Prolific Immigrant

Merry Sunday, from Lisa Pizza Pie to us all.

Although green is one of my better colours, the above remains some kind of creepy even though it has much much more rhythm than I. I invite you to make your own and send out across the interWeb.

.1. Another weird story from my life.

Moka Java doesn’t like me. There’s a Treats beneath mon École and to which I go at least three times a day to grab a java. Without fail, the moka java always runs out as I am pressing the button. It’s since become a joke with the mother/son team who own the coffee shop.

When I walk in, they prep themselves to replenish the moka java.

It makes me a little sad. I thought I had a delicate way about me with the café, but apparently not.

.2. I’ve been hearing rumblings that are confusing me. These rumblings would appear to indicate that nothing is black and white, but rather this shade called grey.

Que?

I don’t understand this. Life is so simple when we slot and categorise and see only black and white. WHAT IS THIS GREY TAKING OVER MY LIFE AND WHY IS IT BOTHERING ME SO MUCH?

Frankly, it’s leaving me a little hysterical.

.3. Have you ever become emotionally attached to a person whose already dating someone else? Would you care to share your stories with me? BEAVER, this one’s for you…if you’ve got anything to give.

.4. Oh my god. The woman next to me just snorted and followed it up with a burp.

Aaaand she’s snorted again.

I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but isn’t this improper behaviour y’all? I mean, I get that she’s comfortable and I’m really happy she is so at ease in such a public arena such as notre École, but “what ze f*ck, lady?”

.5. The elevator at mon École doesn’t have a number thing which lights up as you ascend and descend telling you which floor you’ve reached. Neither does it make that ‘ding’ sound as you move, so you don’t have any way of knowing which floor you’re on.

What happens when you get stuck and have to call that person in the little box from the black telephone?
“I’m stuck in the elevator”
“Which floor?”
“I don’t know”
“What are you, stupid?”
“No, I don’t think so…but then again…”
“Seriously, just look up and tell me what number is lit up”
“There are no number things that light up”
“Oh”
“Yeah. Uhm. So…psst…there’s a woman in here snorting and burping. Think you can get us out relatively quickly? She keeps staring at herself in the mirror and it’s freaking me out”
“Yeah, we’ll come and get you. It’ll take us around 72 days to run up the stairs and figure out where you’re stuck”
“Cool, I have a moka java with me, thanks”
“bye”
“bye! You’re awesome!”

Ok, so really, it’s more like a basket than an elevator, but that’s neither here nor there.

The other day, I walked in to the elevator with three other people. Since arriving at l’école, I have always believed – nothing grey about that – that our elevator is awkwardly shaped. It’s narrow and long and so when people get on, no one really knows where to stand. There’s no proper Feng Shui to the elevator shape.

So, as I was standing there awkwardly with the three others (none of whom I know), I declared: “Don’t you think this elevator is awkwardly shaped?” to anyone who would respond.

I heard a few mumblings, saw a few eyebrows cock up into the air and was met with complete silence. It was obvious that they’d not heard me and so I decided to pursue the engaging topic: “I think it’s because it’s shaped like an ill-placed rectangle, much like a hospital elevator only there’s no beds coming in here or maybe there is? Ha ha ha.”

No one answered, two people got off some floor – can’t tell you the number, ‘cus, well, there are no lights to indicate the floor number – and one guy remained behind. He stared at me, I smiled at him and finally offered: “Maybe it’s just too early in the morning?”

He smiled and said “Maybe” as he got off on another floor, the number of which NATURALLY, I don’t know.

I love making new friends.

.1. Was at Chapter’s two days back buying Holiday Cards and searching for one Hanukkah card. I was staring at all of the Happy Chanukah cards wondering when they’d changed the name.

Then it dawned on me, and so like the mental retard that I am I looked over at the 17 year old employee, smiled and said:
“I like that they’ve taken the idea from The O.C.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, I think it’s a great idea to mix Christmas and Hannukah and come up with this new word: Chanukah, like that skinny guy on The O.C. We need to find a way to throw ‘Eid’ in there. Like: Cheidukah! I would so totally buy the card that was all “HAPPY CHEIDUKAH!”, ha ha ha.”
“Uhm. Actually. You’re talking about Christmukah.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s what Seth Cohen came up with on The O.C.”
“Oh. Really? Well then what’s Chanukah?”
“It’s the actual word. The real word.”
“So it has nothing to do with Christmas?”
“No.”
“And when’s Hannukah?”
“Hannukah is actually Chanukah.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s the best card. Just buy that one and send it after the 5th.”
…and so I did, and so I will.

.2. The Chlamydosaurus Kingii tends to run in pedally fashion, which is a fancy way of saying ‘on its two hind legs’. It lifts its body up, stays as still as a ramrod and then moves only its two tiny feet at a rapid rate in order to propel itself in some direction. When it’s scared, it runs away backwards.

Staring out my window earlier today, I thought I saw a gigantic Chlamydosaurus Kingii carrying a backpack and running across the street. Upon closer inspection I noted it was no Frilled Lizard, but rather a man dressed head to toe in grey houndstooth, with matching backpack and a red scarf. The wind was blowing at him from behind and so his red scarf was up and around his face (much like the Frill of the Lizard). His hands were in front and curved forward at his chest (like a chipmunk) and it appeared as though he were fabricated of ramrod material. It didn’t help that when I denied myself view of his lower half, it looked as though he were rolling along rapidly rather than running.

I was tempted to rush over and scream “BOO” just to see if he would stand still for a moment and then proceed to “pedally” backwards as he stared at me.

.3. And speaking of rolling along, was at the airport the other day when I thought I’d actually lost it. At no point in my life have I ever questioned what I was seeing…until that evening. I was watching a girl roll along, until she stopped and then started walking. When I looked at her feet, she was in running shoes. There was no skateboard, there were no rollerblades, or small men carrying her around, just runners.

I thought I was a little mad, maybe had a little too much caffeine or sugar or something.

I followed her around for a little and kept watching her do this. No one else in the airport seemed to notice, so I was pretty sure I had lost it.

Until I discovered this.

Oh My God, it’s CRACK in the form of a car. Imagine the possibilities. The speed, the agility, the gas saved. I’m buying a pair as soon as they make it in a stiletto.

.4. For those of you who knew, I coloured my hair again earlier tonight. The hues of caramel and red were fine for the weekend, but this morning I decided that I didn’t like them and so am back to a few shades lighter than my natural black.

A part of me believes there are moments in our lives when a leap of faith is really quite necessary.

That feeling is immediately overshadowed by my Muslim sensibilities which indicate there is no such thing as a leap of faith. Rather, there is real and concrete belief that every step you take, no matter the consequence or of what that action is borne, it is meant to be the best action you take. It’s not a leap of faith, but rather an unwavering belief that every step you take is a step in the right direction. (This isn’t to say that you live La Dolce Vita and chalk it up to being ‘a step in the right direction’. Obviously, there are guidelines (that I call ‘anchors’) set forth and with the intention of providing a semblance of order to one’s life…but that’s a greater conversation which extends beyond this immediate entry.)

This isn’t about free will either. Ultimately, you don’t need the concept of predetermination in order to believe that everything to come / which has occurred, is in fact the best possible scenario. The two are mutually exclusive and what follows is a little bit of my own personal philosophy in the form of a hypothetical extreme:
.1. I fall in love with and am convinced 100% that there is no other man for me.
.2. He feels the same for me & we decide to be married.
.3. He drops dead the day of our wedding.
.4. There is a real possibility that I will die a virgin.

Forget about the natural state of mourning and grief that are relatives of the human condition in that situation. Think instead of how you, were you in that situation, might treat it. I would have to say ‘Alhamdulilah’, which translates to: ‘Thanks be to God’ (or: “Thanks, God!”).

That sounds insane, eh?
Not really. Not when you believe that death was the least amount of pain you could have suffered. (E.g. Had he lived, two years later he and I and our child would have been in a car accident. He would have become a complete and total invalid, incapable of speech, movement, whatever. Our child would have died by being splattered on the road, and I would have lost my hands, nose, ears and feet because the accident occurred in the middle of winter and we laid out on the frozen road for hours and suffered severe frostbite before anyone found us. And while I was laying out on the road, I was pinned beneath my seat and had no choice but to watch as my baby gurgled itself to death because it was THE ONE TIME that I decided to not tie him in completely because he was being fussy. The consequence of that is that I then, with the years, neglect my mother who dies alone because I forgot to feed her. My dad, too.).

But that’s just me and how I think. You can argue the opposite and believe it, instead choosing to live a sad empty life where you either believe in nothing or you believe that God gave you the shit end of the stick at every turn, you weirdo who is not my friend because you are likely very depressing to be around believe whatever pleases you.

After having gone through my first Blue Day at the end of last year, I had to revisit everything I understood of my own Faith. It wasn’t easy and at many junctures, most definitely not pleasant. But I had complete and total Faith even during moments of the most (metaphorical) blinding pain. Actually, I think my Faith would have been at its strongest at those very moments.

I believed that although outcomes had not been what I wanted, they were still perfect. Moreover, that had I in fact received what I wanted, the pain from that would have been far greater.

Although we can never know 100%, we can sometimes have a general idea of what could have been had we received what we wanted. This was one such case, where months after I’d dealt with the residue of my Blue Day, I was lucky enough to get a glimpse into what could have been had I received what I wanted when I wanted it. It would have been complete and total disaster. (Naturally, this isn’t to say that in perhaps a year from now I won’t get what I originally wanted…when it’s right and when it is the best thing.)

I had believed everything was for the best, but had no way of confirming this, and I had to let go of my need for that proof . I was lucky; Allah graced me with the proof (which, technically, isn’t my business in His Greater Chain of Being). It may sound strange, but in my own little world it became a testament of me, in my head. (I didn’t solicit strangers to “like, totally check me out because my character = pretty f*cking intense”. But rather, literally: in my head, I was proud of me. And I bought myself ice cream all the time (vanilla or crème brûlée only, please).)

