Prolific Immigrant

I’ve finished my trip to Oman where I saw for the first time ever wild dolphins. They move in the most beautiful symmetry…and I will post videos soon enough, Inshallah.

A special note on the man in the pictures; he’s been keeping me cozy by giving me at least 20 hugs a day (each one of which I’ve needed almost desperately). My baby cousin Ahmed.

He’s 7 years old and likes food. Whenever seated on the couch, he comes over and cuddles in close, and before bed, he kisses me goodnight and tells me I’m his favourite girl and would I promise to not tell that to either of his sisters. (We have a secret handshake that consists of feigned spitting and a Point Break wave of the hands and scream. Because it’s ‘secret’, you mustn’t tell anyone.)

I find that lately I’ve been more comfortable around children as their innocence and trust is filling me up with calm that’s placing kind, soft and protective hands around and beneath my heart.

On the occasion of this first day of Eid, I hope this coming year is good to each and every one of you and your families. (& May each of your hearts find the innocence of a child should it require it.)

I chose Moroccan and Russian, because they are the crème de la crème and if I am to emulate any hooker, it would be a combination of the two. My family would be proud.

The following are what Major & Homer call ‘Glam’ Shots and it scares me they are both aware of this terminology…but I actually sort of dig the pictures as I don’t usually go beyond mascara and kohl – and in these pictures, I’ve actually got a little eyeshadow on (hence the SuperTrash appeal).

Fiery: I am, once again, and to your great sorrow, wearing leggings. Let me tell you, my friend, the leggings with that black/grey mini dress and my red Mary-Jane Crack work as a show-stopper. I plan on living in the outfit until my a** hangs around the back of my knees and my children force them off me.

This picture I’m adding for good measure because of the sheer size of my head. When compared to that of beautiful quaint little Sarah, my over-sized head is comical and Godzilla like. It’s huge, just huge, look (I call this shot ‘Big Head Maha’:

You can stalk our week of photos by visiting The Collection here. (Major took a ton of photos of my Crack – while I was wearing the different ones – and I should have them soon enough. And by ‘soon enough’ Major Time, I assume in the next 12 months.)

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.

.1. My mouth attracts disaster.

A few evenings ago, I roasted chestnuts. I was so tired and in my own head that I didn’t make the cuts in the chestnuts big enough, and three of them exploded in my little oven. I wish this were a euphemism.

Worse still is that I didn’t think clearly when I went to eat the first one, and so I bit into it and it exploded. In my mouth. It wasn’t exactly the chestnut itself that exploded, but rather the hot air that filled the chestnut.

I was very lucky because half of the chestnut was hanging out of my mouth and so the hot air explosion hit the side of my lip and burned a straight line across my cheek.

It’s still healing and I can’t laugh as easily at the moment.

.2. I received anonymous flowers this morning. I have no idea who they could be from and I’m not much in a playful mood at the moment, so if it’s one of you, then let me know. Otherwise, they’re going in the garbage.

.3. I’ve never really thought of myself as a ‘car girl’, they’ve never impressed me and I’ve never understood the concept of paying a lot of money for something that transports you from A to B when most anything can do the transporting. And then I thought again…

…and admitted defeat, recognising that I’ve always had a very soft spot for the Jaguar E-Type (a.k.a. XK-E) and if I had the money to purchase any car in the world, I would have to narrow it down to the Jag, and the Bugatti Veyron 16.4. Were money a non-option, I’d need my cars to be sleek and fast.

But this is entry is about neither – because I just took a sweet little drive in the Lexus SC Sport Coupe and OH MY GOD can that thing move.

.4. When I woke up this morning, I found that Homer had slipped a note beneath my room door (I’m staying with mama while the boys are in town). His note reads:

Hey Maha,
It’s Homer…When you wake up, look in the mirror and you will will see how good you truly are. Have a great day at work and we will see you when you get home. Take care and know that I love you oh so much.
Love always,
Omar A
P.S. You are very aesthetically (if that is the right spelling) + personality wise gorgeous. Have a great day!!!

My cousins are gems. (No, they didn’t send the flowers.)

.5. A very honourable mention is an email I received from Sarah that made me laugh every time I thought about it these past 24 hours:

Subject: i love coffee!!!!!!!!

I’ve recently discovered that coffee is the secret to
happiness. I don’t know how I didn’t discover this earlier. Everything is
happy and jittery and I can’t focus on anything long enough to have to think
about life! Work is ruining me already :p

How are you??

…..bla bla bla…….

My aim is to hook her up with one of my cousins this coming Friday. They’re nerds and coffee drinkers and so would get along just perfectly.

Two of my cousins are in town from Denver this week. These boys are the closest thing I have to brothers and they have never once let me down. Naturally, we get into fights, as do all family members…but 99% of the time, we’re solid.

We share sibling mothers and so are quite aware of the attempted emotional terrorism and torment the sisters often wield; this serving as a special bond, much like the one shared by POW survivors. (I have to say here that I have an edge because mama’s changed dramatically these last few months and is still doing just that; it was either that or further fragment our relationship. Maybe one day I’ll post about this point in particular…I’m not sure yet.)

This is Homer (Omar):

He’s had a pretty rough year about which I will only say that I, Alhamdulilah, am so thankful and amazed to see him so well and vibrant and healthy and back. I love this kid to death and I’ve yet to meet anyone with a heart the size of his.

He’s finishing up Business something-or-other and he’ll own half of Denver some day – he’s a hustler of the first order and can manage and charm anything and anyone. He also grows the world’s tastiest tomatoes.

This is Major (Maher):

Currently working construction and soon to begin pre Med in January, Inshallah. It’s been interesting having him around because he’s matured so very much in this last year and a half and it’s an absolute pleasure to talk politics, religion, family, friends, relationships and life with him. He’s a sponge for knowledge, and I can see him in ten years being such a strong and solid man in the lives of those lucky enough to know him.

The only one that’s not here at the moment is this guy (who you may remember was the first boy to ever send me flowers), Rock (Ragheb), the soon-to-be ‘Homo Doctor’ (currently in Tempe, Arizona studying at Southwest College of Naturopathic Medicine):

…this being my favourite picture of him because he’s not even posing.

Needless to say, women tend to drop trou around him and I’m sure the girl who took this photo passed out as soon as she went Click. (Re the beads, I think in Tempe there’s something similar to Mardi Gras and chances are he started with a U-Haul of those necklaces.)

He’s here receiving a special blog entry because of how much support he’s given me these last few months, and how engaged and patient he’s been. He is my touchstone and my comfort blanket. Period. (When we’re not chatting on the phone, he’s offering me support via email such as found here.)

I can only here discuss him because the other boys are still developing who they are; I have no doubt that within the next few years, they’ll be the same calibre of man as Ragheb…God knows they’re well on their way. Also, I’m going to talk about Ragheb because it’s to him that I’m closest. (And he knows all of my secrets.)

There are two things I admire most about Ragheb – apart from his obvious willingness to listen to me for hours and actually pay attention to what I’m saying and then provide feedback.

First is that’s he’s a fighter, and from this comes a fierce confidence. I’ve never known him to back down, to be scared of anything, or to ever simply stop. Ever.

Nothing to him is unattainable and it is amazing to learn just how engaged he is in this life. Even when he’s f*cked it up – which we’ve all done – he’s immediately stood up and forged a different road to get to where he needs to be. His only fear is one: God.

Second, he never imparts blame and instead takes full responsibility for his actions, absorbing the repercussions of his choices without so much as a sigh of protest.

I am reminded of this at every conversation and I am pushed to be a better woman because of it. I’ve recently discovered just how critical it is to acknowledge all of the errors I’ve made as an individual and that find me where I am today. The moment we blame others is the moment we say: I am not responsible, I am not accountable.

There’s a fine line here between moments in life where we are truly not responsible, and those instances where we actively cede responsibility because it’s the easier thing to do.

The bottom line is, we live and we learn and we make mistakes – for most of which we are responsible – and we move forward still. (I think the choice here is that we live our lives either blaming everyone else or acknowledging our engagement in the composition of who we are and where we are. Obviously, this doesn’t mean that people don’t wrong you, because sooner or later someone most definitely will, it just means that apart from you dealing with that particular wrong, those people are of no concern to you – your concern is your own character and how you treat people, even when you’ve been wronged.)

Back to My Favourite Boy. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: the woman to whom he will be devoted is blessed, because for all of his fierceness, the core of him is of unshakeable devotion and loyalty.

I LOVE HIM.

Done gushing.

Allah yir7amak ya Seedo. I can’t even begin to express how much I miss my Seedo. It’s been years since he passed, but these last couple of weeks have seen me spend moments of paralysis because I’ve been overwhelmed by my need to see him. He grounded me and I have felt anything but grounded as of late.

For some reason, in my family, I was the one who dreamt of both my Tata (grandmother) and Seedo shortly after their deaths and before anyone else did. As already mentioned elsewhere, there is a very deep tradition of dream interpretation in Islam and when you dream of someone whose left this world, it usually means that you’re seeing them as they are in the next one.

At the time I had this dream, there was a man who’d asked for my hand in marriage and they were waiting for a response. I didn’t like him and I didn’t trust him but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I was sitting next to some plants on the main floor of an area that was surrounded by four buildings. There was no roof, and I couldn’t see an exit/entrance.

