Prolific Immigrant

As with many other (physical and otherwise) movements in my life, I walk fast. Due to this tendency, I sit here in a much disgruntled state with a slightly fatter than usual lip.

There are doors which declare quite proudly they are Automatic; this, to me, is an indication that they automatically swing open as you walk through them. I’ve never gone to war with one of these doors and so I assume that this is happening today only because I have started to walk faster.

Newton said: The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the resultant force producing it and takes place in the direction in which Maha is heading of that force.

In Mahanese, that means that when I am walking toward the ‘Automatic’ door, I don’t change my rate of momentum because I (wrongfully) believe the door and its declaration of Automatic-ism. The only way I would believe otherwise, to assume that the door is in fact a LIAR, is if my intentions were equally fib-induced.

Like, if I was walking at full speed toward the ‘Automatic’ door, knowing fully well that at the last moment and only after it had opened, would I take a hike and not walk through it, choosing to instead quickly scurry to the right of the door, remaining outside and then loudly mocking the ‘Automatic’ door and its naivete. But I’m not like that. Also, kindly note that I always maintain the same amount of momentum propelling me forward.

Newton went on to say that: A physical body will remain at rest, or continue to move at a constant velocity unless an outside out of service ‘Automatic’ door net force acts upon it.

Since I move forward towards all ‘Automatic’ doors at the same rate of unchanging momentum, it is safe to say that my physical body is not at rest and is moving at a constant velocity. Because I am a muppet and I never possess the intention of slowing down until I am at my destination, I tend to walk around, through and over anything that may be considered a ‘net force’ (this includes people, most notably those for whom I have little regard, little time and zero interest and so don’t stop to chat with, but instead offer the passing white lie “Hi! How nice to see you” as I continue to move forward at the same alarming rate, flavoured with a slight swivel of my body to face said individual but never actually stopping or slowing – though, arguably, the swivel motion would cause a break in mahaerodynamics and so a slight slowing of pace may be unavoidable damn those I don’t care about).

I forgot what I was writing.

OH! Right.

The final of Newton’s laws is the simple notion that: To every rapidly moving Maha action there is an equal and opposite Maha smashing into and ricocheting off of the ‘Automatic’ door that is out of service reaction.

When one adds Newton’s Laws to my behaviour and places them in front of an out of service ‘Automatic’ door ON WHICH THERE IS NO FRIKING SIGN INDICATING THAT IT’S FRIKING BROKEN, one becomes witness to me smashing my entire body – face first, please – into the ‘Automatic’ door, ricocheting back off the door and then standing dumbfounded (not unusual, I admit) amidst the human traffic while pontificating over the eternal and necessary philosophical puzzle of ‘ WTF?’ before proceeding to use all of my force in an effort to push my way through the Clearly I’m NOT ‘Automatic’ Today door, which is lighter than it appears, and so flies back to hit me a second time (in the face, please).(1)

(The above could serve as a metaphor for how I live my life.)

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(1) No Mahas were seriously injured during the research and writing of this blog entry.

“Children as young as 6 have been forced to have sex with aid workers and peacekeepers in return for food and money…”

I started crying when I read the above article, and it didn’t get much better as I was reading the report itself. Please read it if you can as it’s just a quick 37 pages. Then do something about it, either by donating money or sending an email or writing a letter or volunteering at a local shelter for abused children.

I’ve been reading a lot lately about child sexual abuse and exploitation and I can not actually coherently articulate what I think should happen to adult men** who so much as touch anyone below the age of 18. My ‘articulation’ can’t form a linear coherent and logical train of thought; it does, though, give rise to images of crowbars, bats, chains and rusty saws. Without exaggeration, the Saw films would look like a Disney undertaking compared to my imagination.

Sad aside: Did you know that most of the time the (vile, repugnant, unworthy of life) Molester is a trusted family member or someone that would be characterized as a family member, such as an ‘uncle’ figure?

Even sader aside: Most of the time, the parent(s) is aware that something is going on.

What would you have done to both the parent and that ‘uncle’? What would you do? Because there is nothing that you could tell me you would do that I’ve not already imagined I too would do. And then some. Or maybe: And then too much to merely call “some”.

Parents have a duty to protect their children with their life. As I type this, I choke on the mere thought that my parents would shirk this responsibility where I was concerned, as a child, or where I am concerned still, as an adult.

