Prolific Immigrant

I often struggled with trusting people. Primarily, it was to do with men because of my experience with my dad. While I know he would erase and redo all of those years in a heartbeat if he could, and while I have forgiven him entirely, there remains residue which affects my relationships (plural because I am a fun-times hooker) with men.

Aalya says that what I do is disappear so that I might lick my wounds and heal on my own before I can resurface. Maxi calls it my Shut Off Valve, and it is something about myself which I dislike, and so something I constantly work to challenge when I feel it creeping around in the shadows of my mind.

In a nutshell, what it is is that I become cagey, hard to corner or catch. Just like the chicken in Rocky. In the most extreme playing out of The Shut Off Valve, I have disappeared entirely from someone’s life.

This thing is rooted in two platforms: (1) it is a form of self-preservation; and, (2) it is an arrogance which assumes that people should never do wrong. Which, by default, means that I should never do wrong and so turn myself and people around me into weird automaton figurines while knowing fully well that I believe, to the core of me, that human behavior is so varied and so fundamentally non-mathematical and still I sometimes need to be gently reminded that I am wrong and that human behaviour is not 1 + 1 = 2.

One of the ways by which I am changing this about myself is to trust in God, and to trust in the Protection of His Grace. For a while, I was struggling and could not face my prayer mat. Though I always knew I was being carried in His (metaphorical) heart, I could not bring myself to turn toward Him for a variety of reasons. I was extremely ill at ease while this was happening, always aware that there was something missing. That my best friend was not present because I had closed the door and left Him outside, though I kept peeking out from behind the blinds and looking at Him.

My friend Blue and I talked about this at length and he encouraged me, like a Nike commercial, to just do it. Even when I wasn’t feeling it, to just pray. And so on January 9th, I began my day with my morning prayer and have continued since, alhamduliLah.

Recently, I changed my position from “this is an obligation and a duty” to “there are five times a day where I get to have private time with Allah during which I can reflect and allow my heart to be vulnerable.” While I wouldn’t say that I am jumping with joy every time I have to perform ablution, I can say that the thought of saying Hia to Allah for a few minutes eases the lazy.

Back to the point of this article. There are 99 names for Allah in Islam, two of which are in the decal in the photo: “Ya Fattah, Ya Salaam.”

Al-Fattah means The Opener, or “He Who Opens all things.” While this has several meanings, the most important for me is that He removes all obstacles in our path. This is the essence of this name, and it is meant to be integrated all across the board starting with the physical obstacles in this world, to the psychological obstacles with which we struggle when trying to move ahead, and culminating in the removal of obstacles on the path to Heaven.

Returning to my issues of mis/trust, and keeping in mind Ya Fattah, I have learned to slowly shift my positioning from one of mis/trust in someone to trust in God. Trusting that He will remove anything and anyone who might devastate me, and also trusting that only placed in my world are those who will help me grow and learn, challenge me to become better, and who will do their best to never ever crush my heart. Granted that often I tumble and face dive into regressive thinking, but I usually catch myself early enough that I might take a couple of steps back and start again before it’s too late.

This shift also helps us lighten our load and our hearts. To be in a constant state of mis/trust is horrible and it is heavy and hurtful to ourselves and those around us. To be in a constant state of trusting in God, however, brings with it a lightness and calm to ourselves and which — I think — is reflected in how we treat others and how they see us when they take a glance (both of which are really amazing and warm hugs for the soul).

Al-Salaam means The Source of Peace. This one is self-explanatory, and it’s importance in my world and in my understanding of faith traditions as they are reflected in the lives of people should be obvious enough to anyone who has been reading me regularly.

“Ya Fattah, Ya Salaam.”
When combined, to believe in The Opener, is to also believe that He is The Source of Peace. It is to believe that He will remove all obstacles which would bring anything but peace into our hearts and lives. The flip side of this is that He will open the doors to those men, women, and situations which will bring love and light to our station. Finally for me, it is to believe that everything happens for the best of reasons; that while the revelation of “why” may not be immediate in instances of trauma, the revelation will come eventually.

Though I might be biased, I believe that this perspective is beautiful in its sharing of our love and lives with Allah, and allowing us to open up entirely and free fall into the arms of others, since to love and to share are also to trust. It is also what some folks might call a crutch — and to them I say: while hobbling along is fun, I prefer to have Support intended to ease my presence today, and which allows me to open my heart fully to those around me.

Here is another photo of the decal, a little more clear in its size and stature. Being approximately 4 feet x 4 feet, it is a gorgeous addition to The Cloud Cave, and it gives me reason to stop and think and find calm when I may be otherwise disheveled. Additionally, it looks like there’s an ‘M’ (for Maha) at the top…which…I mean….how could I have resisted?

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If you are interested in more Muslim art work, please pop by Irada Arts for a look and see.

My friend came over yesterday to put the final touches on The Cloud Cave. Namely, to hang all 15 of my art pieces and a 7,000 pound mirror which I had only wanted to anchor, but turns out that hanging was a better option.

Honestly dear Reader, though it’s not clear in the photo, it turned out BEAUTIFUL, and exactly as I had imagined. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I pulled my pillows and bed coverings and slept on the rug on the floor (I am specifying the “on the floor” part just to make sure you don’t get confused and think I was maybe hanging upside down and napping. That’s how much I like you, Reader) so that when I woke up this morning, the first thing I would see was my new salon wall. That’s sort of a secret, so please don’t tell anyone I did that.

We made sure to leave some space for new art work since as of a couple of years ago, I decided that when I travel, I would always bring home one piece of local art, and a magnet.

Funny story. My friend must have played a lot of Pong Atari when they were young, because at one point they nailed me in the ear with one of the lighter pieces. Pretty sure they were aiming for my mouth because I wouldn’t stop talking. Thanks God they were clearly not good at Pong. Now I have a swollen right ear.

I might be lying about the swelling.

Funnier story. We were discussing sex education for very young children, and this morning I recalled that when I was 10-years-old, we had sex ed in school. Obviously, I went to public school. The teacher was trying to explain the details of penetration. Like you, I still don’t know why he was forced to do this to a class of 10-year-old lunatic children.

While the boys were completely agog at the subject matter, none of the girls understood a thing except for the one girl who had seen porn (and now headlines at Barefax). It was absolutely impossible for us to understand the logistics of how or why something could get hard when it got excited because when we got excited, we just ran outside and skipped rope, laughed, pulled at our hair, and had a peanut butter sandwich. Which…I mean…I guess this is how some people would today describe their sexing situations. Pauvre eux.

Ultimately, what the teacher was miserably trying to explain was that the boy fun-part gets hard and then pokes at random girl fun-part(s). To 10-year-old girls this was f/cking crushing because WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE POKES AT US WITH SOMETHING THAT’S HARD?! At one point, I was sitting paralyzed, ramrod styles in my seat and crying because I was so scared of getting poked by something hard. What if he put out my eye? Or gave me an ear infection? Or broke my nose with his hard boy-thing?

Pretty much the same reaction I still have today.

By the time the lessons were over, the teacher was likely impotent. Pauvre lui.

Anyway. Back to yesterday; I fed my friend as thanks, and when they left, I ran for my pjs, pillows and cover, and sprawled out onto the floor to enjoy every story associated with each piece of art work. If you let it, then it’s the little things that make life so very golden.

BREAKING! The ants in my pants are no more, and I miss them.

I am entirely bagged. I have a tension headache that I can’t fix, since Tuesday. It came with my keys.

I have barely eaten, and being the crazy person that I am, I didn’t check the weather before packing away my clothes, and so am left with a week’s worth of really lovely summer pieces entirely useless when it’s -8 outside.

I need a massage, a hot bath in salts and lavender, and a home-cooked meal. None of these things will happen until Saturday night.

Right now, I just wish to be moved in at home with some quiet, scented candles, and warmth. It honestly can’t happen soon enough.

P.S. If any of you have a home remedy for my headache, please send it my way. Thank you x

I am the little one, with head shaped like a potato. The beautiful woman is my patrilineal grandmum

Standing by the Mediterranean’s wintered coastline at Gaza, in approximately 1980, my family had decided that pneumonia at the hand of frozen sea spray was a welcome family event. Not sure if any of us became bed-ridden after this shoot, but I can confirm that the video from which I stole this image is further proof that I was an addled child, displaying clear signs that I would later become an addled adult.

The unamused and slightly stunned expression on my face is also why I have my hands angled awkwardly; I had been ripped from my playtime in the sand so that the taller people could pose with my little self. In the video, I am waving my paws’round because they are dirty, and even then, I didn’t wish to be improper and run sand across my grandmum.

Though still very young, much of the captures are of me watching others like a true creep, and playing alone with what appealed to me only and with neither interruption nor direction from anyone else. Oddest is that I appear quiet, though momma tells me this has never been the case as always, I sat alone either chattering animatedly to myself or singing noise, like just last weekend.

Shortly after the above photo, my momma locked me between her legs to fasten a poncho around my neck; a poncho I still have today though too small to wear, but for a hat or interesting sleeve. She is struggling with me, and before she has a moment to catch her breath upon my release, I have made like an ostrich and dived head-first for the sand, while simultaneously whipping the poncho back to fashion a noose for my neck.

In vain I kept watching the video to figure out what in the f/k I was doing, the magnum opus that required so much attention and determination. Sadly, it was nothing; actually and literally nothing. Instead, it appears that I am broken-record and saucer-eyed running my hands through the sand over and over and over. Creating space in sand, lunatic petting for some elusive treasure which I had imagined. Maybe the point there is not that I am in search of something, but rather that I have always best been satiated by the journey itself.

I watched fascinated by three generations of women: grandmum standing strong, matriarch over all; mum popping up from the sand, with hair a mess, and laughing wildly; Camilia whose elegant features appear cut from a Roman bust; and then, us.

Little children staggering toward the sea, crying, pointing, arguing, falling, laughing, burying our hands into each others, completely and totally innocent to all that would displace us to February 2012.