The reason I’m mentioning this is because since coming back from Beirut I’ve been thinking about doing something and I’ve been hesitant, fighting my own gut instinct to act. T told me to take a “leap of faith and just do it”. As soon as she said that, I thought: “I already have the faith, there’s no leap to take”, and I made my decision…one that was confirmed that same night, two nights ago, by one small sentence made by Anjum.

Whatever the outcome, I already believe that it’s the best outcome possible, no matter that it may be emotionally taxing.

Now. I want ice cream.

.1. If you are a boy over the age of zero you should neither own nor ever contemplate owning ‘skinny’ jeans, unless your name is Sid and your girlfriend’s name is Nancy and you sometimes happen to write excellent music and you’re dead.

.2. I was about to eat gum last night, only I threw the Chiclets in the general direction of my mouth and missed. One hit my cheek and the other ricocheted off my glasses. Sadly, I watched as my last two pieces of Chiclets fell away on to the dirty street. I woke up with a welt on my face.

.3. In order to improve my colloqueal French, I am going to spend the rest of my lunch hour completing a questionnaire in the French Glamour. This questionnaire is going to tell me about how my childhood has affected my adulthood and my sexual something-or-other. Doesn’t matter that I’m a ‘V’; to Glamour, we’re all trollops. I’ll share the outcome with you later this afternoon…

Or so I believed when I was 16 years of age. I didn’t walk around declaring “European folks are weird”, but earlier today I recalled a vivid memory which clearly indicates that I held this very belief.

When we were 16, we used to hang out at the hottest club in the city called Deluxe. It was when the rave scene was huge and when house was making its entry into mainstream clubs. I knew the owner ‘P’ and C’s brother’s best friend ‘V’ was the head bouncer at the club. Both P & C knew that none of us drank, but we did like to dance. (Besides, my curfew was 11:30 and so we all left together at around 11.)

They’d always walk us in, let us dance for a couple of hours while keeping an eye on us and making sure we were safe. P wouldn’t take our money for cover and the servers wouldn’t take our money for coca-cola and we got to dance to the best music by the hottest DJ around.

Aside: We are were relative geeks, anyway. Deluxe had toilettes that were for both men and women, and a couple of stalls where the doors had been removed. We thought this was a mistake and told P, who just shook his head and laughed. I never actually understood what those toilettes signified until last year. C, T & I were so grossed out by the idea that there were boys in the same washroom as us that we never returned to the toilettes at Deluxe . We took our nerding seriously.

One evening, we were seated by the window with our collective coca-colas chatting away about Jason Gedrick whatever it is that 16 year olds chat about when two couples stomped into the club.

The couples were in their early 40s. One of the men was wearing a beret and one of the women was flying loose in a moo-moo. As soon as they stepped foot in Deluxe, they started whipping one another around in what can only be described as a ‘frenzy’. To the naked eye, it appeared as though they were interpretive dancing to heavy metal music that only they could hear. It was such an intriguing scene that people in the club stopped talking and instead stood around staring at these four individuals. Eventually, the DJ stopped spinning. Unfortunately, they kept going.

T turned to me and said “I think they’re on drugs. They must be on drugs. Cocaine?”, and with all the authority and confidence I possessed as a 16 year old girl, I replied “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think they’re on drugs. I think they’re just Europeans. Actually. I’m pretty sure they’re just Europeans. Yes. From Europe.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jeesus H Christ, dad.

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

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

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

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

So here’s the trail…

Every few weeks, and when I’m in need of a good laugh, I head over to The Superficial. Until recently, I was under the impression that it was one guy who was blogging. Actually, I was fully convinced it was the husband of one of my best friends (the one who, while we were standing on a street corner one evening trying to decide where to go, recommended we head “up [his] bum”). Apparently it’s not, and I never claimed to be a sleuth.

I’m not sure I get it yet, but it appears to be several individuals, a sort of community of bloggers who post absolutely the most hilarious and insane commentary about stars & starlets and all those in between. The Superficial is to Hollywood what The Peanut Gallery was to The Muppets.

I can’t check that site at work because I laugh too hard. Besides, were I to close my door and continue to smother my laughter, it would sound as though I were watching snuff porn. And I don’t even know what snuff porn means, but I know it’s not good. I’m pretty sure it has to do with turkeys.

Two days ago, I finally took the plunge and posted one tiny comment at The Superficial.

And from that, I have received hysterical emails from three of the boys, pointing me to different locations where these same bloggers congregate. The two sites are C*ck-Ninja and also Angry Ferret. One of them mentioned his age, but I think he’s not being truthful because his sense of humour is too young. I’m guessing this group is in their early thirties.

Here is what one of the C*ck-Ninjas wrote about me, which is such a nice thing to say considering…I don’t even know considering what…considering the kind of stuff they post on their site and the comments they make about folks in general. I am so completely flattered; this is the best formulated compliment I have received:

A special surprise guest, our newest member of C*ck-Ninja’s Fun Town, one Miss ‘Just A Girl’. One fu*king hot girl I might add. A Palestinian Canuck who wowed us with her famous fully-clothed and veiled strip-show, teasing us by showing bits of her gorgeous face. Shouts of arousal and phrases like, “Show us your face” and “Get that nose out there” were heard. Thanks for coming out.

Way cool.

& one post script to the gents: nudity has nothing to with seduction, gentlemen.

Q: Who would you rather date? Mr. Stealth or Mr. Manipulative? Once you’ve thought about this, come back and let me know which is best in your opinion and why.

Comment: Yo! What is wrong with the Pope, that he says something so completely off-base and potentially devastating?

Download: ‘Chasing Cars’ & ’Run’ by Snow Patrol, as well as ’Comin’ Home’ by City and Colour (Dallas Green).

A recent conversation, after a cluster bomb fell on my personal life a couple of days back:
“I see a nugget! It’s that abcdef didn’t happen.”
…silence from your blog mum…
“What is it, Theirblogmum?”
“I don’t see it?”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t see the nugget.”
“What do you see?”
“I still only see the pile of shit.”
“LOOK FOR THE NUGGET.”
…more silence from your blog mum…
“No. I don’t see it.”
“Actually, neither do I. I can’t see any fucking nuggets. Golden or otherwise.”
& the inevitable eruption of laughter and strength in sisterhood which only comes with years and years of a trusted friendship.

And on to my random thoughts…
…about People:
.1. This morning, I came across a girl wearing a sweater with COMMERCE emblazoned on the front. Just to be a flake, I enquired if she was studying Art History. She didn’t get it. I still think it’s funny.

.2. People without eyelashes freak me out in the same manner that people who blink too much make me dizzy. They hold a vacant, doll-like appearance and are hence really creepy. I see one of these ‘individuals’ regularly and they fascinate me to no end.

This same person incorporates in to their speaking mannerisms one of my biggest pet peeves…

.3. The shrugging while talking pet peeve. You know this person; they speak and shrug in tandem.

One verbal example of this action: “I think that politically, they hold the moral high ground. But I could be wrong, maybe? I don’t know. I’m not really sure about my opinion. I hope you’re not paying any attention to me. Let me shrug it off, because I’m a big pansy.”

It’s the physical embodiment of sitting on the fence.

Get an opinion and stick to it, already. (But if it’s wrong, be prepared to learn and change…because you want to, and not because you feel pressure to do so. If it’s pressure, then you really are just a pansy and ought to stick to shrugging.)

.4. AND MAKE EYE CONTACT. For the love of all things transparent and concrete, MAKE EYE CONTACT AND HOLD IT. I find it so unusual when someone doesn’t make eye contact with me, as we’re having a conversation. What’s on the white wall? What’s so fascinating about the brown berber carpet? What’s on your knee? I’m usually inclined to ask.

I get this annoyed when speaking with someone whose wearing sunglasses. It’s rude and puts me on edge because warning bells go off: fear, insecurity, indifference, staring at your boobs, malice and/or lying. Take your pick, cus the sunglass wearer is sure to be up to at least one of them.

Am off to a fundraiser with my pappy; I hope he doesn’t bid on anything hideous. Will be back later to fill you in on the details of our evening.

For those of you not in the know, your blog mistress is on French language training for the next 10 months.

Mon-Fri (inclusive)
8:30 am – 4:30 pm

I’M SO EXCITED!!!! I purchased a new pencil case with TWO zippers, a bunch of pencils, two pens, four highlighters, two erasers, one white out and a pencil sharpener (the kind that has a holding cell for the shavings!). Oh, and a book to make mistakes in!!!! The pages are so crisp and clean and new. *sigh*

Then I became even more excited and purchased two more pens, with a thinner nib (so cool!), and an even larger book with unlined pages! Being a geek really does have it’s advantages.

To answer your question, the reality is that although it’s not as exciting as being ON CAMPUS, I am getting all Felicity over the situation. Only, no Speedie (just yet).

.A. I woke up this morning and found myself conjugating verbs.

.B. I have a crunch on one of my (taken) French instructors. He’s really tall and athletic. I’m sure I’m crunching on his personality and not body.

.C. Our class is tiny and consists of four individuals, including myself. That I like my classmates is something for which I’m grateful.

I am a relatively large a dumb ass because I say things like “Quand j’avais 16 ans, j’ai eu mon premier travaille. J’etait concierge a l’hotel. J’ai ‘greet’ nos partons and j’ai manger aux resto beaucoup pour que je puis dire a nos patrons les quelles sont beau.”

I was so proud that I’d told the class my first job was as a concierge at the hotel where I didn’t have to do anything but greet the clients and eat at different restaurants so that I could then tell the clients which ones were best. (It was such a sweet job; my dad was vice president of the hotel committee or something big-shotty like that.) Only, I quickly found out that what I’d said translates to: “When I was 16, I had my first work. I was the janitor at a hotel. I greeted my bosses and I ate at restaurants a lot so that I could tell to my bosses which ones were beautiful.”

