November 29, 2007
Went to a special embassy dinner Thursday evening at the National Press Club. The room was filled with people who all had the same first name: Excellency (what a neat coincidence!). I love to socialize and was in my element from beginning to end, with only one problem.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays I am ON CAMPUS. ‘Professore’ starts his class at 4 and so I am obligated to get out of bed at approximately 5:45 a.m. in order to be at my desk by 7. I leave the office at 3 p.m. and walk the approximate mile and a half to get ON CAMPUS. On Thursday evening, I idiotically chose to then walk to the National Press Club another mile away.
This shouldn’t be a problem, only…I was wearing Not Really A Wedge Heel Crack Wedge. By the time I arrived at the dinner and was being pulled around the room to start sentences with “So GOOD to see you…” and end them with “I adore your jewelry…we really need to get together for lunch. And SOON!” I was ready to collapse. And I don’t mean collapse a teeny tiny bit, but collapse in melodramatic fashion and take three or four Excellencies with me.
While seated at our table, I made the mistake of laying off the crack. I’M A GIRL WHO OFTEN-TIMES USES CRACK, HOW COULD I HAVE MADE SUCH A TACTICAL ERROR? Needless to say, my feet expanded at an alarming rate and when it came time for more socializing, taking a crack hit was more akin to being showered with shards of glass and rusted nails. BUT I DID IT, AND, I MANAGED TO SOCIALIZE FOR ANOTHER HOUR ON MY FEET. By the end of this hour, I was short-tempered, impatient and ill-mannered not giving a rat’s ass what the next story or punch-line was going to be because I don’t care about where you went to school or who you went to school with and Newfie jokes are so 80s anyway and WHY ARE YOU TALKING SO SLOW? I was staring at people and willing them with my super powered eyes to HURRY UP OR SHUT UP (because I can do that sort of thing). But Excellency would have none of it. At this point in the evening, I was hanging out with my ovary donour, mom, and kept trying to get her to leave. How did I do this? I kept poking her in the back while people were in mid-sentence. WHO CARES ABOUT THEM? my eyes screamed. She would have none of it, either.
After saying my last goodbye, I noticed that I was standing braced and against a chair leaning with my full weight on that chair. It took everything for me to actually move and perform the Cirque du Soleil acrobatic of walking. My mother told me it was inappropriate for me to use the chair as a walker. As she wrenched my hands free, I almost hit her.
As soon as I slipped out of the National Press Club of HELL, I went off the crack and walked around with naked feat. It was raining and it felt good. So good that I almost cried.
Some other notable points during the course of that evening:
- Among the people seated at our table were two Catholic priests, one of whom was in his 90s, the other a man whose known me since I was a wee thing no taller than two feet high on crack (me, not the Priest). I kept staring at the former because I was certain he would, sooner rather than later, fall asleep and never wake up. He didn’t. Phew. I wanted to give him a big squeeze but feared he would break if I did. I kept myself in check and my hands behind my back.
The later Priest and I discussed the inner workings of Opus Dei (yes: the albino in Davinci) and the philosophical underpinnings and their natural extension to oppression. After positing my opinion of Opus Dei, I found out that his brother’s an Opus Dei member. (Ooooh. Maybe they’re the ones trying to break into my account?) I’ll probably die “accidentally” for what I said; if I do, make certain to investigate, SVU style s’il vous plait.
- My father kept pulling me all over the Press Club to introduce me to people (I couldn’t let MY FATHER THE FEMINIST in on the agony of my crack hit because he refers to crack as ‘tools to oppress women and I don’t understand why you feel you have to wear them, just look at how comfortable I am in my squeeky clean white cushioned running shoes never mind that I hardly walk anywhere and prefer to instead drive around in my luxury Mercedes and what were we talking about anyway?’). At one point, one man made the following “joke”: And here I was thinking that (insert baba’s name) was a lucky man to have such a beauty at his side! I thought he SCORED! HA HA HA! I SEE WHERE YOU GET YOUR LOOKS, AAAAAAHAHAHA! I threw up a little in my mouth, but managed to keep smiling. I offered the diplomatic response of: “Why in the HELL would I date someone OLD? Are you CRAZY OR JUST DRUNK?” only it sounded like: “hee hee, that’s funny. You’re sweet. I get my looks from my mom, dumb ass.”
