Me, I thought it was because I can sometimes be a bona fide crazy person. Turns out that above and beyond my natural brand of lunacy, there’s an environmentally inflicted one as well.
Take yesterday for example. When at a light and I am turning left, I move my car’s ass right to the middle of the intersection so that people behind me will also have a chance to make the turn before the light turns back to red. On a normal day, when the twat in front of me isn’t moving his twat-vehicle up to the middle of the intersection, I might get a little edgy.
Yesterday? Yesterday, my mum had to physically put me on lock-down because I wanted to get out of my car and knock on the driver’s window of the twat-vehicle to ask him if he was experiencing some sort of a twat-seizure and is this why you let us miss three green lights while you kept your twat-car behind the white line, Twat?
Here’s what you can expect to happen, emotionally:
- You are quick to lose your temper
- You have less ability to be rational
- You are more likely to succumb to emotional stress
- You are not so motivated
Basically, we turn into irrational, non-thinking, asshole sloths or something.
Dear Head of Science,
I think you should allow me to re-write all of your conclusions. You are free to pay me in steak and cookies.
Which. Imagine this coupled with being a female and having your period.
Pause. Are you offended that I reference the emotional upheaval experienced by women who have the periods? Are you shy to discuss that you have the periods, though you have a magic vagina? Because if you are either, then you are best to stop reading and maybe instead go visit a slightly more grey shaded website.
Play. Imagine this coupled with being a female and having your period?
What happens to you during the first 48 hours around your The Periods? Me, I lose all hand/eye coordination and start perceiving that things are in fact closer than they appear. This last sentence is not a metaphor, analogy, simile, or fucking (<-- see that? That's my short temper) allegory. Rather, I literally see things closer than they actually are.
Like also yesterday when I placed my completely full-to-the-brim coffee cup on my desk. Only I didn’t. I placed it on nothing and so it fell all over myself and keyboard and chair and ground. Coffee everywhere but on my lips, because I saw that the desk was in fact closer than it actually was.
I bump into things, bruise my arms and legs and generally lose a sense of space when in that 48 hour span. I also become sad. Very very sad. Now add to this the emotional crazy of a heat wave, and you have the makings of a failed serial killer who is stabbing far too far from her target and likely very slowly because she is a sad monkey-person.
With that visual, may you have a lovely rest of weekend.
I linked my arm through his because he’s a big strong man who would block the wind from my face, if I positioned my face just so behind his shoulder and let him lead. I didn’t foretell that the freezing cold would turn my uncle into some sort of a deaf guy who had to run rather than walk. And I’m sure I mentioned it was slippery, but just in case I didn’t: It was fkn slippery.
Standing by the side of the road, in sub 30 weather, with ice wind in our faces, my uncle took the unilateral decision to bolt across the street while screaming “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.”
Which could have been a lot of fun, as I would have responded with the Chariots of Fire‘s theme song, only it wasn’t, and I didn’t. Because I was too busy trying to loose myself from my uncle’s hysterical bicep grip, after which the jaws of life were fashioned.
As soon as he stepped off the sidewalk and on to the street, I slipped and my feet started to scramble and fail me into an upwards position. I kept calling his name, at one point looking up at his face, distinctly noting that he was smiling. In hindsight, I believe his face was just frozen.
It was a strange subtle fall committed behind my own back, with my knees going quiet and my feet suddenly both behind me instead of being properly beneath me. Obviously, I blame my uncle.
He was running. With me attached to his arm, bumping along sideways because I couldn’t pull my feet up fast enough. I was also 23, so it’s not like I was a small child where this sort of thing could go unnoticed. (Couldn’t he tell he was dragging my full weight?)
As I was being dragged across the street, I kept repeating “I fell,” but my uncle was ignoring me and smiling that crazy frozen smile and just running away from nothing.
Thanks God, he stopped running when we reached the other side of the street rather than heading straight for the movie store. After realizing the trauma he had inflicted on my knees, he ceded full film choice control my way. Then he bought me a cheeseburger and an ice-cream.
Residing in Dubai, I imagine that sooner or later, he will give one of his gorgeous daughters sand-burn as he runs across the street for a kebab.
.1. I was walking down the street last week thinking how lovely and homey Ottawa smelled…just like my perfume Miss Dior. I also noted how gracious fellow pedestrians were in giving me much girth as we crossed paths.
I later discovered that “Ottawa” was in fact my purse, inside of which my perfume had decided to make like a suicide bomber.
As I pedestrian myself around town, people continue to give me a wide girth and so I have taken to yelling “MY PERFUME EXPLODED IN MY PURSE” as I wave.
(I am too lazy to pull out a new purse instead. Besides, Miss Dior makes me happy
and I believe, considering that it has soaked through my purse, also a little high.)
.2. I was recently excited to note the “Fluff” option on my dryer, especially as it was my first time using a dryer for clothes rather than for my curls.
So I Fluffed my towels; one hour cycle, then a second hour cycle, and finally a third hour cycle exponentially confused every time that they were neither drying nor fkn fluffing. (I am the reason the environment is dying.)
I called my friend and demanded “What’s UP with my dryer? It’s not fluffing! Should I call someone? I think it’s broken. It’s definitely broken. I’m calling someone.”
And later “Who do I call?”
My friend calmly explained that the fluff cycle doesn’t in fact dry anything. (Uhm. So then why is it on the machine we call The DRYER, right? My question exactly, Mr. General Electric.)
Apparently, Fluffing comes post the Drying cycle. You dry, then you fluff. I don’t understand either because I am on strike and demonstrating in front of The DRYER every Saturday between 9 am and 10 am. I have a placard which I made myself, but only because my friend wouldn’t help.
.3. I was just at a grocery store where I had to pay for my cart. WTF?
After battling with one of the carts and miserably losing the war (which consisted of me pulling, pushing, kicking, and trying to turn the cart around, while my Miss Dior purse slipped down my arm), I conceded that there was some conspiracy amongst the carts. They didn’t like me. “It’s the perfume”, whispered someone inside of my head.
And then a woman appeared, plunked a quarter in to a secret slot (I could not see) and slid the cart out as though it were covered in baby oil.
Obviously, I did what any normal person would do and stood around, creepy-watching other people remove cart after cart as inconspicuously as possible. Only…I’m not very inconspicuous because I tend to smile and say ‘hi’ a lot.
I’m pretty sure at least one woman almost punched me in the throat because she thought I wanted to thieve her quarter.
As such, I don’t recommend watching people and their quarters because clearly, coins make people angry.
Originally published 10/09/17.
Unfortunately, I chose to climb first time ever with ass out and in a hysterical panic. I used my arms to pull myself up, as my knees locked and with my pale face pressed firmly to the climbing wall. The entire scoot upwards, I contemplated my imminent death in a plastic diaper (*harness).
At one point, both my legs may have been at 90 degrees from the rest of me, while I still jutted my ass outwards.
I mean, it was terrible.
Proper descent, you should lean back and assume a seated position. As your spotter lets the rope ‘out’ you must descend by slowly pushing yourself (bouncing gently) off the wall.
In the interest of comedy, I descended much like the way I ascended. Instead of assuming the seated position, I full throttled the starched starfish, thereby forcing my spotter to bring me down as though I were on a fishing rod. Because I was so scared, I kept bumping into the wall on my way down. With my face.
A not-so-funny version originally posted on: 06/03/24.
Image courtesy of Winthrop.
(a) I am constantly drawn to the Check Out By Yourself area because I really like making the beeping sound.
Listen. I know that it’s not really me making the sound, but I’m responsible for it and that provides me with the only moment of control during my pilgrimage to the dairy section often buried within the darkest confines of the grocery store.
Why is the control necessary?
(b) Because I can never find a grocery cart that I can control. That girl, bumping into walls and knee-capping people with her cart? That girl, red faced and sweaty from her on-going skirmish with the bastard grocery cart? That’s me.
Of the 7,926, 832 shopping carts available, I will choose the one cart that doesn’t work. Embarrassingly, I can’t control it enough to navigate it back for another one, as I fear that my lack of control will result in my taking out one of the creeps milling about at the entrance asking for a donation. The creeps are what some people call “children.” But, I mean, I don’t understand why we need to be so technical all the time.
Instead, I trudge along with my bastard, smashing into everything and having absolutely no direction whatsoever. I end up buying diapers because that’s where the bastard cart takes me, instead of to the toilet paper section.
(c) Another trauma inflicting object in the grocery store? The swirly thing on which you’re supposed to place the items you’ve already checked out. It measures everything by the gram and then slaps you across the face if you’re missing a piece of lettuce that once sat on the other side of the machine before you swiped it.
If you take too long, dust accumulates on the ‘already swiped’ objects and the machine thinks you’re stealing cotton balls. One by one.
Don’t ever place a long loaf of bread on the swirly thing. Or flowers for that matter.
