Random randomness

.1. Christian Bale in The Dark Knight.
When he's in the interrogation room alone with The Joker.
And he looses his sh*t on The Joker's ass over Rachel's whereabouts.

I'm pretty sure there was a collective sigh from all female members (& The Gays) in the audience.

MY GOD.

What is it about a man's ferocity and ability to teeter on the edge of madness (but only over you and his family) that makes women hot? Or maybe it's just me and if that's the case then let's pretend I never said anything to that effect...

.2. I see fat pregnant women.

The other day, I stood up to relinquish my seat for the fat pregnant lady. When she asked me why and I told her it was because she was pregnant, she was really offended and really mean about it.

I am rarely speechless, but her "response" left me speechless and so it was great of the girl next to me to block the barrage of words by saying: "She was just trying to be nice. If you don't like it, just keep movin'...", which she did.

.3. ATTENTION ALL MEN!

When a woman is headed toward the same door that you're going through right now, please don't keep holding it open for her if she is more than 3.5 meters away. Otherwise, she'll be obligated to run at the door and then maybe even smash into you because she was running a little too fast in her heels because she didn't want to put you out andjustfeltreallyawkwardthatyouwereholdingthedooropenwhenshewassodamnfarawayalready.

I'm just sayin'.

.4. Remember The Black T and my foray into the world of Athletes?

My Coaches read my entry because I sent it to them to make them smile. Because it was funny. And endearing. And because I love them so...

But then Chris, yesterday? He told me that they took my post into consideration because they had already been thinking about this likely because every class I ask if I can buy The Black T NOW? and that...are you ready for it...? THAT!

THAT I AM A WBK ATHLETE!!!!!!

AND THAT I WILL GET MY BLACK T SHIRT!!!!!

BECAUSE I'M AN ATHLETE!!!!!!

Because our training sessions are worthy of making us ATHLETES!

Because when the Gee Gees train and when the NFL or CFL or NBA or WhateverTF acronym they are and they train? They're only usually training at a level one or two - whereas WE. WE? WE WBK ATHLETES, WE train up to level 6 and some of us even level 7.

Suck on that Acronym Boys!

I'M GETTING A BLACK T SHIRT!

I very nearly hugged Chris when he told me, but he's sort of a Giant and I thought he would mistake the hug for a possible grapple and then throw me over the edge and into the pool.

(I heart WBK.
I heart WBK Chris & Dana.)

Oooh. Politix. Yummy scrumptious wet dripping politics.

John Cusack's War, Inc CrackSpace has posted one of my political pieces here as their most recent blog entry.

I am humbled that they think enough of my writing to post it alongside the likes of Naomi Klein. I am so uncharacteristically speechless. Scroll down and look at my spaztic comment about my own article - no one knows I wrote it but Nick / Yvonne / John and YOU. (Now you finally know my last name; forgive the coy?)

(Artists are smart folk, yo! )

Have you told people about War, Inc? Have you friended War, Inc on CrackSpace? What about CrackBook? They will not e-reject you. Promise!

GODSPEED! SAVE DARKIE, SAVE WHITIE, SAVE THE WORLD! YALLA!

My new favourite word

"Shredded".

I am using it at random times for fun and to freak people out. The most fantastic usage to date is: "My arms are shredded because of boxing" because they're not. They're merely toned and yet saying that they're "shredded" elicits the same facial expression as the one brought forth when a size 22 tells you they're a size 10.

It's the gigantic elephant in the room and people are scared to go near it lest it crush them with its big bum. It's fun to watch.

"Shredded", as in: My arms.

P.S. YAZO - I am going to create an "ATHLETE" category just for your beautiful self. HiGHFiVE!

The Black T-Shirt

I have a crunch on something. Note that it is not a 'one', but rather a 'thing'. That 'thing' is in fact WhiteBrook Boxing. I have a crunch on the whole concept and delivery of WhiteBrook Boxing.

I get my ass to class two times a week, excitedly. I look forward to the challenge and my mantra has become 'mind over body'; often times, I find myself whispering it repeatedly when in class in order to conquer the feeling of either nausea or passing out. It works.

More importantly, I admire and respect my coaches and want them to be proud of how far I've come - because trust me when I tell you that I've come far. (And I'm only at the beginning of my game and plan on going a lot further.)

When the above is combined with the fact that I am a geek, I immediately want to have everything affiliated with WBK. I want one of all of their paraphernalia and I want to wear it proudly...like, for example, all of their t-shirts.