- At one point during a speech being given by His Excellency Something Or Other, some guy yelled out “VIVE LE PALESTINE LIBRE!” It stunned me and gave me the hiccups.
November 28, 2007
that during this coming holiday season, and among the varied books you read, you take some time to walk carefully through Reza Aslan’s No god but God; The Origins, Evolution and Future of Islam.
It’s in this month that millions of Muslims will make their way to Mecca for the pilgrimage. Take a moment to think about them and the world they are entering. Try and understand why they are about to take such a difficult journey, where they stand as Muslims and where the future generations of Muslims may stand.
You may be misunderstanding your environment, believing that this has nothing to do with you, when the reality is the pilgrimage – in exactly the same way Christmas and Hanukah affect and touch us all – is a part of you in some way or another. Look at it, see how that is, peek over the slightly high walls and learn a little more about that side of you that you’ve never before examined. You may be surprised by what you find…
Your mind has a natural inclination for turning toward knowledge; consider feeding it something new this month.
November 26, 2007
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
- Wislawa Szymborska, ‘Nothing Twice’ in view with a grain of sand.
November 24, 2007
Caballo
Every evening, I walk past the Jason Duval Sussex Studio, and covet the work of a particular artist by the name of Marcelo Suaznabar.
The ingredients of his work are:
2 cups Pure Fantasy
3/4 cup Sinister
2 tbsp A Hint of Creepy
pinch of A Childhood Nightmare
& with the garnish of a very slow cello
And I’ve not been able to help but savor each and every single drip and drop’s thickness, sweetness and lushness.
I used to stand outside The Studio and stare through the window at this one particular piece because it took my breath away:
I’ve always known that I wanted to invest in art, and as of yesterday, I am officially the owner of Suaznabar’s Caballo, Spanish for ‘horse’. Notice how he’s (being an oil painting) lacquered with (a) resin. Once he’s framed, I’ll post another picture for you…
He’s Mine, he’s Mine! My very first piece of art work! I can’t begin to tell you how excited and happy I am! HE’S MINE! Mine! Mine! Mine! I’m officially an owner of a real and true and precious piece of art that I love love love and about which I will probably have to call the insurance company. Miiiiiiine!
(I know that you’re thinking how that last paragraph is a clear indication of my maturity – a maturity that deserves to be invested in a piece of art.)
Aside, but not really: Jason Duval
Whenever I stood outside and stared at the above duck / chicken, I always imagined that Jason Duval was an old man. A really old man – the kind of old man that frowned upon younger girls purchasing art because they thought it was ‘pretty’.
Yesterday evening, I discovered that Jason Duval is in fact a 33 year-old BOY! Check out how he impressed me: We met briefly on Thursday evening, and on Friday afternoon I rang back to discuss MINE! Caballo. Before I told him who I was, he recognized my voice because he said he recognized the energy. So not only is he interesting in terms of his business sense, but he also holds a unique ability to recognize ‘energy’. (A big Bravo! to Jason for this 7th sense.)
Actually…Jason’s two younger brothers are equally interesting as they own the gym at the other end of Sussex Drive, atop the Metropolitain Brasserie Restaurant and through which’s windows you can see people bobbing up and down on gym equipment (I usually watch them while seated across the street enjoying a latte and reading a book).
If ever you’re in Ottawa, I strongly encourage you to drop into The Sussex Studio and enjoy the beautiful works and the even better service. You’ll thank me, I promise…
November 21, 2007
Best to scroll all the way down this page and read right from the beginning.
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November 21, 2007
When I need a good laugh or a virtual warm hug from a girlfriend, I turn to The Fug Girls. They are equal parts hysterical as they are brilliant.