Because they will get stuck and they will break and split and draw everyone’s attention when you’re panicking and turning the little wheel like an overgrown rodent in lipstick, trying to access the next shopping bag that you can’t open because panic means sweaty palms.
And you may as well have dipped your hands in trans fat because that’s what it feels like when you’re trying to open the plastic bags and there’s a crazy woman behind you tapping her feet and smacking her gum while she reads Soap Opera Digest and her offspring is screaming because their hands are stuck to the on-sale frozen chicken bre@sts and the machine is yelling PLEASE PLACE PURCHASED ITEM ON TRAY and you can hear it actually giggle as the grocery store comes to a screaming hysterical halt to listen to your heavy labored breathing and the slip n slide of yours trans fat covered hands scraping away at the plastic bag right before you start blowing on the top of the plastic bag with the final prayer that maybe, just maybe, the air will magically open the bag for you. And when it finally does open, Chariots of Fire starts to play in your head and then. Then. You realize that it didn’t actually open, but that you managed to separate two plastic bags from one another and there’s still no bag available into which you may shove your dairy products and eggs are so fkn overrated ANYWAY.
(d) People aren’t friendly in the grocery store. It’s all about them and their carts and me and my bastard one. The other day, I was standing quietly in an aisle thinking about the effects of more cookies on my ass, when I got bumped.
I was literally “bumped” by a man’s grocery cart. He was about 361 years old and he decided that rather than going around me, he would just go through me. Maybe he couldn’t see me.
But surely he could hear the “Excuse me”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Uh. Can you please stop…”
My choices were to either throw a box of cookies at him or move. So, I moved, but while cutting him very severely with my eyes, which is something I have been practicing at home because: If I can’t be cool in the grocery store, I am going to at least be tough when facing children and the elderly.
(A not so funny variation originally published: 06/02/26)
Image from StyleList.
Last night, my cousin’s girlfriend – Mingchao, who resides in Hong Kong – and I tumbled through the SoHo district, though it was only I who on several occasions nearly pitched head first into unnoticed ditches and drainage ways. (Ultimately somehow remaining upright.)
For the above to make sense, I wish I could for you spin a web made of ice, copious amounts of local liquor, ramen noodles, and discussions of communism as religion.
Sadly, I have no such tale to hand you. Rather, the reality that I was merely jet-lagged in an area where ‘Beware. Street uneven’ should in fact be expressed as ‘Achtung! Falling off pavement highly probable’.
We visited Man Mo Temple, and storefront peeked at the gorgeous antique and art galleries across SoHo on Hollywood Rd, finishing our evening at Lil’ Siam (a place I highly recommend, as it is among the top three Thai restaurants I have experienced). I had pomelo salad with sliced shallots and dried coconut, while Mingchao feasted on a tofu peanut salad and a drink the size of her head. It was an entire fresh coconut, the inside of which had been shaved and crushed into a drink mixture; they leave a thick enough layer which you can work through with a spoon, in order to eat whole fresh chunks of coconut. The logistics of this drink are very complex, but well worth the effort. Have it at street address G/F, 38 Elgin Street, SoHo, Central.
Last Mingchao and I hung out was in Tunis, and so it was quite a wonderful night filled with the warmth of friendship and distant family.
Tonight brought visits to both an absolutely stunning Buddhist Temple, inside of which I said a little prayer and planted some incense, and the largest Masjid (mosque) in Hong Kong.
The Temple was breathtaking in its attention to detail, and fun as it was surrounded by over 70 stalls of fortune tellers (none of whom I stopped to visit, as I am entirely disinterested in knowing anything beyond what is present).
What was most interesting, however, were the multitude of deities I saw inside of the Temple, some of whom were animals. As I had always understood (in my own little way) that Buddhism was essentially a tradition of monotheism, with Buddha at the acme, I wasn’t certain what I was seeing.
For those of you who are regular readers, you already know that I attempt to see connections and similarities rather than differences; this is a key part of how I approach faith traditions, and so I was excited to learn that the represented deities were in fact different representations of the one Buddha; for me then, monotheism stands.
Kowloon Masjid, on the other hand, was nowhere near as ornate, but it was beautiful to me. I performed a small prayer – something which I have not done in months, sadly – and then made my way down to the harbor front to watch Hong Kong’s famed Symphony of Lights Show, before capping the night off with spicy kimchi and green tea ice-cream (the former I loved, the later too bitter for me).
Tomorrow evening, I am hoping to find a panda…or four.
Note 1: “Hai”, pronounced as the English “Hi, hello!” means “yes”, something I did not know until earlier today. Suffice it to say that my late discovery of this word’s meaning has made for a multitude of interesting, warm
for me, creepy for others, and relatively confusing moments over the course of the last five days.
Note 2: The
FKN escalators here function at break neck speed. A speed so high that it’s in fact nauseating, and ACHTUNG! worthy. If I suddenly stop updating, please note it is because an escalator ate me.
And all through the house, not a something-something was stirring, not even a mouse.
Then, Maha decided to go downstairs.
“What was all that noise…?”
“Oh my God – you didn’t make a sound!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you didn’t scream? I only heard the falling.”
“I don’t tend to scream when I fall.”
“It happens so often, anyway. I just get sad that it won’t stop.”
I thought to share my awesome drawing talents with you. I hope you like it; it took me 17 hours to complete.
.1. Christian Bale in The Dark Knight.
When he’s in the interrogation room alone with The Joker.
And he looses his sh*t on The Joker’s ass over Rachel’s whereabouts.
I’m pretty sure there was a collective sigh from all female members (& The Gays) in the audience.
What is it about a man’s ferocity and ability to teeter on the edge of madness (but only over you and his family) that makes women hot?
Or maybe it’s just me and if that’s the case then let’s pretend I never said anything to that effect…
.2. I see
fat pregnant women.
The other day, I stood up to hand my seat over to the
fat pregnant lady. When she asked me why and I told her it was because she was pregnant, she was offended and really very mean about it.
I am rarely speechless, but the violence of her response left me speechless and so it was great of the girl next to me to block the barrage of words by saying: “She was just trying to be nice. If you don’t like it, just keep movin’…and maybe stop eating so many twinkies…”, which she did.
.3. ATTENTION ALL MEN!
When a woman is headed toward the same door that you’re going through right now, please don’t keep holding it open for her if she is more than 3.5 meters away. Otherwise, she’ll be obligated to run at the door and then maybe even smash into you because she was running a little too fast in her heels because she didn’t want to put you out andjustfeltreallyawkwardthatyouwereholdingthedooropenwhenshewassodamnfarawayalready.
I’m just sayin’.
.4. Remember The Black T and my foray into the world of Athletes?
My Coaches read my entry because I sent it to them to make them smile. Because it was funny. And endearing. And because I love them so…
But then Chris, yesterday? He told me that they took my post into consideration because they had already been thinking about this
likely because every class I ask if I can buy The Black T NOW? and that…are you ready for it…? THAT!
THAT I AM A WBK ATHLETE!!!!!!
AND THAT I WILL GET MY BLACK T SHIRT!!!!!
BECAUSE I’M AN ATHLETE!!!!!!
Because our training sessions are worthy of making us ATHLETES!
Because when the Gee Gees train and when the NFL or CFL or NBA or W
hateverTF acronym they are and they train? They’re only usually training at a level one or two – whereas WE. WE? WE WBK ATHLETES, WE train up to level 6 and some of us even level 7.
Suck on that Acronym Boys!
I’M GETTING A BLACK T SHIRT!
I very nearly hugged Chris when he told me, but he’s sort of a Giant and I thought he would mistake the hug for a possible grapple and then throw me over the edge and into the pool.
(I heart WBK.
I heart WBK Chris & Dana.)
As with many other (physical and otherwise) movements in my life, I walk fast. Due to this tendency, I sit here in a much disgruntled state
with a slightly fatter than usual lip.
There are doors which declare quite proudly they are Automatic; this, to me, is an indication that they automatically swing open as you walk through them. I’ve never gone to war with one of these doors and so I assume that this is happening today only because I have started to walk faster.
Newton said: The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the resultant force producing it and takes place in the direction
in which Maha is heading of that force.
In Mahanese, that means that when I am walking toward the ‘Automatic’ door, I don’t change my rate of momentum because I (wrongfully) believe the door and its declaration of Automatic-ism. The only way I would believe otherwise, to assume that the door is in fact a LIAR, is if my intentions were equally fib-induced.
Like, if I was walking at full speed toward the ‘Automatic’ door, knowing fully well that at the last moment and only after it had opened, would I take a hike and not walk through it, choosing to instead quickly scurry to the right of the door, remaining outside and then loudly mocking the ‘Automatic’ door and its naivete. But I’m not like that. Also, kindly note that I always maintain the same amount of momentum propelling me forward.
Newton went on to say that: A physical body will remain at rest, or continue to move at a constant velocity unless an outside
out of service ‘Automatic’ door net force acts upon it.
