Prolific Immigrant

The bestest sox (a different kind of Crack) in the whole world

What I looked like on my birthday in 2007

…and what our really nice waiter brought out for us in celebration of said birthday

Thank you, Ms. Klein

Thank you, Mr. Aldo

This is one of my Secret Books…

…where I tuck away my secret gardens

…that hide my angels

…and prettiest girls

…and where you’ll also find my Crack designs

On the 19th of this month, we went to a retreat at Meech Lake, where this was my view

…and where at break, I sat and watched it rain from here

In a photos thread about a month back, I posted some pictures from Di & Pierre’s Day After The Wedding Day. Here’s my favourite shot from the wedding day itself; the ease of intimacy captured on film isn’t something that’s too often palpable as it is here…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’d think we were a generation of double-chinned mental cases with unnaturally weird posture and one extra long arm.

Why?

Because that’s what we all look like when taking photos of ourselves with our funky mobiles.

(No. I’m not posting any.)

The following are some choice photos from the last few weeks. Enjoy!

This is where I like to breakfast on either Saturdays or Sundays. That’s Lulu and next to her on the bench is Anne, who I met the morning I took this photo. We had a pretty interesting conversation about women, the way we’re being portrayed and the feel of the ‘feminist movement’ in 2007. Anne pulled out the recent American Apparel ads, indicating how shocked she was to see them…because they’re basically nothing short of porn shots trying to sell cotton clothing.

The sun setting over Gaza. I took this photo the last time I visited, and getting this shot proved to be quite the production as my uncle and I were faced with a wedding procession and so couldn’t find a place for me to take it.

Luckily, we managed to get out from behind the group and take this photo. That same evening, I took photos of different beautiful shots in Gaza and my uncle was later ‘contacted’ by the local Gaza whatever-the-hell-they-really-are spy agency requesting he go in and speak to them about the “7urma” (a derogatory term referring to women) who was taking photos of Gaza.

Phone calls were made to the higher-ups indicating who I was, who my father and grandfather were and what my intentions had been (the shame of it all, really!) and my uncle didn’t have to go in. Disgusting.

This was a substance leeking out from a tree I ride past at least four times a week. I finally got off of Lulu and touched the thing – only to discover it felt like a marshmallow that had been left outside over night. I still have no idea what it is and so if any of you can offer a response, that would be great…

The field that Lulu and I hang out at and where I like to read on the weekends. There’s a gaggle of trees nearby that play broken telephone with the ocean. I took this shot because I couldn’t believe how fast the summer’s flown by and what had been vibrantly green the days before was turning this soft shade of yellow…

Aalya had spent a better part of the evening preparing paella for us; one with chicken and one with pork sausage. The evening itself was hilariously filled with discussions and challenges about / to pop-culture, celebrity influence, religious adornments and popular cellists.

These statues are by the NAC in Ottawa. I usually sit beneath them close to the water and watch the local boat tours fill up with tourists. The view isn’t all that great, but the people watching is.

At Di & Pierer’s wedding, the following are the photos of the table I helped set. I did it all by myself (!) and had a ton of fun letting the newlyweds relax before our ten-hour day began. The ceremony had taken place the evening prior and this was the day of the open-house. Di had been tied up with her wedding, her brother’s wedding on the East coast and her brother in law’s wedding on the West coast for the two months leading up to this day. Pierre and her were leaving for their honeymoon less that 48 hours later and it was our only time together in much too long. This same night, Di & I managed to steal out of the party for some alone time over a coffee. It was a beautiful day and an even more precious coffee time…

No one was allowed to bring wedding presents and so I purchased for Di’s art room this little lamp. Look at how sparkly and glittery it is! (Pierre was most excited about the beading…)

And this is the bride. Beautiful.

At one point during the day, I had to sit in the quiet room and relax without the noise. I’d had a relatively tough night the evening prior and you can see how exhausted I was…but the dress is still pretty.

I don’t really know what to tell you about this window, except that I fell in love with it immediately. The frame, the history and the sounds of the trees that filter through it take you out of Ottawa and into someplace…French, it would seem.

A little something I took at a poetry / live music evening in protest of the CSIS Security Certificates

One afternoon, I accidentally ran into this parade and managed a few shots (I think it was Caribanna, pardon my spelling if I got it wrong)

Some glam shots of Lulu

It was N’s birthday recently, and here she is front and centre

…at the party no one was as excited to have their picture taken as L

…except E, who lovingly flipped me the bird as I pointed and clicked

…and once again L & I, both of whom will rush toward any camera within a ten km radius

The day that N & I went riding at Captiva farms, I made her re-pose so I could take the following “And here she was signing her life away form…” shot

which was taken right before I found this animal. I shot it because I didn’t know what it was…a lamb? (It looks as surprised by me as I was by it…and listen: if it’s not a chicken or a horse or a pig, I’m not that great at figuring out what else it could be…)

…and our leader Graig, who should have been at the back of the line but somehow managed to trust N & I enough to leave us on our own. I eventually left the group and ran back to Ottawa with my horse. (I still haven’t found N!)

A day in the Byward Market with mama found me taking these shots

…before mama took this one-and-only-I-love-my-curly-hair shot of me as we waited to have dinner at the NAC

And finally: The Girls while T was in town. This is her condo that overlooks the Byward and this is all of us:

…where I found the world’s most precious Crack closet

…and we compared Crack

Et voilà , c’est tout pour aujourd’hui! (All photo sets can be found here, if you’re really curious to see all other shots…)

Before you begin reading, please note that: Of course there is a middle-ground that below I’m not discussing. I’m speaking in the same extreme as that spoken by the window and the commercial mentioned. Understand that the state we are in is because of a backlash against the over interference of the Church and the moral arm and all of the history that has brought. But who the f*ck decided to throw the baby out with the bathwater? (I’m adding this as an after thought – Michelle pointed out that we can’t point at only one thing here, and she’s absolutely right. There are many factors to blame for our current state, only a couple of which are mentioned below.)

We went out recently, sat on a patio and I was this close to shooting myself.

One gem of an overheard conversation was the following:
“I just threw up in the bathroom.”
“But you still look good.”
“Thank God! I’m so lucky I can do that. Look. He said he thinks I’m cute and he wants to f*ck me.”
“AWESOME. He’s so hot.”
“Yeah. I think he likes me. I’m going to go with him.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Uhm. I can’t remember. Anyway, uhm, how are my chubs?”
“AWESOME. That’s totally why you picked up, bitch!”
“Right. I’m out.”

If I were to try and communicate either my pain or shame at overhearing this, I fear I may bring down my blog server.

Link to: Behold what we’re selling our young women (Be) and to our young men (Expect):

The above is a display window of a very popular shop in Ottawa. Notice, her jeans and underwear are around her ankles. She has wine bottles in front of her and her head placed on the toilette, clearly denoting the sexy state of inebriation that induces vomiting. The two background figures are one male and one female and written on the mirror is: “For a good time call….”

I stood in front of the display staring with my mouth open when a young woman came out, looked at me and said: “I know! It’s so cool!”

Instead of taking her down for her stupidity, I instead turned slowly to face her and declared “Noooooo. There’s nothing cool about this. It’s demeaning and degrading and a TESTAMENT. To just how low we’ve landed.”

She looked puzzled, gave me an awkward smile and walked away.

Link to: The latest birth control pills that are being marketed to an audience of very young women. The interesting thing about these commercials is:
The girls appear to all be aged between 16 & 22.
There are no men in the commercials.
They’re representing carefree lives; girls running on the beach, eating dinner out together, having coffee in the middle of the day, lounging around at home with magazines (heaven forbid it be a book), running out for a first job interview. All of them are smiling, laughing, unburdened and beautiful young people.

The first time I saw these commercials, I thought they were for a clothing or make-up company and was taken aback when I realized it was for birth control. Natasha & I were seated in a movie theater the second time I saw them and she declared “Holy CHRIST! The girls look like they’re about 12!!”

I don’t care how many partners you have sex with, or how many drunken one-night stands you’ve had or in which way and for how long you’ve been taking the pill. And I most definitely don’t care if you’re male of female. Your life is your own and your responsibilities and consequence to your body are yours for the choosing.

But if you wish to declare that you can have sex without any emotional connections or blowback then to you I actually say bullsh*t, because our bodies, our skin have and hold memories. More importantly, they have rights over us and so inherent in that is the fact that your physical being is not an entity that you can – no matter how hard you try – detach from the rest of you.

Now. If you are proud of the fact that you have casual sex without emotional connection, then it is your right to sell yourself so cheaply and there is no place for that on this blog.

What’s troubling me about the above is the greater theme of casual sex lifestyle void of worry and stress, when in reality, pregnancy may in fact be the least worrisome consequence of sex. ‘Least’ when compared to the psychological, emotional, spiritual, and sexual disease consequences of sex within the particular context presented by the above two references to ‘lifestyle’.

As already mentioned, there are no men in these commercials and so no hint at relationships. If, as adults, you wish to go out and have random sexual relations, then fine – but that’s not the audience being targeted. They are anything but adult. (I remember being a 16 year old ‘adult’ very well because that was the summer all of the girls in my high-school started having sex. I also recall – crystal clearly – the traumatic consequences most of them encountered because of that choice; none of them having anything to do with a pregnancy scare.)

I don’t think it would be insane or far-fetched to say that at that age one is completely vulnerable and their identity still being formed. As equally important are their perspectives on relationships and sex (be it within or without a relationship). Here I discuss both boys and girls.

To those of you considering someone like I a throwback to the Stone Age, I say better the Stone Age than what I’ve seen of late. And please note: anything I say re girls, I argue equally for boys. If there were a pill for boys targeted in this fashion, I would make exactly the same arguments. If boys were being represented in shop displays in this manner, I would fight against that equally.

Speaking only for myself here, I will say two things.

First, to those who are great advocates of the pill, I’ve read all of the arguments and understand them, though I don’t accept or agree with most of them. I have no problem denying entry into my body chemicals of the sort found in the birth control pill. What you choose to ingest is your business, but do not try to misrepresent the context of something that is so much more than a wee little pill to what are, essentially, children.

Second, I fully expect that the man who is going to love me isn’t a man who would want me to take the risks associated with birth control. (e.g. ‘Crazy girl’, ‘no sex drive girl’, ‘my body will never again be able to produce natural lubrication girl’, etc.) Just as it would be my duty to make certain he took care of his health and avoided harmful substances, I expect him to be doing exactly the same where I am concerned. These are my standards and mine alone, and this last bit – to me – would be one of the measures of a ‘man’.

But heaven forbid we hold ourselves to any sort of a standard that falls short of complete hedonistic freedom. People should have the “freedom” to have sex with whomever and whenever, at the age they choose. Because they should learn the meaning of responsibility…even though I am not exercising any. I’m so proud.

