Prolific Immigrant

Blogging on the fly; pardon all shit error and spelling.

Jumped off my flight and landed at Elixir for dinner, with these two gorgeous broads.

Not surprisingly, we were asked to quiet down from one of the adjacent diners. Also, we ate an apple tartatartartine, a sweet French dessert, the name of which I have likely misheard.

Kitty had never been to Granville, and so I took her for a stroll before we ate in the market. She had a chicken butter bowl and I had Mexico’s most tasteless wrap, the name of which I have likely misheard. Note that: Kitty is snack size, smaller ever than the official Olympic mascotians.

Canada Gear 101

Dear Folks Visiting Vancouv for Olympics:

Overkill is indeed possible re how many CANADA gear clothing items you wear at one given moment.
You’re welcome.
Love, m

First sign of ‘winter snow’ was upon our arrival at Cypress (Canadians can’t spell; this you should know by now) Mountain, where we were to watch the Biggest Badasses in the History of Winter Sport; Men’s Aerial-ists Freestyle Skiing FEARLESS Foxes. Copied word for word, that is exactly what is written on the backs of each athlete’s bum. (Note: The American outfit appears to be flannel pyjamas. Canadians can’t spell; American’s can’t fashion.)

Before we watched them, though, we were forced to play with two massive and very aggressive balls which, if not careful, would smack one in the head.

And immediately before we watched them, we watched how Canadian girls do it better; a gorgeous shut-out or shut-down or something against the really terribly aggressive US female hockey-ists. 2-0 wins Canada GOLD in female hockey-ing. (Beautifully done, ladies.)

(I have a video of the last 20 seconds of the game; will upload when home.)

Finally, we watched the FOXES aerial-ing, supported by a Smurf Army.

And finished our evening eating much too much sushi…or that which pretended to be sushi but was neither good, really, nor well wrapped at The Eatery. I strongly recommend you forego this place; but if you must, then only go for a very light and not-so-good meal, and just to enjoy the fantastic art creations hanging above and next to you.

All above photos are from the berry; once home, I will complete the circle and post nicer photos and video. xox from Vancouv. (Go Canada Go!)

.1. Do you keep forgetting that your momma and poppa are individuals before they are parents? That they had and continue to have dreams and that they may look at their lives today and wonder what happened to those dreams? How they fell through? Why they didn’t work? How life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?

Do you forget that they also have fears? That sometimes, their actions and reactions are filled with terrors that we might not recognise because we expect our parents to be fearless?

I do. Occasionally, I forget.
So, I’m asking you to take a step back with me…remind ourselves that although we sometimes believe that the actions of our parents are entirely centered around us, they are also, in great measure, centered on them as individuals before them as parents.

& if you already knew this, then you need to start a blog and start telling my ignorant ass.

(Exercise patience, please.)

.2. Dear Man Who Emailed Me Asking Me To See More Pictures Of Me Because You Think I Am Pretty:

I have your email.
I FaceBooked your email. (Something you may consider creepy, but that my friend M would call ‘crafty’.)
I noted that you are married, with children.

Please direct this sort of attention to your wife, not me.

Thank you.

- M

.3. It is astonishing how the moods and spaces of those we love affect our own. Baby J is walking through a relatively delicate and difficult situation, and I am doing my best to walk alongside her. Sometimes, I walk behind her and push her forward, other times I run ahead and drag her along. Always – I hope and I try – to behave with understanding and patience; the reality of this sentence I leave to her discretion.

Earlier this week, she experienced what I can only call an entry of toxicity into her life; a toxicity that I reacted to on an extremely visceral level, and one which I carried with me throughout the course of my day and into my night; on her behalf, because I love her, because I respect her, because I am proud of her, because I do not wish to see her hurting. Also, because – as many of my friends have noted – I have zero tolerance and react with a ferociseness (not a word, but should be) when I feel as though being taken advantage of is someone I love.

A long time ago, someone said that “dealing with a friend’s problems is like sitting around their fire and inhaling their smoke”. Although I can’t in fact remember who said that, I do recall it was said in derogatory fashion, as an indication that we shouldn’t have to deal with the problems of our friends all of the time, some of the time, part of the time.

I call bullshit on that sentiment. The true meaning of friendship is unyielding support and sensitivity to the problems of our friends all of the time, some of the time, part of the time, no matter that we may be “inhaling their smoke”.

If you don’t recognise that being invited to sit around someone’s fire is something to be cherished then you are an unworthy idiot.*****

.4. I recently took a new direction in my life (one which, literally, witnessed me throw up in a snowbank upon the decision taking & making. Sexy.); this is the reason I have been quiet. I will not write about the decision, but I will only make this small mention here as a gentle reminder to myself. It is documented.

.5. Dear Sugar Plum Grape Tomatoes:

I love you.

- Maha

==========
*****This sentiment does not hold true for people who tend to invite everyone, including the kitchen sink, to sit at their fire. I believe these sorts of individuals tend to be exhibitionists who have a fire only for show, and are usually in and out of my life within 24 hours. I don’t want to sit at their fire because that means that I am not sitting at the fire of someone who cherishes my presence. (Even in friendship, the value we see in one another must go both ways; otherwise, one of us is a chump.)

This is the final entry about this just last trip to Austin.
I have written about Lisa before – a wonder of a woman who, from the moment we met, I began crushing on rather heavily. Lisa, by the way, is pregnant…having become so just around the time I last visited, and so I have begun calling myself her Fertility Charm. Unless her and her man need me to sit atop their bed while they copulate, I don’t mind being such a charm. (Please wish her congratulations and send her your best belly energy – both men and women.)

Anyway. Point of this entry isn’t her belly, but rather her wonderful and amazing sense of generosity where my very awkward love of COACH ERIC TAYLOR, HI! and Friday Night Lights is concerned.

Lisa, see, has a friend who works with the FNL crew. This friend was able to confirm two things for Lisa: (1) shooting locations of FNL; and, (2) that the day she surprised me with our little FNL sojourn, was not a day on which they would be shooting. Why this later? Because Lisa had no interest in placing myself (and by extension, herself) in an embarrassing situation wherein I would freeze, or worse yet, lunge into inappropriate touching of either COACH ERIC TAYLOR, HI!, Tim Rigglett Riggins, or Tami Taylor.

Honestly, I would be hard-pressed to behave myself in such a situation.

First stop was the football field that the Dillon Panthers called home (GO EAST DILLON!). It was raining and I was exhilarated. Unfortunately, you can’t really see the sameness between the filming and the reality and so my excitement was contained:

I tried to pick the lock that held the wire fence closed and that kept me on the other side of the field. Lisa suggested that perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea to attempt a break in, so instead, I quite sadly held on to the fence and stared at the field which eluded me, imagining COACH ERIC TAYLOR (!) putting The Dillon Panthers through their drills and making certain they played their hearts out on that field (because they are real people, who play real games, yes?). Eventually, Lisa wrestled me back into the car.

Second stop: Landing Strip, the locale at which the Riggins brothers as well as Buddy Garrity hang. It is a strip bar, and as it was the middle of the day and Lisa and I were without a man (as an excuse to enter), we merely creeped around the entrance and enjoyed it from the outside. Being in Texas meant not even the hint of lesbian-anity.

Third stop: Broken Spoke. I really don’t have anything interesting to say about this joint except that I wanted to return in the evening to enjoy a little honky tonk, but never made it. I am interested in having a dance-off with a local; any local, and so have decided to make this my top priority next trip.

Finally, and most notably, was the burger joint at which most of season 1 was filmed. This place is recognizable as soon as you pull up to it, and Lisa said I in fact jumped out of the car before she had placed it into park. More incredibly, she said that as soon as we walked in, I short-circuited and staring at the ground, turned a complete 360 laughing to myself. I think she’s lying because I don’t remember any of that. I do, however, remember how I felt as though I were to come crashing out of my own skin when I laid eyes on the restaurant, and for those of you familiar with FNL, you will immediately recognise the location spot in the photos.

In summation, the following picture is worth a thousand words. This was taken by Lisa while we were seated in one of the booths at the restaurant (the staff of which would not let us pay and who wanted to feed us french fries, because of the energy vibeing off of us, no doubt). When C saw this expression, she said: “That’s the exact same expression Nora-May had on her face the entire time she was in The Princess Castle”.

Nora-May is five years old.

Thank you Lisa.
Love you.
Owe you.

***************
P.S. I have just returned from Costa Rica. I have been getting caught up with everyone and am relatively exhausted and so not very write-y. I promise to make up for this soon enough – thank you for your amazing emails. Love you all.

I love you very much and am proud of you beyond words or measure.

I have printed Bordering on Fear: A Comparative Literary Study of Horror Fiction, your 399 page whopper of a PhD, into which I am extremely excited to sink my teeth.

(And to the end of this PhD sojourn, I shall add: Ameen, sister.)
xox

P.S. Entry coming this weekend. Thank you to all for your emails of curious ‘wtf are you doing not writing?’ and ‘when in the hell…’.

Comments closed.

So. Naomi and I have known one another since university – she was completing her undergraduate and I my M.A. and we both lived at the graduate pub on campus called Mike’s Place. As she so eloquently put it last evening, ‘there was one table that was always there with the same people. THAT WAS US!’…when excited, Naomi and I tend to overheat and speak more loudly than usual.

Although this amazing woman and I were friendly in university, we did not have the sort of friendship considered deep or even long-lasting. In fact, I think it safe to say that were you to have asked either of us if we could see one another in each others’ lives years down the line, we would have both shrugged and offered a response of non-committal in order to avoid the possibility of responding with “uhm. No?”

Interestingly, and almost-to-the-day exactly two years back, I was hit with a trauma the likes of which I had not encountered prior. Naomi was one of the three women who pulled me through. (Her, C and the amazing and brilliant BB.)

She was relentless in her kindness and understanding, staunchly protective of and committed to my well-being. It was amazing; she is amazing, and she remains a woman whose compassion breaks my heart. Last summer, I wrote: I went to visit Na.oh.mi in Edmonton and realized that there’s few people with whom we can share so much of ourselves so easily. Na.oh.mi is one such friend., and I am always reminded of this truth.

(It is important to here note that Na.OH.Mi has one of the most amazing and infectious laughs in the world. It is carefree, honest and innocent, three qualities reflected in her huge eyes and perfectly round-curled red locks.)