This duty, I believe, is among the most important – if not the most important in our lives. I can’t possibly imagine what kind of weak, pathetic, disparate character one would possess if they suspected that their child was being molested and DID NOTHING. I actually can’t imagine it. I can’t wrap my mind around it. I can’t think straight if I try to understand it and I loose all cool even writing about it.

When those duties are not taken seriously or with the ferociousness as the protection offered in the animal kingdom when a mama or baba has to protect their cubs, then that “parent” deserves to have every bone in their body broken. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about the cycle of violence; I don’t care if that parent was previously abused or neglected because there is NO EXCUSE. There is NO EXCUSE. You want to cry me a f*cking river about your past; I’ll tell you to f*ck off, still.

As with the situation referenced above, there is – and I don’t use this term lightly – an ‘evil’ to the character of those who would commit such a crime against children. A parent’s silence is an equally – if not more so – wretched complicity in the act.

There is no recourse, there is no apology, and there is no forgiveness of these individuals. There should only be death.

I’ve just donated to Save the Children (Canada); I recommend you consider doing the same. For those of you in the USA, you may donate here, while those of you in the UK, can make contact with the organization here.

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** Save for very rare situations, the impulse to sexually molest children does not seem to be part of the psychological composite of females, but is, rather, a compulsion that seems to lie deep within the male psyche.

Apologies for my going off topic, but the subject of child molestation is one of a handful of subjects that throw me into a tailspin…as you’ve just witnessed.

Maha: “Are you going to eat that lemon on your cola, ‘cus if you’re not, then can I have it?”
T: “GOD NO! I watched a show on lemons and they’re completely covered in e.coli and disgusting bacteria and people pick them up and drop them in the washrooms and on floors and restaurants never wash them because they’re covered in a peel! There are so many horrible diseases you can catch from lemons, it’s amazing and really sort of UGH just gross and filthy I can’t even see one without thinking about disease and it’s almost touching my cola! GROSS!”

(pause)

Maha: “So. Uhm…are you going to eat that lemon, ‘cus if you’re not…”
T: “Just take the damn lemon, already.”
Maha: “yay. shhh.”

“you love your girlfriend but she when you do be his friend”
your grammar be when it is with the illin’ really bad amigo.

“pantaloons pattern for petite ladies”
NO.

“what does a man mean when he calls you sweetie”
It means he’s in love with you and wants to marry you. Please feel free to start shopping for a wedding dress.

“groundhog female color”
EVIL.

“onion under armbit”
Hello, Arab.

“how to be the alpha male like tyler durden”
Sweetheart. If you need to ask that question, please understand that you’ll never be able to fulfill the answer.

“are libra women true whores?”
No. We’re ‘whore’ of the False variety. (& p.s. WTF?)

“do guys like to touch hair”
Yes. But only that of the “libra women true whore” sort.

“what does a typical libra female look like”
Look for the female with the two large scales on either side of her body.

“trumping pigs”
Really? Where? I’d like to see them, too, please.

“donkey flipbook”
ha ha ha. That’s just funny and I’m going to use that in a sentence soon. (At work in a meeting with the senior executives.)

There is a real and complete blog entry coming soon! Thanks for your patience and all of your wonderful and kind and hilarious emails.

“We have come and we have stolen their country…We must do everything to insure they never do return.”
- Israel’s first Prime Minister David Ben Gurion

“apartheid nature of Israel state”
- UN Resolution 338/339

Not everyone in the Jewish community celebrates this day. Please visit NION for more information.

I’ve been meaning to write about them for a while, and I’ve both kept forgetting and am so busy that time is slipping away at a fantastically rapid pace…

But tonight, I’m posting!

Recall Penelope, my orchid, who I had previously assumed was dead? Well…I thought that Penelope was nothing more than her stem, from which her pretty blooms peeked out and then fell off into oblivion. Now that I’ve articulated that, I am wondering just how stupid I really am.

So. I saw the pretty green leaves, but didn’t think they were associated with Penelope. I assumed that the flower people had added them next to Penelope to keep her company. I honestly didn’t think they were a part of her, not even when I started noticing that they were growing stuff. And by ‘stuff’, I mean more leaves. I was so excited that I immediately took photos of The Leaves Next to Dead Penelope and emailed them around with the subject heading: Can anyone tell me what kind of leaves these are? while the email itself asked aloud: What plant do they belong to, please? I’m confused because they were sitting next to my orchid and I don’t really know why. (I’ve never been one to shy away from sharing my stupidity with anyone willing to listen or read. Alhamdulilah.)

