Crack at an Embassy Dinner

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.

I Recommend

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.

Quote of this day

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.

My 1st Baby Step to Collecting

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…

On reading this Category

Best to scroll all the way down this page and read right from the beginning.

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My guilty pleasure

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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Don't ever confuse

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).

Every Girl Should Have ‘One’

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…

Dispatch no 2, Toronto: The Arrival

"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...)

Quote of this day

"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.)

Is this real?

Uh. My friend sent this to me with the caption 'OH MY GOD'.



Does anyone know if this is real? Because if it is, and if they're still rocking and rolling, I want to join and spin with the boy who seems to dance to the beat of his own drummer...and fiddle...and harmonica...and maybe even the ping of his own triangle...

Dispatch no 1, Toronto: Dork, extraordinaire

Seated across from me on the airplane, I knew I recognised him but I couldn't quite place from which television show. Because...it's difficult to name That Canadian Actor under the best of circumstance - seated behind and at an angle made it slightly more difficult.

While waiting for our luggage, this gentleman and I chatted and I instinctively KNEW. I knew how I knew him, and I was so excited! For a brief moment, I hesitated to ask but then gave in because I thought he would feel really good if a girl in my age category told him she remembered him and loved him on L.A. Law. I didn't mind that he wasn't a fellow Canadian; a girl's allowed to make mistakes.

Discreetly, I leaned over and enquired: “Are you the gentleman from LA Law?”

Richard Dysart:



To which he graciously and as equally discreetly responded with: “No, I used to be the leader of the opposition…”

Bill Graham:



My middle name is: Smooth.

Thank you.

(P.S. I also saw Roméo Dallaire, who I recognized without problem. I didn’t approach him because it’s Roméo and when one sees the General, one should just ogle in great wonder and awe.

THEN I saw The Naked Chef, Jamie Oliver, only he was fully clothed. Lovely man, of whom I took a few photos that you can find at this link. The photos make it look as though I was hiding in a bush, which maybe I was...)

In response to the notion

that believing in God is the first step to becoming a killer, en masse.

I would add: on many levels, this particular line of thinking seems the natural route for those who possess neither the strength of character nor the bravery to look inside and ask themselves what it is that makes us behave the way we do, because whether we like it or not, how we interpret is an extension of how we behave. The way we view the world is the way we interact with it and how we position ourselves within it with respect to ourselves as well as others. More precisely, it is this interpretation which denotes what we expect to receive from 'this world' - and this reality one can see most clearly in those whose trump card is the martyr card.(1)

It's easier to say 'I blame you' rather than facing, understanding and ultimately changing 'my culpability'. What better way to eschew responsibility than to pin it on belief in the Almighty? Funny that, because pinning the blame on even the idea of His existence renders it necessary that others believe in Him; because for the likes of those who would carry the above belief, they would be lost if they had nothing to rage against. A fine line if ever there was one.

**********
(1) If the above seems severely judgemental, that's because it is. It is a response to any a**hole who would look at me and tell me that I'm on my way to becoming a killer, en masse. That sort of poison deserves to be met with an equal amount of offensiveness.

So: If you don't believe in God and if you also don't believe that I am en route to becoming a murderer, then chill out 'cus the above post ain't about you.

So...

Janey was giving me 'directions' as thus: "Go South - that means down the hill, towards a clock tower, Maha - blablabla" because she knows that directions confuse me to no end, especially when people get all technical and start using big words like North and West.

In preparation for the weekend, we were emailing back and forth lines such as: "YAY!!!!!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!!!! Less than 24 hours and I get to see your beautiful face!"

"Just come up to the building, say 'Baby Jane', I will hear you and I will come running to see your gorgeous face!"

"I LOVE YOU!"

"I LOVE YOU MORE!"

"love,
lame-o"

"You mean, love,
wonderful-o"

Pretty strange sh*t, I know. But Baby Jane is the only female in whose lap I could put my head, have her play with my hair and be completely comfortable. Furthermore, she's the only one of my exquisite friends who I have actually tucked into bed, and whose hair I've stroked until she fell asleep because she'd had a rough day. No one questioned her when saying "Maha is the best person to play with your hair! It's how I got to sleep!"

She's also the only one with whom I share a strange affection for poutine, with chili powder and a little mayo. (You did read that right.)

