Prolific Immigrant

That at this same time of the years spanning 2005 – 2008 inclusive, there were moments of deep sadness in my life. Each year, there was a particular thing, for lack of a better word, which I had granted entry into my life (be it an individual or a situation), the consequences of which always ended in some sort of emotional blueness.

This year, nothing. No sadness and no drama, and most definitely no emotional upheavels.

It’s the fkng holidays and I am happy and satiated beyond expression.

Yay.

Also, I hope you are as well – and if I am any measure, trust that it will get better. It really, really, really and truly does…even if it takes a few years.

Comments closed.

.1. An earwig melts if you spray it with Lysol.
I have been spraying and running; this is how I know.

Last night, I watched one earwig die and melt in on itself.

If there were a Criminal Court of Insects, I would be tried for the illegal use of chemical warfare.

.2. I tried a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino from Starbucks the other day and nearly peed myself out of sheer pleasure. I recommend you give this beverage a go and request the whip cream, as well.

If they don’t recognise the name “Vanilla Bean Frappuccino”, try asking for a “Fat Ass In A Cup”.

Let me know how that works out for you.

.3. Conversation at a restaurant / bar.

Man: “Hi, how are you?”
Maha: “Good thanks.”
Man: “I’m good too, thanks.”
Maha: “Cool!”
Man: “I’m (insert name). Would you like to join me and my table for a drink?”
Maha (looks over at table and sees three other men in suits and some randoms; men are noticeable because they’re the only ones in the joint wearing suits): “No, but thank you. I’m here with my own friends.”
Man: “They can join us too, if you’d like.”
Maha: “Not really. But thank you. I should get back to…”
Man: “I’m with the (insert name of Native Nation or something like that).”
Maha: “O. Okay. Well. I’m a Palestinian. I really have to go, thanks. BYE.”
Man: “You’re a Palestinian?”
Maha (leaving and returning to my table): “Yeah. Awesome, right? Most people never guess. BYE.”

When I returned to my table, I told my friends that I had met someone who told me to which Native nation he belonged; that it sounded kind of Native, but I really wasn’t certain that it was. My friends informed me that it was not the name of his Native tribe (e.g. like ‘Sioux’), but was rather the name of the sports team to which he belonged.

Now re-read the last four lines of the conversation to understand what kind of a clueless fool your WebMomma truly is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right Quick = Immediately

Fixin’ to = About to…

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

(Thank you, Austin.)

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

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

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

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

We met once, in passing, through Scott.

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

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

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

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

The rest, as they say, would become history.

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

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

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

Janey – I kove yoy very much.

I’ve just dined with Alice Munro. It was relatively quiet as I didn’t say one word and instead let her letters slip off the page and create for me an alternate universe.

Every once in a while, I would be pulled from her pages by the loud voices of two late 20-something young women seated at the table next to me.

“I was with David Friday night.”
“Whose David?”
“The guy I’m dating. He’s why I couldn’t see you Saturday. We spent Friday night together, went out for breakfast Saturday and rented movies and hung out with, like, his dog that night. It’s what we do…but it’s not a relationship. The sex is GREAT! And then there’s Andrew.”
“Whose Andrew?”
“The other guy I’m dating. He’s perfect. He’s a homeowner, he owns a vehicle and has an excellent job. He’s tall, too, and the sex with him is GREAT also.”

Pause. Check bberry. Look out window at protestors (Sri Lanka / tamil), and ask “who the fuck are they?”
“Who cares. They, like totally held up traffic last week. You’re in Canada! God. Get over it, right?”

Pause. Check bberry, then continue
“Anyway. So like whatever happened to Mikey?”
“Sex with Mikey is even MORE awesome. I’m seeing him tonight.”

Pause. Check bberry, then yell “WHAT!”
“Omg what’s wrong?”
“READ!”
“Omg. Mikey has a girlfriend?”
“Yeah!”
“You’re, like, The Other Woman. That’s slammin’ cool.”
“And he’s breaking up with her. Right. Now!”
“Awesomeness. You’re a rockstar!”
“To the max, yo. I’m totally updating my FaceBook status to tell everyone about this…f*ck YEAH!!”

Droooooooone.
Focus on white tuna.
White noiiiiiiiiise.
Your daughters will not be like this.
Ugggggggggggh.
Tataki. Tataki. Tataki.
Huuuuuuuuuurrl.

I am so sad for girls far too often.

Also, I wish to run into the hills and hide.

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

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

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

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

I hope your weekend is as lovely as mine…x

As those of you who live here know, I am a relative non-dater. I’ve always been able to do without, and unlike some RoboDaters I know, I’ve never been one for a relationship either. When the few have happened in the past, they’ve developed organically and they’ve been good – the very small number of men I have dated remain good men and I wouldn’t trade the experience of getting to know them for anything in this world.

It’s never been about quantity, but rather quality, and it most definitely has never been about a need to fill space and time in my life. That I am giving you my loser advice is just so that you may have a little food for thought this evening.

Recently, a girlfriend of mine started dating a new man. He is, for all intents and purposes, a good man. An honest man; a ‘stand-up’ kind of guy who doesn’t play games or open doors that he never plans to address ever again. He is the kind of boy you hope your best friend will become acquainted with…

But – and I write ‘but’ with hesitation – he has, according to her, one very serious flaw and it is that: He spends much too much time with his friends and he has made a point of making clear that his friends are more important to him than she is at the moment. He’s also made clear that should things change in the shape of their relationship, then that too will change. (I wrote ‘according to her’ because they have only been dating a few weeks and this short period does not, should not, can not, and will never trump the years of friendship that any individual has built, nurtured, nourished and maintained. Male or female, there are priorities; friends are among those priorities.)

Look. This guy isn’t spending 6 nights a week with his boys in bars (and if he were, then just fkn walk already and stop complaining; that you choose to remain in said situation is your problem and not his and only the best of humanity behaves in non-typical fashion. The sad reality is that most both men and women will try to take a mile where you offer an inch; taking advantage of one another is a brutal reality that we each face every day…the only thing you can do is ensure that you do your best to avoid doing that to someone when opportunity presents itself (and it always will)).

What he is, is he is spending an ample amount of time with his new girlfriend and he is also spending an ample amount of time with his friends. Because – unless the scenario shifts into one of true love and commitment – the new boyfriend / girlfriend exist on the outside of the circle. His friends are the circle closest to him (and if he is a decent man, then so too is his family) and you exist beyond that. That changes if and when he chooses to change it, or it may simply change on its own (read: organically).

If you have a problem with that reality, then you need to find a different man.
Personally, I think it’s pretty sexy when a man is fiercely loyal to his friends because that means that should there one day be a shift in your relationship, then he will be as fiercely loyal to you as he currently is to his friends.

This is not to say that should there be a crisis in your life, he tells you he can’t see you or talk to you or be there for you because he’s playing football with his friends that night. Naturally, there are limits (and if you’re dating a boy who would do that, then again: the problem is yours and you need to cut your losses).

Almost as importantly as the above, you should remember that his friends – just as your friends have and continue to do so – have contributed to the man that he has become. They have contributed to the man you may one day fall in love with, and you need to respect that. You need to respect them and their presence in his life. (Another caveat is that: if they turn out to be shits who don’t in turn respect you or your presence in his life, then that’s a whole other scenario you must eventually address. But a strong man, a good man who is in love with you – if that turns out to be the case – would never stand for anyone disrespecting you, just as you should never stand for anyone disrespecting the man you love. Loving one another must amount to seeing and treating one another as giants (and letting the imperfections of one another be a part of that ‘giant’esse, since no one is perfect).

Now. If you operate on the reality that as soon as he walks into your world, you immediately do away with your friends and wait wait wait wait for him to call you so that you may get out there and do something, then you’re not a very nice friend to your own circle and if I were a man, I’d watch for that behaviour and wonder how and why, if you can’t be loyal to your own circle, I would ever expect you to be so loyal to me. Unfair as it may be, it’s a gut reaction that can’t be denied.

