Prolific Immigrant

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

PLEASE GROW YOUR HAIR, SAMSON.

Love of God, you’re killin’ me.

xxo
Maha

PS Recently…
M: I need to buy a pair of night goggles.

“Friend”: What? Why?

Why not?

Seriously. Why?

They seem like so much fun. Like…if I could get a unicorn, I’d get one of them too. Not for any discernible reason, but just because. Who doesn’t want a unicorn? Or, like, a Care Bear to always give me hugs?

What are you talking about?

IMAGINE THE FUN I COULD HAVE WITH NIGHT GOGGLES!

Only if you’re planning on taking out insurgents…
(pause)
You need help. Like, so much.

You. You need help. You? You are never allowed to play with my goggles. When I get them. Which…I don’t even know where?

Please stop talking. Adults are coming.

Awesome. They’ll totally know where I can score a pair…

etc.

An interesting conversation has been brewing and cross-cutting among all of my girlfriends these past few days, in which the following is injected: “….yes, feeling beautiful comes from the inside, yada-yada-yada…I totally get that. I know I’m beautiful and no one can mess with that. BUT F*CK, can’t he just say it out loud? Like, there’s nothing worse than a man not telling his woman he thinks she’s smokin’. It places such a huge dent in me when he doesn’t say it, when he doesn’t acknowledge it, and it’s actually starting to turn me off because I don’t care if he stares at me, I need to know he loves what he’s staring at. OUT LOUD, already.”

Did you catch that boys?

This isn’t about her knowing she’s a hottie (that’s the inside part), but rather, it is about her confirming (yes repeatedly) that you, the man she digs finds her a hottie.

Crystal clear is the memory I have of the first man who ever told me I was beautiful. At university in sweats, runners and a t-shirt, with my hair a mess, I walked past this dude while he was working the bar at Oliver’s on campus. He pulled me over and simply said “I just have to tell you that I can’t stop looking at you. You are so beautiful.”

I stood dumbfounded.
No one had said that to me (except my momma) prior and so to hear it from a man set off an avalanche of squees and near nauseau throughout your WebMistress.

A feeling that has not subsided; a feeling which happens every single time I hear those words from a man, but most importantly, from a man for whose attentions I am vying.

That goes for all women I know; the ones who just started dating their men, and the ones married for 10 years. Even though every single woman I know has an unbelievable reserve of self-awareness both in terms of ability and beauty, each one of these women – myself included – also has a natural inclination to insecurity with regards our looks because we exist in a culture that places so very much emphasis on a woman’s beauty (and know full-well about the male inclination to visual.).

It seems that recently, there is an epidemic amongst the women I know, and one which is centered around their men not engaging these simple words or these simple acknowledgements.

Gentlemen, and on behalf of the Sisterhood: tell your woman out loud that you think she’s hot, because if you don’t, another man will and he will get big points (since the off-set of you never mentioning it actually works to heighten his comment).

If the reason that women like it and so appreciate your attention to detail isn’t enough of a reason for you, then let me break it down and make it all about you instead: When you tell your partner she’s gorgeous, it will turn her on. (Women? We’re selfish that way; maybe you can relate.)

Right. So for your edification, take a read through this article and note that: She needs to hear out-loud from you that you notice her and admire her. And, chose words like “sexy” or “beautiful” or “amazing”; women like words like this because they are bigger and make it seem like you really are thinking they look incredible at that particular moment. Stay away from bland and generic compliments like “you look nice” or “you look fine.” And one compliment that most women really don’t like is “you look cute”; she is not a puppy, she is a woman.

Sidebar: To the women who would say that the above is a slight to women, and women don’t need a man’s accolades to feel good. And to those idiot self-help writers who tell us that everything must come from within or else it is meaningless. You are lying liars who lie and exist in a perpetual sea of self-delusion.

==========

Originally published 10/08/06.

I can’t even begin to describe how completely stoked I am to be invited to my first QUEER wedding.  On top of which, it is interracial.

I mean, do you know how many birds with one stone I am going to be killing at this wedding?  So.  Excited.

One of my girls is getting married to her girlfriend, and when she told me, my immediate email response was: Oh my God, you will have beautiful caramel coloured babies.  You’re black and she’s not and so your children…O wait!  No you won’t.  Because you’re lesbians.  Congratulations!  I love you!  So happy for you, Lesbo!

I’ll tell all y’all about how The Gays get down at this Lesbo wedding.  I expect it will be the party of the Century, and I hope someone wears a boa and platform shoes and that this someone is a man.

By the way, I was hoping to find an interracial lesbian wedding cake topper, but apparently progressive only goes so far.  I could feel the cake topper stores cutting me with their eyes as I Googled and failed.  Praise be.

NO H8!

Also, I have decided to keep writing here as a means to enjoying myself, because I love all 12 of you readers and your amazing feedback.  More importantly, I need to keep writing here because quite honestly?  Writing is like — as L would say — punching myself in the face repeatedly.  What’s more amazing is that I haven’t even actually started the writing process, but rather been thinking very hard about said writing process, and I already want to punch myself.  I am, however, still completing my other comedic writing exercise, and which I will eventually share here.

Once the comedic writing exercise takes a break for the duration of the summer, I will start the short story writing stint and also, I have decided, I will revamp this place.  I will be reshaping it and giving it a completely new feel (and even title, though it shall remain “something something….a blog by one female canuck“).

I promise to post something soon which is ridiculously stupid, as this seems the way of my writing of late.

==========

Image courtesy of tv tree blog.

“So I ate a fish eye. I have been out of the dating loop for so long that I thought doing that might get his attention. It didn’t work.”

Comments closed.

My friend Emily and I were recently discussing – within the context of her life – what it is about certain individuals that makes the idea of committing to them interesting and appealing.

Emily is – for lack of a better concept – sexually fluid. She toggles several sexual partners at once and has no desire to commit to anyone or even seek out commitment.

I have already told her that whatever fulfillment one committed partner provides, she is in fact having the same needs met by several, only without any duty of serious responsibility; her partners fill the space that would otherwise be left open to loneliness.

She has argued that it is not that she is incapable of deep love and commitment, but rather that she doesn’t currently care for it. A sentiment that makes me laugh while I respond with “bull. SHIT.” because even though she is seeding her needs from several sources, she is still seeding…the same need. (If Emily were standing beyond that scope of relationship / sexuality and arguing she doesn’t care for it, then her argument would stand.) And please note that there is nothing in this post which she has not already heard face-to-face, and that she knows just how much I care about her.

Our conversation was a mishmmash of pop-psychology that spanned…
…from asking the obvious:

Do we seek out only what we believe we deserve? [Read: I am unworthy of commitment and so shall only seek out environments where rejection is not a possibility. Here, the fragility of character is a lot more aggressive than most would be comfortable admitting aloud. (And anyway, is seeking commitment a reflection that we deserve "better"? Is it human nature to nest with only one, or is it a societal construct? More complex still, is it a societal construct because it is in fact healthier for society and each of us individually?)]
…to wondering if it is the exact opposite: I am too worthy and no one can meet the worth.
…to poking: maybe seeking out multiple partners is just about actively – through the body – engaging in a little revolution against norms, expectations, religious / societal demands?
…to Zen and Motorcycle Maintenance taunting: we can’t ever really know.
…and then finally landing squarely on: What makes someone interesting enough?

During that conversation, and now still, I argue that to formulate the question in this way places the onus on the other, rather than ourselves. It absolves us of our contribution, and instead places us above the relationship itself as at its core it is stating: show me why you deserve me, and if you’re lucky enough, I may just grace you with my monogamous commitment, a not so innocent and entirely arrogant and entitled demand.

Through some laughter, the mishmash made us reformulate the question to: Why are we interesting enough to be sought out?

Only instead of engaging in this side of the equation, we were side-tracked to talking about music, only to eagerly come back and ask: To which combination of ‘us’ is it worth committing?

Years back, I wrote that it must be partially about the energy created between two people; that when you are in that individual’s presence, there is a new energy that comes to life and within which you wish to remain. I still strongly believe this.

Emily mentioned ‘inspiration’, and I agree that we need to both be inspired by, and to inspire the individual.

She also stated that we have to want to impress that individual, a critical point which I believe sheds light on something deeper – the reality that we need to feel we are worthy of the person before us. (Take pause and consider that when many relationships start to fall apart, usually the very first thing said is that someone felt as though “they were being taken for granted”, which is another way of saying that their partners stopped noting what they once found “impressive”.)

And so taking this last point, we come full circle, because we need to (gently and with grace) understand our own worth, to then wish to impress it upon another. And the more I think about it, the more I believe this is maybe one of the most important keys to commitment. When you stop wanting that, you stop wanting the relationship, and instead seek out another with whom that same energy and impression starts anew.