Proud enough to head back down to the store display and stand in front of it with a big banner that reads: YAY! I’M LIBERATED! I’M FREE! AND I DON’T CARE THAT MORE THAN HALF OF THE WOMEN IN THE WORLD OVER 15 CAN’T READ OR WRITE! I CAN SHOP AND F**K, YO!

I DON’T CARE THAT WOMEN PRODUCE 80% OF THE FOOD ON THE PLANET BUT RECEIVE LESS THAN 10% OF AGRICULTURAL ASSISTANCE! I CAN GET TRASHED ON TONS OF LIQUOR, BABY!

I DON’T CARE THAT WOMEN ONLY OCCUPY 2% OF SENIOR MANAGEMENT POSITIONS WORLDWIDE! I CAN SLEEP WITH THE OTHER 98%! WOO-HOO! HURRAY FOR ME WITH MY PANTIES AND jeans…around my ankles? And uhm, whose that guy behind me? And is that my number? And is that my girlfriend looking over me? Not interfering because, uhm, that wouldn’t, like, be right to tell me how to behave, would it? I mean…would it? And will you come to the sex clinic with me because I’m bleeding and I don’t know why.

But heaven forbid…heaven forbid…we ever say ‘no to anything’ because ‘yes’ has brought us so much good.

*Thank you to Woman Kind.

As promised earlier, here you go…

The Store

Don’t let the daunting exterior of Joe Mamma’s dissuade you from entry. Although it appears skateboarder meets snowboarder meets bmxer (the three of whom are dudes) they are very patient with Those Who Know Nothing Of The Cycling Riding Gliding Bumping-Off-Balconies World.

Their experience and ‘riding is living’ attitude rendered them very gracious and kind when I walked in and said: “I don’t know anything about bicycles, just that I want something pretty.”

Apart from Joe, there is Denver, Cameron (a sponsored snowboarder), and another sponsored bmx-er who is currently en route to someplace in the US to pick up his portable thing on which he rides his bmx and spins into the air and does not crash into the ground. Also, there was another young man (I recently turned 87) who had just been to Lansdowne with the King Cheeses of the bmx world from all over North America, one of whom did something very impressive that had to do with a jump and a balcony.

I managed a strong ‘Woooow’ before I started playing with Maillot Jaune and hoping none of the men would notice my complete cluelessness. This last man from the staff helped me choose a helmet – and although technically, he is young enough to be my child, I couldn’t help but notice his beautiful face. He’s still relatively shy and he may be Denver’s brother, because they look so much alike and I was thinking he would make an excellent boyfriend to Marah of Videoflicks, mentioned here.

I wish to make one final note for those of you considering heading over to Joe Mamma’s. Don’t let the name fool you for it is not Joe who runs the joint, but rather Maillot Jaune who takes care of the books, liaises with the partners and pleases the customers. Joe is nothing more than her front-man and she is very good to him.

The Purchase

At precisely 5.31pm on the 26th of July, 2007, your blogMistress became the very proud new owner of one Electra Hawaii Cruiser. This is the latest colour: Really bright and pearly orange. It’s so new that Joe had to take her out of the box and assemble her for me so that I would then be able to cycle her out of the store.

I had originally wanted to name her Lucy, but Lulu kept popping into my head and mama confirmed that as a very small fat child, I used to call all of my dolls by the name of: Lulu. And so ‘Lulu’ she is.

Lulu’s seat is black, painted with white flowers. Her tires are etched with flowers and all over her orange body are more white flowers. I purchased for her a wicker basket and a little ringing bell (but only because they did not sell honky horns). I now need to purchase a gel seat cover – because OUCH! – and a rear view mirror.

While Joe was assembling Lulu, the rest of the men filled me in on the logistics of sponsorship in the world of snowboarding, skateboarding and bmxing. It was actually quite fascinating to understand how the intricate details of these three worlds collided and also…blablabla because I have no idea what I’m talking about and so I am going to stop. And maybe take a nap.

Right. So, Joe finished assembling Lulu and carried her outside for me where Maillot Jaune joined us. I was so excited that I forgot to remove the massive tag from my helmet – made for those prone to multi-impact – as I walked out the front doors of Joe Mamma’s. Lucky that I noticed something scraping the side of my neck, or else I would have looked completely stupid riding around Ottawa with the tag that measures approximately 4″ x 6″.

The Ride

Lulu still has an aversion to cars. She is scared of them and in order to assuage her fears, I walked her away from Joe’s for the first few blocks. When I could sense she was a little more comfortable, I let her ride around on the side streets leading to the walk/run/bike only pathway along the canal.

For two hours, I rode her all over the parkway and the experimental farm on that first evening. (I had to pay very close attention to the speed limit as I am certain I was madly cycling well above the 10 km/ hour allowance with my thighs of steel.)

There were cows (the blobs on the left):

I even took a streaming video of my very first ride so that I may share it with you (likely not the best of ideas as it meant I had to steer with one hand and I nearly crashed into a tree…but I didn’t). Look at how terrified happy I am:

The following morning, I awoke with a very sore bum and abs that were screaming. BUT THAT DIDN’T STOP ME. I put on a skirt, a shirt, flip flops, and my helmet. I placed my lunch in Lulu’s basket and CYCLED TO WORK along the parkway. People waved and honked. I received several thumbs ups and two people cycled by and yelled a variation of ‘AWESOME BIKE!’

Because I was too busy concentrating on the ride itself, all I could do to respond was ring Lulu’s bell as a sign of thanks. I continue to do this often. I sometimes even ring Lulu’s bell randomly when I am alone because it makes me smile.

I am considering placing a miniature boombox in her basket for the times I feel like dancing.

I am very proud of Lulu and wish you could all meet her. If you are in the city, look for the girl on the orange bicycle ringing her bell randomly, smiling and looping a little all over the place in search of the straight path.

The Inaugural Fall

Since Thursday, I have been taking Lulu out for a minimum of two hours a day. Yesterday my friend and I went out for a relatively long ride and a picnic. Nearing the end of that ride, I was tired and sort of didn’t turn Lulu’s wheel properly causing me to tumble off of Lulu. We were immediately picked up and hugged; neither one of us has scrapes or fractures and so we are okay. A little shaken up at the time, but immediately Rode Again (Hurrah!) to avoid fear and confusion.

Complete photo set may be found here. To come: Streaming video!

Check out this cool photo from gorgeous sister Anjum. It’s one of the soon-to-be 365 pics in her photo-a-day (2007) set.

I’m going to COPY HER! I too am going to make a photo-a-day thing…only I don’t know when I will start it, BUT I WILL! (I wonder: Yasmine, are you doing this, too?)

“Awesomeness”.

Update 2 August 2011: I never did do this, because I am lame at copy cat-ing.

I was seated with a book in hand, listening to Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto in B Flat minor (Allegro non troppo) and preparing to drink Cinnamon Apple Spice & Moroccan Pomegranate Red herbal teas mixed in my newly purchased teapot (isn’t she lovely?) hiding beneath The Cozy (lovelier, yes?).

…I am pointing out the spout of the teapot so you believe there is a teapot hidden beneath this The Cozy.

As I placed The Cozy over the teapot, I got to thinking that The Cozy would serve as an excellent accessory to The Ponytail in Canadian winters. It would be called The Pony Cozy: Keeping your head cozy and your ponytail snazzy.

Look, I’ve even taken two different angled photos for you to consider…

Fits perfectly and will be a very easy product to pitch.

Soon, I shall be well on my way to making my first million. (I will always appreciate that you were my friends when I was merely a thousandaire.)

Amidst conversations about politics, engineering (I contributed much to that one), religion, the Middle East, children, relationships, friendships, airplanes, Salman Rushdie, marshmallows, cooking recipes, digital cameras, sand pits, CBC, BBC and STDs, the following are my choice quotes from Canada’s Birthday celebration at Dietrich and Aalya’s. Photos posted when applicable.

“FaceBook is a time-suck.”
“FaceBook can blow me.”
- Steve’s witty response to Sean’s otherwise normal observation of what FaceBook really is.

“Beneath that is the bb-q.”
“I sort of figured it wasn’t the Kaba, because it doesn’t look like we’re in Saudi.”
“Cackle. OH MY GOD, I’m not religious but my Muslim blood thinks that’s so sacrilegious.”
- Aalya and I

“Jasper, may I take your photo?”
“Yes you may. Please go ahead.”
- Jasper and I

“I’m a bottom”, when introducing himself.
&
“This is Pretty. She knows Shep Pettibone, can you believe it?“, when introducing me.
- Sean

“This bb-q is all man.”
“Do you think they’d let me take him home?”
- Steve & Sean

“I don’t think we’ll run out of wood.”
“Did you guys need wood?”
“Yeah.”
“Because I have, like, a six foot long piece of wood at home.”
“Why didn’t you bring it?”
“Well. I asked: ‘Is there anything I can bring?’ and no body said: ‘Yeah, actually, how about a six foot long piece of wood’.”
- Steve, Dietrich and an unseen

“The difficult times are the times that really show you what a relationship is made out of. That’s when you decide that that’s the person you want to have around when you’re miserable.”
- Natalie

“If you’re not on culinary duty, you are not in the kitchen. Now, Go.”
“Someone hand me a knife and a mushroom, quick.”
- Maha talking to no one in particular, in response to Dietrich

“Somewhere around here is the world’s cutest kid.”
- Almost everyone at the party at one point or another during the course of the evening.

“We all need a gay role model. Whose your gay?”
(Silence.)
“Now get your finger out of your nose, we have company.”
- Sean to Jasper, aged no-more-than-six

“Nadia, where did you get the firewood?”
“On the way here.”
“Did you cut it down?”
“Yes, actually she did. Every time she saw a good tree, she would pull over and run out with her little axe.”
- Nadia, Aalya-Mum, Sean & I

“All these cameras are frightening me.”
“You should talk to a doctor about that.”
- Steve & Andrew

“I play the piano, accordion, cello, violin and a little saxophone.”
“I play the kazoo.”
- Steve in response to MJ
(Note: I was laughing so hard at Steve’s response that I’m not certain I have all of MJ’s musical talent well documented.)

“Do you remember when you used to come and pick me up after closing the McDonald’s cash register?”
“Oh my God, in my white van?”
“And your techno music and you white Levi’s jeans.”
(Beat.)
“Levi’s rocked.”
“They sure did.”
(Beat.)
“But truth be told, I haven’t worn them since I used to safety pin them tight all along the side from the knee down.”
- Sean, Joanne and Natalie

“I like to take photos of myself.”
“John’s going to post those on FaceBook right now.”
“FaceBook can blow me.”
- John, Gio & Steve

“Can you please take a picture of me and the stars?”
“What?”
“The stars. Over there…”
“You mean the hanging lights.”
“Whatever. The electric stars. I think they’re pretty.”
- Andrew & I

“I work”
“Yes”
“hard for”
“Right”
“my money”
“So what are you saying?”
“and I want to”
“Ok.”
“LiveInAGoodNeighbourhood.”
“How unfortunate for you.”
“BecauseI’veLivedInABadNeighbourhoodAlready.”
“Money won’t make you happy at all.”
“ButIWasMuggedStandingAFootAwayFromMyFence.”
“Poor people are often much richer than rich people.”
“But there’s nothing wrong”
“Sad. Really, sad. Money is nothing. You should really just stop.”
“But.”
“No, just stop it. I’m feeling rather sorry.”
- Aalya-Mum responding to Dan attempting to discuss a standard of living.