.D. Because I’m forced to pay attention in class, I can no longer daydream. This is making me sad and a little anxious, since my life hinges on imagination. At times it’s left me feeling as though I’ve run out of oxygen, and so I’m doing my best to split my mind in two during class, finding it possible to learn and pay attention with one half while allowing my imagination full reign in the other half. I think it’s the only way out of the coffin that could potentially close around my imagination. (And if that happened, that would be the end of this blog.)

.1. We completed the second wedding of the season on Friday evening (only one left!). It was very small and intimate and just my two cups of coffee. My wedding date, M, was there with her husband and two daughters; Princess Brownie Locks and Princess Goldie Locks. These girls are the most precious little things I’ve laid eyes on in the longest time; they’re both not only beautiful but exceptionally well behaved. Princess Goldie Locks walked around with a white rose all evening. If you were lucky enough, she would stuff this rose up your nose so that you could smell it. She did this to me while I was:
- eating
- having my second cup of coffee
- in the loo
- sleeping

Once the scent of rose was lost, she discovered the texture of the rose and so then began rubbing it on our cheeks, while we were eating cake and later dancing, and later still: this morning.

Princess Brownie Locks was a little shier, taking a slight more time to warm up and open up. I tried to kidnap both girls and bring them home (mama’s having a third one, anyway) but there were too many people in the room. I will have to eventually have my own, hmph. I do hope the gene pool from which I pluck is equally pretty and well behaved.

Beyond these two exquisite little girls was my table itself. Sami & R were also seated with us and we had an incredible time. Last week, I crashed their table and we had an equally great time. I shall miss them next weekend, since it’s their wedding I will be attending and I can’t crash their table although I may very well try…

We danced quite a bit, and I don’t usually do that. For the most part, I remain seated at weddings because I don’t particularly enjoy shaking my ass in front of massive groups of people who have nothing better to do than watch and make fun (as I do while seated). And don’t get me wrong, I love dancing, just not at weddings when the lights are all still on and there’s an audience hiding placards with no 1-10 beneath their tables.

There’s also something else that makes me uncomfortable about dancing at weddings and I couldn’t put my finger on it until Sami articulated it perfectly on Friday evening.

He turned to R & I and said something akin to: “Don’t people know that they can’t dance at a wedding like they do at a club?!” and I very nearly fell out of my chair because he did it! He nailed it for me…he said what I wasn’t able to make out in my own head! Allah yi7meek ya Sami!

And so, as a sign of gratitude and respect for Sami, here are some rules of engagement for those who will undoubtedly bust a move at the next wedding they attend:

.a. Do not bring a whistle or a glow stick
.b. Do not throw your hands into the air and attempt to ‘raise the roof’
.c. Do not make any variation of the following sounds (either loudly or quietly): “Yeah!” “Ooo Ooo” “Whose your daddy”
.d. Do not make the ‘I’m slapping your bum as you’re bent over’ hand motions
.e. Do not ride a horse when there is none
.f. Don’t shake your ass like you’re in a fity cent video

.g. Keep your clothes on
.h. As a hetero female, do not grind up against your female bff in an effort to (miserably) be sexy

Think I may request these be entrenched in the UN Charter as offences against humanity should they be committed. If you have any further recommendations, please add them as you deem fit.

.2. The night I wrote The Man & the impression he left was the first evening I’d sat in my mother’s garden after the sun had set. Since then, I’ve been spending a little more time out here because of how beautiful it is, because I dislike air conditioning and because I enjoy films. What’s the last one have to do with anything? Well…my babyMac is my cinema screen. I’ve brought it on several occasions after the sun has set, dropped in a movie and enjoyed outdoor theatre with the following twists: candles, a very comfy chair and a light blanket for the one night when it’s been a little chilly.

If you can, I recommend you do the same.

.3. In uni, I had a very good friend (more than just one…but am only mentioning one this entry). His major, my minor was Philosophy; Wednesday mornings at 8:30 am, we’d study Existentialism together. I used to think Sartre was sexy…until I got a clue.

Oddly enough, we had interesting first opinions of one another; whereas he thought I was bored and clueless, I thought he was a jock and clueless. Over time, and post communication with one another, we became relatively good friends with Kantian philosophy (beyond existentialism, thank God) always one of the main topics of conversation between us. He was a brilliant guy who didn’t apply himself, and I hid the fact that I was offered a scholarship to do my M.A. in Philosophy; I declined and he never bothered writing what he knew on the exams, although he could take to task any one of our snotty colleagues.

Since regularly spending time with one another approximately eight years ago at university, we ran into one another two or three times in the downtown core. More importantly is that he would drop into my life on a somewhat regular basis beyond this. I would receive a phone call, possibly yearly, to say hello and get caught up.

Two months back, he began working in my building, and what a welcome and pleasant surprise it was to see his name on my phone screen one late Friday afternoon. I’d not heard from him in well over 18 months, and I discovered this was because he was in India with his girlfriend.

It amazes me how, with some people, you just fall right back into the same level of friendship and trust you once had…no matter the lapse in time. At work, it’s nice to have a “friend” beyond my colleagues. Although I really do enjoy the company of my colleagues – and I understand I’m blessed this way – it’s nice to have him in cases of emergency. As Micha puts it: he’s an excellent addition to my Emergency Kit. And…I covet his girlfriend’s name: Giselle.

.4. I’m in the garden right now. There’s a car that just almost nearly drove up and into me over the entire front area of my mother’s garden. There’s two guys in the car; one of whom is teaching the other how to drive stick. This is what I’m hearing (am typing as fast as I can):

“AHAHAHAHAHAHA.”
“HAHAHAHA”
“Do THIS AHAHAHAH TO the CLUTCH MAN! Just push on it, HHHHHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAH”
“This? To this thing here?”
“Yeah. That’s the CLUTCH. AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA”
“What about the gas?”
“THE GAS? THAT’S the gas. AAAAAHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHHAHA”
“DUDE! How am I going to pick up Lisa tonight? DUDE THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”
“HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAA”

I very nearly piped up and responded with “On a bicycle, guy.”

.5. And that reminds me of the time I attempted to teach T how to drive. We were in a parking lot and my instructions were a little like:
“NOOOOOO.”
“STOOOOOP.”
“WATCH THE CAR.”
“WATCH THE POLE.”
“WATCH THE FENCE.”
“SLOOOOOW SLOOOOOOW OH MY GOD STOP.”
“GET OUT OF MY CAR.”

…you know, the usual.

.6. Which brings me to an even greater tangent: the first time my father took me out for a driving lesson.

He took me on the highway and that’s where he taught me how to drive. Needless to say, every time I changed lanes, he was plastered belly–first to the passenger side window, his right hand holding on to the top hand rest and his left desperately clutching the door handle. He didn’t say much. It was a lot of fun.

.7. Thank you to every single one of you for the influx of sweet emails regarding The Accident. I’m everyday reminded of how heartbreaking individual acts of kindness really are.

The only update I have is that the accident was not fatal. I don’t know what that means, other than I didn’t watch anyone die that evening.

It never made the news; yearly, there are multiple accidents of this sort and it’s apparently only the fatal ones that make it into the papers.

Earlier today I was on the OC Transpo bus which hit a girl.

We were booting along at what appeared to be a relatively normal pace, until the bus had to come to a painfully abrupt halt. It was rush hour and the bus was packed, the aisle filled with people standing when the bus driver used one motion to pound the brake. I was thrown forward and very nearly out of my chair, everyone standing did fly forward, several of whom hit the front windshield of the bus and fell on top of one another.

Because of the people standing, I couldn’t see what had happened. I made the mistake of standing up and looking over to the side, and what I did see was the face of the woman we’d hit. She was laying on her back with her eyes closed; I didn’t know if she was alive. Even though many people were curiously looking out the window, I automatically sat down because I wasn’t sure how I’d react if she was dead.

The woman seated next to me, H, was a stranger and was staring at me. I looked at her and noticed she was shaking, so I asked her if she was alright. She answered, a little frantically, “no, I don’t want to see the person we hit, I can’t see the person we hit.”
“Ok. That’s ok. You don’t have to.”
“I’m really scared.”
“I’m not, so I’ll make sure you’re ok. Is that alright?”
“Um-hm.”
“What’s your name?”
“H.”
“Hi H, I’m Maha.”
“Hi Maha.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I just don’t want to see who we hit. Is it a girl?”
“Yeah, it’s a girl.”
She said “Ok” and nearly started crying. So, the only thing I could think to do was to get her off the bus and away from the situation as fast as I could. It was very bizarre because she was too scared to look away from me, so I found myself navigating her while not trying to trip over anything or anyone, just so she could maintain eye contact with me since it seemed to be what she needed.

“H, we’re gonna have to get off the bus now. Can you do that?”
“But I’ll have to see her if I get off the bus.”
“No. I’ll make sure you don’t. What we’ll do is I’ll lead you out and you can just keep looking at me and you won’t have to see the girl. Ok?”

She nodded ‘yes’ and so I stood and helped her up. I moved a little forward, and although we were closer to the front of the bus, I instead walked toward the back exit so that H wouldn’t have to see anything. As soon as I started walking, she instinctively reached for me and then immediately pulled back after she touched my arm. I think she was scared that someone might get between us if we weren’t physically connected.

It’s funny how humans relate to one another, most especially in traumatic situations, isn’t it? I understood she needed some sort of contact or something and so I smiled, grabbed and held her hand and walked out with her. She smiled back and asked “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all…I don’t usually hold hands with anyone on a first date, but these are extenuating circumstances and you look like a nice enough girl!” in order to lighten the mood. She laughed, but was obviously still freaked out.