Since I move forward towards all ‘Automatic’ doors at the same rate of unchanging momentum, it is safe to say that my physical body is not at rest and is moving at a constant velocity. Because I am a muppet and I never possess the intention of slowing down until I am at my destination, I tend to walk around, through and over anything that may be considered a ‘net force’ (this includes people, most notably those for whom I have little regard, little time and zero interest and so don’t stop to chat with, but instead offer the passing white lie “Hi! How nice to see you” as I continue to move forward at the same
alarming rate, flavoured with a slight swivel of my body to face said individual but never actually stopping or slowing – though, arguably, the swivel motion would cause a break in mahaerodynamics and so a slight slowing of pace may be unavoidable damn those I don’t care about).
I forgot what I was writing.
The final of Newton’s laws is the simple notion that: To every
rapidly moving Maha action there is an equal and opposite Maha smashing into and ricocheting off of the ‘Automatic’ door that is out of service reaction.
When one adds Newton’s Laws to my behaviour and places them in front of an out of service ‘Automatic’ door ON WHICH THERE IS NO FRIKING SIGN INDICATING THAT IT’S FRIKING BROKEN, one becomes witness to me smashing my entire body – face first, please – into the ‘Automatic’ door, ricocheting back off the door and then standing dumbfounded (not unusual, I admit) amidst the human traffic while pontificating over the eternal and necessary philosophical puzzle of ‘ WTF?’ before proceeding to use all of my force in an effort to push my way through the Clearly I’m NOT ‘Automatic’ Today door, which is lighter than it appears, and so flies back to hit me a second time (in the face, please).(1)
(The above could serve as a metaphor for how I live my life.)
(1) No Mahas were seriously injured during the research and writing of this blog entry.
.1. My body is still hibernating. It sees a potato and angels start singing.
.2. A “Bacetto” chocolate is not a Baci chocolate. They are both made by Perugina and they are both packaged in exactly the same way. They are also both hazelnut focussed.
Only: The Bacetto does not have a
poorly translated and usually hilarious “fortune” within, leaving the chocolate eater to wonder if they accidentally chewed up and swallowed the paper fortune.
Don’t be fooled and don’t settle for anything short of a Baci.
.3. Someone gifted me “an aromatic spa refreshing facial mist [that is] ideal for toning the skin and awakening the senses!” (exclamation mark theirs not mine). It comes in a small spray bottle which one is meant to point at thine face and spray.
I did this and found it neither ‘refreshing’ nor ‘misty’, but rather aggressive and hostile.
I tried it several times, hoping I would soften and get used to the on-slough of spray. Only, the more I sprayed, the greater my recoil and shock at the force of the “mist”, and the greater reason my skin will have to wrinkle as I scrunch it up in anticipation of the “pure essential oils of ORANGE & GRAPEFRUIT & natural GREEN TEA” (yelling theirs not mine).
I was holding it up to my face this morning and I couldn’t actually bring myself to mist; same paralysis I would encounter if I tried to bite myself (near impossible to draw blood unless you have psychological issues that would permit you to set aside your body’s natural biological reaction to fight and ward off the potential hurt bla bla).
It may have to do with the fact that I sprayed a direct line into my left eye and nearly drowned myself in it because I forgot to close my eyes and my mouth and plug my nose.
.4. If you know an under-ten, please take them to see Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hears A Who. It’s one of the books I always gift under-tens and it’s a message most adults could use to learn.
.5. I used to think Dr. Phil was good, until I watched a complete show around a month back and it hit me like a ton of bricks that: He’s all about “owning your sh*t” and that this is a novelty in this day and age is the reason people like him so much.
So…essentially, the reason he’s so popular is because we’ve turned into a society that does nothing more than enable crap behaviour, and when a normal thought pattern comes on to centre stage (such as: Own. Your. Sh*t.), we think it’s some kind of miracle.
So. I’m officially removing my support for Dr. Phil because I think it’s lame that we’ve propelled to stardom a dude who is selling what should be so obvious to anyone who thinks they are a functioning part of and contributor to a healthy society.
OWN IT, ALREADY. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BY NOW. IT SHOULD NOT BE YOUR END POINT, BUT YOUR FRIKING BASE-LINE. (And if you, for one second, believe that anything worth having can be found in a 42 minute show and without hard work and life-long commitment, then you’re a bigger loser than…the biggest loser in the world.)
(It’s like The Secret. It was NEVER a “secret”. I’m rolling my eyes so hard that they look as though they belong in the head of the person sitting next to me and they’ve accidentally landed in my sockets and are trying to find their way out. Roll. Roll. Roll. Never. A. “Secret”!)
.6. In case you have yet to notice: I am intolerant today.
Right. Ok, well, what follows is a simple rule of thumb for those of you who live here. If ever you feel the need to draft an email to someone…an email where you don’t really know what to say, or how to say it, or even if you should say it, I strongly advise that you never populate the To field with the maybe-maybe-not-someday-recipient’s email address.
A = You know to whom you are writing.
B = You know their email is in your Address Book.
C = You’ve memorised their email address because you’re just that type of person, type Crazy.
Ergo A + (B and/or C) = You really don’t need to populate that field. Trust me, for I am an archaeologist discovering the depths of The Cave of Spastic.
And today, I discovered that there were – much to my surprise – many deeper levels to said Cave.
Anyone wish to take a guess as to what these new depths may be?
They are the “I’ve hit the Send button instead of the Delete button” as well as the “I’ve hit the Send button instead of the Save button” because we all know that the first Spast-acular act is meaningless without the second equally, if not more so, Spastic move. Why stop at one when two provide double the insanity, double the fun and double the pleasure? Because when you short-circuit twice, you are guaranteed (and isn’t this our aim?) troth to the title of “Crazy Person”.
This is a title I embrace today and to which none of you can have access until you find greater depths in The Cave of Spastic.
I have a tiara and plan on purchasing a wand on my way home SO BACK OFF.
(1) Should you err in this manner, you are always welcome to follow the email(s) up with a comical two liner such as
“I meant to send that to George Clooney / Angelina Jolie / Jesus / my belly button.
It has taken me some time, but I have perfected the gas nozzle “clip and pour and don’t spill and stop right at the $.00 mark”.
I do not spill gas and I pride myself on the fact that I always reach the $.00 mark. Always. Some have perceived this as a little bit of an obsession, but to those people, I think ‘SHUT IT’…only it comes out like: “Well, you know, we all have our little idiosyncrasies, ha ha. I guess that’s mine…and a whole many others”.
Unfortunately, I have a severe dislike for and inability to properly use the coffee spout. I have tried being polite to Her and cooing at Her and even playing Her soft music and lighting candles, only She never quite responds. I’m sure it’s because She is much too busy saving the world and Her denial of me really has nothing to do with the fact that it’s me.
And look, I understand fully well that it is not, in fact, a “coffee spout”, but I really haven’t a clue what it’s called. It’s that thing that is usually black and sits on top of the “tap” from which the coffee spills forth (and God said: “LET THERE BE CAFFEINE”) and you lift it Up to open the floodgates to love and then Down to close the flood of What I Need To Survive.
If any of you wish to show off and give me the official name of this thing, then please comment. Gold Star and induction into The Hall of Nerd for you, where we shall be brethren/sisteren in Nerd-om.
Anyway. I can’t get That Which Can Not Be Named to work for me. I always overspill my coffee or under fill my mug. For the longest time, I used to think that the overflow of coffee was to be spilled into the garbage can because NO BODY TOLD ME that that thing sitting flat on the counter and looking suspiciously like my heating and air conditioning grate was for the excess coffee. I always assumed it was there for clumsy folk who accidentally spilled their coffee as they added cream, milk, sugar or most likely, as they tried to place the all-too-often ill-fitting chapeau on the coffee cup head.
All this to provide you with the earth shattering news that I am liquid dyslexic and can’t use that coffee tap thing properly. Please control your excitement at the news; I’m being interviewed re matter right after BBC’s Alan Johnston (now freed, yay!).
This entry is also known as: WATCH OUT, IT’S HEP C!
.1. While sitting in class and drinking from my coffee mug I started to hear whistling. It was a nice and calm sort of whistle, the kind that could potentially make a girl like me drop off to sleep.
I put my mug down and moved around to make certain it wasn’t me (because you just never know). No whistles or squeaks, thankfully.
Picked up my mug once again and proceeded to drink only to be greeted with the whistling sound.
Moved the mug away from my mouth: no sound.
Brought it back: whistle.
I was instantly excited that my mug did tricks.
I immediately turned to the two closest of my classmates in an effort to share the exciting news. They were in the throws of discussing the use of the Subjunctive but who cares about the Subjunctive when you’ve got a WHISTLING MUG. I could barely contain myself and was moving around erratically in my rolly chair because I wanted to get their attention.
