Prolific Immigrant

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.

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Originally published 10/08/06.

Dear Kirk Cameron,

My infantile crush was on the cartoon character Orion Quest of Grendizer. On occasion, I find myself still humming the show’s tune, and would today argue that Grendizer far outdoes Transformers.

NERDS! WE ARE ALL CAPS DISAGREEING.

When I matured, I developed my first ever really true-and-tried-though-never-tested crush on you, convinced that I was in the throes of passionately heady and unrequited love. This, well before you found your version of God and decided that humans have only been around for, like, 17 years or something.

When mum and dad punched one another in the marriage, I decided to take advantage of the wound which had swallowed my mother whole. (What can I say? She was vulnerable, and I wasn’t v nice.)

I breached the subject matter of moving to Los Angeles (Beverly Hills specifically) and dating you. I was so mindful and devoted to this idea that I drew up a contract on a napkin and made mum sign that I would be allowed to date you when we moved to L.A. Naturally, the dating would have been ever-lasting and we would have been married. I was 13.

I would have mailed you a copy of the contract, only I have now deleted your name and inserted Alex O’Loughlin’s instead accidentally flushed it away, which begets the inevitable: What if?

Having matured, I now know that we would have been ill-fated, you and I. You, eventually calling me a terrorist, while I repeatedly asked: Why tf are you scared of science?, and quickly following it up with: MUSLIMS HEART JESUS (pbuh)!!

Right. So yesterday, my Boss Lady told me that it’s not necessary for me to say everything out loud. Something about an inside voice. Because of her encouragement, I thought to write you this letter because surely, this is one quality — ♥ing you, Kirk Cameron — which I should never hide.

Love,
Maha
P.S. I believe in dinosaurs. See you in hell!

Comments closed.

To those of you who have dropped ‘thank you’ from your vocabulary, you are best to pay attention.

We don’t have to hold the door open for you, or the elevator, or let you move ahead even though you budded. We don’t invite you to a party or to a coffee or into our lives because we owe it to you.

..our courtesy is not a duty, but rather a means of politeness we choose to exercise.

The fk is wrong with you that you don’t know this?

At the sake of Clarica-ing: When someone sends you an invitation to any kind of a gathering and you know this person (not to be confused with a random Facebook creep with whom you never have contact), RSVP with a thank you note you rude and entitled sad-sack. Don’t ignore the invitation or pretend it doesn’t exist. Don’t “No” to the invitation without behaving like a proper human being. (Oh the drama of being polite! So. Much. Work. For such a lazy grouping.)

Thing is, someone has extended the courtesy of their home to your sad-sack self. So RSVP, with a thank you note, already. It takes a moment and it says two things: (1) You appreciate the fact that people still bother inviting you into their homes; and, (2) You have good manners. Because you know what, sad-sack? Very soon, you’ll stop receiving invitations. (If you haven’t already.)

People. For all of your ability to kind, you can be really fkn ignorant sometimes.

Dear Reader,

Oh look. I’ve gone and changed the title again.

As starting point, I would like to introduce you to the lunatic + lovely coupling which brought forth yours truly. I stood a small and already confused person between them. Yes, Arabs and Muslims often come in different shades than brown / terrorist.

This photo was taken well before these two stopped procreating forever and ever eternal and divorced, ensuring that the weight of their worlds rested squarely upon my lone and no-longer blond head. Thanks mum and dad; you’re nice.

Look at how happy and somewhat menacing these two people are; as though they’ve never had their photo taken before.** Or they were the first to procreate a small person. Upon closer inspection of the photo, I am clearly scared rather than confused. They are gorgeous, aren’t they? (**Also, I am kidding — Arabs know what a camera is.)

As those who read me on the regular already know, I have for the past while been searching for a common denominator through my writing, a place where I would comfortably park myself for time to come, a place in which this now seven year-old internets home may flourish and behave as the histrionic comedienne it was meant to be.

As I am painfully dense, this endeavor left me struggling for weeks until earlier today, when it finally sank in to just write what I know already (which is what everyone and their mother had previously advised).

A few days back, I thought I had arrived at Humour, in fact, but knew by the itch it left that something was missing still: a specificity to my writing.