Ultimately, you are not a priority until you are. And when you are, then you need to still respect the importance of his friends and shouldn’t be a jealous super freak of them; imagine what you would call your best friend’s new partner if he didn’t want you coming over…or taking a weekend away with your best friend…or heading out for a night. Imagine what you would call him? I know what I would call him…and it’s not a very pleasant thing. Don’t be that person and get a hobby instead.

The euphoria of a new relationship can not equal the denial of existing ones, no matter how exciting and loving and intriguing your new relationship may be. Because should this new relationship fall apart, it is your closest circle of friends who will gather you from the dirty floor and tuck you in every night until you heal & heel. Remember that, always.

**********
Note 1: The above is not to say that a year into the relationship, if there’s been no change or shift in the dynamic between you and him and his friends, you shouldn’t walk – the decision is yours and you lay out the groundwork accordingly in terms of what you’re willing to “tolerate”. Just consider the above a perspective that’s all too often lost when you are watching romantic movies and reading romance novels. Keep it in mind when you’re getting to know a new man and are existing within that awkward state of ‘dating’ when you have no idea wtf is going on. Should and when you have enough, then cut your losses and walk away without hesitation and without once looking back and remember that that is the very definition of grace.

Note 2: None of the above stands for a hurtful man who uses his friends to hurt you…who goes out of his way to point out that you’re not as important as his friends in a passive aggressive way. That’s just an asshole, plain and simple. All forms of passive aggression are shit and shouldn’t be allowed into your life (unless you’re an asshole, too). The above only stands for the good men you meet > you know who they are, and those of them reading this will also know who they are…

The following is a conversation I had with a friend on Facebook; I have deleted her name for reasons of privacy. To facilitate your reading of this, please note that I am the one who begins this conversation.

Rather than writing about my feelings on the subject matter of how we are expected and scripted to react to certain situations, I thought that I would, for this once, allow you to understand my perspective through my idiotic blather quick witted communication skills familiar only to my closest friends.

Or, you could save yourself the trouble and merely deduce from the subject title of this entry.

Either way, enjoy…

.1. There was a couple I used to see together on a regular basis.
Then one day, I saw the woman standing alone and watched her watch this once-very-intimate part of her life walk past and make nothing more than an awkward nod in her direction, after which she stood alone, crying.

People stared at her, so I walked over and quietly asked her if she was okay.
She told me the story of what had transpired between her and this piece of shit who can’t actually be called a man who believed that it was proper behaviour…nay, necessary behaviour to get drunk and proceed to both verbally and physically assault her.
This had caused a break up.

But not for long.

I’ve now once more been seeing them together. Kissing. Cuddling. Feigning that sickly ‘love’ that makes me want to gag. Because, I know. Because I fkn know and because last week, I saw her with a bruised eye.

But I’m sure: He’s changed. And they’re in love. And she can’t help it. And he’s not a drunken fukwit. And she’s got all the self esteem in the world. And he’s going to change. And she promises to support him. And he’s sorry he missed another AA meeting. And she still loves him. And he’s sorry sorry sorry sorry for hitting her again. And it’s okay, because they’re in love, but I think I may have mentioned that already.

.2. I never did get around to telling you what happened at the end of my most recent NYC trip – and I promise to eventually get around to it. But for now, let me share one moment that still boggles my mind.

We were seated in the airport – delays all over the god damn place. Delays without explanation and without (later we found out) merit. People were antsy and generally obnoxious and annoyed because the world revolves around them.

There was a woman seated on the ground and minding her own business. She was working on her laptop (as many of us were) and an older gentleman walked past and tripped on the cord of the laptop. She apologised profusely and…he didn’t accept.

Neither did his daughter (who may have been aged at around 45) nor his wife. In fact, they decided to sit across from this woman and berate her loudly and aggressively as she sat there quietly, alone in a waiting room filled with people staring and fkn doing nothing. After a few moments, things quieted down and then all of a sudden I heard the following, at which point I stepped in: “…she’s ugly. No wonder she’s gotta work…probably doesn’t have children. Look at her…who’d marry this bitch, anyway…dried up ovaries…”

And I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit there for another moment “minding my own business” because bullying at that level immediately made it my business. I am still shocked that no one else in that room thought the same thing, because trust me when I tell you these people were loud – and when that sort of ‘confrontation’ takes place, people generally stop to see where the noise is coming from. An audience to the ugliness and to the pain and humiliation of others starts to feed on the euphoria of not having to be that person.

I turned around and motioned to the woman on the ground, and asked her to come over and sit next to me.

The mother and the father and their pathetic, wanting, idiotic, dredge of a daughter stared at me as though I were some kind of alien. They looked insulted that I had stepped in. They were offended that I was involving myself in their business. And when the woman quietly packed up her things and came and sat next to me and started thanking me, the family started to mumble again, so I turned around (my back was to their face) and I very quietly said: “if there’s something you need to say, then you need to come around here and say it to the both of us. Don’t count this woman as being alone anymore.”

They didn’t say another word.

.3. Finally. If you’ve still not done so, then I need you to please make the effort to catch War, Inc at any one of the following theatres….

COLORADO: THE ABBEY THEATRE
128 East College Dr. (970-385-1711)

COLORADO: LYRIC CINEMA CAFE 2
300 E. Mountain Ave. (970-493-0893)

IOWA: VARSITY II
2412 Lincoln Way (515-292-0450)

NEW YORK: HI-WAY DRIVE-IN THEATER
10769 State Route 9W

OHIO: CEDAR LEE THEATERS
2163 Lee Rd. (216-321-5411)

OREGON: LIVING ROOM THEATERS
921 SW Washington St. (971.222.2010)

TENNESSEE: DOWNTOWN WEST CINEMA 18
1640 Downtown West Blvd. (865-693-6327)

I blogged the following:

.1. Have just come back from seeing Batman Begins with Di and her Peej. Before the film began, we were discussing the dynamics between men and women, and the rules of flirtation. Somewhat thrown by the different perspectives (e.g. what a woman defines as a signal vs a man’s idea of a signal), I turned to Peej and asked “Why are you men so dense?” to which his ricochet was “Men are dense because women think they’re being obvious.”

What a great response! Missed opportunities?
I laughed …right before I scribbled down his words.

.2. Re Batman, film was good and story well spun. Christian Bale is one of the finest actors of this generation, and I apologize ahead of time as in the coming paragraph will objectify him.

I rarely find men in full suits appealing, preferring them in either: (a) Matching jacket / pants, unbuttoned tapered (not over-sized and sloppy) shirt; or, (b) Perfect is a man with scruffy beard and messy hair (but clean) in either cargo pants or jeans. I lean toward the rugged rather than slick, but as I watched the movie, found myself thinking: Christian Bale gives good suit.

No one can wear a suit like him, and I think seeing him will forever be a throw back to American Psycho.

Mind you, he didn’t look so bad wearing only bruises and sunshine…

And I am today writing to reiterate my love of Christian Bale in a suit.
Because no one. And I mean: NOT ONE MAN can wear a suit like Christian Bale. The man gives good suit. In fact, he gives best suit.

So much so that I’m nearly jumping out of my skin at the prospect of him repeatedly giving this best of suit in three days’ time. I have seen the previews for The Dark Knight and I have been witness to the perfection that is Bale in more suits and. Honestly? My teeth rattle.

Meep.

Best. Outfit. Ever?
Black pin-striped dress pants and matching blazer. Simple white button down undone at the neck.

Jeeeeesus, I’m deprived.
I can’t wait to see Bale!