Finally I bumped Patty’s chair and said:
“Listen to this. My mug can whistle. Maybe I can do a whole song. Only I’m a little tone deaf so I don’t know. But listen.”
And with my eyes locked on both of my classmates, I smiled and put the mug up to my mouth and “sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss” because that’s what I think a whistle sounds like on paper and it’s really late at night, anyway, and so maybe not.
Patricia started laughing and Sharon stared at me like I had water on the brain. Her expression made me laugh while My Whistling Mug was still up against my mouth. I accidentally spit up a little bit of latté on to both myself and Patty, which made us laugh even more because I declared: “I spit. That’s my own personal trick and it has nothing to do with my whistling mug.”
.2. Sharon doesn’t like the new commercials about Hepatitis C. She thinks they’re overreacting because “if you’re not careful, then you could be walking down the street and Hepatitis C will just fall on your head.”
.3. Out of curiosity, I was staring down into the hole from which I drink my latté. It’s small and compact and so naturally, I was curious to examine it at close range.
I don’t know why I do things like this, but I decided to slide it closed in order to watch the action of the mechanism that opens and closes the ‘lip’ of my cup. But the mechanism was angry and spit up a lot of coffee. Defying gravity it all landed on my face.
I was in public. Walking down the street. Alone with my angry whistling mug and looking as though some invisible individual had pushed my head back at high velocity.
.4. And somehow, this morning, I arrived at school only to find a giant brown dot on my nose. Right smack-dab in the middle of where you would think the term “brown noser” would be perfectly illustrated.
My latté had somehow managed to sneak out of my whistling mug and sit quietly on the tip of my nose.
I’m certain people thought it was a charming and uniquely placed beauty mark. When they pointed, I waved back and smiled because I’m friendly that way
.1. I’ve quite nearly finished defining categories for this blog, creating two more this very evening: Feminism & قصي خولي / Kosai Khouly.
While sorting through all previous entries, I came across this little gem about none other than my very own Kosai Khouly. Did you catch that? I’ve defined Him as “my” = “my very own” = “my property”. I point this out to you just for clarification and not because I think you’re dense and potentially dangerous to my endeavor where He (“mine”) is concerned.
There are a slew of other entries that reminded me of situations and people I’d forgotten long ago. With that in mind, I present you with the following…
.2. I found The Time My Uncle Dragged Me Across The Street
and then laughed at me and realized that I’d promised to take y’all down this following and particular trip down memory lane.
What follows is the story I promised you quite nearly a year ago…
It was in fourth year university and I was in Southam Hall with T & J. Southam Hall’s stairs are an unfriendly mix of concrete and marble. The staircase is an odd winding one that is – for the entire five or six floors of the building – of an open concept nature. While standing on any floor, you may watch everyone moving up and down all level of stairs.
I was wearing black crack with relatively small wide heels. In the crook of my left arm I was carrying my winter jacket and two of my gigantic leather-bound law books. In my right hand I was carrying the most precious liquid known to wo/mankind: Coffee.
We were going down the stairs in a single row, T in front before me and J behind me. Because we were in between periods, traffic was heavy.
As we were descending the final eight or ten steps, someone from two or three flights above called down to me. I looked up, saw my friend and waved a friendly hello as I continued down the stairs.
A grievous error this attempt to multi-task. As you are all undoubtedly aware, I am wholly uncoordinated yet determined to keep active engagement in this physical movement which many of you take for granted. It haunts me often, this thing others do so gracefully: Walking.
As soon as I looked up, both of my feet came out from under me as my coffee holding hand went up to engage in The Greeting That Could Have Ended My Life. At that very moment, Kosai / Kusai / Kusay / Qusai / Qusay / Kosay Khouli / Khouly was awakened from a deep slumber by his 6th sense, feeling that his future wife – I – was in grave danger. His sensitivity is lovely.
I hit the cement steps with my body fully laid out like that of any world-class lugeuse and then, at inhuman speed, made my way toward my best friend who was, by now, at the bottom of the steps. I should have been wearing a full-body nylon suit and matching goggles.
When my feet were within inches of Natasha’s bottom, the top half of my body sprung up and I found myself seated –
with most excellent posture – like a debutante on the bottom step. Within my left arm rested my jacket and books, and in my right hand, my coffee neither shaken nor stirred.
There was total silence in Southam Hall at that moment. Everyone had ceased to descend or ascend and were, instead, watching me sled down the stairs. If my friend above hadn’t called out my name, no one would have bothered to look at me and no one would have noticed me and no one would have know that I, extreme loser, am in fact: “Maha”.
Natasha took one look at me, started laughing
hard, turned around and blew through the doors. It’s really great how supportive she was. I looked over my shoulder, somewhat shocked, and found Jason standing at the top of the stairs staring down at me, eyes wide and mouth hung open.
He asked: “Oh my God?” and then ran down the stairs to see if I was hurt. A quiet murmur began to cross the crowd and I could make out: “Duuuude. She totally didn’t spill ANY of her coffee. Duuuude! Waa-ooo-www.”
nemesis friend above called out to make certain I was alright. For a second and third time, she called out my name. Because the first time wasn’t enough, and just in case folks were too busy talking and the opportunity had slipped unnoticed, they caught my name the second, if not the third time she yelled: “MAHA ARE YOU ALRIGHT? MAHA!”
Jason called up to her and said I was okay…
Natasha had decided to come back, but she’d not finished laughing. Like a good Clarica commercial, she clarified: “That’s so embarrassing!” before realizing that her stint as “best friend” was in danger if she didn’t make amends.
She asked: “Are you okay?”
“My knee hurts, but I don’t know why.”
“That’s weird. You didn’t even spill coffee and your hair still looks good.”
“My knee hurts.”
“Maybe it’s because it was too straight when you…when you…BAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA AHAHA HAHA AAAHAHAHAHA HA HA.”
“Sorry. HA HA. I’m sorry. HA HA HA. But you tobogganed! HA HA HA HA.”
“Yes! HA. AHA. HEH. HA.”
“I don’t think we should go to class.”
“Me either. Hey! J! Let’s all have coffee instead!”
“Fine by me. Can we walk?”
“How’s your crack? Are they broken?”
“Thanks God. I love these.”
We proceeded to campus’ non-first-year pub / coffee house / hang out, Oliver’s, where we spent the rest of the day enjoying free coffee and food. The bartenders / cooks / staff were determined to pamper the first lugeuse born of our University, and I’m never one to turn down a moment of pampering or spoiling.
While on my way across campus later that same day, a virtual and beautiful stranger called out: “Hey, Maya, I saw what you did in Southam man! That was AWE-SOME! You didn’t spill your coffee!!”
Had I, at that moment, been at the top of any stairs, I would have willingly propelled myself down.
.3. Did you know that: Your blogMistress is a hypochondriac?
I am. Just as He = Mine (please see point above, no. 1), I am a hypochondriac.
To prove it, here are snippets of recent conversations I have had with various friends…most of which occurred after one of my classmates sneezed and I dove beneath my desk (en Francais):
“I have nerve damage.”
“Sometimes my upper shoulders lock because of it.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I HAVE NERVE DAMAGE, TOO. I’M TALKING TO YOU AND I CAN’T WIGGLE MY SHOULDERS.”
“Maha. We’re on our backs with our legs thrown over our heads. It’s yoga, not nerve damage.”
“He has a disease specific to the male body.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Just. Stop. Maha.”
“One of the symptoms is a rash.”
“OH MY GOD! I HAVE A RASH!”
“YES! LOOK AT IT! IT’S ALL OVER MY FACE.”
“Those are pillow lines from where you slept on your face.”
“She is schizophrenic.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! AND ME TOO!”
“He has Alzheimer’s.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I THINK. BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER.”
“I have a folder.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I KEEP WANTING TO PLACE PAPER IN MY MOUTH AND THROW MYSELF ACROSS A TABLE AT FULL SPEED.”
…so in other words, if it has a name then OH MY GOD! I have it. I’m certain this has something to do with the fact that I have an
unhealthy overactive imagination.
This evening, I came home to Charles.
We live in La Bohème and do nothing but sit in cafés and visit with our voisins. Et ça veut dire que nous sommes jolie and we have les nuit blanche filled with crème or at least that’s what I think our nights are filled with because I sometimes have a hard time understanding him especially when he uses the word “kaka” which I’m told is not actually a word. In any language. Let alone la langue de l’Amour. L’Amour in French has a capital ‘A’ and Charles has a way of talking about bread and making it sound zegzy. Much like “kaka”.
He sings to me all the time and sometimes, he stops singing and starts talking all zegzy like and he talks of things I don’t understand because he’s French, remember?
Anyway. I don’t understand all of Charles, but then I hear the French words “amooo” and “rrrrrrr” and “ooooooo” and I melt.