We got off the bus and I pulled her over to the side and further back. I made sure she kept her back to the girl and I tried to talk her down little by little. By this time, the girl we’d hit was awake; there was no blood anywhere, and until we read the news tomorrow, we won’t really know her condition.

Still shaking and almost crying, H asked me if I had a phone that she could use. She called her mom and dad and asked that her father pick her up from a nearby location, to which she was going to walk. (She’s probably in her late 20s and appeared to be a woman who has a natural – and beautiful – innocence) When she hung up, she offered me a ride, which I declined. She then said “God, you’re so nice and you’re so calm, you must be some sort of a care giver.”

To make her laugh a little more, I said “No, actually, I’m just used to spending my summers in the Gaza Strip.” It worked. She laughed. We hugged before she walked away.

A lot of people were standing around staring at the girl we’d hit, and it felt ugly. Standing there made me feel like a pervert. There’s nothing to see, and this is the life of a young girl, it’s not some fucking reality television show; it’s someone’s pain laid out on concrete.

I saw one asshole take a photo of her with his mobile and I walked over and told him that was inappropriate, that he was encroaching on her privacy and that he should delete it. I was furious. He stared at me for a few seconds and then apologized and deleted the picture. Chances are, he probably took another one as soon as I turned my back, but I can only be held responsible for what happens in front of me.

I walked home the last hour in order to clear my mind. Before leaving, I took my second glance at the girl hoping to see that she’d stood up by this point, thinking that maybe she was a little better. Unfortunately, she was still laying on the ground and now crying hysterically – probably equal parts fear, panic, and pain; I walked away thinking the worst, wondering if there was internal bleeding and whether tomorrow’s headlines would tell me that I’d just watched a young woman die.

All of my prayers are hers this day.

Last night, we had our first of three weddings this summer. Before getting to the comedy, I’d like to say that the company at my table was extremely fun and funny. SAMI (of this very blog) was one of them, as was Reem his fiancé, Ziad and Tania (a new couple we all met last night) and Hani. We all connected immediately and enjoyed our evening at great length.

The bride was stunning; she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. She wears hijab and it accentuates her beauty because you’re forced to concentrate on nothing but her face, which is in fact. breath-taking. Above and beyond her outer beauty is her personal character and she’s one of the few individuals to whom I’ve responded immediately. I’m happy she’s found the man of her dreams.

Before I get to the bits and pieces, I have to give a huge WORD UP to the chef because dinner was exquisite. EX. QUI. ZIT.

Pretending to Know What the Hell I’m Saying: When someone says ‘thank you’, the standard response is ‘you’re welcome’. I don’t know what this sort of official banter is called, but it exists in most languages, the Arabic language as well. Last night, the common denominator was me, and my Arabic – although strong – is not of the same strength as my English.

Most of the banter occurred while we were greeting people hello or goodbye. Individuals were saying random things to me and I had absolutely no clue how to respond. I found a trick (which is worthy of the MI: Maha folder) that you may utilize as you may see fit…

.1. Smile, maybe laugh a little.
.2. Make random shapes with your mouth without noise.
.3. Smile some more, even laugh a little more.
If you can manage it, maybe throw in a little wink and/or a nod with an extended closing of your eyes, with an expression that says ‘respect’ (you should be able to gage which one depending on their facial expressions).

Obviously, and depending on whoever I was doing this to, I was getting varied reactions starting at full-out laughter to a quiet look of confusion. But at least no one can say I’m not responsive.

The Fog Machine: I was sitting back and watching the dance floor, committing the “dancers” and their funktastic dance moves to memory when I noticed the massive flow of fake fog coming from the side of the stage. It’s not sexy and it doesn’t add an air of mystique to its surrounding and so I wonder if any of you can tell me why it exists, why it’s at every wedding and party and what ‘environment’ it’s supposed to generate.

A few years back I was at a party and I was walking past the stage when the fog machine decided to hurl it’s fog out through that strange round hole. Naturally, I was face-forward smack dab in front of and in the middle of the machine because I was looking over my shoulder at someone else. I think I can safely say that I swallowed all of that fog and I nearly passed out. As with many things, I shake my fist at the damn fog machine.

The Carrying of the Bride & Groom Above the Shoulders of Guests Who Are Equally Shitting their Pants: The bride and groom are being carried above the heads of guests, bounced around to the un-beat of the music. Usually, the bride has her arms out in front of her and she’s frozen and has a look of terror on her face. The groom usually has his hands splayed in the air, much like the orange Singular logo, and is sweating profusely.

The shoulders on whom the couple is being carried usually hold the same problematic and equally terrified expressions. Yesterday, one of the carriers was standing behind the bride and holding on to the back two legs of the chair. He didn’t have forearms of steel and so had the bride tipped forward and over, he would have been impotent to do anything.

And speaking of impotence, the terror generated by this ‘trick’ stops dead both the male and female capacity for procreation. I don’t think it’s the greatest way to start off a life together.

As Equally Bad As Air Guitar: …is singing to songs while you’re on the dance-floor, unless you’re Paris Hilton. And when you’re Paris Hilton, you do it and still manage to look like a jackass. But at least you’re Paris Hilton, which seems to mean something to some people in North America. But you’re not and Paris Hilton means shit to me. And so, like the machine of fog, what is the purpose of the air-song? After watching people last night, I can only think of one thing: they believe the air-song to weave a magical web of fantastical dance moves around them as individuals…when the reality is that they just end up looking awkward. Especially when they do to the lyrics as I do to people when I’m Pretending to Know What the Hell I’m Saying (see above).

My Father, the Man with Exquisite Taste in Jewelry: Among the bracelets I was wearing was a yellow, white and pink gold bracelet approximately 2.5 inches wide. I found out last night that my father had purchased it for my mother when they still liked one another and were married. I went over to his table and placed an ‘order’ for future jewelry of this sort. Will let you know as soon as the order’s mailed in.

The Woman Whose Arse Is A Bustle: We already know I’m going to hell and so this will just ensure that I get there faster. There’s one woman who I’ve seen at many events. I call her ‘ducky’ because her bum looks like that of a duck with it’s upturned tail. This is most evident when she’s seated, walking, standing still, crouching, dancing, jogging, laughing, eating and/or breathing.

I have an unnatural fear that she will one day back into me. Yesterday evening, there was an added layer of awe to ‘ducky’ because she wore what appeared to be a wig. (But she wasn’t.) That image is seared into my retinas for the rest of my life.

The Sprite on the Dance Floor Who Fascinated Me: There was a boy on the dace floor wearing green and jumping around a lot. I think that, were there no music, he would have still done this. Lucky for him that he was nowhere near ‘ducky’ because he wouldn’t have been able to jump high enough above the rear bumper.

Mona, my wedding date was not invited?: I was shocked and dismayed and I missed her but quickly got over it because I’m fickle that way.

.1. Zizou scored via penalty kick against Portugal today. Cristiano goes home, and I’ll be surprised if Figo sees the 2010 World Cup. It was a clean game, as futbol should be; there was no animosity on the field and not too many dives (those that occurred were primarily from the Portuguese).

King of the Fey, David Beckham, has resigned as England’s National Team Captain. He can now concentrate on selling his soul for a little more money. Personally, I think he should first help Rooneeeeeeeeeey with his lacking PR skills…a little bit of advice such as “don’t use another futboler’s testicles as a foot-rest…” is where I think Beckham should start.

I’m terribly excited about Sunday.

.2. But before that beautiful day comes, I have a massive poshy embassy event to attend at the Fairmont Chateau Laurier tonight, (providing a gentle reminder that I’m single) and my first wedding of the summer on Friday evening (providing a Titanic reminder that am single). These two interesting events should provide for much blogging and humor, I hope.

Yalla, allez Les Bleus! (don’t have accents on here, sorry…)

.3. Doris! Forgive that over the years, my loyalties have shifted and I no longer support Italy (but I would be behind them 100% were they to face either Brazil or England). It ended when Walter (when there are so many sexy Italian names, why did his parents opt for WALTER?) Zenga and “Toto” Schillaci left…Forgive me. I still love Russian authors, though, and so that should count for something?

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.

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?”

As you are well aware, I have been ON CAMPUS for the past six weeks. Here are some of my notes from The O.C.

.1. I adore my ‘Professoré’ and my T.A. He’s in love with the subject matter (international politics / relations & globalization) and my T.A. has a killer sense of humor (more on her later). Starting with the Professoré, I will have to admit that I’ve needed some time to digest his unique language. Here’s a little taste for your amusement…

- Instead of “uhm”, “uuh” or silence, his elipses is “mmmmm”.

- He uses the term ‘Voila’ quite often and pronounces it ‘Woila’ at random and unique moments in his speech patterns.
E.g. “So how are you, Woila!”
E.g. “And the hegemony is Woila here. Woila!”

The oddest times ‘Woila’ is implemented is when he begins a thought with it, such as: “(silence) Woila! And so the Westphalian Peace Treaty is the topic of today’s discussion.”

- He has a Bulgarian accent and you must listen carefully to what he says so that you don’t get confused. Ok. Well, maybe I do, because M (seated next to me) is always translating for me. Some examples are:
- “met cao” = “mad cow”
- “jen is is” = “genesis”
- “hijacker” = “hitch-hiker”
- “corporate” = “cooperate”
- “ate ‘em” = “Adam”
- “manure” = “manoeuvre”

…and so you – Ok. I – end up hearing sentences as thus:

“I picked up a mmmmm hijacker, Woila! and we were talking about the jen is is of mmmmm met cao in the US and how it is mmmmm Woila! oddly affecting how we, Woila! trade between us and mmmmm America. How can we mmmmm manure and corporate properly, I dunno. Woila! This may be something that mmmmm may date back to ate ‘em.”