No doubt, there are all other kinds of factors that work together to see us to commitment. Not least of which is timing, laughter, trust, silliness, honesty, and the simplest of chemical reactions.

Ultimately, as a Muslimah, I was taught and believe that [He] “created us in pairs”; whether or not we find one another is a whole other reality…and all I can do is keep on this incredible egg hunt.

.1. I have a dreadful fear of all things crawly, but for fatso babies. For this reason, I am completely freaked out about the ant infestation we have in Ottawa this summer. Enough of a sense of freaking out that I am dreaming about them. Dreaming that every time I slip my foot into a slipper, an ant is waiting to attack my foot before making its way up my ankle.

.2. Firmly convinced that the best and only way to wake up in the mornings is to have a Dance Party. Among the songs to which you must get down seriously (like a serious loser) is 38 Special’s ‘Caught Up In You’ because HOLY does that song get your loser feet moving. That and Santana’s ‘Hold On’. (You’re welcome.)

.3. Dear Ryan Gosling.

I really shouldn’t have to say more than your name, but I will so no one misunderstands me.

I wish to marry COACH ERIC TAYLOR (HI! I miss you!); steel and steal Taylor Kitsch for affairs; and grapple with Vampire Eric. But then there’s you. Suddenly. You with your squinty eyes and that curved mouth? You make me want to push you into dark corners and down dark alleyways.

Hi mom!

Thank you…

Maha

.4. Someone recently told me my heart was too big; that no matter how angry and hard I could be…my heart somehow always won out.

I was staring at them thinking (1) nice hair; (2) does this place sell cupcakes; (3) do I need to reapply my lip gloss?; is *my* hair nice?; and, (3) ameen.

Team Big Hearts!

.5. No 4 presenting the perfect segway to: If you have a tendency to pout and sulk because you don’t get what you want, then you’re a fantastical loser who needs to get over themselves and understand that this world and those within it aren’t here to serve your entitled sense of self. Also, you should probably remember that adulthood isn’t about playing in the sandbox, and therapy helps. True story.

I am writing this on the berry directly into Blogger, so please pardon the spelling errors and grammar flubs.

I am here for an annual check-up and it seems that tempers are high and patience is low.

A walk-in patient was taken in before a woman with an appointment. The woman with an appointment very aggressively challenged the walk-in’s husband (still seated outside in the common area). A combination of ‘your wife shouldn’t have gone in before me’ to ‘she was an emergency case, you don’t get to make that call’ was fine, though annoying.

Suddenly, it became ‘shut up’ to ‘no, I think you’d better shut up’, too loudly and aggressively for any good to come of it.

Clearly, we’d just stepped into the Middle East peace negotiations.

I am seated in a slightly separate area, though we could all see one another. As soon as the ‘shut up’s were introduced, I put my book down and went over to calm both cartoon characters down since the nurses and admin assistants were merely watching in fascination.

When I first threw my hat into the ring, the husband turned his aggression toward me. Thankfully, I somehow pulled the right comments out of my ass and he laughed and I was able to sit next to Woman-With-Appointment and cool both of their shit down.

No more than 5 minutes it took to confirm they weren’t angry at one another, but rather the administration. Also, that it was Monday and no one wanted to start their week off being told to shut up. And that it was rude to do so, under any circumstance where the players are above the age of 7.

When they focussed their attention on The Man rather than one another, I excused myself to come here and tell you, because I think there’s an important lesson to be learned: honestly, and without tongue in cheek, if peace is what you want to find, then peace is precisely what you’ll get.

There’s usually almost always common ground, if you’re interested in finding and owning it – even with the greatest of asshats. We just need to care enough, and I sometimes find it easier with a stranger who I don’t know from a hole in the wall, than with someone I know personally who has hurt either myself or someone I love.

As the Woman-With-Appointment left, she said “thanks for stepping in…I was getting nervous because I don’t think he was going to stop“, and as the husband was leaving, he flipped me a thumb’s up and offerred a “you did good, kid“.

Score:
Maha 1
Week 0

*Sigh*. I wish COACH ERIC TAYLOR (HI!) had been here to witness my – clearly – supreme negotiation skills.

“Part of the beauty of Vancouver is all of the greenery”, said Maha.
“I agree! I think…I just LOVE the foilage in Vancouver. It’s so great, isn’t it?” said S.
“What?”
“I love the foilage here. It’s gorgeous.”
“And what colour would that foilage be?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…is it aluminum? Shiny silver, this foilage of which you speak.”
“The foilage. The foilage. The green around us.”
“It’s foliage.”
“Huh?”
“It’s foliage. It’s called foliage not foilage. I’m just bein’ an asshole, really…”
“Oh! Ha ha!! FOLIage. That’s right! FO-LEE-IDGE.”
“You call yourself a writer. You should be ashamed.”
“My word was nicer.”

(I love you half of KAWN!)

I’ve just dined with Alice Munro. It was relatively quiet as I didn’t say one word and instead let her letters slip off the page and create for me an alternate universe.

Every once in a while, I would be pulled from her pages by the loud voices of two late 20-something young women seated at the table next to me.

“I was with David Friday night.”
“Whose David?”
“The guy I’m dating. He’s why I couldn’t see you Saturday. We spent Friday night together, went out for breakfast Saturday and rented movies and hung out with, like, his dog that night. It’s what we do…but it’s not a relationship. The sex is GREAT! And then there’s Andrew.”
“Whose Andrew?”
“The other guy I’m dating. He’s perfect. He’s a homeowner, he owns a vehicle and has an excellent job. He’s tall, too, and the sex with him is GREAT also.”

Pause. Check bberry. Look out window at protestors (Sri Lanka / tamil), and ask “who the fuck are they?”
“Who cares. They, like totally held up traffic last week. You’re in Canada! God. Get over it, right?”

Pause. Check bberry, then continue
“Anyway. So like whatever happened to Mikey?”
“Sex with Mikey is even MORE awesome. I’m seeing him tonight.”

Pause. Check bberry, then yell “WHAT!”
“Omg what’s wrong?”
“READ!”
“Omg. Mikey has a girlfriend?”
“Yeah!”
“You’re, like, The Other Woman. That’s slammin’ cool.”
“And he’s breaking up with her. Right. Now!”
“Awesomeness. You’re a rockstar!”
“To the max, yo. I’m totally updating my FaceBook status to tell everyone about this…f*ck YEAH!!”

Droooooooone.
Focus on white tuna.
White noiiiiiiiiise.
Your daughters will not be like this.
Ugggggggggggh.
Tataki. Tataki. Tataki.
Huuuuuuuuuurrl.

I am so sad for girls far too often.

Also, I wish to run into the hills and hide.

Walking along Bloor on Saturday, I was approached by two young men, one of whom stopped in front of me and asked: “How are you today, ma’am.”
I turned to look behind me in search of “ma’am”, only to discover she was I.

“I’m well thanks. How are you?”
“I’m very good. If you have a moment, I’d like to tell you how The Book of Mormon brought me closer to Jesus Christ…”
“Actually. I’d love to hear about that – and then I’ll share with you how The Quran brought me closer to Jesus Christ. Oh! We can share and compare. It’ll be fun.”
…blank stare, then: “Well, okay, you have a good day ma’am”, and off trotted the two little Mormon boys in their black suits and black back-packs, so I sincerely asked “you don’t want to share?”, to which the other Mormon boy responded with “Is there anything else we can do for you today, ma’am?” as they continued on their way.
“No. I guess not. But maybe you could stop calling me ma’am…?”
“Good-bye, lady.”
“Good-bye, young Mormon. Muslims love Jesus…”

Please feel free to consider me your own personal amuse-bouche.

“Hi, you’ve reached Cleo, Dane, Nora May & Trent. We can’t take your call right now, so please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.”

“Hey Cleo. It’s Maha. I just got your email – I was out of town this weekend, but I’m home all week and would love to come by on Thursday night. I’ll pick something up on the way over and we can watch Grey’s…”

click

“Ello?”

“Hello Trenty.”

“ELLO.”

“How are you?”

“I GOO.”

“Good! Me, too. What are you doing?”

“I PLAYEEN.”

“How fun! Are you enjoying having mommy around over the holidays?”

“YEA.”

click

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Hi Nora May. It’s Maha.”

“Oh. Hi Maha.”

“Hi honey. How are you?”

“I’m good. We’re playing.”

“That’s great. Is mommy around?”

“She’s taken a shower. Please leave a message.”

“Should I call back?”

“No, Maha. Please leave a message.” (With the clear inflection that she thinks I must be a little slow in the head to ask such a foolish question.)

“Uhm. With you?”

“Yes please.”

“Ok. Will you please tell her I called and that I will see her on Thursday.”

