Singing with Baba

I have nearly 30 draft entries through which I am slowly making my way; deleting, rewriting, squishing, laughing at, and titling “private / diary”. In recent light of How I Jambo Jumbo’d My Parents, I am giggly with excitement at finding the following entry drafted in January of 2008, never made live.
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As previously ascertained, baba thinks he procured a complete lunatic in me.

I have not done anything to dissuade him of this particular perspective as I don’t see it at all beneficial that he see me as ‘normal’, because sooner or later, I will behave in a manner that falls outside the preordained borders of that very definition.

We are all, to some degree, morons and I tend to trip into that particular category more than most.

Last night, while preparing today’s lunch, I started to sing. By no stretch of the imagination am I well equipped to perform this strenuous exercise, but in the privacy of my own home / car, I like to sing at a relative whisper. I also dance while singing, because I’m not performing operatic overtures and if I were, I would likely break things down a little interpretively because that’s crazy fun when you’re alone and pretend to be a professional interpretive dancer dancing for your own captive audience. I’m just guessing.

While baba was a few feet away from me, I quietly sang the lines: “Shake it shake it shake it shake it shake it like a Hollywood preacher shake it”, and because it’s what I do: I was smiling (what’s there to frown about, anyway?). I was likely also shaking my a** just like the Hollywood preacher because I enjoy practicing what I preach. (Wicked pun, there.)

When I looked up, baba had stopped paying attention to his email and was staring at me (because I’m nicer to look at, anyway). He queried: “What are you doing?”
“I’m singing.”
“Singing?”
“Shake it!”
“Stop it.”
“Come on, baba…shake it! Shake it! Shake it!”
“MAHA!”
…and here I started shaking my head like a wild cat because I dare you to sing the above lines without eventually needing to shake your head like a wild cat.

Baba kept staring at me and when I offered “Would you prefer if I sang Nights In White Satin because you’re old, baba?” he turned on some really loud Oum Kulthum, an old school Middle Eastern diva who used to always sing with a handkerchief in her hand. She was too “proper” to shake her a** in public, so here’s to hoping she did so in private.

Offended, I gawked at him disbelieving that he would rather listen to a Diva from long ago when he had his offspring performing before him. I prodded “You used to love it when up until last year I was a child and I would do my dance routine to Lionel Richie’s All Night Long (Fiesta! Forever!), so what’s changed?”. He ignored me and so I stood using my brain power to send him this very question as loudly as possible, trying to mind-control him into turning down Oum Kulthum so that I may continue my performance. Only he did not and I was sad.

Until this morning when I held court as I took sips of my coffee and sang:
Shawty had them Apple Bottom Jeans [Jeans]
Boots with the fur [With the fur]
the whole club lookin at her
She hit the floor [She hit the floor]
Next thing you know
Shawty got low low low low low low low low…

He looked at me. Shook his head. Jumped straight into the air, spun his feet at lightening speed, generated a whole lot of dust and then zoomed off the balcony and directly into his car.

I’ve already sent him an email detailing this evening’s performance whereby I shall provide a taste of old school Tori Amos. I have no doubt he’s as excited as I am!

Comments closed because this was written so long ago…

How I Jambo Jumbo’d my parents

I was a pretty creepy little kid.

Not having any sisters or brothers, I wasn’t left much choice but to amuse myself and generate my own environment of fun.

For this reason, I used to choreograph.
Myself.

To ensure that my parents’ guests were entertained, I would then use them as the audience to my child-y interpretive modern dance routines, convinced they were showcasing my brilliance.

My most popular piece of dancing genius was to Lionel Richie’s All Night Long. I would wait impatiently to ask each group of friends if they were ready for my number; sometimes, I was asked even before I had the chance to mention it. Naturally, this made me hyperventilate with excitement and I would be forced to excuse myself from the room in order to catch my breath and stop laughing with great joy.

Between rolling around on the floor, kicking my feet up (while rolling around on the floor), and sliding down the wall, I always made certain to make strong eye contact with, and smile loudly at my parents’ guests. (Creepy & intense. Awesome.)

Fuck. No wonder they got a divorce.