This inherent geek need has brought me to a cross roads.

See, the reality is that I own two of their three t-shirts; one is the perfect shade of blue-based red (worn to Krav Maga) while the other is a perfect shade of heather grey.

That's two.
When there are three.
The third is the one to which I have no access.
It is the one which haunts my dreams. The one which drove me to an OK Corral stand off in the girls' change room on Tuesday evening.
It is WBK's: Sexy black t, the back of which declares rather proudly something like "boxing for enhanced sport performance because I'm an 'athlete' and you're not nyah-nyah, LOSER!".

The only people allowed to have this t-shirt are: Athletes.

I am not an Athlete, ergo: I can not have the sexy black t.

My wardrobe will forever be wanting because my family didn't put me into competitive futbol.
Are you fumbling through this injustice with me?

For clarity, let me offer:

ath·lete, [ath-leet]
–noun
a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill.

WBK trains the NFL boys who slide a puck across frozen water, and they also train Gee-Gees (what is a Gee Gee, anyway? GO CARLETON!) who trip and bump into each other ON PURPOSE while they run short girly distances (you call it 'football'. Tomehto. Tomawto.).

When I was told the t was only for athletes, I accepted this reality and openly acknowledged that I would pursue the only option available to me: I would date either a Gee-Gee or an NFL person in a covert effort to "borrow" their black WBK t-shirt and then never give it back. Simple, yes?

Well. Simple until Tuesday evening came to pass when I was in the girls' change room because they threw me out of the boys' change room after class and lo-and-behold, in walked a girl wearing a black t-shirt meant only for "athletes". I considered Krav Maga'ing her into submission and stealing the t-shirt, but figured that she'd come after me. Instead, I stared at her wide eyed wondering what sort of athlete she was before finally asking:

"Are you an 'athlete'?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You? You're an athlete?"
"Well. I play a lot of sports..."
"I don't care about that. Are you an athlete?"
"Are you oh-kay?"
"I just. You know. I'm wondering because you're wearing a t-shirt that only athletes are supposed to wear so I'm wondering what kind of athlete you are and if you're not one then who are you dating and does he have a friend that is also an 'athlete' and who I can date and I'm a little hungry and dehydrated right now after class I see pink dots are you? I want your t-shirt but I'm not an athlete. I'm just a Palestinian and although I can probably throw a rock better than you, I don't think that qualifies me as an athlete and SO I am not really technically allowed to OWN the black t-shirt and because I've been told I need to meet a certain criteria to have it I see that as a challenge and so now I WANT THE T-SHIRT SO HOW DID YOU GET IT WATER! WATER! WATER! SOS! PLEASE!"
"Wow."
"You don't want to tell me!"
"WOW."
"All you 'athletes' are the same. Be gone with you and your elitist tight assed perspective on life. ENOUGH!"

...only it was actually: "Uhm. Hi. I like your shirt. What do you do? Did I mention I really like your shirt. A lot. It's a nice shade of black." (Really creepy since I was wearing a towel and standing too close for comfort to the nice lady.)

So there you have it. I don't really know what "it" is, but that sounds like the appropriate thing to say after the hysterical 'conversation' I had in my own mind.

THERE. YOU. HAVE. IT.

I have to become an athlete. And I will - whatever that actually means, I WILL. Because no one loves a challenge more than me...and I want the black t-shirt. I will have the black t-shirt even if it takes me 10 years to get it. I will have it; trust me. And I won't even date a weirdly labelled boy to do it - I'm just going to become an 'athlete'. Somehow, and by any means necessary, I will become: "a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength".

If McBush can be a presidential hopeful, I can be an athlete.
OLYMPICS HERE I COME. Or...at least...like, the local high school track.
Team sports I LOATHE YOU but I will conquer you if I must.

I will do this even though I don't have a clue where to begin!

I will have the black t-shirt and my wardrobe will be complete.
I heart WBK paraphernalia!

(Will keep you posted on my endeavours.)

Testing Newton's Laws of Motion

As with many other (physical and otherwise) movements in my life, I walk fast. Due to this tendency, I sit here in a much disgruntled state with a slightly fatter than usual lip.

There are doors which declare quite proudly they are Automatic; this, to me, is an indication that they automatically swing open as you walk through them. I've never gone to war with one of these doors and so I assume that this is happening today only because I have started to walk faster.