“Yes, okay. Goodbye.”

click

Kids amaze me.
I wish adults were as honest as them.

The following is a conversation I had with a friend on Facebook; I have deleted her name for reasons of privacy. To facilitate your reading of this, please note that I am the one who begins this conversation.

Rather than writing about my feelings on the subject matter of how we are expected and scripted to react to certain situations, I thought that I would, for this once, allow you to understand my perspective through my idiotic blather quick witted communication skills familiar only to my closest friends.

Or, you could save yourself the trouble and merely deduce from the subject title of this entry.

Either way, enjoy…

M: “Uhmmmm. HEY! So…uhm…I was wondering if you could help me figure something out, yeah?”
T: “Sure. What is it? I’m about to blowdry my hair, but ok…”
M: “Well. So…I was trying to figure out what this song was and I just. I can’t.”
T: “What’ve you got?”
M: “….”
T: “Maha?”
M: “Yeah!”
T: “What do you remember from the song?”
M: “…it’s kind of lame…”
T: “SERIOUSLY. COME ON.”
M: “Jungle night. Jungle bright. GimmeTheOthernaNananananaNAnanananaNaOhoohooohoohohohohohohohohohhohhhhhhh Night’sTheNight GimmeTheOtherGimmeTheOther…OR SOMETHING. I can’t sing. You know that.”
T: “Jesus that was bad. OH MY GOD WAIT! I KNOW IT!”
M: “Are you lying?”
T: “No…no…I know that ohohohohohohohohohohhhoohohohohohohoh”
M: “It’s from the 80s I think? I think I was, like, ten years old or something…I’ve googled all kinds of different lyrics but nothing…”
T: “Yes! OH! I just heard it in the gym the other day…but I don’t think it’s jungle light. Try: ‘in the night’.”
M: “No, I don’t think that’s it.”
T: “Just try it.”
M: “K.”
T: “Ohohohohohohohohohohohohoh Night’sTheNight…. I love that song.”
M: “You didn’t even know it before two seconds ago, dude.”
T: “Still. It’s awesome.”
M: “Oh! I found it! OMG. It’s called Tarzan Boy by some group called…Balteeemore-ah. This is so great, thank you! I’m gonna buy this right now…I’m so excited. You know what I love about iTunes? I love that it tells you what people who bought this song…what else they’ve also bought! I’m sure I’ll find a lot of really great 80s son…oh wow…oh…”
T: “What?”
M: “Nothing. You should probably get to your hair.”
T: “WHAT?”
M: “…………………….no one else has ever bought this song.”
T: “AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA.”
M: “I’M A TRAILBLAZER. Go blow dry yer god damn hair, already.”
T: “aaaaaahhhhhhhhhaaaaaaahhhhhh-tone…………..”

Please Note: I am typing directly into blogger. The following is likely filled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. Please forgive…I am exhausted. xo

.1. Breakfast was a cob salad without the bacon. I drowned myself in Le Pain Quotidienne’s lattes because they were so good.

.2. I purchased a book here.

.3. Noticed that LG’s new advertisement campaign for Scarlett TVs has a grammatical error in it; their tag is “…bla…bla…Scarlett TV’s”. Morons.

.4. NYC men are pretty awesome. Two conversations of note:

(a) I was crossing the street when a relatively attractive dude nearly fell into me while roller blading.
“I almost fell in the right direction there…”
“hee hee.”
“ha ha.”
(silence and he rolls away, then turns around and rolls back toward me)
“Can I invite you to my art show?”
“Sure…but I’m only here until Sunday…”
“Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“Well then why don’t I give you all of my info – maybe this’ll be the romance that spans somethingOrOtherIDidn’tReallyHear…”
“tee hee.”
“SomethingElseSaidThatICan’tRemember.”
“I’ll definitely pop by and see your work.”
“The gallery it’s at is great, too.”
“Well then I’ll make certain to go…”
…and I plan on doing just that tomorrow, Inshallah. Find Patrick Collins’ art here, please.

Update to add: I went to the gallery and checked out his work. Cool stuff.

Aside: I will never ever see Patrick again and that was a quickity split conversation on the side of the street but still: how can you not love that Alpha in some men? The men who just go for it? The men who see something and just: GO. For. IT. Love it when a man does that.

Determination and strength are sexy. A man who knows what he wants is a fox.

(b) Some well dressed but much too old dude stopped me as I was about to cross the street and head into Karim Rachid’s shop (dude’s a fellow Carleton grad, so I am obligated to support him).
“You are Italiano.”
“No.”
“You are not Italiano?”
“No.”
“Yesssss. You must be Italiano – you are much too beautiful not to be Itali-.”
“I’m Palestinian.”
“Palestinian? What is? Hmmmm. Where is Pales-.”
“I’m a Middle Easterner.”
“Palestinian? You model?”
“No.”
“You should model. Palestinian?”
“MIDDLE. EAST.”
“You are EGYPTIAN?”
“NO!”
“Me? I design special clothing for Scoop. You know Scoop?”
“Yes. I have to go. I’m late.”
“I want you to model for me.”
“I use my brain to make my money…but thank you, anyway. BYE!”
“We use our brain too in my industry. We are full of smart people! Ha ha! You are too beautiful to use your brain, anyway.”
“Smart? Like you? Like you who doesn’t know PALESTINE smart? I don’t know if I’d call that smart. Tee hee heeeee.”
And I bolted across the street but not before he’d handed me his business card. Weird and random.

.5. I saw War, Inc.

(You will laugh. You will be sick. You will be sad. Most importantly, you will be enraged.)

War, Inc is about life for sale. It is about the branding of Government, military, religion, relationships and the pornification of the ‘female’. Every single thing is up for sale. I’m not going to say any more about this film except that you need to get your asses in motion and get to a theater as soon as possible. Support this film in any and all ways you can. (Before the film started, I was standing outside and taking photos – three people approached me and asked me why. I fished; They came into the film with me.) I’ll be writing a piece on it and so I won’t give you anything more. You’ll have to wait until the article is complete and published at Rabble to read it.

P.S. Joan Cusack is a fk’n RockStar of gigantic proportion. I want to take that woman out for a drink and tell her all of my tales.
P.S. Marisa Tomei is a beauty as she has a face untouched by botox.

.6. I gave this man all of the cash I had.

.7. I ate a pretzel.

.8. We hung out at Bryant Park with the assumption that there was going to be Opera In The Park. I was completely stoked to sing along…until we found out that we were in the wrong park.

Instead, we took stupid pictures.

.9. We splashed past Rockefeller Plaza.

.10. Ate dinner at La Lanterna in George Washington Square.

.10+1. And finally ran home through the pouring rain. We were soaked and satiated.

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

(pause)

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

Does anyone know what a ‘post doc’ is? I’d never thought about it until New Year’s Eve when the following conversation flowed around our table (performing a slow and quiet interpretive dance):

D: “…blablabla…working on their post doc.”
Maha: “What is that, anyway?”
D: “What?”
Maha: “A ‘post doc’?”
D: “Something to do with their PhD?”
P: “Isn’t it work done post your doctorate?”

(silence)

Maha: “Do they get letters?”

(silence)

Maha: “You know, letters. Like, with their name? Like an ‘M.A.’ or a ‘Dr’?”
P: “I don’t think so, Maha…”
Maha: “Oh. Well. That sort of sucks; They really should consider at least giving them one extra letter. And if not, then they should make it a PhD².”

So…uhm…any of you know what a post doc amounts to? (I’m too floppy to Wiki as I’ve just come home from yoga.)

This is Deema, my baby cousin aged 12. Last night, we had the following conversation that very nearly made me pee in my pants…

Deema: Maha, I need to ask you a question.
Maha: Okay, habibti, what is it?
D: It’s personal, though?
M: Okay, go ahead – you should know that you can ask me anything you want to – there’s nothing that’s too personal.
D: Uhm. Okay. So. Uhm. Ahem – ahem.
M: Deema, just ask it.
D: Okay. WHEN DID YOU GET ARMPIT HAIR?
M: What?
D: Oh my GOD. SEE! It’s too personal. I KNEW IT! Why are you laughing? Are you laughing at me?
M: NO! Nothing is too personal, and to answer your question, I was thirteen.
D: I’m almost 13! WHY DON’T I HAVE ANY? I WANT ARMPIT HAIR!
M: You’ll get it when you get your period.
D: DUDE! Who said anything about my period? I’m talking about armpit hair!
M: Deema. It’s all or nothing.
D: That’s so gross. I just want my armpit hair.
M: Why do you want armpit hair, tayeb?
D: Because I want to start buying and using deodorant. I REALLY WANT TO BE ABLE TO BUY IT! I LOVE THE WAY IT SMELLS! AND I LOVE THE WAY YOU HAVE TO APPLY IT! (silence) My period, eh?
M: Yup.
D: Hmph. That seems really unfortunate. (and with full drawl of sarcasm) You know, I don’t think it’s very appropriate that you’re laughing at me.
M: You have the most sarcastic sense of humor, ya Damdooma!
D: If I knew what that word meant: ‘sarcastic’, I’d offer you a reaction.
M: AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!
D: When you’re done laughing, missy, come and find me in the living room. (muttering to herself) Crazy woman! – that’s what happens when you get your period.