My grandfather walked into the area where I was sitting, looking no older than perhaps 40 years old. He was fit and he was full of life and he was wearing a beautiful three-piece green suit. He walked over to me and said ‘Be very careful and take very good care of yourself’ (this is a translation from Arabic and so has lost a little of it’s flavour). Then he was gone.

I understood instinctively that he was referring to the man who was waiting for an answer from me. I told mama about my dream and she understood why I had to say no. It was simple and straightforward and not questioned.

A few months later, we found out that he’d regularly beaten his ex-wife (his university sweetheart), placing her in the hospital on two occassions of which we’re aware.

Seedo was – and remains – a very respected and noted figure in Occupied Palestine. For some time, he worked with Gamal Abdel Nasser, and so would tell me stories about working with a man who serves as a heavyweight in the history of this world.

By trade, Seedo was a ‘principal’, the meaning of which differed then. ‘Principal’ referred to someone who not only ran a school but also established / built them from the ground up and from A to Z. His funeral was among the biggest in the Gaza Strip, and men – who were not related to my family – all over the world, opened their homes in mourning because Seedo ‘rabba ajyaal’, which means he raised generations.

He is considered among the men that built the very infrastructure of Palestine, and there isn’t anyone above the age of 40 in all of Palestine who doesn’t know my Seedo. This reality would sometimes be intimidating, most especially when he used to take me out with him.

Mama is his oldest and all of the siblings know that she was his favourite. That she had me, his first grandchild, sort of placed me in an unusually lucky place in his heart.

…all this to say there’s a website built and dedicated to a certain group of individuals who helped establish much of the infrastructure – among whom is my Seedo. I won’t post the link to the site, but here is my Seedo…front row, center. He’s the fifth man in from either the left side or the right…

The picture was taken somewhere between 1950 – 1955 on one of his school grounds, beneath the locust tree planted in the middle of the school. It’s my SEEDO!!!!

‘Al-Sahar’ = Dawn
‘Tasahur’ / ‘yitsa7ar’ = Eating at dawn

Another tradition most of you would enjoy immensely during Ramadan is ‘tasahur’, which is the Arabic word describing the meal taken right before dawn (when fasting begins).

During Ramadan, different customs take over in different parts of the Muslim world. For example, in most of the Middle East, you’ll find the streets overflowing with families and friends heading out to eat at restaurants between 3.30 and 4 am. In Gaza, and due only to circumstance, families will eat together at home and listen to the radio (when they have electricity).

This specific time of day – when dawn breaks – Muslims believe to be unique. I’m uncertain as to whether this is lore or religion, but I do believe in the spirit world and so perhaps the significance of this time, is one such thing.

It’s said that dawn is when the spirit world is most palpable to us in this world. (1) Prayers at this time are encouraged and it’s only at this time that visions (the Arabic ‘ru’ya’ = the English ‘vision’, which is not to be confused with the Arabic ‘hilm’ = the English ‘dream’) are received. (2)

The last time I was in Gaza for Ramadan, this was also the time that Israel would drop the most bombs. Against my family’s wishes, I would go to the rooftop with my sweet mint tea and watch the light show courtesy of Israel.

I felt I owed it to those being murdered…it was all I could do…I would sit there, usually with tears in my eyes thinking of how blessed we were to be given another day of fasting while others who’d prepared their ‘tasahur’ never had a chance to enjoy the triumph of one more day making a reality this particular gift to God. (3)

Seedo was the only one who would be able to pull me back inside, and so everyone knew this, respected it and left us alone. Without saying anything to me, he’d come to the rooftop, open the door and I would go downstairs with him. He’d kiss me before I went back to bed, always taking my tea cup to the kitchen for me…

The next time you wake up anywhere between 4am and 5.30am, know that you’re waking up with thousands of Muslims in North America eating and having their morning coffee and tea in preparation for their daily fast. Also: Be thankful that you’re alive.

*****************************************************
(1) So then the spirit world has EST and Mountain Time? No…I think this means that wherever you are located geographically and in this dimension you can sense the spiritual world most when you are within the time frame of dawn. Anyway, the initial question is perhaps moot as it presupposes that the spiritual world runs on the same schedule of ‘time’ as we do, and this is a question we’ll never be able to answer.

(2) I’ll eventually discuss the deep tradition of ‘vision’ interpretation in Islam which dates back to the Prophet.

(3) Because for all of the logic and reason behind fasting, the true reason for it remains unknown – it is the one pillar within Islam that God asks us to do for Him and Him alone. The ‘reasons’ given are all interpretations, possibilities, potential; a reflection of the human mind’s endless need to answer the question: ‘Why?’

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.

In Gaza was interviewed by BBC – his is the first response on the page…

As most of you are aware, I’m living with Baba these days. Baba’s a very rational and controlled man – he likes things exactly where he’s placed them and in the way that he’s placed them. He deals with problems head-on and doesn’t wallow, preferring to instead deal with things in as clear and focussed a manner as possible.

Which, for the most part, isn’t me.

Since Baba and I had such a long time of separation, he’s now sort of been forced to hit the Baba Road running and he’s doing a pretty amazing job of keeping up.

I tend to tunnel and then pop up in unexpected places, much like a crazy, possibly blind groundhog. For a man such as him, this is problematic because (a) much like I he doesn’t know in which direction I’m headed as I tunnel & (b) he doesn’t know at which hole to wait for me, so that he may then contain me in an effort to keep me as together and as controlled as possible…or, at the very least, place me in a little glass box with holes in it so that I may breathe as I stare out at him and everyone else in this world. Because, I admit, that sometimes I need a lot of restraint.

Having recognised that, I’m trying to change that about me as honestly and as slowly as possible so that it remains rectified. And I think (& really hope) it’ll work and that I may learn something from it…’cus tunnels aren’t fun and they exhaust both myself and those I love most, even though it’s not my intention to do so. Worse still, they dirty my shoes.

I was hanging out with mama the other evening when I noticed an interesting straw chapeau. It was a rich coffee cream colour with a red trim and an elastic that one uses to strap around their chin. There is a dancing man carrying maracas drawn on to the back of it. He too wears the same hat: the sombrero.

I didn’t think anything of it until I went upstairs to read. Half an hour later, I came back down to make a cup of coffee and noticed that the sombrero had mysteriously disappeared. I searched high and low and considered that the dancing man had come to life, packed up and broke up with us…

Until mama came in from her garden, wearing the sombrero.

Not a little.
Not slightly.
But rather completely, with chin strap firmly beneath her chin.

“It keeps the sun out of my eyes.”
“It’s a sombrero.”
“It keeps the sun out of my eyes.”
“But. It’s a sombrero.”
“Yeeeee, ouf, Maha, who cares! It’s a hat.”
“No, mama — that, on your head, is a SOM-BRE-RO.”
“You think you’re so smart” were the words I heard as a set of sparkly maracas appeared in her hands and she danced her way out of the door and back to the garden.

.1. Baba no longer says ‘goodbye’ when we are finished having a conversation on the telephone. From what I have been able to deduce, he has concluded that ending a telephone conversation is by hanging up; no more, and no less.

This troubles me because I like clarity. A prime example is the following conversation we had several evenings ago:
“bla bla bla”
“bla bla bla”
“So, do you remember his last name, then, ya baba?”
“No. Not at all, actually.”
“Oh. Ok, well…uhm…if you remember it, just ring me and let me know.”
“Ok.”
CLICK
“Allo?”
…
“Allo?”
…
“Baba?”
…

Baba wasn’t always like this for he too liked clarity. He would say things like: “Okay, yalla habibti, bye” or “Okay habibti, have a good day” or “Good bye, habibti”. I don’t know at which point it became okay for him to stop this when speaking with me.

I’ve been evesdropping on his conversation with others and I hear him declare: “Okay yalla, Salaam” and I am left wondering if it is simply with me that he has dropped the goodbyes.

Apparently, Sharon has been having the same problem with her baba. It may be contagious, so consider yourselves warned.

I’ve decided that next we have a conversation, I am going to hang up quickly without saying goodbye. Then I will throw my hands into the air and declare: “I win” and see if he rings back to ask me why I didn’t say goodbye.

Will let you know the outcome soon enough, Inshallah.

.2. I leave rambly messages for my friends. I talk about everything and bumble through my voicemail messages to them because I don’t know how to leave short succinct messages. I figure: If the tape’s long, it’s long for a reason.

.3. I just discovered that a chicken’s babies are not CHICKADEES, but rather CHICKS. Did you know this? Was I the only one out of this particular loop?

This is a Chickadee.

This is a Chick.

Go figure.

Before beginning I would like to let everyone know that my dear friend Sami (who lives here) has ventured out in business. Wish him well, please. Mwafa2a inshallah ya Sami; I have no doubt you will succeed and inshallah spend a lot of money on your dear friend Maha and her love of Crack reap the rewards of your hard work.

& on to the entry itself…
Since my return from volunteering in Beirut during the war, I have been trying to figure out what I am, where I belong and what sort of life I want to lead. Understanding fully well that identity is not static and – for those of us blessed enough – that it is a life-long journey, I have felt that whatever I am or have been is not concrete enough for my liking. More importantly, it’s not concrete enough for my peace of mind. I was displeased with my lack of Iman because although ‘I am a Muslimah’, I wanted to be more than that. I want to be more than that.