Not only does the Prolific Immigrant leave no room for vague, it feeeeels 100% right.

My family came to Canada when I was aged four and still v v malleable to my parents’ will. We are Muslim, Palestinian, and I was born in Libya. Essentially, my identity is where all Axis of Evil points converge.

“Canadian” is how I have always identified. (POUTINE!! CALL ME!!) Only recently — not as begrudgingly as one might think — I accepted with open arms that though this remains the predominant character to my identity, it is by no means the only.

In reality I am all things Palestinian, Canadian, Muslim, female, liberal, and often: v v dumb.

Henceforth, predominant (not all) pieces here shall be love letters to my identity; the beauty of it, the challenges it has wrought upon my life, and the strength of character and pride which it has forced upon me even when I didn’t want it (and while I may still sometimes attempt to punch it in its hair).

Though it doesn’t take much for me to reach it, I trust that you are as excited by this new direction as I am.

Love,
Maha

Dear Readers,

I frequent too many a café while traveling.

Once more, I write to you from a coffee shop, only this time I am in Paris on a street off of Avenue Montaigne, where we are working these few days.

London was as always lovely, and predominantly person-based, this time around, with my having the chance to spend extreme quality time with Hann & Charlie, Sumaira and even made a new friend: EMILY. I have placed her name in all-caps as that will make her v happy.

You may see all photos from London here.

We flew in to Paris on the day Europe shut down due to 1.3 cm of snow. As a Canadian, I was a little confused by the unraveling, but did enjoy watching my colleague trip out on 4 coffees, bouncing and smiling through Heathrow, Terminal 5. She was divine.

My first ever trip alone was to Paris, and I was likely 19 years of age. I don’t remember it being this incredible; most definitely not this sexy. There really is no way to explain it; it’s not that the people are more attractive, or that the weather is hot and humid, or that you’re getting felt up as you walk down the Champs-Élysées, but rather that it simply is.

It could be all the wine consumed, or the bread and cheese; it could be that their men have fantastic thick hair (1); it could be that breakfast is served until 11 a.m., so you may lounge in bed that much longer; it could be the attention to the smallest detail (all silverware, all china, all real butter and full bodied cream); it could be that everyone wears fur and this gives rise to a sort of animalistic hunter / gatherer environment, and really? Nothing spells s.e.x.y like bow and arrow; but chances are, it is that there exists here in Paris a true sense of indulgence and excess.

That and the fact that they wear their hearts on their sleeves, even though it takes them no less than two hours to get dressed. If the street corner doesn’t have a couple (or more) nearly screwing, then it has a couple (or more) yelling at one another (right before they practically screw). It’s amazing.

I am sort of in heaven watching them not care who watches them. Especially as we are really so puritan in our approaches to public displays of any emotion in North America, where propriety trumps.

For this reason, I have decided that I would like to be engaged to be married in this City. To ensure this happens, I have devised the following list (which I will, overtime, strike through like this as appropriate):

(1) Meet man.
(2) He falls in love with me; I with him.
(3) We travel to Paris.
(4) My mother hides in the suitcase.
(5) My father is on following flight with a gun.
(6) He is detained as gun is not registered. (Father, not man to propose.)
(7) Man – to whom I am simply “woman” – takes me to (insert his own special plan) and proposes to me.
(8) I start the next French Revolution, and document it all with my handy camera, updating Facebook as required.
(9) Above mentioned man and I fight on a street corner.
(10) We almost screw on same street corner, only our puritan sensibilities trump our momentary Parisien affliction.
(11) I purchase a t-shirt which reads: “I <3 Paris”
(12) My father is released from custody; my mother escapes the suitcase; and, we all live happily ever after.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Stupidity is missing your stop on an express bus with huge distances between stops.”

On Blackberry Messenger two nights back I received this while already in bed, and laughed so hard I had to sit up to escape choking.

You know her as ‘BB’, often writing here with always insightful and thought-provoking commentary. It was she who pulled me out of my last slump and busted my ass back in to the normal world; a busting of ass from which I remain in a state of Golden.