I took her ‘shopping’ for deodorant this morning. (I believe she’s already used up half of it.)

“Look outside, pretty lady! I*m standing directly across from no 8 price street! ”

To which, in response, Baby Jane flew out of no 8 Price Street’s doors and ran across the street without looking both ways. I’d barely had time to put my mobile back in my pocket, reapply the lip glass, and button my coat before a blur of blond was running toward me.

She was as breathtaking then as she’d always been and it felt like coming home when I saw her smile, my Baby Jane.

By the time we’d made it up to her second floor office, we’d discussed her wardrobe crisis that morning, my new Crack, my flight, her new office digs and former boss.

Within 10 minutes of being in her office, the following ensued, which serves as the end of this Dispatch from Tee-Off.

“chatter chatter chatter”
“CHATTER CHATTER chatter chatter CHATTER”
“Chatter?”
“CHA. TTER!”
“xyz abc 123″
“chatter!”
“def 456 i like coffee.”
“Wait, Maha, you’re all over the place – wait – I have to finish this story. Chatter.”
“…chatterchatterchatter…?”
“LOL!! OK, I forgot what I was saying! OH! CHATTER! CHATTER CHATTER!”
“abc.”
“LOL!”
“LOL! Maybe I should go. I’m too excited! What if you can’t do any work after I leave?”
“Maybe you should go – I’m turning into a Mexican Jumping Bean. There’s too much energy. Do you like my wall?”
“I LOVE IT! MaybeIShouldGoMaybeI’llWalkAroundAndSeeWhere’sMuch?CanIShop?WhenShouldIBeBack?Where’sBonnie?WhoseMaryEllen?”
“Yes! OHMYGODIDon’tKnowIfI’llBeAbleToGetAnyWorkDoneNow. HoltzIsRightDownTheStreet. GoAndBuySTUFF. 5O’clockSharp. She’sStillAtLunch. MyMother.”
“YourMother’sNameIsMaryEllen?”
“Yes.”
“IAlwaysJustThoughtSheWasMUMWhoKnewSheHadAName.”
“MEXICANJUMPINGBEAN! DoYouWantToGoOutTonight? OurNameIsOnTheListOfAReallyExclusiveClub.”
“I’llDoAnything.”
“Anything?”
“Anything!”

…and then I flew out of Janey’s window and landed in Holt Renfrew.

Stay tuned for more Baby Jane & Mahi Mahi Dispatches from Tee-Off.

(Psst! I’ll be blogging about Toronto in little pieces during the coming weeks because there’s simply too much to tell in one stream…)

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

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

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

Enjoy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strange boys.

In 32 years, I’ve only ever cared for one person. Well…maybe one and a half, the half not really counting because in hindsight it’s easy to see that it was little more than a very fun and exciting fantasy holding no water.

A few girls invited me out after work one evening and they were blathering on about their “tricks” with men because apparently, “a woman has to play games to get what she wants”. I am about to divulge some sisterhood secrets and I don’t mind doing this because thankfully, it is not to this particular sisterhood I belong. Most of the women were in their late thirties and single, having jumped from one bed to another.

True gems of wisdom imparted were:
“…cry – you’ll get anything!”
“…yell! You have to yell to show him whose boss!”
“…break up with him first. YOU HAVE TO BREAK UP WITH HIM FIRST!”
“…jealousy is par for the course with a man, make sure to always keep him on his toes and guessing that you have other men on your a** always.”
“…hold his ex girlfriends against him!”
“…play with his emotions by being temperamental and unpredictable.”
“…never make him think he’s totally got you or he’ll take you for granted.”
“…f*ck his best friend when you break up. It’ll kill him!”
“…needle his most vulnerable psychology!”
“…be a b*tch, it’s what all men secretly want.”
“…never pay for anything or he’ll expect you to always do it.”
…and my personal favourite was when one of the women decided to lecture me on that you should really get out there and date because that’s what men are for. Women’s lib! We fought for this!(1) And really who cares if you wait until marriage when there’s so much variety to be had and look at me I’m a tramp and I love it been with more men than I can count on all fingers toes and appendages and it doesn’t matter that I now wear a diaper because I have zero muscle drone drone drone.

As to this woman, to some it would seem odd that in thirty two years I would have only said “I love you” once. To those who think I am a freak of incredible proportion I’ll have you know that the more I look around me the happier I am about this particular aspect of my life. And in fact, the more respect I have for myself. I believe there’s something pure and honest about it.

Having dealt with T’s recent PIGLET! lying and cheating husband, I realize that my reality means I don’t take either the words or the sentiment lightly and that stands for something; no one can ever claim that part of me has been diluted by over usage.

More important still is that with every time we give ourselves away, we loose something. We become dulled, we become more cautious, we become less giving the next time. And…I…I wish to be able to give all of myself to someone someday without hesitation, trepidation or fear because of tangible things such as a past encounter. I don’t think that’s far-fetched or unattainable (I don’t actually believe in that word, but think it’s the ideal excuse for not working harder); Absolutely challenging and filled with hard work, but fully attainable nonetheless.

I like that: I won’t ever be someone who does dilute everything in their lives. Who jumps from one relationship to another, never mourning, never understanding, never learning, never growing. I don’t want to be with someone for the sake of being with someone, to avoid boredom.

I don’t want to further disrespect the man I will marry by giving so much of me away today that there’ll be nothing left to give him tomorrow. I don’t want to be the fool who doesn’t know how to be alone. Who doesn’t value their body or their heart and hands both out at random.

I refuse to belittle everything that I am just so I have the occasional date on Friday night and so that I’m not lonely because I fully believe that if we don’t know how to be alone and enjoy our own company, we won’t know how to let someone else share in that very company. I also refuse to fit into some bizarre prototype of ‘modern female’ because I don’t much like ‘her’.

More importantly, I like boys. I don’t want to be cruel to them or play games with them or disrespect them. When I am with someone, I don’t want to yell at him or make him cry or harm his heart and I want to believe that everything earthly is possible.(2)

Instead of aiming to do these things I’ll hope to do the exact opposite to the best of my ability. Inevitably, at times I’ll fail, but I’ll have at least attempted to avoid that failure. I want to love him fairly and completely. Understand his history and psychology, alleviate his fears, reinforce my love for him and forgive his weaknesses as I would expect to have done for me.

I also want to like him enough to hold his hand when we’re 85. I think women underestimate their capacity to hurt men and that’s an absolutely terrible thing. Simply because men may not discuss their feelings, it doesn’t mean they don’t have them. I wouldn’t want someone to play games with me or yell at me or be mean to me and so why would I ever inflict that sort of thing on another individual? Especially if it’s someone I love?

And if you believe that you can be a shit to your partner and yet don’t deserve to be treated in the same manner, then you need a lot of therapy and a kick in the ass. There’s nothing uglier than a spoiled brat, male or female.

****************************************

(1) We fought for ‘this? For the freedom to f*ck? And here I thought we were fighting for equality and respect. How shameful and backward of me to accuse the feminist movement of anything short of complete and full pornification of the female and her many fruitful usages and bendy ways.

Oh! And while I’m on it…thanks very much for providing me the opportunity to CHOOSE having my brea*ts sliced to obtain a more ‘womanly’ figure, my lips injected for a sexier pout, my eyebrows tattooed to shave off 10 minutes of ‘getting ready’ time in the a.m., my ribs broken for a smaller waistline and my face expressionless and poison filled so as to appear ‘younger’. Because deep down, I don’t think I can get anywhere on brains alone, I’d like to thank the modern day Miss. Interpretation of ‘feminism’ by the greater sisterhood allowing me to indulge these very exceptional and MY CHOICE! actions. These choices make me liberated, Hurrah!

Liberated enough to look down my new perfectly shaped “Jennifer Aniston” nose in order to mock the Muslim woman and her head gear – because heaven forbid she force the world to listen to her rather than stare BY CHOICE! at her. (3)

(2) Except the wanking PIGS! and Cheaters.

(3) Yes, there is a happy middle way, but not with the likes of the women who were the catalysts for this entry.