Tomorrow at 11.30 a.m., she will be standing beneath a hupa and wedding JASON (HI!). I am not one for weddings, and never have been. But tomorrow will be different and not only because I plan on sticking to Oma, Na.OH.mi’s nana, and keeping a watchful eye out for her glasses, but because of the hundreds of people in my life, there are only a handful I love and cherish. The people I plan on keeping in my life as I scoot across the floor with the help of a walker?, she is one of them, and I am honored to be a part of her day tomorrow.

P.S. Neither Na.OH.mi nor I have ever attended a Jewish wedding. Mama tells me they are as fun and as rowdy as our own Palestinian ones. Both Na.OH.mi and I are excited by this new experience.

(Aside: She is a brilliant novelist. Her first book, Cricket In A Fist, is published and it receives the highest recommendation I can muster. Had it been shit, I would have left out this short paragraph. Stop fkn around; put down Twilight and support excellent literature. Pick up Cricket In A Fist, please & thank you.)

Apparently, the wiggling index fingers by the temples is not the Longhorns secret handshake. I won’t share with you what the actual secret handshake is because it is unimaginative and boring. Actually, I’m lying – I will share it when writing about the massively unbelievable theatrical production that is College Football (angry headsets and all).

I have, however, discovered the Secret American Handshake, that is code for all things stupid and / or inexplicable. It is “I’m Canadian”, words golden to my ears and interestingly explicative of most anything an American doesn’t understand.

“I am not speaking English.”
“Huh?”
“I am from Tanzania.”
“Whu’d'ya say?”
“I am not American.”
“Who’d'ya mean?”
“I am speaking in Swahili, stupid man.”
“Whu’d'at?”
“I’m Canadian.”
“Oh. Alright then. We love Canadians.”

Moving on.

Night before last, I ate 1/4 pound of Texas bar-b-que beef brisket. I also ordered, though didn’t eat, 1/2 pound of smoked turkey. I had no idea what either of the portions was going to look like, as I usually order by the plate rather than the weight (“I’m Canadian”) and so was pleasantly surprised to discover that one could eat 1/2 pound of meat rather easily and without a feeling of gorging. Actually, I would opt for something in between 1/4 and 1/2 pound, but seeing as how I am no longer in high school, I honestly don’t know what that fraction would look like. I tried to Google, only stopped because Google was making me feel exceptionally stupid.

I also ate pickles, potato salad, and white doughy bread because Texans have yet to discover the toaster. And God said, let there be bread! But no toaster oven! Thou shalt choke on the doughy parts and wear stupid pants other parts of thy nation shall mock: Wrangler jeans! And the angel doves sang…

At the end of the evening, when I asked for any kind of flavored tea, I was told – rather gently – that they only serve ice tea at Salt Licks. Following up on that reality, the waitress asked me if I know where she could find her some ‘nettle’ tea. Refraining from asking if nettle was a sort of bug, I instead merely pretended to live here…and then eventually ended up saying “I’m Canadian” when I didn’t have an answer.

FYI: Nettle tea is good for thinning hair, ladies.

“Drink it, don’t pour it on your head.” (Thanks, JayDub!)

Having the choice to either succumb to food comma or head out, we went to the meat-packing district, only that’s not at all what it’s called. My friends told me the name, but I haven’t a clue what it is, and I don’t think the area should be called anything but the meat-packing district. Consider it christened as such. And the angel doves sang…

We went to J. Black’s, a joint owned by the same man who owns my favorite spot in Austin – Shakespeare’s Pub (before the 22nd hour of the day, when all of the dummies come out to play). J. Black’s was quite a treat as it is the sort of place where most of the men wear fedoras and p’leather, and the women wear tans and breasts.

My favorite conversation overhead was between Moron Tom and Moron Bitty: “I can’t marry you.” Moron Bitty giggled. Moron Tom knew he was getting a piece of that fake-breasted, over-tanned, over-made up ass. And the angel doves sang…

In addition, a few choice quotes from the evening, none of which I will attribute to anyone:

“See the girl in the green bubble skirt? I wanna take a pin, stick it in her bum and see what happens.”
“Is he Asian? Or Mexican? He’s Asiacan! Nice.”
“To your right. Donatella Versace and her mini-mi.”
“To your right, again. Do you think she put that on and looked in the mirror and imagined the thought: YES. Maybe she started drinking before she got dressed?”
“That’s p’leather. WOW. And his jeans have massive white stitching on them.”
“They’re from Dallas.”
“She’s eating garlic riddled asparagus at the bar. I know what you’re pee’s gonna smell like.”
“Look – It’s the Crypt Keeper. She totally picked up Tim McGraw.”
“O! Fedora alert – and…it’s on a little to the left. HEY! IT HAS A FRIEND in a crocheted knit hat. Wonder if his mom made that for him to keep him warm?”
“That guy keeps flashing his rolex. And his very bright yellow tie.”

J. Black’s is the place where people go to see and be seen. I was in a sweater and jeans and was getting stared at because I stuck out like a sore thumb…”Where are her breasts? Dude. I’m totally confused. Is she a guy?”…nah man, I’m Canadian… It’s where men pull up on their scooters and drink martinis and think that’s acceptable in public. It is where the Metrosexual race hangs, damn them each and every one of them who plucks his brows.

Desperately, I was willing a boy, any boy, to walk in wearing a clean t-shirt and a pair of normal jeans. Any boy who would just order a beer and drink it from the bottle. A boy without enough gel in his hair to cobble an entire brick wall. But nothin’…and so my evening ended in dreams of a boy named Cracker, riding a Hog and slapping down very pretty Metrosexuals as he rode off into the sunset with a beer bottle peeking out of his jacket’s pocket. He was Canadian. And the angel doves sang…

I wish to travel with the carnivàle, any carnivàle. Only, unfortunately, I’m not talented, so this is not at all a possibility. Instead, I can live vicariously through trips to random carnivàles, the world over.

Laura and I spent nearly six hours at the Carnivàle Lune Bleue, I coveting all who worked there and the undoubtedly sexy and hedonistic lives they (must!) live.

Everything about this particular Carnivàle is sensual, seduction dripping off of every costume, southern accent, musical instrument, and constant sense of freak-show danger and threat.

The first three people we met were a belly dancer, a little person (their language, not mine) and a woman atop stilts. The music was burlesque in flavor and floating past our taste buds were clouds of popcorn, cotton candy and candied apple sticky sweetness. I was immediately stoned on happy and couldn’t stop laughing the entire night through.

Our first stop was at Carnival Diablo, where we saw a woman jump over shards of glass, lay atop a bed of nails and be beheaded; where a man drank boiling water, pounded a nail through his nose, ran a hook through his (unusually large) tongue, hooked it to a mesh bucket of stones and raised the stones from the ground; where another man bent a steel rod with his teeth, had darts thrown at and tacked into his skin, sat in an electrical chair, placed his hand in a mousetrap, smashed a can of dog food over his finger (if ever there was a true fetishist, it is he…); and, where a third man swallowed swords (at which point, L started coughing in solidarity with) and fire.

Nikolai Diablo (the MC) was derangedly sweet, making me unsure as to whether I should cry or smile when he chose to focus on me while someone prepared something behind him. He pointed me out and then just stood at the edge of the stage and stared…and stared…and stared…before he stared a little more. He later came over and gave me the “head of the bottle” that he broke into pieces in preparation for the Countess who would walk through the glass. No surprise, he handed me the “head” from the crotch of his pants.

No matter that L and I laughed our way through that which didn’t make her gag, this is not a show for children, but one which I highly recommend to the rest of you.

Running out of Diablo, we rode the carousel and the old-fashioned ferris wheel before we skipped into the Cirque Maroc tent. While on the Ferris Wheel, I took this for you, so that you might join us on the ride:

…and while on the carousel, we attempted to take pictures. Have you ever tried to do this? It is, to say the least, tricky as you are never at level, hence this wonderful photo of L and I looking as though she is two storeys beneath me:

Cirque Maroc is a visual and auditory feast, with two MCs, one of whom I wanted to bring home and make my best friend (the slightly pudgy funnier, softer, cuter MC). It was, much in the spirit of Cirque du Soleil, an absolute wonder, with two women of particular note: one who plays with / slides up and down / contorts around a hanging rope, and another woman who creates majic when her body collides with a hamster wheel for humans. I know it’s not technically a ‘hamster wheel’, and it is in fact a ‘german wheel’, leave it to the Germans to come up with what is possibly a torture instrument or a fetishist’s fantasy a rather massive rolling wheel made for people.

L had her fortune read as I made fun of the cards (“…are those refugees crossing a river? Is that a British ‘bobby’? Is your fortune teller high? Do you believe this shit? I think he’s high…awesome…”) and sat in the bus. This bus. Which still runs. And is, in fact, the real bus from the Nightmare on Elm Street films:

We ate dinner beneath the tent, at The Cookhouse, L feasting on thick orange soup and I on Moroccan chicken while listening to The Unsettlers, whose music reminded me of the genius that is Polish punk band Gogol Bordello. I was mesmerized by the combination of their music, the cool air, the spicy food, the woman on stilts, the man playing with fire, thinking to myself that these people must be having sex with one another randomly and everywhere and all at once and what a strange and free and unusual and extremely seductive world that is the Carnivàle.

I loved it.

And to perfectly illustrate the strange weather one walks into at the Carnivàle Lune Bleue, watch and listen carefully, with particular attention paid at around the 56 second mark:

Two special shout outs to two of the carnis, first to the woman wearing a hat and glasses ushering us into the Cirque Maroc tent, you are hilarious and brilliant with your stuttering naivete, and I can’t help but wonder if you married your cousin who is also your mum’s uncle and best friend, and to the young gentleman who runs the shooting game, you are simply perfect at your job.

Two further recommendations: (1) go immediately; and, (2) then come again next year. I most definitely will.

**********

Find the official Carnivàle Lune Bleue site here, please.
All photos from L & I’s adventure found here.
Carnival Diablo
Cirque Maroc
The Unsettlers (they are brilliant and I can not stop listening to their cd)

Have just returned from a rather perfect getaway from life; spent the past few days away at a cabin in the middle of the woods and on the edge of a gorgeous lake.

The weather was ideal as it wasn’t too hot (so ‘no’ to mosquitoes, please); lulled to sleep by crashing waves and awakened by the chatter of rain through leaves.

We spent the time cooking extravagant meals, reading in a hammock and watching late-night horror films.

Here is a video for your ears…enjoy…

Hi all – am not off radio silence as of yet, but must share following info. (By the way, rabble article on #iranelection goes live tomorrow morning at 9 am est.)

As has been mentioned previously, Baby Jane moved to Halifax a wee while back. She has a new friend (yay!) named Jasmine, and from what Janey tells me of her, she is very nice, talented and is keeping sweet Baby Jane from feeling lonely in her new digs. (Thank you, Jasmine, she of the flowery name.)