Newton said: The rate of change of momentum is proportional to the resultant force producing it and takes place in the direction in which Maha is heading of that force.

In Mahanese, that means that when I am walking toward the 'Automatic' door, I don't change my rate of momentum because I (wrongfully) believe the door and its declaration of Automatic-ism. The only way I would believe otherwise, to assume that the door is in fact a LIAR, is if my intentions were equally fib-induced. Like, if I was walking at full speed toward the 'Automatic' door, knowing fully well that at the last moment and only after it had opened, would I take a hike and not walk through it, choosing to instead quickly scurry to the right of the door, remaining outside and then loudly mocking the 'Automatic' door and its naivete. But I'm not like that. Also, kindly note that I always maintain the same amount of momentum propelling me forward.

Newton went on to say that: A physical body will remain at rest, or continue to move at a constant velocity unless an outside out of service 'Automatic' door net force acts upon it.

Since I move forward towards all 'Automatic' doors at the same rate of unchanging momentum, it is safe to say that my physical body is not at rest and is moving at a constant velocity. Because I am a muppet and I never possess the intention of slowing down until I am at my destination, I tend to walk around, through and over anything that may be considered a 'net force' (this includes people, most notably those for whom I have little regard, little time and zero interest and so don't stop to chat with, but instead offer the passing white lie "Hi! How nice to see you" as I continue to move forward at the same alarming rate, flavoured with a slight swivel of my body to face said individual but never actually stopping or slowing - though, arguably, the swivel motion would cause a break in mahaerodynamics and so a slight slowing of pace may be unavoidable damn those I don't care about).

I forgot what I was writing.

OH! Right.

The final of Newton's laws is the simple notion that: To every rapidly moving Maha action there is an equal and opposite Maha smashing into and ricocheting off of the 'Automatic' door that is out of service reaction.

When one adds Newton's Laws to my behaviour and places them in front of an out of service 'Automatic' door ON WHICH THERE IS NO FRIKING SIGN INDICATING THAT IT'S FRIKING BROKEN, one becomes witness to me smashing my entire body - face first, please - into the 'Automatic' door, ricocheting back off the door and then standing dumbfounded (not unusual, I admit) amidst the human traffic while pontificating over the eternal and necessary philosophical puzzle of ' WTF?' before proceeding to use all of my force in an effort to push my way through the Clearly I'm NOT 'Automatic' Today door, which is lighter than it appears, and so flies back to hit me a second time (in the face, please).(1)

(The above could serve as a metaphor for how I live my life.)

--------------------
(1) No Mahas were seriously injured during the research and writing of this blog entry.

Update on my office friends

I've been meaning to write about them for a while, and I've both kept forgetting and am so busy that time is slipping away at a fantastically rapid pace...

But tonight, I'm posting!

Recall Penelope, my orchid, who I had previously assumed was dead? Well...I thought that Penelope was nothing more than her stem, from which her pretty blooms peeked out and then fell off into oblivion. Now that I've articulated that, I am wondering just how stupid I really am.

So. I saw the pretty green leaves, but didn't think they were associated with Penelope. I assumed that the flower people had added them next to Penelope to keep her company. I honestly didn't think they were a part of her, not even when I started noticing that they were growing stuff. And by 'stuff', I mean more leaves. I was so excited that I immediately took photos of The Leaves Next to Dead Penelope and emailed them around with the subject heading: Can anyone tell me what kind of leaves these are? while the email itself asked aloud: What plant do they belong to, please? I'm confused because they were sitting next to my orchid and I don't really know why. (I've never been one to shy away from sharing my stupidity with anyone willing to listen or read. Alhamdulilah.)

My friends are really lovely people with a great deal of tolerance, and so it was with slow and kind words that they told me those leaves were not mere company to Dead Penelope, but are in fact, a healthy and vibrant part of ALIVE PENELOPE!! SHE ISN'T DEAD!! SHE THRIVES AND IS BLOOMING LEAVES!! I can't express to you my complete and total excitement about Penelope...

I didn't kill her. (I was having panic attacks and that's why I kept watering her once a week, because I didn't want to be culpable for something over which I was a little custodian. It's like some of the perennials I planted a few weeks back; three of whom I had accidentally planted above ground - not deeply enough into the soil - were dying and when I saw them last week, I thought of myself as a killer. I immediately took them out of the ground (it was so sad because I didn't even have to dig. I just pulled and they came out. Like magic, only not.) I dug more, and then mixed their soil into the new soil and pretty much close to buried them. At least they're not dead. And you can't call me a killer.)