CRASH. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. CRASH.
“That has to be John.”
“It is! Look – Aalya’s cleaning up and he’s sitting there.”
“Likely apologising for breaking something.”
“It’s just. John. You just have to expect it.”
“Aalya probably prohibited him from helping her clean.”
“God, he’s just probably apologising like mad! Poor John.”
“He probably saw the strawberry shortcake and in his excitement to reach it knocked half of the kitchen over.”
- No names will be posted re above for fear of reprimand from John.

“Snap. Snap. Click. Shutter. Snap”
“I really don’t know what sorts of pictures I’m taking. Oh dear, there seems to be something wrong with my camera. Oh my. (Snap. Click.) Oh! I’ve GOT you!”
- Aalya-Mum as she took very close-up photos of my face.

Posting because it is the most adorable photo of anyone I have ever taken.

Complete photo stream can be found here. Will post a short videoclipp soon enough…

We went out this evening and before heading out, Sharon and I fooled around with my mobile camera. I’m not allowed to post her photos on here, and so instead all you’ll be getting is me.

Check out how cool her following shots are; if you were to string them together, you could flip through them and watch me laugh in real time but without the sound effects which are the best part of my laugh because I sound like a braying donkey.

The potential flip-book nature of these photos is the most exciting thing to happen in a very long time. So sad is my life.

Sharon has an affinity for ‘up close and personal’ shots and so if you’re interested in playing connect the dots with the pores on my face you can find the entire set of shots here. Here you will find more shots of me cross-eyed.

OMG! Also make certain to peek at my awesome clutch (thank you Baby J):



(The inside’s satin!)

and then check out the lines on my new Crack:

There’s no denying the art deco influence on the heel. It took me a moment longer than usual to decide on the purchase but that’s only because I was a little discombobulated by their low nature and their hippie front braid. But I love them now. (Thanks to S for helping me pick them out.)

This is my gorgeous and dear girlfriend Aalya:

Although I didn’t take the following picture, I’m posting it so that you may see her beautiful eyes:

Aalya and I have been a part of one another’s lives for a little over a decade. We met while she tended bar in my office, Mike’s Place. (I used to receive phone calls there from my MA Supervisor.)

Mike’s Place remains the graduate pub at Carleton University and if you go in today, you will find on the wall a huge collage of photographs reflecting our ‘generation’, several of which are of your blogMistress and Aalya. Mike’s Place has the best chicken curry, Jamaican patties and cheese/sun dried tomato nan bread. All staff were either MA or PhD students and conversations usually centered around Foucault, Habermas, Gramsci and Althusser while the occasional philosophy student would scream out “I LOVE Derrida!”.

Neither the science students nor the undergraduate students were allowed in. More importantly, if you didn’t believe in existentialism, wrote poetry, belonged to the union, enjoyed Ben Harper, watched only foreign films, you weren’t allowed in.

Yeah, we were up our own asses. Far.

Over the years, Aalya and I have had some exceptionally long nights with never a dull moment. There was that one particular weekend in Montreal when we stayed at Bibi’s place and I dragged Aalya all over St-Laurent.

The weekend was filled with hilarious moments, the most important being Aalya and I seated at Globe’s bar eating shrimp and listening to Bob Marley, surrounded by complete and total whack-jobs and a whole lotta cleavage.

Every time a man would try to approach us, Aalya would bury her face into her plate and actually groan. It was amazing. (As an aside, even she will admit that it was a pretty fun weekend if for no other reason than because we just walked into all of the clubs without hesitation or a moment in line.)

I fall off the radar for short blips of time and in these moments Aalya compares me to “a wounded animal that needs to be left alone to work everything out and make a decision. I know that when I see you, you’ve made your choice and you’re ready to talk about what’s been going on”.

I resurfaced on Monday evening and went to visit her in her beautiful new home, the history of which is described by Aalya as follows: “According to the City, the house was built in 1920 and the record we have on our deed is that it was given in 1925 by a woman named Angelina Robinson to what must have been her sister in law, a lady named Lucinda Fournier, “en propre par amour et affection”. Lucinda then lived in it until her death, at which point it was willed to family members, then the property, which originally comprised the house next door too, was divided up and sold in 1981 to two different families. The house changed hands again in November, 2003, and was then sold to us in 2007! So that makes it a venerable 87 years old. We hope we’ll still be living in it to celebrate its centenary in 2020, without having to tack on any more additions!”

When I pulled in, it was by this smiling face that I was met:

I’ve never known Aalya to not have the most welcoming home. She is of Fey descent and wherever she lands magically and instantaneously comes to life with vivid yellow, green and orange walls, a suspicious ottoman, several cats who reign supreme, and a violin. Proof of this can be found in the following photographs of her new home with the lucky Dietrich:

The door to her office

Her “dressing room” (an actual dressing room!)

The music area

The kitchen (check out the servant’s staircase and the crazy lighting)

A corner of the bedroom

The living room

Warmth and love swallow you whole when you walk in and tea is always at the ready as is a good (or bad, which makes it better) horror movie, classical music and conversations that begin with:
“I was once exoticised.”
“But we already understand that marriage is more often than not driven by the economic manipulations of our society.”
“So there was this ‘feminist’ who just last year discovered the concept of the Other and SO every email I get is filled with ‘WE speak for so-and-so’ and ‘WE speak for so-and-so’ and I feel like responding with ‘YOUR WE does not represent ME, because I AM so-and-so’.”
“I’m really angry about this and I shouldn’t but I am and so here’s what I’m angry about…what do you think?”
“Do you like my shoes?”
“I was reading from some of my journals that I kept in my early twenties and I’d written: “Don’t they get it? I don’t have an agency!” God, can you believe how sad that little girl was? I just wanted to cry for who I was when I read that.”
“We really should write an article together.”
“Let me tell you what the problem with our society is…”
& of course:
“What I’m about to share with you, I’ve not told to anyone else.”

No matter how much time may lapse between visits with Aalya, there never seems to be space between us. Although we live in the same city, we have in the past gone close to a year without seeing one another, but came back together without feeling as though anything had shifted or any time lost.

Her insightfulness, loyalty and straightforwardness are treasures I kiss and pet every time I see her and hear her “cackle” (her word, not mine) of a laugh. She will always be my Crazy Cat Lady and I only have room for one such individual in my heart. (No others need apply. But thank you, anyway.)

All photos can be found here.

This is my beautiful friend Ranoon, with whom I spent close to a week in Montreal. In this first elegant shot Ranoon is gracing us with the Thou Shalt Not Take My Photo pose:

Moments before she got up and ran away from me, I managed to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous face, which I share with you here:

…her dimple will melt the heart of a lucky man some day.

Until then, she’s busying herself with Bio Genetics (I think I have that right, she will correct me, if need be). You can’t see it, but Ranoon has a massive brain that fills up half of Montreal. She writes and publishes things like: ”Volumetric Characterizations of Protein Denaturation and Ligand Binding”.

To me, that sounds like something about steaks, leggings and added volume to your hair. But I know that’s not the case and that’s because I’m the girl who once thought that peanuts came from…I don’t know, actually. I had to think about it when asked “Where do you think peanuts come from?” in response to my surprise that they grew ‘beneath’, like potatoes. I guess my mind simply assumed that peanuts grew in cans made by Mr. Planter. So it’s really not a far stretch that Ranoon’s work holds no coherence where I’m concerned…but I am super proud of her when she wins Awards, as she recently did for her ground-breaking work on…something to do with molecules and how they break it down when no one’s looking.

As you can see, Ranoon is a tad shy of cameras. Whereas your blogMistress is anything but, as the following pictures shall illustrate. We spent the better part of our days waking up relatively late and enjoying coffees at home and then at Shaika Café on Sherbrooke. The ambiance of the place is simply: local. It’s obvious that everyone knows the staff, that all locals congregate there for weekend breakfasts and coffees and daily conversation.

After my second day there, I expected the staff to call out “Maha!” as I walked in to order my café latte “in a bowl, please”. No one did, so I did it back to myself. Ranoon turned around and left the Café until I stopped giggling.

This is how happy it made me to sit across from Ranoon and drink the yummy lattes:

Our evenings were generally infused with dining out in Le Plateau and Old Montreal and then an early night’s walk around the city or a drive around Westmount and Mount Royal where we ogled homes we can not yet afford.

Amidst our adventures, Ranoon and I learned that I have a nose for rain. It’s weird and it’s new and I don’t know to what I owe the pleasure, but I am your regular Rain-Bee (if there be such a thing) and I can tell you whether and when it will rain. I would come in handy if I could be packaged and sold.

Here’s where I realise I am actually cross-eyed. It’s hot:

Every night we watched a movie and I nearly killed myself after watching “The Good Shepherd” which I hear was originally titled “Matt Damon Is A Piece of Wood, Angelina Jolie Used To Kick Small Furry Animals After Shooting A Scene Because She Had To Pretend To Play Passive And Demure, No One Believes That Kid Wasn’t Queer And What’s The Plot, Anyway, Because I Can’t Hear Them?”

I then usually read and fell asleep at the crack of dawn.

I dragged Ranoon into Holt’s in order to play. I played with the hats and we both played with the sunglasses. Here’s the proof (again, please note Ranoon refused to have her picture taken for reasons I am not allowed to mention or else I am not allowed entry back into her home!):

(See: I’m cross-eyed again.)

(I’m not posing here, I was trying to tuck my hair into the hat and I was blinking while trying not to laugh out loud at something Ranoon said.)

& the crazy thing is, I’m considering buying those sunglasses. They’re Tom Ford Margaux. I’m in love and I’ve dreamt of them. I may just do it, even though I was told I looked like a cross between Lisa Bonnet and Michael Jackson in the photos.

While in Holt’s, we ran into my old friend B. B and I went to high school together and I was the first in our school to know he liked boys. B and I were dear friends and he is Montreal’s finest make-up artist. If you’re ever in Holt Renfrew, make certain to visit him at the Bobbi Brown counter and tell him I sent you; just look for the beautiful Asian man. (You may call him “Kiki”, his stage name.)

It was the perfect week. Relaxed, filled with introspection, laughs, excellent conversation, much love and the occasional “No, that’s not right” as a footnote to “If you were standing outside of yourself”.

