Prolific Immigrant

Hia! to the wonderful person who is frantically Googling “is straddling inappropriately flirting in a relationship” and landing on mine.

The answer to your Q is a resounding and all encompassing: YES.

If you are the straddler, either break up with your wo/man and get a grip on the individual whom you are straddling.

If your wo/man is doing the straddling on another’s lap, you need to please extricate yourself from this relationship ASAP. Also, get outside as it’s a beautiful day in Texas and you shouldn’t be stuck at your laptop wondering nonsense.

Love,
M

Since moving into The Cloud Cave, I hear neither the sound of wind through trees nor birds calling to one another, beauty by which I was surrounded both at my mum’s place and The Treehouse. Until recently, I never realized how much I loved being woken up by birds at the break of dawn and how eagerly I awaited their nightly singing of the sunset.

This is not The Cloud Cave.

The Cloud Cave is as urban and sleek as it gets. Which, honestly, made me a little sad when I realized that there were no birds singing me awake or taking me from day to night. Set off balance, I became the hysterical urbanite downloading nature sounds (‘a worm eating through a lotus flower? Captured by a Buddhist who found the recording device wedged between a tree and sand? He’s now dead! And he died while recording it? For only $126.99 on iTunes?! BUY!,’ because one time, at centretown, I became a jackass). Until yesterday, when I remembered that there is a beautiful and secluded park less than 10 minutes from mine, which is where I am as I type this.

I am laid out on my favourite blanket with pillows, a book, iced rose water, figs & blackberries, my diary and this laptop, surrounded by trees and birds and all of their lovely chatter. Basically, I am in heaven…made more heavenly because I made out with the sun and now I am blushing.

Speaking of which, did you know that I blush? Deeply, in fact. I blush when I am shy or someone makes me shy because I think they might be really good at the sexuals. (Because, as we have confirmed time and again, I will require someone who is very very good at the sexuals, please and thanks, God.)

Before hitting the park, Gills and I went for lunch at my favourite br/lunch spot in the city: Wild Oat Bakery & Cafe, where we confirmed that we had complete and total opposite taste in men. I imagine that if in a social setting at a Country Club, she’d be engaging the straight-laced fella in the Harvard jacket and buzz cut, while I would be looking for Johnny Castle.

I just realized that my imagination is stuck in 1957 because a Country Club?

Anyway. I have always been drawn to the one who never wore the Harvard jacket. The one with a lot more than “a little edge,” who has a wildness barely beneath the surface, and who would love to engage my own touch of madness without judging me.

That said, I am also drawn to the physical embodiment of this. Their clothes aside, I have a weakness for men who have longer hair, and who wear facial scruff.

But, it gets even more specific.
I am a fool for a ponytail; set into a state of physical paralysis by a blond ponytail (blame Charlie Hunnam).

While seated at Wild Oat Bakery, a man with a blond ponytail and a light beard came in for a coffee, and Gillian watched my very obvious reaction. I blushed.

I tried to explain the attraction, but finally and awkwardly concluded that it might be an actual fetish. Thinking about it now, I wonder if it has to do with my opposite; that because I am so aware of ‘otherness’ and being as much in this part of the world, blond might clock in at a very basically instinctual and visceral level for me.

Either way, and with colour aside, definitely my imagination runs to all that is promised with the undoing of a ponytail.

And speaking of undone…remember The Viking? For this bit, you need to keep in mind that he is 6’2″ and generally quite large. Also, he is extremely observant.

We were recently trailing behind a human person who interests me. I needed to know who this human person was and what they did, right now, because they have unique hairstylings, shuffling movements, and I don’t think they are believable in their face.

I was carrying my coffee in my right hand, while The Viking was also to my right. Because he is big, he takes wider strides and so moves at a faster pace. Additionally, I was in 4.5″ heels and so automatically slowed down.

I started waving my left hand at The Viking’s left ear, but I couldn’t reach past his step to land in his periphery.
I as-small-as-this-font “…hey…hey…hi…pssst…The Viking…?” but he was preoccupied in his mind and so could not hear my whisperings.
I poked his shoulder but he didn’t react fast enough because — have I mentioned? — he’s big and so it takes longer for the messages from his sensory nerve fibers to reach his brain.

Naturally I thought: I need to improve and facilitate his seeing me.

Right?

Because I could not spy a flare gun, I instead opted to become a wildly animated mime. I was bobbing and weaving on my 4.5″ and running a little bit to ensure that my waving left hand was landing in his line of sight. Were my right hand free of coffee, I might have tugged on random pieces of his hair and ear.

For about 15 steps, I Marcel Marceau’d and found humorous how blind The Viking was, a man who is — as already mentioned — otherwise extremely aware. It never once crossed my mind that he was actively ignoring me.

This only crossed my mind when he stopped, turned to look at me with his awful brown eyes and said Fair Lady. I note that you are gesticulating wildly and so humbly request that you please share with me this information which will surely enrich my The Viking life something quite amazing and interesting, and here: Have this flower which I grew and picked specifically for you. Before you begin speaking, please also know that inside of my head doves will be released in tandem with the platinum information you are about to put forth into my ears…, only it sounded more like “Maha. What. I can see you.” I noticed that he wasn’t actually asking me to engage and this set me to laughing because awkward makes me laugh v v hard.

Because he’d stopped abruptly and I was already in motion, I stumbled forward a little bit still with my wave-y left hand raised next to his ear, now in his face and with my fingers nearly up his nose (who doesn’t like a little tickle now and then?). I bobbed and weaved a little bit more then finally stopped to say The Viking! You are far too kind and gracious and might I keep the doves and will you grow me butterflies that I can walk on a leash and you should sit down to hear this incredible bit of information I am about to share…, only it sounded more like “Why aren’t you answering me? I’m trying to ask you a very important question,” laughing.

Lucky me, The Viking has a hard time not laughing.

And so the conversation went. We now have a signal communicating to stop the conversation for when The Viking needs to let me know that he fears I am being awkward, rather than merely vanishing in his head, leaving me to either make a run for the hills or wind-up toy myself into where he thinks he is safe, that I might pull on his ear, tug on his hair, and poke his shoulder until he listens to me. (There Is No Sanctuary! are the House of Zimmo words.)

So. Next you see a The Viking making an awkward gesture near his face, feel free to also look for a brunette having an equally awkward conversation (with herself).

Dear KIA. I’ve been with my girlfriend for a year and a half and I can’t talk to her about anything without her getting angry or thinking I am attacking her. What the fuck do I do? Marshall

Dear Marshall,

Love your name, thanks for the question.

Sounds like an assy situation, dude. Honest-to-God, I will keep saying it until I am blue in the face: clear communication and good fun sexing times are the keys to any lasting and healthy relationship.

First two most obvious questions that you have to ask yourself before you open your mouth:
1) Does she have the right to get angry with the subject matter; and,
2) Are you in fact attacking her?

Then move to the key communication techniques, intended to ensure that you have a safe space inside of which to talk, and an outcome that will hopefully suit the reason you had to have a difficult conversation in the first place.

Before the Rules, remember the Foundations (according to your WebMistress):
1) Have your conversations in bed; and,
2) Leave room for a laugh.

You shouldn’t be so grossed out by one another’s presence or behaviour that you can’t have such heavy conversations in the most intimate of settings and circumstance. If that is the case, however, then you need to re-evaluate if you’re with the right person. I know I would.

First Rule of Communication: Don’t ever accuse your partner.
Drop entirely from your vocabulary “Why did you…” and instead always start with “I feel hurt when…”, because when a conversation starts with an accusation, you place yourself on offense and your partner on defense. Automatically, the rules are shifted to ones of competition rather than understanding and collaboration. Please remember that your intent is to engage in dialogue so that you might figure out if something you perceive is in fact true. As a team, you need to always work at a situation together, not one-up the other and “win” an argument. (Unless one of you is genuinely stupid and in which case they should lose, like if you were dating a racist homophobe.)

This approach also communicates to your partner that something they do hurts you, and then affords them the opportunity to address it. If you can’t trust that they love you and that they don’t hurt you intentionally, then you are likely in the wrong relationship with the wrong partner. Additionally, if you find that this is the case in every single one of your relationships, you should probably seek therapy. (I am not making a funny.)

Second: Your problem is with a behaviour, not your actual partner (else, why in the shit are you with them in the first place?).
Focus on the matter, and how it makes you feel. Don’t confuse that an alleged mistake is a character flaw. People make mistakes; they are not the mistake.

Third: Learn to let things go.
This one sounds so easy but very few people know how to do this. There is nothing worse than having someone dredge up something you may have done a year or two or more ago and which you thought was dealt with but suddenly it is not.

I hate to admit this, but I see that it’s more women who are guilty of this than men. Either it is because men have shit long-term memories, or because they really are single-minded and focussed only on present situations and strategies forward while women approach things from a much more continuous perspective. I honestly don’t know, but either way — gender specific or not — it is critical to deal with a situation in the present and then when you put it to bed, you really and truly put it to bed.

Fourth: Apologize when you’re wrong, and only when you’re wrong.
The “only when” part will be recognized by your partner and they will understand that when they receive the apology, it is genuine rather than a means to avoid further discussion.

If you don’t know why you’re apologizing, don’t apologize. Ask what’s up and talk about it. Don’t ever use “I am sorry” as a means to band-aid a sitch because eventually, you will start resenting them for your “I’m sorry”s. And this is not fair to you or them, and it is something which will eventually play itself out badly on your ‘team’. Trust.

Fifth: It’s alright not to agree, so long as you respect your partner’s position. Self explanatory, but remember that once you agree to disagree, you don’t bring it up and use it as a pawn or tool to punish your partner later in your relationship.

Sixth: Be honest with yourself.
Are you engaging in this conversation because you want to hurt/punish/feel vindicated, or are you engaging in this conversation because you are genuinely seeking a resolution?

Hurting, and punishing one another in order to feel vindicated are not the stuff from which healthy living situations are made. Be honest with yourself, asshole, and then move forward.

If you love someone, and you have chosen them to be your partner, your intention should be to build them up, to balance them out, to believe in them, to support them, and to protect them. It is not — never, ever, not under any circumstance is it ever — to hurt, punish, or one-up them.

Sixth:Define both your Foundations, and Rules of communication.

Like:
- No flannel in the house.
- Hugs. Lots and lots and lots of full-bodied snuggles and cuddles at every opportunity. I honestly don’t think it’s right when couples can keep their hands to themselves, I don’t care how long they’ve been together. Also, I am judge-y.
- No eye-rolling or making faces (use your words!).
- Kisses. Friday nights, go to a drive-in and make out in the back seat. Don’t have sexing. Just the smooching, like 16 year old non Muslims.
- Time apart. When I am hurt, please leave me alone for a few hours because I need to figure things out so that I don’t say anything stupid and hurtful.
- Time apart. When you are hurt, please go for a walk to figure things out so that you don’t say anything stupid or hurtful.
- Laugh. One of the reasons you can’t keep your hands to yourself is because your partner makes you laugh and keeps things light and is fun. I know this not because of ipsos reid, but because I have yet to come across an on-line dating profile that reads: LOOKING FOR A SOPPY WET BLANKET. PLEASE MESSAGE ASAP.
- Find a new recipe and cook one new item once per week.
- No yelling. Absolutely under no circumstance are you allowed to yell at one another.
- Also, no throwing of objects.
- No cursing when angry.
- Regularly tell one another: I like you. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re amazing. I love watching you walk. I am so happy to know you and to call you my partner. Those pants make your ass look amazing. You make me happy. Please remove your pants. I believe in you. I appreciate you. You make me want to wear my panties on my head. Etc. ad infinitum.
(P.S. The more chores a man does, the more sexing he has. Just, you know, FYI.)

Seventh: Go to sleep angry and remember that sexing is a form of communication as is withholding it for reasons of punishment.
Don’t try and sort through everything in one night, and don’t listen to the asshole who said “never go to sleep angry.” Go to sleep angry, but still have the sexing, to remind one another of why you chose one another in the first place. If you can’t use your words right then and there, please use your booty.

Eighth:Partner with someone who shares your communication techniques, and in the absence of that immediate sharing, partner with someone who wishes to learn to share your communication techniques.
Again, self-explanatory.

Finally: Send them a link to this article.

Good luck to you, Marshall!
M
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Image from the National Wildlife Federation. These are some of the prettiest little birdies I have ever seen, and they are called Rainbow Lorikeets.

I often struggled with trusting people. Primarily, it was to do with men because of my experience with my dad. While I know he would erase and redo all of those years in a heartbeat if he could, and while I have forgiven him entirely, there remains residue which affects my relationships (plural because I am a fun-times hooker) with men.

Aalya says that what I do is disappear so that I might lick my wounds and heal on my own before I can resurface. Maxi calls it my Shut Off Valve, and it is something about myself which I dislike, and so something I constantly work to challenge when I feel it creeping around in the shadows of my mind.

In a nutshell, what it is is that I become cagey, hard to corner or catch. Just like the chicken in Rocky. In the most extreme playing out of The Shut Off Valve, I have disappeared entirely from someone’s life.

This thing is rooted in two platforms: (1) it is a form of self-preservation; and, (2) it is an arrogance which assumes that people should never do wrong. Which, by default, means that I should never do wrong and so turn myself and people around me into weird automaton figurines while knowing fully well that I believe, to the core of me, that human behavior is so varied and so fundamentally non-mathematical and still I sometimes need to be gently reminded that I am wrong and that human behaviour is not 1 + 1 = 2.

One of the ways by which I am changing this about myself is to trust in God, and to trust in the Protection of His Grace. For a while, I was struggling and could not face my prayer mat. Though I always knew I was being carried in His (metaphorical) heart, I could not bring myself to turn toward Him for a variety of reasons. I was extremely ill at ease while this was happening, always aware that there was something missing. That my best friend was not present because I had closed the door and left Him outside, though I kept peeking out from behind the blinds and looking at Him.

My friend Blue and I talked about this at length and he encouraged me, like a Nike commercial, to just do it. Even when I wasn’t feeling it, to just pray. And so on January 9th, I began my day with my morning prayer and have continued since, alhamduliLah.

Recently, I changed my position from “this is an obligation and a duty” to “there are five times a day where I get to have private time with Allah during which I can reflect and allow my heart to be vulnerable.” While I wouldn’t say that I am jumping with joy every time I have to perform ablution, I can say that the thought of saying Hia to Allah for a few minutes eases the lazy.

Back to the point of this article. There are 99 names for Allah in Islam, two of which are in the decal in the photo: “Ya Fattah, Ya Salaam.”