You should see what my notes started to look like. Really. I stopped writing anything down approximately three weeks back and have chosen to instead sit perched on my seat, leaning forward and squinting my eyes as I stare at Professoré because that’ll help me hear better.

.2. While seated in this perched position, my hand is raised indefinitely. Usually, it’s as soon as I walk ON CAMPUS that my hand makes the up-towards-the-sky move. I still don’t understand why people look at me funny, most especially because this is what one is supposed to do ON CAMPUS. Raise their hand, no?

So, I raise my hand not because I have anything interesting or intelligent to say but rather because I feel this is a must, a duty, a right I should exercise while surrounded by Academia and books. At the end of the three hours, my arm usually hurts. But that’s ok, because it’s much better than when I took skiing lessons and I was always in the dive position (which is your right in the world of ski).

.3. Actually, I’ve started doing this in meetings at work. The ‘raise my hand right’, not the ‘dive right’. Unfortunately, I did this while seated with my supervisor. It was only he and I and I raised my hand to ask him a question. Lucky he’s got a sense of humour. He in turn looked around the room and said “Uhm, how about…you in the white shirt” and pointed at me.

And actually…this raising of the hand in meetings has taken on a life of its own. Whereas once my colleagues peered at me as though I were somewhat mentally challenged, sitting quietly with my hand in the air and waiting my turn, they’ve now taken to falling in line and doing the same.

.4. Nancy. My T.A. I don’t think they fashioned any T.A.s after her on Felicity and so I was uncertain of how to take her at first.

Why?

Because she has a hilarious sense of humour and very obviously battles it while in discussion class. She’s also doing her Masters degree on the EU and so I can learn a lot from her since I know nothing of the Europeans except that I really quite like their fashion sense and their cities and their progressive politics (for the most part) and their academics, journals and landscapes.

.5. There’s a little group of people with whom I’ve congregated. Well…more like, I tag along and they’re unaware of my presence. But I think that still qualifies me as a member of the group. I’m sure they like me because they’re constantly pointing at me.

Two of the women are in law school. Both of them are very French (damn their sophistication and elegance, and sexy scarves) and very intelligent girls who, whenever they speak up, always have something quite interesting to say.

One other woman has a spacey dopey feel to her, but with edge. She reminds me of one of my dearest girlfriends and so I took an immediate liking to her. She’s very ‘in your face’ and that’s equal parts due to her age and probably the amount of pot she smokes.

One boy is from the world of science and is an absolute riot because his enthusiasm is infectious. This is his first ever non-science course and he’s profusely excited about both the materials and the unstructured nature of the course. The other day he referred to the selling of young children (by their families) into prostitution as a “by-product” and I convulsed a little in my seat (& shot my hand up even higher into the air). After we left discussion group, he followed me out and chatted with me. When he finally understood my distinction between internationalization and globalization he very nearly imploded with glee.

As an aside, and only read this if you care, I was opposed to recreating the victims / individuals as commodities because I am opposed to the economic substructure and oppression posed by globalization. For me, the end is to address the economic arm of globalization and so in order for me to battle that arm, I have to be very careful with my syntax, with the language I use. To reference such a group as some sort of commodity is to dehumanise them and strip them of both history and consequence (specifically: their own at the cost of the globalization of poverty). So, I challenged his use of the terminology because it is the terminology of economic globalization…blablabla”

There are a few others who shall go unnamed, but one I do want to mention is M. He’s probably one of the smartest people I’ve ever met; a walking encyclopaedia who must have an excellent diet to be so aware all the time! He’s a total nerd, but not as big as me. I hold that crown and he’ll have to wrestle me for it. I’m looking forward to learning from him…

Next week on The O.C., we watch One Female Canuck grapple with Macroeconomics. While her classmates turn a critical eye to…important stuff…she’ll be working out her own model of supply, demand and the effects on her immediate love of Crack. Woila! Stay tuned!

As promised a couple of weeks back…I present to you LAD:

*Do believe his legs may be smoother than most women’s.*

And LAD no. 2:

His real name is Edward Wong and his stage name is China Doll. How cute is it that he and Carmen’s names both begin with the letter ‘C’. It’s almost as cute as the little person all in pink.

Your blog mistress (“I”) was walking down the street when I was assaulted by the brilliance of a local newspaper’s cover. It was LAD in all his glory. I brought it home and photographed the photo just for your pretty eyes.

AY DOLOR! Donde estas la STEEL SPIRAL TUBING photo? (In case you’re wondering, that’s half Spanish, a dash of French and a lot of Stupid.) The shame is there was no photo of the STEEL SPIRAL TUBING.

…And my Favourite Quote From The Article Award goes to Suzanne Carte who brilliantly put it as thus:

“I love how [karaoke] allows you to be silly and stupid. Everybody wants to be in the limelight. Even if you fucking suck, karaoke allows you to fucking suck. Karaoke is what reminds you that you can’t sing, this is the reality check.”

Special consideration goes to Xtra Capital who printed the piece on China Doll & to the photographer who took the photo…whose not named anywhere in the article. But I could be blind.

I found this photo – sans bubble captions – from the brilliant photographer James MacLennan.

Mr. James: If you don’t want me using this photo, please let me know and I’ll pull it immediately.

Ok. The one on the right is “Carmen” (a.k.a. Andy Warhol). If you don’t know what I’m writing about, read me first and then me.

If I have to haul ass back to Shanghai in order to get you a photo of LAD, I promise you will have it within the next few weeks.

I’ll title it: The Other 1/2 of That Incredible Karaoke Duo: LAD

Since Saturday evening at Shanghai have been contemplating how the large Asian dude (LAD) slips into his STEEL SPIRAL outfit.

I thought I’d share my thoughts with you on this; feel free to post your own imaginings…

LAD locates a spot near a wall.

He lays the STEEL SPIRAL on the ground with the pointy end (that sits about one foot above LAD’s head) facing the wall.

LAD crawls into the STEEL SPIRAL.

Andy Warhol stands behind & vertical to LAD.

Uncomfortably, LAD scoots his large (yet what must be flexible) body all the way to the top of the STEEL SPIRAL.

Once LAD’s comfortably face down in the STEEL SPIRAL, Andy begins his handy-work.

Andy braces his right foot against the wall, while grabbing on to the STEEL SPIRAL midway down LAD’s body. Andy’s really tall in my world.

He heaves and wheezes and puffs and grunts as he pulls LAD up a wee bit.

Because LAD is face down, parts of his body (including his head) are uncomfortably pressing against the STEEL SPIRAL. (Such is the price of fashion.)

As soon as possible, Ginghamp steps in front of LAD and pushes him up and away as Andy pulls.

Andy takes his foot off the wall.

Ginghamp smiles coyly.

LAD ignores Ginghamp.

Ginghamp starts to cry.

Andy Warhol fixes his toupee and lipstick.

Ungrateful LAD grabs another large martini and shuffles to the front of the room to grab the microphone with his free hand.

The audience contemplates pushing LAD over so that they can watch him roll down Somerset.

Instead, they choose to simply be thankful for the STEEL SPIRAL because it means he can’t moon them as they munch on their Kung Pao chicken.

How your blog mom wishes you could see this guy.

It was a double birthday night Saturday evening with S and M (heh) celebrating the day their mothers gave birth to them. We went for dinner and Karaoke at Shanghai on Somerset. Am not a Sadist, therefore didn’t Karaoke.

.1. M gave birth to her own bundle of joy eight months back. She remains a normal female and refuses to become a MOTHER OF THE UNIVERSE. This was most obvious when her and S did an interpretive Waltz to a song that was being Karaoke-ed. A Barbara Streisand song, nonetheless.

.2. Re aforementioned eight month old bundle of joy, “it”…the baby in question is…

Well. For starters, it’s beautiful.

And then for runners up, it’s got a poker face. It’s weird. Not the baby, but it’s expression. If someone were to package Clint Eastwood today as an expression worn by babies, this would be it. And this baby doesn’t react to any cute smiley faces you may have; it’ll just shame your reject ways with its unblinking stare. It doesn’t blink. I pay attention to blinkage because people who blink a lot make me nervous, dizzy and a little sad.

.3. Shanghai turns into a crazy They’re Here They’re Queer Karaoke bar on Saturday nights. The Karaoke machine is run by two guys, one of whom is Andy Warhol reincarnate, and a second guy who almost made me cry. Especially when he swung his bare ass around and mooned the paying customers (because that’s what we want to see while eating Kung Pao Chicken, asshole). (He would read that as: because that’s what we want to see while eating Kung Pao Chicken: Asshole!)

He was a large Asian man wearing: large square sunglasses which were partially hidden by a large fur hat which was also hiding a portion of his large Heidi-esque long black braids.

On his body, he wore a large white skirt, which was partially covered by a gigantic (notice: not large) light blue lingerie inspired moo moo made of see-through material that was pleated and had twirly wire at the end, so that you wouldn’t miss it’s FEATHER LINING. The moo moo took up half of the restaurant; the guy wearing it took up the other half of the restaurant, forcing us to sit in the washroom for the Karaoke portion of the evening.

To complete his look, he wore large clogs and carried a large martini.

He came over to wish S a happy birthday (M had already left because Clint Eastwood wasn’t happy with the volume of the Karaoke). Right after he hugged her, they looked over at the same spot and smiled large as he held up his martini for the picture.

Only. No one had a camera. This made me point and laugh, a lot.

As we were leaving, he changed outfits and nearly knocked me over as he walked past. This time, I couldn’t even see what was directly against his skin because I was mesmerized (& blinded) by the STEEL SPIRAL TUBE that was wrapped around his entire large body. I don’t know how he slipped it on, but I don’t think he should wear it in a lightning storm.

.4. There was a guy there I nicknamed Ginghamp. But we’re not going to talk about him; this is just a shout out to S (that’s correct > the very same S who hangs out on this blog when he’s not otherwise engaged in scriptwriting). We had a few great laughs and he’s promised to write a script where I’m the main character.