But frankly, why do I love him so much?
Because I love the way he loves his wife. I love the way he adores his wife – because you can tell that he doesn’t just love her (yes: I used the words ‘just love her’), he actually likes her. And that, my friends, is what makes all of the difference in the long run. (Anyone disagree?)

LOVE HIM.

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

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

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

Here are The Babies:

And here is Jennah (also, with bottle):

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

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

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

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

.1. GEESE!!

.2. This is the Calgary Tower:

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

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

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

…the best two pictures involve Aaminah.

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

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

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

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

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

Got busy

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

.3. We played in Banff

.4. I wrote at the feet of Lake Louise

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

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

And finally…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yankees played the Red Wings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.8. Breakfast with more Sunshine.

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

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

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

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

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

Find the complete series of photos here.

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

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

.2. I purchased a book here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.5. I saw War, Inc.

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

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

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

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

.7. I ate a pretzel.

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

Instead, we took stupid pictures.

.9. We splashed past Rockefeller Plaza.

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

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

So I’ve received some interesting emails from both men and women since posting the blurb that: “(Did you know that men are the ones who fall in love at first sight? It’s not actually women, but rather men who will tell you that from the very first moment they saw her, spoke to her, watched her walk up a set of steps, handed her a coffee over the counter, etc ad infinitum, they know that she’s the one they want to marry. It’s men, not women, who are the eternal romantics (this, not to be confused with a woman’s inclination to romance in the form of flowers and candles.))” (This info I picked up at least a year ago in a men’s magazine but can’t remember which. Apologies.)

People want an explanation and so I am going to pretend I know what I’m talking about.

(1) A man who needs to be convinced that the woman he’s with is the woman he should stay with is a man who will either:

(a) Eventually leave that woman; or,

(b) Marry that woman and never feel completely fulfilled.

(2) I have yet to hear a man declare: “I’m ready for commitment” while being single. (Lest they are relatively religious and are actively seeking the covenant of marriage. Or worse still, if they are lonely and a woman is nothing more than a filler.) Whereas almost every single woman I know has said at one point or another: “I am ready for a family / commitment / marriage / children”.

I do believe – and this is my opinion – that a man is only ever ready for commitment the moment he meets the woman to which he wants to commit. And so when that woman comes into his life, she does – usually unknowingly – change things about his life (& ain’t no man changin’ if he don’t want to). She becomes the catalyst for everything else and so it would seem relatively normal and logical that that individual is romanticised.

A lot of women are rooted in romanticizing the situation, rather than the individual. Marriage, commitment, children, family. They sound good to most, and so it is the situation that drives the desire in this case. We tend to romanticise the situation whereas men tend to romanticise the individual.

Perhaps this is why a woman’s inclination is toward the visual romantic (such as candles) whereas the man’s focus is on the woman (read: sex) and his connection to her. (Please understand I’m not here discussing a random booty call, but rather the very real connection yearned for when two people come together; in men it’s the driver. And yes it is also a driver for women, perhaps even a stronger driver for women; we just deal with it differently. Again, it doesn’t matter if we’re built that way or if we’re conditioned to believe we are that way. The point is, it is a reality, so perhaps to clarify, I will say that sex is a part of the human condition. It is a part of all drivers. There. Happy?)

I’m sure that someone out there can tie the above to the way men are raised / born. Aggression and risk taking are drivers for them; when they see something they want, they go after it and think about the consequences later. Same could be said when they set their sites on a woman they want for life, from the moment they see her.

Q: Why would an Alpha ever let the ‘perfect’ woman get away?
A: He’s a Beta.

Or…all of the above could be pure bullshit. You decide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The choice is clear.

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

I still do; perhaps more so now than ever before.

(Please befriend a leprechaun and shed the weight of your bitterness on your way out…)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty brilliant.

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

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

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

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

Really. I love it.

“CONGRATULATIONS, YOU FOUND ME!” is only one of the spectacularly retarded captions men use on a particular on-line dating site.

I decided to join in an effort to perhaps find an interesting and viable dude to hang out with for quite some time.
I have one rule: Said Dude has got to be a Believer.

The interactions I’ve had have been the kind of funny that’s piss-worthy. For your enjoyment, I’ve decided to make note of a few scenarios…

Scenario no 1:
The guy who sent me a message that read “je ne cherche pas pour le serieux, juste pour le fun Do you want to get together ”. Loosely translated, that reads “I am STD filled and pick up sexual partners on line. Please understand that I am a gigantic loser and I have no social skills. These qualities attract sluts. I’ve not read your profile that clearly indicates you have a brain and I am sending you this mentally handicapped note because I saw your photo and your [sic] smiling and that means your [sic] good to go. P.S. I hate women.”

and to which I responded:
“Je ne cherche que pour le serieux, donc prend votre “;)” and take a hike.”

Scenario no 2:
The guy who sent me a message that yelled “SALAM. GOOD. NICE TO MEET ME. PLEASE MESAGE.”

and to which I responded:
“SALAM. LITERACY IN ENGLISH A MUST, PLEASE. BYE BYE!”

Scenario no 3:
The hottie (seriously, this guy’s HOT) who sent me a message that read “Hey honey, you’re gorgeous. Send me your email and your phone number and we’ll hit the town ‘cus you want to with me.”

and to which I responded:
“LOL LOL LOL!!!!!!! Uhm. No.”

Scenario no 4:
Every single man who posts a photo of his stupid ass in a bar with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and with several (never only one) large tittied women hanging off his slimy, greasy body. Because NOTHING says “I want commitment” like maybe an alcohol fuelled orgy.

Scenario no 5:
Every single man whose profile picture is of him wearing sunglasses.

DUDE. You are not Tom Ford and the fact that you need to advertise just how cool you are makes you that much less cool. (And p.s. even Gerry Butler – who will always be way cooler than you – takes off his sunglasses when hitting on a woman. That’s what I’ve been told.)

Scenario no 6:
The 78 year old men trolling for women aged 18 – 27 but making an “exception” for me.

Because there’s nothing I love more than limpness. Thanks, grandpa.

Scenario no 7:
Every single man who has in his “name” any of the following:
lonely
prince
king
masculine
horny
perfect
hollatcha
kitty
ImHot
CONGRATULATIONS
YouWillNeverKnow (nor do I ever plan on it)

Scenario no 8:
Every single man whose profile is all about finding a woman to “stand by me in my success and not work but stay at home and take care of me” because I am a complete and total idiot and my mother still irons my underwear and I have no social skills whatsoever, so please just stand there, look pretty and cook my food. It doesn’t matter that I’m sort of ugly. I’m just saying.

Scenario no 9:
All of the men who YELL IN THEIR PROFILES BECAUSE WHY BOTHER SPEAKING NORMALLY WHEN YOU CAN BE AN OBNOXIOUS IDIOT?

Scenario no 10:
This is a category all on its own. I was seeing a “boy” year before last – he wore a white fedora in winter because that was Montreal fashion. I can’t even begin to excuse my behaviour, so I won’t try. Let’s chalk it up to ‘I’m just an idiot’. Among The Girls, he will forever be known as The Pink Lady and that should tell you all you need to know about him.

That and the fact that his friend is on the same site as I. His friend, who sent me a message asking me if I was free and available and would go out with him but not tell The Pink Lady.

Wow.

********************
(1) I promise to keep you abreast of my escapades.

(2) Special mention: I met one really nice guy who has already become a friend. He’s by far the coolest guy I’ve met so far and I plan on running past him The Crazy I encounter, and I hope he’ll do the same. He has a puppy named The Peanut (well: not really, but I think that sounds great).

A quandary for you to weigh in on.

Your boyfriend’s friend is dating someone – she happens to be the first one of this guy’s girlfriends that you really really like (you may even like her more than your boyfriend’s friend, but I won’t tell anyone). She’s funny, honest, caring, kind of wicked in all senses of the word; you have a lot in common and you were excited that there would be a new friend in your life.