Al-Fattah means The Opener, or “He Who Opens all things.” While this has several meanings, the most important for me is that He removes all obstacles in our path. This is the essence of this name, and it is meant to be integrated all across the board starting with the physical obstacles in this world, to the psychological obstacles with which we struggle when trying to move ahead, and culminating in the removal of obstacles on the path to Heaven.

Returning to my issues of mis/trust, and keeping in mind Ya Fattah, I have learned to slowly shift my positioning from one of mis/trust in someone to trust in God. Trusting that He will remove anything and anyone who might devastate me, and also trusting that only placed in my world are those who will help me grow and learn, challenge me to become better, and who will do their best to never ever crush my heart. Granted that often I tumble and face dive into regressive thinking, but I usually catch myself early enough that I might take a couple of steps back and start again before it’s too late.

This shift also helps us lighten our load and our hearts. To be in a constant state of mis/trust is horrible and it is heavy and hurtful to ourselves and those around us. To be in a constant state of trusting in God, however, brings with it a lightness and calm to ourselves and which — I think — is reflected in how we treat others and how they see us when they take a glance (both of which are really amazing and warm hugs for the soul).

Al-Salaam means The Source of Peace. This one is self-explanatory, and it’s importance in my world and in my understanding of faith traditions as they are reflected in the lives of people should be obvious enough to anyone who has been reading me regularly.

“Ya Fattah, Ya Salaam.”
When combined, to believe in The Opener, is to also believe that He is The Source of Peace. It is to believe that He will remove all obstacles which would bring anything but peace into our hearts and lives. The flip side of this is that He will open the doors to those men, women, and situations which will bring love and light to our station. Finally for me, it is to believe that everything happens for the best of reasons; that while the revelation of “why” may not be immediate in instances of trauma, the revelation will come eventually.

Though I might be biased, I believe that this perspective is beautiful in its sharing of our love and lives with Allah, and allowing us to open up entirely and free fall into the arms of others, since to love and to share are also to trust. It is also what some folks might call a crutch — and to them I say: while hobbling along is fun, I prefer to have Support intended to ease my presence today, and which allows me to open my heart fully to those around me.

Here is another photo of the decal, a little more clear in its size and stature. Being approximately 4 feet x 4 feet, it is a gorgeous addition to The Cloud Cave, and it gives me reason to stop and think and find calm when I may be otherwise disheveled. Additionally, it looks like there’s an ‘M’ (for Maha) at the top…which…I mean….how could I have resisted?

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If you are interested in more Muslim art work, please pop by Irada Arts for a look and see.

One of the best (Chinese) proverbs ever, perhaps.

Yesterday, my girlfriend and I were talking about boys (not to be confused with the male species as defined here). She mentioned how an interesting boy saw her in some situation and her girlfriend clocked him looking at her, considering whether to approach, and then didn’t approach. And so at least he was looking and thinking.

Which. No.

Not “at least” anything.

We do this all of the time, and I am as guilty as the next. Conversations had with my girlfriends all of the time about this exact same scenario, or a variation thereof.

“He said he was going to call me.” (But didn’t.)
“He responded to my text message a few days later because he said he just saw it.” (While he’s practically got his blackberry shoved up his nose, he’s so attached to it.)
“…but…but…but…”

Listen. I get that both men and women do this, but for me there is a heightened level here because I am so drawn to one particular type of man: The Action Oriented Action Figure. I can be pretty severe about this sort of a thing because I have a very distinct taste in men and because I am a very distinct flavour of woman who is surrounded by men of this caliber. Almost all of the men in my family are Action-ers, as too are the women. When the time is right, we don’t fuck around and while that has its down points, it is also a very good thing because you will always know where you stand and you will never be played.

That said, I also know that this sort of behaviour is rare, and again, mummy is likely right now frantically sending me smoke signals saying: THIS IS WHY YOU ARE SINGLE. I am alright with this. I am alright being single until Action Man comes along and throws me over his shoulder (with my permission, natch).

Also, I know that it is an on-going struggle not to say “…maybe he was thinking this…?” because unless he tells you. Unless he pushes you against a wall and kisses you. Unless he pulls you in close (remember fellas: Don’t be a rapist.) then “Which. No” because talk really doesn’t cook rice and everyone needs a little carb action now and again.

There is a saying in Arabic of which my momma reminds me always: Don’t get tangled in ropes hanging from the sky. Basically, it means that we shouldn’t get hung up on things which are not anchored properly or safely or even in view. Words until actioned are ropes hung on God knows what, but usually you can not see the anchor. And when you play in traffic, then it should at least begin with a partner, and not started as a solo sport.

Remember that book He’s Just Not That Into You? Why have we all forgotten this book which, believe it or not, I think is a really simple and clear set of guidelines asserting that if a man digs your ass, he will also cup your ass (metaphorically, of course. Mum and dad, I have never had my bottom cupped. Promise).

It’s really so simple: If they like you, they will action it. Full stop.

This isn’t to say don’t have mild crushes; it is to say, don’t get hung up on the mild crushes and keep yourself open to other dating opportunities and other men who will take action. Eventually, the non-bottom-cupper will fade away because he was never meant to be in the first place.

Keep yourself to a higher standard than “maybe he got busy” or “I’m sure he really wanted to come BUT…” Forget the but-s, and forget the excuses because you have enough shit on your plate for which you must answer and you definitely don’t have to answer for his inaction. If he wants you, he needs to be secure enough to make a play for you. And where your patience is shot to shit because of uncertainty in what in the fuck is happening around you, then ask him out and put it to bed. If he’s game then he’ll play. If not, then please make a run for a long pass with another man.

On this note, why aren’t men asking women out anymore? When did “let’s hook up” replace “Would you like to have dinner with me, can I pick you up at 8?” FYI to whomever changed the rules: I don’t like them. I don’t hook up. I like proper date questions and proper dates and a man who will say to me “I really look forward to sharing this with you…”

Why is it so hard for men to do this? Best answer I ever received from a man was: Men are fundamentally insecure. Our egos are so fragile. I think women — in the world of relationships — are far more courageous.

Is this true, dear Reader? Do you agree with this assessment in general terms (while recognizing that not everyone can be washed with the same shampoo)?

Last point is that which both men and women need to remember, regardless of the gender specific nature of this quote: “Fortune is like a woman – if you miss her today, think not to find her tomorrow.”

Napoleon said this. A man who though small in stature, was apparently a rock star sexing phenom. Also, big on occupation, war, and interesting jackets and so perhaps a troubling Friday night date.

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Image from Dating D.C.

There is a very strange inclination in the human situation; we default to exclusivity.

Building bridges, mending gaps, shortening distances between ourselves is not an act most of us perform wilfully. Rather, we are more comfortable sitting in a state of exclusion, preferring to define ourselves by what we are not, rather than the commonality within. This, the baseline of Otherness.

There’s a key element missing in our treatment of one another, which I believe is the contributing factor to this wilful exclusion: Respect.

Many of us don’t care enough to learn about one another, and so within this created void, what we are really saying is “I don’t respect you,” “I don’t care enough to know you to understand you.”

Extend and elevate this thinking to something as personal and as intimate as Faith.

Islam was premised on this notion of respecting others – one of the core principles of our faith is to accord full respect to every religion which has belief in God as its focal point. A shining example of this is a hadith about the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh), who in the year 10 H, gave free access to his mosque and full consent to the Christians to celebrate their religious rites within this mosque, although their adoration of Jesus as “the son of God” and Mary “as the mother of God” were fundamentally at variance with Islamic beliefs.

Did you catch that?

One of God’s Prophets did not try to convert, change or annihilate another great Faith tradition; instead, he honoured it by bringing it into his home and allowing it to exist as is.

Too many in this world continue to be told that they are better. Taught that they will go to Heaven while most Others will not. Generations kneaded with disrespect, supremacy, and hatred, instead of encouraged to build bridges and find commonalities among their brothers and sisters in humanity.

For me, there is so much heartbreak and shame in this, how so many of us have chosen to position ourselves above others, and use Faith as the reason to do so.

For the longest time, Muslims understood “Islam” as to surrender, based on the idea that God placed us on this earth so that we might worship Him and nothing more. I never understood this, because I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept that Allah would grant us free will and then ask us to simply surrender — this perspective always seemed like a little sick joke for me and so I was never able to fully embrace it.

Then I heard Tariq Ramadan speak about Islam as a means to peace; that to enter into a state of Islam, is to enter into a state of peace within our hearts. And that, dearest Reader, makes complete and total sense to me. Because for me, Faith can not be about God’s need — since He needs nothing — but rather about humanity’s need. And clearly, we need to bring peace into our hearts, else we will Lord of the Flies it into infinity and beyond.

Which brings me to my next point…

Connecting Islam to earlier revelation
Muslims believe that the (Arabic) Qur’an has never been touched; the Arabic word within, from the moment it was uttered by the archangel Gabriel to Muhammad (pbuh), remains as is.

The logical extension of this for me is that what exists in the Quran once also existed in both the Torah and the Bible. To believe in an omnipresent God means that we believe He did not change His mind between revelations, as He does not experience time like we do (in linear fashion).

In the Quran, God said: “Behold, We have created you all out of a male and a female, and have made you into nations and tribes, so that you might come to know one another.” (Al-Hujurat 49:13) Not so that you may hate or hurt or oppress one another. But rather to engage, to learn, and to love one another. Who in their right mind would ever believe that God seeks to create divisions in His own world meant to create trauma rather than an opportunity to something better?

Imagine when you have plunked onto your desk a file about which you know nothing. You don’t even understand the subject matter as it is spelled out onto the folder. Your choices are simple: Shove the file off and say you can’t be bothered and who cares and how annoying and ugh?! Or, you open the file, learn from it, incorporate it into your work and see it as an opportunity for growth.

This is our choice where different faiths and ethnicities and belief systems exist. This is our challenge, as presented by God. Anyone who believes differently is headed for disaster (and likely war, racial profiling, and states of supremacy, founded on principles of fundamentalism).

Again, this respect which we do not afford one another at all times, if any of the time, is a respect which is in fact a necessary means to execute properly one’s actions within the dimension of any one of the faith traditions, as a means to bringing peace into our hearts.

Sadly, and most notably in 2012, very few of us afford this principle room and space within our lives because we don’t care to, we are too scared to, and / or we are more comfortable believing that We are better than Them.

I see this routinely, and have had vehement arguments with my own Tribe about this matter. The argument being that “Muslims are better. Full stop.” A sentence as laughable as the beliefs that “Christians are better. Full stop,” and “Jews are better. Full stop,” and “Buddhists are better. Full stop,” and “Atheists are better. Full stop.”

Because. BETTER THAN WHAT AND WHOM?

A drunkard Muslim who beats his wife is better than a Christian man who treats his family with mercy and asks God’s grace? An oppressive Jewish settler who invokes God’s name every time they thieve Palestinian land in the name of some fucking divine writ is better than the atheist taking to the streets to demonstrate against oppression, genocide and apartheid? A psychotic Christian who goes on a murdering spree in the name of Christianity, as a means to defend against encroaching Islam is better than a non-Zionist Jew who sits firm in a Palestinian orange orchard while an Israeli demolition team faces them down?

Are you kidding me?
Are you kidding you?

Do you really believe that God has made you better, by default because of your ethnicity or the religion into which you were born (or later adopted)?

You are better only with respect to your treatment of others.
You are better when you exist in a state of humility and see everyone as your equal.
You are better when you understand that you don’t get to decide WHO. IS. BETTER. A role belonging only to Allah on the Day of Judgment.

You are best only when you understand that you are one of a whole, and that whole belongs to Him and Him alone.

Building bridges is a choice, and it is a choice at every single turn. Further remember that bridges aren’t only built where similarities exist, but they offer a space where people can meet and say “we are not the same, but within that difference, I respect and honour you still, because we are of the same Whole, and we all belong to and shall return to Him.”

I hold fast to my belief that the respect we extend to others is a direct reflection of how much we value and respect ourselves. Choose wisely, and happy Sunday.

(Godspeed!)

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Image courtesy of Planet Ware.

Have I mentioned that my family is predominantly one of Alpha Males?

Today, two of them came over — my baba, and one of his brothers, amo (Arabic for uncle, on one’s partileneal side) Mustafa. Naturally, I served them mini-sized cupcakes with hearts on them. I also sprinkled them with fairy dust while they were leaving.

I woke up this morning thinking that this would be a good idea. When I brought the cupcakes home and stared at their delicate, I thought: What the fuck? As I am not one to half-ass anything, I served the cupcakes on my very wee vintage fine bone china saucers covered in flowers and trimmed with gold flakes. Neither of them said anything, until my father said something. Staring at the plate which his hand dwarfed, he let out a frustrated sigh and asked me for a “real plate.” I pretended not to know what was the matter and he just stared after me like I maybe wasn’t related to him.

Honestly. I might be injecting heroin behind my own back.

Before they arrived, I had a fun back and forth with my beautiful baby cousin Deema, who I should probably stop calling “baby” because she is about 46 years of age now. She began a project about Islam with her schoolmate and was told that it was illegal or some such, and she risked getting into trouble. Likely because it is too progressive or it doesn’t toe the ignorant line of most of the Middle East’s version of Islam. But she’s not stopping, and so I told her I would support her no matter what the outcome and would visit her in jail if need be, with cookies, because I believed in her project and this is what family does: We support one another (even when we don’t agree. We support one another, and if we don’t, then we can’t God damn call ourselves family). Lucky, I agree with her initiative and project and so the support is easy as Sunday morning.

After the Alphas left, I rang my amto (Arabic for aunt, on one’s patrilineal side) Arwaa7 and spoke with her briefly to thank her for the lovely gifts she sent back with my dad. She has not been feeling well and while I am not someone who is ever at a loss for words, hearing her usually vivacious and extremely well spirited voice quieted to nearly a whisper shattered my heart. Please keep her in your prayers.

Finally, I closed my afternoon by Skyping with mama and the entire family present. She is in the Middle East at the moment and they were about to have isha, which is the final meal of the day had at around the unhealthiest of hours maybe 9.30 or 10pm. Why go to sleep light when you can instead roll over to bed filled with home-made pita and felafel and fresh cucumber and fried cheese and some hummus, washed down with sweet chai? The joke is that my mum will come home to me with an additional 20 pounds around her little body. Which. May not be such a joke after all.

SA7TEEN YA SUMAYA!! What are you eating now?

While I stood in the kitchen preparing for tonight’s dinner party, they plunked the laptop onto a chair and I sat with them after giving them a tour of The Cloud Cave. Mama, a little girl in pink pajamas; my cousins, studying like the amazing young women that they are, and who will surely never let their parents down (unlike my sorry ass); and, khalo (Arabic for uncle, on one’s matrilineal side) Nasr — who I adore beyond measure — engaged and engaging and with a heart the size of the Gaza Strip, always.