That’s a lie. He made no such promise…but I’ll corner him and make him make that promise next I see him. HI S!

.1. This past weekend I was seated at dinner and flanked by three women who have all recently become mothers.

At one point in the evening, I was quietly zoning out eating dinner when one of the women decided to pretend that my earlobe was her nipple.

I was chatting with myself enjoying my chicken when she started to gently tug on my earlobe and explain “I think that this is the exact feeling of pumping for breast milk”.

Seriously.

Look. To begin with, I’m not really a mature person (i.e. I still laugh and blush when adults make the universal two-handed signal for “intercourse” but what they’re really talking about is the way the jack slides in and out of the door properly and I’m not really sure it’s a jack that slides and I’m not even really sure it’s into a door, but whatever…). My reaction was to choke on my chicken and almost have it come up through my nose, much like soda pop when I laugh and sip at the same time.

As I choked, none of the three MOTHERS OF THE UNIVERSE reacted or cared. I turned red as I, lone singleton, swatted at my earlobe. (It must be because my womb has not yet fulfilled it’s cosmic requirement.)

I showered as soon as I got home.

.2. We all know how I feel about futbol, so consider this ample warning that my blog will have many futbol references during the World Cup. I’ve already prepped everyone at work…thought it only fair to do the same here.

.3. I was recently speaking with a man about his children and asked him how many he had. When he responded with “three”, I was kind of just standing there zoning out and smiling at him. In quickity split fashion, I realized that ‘three’ queued a social requirement for me to respond. I smiled wide and firmly said “good number!”

”Good number!” At that moment, it felt like the most appropriate response and I was so proud of myself, I was in fact beaming.

I won’t lie to you. The man looked at me funny before he walked away without saying goodbye.

4. I was recently in quite a rush – which is often, because I find that my mouth can’t keep up with my brain – and described myself as “self-defecating” instead of “self-deprecating”. I really shouldn’t have to tell you that was an accident, but for the record: It was.

.5. I’ve recently learned how to html a strikethrough and I am beyond myself with nerd happiness and satisfaction.

The Manolo

.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.

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

.

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just kidding, mom!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.22. Not requiring sleep.

.1. Out with the old and in with the new.

.2. I’ve booked myself a full-body massage for tomorrow. Yippee!

.3. Inshallah, when I have children, I’m going to sing them this song:

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high are the dreams that you dream of, once in a lullaby. Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly and the dreams that you dream of, dreams really do come true.
Someday you’ll wish upon a star. Wake up where the clouds are far behind. Where trouble melts like lemon drops. High above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me.
I see trees of green and red roses too. I’ll watch them bloom for me and you, and I’ll think to myself, What a wonderful world. Well I see skys of blue and I see clouds of white and the brightness of day light the dark and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
The colors f the rainbow so pretty in the sky are also on the faces of people passing by. I see friends shaking hands saying ‘how do you do?’ they’re really saying ‘I love you’.
I hear babies cry and I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than we’ll know and I think to myself What a wonderful world.

.3. Had my first Level II boxing class today. The main difference between Level I and Level II is that you have to now: (1) do push-ups; (2) learn upper left cut; and, (3) change your normal stance from left foot forward to right foot forward.

The class is only 1 hour long, but I always walk out completely drenched in sweat. And that’s not just a figure of speech, I mean it literally. There isn’t one item of clothing on me that I don’t ring out after class.

Today was a day that I needed to face a punching bag. I pushed my body so hard that half way through the class I had to stop and take a breath or risk vomiting.

It felt absolutely incredible, and I mean that in the best way possible.

Here are the funny things about this night’s class (apart from me nearly vomiting, naturally).

(a) Am not ambidextrous. I don’t really even know my right from my left. When you’re used to standing with your left foot forward and then are forced to switch your entire body around in order to place your right foot forward, you quickly realize that not only are you not ambidextrous, but you’re also not coordinated. I started chattering with the punching bag while no one was looking. I was saying things like “left?” ,“right?”, “but?” ,“the hell?”, “christ”, “god damn it” & “ohmygod I’m retarded”.

(b) Skipping rope is nothing like riding a bicycle. If you haven’t done it in a while, it’s not that easy to jump right back in there and if you’re not careful, you will most likely whip yourself in to a state of shock and maybe even get so tangled up in the rope that you won’t be able to see parts of it.

And man can those ropes really whip your ass. Again: literally. I have welts. But I can’t see them. They’re back there.

(c) The push ups we do in class are not your normal back breaking push up (that’s not good enough for my coach because he wants you to die).

Here are the steps (I strongly urge you to print this up and try it…):
.1. Spread your legs as far apart as possible & keep your heels on the ground.
.2. Throw yourself forward. Better yet, propel yourself forward and attempt to land square on your palms. Your palms should be as far away from your legs as possible, and square with your shoulders.
.3. Stick your ass way up in the air, while keeping your heels and palms on the floor.

Now you’re ready for the hard part!
.4. As you exhale,
bring your chest down to the floor
and slowly move it forward toward your arms
and much like the famed breakdance move known as ‘the worm’
start to bring the rest of your torso down
so that by the time your groin is touching the ground
your chest and face are facing the wall opposite you
and you’re looking up at the ceiling.

Now. Inhale and get back in the starter position FOR THE CRAZY WORM/PUSH UP. And to quote Chris, my coach and the man I adore and worship and think is the bomb even though he’ll bust your ass, “25 is good. Anything below that isn’t good enough. If you have to stop, stop only when you’re shaking and can’t DO anymore.”

I managed 8 right before I passed out and cracked my nose on the floor. Not really. I did manage 8, but didn’t crack anything. I just laid there and cried. Heh.

My body will be magnificent when he’s done with me. I love that.

.4. Should I tell you about my shower experience?

.1. I think it’s good for your soul to get really hurt at least once. It allows you to appreciate everything that much more (I promise!).

.2. Interesting discussion with the girls; the topic being ’When it’s over, what do you do with his ‘stuff’?’

The outcome differed depending on the way things ended. For the most part, everyone seemed to default to their craziest moments and what they did to ‘stuff’ when they were treated not-too-nicely.

Hilarious (& somewhat disturbing) stories ranging from:
- I shredded it and sent it via registered mail.
- I threw it in a garbage bag and sent that via registered mail.
- I tore / painted / placed holes / took a knife to it and later told him what I did.
- I burned it and sent him the ashes (via registered mail).
- I threw it in the garbage, took a photo of it, and sent that to him (via registered mail).

Barring how popular registered mail seems to be, I would think the sane thing to do is return something in one piece.

Boy or girl, feel free to share your or an ex’s crazy.

.3. Musical recommendation: Esthero’s Fastlane.

As previously mentioned, T & M are in London at the moment; they leave for Glasgow soon, but I promised them the Maha’s Top 10 Things To Do While in London. Well…it is unconventional and it is fun and it is typically of my taste and imagination. And it’s also newly titled: Maha’s 35 Things To Do In London (so I’m a little long-winded…).

Feel free to follow all 35 should the fancy slap you across the face…Just make certain you tell me about it.

.1. Go down to the City Centre at 7 a.m. and sit at any corner to watch the employment traffic pass by. There is a different pace and feel than North America, and you really should see it at least once.

I dare you to not have a coffee.

.2. On any given morning, and only if it’s raining, visit the Bunhill Fields Cemetery at 38 City Road. The neon green of the growth on the headstones is in direct contrast to the City’s shades of grey. For a place where death sits, it’s filled with colour.

.3. Watch the buskers in Covent Market.

.4. Buy a tanga from Coco de Mer (23 Monmouth St. Phone: 020 7836 8882).

.5. Buy one painfully overpriced vintage piece of clothing from any shop on Monmouth St. (Have sushi while there; there’s a sushi restaurant with a revolving table…very communal and yummy.)

.6. Whenever and wherever possible, eat Caffé Nero’s biscotti. The location I most frequent and which I love is in Covent Garden, at a roundabout at 30 Monmouth St.

When ordering from Nero, recall:
Small, med, large = Small, reg, grande
Take out = Take away
Bowl = Cup

.7. Visit and make fun of the hideous and psychotically overpriced handbags at Bracher Emden (Unit 9G, N17 Studios, 784/792 The High Road. Phone: 0208 801 4967). All of the celebrities purchase these, and they serve as a direct explanation for why these idiots require stylists.

.8. Don’t give a shit about Harrod’s.

.9. At the Pret-A-Manger located at the corner of St. Martin & Garreck St, eat a tuna nicoise salad wrap, sit on the bench by the window and people-watch.

.8. Watch a sun rise while seated on the benches atop Primrose Hill. Yawn really loudly while joggers race by. If you see Johnny Lee Miller, give him my mobile number (even if this means you must run after him…). Do tell him am pretty.

.9. Visit Sylvia Plath’s house (3 Chalcut Square). Stand outside and press your face against the window; the current residents of the house look funny when they’re scared.

.10. Eat Apricot & Chicken Tagine at The Mediterranean Kitchen (50 St Martin’s Lane). You will go through the roof. While there, attempt to set their menu on fire, as I did. This was an accident but makes for an interesting evening should you be dining alone.

.11. From the Camden Market, buy something bohemian (I bought a patched flower dress) that will only look appealing while you are on vacation. You will never wear it outside of the UK, but will show it to friends and say: “I bought it at Camden.”

If you must buy something to wear, buy a Che t-shirt.

.12. Drop by the Starbuck’s by Camden Locks. Smell the air. ‘Tis putrid.

.13. Buy used jeans from the Stables Market; if you can find it, buy a vintage Charlie’s Angels t-shirt as well (I did!).

.14. See the chandelier at the London Central Mosque. Buy books from their library.