Divorce.
Death.
Occupation.
Exile.
War.
One generation imprisoned in Libya, another in Occupied Gaza, and a third “free” but apart in Canada.

This video reminded me.

Last week, my grandmum turned 83; I remembered that I have not laid eyes on her beautiful face since she was 75. That I have not felt her soft hands since she was 75; have not tasted the almonds and cashews over which she says prayers regularly.

I remembered that since my grandmum was 75, she has not made me her sweet chai, not her bitter coffee, and I have not eaten at her table.

I remembered that since she was 75, I have not found the hidden chocolate boxes filled with her jewelery, nor have I sat at her vanity smelling her dozens of perfumes and lipsticks.

My grandmum turned 83 last week.
I have not, since her 75th, sat with my cousins in her kitchen and laughed at our own hysterical imitation of our elders, only to be set quiet by the sound of the morning call to prayer.

Vividly, I was reminded that since the age of 29, my forehead and eyelids have not felt my grandmother’s lips, telling me that I am my father’s daughter.

Telling me that I am hers.

Seated in my office, I watched repeatedly, caught by a laughter which broke a part of my heart and set it adrift until it jammed itself into my throat.

Because my body remembers how desperately it misses the fierce winter song of the Mediterranean coastline at Gaza, with little hands buried deep in the sand and coming up with nothing. Except the love of my family.

We were there for 48 hours and here’s a scrunched itinerary for those of you on a tight schedule.

First, don’t go in the winter unless you’re interested in experiencing the wild tsunami that glides off of the Atlantic and Larry, Moe + Curly slaps into your face. After my first walk along the pier by the world’s largest fiddle, I couldn’t move my mouth to speak proper. This is not an exaggeration.

Lucky that balancing out this exhausting cold is the warmth of the Cape Bretoners** who occupy the City. Everyone says hello, and everyone smiles at you. EVERY.ONE. It is so very lovely to be greeted with smiles at every turn, and like a true City girl, I wonder what the murder/suicide rate is.

On Friday morning, my boss/colleague/friend/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-him-exactly-just-yet and I jumped into a cab at 6.30am and made our way out to the closest lighthouse, which was an approximate half an hour out of Sydney, and to be found in the neighbouring town of “New Victoria.”

Sitting at the tip of Sydney Harbour, she seduces all manner of sailor to shore. I had never seen a lighthouse up close and personal, and so tried to open her door because who wouldn’t?, only it was locked. Sad and dejected I circled the base willing her to open to me. She did not. I froze my face. I returned to the car.

But not before I went down by the water and took this gorgeous photo which makes me wonder if this is some sort of a plank from which Cape Bretoners chuck the bad people.

Sidebar: Though we had hoped to watch the sun rise, Sydney was expecting a storm and so all we saw were rolling burbling clouds. That said, I strongly encourage that you make your way here to watch the day break over the Atlantic on a clear day.

On the way back into the City, we stopped at Fort Petrie where the ground is covered by these beautiful skeletons of a particular flower (anyone know what it is?), and something else which checked my gag reflex. Claws! Or legs! Of cockroaches of the ocean!

We then went on to see lobster traps, before having a lovely and full day at work. Must admit that I was a little panicked I would find lobster feet/claws/toes/fingernails/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them-either, in the traps. Luckily, there were none, though I would later have nightmares that I had dinner while a lobster sat next to me, staring.

That same evening, I popped over to the world’s largest fiddle. For a while, I was convinced that I was at the wrong place, because I only saw a massive violin, with no fiddle in view. Lucky for me, my other colleague is v smart, and explained: it is the same instrument, but called a fiddle when used to play jerky music. (I am the one who calls it “jerky,” not her. Because I am not a fan of jigging.) I took photos but accidentally deleted them, because apart from my phobia of cockroaches of the ocean, I am a little brain addled.

After dinner that evening, I cozied down by the window to enjoy the storm, before heading out the next day. Here I am trying to say goodbye while on the Sydney Boardwalk, and failing because the wind was far too strong for my parka…

All in all. A super trip I would strongly recommend for a little bit of summer fun.

Additional must eats + sees:
- Anything and everything at the Allegro Grill.
- Pop by the Cape Breton Fudge Co., grab some fudge and a coffee before making your way down to the violin masquerading as a fiddle. The gent at the shop wouldn’t let me pay for my fudge, surely because I was verging on hysterical when I saw their selection.
- Buy something at the Cape Breton Curiosity Shop.
- Marvel at the number of evening gown dress shoppes along Charlotte Street (and try to get yourself invited to wherever it is that these Haligonians party).
- Have the grilled + chilled shrimp at the Governors [sic] Pub & Eatery.
- Take a walk through the neighbourhood situated across Esplanade from the fiddle.
- Have a latte at The Bean Bank Cafe, but only if you sit in either the Don Cherry room or the piano room (where you must play).

…then, make certain to come back and let me know how much fun you had.

More photos here.

P.S. Dear K + F, who took the time to paint the base of the lighthouse: I hope that you will live happily ever after.

———-
** Because Janey is from Halifax, and Halifax is the center of the Nova Scotian community for me, I was calling Cape Bretoner’s “Haligonians” until Ben put me straight.

Dear Cape Bretoners,
Please don’t issue a fatwa against me for this now corrected mistake.
Thank you. Love you.
M

Often times on this blog I’ve written about Mama. I’ve never quite taken a moment to write about Baba because up until recently that would have been relatively difficult for me still.

Baba and I had an extremely volatile relationship during my adolescence. When him and mum divorced, I was young enough to understand the surface ‘why’, but not psychologically mature enough to disassociate myself from the divorce itself. At such a young age, my identity was wrapped up with that of my mother’s. I didn’t understand where I ended and she began, and so when my father left my mother, my mind’s eye watched him walk away from me.

For a little while following, my father and I would see one another infrequently. Inevitably, we would always fight. I have his temperament and am much closer in character and personality to him than I am to my mother. When he and I clashed, it was always a full-on battle. His leaving had set something alight in me and I took every opportunity to lash out and cut as deeply as possible. Looking back at some of the things I said and did, I am shocked by my capacity to be cruel.

Among the many unfortunate memories that seem to have surfaced as I write are the two following. First was at the end of my high school years. I had taken three weeks to collect the down payment on my high school graduation ring. I walked into baba’s office and handed him the outstanding bill. He told me he wouldn’t pay the outstanding amount because I’d not taken his permission to purchase the ring and that I shouldn’t merely expect him to drop money at my whim. I explained that I would lose my down payment and he matter-of-factly said “that’s a lesson [I’d] have to learn the hard way”.

It may seem bizarre to those of you who don’t know the long and short of the history between he and I, but that served as the end for me and I decided that our relationship was finished. I titled that time in my life The Ice Age because I have no imagination and also because it really was an era that ran the course of too many years. I figured if every time I left him was in tears, it would just be easier for me to bury him, and so he was dead. I would see him at parties and weddings and walk past him without so much as looking at him.

Some time later we had one further interaction over email. There was an ‘incident’, and he took so much time and care to explain something to me, sending me pages of explanation. I responded with the horrendous: “Sorry you took so much time to respond, but you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. I can’t be bothered to read this.”
He came back with: “You’re not my daughter.”
And I ended it with: “Thank you for finally articulating how I’ve felt for the duration of my life.”

Quite honestly, I thought I was okay then. I didn’t realize how much I needed my father because I’d never really had him in the first place. There was nothing to miss except a sort of misery. My mother and my family tried to push me to change, but I would have none of it and I made it clear that it was no one’s business but my own. Eventually, everyone stopped trying, but only because my response was so visceral.

Ultimately, it was my mother who sacrificed everything to raise me; she was the one who held me up and picked me up. She was the one who shaped me and helped me define my personality. She stayed up late nights waiting for me, and she was the one who read Quran to me when I couldn’t sleep. Mama will forever be my anchor because she is the only individual in this world that has the capacity to keep me grounded. We say it all the time, but I don’t think I can express it any better than this: Without her, I would be lost.(1)

I graduated high school, finished university and then received my M.A.; my father was at none of these ceremonies because I never invited him. I staunchly believed that because he was the adult, it was his role to seek me out. In my mind’s eye, he had to fight to be let back in. After all, he abandoned me when he divorced my mother. Didn’t he?

In hindsight, I understand that I wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one capable of inflicting great pain. I also understand that he never tried to hurt me, but had merely become disenchanted with his marriage. I understand that my anger was partially to mask the sadness which comes with a child living divorce. Most important, I finally understand that baba never fell out of love with me.

I finally understand that both of my parents are also individuals and that often, their hopes and dreams are not intimately related to the fact that they’re parents. The identity of parent is only one aspect of who they are and sometimes it conflicts with other desires they may have as people. The moment we have children, that map of identity changes and the fabric from which it’s made becomes the finest of silks. Unfortunatly, it happens that sometimes “parent” isn’t careful and children fall through to great pain.

The reconciliation
I’d set up rules where baba was concerned. There were certain “stipulations” which had to be met by him if he was ever going to be allowed entry into my life again. I had a script that no one knew about, not even him.

The Script was absolutely insane. It went against every aspect of who my father was and his behaviour to date. I now believe that I scripted it as such to ensure that he would never be allowed back in, because that was my way to self-preservation and protection. To my surprise, baba not only knew The Script, but he went above and beyond the call of duty I had imagined.

When seedo passed away, mama’s father (Allah yir7amu), my father called to give his condolences. Setting aside everything that had transpired between my mother and father and their respective families due to the divorce and its aftermath, my father loved seedo deeply. When my father called, he was crying. I’d not even heard my father cry when his own father passed away and so every second of that moment is deeply entrenched in my memory.

We went to dinner the following evening. Seated across from one another, there was no room for niceties or small talk because I didn’t really know or understand the man before me.