And when he really wants to slow things down, he starts singing to me in ‘English’ but it’s really his impression of a four year old boy because I’m pretty sure that’s how old he was when he wrote these lyrics:
You are the one
You are my love
Et je voudrais pouvoir un jour enfin te le diiiiiiiiire
Dans la laaaaaaaaangue de Shakespeare
…and I start singing back loudly and imagining I’m sporting white go-go boots and a mini skirt and I dance around with my hands in the air pretending I have some sense of rhythym as I bump into nos voisins and our furniture and knock over the crème that was supposed to fill our nuits blanche and Charles just watches and smiles at me and even laughs and makes funny noises like “heh” and “hmmmm” and “hum hum ha hum” which are French for “I’m hot!”
I often wonder for whom the Bitch tolls when he sings qu’il n’a rien oublié . This is Charles’s only secret.
That and how he’s managed to keep his eyebrows such a dark shade of black.
Download Charles Aznavour’s. Désormais, Les Plaisirs Demodés, For me…Formidable, La Bohème, & Non, Je N’ai Rien Oublié. ALLEZ, VITE!
.1. If you are a boy over the age of zero you should neither own nor ever contemplate owning ‘skinny’ jeans, unless your name is Sid and your girlfriend’s name is Nancy and you sometimes happen to write excellent music and you’re dead.
.2. I was about to eat gum last night, only I threw the Chiclets in the general direction of my mouth and missed. One hit my cheek and the other ricocheted off my glasses. Sadly, I watched as my last two pieces of Chiclets fell away on to the dirty street. I woke up with a welt on my face.
.3. In order to improve my colloqueal French, I am going to spend the rest of my lunch hour completing a questionnaire in the French Glamour. This questionnaire is going to tell me about how my childhood has affected my adulthood and my sexual something-or-other. Doesn’t matter that I’m a ‘V’; to Glamour, we’re all trollops. I’ll share the outcome with you later this afternoon…
I’ve never received a wedgie before today, and although this may not be the definitive ‘wedgie’, I pray it’s as close to one as I’ll ever come.
A door gave me the wedgie. Due to this intimate experience, I’ve named this door: ‘Bob’. Bob was improperly constructed; his hinge was in the wrong spot. Hinges ought to sit on the edge, to not throw Bob’s balance, oui? If a hinge were meant to sit in Bob’s middle, we would’ve called the hinge a “minge”, derived from the Latin word MIDDLE, instead of the Latin word IHAVENOIDEAWHATI’MTALKINGABOUT.
As I rushed to open Bob, I miscalculated his weight and the positioning of his minge. As I pulled Bob toward me, I began to walk through the small gap I’d made, only to realize that Bob was much too heavy for the effort I’d originally exerted. My arm was at an awkward angle behind me, because it was busy opening Bob, at which point Bob’s minge took a hissy fit and decided to take a Kit Kat break.
And so it came to pass that I was immediately wedged in between Bob and his frame, Martha, while his minge stuffed it’s fat-without-equilibrium ass with more chocolate.
I started to laugh because I knew how ridiculous I looked to everyone within 12 km of me. Laughed hard enough to lose what little strength I had to push through the rest of Bob. I stood wedged for about eight seconds until a nice boy came over and unwedged me. It took me another eight minutes to stop laughing and thank him.
He asked me if I’d been drinking.
Well, not really.
But he should have.
The boy, not Bob.
This entry comes from my recent ‘activity’ in an outhouse where, due to the height of the toilette seat, I was forced to scale the wooden bench of the toilette seat area that holds the toilette seat in place.
I’m 5’6” and couldn’t daintily reach the toilette and so am convinced it was built by some Viking whose ancestors ran – and probably still run – through snow.
Vikings are large, can weather the cold, are blonde, have horns, and are relatively dirty – don’t blame me, blame Hollywood – and so peeing and having bowel movements in such conditions is ok by their standards. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Viking > Just look at my photos > I don’t have visible horns. And honestly, I’m not being Vikingist; some of my best friends are Vikings. But. See. I have a bidet in my home. Please understand that both I and my bum are spoiled (& very clean).
To confirm am not a Vikingist, Gerry Butler, the man I covet and whom I apparently bagged behind my own back, once played a Viking. At least I think that’s what Beowulf was. I dunno…maybe he was just a Scotsman lost at sea and forced to wear chain and make out with Sarah and get hit in the head with stones and question authority and ask “But what is a troll?” with a straight face.
And did I mention I have a bidet in my home?
Right. So, as I was using magic to hover, balance and ultimately scale the side of the wooden bench of the toilette seat while my pants were down and not touching any part of the outhouse and repeating the “I’m a Princess…” mantra, I thought: How very Tom Cruise of me, à la MI when Tom was still cool and not with Syrian child and KATE and hanging out above LA in his space ship.
Anyway. So while I was doing the above, I was thinking that although I’m no Viking Tom Cruise, I sure do some interesting stunts worthy of MI behaviour. The most illustrative of this is that of the constant tripping and falling (case in point: Yesterday afternoon a few of us lunched at an upscale restaurant. I’m a spaz and wore flip-flops…and naturally, I tripped. But only once. In front of the entire serving folk. Who all smiled kindly at the handicap tripping up the steps.)
So I’ve started to play a new game, just to honour the MI part of Me. I now run at doors that are slowly closing and try to make it through them before they close completely. This doesn’t always work, and I usually trip, but it’s still a lot of fun. And you know, it’s not that I have to even go through that particular door – because I usually don’t – but that’s ok, because I’m Me, and Me = some kind of handicap).
Just moments ago, I saw the men’s washroom door closing…beckoning me. And so I ran to it; I had to gently slide up against the wall and not move until the door made it past me as it closed. BUT I WAS IN! And there were only two men in the washroom. How great.
Such a rad game.
I’ve noted a few interesting phrases and words used by my mother. Feel free to adopt them at your peril. For fun, throw them into random conversations and then see if anyone else manages to pick up on the subtlety of the absurd.
.1. Mum’s coworker has a baby girl who my mother adores. She’s always talking about her and telling me how sweet she is. One day, she sent me an email, with a photo of aforementioned baby.
My mother had written: “isn’t she durable?”, to which I responded “I don’t know. Try throwing her against a wall and see if she bounces back unscathed.”
.2. She called me at the office one day and kept repeating “…Maha, there’s something wrong with our slop!! What are we going to DO with our SLOP?” She was a little panicked and I had absolutely not a clue what she was talking about. Instead of trying to decipher this particular Mumism, I told her we’d talk about it later.
When I arrived home, she was standing outside staring at the front of our yard. There’s a slope there and the slope was askew after our workers had put down the interlock and screwed with the angle of the slope.
.3. As we’re all aware, I harbor a strange love of trip. One evening, while walking with my mother, I tripped and although I didn’t fall on to the ground, I was doubled over laughing at myself hard enough to shake. Mum had stopped and watched this unfold and so was staring at me, doubled over and shaking when she quietly whispered “I hope you’re not broken.”
- For an approximate minute and a half during a meeting, I couldn’t pronounce ‘loose’. I kept saying it ‘lieu-se’ as in ‘in lieu of’. When I concentrated for a moment, I finally managed it. Hurrah!
Mum thinks this is a disease. But she’s not a hypochondriac.
- I didn’t understand why they were laughing when I was talking about the ‘ear piss’ I used while driving so that I could keep both hands on the wheel as I spoke into my mobile. There’s nothing funny about safety.
And as an aside, a little note to all who use “I think not” while speaking / writing as a sentence unto itself. Just shut up, already. Thanks, you’re awesome!
- Attempting to explain that my colleague was busy at her desk ‘thinking’, I chose to make swirls by my temple (denoting ‘crazy’) instead of tapping my temple (denoting ‘thinking’).
I was arrogant last week. I was arrogant enough to believe I possessed the proper motor skills to open a door.
So confident was I in this capacity, that I placed all of my weight on my toes and leaned in to the garage door I was trying to open.
And so when my hand slipped and I fell forward, my head made this soft unpredictable and unassuming noise as it collided with the door that remained closed: Tap. Tap.
Twice, because my forehead ricocheted ever so slightly backwards before it moved forward a second time.
I’d never – not at any point in the approximate past 18 years – noticed how far off the ground the bus step was. Until today.
I wasn’t looking down because I knew it was only one step, and so as normal human behaviour would have me do, I took a step down. And quickly realised that the ground was way farther away from my foot than I had anticipated.
Rather than taking it like a woman who possesses any semblance of grace, I opted to instead attempt to reach the ground faster. This logic made me defy gravity and fly out of the bus at an alarmingly rapid rate. My arms were flailing, too.
Though I jazz-handed, I at least didn’t fall.
Will the insanity ever stop?
This a.m. I was wandering the streets of this great City alone on my way to work. I thought of the following two particularly funny situations: (1) the first time I went indoor climbing; &, (2) the time I fell while crossing the street.
Unlike regular folks, I have a somewhat vivid imagination and so what may have been a normal memory to someone else became hyper-imagined / in Technicolor to me. This morning. While I was alone.
