Prolific Immigrant

I am officially some kind of sad.

It’s Saturday evening and I’ve been hanging out with mama watching Syrian television shows, the other side of the world’s very own Telenovela.

I have become unequivocally enamoured with the Syrian actor named Kousai Khouli
Kosai Khouli
Kosay Khouly
Kosai Khouly…
…depending on who is translating his name, you’ll find a different spelling each and every time.

Tamer Hagras may have been my first crunch, but it looks like Kusay / Kousai / Kousay / Kusai may be my future husband. He is a killer dancer and looks to be quite at home in a red track suit. From what I hear, these are the two most important qualities for which a woman should look when considering a husband.

Every time I see him, I want to bite his cheek. Good sign, n’est pas? I think so, too. “Being edible” is high on my list of Items I Seek In My Future Husband.

Chances are, he’s already married and has 17 children, but I expect he will find me and understand we’re meant for one another, Inshallah. And just for him, I’m learning Suri and I don’t mean Tom Cruise’s kid, but rather the language. I’ve learned the words
‘bnoob bnoob’
‘shloon’
‘kirmaal 3yoonak’
‘lk alo…lk alo…lk aloooo’
‘ya ibn 3ami’
‘shooooo?’
’2ini2li3′
‘b7ibak’
‘bitmoon’
These words I refuse to translate in case one of you should meet Kusay / Kousai / Kousay / Kusai and attempt to use them in an effort to charm him right out from beneath me. I shake my fist at you, already.

I believe the reasons which have led me to declare that I am officially In Love is because he laughs a lot, wears three piece suits (ya Ilaahi shoo byekhud el3a2el!), his blood is light, mama loves him and he is the first man in the History of Man on whom I’ve seen and I am going to hell for admitting this found the moustache sexy. Whereas I once believed the moustache to be the downfall of the Arab Male, I now find it rather appealing, bassi only 3a Kusay / Kousai / Kousay / Kusai.

I think innu I have to call 3amo Faisal Al-Azma w khalto Kawsar or 3amo Yasaar Al-Askari w khalto Maisa to see if they approve of my choice in husbands. Akeed they’ll know! Better yet, I believe I should really pay them a wee visit in Damascus instead…

Note to Me: I must come up with a nickname for him before we marry otherwise our children will have trouble when it’s time to write out their full middle names on their birth certificates.

Note to Kusay / Kousai / Kousay / Kusai: Iza ma fee mishkleh, I have already picked out the names of our children, ya ibn 3ami. After you chat ma3 wali amri, I’ll let you know what they are. xo

He has an official website that’s not running yet and that’s because he’s not lucky enough to know T…but look…he’s totally hot! For locating this hottie, I pat myself on the back & give myself a little kiss, too.

I don’t like our current toilette paper brand and so decided to quest for a new one. While in the aisle with Natasha, I came across the Charmin brand. I’ve never tried the Charmin brand but I do recognise their bear mascot whose always wiping himself in the woods. In tandem with the wiping, he’s usually smiling.

As with any excellent advertising campaign, this made me think: If I use Charmin, I too shall smile in the woods! and so it was decided that I would try the Charmin brand.

Charmin has several different varieties of toilette paper; the one against we immediately decided was their “Ultra Soft Doux” sort because, as Natasha  so delicately put it, “It’s too soft. Pieces get lost and you don’t know where they went.” 

Suddnely, my eyes fell upon the Charmin “Extra Strong Resistant” flavour.

I was bewildered, albeit in a calm and charmin’ manner.

My mind queried: Extra Strong Resistant for what?
How bad can it get down there?
Is it like Fallujah? If softer toilette paper has a habit of mysteriously disappearing, as with Natasha, perhaps “Extra Strong Resistant” is the way of the future.

She offered: “ Cleo says this is awesome.”
“You two have had conversations about toilette paper?”
“I guess. Why don’t you try it?”
“I don’t understand the name.”
“Yeah.”
“Extra Strong Resistant for what?”
“I don’t know…”

Upon further reflection and hysterical hyena laughter in the aisle, we decided that Charmin’s Extra Strong Resistant would be better suited to either
The Days Your A** Kicks A**
or plain old
For Your Violently Tough A**

Had I a marker, I would have scribbled both tag lines on each one of the shelved Charmin items. Just to clarify and be helpful, of course.

This post is a little heavy; I promise to post something ridiculously idiotic in the coming days. Something idiotic enough to make you laugh out loud and maybe even lose a little bladder control.

I have had a trying month, Alhamdulilah. ‘Alhamdulilah’ because from adversity and challenge comes strength for those who seek it. Inshallah this last month has made me stronger.