Look:





As for Hussy, my Cala Lilly, she is currently napping and will remain so for the next little while. While making certain I don't disturb her sleep (so that when she wakes up, she's well rested and ready to bloom beautiful flowers), I have to also be careful that I not completely forget her and kill her with neglect. Watering in very small amounts to keep her alive is key, apparently.

Here she is napping:



Also! I've purchased a spathiphyllum wallisii, or a 'Peace Lily', who I've yet to name (all suggestions are welcome). She is protected by this little hanging delight (previously a postcard, and now made to hang, I have different ones propped up across my office space):





Finally, KY. He's doing just fine and sends his regards from his little corner in my office. You know he's grumpy and likes to be left alone; please forgive him his not coming out this evening.

**********

In keeping with the theme of the above, please consider donating one or two dollars to this excellent cause.

Maz Jobrani, Ahmed Ahmed & Dean Obeidallah

Three names from The Axis of Evil comics (missing was Aron Kader who I think is a bona fide Fox); three men that mama and I watched last night from the front row.

Ahmed Ahmed was our M.C. for the evening while Dean Obeidallah (1/2 Palestinian, 1/2 Sicilian. Adorable. Hilarious. Ethnically confused...in a very good way.) and Maz (1 Iranian. Hysterical. Flexible, too.) were the headliners.

They had three opening acts, one of whom nearly made me fall out of my chair; some Lebanese kid who, I swear, was either high on speed or had spent the duration of his day drinking Red Bull and coffee. I didn't know whether to hose him down or just sit back, laugh, and thank God I wasn't in a small confined space with his ass. (In case you're wondering, I chose the former.)

Ahmed Ahmed has a dry sense of humour, the kind that catches you off guard and makes you wonder what he mumbles about you as soon as you're out of ear shot. Kind of hot, too. Unfortunately, he dates retards. Or so he comedic-s.

Dean Obeidallah is the kind of boy you want to bring home to mom. He has a natural ability to charm everyone, and is super clever, it seems. Softer sense of humour until he starts talking about and imitating W. He also carries around a little notepad in which he writes things. Gold Star for The Nerd; it takes one to love one. (I'm pretty sure mama wanted me to slip this guy my number. She's such a pimp.)

Maz Jobrani? Oh my God. This guy is a piece of comedic genius, with a side dish of the world's greatest giggle. I lost my shit when he started talking about how he married a "defective Indian" because his wife doesn't know a thing about technology. Lost. My. Shit.

If they're coming at you, make sure to run towards them and catch their show. You won't regret it and you may learn a thing or two. Trust in that.

(Russell Peters, too, because how can't you love a man whose designed a crest for his name? I saw him Saturday night and was laughing so hard I'm pretty sure I drooled. That's the way I roll towards The Hot, kittys.)

As an only child, I have a hard time maintaining only one train of thought (Sparkle = Good)

People hold the very strange assumptions that being an only child renders one somewhat spoiled and incapable of sharing.

As most of you know, I am an only child and this "opinion" is one I have heard my entire life, most recently from an individual who also put forth the sweeping generalization that if someone's parents are divorced, that same child's ability to take marriage seriously isn't actually possible because a child from a 'broken' home is not a 'healthy' individual inside of a relationship.

Unlike him whose parents are still married. Naturally, according to his stellar reasoning ability, he is therefore a 'healthy' individual inside of a relationship.

To prove that he's so healthy, he pointed out that he's not afraid of relationships.
It doesn't matter that he's an emotionally retarded monkey who is incapable of being alone and so must always be in a relationship.
It doesn't matter that he's spent his thus far 'adult' life jumping from one relationship to another and to another and to another and still, to another without the fear of committing for longer than a 2-3 year period.
It really doesn't matter that by this point in his relationship career he's an "I Love You" slut and has shared these words with at least a dozen different women. (Oh Romeo! Willst thou e'er make me thy number 13? Siiiigh.) All of that = He's Healthy And Would Take Marriage Seriously Because His Parents Are Still Married.

And before any of you ask, the answer is: NO, I did not date him.

But I digress as an only child is want to doing because unlike the rest of the normal world, we follow our whimsy, see.

My main point is that although it is and will always remain a complete and total honour that I am the only child to two people (because in this day and age, 'two' seems the anomaly), it can be relatively difficult at times because on occasion, I would really welcome being the black sheep seeing as how I am and will always remain the only sheep and every sheep.