Did I mention I was alone?
This is critical because I started to laugh. Alone. And although it started off as a giggle, it turned into an all-out guffaw over which I had no control (so bad was it that I almost drooled), while I was alone and with no one to whom I could turn and say “picture it”.
So, my small recommendation for this morning is: Don’t think ‘funny’ while alone and in public. (Unless you possess enough self-control to not laugh out loud.) Otherwise, and as I quickly discovered this morning, people will think you’re a mild handicap. And I don’t define that in the Webster’s Dictionary sort of ‘handicap’, but rather, in the ‘she’s laughing alone and should be pitied, don’t stand so close to her, maybe just throw some money at her oh my god, is she drooling?’ handicap.
.1. I’m back and at level II. I can do a pretty mean speed bag.
And “no”, my wraps aren’t red.
.2. Eep! This will be held against me, I know. I LOVE PAUL WALKER. Is there rehab for this?
I watched Into the Blue twice. That’s how much I actually loved this film.
And for the record: Jessica Alba has a great bum. So too does Paul, though. And lucky for them that their bodies are so accomplished because their acting talent is so not.
You should still see the movie. Paul looks fabulous without a shirt on.
.3. Jack Black is Nacho Libre and he may just rival Gerry Butler in this girl’s books. The trailer for Nacho Libre actually nearly made me wet myself.
Uncertain as to whether this is because of Jack Black’s hair, his accent, the ‘training’ pants you see below or the white pants…you have to see it to believe it.
You’ll snort. Because it’s that funny.
.4. I was eating pizza during a lunch meeting the other day. On this pizza were onions. I was wearing my black velvet blazer.
Beginning to speak was the fellow Manager seated next to me. Because am unfamiliar with my own history, I chose that moment to take a bite from my pizza.
And that’s when several (& only) pieces of onion decided to make the great escape (Vive la Liberte!), via the sleeve of my velvet jacket. I was a little shocked by the feeling of the onions against my skin and so chances are, I may have potentially did some sort of a dance in my seat. Because everyone – including the aforementioned Speaker Of The Moment – stopped and stared.
I tried to explain. As I fished for the onions out of my sleeve. Which I couldn’t get at, because my jacket is lined with satin and so the onions kept slipping away farther and farther. That I was vertical meant they couldn’t hide in my armpit…but they probably didn’t know that because they’re onions and onions don’t think like humans.
So. There I am fumbling when I finally have no choice but to take off my jacket in search of the vagrant onions. Only to find nothing. Anywhere. Not in my sleeve, or in my pocket, or in my hair, or on the ground, or even in my mouth. Everyone in the meeting was searching for the missing onions, until someone said “But. There were no onions on the pizza.” like a Valley Girl and so it really sounded like “Uhm, duuuh? Like, there were noooo onions on the pizza? Oh my god?”
And so to her tone of voice I responded with “Listen Bitch, there were onions on my slice of pizza. I’m not hallucinating, you cow. I didn’t just make up the fact that some god damn pieces of onion FLEW INTO my sleeve through the NON EXISTENT window. Retard.” But it sounded more like “Uhm, ok. Maybe I made a mistake. Thanks.”
There were onions. For real. They’ll turn up sooner or later.
My mouth is numb.
I’ve just come back from the Dentist and am a wee bit giddy because the right side of my bottom lip is frozen and it feels as though there’s 7 dwarves dancing on it. Strangely enough, my right ear also feels a little faint (that may be because Snow White has decided to nap there).
Keeping in line with my normal dorkiness, I tried to drink coffee after leaving the dentist’s office. That was a lot of fun, for both myself and my t-shirt. Thank god it was in private.
As if the chocolate pudding weren’t enough…
I am in my black leather high heels, returning from a meeting. In between towers, I am walking relatively fast because I have to get ready for dinner with a friend.
Minding my own business, I hear *snap* and then. Suddenly. Find that I am that much closer to the ground. At least the right side of my body is.
I take two more steps and stop.
And like a war victim, find my heel lying wounded alone and unattached to the rest of it’s family.
My right heel has snapped off my boot. I’m staring at it as I type. It’s lonely and sad, and I’m killing myself laughing because of the insanity of my week.
Don’t they say that bad things come in threes?
.1. I locked my keys in my car on Sunday night.
.2. A horrible conversation ensues on Monday evening.
.3. I snap my heel today, Friday.
I expect things to start looking up immediately.
Have a good weekend, kids.
.1. I’m not taking a hiatus because – WOW – I received way too many emails of concern (most of you, I’ve never met). This is so sweet…and I feel I should buck-up and keep writing. So I will. My entries may be shorter than usual, but I think that’s better than nothing.
.2. Don’t ‘hang out’ behind doors which swing toward you. I was doing just that this morning, when the following happened.
I was fishing for my pass when someone from the opposite side of the door opened it in a rush and flurry of activity. I almost tumbled over, but my colleague was standing behind me and he’s 6’4” (in order to move him, heavy machinery is required). He was able to catch me and keep me upright.
.3. Someone should develop a way to track text messages. Like, a way to tell the sender whether the message was read or not. It would take a little anxiety out of that communications vehicle…
At work, I park my car in an underground garage. There are some relatively low pipelines (all of which are covered in soft foam) under which I have to walk in order to reach the elevator.
I have good hand-eye coordination, but I don’t know if that’s relevant in this scenario. I just thought I would share that with you…because it’s my blog.
Where was I?
Right. So, every day, I perform a slight duck-and-shimmy manoeuvre as I approach and pass beneath these pipelines. Do believe am tall enough to require such effort.
This morning, I decided to test my belief, wondering whether I was being a slight egomaniac thinking I was too tall for the pipeline.
It was full steam ahead.
Right before my head bounced off – at what some might consider a high velocity – the aforementioned foam-covered pipeline.
This experience confirmed two things: (a) I am as tall as I think; and (b) I might need some help (seeing as how the “am a dork” excuse can carry me so far).
Unlike the last two experiences which took place in shopping zones, this one took place in a coffee shop.
It was also typical of my asinine and completely clueless behaviour. While working in Montreal a wee bit back, I stepped out for lunch on St-Catherine. Naturally, I had my laptop with me; it was wrapped in a scarf and inside my purse.
I have a tendency to swing my purse while carrying it. This habit I developed at the age of 4, when I was given my first purse (it was a Strawberry Shortcake purse and it made me smell like strawberries rolled in syrup. I loved it.) and my dad would place change in it. I thought it was cool to swing it around so passers-by could hear how rich I was. Am quite lucky I was fat and cute, otherwise I would have just been ugly, noisy and annoying.
Standing in line at Second Cup, I was bumping my laptop off the counter. Or so I thought.
The gentleman in front of me turned around and asked: Are you having fun? which I thought was an odd question, but I immediately slipped into surfer mode and responded with: Yeah, totally, and smiled because I thought ‘how nice of him to want to know’. He started laughing.
Honestly, I had no idea what was going on, or what I’d said that was so funny.
I kept swinging my purse…only now it had stopped bouncing off the counter.
When R stopped laughing, he said: You know that you’ve been bouncing that [pointing at my purse encased laptop] off my leg since you stood behind me, right?
Because I had forgotten that my laptop was actually inside of my purse until he mentioned my swinging habit (hee), I offered the stellar response of: Oh my god, I hope I didn’t ruin my laptop!
He thought it was funny that I didn’t care about his leg.
He was attractive, gregarious and forward, which is really nice (go Montreal boys!)…but still not my type.
He flattered me by telling me I had pretty eyes and a beautiful smile; and as all y’all are aware, flattery will get you everywhere…but not my phone number.
He insisted he buy my coffee, but I refused because I don’t like obligation of any type.
He insisted I take his number, which I started to do, because I felt bad…but told him I wouldn’t call him…but here’s the thing: I was placing his number into my mobile, and by accident, I clicked the Menu button rather than the OK button and so it didn’t save. So, I immediately knew I wasn’t supposed to even have his number, but I didn’t tell him that. The mobile angels had made their decisions and I went along with them; I pretended it was saved. And said goodbye quickly, because am a shit liar.
Of all the boys I have met randomly at this point, he was – by far – the coolest.
I hope R is happy.
If interested in meeting a boy, I strongly urge you to use one of my two favourite tactics:
a) Throw something at him; or,
b) Spill something all over yourself.
I recently received the phone numbers of two men, both of which I threw out, but it was still fun to receive their numbers (and a wee bit humiliating, but I’ll get to that in a second).
Both of these incidents occurred in a shopping zone, the first took place inside of a store, whereas the second unfolded on the escalator.
.1. I was in the same card store as the first boy. He was really really pretty (really) and he had this fantastic Parisian accent. I don’t know how we started chatting, but he asked me something and I responded. It was a blur because of what I did next.
Wearing a white button down shirt, I was drinking chocolate milk (moo).