What follows is an email from Janey, for your attention, please. Would greatly appreciate if you would share with all you know.
 
Dear Maha/Gorgeous/Raven/Meesho/Kove:
Remember I was telling you about my new friend Jasmine? I am hoping you can help her and I with a project by posting this on your wonderful blog so all your wonderful blog friends can help.
 
Jasmine has crone’s disease and has dealt with it all her life. Last year, she made a film called Glamour Guts, a funny short about how to stay fabulous with bowel disease – something lots of people struggle/live with, but don’t discuss. The film has been selected as one of three finalists for the CBC Short Film Face Off contest. If she wins, the prize will help her make her next film (a tragicomedy about grief).

The winner of the contest is determined by (40 hours only!) online voting.
 
Please join me in supporting Jasmine by:

First – watching it: Glamour Guts.

Next – between 11pm on SATURDAY JUNE 27 and 6pm on MONDAY JUNE 29 (Atlantic Standard TIme) visit: vote for GLAMOUR GUTS (if it pleases you. -maha).
 
Each person can vote up to 5 times (if you clear your cookies –you might be able to vote more than that)

Please pass on to your friends, friends of friends, family, friends of family, acquaintances, friends of acquaintances, acquaintances of acquaintances (who am I missing? family of friends of acquaintances) that you think would appreciate the movie. Family, friends of family, acquaintances etc. living abroad? No problem, they can vote too.
 
Kove yoy,
Baby J.

Comments closed. Radio silence still on. Check rabble tomorrow, please…x

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

(I love you half of KAWN!)

Austin 2000
In 2000, Natasha and I visited Austin and had an absolutely fantastic time, even though Natasha was nearly killed by a taxi.

We were students and on an extremely tight budget which forced us to stay at the Motel 6, off the highway. When our first room’s air conditioning unit broke, the staff indicated that the only room available with a functioning a/c had a queen-sized bed in it, and hesitated before asking if we were interested.

Tash and I had no qualms about sharing a bed; as best friends do, we had shared a bed at different sleep-overs since the age of 15. We said yes, and the facial reaction we received made it appear as though we were the Antichrist and his boyfriend, since, clearly, the woman at the Motel 6 believed that we were “gay” (quotes here necessary indeed). Lucky we didn’t get shot, or accidentally drowned in the Motel 6 pool which sat on the edge of the highway, delineated by the chain-link fence. Klassy.

We couldn’t afford more than two taxi rides into the downtown core and so I paid for one and Tash paid for the second.
We survived on one large jamba juice each, so as to not die of dehydration, and one meal a day so as not to die of starvation.
It was one of the most fun and hilarious trips ever.
And as with my most recent trip, it was also one riddled with the kindest people you’ll meet anywhere in the world.

Austin 2009
This time around, my trip to Austin was a surprise even to myself. Having originally planned on going to California to see both Kitty and Mozer, I changed my plans at the last minute and decided to head out to Austin instead.

The one thing I did know, in terms of location, was that I needed to be somewhere hot and humid and away. For those of you familiar with my nomadic ways, I become extremely agitated and anxious should I stay in one spot for too long. And my “too long” is extremely short compared to that of the normal individual’s. (Possibly worse still is that until I am physically seated on an airplane, I tend to change my ticket several times over both in terms of time and location, an annoying habit even to myself.)

Unexpectedly, this trip was cathartic on all levels – I hadn’t realised how much I needed to have my faith restored in people until I met the kind of people who restored one’s faith. I left Austin feeling completely regenerated and safe, which may seem an odd word, but is the most honest one to use.

Every single person I met there restored my faith a little bit…or a lot.

They are good people, kind people, gentle and generous people, none of whom is chocolate-cover-spoiled in bitterness, which is the variety of people I have run into most recently and from whom I needed to recover. Interestingly, I had been feeling this way behind my own back; discovering this only when I met the opposite in Austin.

People who, as adults, were capable of being openly and honestly vulnerable and kind.

It was a lot to swallow in a short 6 days, but it is amazing how quickly the human heart opens itself up when it’s surrounded by like-minded kindness and grace.

I close with a very short little list of Texanese for your learning pleasure:

The Devil’s Vinegar = Usually a “shot” of liquor which has the distinct flavour of bitter sh*t. (Courtesy of Austin Lisa, who nearly decked Jay.Dub when he offered her a shot of The Devil’s Vinegar.)

Used to could (pronounced: uset’a'kud) = I used to be able to…

Right Quick = Immediately

Fixin’ to = About to…

Git = Get the f*ck out of here right quick or I’ll shoot yer a** with my beebee gun

(Thank you, Austin.)

(Note: Austin wrap-up still to come.)

This trip to Vancouver becomes increasingly interesting with each second. At the same time which Baby Jane moved out to Halifax, Felice moved in the opposite direction to Vancouver.

Felice is my dinner date and since she left Ottawa, sushi has taken a turn for sad and refuses to be enjoyed without her company. Last night we decided to make up for the lost dining time and feasted at Tojo’s over the 6 course omakase Japanese dinner. Although both Felice and I are naturally inclined to indulging in good food, last night was an out-of-body experience which ended with exquisite green tea crème brûlée.

Aside from the hysterical laughter and masochistic gorging, we had the following interesting start to our evening…

I wore a black jump suit.
I have never, ever, worn a black jump suit, but last night, Felice poured me into a black jump suit and a thick belt. She loved it and I was too tired to argue not to mention that I too secretly totally dug it as the only word which came to mind was chic and I usually make fun of people in North America who use this word, unless they are Parisian, but I felt as though were I to articulate just how much I dug it, I would sound exceptionally vain. If she wasn’t around, I would have tried to make out with this black jump suit (made of cotton jersey), but alas, she was here as this is her home and I had to feign normalcy and sanity.

Then. I had been locking the front door from the outside and so Felice decided to instead teach me how to lock her front door from the inside. Because I tend to push allpushies, pull allpullies and shift over allshiftoveries, I naturally locked and closed her front door. Only, she had left the keys inside.

Needless to say, Felice was forced to James Bond her strapless dress covered a** over a railing in order to get back inside. (I know she’s really excited to have me in town. I could tell by the look on her face when she opened the door and I crushed her with a hug.)

On a closing note, I will tell you that the photo in this entry is what I peek at as soon as I sit up in bed while here. Lovely, right? Also, I fall asleep to the sound of the ocean which, apparently, isn’t the sound of the ocean at all but rather the sound of the motorway. Felice nuclear-bombed my imagination when I shared with her how amazing it is to fall asleep to the sound of the ocean, but I don’t think she knows what she’s talking about. I heart all oceans.

More as it happens – we are off to Granville Island for lunch and tonight we are meeting all of my VanCity friends at The Chill Winston for 7.30pm (interestingly enough, about 10 Vancouverites are at the moment in Ottawa…).

You are all quite familiar with Janey. This is her wearing the scarf I knit and sent her way two weeks back – it is ‘The Johnny Scarf’, J not standing for Janey. Long, yes? It took weeks to complete and is meant to provide warmth when I can’t reach over and hug her. It is me as a knit stitch.

She is among my best of friends and she lives in Toronto until 16h hours today, at which point she boards a plane to Halifax.

I miss her already, quite possibly more than words can express.
Janey and I communicate daily, all day long, never running out of things to say (thank you berry messenger). There is a solid energy of support as foundation for each other’s actions – a foundation that both she and I would tell you can withstand absolutely anything.

It was in university that we met through my old friend Scott, a bartender at Oliver’s Pub on campus. Janey was underage and so was the (greatest and sunniest) front door girl who took your money and stamped her approval of entry.

We met once, in passing, through Scott.

A few days later, I was standing in front of the Oliver’s entrance staring at a phone wondering to myself whether I should call a particular number or not. I needed sisterly support, understanding and hand holding.

I also needed an extra individual to remember the telephone number I was supposed to dial; I was so nervous that numbers kept falling out of my head against my will. None of my girlfriends were in the neighbourhood at that particular moment; I looked over my right shoulder, made eye-contact with Baby Jane, walked over and asked for her help and support, which she gave me without a moment’s hesitation.

She stood next to me at the phone, repeating the last four digits as though they were a mantra. I dialed, the phone rang, she squealed, I responded to the ‘hello’, she smiled a little more and motioned to me that she would be over there.

Coming off the telephone, I went over and we had our first date. We had a drink at Oliver’s and it felt as though we had known one another for our entire lives. There was no hesitation in conversation, no holding back of details or information. It was, in so far as the way friendships are created and develop, most definitely magical.

The rest, as they say, would become history.

At different times in our lives, and depending on the situation and environment at hand, different people catch us and help us stand up again. Sometimes, they don’t catch us but rather sit next to us while we refuse to stand, preferring to instead stay close to the ground a little longer for fear of another fall. Baby Jane has been doing this for me for the last little while – I for her, also.

Everything I have learned from the most gracious and loving BB, I have been able to apply to Janey this past near year. I love them both for the opportunity to grow and learn, understanding the possibility of honest and true and good friendships riddled with sentences such as
“I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but I will support you through this idiotic undertaking because I love you”
and
“The way you treated that person? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right and your mother taught you differently and you know it. You need to make amends immediately.”
and
“I need you to set your ego aside, my love, and really take a step back before I tell you what I’m about to tell you”
without there being a break in friendship or fear of hurt.

It is amazing. She is amazing. And so, on her new adventure to Halifax, I would love for each of you to please send Baby Jane your best energy and your greatest amount of warmth. Keep her in your hearts and minds as the next little while will be a challenge (which she will overcome, but a challenge nonetheless). Thank you.

Janey – I kove yoy very much.

Jesus dies (and then rises from the dead, much like a zombie?) and hires technicolour bunnies to deliver chocolate eggs in baskets. No?

Then how about a simple Happy Easter from Captain UnderHead & Captain Ickreybull instead.

(Captain UnderHead’s name is courtesy of Trenty who christened Nora May with the name when he saw that she had placed new underwear on her head (I merely added the ‘Captain’ part); Captain Ickreybull is Trentanese for ‘Incredible’.

I can honestly write, beyond a shadow of any doubt, that “UnderHead” is the most clever observation any child / adult has articulated in well over six months.)

Comments closed.

.1. Janey’s movin’ to Hali. Felice is already in VanCity, moving into a place in Yaletown, joining a kazillion of my friends out on the West Coast. I’ll be heading all across Canada from East to West very soon; exciting.