All in all, a perfect family-filled day. AlhamduliLah.

Hey Maha,

Long time reader and really digging you’re [sic] Know It All advice column. Hope you know you have male fans! My girlfriend and I have been dating for almost 8 mths and she is a real flirt which is part of the reason I was attracted to her. It drove me crazy and I loved it. She flirts with men all of the time and I can’t bring myself to say anything to her. I sit and watch and become quiet. Her flirting is heavy to [sic]. There’s always sexual references and I’M RIGHT THERE. She’s gone out for coffee with a couple and I’m trying to be a good boyfriend and not be jea;ous [sic]. Any advice?

Dear Jealousy,

Thank you for your compliments and your shared story. I am aware of, and very grateful for the men who read this site. Obviously, the women too.

Let’s start with the flirtation situation. I have seen it turn the most secure individuals into everything but. I think the best way to talk about this is to use examples, rather than theory.

Example 1: You are with your girlfriend at a party, and she spends all evening talking to a finger-painter-surfer with blond curls (yours is straight black) while ignoring you. At the end of the night, she tells you she wishes you were a finger-painter-surfer and really loved that man’s lush hair.

Result: Cuntpunt paper-cut, and while a paper-cut won’t make you bleed out, trust me when I tell you that this is merely the first of many and with enough paper-cuts you will most definitely bleed the fuck out.

While it is critical that we remain sovereigns in a relationship and look after our own sense of security and self, when we invite an other to be a part of our intimate lives, and to carry our heart, one of their responsibilities is not to uncover this little heart. It is not to lay it bare and then ask: Why is it naked and shivering?

A lover knows this and a lover acts this at all times. God has said that there is to be mercy between lovers and behaviour as above — to me — is not indicative of mercy, as its intention is malicious, and where there is malice there can be no mercy.

Example 2: You are with your girlfriend who is very engaging and gregarious and treats everyone she meets and communicates with in the same warm and courteous and arms-wide-open manner. All manner of people like her because she is charming. Also, she is a brown-haired Libra and her name may be Maha with over-active and delusional imagination.

Should you become involved with her on the level ten above ‘friend,’ then when she has you alone, the caliber and heat of these things is turned up in a way you never see her do with anyone else. Essentially, communicating secrets both spoken and not are secrets that are yours alone, and she has chosen you to receive them. Not anyone else. Just you. And this is obvious unless you are lame.

Result: Lucky you. Full stop.

Jealousy, you have not provided me with enough information about you and your partner and so I can not in good faith tell you in which of the above two categories she may fit, or if she is straddling a little bit of both. If this, her behaviour, is one of the reasons you were drawn to her, then don’t expect her to change. We don’t go into relationships to change people, but rather because we are in like with who they are today and maybe, if lucky, we can be in love with who they are tomorrow.

Regardless of the root of her behaviour, you need to talk to her about it because as her partner, you have the right to discuss anything which is upsetting and/or hurting and/or placing you ill at ease. As does she.

For all you know, Jealousy, she might say “I am flirting with other men because you are not making me feel like you want me enough, and I am the kind of woman who needs to know that her man can’t get enough of her. Ever. Never ever,” at which point you must decide if you can rally and step up your game to meet her requirements and needs.

I can’t stress enough that the core of a healthy relationship is the ability to communicate freely and openly without fear of judgment. If you are not comfortable saying “I am offended” “I am hurt” “I am upset” “I feel judged” then you have bigger fish to fry. And if your partner doesn’t know how to say “I hear you. Please don’t be. Because…” “I hear you. You are correct. Because…” then you also have bigger fish to fry.

Whatever you do, remember that while all lines of communication should be open between lovers, this doesn’t mean you get to just run’round being blunt and gruff. Always start your conversation from a place of warmth, compassion, and love.

Last point. A little bit of jealousy is healthy, fun, and can be used to generate some seriously hot friction. This sort of thing is always intentional, and it is definitely a shared secret when the third person is present. But, this can only happen when the couple are very connected, hold one another to an extreme level of trust, and can laugh at the exterior flirtations together. Then take it out on each other in the bedroom.

I will leave you with one of my favourite quotes from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet: “Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love.” Yeah, not really sure what it means either, but I love it still.

Good luck!
Maha
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Photo courtesy of Glamquotes(dot)com.

My friend came over yesterday to put the final touches on The Cloud Cave. Namely, to hang all 15 of my art pieces and a 7,000 pound mirror which I had only wanted to anchor, but turns out that hanging was a better option.

Honestly dear Reader, though it’s not clear in the photo, it turned out BEAUTIFUL, and exactly as I had imagined. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I pulled my pillows and bed coverings and slept on the rug on the floor (I am specifying the “on the floor” part just to make sure you don’t get confused and think I was maybe hanging upside down and napping. That’s how much I like you, Reader) so that when I woke up this morning, the first thing I would see was my new salon wall. That’s sort of a secret, so please don’t tell anyone I did that.

We made sure to leave some space for new art work since as of a couple of years ago, I decided that when I travel, I would always bring home one piece of local art, and a magnet.

Funny story. My friend must have played a lot of Pong Atari when they were young, because at one point they nailed me in the ear with one of the lighter pieces. Pretty sure they were aiming for my mouth because I wouldn’t stop talking. Thanks God they were clearly not good at Pong. Now I have a swollen right ear.

I might be lying about the swelling.

Funnier story. We were discussing sex education for very young children, and this morning I recalled that when I was 10-years-old, we had sex ed in school. Obviously, I went to public school. The teacher was trying to explain the details of penetration. Like you, I still don’t know why he was forced to do this to a class of 10-year-old lunatic children.

While the boys were completely agog at the subject matter, none of the girls understood a thing except for the one girl who had seen porn (and now headlines at Barefax). It was absolutely impossible for us to understand the logistics of how or why something could get hard when it got excited because when we got excited, we just ran outside and skipped rope, laughed, pulled at our hair, and had a peanut butter sandwich. Which…I mean…I guess this is how some people would today describe their sexing situations. Pauvre eux.

Ultimately, what the teacher was miserably trying to explain was that the boy fun-part gets hard and then pokes at random girl fun-part(s). To 10-year-old girls this was f/cking crushing because WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE POKES AT US WITH SOMETHING THAT’S HARD?! At one point, I was sitting paralyzed, ramrod styles in my seat and crying because I was so scared of getting poked by something hard. What if he put out my eye? Or gave me an ear infection? Or broke my nose with his hard boy-thing?

Pretty much the same reaction I still have today.

By the time the lessons were over, the teacher was likely impotent. Pauvre lui.

Anyway. Back to yesterday; I fed my friend as thanks, and when they left, I ran for my pjs, pillows and cover, and sprawled out onto the floor to enjoy every story associated with each piece of art work. If you let it, then it’s the little things that make life so very golden.

Two months back, I was caught not knowing what to write. Often, my head is so filled with thousands of stories that the only thing I can see with my mind’s eye is but one monumental blur.

Later that same morning I received a video from my cousin and began watching quietly, until I started laughing hysterically and so called to The Viking to come over and watch with me.

Hysterical. I was completely and totally hysterical because my cousin Rola would start belly-dancing the moment she noticed that the camera was on her. Pretty sure she was perhaps 8 or 9 years old, and always ready for film. She remains like this, in all of her beauty. The Viking laughed and quietly backed away slowly because I was utterly useless, doubled over and unable to close my mouth the laughter was thundering through me.

I watched the video repeatedly and the laughter shifted into something else, about which I wrote here: Girls As Women.

Later that day, The Viking recommended I write about how the video made me feel.

Earlier that week, Aalya sent me a call for a short story collection from York University; stories from Arabic women in or about the diaspora.

I have never submitted a story for publication because I have never felt the need to do so. BB can attest to this, because she has been after me for years to publish publish publish other than my political articles.

After writing Girls As Women, I thought “…well…why not…?” and so I flipped the story over to those in charge of the call-out. And they responded with “…we are happy to let you know that we really enjoyed reading your proposal ‘Girls as Women’ and are excited to include it in our anthology!”

So, there you have it. A little part of my family’s heart will be published between the pages of one of our top Uni presses.

Thank you to Nasr for sending the video; to Aalya for sending the call-out; and, to The Viking for the story idea.

P.S. They requested a short bio, and this is what I sent — shared because I believe you will enjoy it as much as I did writing it:
“Maha’s family came to Canada when she was aged four and still v v malleable to her parents’ will. They are Muslim, Palestinian, and she was was born in Libya; essentially, her identity is where all Axis of Evil points converge. She has written at Prolific Immigrant (http://www.onefemalecanuck.com) since 2004, and has also covered Middle Eastern news stories for several progressive sites, her favourite Rabble(dot)com. Her storytelling inclinations lean left toward the impassioned, philosophical and lunatic side of funny, thought-provoking stuffs, and she is single. (This last, her mum insisted she include.)”

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Photo captured from World of the Written Word.

I was asked to fill this out, so here you are.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR?
I have two: incarceration, and millipedes.

WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT STATE OF MIND?
Strong and aware.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION?
Spending time with someone I love, and from whom I can learn. Oddly, I equally appreciate comfortable silence and space inside of this sort of togetherness.

WHAT HISTORICAL FIGURE DO YOU MOST IDENTIFY WITH?
The loner who Believed, and overcame adversity and oppression.

WHICH LIVING PERSON DO YOU MOST ADMIRE?
All who believe in something fiercely and stand solid no matter the consequences.

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE FICTIONAL HERO?
The wo/man who knows what s/he wants, and pursues it without fear of failure.

WHO ARE YOUR REAL-LIFE HEROES?
Humanity. But for the rapists, war criminals, Zionist apartheid supporters, and generally…sociopaths.

WHAT IS YOUR MOST TREASURED POSSESSION?
My family. Even when I would rather be bleeding out.

WHEN AND WHERE WERE YOU HAPPIEST?
Currently. Always, the answer is “currently” even when I am in the pits of emotional hell and trauma.

WHAT IS YOUR MOST OBVIOUS CHARACTERISTIC?
Opinionated, but not stubborn (if the audience knows me well enough) and/or confident, but not arrogant (if the audience knows me even better).

WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE (HATE) IN YOURSELF?
I am notoriously hard on myself, and hold myself to a difficult standard of behaviour.

WHAT IS THE TRAIT YOU MOST DEPLORE IN OTHERS?
Sloths of spirit and behaviour.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST EXTRAVAGANCE?
Love.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE JOURNEY?
The garbage dump if it meant I was experiencing it with the person I loved.

WHAT DO YOU MOST DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR APPEARANCE?
My bottom.

WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER THE MOST OVER-RATED VIRTUE?
There are none.

ON WHAT OCCASION DO YOU LIE?
Rarely, and only in the most extreme circumstance. Where the answer is not one I wish to give, I will avoid the question or make a joke.

WHICH WORDS OR PHRASES DO YOU MOST OVER-USE?
“Ha ha ha ha ha…”

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOURSELF, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
I would chill my ass when it came to myself.

WHAT DO YOU CONSIDER YOUR GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT?
The love I carry for my friends and family.

WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
I am exactly where I wish to be, but look forward to finding a corner in the right man’s heart.

WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A MAN?
Again, there are two: Integrity and honesty.

WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A WOMAN?
Loyalty to herself, and to the sisterhood.

WHAT IS IT YOU MOST DISLIKE?
Dishonourable behaviour.

WHAT DO YOU VALUE MOST IN YOUR FRIENDS?
Steadfastness.

HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO DIE?
Surrounded by my family, and en route to Heaven (Dear Allah: Please note, I will gladly take the basement back-corner version of. Thank you and love you.)

IF YOU WERE TO DIE AND COME BACK AS A PERSON OR AN ANIMAL, WHAT DO YOU THINK IT WOULD BE?
I would be the boy lion.

IF YOU COULD CHOOSE AN OBJECT TO COME BACK AS, WHAT WOULD YOU CHOOSE?
A fountain pen.

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
La ilaha illa Allah. (There is no god, but God.)

WHO HAS BEEN THE GREATEST INFLUENCE ON YOU?
My mama, and baba. They are my core.

Honest to God there are days I feel like I am punching myself in the face.

Absolutely stupid morning, which started with my drinking the wrong of two lattes (I realized after half-way through I had the one with the nutmeg, and I hate nutmeg!), and just got heavier and heavier as it progressed into a tail-spin of even stupider.

I am usually quite good at keeping my shit on lockdown, and my emotional static clung to my dresses at home, rather than taking them for a twirl into the office. But not now and definitely not today, because while I can maintain that on the regular, the heaviness and solitude of this static cling buries me once about every two or three weeks, and it turns my ass inside out. And not in the fun kind of way, either.

Now. Because I can’t talk about this thing, this is why you amazing Readers have been watching me dance around like a loser for a while, without any of you actually knowing whether I’m dancing to Blues or Funk, or Britney or manic classical.

Because I can’t talk about it. And I can’t write about. I am struggling because I am a talker and a writer and no subject is off bounds, and I am the one among my friends about whom everyone will say I am stupidly fearless when it comes to honest conversation. Even the most difficult subject, I navigate like Not The Captain of The Titanic Does Anyone Know His Name, Anyway?

But not anymore! I have found a wickedly taboo subject that I must gobble up and wear on my insides when what I need to do is wear my heart on my sleeve and fucking be done with it.

But I can’t. I CAN’T. Because it’s a t.a.b.o.o. Weren’t you reading, my love?

Anyone who is sensitive and tapped into me sees it on a day like today. They are seeing the static cling because my hair is standing straight up looking for a radio signal, and I am quiet and detached because if I crack? If I crack a mm, there will be a tsunami rolled into a sandstorm rolled into that-winter storm-the-name-of-which-I-can’t-recall-maybe-it’s-a-Chinook? of epic proportions that is entirely beyond my control. And I will be That Crazy Girl.

But the secret is: I love That Crazy Girl, because that’s who I have always been. Fearless. Stupidly so, and without worry for human consequence and human words (though she is always tempered where the pain of others is at stake). If my morality is in check, I have never given a shit what people might say. That Crazy Girl, is someone I am missing so deeply because I have placed her in a cage not of my choosing but that of circumstance’s.

Maybe I should start again on-line dating and make that my profile? Weed out the pussies from the men instantly. On a normal day, I roll over and crush the former in an instant (then write about it); on a day like today, the later would need to let me bounce all over his head and know it will end once we have talked about my internal static cling which is handing me my ass and we would be okay and maybe even better than yesterday (then I’d write about it).