After I responded to his question, he commented on my ring, telling me he thought it was ‘beautiful’. I thanked him and decided that this was the appropriate moment to drink some more chocolate milk. I was just that thirsty.
I must have done this too quickly, because I put the chocolate milk to my lips and tipped it back, when all of a sudden, it was all over my face. Well. Not my entire face, like, not my nose and eyes, or anything. Just my mouth, neck and white shirt.
I have a tendency to be slightly delusional and so I thought to myself ’Maybe he didn’t notice’. And so, as casually as possible, I pulled the chocolate milk container away and smiled at him.
He must have thought I was some kind of handicap.
He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me.
I fumbled my way through thanks and laughed at my clumsiness…and then he told me I was charming (which is French for ‘retarded’) and gave me his number, should I be interested in having ‘chocolate meelk wiz me sum ozer tayme.’
I threw out the number and went home to take a shower.
.2. This was slightly more recent. I was on the escalator heading down. There was a man a few steps ahead and below me.
I was headed out to my car and so was holding on to my car keys in my left hand, had my mobile in my right hand and was trying to fish something out of my purse with both.
My keychain is a gorgeous (& very heavy) silver ball; a very special gift. Anyway, as I had my head buried in my purse, I accidentally flicked my hand up and propelled the large silver ball at the gentleman on the stairs below.
I couldn’t have planned it any better; my keychain smashed him in the back of the head. I almost passed out.
I stood there, completely immobilised, staring at the keychain as it flew through the air in slow motion, ending its journey by ricocheting off this man’s head. I was terrified of what it could have done and what his reaction was going to be.
I must have had my mouth open when he turned around because he smiled at me and so I took that as an immediate ‘I’m ok’ signal.
I laughed and walked down the escalator (we were near the bottom), asked him if he was okay and apologised profusely, then made the following stupid remark “I was just trying to get your attention.”
I grabbed my keys, apologised again and started to walk away. A few moments later, I found him walking next to me and saying something clever like “Instead of maiming me, all you needed to do was say hello,” and he handed me a business card.
I must admit, this was very smooth. But. I chucked the card on my way to the car so it couldn’t have been that smooth…
.1. As mentioned yesterday, you can now add “drop it” to the list of items that describe how I live my life.
Two mornings ago, I was standing in Tim Horton’s waiting for a cab, and carrying two extra large cups of coffee in a tray. Standing quietly and minding my own business, I was in the front entrance, which is completely encased in glass, with many an individual standing outside in the parking lot.
Suddenly, and without any movement on my part, one of the extra large cups of coffee tipped over, the cap flew off like a bullet and the coffee attempted to make its great escape. Like all entities headed for prison, the coffee, once destined for someone’s insides, then bowels and ultimately colon, made its break away as quickly as possible, gushing everywhere, hitting all parts of the glass that surrounded me, spilling over on to my jacket, jeans, sweater, and finally the tile floor that was just cleaned by the too-kind Tim Horton’s staff. Once forced to live inside of filters and coffee pots, the coffee understood that it only had moments to rush out, before its bid for freedom could be thwarted forever.
Rather than allowing the coffee to break and run free (perhaps it was destined for the great outback in Australia), I used my own body in an attempt to hinder its run toward freedom. Using both arms, legs and even shoulders (but not necessarily in that order), I tried in vain to stop the coffee from spilling, inadvertently giving freedom to the other extra large cup of coffee watching sadly as its friend ran wild.
There I danced, two extra large cups of coffee spilling over me in all their glory; must have been a sight for all those standing in the parking lot. Rather than being the true socialist and allowing these two cups of coffee to move forward in their plight for sovereignty, I tried to oppress them. Am terribly sad at this tragic turn of events, for when the time came to be true to my word, I failed miserably.
In order to understand the calibre and severity of the situation, I recommend that each of you pick up an empty cup sized extra large from Tim Horton’s, fill it with warm water and then throw it over yourselves (must remember to refill and do this once more, asap).
There I stood, showered in coffee, my feet soaking in more coffee and the Tim Horton’s tiles covered in the rest of the coffee (Viva la revolucion!). Stepping back, it looked as though a massive coffee bomb had exploded all over the front entrance and me. They gave me more coffee for free; it’s nice to know that despite my stupidity, they think I a worthy customer. I tried to tell them that I threw the coffee around for fun, but they laughed, hurra!d and still handed me the coffee; one gentleman in line pretended to duck as I walked past, lest I throw my new coffees at him.
Jacket is now at the dry cleaners and my jeans and sweater in the wash. Am seated next to another cup of coffee at the moment, and I can hear the particles within whispering “…she’s the one; She’s the one that wouldn’t let them get away…”
.2. Am going to see Closer this evening. Clive Owen and Jude Law, hello.
.3. Here is how many of our American neighbours perceive us Canadian folk (kick up your snow shoes, grab your Molson, put on your earmuffs, pet your sledding dogs and enjoy).
As promised last month, here is the story I referred to as The Time I Fell Right Outside of Foreign Affairs and Landed in the Bushes and Nobody Cared.
I was in a rush to meet M at a restaurant before heading off to Montreal, and so I was dressed comfortably and casually in black bell-bottoms and runners. Carrying my gorgeous and rather large red overnight bag (which had no cover), I flew out of the front doors of headquarters, ran down the stairs and across the pavement and started to step back on to the sidewalk. Am a girl on the move, with French boutiques to find and fashionable cities to conquer. I should just move to Montreal considering how often I am there.
Do understand that in front of the entrance one can find all of the smokers, the Ministers’ cars, the diplomats and the taxi cabs. I was not alone; I couldn’t even pretend to be alone.
I started to step back on to the sidewalk when I felt that my right foot was caught in my left bell-bottom. Since I am a mover and a shaker and getting ready for Montreal, rushed and in bell-bottoms and runners, it is only natural that the bell-bottoms were flapping and the runners going at an extra fast pace. Unfortunately, there was a collision between these two, and I the worse for it.
I had no right foot to land on and so I kept flying forward at an alarmingly rapid rate, right over the step of the sidewalk, the entire sidewalk and nearly half the bushes. Most bizarre was my sense of fear, for it was not about my body, but rather that all of my precious items, those so carefully placed in my overnight bag, were to be damaged as soon as they hit the pavement. Do rest assured that nothing was damaged, for as I went propelling forward towards the bushes, so too did all of my precious items (remember: the gorgeous red overnight had no cover).
It must have looked rather poetic actually, as though I had practiced doing just this at that precise moment in front of HQ, in an effort to provide both food for thought and humor to all those puffing away on cigarettes.
My knees and stomach hurt and my face was itchy; because my glasses were a little askew, I couldn’t see much, and so it took me a moment to realize I was in the bushes, stomach down, ass in the air and with gorgeous red overnight bag still over my shoulder, though practically empty.
As I lay in the bushes, a gentleman getting into a cab (& carrying a suitcase) was kind enough to yell out – at the top of his voice: “ARE YOU OKAY?” to which I offered the honest response of: “Erm. I don’t think so.”
And to this he yelled back: “WELL. OK”, then jumped in the cab and left. But not before he waved goodbye.
Isn’t that nice of him? To wave goodbye as I lay in the bushes? Sunshine was flowing out of his every orifice.
In his defence, he is a fellow employee and considering he was carrying a suitcase, he was probably rushed to get to some other part of the world…as most of us who work here are usually in this state of rushed affairs.
I gathered all of my items, made certain that my gorgeous red bag was without rip or tear, rolled up my pants and headed off toward the restaurant without even one look over my shoulder.
Jim Morrison said it best when he said “Walk tall, act fine and never look back,” but maybe he wasn’t talking about “Roll out of the bushes, walk tall, act fine and never look back”…but who knows?
Wait. Maybe that was Bowie?
I met a very happy and fat little baby this morning, the offspring of a colleague. I played with it a little and made it coo and laugh and giggle. Then I kissed the palm of its hand.
Approximately 6 seconds after this fatal kiss, the offspring began to wail and scream and stare at me as though I were Satan’s retarded cousin. The colleague checked diapers, tried to give it food and even bounced it up and down (because offspring like to be bounced; A great name for a band, the ‘Bouncing Offspring’).
Perplexed, I walked away wondering whether this was a sign that I should not procreate and have offspring of my own, until I remembered what kind of lip-gloss I use…Du-Wop Lip Venom, gloss that heats the surface of anything it touches.
Having realised the kind of evil I unleashed on the offspring, I quietly took a tissue and soaked it in water, then went back and said to my colleague “Maybe she just needs to cool down” and I wiped her fat little offspring hands with the water-soaked tissue. She stopped crying, but am pretty sure she still hates me, this offspring.