.2. I’ve decided to support a local artist this year and so purchasing my yearly piece from one brilliant Amy Alice. Please find her works here; I will let you know on which I decide.

.3. Often enough, I receive emails about product, skin care specifically. Apart from a combination of olive oil, honey and water, I don’t often use anything on my skin as it makes me clausterphobic. Make-up, too, so I stick to kohl, mascara & gloss. Recently, though, I began using coconut oil and avocado on my face.

Consider the three following recipes as tried, tested & true for those of you who have dry skin such as myself.

Exfoliant
Buy rolled oats in the cereal section of your supermarket, then stick ‘em in that contraption that will eventually turn them into flour (a blender or a food processor, I can’t remember which). Keep the oatmeal flour sealed and when you need to exfoliate, just place a little bit in your palm, mix with water and exfoliate away.

Moisturizing mask
1 avocado
1 teaspoon of apple vinegar
1 egg white
3 teaspoons of olive oil

Mash up the avocado, beat the egg white and then throw all of the ingredients together and apply; wash off after 20 minutes.

Cream
Coconut oil. Slather it on your face, straight & simple.

I never bother with any of the crazy expensive nonsense; everything God gave us is all we really need for the pretty. Also, don’t forget to work from the inside to the outside by popping the world’s most gigantic vitamin pill: the omega 3-6-9.

.4. Happy and lovely long holiday weekend, kittens.

I am on the softest and thickest bed buried beneath and inside of warm white sheets.

Three walls are pale orange. One wall is a window. There is only one dresser of old dark wood, whose shared and kept the secrets of many more than I can imagine.

It’s grey outside and pouring. Rain’s fingerdrops are playing music on my window.

I’ve found a little pocket of heaven inside of Toronto, it seems.

I hope your weekend is as lovely as mine…x

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

.1. I’ve had to place comments on moderation once again because there is a crazy pervert on the interLoose. Sorry about that; please understand that unless you’re the crazy pervert, this isn’t about you and your wonderful comments.

.2. I had brunch with K+S a few days back and had an absolutely amazing time. They are soon moving to Vancouver and although I am extremely excited and happy for them, I do already miss them.

But enough about them.
They met Lulu!

And this morning, S sent me this:
“It seemed impossible that I had ever lived without Lulu. And the closer I got to her, the more I knew that she was the only person I had ever cared to know. Lulu was an entire population. You could string adjectives together like daisy chains and not describe Lulu. Verbs came closer: soaring, crashing, yearning, laughing, dreaming, kissing. But metaphors came closest: Lulu was a white-hearted starburst, a silver-crested wave. Lulu was the sound electricity makes.”
- from ALL ABOUT LULU by Jonathan Evison

…because that’s just the kind of friends that God has blessed me with.

(Pretty fkn blessed, indeed.)

.3. I am reading a book titled Ezekiel on recommendation.

This book is killing me as I am having a very difficult time reading it in one fell swoop. Or maybe it’s because I should be reading it in one full swoop?

Anyway. I usually read several books at a time, something with which most of you are familiar. Ezekiel‘s placed a damper on that reality, because Daniel Berrigan’s work is anxious and immediate and rushed and angry and confused and confusing and challenging. I can’t read more than a few pages a day, because…

…while reading, the words tumble quietly through my head until they start to push against the insides of my mouth and my face because they want to be screamed aloud for everyone to hear them.

It’s brilliant; he’s brilliant; read him.

.4. I carry sunshine around in my pocket. Did you know?

.5. July’s 2008 CrackBook status updates are linked here.

.6. Thanks to all for the wonderful and kind notes of love re Dave McMurran. You always overwhelm me. Always.

As for Yazo’s Q. The only thing I can say to you about Dave is that if ever there was a righteous cause and a righteous side, Dave found it and stood firm. He did it with full conviction and honesty of spirit; both of these things a rarity in this day and age.

He genuinely and unflinchingly cared for the well-being of others and carried around a pure heart.

Allah yir7amuh.

.7. I’m learning how to deal with a variety of new things…namely the tackling of my own level of patience (of which I actually have none). It’s a real trip, this tackling, and any lessons that life is willing to teach me, I try to always be a ready student.

.8. Am off to Montreal for the weekend to chill out with R. I’ve been promising to get out there for an extended period of time so that we may do nothing while being around one another and I’m finally getting there to do just that (especially since I didn’t get to see her last weekend while there for less than 24 hours). All other trips have been committed in haste, but inshallah, not this one. Can’t wait.

.9. I’ve found the perfect excuse to shop for a new wallet. Theft.

Last week, my wallet was stolen from atop my desk (hurrah for workplace security!). To avoid the confusion that I had to work through, I strongly encourage you to immediately:

- Make a list of all items in your wallet and keep the list apart from your wallet.

- Within that list, keep the numbers of all cards (including things such as library cards or Shopper’s Drug Mart or MEC or whatever…).

- If you are a moron and you keep your SIN in your wallet, take it out immediately. It is with your SIN that individuals can commit full identity theft.

- For the Canucks: As soon as your wallet is stolen / goes missing, ensure that you contact the three following credit bureaus and notify them of the loss. They will flag your name / file for the next 6 years, indicating that there is a higher risk of identity fraud where you’re concerned. What this does is it ensures that should anyone apply for a loan in your name, extra security measures are invoked in an effort to protect you. Experian at 1.888.826.1718; Equifax at 1.800.465.7166; and, TransUnion at 1.800.663.9980.

.10. Last but not least…in fact, last and most difficult is that I have to soon say goodbye to one of my dearest friends. Simply put, I love this woman and when she told me that she was moving out West, it broke my heart a little. Or a lot. She is soon to become the Dean of Applied Sciences at the University of British Columbia. I am proud. (But still, when she told me over dinner…I had to pretend I was extremely interested in my food so as to not show her the first signs of my tears.)

11 August 1953 – 26 July 2008

“Verily to Allaah we belong and unto Him is our return.”

May you rest in peace, Dave; Your passing will be felt in one too many activist circles to mention.

It was my first time visiting Calgary and I loved it. Surprisingly, Calgary is a lovely and calming place (notwithstanding their crazy Conservative politix).

Most of my trip was spent with R, who is the sister of my uncle’s wife. R was married nearly ten years back and due to a move to Kazakhstan and the birthing of four children, we rarely maintained touch. But, seeing her after nearly twelve years proved that real friendship does in fact span time, no matter the clock’s ticking.

Her children are joys to be around; the youngest one being Jennah who reminds me of Maggie Simpson as she is constantly with a bottle in her mouth.

Here are The Babies:

And here is Jennah (also, with bottle):

R’s husband was so nice and so warm and so welcoming that I couldn’t ask for more. They make a lovely couple, see:

I gifted Jennah the world’s greatest gold lame crack that she wore from the moment she awoke to the moment she slept. More importantly, I gifted the household a new garden!! I am both proud of and excited by this choice. Now, inshallah no one will forget to water the plants and they will live a long and healthy life, reminding R and Co. of I each summer when they bloom.

Due to certain circumstance, there were some very difficult moments that remain beyond my comprehension. What I can say about that is that it’s reinforced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that any decision making process shared between partners must stem from the same value system. (Otherwise, you’re completely f*cked.)

Almuhim. I have some highlights to share, as follows…

.1. GEESE!!

.2. This is the Calgary Tower:

…of which the top left hand corner is made of super duper strong plexi-glass or something like it (this, I hear, is the scientific term):

When you reach the top of The Tower, you can walk out on to this plexi glass thing and see ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE STREET! (This excites me.) Equally as important, if you stand beneath the plexi thing all the way down on the street and you have a very strong camera, you will see up the skirts of good people such as I. There is no getting around this, as I discovered.

Right. So I am by no stretch of the imagination a trepidatious person, or someone who doesn’t appreciate risk taking. I do it all the time and am prone to diving head first because I am of the opinion that time is precious and one should spend it doing and being with the things that make them happy and sunshine-y. So…it was with great surprise that I couldn’t make myself take an actual step on to the plexi platform while looking ALL THE WAY DOWN at the concrete. Instead, I had to stare straight ahead, walk to the side and then look down. It was totally trippy. I loved it.

…the best two pictures involve Aaminah.

The first is of her completely and totally floating in air:

while the second is of her standing next to spider man:

R had been there before but she had never been able to make it out on to the plexi platform. I coached her and she made it. Also, I coached some random woman who was absolutely mortified but managed to do it – she told me I had a fantastic way about me and trustworthy. (That’s how you represent Islam, Kitties…) That interaction was as trippy and as fulfilling as the plexi platform, but that’s just me.

Look! Muslims!
>> They’re just like You! <<
They sit on plexi platforms!

Also, while at The Calgary Tower, I signed something (I don’t know what)

Got busy

& discovered that when My People aren’t terrorizing Your People, We can be found seducing You into submission

.3. We played in Banff

.4. I wrote at the feet of Lake Louise

.5. I went to visit Na.oh.mi in Edmonton and realized that there’s few people with whom we can share so much of ourselves so easily. Na.oh.mi is one such friend. She and Jason are soon moving to Calgary and so this little home of theirs will be no more.

Edmonton took Na.oh.mi and I on a wild goose chase for a Dairy Queen (skor blizzard, please), a trip to Rona, lunch at Da*de*oo’s, deep conversations about de-weeding one’s garden, three episodes of Arrested Development and the world’s yummiest miso salad dressing.

And finally…

.6. I made a new friend, who:
- introduced me to RAW BEEF (a.k.a. Beef Tenderloin Tartar) that I find myself craving right now
- told me how gasoline lamps function (I used to think it was by magic alone!)
- let me drive their Lexus GS350, a car that starts WITH A BUTTON! You push a BUTTON! (My New Friend likes toys and so also has a Porsche 911 S convertible. Lucky for them that I can’t drive stick, or else I would have been all over the Porsche…)
- met Bambi with me
and
- showed me that Calgary was in fact secretly Tuscany

All in all, the trip was as close to perfect as I would have liked it…

.1. Because when I think of Unions, it seems a propos that NYC come to mind.

.2. Stare at one spot on the tracks; as soon as there’s movement in the periphery, your eye picks it up and there’s your rat. (That’s the trick.)

.3. More breakfast! (Fresh yogurt & fruits, a croissant and a fruit plate. It was a little much, but who am I not to take one for the team?)

As you can see, I had my agenda / diary so as to jot down my random observations and Shoosh’s laptop (because I left Baby Mac at home); I was trying to write out my notes re a review of War, Inc. and instead drowned in the latte.

.4. BALL GAME!! (This is the stadium which is to be torn down so that it may be replaced with a shinier version.)