I find that where I’m concerned, I live in severe extremes – starve or gorge, really – and usually end up hitting rock bottom at high velocity before I turn my face up to Heaven. I’ve done this a handful of times in my life, and among everything I used to pray for, I never asked that It (that particular time) be the last. For the first time in my short little life, this is now something for which I am asking. Rest assured that it’s never as bad as it sounds because, Alhamdulilah, I lead a blessed and graced life. No matter the trauma I am forced to face, it is absolute child’s play in the grand scheme of things.

I have only ever gifted the Quran (more specifically, ‘the translation of’) to one person. In it, I wrote something along the lines of how it is only within the pages of This Book** I find calm, peace and forgiveness when I am at my absolute lowest and loneliest. I have been reading the Quran on a daily basis and each night before I sleep; If I could at this point become a page in This Book, I would.

Recently, and because of circumstance, there have been days where I’ve had trouble breathing; in Arabic, we say “dee’it nafs”, which, although it is a physical manifestation, it literally translates to a “tightly squeezed self” (think of it as thus: when you squeeze someone hard, as in a bear hug, they have trouble breathing). More often than not, “dee’it nafs” has a spiritual meaning because nafs comes from the Arabic word anfasukum, which means “souls”. I have had this “dee’it nafs” for this past month. Finally, whatever it was I was living is beginning to loosen.

This is where Hijab has come in to play. I thought that, perhaps, by wearing it I could protect and shield myself from certain things that have caused me to lose faith and be angry with Allah. A weakness of character, I admit.

I spoke with some family members and did my own thinking on the subject of Hijab. The opinion I am going to offer is solely my own and is not a judgment on any female who has chosen to wear Hijab during a time of duress or when she has sought forgiveness for specific action(s).

Before diving into a deeper explanation, I have to acknowledge that while Hijab is not one of the five pillars of Islam (.1. Monotheism & recognition that Muhammad (s.a.w.s.) is His messenger; .2. Salaat (prayer); .3. Syaam (fasting during Ramadan); .4. Zakaat (charity); and .5. Haaj(pilgrimage)) it is indeed a fard, or rather a “must” decreed by Allah.

There is a much greater philosophical debate here, one for which I currently neither have the state of mind nor the bandwidth. I am going to only offer a small glimpse into the lines bordering the philosophical argument…

Wearing Hijab is a choice born of Free Will, the choices and positions/judgments being as follows: (1) Because it is a fard, those who perform it are better than those who do not. (2) Someone who commits any act which is mafrood, and does so without being convinced of it, or who flat out denies its validity in their heart, is a hypocrite. (3) Person in either scenario 1 or 2 who commits any fard while, in tandem, committing greater sins. I choose to not posit an explicit opinion on this, for I can actually – and likely with great success – argue all sides. Since Hijab is our main topic, I will write that I believe there are many women wearing Hijab whose hearts are shaded, whereas there are many who do not wear it, but whose hearts are much more pure; Allah is the only one who can judge what is in the hearts of wo/mankind…I just offer an opinion to whomever walks past me on the street.

Having said that, we can now get to me, which is what everything boils down to on this blog.

For your blogMistress, my thoughts currently stand at this: Hijab will not be something I will do at the beginning of my spiritual journey, but rather, while along it. (There can never be an ‘at the end of it’ to such a journey.) Hijab will neither purify my heart, nor will it protect me from myself. (What it would do is signal that we are Muslimaat, and can, when we are ourselves lacking strength, create a barrier between ourselves and that which we have been told to avoid.)

I’ve seen many women take the decision to wear Hijab while mired in severe circumstance. They have done it for the exact reason I stated above. More often than not, these women have removed the Hijab when the situation they were previously in was resolved – and if ever you wish to flip Him the bird (staghfara Allah al3azzem, sorry!), then one surefire way to do it is to remove your Hijab. Or so goes the argument, one of which I am not convinced.

Having written that, please understand that what I am about to write does not pertain to all, but is something I have noticed when this particular decision is taken in these specific circumstances. Unfortunately, and usually, the Hijab becomes the be-all and end-all of some. The touchstone of their Iman (Faith) rests on their Hijab. They misunderstand it as both the only and also the final means to Allah, making Islam = Hijab = Iman, forgetting the multiplicity of other Muslim characteristics We have to learn and exercise (e.g. not gossiping, judging, being envious of or jealous of others, not being selfish and wanting for oneself what you would not have others be granted, etc. & OH! Not eating bacon. (Try beef jerky instead, y’all.)).