I now understand why it is that I’ve loved The Gilmore Girls so much…

Snippet from a recent conversation in my life:
A: “That’s how peanuts grow.”
M: “Peanuts grow beneath?”
A: “Yeah, like potatoes.”
M: “Oh.”
A: “Where did you think peanuts came from?”
M: “…”
A: “They grow. It’s a plant.”
M: “…”
A: “Where’d you think…”
M: “I didn’t.”
A: “…”
M: “I thought they came in a can.”
A: “But they would have to be grown before they were put into the can.”
M: “They come from Mr. Planter.”

Snippet from Season 7, The Gilmore Girls:
Lorelai: “It’s like a peanut tree.”
Rori: “Peanuts don’t grow on trees, mom.”
Lorelai: “What do you mean? It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
Rori: “Peanuts grow beneath the earth.”
Lorelai: “Plants, trees, who cares, it’s all the same to me. They’re peanuts and we eat them and that’s all that matters.”

A snippet of last night’s conversation…consider yourself warned.

Aalya: “I heard this kid call out ‘PARMINDER! PARMINDER! OVER HERE!’ and so I expected to turn around and see a little Pakistani child. But instead I saw these two huge blondes, a man and a woman, carrying a little blonde blue-eyed girl who was waving back at the other kid calling her Parminder and I thought WTH? Are you making fun of my People? Maybe you’re…Are you albinos?”

Maha: “Are you albinos? That’s funny. You should have followed that up with I’m sorry I didn’t mean that I say things like that sometimes things I should only say in my head like ‘gay monkey in pink’ really ‘happy sparkly dancing monkey on my back’ and I don’t mean ‘gay’ like ‘queer’, I mean ‘gay’ like ‘happy’ because I spent my childhood summers in England and so ‘gay’ has a whole new meaning in my head. Pink. Monkey. Dancing. Do you have anything on your back? I like backless dresses. This food is yummy.”

Aalya snorted a little of her pho up her nose and choked. And I thought OH MY GOD I’ve almost killed a pregnant woman who just bought gorgeous crack and wouldn’t have had the chance to wear it even once i like crack it’s pretty and always sparkly when I buy it shopping is fun like eating I like sushi but not the raw kind only the kind that’s made with fake crab which I think someone told me is petroleum based paste milk blue pink garden flower pear monkey dancing update nose scarf a b c d e f 1 2 3…

When mama gets anxious or upset or nervous and tries to communicate in English, she sounds a little like Dr. Seuss. I tend to avoid her calls when she’s in such a state because her emails make me laugh really hard and I have a record of the insanity.

Exhibit A:
‘If I could tell her I would tell her but I can’t tell her because I don’t know what to tell her! Would you tell her? What would you tell her?’

On her good days, she still manages to make no sense in her emails because she has full conversations in her head and then I am only made privy to the last five seconds of the conversations.

Exhibit B:
Maha: ‘I am going to C’s house tonight.’

Mama: ‘What’s there at C’s house tonight! Party’

Maha: ‘Yeah we’re gonna get drunk with the kids ;o) Nothing, really, I’m just going over…I’m going to pick up some coffee on the way there and we’ll likely get a movie for when the kids go to sleep. I like hanging out with C, she’s so similar to me in so many ways…one of the closest, actually.’

Mama: Good for you I wish it was me going to some one who has half a dozen. Any way I will go home now and make maftool, I just craved it right now so put it in mind to eat it tonight. Why do you have to go to your dad’s place? As I said, I am leaving right now, bye

Did you catch that, kids? She’s leaving RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW. She was going to click the Send button and then leave RIGHT THEN.
And let’s not forget that she craved maftool (or ‘cous-cous’ to the North American) RIGHT NOW and so she’s placed it in her head and then later she’s gonna eat it. Not RIGHT NOW, but tonight.
Finally, we have the timeless wish of wanting to go “to some one who has half a dozen”. Really, your guess is as good as mine, because last I checked C had only two kids and so I haven’t the faintest idea to what or whom mama is referring.

I overheard the following conversation this morning between sisters Stephanie and Madeline (& mum), respectively aged 3 & 4:

“I’m a daughter.”
“NO! No you’re not!”
“YES I AM.”
“No, I’m a daughter. Not you. Only one of us can be a daughter. You’re just Stephanie.”
“NO! NO! MOM! MOM! WAAAAAAAAAAAAA. MOM! I WANT TO BE A DAUGHTER BUT MADELINE WON’T LET ME!”
“You’re both my daughters. You are sisters and daughters.”
“I’m a sister.”
“NO! No you’re not!”
“YES I AM.”
“Girls. Please stop. Stephanie, what would you like to drink?”
“APPLE JUICE!”
“I’m apple juice.”
“NO! No you’re not!”
…please feel free to fill in the blanks…

I absolutely adore only cute and bright children preferrably if they’re a little fat.

Amidst conversations about politics, engineering (I contributed much to that one), religion, the Middle East, children, relationships, friendships, airplanes, Salman Rushdie, marshmallows, cooking recipes, digital cameras, sand pits, CBC, BBC and STDs, the following are my choice quotes from Canada’s Birthday celebration at Dietrich and Aalya’s. Photos posted when applicable.

“FaceBook is a time-suck.”
“FaceBook can blow me.”
- Steve’s witty response to Sean’s otherwise normal observation of what FaceBook really is.

“Beneath that is the bb-q.”
“I sort of figured it wasn’t the Kaba, because it doesn’t look like we’re in Saudi.”
“Cackle. OH MY GOD, I’m not religious but my Muslim blood thinks that’s so sacrilegious.”
- Aalya and I

“Jasper, may I take your photo?”
“Yes you may. Please go ahead.”
- Jasper and I

“I’m a bottom”, when introducing himself.
&
“This is Pretty. She knows Shep Pettibone, can you believe it?“, when introducing me.
- Sean

“This bb-q is all man.”
“Do you think they’d let me take him home?”
- Steve & Sean

“I don’t think we’ll run out of wood.”
“Did you guys need wood?”
“Yeah.”
“Because I have, like, a six foot long piece of wood at home.”
“Why didn’t you bring it?”
“Well. I asked: ‘Is there anything I can bring?’ and no body said: ‘Yeah, actually, how about a six foot long piece of wood’.”
- Steve, Dietrich and an unseen

“The difficult times are the times that really show you what a relationship is made out of. That’s when you decide that that’s the person you want to have around when you’re miserable.”
- Natalie

“If you’re not on culinary duty, you are not in the kitchen. Now, Go.”
“Someone hand me a knife and a mushroom, quick.”
- Maha talking to no one in particular, in response to Dietrich

“Somewhere around here is the world’s cutest kid.”
- Almost everyone at the party at one point or another during the course of the evening.

“We all need a gay role model. Whose your gay?”
(Silence.)
“Now get your finger out of your nose, we have company.”
- Sean to Jasper, aged no-more-than-six

“Nadia, where did you get the firewood?”
“On the way here.”
“Did you cut it down?”
“Yes, actually she did. Every time she saw a good tree, she would pull over and run out with her little axe.”
- Nadia, Aalya-Mum, Sean & I

“All these cameras are frightening me.”
“You should talk to a doctor about that.”
- Steve & Andrew

“I play the piano, accordion, cello, violin and a little saxophone.”
“I play the kazoo.”
- Steve in response to MJ
(Note: I was laughing so hard at Steve’s response that I’m not certain I have all of MJ’s musical talent well documented.)

“Do you remember when you used to come and pick me up after closing the McDonald’s cash register?”
“Oh my God, in my white van?”
“And your techno music and you white Levi’s jeans.”
(Beat.)
“Levi’s rocked.”
“They sure did.”
(Beat.)
“But truth be told, I haven’t worn them since I used to safety pin them tight all along the side from the knee down.”
- Sean, Joanne and Natalie

“I like to take photos of myself.”
“John’s going to post those on FaceBook right now.”
“FaceBook can blow me.”
- John, Gio & Steve

“Can you please take a picture of me and the stars?”
“What?”
“The stars. Over there…”
“You mean the hanging lights.”
“Whatever. The electric stars. I think they’re pretty.”
- Andrew & I

“I work”
“Yes”
“hard for”
“Right”
“my money”
“So what are you saying?”
“and I want to”
“Ok.”
“LiveInAGoodNeighbourhood.”
“How unfortunate for you.”
“BecauseI’veLivedInABadNeighbourhoodAlready.”
“Money won’t make you happy at all.”
“ButIWasMuggedStandingAFootAwayFromMyFence.”
“Poor people are often much richer than rich people.”
“But there’s nothing wrong”
“Sad. Really, sad. Money is nothing. You should really just stop.”
“But.”
“No, just stop it. I’m feeling rather sorry.”
- Aalya-Mum responding to Dan attempting to discuss a standard of living.