Yankees played the Red Wings.

.5. We dropped by The Coffee House for a thick and gooey breakfast, where I quite possibly took the best photo of Sharshoor, ever.

Three things to note re The Coffee House. Shoosh nearly took out the hostess because she was so busy texting on her BlackBerry that she ignored us for a little too long. Without warning, Shoosh turned to me and said: “Shoo hay 7aywaneh?” which literally translates to “What is she, an animal?”, but actually means “What? Is she an idiot?”

Shoosh is full of fire and energy and so her tone was easy enough to read; Hostess put down her BlackBerry (because your a$$ is so important that you need to text immediately? (To which the natural response is, of course, because our a$$es are more important and we need to be sat down asap. I see my own indulgence here…)) and sat us down without any more texting.

It was the day the Netherlands lost to Russia and the two loudest, drunkest and most obnoxious men in the joint took a liking to us. They were a little on the wanker side and wearing what can only be described as attire meant to birth Rock ‘n Roll imagery.

I don’t mind a man who drinks once in a while, but he’d better know how to hold his liquor. These guys didn’t have a clue and at one point, one of them came over to our table and grabbed my sunglasses before I quietly and quickity split took them out of his hand and didn’t respond to any of his questions so as to not give him any ideas or allusion that I was interested.

Much more endearing than the drunken slobs were a couple seated across from us. They couldn’t take their hands off one another and it was absolutely adorable. It worked, I think, because they both had the same colouring and they were young and cute and so into one another they didn’t take notice of anyone else in the joint.

There was a playfulness in the way they interacted and a comfort that engaged anyone who looked at them. (I’m all for public displays of affection when you’re not obscene and recognise it doesn’t suit everyone. It’s like The Dress That Borders Sl*t (TDTBS); some women can wear TDTBS and own it like no one’s business because they have an inherent class in the manner they carry themselves. Others wear TDTBS and look like prostitutes. Same goes for PDA.)

.6. I call this Shoosh’s Glamour Shot and Adeebo’s Crazy Eyes Shot. Love it; it’s now hanging in my office.

.7. Night out at some club on Park Avenue because most of the boys in the circle are bankers. (LOOK! I have on eye make-up!!)

Best part of the evening was when one of the guys decided to tell me that what he did for a living was: “Build companies.”

I lost my sh*t and laughed so hard he couldn’t help but laugh with me.

“Build companies?”
My response was: “That’s like telling me you occupy countries. That says nothing to me except about the size of your ego, guy.”
Lucky for me I can deliver a joke and he can take it.
And I never deal where I refuse to play, so the rest of the interaction was light and fun.

.7. Met brother blogger HijabMan for a wonderful breakfast at the unGodly hour of 8.30 am on Sunday (my fault, this!) and was seated on the steps of St. Xavier church when I paparazzo’d (or is it: paparazzi’d, Espy?) him walking toward my NYC home…

He was handing out Sunshine to any one who would take it. Apparently, he had a hard time getting people to accept the Sunshine…but then I came along. And we all know I’m a HoneyPot. And that means I have enough charm to force you to receive the Sunshine. Three more lucky folks accepted the gorgeous flowers.

Before heading to breakfast, we went into St. Xavier to chill with Jesus.

…and this may very well be one of my favourite pics from the whole trip

(Note worthy: No implosion this time, either.)

(More note worthy: HijabMan’s take on our morning basking in Sunshine.)

.8. Breakfast with more Sunshine.

.9. While en route to the Karim Rachid store, I saw this beautiful statue of the map of Palestine and stepped two feet in to ask “how much?” Only then I noticed that there were Hasidic Jewish folk praying in the back room of this Gallery. I’ve never been so frazzled and caught off guard; not even at an Israeli check point where you expect to be treated like shit because you’re a Palestinian…probably because at the check point you’re braced and expecting it.

I turned around and immediately left as I’m certain I wouldn’t have been very welcome (had I enquired about purchasing even a map of what I consider Home).

…and finally… .10. Who doesn’t love finding a Heart on the Street?

This trip to NYC has been among the best.
I feel in love with Shoosh all over again, and I love that I love Adeebo. It’s always so hard if you don’t click with your girls’ men, but Adeeb is an amazing guy and their relationship is a treasure, Alhamdulilah.

(Aside: I forgot my favourite jeans at their place. I am still shocked every time I realize this; these jeans are like a second skin. They’re perfect and I’ve had them for nearly three years. They’re worn and torn and they’ve seen half the world with me…and currently, they are en route to Shoosh’s mom’s and I am awaiting the moment that I will greet and embrace them once again.)

Find the complete series of photos here.

Kitties!

I have been delinquent in my blogging as I have just returned home from Calgary (on a flight so filled with turbulence I almost threw up all over the crazy guy next to me taking pictures of his feet). Forgive?

Soon: Pics and stories coming from both NYC and Calgary. You will laugh, you will cry, you will wonder how I am of flesh and blood rather than crayon and paper.

Until then, do ogle this one of my favourite shots EVER, taken by my gorgeous and beautiful Sharshoor in NYC. The man here is Adeebo, her husband and for some strange reason, as soon as Sharshoor said “Smile”, we both managed to do something utterly idiotic. Wicked fun…because only a fool wouldn’t feel the sunshine when looking at this picture…

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

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

.2. I purchased a book here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.5. I saw War, Inc.

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

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

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

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

.7. I ate a pretzel.

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

Instead, we took stupid pictures.

.9. We splashed past Rockefeller Plaza.

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

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

S and I have a rare sort of friendship. I don’t believe that beyond a certain age, men and women can be friends. I do believe – that for the most part – in order for us to be close friends, there needs to be a certain level of attraction that exists, and so friendship in its purest form as it exists between two straight women (for example) can never be attained between a man and a woman. Or so is my experience because men always fall in love with me due to my never ending charming.

S is unique.
S and I fell for one another’s friendship immediately and without hesitation and our friendship was based on the trading of secrets (our own, not those of others).

He has offered support when I least expected it and talked me through the most obscure, surreal and craziest moments. He has also always offered an honest and sincere interest in and support of my life. Even though it should go without saying, I will write it anyway: the last two sentences are dittoed on my end.

Understand that S has a special place in my life…and on Saturday he was married.

Part 1: The Wedding
S met a beautiful and sparkly girl named Kelly.
S and Kelly fell in love.
S and Kelly got married…because that’s what folks do when they want to adventure together for an extended period of time. Or so is the case, in my world, shared by the likes of S and Kelly.

My heart nearly exploded through my chest when I walked up to the church and saw him standing in his tuxedo, I was so happy – a word that falls so short of what I actually experienced.

(My heart also nearly exploded because I was wearing a shade of sl*t red entering into a church while others were in subdued hues of brown, black, blue and grey. Hurrah for D who showed up in the same – entirely unplanned – shade of red a wee bit later.)

Not surprisingly for a girl who cries when she sees any act of kindness, I cry at weddings.
On Saturday, I cried a lot, and for two reasons.

The first was because it was in a Church.
I am a Muslimah and so I heart Jesus (as well as Moses and the rest). Consequently, it fills me with unbelievable amounts of warm and fuzzy when I see people standing / sitting before a priest, sheikh or a rabbi and entering into this very ‘covenant’ before God.

There was an incredible moment when the priest mentioned the etymology of the word ‘sacrifice’ and how it is sacrifice and forgiveness that make a relationship work. Sacrifice is rooted in the Latin concept to come together, and so when entering into a union of this sort, sacrifice (a word that too many frown upon) is the key to unifying as one, rather than existing as two solitudes and feigning unity. (Remember that. Also remember that our worth is measured not by our ability to remain a single unyielding entity, but rather how we enrich, improve, challenge to make better the lives of everyone in our path. You did not become so great had it not been for the sacrifices made on your behalf; so always work to return the favour to the universe (so long as you’re not going against your moral code, obviously).)

But I digress.
I still remember S sitting across from me in the fall of 2006 and telling me about Kelly, who he’d already fallen in love with. (Did you know that men are the ones who fall in love at first sight? It’s not actually women, but rather men who will tell you that from the very first moment they saw her, spoke to her, watched her walk up a set of steps, handed her a coffee over the counter, etc ad infinitum, they know that she’s the one they want to marry. It’s men, not women, who are the eternal romantics (this, not to be confused with a woman’s inclination to romance in the form of flowers and candles.))

Needless to say, Kelly’s an easy girl to fall in love with because she’s of the rare few who seem to have an endless amount of love to give, leaving others to wonder how such a tiny chest cavity can hold a heart so big.

S didn’t merely fall in love with her, but rather he fell into a state of adoring her. Seeing this so clearly and in such palpable manner was the second reason I cried more so than usual.

I heard it in S’s voice two years ago and I saw it all over his face on Saturday. What a pleasure it was to be witness to what may very well be the key to ‘ever’ after.

Part 2: The Party
Too much to tell you, and I’ve already told you the most important part.

Let me say that I danced with three wonderful folks, one of whom I will discuss in the following section. First, though, and perhaps most importantly, is that S’s mom and dad taught me how to jive dance.

They had the patience to teach me how to jive dance!! I couldn’t believe my luck – I was so excited and kept tripping at first, throwing my hand up at all the wrong moments, but still keeping the beat and so they kept at it with me.

I can now – sort of – jive dance. I need a little practice, but I appreciate that they took the time to graciously waste on me.

(A little note on S’s family, just so you understand the sort of creativity that exists in their world: S is adopted and in order for the mama and the papa to teach S about that, his mum created a story book about their lives and how they found S. Mama and papa were bears, and S was a penguin brought into their family. I will forever think of S’s mom as The Penguin Lady whose sense of imagination I love.)

Part 3: Salt
I’ve mentioned previously that S is a writer.

A while back, S started telling me about “Max and his amazing family”, with whom S was working on a new project. Whenever S mentioned Max, he lit up with energy and admiration and an overall sense of awe. When discussing Max’s family, I could almost touch how much S has come to love them, most definitely how grateful he is for their presence in his life.

Max is 27 years old with cystic fibrosis. His beautiful beautiful sister also has CF.

I must admit that before I met Max, I’d not known anyone with CF. I will also admit that I had a deep misunderstanding about what CF does and how it affects those who have it. Max pretty much shattered every misconception I had of this disease and I spent the better part of yesterday grilling my med school cousin about CF.

Please learn more about Cystic Fibrosis and consider supporting a foundation in your local area. Also, please read about and get to know the labour of love that is Salt, borne between S and Max McGuire. (I will provide more info on Salt as it becomes available.)