For a girl who has never ever coloured inside the lines (no fun!) and who revels in her own intensity and fuck-off to those who don’t revel in it too, I have chosen to cage That Crazy Girl because she is something fierce right now.

Today was the day out of every few weeks where wearing shit on my insides threw itself up all over my outside. And tomorrow and for the next few weeks, I will be alright and normal until my insides lose their mind again. This is my cycle. An amazing cycle which I loathe, but which I am apparently wearing well, though I am surprised to hear that voms is my colour.

Near the end of my day, my keyboard (the bastard) snagged my fishnet stocking. I am typing on my berry, and I am too tired to Google stalking vs stocking. I nearly undid and took off the left leg, heavy was my state of mind. Imagine? Because when in the shit did DIM start making such gentle fishnets? Anyone? Fishnets are meant for durability, no? They are meant to be handled anything but gentle and yet. And YET, my keyboard faced off with my left leg and won the battle.

Worst of all, my friend asked me if I wanted to talk about it and I had to do everything not to sob like the NOB above, because I could feel That Crazy Girl rattling her cage. Screaming. Because, I mean, I didn’t even know where to begin. Do I begin back in October? Or this morning when I tasted the nutmeg?

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The image is a Victorian pendant from this Etsy collection.

The early years after my parents fell out of love with one another and divorced, I didn’t much act out against my mother. One way I did act out is that I played a little on her need to ensure I never felt excluded in life-things, in general.

Not wanting for me to feel as an awkward outsider (since divorce made me an anomaly within our own tragic community which often hates women and loves to see them struggle, especially the ones as physically and heart beautiful as my mother — but more on this another day, as it deserves its own article), she actively went out of her way to ensure I was living a “normal” teenage life, aged 13.

Sometimes, this was awkward and challenged by cultural overtones. Most notably the time she finally decided to let me have a Christmas Tree.

Christmas is not a Muslim holiday. We love Baby Jesus (pbuh), the immaculate conception, the manger, and especially the Virgin Mary (who is the only woman mentioned by name in the Quran, with an entire chapter devoted solely to her), though to Muslims she had no Joseph, and she too was an independent single mother who struggled and persevered as a woman alone. Dear Men of The World: Mary didn’t need a man to survive, y’all.

Like the suck that I was and sometimes still am, I wanted a Christmas Tree.
Because…
They are so shiny and fluffy.
They smell nice
They come with presents.
They have a twinkling star.
Little elves live inside.
Angels sit atop them.
With one, I will fit in.

I argued that because I have a tree, I wouldn’t suddenly believe that Jesus died for my sins but rather that I own and am responsible for all of my choices; I will continue to believe that the way to Heaven is through God and good intentions; and, I will still accept into my heart all of the Prophets, including the unnamed ones.
Etc.

One year after the divorce, my mother caved and surprised me with an awkward Christmas Tree. Crooked. Small. Sad. But a Christmas Tree nonetheless. We covered it in shredded sparkly tinsel that got into every corner of our apartment. Pretty sure that at one point, I was nearly suffocated by a stray piece.

We added an angel on top that I may or may not have made out of a barbie. I sat and stared at the Christmas Tree for hours, and every night, I would turn its lights on and think: I belong!, which slowly morphed into: I belong?

Pretty sure it didn’t help that it was February.

I kept hoping that something in me would be transformed. That I would majically fit in with my surroundings. I was so adamant that I slept next to the tree, and though my mother might deny this, I maybe didn’t bathe for a few days. In short, I was a hysterical psychotic who quickly realized that belonging had nothing to do with objects, and everything to do with what we aligned our hearts.

From that very young age, I quickly recognized and accepted that when our actions are at balance and in-step with our belief system, we are presented with emotional calm inside of which we find clarity. This is when our hearts are at rest, when they are cradled perfectly in the tear-drop of God’s protective custody most fiercely.

This last while, things have served an emotional challenge because my heart is imbalanced. She is adrift.

Only a bit, because she is being dislodged by thought, rather than action.

For a girl who fights tooth and nail to live daily her beliefs, and not simply pay them lip service, I am being tested in a way I didn’t think imaginable. Had you told me last Fall that come Spring, I would be standing in front of this challenge, I would have checked for track marks between your toes.

But here I am.

Thinking how it was only recently that scientists confirmed the heart organ, like the brain, has neurons – over 40,000 in fact — and it communicates.

Isn’t that the most amazing thing?

Our
Hearts
Speak

…while listening to them is an active choice which we must make, tempered with responsibility for others and humility in general.

With all of the above, and as already mentioned, but here I am.

Heart and mind functioning at different rates, and to different rhythms. While I am doing my best to find the clarity so that I may also see a road ahead, I am too drunk on my heart’s message to do anything but sit quiet and ask Allah to clear the rubble over which I might trip and impale this little heart which otherwise hears Him so clearly.

Most important, that He might forgive me for the otherwise static.

“When I am silent,
I have thunder hidden inside.”
- Rumi

Comments closed.

We’d croak when our partner died. No fun.

Two days ago, I was discussing soul mates with my friend. Whether we believed there is only one person out there for us, or if we actually had multiples. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening considering this while in pottery class painting lopsided bowls, and I believe my initial instincts were right: that there is always more than one, and it’s always hinged on timing.

Also, that we don’t have an endless supply of soul mates. Like, we don’t run around smashing into them here, and there, and everywhere. Maybe we have three if we’re lucky. I like the number three, and have always said if I have kids three would be ideal (my ovaries just yelled: NOT ANYMORE, BABY! right before they started sobbing) because if one dies, then you have two left and the chances of those two also kicking it aren’t very high. Welcome to the basement of my mind, Reader.

That said, I’m not entirely sure what a “soul mate” is, and the name alone is so heavy with expectation that it’s making me uncomfortable. I mean, when you’re sitting across from someone, do you think: Is this my soul mate? because I don’t. I usually think: I would really like to touch your hair, and sit in your lap. Upside down.

JUST KIDDING, MUMMY!! MISS YOU!! SKYPE ME!!

Maybe better to call it Extreme Chemistry Which May Become Soul Matey If You Both Share The Same Level Of Interest In One Another And The Timing Is Right And You Become A Team Who Communicates Well And Laughs At The Same Things And Shares Secrets And Then With Time You Know You Are Indeed Soul Matey, Marty for short. As in: Do you have the right Marty with this piece?

A while back, I wrote this while trying to understand sexual chemistry, and I returned to it this morning to see if I still believed it, which I do. (I mean…who needs to evolve when the word coincé is so elegant?)

“Soul mate” is like “I love you.” They are sacred, to be respected, and never used lightly because the more you spread them around, the less worth they possess. Take me as example, I have only ever said “I love you” to one man. This means that the weight and worth of these three little words, in that order, are on par with the Wittelsbach-Graff Diamond.

Next man to whom I say this will do one of two things, depending on whether he is in fact a man or a clown. The man will revere it; the clown will experience shrinkage as he does not possess the strength of character to carry such a gift. The man will take pride in it, as it will be my heart spoken and reflected within him; the clown will perceive it as pressure from beneath which he needs to get out.

It really is that simple, and I really did just compare myself to the world’s most expensive diamond. You should too. This is the standard to which you should hold yourself, and absolutely nothing less.

It is also the standard to which you should hold your man / woman / undecided. Quite honestly, I would bust a clown out of my life if he talked about the twenty other “soul mates” to whom he expressed his undying love before he met me. I am not interested in being an egg shoved into a carton alongside a trillion others.

Sidebar: If I was creeping a potential man on Facebook and saw that every single woman he dated he brought home to his family, and entrenched in the lives of his friends, I would find this a complete turn-off. For me, it means that when he intros me to his family, and his friends, I am just another egg in the carton. There is nothing special about me or the relationship which makes the introductions a little more weighty. Also, I am pretty sure that my mum is yelling from the Middle East: THIS IS WHY YOU’RE STILL SINGLE!!

You remember my first Marty, about whom I wrote here. Marty is all across the board intensity, compatibility, and vulnerability which is natural, easy, and fun (people often forget that ‘fun’ is among the most important and relevant of glues that hold together a healthy and long-term relationship). It is neither calculated nor measured, but rather it is what it is. Often inexplicable because it is what I consider the “ex” factor, where God’s hand is at rest on your heart in the presence of another.

I came close once after my first Marty, but no cigar, and I am curious: How do you know you found Marty?

I am writing a follow-up to Defining ‘Sexual Chemistry’, and so sending you there to read in advance. GODSPEED.

Comments closed.

Maha.

My new boyfriend told me he cheated on his ex to get out of the relationship and I am having a really hard time trusting him now every time he looks at another woman and it’s causing a lot of trouble and anxiety. He slept with someone else. I love him so much but I don’t know if I can get past this even when he says it was only once

Any advice for a girl like me?

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Editorial note: In what follows, I am only talking about the person who is the cheater, and not the person who / if is single and involved physically with someone who is in a relationship. Additionally, I am only discussing those who actually take their thinking to a place of action and physically jump into bed with someone who is not their partner.
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Dear Girl Like You,

Thank you for your question; I am sending you a very warm hug.

I used to believe that once a cheater, always a cheater. Until people began confiding that they had in fact cheated on their partners, until someone I dearly love became involved with such a scenario. I had to recognize and accept that relationships and matters of the heart have to be taken on a case-by-case scenario and that it’s not fair to generalize in such a complicated situation.

Achtung! Because I don’t know your man or the detailed circumstances, what follows is a generalization.

I read once that there are 17 reasons people cheat, and that it is as often the woman as it is the man. (This is something with which I struggle because I am equal parts extremely naive and fiercely loyal, and assume that most people are like me; the moment my heart belongs to someone, I – quite literally — stop seeing other men. Physically, they no longer register on my radar. That said, I have never been in a relationship where my heart stopped belonging to my partner; I am pretty sure that were this to happen, and to ensure I did not whither and die an emotional death while taking him with me, I would get the fk out of dodge for everyone’s sake.)

Of the 17 reasons, there are only two intended outcomes: the cheater doesn’t wish to leave the current relationship, or the cheater wants to leave the relationship.

The first kind usually cheat repeatedly for the rush, the chemistry, and/or out of boredom.
I don’t wish to talk about these people because this is not pertinent to your Q.

As to the second kind, who wish to leave their current relationship. The more I see, the more I realize that this seems to be the running thing. Most people don’t know how to say: I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore, and so instead act out in ways that will force the partner’s hand to end the relationship.

Usually, the cheating partner is disconnected from their significant other and is desperately looking to connect with someone else. They are not able to leave unless they find that outside connection be it because they are not strong enough, or because matters are far too complex to navigate alone. They don’t usually engage with someone else for fun, but rather to really bridge an emptiness which then allows them to leave.

It sounds like your man falls into this later category.

The reality is that no one is an angel, we all make mistakes, and we all have a varied degree of history — this being the flip-side to the beauty and blessing that is freedom of choice. The fact that he told you is a good sign, as it speaks to a level of trust and communication between you two that you should not take for granted; please don’t punish him for this. All you can do is ask him to not do it to you. I know that sounds dumb and naive, but in a relationship where there is no trust, there is no longevity. Ever.

That said, he’s not getting off this easily.

Bottom line is that cheating is a cuntpunt to everyone involved, no matter the rationality inflicted on ourselves to justify the behaviour. Physical cheaters are cowards who made fucked up choices, while maybe their bottom line intention was a good one (i.e. getting out of a bad situation but not knowing how).

Reality is, ‘I just dropped my peen in there by accident’ and ‘…then suddenly! There was a peen inside!’ aren’t like ‘I just dropped my keys down the drain’ and ‘Before I knew it, the kid had rushed the door…’ In these nuances you need to engage a dialogue with your man. For him, he may not actually know how to walk away from a bad scenario — this is not an excuse for his behaviour but it is something which speaks to how very very very many people behave.

Talk to him about it; do not shut him out. Just maybe not now when you’re clearly still raw. If you can not approach him from a place of compassion, do not approach him at all. Take some time to think about what you want to ask him and how you wish to engage, and remember that:
- He didn’t cheat on you.
- He didn’t cheat for fun.
- He told you.

With these things in mind, ask him why he didn’t choose a different course of action and walk through your own course of action together. If, in the future, you two are no longer compatible, you need to be assured by his word (and that should be enough in a healthy relationship) that he will not act out in this same way. You also shouldn’t spend the rest of your relationship wondering where he is and what he’s doing; suspicion will make a monkey of your mind, you will be enveloped by the Darkness of Mordor, and this will give you frown lines (to be avoided at ALL COST).

The above wasn’t intended to give you any answers, but rather (& hopefully) it has given you some guidelines that you can use to navigate what’s to come.

With warmth,
M

We just finished Earth Hour; did you observe?

I did, and it was more like Maha Hour, not really sure what the earth had to do with it. I sank into a hot bath fully loaded with oils and salts, and I was surrounded by candles when my friends Depeche Mode and Dave Matthews came for a visit with pizza and a drink.

Today is over. My living room and dining room are set. My bedroom is complete, but I have quickly realized that I am some kind of weird clothes horse. I had no idea I owned this many clothing items, and so much lace and sequin like I am some kind of showgirl ever braced to get my ass up onto a Las Vegas platform quickie split. I need to think out the clothes, and may just chuck what I don’t need over my balcony. Pretty sure I am the only wank living on this side of my building, while everyone else waits for the construction to be completed, and the dust to literally settle.

Not this girl!

The only things left are a bookshelf which I will pick up on Monday, and art which requires placing holes in the walls. I get very excited with a hammer in my hands (*wink*) and fear that I will mistakenly take down the wall between myself and my neighbour while trying to hang my trillion pieces of art work. As such, I have set aside this defining task to a tall human person with an excellent eye for the aesthetic; I can’t wait to see the wall go live.

I had a crazy dance party because I was able to crank the shit out of my LAPTOP. Aside from my abundance of clothes, I also realized I don’t have a sound system.

Pause. Look right. Look left.

I don’t get it either.

Anyway, I pressed my little F12 button excitedly and all the way to the end. Then I danced all over The Cloud Cave, because this is how I celebrate. Sunscreem played a very big role in my dance party, as did Culture Beat and Selena Gomez.

The headache’s gone by the way. The moment I dropped off the mother of a U-Haul — which I was driving at 80 miles per hour because I confused the miles with kilometers — I knew it was done. That next up was organizing and I am an organizer gnome, so right in my element.

Sidebar: Before exams, I used to clear out the cork boards of staples, then I would be convinced I failed the exam, get in the 90s, be shocked and start all over again. Carleton had epically clean boards for the years they were sucking money out of my veins.