They actually *pop* beneath your feet

This City was buried beneath singing birds and cool breezes this morning. I was having an 80s dance party and drinking my morning coffee, when my dream dawned on me.

I slipped my feet into my slippers and my toes were greeted by an ant. The ant stare-ded at my toes, sighed, and finally said “Toes? How are you?”

When my toes didn’t respond; the ant sighed again and then s/he crawled over my toes, the arc of my foot, and paused at my ankle, at which point, I reacted perhaps a little hysterically.

Then I woke up to the heat of the sun, and forgot about the dream until dancing around the Treehouse.

Do you remember Marvin (Under Glass)? Read him as a refresher to know of my phobia of all which crawls, that is not an awkwardly fat child.

Two Wednesdays back, I was in my kitchen and noticed that there were several black ants in my kitchen and so I grabbed my trusted insect killer (Lysol, I love thee) and went after them one by one. And then I Googled “WTF is it with ants, anyway” only more like “Why are there ants in my kitchen and how can I kill them with natural product?” before calling mama and asking “am I dirty because I thought ants meant people were dirty?”.

Luckily. There is an ant infestation in Ottawa this summer, and I am not dirty. Take heed, fellow Ottawans. Ottawites? Ottawati? You have been warned.

(Concoction to naturally repel ants? My back door step is drenched in black pepper, cinnamon & bay leaves.

& For the record, I almost passed out trying to find an appropriate photo for this entry. Note that this gorgeous image was taken by Rundstedt B. Rovillos. Even though the subject matters make me want to cry, his work is truly amazing.)

Squinting eyes at the asshat while dancing

.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.

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 asshat 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.

Lull of Writing

As many of you have already noted, I have not been doing much writing since December of 2009.  This is not because of anything specific, but rather because I have been overwhelmed by life, work and travel.  I was in Costa Rica, and then in Vancouver, and now I am preparing to travel to both Rome and London.

In the past, I used to carry my laptop with me on every single trip, something which I have foolishly stopped doing.  To Rome and London my little writing friend will join me and so force me to write write write and not feel so sad that I have not been writing.  So much more of the same amazing sentences as this later; no doubt you are all over the moon.

Additionally, I feel as though I must offer a shout-out to life, because this bastard has kept me from writing as often as I would like.  My God, I am a supreme asshole for ‘Boo Hoo’ing because my social circle, family circle and travel circle are generally filled with amazing things that remove me from the front of a computer screen.  Pardon me as I take a moment to reflect on my assholeishness.

Right.  Now that that’s done, I will add that tonight is the very first night in nearly a month that I have taken to myself.  I had some invites to see and visit with good people I adore and I instead said Screw you and your invitation to socialize, I’d rather make out with WordPress…only, it sounded more like I would really love to but need to go home, do a load of laundry and just chill out while doing a little writing.  It’s been ages since I forced myself to do that and it’s making me sad and edgy. So thank you for the invite, but I’m going to have to take a rain check. I am rambly that way.

So here I am.  And I am excited to be here and rambling away.

I have also promised myself that I would write no matter what; that even if I were tired and exhausted, I would still force myself to exercise my writing muscle.  Quite possibly, this means that there will be a consortium of shorter and shittier entries.  Hurrah!

This is the first of many such short and shitty entries.  More to come!  Enjoy.

(Note that: I am tonight organizing both my Vancouver pics, as well as my Costa Rica pics.  Stories about both very soon.)

Happy V-Day

Thanks to Dribble UnLimited for the way…

Originally posted on 2/14/06; still makes me laugh as hard today…

Snow Blowers vs. Shovel

I did it. With the help of a very lovely neighbour named MING, who may or may not capitalise all letters in his name, which rhymes with KING.

The instructions were clear, and so I:

(1) Inserted the toy key which matches my festive nail polish, see…

(2) Then pushed a squishy thing that supposedly splooshed gas all over something on the inside. I think they’re lying about this because I couldn’t hear anything happening. Even though I think this instruction is just for fun and really nothing more, I followed it carefully.

In tandem while pushing the squishy three times, I was supposed to ensure that I physically covered some other part of the snow blower. Maybe. I didn’t really understand that part and so didn’t do it.

