had him in the first place. There was nothing to miss except a sort of misery. My mother and my family tried to push me to change, but I would have none of it and I made it clear that it was no one’s business but my own. Eventually, everyone stopped trying.

Ultimately, it was my mother who sacrificed everything to raise me. Mama was the one who raised me, she was the one who held me up and picked me up. She was the one who shaped me and helped me define my personality. She stayed up late nights waiting for me, and she was the one who read Quran to me when I couldn’t sleep. Mama will forever be my anchor because she is the only individual in this world that has the capacity to keep me grounded. We say it all the time, but I don’t think I can express it any better than this: Without her, I would be lost.

I graduated high school, finished university and then received my M.A.; my father was at none of these ceremonies because I never invited him. I staunchly believed that because he was the adult, it was his role to seek me out. In my mind’s eye, he had to fight to be let back in. After all, he abandoned me when he divorced my mother. Didn’t he?

In hindsight, I understand that I wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one capable of inflicting great pain. I also understand that he never tried to hurt me, but had merely become disenchanted with his marriage. I finally understand that baba never fell out of love with me.

I finally understand that both of my parents are also individuals and that often, their hopes and dreams are not intimately related to the fact that they’re parents. The identity of “parent” is only one aspect of who they are and sometimes it conflicts with other desires they may have as people. The moment we have children, that 'map' of identity changes and the fabric from which it's made becomes the finest of silks. Unfortunatly, it happens that sometimes "parent" isn't careful and children fall through to great pain.

The reconciliation
I’d set up rules where baba was concerned. There were certain “stipulations” which had to be met by him if he was ever going to be allowed entry into my life again. I had a script that no one knew about, not even him.

The Script was absolutely insane. It went against every aspect of who my father was and his behaviour to date. Perhaps I scripted it as such to ensure that he would never be allowed back in. To my surprise, baba not only knew The Script, but he went above and beyond the call of duty I had imagined.

When seedo passed away, mama’s father (Allah yir7amu), my father called to give his condolences. Setting aside everything that had transpired between my mother and father and their respective families due to the divorce and its aftermath, my father loved seedo deeply. When my father called, he was crying. I’d not even heard my father cry when his own father passed away and so every second of that moment is deeply entrenched in my memory.

He asked if he could take me to dinner that evening and I said no because I was meeting a very dear friend, R (now in Beirut). We went to dinner the following evening. Seated across from one another, there was no room for niceties or small talk because I didn’t really know the man before me.

I’d previously imagined that moment, and I had imagined myself being merciless toward him, mocking him, not forgiving him but rather enjoying his need for forgiveness and me refusing him. In my imagination that was such a powerful sentiment - denying him - because he denied me the only thing I needed as I grew up: My baba. My imagination was so vindictive and so cold and I was prepared to lash out after so many years of him not coming after me. I thought I would have been able to laugh and say: I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I will never forgive you.

But as soon as I sat down and looked across the table, I saw baba. And he was looking at me as though he’d never seen me before that moment, and I saw the recognition in his eyes. He understood how much we’d both lost, how much he’d lost in the way of knowing me and the young woman I’d become. He couldn’t speak for a few moments and I spent the duration of the dinner crying.

It was at that moment that I realized just how deeply I loved him and why I had been so angry. There's a connection that exists between parent and child that seems - although relatively simple to bruise - impossible to break. The ease by which my own pain disappeared left me spinning, and unless you’ve experienced it, it’s very difficult to describe. I think the only time we can forgive more easily than a child toward a parent is a parent toward their child.

Hearing him tell me he had been the adult and he had failed me, repeatedly, blew the lid off of everything that had been pent up and painful and hurtful. It was so overwhelming and there were moments of anxiety, I think, where I couldn’t see or breathe during dinner.

I had been gifted the opportunity to tell him everything, everything, everything he’d done to hurt me, and he accepted it all. He didn’t deny anything and he didn’t offer a defense, but merely accepted that his actions had ripped my heart to pieces for years. To me, that evening will always be the measure of my father.

After hours of conversation, I accepted his apology. I was terrified and apprehensive because I feared that he’d walk away again…but he’s still here, four years later, and I’m still getting to know him. I can’t possibly imagine my life without him and it pains me to think of the many many years wasted.

One week after that dinner, he gave me my high school graduation ring, still in it’s bag, still with the receipt, a portion of which I’d highlighted: ‘Outstanding Balance Owed’.

A Pedally Cheidukah!

.1. Was at Chapter’s two days back buying Holiday Cards and searching for one Hanukkah card. I was staring at all of the Happy Chanukah cards wondering when they’d changed the name.

Then it dawned on me, and so like the mental retard that I am I looked over at the 17 year old employee, smiled and said:
“I like that they’ve taken the idea from The O.C.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, I think it’s a great idea to mix Christmas and Hannukah and come up with this new word: Chanukah, like that skinny guy on The O.C. We need to find a way to throw ‘Eid’ in there. Like: Cheidukah! I would so totally buy the card that was all “HAPPY CHEIDUKAH!”, ha ha ha.”
“Uhm. Actually. You’re talking about Christmukah.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s what Seth Cohen came up with on The O.C.”
“Oh. Really? Well then what’s Chanukah?”
“It’s the actual word. The real word.”
“So it has nothing to do with Christmas?”
“No.”
“And when’s Hannukah?”
“Hannukah is actually Chanukah.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s the best card. Just buy that one and send it after the 5th.”
…and so I did, and so I will.

.2. The Chlamydosaurus Kingii tends to run in pedally fashion, which is a fancy way of saying ‘on its two hind legs’. It lifts its body up, stays as still as a ramrod and then moves only its two tiny feet at a rapid rate in order to propel itself in some direction. When it’s scared, it runs away backwards.

Staring out my window earlier today, I thought I saw a gigantic Chlamydosaurus Kingii carrying a backpack and running across the street. Upon closer inspection I noted it was no Frilled Lizard, but rather a man dressed head to toe in grey houndstooth, with matching backpack and a red scarf. The wind was blowing at him from behind and so his red scarf was up and around his face (much like the Frill of the Lizard). His hands were in front and curved forward at his chest (like a chipmunk) and it appeared as though he were fabricated of ramrod material. It didn’t help that when I denied myself view of his lower half, it looked as though he were rolling along rapidly rather than running.

I was tempted to rush over and scream “BOO” just to see if he would stand still for a moment and then proceed to “pedally” backwards as he stared at me.

.3. And speaking of rolling along, was at the airport the other day when I thought I’d actually lost it. At no point in my life have I ever questioned what I was seeing…until that evening. I was watching a girl roll along, until she stopped and then started walking. When I looked at her feet, she was in running shoes. There was no skateboard, there were no rollerblades, or small men carrying her around, just runners. I thought I was a little mad, maybe had a little too much caffeine or sugar or something.

I followed her around for a little and kept watching her do this. No one else in the airport seemed to notice, so I was pretty sure I had lost it.

Until I discovered this.

Oh My God, it’s CRACK in the form of a car. Imagine the possibilities. The speed, the agility, the gas saved. I’m buying a pair as soon as they make it in a stiletto.

.4. For those of you who knew, I coloured my hair again earlier tonight. The hues of caramel and red were fine for the weekend, but this morning I decided that I didn’t like them and so am back to my natural hazelnut (because “brown” just doesn’t cut it).