Anyway, I'm excited for this weekend both because I get to hang out with such a spectacular woman, but also because I also get to hang out with her mum, whose coming over tonight in order to get caught up. Janey's mama is a first class woman who shares my Crack fetish and who raised Janey with the rule "no boys on the second floor", as well as all of the proper lady-like guidelines of etiquette pertaining to hosting, guest-ing and general "tips and tricks every woman should know".

When Janey first moved to Toronto, she was living at home with mama in the heart of Toronto - we would breakfast every morning on the little iron patio that sat off the kitchen and which overlooked the massive backyard, and the drop off into nothing but green. There are only a few such places in the centre of Toronto, this being one of them. Mama always had a full breakfast and pot of coffee at the ready for us.

As for Toronto itself, I've not been back since a relatively psychotic weekend of partying in September of 2005 at the Toronto International Film Festival. The night Janey and I were together was the night we met Morgan Freeman and LL Cool J, the night I found out that Dylan McDermott was a little short, the evening I hung out with Kim Coates and made fun of people, as well as the first evening I was petitioned to be the third to a threesome and laughed so hard at the proposition that the retarded and likely disease-filled couple thought I was crying.(1)

We'll see what happens this weekend...but before I go, I strongly recommend you download the acoustic version of "You've Placed A Chill In My Heart" because Annie is a queen.

Have a warm and shiny weekend!
**********
(1) Update: Janey and I are both convinced this is false and that I have, in fact, been back to Toronto since 2005. The only thing of which we're certain is that it wasn't in 2007. Strange, how our collective memory sucks.

On Gift Giving

I get really excited about buying gifts for people - the same sort of excitement and happiness I receive when making and sending care-packages to people I love. At minimum, I'll spend a complete month (or more) trying to figure out what to buy someone, making certain that it not only is a reflection of their taste, but also my love for them and the strength of our relationship.

I drive all over the city, haunt the internet, order from eBay, elbow old ladies to get the last one, hide at the back of antique shops, rummage through the attics of strangers...and then get things engraved. I have very rarely only given one item as a gift, but rather several items that complete a puzzle and a message, each piece having had hours of thought and care placed into it. Among my most prized gift gives was a photo album Dianna and I made for Natasha while we were in Scotland. She had desperately wanted to join us, but simply could not and so we created a sign that read: We love you and can't wait to see you in Scotland, Tash! Random (and varied) Scots folk carried the sign and we photographed them - we had pictures of the elderly, infants, sheep, priests, actors, girls, queens, boys, families and statues holding the sign. When I gave her the photo album and the sign, she cried. Then I cried. Then one of our a**hole friends took a photo that Tash later added to the photo album itself.

For these same sentiments, I am quite nearly jumping out of my skin because of a particular gift I have found for one of my dearest and most cherished friends. I can't even hint at it because they'll know what it is as soon as I post anything. Suffice it to say THAT it is an antique that I stumbled upon and that is the perfect reflection of who they are. My friend has just purchased a new home and I fly out tomorrow to visit and along with a birthday gift that I still haven't purchased, I had to buy a house warming gift - a part of the house warming gift is this antique treasure which I've just found, the other part consisting of a slew of items I've been collecting for the past month and setting aside for the occasion. I'm totally psyched, which isn't a term I use often, but it's the perfect word. I promise to post photos as soon as I can.

Aside: Best gift received, for me, was the graduation ring that Baba gave me when we decided to restart our relationship.

Anyone care to share what their best gift given has been and consequent best gift received?

A Childhood Photograph

When my matrilineal grandmother - Teeta - died, found in her night table drawer was the most important photograph she’d carried with her throughout her life.

Teeta came from what remains one of the oldest and richest families in Jerusalem. My great grandfather was a man I never met, but about whom I still hear many great stories, both in terms of his incredible business mind and generosity to his children and community.

Apart from owning much of the farmland in Jerusalem, my great grandfather also owned much of the downtown core where the family home still stands, now a famous hotel, along with 56 shops remaining, both of which are on the same street as that of The Church of The Holy Sepulchre. Weekends and summers were spent in Ashkelon, once known by its Arabic name: Al Majdal, where Teeta swam every morning in the pool surrounded by their orange groves, and rode every evening as she was a trained equestrian.

My great grandfather was a very pious man and when he died, he wanted to make certain the following two things happened: (1) That his children worked hard to ensure their own children were well taken care of; and, (2) That the community would benefit from his riches. For these reasons, his will indicated that for the duration of the lives of his children, they would receive the rental fees from the shops in the Old City, as well as any money generated by their farm lands. When the last of his children die, all of this money is to be funneled directly into the social welfare system for the needy (specifically: for orphans).