Oh! So yesterday, my friend Peter — nicknamed Puma — came over to help me put together a few items. I will close this first day at The Cloud Cave with a snippet of our convo:

“Bla bla bla. Change your filter. Bla bla bla. In your furnace.”
“Yes, of course. Once a year!”
“Once every three months.”
“I meant every three months.”
(pause.)
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“What. Exactly. Does my furnace do?”

…

“My light sockets aren’t working.”
“Your electrical sockets?”
“These things for my LIGHTS.”
“Your electrical sockets.”
“They’re not working! I need to call an electrician! MONDAY! I have to start a list. The bastards!”
(pause. Peter walks over to something hidden in my wall. Peter does something. My lights go on.)
“Oh my God. You know electricianing?”
“No, Maha. I turned your braker to ‘on’.”
“My what?”
“Your…come here. Come look at this, let me give you a quick lesson…”
“Ugh. I hate lessons.”
“Just come here.”
(pause. I sulked over.)
“Bla bla bla. Breaker. Bla bla bla. Living room. Something bla bla bla. I don’t know what this stands for “SP.”
“It stands for Super Phaaat.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Does now.”

…

Happy First Day At The Cloud Cave, Peaches, and if you have six minutes, have a dance with me to this groove

xxo

P.S. I am freezing because I don’t know how in the shit to work my air conditioning unit.

Every little thing is packed, and although it’s only 8.30pm, I am in bed still with this headache. At least it now ebbs and flows, and when it flows it is less painful than before, alhamduliLah.

Also today, I was fed proper.

I have only lived outside my family’s home once in my life, at The Treehouse. I loved it, and though it felt home-ish, it wasn’t home. My home always remained split between where my mum fell asleep and where my dad fell asleep.

I had so much stuff left at my mum’s then; all of the really important things. But not this time. This time, it’s all coming with me, and I think this is partially responsible for the tension headache. I am sad to be leaving home, while excited that The Cloud Cave already feels really and truly like my home. The only way it could feel more like home is if there was a man lurking in the corner to surprise me every time I opened the door. (Maybe he could be pregnant!)

Honestly, I wish I could tell you that I am over the moon excited today as I was a few days back, but I would be a lying liar who lies. I am not excited, just sad and exhausted. I imagine that the excitement will start to sink in around Earth Hour tomorrow (please don’t forget to shut off all electricity between 8.30pm and 9.30pm — I have all candles ready for the hour and about this, I am excited).

I imagine that I will be excited when I have my first guest.
I imagine that I will be excited when my mum and dad see The Cloud Cave and also feel at home.

People will tell you that only children are spoiled. These people haven’t a fucking clue. The weight of the world rests on our shoulders, and we can not fail as no one else can step in and succeed to the happiness of our parents. So many of us are over-achievers by nurture.

This is not a tragedy unless you make it so; it is a blessing and an honour to carry your parents when it is time. It is a blessing and honour, but right now I am in no place to carry this as I would rather bury my face in my dad’s chest and tell him that a part of me is really scared to be alone, because I remember crying the first night at The Treehouse. And that a part of me is really worried to go to sleep without someone calling out goodnight. And that a part of me wishes to once again get angry at my mum because she is so chatty in the morning when all I want to do is wake up quietly.

Tonight isn’t really the night I expected, and I am fighting tears, so here’s hoping that tomorrow I will be far too exhausted and satiated to feel as much, when I am staring at the crack in the ceiling of The Cloud Cave.

Love to each and every one of you for your amazing and kind messages of warmth. Where I can’t feel the weight being shouldered by a partner, you have stepped in with your words and they have acted as a ramrod to my heart. xxo

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Photo from the BYU Linguistic Department.

Short sundresses, broken straps, shit-kickers, unbuttoned shirts over moistened-with-humidity skin, and swamp lands. This is the imagery with which I am left every evening when I listen to the platinum standard of old-world blues. Get on it, and start listening on-line between 8-10 nightly. Trust.

Now on to what I really came to say…

“I live a life of no regret.”

“There is no place for the word regret in my vocabulary.”

“I don’t have time for regret.”

Quite certain that at some point in my twenties, I held a world view which reflected the above sentiments.

I see it around me on a very regular basis; this sense that people run’round actively not regretting actions of the past and with a regret free preemptive eye on the future.

Thing with this is: If this is your mantra, then you have de-facto given yourself carte blanche to act as an asshole and walk away from it without second thought or lessons learned or entertaining that you may have behaved in a way unbecoming a human person among other human creatures.

Unless you are a sociopath, I’m not sure anyone should aim for this behavior. Tell me if you think I am foolish for thinking this, so that I might block your IP addy. Kidding!

Prime example — I wronged someone around a decade ago. I was rude and mean and behaved in a way which I regretted. I was younger, too proud to admit fault, and so was mean rather than open to the possibility of saying: I’m sorry. Every once in a while, I think about this situation with deep regret. Around a month back, I found this woman on Facebook and sent her an apology for my shitty behaviour because it really is never too late to say you were a complete nob.

Listen, I’m not saying that we should revisit every single action and choice made, and quicksand into eternal regret; maybe just our Top 3. I am also not saying that our vision should be anywhere but in the present. I am saying that regret in healthy doses is a necessary and adult response. Otherwise, it’s just another perverted way of eschewing responsibility and staying in a position of paralysis.

If approached sincerely and with an open mind to change for the better, it is often within the confines of regret that we learn who we would like to be, how we would like to behave, and subsequently change patterns to improvement.

Equally as important as wielding regret to our own self-awareness and improvement, is regretting the absence of things. More often that not, this comes up within the context of relationships and / or work related stuffs, with people regretting that they never made a move, never said anything, never let the other person know they cared for them, never took the job, never made a play.

Here, moving forward usually comes when we recognize and usually regret that we did not act and instead sat like a lump on a log and watched someone else make a grab for and win what we covet.

Also…some mistakes are too much fun to only commit once. Pay attention to those, too.

BREAKING! The ants in my pants are no more, and I miss them.

I am entirely bagged. I have a tension headache that I can’t fix, since Tuesday. It came with my keys.

I have barely eaten, and being the crazy person that I am, I didn’t check the weather before packing away my clothes, and so am left with a week’s worth of really lovely summer pieces entirely useless when it’s -8 outside.

I need a massage, a hot bath in salts and lavender, and a home-cooked meal. None of these things will happen until Saturday night.

Right now, I just wish to be moved in at home with some quiet, scented candles, and warmth. It honestly can’t happen soon enough.

P.S. If any of you have a home remedy for my headache, please send it my way. Thank you x

Let me tell you about that amazing and heart-warming moment between my baba and I when he, well intentioned, took my crushed heart and hammered it like he was on some competitive reality show titled Who Will Build The Out-House FIRST! (Correct punctuation there.)

A few years back and like a ridiculous little monkey who couldn’t stop crying, I was seated at his side, sobbing something fierce. I had allowed my chest to be ripped open, left my insides as a playground to someone I trusted and loved, and they — not being cautious — had left their fingerprints on every part of me but nothing more.

My baba was looking at his only daughter, broken winged, and did the only thing he knew how — triage by stating the following (seared into my mind):

“It’s over!
DONE!
FINISHED!
FINI!
FIN!
FINITO!
!خلاص
完成了!
KAPUT!
DONE!
DONE!
DONE!
OVER!
FINISHED!”

“IT’S OVER!
DONE!
FINISHED!
BASS!
BASTA!
CIAO!
OLE!
OUT!
DONE!
OVER!
GONE!
NO MORE!
EVER!
AND FOREVER OVER!”

He was also making chopping motions both horizontal and vertical with his hands. In hindsight, I am surprised he didn’t take flight with his angry waving. I understood instantly that this was maybe what a lion looks like when protecting their cub — and as all sane parents, my father is some kind of force with which to be reckoned when it comes to me.

I sat, mouth hung open, saucer-eyed, with tears frozen, calculating were I to lunge at him what are my chances of success? He is a large man, and so I decided better to chill my ass, and instead asked:
“When did you become kajill-ingular?”

He laughed, and I did too.

His response has become known as “The Monzer Hammer” amidst my girlfriends. When one of us needs a solid ass kicking, the other pulls out The Monzer Hammer, runs to Google Translate, and gives’er.

Tonight, I pulled out The Monzer Hammer, wrapped it in velvet, and did a little work of my own. Needed not for me, but for another so that he — at his request — may now move forward.

We humans are an amazing, complicated, heart-breaking, and beautiful creation. Our ability to be vulnerable is as devastating when reflected in hope as it is in endings.

“Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,
absentminded. Someone sober
will worry about things going badly.
Let the lover be.” -Rumi

Last week, I was chatting with a friend about the following subject and which — turns out — gets me very riled up: Not appreciating our partners. Not wanting to spend time with them. Not wanting to hang out with them in bed. Not wanting to just free fall into nothingness with the person with whom you’ve chosen to spend an exorbitant amount of time.

I said that if you are free to do so, and can’t stand to spend a few more moments, or an entire day or weekend, or month in bed with your partner, then you probably shouldn’t be with them. That if you need outside static, and can’t pause to do nothing except be with this man / woman / both then there is something fundamentally at odds in your relationship and you should probably check out. But only after you have in good faith and ferociously attempted to bridge whatever divide obviously exists.

I was told this is a bold statement.

Dearest seven readers, are we fighting? Am I too much the romantic fool?

I sometimes can’t help but wonder if I have a really fetishist approach about what it means to connect with someone. I am usually a rational person, but often find myself wanting to pick up heavy objects and chuck them around a room when I am made privy to the following: That someone has been blessed enough to partner, but they don’t appreciate it.

For me personally, as a single woman, this is really very offensive. Because how exciting is it to wake up to someone every morning? How amazing is it to roll over and curl into someone? How gorgeous is it to wake up and find that you are looking at someone you really really like, whose not your mum?

I am not kidding when I ask — does everyone eventually forget how lucky they are? Am I lunatic to think that we should do double duty to keep things exciting and sexy and fun and imaginative? Please, please tell me if I am some sort of a crazy person.

Only before you do, let me state that if I am in fact a connection/love fetishist, I am very happy to be just this. If ever I wake up in bed thinking “ugh, I can’t wait to roll out of here,” then this will serve as a massive flag that something is wrong.

Listen. I get that it’s easy to idealize what we don’t have, and that some of you may be thinking that I may be this way because I haven’t had many relationships, and I am good with this. Yes, very few have been privy to the absolute inner workings of me, a privilege for both of us. I also don’t plan on changing this, because while this is not the case for many of you, and I respect that 100%, I fully understand it doesn’t work for me. I am far too fucking intense to have this work for me.

The bastard lucky enough to get his hands on me long term? I will strap him to a bed for at least the first five years of our union, because I have to make up for lost time. 37 years of lost time, alhamduliLah.

I need a heat wave and a sandstorm where I can’t breathe, can’t see, and my only anchor is the man to which I am holding. That’s the intensity I want, and this is definitely the intensity which jives with my head and heart. I am not good unless I am inside of an extreme.

That’s how I think it should be, and anything less is a waste of fucking time for me. For many people, a slow, calm and cool wind is what gets their skirts up; not me. For me, anything less would have seen me married long ago. And survey says, very unhappy.

There is a couple who I adore, and who I’ve yet to actually meet. Parents of my friend B, she tells us how well into their 70s, they can’t keep their hands off of one another, always running up to the bedroom, always flirting, always touching. After nearly 40 years of marriage.

It’s to this I aspire when I clock a man in my mind’s eye. That, that he is a Believer in God, and height, because I like the feeling of being wee physically in the privacy of my man’s world. Simple.

I have always believed that at the core of us is the need to connect, and this is reflected in Rumi’s poetry all of which is about re-unification with God; it is no surprise that it reads like a love story to the human condition, that Ecstasy (capital ‘E’) is most closely experienced by ecstasy (small ‘e’), and when viewed as such, why would I ever wish to squander it on just anyone? Why would you?

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Image unknown.

Yesterday, a former colleague spent some time in my office telling me about their new piece. I shall call this friend ‘Green’.

Piece happens to live in Texas, and so Green’s first (because there is a second) concern was their fear rooted in that Piece resides in Texas, and what? Should Green move? What about Green’s career? What about Green’s life? Friends? Family? Whaaaaaaaat about every other reason under the moon as reason not to give Piece a real and honest shot? (Piece, by the way, has an ailing mumma in their town.)

My advice was to just get on with it; that when you find someone with whom you have a serious and palpable connection — if they are free and available — just fkn go for it. Grapple with them, hitch a piggy-back ride…whatever. Just do it, already, and then appreciate every single moment you have with this person and recognize that connections really and truly deeply are rarely made, and that many people continue to be in situations where the connection has waned, never truly was, and/or never will be.

Don’t worry about geography, unless they live in the DRC or maybe Islamabad, or Yemen right now and you have a girl fun-part. If there is nothing tying you to your current spot, like an ailing parent, little seedlings, or a condition for which you must receive regular medical attention and can not in this other part of the world, then just take a deep breath and let yourself free fall.

As a woman with no responsibilities but those concerning myself and the duty I owe my parents, I understand it is far easier for me to say this than others. That said, I just bought my first property, and so I am starting a little collection of shit that will weigh me down. Reality still stands though that today, in this place, with healthy parents and a good job and a crazy amazing circle of friends with whom I am deeply in love (and a much larger one of lovely acquaintances), and a little property, I would set everything aside to bust over and play board games in bed all day with the right man, in Swahagalugoo.

This is a part of my crazy.
I don’t think anything is impossible, or should be impossible when you meet the right person, someone with whom you connect with on every level starting at the physical, winding its way through to your moral foundations, your sense of humour, your ability to communicate, and your approaches to problem solving.

(Communicate! Sex one another lots! Listen to your partner! Have a dance party! Go to bed angry and take it out there so you don’t say anything stupid, you morons! Deal with it in the morning after you’ve had a few goes at one another physically and you’re feeling connected and satiated and you have a clear head (“don’t go to sleep angry” = worst. advice. ever. || “go to sleep angry, have the sexing, then wake up and deal with it” = best. advice. ever.) Simple. Simple. Simple. Life should be simple when it’s not complicated and traumatic and doesn’t always need to be dramatic, though drama is actually fun when both individuals are lunatics. LUNATIC!! CALL ME!! And ‘complicated’ — outside of physical and/or emotional illness, or financial problems (which in many instances we can control) — really is a luxury here in this part of the world.)