I’d previously imagined that moment, and I had imagined myself being merciless toward him, mocking him, not forgiving him but rather enjoying his need for forgiveness and me refusing him. In my imagination that was such a powerful sentiment – denying him – because he denied me the only thing I needed as I grew up: My baba. My imagination was so vindictive and so cold and I was prepared to lash out after so many years of him not coming after me. I thought I would have been able to laugh and say: I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I will never forgive you.

But as soon as I sat down and looked across the table, I saw baba. And he was looking at me as though he’d never seen me before that moment, and I saw the recognition in his eyes. He understood how much we’d both lost, how much he’d lost in the way of knowing me and the young woman I’d become. He couldn’t speak for a few moments and I spent the duration of the dinner crying.

It was at that moment that I realized just how deeply I loved him and why I had been so angry. There’s a connection that exists between parent and child that seems – although relatively simple to bruise – impossible to break. The ease by which my own pain disappeared left me spinning, and unless you’ve experienced it, it’s very difficult to describe. I think the only time we can forgive more easily than a child toward a parent is a parent toward their child.

Hearing him tell me he had been the adult and he had failed me, repeatedly, blew the lid off of everything that had been pent up and painful and hurtful. It was so overwhelming and there were moments of anxiety, I think, where I couldn’t see or breathe during dinner.

I had been gifted the opportunity to tell him everything, everything, everything he’d done to hurt me, and he accepted it all. He didn’t deny anything and he didn’t offer a defense, but merely accepted that his actions had ripped my heart to pieces for years. To me, that evening will always be the measure of my father.

After hours of conversation, I accepted his apology. I was terrified and apprehensive because I feared that he’d walk away again…but he’s still here, ten years later, and I’m still getting to know him. I can’t possibly imagine my life without him and it shatters my heart to think of the many many years wasted.(2) Since I trust that Allah knows best, I have come to accept that this heartbreak had to happen for the best of reasons.

One week after that dinner, he gave me my high school graduation ring, still in it’s bag, still with the receipt, a portion of which I’d highlighted: ‘Outstanding Balance Owed’. This ring has since hung on a chain next to my heart, and has never been removed.

———-
(1) Ten years later, I can say that without my father, I would be equally lost.
(2) Originally written on the 3rd of November, 2006 at which point it had been four years. I have updated it to reflect today’s reality.

The most important lesson I took from 2011, and which I have taken from every single year past is that life really and truly is precious cargo.

I am not one to begrduge another person’s hangnail, but rather prefer to nudge them to look at all of the amazing and incredible things they have, least of which is: life. Every single moment within our lives, even the most brutal pain has to be accepted as precious.

Sidebar: Some people reading this have been sexually assaulted as children. I can’t touch that, nor would I ever say that those moments are “precious.” What I can say is that YOU are precious, I am so grateful for your presence in my life, and I love you with every bit of my being. And if I were there when this was happening to you, I would have taken a crowbar to the men who inflicted such pain on your precious selves.

The darkest moments of this past year have been emotional, and I have been able to lift myself out sometimes alone, often times with the aide of the incredible individuals I have in my life. I do not live in an abusive environment, nor an oppressive one, nor a monetarily challenged one, alhamdulliLah. So really and truly, I am blessed, and everything above and beyond what I have is icing on the most decadent cake I can imagine.

A lot of the time, people send emails asking me how I do it. Specifically, “you seem so happy. How do you do it?” In short, here’s how…with the most important caveat that: it’s not fkn easy…
1. Most of my time is spent laughing at myself.
2. I am fiercely devoted to those I love, and with that comes a reciprocity (if not from them, then the Universe brings it back my way in some other incarnation). None of us are sovereigns, except the assholes.
3. I am genuinely happy for the success of others.
4. I give myself no more than three days to deal with a trauma. I figure that if we are to mourn death only three days, there is nothing in this world which should extend beyond that.
5. I struggle to ensure that there is neither hate nor bitterness anywhere in my heart. (Not even to those who hate me and tell me that my Faith is anything short of its beautiful self. Where these people are concerned, I only feel sorry for them, because hate is an ugly disease of the heart whose toxicity imbibes all aspects of who we are and how we see the world.)
6. I learn. Not knowing about something is another way of saying “I have been presented with a choice” to either fear it, or to learn about it. I choose the later.
7. I am never made happy by the pain or hurt of others, because I’m just asking for trouble if I do this (but this shouldn’t be confused with being pleased that someone has gotten theirs, deservedly, because everyone reaps what they sow, in time.)
8. I never allow my happiness to hinge on the hurt or pain of someone else. I am always amazed at how sick people are, who do this.

And most importantly…
9. I believe that Allah has my back. Simple. Even in the darkest recesses of pain, and even when I am angry with Him, and shaking my fist at Him and demanding WHY? and only coming up with “Because Allah knows best,” at the end of the day, within the corner of my little heart, I know He’s got me in the palm of one hand, and covering me with the other until there is no more from which to be protected. (And I floss.)

If you would like to share your own pillars of happiness, please do, as I would love to learn from you.

With the above, there are always things to change, to learn, to hone, to learn, to learn, to learn and to learn. As you enter into 2012, I am going to leave you with a lecture from my most favoured teacher. He speaks about our responsibility to our lives as precious cargo, and also our shared responsibility to our fellow humans, and to animals. You will be riveted. Trust.

Happy 2012.
You all are loved.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen in a very very long time. I just can not tell you how hard I love this, or the message within.

For me, the messages being:
1) You can not judge a book by its cover (which signals the very critical belief within Islam that only Allah is the Judge, as He is the only one who sees into the hearts of wo/man).
2) That all roads lead to Allah.
3) Islam as inclusion rather than exclusion. Which, I believe, is the message of each of the great faith traditions, until they are manipulated at the hands of humanity to meet political, class, gendered, and / or power ends.

A little girl, asked where her home was, replied, “where mother is.” ~Keith L. Brooks

Often, I have teased my mum about the weird seeds she saves in her fridge. Every once in a while, she’ll pull out a little baggie filled with stuff and share a story that usually begins with a fruit or vegetable in her family’s garden in Gaza.

On October 25th, 1999, her mum passed away. I don’t remember what happened, I can not tell you where I stood or how I learned of this news, because I was too terrified to let it register. I was too terrified by the pain inside of my mum, which I could not remove.

The blocking runs so deep and so extreme, it is as though an entire few weeks of my life have been omitted. In this, there is heartbreak for me. Because no matter the trauma we experience, and the hurt we carry, from everything there is a lesson to be learned, and I didn’t learn mine.

What I remember is what I see still.
Sometimes, even 12 years later, my mum cries over this loss, and tonight was one such night.

Oct 25, 1999.

The photo here is of dried mulukhiyah, ‘jute’ in English, leaves cooked quite often in a Middle Eastern home. Tonight, my mum was in search of this little baggie filled with dried mulukhiyah, and was sent into a panic when she couldn’t find it. I didn’t pay much attention to her fuss and casually directed her to a drawer, in which this baggie was safely tucked.

She pulled it out and held it to her own heart, catching her breath, calming herself.

The leaves were picked, cut, and dried before October 25th, 1999. The mulukhiyah was prepared by her mum for a meal she would never cook, but which her daughter would savour 12 years later.

Have you ever tasted anything better than your mum’s cooking?
Neither have I; nor has she.

Having gone to Gaza very shortly after her mum’s death, she found this small bag inside the fridge, and asked if she could bring it to Canada. It has survived the Rafah Border crossing at Egypt. It has been been transferred across from our old apartment, to two refrigerators in her new home.

I didn’t share in this dish tonight, rather thinking it was best to let mama have a private dinner with her mum.

Allah yir7amik, ya teeta.

It was the first morning that Dianna and I awoke in Scotland. Since we were to travel overnight, we’d not made any plans for that first day, instead getting to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest rooms.

The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid carpet and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor, because Mr. Morrison is an artist.

With a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a massive Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, 11 hung paintings, and different coloured walls, our room was confused as to its purpose.

And for this, we loved it.

Unless sleeping next to an open window, I become claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous, with a thin sheer white curtain beneath three heavier ones.

Having left the window open, we pulled aside all heavy curtains and left the sheer to roam. It was the sound of rain which woke me, but it was something else which kept me awake. Incredibly, our room had become filled in a mist so thick, I couldn’t see the wall across from me. I had never before, nor have I since seen anything like it.

I stayed in bed breathing very quietly, eyes wide open, and with very little movement as I didn’t wish to scare away the mist. Lush Scotland was giving us a warm hug hello with her most notorious character, and I have never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

==========

You may find Mrs. Morrison here; it appears that she has (sadly) redecorated.

The saying “Paradise is at the feet of mothers” is rooted in the following:

A man asked the Prophet Mohammed whether he should fight in a war. To this, the Prophet asked if the man’s mother was still alive. When the man answered that she was indeed still alive, the Prophet responded with “(Then) stay with her, for Paradise is at her feet.”

I have just come home from saying goodbye to my mother. She’ll be in the Gaza Strip for the next month, and I already miss her so much it’s almost unbearable.

There’s no person on this earth who could provide me the sort of calm, kindness, shelter and warmth that my mother can. I hate that I won’t be able to crawl into bed with her when I’m too tired to fall asleep alone…

She is the only one who knows my darkest secrets and thoughts, the only one I fear to disappoint, the only one I would kill to protect. She’s also the only one who has never ridiculed even the most ridiculous of my feelings…and she’s never once not forgiven me for the most unforgivable actions.

There have been fights, yelling matches, angry words, threats and all of the usual suspects that make up a relationship of 31 years. But. Everything I am is because of her and the mere thought of losing her, breaks me.

I don’t want this to be a sad blog entry, and so I will share a funny scenario which occurred as I was driving her to her destination earlier this day. She recently acquired a global mobile phone (for safety while she is crossing the Rafah border into Gaza) that she’s still learning how to use.