Although he spoiled his children, there was a limit to that grace and he taught them well that obligation and responsibility began with one’s family, and spread to the community.

It was a lone and particular photograph of Teeta and Saa’da - meaning 'happiness' - which was found in her night table after her death. Saa'da, an Arabian horse, was gifted to my grandmother by her father.

A black and white picture of my 12 year old Teeta with blonde hair, fair skin and hazel eyes. She wore a white dress, white socks and white shoes to match the white horse, perfectly groomed they both stood. Saa’da was sideways facing, looking at my grandmother, who was staring directly into the camera, filled with mischief, happiness, pride, and a million secrets ready to burst out of her as soon as the picture was taken. The energy of her leapt out of the photograph, and one couldn’t help laugh – not just smile, but actually laugh – when they saw the beauty of her youth, which is in so many ways, one of the purest of art forms gifted us by God.

When I was younger, I didn’t much pay attention to the relationship between Teeta and Seedo until the summer she had to go to the hospital. Seedo hardly ate, hardly slept, would spend his entire day next to her in the hospital – and when she came home, I remember standing at the top of the stairs as he held her hand and gently and patiently walked up with her, half-way stopping and bending his head to kiss her hand and tell her that the house had been filled with darkness in her absence. After 50 years of marriage and seven children, they still liked one another.

When Teeta died, Seedo stopped living, and died shortly thereafter.

As deeply as Teeta loved her life with Seedo and her children, she would occasionally tell me about Saa’da, and about the freedom of riding her. There were no rules for her while she was with Saa’da, neither obligation, nor consequence in the endless hours she’d spent with her.

Teeta had very strong opinions and was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted something; anything she pursued, she did it with justice and not a shred of selfishness. She ran her house with equal amounts of iron and love and her children and husband worshipped her for it. Being the first grandchild, I always remained a novelty and had access to secrets and stories the others didn’t.

She was a free spirit, Teeta, this being so obvious in that photograph with Saa’da. This spirit was dulled and fragmented by the hardship of war and occupation, that wouldn’t allow my Teeta to visit her childhood home in Ashkelon from 1948 – 1967. All of the land we still own, but the farmland is no longer workable as when Israel became, they placed a ban on the watering of farmland and so my family’s orange groves died, except for the few trees that stood beside the swimming pool. These same trees still stand today, but the orange groves were never rejuvenated.

More importantly was that Teeta’s own brother was murdered by the IDF in Khan Younis, after the nationalization of the Suez Canal. Awakened and pulled from his bed, alongside all of the men in the neighborhood, my great uncle and Teeta’s brother in law were among the first to be lined up against a wall and shot dead because they were young Palestinian men and that made them a danger; pre-emptive strike the essence to the actions of the State of Israel.

Later, she would have to endure the imprisonment of her husband for nine months, as he was deemed a political threat. Worse still was that her youngest boy would be taken to jail for being a part of a protest and while in jail, beaten so badly that he walked out a man with epilepsy.

The smile on Teeta’s face as a young woman always told a story far removed from the pictures themselves and the surroundings within. Eternally, there was something happening behind her eyes, always standing out from the rest of the men and women in the pictures. Even though it was until the day she passed that she had a strange mix of innocence and naughtiness, pride and humbleness, the young woman who once pulled you out of your reality and into her photograph was lost after 1948.

It’s only as an adult that I understand the seduction of Saa’da. It is innocence in a distilled form, and freedom in the greatest sense. Not as entirely real as Teeta or any of us ever imagine it to be, but when captured in a photograph, the feelings and representations are encapsulated, frozen and melancholy. Where we often lack perfection in every day, we find it in the stories we tell and the pictures we hold tightly.

It was no surprise to her children when they found a photo of Saa’da but none of themselves, as Saa’da was Teeta’s lament for freedom in all of its varied forms.

The perfect weekend

...filled with a lot of coffee, many bagels & cream cheese, Indian cuisine, Thai cuisine, seven movies, late night conversations and late day sleep-ins. My friend's new apartment is gorgeous and I am super dooper proud.

My favourite pictures from the weekend are:

Cactus


Barbazoo


Maha, night before, trying to move far away from my friend who was taking a photo that at its original range, would have allowed you to see quite clearly up my nose


Maha, morning after, wearing what has amounted to The World's Most Comfortable Woolen Sweater


Breakfast While Writing


I was barred from internet access all weekend, and I'm grateful for it.
(No. My friend doesn't want pictures of them posted.)