In simple terms: It was time to challenge my state of acquiescence.

In the last little while, this process has been heightened and intensified. I am demanding much more of myself than I have ever in my entire adult life. The repercussions of this have been extremely far-reaching as it has meant that those I love most have also been forced to challenge themselves and most everything they’ve believed to date, how they viewed their present and, more importantly, their future. More heartbreaking is that the situation may alter forever our relationships. I pray Allah will protect us all from that.

I didn’t provide them a choice in this and for that I will have to pray that they will one day understand my actions and that they will have faith in both myself and these very actions. More importantly, I pray I have not and will not disappointed the family that has held me together and up during my weakest moments of 32 years past. They are the glue of me and I fear that without them I would quite literally fall to pieces.

Further to this and with full Iman I have chosen to alter my life as I had planned its unfolding in the coming couple of years. By my own hands, I have turned my world upside down; nothing in my life today is as it was and sometimes, it’s hard not to spin.

There are moments, hours, days where I have been drained and where I have questioned my actions and my purpose. To calm and temper me, I read Surat Yâ-Sîn daily either during salaat el-subuh or right before I sleep. The Quran is where I place my heart when I have neither the strength nor the courage to stand alone. It’s in His words that I find solace when I can not rest my head in my mother’s lap.

The Prophet (SalAllahu alayhi wasalam) said, ”Surely everything has a heart, and the heart of the Qur’an is Yasin. I would love that it be in the heart of every person of my people”[Bazzar]. (S.Muhammad Ali Sabuni, Tafsir-al-SabuniVol.2)

Today, I am tired.

That sentence is hard to see and it’s hard to share because of the depth of my fatigue. I have always had great difficulty sharing the weight of my heart except with a select few; I do my best to carry the hearts of others, but rarely burden individuals with sharing in the pain that is the consequence of the choices I make.

Unfortunately, I have caused pain in the heart of the family who loves me and I can’t share or lighten the weight I have forced upon them. And so today, I am tired. And today, I am hurting a little more than yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and the day before that…

Today, I am tired but I believe that we are never handed more than we can tackle. He never gives us more than we can face and overcome. And the greater the challenge, the greater the strength of character one possesses.

Today, I am thankful, Alhamdulilah.

I am thankful that I have a warm home and food and friends and family. I am thankful for all of the good that is in this world and the blessed life I continue to lead. I am thankful for the challenges and for the struggles, for the pain and the hurt and the tears. I am thankful for the burdens and for the sunshine. And I am thankful for the birds. I am thankful for being tired and I am thankful for the reserve of strength I have at my disposal…a reserve I never had to touch before and so a reserve the depth of which I am uncertain.

But whatever the outcome, I am thankful.

Alhamdullilah.

& May peace always be upon you, most especially on the days that find you exhausted. Remember that your heart is the center of your Faith and it is from the center that God speaks to you.

Last Baba and I lived together was when I was 13, and the relationship then was very different than it is today. Nineteen years brings with it many changes…

So to does it bring many Baba-specific idiosyncrasies.

As baba has lived on his own for the past five or six years, he’s become used to a certain flow and organization to his home and life. I was not a part of either until five weeks back when I moved in. (A necessary move which has done both he and I a lot of good, mama too.)

As girls often do, we kind of expand when we live somewhere…our items proliferate at an un-male like rate, something to which my father was not accustomed.

What I’m trying to say is: I NEED MORE CLOSET SPACE.

The other evening I was sitting in the living room reading when I heard my father scream: “My computer’s broken! I can’t see anything! My computer! Maha DID YOU UNPLUG MY COMPUTER? I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING EITHER! DID YOU UNPLUG THE CABLES? WHAT’S WRONG WITH MY COMPUTER?”

I had powered off both the screen and the speakers. And by that I mean ‘I had quite nearly given my father a massive coronary with neither sound nor sight’.

Apparently, baba doesn’t turn off the screen – rather he,lets it fall asleep, Maha – and neither does he turn off the speakers because they don’t make noise when the computer’s off, Maha.

Also: I COULD REALLY USE SOME ADDITIONAL SHELVING SPACE.

On yet another evening, I was cleaning the kitchen, which is really small, ok? Between baba’s belly and myself, we can’t fit in there at the same time. SMALL. You can’t misplace anything in the kitchen, because if you do, you will trip over it, or it will punch you in the face.

In the kitchen and hanging from the hand of the refrigerator is baba’s kitchen towel.

Dianna had nicknamed me The Folding Gnome because I fold everything in my path. In full Folding Gnome mode, I folded baba’s kitchen towel and hung it next to the sink.

Sitting in baba’s office my room, I heard baba scream “WHERE’S MY TOWEL? DID YOU TAKE MY TOWEL? MY TOWEL’S GONE, MAHA!”

I came running out of baba’s office my room and ran the entire 12 centimeters to the kitchen. Baba was staring at the kitchen towel while still screaming; because the towel was not hanging off of the refrigerator door but rather folded and hanging next to the sink, he was incapable of recognizing it, and the following conversation ensued:

“Baba, that’s your towel.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why is it here? I don’t understand. It’s usually there.” (Stops, turns one quarter of an inch and points at the handle of the refrigerator before looking up at me in shock.)
“Because I folded it and placed it next to the sink where you are most likely to use it.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I need the towel placed here on the refrigerator. It’s been there for the last 5 years and I need it to remain there. When I need to wipe my fingers after washing something, I need the towel to be hung on the refrigerator door or else I will never be able to wipe my fingers and then I risk turning into one big prune.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Ok.”
“So leave the towel alone.”
“Ok.”
“Good.”
“Sure.”
“I have idiosyncrasies.”
“Yes. As do we all, baba.”
“Ok.”
“Ok, habibti.”
“Are you ok?”
“No, I’m feeling a little tepid.”
“Maybe you should go lie down.”
“Is my bed still in the same place or have you moved it too?”

And one final random: Baba has an awesome little ironing table. But no iron. It was really exciting to stare at the ironing board and think of all the possibilities and potential it held.

Finally: AND I’D REALLY LIKE A SEPARATE BATHROOM AS WELL, PLEASE.

Baba’s absolutely the cutest thing in the world…and notwithstanding the circumstances that have led me to live with him or the fact that I am no longer in my gorgeous warm cozy room that I was looking forward to for years and that took me nearly a year to decorate…I am loving getting to know baba in this way.

P.S. I am having dinner with mama tonight! Slowly, but surely…slowly, but surely inshallah.

This happened recently and I’ve been uncertain as to how or what to post, so forgive me if it is a little without context.

Recently, mama had a health scare which landed us in the hospital. The Doctor feared it was something…not good. Either that or muscle pain. (I know, I know…the gulf that exists between the two potentials is ridiculous.)

Due to the nature of the pain and the fear of the Doctor, tests were performed immediately and we weren’t allowed to leave before the results came back. I hadn’t been in the room when the Doctor explained to mama what it could be, and so it was mama who told me.

By Allah’s mix of my grandparent’s genetics, mama’s eyes are a stunning and unusual crystal pale green. Her younger sister has what can only be described as yellow eyes, a younger brother with lime green eyes and a third brother with…someone once described another’s eye colour as “seafoam green” and I am using this to describe my uncle Nasser’s eyecolour.

All of the siblings have black hair and so they have always made for a stunning family. Mama was always the prettiest, her reputation and beauty preceded her in Gaza. She was the storybook “the prettiest girl in the city” because Gaza was small enough that everyone knew everyone else. And by small, we’re still counting in the thousands. Here’s a photo of mama at my age…

I’m lucky I look like baba because if I had my mother’s looks, I would be charging people money to look at me. That’s not true, I’m kidding; I would just be sleeping with them. Kidding. 

When mama is emotional or tired, her eyes become an even more vivid shade of that same green that wallahi glows. When she was telling me what the Doctor said it could be, her eyes were the greenest I’d ever seen them. And although she was looking directly at me, I could tell she wasn’t really focusing on me and it scared the sh*t out of me because I could taste the fear resonating from her body, and if I could have eaten that pain away and carried it with me for the rest of my life, I would have. I will never be prepared to lose Her. I just can’t. It’s just not a possibility. Never.

After she finished telling me, she put her head in her hands and placed her elbows on her knees. I sat next to her and did what she’d done to me on so many occasions: I put my hand on her back and read what little Quran I know by heart. I couldn’t sit there for very long because it felt as though my chest were going to explode.

During that same lapse in time there was an 83-year-old man sitting across from us. Earlier in the evening he’d fallen down the stairs and had called his friend and asked him to bring him to the hospital to make certain all was well. The Doctor came in and told him – in front of us – that the scan showed he had two cysts at the front of his brain. The cysts were bleeding and they’d already called in the neurosurgeon. He wasn’t allowed to eat because they were going to perform surgery immediately. When he heard this news, his response was a stressed giggle and a “I could really use a beer” and although that was funny, it just made my chest tighter.

I excused myself to grab a coffee, make a call and go to the washroom. In reality, what I did was simply go to the washroom where I let my heart break and chest explode as quietly as possible. I sat down and cried with my hands over my mouth so no one would hear. (I think I’ve already said this but among the millions of things for which I am thankful is that I can cry for hours, wash my face and within a moment look as though nothing had happened.)