I have hesitated to write about BB because – although she is a very well-respected and revered public figure – she shies away from accolades. But today, she’s just going to have to suck it up and accept the accolades.

Three years back, I was seated on a Greyhound, much like Billy Joel, only instead of staring at the Hudson River, I was instead weeping in to my mobile telephone and typing out: “Will you be my Breakup Buddy? This book says I need one, and I can’t feel my heart anymore and I am terrified.”

She accepted without hesitation, folding me in to her arms and space both metaphorically and physically, as one day soon thereafter I found myself seated on her living room couch, shaken by the density of my tears, incapable of catching my breath. She was the only strength I could find, and she placed her arms around me and held on until I found my breath.

Again, let me gently remind you that she is a public figure; an extremely busy individual with an unbelievable demand on her time…and I? I was a complete f.cking write-off. I was the very definition of drama and pain and hurt, anger, and confusion. I was both a bewildered asshole and no doubt bewildering beyond measure – as that is the flip-side to so much passion, that nothing is ever felt in small measure, but rather great overtures – metaphorically running in to wall after wall after wall and then asking “where did this wall come from?” and yet, and yet, and yet, there was not one message she did not return; there was not one email to which she did not respond; and, there was not one question, the answer to which she did not have, slamming it in to me in varying degrees when I wavered in my belief that I was ever slightly less than what I am and what I bring to those around me.

Honestly, how she didn’t at some exasperated point say “Are you kidding me still with this sh-t?!” is beyond me.

Simply put: She was my saving grace.

She remains one of the strongest pillars in my world, someone to whom I turn when at a complete loss, when I don’t know my head from my ass, when I am standing in the middle of a street curious to see what will happen when it reaches me, the massive truck barreling my way. (Also, she’s my number one ‘go to’ re Faith matters, along with my baba.)

Some time back, she moved across the country as a lucky organization was smart enough to scoop her up, and so we no longer have dinner a couple of times a month; this reality bringing with it a degree of heartbreak for me, though we see one another as often as we can either when she is back home or I am visiting her side of the Country. Often, my fevered mind feels her gentle cool hands through Blackberry Messenger and that satiates much.

During our bbm conversation two nights back, she also wrote how ‘the return on investment on people was for shit’ (I am paraphrasing; she did not use ‘for shit’ because she has more class than I), as I guess those with whom she has come in to contact are…well…you know, assholes. Sadly, I couldn’t agree more; there are very few individuals in this world worth our time and real and serious energy (take this very seriously coming from a woman with an infinite world of friends, and for less than five of whom she would go to the ends of this earth).

BB, however, is not among those whose return is ‘for shit’. In fact, she would be the Platinum standard within the stock market, and I am blessed to call her a friend and a confidante. (Erm. I really hope that ‘platinum’ has a high standard, since my knowledge re stock markets is thus: there really are a lot of arrows and bright lights and bells.) As per those who are ‘for shit’…well…you all know how I feel about assholes, and so will not pollute this open letter of love and friendship with opinions on assholery.

BB, I hope I never disappoint or hurt or give to this friendship any less than everything you have so graciously bestowed upon it.

You are loved.

Thank you.

Dear Warrior Pose,

F*#? YOU, you are a raging psychopath.

Flipping you the bird and hoping you topple,
M

Dear Pigeon Pose,

You are the worst named pose in the history of all poses. When was the last time a pigeon did this…

Breathing in to my hips,
M

So it appears I am super competitive, and yoga – with all its mirrors – is not helping.

Constantly, I find myself wanting to either fist-pump (alone), or chest-bump (my yoga master) when I squeeze and come down three more inches than anyone else.

Please. Don’t pretend this surprises you. If you have been reading me long enough, you know that beneath the layer of velvet nice is at least two centimetres of tough steel. A tough I have to control when the girl next to me is so busy staring at herself in the mirror and fixing her bangs through three full poses that I imagine a solid right hook forcing her in to Savasana, so that she doesn’t throw my game. (See? So competitive that I want the person next to me to be equally so, just to up my ‘game’. Know anyone else who calls yoga ‘game’? ‘Nuff said.)