For all of my blogging brothers and sisters, please consider placing a link to Salt’s home. (Shukran.)

Part 4 is forthcoming; the day in pretty pictures, happy faces and a lot of red lipstick.

Three honourary mentions:
(1) Folks were trying to guess where I was from – behind my back – until S told me.
(2) I fell in love with all of S’s uncles, one of whom provided one of the three greatest lines of the evening: “How can the Jews be fighting your kind when all they need to do is look over the fence and see that Palestinian girls look like you?! WHY ARE YOU SINGLE??”
(3) The other two “greatest lines” of the evening belong to Kevin, the best man, who started the evening’s hilarities with his speech as follows: “Fornication! Oh. Uh. Sorry, I tend to speak too quickly when I’m nervous. Let me try that again: For an occasion…”
& ended our night with this goodbye to me: “When I saw you coming towards the church in your red dress, I thought ‘holy shit! I’ve forgotten everything Freud’s taught me! All of that therapy down the drains. Damn!” (Because, really: What more could a girl ask for, yes?)

Most of you should remember K of “M & K”, inspiration for A Home Can Not Be Built on the Table of an Architect.

Before your day is over, please send her your best energy.

(It’s nothing serious, but still warranted.)

Comments here are closed.

Krav Maga is the defensive tactic used by the Israeli Defense Forces.

It is of mixed martial arts and is meant to help you defend your ass against Palestinians attacking peoples.

My best friend and I did a four hour seminar today. The techniques taught were as follow:
- Defending yourself when someone is coming at you with a knife.
- Responding to someone who comes up from behind and grabs you.
- Defense against someone pulling your hair and not just your hairdresser.
- Defending yourself when you fall to the ground, as this photo indicates (it’s either that, or I’m learning how to Aggressive Break Dance):

- When someone points a gun at you.
- When you’re laid out on your back and the bastard’s on top of you.
- When someone’s trying to choke you.

Needless to say, it was pretty intense. T & I were, like, the only two commando girls in the room, actually fighting one another and not merely going through the motions. This, I can now prove because of the photo of us which T took at the end of the seminar; please note how maniacal I look with my hair a wee bit dishevelled due to the aggression through which T and I attacked the ‘practice’ manoeuvres:

We broke out in many sweats and were out of breath on several occasions.

We accidentally kicked one another in the groin, the thigh, the knee. We choked one another and we head-butted one another and kicked one another in the legs.

In other words, it was completely and totally wicked and worth every single second of the four hours practiced.

Self defense is no laughing matter, but there was a funny moment when we were asked to role play – something at which I am seriously shit – coming at one another with a knife and asking for money.

I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. I also did a couple of really odd tap dance / pirouette moves that were not a part of any self defense strategy, but that I alone am certain would shock any potential assailant into a sense of humor.

I must admit that my favourite part of the session was when we got to practice against a live dummy. He came at us rather forcefully and we got to hit back even harder.

I.
Loved.
It.
Even when he had me on the ground and he was choking me.

There’s nothing I can tell you through the written word that would help you with the technique should you be in a situation where you need to defend yourself against an assailant (read: usually always a rapist).

What I can and will do is tell you the very simple reality that you must never fear your assailant. Become the aggressor in order to immobilize them enough to get your ass out of the situation and to a safe place.

And know that you only have a few moments to do just that.

React aggressively and immediately. Use everything you’ve got and hit as hard as you can. Scream, kick, bite – use everything you’ve got or expect to be raped and murdered.

The choice is clear.

Take a self defense course because assault does not happen to other people. It can happen to you; you are never the exception to any rule.

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

(pause)

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

Love you.
Miss you.
Thinking of you, always.
& ready to open a can of Texan-style whup-ass on your behalf, if requested. Or just bake you a cake. Or braid your hair? Exchange most excellent photo angle tips & tricks? Buy you some Crack? Play tennis? Whatever. It’s yours.

Greatly appreciated if everyone who lived here sent their best energy toward Toronto for my beautiful Baby Jane.

xox

I’ve never understood the concept of a fan event. In fact, I would have to say that until Saturday evening, I have – on occasion – been a little cruel about them.

In early February, T invited Mo & I to visit her family. Having heard so much about her two baby girls and The Husband, James, I couldn’t pass on the opportunity. Adding more seduction power was that Mo would be there as well.

Around a month ago, T asked if I would be interested in attending a dinner comprising a few hours out of a multi-day fan event. My initial reaction was ‘no’ until she confirmed that it would be an ‘in and out’ sort of deal. Mo promised to serve as a buffer and if necessary, I would have T’s husband to whom I could escape. Albeit a little nervous, I agreed. The bottom line was I was scared-ed of what I might see.

And so we went to dinner. I still don’t understand it and I would still not attend (to each his own) if not for the necessary involvement of my dear and wonderful T. But, now that I’ve been witness to one such event, a few things have shifted in my perception…

I respect the women involved in the impeccable organization of the event. It took them EIGHTEEN MONTHS to prepare. EIGHTEEN MONTHS without the hint or illusion that the actor in Q would ever drop by. EIGHTEEN MONTHS, the result of which was an exquisitely organized and seamless evening where the over 250 individuals in attendance had the pleasure of escaping reality and stepping into the fantasy shared with friends who totally ‘got’ it.

I saw women cry and squeal with joy because they were finally meeting one another after a long virtual friendship. I saw as others spilled over with joy and gratitude because the actor had graciously personalised notes to the women for their hard work. Most importantly, I watched how value and purpose was received from this event…and, quite honestly, I was moved. Even as I type, I am moved by their experiences and a little ashamed at my previous cruelty.

So. This is just a very short note to say that between the beautiful baby S’s ballet class and occupation of my lap for the purpose of a nap, Eddie Izzard at 2am, James’ exemplary cooking, talking ‘shop’ (politics & religion) until 3am, Enchanted, L’s beautiful built-for-a-girl room and ability to give the world’s greatest and warmest hugs, Mo’s warmth, humour and secret-keeping and T’s generosity of heart, spirit and crafty ability…I attended a few hours of a fan event and even though I did indeed escape rather early so as to hang out with James while Mo & T2 got busy on the dance floor and T took care of more business I was warmed by the experience of watching the palpable pleasure of those in attendance.

Apart from creating bonds and friendships that span continents, they have found purpose and value in entertainment; this later serving as the most important of all, most especially in a time when so much of entertainment and most all of entertainers have actively engaged in cheapening themselves.

From the small rumours I’ve heard, they’re expecting to crack an unbelievable amount of money, each dime of which will be going to a charity supported by the actor himself. I will provide you with the exact figure once it’s released. If for no other reason, any effort that raises any money for any charity must be admired. And neither that it is needed nor does it matter to them, but for that, the women have earned my admiration, and so Bravo to them and their amazing work.

Gorgeous Mo, who when she visited me over a year and a half back left a little note for me on my dresser – a note I carry around with me everywhere I go because I love it so much:

& even though I will not blog the photo of T for personal reasons, I will add this photo as I have tucked her safely and securely beneath the mauve dot (& if anyone tries to touch her, I’ll break their envious and pathetic little fingers):

One small special mention very worthy of your attention: On the raffle block, there were thirty beautiful and overflowing massive theme baskets, each one of which was stained individually by one of the fathers of the women who organized the event. He is wheelchair bound and requires an oxygen tank. And yet, he stained thirty wooden baskets for this event.

I wanted to walk over and give him a hug, but felt a fool for even thinking it. So, choosing to be creepy instead, I merely stared at him in wonder when he wasn’t looking. (And just to confirm that I am in fact a Super Creep I also took a photo of him because I think he deserves to be acknowledged when the actor in whose name this was done is told about the event with a special mention made re the man who stained the baskets.)

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

Two unrelated further asides.

First. I tried to take a photo of Mo while she was dancing. I don’t know how to work technology very well, most definitely not something like a BlackBerry. But I tried anyway and couldn’t figure out how to turn on her camera though I did somehow turn on her video camera instead. And so, I managed to take a video of her, only she’s not in the picture because I’m that stellar. In place of that, you hear me jabbering on about why I can not take a photo, then turning to T who ‘threatened met me’ with her own BlackBerry and finally declaring “I wanted to take a picture of Mo & T2 but I don’t know how and now I’m taking a video ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA” or something like that with a lot of laughter. Mo has threatened to post said video – will let you know if she does indeed.

Second. If you are interested in meeting hot men, I strongly recommend you hit up the Customs Area at the Ottawa International Airport. I was standing waiting to be questioned as to my trip and couldn’t decide to which ‘window’ I was hoping to be called. (When did the border guards become the Border Foxes? And with such excellent hair, too?) Lucky I was called up to the Hottest of The Border Fox crew who asked me where I went and then why I went there and finally if I’d done any shopping because I declared ’0′ on my customs form. Because I didn’t buy anything. Because T has babies and babies are made for attention taking and not shopping. So. Border Fox leaned over and looked deeply into my eyes with his beautiful blue eyes. To this I leaned in and stared right back at him and his lovely eyes expectantly as he asked “You went to visit for a girls’ weekend? And you didn’t buy anything? Even though Mo came up from Los Angeles? And Trish from Florida?” (Yeah, seriously, I gave names…) He thought I was lying and the Border Foxes are trained to sniff out a liar and so I started thinking Oh my God, thank God I’m not a liar or else Border Fox would read it on my face as he is trained to do with those foxy blue eyes. Like, if I’m lying, I would respond and look to the left or maybe to the right or maybe at my shoes and then he’d know I had been shopping and was lying on my customs declaration. How clever of the Border Fox with the fantastic blue peepers. Lucky me I am not a liar. Though I do wish we had shopped. I like your hair. And your pretty blue eyes. I also like anything that sparkles if you spin it. Vanilla cake, too… This internal monologue while I was staring and smiling at him. And so I forgot to answer his Q. Really fancy of me, yes? I guess Border Fox could tell I was not fibbing, because he let me walk though I wouldn’t have minded much if he’d decided I was a liar and held on to me for further questioning. (Really, seriously, next time you fly into Ottawa International Airport, pay close attention to the new breed of The Border Foxes and get back to me.)

Hi all – okay…

(1) For those of you new to me, please understand that the mobile is perhaps the bane of my existence. I rarely have it on and check my voicemail perhaps once every two weeks. Last year, and for reasons beyond my control, I had to make myself accessible as best as possible.

Now that I no longer have to do that, it also means that my response time has slowed.