Aside: Even though you've enjoyed the photo stream as of late (thank you for the emails), I haven't had a moment to really sit down and write anything substantial because I've been so busy and I only have 28 hours in my day. I'm flying out of here on Friday for another long weekend, so I'm aiming to post something substantial before then.

(Sumaira: I just got off the phone with Amanda. Your comment was funny.)

Quote of this day

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." - Albert Einstein

...and the days of my life as of late have been drops of golden miracles.

A part of these golden droplets is that I'll be in a few different locations (in North America; overseas is next month, Inshallah) over the coming weekends, so I'll be sending you random postcards from wherever life takes me.

'Glam' Shots (aka 'If a Moroccan prostitute & a Russian prostitute had a child)

I chose Moroccan and Russian, because they are the crème de la crème and if I am to emulate any hooker, it would be a combination of the two. My family would be proud.

The following are what Major & Homer call 'Glam' Shots and it scares me they are both aware of this terminology...but I actually sort of dig the pictures as I don't usually go beyond mascara and kohl - and in these pictures, I've actually got a little eyeshadow on (hence the SuperTrash appeal).







Fiery: I am, once again, and to your great sorrow, wearing leggings. Let me tell you, my friend, the leggings with that black/grey mini dress and my red Mary-Jane Crack work as a show-stopper. I plan on living in the outfit until my a** hangs around the back of my knees and my children force them off me.

This picture I'm adding for good measure because of the sheer size of my head. When compared to that of beautiful quaint little Sarah, my over-sized head is comical and Godzilla like. It's huge, just huge, look (I call this shot 'Big Head Maha':



You can stalk our week of photos by visiting The Collection here. (Major took a ton of photos of my Crack - while I was wearing the different ones - and I should have them soon enough. And by 'soon enough' Major Time, I assume in the next 12 months.)

And then there are those for whom she does not turn at all

This is pretty cool...cool enough to be on this ultra cool blog where only the coolest of cool reside.

Apparently, I'm not the norm, for whom she spins anti-clockwise.(1) So, for the retarded, that means I see her spinning clockwise...and that means I am of the sort who:

uses feeling
"big picture" oriented
imagination rules
symbols and images
present and future
philosophy & religion
can "get it" (i.e. meaning)
believes
appreciates
spatial perception
knows object function
fantasy based
presents possibilities
impetuous
risk taking

Hallelujah, ameen. I don't think I'd want it any other way - although I love you and appreciate your left brained wisdom, my precious little Ranoon.

Have fun!

==========

(1) I can't get the dumb-dumb to turn anti-clockwise. She's like one of those freaking austereograms. Update: I DID IT! I DID IT! SHE'S SPINNING COUNTER CLOCKWISE BECAUSE I WANT HER TO!!!!!! Wow. What a trip.

2006 Blog Fix - We tried to archive by year

But it doesn't seem to want to work, unfortunately. We tried to manage an archive by year, but we think it's something that's gotta be done by the Blogger folks themselves.

Greetings from my best friend's back yard

Where I am looking at these two precious things:

Nora May


& Trenty (who when I pointed my phone at him gave me this face)


We're about to have dinner & I hope you've all had a good weekend...

Conversations and such (Warning: Explicit)

You’re about to get insight into male-to-male conversations between brothers who love each other to death.

Disclaimer:: The following are some seriously crass quotes that are not the norm, but are funny and jaw-dropping enough that I really must post them. As all of my girls can attest, these young men don’t speak like this anywhere but when they’re together…

Disclaimer no 2: The following is by no means a fair representation of the boys. Remember that these are the same boys who, two nights back, made me a huge glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and filled it with honey because I was starting to get a scratchy throat. They came into my room and placed it on next to my bed and then woke me to tell me to drink it throughout the night before kissing me on the forehead and leaving.

Enjoy!

“Good morning.”
“Hey man.”
“Oh. Uhm…did I mention? My d*ck’s bigger than yours.”

“Dude. I’m totally gonna steal all of your wives.”
“I don’t plan on getting’ married.”
“That’s ‘cus you’re a little b*tch.”

“That girl’s SO hot.”
“She forgot to put her pants on.”
“I think she likes me, too, man. She winked at me when I opened the door.”
“She’s just being nice to a retard.”