And then your boyfriend’s friend and her break up.

What do you do? Especially if…you really want her to be a friend in your life, but you’ve not spoken to her and you don’t know how she’ll react if you contact her?

(I’ll give you my answer once you’ve provided yours; one of The Girls is currently experiencing this dilemma and we all have different opinions, so I thought I’d put it to those who live here.)

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Jane did, and so did I.

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

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

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

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

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

Every once in a while I am approached in a very strange and unusual manner not befitting the telling in a blog of this sort. A rule I’m throwing out right now.

Like the one time I went jogging – a very unusual activity, indeed – and came back to the apartment looking like sh*t with my face as red as a baboon’s a*s, my hair a mess and wearing sweats. I stepped into the elevator and The PIG! inside stared at me, through my clothes and into my skin for the duration of the ride. I stared back, with my meanest ‘Oh yeah?’ and then ran out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened. On the wrong floor.

And then another time when I used to hang at this one particular cappuccino bar and drink at least four lattes a day. It was owned by an Italian family who adored me. I knew a couple of the girls that worked there but I never bothered with the boys because they were boys and I had books to read.

The family liked me a lot (teaching me to say many Italian things such as: ‘mi estomica mi fa mallay’ but not correctly spelling it) and so when one of their regular customers stopped showing up, and avoided the subject around me, I suspected something was amiss. I later found out that it was because the owner overheard him saying: “I’d like her to wrap that mouth around my YOUknowWHAT” only he didn’t say YOUknowWHAT, he used the word that starts with a ‘c’ and ends much like a dock.

(Obviously: ‘Fellatio’ wasn’t among the words the Italian family did teach me.)

Which leads me to earlier today when I was hanging out quietly waiting for my bus, minding my own business and staring down at my new Crack, with much admiration and still a little surprise at their beauty. I may have been mumbling to myself, but that’s only because the battery on my iPod died and I needed company.

Anyway, I looked up and noticed a man of no more than 5′ in a yellow khaki suit, black shoes, olive green trench coat, large sunglasses, much hair gel and a gigantic pimp-like cross (hello, Jesus) studded with diamonds and covering half of his petite unmanly torso.

The reason I was able to tag so much of how he looked is because I was blinded and surprised by the combination of hair gel and diamond studs, that I stared in awe and confusion, tilting my head to the side like a basset hound.

As he approached, I noticed he was heading directly at me – this, I could have confirmed had it not been for the glare emanating from him, like a disco ball. I may have also been a little taken aback by his smallness and obvious Passion For The Christ and yellow khaki.

Right before he would have smashed into me, he shimmied his short stubby legs a little to my left and grazed 2/3 of me because of his shortness. As he did this, he whispered: “Nice mouth to suck on”.(1)

He was so close, I felt his breath; A powerful gust considering his smallness.

Because I’d already been lulled by his overall presentation, I didn’t know what had happened in time for me to say anything like YOU’RE TINY.
or
YUCK YOU! JESUS WOULDN’T APPROVE! AND. YOU’RE TIIIIII-NEEEE.
(That’s right: I wrote ‘Yuck You’.)

When it had sunk in, I was physically revolted that The Trolling PIG! had a moment where he pictured my mouth in any position apart from ‘speaking’ and ‘laughing’.

So next you’re in downtown Ottawa and you see a PIG!gy troll that fits the above description please yell ‘YUCK YOU!’ on my behalf and then tell me all about it. If you’re near a hose, fell free to hose him down and see if he shrinks any more.

================
(1) I once had someone whisper a simple ‘You have beautiful lips’ a few hours after I met him and that was acceptable. Nay, it was downright sexy and made my heart jump into my brain and then back into my little toe and then way back into my funny bone. But he’s a Fox. (Peekaboo!)

Every once in a while we are hit with a moment of complete and total happiness. Were it to be described by your eyes, they would say ‘blinding’.

I have been in that blinding happiness for some time now. I can’t explain it, I don’t want to fight it, I am fully thankful for and blessed by it because I haven’t felt this light in much too long.

I’M SO HAPPY!!!!

In 32 years, I’ve only ever cared for one person. Well…maybe one and a half, the half not really counting because in hindsight it’s easy to see that it was little more than a very fun and exciting fantasy holding no water.

A few girls invited me out after work one evening and they were blathering on about their “tricks” with men because apparently, “a woman has to play games to get what she wants”. I am about to divulge some sisterhood secrets and I don’t mind doing this because thankfully, it is not to this particular sisterhood I belong. Most of the women were in their late thirties and single, having jumped from one bed to another.

True gems of wisdom imparted were:
“…cry – you’ll get anything!”
“…yell! You have to yell to show him whose boss!”
“…break up with him first. YOU HAVE TO BREAK UP WITH HIM FIRST!”
“…jealousy is par for the course with a man, make sure to always keep him on his toes and guessing that you have other men on your a** always.”
“…hold his ex girlfriends against him!”
“…play with his emotions by being temperamental and unpredictable.”
“…never make him think he’s totally got you or he’ll take you for granted.”
“…f*ck his best friend when you break up. It’ll kill him!”
“…needle his most vulnerable psychology!”
“…be a b*tch, it’s what all men secretly want.”
“…never pay for anything or he’ll expect you to always do it.”
…and my personal favourite was when one of the women decided to lecture me on that you should really get out there and date because that’s what men are for. Women’s lib! We fought for this!(1) And really who cares if you wait until marriage when there’s so much variety to be had and look at me I’m a tramp and I love it been with more men than I can count on all fingers toes and appendages and it doesn’t matter that I now wear a diaper because I have zero muscle drone drone drone.

As to this woman, to some it would seem odd that in thirty two years I would have only said “I love you” once. To those who think I am a freak of incredible proportion I’ll have you know that the more I look around me the happier I am about this particular aspect of my life. And in fact, the more respect I have for myself. I believe there’s something pure and honest about it.

Having dealt with T’s recent PIGLET! lying and cheating husband, I realize that my reality means I don’t take either the words or the sentiment lightly and that stands for something; no one can ever claim that part of me has been diluted by over usage.

More important still is that with every time we give ourselves away, we loose something. We become dulled, we become more cautious, we become less giving the next time. And…I…I wish to be able to give all of myself to someone someday without hesitation, trepidation or fear because of tangible things such as a past encounter. I don’t think that’s far-fetched or unattainable (I don’t actually believe in that word, but think it’s the ideal excuse for not working harder); Absolutely challenging and filled with hard work, but fully attainable nonetheless.

I like that: I won’t ever be someone who does dilute everything in their lives. Who jumps from one relationship to another, never mourning, never understanding, never learning, never growing. I don’t want to be with someone for the sake of being with someone, to avoid boredom.

I don’t want to further disrespect the man I will marry by giving so much of me away today that there’ll be nothing left to give him tomorrow. I don’t want to be the fool who doesn’t know how to be alone. Who doesn’t value their body or their heart and hands both out at random.

I refuse to belittle everything that I am just so I have the occasional date on Friday night and so that I’m not lonely because I fully believe that if we don’t know how to be alone and enjoy our own company, we won’t know how to let someone else share in that very company. I also refuse to fit into some bizarre prototype of ‘modern female’ because I don’t much like ‘her’.

More importantly, I like boys. I don’t want to be cruel to them or play games with them or disrespect them. When I am with someone, I don’t want to yell at him or make him cry or harm his heart and I want to believe that everything earthly is possible.(2)

Instead of aiming to do these things I’ll hope to do the exact opposite to the best of my ability. Inevitably, at times I’ll fail, but I’ll have at least attempted to avoid that failure. I want to love him fairly and completely. Understand his history and psychology, alleviate his fears, reinforce my love for him and forgive his weaknesses as I would expect to have done for me.