My friends are really lovely people with a great deal of tolerance, and so it was with slow and kind words that they told me those leaves were not mere company to Dead Penelope, but are in fact, a healthy and vibrant part of ALIVE PENELOPE!! SHE ISN’T DEAD!! SHE THRIVES AND IS BLOOMING LEAVES!! I can’t express to you my complete and total excitement about Penelope…

I didn’t kill her. (I was having panic attacks and that’s why I kept watering her once a week, because I didn’t want to be culpable for something over which I was a little custodian. It’s like some of the perennials I planted a few weeks back; three of whom I had accidentally planted above ground – not deeply enough into the soil – were dying and when I saw them last week, I thought of myself as a killer. I immediately took them out of the ground (it was so sad because I didn’t even have to dig. I just pulled and they came out. Like magic, only not.) I dug more, and then mixed their soil into the new soil and pretty much close to buried them. At least they’re not dead. And you can’t call me a killer.)

Look:

As for Hussy, my Cala Lilly, she is currently napping and will remain so for the next little while. While making certain I don’t disturb her sleep (so that when she wakes up, she’s well rested and ready to bloom beautiful flowers), I have to also be careful that I not completely forget her and kill her with neglect. Watering in very small amounts to keep her alive is key, apparently.

Here she is napping:

Also! I’ve purchased a spathiphyllum wallisii, or a ‘Peace Lily’, who I’ve yet to name (all suggestions are welcome). She is protected by this little hanging delight (previously a postcard, and now made to hang, I have different ones propped up across my office space):

Finally, KY. He’s doing just fine and sends his regards from his little corner in my office. You know he’s grumpy and likes to be left alone; please forgive him his not coming out this evening.

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In keeping with the theme of the above, please consider donating one or two dollars to this excellent cause.

It’s called: Bash The Muslim, Just Because. (Soft sell bigoted rhetoric that serves as foundation for hate mongering.)

Three names from The Axis of Evil comics (missing was Aron Kader who I think is a bona fide Fox); three men that mama and I watched last night from the front row.

Ahmed Ahmed was our M.C. for the evening while Dean Obeidallah (1/2 Palestinian, 1/2 Sicilian. Adorable. Hilarious. Ethnically confused…in a very good way.) and Maz (1 Iranian. Hysterical. Flexible, too.) were the headliners.

They had three opening acts, one of whom nearly made me fall out of my chair; some Lebanese kid who, I swear, was either high on speed or had spent the duration of his day drinking Red Bull and coffee. I didn’t know whether to hose him down or just sit back, laugh, and thank God I wasn’t in a small confined space with his ass. (In case you’re wondering, I chose the former.)

Ahmed Ahmed has a dry sense of humour, the kind that catches you off guard and makes you wonder what he mumbles about you as soon as you’re out of ear shot. Kind of hot, too. Unfortunately, he dates retards. Or so he comedic-s.

Dean Obeidallah is the kind of boy you want to bring home to mom. He has a natural ability to charm everyone, and is super clever, it seems. Softer sense of humour until he starts talking about and imitating W. He also carries around a little notepad in which he writes things. Gold Star for The Nerd; it takes one to love one. (I’m pretty sure mama wanted me to slip this guy my number. She’s such a pimp.)

Maz Jobrani? Oh my God. This guy is a piece of comedic genius, with a side dish of the world’s greatest giggle. I lost my shit when he started talking about how he married a “defective Indian” because his wife doesn’t know a thing about technology. Lost. My. Shit.

If they’re coming at you, make sure to run towards them and catch their show. You won’t regret it and you may learn a thing or two. Trust in that.

(Russell Peters, too, because how can’t you love a man whose designed a crest for his name? I saw him Saturday night and was laughing so hard I’m pretty sure I drooled. That’s the way I roll towards The Hot, kittys.)

People hold the very strange assumptions that being an only child renders one somewhat spoiled and incapable of sharing.

As most of you know, I am an only child and this “opinion” is one I have heard my entire life, most recently from an individual who also put forth the sweeping generalization that if someone’s parents are divorced, that same child’s ability to take marriage seriously isn’t actually possible because a child from a ‘broken’ home is not a ‘healthy’ individual inside of a relationship.