When the Doctor came to give us the results, I was watching mama. She was looking at the Doctor as would a child their saviour. There was so much fear and adoration and hope in those green eyes that I couldn’t look away; the Doctor most definitely couldn’t either. She looked like she was a four year old waiting to find out whether the world was going to be okay or not.

…and she was told that the world was going to be okay.

With that, she put her head down and just listened to the questions I then took it upon myself to ask. Alhamdulilah, it was the exact opposite of the worst and it was nothing more than muscle pain. Just as quickly as the fear had stepped into our lives, so too did it leave.

When the Doctor left, mama still had her head lowered and I could see she was shaking again. I walked over to wrap her in my wool jacket and as I reached around, she leaned her forehead onto my heart and cried. I kissed the top of her head and couldn’t do anything but hold my breath because I knew that anything else would have caused an emotional collapse and at that moment, there was only room for strength.

Sometimes it’s exhausting being an only child and though as a younger girl, I didn’t appreciate it fully, it’s only as an adult that I understand and respect what parents are: they are giants and must be treated as such.

I understand this will likely shift should I marry and have children of my own, but I can’t imagine that it will shift away from, but rather that it will make my heart expand to include everyone.

What I may have in teenage folly considered a potential burden, is now something I am honoured to carry (and I do so) with pride.

As we were leaving, I went to find the old man but they had already taken him away to surgery. I had wanted to give him a kiss on the cheek and wish him well, and I hate that I went out too late. I’ve kept him in my prayers since and I hope that he’s also been told that the world is going to be okay.

At the moment, mama and I are hitting a rough patch and I miss her. I ache for her, actually. She is my best friend and the only individual in the world with whom I wish to share my heart, but right now, and at her request, I can not. Every night, I touch my forehead down to my prayer mat and ask for her…inshallah all of what is happening is happening for the right reasons.

I rarely ask you for anything, but I’ll ask that you remember her in your prayers, please.

Since a little girl, I have always had the same dream. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know why I have it when I have it.

Alone, I find myself standing at the top of a dull brown stoned building in the evening. I’m standing by the ledge and there’s usually not much else around except for the building itself; there’s never been a sprawling landscape or green of any kind. (I often dream in colour and I’m certain some psychiatrist somewhere proved that to dream in colour is to be a sociopath.)

The height of the building has always varied, but more so than not, it averages perhaps ten stories. Several times, it’s been a skyscraper made of very clean and shiny glass.

Within a heartbeat, I find myself in my first freefall. There has never existed a precursor to how that actually happens; no one pushes me and I never actively throw myself from the building (this first time). As things often happen in dreams, the freefall just is.

I remember as a baby less than four years old, there was a stretch of road my family and I would take to get to the beaches of Jabal Al Akhdar.** I would always be strapped into the middle of the back seat and baba knew that the trick to making me laugh and squeal was to drive fast. Along that road were – and I would think remain – many large bumps that were more natural than man-made, and so not large enough to harm your car, but large enough to make your stomach fall if you were driving at a fast pace. I loved that feeling…

In these dreams, it’s that same feeling only heightened by ten thousand times. No doubt, that first freefall of my dream brings with it complete terror.

As I freefall, my body is perfectly parallel to and facing the ground. I am not in my body, but rather watching my body. (Can we ever be in our bodies while living a dream?)

At a maybe one foot distance from where I could pound into the ground, I stop freefalling. This is not a ‘flying’ dream because I never fly…I just stop freefalling.

I instinctively understand I can’t be hurt and I’ll never hit the ground. With this knowledge, the rest of my dream consists of me running up the stairs (always stairs, my dreams are clearly not technologically advanced…or maybe I’m just a health freak…or maybe I just like prolonging the anticipation and working hard to enjoy what’s to come…), back to the top of the building from where I then start to actively throw myself off.

I stop freefalling before hitting the ground and run back to the top again…and on goes my dream.

I feed on the feeling brought about by the freefall and spend the rest of my dream reveling it. Strange because it would take a lot of convincing – or maybe a simple dare – to get me to freefall from anywhere. I have a fear of ledges because I believe my head’s too heavy and it’ll fall forward and over the ledge, taking me with it. Maybe this isn’t a fear of ledges but rather a fear of heads? Or maybe just my own because it has…a mind of it’s own.

Right. So how about you?

**For those of you unaware, I was born in North Africa.

My mum’s been in this country 28 years and speaks English good. Naturally, she has an accent that I find utterly adorable, most especially when instead of ‘Thank God’, she usually comes out with ‘Thanks God!’, like he’s right in front of her and sharing her cup of tea. One morning, we were speaking with the nurse who, after a 10 minute conversation with my mother, asked/stated ”You speak English?”

WTF, lady? Seriously?
My mother has been speaking in fluent English for ten minutes.

It occurred to me that I should respond Socratic with: “You have fashion troubles?” because although she was covered in a manner of cloth, she was wearing a Christmas sweater covered in reindeer, snowflakes, a baby Jesus and a Wal-Mart. Were I to stare at her sweater a little longer or spin it in the dryer backwards, it would tell me that I’m going to burn in hell because I am a Muslimah.

Mama is much more diplomatic and responds “Yes. Have we been speaking in a different language for the past ten minutes?” with a little laugh that queues the nurse’s own laugher alongside that of the baby Jesus’.

Speaking of unfortunate fashion choices, I was walking through the main shopping centre located downtown a few days back minding my own business. I happen to be a people watcher and as people watchers are wont to doing, I watch people on a regular basis. I do this in an effort to make grandiose generalizations about their lifestyle, political leanings and personal break-up habits. I walked past this one woman who was wearing white patent leather boots over her jeans. With this, she was also wearing a black patent leather jacket, a white scarf and a white patent leather golf cap tilted & sideways. I recognized her because the glare which came off her patent leather wear brought me to my knees in the middle of St-Laurent.

(A) If you wear caps, fedoras, baseball hats, earmuffs, earphones, and/or headbands, I beg you to please please please never tilt it sideways. Except for perhaps J who lives here, and in whose profile picture there is a photo of a cap sideways and it actually looks surprisingly charming, there is no one on this earth who may be able to pull it off.

(B) Honestly, fashion sense is like dancing. You’ve either got it, or you will never find it, let alone use it wisely. What you will do is be seduced to the point of complete idiocy. I am a masterful dancer. I know this because people stare and point in awe whenever I get busy on a dancefloor. They wish they were I, dancing. I also have awesome fashion sense, Alhamdulilah, and for this reason, I would never tilt to the side anything I wear on my head.

(C) And speaking of wearing things on my head, I am considering wearing Hijab…or at the very least, promising Allah that by a certain age, I will be wearing it. I have been playing with different scarves and wraps and means of putting it on and I have become relatively partial to a couple of really pretty ones (knowing full well that ‘pretty’ has nothing to do with it). We’ll see, Inshallah.

I’ve received a ton of emails about this remark. I am not going to do it any time soon, but I have been thinking about it and the greater meaning of it. I should have clarified that, although your responses have been lovely, thank you. (Ultimately: Without lying to you, the bottom line is that I am currently much much too vain to wear Hijab. And to take such a decision when “under duress” of any sort, is never a good idea.)

Speaking of alcoholics, here’s a recent conversation had:
Boy: I have vices.
Girl: Vices?
Boy: Yeah. Vices, dude.
Girl no.2: That’s coooool.
Boy: Yeeeeeeah.
Girl: Vices aren’t ‘cool’. Besides. Real men get straight to addictions without wasting anyone’s time with ‘vices’.

As an aside: Late last month when I wrote much of this entry, I was waiting for someone to finish day surgery and I wrote: I am surrounded by sick people. I don’t entirely mind, but I’m wondering if I should perhaps move to another part of the hospital, such as the parking lot, where I am less likely to catch anything.

I chose to instead stay where I was and eavesdrop on other people’s conversations in order to figure out what they were in for…right before I found myself reading the mint green booklet of rules and regulations titled Aren’t you excited you’re having surgery? WE ARE! which triggered my own personal queue to leave.

I adopted another child.
That makes three that I support financially on a monthly basis, Alhamdulilah. I can’t adopt physically at the moment, but a very important part of my future will be to physically bring one child into my family, Inshallah.

If you haven’t made your resolution yet, consider making one for yourself (as is the norm, they’re usually something akin to “I shall lose my fat a** this year…”) and one for this world. Email me if you want some direction.

.1. On Sunday, my heart took a hike. She flipped me the bird and left.

Do think she’s gone to the Azores to visit with Hannah and Charlie and I shall leave her be until she’s ready to come back to the comfort of her home. There’s never a point in forcing her to do anything because she is as stubborn as a mule and will always win out in a fight if I challenge her to change her mind at my whim.

.2. Recently, someone said to your blogMistress: “I have something “ironic” to tell you…”

Under different circumstances, I would have cut this person off and offered:
“(A) Misuse of the term ‘ironic’ because you are not telling me the opposite of that which I expect. You really mean coincidental, or interesting, or mind-boggling, or funny or neat. You do not mean ‘ironic’.
&
(B) Ill use of the finger quotes. You are not emulating a written quote. I understand that Hemingway used the word ‘ironic’, properly, but there really is no need for you to use your fingers and make little bunny ears at me in this way.
&
(C) Pick up a book, please.
&
(D) Maybe just stop talking altogether.”