Good friends are a rare thing and I keep thanking my lucky stars for each and every one of mine. This is how happy I was at the end of that trip:

See the entire lame-o photo stream here. I’ve learned that I have to – from here on in – sneak up on Ranoon and take photos when she’s not looking. Otherwise I’m not allowed. And in case you’re interested, she comes with a portable air conditioning unit that has wheels.

Thanks ya Ranoon! (And p.s. I *was* in Montreal last summer for a couple of days, as the hotel staff mentioned; right before leaving for Beirut. How odd that I forgot.)

& big hellos…

It took me forever to take this photo – Ranoon just kept refusing…but here she is in all her beautiful dimple-faced glory:

Walking around Old Montreal, we kept missing the down-pour (one word, two or hyphenated?) and I tried to take a photo so you could see how hard it was raining, but it’s not all that obvious:

The most precious statue in Old Montreal. The Girls and us had a little palaver (where they told some great secrets, say thank ya, sai King):

While in Le Plateau, we came across this beautiful little shop called Galerie Flowerbox on St-Denis:

More to come, Inshallah…

Thanks to Al for sending this along. It’s brilliant and hilarious and angry and exhausted and hits all of the right buttons for your blogMistress…

Because no one believes me when I mention that as a baby, I had blonde hair. Check out how I’m striking a pose by bending my knee just so in my matching leggings, outfit, poncho AND Crack. Clearly, mama didn’t have enough dress-up-dolls as a child.

Because the woman who took this photo is someone I admire greatly.

Because I love my mama and this is a beautiful shot through and through.

Because when I saw this photo of K, I asked her mum if the costume came in adult (for me).

Because I love baba and I fear that if he keeps going at this rate, he’ll be much too big to fit into future photos. (Love you baba!)

Because I love the way both E & T are ogling that dessert.

Because you need proof that I actually have curly hair & because this is the best dress for dancing. Also, please check out the Super Crack.

Because I love to read and the reason I only have the following books is (1)I started reading only after I received my MA in 2001; and, (2) I give away at least two or three books a month. As much as I love these bookcases, I can’t wait until I have one room in my home that’s an actual library, where the shelves cover all walls and are actually built into them from ceiling to floor.

Because this was taken the second night at TIFF and Baby Jane and I have no idea who either of these women are (Baby’s in the silver top).

Because this was beautiful E’s response to: “Pose, please.”

This is one of my favourite photos of Sharshoora and I taken on the 28th of September 2002 at Solidarity for Palestinian Human Rights’ “Unite For Justice” event on Parliament Hill.

The photo always makes me laugh because I sort of look stoned and she looks like she’s carrying a light saber.

Sharshoora was in Ottawa for only a year and we got off to a rough start because the first time she came over was due to a conspiracy between my mama and hers.

There was a boy mama wanted her to meet and so mama asked that I invite her over for a cross between a “game night” (snore) and a “Yay Maha Got Her Masters” thing. Or maybe it was my birthday. Anyway, the people at this thing are individuals to whom – less than a month later – I would develop a severe and extreme allergy. This post is about them. As an aside, let me confirm that this group of ‘friends’ eventually imploded because they all talked so much about one another.

Back to game night. I’m not a “game night” sort of girl. I have never been a game night sort of girl. But this group most definitely was, and so “game night” sort of became a staple for maybe two months. Did I already say: SNORE? Well just in case: F*cking Snore.

Sharshoora was rightfully put off by this display of snoredom and mistook me for one of Them, A Game Night Gal.

Luckily, that was the first and last evening of it’s kind at my place.

I immediately took to Sharshoora and started following her around Ottawa. Within two days, she caved and we started spending our weekends together. (Lucky I’m sort of cute and charming.)

For the rest of that entire year, Sharshoora slept at my place practically every weekend. It just started happening without discussion I think, because we found our mirror nerd in one another. Neither one of us takes ourselves seriously at all, or those around us for that matter, and most definitely, we continue to find the funny in everything.

When I couldn’t find the funny, which was oftentimes the case when family discussion turned to marriage, Sharshoora would always make me chocolate cake and tell me that everything was going to be fine. The chocolate cake became the third in our ménage.

In the basement of her apartment building, she had a movie vending machine, and we would rent several movies a weekend, hang out watching them or Felicity reruns, eat, laugh, and eat some more. Our diet consisted of: chocolate cake (we made one every Friday and it was gone by weekend’s end), chips and cola. She really liked pumpkin seeds and would eat so much that her lips would turn white over the course of the evening.

She also used to do this thing where she would pour out a little of the cola and then close the rest of the 2Ls. She’d sit up on my kitchen counter and repeatedly shake the cola and then open it slowly to let the gas out. Once the gas was all gone, she would drink the cola. I now do this because she was right: It just tastes “sooooooo” much better.

At the end of the year, Sharshoora left for Georgetown and we lost touch. We both sort of suck for letting that happen. We tried to get in touch a few times and didn’t manage anything relatively decent in terms of conversation time.

Finally, she came back for a much-too-short visit in August of 2005. We spent an evening together getting caught up and trying to speak at the same time in order TO get caught up. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to bake chocolate cake.

She also tried to meet up with us in NY in October of 2005, but work pushed my dates back and she couldn’t make it out.

And then this summer, she got married:

I know. She’s stunning, this due to her Palestinian blood (her other half is Lebanese). We’re all pretty that way. She is absolutely one of the most beautiful women y’all’ll lay eyes on.

And she is a bona fide nerd. And she’s brilliant. And she’s working on her Masters at Columbia in Quantitative Statistical Analysis. And she’s hilarious, in Arabic (I take the cake for hilarity in English ya Sharshoora). She will make you piss yourself laughing and her sense of humor has no bounds. Case in point: one time her mama told the girls not to come home when it was dark, and so they came home the next morning after the sun came up. I’ve always admired this capacity of hers to find the loopholes re our limits when it came to our mamas’ rules…

Yesterday we finally managed to catch one another after much too long. We spoke for approximately an hour trying to catch up on all that we’ve missed…it’s incredible how a couple of years can be condensed into an Agenda less than an hour long.

I rang.
She answered.
I squeaked and squealed.
She screamed.
And the rest is history.

I knew I missed her, I’d just not realized how much until that moment.

Her husband and her have an apartment in the heart of NY at the corner of 6th and 16th and the plan is for me to head over for a weekend come Spring. She’s confirmed the presence of a flat screen and has asked that I merely bring the chocolate cake mix and the cola.

I can’t wait.

I have received some really lovely emails from fans of this man. Over a year ago, I posted about the Beowulf & Grendel premiere at TIFF and somewhere in there mentioned that I had fun meeting Tony Curran. At the time, I cropped myself out of the following photos and sent them – as recommended by gerardbutler(dot)net to the really nice folks at tonycurranonline(dot)com.

For the many of you who have asked: He is a generous man, a flirt, inquisitive and equally quiet. And yes, he has a supreme body (this, K discovered when she took a photo with him and touched his chest and declared “Oh my!”). I believe he’d just finished shooting Underworld Evolution (someone can confirm or correct this, please) and so was in top form. If I remember correctly, we discussed the film and I asked him about Speedy, who I have loved since Felicity.

Here are parts of our conversation, which I think many of you will find amusing:
“What’s your name?”
“Maha.”
“Maha? What nationality is that?”
“It’s an Arabic name.”
“Where are you from, Maha?”
“Palestine.”
“Palestine?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, Palestine.”
“Greetings, Scotland.”

…

“This jacket of yours is nice, Scotland.”
“Thanks, Palestine.”
“Sure thing.”
“It’s Armani, touch it.”
“Oh my God, it’s so soft.”
“I know. It feels perfect on.”
“Fits brilliantly, I can see that.”

…

“Nice hat.”
“Thanks. Try it on.”
“Ok. I’m going to take a picture in it.”
“Ok.”
“Without you, Scotland. Just with the hat.”
“Ok.”
(Little did I know, at the time, the sort of attention this “cap” of his receives from his fans. If anyone would care to explain this to me, please feel free to do so…)

And here is the worst photo I have ever taken in my life (check out my awesome two chins):

There you have it, fans of Tony Curran, that’s all there is to say, other than, I hope you get to meet him and have as much fun as I did doing so…

In years past, I have staggered the preparation of this Holiday Dinner as such:
- evening one: grocery shopping
- evening two: preparation of all which can be made one day ahead of time
- evening three: the actual Holiday Dinner, when the cooking is done

This year, I could not stagger anything because of circumstance and so was forced – truly, with all of my pleasure – to do everything in one day.

3:00 am: laying awake in bed considering how I would present dinner in terms of table décor and platter décor. Also considering which fresh spices I could add in order to better bring out the flavour of certain items.

8:30 am: rolled out of bed and had my first coffee.

9:00 am: was in my first grocery store. Queue foreshadowing.

9:38 am: wasted much too much time choosing just the proper candles and flowers (lily, one of my favourites) and when asked “buying these for someone special”, I responded with “absolutely! ME!” was met with disdain by seller of said flowers.

Because I was most definitely not in my element, I became a little flustered and offered “I am having a dinner party for the most important women in my life, who live in Ottawa, but the others can’t make it because they are strewn about the world. And I can’t find Waldo still. So because of this, you see, I’ve decided to buy myself flowers for the dinner table it will be really quite pretty all white.”
“Like a wedding?”
“What?”
“These are wedding flowers.”
“Are not.”
“Yes, quite usually they are wedding flowers.”
“O.”
“No one will buy them for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, if it makes you feel better.”
“Actually. It does.”
“Hm.”
“F*ck off you and your flowers, then. I’d like the clear plastic, please, and I’ll take two bundles. And four white candles, two large and two small, and those two large glass candle hurricane holders.”
“Ok.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Uhm. Not much, I don’t know.”
“You should consider buying yourself some flowers. It is Saturday night, after all.”

10:12 am: stood momentarily mesmerized by the amount and variety of breads in the bread section.

10:47 am: was discombobulated more so than normal as I had become lost somewhere between the pecans and butterscotch sauce.

11:03 am: was in tears standing before the butcher as he said “my meat didn’t come in today so I only have three beef tenderloin steaks.”
“But I need a total of eight.”
“Do they have to be beef tenderloin?”
“YES!”
“Ok, wow.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I see you’ve bought yourself some flowers.”
“Yes. Aren’t they lovely?”
“Yes. Lo-ve-lee.”
“So, what must I do, then?”
“You’ll have to go to (insert name of other grocery store, which I had previously boycotted).”
“Oh my God, really?”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s ok.”
“Good bye and may you be guided by…the stars in the sky…”
“But it’s morning?”
“I don’t know why I said that.”
“Because I wrote you that way?”
“Yes.”

11:27 am: paid and rolled my sad cart of food and flowers out of first grocery store, in search of beef tenderloin.