CRASH. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. CRASH.
“That has to be John.”
“It is! Look – Aalya’s cleaning up and he’s sitting there.”
“Likely apologising for breaking something.”
“It’s just. John. You just have to expect it.”
“Aalya probably prohibited him from helping her clean.”
“God, he’s just probably apologising like mad! Poor John.”
“He probably saw the strawberry shortcake and in his excitement to reach it knocked half of the kitchen over.”
- No names will be posted re above for fear of reprimand from John.

“Snap. Snap. Click. Shutter. Snap”
“I really don’t know what sorts of pictures I’m taking. Oh dear, there seems to be something wrong with my camera. Oh my. (Snap. Click.) Oh! I’ve GOT you!”
- Aalya-Mum as she took very close-up photos of my face.

Posting because it is the most adorable photo of anyone I have ever taken.

Complete photo stream can be found here. Will post a short videoclipp soon enough…

Earlier this week, O and I met for a little sushi and a lot of conversation. After dinner, we headed over to Woman’s Memorial Park on Elgin Street and found a picnic table on which to lay. Although this was not our original intention it served as a perfect addition to our evening.

The air was warm and hazy and it didn’t feel natural to be staring at the concrete when there was so much more to see above our heads. So, I quietly shifted and laid down on my side of the picnic table, hoping O wouldn’t notice and/or stop talking. But O’s a smart cookie and so as I laid down on to my back, she enquired:
“What are you doing? Where are you going? Maha?” (I could never get anything past her.)
“I’m lying down to look at the trees.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Do it.”
“Ok. Only I’m going to lie on top of the picnic table.”

And so continued our conversation about love, life, religion and friendship as we looked up at this:

O and I met 12 years ago at Oliver’s on campus. One of my most vivid memories of us centers around our first (of what would later become hundreds of) political and theological discussions.

A group of us had begun our evening at Mezzanotte Bistro in the market where O had one too many and by one too many I mean that she likely had a glass of wine because that’s where her tolerance ends. She was wearing a body suit and couldn’t snap the buttons closed because she…had had one too many.

After her disappearance into the washroom and subsequent resurfacing with a smile and a “I’m buttoned up! With the help of S & P!” she came over to my side of the table and sincerely asked “So, what do you think of the State of Israel?” & “What about Zionism? Zionism is good, right? I’m a Zionist. I like the way you think. Clearly. You’re clear. It’s good. Tell me what you think, please. What are you eating? Is it any good? Can I have some? So back to Israel, eh.”

I have to admit that first conversation about politics and – inevitably – religion exhausted me. What began as an evening of light fun turned into an evening of emotional and intellectual exertion the likes of which I’d not experienced before. I believe the reason it was so unique was because I’d never had that sort of a discussion with someone who had adopted the identity of ‘Zionist’ without really understanding the consequence and history of that word to an entire other People.

Moreover, I’d never discussed ‘God’ with anyone before, most definitely not in the oxymoronic definition of the ‘secular’ Jewish State.

Twelve years later, her politics and religion have shifted. If you look out into a crowd of Palestinians during a demonstration you will likely find O carrying a sign that reads: “I am Jewish and I do not support the State of Israel”. She once said that if she had to describe herself as anything, it would be “a Jewish Palestinian” rather than “a Jewish Israeli”. Obviously, O’s come a long way…

…reason being that she has a sincere curiosity about life and the elements we choose and use to make up who we are, the stands we take and the battles we fight.

During every moment of the day she is thinking, challenging, deciding and acting. She is fearless and has more guts and heart than anyone I know, not to mention a reserve of energy accessible to everyone around her. She manages to balance a fierce loyalty to her friends and an honesty that will sometimes anger you. Even with the anger, one always understands that she tells the truth because she loves.

More admirable is that she will never say no to something about which she does not possess a great deal of knowledge. I don’t think her mind ever sleeps, it most definitely never gets enough and she will never reach the point of stopping her own – as she calls it – “evolution”.

She is one of the few people I know who will always bust her a** to continue growing emotionally, spiritually and intellectually; lethargy will never become this girl and for that she is to be admired and respected.

As equally important as all of the above is that if I desperately need a good laugh, then it’s to her I turn because I have yet to meet anyone who can match her quickness of wit. What is least surprising is that each person who meets her loves her. It is inevitable and you can’t fight it because You. Will. Loose. Believe me when I tell you that it’s easier to just follow her around and adore her.

As with her politics, so too have her views on God changed. Over the course of the last three years, O’s experienced some of the most traumatic times any one of us would hope to never live. More incredibly to some (but not to those who know, love and respect her), she has a sense of humour about her life that most others would be incapable of possessing.

When we were together earlier this week, I was amazed to hear her speak of God and spirituality as though she were in fact narrating what was going on in my head. Considering the chasm that used to exist between us in terms of this particular subject, I was at moments left winded by what she was saying. We’d never thought to discuss The Big Cheese before and so it was a complete surprise when she initiated the conversation and spoke to her ideas with such definition and eloquence.

Over the course of the last 12 years I’ve had the pleasure and the honour of watching O become the woman that she is today and can’t wait to see what the next 60 or so years will bring…apart from the occasional “stop making me laugh, I just peed a little. I have to go change. STOP! IT! Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhaaaaaaa! Peed. Again.”

As has previously happened on numerous occasions, I found myself in public alone laughing like a maniac. Although some people walking past shot me looks of pity or disapproval, a few started laughing at me alongside me.

I was recalling two recent snippets of conversation had with different people.

A variation of the first conversation…

“Sweet jeesus. Is his collar turned up? Why. Is he. So 80s? Sometimes, I just don’t understand.”
“That’s okay. So-and-so carries a fanny pack.”
“What? No!”
“I swear to God. Now don’t mention that sh*t to anyone. When I want to stop thinking about him, I picture the fanny pack.”
“No kidding.”
“Shut up.”
“You do understand that the fanny pack will be a third party to your relationship, eh?”
“Stop it.”
“No, seriously. It’s coming with you to dinner. And to the movies. And maybe even when you travel together.”
“Seriously. That’s not funny.”
“Give the fanny pack a name. Endear it to you, early on in the relationship.”
“Get out of my apartment.”

The second conversation went a little like…

“Do you think maybe he took something?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because while I was in his washroom, I went through his stuff.”
“You whaaaaaaaaaaat?”
“To make sure he doesn’t have some kind of a weird disease.”
“LOLOLOLOListen f*cker, you wouldn’t even know what to look for! Jeesus, I can picture you walking out of the washroom with a thing of antibiotics being all smug and shit and declaring ‘And for what is this?’ and he’d be all ‘my toe infection’. You don’t have a CLUE what difratel, zythronol, asfixitall, or fu*krectonal or I-Don’t-Know xanafrunu are! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Wow. So, how would you have explained yourself had he walked in and found you rummaging through his stuff?”
“I planned to knock it all over and make it look like an accident. He’d have never known.”
“WOW. WOW. WOW.”

And as an aside, I’d like you to know that as a child, I ached that a real live Dozer would somehow magically appear and become my friend. No Dozer ever showed up at my front door, and so in homage to the idiot child I was, here is a photo of a Dozer:

Last week, I was sitting at Bridgehead enjoying my iced latte as T stared quietly at the bicycle shop across the street. With a little peanut butter cookie crumble on her otherwise perfectly rouged lips, she said: “I think I’ll buy a bicycle. We should both buy bicycles. I know that’s a children’s shop, but we should buy bicycles and ride them together. We can visit each other on our bicycles and ride up and down the street together. On our bicycles.”

“So we should buy bicycles?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok.”

…

Later another evening, I was sitting at Bridgehead enjoying my iced latte as T stared quietly at a passing cyclist. With a little grilled chicken and red pepper jelly sandwich crumble on her otherwise perfectly rouged lips, she said: “Cyclists. They have that dreamy fucked up semi retarded expression all the time. And the helmet doesn’t help.”

“So we’re nixing the idea of buying bicycles?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok.”

…

And on yet another evening, I was sitting at Bridgehead enjoying my iced latte as T stared quietly at the man eavesdropping on our conversation. With a little biscotti crumble on her otherwise perfectly rouged lips, she said: “So I was flipping between Bleu Nuit and the Lobby”
“Bleu Nuit’s still on?”
“And they bring it!”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“And you still watch it?”
“Yeah. Don’t you?”
“No. No cable, mate.”
“That sucks because they really bring it. Anyway. So, sometimes, when I’m going into my building, I’ll hear someone whistling at me through the intercom and other times someone will open the door for me, magically and I think it may be him.”
“I hope he’s not watching The Lobby Watch Channel.”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s great. Didn’t you watch it when you lived in the apartment building?”
“No. But my mother did.”
“Oh. So I was flipping between Bleu Nuit and the Lobby Watch Channel when he”
“You really watch it?”
“Yeah. And he was in the front door and couldn’t find his keys so I quietly buzzed him in.”
“Wow.”
“I know! And when he walked past the camera, he gave the camera a thumbs up and said ‘thank you’”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, isn’t that great?”
“Wow. You really watch The Lobby Watch Channel.”
“I’m not turning 32 next month, I think I’m turning 92. I’m a 92 year old woman who watches The Lobby Watch Channel on Saturday nights.”
“And Bleu Nuit.”
“Okay, so maybe I’m a 92 year old man.”