I also want to like him enough to hold his hand when we’re 85. I think women underestimate their capacity to hurt men and that’s an absolutely terrible thing. Simply because men may not discuss their feelings, it doesn’t mean they don’t have them. I wouldn’t want someone to play games with me or yell at me or be mean to me and so why would I ever inflict that sort of thing on another individual? Especially if it’s someone I love?

And if you believe that you can be a shit to your partner and yet don’t deserve to be treated in the same manner, then you need a lot of therapy and a kick in the ass. There’s nothing uglier than a spoiled brat, male or female.

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

(1) We fought for ‘this? For the freedom to f*ck? And here I thought we were fighting for equality and respect. How shameful and backward of me to accuse the feminist movement of anything short of complete and full pornification of the female and her many fruitful usages and bendy ways.

Oh! And while I’m on it…thanks very much for providing me the opportunity to CHOOSE having my brea*ts sliced to obtain a more ‘womanly’ figure, my lips injected for a sexier pout, my eyebrows tattooed to shave off 10 minutes of ‘getting ready’ time in the a.m., my ribs broken for a smaller waistline and my face expressionless and poison filled so as to appear ‘younger’. Because deep down, I don’t think I can get anywhere on brains alone, I’d like to thank the modern day Miss. Interpretation of ‘feminism’ by the greater sisterhood allowing me to indulge these very exceptional and MY CHOICE! actions. These choices make me liberated, Hurrah!

Liberated enough to look down my new perfectly shaped “Jennifer Aniston” nose in order to mock the Muslim woman and her head gear – because heaven forbid she force the world to listen to her rather than stare BY CHOICE! at her. (3)

(2) Except the wanking PIGS! and Cheaters.

(3) Yes, there is a happy middle way, but not with the likes of the women who were the catalysts for this entry.

Two couples I know recently purchased their first homes together. Aalya & Dietrich in old Gatineau and Katie & Michael off of Pretoria Bridge in Ottawa.

Visiting their homes has given me an itch that I will scratch in a little while. I’ve decided that should I be single by a specific date, I too will purchase my first home.

I was too shy to take pictures of the later’s home, buil in the early 1930s (likely 1932) and is a gorgeous three bedroom with the world’s greatest bedroom nook, attic and kitchen. The kitchen is enormous and entirely new, including the stainless steel appliances. They also have a beautiful mudroom in which the perfect light fixture would be a chandelier of sorts in order to lush & warm-up the entrance.

More importantly, they have a deep soaker tub in their upstairs bathroom beneath a window, the colours of the bathroom being blue and white, I couldn’t help but envision the complementary nature of nautical decor.

Because they’re intelligent folk, they’ve turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into their television room. This then leaves their sitting area on the main floor just that: a welcoming sitting area the focus of which will be the people and not the television set.

My two favourite spaces are their bedroom nook and attic, both of which I have in my head and heart assigned to Katie rather than Michael. The bedroom nook is a perfectly square corner linked both to the bedroom and an enclosed sun-filled side balcony that would be perfectly met with a hammock, plants and white lace curtains. The nook itself is screaming for either a perfect vanity (also for Katie) and a Persian rug or a reading chair, an ottoman and a thin long side table on which Katie (not M) can place candles, pictures and reading materials beneath the window to be drowned in sunlight.

Due to the size of the window, Kate (not…well, you get it) could place heavy velour drapes that would swoop along the floor and which could be pulled back with luxurious and maybe even sparkly rope tie-backs.

Finally there’s the attic that, even though needs some work, serves as the perfect ‘girl’ space. There’s a beautiful slant to the ceilings and one large window at the far end which brings in enough sunlight to light up the entirety of the attic.

As soon as I walked up the stairs, all I could see was the area’s future; soft carpeting, cream, and sage walls, a couple of single sink-in-to reading chairs and rounded glass vases filled with white flowers next to the window that will be covered in a cream coloured lace curtain and tied back with a red satin ribbon. This is where K will hide either alone with a book, a good cry or a girlfriend who needs the comfort of private conversation.

They will be listening to Bach. This is the same space that will be taken over by Kate and Michael’s daughter when she wants to daydream in private; it may even be the space in which she explores her artistic side through the artwork she’ll create and hang on it’s very walls.

As the title of this entry suggests, K & M’s place is already a home and not merely a house. This home is a space created not on the architectural foundation, but rather based on the team that is Michael and Kate. There was a moment of interaction between them which I will share with you and which I hope you have already – and if not yet, then you will some day soon – experience in your lives.

This house already has a history of families and living memory, and to which their own family story will be added; the next owners of the house will say “…and then we bought it from Michael and Kate who moved in in 2007 and it’s in this house that they built their family. When they handed us the keys, they walked out holding hands and Michael said: ‘Check out that awesome railing. Now compare it to that railing! That’s my work. Do you remember when I did that?’” The house will be filled with thousands of stories, of which the following is the one I will likely remember most.

It was Kate who lent me the book The Time Traveller’s Wife. When she handed it to me, I noticed how immaculately kept it was. I’m looking at it right now; the spine is not cracked, there is no writing anywhere, no passages underlined, no fingerprints on the pages or even dog ears.

I joked how each and every one of my books was a mess compared to this. On the inside cover of a book, I write my name, phone number, address, and the most important points of my current autobiographical situation (e.g. “Had Vietnamese last night with Di and Pierre and ate too much hot sauce. Tummy hurts.”).

Worse still is that throughout my books there are notes in the margins, passages underlined and more autobiographical data (e.g. “Just had a slight row with X, am feeling sad and this book is the only thing I can concentrate on. It’s 2.12 pm and I am seated alone in the park on a bench.”).

Kate had run upstairs to find the book. When she returned, she handed it to me and then sat back down across the coffee table from me next to Michael. As I was explaining the trauma I inflict on my books, I looked up and noticed that they were looking at one another smiling, but Kate with an obviously ‘made for us’ look of worry on her face. Michael laughed, nudged her and said “Hey. You should get that book back, I don’t think you should even lend it to her!” and we all started laughing while I clutched the book even harder. 

There was something in that moment that can only be understood between those who deeply love and cherish one another. I know it may seem insane to some of you, but to me it was clear: They were a team. There was a solidarity between them and even though it was in reference to the slightest object, a book, I understood immediately that an interaction such as that sheds light on to the rest of a relationship.

It is only natural that in all relationships there are moments of tension and hurt and anger. Hopefully, these moments are outweighed by love and tenderness, secrets shared and moments lived that will never be experienced beyond the couple.

As with Michael and Kate, this is because: They are a team. It’s a small sentence but its sense is great enough to touch anyone who sits near them.

I left that evening thinking about what defines a healthy relationship, and I now believe that a great part of that definition has to do with looking out for one another and sharing a sense of humour.

It is placing ourselves into the shoes of our partners and understanding their psychology and their history, their wounds and their happiest moments.

It is redefining everything we understand in order to add as much of their comprehension to our own.

It is never letting them fight on their own but always fighting next to them and maybe even fighting one another in order to protect that very Team.

It is doing the impossible to never let the other one hurt and always making certain to protect and cherish what the other one loves. It is a challenge that we must face and overcome every day. To some this may seem the most difficult aspect of a relationship but to me, it is this very vulnerability and demanding nature of love that makes us different and hopefully, better people than we could ever hope to be on our own as single individuals.

Most times and more often than not, we fail at this for any one of a multitude of reasons. In the case of Michael and Kate, likely never, Inshallah.

I will be away from here for a while. I won’t be responding to emails, either. Something in my heart has been broken and I don’t know how to fix it so until I do, I won’t be around. Please be well, each one of you.

Me: “I love strawberries.”
Him: “I think I’ll plant some, then.”
Me: “They grow beneath, right?”
Him: “Beneath…the sky…? Yes. They. Do.”
Me: “Nooooo. Beneeeeath…”

He, staring at me, as though I were mentally challenged, which, perhaps, I often times appear to be.