She sat in the car and explained how she was having trouble accessing her voicemail. I asked her to walk me through the steps she followed in order to retrieve her messages. When the “voicemail lady” asked her for her P.I.N. number, my mother started chattering into the phone. For a moment, I had no idea what she was doing, until I realised that she was under the misimpression that she had to say her P.I.N. number aloud, rather than actually key it into the mobile. I was laughing so hard I nearly crashed my car.

She’s an incredible woman. Not to mention an absolutely (& sickeningly so) stunning woman. This photo was taken when she was my age (her eyes are a very unique shade of pale green that I have yet to see on anyone else):

…they took this photo of me on the same day:

Read here if you’re interested in learning more about (specifically) mothers in Islam…

Thanks to my Fiery M for the inspiration.

(Originally published: 06/01/06)

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Maha

Of late, I have been quite heavily and v happily wrapped in citizenship issues and questions.

I understand this struggle of immigration on a personal level and also the depth of joy it brings to those who cherish their new world; naturally, with recognition that leaving behind family, cultural and community ties are a heartbreak.

Lucky for I, my baba came to Canada not out of necessity, but rather to ensure that his daughter (me, dear reader) have opportunities which extend beyond “marriage at 18 or 19?” Grateful am I, and single still. I still remember my dad studying for his exam, and my wanting to study alongside him until I became v v bored because there were no pictures in the book.

As such, I am a soppy loser often moved to tears at the site of Citizenship come to life, and equally enraged when I note that some individuals take for granted their Citizenship cards and status. That photo is my card which I cherish v v dearly (lucky for me that the resemblance between me today and me then is obvious enough, I am not forced to apply for a new one lest this be lost. Hurrah).

A few weeks ago, my mom and I went to vote for Canada’s 41st Government. While in line, she told me how excited her and my dad had been the first year they could vote as Canadian Citizens. After casting my ballot, I stood back watching with great pride as my (age removed under threat of pain from mom) year old mum ambled her way to vote once more, and again, I was nearly moved to tears.

Right until she popped her head around and yelled from behind the voting box: “I JUST CHOOSE ONE, RIGHT?”

In related news, my mother’s turretic inclinations increase with age.

Like just recently when mama and I ran into an old friend, and my mother, bewildered, suddenly became wrapped up in an all-consuming need to remind this woman of how she really was, once a fatso. Though I tried to balance out the conversation, I failed miserably:
“I hardly can tell you lost weight”
“Oh yeahhh….I can tell. You were SO BIG.”
“I really can’t see it…”
“Oh noooo….TOO BIG!!”
“I think you look great.”
“Oh, thanks God you lost ALL THAT MUCH WEIGHT.”
“I honestly don’t really know what she’s talking about.”
“SO HUGE!”

On that note: Immigrants and non-immigrants alike, give your mummies a kiss today, please.

So. I haven’t been home (here) in nearly a month. Beg your greatest pardons and thank you for all of the amazing email messages which you have sent asking after me. As for those of you who continue to yell about my absence…ehr…thank you for you well-intentioned ragey emails; you are v awkward.

I have been away because I am a lunatic who decided that I would spend approximately 15 – 20 hours per week — in the evenings and on the weekends — attempting a writing exercise to confirm whether:
1) I was a funny person
2) this funny person made their way through the written word.

The lovely folks upon whom I inflicted my brand of humour, I had never before met and I needed it to remain as such. This means that I initially scared them, made them wee in their pants, and then finally, (fingers crossed) won them over because I sent them money.

As of today, that comedic writing exercise is on hiatus until September.

I have been searching for a new theme and direction in which to take One Female Canuck, and it dawned on me yesterday: Humor. Humor is my strength, even when I am a sobbing snotting slobbering mess of a human being. (I aim to be v sexy.)

Apart from changing both the name and the design of this home, you may expect a few more things over the course of the summer months:
1) I will be reviewing all pieces, and republishing the ones worth rewriting with humour;
2) I will be indexing, tagging and categorizing all; and,
2) I will be adding new pages and slotting articles accordingly.

One Female Canuck has been a labour of love for the past 7 years. I am excited about what’s to come and hope that the changes will be to your liking else am not above offering you money.

Lots of love your way,
M
P.S. I am leaving for Turkey + Greece next week and will be on complete radio silence for a little over two weeks. (Please don’t yell at me.) All work will start rolling upon my return xx

My first boyfriend was Libyan.  Here we are at Jabal al-Akhdar (Green Mountain) picnicking with our families.  Ever arguing over his fetish for jogging pants and how he soiled himself publically, we were doomed. 
 

 
See, my family is Palestinian though I was born in Libya and raised between there and London before mum and dad scooped me up and brought me to Canada at the age of four when I began stealing Their jobs and bedding Their men. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Palestinian and it is by grace alone that it has not yet been spilled because of this root.
 
Canada is my home and it’s her culture inside of which I am most comfortable and satiated.  While in Canberra last month, I walked to our embassy’s front doors and noted the etching of maple leaves throughout the stone.  To a girl who is a strong advocate for global citizenship, I found slightly alarming my deeply emotional response to these etchings; to the point of nearly crying, I was swelled with pride and sunstroke, overjoyed to find myself at the front doors of…my home. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Canadian and it is by grace alone that I am not a creepy conservative.
 
Though this is where my heart lives, there remains a strong mix of both Middle Eastern and North African cultural references to which I am rooted and with which I identify.  More importantly, however, is the resonance of Islam within my world as it is this Faith within which I have chosen to find my own sense of worth and integrity.
 
Islam echos within me: Your blood is Muslim and it is by grace alone that you have not yet suffered at the hands of ignorance.
 
In the last few months, I have been reading the news with an unimaginable and uncontrollable sense of loss.  I have been reading all reports of torture in Tunis, Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen, and Syria while the “Muslim” leaders responsible invoked the name of my beloved Allah when addressing the masses.  
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Tunisian, Egyptian, Bahraini, Yemeni, and Syrian and it is by grace alone that I have not suffered at the hands of such false prophets.
 
Moments ago, I watched the complete footage of Iman al-Obeidi being violently handled and threatened while trying to communicate to journalists how she was raped by 15 of Qaddafi’s men.  Her face is covered in scratches and she is — rightfully so — in a state of extreme emotional pain.  The Qaddafi regime labelled her a psychotic, a prostitute, and / or a drunk, none of which have stuck.
 
I watch the video to bear witness, because it is the only thing I have to offer Iman al-Obeidi.  In knowing her story, she is no longer isolated. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Libyan and it is by grace alone that it has not yet been spilled because of this root.
 
I watch as a woman in hijab is the first to yell at Iman, and is also the first to physically grab her later in the video.  A second woman, also in hijab is who throws a cover over Iman’s face in an attempt to silence her.  I can’t help but wonder why God’s mercy and compassion have not made their way through the veils of these women and into their hearts.
 
Libyan men join the struggle and shove Iman outside and into a waiting car.  She doesn’t know to where she is being taken and I hadn’t realised that I was crying or holding my breath until my requirement for oxygen kicked in and a million thoughts flooded my head, the most searing of all Allah?  SOS.

Do you remember Baden? I wrote this about him earlier: “Having decided to completely nerd out yesterday, I took The Big Bus Tour of Stanley Market and sat on the upper deck where I almost fell into a state of hypothermia, making a new friend named Baden.

My favourite part of the ride was when Baden yelled “MOON!” and pointed at the sky. He was truly lovely, and when he yawned, he finished with a flourish of “OH OHH AWWWOOOHHH’s.”

Finally then, here he is in all his adorable glory. May your bus tours be graced by the likes of he.

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Sensitivity is the heart to make peace with the most awe inspired of all for the love.

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

They have a way with English words here, and then to ensure the most awe inspired of all for the longevity, they print these lego’d words on to t-shirts. The above was one such t-shirt which I followed around for 12 minutes in order to write down the full message because calling it a ‘sentence’ seems a stretch. (In my head, the stalking seemed less offensive than taking a photo.)

I think I am in love with Taipei. On that note, I may be delirious as I have been outside since 9 am being awe inspired by…everything.

One of the things which astonished me about Hong Kong was the density of its population, with regularly seen apartment buildings stacking over 10,000 people.

To my surprise, this is not at all the case in Taipei. In fact, the areas which I visited today barely saw a dozen individuals in one given moment.

I did some research and discovered that this is because the entire population of Taipei is in fact at the Taipei Zoo. And by “I did a little research”, I mean that I decided to visit on a Sunday, the eve of a holiday. I am filled with many stellar and awe inspired ideas such as this.

Added to the list of things which I dislike? A crowd. Specifically: a crowd more than half of which are small children. I would like to tell you about my experience at the Taipei Zoo, only I am still recovering and do not wish to relive the trauma of earlier this evening. Suffice it to say that I ran out as quickly as possible, once I was told that the Panda Show (it’s a show? It’s a show!) was finished for the day.

Also the Gondola, about which everyone speaks, sits outside the Gates of Hell the Zoo, and it was to be a 4.5 hour wait before I could hang above Taipei from a string. I decided to instead come back into the city center, but not before climbing (yes. Climbing.) over women and strollers on the metro.

Upon exit to fresh air, I immediately went to my happy place since the last 24 hours: guava fruit. Guava fruit the size of lovely silicone breasts. I have been eating and drinking fresh guava at every moment possible. When guava is most awe inspired of all for the love, no one can resist.

My first guava juice I found at the Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall which is, like most traditional buildings here, absolutely massive; and, unlike the other buildings, populated with students practicing dance routines. Michael Jackson is popular here.

His popularity only rivaled by the Buddhist monks I watched and heard sing (is that what it is? Maybe it is prayer?) in Longshan Temple. I had thought that the Temple I saw in Hong Kong was gorgeous until I set my eyes on Longshan. I have no words to describe…wait…oh, yes I do. Longshan is most awe inspired of all for the love. Definitely.