Look: I am the first to acknowledge that hair is extremely important. Exhibit A, this following email sent by yours truly to Baby Jane a couple of days ago:

Dude. If I dye my hair right after yoga, and then go back to yoga the following day, do you think the dye will drip down my face? I am a little worried. Should I wear a bandana? I need to find fashionable ways to wrap a bandana around my forehead.

I am scared.

I could hear her laughing from Halifax, while she responded with ‘I’m laughing so hard right now!! I really doubt that, but please take pictures and send them to me if it drips’.

I promise to post them here as well.

(Today is day 12 of Maha’s Six Week Challenge. Fist pump.)

Dear Kids These Days -

It appears that mAny Of yOu RandOmlY capitaLize LeTteRs when you write shit.

At first I thought it was perhaps a secret code, and so I pulled out the capitalized letters and tried to make out your secret language. Deflated, I discovered there was no secret anything.

Additionally. You seem to do shit like *~$this .*oO+ WhiLEsimUltANEously.nEither*!!*.sssspaCing;Nor.speLLing.ProPeRleeee+*~*.

I was wondering: are you alright? …because although we are all dumb in the head occasionally, it’s not the greatest idea to be dumb in the head perpetually.

You’re welcome,
Maha

.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.

Note: The below was written on March 20th, while I was in London. My writing will slow for the next while as I will be up in the air (sadly, without Clooney) next week for three weeks, also for work. I will be in Syria, the UAE & Lebanon. Be safe & keep emailing…xoxoxo

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My Beloved London Town,

If you recall, you raised me during my formative years, providing a warm hug every summer spent with you. I have since returned regularly, though stopped my visits three years back. I fail to find the proper words to explain the ‘why’ of my vanishing.

I have missed you beyond measure, and I can tell you’re not at all upset about my absence because your warmth swallowed me whole the very moment I touched a toe to your streets.

This time, I am here for work and so staying by Trafalgar Square. I plunked my suitcase down and ran to see your streets after a harrowing travel and taxi ride because your tribe does not fix one street in a particular direction, but rather all streets in that particular direction. No matter.

Without hesitation, I ran to Pret to have my favourite nicoise salad, which is from where I write this letter, as I face Trafalger, and as I wave at the several folks who have already waved at me, perched at the window like an awkwardly large cat.

My next stop will be to the Caffe Nero across the street, for her cappuccino and world’s greatest biscotti.

Dear Costa Coffee Shop,

Really sorry that, in my excitement to find Nero, I confused you for them. Also, deepest apologies for then slightly harassing your staff, demanding an explanation as to when and why you had stopped carrying the proper brand of biscotti.

Thanks for helping me out of your shop. I really like it when people hold my elbow, because it shows me they care enough to make certain I don’t trip.

xox m

On my way here, by the way, I stopped into the Playhouse Theatre where I will later tonight be seeing the musical ‘Dreamboats & Petticoats’. Do you want to know how lovely your tribe are? I was looking to purchase a simple – and your least costly ticket – only, the gentleman at the front told me he liked my smile and so was instead going to charge me the same, but for a seat in your double-the-cost-and-bestest section. See, London Town? This is why I love you and have missed you and am beyond the moon, stars and skies to be in your arms once more.

Sadly, however…

Having written that, I must also indicate that your body scanners scare me and the mere thought of them make me feel extremely vulnerable and violated. For this reason, and this reason alone, you will not see me back until I am afforded a choice to be stripped and patted down by a female officer, rather than subjecting my sense of self and body to your technology which literally leaves one stripped naked and photographed. Most especially now that we know your claims at Heathrow are really nothing more than fibs told by lying liars who lie.

Dear Members of British Parliament Who Say That These Scanners Are Not Invasive Technology,

Two simple requests: (1) next session in Parliament, please attend in the nude. We promise to destroy the images immediately; and, (2) before I walk through one of these, I expect every single one of your family members to do the same…females first.

In fairness,
Maha

Still, however, with love, hugs and kisses, I love you (but will spend my vacation time and money elsewhere),
Maha
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All of my London Town pictures may be found here.
&
The ‘Maha’s 35 Things To Do In London‘ has been updated.