My day has been filled with angst since I posted about the Saudi Arabian woman and the ruling against her. My day was also quite busy and it is only now (at 3.30pm) that I am eating my lunch. Trying to ward off further anxiety, I went for a walk and came back to my salad and The Fug Girls.
When I originally wrote the entry about the Saudi girl, it was in CAPS EVERY SINGLE WORD ESPECIALLY THE EFF ONE. And then I calmed down and revisited and removed the all caps and rewrote and calmed down some more and finally posted. And so it was with great pleasure (and laughing) that I read the Fugalization of Kid Rock here. Enjoy!
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November 21, 2007
This disgusting, vile, repugnant backwards form of thinking with who I am, what I represent, what my Faith means to me, how it is executed within my family and my community, how it will be taught to my children, how I choose to live it, how I choose to interpret it and the love I carry for it in my heart.
There is no learned Muslim – male of female – who would tell you that this court decision is defensible in any other Islamic court of law. It is defensible ONLY in a country that calls itself ‘Muslim’ and uses that very lie to justify a continued and abhorrent oppression of its women; a country that attempts to render women completely impotent at every turn of life.
Disgusting is this court decision and Saudi’s despicable interpretation of a beautiful, kind, forgiving and gentle religion that was the first to give women equal rights and equal power and equal status. They have made a mockery of it and all who it has served to protect for 1400 years.
And here’s my punishment to impart: Each one of the ‘Judges’ is raped 28 times and then their genitals sliced off so as to ensure they never lure another rape. How dare they commit a woman to such punishment in the name of MY religion.
To anyone who has half a brain, please DO NOT misunderstand this court decision as a representation of Islam, for the only thing it represents is that country’s fear of an equal and empowered woman. I am really much too enraged to post anything articulate on this subject and so I recommend you instead read this particular response to the ruling.
Aside: This is NOT a religious issue. This is an issue that is, at its core, one about gender politics but manipulating the faith of Islam to its benefit. If you are male or female, Muslim or otherwise, this issue is about you. There is a duty here to speak loud and clear against this sort of injustice because today’s embodiment is the young woman in Saudi Arabia, tomorrow it may be our own daughters in any other part of the world. Do not wait until it comes knocking at your front door.
Aside no 2: Ask yourself where the British and American condemnation (it is not enough for the Americans to say they were ‘astonished’ by the ruling as that is like saying the sky is blue) of this ruling is – it will not come, and should it come, it will be as quiet as a lamb because Saudi Arabia is allied with the USA and Britain. Petrol / Money are here key issues. Had this decision been taken in Iran, both the American and the British administrations would have used the opportunity to point to the ‘barbarianism’ and lack of freedom, using it as further leverage to attack. Petrol / Money are here also key issues. Open your eyes if you’ve not done so already.
Aside no 3: Wahhabi – NOT Sunni – is the ruling ‘Islamic’ ideology in Saudi, and it is currently being called ‘conservative’, which it is anything but. Wahhabism is a strictly literal – and therefore psychopathic – interpretation of Islam. It would be the equivalent of how a Jewish settler would read the Torah, and how a Christian would be an Evangelist (or Mel Gibson).
November 20, 2007
Initial Aside: The boy discussed below is a good friend of mine and is single; if you are in the UK and wish to meet him, let me know! Am not at all beyond pimping my single friends…and have I mentioned? He’s single…
By ‘One’, I mean her very own personal British Special Air Service Officer. I found Mine last year in Beirut – he is of the Air Troop variety, flying out of planes, doing ‘stuff’ which he can not even allude to, and then somehow super-leaping back to the airplane.
I nicknamed him ‘Killer’. Only I didn’t tell him about his nickname, for fear that he would parachute into my hotel room, ‘Killer’ me, and then leave without a trace. (He’ll know now that it’s on here; Hi Killer!)
How to meet and nab an SAS Boy for yourself
Obviously, you will need to be located in a war torn region. Look for the boys jogging and smiling as bombs drop around them; quite likely, they are of the SAS variety.