Green’s second concern was that would this thing not work out, wouldn’t they come back to Ottawa with their tail between their legs? An astonishing question to me because I have never understood how anyone can feel shame when they open their hearts to love.

Sidebar: Not to be confused with an abusive love; then it’s not shame one should feel, but rather a sense of strength that they gave it a go, understood they deserved a loving union and not an abusive one, and then bowed out.

What possible shame is there in seeing someone and then:
- Thinking ‘Pretty sure I could sex you for a very long time while we make it through a really challenging obstacle course and have a laugh when we don’t want to punch one another in the opinion. And, you look like you can really cook and work a hammer’;
- Giving it a run for its money; and,
- Not having it work out?

How amazing is it to place your ass in a slingshot and sling yourself over to Swahalamalama in order to give this thing we call love a chance? I think it’s brilliant, and I love hearing stories about couples who did what they needed to do in order to be with one another (and didn’t spend the rest of their union lording it over the other one as some fucked up Trump Card of IOU).

As a single girl who is still waiting her turn to connect with one man (seriously, God…love of You! JUST ONE, ALREADY!), but who 98.03% of the time believes that this is only because I am in for some massive fella who will crush me with his love like a Wile Coyote boulder on my head, I am all for moving. I am all for getting out from beneath your fears, and pursuing your excellent sexer to the ends of the earth. Make it work. Live on less money because the happiest people don’t say that ‘time is money’ but rather that ‘love is worth it’. Do the impossible, as a team, to make it work.

Today, Green came into my office to tell me that our conversation had affected her. Today, she has a wee bit of diarrhea and also a ticket to visit Piece. I am lying about one of these things…but only one.

TEAM GREEN + PIECE!

Public Service Announcement To Potential Suitors: My momma and baba live in Ottawa. I can sling my ass to Swahagalugoo for a year or two or maybe three or five. Then it’s back to here we come — or they’re comin’ a-packin’ — because I have responsibilities and duties to them and those duties will be an honour to exercise even when they make me want to slit my own wrists and paint a pretty canvas with my blood, then take a photo of the canvas and post it to Facebook with the Status Update: #FML. You get the picture. CALL ME!!

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Stole the photo from the super fun site Couple Travelling.

I wouldn’t call myself manic on a normal day, but the last seven days have placed some sort of fire ants in my pants. And by fire ants in my pants, I mean: hot cold hot cold then freezing and then boiling in my pantalons because I am freaking out and does everyone do this when they buy their first home?

I know. I am an asshole for complaining because: I just bought a home and there are people who don’t have shelter. I know. Trust.

Wait. But have I mentioned? I am a first time home buyer who had her first Pre Delivery Inspection on Friday and there was a scratch across my hardwood and a crack in my cement ceiling. I wish these were euphemisms for a rocking Thursday followed by a rocking Friday, both of which left me bruised and maybe with a bite mark or two, but sadly: they are not.

Momma came with to my first, and neither her nor baba can join me for my second. Which means I will be alone with Dan The Man And His Amazing Hard Hat Which He Surely Wears To Sleep, and on whom I have a crush. He might be 80 years old. Honest, in that hardhat, I wouldn’t care if he rolled into our date in a wheelchair.

Again. Yes, I am an asshole.

Anyway. There with me in spirit will be my lawyer who makes me wee my pants in fear. He is former lead counsel for some of the biggest construction companies in Ottawa and he’s now doing my pops a favour because my pops was once VP Finance of these companies. When I sat with him the first time, I inquired, on the verge of tears: “Are you angry with me because I didn’t read the 7,042 page contract I signed?” He laughed. I almost lost bladder control. Thanks God I didn’t as I was seated on a cloth chair. phew.

Pretty sure he thinks I am a nut and how can I be my father’s seedling because I end my emails with: “Thanks for being so nice. Please don’t charge me more. Advise!”

Where was I? Oh yes, the ants in the pants. And then there’s the emotional sitch I am dealing with on the side, heightened by my ants in my pants. (I should name the ants, non?) But this will pass, as shit always does.

Tonight I am here to tell you the story of two girls with serious junk in the trunk. My girl and I busted over to Ikea to have a hot dog, lug a very huge mirror, have another hot dog, and then an ice-cream cone. Ants in the pants were on over-drive.

Neither her nor I knew how to shove the massive mirror into the trunk in the car because the trunk is not big enough. WHO MAKES THESE CARS? Clearly, not Ikea. Also, clearly: NOT PEOPLE WHO MAKE COFFEE.

She shoved; I pulled. Again, not a euphemism.

Finally, I found some rope and we made the worst rope thing we called a “knot” because we turned it into a pretty bow when all was said and done. Pretty, but not very functional. In fact, I’m pretty sure the ants in my pants were embarrassed to be in my pants and tried to commit mutiny or small suicide bombings in my pants. Which, I mean, it could have been fun and I’m pretty sure I’m game for almost anything once.

We drove down Iris, and then teleported to Baseline at 30 km an hour with a useless and bouncing trunk over this massive mirror. Amazingly, not one person honked, probably because they didn’t want to set off the crazy people in the car (with ants in their pants).

From here to Ikea it is about a 15 minute drive; no word of a lie, it took us about 40 minutes and very many very wide turns. Natasha sent me a text message: Uhm. Were you driving 20 km an hour down baseline with a bouncing trunk in a Mercedes? Mitch swears he saw you.

I told her Mitch was a liar. (Not really.)

But we made it. D-Day Minus 7. God help me. Be patient with me between now and then, please.

My ants wish me GODSPEED because I have a lot on my plate and I am doing it on my own. Terrifying. Amazing. Exciting. EXCITING!

Also, I have had a lot of coffee. COFFEE IS EXCITING!

Colouring between the lines. It’s never really been my strong suit, emotionally. I am a Libra born under a Scorpio something (moon or sun, I don’t exactly know). Any Reader who has met me never believed I was a Libra because there’s always “too much fire,” like I am some sort of a human bunsen burner. FYI, I had to look up how to spell “bunsen.”

Turns out that the Libra is what keeps everything balanced. Else, I am at risk of lighting up in proper glowworm fashion.

This is a feeling with which I am struggling now. I am suddenly a straw doll running and hiding in corners because the wrong step might be the cause of a flame that eats everything up.

Any of my friends will attest that unless it is an extreme situation — usually, I step right in and deal with any emotionally volatile situation and do my best to diffuse. Immune to flames, likely because I am normally made of them.

But not now. Now I am terrified of catching, terrified of how deep it might scorch. Drama is my bed fellow; who knew it would lie so flat next to a glowworm.

Never have I placed my emotions within the colour lines. I grab for the reds and the blacks and the royal blues and blur the lines as deep and intense as possible. Always, this has made for a better palette, a better picture, hung neatly and succinctly once the crayons have been crushed down to nothing and my feelings have been dealt with and the individuals in play have had their say. Even where this is trauma, conversation has always served as balm.

But not now. Now I have chosen to not even look at the box of crayons which, for a girl like me who plays in traffic always, leaves me struggling — a new life lesson both because it is beautiful and incredible to experience while equally it is as dangerous to even look at, and just as damaging to contemplate when you hold yourself to any kind of a fucking standard of human emotional intelligence.

Most importantly, I can not look at the box of crayons because this is not my canvas, and is something into which I have no right to step.

Worst, I think, is that the one individual with whom I would like to speak to about this is the exact person who can never know, and them in the dark is exactly how it has to stay for now. The only thing I know is that inshAllah, one day I will be able to share this with them, when it is not so terrifying or potentially damaging.

What is that terrible saying? “What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger!” Said by a masochist, no doubt.

Moses, Muhammad, Christ, and all unnamed, my “First World” problems are such a luxury.

Comments closed.

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Sorry for any typos, this was pounded out on my berry while walking.

Image thieved from ReSurge International. Please get to know them.

Editorial Note: I have witnessed first-hand step-mums who have done their best and tried their hardest and plowed through to the best of their ability and strength…only to be met repeatedly with abuse and oppression. This article isn’t about them. This article will never be about them. This article is about the abuser (regardless of which parent — bio or other) and no one else.

Hey MAha,
I am living with a man whoi has two children from his first marriage.  I want to have a family with him but don’t want his first family involved and I think he spend soto much time with his kifds./ I don’t like his xwife and all hid 8 and 11 kids do is make trouble for us whjenm all I wanna do is get on with our oen fsmily. I don’t know how to do this and don’t think we should do this with them around.
StepMom

Dear Step,

I think you’re doing yourself a kindness by calling yourself a ‘mom’, so I’ve decided to just call you STEP.

Thank you so much for sending this my way.

I am going to give this to you from two angles, first from the hard angle, and second from a softer angle.

First
Are you kidding me with this question? Honest to God, when I read it on my blackberry I nearly threw it across the room.

You have absolutely no right to take a man away from his children. As a woman who once struggled very very deeply with the loss of her father to a second wife who on a few occassions was forced to engage me and did so coldly, who never opened her arms to me, who would not welcome me, thoughts (because nothing tells me you have turned them into actions yet) like yours are only deserving of a big fat fuck you.

I will plant and raise a flag here: The step mother is just as responsible as the biological parent. Where one of them is a weak link, the other one needs to do double duty because the absolute innocents in this situation are the babies. 8 and 11 are babies still — and they will remain as much, emotionally, well into their teens and young adult hood. Your job and obligation is to be there for them — it is not to be there for you and only you.

Additionally, children are extremely smart and even more intuitive than adults because they have neither bitterness nor defensiveness from shit experiences. THEY KNOW. And they will react in kind to your ugliness if you continue on this path.

Plain and simple, you shouldn’t be with this man. If you are not capable of allowing his children into your heart and your home, you need to break up with this man immediately. Else, you will be doing such a gross disservice to little people, the repercussions of which they will carry into their adult lives, and if you are not held accountable for creating this pain in this world, make no mistake that you will be held accountable in the next.

If you decide to stay with this man and build a family, then unequivocally: Your home is their home. Your family is their family. You impart a level of fairness and justice to the children of his first marriage as you would to your own with him. If you feel like you can not treat his children with the same love and kindness you would your own, then you need to walk away because they’re not going anywhere (NOR SHOULD THEY HAVE TO).

Sorry. This subject makes me yell-y.

Bottom line is — and I’m not saying that you are adopting them (because you are not, because they have a mother and you should not be an interloper, but rather a support system to that situation) — if you don’t believe that you can love someone the same way you would your own seedlings, then this may not be the relationship for you.

Please please please tread gently.

Speaking of gently, here’s my gentler and kinder advice, with which I will close: You have been presented with the opportunity to make your heart a little bigger.

You have been blessed with the opportunity to become a friend, a mentor, a safe haven.

God has given you some football gear and said: If you want, you have the choice to be the third line of defence in the world of these two children. (And maybe some day have your own.)

You have the opportunity to engage your partner’s first wife and recognise that she will always have a love shared with your man, and you need to pay that some very real and deep respect. She needs to be a part of your life, because that eases the way for the babies. She needs to be a part of your life because we Sisters need to do this for one another because this is not a competition. That “I don’t like his xwife,” is simply unacceptable from either of you (unless she is the devil, and there are some) — all of you need to deal with this shit and check your asses accordingly.

You have the opportunity to learn and to love just a little bit more, and these are not opportunities we get very often in this world.

Step, you have already made a choice to become involved with a man who has a very real and present history that you can touch and hug and cuddle. Whether you choose to call these children “baggage” or “family” is entirely within your field of decision making.

Finally, if you really love him, and if he is dumb enough to accept your initial reaction which is to disengage from his children…if you really and truly love him, you will ask him to be a better man. You will ask him to not disengage. To never disengage. You will work ten times as hard to talk to these children and to remind them that their mum and dad’s separation is not about them, never about them. That they are loved, always were, always will be, and now there’s one more person to love them even more. If you really and truly love him, you will make the active choice to be a better woman.

The little girl inside of me is sad to think that you might be selfish enough to hurt two little children; the woman inside of me is angry that you would even contemplate it. Again, I will remind you to please please please tread gently. Also, to get in touch in six months and let me know how you are doing and what choices you have made, please.

- M

I have recently been struggling with something I have never before dealt with. It is a very deep, visceral, and unkind reaction to someone I don’t know. This is a difficult thing to admit when I work so hard to always keep my heart as free of ink-stains as possible.

I have never been arrogant enough to assume that we can know everything (an arrogance which can never coincide with believing in God), and am respectful of the reality that around me, the women on both sides of my family have always been able to tap into things otherwise unexplainable.

For me specifically, it is dreams and intuition. Never, once have I ever been misled by either. Never. I actually can not make the statement any stronger than this, only because I can not find the language to do so.

On the dream front, I have it strongest of all the women in the family, and this has never been terrifying for me on any level, even when the dreams are giving what I don’t wish to receive.

As I have touched on before, but have not explained in any great detail, there is a very serious and deep dream interpretation tradition within Islam. When I dream, I pay very close attention to the message. Equally, when every bit of my body tells me to be on guard about someone, I pay even more attention, and always I have been thankful for the guidance and protection. I ignored these things when I was younger, and learnt the hard way that when the Universe is yelling, it is foolish and dangerous to put on my earphones.

Forget about the circumstance of how I came across this individual or what I know about them. Suffice it to say that they are not someone I have met, they do not reside in the same province, and they are neither dating nor married to someone I care about, so the chances of ever coming across them is next to none.

However, here’s what my body tells me about her:  she represents everything I stand against. She is someone not to be trusted. She is someone I would never want around my partner. She is the sort of woman to whom I would never turn my back.

This time, the ‘on guard’ is so magnified that it is making me physically nauseous. Whenever I come across this particular individual, my insides turn themselves inside out, and I am having great difficulty locking this shit down. Because I don’t think I actually should lock it down, because I believe there is a reason I am meant to be extra vigilant about this particular person’s presence. Even if I don’t foresee meeting this person, I imagine that this guttural thing which is happening is because our paths will cross sooner or later. And when they do, my signal is to be wearing a full suit of armour and seated inside of a tank with several snipers on the surrounding buildings.

Social networking sites have suddenly become a c/ntpunt.

And now you know I may be part (what North American contemporary culture would call) witch.

When I was 13, a boy broke my femur.

He was the son of our neighbors at the time, only a year older to my 13, a man worthy of my secret crushing. He was the cool one, always at the gym, always busy, always with his equally cool friends while I ate twinkies and chips, and coveted from afar in my knee high socks, awkward shorts, puffy hair and glasses covering half of my face always slipping forward.

As a child, I would have followed him anywhere and on one unfortunate day, I did just this. He said we should go across the street to the store (where they sold twinkies), and so I scrambled to pull up my socks and follow. I was so excited, maybe my new terry-cloth shorts had caught his attention with their white piping accentuating the skin between their bottom and the tops of my socks.