.15. While at Stables, search for the nude mannequin & wheel chair display. It’s so hideous people find it beautiful. (I pointed and laughed.)

Also, visit Velvet Illusion of London, because it’s totally groovy, baby.

.16. Go behind Stables Market; am certain folks are murdered there regularly. Make sure the sun is shining when you go…

.17. Get lost on the tube.

.18. Lunch (I recommend the fillet of bass) at The French House (Soho: 49 Dean St) and then have your dessert at Patisserie Valerie (Soho: 44 Old Compton St). Learn to become comfortable when seated North-American-style-painfully-close-to-people-you-don’t-know.

.19. Pay through your nose and see a movie at the cinema, because really: You don’t need to put your children through university.

.20. At Westminster Abbey, pay tribute to D.H. Lawrence, Lord Byron, Dylan Thomas, Lord Tennyson & Robert Browning. And then recall: You have absolutely no talent compared to these geniuses.

.21. While at Westminster, find the red flag: The Order of the Dragon and try to understand why it broke my heart to see it.

.22. Go to Pall Mall St in the evening and look up at the apartments; the chandeliers that line this street could cover the debt of all 3rd world countries. (My favourite was at 71 Pall Mall St.)

.23. Have a drink at London’s oldest village inn: The Red Lion in Crown Abbey.

.24. Only visit Madame Tussauds to walk through the live serial killer chamber. Do it alone; You will wet yourself, I promise.

.25. Look both ways before you cross the street. Seriously.

.26. Find an Irishman and tell him you prefer the Irish to the Brits; Find a Scotsman and do the same. (Preferably not while they are both at the same table.)

.27. See the statue outside of 8 Pilgrim’s Lane in Hampstead.

.28. While in Hampstead, try not to lose your footing on the cobblestone sidewalks. Have some crepes while there (must purchase from a street vendor!).

.29. While eating fish & chips held together by newspaper, hang out with the Rastafarians at Paddington Market. They’re playing the best music in town.

.30. Also while at Paddington Market, purchase flowers and fabrics. It’s a must; you won’t be able to help yourself because you will be overcome by the colours and lushness of that which surrounds you.

.31. Get on a double decker bus and refuse to sit anywhere but the front seat on the 2nd floor. Make a fuss, if you must, just get that seat. Then, everytime the bus comes to a stop, or rounds a corner, yell “Whoa Nelly!”

.32. Have soup and a sandwich at The Gallery Café by Bethnal Green Station.

.33. Visit with the pelicans at St. James’ Park lake.

.34. From Agent Provocateur, purchase a bra to match your Coco de Mer tanga.

.35. Think of me.

.36. Visit Berkeley Square in Mayfair district, before walking around and enjoying the neighbourhood.

.37. While in Mayfair, drop in to The Punch Bowl for dinner – if for no other reason than because they have London’s friendliest waitress. (You were working there on March 22nd, 2010 – you were lovely!)

.38. Have dinner at the Anchor & Hope gastro-pub. Order their side of greens; it will reshape your ‘of cabbage’ world view.

.39. Take the time to enjoy the ride on the London Eye, and make certain to not miss out on the 4-D after-show.

.40. Graze at the Brick Lane Food Hall.

.41. Buy a teacup from Vintage Heaven at 82 Columbia Road, before sliding into the back and having a piece of cake from The Cakehole Cafe (as in “…shut your…”).

.42. Buy flowers from the Columbia Road Flower Market.

.43. Buy a t-shirt from a-non Clothing at 26 Cheshire Street.

.44. Say hello to Desi at the only vintage shop which sells working jukeboxes. Ask him about his boxing days.

.45. Enjoy Broadway Market & Brick Lane Market & the Hackney City Farm and forget anything exists beyond London Town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.1. I finally got all of my Holiday cards out, and this year >> I had enough time to write special and unique notes in each and every one. I’ve been working on them for quite some time, so it was a great feeling to dump the last of them in the mail.

.2. Forgot to mention this. While in NYC, T, E & I were walking down the street discussing fortunes, futures and what-have-you. Then, suddenly, we found ourselves standing in front of a Tarot Card Reader’s shop and so – as fate had placed her before us – we had her read our cards.

I was the first in and this is what she said to me, The Creepy Card Lady With The Black Eyes And No Pupils:
- I was a leader.
- People are drawn to me.
- I will have a very long life.
- Am chaste (she used the ‘V’ word).
- I have been traveling too much & running away from something. What I need is to calm down and stop running. Instead, I must stay in one place long enough to work on my self and face whatever it is I am running from.
- I must let go of a man whom I have loved for the last three years.
- I will be with a man before November (she didn’t specify a year, and it’s obviously not November of 2005).
- I am not allowed to pursue him. Rather, he is the sort of man who has to come after me (otherwise, he will not appreciate yours truly). She kept repeating: “Let him come after you. This is very important!”
- Our relationship was going to be strong, intense and passionate from the get-go. This also means we will hit some rough patches at the beginning, but we will make it through them because we won’t be able to walk away from one another no matter how angry either of us may be.
- He will be older than me.
- He will be rich.
- With this man in my life, she saw much travel and a lot of palm trees.
- I will be married within two years’ time.

I wish I could tell you that this is nonsense, but she nailed a few things on the head
(hence why we called her ‘Creepy’)…and not just with me, but also with T & especially with E. It really was: The Creepy Card Lady With The Black Eyes And No Pupils.

And she was pregnant, and I’ve always believed that pregnancy brings on special powers (not the kind that come with a cape and really neat boots).

.3. Was watching people at the bus stop today and thought how like March of the Humans it all appeared. Odd, really. First bus arrived, was filled rather quickly and left approx half of the line behind.

All in line donned dark coloured jackets & even darker knit caps, but wore light coloured scarves. After the first bus left, they slowly shuffled forward, in one single polite line, and waited for the second bus to arrive. No one turned to speak to an other, no one smiled, no one listened to music; they all just stared straight ahead, waiting for the bus to arrive and whisk them off to their…life, I guess.

Although no such thing happened, I half expected a penguin to walk out and greet them. Maybe hand them a cola, or something.

.4. Recall above mentioned “single polite line”.

Right. Well, when the second bus arrived, it pulled up not as it should have, at the beginning of the line, but rather, somewhere in the middle of the line.

Polite no more! The people started shoving and hollering at one another. Elbows were flying, toques were being ripped off, gloves thrown in the air. Several eye-glasses were crushed as bus riders prepared to roll whoever cut in front of them.

All of this may not sound so odd to you, but the reality is that it was all very strange to watch: After all, there were only four people in line.

.5. I have cut all stimulants from my life because – as D has said – I am already over-stimulated enough.

No more caffeine of any sort (e.g. coffee, tea and chocolate). This is quite difficult because am a bona fide coffeeholic. I once drank at least 5 or 6 (ok. Perhaps more & this was only last week…) cups a day, but last Tuesday, I decided to cut this out cold turkey.

So far, so good.

My heart isn’t racing as much, and I am quite a bit more calm than before. Although my energy level remains the same, it is a different sort of energy (meaning: I can catch my breath regularly).

.6. I must buy another Jeanette Winterson book, and soon. I finished Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit a couple of weeks ago and am already having withdrawal from her stories.

.1. There is new front desk staff at my yoga centre. I believe he belongs in a Saturday Night Live skit (or perhaps: he has just stepped out of one).

There is a sound made when something big is about to happen. Spelled out, it is this: Dun dun dun daaaaan. Do you know it? Say it out loud…

Like, you’re about to find out who the killer in the movie is. Right before they tell you his / her name, the music sings: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Ok. So. The new front desk staff, this boy, he keeps doing that. He asked my name, and I said: Maha, to which he responded: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Moments later, another woman handed him a form she’d just finished filling out…and he responded with: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Are you laughing? I was. All through yoga class, too. Every time my mind would wander, it would be all: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Imagine him in the grocery store: “The cereal aisle. Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

What about at the gas station: “I owe 18.75? Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

And when his girlfriend breaks up with him: “Did you just dump me? Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

Or worse still…when he’s being intimate…: DUN DUN DUN DAAAAN!!!!.

This world is full of weirdos (firstly, yours truly).

.2. Have you ever had to break an addiction either to someone, or to some thing? Maybe even an addiction to an idea, or to a dream? Let me know about it if you have…I will eventually write about this, and wanted to receive your thoughts re the matter first.

.1. I pulled out all of my U2 CDs and loaded them into my iTunes. While doing this, I found that I had two copies of the Achtung Baby CD.

And then I remembered why.

I pulled out the inside covers and found a note in the proper one.

While in 4th year university, I was given this second copy of the CD from a boy whose initial I won’t even place on this blog. He was…a little agitated with me…and decided that:

“Maha:
Tracks 5, 6 and 11 should be your national anthem.”

Respectively, he’s talking about:
Whose Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses
So Cruel
&
Acrobat

My initial thought was: Can I have three anthems?
And then I contemplated: Should he have an ‘s’ at the end of ‘anthem’?

Today I’m thinking: He must have really disliked me.

Anyone want a used Achtung Baby CD? (Disgruntled Note included.)

.2. I’ve recently thought about Damiana and the 90 year old in Garcia Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores, and unlike my initial impression, I gotta tell ‘ya…I’m not all too pleased with either of these characters at the moment.

It really must have been my mood and the atmosphere, because now I think: Damiana’s an idiot for loving anyone for 20 weeks, let alone 20 years (!), who couldn’t love her back; and the 90 year old is just a coward.

Erm. I still do recommend you read the book. If not for anything, the writing is beautiful (or, I should write: the translation is beautiful).

.3. Remember the dudes who gave you my last musical recommendation?

Michael, who is a part of Petrol Bomb Samosa sent me an e-mail, thanking me for mentioning them (how kind!) and pointing me to their home on the interWeb (www.downdogrecords.com): Down Dog Records.