There's no one to shoulder the blame. I can't fail since there's no one else to succeed.
All of mama and baba's dreams and hopes rest on my shoulders.
When the Parental Crazy comes out, there's no one to deal with it but me.
I can't deflect anything.
And: When mama and baba are elderly and need taking care of, it will be me and only me who will take care of them. (This duty I will complete with pleasure and honour, Inshallah.)

(I also expect that my husband will be a man about this and do the same with his parents since I don't plan on marrying a shit who would ever even remotely contemplate not taking care of his parents and instead throwing them into an old age home. [Because last I checked, when you were an annoying whiny sick drooling and poo-pooing infant, your parents didn't chuck you toward the Children Annoy Me And By The Way They Smell Funny home.])

See. I'm off topic, again.

Anyway, as I was saying: I pity me. Ha! Ha!

Oh! The other day I was sitting around thinking about how blessed I am. Honestly. Super Duper Incredibly Blessed (SDIB). There's not one thing in my life that I can complain about...isn't that amazing? Honestly: Amazing. I have all of my limbs. I am healthy. I am pretty looking. I am relatively intelligent. I have an incredible social circle of friends. I travel a lot. I think I am funny (and when compared to: 'I am funny', that's good enough for me). I'm kind and I like most people, too, and that's a blessing because I can't imagine being one of those miserable bitter people who don't like people. (It's not a secret that no one actually really liked Sartre, anyway.) I also have an incredible job. I have a blog! Just being here and possessing the ability to push myself and attempt to improve is pretty spectacular (because, uhm, no, generation Chopra: 'you, just as you are' is not perfect and you can always be improved).

Mein Gott! (Thank you, Yaznotjaz.)
Imagine! I don't have to worry about imminent threat, shelter, food, or water. I have the unbelievable luxury of going to a movie theatre when I need to escape because I'm sort of a wanker and even though my life is brilliant, I sometimes need to escape. Amazing. SDIB. Alhamdulilah.

Tangent over.

As for people thinking that an only child can't share; I can only speak for myself here and say that sharing has never been a problem. I have no problem giving anything away and I have no problem bringing people into 'my' space.

Admittedly, though, my problem has always been controlling a situation. Because, as an only child, we shoulder everything and we can't deflect anything, we try to control that thing in an effort to ensure it happens properly (however we define 'properly'). Years back, I was around someone man enough to take control and take charge without hesitation or fear. Turns out that I actually had no problem letting go of that control - in fact, I enjoyed that someone else was taking that control. This man, though, was a man who had proven that he was worthy of responsibility and so never once shirked it; it's why we're such good friends today. (Warning! When you load responsibility on a man unworthy of it, he will eventually tuck his tail between his legs and run.)

Another tangent is over.

Right. So, even though I greatly appreciate the spotlight, I really wouldn't mind having siblings on some days. Hopefully I'll make up for being an only child by having a litter and / or marrying a man who has a lot of siblings (preferably boy siblings. I always wanted a lot of brothers). That's all I was trying to say in the first place...

Groundhogs don't vibrate

I used to think groundhogs were cuddly and cute, until this past weekend when I started battling mama's groundhog.

Actually, he's not my mother's and I'm not quite certain it's a 'he'. To be fair, I'm going to give it a gender neutral name such as: Evil.

Evil lives beneath mama's neighbour's back yard deck. Between mama's back garden and that of our neighbour, there is a fence. Through a very small and narrow area between the two fences, Evil comes and goes.

Last summer, mama would call me almost daily to discuss her woes. The most notable phone call came when she decided to share her Plan To Get Rid Of Evil. It consisted of her trapping Evil in a garbage bag (because it's strong, you see) and then placing said garbage bag filled with Evil into the car and driving Evil out to a farm where she would then set him free to run wild with his groundhog mates.

Naturally, she would have done this while wearing her gardening gear, complete with sombrero, because that's just the kind of special that defines mama.

The Plan To Get Rid Of Evil never came to pass and we are now entering another summer where Evil lives and breathes and eats all plants and vegetables.

I attempted to spend this past weekend in radio silence (with phone turned off) and gardening. Unfortunately, that radio silence was killed by our Evangelist neighbours who blasted the "Family" radio channel which is code for: If you don't accept Jesus as your saviour, you're gonna burn in hell, tee-hee. I don't think I've heard so many 'His Glory' and 'His Mercy' and 'His Salvation' and 'His Crucifixion and 'His Beautiful Face That I Look Upon Which Had Better Be White, Hallelujah' in such a short span of time. And no mention of God, either, because He's sort of inconsequential, yeah?