Only instead, I let this individual proceed because I was quite literally having a panic attack and was left with no choice but to smile wide and feign both happiness and interest.

.3. Nanno’s wake is this evening.

.4. If any of you have ever feared that your actions and/or words may be misconstrued as bitter, please take a moment to absorb Liza Minnelli’s following statement, in which she expresses her hopes for ex-husband David Gest (who is to do a reality-type show in Australia): “I hope he gets f*cked by a kangaroo and eaten by crocs.”

.5. Rock is in Arizona studying his a*s off in some special homeopathic schooling thing. Upon his graduation in four years, he will be a chiropractor, a homeopathic doctor, an acupuncturist, a super masseuse, a rock star and Heidi Klum. I am really quite excited for him…and for me, as he will be my free “homo doctor”. He doesn’t know I call him this thinks it funny that I call him this.

Of my entire family, he is the one who understands me best and who reads me like an open book. Yesterday was his birthday and I rang and left him a very brief message. In his ‘thank you’ email, which he will kill me for sharing with you, he wrote: “ You seemed a little all over the place on your message and I’m thinking you need a vacation yourself. (…) So who’s giving you grief? (…) I can schedule a trip down there and break some knee caps if you want me to. I’ve been throwing the big f*ck you around to anyone that rubs me the wrong way lately so you can try that approach too. I’ve got numbers in my phone down to 8 now. I figured I’ve got too little time and way too much sh*t to get through the next few years to have negativity brought into my world, so I warned people not to f*ck with me. I’m an asshole though and you’re a princess so if you want I could be your ambassador of a*s whippings. Let me know.”

Aren’t you in love with my cousin, then?

Mama wasn’t feeling well last night and so she woke me at 2 a.m. After a difficult few hours, she finally fell asleep at around 10 a.m. but I’ve not yet had any sleep.

Too wired to crash, I instead spent a couple of hours and made it through one too many emails that have sat in my Inbox far too long. If any of you receive incoherent messages – S – this is partly why. Please forgive my sloppiness.

If tired or sad, I shop. I caved and went to IKEA to purchase the ektorp Slite Red armchair and the ektorp bromma Leaby Red ottoman. IKEA’s to deliver them on Monday, inshallah.

After everything I wrote about that shade of red, I caved. I’ve been looking everywhere and have been incapable of finding anything that was as cozy and comfortable as that chair. I’ll eventually buy different coloured slip covers, but I’ll just have to accept that my daughter may be a wh*re because I needed to shop today and so purchased that shade of red.

As I walked through the store, I discreetly used my brightest red lipstick and ran it across all of the walls to my left (kind of like a dog peeing on things to mark his/her territory). Much thanks to my capital idea and rouge, I didn’t get lost and it took me under one hour to locate the items, purchase them and then make my way out of The IKEA Matrix where Children Of The Corn run wild and Sarah hangs out to eat Swedish meatballs.

I forgot to mention that off my list are the chandelier:

& art work for one of my walls:

I was originally contemplating purchasing one large tapestry and went everywhere searching for just the perfect item. There was nothing to be found until that photograph you see in the bottom right corner. It’s a photograph in warm sepias and the frame is a little rustic. I fell in love with this and stood in the store staring at it for a few minutes until a cute little old lady accidentally ran into me with her face.

I purchased it immediately and thought how small it was to place on my relatively large wall, and so decided to give the wall an overall theme of trees and landscapes. Everything fell into place that very day and I found the one painting on the left and the other photograph at the top right (behind the mist of that photo is a castle).

I will provide you the context of this within the coming little while…

(Meet my dad, the feminist.)
“How could he possibly be interested in a woman that’s so obviously there ONLY to feed his ego? He’s so smart, dad.”
“There’s a reason why the female archetype is ‘The Blonde Bombshell’.”
“Times are a changin’ baba! Blondes are out.”
“(laughter) Ok, Maha, but it’s the sentiment that still exists. At the end of the day, men within a certain age group don’t want a terribly sophisticated woman. They need someone who will validate them, someone who will make them feel stronger and smarter and the best thing in the world.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. A man doesn’t want to be challenged.”
“You didn’t. That’s why you left mom.”
“That’s right. I can admit that now. I needed a different sort of woman.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m nearly 60, Maha. Now, I know the only sort of woman I can be with is a woman who challenges me. Through challenge, I become a better man.”

(Meet my dad, the guy who forgot my 31st birthday.)
“So where does that leave me?”
“You’re going to be 32.”
“No way! When?”
“October 16”
“Rock on.”

(Meet my dad, my number one fan.)
“Maha.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m being serious.”
“Yes. Of course. Sorry. I like pink.”
“(laughter) That’s part of the reason you’re having trouble finding a good and worthy man. You’re surrounded by boys who are intimidated by you. You’re too much for a boy. You need a man.”
“So what do I do? OH MY GOD, I should date 60 year olds like you?”
“No. You have to find a man whose not intimidated by your beauty, wit and brains. You have a rare combination and you don’t know how to tone it down. Nor should you have to.”
“(pause) I like pink.”
“You’re a strange kid.”
“Like a goat?”
“Maha.”
“I like goats, baba. But not as much as I like pink.”

.1. I’ve decided to redecorate my room and give it more of a Bombay-While-Occupied-By-Britain feel. The Colonialist /Oppressor feel will be brought about by many multi coloured items, all lined with gold (naturally), a lot of large green plants sitting comfortably in brass or copper pots all of which will be intricately worked (naturally), chairs made of wire and one or two easy-to-sink-in-to reading chairs, the fabric covers of which will take me some time to figure out. I have to also get around to finally purchasing some artwork for my room.

Last I thought about this, I quite nearly purchased one very modern piece titled Hollywood Is Burning and am now thankful I didn’t. God only knows where that would have ended up with the new Occupied Bombay room.

I’ll post photos once the work’s complete, in about 42 years.

.2. Although I’ve previously discussed my baba, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned his personality to any of you. If I take after anyone in the family, it is most definitely him…

We broke fast together a few evenings ago and were being served by a very beautiful young woman. In the middle of our conversation, my father stopped, called her over and told her that: “[you] are a very beautiful woman”.

Jeesus H Christ, dad.

He does this all the time and women love him for it. If ever there was a definitive player, it’s my father. It’s astonishing to watch women fall at his feet; they adore him, as I sit back and roll my eyes (occasionally wanting to block out many of the images). Very charismatic this man; my dorkiness gene comes from mama, the kindest woman to grace this earth.

I’ll write more about baba soon, I promise.

.3. A list of five weird things I do:

(a) I am constantly sharpening pencils in class. It’s a lot of fun and I hate using a round tip to write.
(b) Count. I count everything I see. If there’s more than one, I’ll count them. It’s a game I play with myself when no one else will pay attention to me everyone’s busy.
(c) I write things with my finger while speaking. It’s a strange twitch habit, where I’ll be speaking and I’ll choose a random word and calligraphize it while speaking. T often times says: “Stop it. You’re doing it again with your finger.” I only do this when I’m most comfortable and relaxed; it’ll never happen in a meeting or while I’m lecturing…
(d) I organize everything. D calls me the “folding gnome”. There’s a scene in Elektra II where she organizes food and bananas and stuff; that’s me. That scene warmed my heart.
(e) As soon as I see someone wearing a nametag, I run over and call them by their name. With the utmost familiarity, I ask them about “mom & dad”. This often times confuses people but always makes me smile.

Whenever my dad picks me up to go somewhere, I usually try to pimp his ride. He has a nice little Mercedes and so it’s only natural that I try to embarrass him.

Yesterday, I decided to play Akon’s Bananza (Belly Dancer). Daddy usually ignores me and pretends nothing’s changed in the car. This leads me to believe I may have to do something more drastic like taping a spoiler to the car before I get in and then taking it back with me before I leave him. We’ll see.

The Fundraiser was quite nice, and it was put on by a well-reputed 26 year old Muslim organization . I wasn’t really paying attention to one of the speakers, but didn’t think it was all that obvious until my father leaned in and asked me what I was doing.

I asked him what he meant by his question and he told me I was swaying and he wanted to know why. I told him I was feeling dizzy and excused myself to the washroom. I don’t even know if people actually sway when they’re dizzy, but I bet my dad doesn’t know the answer to that either. In reality, I had actually been bopping to abovementioned Bananza in my head.

Best part of the evening was when I as usual made a complete fool of myself at our dinner table. My dad had another engagement last night and he told me that he had to leave at 8:30 pm. And so, like the good little girl that I am, 8:30 pm rolled around and I put my fork down, packed up my purse, looked at everyone seated with us, indicated how lovely it was to meet them, shook some of their hands and proceeded to stand up.

My father looked at me and enquired: “Where are you going?”
“It’s 8:30, baba.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. Not until dinner’s over, Maha.”
“Oh.”
“It’s rude to leave in the middle of dinner.”
“Oh. Ok.”

Whatevs, dad. I sat back down and continued eating my salad, but not before I said to the table at large: “It is nice to meet you”.