11:37 am: made it to second grocery store and purchased eight steaks of beef tenderloin from a lovely man who was kind enough to save me the trouble and slit ‘pockets’ into each tenderloin for me. Also purchased bananas.

11:53 am: purchased second coffee.

12:00 pm: was in kitchen.

I prepped and chopped, chopped some more, and then some more, and then some more. I baked and cuisine’d and chopped and chopped and chopped. I listened to belly dance music, danced around quite a bit and then: chopped some more. I had more coffee and chatted on the phone and chopped.

I was in the kitchen being a culinary goddess until 5:00 pm when I had no choice but to shower as the girls were coming in at 7:00 pm and I was no where near done chopping or cuisine’ing.

Out of shower, dressed and back in kitchen by 5:25 pm. More chopping and preparing and lighting of vanilla and champagne scented candles to ease my beginning-to-throb head as by this point, I had been on my feet for nine hours.

I had decided that no plates would be put on the table, except with food on them. And so, between each course, there was nothing on the table but the candles, the flowers and the drinks.

All of the beautiful women showed up on queue at 7 pm, each of whom had to sport something gold this year.

Mama

C

D

E

L

O

T

First course of Parisian bread with homemade tzaziki & bruschetta (with much coriander) was served at 7:30 pm. Please note the strawberry on the plate and the menu I’d written out for the girls (it really is the little details that make such an evening…):

Second course of sweet potato soup with a dollop of sour cream and buttered pecans was served at 8:15 pm:

Third course of beef tenderloin stuffed with morel mushrooms, shallots and garlic, with a side of sweet potato, tiny baking potato, onions, garlic, fresh thyme, rosemary and sage was served at 9:15 pm:

Fourth course of arugula greens with asiago cheese, pear and roasted walnuts served at 10:30 pm:

By 11 pm I was utterly exhausted because although I was sitting in between each course, I was also in the kitchen for the better part of the evening finishing each course, decorating it and cooking forward the next one. At 11 pm, when I brought out dessert and sat down for the night, I was quite literally a little hysterical because I was just so exhausted. I think that in total, I would have perhaps sat for maybe one hour over the course of 14 hours. I also couldn’t move my right wrist because of all of the work and chopping chopping chopping of the day. Chopping. I chop, we chop, they chop.

The funniest thing was that with all of the food we had already devoured, dessert came and it was as though none of us had eaten a thing.

Behold the lovely fifth course comprised of pound cake (I strongly encourage you to never, ever, look up the ingredients of this cake) with blackberrys to cut the sweetness:

& milk chocolate fondue served with marshmallows, lychee, pineapple, strawberries, more pieces of poundcake, pear, apple, blackberries, bananas & peaches:

Because of above mentioned hysteria, exhaustion, and total happiness that the evening and the meal had gone off without one hitch, I spent between 11 pm and 1:30 am laughing hysterically to the point of crying. Also felt a little like crying because the girls were so happy and completely satiated by the evening (which is the point, more so than anything else).

Involved in this portion of the evening was a moment where beautiful T dunked a complete marshmallow in the chocolate and decided to place the entire item in her mouth, only to have it (naturally) ooze out.

War stories of all our first-time yoga experiences and Trish’s originally incomprehensible “I won’t do yoga because I’ll fart” comment, which we all understood post first yoga class when surrounded by farting yoga-doers.

L’s ample breasts.
Ghost stories and property (e.g. “If your house is haunted and on sale, must you tell potential buyers of friendly ghost?”).
T’s eating habits.
O’s “Listen: I’m the crazy one in this relationship. If there’s a spotlight on ‘Crazy’, it’s mine, not yours” retort to ex boyfriend when he mentioned he’d seen a ghost. (O was on ‘happy’ meds at the time.)
C’s unique ability to mention T’s eating habits at the most inopportune times.

At 1:30 am, the last of the girls slipped out and I crawled into bed with tiger balm on the nape of my neck, the small of my back, my temples, right chopping wrist and heels.

3:30 am: began considering menu for 4th annual holiday dinner…considered baking bread from scratch…

This is a photo of Sarah and I taken a couple of Fridays back. She lives here and so I was terribly excited to hang out with one of my fans. It always makes me feel great to give back to the little people who’ve made me the Celebrity that I am. Also, I’m full of sh*t.

Isn’t she beautiful?

Apart from the completely “random” (thanks, Sarah) Agenda of the evening, I had the pleasure of meeting one of the Middle East’s biggest celebrities, Fathi Abdel Wahab. He recently worked with my personal favourite – Tamer Hagras – but I thought it uncouth to ask him about Tamer’s marriage and whether he would entertain exercising his right to marry more than one woman recent body of work.

At the beginning of the party and before either of these pictures were taken, I’d had a slight break from reality. Nothing like it had ever happened before and so it was difficult for me to comprehend. Within a heartbeat, I found myself sitting at the table with zero level of patience or tolerance. I didn’t want to speak with anyone, I didn’t have the patience to answer questions, make small talk, tell people how my French language training was going, how Beirut was, or what I do at work. It was a first for me, this incapacity to make polite chatter and respond in kind when people were being courteous.

I’ve always prided myself on being diplomatic in the most extreme and difficult of circumstances, but I had no capacity for that on this particular evening. All I wanted to do was get up and walk out of the party because I felt as though I was suffocating and for a good half an hour, I was in my own head talking myself out of getting up and leaving.

During one particular moment, I couldn’t remain seated and so instead, I went to the washroom and cried. I sat in one of the toilette stalls and balled my eyes out for a good ten minutes. Lucky that no one came in while I was there, lucky that I don’t wear make-up and lucky still that I can cry for hours and you’ll never be able to see it on my face.

Nanno had died exactly one week past, the wake had been three days prior and another ‘glitch’ had occurred only five days before that moment. It had been a relatively heavy week and my heart took the brunt of it that Friday evening.

Eventually, I cooled off and returned to the main hall where I slowly came back to reality. The ‘situation’ only lasted about an hour and the rest of the evening was an absolute riot filled with a lot of laughter, good food, intelligent conversation and dancing. It was a rare evening of emotional extremes which taught me that sometimes – although rare – it’s best to go to the ladies room alone.

.1. The cello is my favourite instrument because it is the one instrument that jives 100% with crack. Speaking of which, I just purchased some more:

(Imagine these babies wrapped around a cello.)

.2. Today, someone posed the following hypothetical Q: ‘What do you need to do to make sure everything’s finished with a contract?’
…to which I responded: ‘Get rid of the incriminating evidence’.

No one laughed as hard as I did.

.3. When we say
“I really want to see him/her/undecidedOne”
we really mean
“I really want him/her/undecidedOne to see me and to think fond thoughts of me and to comment on how lovely my crack is.”

Being such egomaniacs is what makes us interesting, and I hate Ayn Rand.

.4. Out of familial obligation, Baby J was recently stuck dealing with a different kind of Boy, the kind that says “I’m sure you’re seeing a lot of other guys, ha ha ha” and leaving a message, only to call back a little later to ask “did you get my message? Did you like my message?”

For the love of God, man, don’t you know the least attractive quality in a man is neediness? (I’m sure it’s not that attractive on a woman, either.)

Baby J is one of the most fiercely independent women I know. At the sight of her, you understand that like me, she’s an Alpha, and female Alphas need their men to be Alphas, or else it’s quite nearly impossible for us to be attracted to them. We like men who take charge and are focused, the last thing they need being our validation.

But she’ll do her thing and eventually this will go away.

Her life is changing at the moment and I’m excited for her because she’s made a rather impressive and critical life-altering decision and one which will bring me many Hello Kitty items, the list of which I am already compiling. I have absolutely no doubt that she’ll completely excel at all that’s to come.

.5. Two honourable mentions.

I sent this email out:
ATTENTION!
ALIENS ARE COMING TO ABDUCT ALL THE GOOD LOOKING AND SEXY PEOPLE.
YOU WILL BE SAFE, I’M JUST EMAILING TO SAY GOODBYE.

Baby J responded with:
“This message has been automatically generated by the aliens that also abducted Baby Jane. We will return her to your planet as soon as we figure out how to clone her so that we may have an entire race, inspired by her beauty.

Please do not reply to this message.”

& Waldo came back with:
“ha ha…oh my god, they’re here!!!! see you on the other side!”

Is it any wonder that I’m in love with my girlfriends?

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

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

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

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

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

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

& art work for one of my walls:

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

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

Oh mon dieu. If ever there was a sh*tty shot of me, this is most definitely it:

In my defense:
1st. I take poor profile pictures.
2nd. That’s what I look like after working an 18 hour shift.
3rd. Compound that 18 hour shift by adding for nearly three weeks in a row.

The Honourable Minister Peter MacKay (technically, my boss) has got a photo blog, which is pretty cool.

You have my permission to look closely at my boobs where you will see a yellow sticky note. It read: Hi! I’m Maha ) because I thought that was a really cool thing to do. I’m sure The Honourable Peter MacKay thought I was some sort of a mental retard because of it.

Circumstances leading up to this shot (which was taken in early August)? His office had asked us to take care of one particular case (in terms of evacuation) and I was charged with said case. After working with his cool Exec Assistant Christopher Gorman**, The Honourable Him came down to meet me and say thank you which was quite nice and completely unnecessary. He’s tall and has a great tan, n’est pas? Nice hands, too.

Watch me get fired for objectifying His Honourableness.

**from whose blackberry I attempted to send a text message to Beirut but failed miserably. After trying for a whole two seconds, I very nearly threw it at him with a simple: “I don’t know how to do this or work this thing. Take it.” (18 hour shifts make you weird.)

Because it’s my birthday, here is the guilty pleasure which you must ogle:

Notice how his crotch appears to be screaming with equal vigour and enthusiasm. (Gracias, Zack Snyder.)

Favourite, though, is that his Spartans are hanging out in the back completely chill, wondering why their leader is always, like, such a drama queen.

Find everything you need on this movie here.

It’s tomorrow, but the celebration was last night, and one made up of Indian cuisine, Jackass 2 & The Burboun Band.

This was the first birthday in nearly 10 that O was a part of. It’s good to have you home, baby…

The Girls (-C making sandwiches & -T in Florida)

& this one I’m adding because I’ll appreciate it when I start to wrinkle…

(thanks to everyone I’ve never met but somehow remembered to send a little note…)

.1. Happy 1st, baby:

Daddy manages Ottawa’s baseball team and so we had the entire Lynx Stadium to ourselves, which was equal parts creepy and exciting.

.2. For the past four evenings, I’ve spent my nights with some of the most important women in my life. Over wings and drinks and coffees and cakes, we’ve spent hours pouring over our loves, hearts, politics, friendships, children, fathers, dreams, fears…everything.

It has been a marathon of friendship, during which we’re trying to make up for lost time and break a record all the while making certain to fill a quota in terms of conversational capacity. Reality dictates that much of this has been happening because I am the guilty (& still not satiated) instigator of these evenings.