Do you accept Jesus as your saviour? I do. In fact, technically, all Muslims do. Because: We believe he will come back...as a Muslim. Which isn't so bad, right? (Better than those who still consider him an impostor so BACK OFF of Islam. OMG! Or the lunatics reading books on how to "vibrate" at a higher frequency in order to reach enlightenment. Because: This world is all about you and your enlightenment, you self-involved asshole. It has nothing to do with community or getting into the trenches and learning through living, but rather learning through disassociation. Really excellent philosophy there; don't become the master of your self, just vibrate and hide away from it. Remember: It's all. About. You. So whatever YOU choose is brilliant.

Wow. I think I've just dropped 10 pounds thanks to that sarcasm.)

Anyway, there I was upstairs doing something important like staring at the wall when mama shrieked "Maha! Look outside!"

Can you hazard a guess as to why?

Evil had returned. In all his / her glory it sat eating one of my perennials. Munch munch munching away as though he was Jesus himself (praise be!). For a few moments, Evil didn't know we were watching and then some sort of instinct kicked in because it stopped eating, slowly lowered its paws while in tandem sneaking a peek up at the window. As soon as it spotted my mother, it let go of the perennial and ran away as fast as its fat evil a** would carry it.

Off to Home Depot I went where I spent nearly 45 minutes with three men who were discussing the best way to rid one self of a groundhog.

The first male instinct was to kill it. But apparently, that's illegal. Besides: Just because it's evil and it eats perennials, I can't kill it. It's one of God's fat little creatures and it too needs to eat so that wasn't an option. Fat groundhogs aren't interested in vibrating at higher frequencies so that alone makes them admirable; Evil's just doing what is considered naturally programmed (and so I can't fault it for following Order).

The second, really spectacular option was for me to: Solicit one of my male friends and have him / them pee all around my garden. Evil would smell the testosterone and leave the garden alone, because it would respect that some other creature had marked that territory.
Isn't that fun?

Third was for me to purchase a steel trap that would trap Evil. I would then drive Evil out to a farm and set him free. Really, this is a variation of Mama's original plan only with a steel trap rather than a plastic bag. Although I sort of like Evil, I don't really think I would be comfortable driving around with it in my car, caged or otherwise.

Fourth: Tossing a gas bomb in his burrow.
Wow.
Knowing my propensity for confusion and cartooning, I would gas myself before I ever got close to Evil. (Any option that would associate me with any type of "artillery" is a natural 'no, thank you'.)

The final option, which is what I chose, was to surround the garden with a "repellent smell". I had two choices: coyote urine (hurrah!) or black pepper-based 'stuff'. I chose the later and he's not been back since, Evil.

I really do hope he doesn't starve to death, though; will keep you posted as to this endeavour.

(Find a photo of Evil here, if it pleases you.)

P.S. Here are my first two little garden patches:

Hostas, which are bushes. Or something.


At least thirteen varieties of perennials. Inshallah over time, this little back area around the patio will expand and be filled with tons of flowers that are messy and colourful.

Secretly wishing someone would "mist" Dr. Phil

.1. My body is still hibernating. It sees a potato and angels start singing.

.2. A "Bacetto" chocolate is not a Baci chocolate. They are both made by Perugina and they are both packaged in exactly the same way. They are also both hazelnut focussed.

Only: The Bacetto does not have a poorly translated and usually hilarious "fortune" within, leaving the chocolate eater to wonder if they accidentally chewed up and swallowed the paper fortune.

Don't be fooled and don't settle for anything short of a Baci.

.3. Someone gifted me "an aromatic spa refreshing facial mist [that is] ideal for toning the skin and awakening the senses!" (exclamation mark theirs not mine). It comes in a small spray bottle which one is meant to point at thine face and spray.

I did this and found it neither 'refreshing' nor 'misty', but rather aggressive and hostile.

I tried it several times, hoping I would soften and get used to the on-slough of spray. Only, the more I sprayed, the greater my recoil and shock at the force of the "mist", and the greater reason my skin will have to wrinkle as I scrunch it up in anticipation of the "pure essential oils of ORANGE & GRAPEFRUIT & natural GREEN TEA" (yelling theirs not mine). I was holding it up to my face this morning and I couldn't actually bring myself to mist; same paralysis I would encounter if I tried to bite myself (near impossible to draw blood unless you have psychological issues that would permit you to set aside your body's natural biological reaction to fight and ward off the potential hurt bla bla).