And remember how my dad forgot my birthday last year? I told him I’d send him a reminder this year and that he could either buy me a condo, or just give me a lot of cash next month. He laughed at me as I ate my salad and stared at him in wonder.

Beats: Purchase Karuan’s Dohuki Ballet cd. It’s classified as Electronic, but I think the music industry should come up with a new term for the East meets West genre that’s growing at an insane pace. Something as simple as ‘Eastern Lounge’ would be enough to draw my eye.

My very first memory of futbol was as a baby of less than four years. My father played on a local team and my mom and I would watch and cheer while seated on the grass. Because my mother mistook me for some sort of a doll, she would dress me up like this before sitting me on the grass (notice the white socks, white shoes and white panties). For the most part, my memories were of men running off the pitch to smoke a cigarette and catch their breath. (Also, of my prissy dress attire as I sat on the GRASS with my beautiful mother.)

My more vivid memories were of watching futbol with my maternal grandfather in Gaza, but only the best kind of futbol: World Cup futbol. The elite of the elite is what used to – and still continues to – enthral me. While Gaza was (& remains) occupied and before even the first Intifadah (translation of which is akin to: Awakening from slumber), the Strip shuts down for the entirety of two months: Ramadan (on a yearly basis) and World Cup futbol (once every four years).

My grandfather’s favourite team was Argentina. It didn’t matter at what time the matches were being played, my grandfather would sit me down and make asha for both of us while we watched the matches together. Asha is a late dinner; in the Middle East, one ‘sups’ at around 2 or 3 pm and then eats a final meal, asha, at around 9 or 10 pm. Between these two meals, you usually drink a lot of sweet shai (tea) and ahwa (coffee).

Anyway…it was very special to me because with the highest level of patience, my grandfather would walk me through every single detail of each match we watched. Most fun was when he would become so engaged and animated that I would feed off his energy and we’d usually end up waking the rest of the house. Naturally, no one dared say anything about the ruckus coming from the family room.

My grandfather was a very gentle man, not religious and highly educated. He was a Principal with an exceptional reputation because he was instrumental in establishing several schools all over historical Palestine. Although constantly approached, he refused to dabble in politics because of what he perceived as its corrupt nature. For him, education was the instrumental foundation on which the Palestinian people could one day hope to attain freedom and justice.

In 1990, during the first Palestinian Intifadah, it was the only time my grandfather ceased being animated. We would watch the matches quietly and tensely because the real-life ‘backbeat’ to the matches was that of Israel dropping bombs, using machine guns, flying Apache helicopters, and rolling tanks.

Randomly, we were subjected to the shouts and blaring music of the Israeli soldiers outside our walls and at all times of the night (aaah, the terror that comes from psychological warfare!). The heartbeat of that Intifadah was the Gaza Strip, and the Gaza Strip you can cross by car in approx 35 minutes. A pin could drop at the other end of the Strip and you’d hear it. Imagine this, then.

That was also the first summer I had a machine gun pointed at my head (remember I would have been a teenage girl of 16 years) as I walked to the corner store to buy futbol cards. I still have the cards as a memory of that summer. I refused to return to Gaza for six years.

..and 1990, watching Germany win, was the last match of the World Cup I was audience to in Gaza. In the following three World Cups, I never made an effort to call my grandfather to talk about the matches. Now that my grandfather’s gone (he got to watch one last World Cup in 2002, a few months before he died) I regret this immeasurably. I miss him and I hope that he’s watching his team move forward with the rest of his friends in heaven.

In case you’re interested in understanding a little more what’s happening in Gaza at the moment, please read this.

As previously mentioned, I’ve had an extraordinarily busy few weeks past. This is the first ‘dispatch’ of some of the events which have kept me busy and that really stand out. In the coming days, I’ll post some more interesting bits and pieces from the Robert Fisk lecture, the Supreme Court hearings and the Secret Trial Caravan…

.1. My baby cousin was on a special exchange program between Occupied Palestine and the US. He’d lived in Kansas for the last year and came to visit us in Ottawa a couple of weeks back for a little under a week. He’s now finished his year of schooling and has returned to Gaza.

He. Is. Gorgeous. Look!

He’s 6’3” and has thick dark brown slightly long wavy hair. I kept pulling his hair because it’s just so damn beautiful. He has sun-kissed skin and huge black eyes that I’m certain the little girls at school get lost in. He’s 16 at the moment, and while we were out, I was watching girls (& women) react to him, and it was an absolute treat.

The best thing about Mustapha is that he’s completely oblivious to this sort of thing, preferring to instead talk politics and human rights.

When you’re from a place such as Gaza, or any place that’s war torn, occupied, or is in the middle of a revolution, your priorities are different. Chances are, you’re a lot more aware of world issues and where you fit in, because you have no choice but to be awake to your surroundings. He is more well versed in the world of politics at the age of 16 than most people at the age of 46.

I can’t help but say how proud of him I am.

.2. Daddy and I had lunch with Senator Pierre De Bane, who is an absolute doll. I’m sure that’s not how he’d like me to think of him, but he is. I constantly want to hug and squeeze little old men and women and he was no exception.

The day previous, he’d had lunch with his good friend, our ex Prime Minister, M. Jean Chretien and so he shared some funny stories about that. More intriguing was that he also mentioned another ex Prime Minister, who – as Senator De Bane tells it – was instrumental in bringing him into politics: M. Pierre Trudeau.

.3. I was invited to a discussion panel put on by the Palestinian Liberation Organization’s Negotiations Affairs committee. Although they didn’t present anything new, their means of presentation was excellent. To get a sense of what they were discussing and to better understand what’s really happening in the Occupied Palestinian Territories, I strongly urge you to visit PASSIA.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have no idea why or how I was invited!

And for good measure, here are some interesting and unique pieces of art that have been done on the land grab wall being built by Israel on Palestinian soil. It’s incredible how beautiful they are, when one considers the canvas on which they sit. Where international law is being ignored, one wishes that this level of imagination find its way into the negotiations…:

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

.4. I can’t recall whether I’ve already mentioned this, but Cleo recently had baby no. 2: Trent.

None of us are quite certain from where he came, because he looks nothing like his mother or his father.

In Arabic, there’s a very derogatory ‘joke’ (derogatory because we’re essentially referencing disregard for and abuse of slaves…but I’ll tell it anyway) that says “ibn el-shaghala” which means “son of the maid”. If Cleo had a pool boy, I’d say Trent was his.

Here’s a photo of Nora May, Trent and I taken on the first day I met Trent, Sunday June 4th:

While at Cleo’s, Nora decided that she wanted to make me a cat, and so out came the face crayons and on went my ‘cat face’, which amounted to nothing more than a bunch of blue and neon orange scribbles all over my face. Lucky I don’t wear make-up except for kohl eyeliner and lip-gloss. I left Cleo’s having forgotten that this was on my face until I got home and my mother squinted at me and asked “did you spill something on your face?”

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.”

So a wee bit about my trip to Denver, in point form to facilitate quick and easy retrieval of nonsense. But first, here are the three gorgeous men I got to hang out with all week (From left: Major, Rock, me, Homer):

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This is a clearer photo of Major (he’s the hottie on the left). On the right is none other than Guy Smiley (I knew he was real!):

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I’ll post a bigger one of Homer once his hair takes a nap.

Here are the most memorable moments from the trip (and it goes without saying: the simple fact of the matter is that I loved being swaddled by my family, and so in reality, every moment was memorable):

.1. Learning how to properly carry a kitty (& then cuddling with it). Quickly noting that it’s not a good idea to kiss said kitty while am wearing lip-gloss.

.2. Staring at water immersed snail eggs for so long that I almost hurled.

.3. Listening to my cousin Homer tell us he wants to move to a ranch, because no one told him he was an Arab.

.4. Listening to my cousin Homer argue. About everything and anything under the sun and over his hair. (I love you, baby.)

.5. Trying to purchase these particular stay-ups in the U.S. of A.

I hear that stay-ups are the devil’s playground and so perhaps this is why one won’t find them easily in the bible thumping areas. Everywhere I went, they only had regular hose (the kind that you can pull up to your chin, for fun. But I’ve never done that. Cus. That would be weird.) and those hose (heh) make me claustrophobic and wanting to freak out. And it was cold. But I went bare legged. But…it was really cold.

.6. Trying to purchase stamps in the U.S. of A. (watch the sales people twitch).

“Stamps to some place outside of America?” That’s what you use to send mail to Terrorists. That means “No, sorry we don’t have any stamps except ones for inside of This Great Country Of Ours. Oh Say Can You See The Brown Dude in Aisle Three…”

.7. The realization that my family’s single-handedly supporting the war on Iraq. (Because they own five SUVs). I too supported the war while there, because I ogled each one of the SUVs.

.8. Trying not to hyperventilate while clawing at the side of a cliff with Homer on one side and Major on the other; both telling me I was going to be “just fine even if you fall the 15 feet. You know? You may have a better chance if you just run down the cliff.”

Isn’t it sweet that my cousins think I’m Gumbi?

.9. Watching women react to my cousins Major & Rock. YIKES! I knew they were hot. I mean, I always knew they were gorgeous young alpha males, but I never actually encountered the salivating female populace that springs open at the sheer smile of either of these men.