Because life has taken a very busy course for all of us, The Girls rarely get together anymore. We see one another individually, but hardly find the time to go out as a group. Trish (nicknamed: Kitty) now lives in Florida with her husband. She’s come ‘home’ for the weekend and tonight, we got together – minus Cleo, at home with newborn Trent. We went out for an exquisite meal and then found ourselves on a gorgeous patio for the rest of the evening.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve laughed as hard or for as long as I did tonight. There’s something to be said for 16 years of friendship, and these are all brilliant, hilarious and beautiful women who I cherish and love immensely.

Here’s Kitty

This is T

T, Kitty & E

Us. This picture I love because it looks like we’re about to be devoured by flames

E & T

& this shot of T & I, which is my favorite because it’s the picture to best describe the evening. We were about to shoot the same shot as the one above, with E and Kitty, only I was going to be kissing T. E was taking the photo and T and I were posed, until E pressed the button and my camera started flashing – an indication that it’s about to take the shot. What T doesn’t know is that my camera has a delay of a few seconds, and so she turned to me and stuck out her tongue because she thought that’s what the camera would snap. But due to the delay, the camera got our reaction to her action…

A few random notes about the evening:
.1. It’s confirmed, I am most definitely a girl drawn to men who wear jeans or cargo pants and t-shirts or button downs. Since when did men become so high maintenance? And who finds this attractive? AND WHY DO THEY CALL THEMSELVES MEN WHEN THEY’RE PLUCKING AND WAXING AND USING MORE HAIR PRODUCTS THAN I OWN?

.2. We saw a girl wearing a white Formula1 cat suit.

.3. As unattractive as the high maintenance man (the metrosexual), is a man who can’t hold his liquor. It’s probably one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. If you’re a guy and you can’t hold your liquor, then don’t drink and have a cola instead.

I met someone who can’t hold his liquor.

Over the course of the evening, this individual became increasingly whiney, belligerent and annoying. By 11 pm, I was ready to start firing off comments to meet his own ugly ones, but out of respect for our mutual connection, I kept my mouth shut and opted to instead ignore him entirely and stay focused on any other conversation.

At one point, we were talking about breasts and the different sizes of breasts, and the following went down:
Girl: “My own boyfriend tells me I have small breasts!” (which we all heard as “My old boyfriend tells me I have small breasts!”)
T (thinking the Girl was talking about an old boyfriend): “Well, I hope you told him he had a small d&*k!”
Girl’s Boyfriend The Guy Who Can’t Hold His Liquor Or Maybe He’s Like This All The Time: “Thanks!”
T: “Huh?”
Girl: “Oh my god! HA HA HA!”
T (realizing what just happened): “OH! NO! I thought you said your OOOOLD boyfriend. I’m sorry!!!”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT: “That’s okay, I forgive you.”

You forgive her for your being an asshole? my mind screamed and so piped up and said “You tell Girl that her breasts are too small?”
Girl: “Yeah. He tells me I need to get more boobs.”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT, smarmy, smiling, greasy, bloated, looking at me.
Me: “You seriously tell her she needs larger breasts?”
Girl: “YEAH!”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT: “She does.”
Girl: “Seeeeeeeeeeee! HA HA HA!” (For the moment, forget about the raging stupidity of Girl.)

Maha, with a smile and a laugh: “You’re actually repugnant, but you know that.”
Girl: “Aaaaah, I hear a rant coming on.” (We’d joked earlier in the evening about my ‘rant’ on Paris Hilton’s raunch and young women aspiring to meet that porn standard.)

GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT, staring at me, still bloated and greasy and smarmy and probably just as T described…
Maha, still laughing: “No. No rant. I can’t even bother to give that sentiment of yours two more seconds of my time it’s so disgusting. I think you’re pathetic enough as is, without my pointing it out even further.”

Girl and GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT actually laughed. It’s amazing what you can pull off if you say it in the right way to people. Had I delivered it any differently than I did, it would have been understood for what it really was: a direct hit on this guy’s character. Instead, it was perceived as some sort of a joke, which is fine by me.

T, E & Kitty understood exactly what I meant and were laughing for different reasons.

Another example of this guy’s classy ways: he gave our waitress the finger when she turned her back. He’s trash. Just complete and total trash. And that this is the first time I’ve ever ripped anyone on my 2+ year old blog says a lot.

.3. I’m so happy that we ceased and desisted from the bar scene a solid eight or so years ago. It’s such an ugly environment and watching the outright prostitution of most of these young girls was horrendous. They could barely walk, they were so drunk, and even worse, they could barely keep their clothes on they were so tight and ready to snap off like an overstretched elastic. And their make-up? WOW. They probably start getting ready at 8 am in the morning just so they can make it out on time at 10 pm.

And haven’t they figured it out yet? Most boys are into simple beauty. Most men like a woman who looks like she’s got her shit together and who – when she wakes up the next morning – will look relatively similar to what she did the night prior. If a guy isn’t attracted to a woman who doesn’t look like she’s got her shit together, then he’s got self-esteem issues and, chances are, he’s a prick who likes subservient women. If he likes you with 10 pounds of make up, then you’ll have to wake up at 4 am to “get your face on” and back to bed before he wakes up. How is any of this attractive to either of the sexes?

Oh. And before you ask…I look like I have a lot of make up on, but I don’t. I’ve always looked like this > to the point that when I was about 12 years old, my teacher took a wet tissue to my face to take off my “blush”…the blush I didn’t have on. In the above photos, I have on only: eyeliner kohl and lip-gloss.

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.”

I overheard the following conversation earlier today between two boys, neither of whom is over the age of 18. One of these boys was excitable, whereas the other was not. They were the perfect ying to the other’s yang.

“IGotARAISEMANtoLikeNINEDOLLARSanHour!”
“sweeeeeet”
“YEAHTOTALLYAWESOMEwithTheRaiseICanTOTALLYworkAllSummer
AndTOTALLYlikeSaveEnoughMoneyAndPAYFORSCHOOLifIHaveTo
AndThen…”
“hang out”
“NOMANjustMaybeBUYACAREVEN”
“sweeeeeet”
“ButThenIWasThinkingICOULDTOTALLYJUSTLIKEMOVETOCALGARY”
“and live with the farmers”
“WORKThereManCusLikeAtMcDonaldsInCalgaryTHEYPAYYOULIKE
30BUCKSANHOURMANthat’sLikeDOUBLEnoFOURTIMEStheAmount
OfMoneyTheyPayYouHereMAN!”
“sweeeeet”
“TOTALLYITHOUGHTWECOULDALLGOANDLIVEINAHOSTEL…”
“with european chicks”
“NOWE’DBEHANGINGOUTWITHTHEFARMER’SLET’SGOMAN!”
“sweeeeeet”
“DoYouKnowTheDrinkingAgeInCALGARYMan!”
“21″
“EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!! EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!! MAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“sweeeeeet”
“YeahAndCusWe’dBeLivingInAHostelWithTheFarmersWe’dSave
LikeAlmostALLOFOURMONEYMANCusInsteadOfHavingSEVEN
BARSToGetTrashedAtWe’dOnlyLikeHAVEONEBARDUDE!!!!”
“duuuuuuuude”

A lull of silence is suddenly broken by the sound of the quieter guy’s thought worthy of ‘magnum opus’ labeling:
“dude. We could go to Calgary and prostitute ourselves.”
“NO!”
“yeaaaaaaaaaa man. We could screw 1000 hot chicks and charge 50 bucks each. Or. Like, we could screw 50 ugly chicks and charge, like, A THOUSAND BUCKS EACH. That’s like [I swear to God this was his math] FIVE GRAND MAN. Yeaaaaaa!”
“NOI’MNOTBIGONTHEPROSTITUTIONIDEA! WeHaveToWorkAtMcDicks!”
“Whatever dude. I’m goin’ to Calgary. Tomorrow!”

Sad dumb creatures.

S: “So I walk into the building and I see P sitting in the elevator and I say ‘Hey P! What’s goin’ on man? Why’re you sittin’ in the elevator?’

He peeks around and says ‘I’m stuuuck. Di elivaaator will nut crooowse…I’ve beeeen traaaayeeng but eet will nut crooowse…’”

M: “What are you doing?”
S: “What?”
M: “What is that? Is that an accent? Why are you talking funny?”
S: “No. I’m just imitating him.”
M: “Where’s he from?”
S: “Nowhere. He’s just slow.”
M: “Don’t do that again. It sounds more weird ethnic. Pakistan meets Japan meets French Canada is Swahili. Don’t do it again.”
S: “Ok, well. He’s more elaaastic than slow, really. His words come out long.”
M: “ We’re going to hell. You first, though. Bring the wine.”