Please don’t feel ignored…it’s not you, it is most definitely me…

(2) I’ve not been blogging much because I’ve had a super crazy schedule and I am planning a super busy summer. Trips to NYC, Vermont, Toronto, Montreal, Washington, (perhaps) Thailand, and the Azores, all forthcoming.

Now that curling is over, I am back to boxing once a week. In five weeks’ time, boxing will be upped to twice a week. (Please note: this is not faerie boxing, nor is it kick nor muay. It. Is. Boxing. And it beats the shit out of your body.)

I try to have dinner with only one friend a week, but that’s turning a little impossible, so now it’s two a week.

I will also be taking care of a very specific region in mama’s garden. (More on this in the future months as it is a very big deal for me.)

I am maybe going to try rowing, depending on whether the schedule fits my own. Neither for competition nor dragon boating, but simply rowing. I hear it’s excellent for your arms and shoulders…and those are two key muscle groups for girls.

So all this to say that I am currently a little busy. Not to mention that I still have books to read.

If I am out of touch, please know that I’m not ignoring you; it’s only that I’m living a perhaps-to-you-but-not-to-me hectic schedule. There are only 27 hours in my day and I enjoy making the most of them. “Idle” = “lazy” and though that’s an excellent way to pass maybe two days a month, it is no way to live a life. (At least not mine.)

(3) Please visit following album sets to see what’s been happening.

As promised previously, photos of Sophia and I have been uploaded (simply click on the picture):

Aalya / Sophia’s baby shower photos linked here:

Muslims, They’re Just Like You! They Shovel Snow! (Click the picture to see what has buried Ottawa this past winter, and also to check out my stellar shoveling outfit that consists of pyjamas, mama’s panda bear coat, her boots and her headband.)

More to come (including the images from my trip to the Middle East this past December).
xox to each…

Please say hello to my niece Sophia:

Whose papa called me a few hours after the above photo was taken on March 8th, 2008, to leave me the following message:

“hi maha it’s dietrich and i just wanted to let you know that our baby sophia was born early this morning at about twenty to one a.m. and she’s a beautiful baby girl and she’s very happy and she has dark curly hair and long eyelashes and her mother’s nose – lucky her. And she’s just wonderful and she was 7 pounds and 13 oz and her and Aalya are doing just fine they are sleeping here in front of me right now and they’re both just so beautiful (voice cracks) and we wanted to let you know and we can’t wait to see you as soon as we get home. Bye bye.”

I started crying.

After a C-Section / See-Section / Sea-Section (because, really, all of them could arguably apply), mama was satiated and calmed and bonding with baby Sophia:

As was papa:

These next two photos break my heart because while I was carrying her, this is how she looked

and she was collapsible as is apparent in this photo

Funny this, that she is spring-loaded. When you tap Sophia’s little round belly her arms flip out and up, much like The dude crucified in the image of Jesus. I couldn’t stop myself poking and watching the spring load.

I am in love with Sophia and I think it’ll be so much fun to grow one of my own, inshallah. (Pics of her and I forethcoming.)

His name is Daemon (Scott) Fairless, and he recently married Lyana, a beautiful and brilliant gynaecologist (as Scott says: “It’s nice to have a shared interest”).

Scott was the first boy I ever loved, though I never told him that. Being the first boy I dated, it was complicated and unclear at the time.

We met while he was working as bartender at Oliver’s on Carleton University’s campus. He was 6’2″ and quite possibly in the most prime shape of his life, with green eyes and sandy brown hair. He made me laugh to the point of peeing myself, was a reader and a boxer and so proved the most beautiful combination for me.

We were both children then and I loved him the only way a 22 year old Maha knew how: Stupidly and confusedly. We argued about religion – he was then an atheist, though now believes in God – and poetry.

He read to me, we had dinner with his step-mum and father who called me “gregarious”, he read to me some more, he had dinner with my mother who called him “handsome” (he is, to this day, the only man whose met mama), we argued more, he read to me some more, we had dinner with his mother and he attempted to play the guitar only to find a condom wrapper inside of the guitar throwing us into a hysterical frenzy of laughter.

He cooked, we read, I cooked, we argued even more, his love of Johnny Cash rivaled my love of Madonna, we made fun of each other, I was confused by him, we danced to really bad and fast pop music, we watched ER, he wrote his number on a piece of paper I had kept for years. He was beautiful and brilliant to me and he introduced me to Vietnamese rolls for which I am eternally grateful.

Essentially, it was exactly what two 22 year olds look like in a relationship.

Among the memories I hold of Scott, there are these two following particularly vivid spots in time: First, Cathy and Dino had come to meet me at Oliver’s for a drink and to meet Scott, who was working that evening. I was walking past him when he pulled me over and whispered “you are so beautiful” to which I couldn’t respond because I didn’t know how.

I was 22 years old and I’d never heard it from anyone but my mother because, essentially, I am a muppet. (In fact. Up until that point there had only been one other boy who’d ever referenced my looks, and that was George Logaras of Brookfield High School in Ottawa nearly 7 years earlier: He’d called me ‘ugly’ and ‘fat’ (I was a size 12), and referenced my ‘four eyes’ (glasses, yes) and my unibrow WHICH I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE HAD! I have never plucked between my eyebrows. The unibrow misobservation dumbfounds me to this day. He was a real dream boat, that one, aged 18 to my 15.)

Second, he was the first boy to hold my hand and when he did, he was making eye contact and I very seriously almost projectile vomited, because that’s what muppets do.

Right. So, anyway, 22 year old Scott was also a self-absorbed idiot who didn’t know how to communicate with my 22 year old self, loved Walt Whitman (snoooooooze), made fun of me for believing in angels, spent way too much time reading and believing Nietzsche (and then making me read Walt Whitman and Nietzsche), writing poetry and sulking in the way only a 22 year old boy can sulk. The world revolved around Scott, and if it didn’t, he forced his mind to perform acrobatics so that the world became about him. In hindsight, he was a 22 year old puppet to my muppet, and I loved him for it.

Needless to say, 22 year old Scott and I ended and then he started dating a woman much too soon after me. His actions didn’t set off a nuclear bomb because he neither deceived nor misled nor betrayed me; but his actions were indeed idiotic, hurtful and mean.

(I must here be mean. Note that their relationship started by him cooking her dinner; she came over with a Tom Waits CD, flowers and her flute. SHE PLAYED HIM THE FLUTE. Likely, she went to band camp. (I still remember unveiling the news re ‘the flute’ to The Girls who proceeded to gawk at me as though I’d suddenly sprouted a second head and tipped forward due to the sheer weight of the new head combined with my existing head.) When he told me about their date (we were trying to be friends) I told him I was no longer interested in being his friend and that it was too soon and too hurtful. I hung up, went into my closet to find a lantern which he’d gifted me and then promptly propelled it down the garbage chute with enough force to knock down the entire building.

For approximately two months after he and I stopped speaking, I used to imagine taking a bat to his legs and burning her flute.

From what he tells me, he stayed with her for a couple of years, and it was the “worst relationship of his life.”

Yes. I’m not above admitting that it made me feel good to hear this.

I’m being mean because I’ve suddenly lost interest in my 33 year old self and found my inner 22 year old instead.)

Six years ago, I received an email from Scott after he “Googled and found [me]“. He contacted me to apologize for all of his shit behaviour years back, as he should have. It wasn’t something I had waited around for, as 22 year old Maha wasn’t the same as 27 year old Maha nor was she the same as 33 year old Maha who is currently thinking that speaking about herself in the 3rd person is really strange and so Maha will stop.

I accepted because his apology was honest and clear and true, appreciating the fact that it had played on his mind for five years (look: if a boy becomes a man at 27, then that’s pretty damn impressive).

Since then, we’ve remained in contact at a relatively good level – though it’s not regular contact, it is worthy contact when it happens (quality here, in fact).

For the women who live here, I wish to share something with you, sent to me by Scott about men nearly a month and a half back. My mind was experiencing a logjam, and he forced me through it. (There is something to be said for those who knew our hearts intimately, no matter that with Scott it was 11 years ago. As with very very few others, he will always have an edge.)

Take the following with you and keep it somewhere safe so that you may access it when you need it (this is something I’ve always believed and expressed without hesitation, but it’s nice to have it confirmed and backed by a man):

“Fact is, guys suck most of the time. I don’t mean to sound flippant but it’s true. They are hard to trust. Their dicks are serious liabilities. It’s that simple. Even the guys who don’t want pussy want pussy. They’ll go to great lengths to rationalize their actions but it really is that simple. The only guy you can kind of trust is a guy who is honest about that. I really think you can’t ever fully trust what a guy says. At least until he’s got one hell of a proven track record.

Also, guys tend to be kind of autistic and so they don’t really understand how their actions affect others, at least not in the same way women do. (Again, I’m not being flippant. There’s a male-autism-lack of empathy thing that’s pretty well studied).

In my mind, there’s a divide: males who know this is true of themselves can be called men. Males who aren’t yet aware of this are called boys, regardless of age. A gentleman takes care not to harm others whether by taking precautions not to act on his biological imperative or not lying to himself or others about his inability to keep it in check.”

Pretty brilliant.

Love that he’s willing to step beyond the Male Code of Keeping Their Shit Secret and stand next to a girl who was once in his life to clarify a few points.

Love that it comes from the same man who “once made [his wife] lunch and included a can of beer so that when she opened it in front of her colleagues, they’d think she was an alcoholic“.

Love that it proves that even at 22, I knew how to pick a good man…even if it took him six years to become that man.

Every girl should have one (and Scott is mine): The Stand-Up Guy to whom The Girls and you throw back as you discuss the m(e)n in your lives.

Really. I love it.

Please meet Sophia (we call this The Creepy Ultrasound picture):

currently residing in mama Aalya:

Set to pop within the next week and who just said: “Maha, I look & feel like a dung beetle. I want this little diva out of me – she’s a week late. Always late, like her mother. I have no doubt she is going to be born kicking and screaming and feisty and opinionated just like her mother and all of the wonderful women she knows.“

Most of you have heard of The Drake, yes? It’s one of the most infamous places at which to be seen and to see in Toronto.

It’s there that Baby Janey and I caught Plants and Animals, an (originally) East coast band that had a very familiar Doors feel about their music. We loved everything about them, beginning with their stage presence and ending with their tempered shyness and drinking sense post show.

It was with great pleasure that last night I discovered they were iTunes’ featured Free Single of the Week.

The Drake itself was wonderfully small by most standards and had the best Art Garfunkel look-alike bartender

And nicest yet potentially meanest doesn’t take shit from anyone manager (on the left) who joined us for drinks post show

And a picture booth(!) into which Baby Jane, Plants & Animals’ lead singer and I squeezed in to take pictures

(The strip pictures you can see more clearly here and also here.)