.10. People still thinking that cocaine is cool. They’re easy to pick out in a crowd (just look for the ones with an L sign plastered to their forehead). Try having a conversation with them; They’re your general donkeys.

.11. Watching N.E.R.D.’s unrated “Lapdance” video in a bar filled with nasty men.

.12. Partying like it’s 1999. Literally. Major & Rock took me out on both Friday and Saturday night and I was transported back to university. On one hand, I can count the number of times I’ve been to a “disco” (thanks mom!) in the last 8 years (bachelorette parties & one birthday party). At none of these, did I dance. On Saturday night, I couldn’t stop dancing. And not even on the dance floor. Just in this random spot, because I am a nerd.

.13. “Dancing” with Major. I still don’t know what that was. (I love you too, baby.)

.14. Discovering I have a porno face. Unlike Gerry’s porno mouth, I have a face that was caught on camera, by accident. I was blowing a kiss to Homer; there’s a delay on my camera >> and the camera caught me post kiss, pre closed mouth. I should walk around with that expression on my face >> maybe then I’ll get a date.

No. You won’t see the photo but I do have it. I couldn’t bring myself to delete it because apparently, she’s a real girl. Lucky is the man…

Just kidding, mom!

.15. Waiting (& crying) at home for Prada, Rock’s kitty-cat. I accidentally let her out (thought the door was closed, but it wasn’t) and waited with baited breath for approximately three hours until she came home. I thought the coyotes ate her.

.16. Rock’s Saturday night monologue(s). (And loving you makes three, baby.)

.17. Failing miserably while Ricky Garcia was attempting to teach me the Meringue. He doesn’t give up easily, but I knew he’d thrown in the towel when he offered “You’re a beautiful girl. You can dance whatever and it’ll still be cool.”

At first, I thought this was a compliment, but have since wondered: do I spaz out while dancing? Does being pretty cover the tragedy of my dance moves?

Shall videotape myself and get back to you on this. Am now completely freaked out am one of the women who thinks she’s got rhythm but is just a true sorrow to watch.

.18. Did you know that there are bullets that can be shot through 6 feet of solid steel and still remain on course for 2 miles post exit wound? Well. If you didn’t know that, and you are someday seated across from Homer, you’re best to know “not to argue with [him] ‘cus you’ll just lose. Dude.”

.19. Learning that Zenga’s is probably never a viable option.

.20. Going for a ‘scenic drive’ with Major where ‘scenic’ was half an hour, and ‘drive’ was an hour and a half. I was dizzy & thank God we have senses of humor.

.21. Staring at Homer’s hair as he walks. It’s some kind of wonder, dude.

.22. Not requiring sleep.

These photos represent only one part of the hike. My cousin laid down at the edge of the cliff and hung off the side in order to take them. The best way to understand the steepness of it is to pretend you�re doing the same.

This is inside one small cave we found.

Story to follow…

Am in Denver and currently enjoying my morning coffee out on my family’s patio. Arrived on Friday (but with some slight trouble > something I promise to blog about soon enough) and have been enjoying the sunlight and the +20 degree weather every day so far.

I have three psychotic cousins here (whose photos I will post soon), two of whom took me on a ‘hike’ on Saturday. What they didn’t tell me is that we would be doing the equivalent of off-roading, but on foot. All too often, this was done on our knees, on our asses and on our stomachs. Naturally, we had to throw in a whole lotta free climbing. My knees are all bruised, my legs have gashes in them, all of my nails broke off (tore off is probably more accurate) and I feel great.

I won’t be blogging over the next few days (don’t commit suicide), but I will be thinking about you.

I’ve already mentioned one of my cousins who lives in Denver. There are two others whose nicknames are Major & Homer.

I don’t have any new photos of them, but will post some upon my return from Denver.

Each one of these boys has their unique & brilliant qualities and since I don’t have any brothers, these three are my support structure (if you will). They’re the ones I go to and can depend on entirely. They’re the ones I can share my secrets with and know that I have nothing to worry about.

Major is the hard-ass who sees black and white and behaves accordingly. When I need my ass kicked, he’s there to make sure it happens. Later, he calls to make certain I’m icing the bruise.

Homer is the softest of them. He’s the baby and he holds a special place in my heart because he reminds me of me. I always know where he’s coming from and what the truth is when he’s lying to me. Of the three, he’s the one I feel most protective of.

I love them to death and wish they lived that much closer to me…

“Oh look, there’s an interesting movie on tonight. It’s called A (space) Lice In Wonderland. How odd.”

This is my baby cousin, the only boy to ever send me flowers. He’s that unique hybrid of man that’s equal parts fighter and lover. He’s the guy that other men admire and women want to sleep with…

He’d kill me for writing this but for all of his masculinity, he’s equally sensitive, caring & pampered (something he gives back 100 times, making him that much more of a man).

He lives in Denver and has been my strength these last few days, reassuring me that although he was the 1st to send me flowers, he wouldn’t be the last. As if that weren’t sweet enough, when I asked him where a girl like me sits on the totem pole of women, he told me I was sitting cross-legged on a mountain peeking down at the totem pole. Most likely with a book, a lip-gloss and utterly clueless re my effect on boys.

Naturally, and because I’m his cousin, he’s biased and doesn’t really have a choice but to think so highly of me. Today, I choose to believe him because today is one of those days when I have to.

The woman he chooses to marry will be among the lucky & I can’t wait to meet her.

.1. I’ve just been told that I pout. Something about this strikes me as funny; I never thought I was the sort to pout, but rather, the sort to deal with something and…just deal with it…instead of letting it fester to the point of pouting.

Perhaps this new found talent of mine will come in handy some day. If it does, I will let you know immediately.

I really do wish this person had taken a picture of me pouting, as am terribly interested if it is a good look for me.

.2. My girls T & M are off to London this day. They are heading there for a little party and I’ve promised to present them with the list titled: Maha’s Top 10 Things To Do While In London. First, I must compile it. When it is completed, I will blog my bit for your eyes as well.

There are certain things which are a staple of a London trip…no matter how old or young, intelligent or imbecilic one might be, these tips should be adhered to at all times. Without a doubt, London is one of the few cities to which I would move in a heartbeat; since I was a little girl and we spent my first few summers there, I’ve had a long-standing love affair with that City.

Occasionally, I have an illicit affair with NYC, but I don’t let London in on that…

.3. Mama’s been gone a little over a week now and I think this trip has been good for both her and I. She’s doing very well and enjoying her time with the family immensely.

.4. There are ‘friendships’, and then, there are friendships. One of my favourite quotes comes from Eleanor Roosevelt (shut up!), and it is: “Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.”

One of the very few who have already left well-heeled (& often times well-booted) footprints in my heart is Baby J. She lives and works in Toronto and last I saw her was during TIFF; we spent the weekend meeting interesting actors, shopping, eating, sitting on her balcony and having the most insane and lively conversations until all hours of the night / morning.

For the last few months, certain affairs have kept us from contacting as often as we both would like…

Last night, we managed to squeeze in an approximate one hour conversation, trying desperately to make it through the details of our last 3.5 months apart. We highlighted the most critical life-events and managed some time for analysis. Rather efficient, considering the dense topic of conversation.

I miss her often, and she is the only one to whom I dedicate an entire evening of letter-writing.

She will always remain the first to have nicknamed me “Hawaiian fish”.

Although quite rare, I find myself at a loss lately and I feel obligated to type something out. Anything, really, so here goes…

.1. Kul 3am w2intu bkheir. Happy Eid!

.2. I have a new Egyptian celebrity crush, but I’ve already forgotten his name. I must remember quick, before another woman scoops him up and marries him…am still recovering from my former and inaugural Arab celebrity love interest: Tamer Hagras (the betrayal of it all!).

.3. Am considering going to Dubai & Gaza this coming summer; thinking of taking six weeks off work and splitting my time between the two areas. I miss my family dearly and feel as though I’ve been away for much too long. Shall keep you posted on this.

Horrible, really. Most especially because I promised myself I would not travel anywhere for 12 months (notwithstanding: Denver, Montreal & Toronto). By summer, it’ll have been approximately seven months, so this is really quite good of me. I will deserve a holiday by that time.

.4. I love receiving Holiday greetings in the mail. Am an old fashioned sort of girl and treasure the written word. Although we’re well into January, I received another card today. How exciting! I’ve not opened it yet; have decided to save it for my morning read over herbal tea tomorrow…

.5. A Female Family Secret: We don’t use cleansers to remove eye makeup. Rather, olive oil. Trust me & try it. Only remember to not smear too much olive oil on to the cotton, or else your eyes will be foggy for quite some time. And it’s also best to keep and use a separate towel, as olive oil doesn’t wash off with water, and so your skin will be extra soft…but your small face towel will have light smudges of olive oil on it (no makeup, though!).

.6. Sorry have not been more entertaining as of late…

My parents had intended to name me ‘Nuha’. When I was born, all my parents could see were a set of eyes with what appeared to be two arms and two legs.

Maha, in Arabic, is a type of gazelle that is renowned for her eyes. In Arabic poetry, a very common turn of prose is ‘uyoon el-maha’ (translation: ‘the eyes of the Maha’).

In other words, ‘beautiful eyes’.