Him: “No. You’re thinking of potatoes.”
Me: “Ooooooh”, while laughing hysterically and nearly falling out of my chair.
Him: “You are perfect.”

I must really brush up on my farming. Because growing strawberries amounts to farming, n’est pas?

My life is a beautiful, sad, anxious, chaotic, spectacular emotionally taxing and fulfilling mess at the moment and I will not be blogging for the next couple of weeks (sorry!). I can’t wait to tell you all about it, but I can’t do that just yet – I *promise* to do so soon enough, though, wallahi!

Think of me and send me your prayers and all of your good energy and know that even though there are tears, I am still smiling as often as possible and sometimes even in my sleep…

I’ve not been able to write substantially these past couple of weeks because I’ve not had much of an appetite for anything. Usually, it’s writing that calms me, but this time around I’ve not been able to either do or focus on anything outside of a couple of situations that have pulled my attention into a black hole. Recognizing that, I’ve been forcing myself to write out little stupidities to focus on something outside of everything else that’s currently going on…what follows are the very stupidities I’ve been working on. If you manage to forgive their boring nature, you may find something interesting in them, anyway.

.1. I was in the gym a few days back and took my very first executive decision on behalf of Maha Inc. I decided that the only type of Crack for this girl is first and foremost The Stiletto.

A while back, I posted a photo of my first platformed Crack. I was born for The Stiletto, because The Platform makes me wobbly. For some strange reason, it also makes me stare at the ground while walking…most likely because I expect The Platform to introduce me – on an intimate level – to the pavement.

I am currently having dreams about the last pair of Crack I fell in love with and didn’t purchase while in NYC. I’d never done that before, never actually not purchased Crack when I saw it and felt an immediate chemistry with the Crack. At the time, I was standing in a corner store on 5th and imagined that moment to be a turning point, a point of maturity in my life.

Unfortunately, this mistake has turned into a trauma because I can’t stop thinking about them and am attempting to seek them out on line. I believe the brand was Hype, but I could be mistaken. They were open-toed leopard print Stiletto Crack with a diamond buckle on the front and a red lacquered heel.

And so it is with this in mind that I have made my second executive decision: When I see The Crack and I love The Crack, I must immediately buy The Crack.

I don’t mind occasionally being floored by the depth of my stupidity, but I can’t tolerate actively instigating such thoughts, most especially not when it comes to Stiletto Crack.

.2. I love babies. All of them. And this Christmas, I received no less than 7 Christmas cards with photos of other people’s children…and other is in italics because God damn it, I want my own.

Email me if you’re a taker.

Anyway, back to the story at hand.

In years past, I only received two photos of this sort. 2006 has been a busy year for my friends. In case I don’t get busy as they did in the coming year, I have taken the third executive decision that: I too will include a photo in my next holiday greeting card.

I will include a photo of my most prized pair of Stiletto Crack, purchased during the year prior. I may wrap them in a pink baby blanket, for the sake of humour, but otherwise, photos of Crack it is.

Consider yourselves forewarned.

.3. A couple of weeks back, I was speaking with A from my French school. In November, he moved to his new home and he’d still not completely unpacked. In preparation for the Holidays and The Coming Of His Family, he had to finish up quickity split.

I got home later that day and was faced with the reality that although I had poked fun at A for not having completed his unpacking, I too had not completed my unpacking. I slowly entered my storage room and met the stares of the seven boxes still unpacked, nearly one full year later. They dared me to open them up and discover their insides. Open them up I did.

Apart from finding my old law school books, I discovered that one box was filled with paraphernalia from the time I was in love with The Latino Bisexual, Ricky Martin. Scandalized and shocked I was by the amount of utter sh*t I had compiled, thought was important enough to pack and then move to my new home. A moment such as this gives rise to above sentiment of ‘being floored by my own stupidity’, but the Latino Bisexual moment is a moment I am willing to engage, unlike that initiated by the trauma of missing out on Stiletto Crack.

If anything, it was a fun discovery for the videotapes were hilarious, the interviews so contrived,** and as much as I loathe to admit it, the photos were lovely to ogle. Notwithstanding the amount of make-up he uses, he is a beautiful man.

**I was reading aloud and doing the following:
Interviewer: “What is the sexiest thing a woman can do?”
Ricky Martin: “Know how to pamper herself”
Maha: “Shhhhhhh, Ricky! Just shhhhhhh! Be pretty and shhhhhhh!”

.4. Happy New Year.

.5. This would be a great time for something extraordinary to happen in my life.

Most of us believe in Karma. I believe in it without prejudice and so hope that any actions I put out there are done in the spirit of bringing the good of her my way.

I recently heard from the best friend of someone who I thought was, a few months back, somewhat important to me (not important in the earth shattering way, but important enough to enjoy the moment). Unfortunately, he decided that it would be acceptable – nay, necessary – to treat me in a manner not befitting the treatment of any person. What that means is that he was a complete sh*t who did something that really hurt my ego. At the time, I would have told you that my feelings were hurt, but the reality of it was that it was my ego that took the hit.

I should’ve known something was amiss when after the lie was told, I couldn’t cry. And let me tell you, just as I Am Canadian, I Too Am A Weeper.

It was the first time something like this had happened; heavily unusual because I’d never dealt with that severity of immaturity and disrespect and because I try to make certain that my ego does not rely on how others perceive me but rather, on how I perceive myself, how well I treat others, and what I’ve achieved by way of my own hard work.

To put it bluntly, he didn’t have the capacity to Man Up about something and so instead chose to tell me something deeply hurtful in an effort to place distance between him and I. Nine days later, I discovered it was a lie and the reflection of it on his character was so immense that Trish – who never says a peep – responded with “That’s not rad. In fact, that’s so not rad it’s shameful”.

He was pathetic and a coward – and if there’s one thing any man needs to know about someone like me it’s that I don’t particularly like the company of a chicken sh*t. If there is even a hint of cowardice, then he’s just not for me. Needless to say, both he and the situation became a joke between The Girls and I and he is now and forever referred to as The Pink Lady. (This potential to become a ‘joke’ is the chance one takes when behaving in such an incomprehensible manner. Consider yourself warned, both men and women.)

Fast forward and find your BlogMistress facing the following conversation with his best friend:
“…bla bla bla, you’re making him out to be such a bad person when he’s not. He’s my best friend and I know him bla bla bla and he regrets bla bla bla and wants to try bla bla bla and I know it’s been months but he can’t stop thinking about you and I bla bla bla…stop making him out to be such a bad guy, it’s not fair.”

The long and short of it is, he wants a second chance because I’m a Ferris Wheel and you can take me out for an unlimited amount of spins.

You may have already guessed this if you live here and pay attention to my stupid entries: I’m not a big ‘second chancer’, even though I am a big ‘forgiver’. I am this way for one simple reason: No one who wanted a second chance originally ever meant enough to warrant it. Of note are two men to whom I would afford a ‘second chance’ but only because it would technically be a ‘first chance’. Although that may read as code, they would understand it without problem.

Back to this boy. After hearing out his best friend, I said something which I’d not thought about or planned or fantasized about or ever considered because after the above mentioned nine days, life had returned to normal and I quite literally never wasted another moment thinking of him. He was a stranger before I met and dated him, and he returned to that category relatively easily.

Although the hurt was felt by my ego, what I said came from my head and was said with the utmost calm because it remains to me the equivalent of saying “my eyes are hazel”. It wasn’t meant to be vindictive or hurtful, but rather the truth of where my head was at post nine days of lie, and where it remains today. I said:

“It’s not that he’s that bad of a guy because I’m sure he’s capable of being lovely…
it’s that he’s just not good enough for me.”