Perhaps my biggest fear would be that wearing Hijab would be a band-aid solution to a much deeper struggle, one that can only be resolved by being honest with myself about myself. In laymen’s terms, I mean that wearing Hijab can not possibly rectify the darker recesses of one’s character; the ones which may have led them to behave in a certain manner / which may have led them to their current difficult circumstance. When we commit a wrong, we always commit it against Allah. In tandem with that, we either commit a wrong against another or against ourselves. Band-aid solutions may be used as a means to avoid facing who we have betrayed and ultimately, this means that we avoid being honest with ourselves.

Take the modern day example of an alcoholic; their first step is admitting they have a drinking problem. That act is a means to facing one self and one’s own actions. It is, first and foremost, admitting there exists a problem that needs resolution. For me, wearing Hijab without having faced and improved myself may lead me to remove it in the future. I can’t risk it and so choose to not place myself in the situation from the beginning.

Arguably, there are some who can do the above in tandem; face themselves, while wearing Hijab. They will never go back on their decisions and they remain better than I and most likely, stronger than I. I understand my limitations and can’t lie to myself or Allah.

So. Where has all of the above left your blogMistress? Simple, actually. I am learning more about my own religion and I am working from the inside out. Rather than using the cloth as my barrier and guardian, I have chosen to use my Faith (my love for and fear of Allah). Ultimately, I have taken the decision that my Hijab will – when I finally do wear it, Inshalllah – be, not a means of protection, but rather, a means of outwardly stating what’s on the inside: Islam.

I hope that none of the above is perceived as any sort of judgment on anyone’s actions. There is only one judge in this world and He would not approve of my doing so for I can not see into the hearts of others. If I have offended you, please excuse my carelessness and know it is not my intention to do so.

My mum’s been in this country 28 years and speaks English good. Naturally, she has an accent that I find utterly adorable, most especially when instead of ‘Thank God’, she usually comes out with ‘Thanks God!’, like he’s right in front of her and sharing her cup of tea. One morning, we were speaking with the nurse who, after a 10 minute conversation with my mother, asked/stated ”You speak English?”

WTF, lady? Seriously?
My mother has been speaking in fluent English for ten minutes.

It occurred to me that I should respond Socratic with: “You have fashion troubles?” because although she was covered in a manner of cloth, she was wearing a Christmas sweater covered in reindeer, snowflakes, a baby Jesus and a Wal-Mart. Were I to stare at her sweater a little longer or spin it in the dryer backwards, it would tell me that I’m going to burn in hell because I am a Muslimah.

Mama is much more diplomatic and responds “Yes. Have we been speaking in a different language for the past ten minutes?” with a little laugh that queues the nurse’s own laugher alongside that of the baby Jesus’.

Speaking of unfortunate fashion choices, I was walking through the main shopping centre located downtown a few days back minding my own business. I happen to be a people watcher and as people watchers are wont to doing, I watch people on a regular basis. I do this in an effort to make grandiose generalizations about their lifestyle, political leanings and personal break-up habits. I walked past this one woman who was wearing white patent leather boots over her jeans. With this, she was also wearing a black patent leather jacket, a white scarf and a white patent leather golf cap tilted & sideways. I recognized her because the glare which came off her patent leather wear brought me to my knees in the middle of St-Laurent.

(A) If you wear caps, fedoras, baseball hats, earmuffs, earphones, and/or headbands, I beg you to please please please never tilt it sideways. Except for perhaps J who lives here, and in whose profile picture there is a photo of a cap sideways and it actually looks surprisingly charming, there is no one on this earth who may be able to pull it off.

(B) Honestly, fashion sense is like dancing. You’ve either got it, or you will never find it, let alone use it wisely. What you will do is be seduced to the point of complete idiocy. I am a masterful dancer. I know this because people stare and point in awe whenever I get busy on a dancefloor. They wish they were I, dancing. I also have awesome fashion sense, Alhamdulilah, and for this reason, I would never tilt to the side anything I wear on my head.

(C) And speaking of wearing things on my head, I am considering wearing Hijab…or at the very least, promising Allah that by a certain age, I will be wearing it. I have been playing with different scarves and wraps and means of putting it on and I have become relatively partial to a couple of really pretty ones (knowing full well that ‘pretty’ has nothing to do with it). We’ll see, Inshallah.

I’ve received a ton of emails about this remark. I am not going to do it any time soon, but I have been thinking about it and the greater meaning of it. I should have clarified that, although your responses have been lovely, thank you. (Ultimately: Without lying to you, the bottom line is that I am currently much much too vain to wear Hijab. And to take such a decision when “under duress” of any sort, is never a good idea.)

Speaking of alcoholics, here’s a recent conversation had:
Boy: I have vices.
Girl: Vices?
Boy: Yeah. Vices, dude.
Girl no.2: That’s coooool.
Boy: Yeeeeeeah.
Girl: Vices aren’t ‘cool’. Besides. Real men get straight to addictions without wasting anyone’s time with ‘vices’.