If I had had a Twitter then, I would have wrote: EEEEEEEEEEP! ♥ ♥ ♥

As we were about to cross the street, we noticed the You Should Not Cross But If You’re Already Crossing Then Please Move Yer Ass hand signal had begun to flash. He said we could make it and so began to run. Naturally, I followed, only was incapable of running as fast as him because my glasses were fogged and bouncing, my socks were falling and my hair was getting bigger with every gram of humidity, weighing me down.

He made it to the median though sadly, I did not.

I made it to the pavement as I had been hit by a car.

Thanks God I wasn’t run over, but merely knocked over, and so what could have been complete devastation was just a broken femur. Cue 5 weeks of traction in a hospital bed, 6 months inside of a body cast, 2 years of physio therapy to complete the cycle, my parents staying together longer than they should have because of this trauma to the seedling they planted and reaped together.

Looking back on this story, I admit that I am not entirely shocked by my behaviour. I have never seen the cars as representing the danger and lunacy of a situation; instead, I have always, and continue to see the possibility represented by the man.

Although this still holds true, that I will run into traffic if I feel that the right man is leading, there has recently been a shift in me. Before, maybe as near as some months ago, I would run out randomly like I had water on the brain, not thinking twice if the man was worthy, or if he had proven himself as someone who would hold my hand and run alongside me, rather than leave me open and vulnerable to on-coming traffic.

The two loves I have lived have been incredible men, and from both I have learned an enormous amount. But, neither one ran with me, instead bolting half-way and then running back to the original sidewalk while I kept moving forward babbling to myself gleefully. Truth is, and while the women in my life lived my recovery of these situations, I would not trade either of these moments for anything, and though I never thought I would say this, I would live them again in a heartbeat to land at here and today.

Because to love strong and fierce, you have to be willing to take the hits just as fiercely. In this, there is strength in the ability to still stay vulnerable and open to love in the most awkward and unlikely and absolutely ridiculous moments of impossibility. Playing in traffic has given me bruises I stare at in wonder and fascination still. They are engaged and active markers of my growing pains as a woman, and they are a sign that I am not sitting on my ass safely on the sidewalk never living for fear of hurting.

Finally, I will say that the women I love are of this same caliber; runners playing in the middle of streets filled with on-coming traffic. Truth be told, they are the more interesting of the bunch. As I have never been a fan of cream-coloured skin soft as a newborn’s bottom covered in talcum, I am sending this as a love letter to each of the women still playing in traffic; still believing in love; still opening their hearts with abandon; still believing that there remain a few good men with character and integrity and enough love to give them what they deserve; still believing that the pain really is worth the love-fall. May you each find your regular booty-call in the middle of the streets (but not in, like, a hooking sitch), and may the men who are smart and blessed enough to scoop you, have the strength to keep you.

You are each and every one of you my heroins.

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Photo from JennuMayam Tumblr.

I was recently in Nova Scotia for work, and had a really wonderful time but for when the winds were UFC-ing my face.

There on Citizenship related stuffs, we were able to look up my original papers. Because I am an immigrant. Just like you! (*Unless you are aboriginal.) As we slowly made our way through the micro-fiche roll, I became increasingly nervous because flopping through my demented head were: ‘What if they have no record that I am a Canadian Citizen? Will I have to change the name of my site? Will they deport me? Will they rush me from behind the filing cabinets?’

These thoughts amplified when the micro-fiche flipped itself into oblivion and no “Maha” was found. My mouth became dry, I eyed my colleagues and thought: I could definitely out-run you, except for maybe the Viking.

Luckily, I didn’t need to do this because they found my photo, and application completed by my baba. My reaction was instant: I wanted to starfish face-plant on the floor and cry a combination of happiness and relief. I wouldn’t have to outrun them, wrangle the Viking, or claim clemency.

My reaction was visceral: Because these documents — which I had never before seen — represented the struggle, hard work, and commitment of my family and so many others like them. That Application for a Citizenship Certificate represents still a love letter to this country, my country.

It also addresses a reality I did not know until I later spoke with my baba, who told me that he was not allowed to submit the application with the word “Palestine” on it, and was instead instructed to write “Stateless.” But he refused, and stood firm that if the word “Stateless” was to appear on our applications, that it would not be in his handwriting, and so it was not. “Palestine” is crossed out, and replaced with the word “Stateless” in a hand-script foreign to my eyes.

The lovely folk printed the sheets and handed them to me as a keepsake. Staring down at them, I thought: Canada, you are one of the greatest loves of my life. I began to cry, and had to immediately place my sorry ass on emotional lock-down.

Because — as already mentioned — I was in the presence of a Viking and I didn’t know him very well. Had I been in the presence of the Sisters only, I would have let my tears fall. But with a Viking, I wasn’t sure with what sort of a reaction I might be met, and feared that he maybe chuck me into a snow bank and demand that I run and find a boat. Dunno.

Anyway. Point is, I was very shaky and excused myself to the washroom so that I might deal in private.

Unfortunately, I walked into the wrong washroom. Really wish I could tell you that I “stumbled” into the men’s, but I had in fact landed my busted ass in the washroom for the impaired. (Maybe I mean handicapped? What word am I supposed to use here, know-it-alls?) Rather than leave immediately, I decided to stick around and figure things out while dealing with my soppy emotions.

Only in place of facing my emotions, I instead discovered my Mount Everest: The toilet seat for the impaired, a mechanism I could not work.

I tried to ease myself onto this contraption very carefully because of the very real possibility that I might wee my leg accidentally (and if I was worried the Viking would chuck me into a snowbank for crying, I was paralyzed by the thought of what he might do were I to wet myself in public).

I am nothing if not determined. So I angled, and then angled some more, I used my yoga techniques, made like a trapeze artist in Cirque du Soleil, got on tippy toe, approached it as though it were a small horse, and even tried to unscrew half of the toilet seat so I might sit on its bare bones; I was met with nothing but the reality that there was absolutely no way I was going to pee on this toilet without risking the dunk of my bare bottom into the water itself.

After eventually accepting defeat, I made my way to the regular toilets (around the corner, down another hall) where I was able to hover like a proper debutante.

Because God works in mysterious ways, my back-alley confrontation with the toilet afforded me ten minutes to subconsciously recenter my emotional compass, and to once more control everything starting at my head, moving down to my heart, and landing squarely in my pants.

Thank you Canada, for both your warmth and your toilets that are not holes in the ground demanding I stick my bottom out like a dancer in a Fitty Cent video, and aim. Please don’t change too much.

Maha,

I have been married for 4 years and I am 38. My husband thinks that we’re trying to have a baby but he doesn’t know I’m still taking the pill. I don’t want children because I really love our relationship and I see it all of the time when people have children they stop being a couple. I am too scared to tell him especially because he has children from a previous marriage and I can see how much he adores them. I am worried he will leave me if he ever finds out. I am so scared having a kid will really mess us up Help!

Well. The good news is that if he leaves you, it’s not because you don’t want children; it’s probably because you’re a liar. I’m kidding. Sort of.

What troubles me about this is not that you don’t want to have children — because there are days when I look at them and wonder why in the f/k I would ever willfully hand my life off to incomprehensible vampires (until they giggle and cause my ovaries to respond in kind). But more on this in a moment.

For now, let’s instead take a look at your biggest problem, which is that there is some sort of a massive disconnect between you and your man. That you don’t want to have children is a fact that you simply ought not lie about, and he may surprise you. But in order for you to give him the chance to surprise you, you need to talk to him about this and express your feelings and desires, and ultimately fears of what having a child may do to your relationship.

From there, you two can discuss it, and figure out ways to move forward. You are meant to be a team, so start acting like it, because he is your partner and you chose him to be your partner for a reason. Primary between you two has to be communication and openness — you need to be able to tell him everything without feeling judged, as does he.

He deserves to know that his sperm is playing offense on a losing team, because the flip side of this would have been that you wanted to get pregnant, but he was still crushing and placing into your morning juice a birth control pill without your knowledge. Imagine? Imagine how betrayed you would feel?

As per your not wanting to have children because you fear that your relationship will change. It will; this is an inevitable reality. Things can’t but change when your man has to wrestle his own seedling to get at your boobs. Boobs which he assumes are his for the taking at any and at all times. Thing is, this doesn’t mean that the spark has to die or that you can’t still be your partner’s best friend and hottest sexer.

I think the key, however, is to talk about it beforehand and to keep talking about it afterwards and to never. Ever. Let things drop. Using your imagination and making an effort is huge. I can attest to this not from experience, but from watching relationships around me wither and die, when people simply stop trying. And if anything, becoming married means you have to work harder. Work harder because the immediate assumption is that once you’re married it’s forever, and people stop putting in the work. But nothing is forever. Absolutely nothing.

Also prioritize, and make him yours — the best relationships around me are the ones where the adults prioritize themselves and their relationship and their hotness above the baby. And the baby? They’re fine. Babies are amazing, and the moment you can shove them off to your mum’s, or his mum’s, or your best friend’s, or his best friend’s, do it as often as possible. Have your date nights. Keep fit (him too; NO BELLIES!). Buy lingerie. Slippery sheets. Run baths. Light candles. Share a laugh, have fun, keep playing. Be interested in and work to keep your partner interested. Share experiences which are focused solely on one another as a man and a woman first, parents second or maybe even third. You will be fine, and so will your seedlings.

Then when you’re 90, you’ll have a young adult who’ll wipe your bottom when you can’t.

Who could ask for anything more?

Hope that helps!

Love,

M

P.S. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not natural to not want children, by the way. If you and your man decide not to plant and reap, that is a 100% valid life choice.

A: Apparently, it’s me. (Only I just learned the difference between Whose and Who’s and that there is no Who’se. Please don’t be scared.)

Many of you amazing readers actually take the time to not only read this place, but to also think about what I have written and to fire off emails asking further clarification, and / or over-sharing your own lives and situations.

I love this more than you can imagine, because I too am an over-sharer when I feel I am in the presence of people I trust. Your emails mean that you trust me, and for that I am ever grateful. Thank you.

Most of your emails are about relationship trauma. And from my private emails to you, several of my best articles have come to the fore.

Time and again, you have recommended that I begin answering these questions publicly, sharing my answers with all readers rather than simply: you, in private.

So, this is how it starts. And “this” is a new category titled Who’s Your Know It All (me), where I answer your Qs. I will never share your name or your email with the greater audience, but only the email you send my way, so that people have context to my responses. Also, your photo.**

I may be contacted here.

Thank you for your trust and your love, I can’t express enough how much it means to me. (And barring the extension of sexual favours in response, I offer you virtual cupcakes instead.)

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** No, not really.

For most of my life, I understood the level at which I should expect to be treated by those in my life, and could demand it in return because I remain aware of what I bring to the table in any given relationship, romantic and platonic.

Romantically, three times I have let that slip, two being quite recent.

Two situations, one which had carried on for a couple of years, another for perhaps six months, both not knowing where I stood; two available and engaged men who somehow remained unavailable even when present; two situations which forced me to take stock of what it was precisely that still made me feel withered, and I quickly realized that these men, they were simply not enough. This, not because I am some needy clownish lunatic, but rather because they were takers (insert full stop). There was no give and take, but only take, and let me tell you how absolutely exhausting this is for a woman who is more than happy to give because it makes me happy to give. How exhausting it is — maybe especially for a Libra — to be on the heavy end of an imbalanced scale.

Aalya says that every love is a lesson. And from these boys, the lessons re-learned were that I want a man who will remember me, and who will be gentle, kind, hilarious, sexy, and sexual (because, seriously? Isn’t this the ultimate connection? Nirvana of skin brought on by another?), adventurous, compassionate and loyal. I want someone who I can keep playing with for a very long time, because there is enough shit in this world that when I go home, I want to play. In my sanctuary. With this man.

I know couples at both ends of that play scale, and the hotter ones who still carry sexual tension  between them after years and children are the ones I learn from, and they’re the ones who play. They are the ones who approach life (not just a relationship) like it’s a playground, understanding that it takes two to get super high on the swing, and two to play on the seesaw, and two to build a sand castle proper, and two so that one can shove the other faster when needed; capture the flag, hide and seek, simon says? You can’t play alone, and this world is a blessing and a gift and it is a playground.++ The ones who don’t see this, are — quite frankly — miserable, and a bore to be around, and the ones I see least and never make a point of actually seeing unless forced.

Another point, since I am on some kind of a rip tonight, let’s slightly touch on a near-extinct species: a man who will wear the God damn pants in the relationship, because being gentle and kind doesn’t mean you need to be a pussy. (You know, FYI.) As a woman who has had to fend for herself for too many of my years, I am actually looking forward to ceding control and entrusting it to another. In the presence of a man who takes control, I feel more like the woman I like to be (and I get this is not for everyone).

But for those of you who would judge me on that statement, the ones of you whose panties just scrunched up at what I wrote because how non-feminist of me, kindly f/ck off and go look for your heavily emasculated man. Start in the washroom where he’s likely hiding from you.

Back to the original thread of this article. The above? It’s not a tall order; there are men out there who will meet these criteria, and all I need is one. Just one. Just one who will let me sink into his big hands** and take over.

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++ At least here in Canada, and where you can live within your means, outside of unnecessary debt, and where you have access to clean water and safe food and where there are no bombs or war or physical threat to your person on a normal day.
** I mention again big hands again because last night we saw This Means War and there is a hilarious segment about the repulsion brought on by “teeny tiny itsy bitsy jazz hands.” Do yourself a favour and see this movie; if it doesn’t make you want to handcuff and blindfold yourself on Tom Hardy’s watch, or to at least date a trained assassin of sorts, you might be a terrorist. Trust. (Hi Killer! Skype as soon as you’re home! x)

Last week, I was discussing the challenges of being a single woman in today’s world. We talked about what lessons should be taught to daughters and to sons and from that conversation comes this article. Below are my primaries, to which I invite you add yours either in the comments section or in a private email.

First and absolutely foremost for me would be the Oneness of God. Not Jesus, or Moses, or Buddha, or Muhammad, or whomever, but rather God. Not Jesus as God, but rather God. In his Oneness, exists our own. It is the recognition that no one is a sovereign (Hi Arabic Dictators!!), but that we both share, and are a shared humanity, outside of which none of us can sit alone. Rather, each one of us is an integral thread within it, and if I fray, so too will you.

So. I do my best to live this. And I would be a liar if I didn’t tell you that I have lost a man or two to women who behaved otherwise. And though I sometimes struggle with that, at the end of the day, 87.3% of the time, I am happier for my choices.