I’ve refused to spend any time alone and so chose to instead surround myself with a warmth that can only come from my animated girlfriends. Needless to say, we’ve likely consumed unhealthy amounts of chicken wings this past week.

.3. Last night was a serendipitous sort of evening. O & I had finished up at DM’s and were heading out when I ran into a very old and dear friend of mine from a group I used to hang out with nearly 12 years ago.

A mutual birthday shared, a few of them were out celebrating and M invited me along to say hello. I planned on popping in briefly, and ended up staying the course of the evening instead. A friend owns the restaurant and so we literally locked the doors after the last customers and enjoyed the space to ourselves.

Here’s a snippet of one conversation:
Maha: “How’s your grandfather?”
M*: “He died about two years ago, Maha.”
“Oh my god. Jees. This is awkward, eh? I’m such an idiot.”
“Way to place your foot in your mouth.”
…insert extreme laughter from both, and then the ensuing banter…
“And your mom? I hear she got out of those shoplifting charges pretty easily…must help that you’re a cop!”
“Yeah, totally. And my dad? He’s been able to put that sexual harassment case behind him.”
“Excellent! How’s your sister doing after that abortion? Did we ever figure out who the dad was?”
“No, not really. No one cares…abortion was okay, it’s the herpes that are killer!”
“I bet!”
“This is good, getting caught up like this. Mom still hooking?”
“Absolutely. This is fun. We should take this on the road.”
“Let’s.”
“OKAY!”

It’s amazing how quickly and comfortably we can fall back into friendship. Although last night was a welcome and heartwarming evening, it’s probable that I won’t see most of them for years to come. Regardless, all involved are like huge warm blankets well worn and of the perfect fit, memories of them I’ve carefully tucked away and of which I’ve taken very good care.

Life dictated that we would drift apart, but last night was a clear indication that no matter time and space, they still fit and they will always fit.

Among the many people who worked together in Beirut (many of whom came in from our Embassies abroad), eight of us are based at Headquarters, and one miscellaneous who resides in the same city. Unlikely but true, we all got along and genuinely enjoyed one another’s company. While in Beirut and after coming back from a lengthy workday, our evenings started at 7 or 8 and ran until all hours of the morning.

Coming home at staggered times, we’d promised to keep in touch and see one another on a relatively regular basis. Last evening was our second ‘Beirut Reunion’, which at our last dinner, we agreed to hold on the first Friday of each month. Best about last night was that the MCO of the Beirut Embassy (the beautiful girl in pic no 5) was in town and joined us. It was quite surreal to see everyone in Ottawa, more so with her there because she really is Beirut.

Because of the nature of our work, conversations that run the course of our evenings are exceptionally politically charged, very aware, relatively progressive and always well articulated. Last night provided 4 hours of the same…

Although not everyone’s photographed, here are a few of the people involved.

S&G

G & A

JG

S& Maha; Look, I have a bald spot that no one ever knew about and that seems to have only appeared in this one photo. We spent the next five takes trying to figure out what was wrong with my camera that it made me appear to have a bald spot. Notice all the laughing which ensued post the “there’s treatment for that sort of thing Maha” & “it’s not too late to remedy the problem” & “receeding hairlines among women is all the rage in Europe. It’s totally hot!”.

As mentioned earlier today, I am redecorating my room. I decorate from the corners and work my way out, and so I started with my favourite intimate corner which has always struck me as a little exposed.

In keeping with the theme of Occupied Bombay, I knew I needed a Banana Tree. Banana Trees are quite underrated, folks. Apparently, they’re also a rarity. I hunted everywhere for one, and finally found the perfect Banana Tree for my corner.

Please say hello to Tilda, my Banana Tree:

Isn’t she beautiful?

My outstanding list of items is now narrowed down to:
- Wire backed chair
- Reading chair
- Ottoman to match the reading chair
- One large tapestry
- A chandelier
- I’ll be removing three massive panels behind which resides my wardrobe, because I’ve decided to instead hang very heavy drapes in their place (shades of reds & golds)
- Miscellaneous items such as candles, frames and at least three mirrors to slip above my headrest, to reflect the proper light.
- That’ll leave me with one wall empty, a space I’m as of yet unsure how I’ll work with…

I wasn’t joking when I wrote “42 years”.

I’ve begun writing the Wrap Up on Beirut and I realize I’m not ready to do it just yet. It’s really too heavy for me to deal with at the moment, and I’m currently more inclined to deal with me than I am to deal with politics. Sorry.

But, I finally responded to each and every one of your emails and I’ve started (backwards) responding to the comments you’ve all left (up to and including the blog entry No 8: Sabra & Shatila; In the coming week, I’ll get to all comments posted after that date).

Right. So more about me, hurrah! While in Beirut being a scardey cat working, I thought it was the ideal time to engage in a most exhausting personal battle. Because, you know, aerial bombings are such a bore and leave you with quite a bit of time on your hands and energy to think.

The only words I can use to describe me are ‘reckless’ and ‘defensive’, and until Beirut happened, I never realized just how reckless I am, and how the bizarre flipside of that is the reality that I am, in fact, completely defensive. It plays itself out in a strange hypocritical script where I equal parts open myself up completely, while setting up a situation in a way that ensures it will fail (& where I don’t set it up myself, I look for the situation that’s already set up in that manner).

Not that I aim for failure, but rather that should ‘circumstance’ dictate failure, then it’s not a reflection on me but on circumstance. I remain intact and safe and secure and can throw my hands into the air and squeal “it’s out of my hands”, when in fact, I’ve obviously created a situation in the likeness I wish to see it. I have no idea what the last part of that sentence means, but I’m leaving it in there because it makes me giggle.

In the past, this has backfired and the scenario of failure ends up being a recipe for success. That’s been fun, in a strange twilighty sort of way.

I can guarantee that any psychoanalysis of this girl would conclude that: on a much deeper level, I actively seek out what’s reckless and what’s difficult and complicated, dramatic and maybe even devastating to a certain degree. A part of me must enjoy the twisted ends that come of my own doing…

Hey, at least I’m not into self-mutilation yet.

OH MY GOD, have you seen Nip/Tuck season 3? Holy moly, it’s crazy and ya ilahi thank you for Christian Troy. Because I obviously have a weird fetish I picked up Season 3 on Sunday and have managed to already watch it. SEE IT. Godspeed, kitties.

Right. So we were at: I’ve always understood that I’d much rather live hard and feel and hurt equally hard, than to be numb. Isn’t that where we were?

But clearly, I’m only willing to engage hurt when I’ve inflicted it by my own hands (e.g. not me giving 100% percent to something good and healthy and then having it fail; but, rather me giving 100% to something meant to break down, hence me actually seeking it out).

And for the record, although I don’t know what this does mean, I do know it doesn’t mean that I don’t want something to succeed, and it doesn’t mean I don’t want things to work out. It’s sort of messy, but to a great extent, it allows me a semblance of control and order in an otherwise messy situation, oui? Engage in and expect failure, and when you fail to receive failure and instead receive success, then even better…

In other speak, this means my willingness (& affinity) for taking really stupid risks. Did I not have the cultural and religious graces of my family, my risks taken would be much greater. This is somewhat of a double-edged sword for although it’s kept me safe from much, it’s also held me back from so much more.

Anyway, what I haven’t been able to understand is where the defensiveness comes in. Seriously, I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the past couple of weeks and I’m happy I’ve figured out the first half, because I like that half. I actually enjoy being reckless. What I need now is a means to understand where and why the defensiveness kicks in and how to ensure I stop allowing it to be a part of my life. Because ultimately, I’m still getting hurt even though it is by my own hand, so I think that it’s time for me to stop being defensive. I think I’ve hit a new level of maturity and I’m really looking forward to engaging it and those around me based on this new principle…

…while wearing this spectacular new shirt I picked up in Dubai. Isn’t it stunning?

I’m not entirely sure I know what this blog entry’s about. I just have a lot to say and thought I’d throw it out there for you to laugh at. Being in Beirut forced me to face it because thinking you may die makes you a very large weirdo.

I can’t say it enough; Lebanon is a beautiful and breathtaking country and tonight I’ll be graced with it’s last sunset. I quickly learned that the best way to wrap up my day and unwrap my evening was to wave a little goodbye to the sun.

Heading out to Larnaca tomorrow and on to Dubai the following day, it’s been sad and a little difficult for me to find it in my heart to leave. I don’t want to walk away from the people, the environment, everything and anything which brought me and kept me here with a smile on my face and a full heart.

My two favourite pictures from this trip are the first sunset I met in Lebanon:

& this moment captured was one of the happiest I had while Beirut served as a mistress; on this particular day, my emotions had run the spectrum available to them and as you should be able to see on my face, I was happiest when the photo was taken. With me are Thunder, an Arabian race horse, and its rider Ahmed:

I’ll also leave you with my favourite poem, penned by Gibran Kahlil Gibran, one of the greatest poets to grace us, born in Bsharri, North Lebanon…

The Playground of Life XIX
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
And Love is worth a full century of glory
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.

From that hour comes man’s Truth; and
During that century Truth sleeps between
The restless arms of disturbing dreams.

In that hour the soul sees for herself
The Natural Law, and for that century she
Imprisons herself behind the law of man;
And she is shackled with irons of oppression.

That hour was the inspiration of the Songs
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.

That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.

That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.

One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a
Century filled with greed and usurpation.

It is at that hour when the heart is
Purified by flaming sorrow and
Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth
Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.

And that century is a life of Nero spent
On self-investment taken solely from
Earthly substance.

This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages;
Recorded earthly for centuries;
Lived in strangeness for years;
Sung as a hymn for days;
Exalted but for an hour, but the
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.

To those of you who have sent hundreds of emails, thank you for your kind words and prayers and encouragement (& occasional ‘what the fuck are you thinking?’). You’re all in a special folder and I promise to respond to each and every one of you individually. Thank you. Love you. Owe you.

Flying over the Greek islands and in to Larnaca, August 11th 2006:

Sunset over Lárnaca as I landed, August 11th, 2006 at approx 7 pm:

Having my morning coffee in Larnaca, August 12th 2006:

Mini bus to Lárnaca airport, August 12th, 2006:

Our small team, seated at Larnaca airport waiting for our helicopter, August 12th, 2006 (please note my naturally curly hair much thanks to Cypriot humidity; it is the only time you will see it on this blog):

Our ride over the Mediterranean, August 12th, 2006:

Every morning I woke up to a crisp and clear Montreal skyline, without a touch of humidity (this, unusual because summers in Montreal are normally blistering hot and at a 100% humidity rate).

Dining
We breakfasted on rich cafè lattes and later lunched and dined on seafood. Because am so familiar with Montreal, I was terribly excited to discover two new locations: Verses Restaurant & Le Sainte Élisabeth in the Latin Quarters (otherwise known as The Red Light district).