As an aside: Late last month when I wrote much of this entry, I was waiting for someone to finish day surgery and I wrote: I am surrounded by sick people. I don’t entirely mind, but I’m wondering if I should perhaps move to another part of the hospital, such as the parking lot, where I am less likely to catch anything.

I chose to instead stay where I was and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations in order to figure out what they were in for…right before I found myself reading the mint green booklet of rules and regulations titled Aren’t you excited you’re having surgery? WE ARE! which triggered my own personal queue to leave.

I adopted another child.
That makes three that I support financially on a monthly basis, Alhamdulilah. I can’t adopt physically at the moment, but a very important part of my future will be to physically bring one child into my family, Inshallah.

If you haven’t made your resolution yet, consider making one for yourself (as is the norm, they’re usually something akin to “I shall lose my fat a** this year…”) and one for this world. Email me if you want some direction.

I’ve not been able to write substantially these past couple of weeks because I’ve not had much of an appetite for anything. Usually, it’s writing that calms me, but this time around I’ve not been able to either do or focus on anything outside of a couple of situations that have pulled my attention into a black hole. Recognizing that, I’ve been forcing myself to write out little stupidities to focus on something outside of everything else that’s currently going on…what follows are the very stupidities I’ve been working on. If you manage to forgive their boring nature, you may find something interesting in them, anyway.

.1. I was in the gym a few days back and took my very first executive decision on behalf of Maha Inc. I decided that the only type of Crack for this girl is first and foremost The Stiletto.

A while back, I posted a photo of my first platformed Crack. I was born for The Stiletto, because The Platform makes me wobbly. For some strange reason, it also makes me stare at the ground while walking…most likely because I expect The Platform to introduce me – on an intimate level – to the pavement.

I am currently having dreams about the last pair of Crack I fell in love with and didn’t purchase while in NYC. I’d never done that before, never actually not purchased Crack when I saw it and felt an immediate chemistry with the Crack. At the time, I was standing in a corner store on 5th and imagined that moment to be a turning point, a point of maturity in my life.

Unfortunately, this mistake has turned into a trauma because I can’t stop thinking about them and am attempting to seek them out on line. I believe the brand was Hype, but I could be mistaken. They were open-toed leopard print Stiletto Crack with a diamond buckle on the front and a red lacquered heel.

And so it is with this in mind that I have made my second executive decision: When I see The Crack and I love The Crack, I must immediately buy The Crack.

I don’t mind occasionally being floored by the depth of my stupidity, but I can’t tolerate actively instigating such thoughts, most especially not when it comes to Stiletto Crack.

.2. I love babies. All of them. And this Christmas, I received no less than 7 Christmas cards with photos of other people’s children…and other is in italics because God damn it, I want my own.

Email me if you’re a taker.

Anyway, back to the story at hand.

In years past, I only received two photos of this sort. 2006 has been a busy year for my friends. In case I don’t get busy as they did in the coming year, I have taken the third executive decision that: I too will include a photo in my next holiday greeting card.

I will include a photo of my most prized pair of Stiletto Crack, purchased during the year prior. I may wrap them in a pink baby blanket, for the sake of humour, but otherwise, photos of Crack it is.

Consider yourselves forewarned.

.3. A couple of weeks back, I was speaking with A from my French school. In November, he moved to his new home and he’d still not completely unpacked. In preparation for the Holidays and The Coming Of His Family, he had to finish up quickity split.

I got home later that day and was faced with the reality that although I had poked fun at A for not having completed his unpacking, I too had not completed my unpacking. I slowly entered my storage room and met the stares of the seven boxes still unpacked, nearly one full year later. They dared me to open them up and discover their insides. Open them up I did.

Apart from finding my old law school books, I discovered that one box was filled with paraphernalia from the time I was in love with The Latino Bisexual, Ricky Martin. Scandalized and shocked I was by the amount of utter sh*t I had compiled, thought was important enough to pack and then move to my new home. A moment such as this gives rise to above sentiment of ‘being floored by my own stupidity’, but the Latino Bisexual moment is a moment I am willing to engage, unlike that initiated by the trauma of missing out on Stiletto Crack.

If anything, it was a fun discovery for the videotapes were hilarious, the interviews so contrived,** and as much as I loathe to admit it, the photos were lovely to ogle. Notwithstanding the amount of make-up he uses, he is a beautiful man.

**I was reading aloud and doing the following:
Interviewer: “What is the sexiest thing a woman can do?”
Ricky Martin: “Know how to pamper herself”
Maha: “Shhhhhhh, Ricky! Just shhhhhhh! Be pretty and shhhhhhh!”

.4. Happy New Year.

.5. This would be a great time for something extraordinary to happen in my life.