Instead, I pushed the squishy six times with the following logic: if something had to be covered, this was because the gas could sploosh outside. Six squishes instead of three ensured that even with the escaping gas, enough splooshed gas remained within to coat whatever.

Smart, yes?

(3) Anyway, then I made sure the slidey bar was atop the rabbit, rather than the turtle.

(4) And that Olga the Snow-blower was being Choked rather than Run. (Weirdo sl*t.)

(5) And finally, I pressed the Start button.

Only, nothing happened. Repeatedly I pressed, but Olga just yelled ME’KH and then stopped talking.

I stood confused.

Across the way was KING MING running around with Olga’s older brother. I rolled down my driveway and sidled up to KING MING. As I am the size of a Rice Tank while wearing my parka, as this to-scale drawing confirms, I stood at the bottom of KING MING’s driveway and yelled for help.

KING MING very graciously came to assist me and gave me the greatest and most important secret handshake to the world of snow-blowers: GASOLINE.

I didn’t have any in Olga.
(You’ll have to pardon her inclination for drunk. It is the holidays, after all, and who doesn’t like a little punch in their day?)

Rather naively, I assumed that Olga was already full of gas; that she would be delivered as such. Wrong. (And maybe now that I see that before me in print, maybe had she been transported with gasoline inside of her, she would have been hazardous or explosive? I don’t know…I’m not smart around the holidays. Sparkle distracts me much too much and I see snow and think that God keeps forgetting to stop dumping icing sugar on us, please and thank you.)

As a final and small end to this, I will say that snow blowing is difficult and lonely and an extreme sport of domesticity. If I could sit on Olga and drive her, I wouldn’t mind, but as it stands, Olga doesn’t even reverse her ass up like a proper Ho in a 50 Cent video and so she is of little use to me at this time.

My love affair continues with Mr. Shovel. Strong, steady, durable, light and flexible, just as God intended.

‘Twas the night before Ramadan

And all through the house, not a something-something was stirring, not even a mouse.

Then, Maha decided to go downstairs.

Ensuing conversation:
“What was all that noise…?”
“I fell.”
“Oh my God – you didn’t make a sound!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you didn’t scream? I only heard the falling.”
“I don’t tend to scream when I fall.”
“What?”
“It happens so often, anyway. I just get sad that it won’t stop.”

I thought to share my awesome drawing talents with you. I hope you like it; it took me 17 hours to complete.

An Earwig drinks a frappuccino and plays a sport

.1. An earwig melts if you spray it with Lysol.
I have been spraying and running; this is how I know.

Last night, I watched one earwig die and melt in on itself.

If there were a Criminal Court of Insects, I would be tried for the illegal use of chemical warfare.

.2. I tried a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino from Starbucks the other day and nearly peed myself out of sheer pleasure. I recommend you give this beverage a go and request the whip cream, as well.

If they don’t recognise the name “Vanilla Bean Frappuccino”, try asking for a “Fat Ass In A Cup”.

Let me know how that works out for you.

.3. Conversation at a restaurant / bar.

Man: “Hi, how are you?”
Maha: “Good thanks.”
Man: “I’m good too, thanks.”
Maha: “Cool!”
Man: “I’m (insert name). Would you like to join me and my table for a drink?”
Maha (looks over at table and sees three other men in suits and some randoms; men are noticeable because they’re the only ones in the joint wearing suits): “No, but thank you. I’m here with my own friends.”
Man: “They can join us too, if you’d like.”
Maha: “Not really. But thank you. I should get back to…”
Man: “I’m with the (insert name of Native Nation or something like that).”
Maha: “O. Okay. Well. I’m a Palestinian. I really have to go, thanks. BYE.”
Man: “You’re a Palestinian?”
Maha (leaving and returning to my table): “Yeah. Awesome, right? Most people never guess. BYE.”

When I returned to my table, I told my friends that I had met someone who told me to which Native nation he belonged; that it sounded kind of Native, but I really wasn’t certain that it was. My friends informed me that it was not the name of his Native tribe (e.g. like ‘Sioux’), but was rather the name of the sports team to which he belonged.