Go take a peek & make certain to listen to the mp3s; these guys are brilliant!

Support them by purchasing from them directly…

.4. The Philosopher Kings are finally working on new tunes (finally!).

In preparation for what will hopefully be an excellent new set from these masters, download The New Messiah (but not the live version). It’s good for nights like tonight, when the wind’s rattling your windows…

.1. That question should be asked before you attempt to touch anyone’s hair. Or, better still, you really ought to receive an invitation to do so…I would think this could be something especially sexy (or downright creepy, depending on who’s doing the inviting).

A little while back, T and I were at the movie theatre enjoying a film. We were the only ones in our row, and there were either 5 or 6 boys seated directly behind us. Everyone else in the theatre was to the front of us.

I had my hair down and I had it flung over the back of my seat; I was sitting quite low in my seat and so this was the best way for me to be comfortable because my hair is long.

About a half an hour into the movie, I felt something on my hair, but I didn’t think much of it. Not even the second time, about 5 minutes later. The third time I felt a hand slide across my hair; I think the button on the boy’s sleeve tugged on my hair, and so my senses immediately went into overdrive and I figured out what he was doing. He was playing with my hair.

He was unabashedly touching my hair. This boy who I don’t know.

He was only about 16 years old and so, rather than embarrass him I just opted to sit up and pull my hair forward. I was mildly annoyed, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss.

That was the same evening a couple of gummy bears melted between my legs, but I’ll tell you about that some other time (and it’s really neither as perverted nor as unhygienic as it sounds…).

Earlier today, I should have recalled my feeling of “mildly annoyed” with the little boy.

I went out at lunch and was on the escalator in the shopping mall. (Although I think Madonna is crazy and hasn’t released anything worth a proper shit since Like a Prayer, I felt obligated to purchase Confessions on a dance floor.) In front of me was a woman who had the most extraordinarily beautiful weave. It was this long wavy thick black hair and I was mesmerised by it.

For the first 5 steps, I contemplated touching her hair. Honestly, I couldn’t help myself. When we reached the 6th step, I reached out and touched her hair. I petted her. And then a man walked past us on the escalator and looked at me like I was a bewildered mad-woman.

Rather than keeping my mouth shut, I kind of mumbled “It’s so soft”. He smiled, cocked an eyebrow and kept going down the stairs.

She never turned around (probably because she was arguing with her boyfriend “you’re such an asshole!” on her mobile). Lucky me.

.2. T lost 15 pounds. As a joke, she’s being introduced as thus: “This is T. She’s lost 85 pounds.”

She doesn’t think it’s as funny as I do.

.3. Madonna’s back.

Download Sorry…and then download Forbidden Love…

.1. As I left the court room today, I was asked to “bow to the bench” before they’d allow me to exit. I didn’t know what that meant (I should, considering I studied Law), and so found myself in a full-out curtsey that would have made the best debutants green with envy.

The man who had told me about this condition to “bow to the bench”, looked at me like I was a psychopath and then broke out into a little giggle. I giggled back, but was uncertain about what we were giggling (I later figured out we were both laughing at me).

I think all I needed to do was actually nod at the Judge.

Sometimes, it’s fun to be me.

.2. On my way back, I walked past a hotel and there was a man getting into his car. He followed me while by3akisni, which in English means something along the lines of flirting, but is usually only one-way (whereas flirting usually entails a two way interaction). He wasn’t rude or crass, and he was a relatively young and attractive man. Maybe in his late 30s.

I had my music on and so I didn’t hear him at first. I noticed something creeping alongside me instead. A blur out of the corner of my eye, I eventually turned to notice what it was.

He offered me a ride “in [his] Ferrari”. He felt obligated to tell me the make of his car because I may have mistaken it for a Chevrolet. You know how us girls can be.

Politely, I declined…& he was actually a little taken aback by this and once again referred to the make of his car, The Ferrari.

Here’s the thing. I like nice boys. I like nice boys who aren’t flashy (even when they have enough money to buy 200 Ferraris); that this man kept referring to his car as though it were an appendage I needed to take note of was really quite comical.

What a strange guy. I imagine he’s relatively boring company…

Maybe if he was in a Chevrolet, I would’ve been kinder (although I still wouldn’t have taken the ride).

As a nod to Halloween, I will share with you lovelies some very funny Halloween related moments from my childhood.

.1. I used to gorge myself on so much candy (almost all of it) right after coming home from trick or treating (damn the BASTARDS who tricked instead of treated!), that my mother usually took me to the doctor’s the following day.

It was just a normal footnote to Halloween in our house…
I would trick or treat and collect as much sugar as possible.
My mother would point her finger at my circle for a head and say “don’t eat too much!”
I would stare at her with my circles for eyes and nod ‘ok’.
I would wait for her to fall asleep.
& then proceed to as-quiet-as-a-mouse unwrap as much candy as possible and stuff it into my aforementioned circle for a face.
Sometimes, and only because it was dark, I would miss my mouth and place a piece of candy in my nose. But not often.
I would discreetly, and only because it was dark, hide the wrappers underneath my covers.
My mother would find me on Nov 1st, passed out on top of candy wrappers, much like a drunk .

By about noon, my mother would take my doubled-over-in-pain body to the doctor.
The Doctor would laugh.
I would cry (& have the shakes).
My mother would swear to never let me out for Halloween “ever again!”
I would take a bigger bag the following year.
ad infinitum…

*psst. This only stopped in 2003.

.2. I have always been slightly temperamental and demanding (but now I’m really nice about it, and I give back 100 fold). One year, I forced my parents to buy me a full-throttle ballerina outfit (with shoes) so I could trick or treat looking – what I then considered – ‘sexy’.

I was 6, carried a wand and wore a tiara. I was such an idiot.

They bought me what I wanted, and from an actual dance studio. But then it all backfired because my mother put me in ballet classes. Ugh.

That was as memorable as my piano lessons. It was so memorable, I can’t remember a damn thing about it. My mother had to remind me that I took ballet. She said I hated it and would throw a fit every time she dragged me to the class. And – brace yourselves – I was the only one who had a tutu and refused to do ballet unless I was allowed to wear my tiara.

Now, I wear the tiara whenever I have a meeting with my assistant.

.3. In grades 6, 7 & 8, my girlfriends and I started developing crushes on boys. We wanted to be appealing to said crushes and so we used to dress all ‘grown up’ on Halloween.

Thing is, we never thought of women such as our mothers as appealing, alluring or sexy. We thought – again, brace yourselves – that prostitutes were the sexy ones.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like Mr. McKinnon was all “Oh, Maha, what are you this Halloween?”
And I’d smile and say “I’m the Mayflower Madam!”

It was more like, “What are you?”
“I’m a lady!”

I reference prostitutes now because when I look at our pictures from those Halloweens, there’s only two words that come to mind: Paid Whore.

Anyway. A troop of us idiot girls would spend an hour in the washroom every year. An hour prior to our Halloween Dance, we would tumble over one another and fumble with hideous colors that we would then smear all over our faces. We’d wear high heels and nylons with really short skirts, pull our hair up in the strangest styles and pull our shirts off our shoulders. Then we’d chew gum and prance out of the washroom, nearly falling over one another because none of us fit properly into the high heels we’d stolen from our mums.

Needless to say, none of the boys ever noticed us.

God, we were such drag queens.

Happy Halloween, kids!

There’s something perverted about the Starbucks Mermaid.

Aren’t mermaids supposed to have only one tail?
Anyway. If she has two tails, then she’s got her ‘feet’ up around her ears.
If she has one tail, then she’s still got her ‘feet’ up around her ears.

I don’t understand. I promise to further contemplate this over my non-fat, no-foam, triple shot latte.

If you should return and find this blog defunct, know it’s because the crazies at Starbucks found me first.

.1. Is it unnatural that I set my alarm clock for Saturday morning cartoons?

.3. I was really pleased with last night’s event.

There was a huge turnout and all documentaries were well done. The panel discussion was also quite good, with the usual suspects behaving as always: Sophie animated, Paul dry and sarcastic, Riad academic (with the anticipated and constant look of confusion on Sophie’s face as he spoke). What was surprising is that Alexandre, the moderator, has a really great sense of humor. He made me laugh. Out loud.

Unfortunately, at such events, I don’t usually like the calibre of questions posed; I find that people are in it to hear themselves speak. Lucky that I wasn’t the moderator…I would have just turned off the microphones while certain people were speaking.

I’ve never pretended to have patience.

To hell. On a very fast motorcycle, is where I am headed.

.1. Last night, E had baby Kate. This is so exciting! Now she is the second of my girls to procreate. She was the second to get married, and keeping true to form, the second to have a baby.

Do think I can hear my ovaries crying.

.2. While E was being squeezed, we went out for my birthday dinner. Apart from spending a hysterical evening with three gorgeous women, the following particular moment stood out.

For the last several years, we’ve gone to this one restaurant to celebrate birthdays; although we have many friends who own restaurants, for some reason this one in particular has become our favorite.

Our waiter brought out fried ice cream and decided to sing happy birthday at the top of his lungs. God love him, he is completely tone deaf and without any sense of shame or composure he bellowed out the tune and I actually laughed my way through the entire ordeal.

The restaurant is very small and so the entire ‘audience’ stopped, listened, applauded (some actually whistled) at the end of our waiter’s explosion of song.

.3. I love opening presents. Even if they’re not for me (so watch it…).

.4. Today was day 12 of Ramadan, and fasting has been relatively easy this year. Am uncertain as to why this is, as we’re breaking fast at approximately 6:30 p.m. and that should make for a long day.

.5. I can’t believe I am admitting to this, but am already itching to leave Ottawa. Considering I have already traveled to three continents this year, I can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

Perhaps am in search of something, even though I am unaware of it.

Maybe if I simmer down long enough, it’ll find me.