I have also been told that, depending on the language, the definition of my name varies from:
- Water
to
- The ultimate state of ‘being’
to
- The Seductress (capital ‘T’, please)
to
- The Virgin (capital ‘V’, please)

When I was younger, I used to tell people my name meant ’wilderness cow’ until my mother overheard became v angry with me. I don’t know what her problem was, because a wilderness cow is still exotic in my mind’s eye.

It was then that I used to tell people I was European (Palestine is so close to Europe, no?!) because I had no sense of geography.

I believe that a part of me is still royally pissed that am not the exotic European wilderness cow.

And…that’ll never be half as bad as T who used to run around declaring how she was “Pilipino” (she’s as pale as they come, has wicked blue eyes and blonde hair). She cried when her mother told her she was from Nova Scotia. Is it a wonder that she’s one of my best friends?

It’s been 24 hours and so I feel it’s safe to indulge in the following…

My dad forgot my birthday. Bad enough that Tamer Hagras didn’t send me flowers (it is most certain they were stopped at customs), but my father forgot that it was my birthday.

Your mother, the one who carried you around, like a bullet, for 9 months. She’ll never forget. Ever. It’s impossible.

And I wish I had an excuse for him…something akin to “I am one of 17 children and so it is inevitable that he would forget”. The sad reality of it is: I am an only child. Which goes a long way to explaining a lot…but that’s another blog entry.

Lucky that as an early birthday present, he purchased this (in cherry wood) and all it’s trimmings for me a few months ago:

But still…
My father forgot it was my birthday!

Men.

.1. I work with Fernando. Every time I run into him, I want to pull on white bellbottoms, dance and sing “Are the stars bright, Fernando?”

Even when seated in meetings, I want to do this.

.2. Three more days until am 31.

Do hope that should Tamer Hagras not be able to 2ukhtubni, on the occasion of my 31st birthday, he will at least send me flowers.

.3. Pick up Dzihan & Kamien‘s “Fakes”. It’s an excellent double CD and Track 2 on CD 1 (Homelands) will make you want to turn off the lights, blast the music and ignore the world.

GODSPEED!

.4. Dinner with dad was excellent. He’s contemplating purchasing a summer flat in either Beirut or Cyprus, which would be so much fun! I love it when he decides to throw money around so casually.

He’s a big property man, and so he tried to convince me to buy something in Montreal. But, I’d rather just let him do it, which he will…eventually.

.5. Recall the Gigantic Pheronic Head daddy won at the silent auction last year. At dinner, he asked me if I wanted it.

I declined and didn’t even bother hiding my horror at his query.

I recommended he return it to CEPAL on the anniversary of the auction, telling them they could re-auction it.

This way, I’ll never inherit it.

I love you, ya baba.

.6. I am going to Hell (staghfara Allah al3azeem) because I find things like this funny:

Philosophically, due to our human nature to fault, this is an impossibility; we can never “stop” (the goal is to be in a constant state of trying to stop). If we could “stop” sinning, we wouldn’t be human…

The sign really should read: Try to cool it. I know it’s hard, but just give it a shot every once in a while. You’ll sin because you’re human and you can be a real idiot sometimes. Maybe even most of the time. It’s inevitable; just try to do it at varying intervals in your life and when you do…just you know.

Hell. (& at 600 miles an hour is how fast I’ll be going).

Don’t let this blog fool you; don’t think you know me.

.1. A ‘WORD UP’ to Maura as she gave me a heart attack and a serious shout out on her live journal. It is huge and it nearly made me cry. I am sporting Tony Curran’s hat, which is sort of funny. He called me ‘Palestine’ for the duration of our conversation…and so I was left with no choice but to ring back with ‘Scotland’. He has very unique eyebrows and is surprisingly tall. There is something about Scots men and height. They have a lot of it.

This is a nice thing when one is in search of shelter and protection from strong winds and torrential down pour.

.4. My dad’s invited me over for dinner this evening. He was going to cook something for me.

Oh my God.

I love my dad…but he is no culinary master (do hope he thinks my life too boring to check this blog). In fact, he owns one of those grilling things that you plug into the wall and then throw chicken on to. Without spice. Without sauce. Without flavour.

When we made plans he chimed in with an excited “I’ll make pasta and grilled chicken!”. I had no choice but to counter with “NO! You rest. I’ll cook and you don’t have to worry about anything,” as sweetly and as convincingly as possible. My life was at stake.

Now, I must cook. Something. And apparently, “coffee” isn’t considered a viable option. Who knew?

.5. A friend recently gave me a copy of some freaky astrology book about the compatibility of signs. As I am a Libra, will post on a per sign basis, what it is that will draw you to me (e.g. should you be Aries, you will be drawn to me because…etc.)

.6. Have recently discovered that the love of my life – Tamer Hagras – is married and has procreated (as if marriage weren’t enough!). Although I don’t mind being a durrah, and only for Tamer, I am slightly distraught by this news. But his web site has been revamped and there’s a slew of new photos. This shall keep me satiated for some time.

Also, he is a Scorpio which explains why I am inexplicably drawn to him (although: his height, body type, and face may be the more obvious reasons) and would have made him my ideal match according to above mentioned book *thank you Ms. Goodman. Although am a Libra, was born under a Scorpio moon and so this is supposed to explain my temperament and why I am constantly drawn to the alpha of the Scorpio. Damn them, the Scorps!

At least my father isn’t a Scorpio. That would have been creepy.

.1. Attention to all whom I come in contact with (citizens, countrymen, Romans…): Regardless of whether it is today or next month, you, that’s correct: YOU. You shall become fodder for my blog and the many books I shall publish en route to becoming a millionairess.

I will write about you sooner or later, in all your glory and / or stupidity. I love you, but I shall eventually make a caricature of you. But, I do love you, my caricature.

.2. My daddy is learning French (he is currently in Class Zero), learning to speak through his nose in an effort to pronounce “non”.

This got me to reminiscing.

My first ever French teacher was a lovely Egyptian lady whom I will run into next month, am certain. Although I cherish her to this day, at the age of 6 I quickly learned to say “Est-ce que je peux aller aux toilette?” (spelling and grammar all wrong, I know. Shut up.) to escape that class and the smelly child sitting next to me.

.3. Strange is individual reactions to my blog. Those who have known me for years through the Arabic community think I some kind of humorless icicle. Little did they know that I have very lightweight blood and am as warm as a duvet.

They are reading and they are learning, and I am enjoying that I can still surprise them after all this time.

.4. Sami Al-Husseini is pleased that my father purchased the “Pheronic” abnormally large cranium. Due to his relief, I plan to exact swift revenge on his person.

Note to self: Carry out following:
a) Take a photo of “The head”
b) Print up 100 normal sized copies of said photo
c) Print up 3 extra large sized photos on 10 stock paper
d) Paper mache all items in Sami’s office with the 100 smaller photos
e) Drape 1 extra large photo over his home
f) Drape 1 extra large photo over his car
g) Drape 1 extra large photo over self and follow Sami around
h) When I write my memoirs, this shall be referenced as “exact swift revenge”
i) Make millions
j) Marry Tamer Hagras
…not necessarily in that order.

Note to Sami Al-Husseini: Give it a couple of days and then google yourself; you will find my blog, I promise.

.5. Elisabeth is coming, yay!

.6. I have not yet begun preparation for my Saturday evening annual Holiday Dinner Party, and so am already behind.

Note to self: Learn how to become a much better hostess, to ensure that when the time comes, I am able to throw exquisite parties for our (Tamer Hagras and I) guests.

.7. Often times, I have seen Asian men and confused them for my own family members.

This evening, my uncle was speaking to me and I was fixated on his slightly slanted eyes and unusually high (and beautiful) cheekbones. Am now convinced I do have some Asian running through my blood lineage.

Note to self: Right. Look up genealogy of last name and following variations thereof:
a) Zimyong
b) Zimbing
c) Zimchang
d) Zimchu
e) Zimding
f) Zimdong
g) Zimzang

.8. Did you know that Poultry and Chicken are not the same? I was taught just that this evening while at a Chinese restaurant when much to my surprise, I came across the heading: Poultry or Chicken.

Also, spinach is actually spelled spinash.

Stupid English.

The Nutcracker Ballet

As mentioned earlier this week, I was to take my mum to The Nutcracker Ballet as a surprise…and so we have just come home from this absolutely luscious visual experience.

Prior to 7 pm EST, I had never known the story of The Nutcracker and so it was with absolute pleasure that I sat through an entire two hours of complete discovery. The Grands Ballets Canadiens company presented the ballet and for the duration of the production, I couldn’t help but find myself in complete envy of the set design. I want them to decorate my home, these same folks who imagined the set we saw this evening. I also want them to make it completely moveable, so that when the fancy suits me and I want to find myself in the Land of Snow I can clap my hands et voila, I’m there.

One quick note: my favorite character in this production was the Black Sheep. She did this really neat trick whereby she would hop up from the floor and land on her knees in the palms of a man’s hands (he was her ‘shepherd’). I want to do this with random strangers.

I believe the following may be the psychotic notes to self such a learning experience would generate:

Note to self: Be graceful when landing on shepherd’s chest.

Note to self: Be careful when falling on shepherd for breaking two of his ribs is quite enough for this week.

Note to self: Stop hollering as you leap forward.

Note to self: Just. Stop.