…and although I’m neither the vindictive sort nor the sort to ever ever ever enjoy the potential hurt of another, I couldn’t help but smile a little when a few steps after closing my mobile, it dawned on me the sentiment of my sentence.

& with that, I’ll say that I hope you too understand your worth and value and never stray from your incredible potential, be it alone or with another.

Out at breakfast, we were discussing the best of items which are a sort of ‘must have’ for each of us…the smart one among us, Dianna, listed items such as ‘string’, ‘band aids’, ‘knife’, ‘lighter’, etc.

I offered:
- valid passport
- bobby pins
- safety pins
- purse sized sewing kit
- floss
- clear nail polish
- kohl eyeliner
- MAC Phlooph Frost shadow
- MAC Clear Lip Glass**
- Lancome Hypnose mascara
- Revlon Always Starlet red nail polish
…because that would carry you into any situation gracefully. It wasn’t a matter of life and death for me, but of vanity and travel.

Have you anything to add?
Better yet, if you had any emergency kit – vanity or otherwise – what would it include?

**I have spent a mini fortune on MAC’s Lip Glass in clear, because it is the only item I continuously misplace. I have never held on to one long enough to finish the tube, but rather, always loose it quite early on. It seems to be, in some odd way, my very own Catcher In The Rye.

in great love stories, actually.

Do you?

What follows does not stem from any particular experience I have had, but rather, it is from observing dear girlfriends go through what I am about to describe and reading emails sent from girls living at this blog who have also gone through the same thing. Am hoping that this entry may help some girls either avoid or let go of their own ‘Mr.Adjective’.

Every once in a while, I post a personal opinion on straight men and the straight women with whom they interact.

Tonight, I’ve decided to discuss one such caricature of a man.

Society at large calls him A Player.
Women call him The Love of My Life.
Men call him Stud.
I call him Mr. Adjective.

The man with the thesaurus
Mr. Adjective doesn’t have to be spectacularly beautiful, but he does have to be charming. He needs to know how to work a room and everyone in that room (male, female, straight, queer, undecided, fetishist, child, etc.). For the most part, Mr. Adjective does this by making every single person in said room feel like they are the very centre of his attention. This is often done by his undivided almost creepy concentration on and awareness of you when you’re in his face. He’s heavy with eye contact, will ask you intimate details about your life and may even share intimate details with you. (In hindsight and when you revisit his words, you’ll recognize that he didn’t really give you much of anything, let alone something honestly intimate.)

Mr. Adjective will tell you you’re ‘innocent’, ‘childlike’, ‘fragile’, ‘delicate’, ‘breakable’, ‘exposed’. Lines that are well practiced and well placed in Mr. Adjective’s game of seduction. He’s smart enough to understand these words evoke a need for protection, and who better to provide that protection than the very man seated before you telling you how strong and sexy you are. ”And yet, how oddly ‘fragile’ you appear to be.”

It’s relatively simple: He’s a predator, and he’s supreme at what he does.

I’ve been lucky because I’ve had one such experience which I recognised immediately and so was able to avoid (as it was being executed rather poorly by a man I am inclined to call a mental handicap).

A small aside to any women currently suffering the aftermath of Mr. Adjective: What he doesn’t know yet is that he’ll peek and then drop as soon as he hits 40, due to the repeated intake of antibiotics used to fight his many S.T.Ds.

Your role in Mr. Adjective’s game
The problem with Mr. Adjective is that whereas he may be playing you (& recall: “Players only love you when they’re playing”), Mr. Right will also throw adjectives around because he means it. Whereas the former is somewhat of a loser in need of validation received from throwing his d*ck in anything that moves, you will genuinely enthrall the latter (how could you not?). You have to learn to differentiate and to hold Mr. Adjective at arm’s length. For the most part, Mr. Adjective will make a killer friend because there’s a lot to learn from him in terms of male/female interaction (just as there is to be learned from Ms. Player where men are concerned).

Unfortunately, there’s no equation here. There’s no simple word or moment or indication that will help you differentiate between Mr. Adjective and the nice guy; it’s a matter of trusting your gut instinct & your intuition and ultimately, of learning how to be a good judge of character. If you’re Ms. Player, it’ll be easier for you to pinpoint Mr. Adjective, understanding his game and seeing his tactical moves before he does. Ms. Player will play it back in spades. (e.g. evoking what every man wants to hear about himself: strength, alpha, provider, protector, etc.)

Be the smarter woman and know what’s happening as it’s happening. While doing this, permit Mr. Adjective the illusion that you’re falling for his every word. Essentially, let him think you believe what he’s saying to you (because being seduced by Mr. Adjective is really quite lovely). Then move on.

In closing…
If he wanted you, he would have come after you and nothing in the world could have gotten in his way. That’s the bottom line with men, and if they’re incapacitated and incapable of pursuing what they want (you), you don’t want them anyway. Don’t kid yourselves about Mr. Adjective; he’s a messy variation of ‘p*ssy’ because he doesn’t have what it takes to play you and walk away from you like a real woman. Instead, he half-asses it and plays you while still wanting you to like him and think he’s a nice guy. I actually can’t help but feel sorry for Mr. Adjective. But I’m arrogant that way.

Never believe that you’re the exception to the rule but always know that were he lucky enough to bag you for the long haul, no body else could compare.

Don’t sit around waiting for him, because he’s not thinking about you. (Sweetheart, he’s too busy trying to find an acceptable adjective for ‘underage’.) Believe what he says to you in the moment because you are all those things, including fragile and sexy and sensual. Because Mr. Adjective may have been lucky enough to hit the nail on the head thanks to his bedside thesaurus, it doesn’t make it’s reality any less true.

It’s very nearly Saturday evening and a nice guy is waiting for you to step into his life as Mr. Adjective sits at home and applies his ointment. Get out there and have some safe fun…

I figured out that my first ever real & true Blue Day wasn’t in March but rather in December of 2005. My writing then was much more sporadic and without the usual comedic overtures. When I wasn’t at work, I was at home. I refused to talk about what was happening (partially because I didn’t know what I’d say other than: “I’m sad”) and it took a lot to get me out of the house for a solid month or two.

Things climaxed when my best friend called me crying because she didn’t know what to do about ‘me’ and couldn’t understand why I wanted to be left so completely alone by everyone. I asked her to simply support me through it because the last thing I needed to deal with at that moment was the guilt of pushing people away. She did.

There were a lot of factors to contend with and which led up to that tiny little time in my life. I had just turned 31, I was unhappy with my surroundings, I was unhappy at the office, I wanted out, an escape, a different life, a different everything, really.

As is all too often the case, the catalyst was a Man Boy; I’d spent seven years prior keeping myself safe and my heart in my hands, closed. I chose to open my hands up a little bit and to let go of that safety net; for all of the wonderful and incredible moments experienced within that freedom, I experienced its equal in grief.

Within a moment, everything exploded all over me & my life and it was all just so sticky and impossible to wash off, so I cocooned. I went into myself and shut everyone out including my family. I needed to change something inside of me before I could address my environment; both of these I eventually did.

With equal vigor and quickness, it was all gone. One afternoon, all of my grief just lifted up and away from me. I wasn’t myself, but rather, I was someone inherently better, more secure, confident, together and aware.

This time as with last, there are a multitude of factors creating the foundations of this Blue Day, many of which are similar to last year (i.e. another Man Boy) and some that are not (i.e. my time in Beirut).

So, whereas last year I chose to wallow in whatever it was that was holding me in, this year I’ve decided that won’t be the case. It simply can’t be; being a different person than who I was last year dictates that I am to deal with a situation differently.

So I’ve been going long and hard every single night and I don’t plan on stopping until I either completely burn out, or I’m seeing pink again. I figure that at this point in my 31 years, I should try a new route on for size. So far, so good, because it’s allowed me to avoid dealing with the roots of Blue Day, and the longer I can put that off, the happier I am.