If you are really adventurous, hang out near cubby holes where ‘insurgents’ (but only those defined as such by the lucky few not belonging to The Axis of Evil) hide and make chai.
If you are not too adventurous, there’s always the internet café of said war torn region. Spy the only boys who are reading neither the news nor the most recent updates titled Where Can You Hide Today?; they will be wearing shorts, t-shirts, sporting a tan and using a British tongue nearly incomprehensible. If you listen closely, they will make subtle ‘vrooming’ sounds as they move their mouse.
My Own SAS Boy and I met in the business centre of his hotel (my hotel sat across the street with a sick internet connection). I didn’t know how to work the computer, he helped me manage and we got to chatting. He had seen me the night prior – a memory I do not hold – when I was lost and asked him if he was Australian. (In my proper defence, I was told that we (Canadians) were to be hanging out with them (Australians); I saw a blonde, heard an accent and so approached. Very simple equation if ever there was one, little did I know the level of treachery I had committed when I asked a Brit – an SAS one, to boot – if he was an Aussie.)
On the physical size of The SAS Boy
They appear ‘small’ (please don’t Killer me) – My Own being perhaps 5’9”, but they’re packed with strong fibre goodness which allows them to take out a man thrice their height and ten times their weight. Upon great reflection, I do think the compact nature of the SAS Boy has to do with the agility required to leap tall buildings and propel oneself from planes, landing squarely in cubby holes 10,000 feet below.
They are, for those of you interested in knowing, rock hard. I threw random items at Mine and they bounced off as though hitting a brick wall. Eventually, Mine asked me to stop being a child and to stop throwing random objects at him. I mumbled and pouted and he finally let me throw a tire at him as a farewell to the activity of throwing.
On the character trait of The SAS Boy
Focussed.
Determined.
Alpha.
Male.
Fear-LESS.
These are not Boys with whom one should mess about. While walking around Beirut with My Own SAS Boy, I can tell you that I felt very safe. Very safe, indeed; the safest, in fact. There’s something about their line of duty that makes them radiate an aura of complete and total blanket safety (unless, of course, you’re their target).
The word ‘hesitate’ does not exist in their vocabulary, and for that they are to be admired, as it runs into all aspects of their lives, not just the physical embodiment of their ‘work’. Case in point: Within moments of teaching your BlogMistress how to work her computer, My Own SAS Boy asked to take me for a coffee. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so I accepted.)
After coffee was over, he asked to take me for dinner. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so goes the rest of the story.)
Nothing stands in their way and if an SAS Boy wants something, he does what is needed to make certain he gets it. And this I mean literally; nothing stops them, neither physically nor spiritually – it’s a pretty spectacular thing to watch as it drips from them and engages all aspects of everything they do and touch.
On the nature of conversation with The SAS Boy
You will not be surprised to learn that among one of the first lines of conversation I had with My Own SAS Boy was “So…do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is wrong?” and then “So…uhm…will I, like, one day be sitting in my living room in Palestine and you’ll fly through a window and Killer me MEANING you may one day get wrong orders MEANING have you ever wondered if you’ve already received wrong orders MEANING have you ever Killered anyone?”
Lucky I that Mine has a sense of humour and answered all of my questions, even if it was a mere “I really can’t answer that!” which I think is code for That’s The Line That Wins Most Chicks. But I’m relentless and he nicknamed me ‘Unnie Ot’ which is Canadian to the British ‘Honey Pot’. I stared in wonder and confusion, looking for a translation on the wall, the floor and even the window as I had no idea what that was. Nowhere was there closed captioning for the British Hearing Impaired. (Stupid, Beirut.) Mine was nice enough to finally tell me that ‘Honey Pot’ is, apparently, a term of endearment used to describe someone who can pull secrets from people very easily. Upon hearing this definition, I smiled and asked: “So, was it you who caught Saddam? And have you Killered anyone? And can you fix the World Cup?”