Unlike him whose parents are still married. Naturally, according to his stellar reasoning ability, he is therefore a ‘healthy’ individual inside of a relationship.

To prove that he’s so healthy, he pointed out that he’s not afraid of relationships.
It doesn’t matter that he’s an emotionally retarded monkey who is incapable of being alone and so must always be in a relationship.
It doesn’t matter that he’s spent his thus far ‘adult’ life jumping from one relationship to another and to another and to another and still, to another without the fear of committing for longer than a 2-3 year period.
It really doesn’t matter that by this point in his relationship career he’s an “I Love You” slut and has shared these words with at least a dozen different women. (Oh Romeo! Willst thou e’er make me thy number 13th? Siiiigh.) All of that = He’s Healthy And Would Take Marriage Seriously Because His Parents Are Still Married.

And before any of you ask, the answer is: NO, I did not date him.

But I digress as an only child is want to doing because unlike the rest of the normal world, we follow our whimsy, see.

My main point is that although it is and will always remain a complete and total honour that I am the only child to two people (because in this day and age, ‘two’ seems the anomaly), it can be relatively difficult at times because on occasion, I would really welcome being the black sheep seeing as how I am and will always remain the only sheep and every sheep.

There’s no one to shoulder the blame. I can’t fail since there’s no one else to succeed.
All of mama and baba’s dreams and hopes rest on my shoulders.
When the Parental Crazy comes out, there’s no one to deal with it but me.
I can’t deflect anything.
And: When mama and baba are elderly and need taking care of, it will be me and only me who will take care of them. (This duty I will complete with pleasure and honour, Inshallah.)

(I also expect that my husband will be a man about this and do the same with his parents since I don’t plan on marrying a shit who would ever even remotely contemplate not taking care of his parents and instead throwing them into an old age home. [Because last I checked, when you were an annoying whiny sick drooling and poo-pooing infant, your parents didn't chuck you toward the Children Annoy Me And By The Way They Smell Funny home.])

See. I’m off topic, again.

Anyway, as I was saying: I pity me. Ha! Ha!

Oh! The other day I was sitting around thinking about how blessed I am. Honestly. Super Duper Incredibly Blessed (SDIB). There’s not one thing in my life that I can complain about…isn’t that amazing? Honestly: Amazing. I have all of my limbs. I am healthy. I am pretty looking. I am relatively intelligent. I have an incredible social circle of friends. I travel a lot. I think I am funny (and when compared to: ‘I am funny’, that’s good enough for me). I’m kind and I like most people, too, and that’s a blessing because I can’t imagine being one of those miserable bitter people who don’t like people. (It’s not a secret that no one actually really liked Sartre, anyway.) I also have an incredible job. I have a blog! Just being here and possessing the ability to push myself and attempt to improve is pretty spectacular (because, uhm, no, generation Chopra: ‘you, just as you are’ is not perfect and you can always be improved).

Mein Gott! (Thank you, Yaznotjaz.)
Imagine! I don’t have to worry about imminent threat, shelter, food, or water. I have the unbelievable luxury of going to a movie theatre when I need to escape because I’m sort of a wanker and even though my life is brilliant, I sometimes need to escape. Amazing. SDIB. Alhamdulilah.

Tangent over.

As for people thinking that an only child can’t share; I can only speak for myself here and say that sharing has never been a problem. I have no problem giving anything away and I have no problem bringing people into ‘my’ space.

Admittedly, though, my problem has always been controlling a situation. Because, as an only child, we shoulder everything and we can’t deflect anything, we try to control that thing in an effort to ensure it happens properly (however we define ‘properly’). Years back, I was around someone man enough to take control and take charge without hesitation or fear. Turns out that I actually had no problem letting go of that control – in fact, I enjoyed that someone else was taking that control. This man, though, was a man who had proven that he was worthy of responsibility and so never once shirked it; it’s why we’re such good friends today. (Warning! When you load responsibility on a man unworthy of it, he will eventually tuck his tail between his legs and run.)

Another tangent is over.

Right. So, even though I greatly appreciate the spotlight, I really wouldn’t mind having siblings on some days. Hopefully I’ll make up for being an only child by having a litter and / or marrying a man who has a lot of siblings (preferably boy siblings. I always wanted a lot of brothers). That’s all I was trying to say in the first place…