For all intents and purposes, it is an ocular feast. While taking in the rapid explosion of colour and design of the Temple, I surely looked as though I was experiencing a seizure. I believe the only reason I didn’t was because my eyes would occasionally focus on the buffet. (Not really a buffet, but in fact tables of offerings…for Buddha? For the Temple? Do monks eat cookies and chips? Believe it or not, I am honestly asking, so feel free to email my dumb self an answer or two.)

The National Theater came next, as did the beautiful gardens surrounding the Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall and the Hall itself. This is where I spent the most considerable part of my day, enjoying the gardens, the changing of the guard and the little kiddies making peace signs ready for the cameras of their mums…

Great day overall, which only got better when I accidentally found a park of lanterns…and then even better when they all lit up as I was sitting beneath them. Truly, their lighting was most awe inspired of all for the love.

Note 1: I keep wondering why they are celebrating Easter early, but only until I remember that it’s the year of the Rabbit. Hitchcock would have had a field day had he seen the hundreds upon hundreds of faux bunny rabbits all over the city.

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Happy Chinese New Year (of the Rabbit)!

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After posters of Don Johnson, Kirk Cameron (pre fundamentalist Christianity) and Jason Bateman finally came down from my walls, it was Erté’s Girl on a Swing (a greeting card, believe it or not) which I decided to have framed and displayed as a young teenage girl.

She was also the first to be hung up on the walls of The Treehouse and she is the last to have come down.

About an hour ago, I surrendered my keys to The Treehouse; keys which I have cherished and toward which I have whispered sweet nothings these last 12 months.

The recurring commentary from my friends was that The Treehouse (nicknamed by Janey because my front porch propped us up into the tops of trees) was warm, comfortable and welcoming, trying to scoop visitors up and keep them for as long as possible within its walls.

Beautiful and warm, he was my first home on my own.

Because it was such a pivotal move for me on many levels, I am marking its now placement to rest with a thank you for the gracious past 12 months which it gave me, and also a thank you to each of the wonderful friends who shared in its space with me.

(Psst! I am now a proper home owner, and the new place is currently being built. No nickname yet, but Janey’s working on it.)

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Dear Readers,

I frequent too many a café while traveling.

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

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

You may see all photos from London here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am seated at Nude Espresso in the Brick Lane market; the weather in London Town has been crisp, bright and without rain.

Having spent my early childhood summers in this Town, and returning so often as an adult, London has become somewhat of an old neighborhood haunt for me. Yesterday, Hannah remarked how odd it was that I was so familiar with the ins and outs of London, like the average resident (if not more so, as my curiosity takes me absolutely everywhere).

Familiarity is a lovely thing for creatures of habit.
Sadly, however, I have become unfamiliar with my favourite British subject: The Male.

These men I once adored, was fascinated by, and to whom I probably always reacted in very bizarre manner. Ever, when I hear this accent, I practically fall out of my chair, my car, the bus, Lulu, topple out of yoga, slip off my skates, vault from an airplane and even a train. Wherever I may be located, I react to this accent quite bizarre-like, and I have always greatly enjoyed the reaction.

This accent, coupled with their very distinct beauty has every single time proven a deadly combination for your girl; darkish golden hair, very white skin with always pink cheeks, full ruby mouths and crystal clear blue eyes. They sound psychotic, no? Doll-like in their beauty, these men. (Blame George Michael, like I do. He’s the one who forever changed the landscape of my interest in men; lucky me, however, I still like them straight.)

Right. So, they have become unfamiliar to me because clearly gentlemen, there is far too much estrogen in your water and it has affected the size of your thighs. (All but you who stopped me to chat in the art studio and I accidentally nodded yes when you asked me if I was Spanish…because your beauty confounded me.) Obvi, I have a thing for men with strong thighs; I have accepted that this must be some sort of biological imperative in my world, that a man come with thick and solid legs. Otherwise, I see twigs and twigs do not sex appeal make.

Speaking of sex appeal, the once notoriously gin driven London Town is slowly changing its topographical landscape from pub to coffee house. Not just the random and boring coffee pimp Starbucks, but rather amazing fair trade roastery coffee houses whose main goal is top-of-the-line flavour and texture. Coffee turned art form, quality in place of quantity.

Hannah and I yesterday did a coffee house crawl, tasting the flavours of three shops in the Shoreditch / Brick Lane district, where Han & Charlie live. First stop was the usual Coffee @, which is really quite student and though would appeal to you all in black, wears relatively quickly. Ultimately, their coffee simply does not compare to those found at either Allpress Espresso Roastery (at 58 Redchurch Street) or Nude Espresso (to which only a leprechaun can direct you).

If heading out for a date, please avoid at all expense Allpress, as the lighting inside is for shit. It is florescent, and I think that about covers the ‘why’ of not going while wearing the pretty. Additionally, the seating is very quite cafeteria in its style; large wooden tables at which several parties may sit. It is, however, the perfect spot to go with your friends for an incredible cuppa, sweets and sandwiches. They warm your coffee cup with boiling water before serving it your way. Very elegant touch, this.

As for a date beginning or ended, Nude Espresso is really where you must head. Everything works, starting with the lighting (not florescent!) to the atmosphere and seating arrangements of cozy corners. The staff are particularly gorgeous, too, and the cappuccino is a must-have as they top it off with swirls of hearts.

Thing is, there are two locations of Nude Espresso, and the one I recommend is slightly off the beaten path; upon entry in to the Truman Brewery Food Hall on Brick Lane, walk out the back door, past the dumpsters and in to the parking lot. On your left, you will see the proper location of Nude Espresso. Go in and ask for Gerard, requesting he make your cappuccino if there. (Make certain to enjoy their God Spank the Queen exhibit, commissioned specifically for Coco de Mer (aside from Rigby & Peller, a must to purchase lingerie when in London Town).

We are off to an industry party this evening, as Charlie is a script writer. This will be very interesting, and will no doubt bring forth many unfortunate stories for this interWeb home.
**********
Re Nude Espresso photograph; aren’t I the biggest creep in the world to take a photo like this, and then not be shy about posting it? He is the owner; his name is Gerard. He has crinkly smile lines around his amazing greenish / blue eyes, all beneath a head of thick waves that were whispering “play with us, Maha” as he and I were chatting. He will also never let me back in to Nude Espresso once he finds I took this photo. (Unless, of course, a smile can get a girl a very long way in these parts.)

Artfully Disheveled is the baby of one Chris Berre and Michael Palmer; the former All American who I met in Cincinondon, the later I don’t in fact know but who gives excellent penmanship as to which the following building of the Artfully Disheveled brand attests, going from this…

…to this…

…to this, their final hot and seared brand label…

Artfully Disheveled is designed for one specific Man.
He’s the well-dressed rebel.
He’s the tailored misfit.

To that, I would add…it is also for one specific Woman…because I don’t have a man at the moment (shall we get on this, God?) and I plan on buying and rocking their ties and bow ties myself. Belt. Necklace. Hair-band. Cuff / bracelet. Garter. Blindfold. Handcuff. (‘Artfully Disheveled. For the woman who knows that her creativity is sexier than her demi-cup.’) Whatever; it’s mine. (All American, y’all best be deliverin’ to Canada. All American says they do.)

Additionally, the gentlemen at AD suggested that “The women out there buying AD for their significant others already have that innate sense of style that they wish to pass on. We’ve seen a lot of the same women create innovative ways to wear our men’s collection. There is also something very powerful about seeing a woman wearing a tie.” (And by powerful, we all understand they mean “like, wicked hot”, only thankfully these gentlemen are anything but Valley and so instead are gracious re the female state, rather than her physical appeal. Amazing; How can you not love them?)

The imaginative processes for you to bear in mind as you cruise their line, is one which usually started years back in the most inconspicuous moments, such as when visiting Shoredtich, in London, and they wrote: “Style is rooted in everyday life. From nature’s colors of the season to the hustle and grit of making it in the city. Our ties are born from our life experiences and the world around us.”

…that then influenced their design palette…

…and resulted in this gorgeous tie…

…which upon first viewing reminded me of fields of lavender and wheat.

Buy’em and bookmark’em; but only if your thighs don’t fit in to skinny jeans, men – because the Artfully Disheveled man has thighs. (Note: This reference to the male form does not come from those at AD, but rather from your webMistress who likes her men…male rather than woman, thank you.)

Now, go be the amazing consumers for which our beloved country continues to rape and pillage other parts of the world.
It’s your right.
(Once again, please note: This reference to global political / economic / social not-so-niceness does not come from those at AD, but rather from your webMistress who likes her warm and fuzzy concept of global citizenship as she is often a lunatic hippie.)

Godspeed!

P.S. Between the tie and the logo, what do you see?

I see a tailor marking each tie individually. He is behind a thick wooden door, atop stone floors, and next to a warm fire. He drives a motorcycle and lives in a penthouse in Chicago.

For realsies.

———-
Please note that Chris Berre will soon enough be the first guest blogger on onefemalecanuck(dot)com, writing about male / female stuffs. Don’t know precisely the what, as I am leaving that to his creativity, but if it’s anything like the imagination alive in AD, then it will be exquisite.

 
That’s the mac light which Baby Jane brought as a gift for my Treehouse.

It now sits in my bedroom window and I have decided that I shall use it as (a very large) nightlight.
 
Which reminds me of the Red Light District hookers who were waving at mama, while we were on a tour bus in Amsterdam. 
 
“Look”, she had said, “there are girls in windows!  They look like dolls!  They’re so pretty!  And they’re so nice!  They are waving at us!  Amsterdam is such a nice place full of such nice people!”
 
Her world was too pretty so I never did tell her the truth.

If she were outside my window, she would no doubt smile, wave, and maybe offer to make me a snack.
 
I have said it before and will say it again; I, cartoon, am daughter to a Muppet.

Maxwell and I met at S’s wedding two years back. He was fun and funny and gave good wedding acquaintance-ship.

Fast forward to January 2010, when Max and I stepped beyond acquaintances and started developing a friendship which began with a simple something along the lines of “Wanna hang? This is totally not a date.”