On the reliability / loyalty of The SAS Boy
Apparently, SAS Boys have to be at the ready at the drop of a pin, throw of a hat and wiggle of a bum. They all have a special beeper that, when it beeps, they have to meet at a certain location, are given their orders and then flown out. My Own SAS Boy was riding his motorcycle when he got beeped; he had to leave it and his keys with his friend so he could fly to Beirut within two hours. This would mislead one to believe they are unreliable to anyone but Her Majesty. As I can attest, I’ve had Mine for over a year now and even though we did lose touch for some small amount of time, he has always been kind enough to ping a Hello email and send others with winning titles such as ‘Photographs Only Men Would Take’.
Quite honestly, more of an effort made than most, and for that, My Own SAS Boy is special.
I have already secured the following from Mine, as he graciously accepted the responsibility should the need arise (and to which he is beholden until I drop dead). If ever I am in a state of terror and I need to be saved, then he shall do the saving. Because if we’re talking true loyalty, it never hurts to have that loyalty come from a friend who knows how to disentangle a b*mb, make one, crash through a window, leap off a building, outrun and outfight most all other men, make ‘vrooming’ noises as he uses a mouse, ride a motorcycle, and look good in a suit. (I knew you’d agree.)
*****
If My Own SAS Boy doesn’t Killer me for this entry, then perhaps he will allow me to post a photo of him as he flies out of an airplane. Check back later…
November 20, 2007
“Look outside, pretty lady! I*m standing directly across from no 8 price street! 
”
To which, in response, Baby Jane flew out of no 8 Price Street’s doors and ran across the street without looking both ways. I’d barely had time to put my mobile back in my pocket, reapply the lip glass, and button my coat before a blur of blonde was running toward me.
She was as breathtaking then as she’d always been and it felt like coming home when I saw her smile, my Baby Jane.
By the time we’d made it up to her second floor office, we’d discussed her wardrobe crisis that morning, my new Crack, my flight, her new office digs and former boss.
Within 10 minutes of being in her office, the following ensued, which serves as the end of this Dispatch from Tee-Off.
“chatter chatter chatter”
“CHATTER CHATTER chatter chatter CHATTER”
“Chatter?”
“CHA. TTER!“
“xyz abc 123″
“chatter!”
“def 456 i like coffee.”
“Wait, Maha, you’re all over the place – wait – I have to finish this story. Chatter.”
“…chatterchatterchatter…?”
“LOL!! OK, I forgot what I was saying! OH! CHATTER! CHATTER CHATTER!”
“abc.”
“LOL!”
“LOL! Maybe I should go. I’m too excited! What if you can’t do any work after I leave?”
“Maybe you should go – I’m turning into a Mexican Jumping Bean. There’s too much energy. Do you like my wall?”
“I LOVE IT! MaybeIShouldGoMaybeI’llWalkAroundAndSeeWhere’sMuch?CanIShop?WhenShouldIBeBack?Where’sBonnie?WhoseMaryEllen?”
“Yes! OHMYGODIDon’tKnowIfI’llBeAbleToGetAnyWorkDoneNow. HoltzIsRightDownTheStreet. GoAndBuySTUFF. 5O’clockSharp. She’sStillAtLunch. MyMother.”
“YourMother’sNameIsMaryEllen?”
“Yes.”
“IAlwaysJustThoughtSheWasMUMWhoKnewSheHadAName.”
“MEXICANJUMPINGBEAN! DoYouWantToGoOutTonight? OurNameIsOnTheListOfAReallyExclusiveClub.”
“I’llDoAnything.”
“Anything?”
“Anything!”
…and then I flew out of Janey’s window and landed in Holt Renfrew.
Stay tuned for more Baby Jane & Mahi Mahi Dispatches from Tee-Off.
(Psst! I’ll be blogging about Toronto in little pieces during the coming weeks because there’s simply too much to tell in one stream…)
November 19, 2007
“Dude. Just because it’s fashionable, it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea…”
- Maha, in Toronto talking to an H&M employee. (Wow – I’ve hit all kinds of arrogant now that I’m quoting myself on my own blog.)
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