.1. If using an Oral-B power toothbrush for the first time, what follows are a few pointers to ensure your safety. For those of you unfamiliar with this product, it is a self spinning industrial strength toothbrush (recommended by most dentists, eh):
(a) When you first start using it, be gentle with your teeth, for if you press too hard on them, it will actually feel as though your brain is being shaken (not stirred). When your head starts shaking not of its own volition at 6:30 a.m., you may not have a great rest of day.
(b) Oddly enough, the aforementioned shaking is somewhat addictive and you’ll find yourself running (don’t trip!) to the washroom in the mornings and after every meal because you have to “brush”. You will go missing for days on end, and your family may consider sending you to a rehab centre with you kicking and screaming that you need to “brush”.
(c) For the first few days, don’t place the Oral-B power tool into your mouth unless you are standing above a sink, because you will drool. Until you’re used to it, the drooling is a part of the inevitable growing pains, trust me.
(d) After placing the tooth paste on your Oral-B, and before hitting the start button, I recommend you place it in your mouth. If you hit the start button before the spinning power tool is safely hidden inside of said closed area, you will be cleaning toothpaste out of your eyes, hair, mirror, walls and ceiling (not necessarily in that order).
.2. Last night, I was at the corner store with my friend A purchasing candy for the movie we had rented. Standing before the cashier man, I was told that my total was $6.76 and so I handed him $7.00. Within moments, I had discovered a penny, and so I repeated excitedly two times (in Newton fashion) “I have a penny. I have a penny!” to which the man responded dryly “I’m happy for you”. Once again, I laughed alone.
.3. I am a very regular customer at Holt Renfrew and I think it necessary that I share the following story with you. I had been searching for the perfect black heel, when I came across a $200 pair of my dream black shoes (last year’s dream, anyway) and so rather than buying myself my ceremonial high-heeled boot, I opted to purchase the black shoe instead.
On one beautiful sunny afternoon this last summer, I was walking down the street and my heel actually snapped in half; not a little, not slightly, not a crack or a sprain, but rather a full-on snap in half. That was back in June (count: 5 months ago) and so I took the shoe back to Holt Renfrew and asked what they could do…and they told me they would fix the heel since apparently, this snapping of the $200 heel had become a regular occurrence at the Holt Renfrew shoe department.
Five months ago.
Am still waiting for my shoe, and will keep you updated on my heel saga and what transpires between myself and the idiots running the show at Holt Renfrew. I suggest you all simmer down and not purchase anything from there until a regular customer such as myself can guarantee you will receive an acceptable level of service.
.4. You can now text message my mobile again for all has been fixed.
.5. Have any of you seen Tamer Hagras lately?
.6. I have to go “brush”.
.1. Eid Mubarak – Inshallah this next year will bring peace and happiness to your families and across this little earth of ours.
.2. Have been reading about the Knights Templar and they are most definitely one creepy fundamentalist bunch. Considering the intricacies between the Templars (who took their name from the Temple Mount, after they camped out in Al-Aqsa Mosque to dig below it in search of whatever craziness they believed was there) would think it most intriguing if someone did an analysis of their role, their secrets, their intentions with regards to the current political situation in the Middle East. (Their heirs are whom we now know as the Masons.)
.3. Hugh Grant gives good hand. Saw Bridget Jones’ Diary: The Edge of Reason last night and for all you men out there, watch Hugh and learn. You must see the film to understand.
.4. And on that note, how is it that I had no idea Bridget was in theatres last night? The Hollywood folk seem to have created some sort of air of mystery around their release dates as of late. I blame the Templars.
.5. Last night also, saw a great little home town band at The Highlander. First time in The Highlander (there last when it was Coffee Revolution) and quite enjoyed myself. Fun group of regulars and I couldn’t help but be reminded of Carleton University’s Mike’s Place. Highly recommended if you enjoy good 70’s tunes and a cozy little everybody-knows-everybody sort of atmosphere.
Note to you: Or if you simply like to ogle men in kilts.
.6. Did a typically Maha thing in the elevator today. Was leaning back against the mirrors, and being bothered by the hair (my own, thankfully!) in my face. Carrying a tray and three bags, I couldn’t exactly use my hands to move the hair out of my face, nor did I think it appropriate that I ask either the man or the woman standing with me to do so. Decided it would be best to use my own head movement to move said hair out of face and so swooshed head back and expected hair to follow suit. Problem was I had forgotten about the lovely mirror that was propping me up and so when I swooshed my head back, it came to an abrupt stop when it swooshed at high velocity right into the mirror. Immediate reaction was to laugh out loud, which I did. Alone.
.7. Would you like to join me in New York on the 27th of December? The Trans-Siberian Orchestra is playing there. They only have one show in Canada in Toronto on the 30th of November and I rang TicketMaster and they’re sold out, the BASTARDS! If you’ve not heard their music, I highly recommend that you download Christmas Eve in Sarajevo.
In yesterday’s RPN I alluded to my hazardously clumsy nature. B recommended that I post what happened to me recently at the office because inevitably, that would put a smile on the faces of those who cruise this little blog.
I was rushed and had to get somewhere immediately. En route, I stopped in one of the doorways and spoke with a fellow colleague. After turning away from her and putting my body in motion to get to said destination…
Oh! I should tell you what I was wearing. I like high heels. I also like pants that are cuffed at the bottom. So: I was wearing high heels and cuffed dress pants.
Back to the story at hand. I turned around, said hello to another colleague facing me, and started to move forward. Actually, it was only the top half of my body that started moving forward. From the look on my colleague’s face, I knew that something was amiss in my behaviour because he instinctively looked terrified.
Before I could understand what was happening, I found that I was trying – in vain – to move my legs and feel the ground beneath my well-heeled feet, but I couldn’t. They were completely bound and I was air borne. I knew that I was moving my feet and I could feel that my legs were in some kind of motion, but what that motion was, I wouldn’t know until later.
I flew forward, directly toward my colleague and landed on my tummy, on the ground. Had he been standing closer, I would have actually driven my face into his chest and probably broken my nose. Instead, I skipped across the ground like a flat stone on a pond.
I lay there for a few moments, then turned over and started howling with laughter because I saw the look on my colleague’s face. He was completely mortified, thinking I was unconscious.
What really happened was: My left heel made its way into my right cuff. So when I thought it was firmly placed on the ground, it was…but only it was via my right cuff.
When I went to lift my right foot, I also lifted my left foot and so while moving forward (at my usual rapid pace), and expecting to land on my right foot, I inadvertently took both feet out from under me and had no choice but to land on my tummy.
You should try it some time, maybe at a party where you’re trying to impress someone. It really is a neat trick.
All around the office was a small little picture of a stick person tripping. The caption read: Danger: Tripping Hazard! and the graphic artists in my area inserted: (or maybe it’s just Maha.)
Have had a unique few days past where I learned a lot about myself. Yesterday evening, I had an even more interesting and stimulating interaction…one which complimented the last little while and is most certainly blog worthy (and erm, my blog space is a precious thing so this truly is a commemorative moment. I hear the mint is thinking of making a quarter with an image of my face etched into the middle of it in different shades of pink and white.).
Guess what? You get to be a part of what your blogmom has learned in the last few days (insert whistles & bells and all things sparkly!).
.1. I am a realist. No. I am a fatalist. WAIT! No, I am an idealist. (I may just have to settle for multiple personality disorder to keep you on your toes.)
.2. I am really clumsy. I’ve finally come to accept that if I don’t run into it, I will run over it, and if I don’t do that, I will trip and fall over it. It’s endearing and rather cute…when you’re not me and merely a spectator to the dance I do as I attempt to function at a human level.
.3. I have both a very short attention span and terrible short term memory.
.5. I like the colour yellow.
.6. I am easily swayed when seated across from mature intelligent folk.
.7. I have a short attention span and I can’t remember things all that well.
.8. I really like my caffe latte.
.9. I have to learn how to forgive.
.10. I have a really nice laugh.
.11. There are people in this world who intimidate me and to whom my explanations of “1 + 1 = 2” begin with “Right. So imagine you’re walking down that street at 4 p.m. in the afternoon and the other person gets on a train at 9 p.m. the evening previous (when they’re 24 hours before daylight savings time)…”
.12. I am all of 7 years old and I like candy.
Note to you: Feel free to build me a ginger bread house any time.
.13 At the drop of a hat, I can be as smart as Jessica Simpson (God bless her little blonde head).
.14 I am learning. Everyday and with every passing moment, I am learning that I can laugh at absolutely anything. I discovered that this morning when I woke up laughing at otherwise serious conversations had last night, and that put a smile on my face for the rest of my day (until I tripped over a box and nearly killed myself).
.15. Patience really is a virtue.
.16. When in doubt, lower your voice and speak calmly.
.17. I like sparkly things and colourful things and all things visually appealing.
Note to me: When are an adult, invest money in art work. Make one of Corno’s faces your first purchase.
.18. I am officially addicted to Tim Horton’s coffee. In fact, I think they should make some likeness of me, sell it as their mascot and call it: The Zim-Bit.