Over the course of the last four months, we have argued countless times, disagreed on much of it, laughed at the other stuff and pushed the other in the opposite direction on what was left of it. Also, we trade secrets about ourselves and our friends, and where possible, make fun of each other about said secrets out loud.

Essentially, over the course of the last four months, Max has become one of my favourite people and among the most important.

Of special interest is that he has lived with Cystic Fibrosis since the age of two, and this makes him a very different man than most men and women I know – he carries and illustrates an appreciation for everything and anything that few of us share because we are spoiled and we refuse to engage with this world in the same manner as he.

Max will tell you, flat out and under no pretense that: He “is dying”, and so I don’t need to be delicate about the following. Primarily that I really hope Max’s lifeline is a miracle. For the most selfish of reasons, I want this new friend of mine in my life for as long as possible. Basically, I only really found Max four months ago and I don’t want to lose (or loose) him too soon. (Ultimately, it’s always somehow about ME.)

Beyond a shadow of any doubt, Max lives his life true to his statement of “I’m dying!” even though sometimes, that gets him in trouble with very small animals. (1) S says that Max will outlive us all. I say “Inshallah & I don’t doubt it”.

Sunday was his 29th birthday and this is the card I gave him, along with a compass as a gift. (2)

The card read:

So that you never lose your way during the darkest of circumstance – or when you’re being really lame…or, like, totally misguided. Because sometimes? You can be really dumb.

Happy Birthday, Maxi.

& thank you for your friendship.

Ultimately, we could all use to learn from Maxi. (3)

====================
(1) I am lying like a (pretty) rug.
(2) My favourite photo of Max was made into a pin which I wore for his birthday extravaganza and which now sits on my wall at work. LOOK, SEE!

(3) To ensure he doesn’t get a big head, let me state the otherwise obvious: often, he’s a complete tool.

Once upon a time, long ago, there lived a Queen from the Isle of Hooliganslivehere. The Queen was flown to the Side of Canadia, where her sparkly blue eyes fell upon your story weaver and she declared ‘you remind me of my daughter’, a statement I would soon discover was no small compliment. And by ‘no small compliment’, I mean ‘a really, like, really huge big one’.

Her daughter’s name was Princess Hannah, her Hooliganslivehere title She of the Usually Late, and her Indian name Gets There Eventually. Princess Hannah was dating Prince Charles, Him With the Hair, and Indian name withheld for reasons of national security.

After The Queen made her declaration, she provided P. Hannah’s phone number to yours truly and the rest is, as they say, Bob’s Your Uncle. And by ‘Bob’s Your Uncle’, I mean I just forgot the saying I wished to plug in….oh! HISTORY. The rest is history.

Princess Hannah and I chatted over the phone first ever in 2005 where it was decided I would sleep in her castle on (then) Bethnal Green Pasture (‘BGP’, because Princesses like acronyms, you see) when on the Isle of Hooliganslivehere. I believe the first time we met, we were both uncertain of the friendship and the potential for greater and deeper friendship what with her being a Princess and I, a mere Canadian.

By the end of my first visit to her BGP, something had shifted and I had fallen in love with the Princess, as well as with Him With the Hair (because it was he who convinced me to start a thing called a ‘blog’). From that day forth, Princess Hannah and I shared a bond that has only become stronger. Enough to ensure that when I visited Welovefreeshit (above Hooliganslivehere), I popped into Hooliganslivehere to do nothing more than catch a show, have dinner, and a sleepover with both the Princess and Him With the Hair (during which we discussed Briggs Meyers Something I Can’t Spell and Princess Hannah declared that I was a clear example of Something I Can’t Remember).

Recently, I was sent by the Land of Canadia to complete some work in Hooliganslivehere. I was excited because the Princess and the Prince would be in town and we would have most all evenings together for nearly ten days.

Sidebar: I must say that I don’t often like people – something which may come as a surprise to many because I give off the impression that I am extremely social. Which I am. Thing is, I am social only to a certain extent. And then I become extremely antsy and in need of me time to recoup my energy and become social once again. Also, my social extends to one evening and not more. That I am ever excited to be spending multiple evenings with the same individual(s) is a great achievement and it means I really and truly am in love with said folk(s). Otherwise, my attention trails off and I start imagining Taylor Kitsch eating pizza, drinking a beer, and listening to live music while I am perched on his lap.

Ten days of heaven I spent in London. Hannah and Charlie were lovely, beyond measure, incredibly comfortable and warm and engaging and hilarious. Really and truly, they are one of history’s Great Couples. Team Harlie!

Harlie are currently going through an extremely difficult time, and have been for over a year. It is emotionally and physically a challenge faced daily and which Harlie may continue to do so for some time still. For this reason, I would love for each and every one of you to please take a moment and send them your warmth, prayers & strength (as well as energy because they are somewhat Boheme and as we all know, them Bohemes? They love good energy).

Thank you. Love you.

(Of interest: When not in London Town, Harlie can be found roaming and raising olives in the mountains of Portugal.)

The last time I was in Beirut was in 2006 while helping with the evacuation of Canadian civilians. That experience was, to say the least, mind-blowing on too many levels. But even with the blowing of one’s mind, Beirut was still a beauty to behold, and though we were working insane hours and running on very little sleep, we still managed to make it out in the late evenings; ultimately, I think, it was in attempt to forget about what was happening around us.

This reality is something which may very well be specific to Beirut because it has seen so much war. A clear example of this would be us, sitting atop Sky Bar watching and feeling the shake of Israeli bombs dropping on the country. Ultimately, the human mind and body does what it needs to do in order to create a semblance of normalcy even in the most insane circumstance. The blow-back comes only once you’re pulled out of the situation itself and you’re left reliving its brutality.

In 2006, the airport had been blown to shit by Israel. It was a tactical move, the same as the blowing up of several bridges which linked many parts of the country to one another. Because there was no airport at which to land, we were flown in via military helicopter. This time, I came in through the gleaming airport – all of which looked entirely new, for obvious reasons.

I am staying at the same hotel, and maybe even in the same room. Everything appears to be the same.

Only it’s not. Where the billboards were then of Nasrallah declaring ‘The Divine Victory’, they are now of Scarlett Johansson selling Dolce & Gabbana; where the sounds of dropping and exploding bombs would then quiet a conversation, the sounds of car horns and home-made fireworks serve as typically Middle Eastern compliment; where the shaking of this country wouldn’t then let me sleep, the peace of the bed now lulls me to my core; and, where the sky over Beirut was previously covered by the air of Israeli bombs and fighter planes, it is today saturated with the density of humidity.

When I stepped outside of the airport, I was met by the smell of sand and humidity and welcomed by al-athan, the Muslim call to prayer. I was momentarily overwhelmed by what I had experienced in 2006 and had to push back unexpected and surprising tears, saving them instead for the privacy of the taxi…until we were nearly hit by a crazed man in a van who honked his horn and declared – with a fierce waving of his hand – that my taxi driver was a ’7ayawaan’ (translation: ‘an animal’, and not the cute and cuddly variety), even though he was the one at fault.

I am giddy with pleasure to be back. Beirut, you have been missed.

++++++++++
Note: Written while seated on my balcony, overlooking the Mediterranean sea.

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

——————–

My Beloved London Town,

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Costa Coffee Shop,

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

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

xox m

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

Sadly, however…

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

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

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

In fairness,
Maha

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

Leaving for Rome & London tomorrow and I promise stories while there; thank you for the well wishes re travels…xox

Video no1 – Kitty took this while we were on Cypress Mountain waiting for the men’s aerials to begin.

Video no2 – The final few moments before Canadian girls win hockey Gold.

Video no3 -”The kind of hail that breaks your face…” (thank you, Baby Jane)

Comments closed.

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!)

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

The instructions were clear, and so I:

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

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

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

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

Smart, yes?

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

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

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

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

I stood confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the third and final post to part 1: Longhorns crush Denver & a Canuck learns the secret handshake & remains clueless re Football, unless associated with Taylor Kitsch & COACH ERIC TAYLOR

and

part 2: Americans throw the pig’s skin around and HI! COACH ERIC TAYLOR! .

Intifadah: To awaken from slumber.

Before the game began, pomp and circumstance were the leading culprits on the field. Wherever one looked, there were sad little people wearing costumes which were likely sewn by Lou-Ellen in 1963. Take this gentleman, as example, and the unfortunate reality of his long torso, as stuffed within his Cowboy Cartoon outfit. No doubt, on a regular day, he rocks his everyday clothes, and so it must be with great distress that he meets UT’s insistence to dress as Woody from Toy Story, rather than the Marlboro Man…from my dreams.

Alongside the band was a crew of UT students flopping around next to and beneath the State of Texas flag. Among the more memorable points of the evening was when a few of them were caught beneath the flag. Uncertain as to whether or not they would ultimately survive, I overheard one gentleman cry out ‘Oh ma Gawd, them kids is caught’eneath the flag. Fkn BIN LADEN!’

The audience watches as the team comes out on to the field, and as each player slaps the horns of a longhorn beefer hung on the wall. This ritual was not at all a surprise as I have learned from Friday Night Lights, each team has a very specific baptismal right of passage through which each player must enter and exit before hitting the field (e.g., before exiting the locker room, each Panther slaps the ‘P’ on the wall. PANTHERS SUCK! GO EAST DILLON!). What was wholly unexpected to me was the eruption from the fans; literally, as the images began to float across the Godzillatron, the audience erupted and kept erupting long past the point at which the entire team was on the field. I was so busy being shocked that I in fact missed the Longhorns’ run out on to the green.

Before the game began, the Longhorns had a little chat with Jesus, because no one – and I mean no one – pays more attention to Longhorns football games than Jesus Christ (peace be upon him). When it’s game night, there is no room for poverty or lepers, war, famine and disease for The Lord; no doubt, he changes from white robe to pumpkin orange robe on game day. (All snarky sarcasm aside, I think it’s all kinds of awesome that they say a prayer before the game; I really do. GO LONGHORNS! I’ll say a little prayer for you with Allah.)