One of my favourite places to dine is Le ‘S’ Restaurant (most notably for brunch) because they have the best smoked salmon which is always fresh and smoked in-house. Their menu is typically French and so all food is rich in crème and butter. I recommend you try their grilled salmon in a cheese crust if you go…

Oddly, Verses has always been right down the street from where I stay, but I never thought to go in and dine because everyone seated in the windows appears to be of a different ‘sort’ / ‘crowd’ than I would enjoy. I go to restaurants such as this with my father, when he picks up the bill and I play pretend: proper.

The strangest thing is that Verses sits in the Nelligan, a typically old Montreal-style boutique hotel I’d never noticed before Friday night. Much to my surprise, and only after we’d finished dining did I notice the front desk. The world’s largest sign above the entrance: HOTEL NELLIGAN, has not once registered in my mind’s eye. In my defence, I do think this is in part due to a combination of the narrow streets of Old Montreal, and their cobblestone ways. 99% of the time, I’m too busy looking down at the cobblestones making certain I don’t trip and land in any given pile of horse poo.

All this to say that at Verses, the food was exquisite, the atmosphere wonderful, the female bartender a form of social inept, and the lobby most definitely seductive. Although I’ve always only stayed in either Le Saint Sulpice or Auberge du Vieux-Port I will test out the Nelligan next am in Montreal.

Pubbing
Saturday evening brought with it Le Sainte Élisabeth.

We ate on rue St-Laurent Elisabeth’s (belated) birthday dinner, after which she wanted to go for a drink and recommended this ‘little’ pub. As we were walking down rue St-Catherine and immediately before we turned on to rue St-Elisabeth, this was a little bit of our conversation:

“Elisabeth, we’re not walking anywhere after the night’s over. We’re catching a cab because although it’s still light, I’m already uncomfortable.”
“Yeah. This area’s a little dodgy.”
“Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction? I’ve never come down this far.”
“Especially not at night.”
“Right. Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Heh heh heh.”

At which point we walked past a man who graced us with the following: ”Hey ladeeeeeeeeeeeeeees. LADIES! YOU, PIXIE, AND YOU, ANGELINA, LOOK AT ME!”

To which some other man responded with: ”You lookin’ for some bitches! Why don’t you come and get me pretty boy? I’ll show you a little piece of Montreal. Wooo! Hooooo!”

Que Elisabeth: “AH! This is it, here.”
“That’s a pub? Are you sure? It sort of looks like a dive.”
“LAAAADIESSSSS.”
“Fuck it, whatever it is, let’s just go,” and with that, we moved our asses a little faster and walked in…

…to find one of the most beautiful terraces I have ever seen. The ‘terrace’ is in fact a courtyard located between four buildings. Essentially, you find yourself between four brick walls an average of four stories high, all of which are covered in ivy. Your ‘roof’ is one very large and old tree. Among the ivy is hung mild green and blue spotlights, colourful flowerpots and speakers.

This is the photo of the wall that was on our left:

The one that was in front of me:

And this is a photo I took while laid out on my back across two chairs, this is our ‘roof’:

By the time it was 11 pm, I was absolutely exhausted and still couldn’t help but stay because the music was so damn good. I loved it! Just go. No matter what part of North America you find yourself in, just get to Montreal and visit this pub. You will be thankful. Trust.

’The Gays’
Montreal is notorious for its equally beautiful and stylish population. When I arrived, I was taken aback by just how beautiful the men had become. More important was that they were all in top physical form. And none of them had hair on their chest. And many of them were wearing short jean shorts. And holding hands with other boys.

It was the 1st world Outgames and so within 24 hours of my arrival, I just stopped looking at all of the men because I assumed everyone was, as my mother would say, ‘a Gay’. Such a trauma for the straight female community when all of the beautiful ones really are gay. Lucky, Tommy.

I’m listening to The Best of Bill Evans on Verve as I sit in my mother’s garden and type. I wasn’t certain where to begin with this entry, and Bill’s served as a sort of catalyst for the flow of languid energy you may feel tonight. Just so you’re here with me, here’s a fraction of my view…

I recently wrote about a man who intimidated me; whether that was a crush or just feeling like he was way too much of a smartie pants, I don’t know. Either way, it’s left me thinking a lot about another individual who I also met in 2005 (an eventful year!). He had the exact opposite effect on me, leaving me feeling like a million dollars in both his immediate presence and always in its residual.

It was my first time experiencing the following: seeing myself through someone’s eyes as they saw me. It was among the most sensorily heightened experiences I have had to date. Our reactions to one another was instantaneous and very clichéd, bringing to mind the terribly tacky ‘…across a crowded room…’ only he smiled and waved and I actually thumbed my nose at him, because the last thing I am is any dimension of sexy, preferring to instead get in touch with the buffoon inside. Mac in lap, were I to script the words that transpired between us and the subsequent serendipitous nature of our paths crossing at different times, I couldn’t have written it better than God did (but then again, we can’t argue that he’s anything but the most brilliant of authors…).

Oddly enough, he was more aware of me, than I of him, but I think that’s only because of the women he may otherwise be used to. Taking a hazardous guess, I believe that these women are very careful with their words and looks, are cool and well put-together and very aware of their sexuality, using it in both strategy and execution of will.

He’s relatively aggressive and extremely sure of himself, but not to the point of cockiness or arrogance, just a very attractive masculine assuredness. This, coupled with his looks, makes women react to him strangely, and under ‘duress’, most likely constrained in their behavior because they want their portrayal of themselves to be whatever they think he wants.

I, on the other hand, came tripping along laughing relatively loud, telling him not to take either himself or his life seriously, because one day he’d be fat and unattractive (but he should still enjoy today’s pleasures while he can), and then telling him I wasn’t all that interested in the fact that he thought I was “sexy” because it’s usually – more so than not – a line. (I was flattered and it made me blush, but at the end of the day it’s not the sort of thing that hooks a woman like me.)

More bizarre was that I wasn’t really paying much attention to what little he was saying, but noticing that he was repeating lines I was putting out there for consumption (a definite score for the sisterhood…). It’s really intriguing to see the person before you enveloped in your own energy, caught up in it and sitting back and along for whatever ride you seem to be taking, because they want to. Have you had that experience? It took me 30 years to meet it…

Now, what does hook a woman like me is a man’s eye, but not the one they use to check out your ass as you walk away or your chest as you lean over. I’m talking about a man’s ability to size you up and do it well.

Never has a man been able to do that with me…until this gentleman came along. On the third occasion of seeing one another, and within the first half an hour of our conversation, he told me what he thought of me, using several different descriptive words and the following unique and troubling one: ”vulnerable”.

Unique because it’s the first time a man’s ever said that (for the most part, both men and women perceive me as abundantly strong). Troubling because it’s true. Cat’s out of the bag, y’all.

I was immediately put on edge, because he didn’t know me well enough to see that; people who have known me for years haven’t seen that. My family and my best friends, my core inner circle, are aware of that because I leave whatever defenses I have at the door when I see them.

I trust them not to take advantage of that vulnerability, but that’s a trust that’s been earned over years. This bastard came along and he nailed me with that one word.

In hindsight, I can tell you that he was able to read that of me because while interacting with him, there was nothing about me that even I could have called ‘pretentious’. I was incapable of wearing a mask with this man. It was beyond my capacity to be anything but exactly who I was, and I think that just translated – without my consent, actually – into me opening up and letting my guard down.

More importantly, though, I knew that I was in the presence of a man who wouldn’t hurt me and someone who wasn’t a predator (although he’s often times perceived as just that). I was with someone stronger than I on all levels, and so, I think, my vulnerability just perked up and sat squarely on my shoulder waiving at him and smiling. Sadly, that’s not a feeling I had ever had before. Never; not once. It’s not something I’ve felt since.

Oddly enough, and even though it began as something which placed me on edge, it became liberating and was a breath of fresh air.

The sun’s set now, and Bill’s almost finished playing the piano. I’m about to blow out the candles and head inside. Sweet dreams, everyone…

Because life has taken a very busy course for all of us, The Girls rarely get together anymore. We see one another individually, but hardly find the time to go out as a group. Trish (nicknamed: Kitty) now lives in Florida with her husband. She’s come ‘home’ for the weekend and tonight, we got together – minus Cleo, at home with newborn Trent. We went out for an exquisite meal and then found ourselves on a gorgeous patio for the rest of the evening.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve laughed as hard or for as long as I did tonight. There’s something to be said for 16 years of friendship, and these are all brilliant, hilarious and beautiful women who I cherish and love immensely.

Here’s Kitty

This is T

T, Kitty & E

Us. This picture I love because it looks like we’re about to be devoured by flames

E & T

& this shot of T & I, which is my favorite because it’s the picture to best describe the evening. We were about to shoot the same shot as the one above, with E and Kitty, only I was going to be kissing T. E was taking the photo and T and I were posed, until E pressed the button and my camera started flashing – an indication that it’s about to take the shot. What T doesn’t know is that my camera has a delay of a few seconds, and so she turned to me and stuck out her tongue because she thought that’s what the camera would snap. But due to the delay, the camera got our reaction to her action…

A few random notes about the evening:
.1. It’s confirmed, I am most definitely a girl drawn to men who wear jeans or cargo pants and t-shirts or button downs. Since when did men become so high maintenance? And who finds this attractive? AND WHY DO THEY CALL THEMSELVES MEN WHEN THEY’RE PLUCKING AND WAXING AND USING MORE HAIR PRODUCTS THAN I OWN?

.2. We saw a girl wearing a white Formula1 cat suit.

.3. As unattractive as the high maintenance man (the metrosexual), is a man who can’t hold his liquor. It’s probably one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. If you’re a guy and you can’t hold your liquor, then don’t drink and have a cola instead.

I met someone who can’t hold his liquor.

Over the course of the evening, this individual became increasingly whiney, belligerent and annoying. By 11 pm, I was ready to start firing off comments to meet his own ugly ones, but out of respect for our mutual connection, I kept my mouth shut and opted to instead ignore him entirely and stay focused on any other conversation.

At one point, we were talking about breasts and the different sizes of breasts, and the following went down:
Girl: “My own boyfriend tells me I have small breasts!” (which we all heard as “My old boyfriend tells me I have small breasts!”)
T (thinking the Girl was talking about an old boyfriend): “Well, I hope you told him he had a small d&*k!”
Girl’s Boyfriend The Guy Who Can’t Hold His Liquor Or Maybe He’s Like This All The Time: “Thanks!”
T: “Huh?”
Girl: “Oh my god! HA HA HA!”
T (realizing what just happened): “OH! NO! I thought you said your OOOOLD boyfriend. I’m sorry!!!”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT: “That’s okay, I forgive you.”