Ultimately, to hurt another is to hurt ourselves, and to improve the station of another is also to improve that of our own. What asshole would argue with this? Especially if every day we are working to ensure that our heart is kind and compassionate and still open to vulnerability?

Second,  you have enough problems on which to focus; don’t judge the behavior of others. And where you can’t help it, do your best to temper that judgement with compassion because your time will come.

Your time will come to fall and to hurt and to commit a really fucked up and devastating moral error. Trust in that reality because we are humans and our biggest gift from God is the freedom to choose, and sometimes that actually means “…to choose to do the wrong thing, and suffer the consequences.”

And when that happens, may you be surrounded by people who — though they may disagree with you — will put their arms around you and hold you as tight as you need and for as long as you need until you are whole again, with absolutely no judgement whatsoever.

Third, respect yourself. Always.

I have said that the amount of respect we afford others is a direct reflection of how much we respect ourselves. Even when we don’t like someone, we should still respect them, if for no other reason than we are all One (see Number 1 above).

And on the most powerful drivers defining the human condition…sex and love…

.X. Love with as open a heart as you possibly can. Keeping in mind the above foundations, do not act from a place of fear; do not shy away from what your heart might scream at you. We see God with our heart’s eye, so pay attention to your heart (but only in a healthy love, and not in an abusive one).

To the boys: Treat a woman and court a woman as you would like for your daughter to be treated.

To the girls: Expect to be treated as you would expect for your daughter to be treated, and no less than how your dad adores you still.

To both: Love is a two-way street, and you are both responsible for its maintenance. With that, sometimes even the greatest loves become disenchanted and disenchanting, and so long as you gave it your all and did your best, it is alright to walk away carrying only the best memories forward and into your next relationship. That something doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean that it — or you — are a failure, and where two people don’t evolve in a compatible way, it means that both of your paths are meant to grow in the presence of someone else’s love. Accept this with grace and go easy on yourself.

.Y. Treat your body like the playground that it is. But within confines, because as has been noted by endless many throughout the ages, sex is not merely physical. It is emotional and it is psychological before it is ever physical (at least the amazing sex is). If you choose to give it away at every turn, be cognizant of the repercussions which that will bring.

In Islam this is recognized fully, by the way, and sexing your partner as often as possible is aces and highly recommended, else He would not have given us “the orgasm,” or the multiple.

To the boys: Double bag it, and have patience. Never expect sex, never demand sex, never ever belittle or humiliate a woman with whom you have been intimate.

To the girls: Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for the right man — not your first love, but rather the right love. Wait for the man who does not ask it of you; the one who does not expect it of you; the one who treats you and your body with the reverence you deserve.

To the both of you: Love of GOD, please don’t videotape or photograph yourselves. Please. Believe in the power of imagination instead, and leave some mystery to be desired. And, keep your mouths shut about the details. Look, we all need to speak to our BFFITWWW about the towers of experience in our lives and this is one of them. But out of respect for your partner, speak in general terms, not in specifics. (Also, see Number 3 above.)

.Z. As already mentioned, sex can be wielded as a weapon to oppress, manipulate, abuse, and harm women more than it can be used to do the same to men. Sex, when right, is the most incredible tool of communication, filled with warmth, kindness, loyalty, adventure, and a right good laugh.

Where it is the first, we need to teach our daughters that this is unacceptable, and we need to teach our sons that they are abusers when they behave in this manner. Absolutely under no circumstance is either acceptable.

Where it is the second, then by all means: indulge. And when you indulge, remember that you don’t have to sleep with them the first time, my love; and, you don’t have a de-facto obligation to sleep with them every single time after that. There is no room for coercion or obligation in the bedroom (or bathroom, or patio, or kitchen, or pier, or treehouse, etc.).

Sidebar: To those of you fundamentalist wanks who keep screaming that a woman is obligated to get busy with her husband whenever he so pleases — you are a rape rationalist and apologist. God has stipulated unequivocally that placed between a man and a woman is mercy, so if you need to get blasted, don’t simply demand it…try a massage. Or try cooking dinner. Or try running her a hot bath before you start angry yelling about her obligation to your man bits. (And if she still says no, then you need to chill your ass.) Please and thank you.

With all of the above in mind, I will close with one of my favourite quotes from Clarence Budinton Kelland, and leave the rest to your capable hands: “My father didn’t tell me how to live, he lived, and let me watch him do it.”

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Image courtesy of VoiceOfUnity(dot)com.

Do you remember the store Consumers Distributing? It was basically a store without a display area, where you walked in, chose what you wanted from a catalog, checked off said information on a slip, then handed the paper to an employee and paid while another disgruntled teen would retrieve the boxed item from the back.

Upon arrival at home, and ceremonious opening of product, you discovered that — like all drive through situations — you were missing the ketchup sauce and extra cheese. On cue, you got into a fight with your partner (rather than your children) because children are cute and only assholes yell at cute and unintelligible objects.

Regardless of this shopping manner, Consumers Distributing used to sell feminine personal massage products that looked like a baton. The image accompanying this product was of a woman’s bare shoulder, with her personal massage product hanging off her shoulder just so, so that she might beat the stress out of her exhausted back. Also, if wielded proper, it could be used to crack a burglar over the head, but nowhere was that mentioned in the Consumers catalog.

I am pretty certain I at one point asked my baba to buy this for me, because it was stressful being a 5 year old girl. I imagine this was one of the eventual reasons they divorced.

I still remember the day one of my 7 year old girlfriends (clearly some kind of hooker) explained what a “feminine personal massage product” really was and us, 7 years old, saucer-eyed not knowing what in the f’k she meant or how that was even possible, laughed our selves hysterical while shutting our knees very tightly. Mine are still shut, turns out.

But that is another story for another day.

HI MUM!!

Back to Consumers.

I would become so excited at the prospect of going to Consumers with my parents that I would reach a level of near hysteria and black-out excitement.

Seated in the back seat almost incapable of breathing, I would, as baba came to a rolling stop in the parking lot, shoot running from the backseat and into the store, aimed like an arrow for the Consumers counter. Odd thing, I was not strong enough to pull open the entrance door, and so I would stand like a potato waiting for someone to open the door and usher me in. Usually, I ran right over their kind feet while yelling “SAAAANK YOU” because I was raised polite.

Why the hysteria?

Because they made pencils for Me. Each and every Consumers pencil was made specifically for Children – they were half the size of Adult Pencils and so made with only Me and my pocket-sized brethren in mind.

I coveted the Child Pencils and left Consumers with at least 10 lining my pockets each trip as my mother dragged me screaming things like “there must be something else you can buy!!!!! SHE’S BEATING ME!!!! HELP!!!! ALLAHU AKBAR!!!!!” etc. Honest, if I could have lined my mouth with the pencils, I would have, just to transport more out of the store.

I was grateful for their acknowledgment that the world was not for adults alone. No one has come close since; thank you Consumers Distributing for your attention to the littles, and for this entirely unfocussed and scattered article.

Consumers Distributing
1957 – 1996
R.I.P.

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Image thieved from scienceblogs(dot)com. Thank you!

I was asked to profile Taylor Kitsch. Sadly, this did not mean that we went for dinner, and I later had the chance to rate his skills. Rather, it meant that I was given full means to play and come up with something interesting, which might also interest others.

A snippet: I would be lying if I didn’t mention that the trailer made my eyes bleed. I would also be lying if I didn’t tell you that I might pre-purchase my tickets, to beat out all 12 viewers, and see it on opening night…

With the complete end result here, with one majour Fun Fact missing: He keeps his goods tucked into Saxx panties for men.

I am the little one, with head shaped like a potato. The beautiful woman is my patrilineal grandmum

Standing by the Mediterranean’s wintered coastline at Gaza, in approximately 1980, my family had decided that pneumonia at the hand of frozen sea spray was a welcome family event. Not sure if any of us became bed-ridden after this shoot, but I can confirm that the video from which I stole this image is further proof that I was an addled child, displaying clear signs that I would later become an addled adult.

The unamused and slightly stunned expression on my face is also why I have my hands angled awkwardly; I had been ripped from my playtime in the sand so that the taller people could pose with my little self. In the video, I am waving my paws’round because they are dirty, and even then, I didn’t wish to be improper and run sand across my grandmum.

Though still very young, much of the captures are of me watching others like a true creep, and playing alone with what appealed to me only and with neither interruption nor direction from anyone else. Oddest is that I appear quiet, though momma tells me this has never been the case as always, I sat alone either chattering animatedly to myself or singing noise, like just last weekend.

Shortly after the above photo, my momma locked me between her legs to fasten a poncho around my neck; a poncho I still have today though too small to wear, but for a hat or interesting sleeve. She is struggling with me, and before she has a moment to catch her breath upon my release, I have made like an ostrich and dived head-first for the sand, while simultaneously whipping the poncho back to fashion a noose for my neck.

In vain I kept watching the video to figure out what in the f/k I was doing, the magnum opus that required so much attention and determination. Sadly, it was nothing; actually and literally nothing. Instead, it appears that I am broken-record and saucer-eyed running my hands through the sand over and over and over. Creating space in sand, lunatic petting for some elusive treasure which I had imagined. Maybe the point there is not that I am in search of something, but rather that I have always best been satiated by the journey itself.

I watched fascinated by three generations of women: grandmum standing strong, matriarch over all; mum popping up from the sand, with hair a mess, and laughing wildly; Camilia whose elegant features appear cut from a Roman bust; and then, us.

Little children staggering toward the sea, crying, pointing, arguing, falling, laughing, burying our hands into each others, completely and totally innocent to all that would displace us to February 2012.

Divorce.
Death.
Occupation.
Exile.
War.
One generation imprisoned in Libya, another in Occupied Gaza, and a third “free” but apart in Canada.

This video reminded me.

Last week, my grandmum turned 83; I remembered that I have not laid eyes on her beautiful face since she was 75. That I have not felt her soft hands since she was 75; have not tasted the almonds and cashews over which she says prayers regularly.

I remembered that since my grandmum was 75, she has not made me her sweet chai, not her bitter coffee, and I have not eaten at her table.

I remembered that since she was 75, I have not found the hidden chocolate boxes filled with her jewelery, nor have I sat at her vanity smelling her dozens of perfumes and lipsticks.

My grandmum turned 83 last week.
I have not, since her 75th, sat with my cousins in her kitchen and laughed at our own hysterical imitation of our elders, only to be set quiet by the sound of the morning call to prayer.

Vividly, I was reminded that since the age of 29, my forehead and eyelids have not felt my grandmother’s lips, telling me that I am my father’s daughter.

Telling me that I am hers.

Seated in my office, I watched repeatedly, caught by a laughter which broke a part of my heart and set it adrift until it jammed itself into my throat.

Because my body remembers how desperately it misses the fierce winter song of the Mediterranean coastline at Gaza, with little hands buried deep in the sand and coming up with nothing. Except the love of my family.

“Charity. To love human beings in so far as they are nothing. That is to love them as God does.”

“As soon as men know that they can kill without fear of punishment or blame, they kill; or at least they encourage killers with approving smiles.”

If you believe in humanity, compassion, awareness, and bearing witness to the pain of others, please help support this documentary. Read: Click here, and put your money where your belief is.

Thank you. Love you.
M
P.S. I am a part of this KickStarter campaign. I had a little Skype interview with the incredible Julia Haslett and you can see me raving in the above video at around the 3.55 mark. Clearly, I am a little excited about this doco.

Colin receives all of the accolades.

Last week, I was on course for work. When introducing ourselves, we were asked to name our hobbies. After I listed approximately 32 items, one of my fellow classmates shared that he collected toys. Specifically, they are toys from the 80s.

A few days later, I was still thinking about this revelation and too eager to contain my excitement.

Did he collect Care Bears?
Fraggles?
Plush unicorns?
Cabbage Patch Kids?
My Little Ponies?
Glow Worms?
Rainbow Brites?

“DOES YOUR ROOM SMELL LIKE STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE?”
“CAN I COME OVER AND PLAY?” I kept wanting to yell across the classroom, with hysterical abandon.

But I am an adult, and so I instead bottled everything in and sat on my excitement for three days. Until Wednesday when he sat next to me for lunch and I nearly stabbed him with my soup spoon because I was so excited and scared and curious all rolled into a ball of certifiably crazy energy. Honestly, I spilled my soup because I was shaking with excitement.

When opportunity presented itself, I brought up my queries. It went a little something like:

“Do you think they’re going to bomb Iran?”
“Mmmmm….I don’t know. WHAT KIND OF TOYS DO YOU COLLECT?” spill soup, spill soup, spill soup.
“80s toys.”
“YOU SAID THAT ALREADY!! I DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT KIND!!!!!”
“Transformers.”
“Oh.”
“If I were to come over. Or, if you were to have your friends come over, would you let them and me play with them? Or are they on a shelf behind plastic?”
“They’re mostly collectors items, so I don’t really play with them.”
“BUT THEY’RE TOYS!!”
“They’re collectors items.”
“BUT YOU CALLED THEM TOYS!!”
“Right. So back to Iran.”
Soup spill. Soup spill. Soup spill.

“I COLLECT BOARD GAMES. For my friends, of course. When they come over, I ask them if they want to play board games.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s fun. I have a lot of games. But I am trying to find the original Battle Ship. All of the new ones are electronic and they confuse me because they blink a lot. But I can’t find an old one.”
“Mmmhmmm.”

And so the conversation trailed off and I cleaned up my soup, a little saddened that Colin didn’t have toys with which I could in fact play.

Cut to next day lunch, when Colin walks over and says “I have a surprise for you,” and out from his man bag he pulls a traditional Battle Ship game.

He had gone to a sacriligeous store in which people chuck “old” things, many of which are toys. He went to look for a Battle Ship. For me. Just for me.

And he found it, and he bought it, and he gifted it.

For no other reason than because: Colin is a nice man. A thoughtful, kind, sweet man, well raised by his momma.

Thank you to all of the Colins of this world. You are appreciated beyond measure, and you raise the bar. Thank you. Thank you and thank you for the soup spill. Soup spill. Soup spill. Soup spill.

x

Hia!

Valentine’s Day alone? Yes, please!

As a Singleton, I am really excited about other peoples relationships, while I hang out with my mum, and same sex non romantic girlfriend.

To celebrate my excitement re everyone else’s relationship status, I have baked Valentine’s Day Cupcakes which I will share tomorrow.

With jellied hearts, see!

My intention? Everyone feels too gross to have sexing good times with their Valentines.

Do I get points for being honest?

♥ ♥ !Happy Valentine’s Day! ♥ ♥

Love,
M