Over brunch this morning, we (some of the girls) had a charged conversation about what makes a man attractive to us. A couple of days back, I sent this article out to my friends and it served as the focus.

Take a moment to read it and come back when you’re done.

We’re waiting.

The conversation went a little something like (and I won’t tell you which one I am):
“I read that article you sent”
“Yeah me too actually!”
“Which one?”
“The one about proof that there’s love at first sight”
“Oh GAWD that one? That’s such bullshit”
“Do you think they’re still serving green beer?”
“It’s 10 a.m.!”
“Yeah. I know. I don’t want to order it! I’m just curious…”
“Why do you think the article’s bullshit?”
“I don’t know if it’s bullshit. I think there’s a lot of truth to it. Oh wow look at that girl’s jacket. That’s so cool but she must be freezing. Uhm. What? Oh. Yeah. That, uhm, like, it’s so true. Men are more likely to fall in love at first sight, anyway. More than women, actually. Yeah, she’s got to be cold”
“See that’s it. That’s exactly the reason it’s bullshit. They’re trying to tell you that one of the BIGGEST decisions you make in your life is totally based on your visual senses. Worse still that HE’LL make that decision based on how hot you are. And that means that if you’re not attractive, you can kiss a rleationship goodbye! No more. And it’s even worse with what you’re saying, because you’re totally buying into the whole ‘beauty myth’”
“I hated that book. If you’re pretty, use it. If you’re not…whatever”
“I thought the book had some merit”
“It’s a book? I thought it was a magazine. That would make a great title for a magazine to”
“To what?”
“Huh?”
“You said “…title for a magazine to…” and not “…title for a magazine too…”
“Oh. I think that’s just Maha’s typo”
“Oh, ok”
“So, like, where were we?”
“The beauty myth?”
“Look. It was neat and something I’d always thought may just be true, but other people just chalked me up to be a total dreamer, so I welcomed the piece”
“I can’t BELIEVE you think it’s true”
“I think it’s true too”
“Wow. That’s crazy”
“Have you watched Falcon Beach?”
“Isn’t that a Canadian show? It probably sucks”

Ultimately, the decision was made that although true love may not be had at first sight, true lust most definitely would. As for what attracts a woman to a man this was sort of the general consensus (& in this order):

.1. Protection.
.2. Principled / strength of conviction.
.3. Confidence.
.4. Wit.
.5. Face / body.

As for the men at the table, their top five ‘what attracts a man to a woman’ were quite different:

.1. A nice smile.
.2. Body.
.3. Sense of humour.
.4. Chaste / virtuous (“Not a ho” as it was so eloquently put).
.5. Brains.

.1. “How long is the wait?”
“90 minutes”
…and 3 hours later…

.2. Maha: “K. Tash. I really really wanted to stay for the night, but I actually can no longer feel my feet or my hands. And. I’m having trouble speaking because my face is frozen. I can’t even focus properly because there’s something wrong with my eyeballs.”

.3. T: “Can you pull my boot off? I can’t close my hands. I’m too cold.”
Maha: Not really, because I’ve lost all feeling in the mobile parts of my body.”

.4. Random guy in line: “We should start a bonfire.”
Random guy in line’s friend: “With what?”
T: “Where are those hot chocolate paper cups?”

.5. Random guy in line: “That woman’s smiling at me.”
“She thinks you’re checking her out.”
“Yeah?”
“Woah. Now she thinks you’re smiling at her. Poor thing has no idea we’re actually laughing at her. Wave. Be nice…and. Just. Wave.”

.6. Maha to Random guy in line: “Sorry. I’m not trying to cuddle with you, I’m just really cold.”

.7. Maha to T: “When you ask me to stand behind you, and I do…please refrain from throwing your head back while you laugh.”

.8. T: “Can you take a picture of me with that Asian guy?”
Maha: “But we don’t know him.”
T: “That’s ok. Can you?”
Maha: “Erm. Sure. Just go stand next to him and be inconspicuous.”

Here she is being “inconspicuous,” a modern day Mata Hari:

.9. Maha: “I’m 31.”
Boy: “What?”
Maha: “I’m 31.”
Boy: “Oh my god.”
Maha: “That’s a strange thing to say.”
Boy: “Wow.”
Maha: “That’s not much better.”
Boy: “…”
Maha: “What are you? Like, ten?”
Boy: “…”

He stared at me for a couple of more minutes before he finally said “You’re so hot. For a 31 year old…”, and to which I responded: “You have to leave. Right. Now.”

.10. As I was approaching the washroom, I was cut off by a tall man who stood before me and proceeded to perform “the jig” (e.g. With both hands splayed forward, palms facing me, mouth hung open, eyes wide, he jumped from foot to foot, bringing his knees up relatively high to the beat of the music).
Maha: “Waaaooow.”
Jigger, who ceased jigging: “I’m sorry. I actually don’t know why I just did that.”
Jigeer’s friend: “What the fuck was that?”
Jigger: “Oh my god. I don’t know. I’m so sorry. Please. Uhm. Go ahead. You need to get to the washroom?”
Maha: “Yeah, I do. That was some dance.”
Jigger: “I’m a regular leprechaun. See?”

And he held up a paper leprechaun and started making it jig. The look on my face must have said it all, because he put the leprechaun down and said: “I’m not even Irish. You’re really pretty. Are you Irish? You don’t look Irish. You’re really pretty.”

I was speechless. Jigger’s friend grabbed him and said “Dude. We gotta go.” Before turning to me and saying: “I’m really sorry.”

It was one of the strangest nights out…

.1. Have had three days filled with the most fascinating women; First it was conversations about dreams and realities with D, then a session of literature and mayhem with A, followed by dinner with three brilliant Palestinian women last evening, one that ended in hysterical generalizations, impassioned opinions, and interesting life perspectives. Finally, this day took me to lunch with I and political conversation (peppered with her occasional Alexandre Trudeau swoon). I love that I am surrounded by women of this calibre.

.2. Went for a jog last night and found myself wondering if Jack the Ripper was going to be coming after me due to the immeasurable amount of fog that seems to have swallowed Ottawa whole. Made for a quicker jog, so no real complaints.

.3. Had a lovely conversation with H in the UK this morning, missing her dearly and am having a really difficult time believing that it has been almost 11 months since I was visiting with her in London. She’s no longer writing for Cosmo UK, and is now the proud author of Elle UK articles. At the moment, she should be eating organic brownies and retoxifying with L (I hope). Being the fabulous woman that she is, our very own H made the top 10 Guardian UK hot singles chart (yay, singleton!).

.4. Conversation with H confirmed my suspicion that British women are a breed unto themselves and ones to be studied carefully in their wit and charm and humour. She makes the best nicoise salad and I miss it. One year to the day that I was writing a travel log while in London, will be posted on this blog (coming in January 2005!), for I am most definitely some sort of masochist.

.5. Today is a great day for I purchased a digital camera, finally! So, erm, that means I will be posting a bazillion photos on here from now on and changing that About me photo every so often. If you are a friend of mine and I am to be seeing you soon, expect that I will be taking photos of you at all times. Recommend that you start coming up with new and exciting poses that are acceptable in public.

.1. It looks like I no longer have the time to pull together more than one solid article a week.

.2. Work is reaching extraordinary expectations and leaving me without much time (last week I put in 12 hours of overtime) for politically-specific brain power in the evenings. Between the long days without lunch, the only thing I look forward to is the gym because it serves as my only release…politics will have to wait until the weekends, and hence the once a week article rule that is now in effect.

.3. I was serenaded today by my taxi driver. He was an Eastern music major in University and decided to turn off the radio and sing me to my destination.

As I was leaving, he said “If you don’t find a man who gonna treat you like the Queen, you got to kick him in the back to the corner. And if I was him I gonna cry like a fool on the corner.” Sadly, I think that may just be the sweet thing I’ve heard in a long time.

.4. Notice the tone of this day’s RPMs is slightly morose. Have had a very taxing couple of weeks, and an even more exhausting week that has yet to end. Am looking forward to tomorrow evening, though, because it’s a dear friend’s bachelorette party and we’ve decided to do it in Montreal.

A much needed weekend of shopping and R & R is ahead of me and I am already digging it.

Sumo 1 “I’m pretty certain this is where I have to kick up my feet…Hold on. Hooooold it. The rhythm changes…right now.”

Sumo 2 “I hate it when you show off in public.”

Sumo 1 “Whatever. Just make sure you don’t drop me. That would be really embarrassing.”