For the first half of the game, it appeared as though the Longhorns defense were either asleep or drunk. Either way, I was surprised to watch them get their asses kicked all over the field by Denver (or Colorado). So much that I expected, as COACH ERIC TAYLOR (HI!) would have done on Friday Night Lights, Mack Brown to be Angry Hair Yelling at the team. But he was not; instead, he was mostly squatting and watching and secret-talking into his headset. For those of you who watch Longhorns football, you will have seen the Official Mack Brown Squat, which is him, legs bent, hands on knees, looking like he is ready to go for a poop in a Vietnamese bathroom. My guess is that somewhere behind his bum and atop his hamstrings is an invisible $3M cushion which makes this comfy – the $3M being his annual salary.

Luckily, the Longhorns made a serious and amazing comeback and went on to win the game. I will not bore you with the details of the game itself, as you can find them on line, though I will say I would make an excellent football commentator as I was filled with gems such as “The hell?” “What?” “Are they drunk?” “Is that Billy Riggins?” “Do you know Taylor Kitsch?” “Oh! They’re running really fast” “Is my hair ok?” & “Where can I buy a pretzel?”.

I won’t even tell you the final score since, honestly, I can’t remember. I will, however, tell you that for every touchdown, there were cowboys in the corner of the stadium who would fire a cannon…a Longhorns game is not for the faint of heart..after which, this gentleman would run out on to the field and wave the giant Longhorns flag, followed by five others with a flag each, spelling out T E X A S because subtlety is key.

Overall, the experience was amazing and I found myself yelling loudly and with serious pain and excitement and anxiety during the fourth quarter. I had become invested without even knowing it. It helped that I was surrounded by a wonderful group of folks, two of whom are Connie (HI!) and Tams (OLA!). Connie very diligently and awesomely sends me Longhorns updates almost post every game. As of today, the Longhorns have ten wins and zero losses. These boys may just go all the way this year with Mack Brown, making it the Longhorns’ second Championship under his coaching (he would only require one more to equal the championships under the leadership of Darrel Royal – whose son, incidentally, was named ‘Mack’). If this happens to be the case, I plan on taking all of the credit.

In closing, please enjoy the near-religious-fervor overcoming the crowd after the win; this is a video of the Longhorns fan singing the UT anthem…under my breath, I was singing MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This, in my small effort to sing-along.

My camera battery died, shortly before we began our drive along California’s Highway 1, and so this is the only video from our California Roadtripping. In fact, the entire photo set (to come) of the drive currently sits on disposable cameras, so I am excited to see their outcome.

Once stories from Austin are wrapped, I will write a few short pieces about California. Enjoy xox.

This is part two to Longhorns crush Denver & a Canuck learns the secret handshake & remains clueless re Football, unless associated with Taylor Kitsch & COACH ERIC TAYLOR.

**********

The Stadium
After washing my banana down with the last drops of my citrus honey tea, I walked into the stadium which is bigger than the official Senators stadium here in Ottawa. I was stunned, partly due to the banana headache and also due to the sheer magnitude of this place.

One hundred thousand people and I was the third one to walk into the stadium. Fun Fact: University of Austin has an approximate student body of 50,000. Of these, 49,881 are Asian, whereas the other 119 – a mix of boys named Vondrell and Patrick – sit on the Longhorns’ football roster. (I did that without a calculator.)

Taking the half an hour stroll to my seat, I walked past the Longhorns’ mascot, a bull (or something similar to) named Bevo. I was too scared to go near it and so don’t know if it was in fact inside of its car. Surely this thing had bananas?

I arrived at my seat and noticed it was bare, whereas some other seats had these awesome and comfortable looking pumpkin orange leather cushions with backs. Naturally, I grappled with one in an effort to pull it over to my seat because I thought ‘First come, first served’. While struggling to move the comfy bum-cushion, I was told – rather gently – that these seats one had to purchase and so, in essence, what I was trying to do was steal someone else’s seat.

I could have been shot for doing this, because that’s what they do in Texas.

Anyway, the old man who told me was nice enough to take my picture, as a memento of this near-thieving occasion. I was trying to take one of the seats to my right, as you can see in the picture.

First the banana, and then a cold ass. Wicked.

But you know what’s more important than my cold ass? The GODZILLATRON. Texans are very creative and imaginative when it comes to the naming of things – like their children when they call them Colt, Cody, or my favorite? Hunter, because Texas is The Days of Our Lives and everyone within lives their realities in technicolor. And for those who don’t? There’s capital punishment.

Luckily, my ass didn’t stay cold for very long, because hello, college boys, all athletic and in tight clothes and without sleeves. This is Team Colorado or Denver – I’m actually not sure which and that’s how much attention I was paying. They are very smart, as you can see by their chosen outfits. GO SLEEVELESS!

Giddy and smiley I remembered I could take video. Notice what happens to my sense of focus at around the 25 second mark.

I was also quite nearly rendered deaf by the sound of techno music being blasted through the stadium. I dunno, but it must be something specific to Texas because the Denver boys were making fun of the music and dancing as though at a rave. (This very made me nearly scream TEAM DENVER! because they were so funny.)

But enough about the losing team, Denver, and instead, let’s next take a peek at the Longhorns warming up. (I almost video’d them praying before they crushed Denver, but thought it would just serve as another reason for me to have my ass shot off by a Texan.)

The Set-Up: Key Players
Before ending this spazy commentary, I would like to introduce you to all key players who make the Longhorns the team that they are today.

Jesus, may peace and blessings be upon him. (As a Muslimah, I do not concur with the sandy-blonde and fair skinned fella many y’all pray to and so there shall be no image of this man on this site.)

Mack Brown, the legend himself as he appears on the GODZILLATRON:

And then later in his angry headset: (COACH ERIC TAYLOR wears it better. HI!)

Other important people milling about. Mostly, they run ahead of the team as the team gets on the field and they yell and scream and cheer them on. They say things like JESUS LOVES YOU! and WIN THIS FOR JESUS!:

There was also this guy, who was just sort of an interesting guy because he didn’t yell or scream, but he did look like he belonged there and could crush Denver all by himself. Also, he’s very attractive, yes?

Another Coach who, suspiciously, looks very much like Mack Brown and has the same skin coloring as Jesus (coincidence or conspiracy? You decide.):

A supremely old dude who clearly refuses to use either a cane or a walker. I took his photo because he is so very old…and between you and I, I wonder if he is still living:

One of the ESPN cameramen who bring you your pigskin and who stands on a zippy platform that…zips…at very high and aggressive speed:

And two of the three young men who likely get the most action in the State of Texas and who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders…QB1 Colt McCoy, who didn’t impress me much:

& WR Jordan Shipley, who impressed me to the point of jaw-dropping hurrah-ing (remember this kid’s name because very soon, he will become among the elite of the NFL):

Missing from these pictures is the image of the third young man – RB Vondrell McGee – who works with the rest of the team to kick the shit out of every other football team in the Big 12. Vondrell also impressed me to the point of jaw dropping hurrah-ing, and I expect that he too will soon enough become among the elite of the NFL, and his is a name you should remember.

Find the third and final installment here.

Fascist Blogger thought my original title was too long and so forced me to cut it short. This should have been called ‘Longhorns crush Denver & a Canuck learns the secret handshake, becomes an honorary Austinite (& yet manages to remain clueless re Football, unless associated with Taylor Kitsch’s Riggins and Kyle Chandler’s COACH ERIC TAYLOR), part 1 of 2′.

I do hope that changing its name at the last minute hasn’t given this entry an identity crisis which will land her in the beds of strangers when she is a young teen, begging for love in all of the wrong ways.

Whatever.
FOOTBALL!
Pigskin football in all its fanatic-fueled glory.

The Tailgate
There was, originally, the intent to head over and crash tailgate parties in the main UT parking lots. Unfortunately, that day was the day I was (wonderfully) lost in the streets of Austin for six hours, and so my little feet weren’t excited about the prospect of propping my ass up for anything beyond critical mass. Rather than spending 2 hours experiencing the ‘tailgate’, I instead managed 30 minutes cruisin’ for a bruisin’, only without the bruisin’.

Interesting this tailgate phenomenon, the likes of which exist minimally in Canada. As we are a nation of hockey lovers, and hockey is played on the ice, and a hockey season spans 18 of the 12 months of the year, Canadians tend to drunk inside of the arena, rather than in its parking lot. They may do things differently in the Country of Calgary, but that’s their problem, readers. (Re ‘drunk’, I did not use the incorrect vowel; re ’18′, I did not use the wrong number.)

Tailgate is the celebration pre and often post game. Wandering around, I was offered at least seven beers from random strangers. Certainly, they felt sorry for my sad state of citrus honey tea in a Jo’s cup, but I was sick and so sinning against my Islam would have to wait until post antibiotic completion.

To them, I was an obvious out-of-towner, which struck me as strange because I was in jeans and leather boots, waving and smiling at everyone, which in my limited understanding of Texans, is precisely what they do. As soon as someone caught site of me, I was asked “Where you from? Come have a draank.” I would chalk this up to drunk folks waiting for a game, but in all honesty, I believe it attributed more to Texas warmth and generosity.

Because of this warmth, I felt awkward about my camera and didn’t take too many pictures. Amazing this, as I am usually completely oblivious to the social graces of picture taking. During my first trip to Vancouver, I asked a homeless man – with whom I was sharing my lunch and his bench – if he would mind smiling while we had our picture taken.

Apart from the bar-b-ques in the lots and the massive tents, there was everything ranging from little picnics on blankets to corporate parties fully catered with a serving staff. The one thing everybody had in common was the Longhorns color of pumpkin orange. It was a sea of pumpkin pie as far as the eye could see and if I could have, I would have been hanging out in the handstand position so as to ensure that my own pumpkin leather colored boots were added to the top of that sea. As I am a weakling, I couldn’t do this, so instead walked while inconspicuously kicking up my legs as high as possible. (I may or may not be lying.)