Now re-read the last four lines of the conversation to understand what kind of a clueless fool your WebMomma truly is.

Kyle Chandler, Connie Britton & Taylor Kitsch: Friday Night Lights (again)

Are you watching Friday Night Lights yet? I have forced 7 friends to start watching Friday Night Lights – all but one are in love and in obsessive watching mode. They are also making sure to make their viewing count, which is critical to the longevity of the brilliant and amazing Friday Night Lights. You too must do the same, please.

Dear Coach Eric Taylor -

Hi. How are you?
I like you very much.
Who is this doppelganger pretending to be you, neither from Texas nor in angry man shorts, angry sunglasses nor angry headset?
What the hokey pokey hell, Coach?
My state of reality is highly fragile and I become discombobulated much faster than most.
I am deeply troubled and I need you, Coach Eric Taylor, to point your right finger at me, whilst your left hand sits atop the angry belt of your angry man shorts and you state “nominate a teacher now, son. It’s what men do. It’s the right thing to do, son.” (For the record, Coach Eric Taylor: I don’t have a peen, and so am a girl, but will allow you to call me son.)
Can you please record a new public service announcement for me?

Further, I would greatly appreciate if you were to wear your green t-shirt a little more often, thank you.

You are my angry hero in green, Coach Eric Taylor, and I am sincerely yours,
Maha

Dear Connie Britton / Tammy Taylor –

Hi. How are you?
I like you as much as I like your angry and oftentimes confused husband, Coach Eric Taylor. Please understand I would never make a pass at your husband, no matter how angry and hot he is in his angry man shorts and angry headset. I wouldn’t do that to the sisterhood, Principal Taylor. (Principal Taylor? I might be a liar.)

I am writing this to you because I was wondering: Would you like to have a drink with me sometime?
In the future, I will probably have some boy problems that I will need to discuss with you because you are very clearly the world’s greatest listener of all time and I really like the way you communicate with your angry husband, Coach. I also wonder, do you ever call him ‘Coach’ when you are having adult private time?
That just made me giggle. I hope you giggled too.

By the way, my best friend and I are going to a combo of Morocco, Turkey and / or Cairo this coming Christmas and we were wondering if you’d like to join us?

I’ve used three variations of the word ‘wonder’ in my letter to you. It’s because I like that word and you make me shy and nervous with your fantastic breasts and large pretty brown eyes.
I wonder if I am now starting to creep you out?
Please don’t be scared of me if I show up at your backyard and try to fix your broken air conditioning unit. It’s because I like you very much.
(Also, I agreed with you about your dream home. I think you wanted to cry when Coach said no – I wanted to cry for you. I wonder, did you want to cry but the writers didn’t let you?)

I would like some pointers on how to do the same as you in the boobs department, please. (See what I just did there, Tammy? “Pointers”, like boobs? That made me giggle, too. I wonder if I can call you “Tammy”?).

I am yours in sisterly solidarity,
Maha

Dear Tim Rigging / Taylor Kitsch -

Hi. How are you?
I don’t squeal easily over boys, but I am squealing like a little school girl over you, my Rigglett.
I become seriously frazzled every time that your 17-year-old self shows up on my screen.

I am writing to you because I would like you to please stop screaming on my screen. Unfortunately, every time you do scream, my Rigglett, I hurt my hand in my small effort to place a lozenge in your mouth. And honestly, a lozenge is all I would ever try to place in your mouth. (Tim Riggins? I might be a liar.)

I am also sending you this letter because I would like to know which name brand and colour of blush you use, please. If you can spare a further moment, I would also like to know what stain of lipstick you use. On. Your. Mouth.
Your. Mouth.
You have the greatest mouth in the history of mouths and if ever I meet you, my Rigglett, I will try to poke your mouth in an effort to see if it is, as it appears to be, very cushiony to the touch.

I’m pretty sure my vision just blurred a little, Rigglett.

I am yours with the sincerest of sentiments: I would very much like to touch your hair if only to shampoo it,
Maha
P.S. Do you like bubblegum? I do, very much. I thought you should know. Bazooka is my favourite. Bye.