Having written that and before moving on, I have to say ‘Alhamdulilah’ for every single thing placed in my path, no matter how blue or pink that may make my day.

I’m having a Blue Day; something that’s not happened in quite some time. (Think the last Blue Day I had was in March.) There’s nothing to be done about it which I’ve not tried to do already. I’ve always kept myself busy as sort of a general rule of thumb about how I want to live my life…and when I sense the coming onslaught of a Blue Day, I usually work doubly hard to be even more busy than the norm (hence the mania of posts and energy as of late).

This time it’s not worked, and so here I am firmly entrenched in my Blue Day. Weather seems to agree with my mood as it is pissing rain, cloudy and cold. Seated in Bridgehead earlier today, I had to control myself so as to not cry into my latté. I made it to the washroom and sniffled quietly away as I reapplied my lip-gloss.

I’ve already watched the entirety of Season 6 of Lorelai & Rori and have nothing warm to cozy up to this night. Mum’s in Dubai for the next three weeks and although I have the full of 24 hours a day to do anything my heart desires, I have no desire to do a thing.

It’s moments such as these when I wish a boy would close the world, pull me in, cover me up and tell me everything was going to be ok.

Bet you have never had me pegged for such a completely foolish romantic.

You can find part 1 here.

I wasn’t going to write about this until the shit hit the fan quite recently. A few of The Girls and I were out and ran into two of the three people I discuss in this entry. They’re the two individuals I dislike.

Recently, one of our dearest girlfriends was overlooked by a man for whom she deeply cares. No matter what we say or offer, try to understand and make sense of, she sees none of it.

All she sees is that: he chose another over her.

Unfortunately, and bypassing all of the excuses we try to make, we tend to agree. We were witness to their interaction and to the energy and chemistry that resonated from them when they were together. From the moment they met, their chemistry was instantaneous and obvious to all of us in that room.

This is a woman who is brilliant and gorgeous, witty, educated, elegant and dangerously fun. She has a smile that brightens any room she walks into; a room she immediately owns even when she knows no one. She’s also confident, sophisticated and isn’t easily intimidated. And therein lie the rub(s), which I will get to in a moment.

I won’t deny that he too is an attractive man, intelligent, worldly, well read, and extremely engaging. They made a handsome couple.

All The Girls can manage is a small fib of: He’s just not that into you? I hate this sentiment because it renders men 1-dimensional, and although it should be helping her, it’s not because we all know it’s a lie. We just couldn’t understand his actions…

Until we saw him with his new girlfriend. Unfortunately, our girl wasn’t with us; unfortunate because she would have walked out of that restaurant disappointed but understanding her real worth.

I write the following with the full recognition that we were only witness to their interaction for one evening, and we were in public.

The one thing that screamed out at me was that his attraction to Her is solidly rooted in the validation she gives him. Until that moment, we’d known nothing about Her. Watching them interact was like watching, in slow motion, an episode of How To Disgrace The Sisterhood. I also watched how she moved and walked through the crowd, how she interacted with others and her reaction to attractive women.

Naturally, I was also eavesdropping. Look, the restaurant is so small that they were both practically sitting on my lap. It was astonishing to note that she had no opinion, there were no questions posed, no challenges made, no intelligent remarks, but rather simple “uh-uh”, “oh wow”, “oh my god” peppered among the “you’re so clever”, “that’s so smart!” and of course “you’re so funny, tee hee.” My fu*king ears almost started bleeding. I’m still flabbergasted, and not by any stretch of the imagination am I a woman who is flabbergasted easily. Oftentimes dumbfounded with the appearance of stupefied, yes, but not ‘flabbergasted’.

I was also so completely disappointed in him. What a shame that this is the boy he turned out to be, when I thought my girl had given her heart to a man.

Because I’m the bestest best friend in the whole wide world, I immediately rang his best friend (who remains a relative good friend of mine) and told him what I’d seen. He agreed, and not reluctantly, he confirmed that she was a Yes Girl. Not very confident or terribly smart, simple, not a challenge and most definitely not someone his best friend was taking seriously or contemplating committing to.

My best friend, on the other hand, was all of the above. Granted, ‘unsophisticated’ does not necessarily mean it’s a situation from which one can’t experience pleasure…it just means that for me, I’d get bored much too quickly. My attention span and level of patience are severely short and so sophisticated is what engages me. If we were in a craft store, I’d be haunting the Logic Puzzle aisle, while He would be in the paint by numbers area.

This incensed me because I sort of went through this once (but nowhere near the same degree). Another of my best friends went through this and she was – physically and emotionally – ruined. I watched my mother go through this when I was 13. I watched her try to make sense of losing the only man she’s ever loved, I watched her fall apart as my father packed and left. At one point later in the timeline of each of these stories, the men regretted their actions and asked to be let back in. (Mine, shortly before he announced his engagement to another woman, something about which I will have to ask him some day.) Unfortunately for them, we’re not cut from the same cloth as the ‘simple’ ones; with us, the door is open only once, and when it’s closed it disappears completely as though it never existed. Simply stated, women like us don’t wait around.

Validation comes not from men, but rather from our achievements. Men, although still a necessity in terms of intimacy and love, strength, protection and all wonderful masculine qualities offered, are a bonus. This I truly mean in the most complimentary way possible. Ultimately, I believe that to be wanted when you’re not needed is much more satisfying and heartwarming than to be wanted only because you’re needed. There is a level of desperation in need, something that’s never served me as an aphrodisiac. Compare it to free will; I choose, rather than I need. Which would you rather?

Are a boy’s insecurities so great that he can’t see this?

All of this I raised with baba when we were dining the other evening; he was very forthcoming with me because he was once a typical boy. I guess that, for the most part, I think that my dad’s right about boys. I think he’s spot on…and I like men because they’re confident, aggressive, proud individuals who demand only the best from their partner because they return it in kind. But I really don’t want to date a 60 year old. So what do I do?

.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…

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

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

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

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

As has previously happened on numerous occasions, I found myself in public alone laughing like a maniac. Although some people walking past shot me looks of pity or disapproval, a few started laughing at me alongside me.

I was recalling two recent snippets of conversation had with different people.

A variation of the first conversation…

“Sweet jeesus. Is his collar turned up? Why. Is he. So 80s? Sometimes, I just don’t understand.”
“That’s okay. So-and-so carries a fanny pack.”
“What? No!”
“I swear to God. Now don’t mention that sh*t to anyone. When I want to stop thinking about him, I picture the fanny pack.”
“No kidding.”
“Shut up.”
“You do understand that the fanny pack will be a third party to your relationship, eh?”
“Stop it.”
“No, seriously. It’s coming with you to dinner. And to the movies. And maybe even when you travel together.”
“Seriously. That’s not funny.”
“Give the fanny pack a name. Endear it to you, early on in the relationship.”
“Get out of my apartment.”

The second conversation went a little like…

“Do you think maybe he took something?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because while I was in his washroom, I went through his stuff.”
“You whaaaaaaaaaaat?”
“To make sure he doesn’t have some kind of a weird disease.”
“LOLOLOLOListen f*cker, you wouldn’t even know what to look for! Jeesus, I can picture you walking out of the washroom with a thing of antibiotics being all smug and shit and declaring ‘And for what is this?’ and he’d be all ‘my toe infection’. You don’t have a CLUE what difratel, zythronol, asfixitall, or fu*krectonal or I-Don’t-Know xanafrunu are! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Wow. So, how would you have explained yourself had he walked in and found you rummaging through his stuff?”
“I planned to knock it all over and make it look like an accident. He’d have never known.”
“WOW. WOW. WOW.”

And as an aside, I’d like you to know that as a child, I ached that a real live Dozer would somehow magically appear and become my friend. No Dozer ever showed up at my front door, and so in homage to the idiot child I was, here is a photo of a Dozer:

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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