Post The Drake, we went to Rhino where we found one of the world’s most disgusting bathrooms (just look at the mirror!)

After which Janey, The Manager and I went and ate Halifax Style Shawerma…I didn’t take any pictures because I was too busy pretending to enjoy the food.

Excellent night all around where I discovered new music and new food – and to think that I had contemplated staying home that evening…

Now: Go download some Plants and Animals, please.

P.S. You can make fun of all pictures from that evening here…

I received this in the mail at the office, Thursday last. It’s now off my computer screen and pinned to my wall, where it will stay until it falls apart because of age.

I love this. Not because – according to Baby Jane – I am way hotter, but because it’s the sort of thing only Janey and I would do for one another; countless and random magazine and newspaper pages sent by snail mail throughout the years. (Make sure you click the picture to read the note; I think Janey’s hand writing is very fashionable and should become an official script titled ‘The Baby Jane’ because Times New Roman is just such a bore.)

Psst! Why should you fly Porter?
Because they’re brilliant and fun and they serve tons of snack foods and their water bottles are square and they have free wi-fi and comfy couches and also because I think their mascot may be a racoon. (A racoon!) They’re how I last got to Toronto and how I will get there every time from here on in; they’re the same folks who provided me with the opportunity to ask my former boss / former leader of the opposition if he was an actor from ‘LA Law’. (Read: They let me illustrate out loud the dorkiness.)

Psst, no 2! Did any of you send me a postcard from Honolulu? I…don’t…know…who sent this postcard…and I can’t read the signature

I was in the middle of a party, eyes dressed accordingly in kohl and mascara and carrying myself around with some level of dignity until I was handed a gift. When she handed this to me and I unwrapped it, I began to cry and my mascara frowned and sighed.

After already spending so much of her time with me to help me better understand and to tell me I would get through things in time, she took more time.

After so much of her time was spent holding on to and rocking me while I was weeping in her living room, she took more time.

After having already spent too much of her precious time emailing me down, phoning me down, text messaging me down and allowing me to draw from her incredible reserve of strength and faith, she still took more time to take one of my stories and have it published in a little bookie.

The individual who handed me the gift is one of the very few blessings to come from 2007 and has become one of my greatest confidantes. This bookie is one of the most special items anyone has ever gifted me, and she is one of the most precious that God has ever gifted me.

Of the many things for which I am thankful are the friends I hold near and dear.

Na.oh.mee, mentioned here previously, is one of these friends.

Of all her exceptional qualities, it is her compassion that draws me in and softens me up. It’s this same compassion that will undoubtedly permeate all of her future works, most definitely her soon-to-be first novel: Cricket in a Fist.

It will be released in two days and I am anxiously awaiting my copy!

It was my Baby Jane’s special 30th birthday last September (for which I have yet to send her a gift, but I’m now thinking I won’t send it and will instead take it to her when I see her in the Spring). On that day, she received two strange birthday gifts.

Neither of these gifts solicited a same-reaction-as-Baby-Jane’s except mine. Something both of us found puzzling when I reacted as I did.

The first gift received was a ring. In a box. From her mother.

The second gift was an ugly, sorry Janey fertility god in the form of a fat baby Buddha with a bow on it’s head and made from some animal’s body part (the tusk of Dumbo, maybe?). Correct me here if I’m wrong, Baby.

Do you see a theme? Do you see a perhaps problematic theme?

Baby Jane did, and so did I.

Janey refused to tell me what her mother had gifted her, and instead chose to unveil it in order to see my reaction. My reaction that was one of shock and terror and complete disbelief. That ring should not have come from Janey’s mama; That ring should not have been gifted to any single woman except by that woman’s soon-to-be life partner, or herself if she decides that she wants a ring and doesn’t want to wait for a man to give her that ring.

I was in the kitchen for the unveiling and I nearly choked on the coffee I was drinking. And then Janey screamed a THANK YOU because no one else had seemed as dismayed by the gift in question. I’m not even sure if Janey wears the ring or if it’s sitting there in it’s box wondering where the sunshine is.

On to the fertility baby. Because? Because nothing says Happy Birthday quite like “because your womb needs all the help it can get, now that you’re close to barren, you sad and single thirty year old”.

Look. Both Janey and I understand that the fat fertility god was a very expensive antique, but honestly folks, you don’t give a fertility fattie to a single woman. And most definitely, not on her 30th birthday. If you do, then you should expect that she’ll hand you a box of depends on your 40th. And maybe some orthopaedics on your 43rd. Maybe.

(Happy Valentine’s Day from me, and a gentle reminder that you won’t be getting either a fat baby or a ring from me, but rather only what you deserve…and from the bottom of my heart, too.)

Hurrah! The Annual Girls’ Holiday Dinner was an unabashed success (even though the stuffed chicken was much too salty, even for my taste…).

The Reason(s)
The main reason I began having these Annual Dinners was because The Girls were convening – with great difficulty – perhaps once every six months, and I thought it was time we had a standing yearly event to which we all looked forward. That is precisely what The Annual Girls’ Holiday Dinner has become, a reputation that is well earned because it really is an ‘event’, and not merely a dinner party. The second and much more important reason I do this is because I like presents! And The Girls come bearing gifts…

To the bouquet of flowers where red and white lilies were present, Di added yellow ones

Tasha gifted me the gorgeous gold earrings I’m wearing; Laura brought a box of specialty tisane teas, and Cleo brought a candy-cane candle & 8 different scented body creams. (I enquired if she thought I was stinky. She laughed and walked away without answering, but not before she told me to watch myself as I walked past the stairs “because [I] could fall and really hurt myself”.)

The Attendees
Di & Cleo

Laura & Tasha

(Di was the designated photographer and within moments, the ladies had been lined up both against the wall, and by the sofa so that their portraits be taken. It was really quite fantastic as the shutter bounced up and down, Tasha and Laura did a little tango, while Cleo and Di opted for a more discreet revival of The Outsiders video box, minus one Tom Cruise.)

And I, your BlogMistress

(Di was attempting to capture the length of the dress and I was yelling back responses to Cleo as she rummaged through my closet and queried “Why haven’t I EVER seen you in THIS dress? And what’s BEDO? And are all of these CDs yours? And if your mom ever wants to give away the dress you’re wearing and you don’t want it, will you give it to me? And don’t fall down the stairs, you could really hurt yourself!”)

Although mama was not present in body (she’s in Dubai until this coming Friday), she was present in soul as the dress I wore was in fact once hers. I believe she purchased it in her early 20s and wore it much lovelier than I could ever dream to wear it.

The Drink
Over the course of the six hour meal, we consumed two bottles of IKEA’s Sparkling Apple Drink and two bottles of IKEA’s Sparkling Pomegranate Drink that are wrapped up as though they are champagne. These drinks are fun because by glass no 4, we were all hit by an incredible sugar rush that left us hysterical and prone to confessions. (To add a slight more ambiance to the drink, I placed strawberries in each glass.)

As though these four bottles weren’t enough, I brought to the table at least three gallons of water and rose oil. By the end of the evening, The Girls = Race Horses.

The Meal
The seven courses were presented once an hour on the half hour, as follows…

6.30pm
Asiago Cheese Puffs
Stuffed Baby Potatoes with Shrimp

6.30pm for Dianna, a vegan
Bruschetta & Babaghanoush

7.30pm
Curried Sweet Pepper soup (served with a dollop of sour cream, a dash of sweet paprika & a blackberry)

8.30pm
Arugula, Pear & Asiago Cheese salad (served with roasted walnuts and breadsticks)

9.30pm
Angel Hair Pasta Nests with Shrimp, in Heavy Cream (fresh basil served as the garnish)

10.30pm
Stuffed (with Borsin Cheese & spinach) Chicken Breast

10.30pm for Dianna
Yellow Pepper stuffed with cous-cous, garlic, cashews & dates

11.30pm
Lemon Sorbet…which, sadly, went unphotographed…

12.30am
Vanilla Pound Cake with Vanilla Bean ice-cream, fresh berries & fresh mint

Pretty spectacular, indeed. So spectacular that I was allowed to wear Laura’s tiara and crowned by myself and only in my own head: Culinary Goddess. (Look how large and cow-like my eyes are.)

The Soundtrack
Apart from the incredible company and food, we were joined by the very sexy Tom Jones, Platinum Blonde (Yes! We know they are of The Gay variety, but we love them still in ‘that’ way…), Bono, Terence Trent D’Arby & the boys from Chicago. As only the best Holiday Dinners know, The Eurythmics, The Spice Girls and Justin Timberlake completed our evening’s soundtrack.

The Final Confession
Naturally, there were no lulls in the evening’s conversation. In fact, this year’s theme seemed to be that of The Confession, with the Weirdest Topic Award going to: Gas (not of the petrol variety).

If I were to sum the evening up into one line, I could…and I will…

We promised we would never discuss who said this, and so you must excuse my adherence to this code…

As one of us was staring down at her dessert plate, she quietly and very seriously announced: “I don’t know if I’m seeing things, but I’m pretty sure my cherry just vibrated.”

And that line, my friends, is the line that best wraps up the 2007 Annual Girls’ Holiday Dinner. I do hope you had as much fun ogling the photos as we did devouring the food. Feel free to stalk the entire rest of the photos here.

In a little over two hours, some of (the others missing in the USA) The Girls are coming over for my Annual Holiday Dinner. Technically, this evening is for 2007, as I didn’t have the chance to celebrate the presence of their friendship within the confines of that calendar year.

The table is set with six candles, sparkling pomegranate & apple ” faux champagne”, and oriental white & red lilies (my favorite):

The seven-course menu is:

Asiago Cheese Puff appetizer & Stuffed Red Potato Shrimp appetizer (look: here is ‘The Making Of’ of the latter caught on camera)

Curried Sweet Potato Soup (with a dollop of sour cream and a dash of paprika)
Arugula, Pear & Asiago Cheese Salad
Angel Hair Pasta & Shrimp Nests
Stuffed (with Boursin cheese & spinach) Chicken Breasts (but first & critical, is that the chicken is marinated in brine over-night, as this photo explains)

Lemon Sorbet
Vanilla Pound Cake (with ice cream and fresh berries)

The dress-code: Evening wear. I’ve chosen to wear mama’s 1960s hippie-chick floor-length gauze stunner:

I’m currently pulling together the song playlist and I have to make pretty relatively soon; my home smells like vanilla and sugar and I’m quite certain things couldn’t be any better than right at this very moment…