“That’s bullsh*t, there’s no way you would’ve partied with Ragheb then. You would’ve been 13.”
“Dude. I’ve had fake I.D. since I was 13.”
“Whatever.”
“Major, I was 18 before you were 16, man.”
“Shut up”
“Ha ha. You’re such a little goodie-goodie. Go back to mama, man.”
“Shut up.”

“How can you not think Eva Mendes is hot?”
“She looks like a man.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“That’s ‘cus you don’t know what a real woman looks like.”
“Shut up.”
“Dude. You wouldn’t know real p*ssy if it slapped you across the face.”

“I was thinkin’ about opening a t*tty bar. Is it haram? I mean, I’m not doing the stripping.”
“Well. There’s no surrah that says: ‘Thou shalt not open a t*tty bar’, but I’m pretty sure you can deduce that the answer is ‘Yea, it’s haram.”
“Damn. I was hoping I could get away on the technicality.”

Strange boys.

The PIGS! come in different shapes and sizes and don't always pull their weenies out to show you

Every once in a while I am approached in a very strange and unusual manner not befitting the telling in a blog of this sort. A rule I'm throwing out right now.

Like the one time I went jogging - a very unusual activity, indeed - and came back to the apartment looking like sh*t with my face as red as a baboon's a*s, my hair a mess of incredible proportion and wearing sweats. I stepped into the elevator and The PIG! inside stared at me, through my clothes and into my skin for the duration of the ride. I stared back, with my meanest 'Oh yeah?' and then ran out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened. On the wrong floor.

And then another time when I used to hang at this one particular cappuccino bar and drink at least four lattes a day. It was owned by an Italian family who adored me. I knew a couple of the girls that worked there but I never bothered with the boys because they were boys and I had books to read. The family liked me a lot (teaching me to say many Italian things such as: 'mi estomica mi fa mallay' but not correctly spelling it) and so when one of their young coffee makers was fired without reason and everyone avoided the subject around me, I suspected something was up. I later found out that it was because the owner overheard him saying: "I'd like her to wrap that mouth around my YOUknowWHAT" only he didn't say YOUknowWHAT, he used the word that starts with a 'c' and ends much like a dock.

(Obviously: 'Fellatio' wasn't among the words the Italian family did teach me.)

Which leads me to earlier today when I was hanging out quietly waiting for my bus, minding my own business and staring down at my new Crack, with much admiration and still a little surprise at their beauty. I may have been mumbling to myself, but that's only because the battery on my iPod died and I needed company.

Anyway, I looked up and noticed a man of no more than 5' in a yellow khaki suit, black shoes, olive green trench coat, large sunglasses, much hair gel and a gigantic pimp-like cross (hello, Jesus) studded with diamonds and covering half of his petite unmanly torso. The reason I was able to tag so much of how he looked is because I was blinded and surprised by the combination of hair gel and diamond studs, that I stared in awe and confusion, tilting my head to the side like a basset hound.

As he approached, I noticed he was heading directly at me - this, I could have confirmed had it not been for the glare emanating from him, like a disco ball. I may have also been a little taken aback by his smallness and obvious Passion For The Christ and yellow khaki.

Right before he could have smashed into me, he shimmied his short stubby legs a little to my left and grazed 2/3 of me because of his shortness. As he did this, he whispered: "Nice mouth to suck on".(1)

He was so close, I felt his breath; A powerful gust considering his smallness.

Because I'd already been lulled by his overall presentation, I didn't know what had happened in time for me to say anything like YUCK YOU! YOU'RE GROSS. AND 'TINY'.
or
YUCK YOU! JESUS WOULDN'T APPROVE! AND. YOU'RE TIIIIII-NEEEE.
(That's right: I wrote 'Yuck You'.)

When it had sunk in, I was physically revolted that The Trolling PIG! had a moment where he pictured my mouth in any position apart from 'speaking' and 'laughing'.

So next you're in downtown Ottawa and you see a PIG!gy troll that fits the above description please yell 'YUCK YOU!' on my behalf and then tell me all about it. If you're near a hose, fell free to hose him down and see if he shrinks any more.

================
(1) I once had someone whisper a simple 'You have beautiful lips' a few hours after I met him and that was acceptable. Nay, it was downright sexy and made my heart jump into my brain and then back into my little toe and then way back into my funny bone. But he's a Fox. (Peekaboo!)

Dietrich and Aalya

They did it! They did it! They did it! (With only the knowledge of their families.)



Alf mabrook!