You forgive her for your being an asshole? my mind screamed and so piped up and said “You tell Girl that her breasts are too small?”
Girl: “Yeah. He tells me I need to get more boobs.”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT, smarmy, smiling, greasy, bloated, looking at me.
Me: “You seriously tell her she needs larger breasts?”
Girl: “YEAH!”
GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT: “She does.”
Girl: “Seeeeeeeeeeee! HA HA HA!” (For the moment, forget about the raging stupidity of Girl.)

Maha, with a smile and a laugh: “You’re actually repugnant, but you know that.”
Girl: “Aaaaah, I hear a rant coming on.” (We’d joked earlier in the evening about my ‘rant’ on Paris Hilton’s raunch and young women aspiring to meet that porn standard.)

GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT, staring at me, still bloated and greasy and smarmy and probably just as T described…
Maha, still laughing: “No. No rant. I can’t even bother to give that sentiment of yours two more seconds of my time it’s so disgusting. I think you’re pathetic enough as is, without my pointing it out even further.”

Girl and GBTGWCHHLOMHLTATT actually laughed. It’s amazing what you can pull off if you say it in the right way to people. Had I delivered it any differently than I did, it would have been understood for what it really was: a direct hit on this guy’s character. Instead, it was perceived as some sort of a joke, which is fine by me.

T, E & Kitty understood exactly what I meant and were laughing for different reasons.

Another example of this guy’s classy ways: he gave our waitress the finger when she turned her back. He’s trash. Just complete and total trash. And that this is the first time I’ve ever ripped anyone on my 2+ year old blog says a lot.

.3. I’m so happy that we ceased and desisted from the bar scene a solid eight or so years ago. It’s such an ugly environment and watching the outright prostitution of most of these young girls was horrendous. They could barely walk, they were so drunk, and even worse, they could barely keep their clothes on they were so tight and ready to snap off like an overstretched elastic. And their make-up? WOW. They probably start getting ready at 8 am in the morning just so they can make it out on time at 10 pm.

And haven’t they figured it out yet? Most boys are into simple beauty. Most men like a woman who looks like she’s got her shit together and who – when she wakes up the next morning – will look relatively similar to what she did the night prior. If a guy isn’t attracted to a woman who doesn’t look like she’s got her shit together, then he’s got self-esteem issues and, chances are, he’s a prick who likes subservient women. If he likes you with 10 pounds of make up, then you’ll have to wake up at 4 am to “get your face on” and back to bed before he wakes up. How is any of this attractive to either of the sexes?

Oh. And before you ask…I look like I have a lot of make up on, but I don’t. I’ve always looked like this > to the point that when I was about 12 years old, my teacher took a wet tissue to my face to take off my “blush”…the blush I didn’t have on. In the above photos, I have on only: eyeliner kohl and lip-gloss.

I’ve spent most of my day seated cross-legged on my front step with my PowerBook as companion. All I’ve done is write, write and write. On occasion, I got up and walked barefoot through the grass just to find a sense of green.

I managed to finally:
- Uploaded some photos from my Scotland travel diary which, as you can see, is no small measure (if you click on the images, you’ll be taken to the larger shot where you can actually read the text, which is pretty cool):

- I’ve started writing out some of my notes from Scotland (a year later) in order to share them with you in the coming weeks.
- Mail out some gifts that had been wrapped and ready to go for the last three months.
- Got to Bridgehead for some more quiet writing time over an iced latte (am officially addicted).

And the highlight of my day was running into a very old friend who I’d not seen in around 8 years (she’d moved to Japan for two years and then to Italy). I was driving down the street when I whipped right past Doris and recognized her beautiful face and…oddly enough…her hair. I did a quick u-turn and we chatted for about 10 minutes, promising to get together very soon. Seeing her smile brought back a lot of memories and, erm, Duran Duran’s ’Come Undone’.

You’ll be seeing quite a bit of me over the next few days and so I hope you won’t tire too quickly.

In keeping with my once-in-a-while recommendations, a little rough rock n roll today. Download Stone Sour’s following five songs: Through Glass, Inhale, Bother, Blue Study, and Take A Number.

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

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

He. Is. Gorgeous. Look!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

Larger version here.

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

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

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

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

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

In Gerry Butler Would Have Done Well to Carry Elastoplast(s) In His Purse, I made mention of how I recently purchased three pairs of shoes simultaneously. I promised to post the photos and so here they are. Shoes to me are like crack to Whitney Houston. I hope your high is equivalent to my own.

Crack hit no 1: The Glitter Flat Crack
LOOK AT HOW THEY GLITTER! I can’t stop staring at my feet when I’m in these shoes. I keep swirling and twirling my feet around because the glitter catches the light and GLITTERS EVEN HARDER. It’s exciting, a little nauseating and may be cause for seizures, but unshaken, I continue to force others to stare at my shoes and “see how they glitter”.

A bigger hit of Glitter Crack can be found here.

Crack hit no 2: Stiletto Crack Cocaine
They’re nearly 5″ high. I don’t think I need to say anything else. Arguably, in these babies, I don’t think I need to wear much of anything else, either.

Crack cocaine to fill your screen.

Crack hit no 3: Not Really a Wedge Heel Crack Wedge
I’ve been known to have violent reactions to the wedge heel. The gem of a crack hit pictured below is clever because the wedge heel is so thin, I can deny that it’s a wedge heel. Not really, but this is my blog and I can be as ignorant creative as I want.

Up close and personal with Not Really a Wedge.

.1. “How long is the wait?”
“90 minutes”
…and 3 hours later…

.2. Maha: “K. Tash. I really really wanted to stay for the night, but I actually can no longer feel my feet or my hands. And. I’m having trouble speaking because my face is frozen. I can’t even focus properly because there’s something wrong with my eyeballs.”

.3. T: “Can you pull my boot off? I can’t close my hands. I’m too cold.”
Maha: Not really, because I’ve lost all feeling in the mobile parts of my body.”

.4. Random guy in line: “We should start a bonfire.”
Random guy in line’s friend: “With what?”
T: “Where are those hot chocolate paper cups?”

.5. Random guy in line: “That woman’s smiling at me.”
“She thinks you’re checking her out.”
“Yeah?”
“Woah. Now she thinks you’re smiling at her. Poor thing has no idea we’re actually laughing at her. Wave. Be nice…and. Just. Wave.”

.6. Maha to Random guy in line: “Sorry. I’m not trying to cuddle with you, I’m just really cold.”

.7. Maha to T: “When you ask me to stand behind you, and I do…please refrain from throwing your head back while you laugh.”

.8. T: “Can you take a picture of me with that Asian guy?”
Maha: “But we don’t know him.”
T: “That’s ok. Can you?”
Maha: “Erm. Sure. Just go stand next to him and be inconspicuous.”

Here she is being “inconspicuous,” a modern day Mata Hari:

.9. Maha: “I’m 31.”
Boy: “What?”
Maha: “I’m 31.”
Boy: “Oh my god.”
Maha: “That’s a strange thing to say.”
Boy: “Wow.”
Maha: “That’s not much better.”
Boy: “…”
Maha: “What are you? Like, ten?”
Boy: “…”

He stared at me for a couple of more minutes before he finally said “You’re so hot. For a 31 year old…”, and to which I responded: “You have to leave. Right. Now.”

.10. As I was approaching the washroom, I was cut off by a tall man who stood before me and proceeded to perform “the jig” (e.g. With both hands splayed forward, palms facing me, mouth hung open, eyes wide, he jumped from foot to foot, bringing his knees up relatively high to the beat of the music).
Maha: “Waaaooow.”
Jigger, who ceased jigging: “I’m sorry. I actually don’t know why I just did that.”
Jigeer’s friend: “What the fuck was that?”
Jigger: “Oh my god. I don’t know. I’m so sorry. Please. Uhm. Go ahead. You need to get to the washroom?”
Maha: “Yeah, I do. That was some dance.”
Jigger: “I’m a regular leprechaun. See?”

And he held up a paper leprechaun and started making it jig. The look on my face must have said it all, because he put the leprechaun down and said: “I’m not even Irish. You’re really pretty. Are you Irish? You don’t look Irish. You’re really pretty.”

I was speechless. Jigger’s friend grabbed him and said “Dude. We gotta go.” Before turning to me and saying: “I’m really sorry.”

It was one of the strangest nights out…

.1. In preparation for St. Patrick’s Day celebration, have been listening to The Latino Bisexual.

Some call him Ricky Martin.

The fast tracks on his new CD (released Oct ’05) Life are bum-shaking awesome. I encourage you to dl ”I Am”; it’s one of the best & most mindless songs I’ve heard in a long time.

The Latino Bisexual was among my first celebrity crunches. I was 9 and he was 12 (he was so old) and I didn’t understand Spanish but I understood “pretty”, and he was just that. With his soft feathered hair and big puppy dog eyes, he reminded me of my stuffed animals and so I was under direct obligation to crunch on him.

If only innocence remained as such…

.2. But with age comes attraction to foxes like Gerry Butler:

Who recently finished shooting 300 (in Montreal) where he wears a leather Speedo for the duration of the film. In his leather Speedo, Gerry Butler looks like this:

& like this:

Which is fine…but personally, I prefer it when Gerry Butler does the robot (& as this photo clearly illustrates, he does so well).

.3. Yesterday, I purchased a t-shirt that reads: Nerds need love too. Now I just need a hoodie with D.O.R.K. emblazoned on the back. If anyone finds one, please let me know.

.4. T has taken the day off work today and is heading out to the Heart & Crown at 1 p.m. to begin St. Patrick’s Day celebration. I’ll be joining her closer to 5 once I leave the office. Am feeling quite festive today and so decided to wear my green Care Bears t-shirt with a shamrock toting Care Bear and Lucky written on it.

I’ve not bothered with an actual St. Patrick’s Day celebration for the last few years; the closest I came was at the Montreal parade three years back, when I was accosted by a drunken Irish guy who wouldn’t let me walk away until I agreed to wear a headband that had two huge sparkly green shamrocks springing from it. They were heavy and every time I moved, it felt as though my entire head was bouncing.

I eventually forgot that I was wearing it and so kept it on for hours.

This year should bring interesting stories, memories & photos. Shall post whatever happens later tonight (I expect to be home relatively early as the girls are starting at 1 and most likely close to finishing by the time I arrive. Chances are, I’ll be stuffing them in to a cab by 7 or 8).

.4. Am uncertain as to how I forgot, but one of the most important memories from Denver is The Jesus. The Jesus who said: “…I’ll pull the fucking trigger ’til it goes “click””, which is one of the funniest and most ridiculous lines in the history of film.

I was laying down when I heard it and laughed so hard that I almost choked.

Check this out! It’s just. Wow. WOW.

I wonder if they’ll let me join…I could work a purple body suit & a hairnet. But my body suit will read: “Mohammed”. And then I’ll get killed. Because it’s in Texas. Where they don’t like Islamics.

I’m goin’ to hell. But at least I’ll have a purple body suit.