The Entry
They frisk you before letting you into the stadium and coaching you on The Secret Handshake of The Longhorns, which, by the way, I refused to use until the very end, choosing to instead use The Maha Longhorns Secret Handshake comprised of index fingers by the temples, wiggling. More on this later.

So, they frisk you to ensure you’re not carrying alcohol or anything illegal (and off of which they can’t make more money inside of the stadium, such as food). I wasn’t allowed to take in either my tea or my banana. You read that right – my banana, which is not code for anything sexual, but rather the same sustenance enjoyed by our simian brothers and sisters.

Bananas were working for my sore throat, and even though they did not sell bananas inside of the stadium, I wasn’t allowed to take it in with me.

I attempted the tried, tested and true “I’m Canadian”, but still, the Longhorns Stadium Police weren’t allowed to let me in. In their defense, they were very nice about it and apologized for their entirely money-driven rules.

Because 95,000 seats and 95,000 t-shirts and 95,000 leather attachment seats, and 95,000 beers, and 95,000 pretzels, and 95,000 water bottles and ESPN paying to film per game doesn’t generate the same cash flow as the absence of one banana and citrus honey Jo’s tea. So…before I was granted entry in to the infamous Longhorns stadium which seats 95,000 fanatics and serves as home to one of America’s greatest football teams, I stood to the side and defiantly and with much pride and honor, ate that banana while declaring “YUM-ME” to every passerby.

Maintaining my Texans Behave Like This focus, I also kept up my spirited waving and smiling at all while declaring “I’m Canadian and don’t know anything about football. I’ll see you inside! OH, wait! Have you seen COACH ERIC TAYLOR? YUM-ME!”.

**********
Part 2: The Stadium & The Game, coming next…and then, Friday Night Lights with Lisa. I will leave you with this preview of the first of many…most of which I can not recall anymore…goose-bump raising moments on the field – the entry of Denver to techno rave music.

Part two can be found here.

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.)

Last I was in Austin, I had decided to purchase a piece of local art that I would keep forever and ever, and as an ode to the fact that Austin seems to be my ‘magical place’ (thank you Baby Jane!). I chatted with one local artist – from whom each piece which interested me was sold out. I saw one lovely piece of art work and never found the time to return to the shop to purchase it; a little piece I have thought about regularly since my initial return to Ottawa.

One of my first stops in Austin was to seek out the later, and to my luck, it was the last one left and the one I had hoped to find. This is a handmade protection packet, a part of the religious culture in Latin America. See the Saint in the middle? I don’t know who that is, but s/he’s pretty. Also, s/he’s surrounded by money and seeds ensuring fertility (hurrah!), protection, increase of funds, repelling of evil, seeking of patience & longevity, transformation for protection & complete cleanse (a direct middle finger to LA’s master cleanse, I am certain).

I love it, and it’s already up adorning one of my walls. Like the weirdo I truly am, I am scared to pull her / him out from her / his safe plastic covering and so s/he is currently like one too many sofas, covered, protected, sterile. Soon, I’ll manage the courage to free her / him from this particular confine. Also, I will find the courage to peek beneath and locate her / his gender, as this is most important.

If s/he is possessed with some evil magic, I will call Jared Padalecki to exorcise the evil entity. I shall also feed and bathe him, as required by Supernatural contract. Note: He of the Great Genetic Tribe or Whatever I Initially Called Him is in fact a Texan. I told you they breed them differently down in the South. HI!

Magical place, why?
Because magic happens there for me – Austin is filled rich with amazing, eclectic and wonderful folk, each of whom I miss already. All of whom made fun of my Maha-unique Longhorns secret handshake (the wiggly fingers @ temples), one of whom called me ‘tatonka’ for it (Native American for ‘Buffalo’), two of whom posed for this picture in celebration of it.

Magical because on my first morning at my hotel, I woke up to find that someone had pinned the poem Morning next to my door.

Magical because I went for a walk and lost my way for six glorious hours where I met Baby Jesus and his peeps hanging atop the Little Mexico‘s patio roof and of whom no one stopped to cock a brow or take a photo or yell ‘REALLY? SERIOUSLY? OK, HI!’.

Magical because I stopped to eat the fresh figs I discovered…I am renaming myself Christopher Tatonka Columbus…growing on the front lawn of the home of an old woman who waved at me through her window whilst melodramatically cocking her shotgun…I’m Canadian.

Magical because the Resistencia bookstore is kitty corner to the man who creates art from iron and steel and it’s so huge, that it makes Quentin Tarantino’s head look relatively tiny (HEY TARANTINO! You need to stop. Go to Austin. Visit Roadhouse Relics. Purchase. You are welcome.)

Magical because it is filled not with coffee shops or cafés, or pretentious…as I for adding the accent to the word ‘café’…and annoying genetic and generic Starbucks and Timothy’s etc. ad infinitum, but rather Caffeine Dealers, to each and every one of whom I proposed marriage on hand and knee right before I stole half of their honey for the ailing throat and sinus sl*t still killing my body.

Mostly magical, because at near the end of my 6 hour walking ordeal, I realized I was not lost at all, but rather surrounded by signs that pointed the way to the one thing that keeps us all found and at home.

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’m typing this while seated at Austin’s best coffee ‘house’ – which is, in fact, more like an open air wooden wanna-be-bar. Really, Jo’s looks as though it has the dream of being a bar when it grows up, only its growth (lucky for all of us) has somehow and somewhere along the line been emotionally stunted. Instead of being a bar, it sits as The Place That Serves The Greatest Fkn Chai Latte Ever But Has High Hopes It Will One Day Spike That Damn Chai.

Taste gracious as that may be, I’m not drinking chai. Instead, I am drowning myself in chamomile citrus tea and a truckload of honey because today is the first in four days where I have started recovering from some perverted disease that began as a throat / ear infection, then took its gloves off and quickly became a chest / sinus motherfkr. Also, I’m eating a jalapeno pepper cheddar cheese scone, which tastes as great as anything can taste when one’s sinuses are taking a nap at the bottom of their feet.

Point is, I made it to Austin.
I am here. Hurrah.
(And tomorrow I will be seated at the FORTY YARD LINE SECOND ROW.
Have I mentioned this yet?)

On the trip here, I was witness to some of the…fanaticism?…which will surround me tomorrow at the FORTY YARD LINE SECOND ROW. There was a couple on my flight – they were in head to toe matching Longhorns gear (Longhorns have foot gear, made of – can you guess, ma? – leather). For those of you living under a rock, or just in Canada, the Longhorns ‘color’ is pumpkin orange. These two were completely and conspicuously geeking it out in their pumpkin gear.

They were seated directly across from me in the wait lounge and I thought to perform my own secret Longhorns-specific handshake, but boarding started (I place my index fingers next to my temples and pretend I have longhorns – I plan on doing this every time someone looks at me during the game tomorrow).

But what comes after boarding, kids? That’s right! It’s The Plane Ride Of Death At The End of Which Your Ears Might Explode Off Your Head.

(Dear Mr. Pilot –

You’re an asshole.

Fk you,
Maha)

In preparation for tomorrow, I took it upon myself to learn some interesting facts about Football. They are:
the game is played on a field with white lines;
there is a ref or two;
at least two coaches – one of whom is Coach Eric Taylor married to Tami Taylor;
there is a booster named Brad Leland pretending to be Buddy Garrity, only I am uncertain as to how he spells his last name and too damn lazy to Google (I’m sick!);
here in Austin, people dress as pumpkins;
I know the secret Longhorns handshake; and,
People like me.

No doubt these facts are enough to get me through the few hours seated next to strangers staring at a field of men in tights with huge helmets that make them look like bobble-heads.

Tonight, we’re off to The Salt Lick Bar-B-Que Restaurant for some seriously traditional Texas (can you guess, ma?) Bar-B-QUE.

I am excited, as equally as the cows would be my guess.

**********
.1. A few choice pics from my Hotel San Jose and Jo’s.
.2. I will do my best to update daily, but considering how lazy I am, don’t bet your first born on that actually happening.
.3. Comments are still on moderation so will show up either late at night or early in the morning, only (Berry’s off and internet only at the hotel or Jo’s).

Are you watching this show yet? Are you watching Friday Night lights yet? Why not? What could you possibly be doing that hasn’t allowed you to watch this show just yet? It will make your life a brighter one – trust me. You will learn, you will think, you will cry, you will try to make out with Tim Riggins and instead receive an electric shock because your saliva hitting the television screen is not the brightest of ideas. At least that’s what I hear from other people.

Friday Night Lights is brilliant from A to Z. It is the best acted, written, directed television show I have ever watched, and you should be watching it too, unless you consider The Kardashians interesting, then Friday Night Lights doesn’t require your low IQ in its audience. You would be a fool to let this show pass you by; and so when you watch it, please make it count so that we ensure this show stays on the air.

The beautiful man in this promo is Coach Eric Taylor (HI! Kyle Chandler); the beautiful woman Principal Tami Taylor (HI! I LOVE YOU! Connie Britton); the man looking over his eyeglasses, the character bringing electricity to this show Joe McCoy (I shake my fist at you (lovingly)! D.W. Moffett). (East Dillon better kick Panther ass, Writers.)

In honour of this show, I am creating a new category label titled Friday Night Lights. At the bottom of this entry, you’ll find it – click it if you’re interested in reading all of my sad & lame entries.

Also, please note the greatest birthday present I have ever received is this UT Longhorns at-home vs Colorado football game ticket. (I was so excited to receive this that I nearly passed out…don’t you dare judge me, unless it means I come out smelling like clean fresh shampoo.)

Darrrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium
40 yard line
2nd row
Behind the Longhorns
(…eat your heart out, boys & see you in Austin in a couple of weeks)