It may have to do with the fact that I sprayed a direct line into my left eye and nearly drowned myself in it because I forgot to close my eyes and my mouth and plug my nose.


.4. If you know an under-ten, please take them to see Dr. Seuss' Horton Hears A Who. It's one of the books I always gift under-tens and it's a message most adults could use to learn.

.5. I used to think Dr. Phil was good, until I watched a complete show around a month back and it hit me like a ton of bricks that: He's all about "owning your sh*t" and that this is a novelty in this day and age is the reason people like him so much.

So...essentially, the reason he's so popular is because we've turned into a society that does nothing more than enable crap behaviour, and when a normal thought pattern comes on to centre stage (such as: Own. Your. Sh*t.), we think it's some kind of miracle.

So. I'm officially removing my support for Dr. Phil because I think it's lame that we've propelled to stardom a dude who is selling what should be so obvious to anyone who thinks they are a functioning part of and contributor to a healthy society.

OWN IT, ALREADY. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BY NOW. IT SHOULD NOT BE YOUR END POINT, BUT YOUR FRIKING BASE-LINE. (And if you, for one second, believe that anything worth having can be found in a 42 minute show and without hard work and life-long commitment, then you're a bigger loser than...the biggest loser in the world.)

(It's like The Secret. It was NEVER a "secret". I'm rolling my eyes so hard that they look as though they belong in the head of the person sitting next to me and they've accidentally landed in my sockets and are trying to find their way out. Roll. Roll. Roll. Never. A. "Secret"!)

.6. In case you have yet to notice: I am intolerant today.

The Feminine Napkin Aisle: Friend or Foe?

Once a month, I turn into a buffoon for an approximate 48 hours.

I don't get mad, sad, angry or edgy, but rather clumsy and lacking all hand-eye coordination. I become tilted and start seeing through my brain's special "objects are not as close as they appear" eye hole.

So. I am constantly and very confidently 'placing an item on the table' when I'm actually placing it three centimetres from the surface of said table. (Read: dropping it on to the floor.) I am also always bumping into things that appear further away than they really are. Interestingly, I also become more naive and cartoonish than normal. Slower, even, which places me at a mere 25 movements ahead of a normal person.

The 48 hour period (heh!) I notice first thing in the a.m. as I attempt to have coffee. Rather than behaving like an adult, I slosh my coffee around all over myself and anyone close enough to be splattered. That's my cue to shy away from large and heavy objects and people I like for 48 hours next.

Unfortunately, this isn't always possible.

A while back, I stepped into my pharmacy and walked to The Feminine Napkin Aisle midway through the 48 hour period (HEH! Funnier every time...) of buffoonery. It was then that I experienced a tunnelling of my vision and a racing of my heart.

1.37 km of seventeen brand names declaring a combination of at least three of the following varieties:
Regular
Long
Overnight
Heavy
Light
Medium
Skinny
With Wings
Without
Scented
Non scented
Will make you laugh
Super absorbent
Bunched sides
Not bunched sides
Thin
Incognito
Aggressively proud and loud
Diaper like
For the fat girl
For the skinny girl
For the thong
Dry weave
Plug
External
For the sporty girl
For the sloth
For the thinking woman
For you
For me
I scream
You scream
We scream

I became discombobulated and sad because I just wanted a simple Feminine Napkin (FN) and yet there I was standing ramrod style incapable of comprehending what all the fuss was about. Why wings when I don't want the FN to take flight at any point during our interaction. And why bunched sides? Is that for the Insecure and Shy female? What about the ones that appear to be 2 feet long? Are they being tucked into the backs of one's turtle neck? Are they potential sleeping bags? Maybe they open into a parachute or...oh my God: A toboggan?

And so. Through my buffoon eyes, I attempted a grab at one of the above combinations and knocked over quite nearly an entire shelf. FNs are bouncy and they sprawl out once freed from the confines of their shelving unit. I could tell they were trying to make a run for freedom but they couldn't (because they are inanimate objects, you see). I stood staring at perhaps 30 packs and boxes wondering why the store would place them in such clearly domino-like positioning. Also, I was wondering if men 'perioded' (HA HA HA!), what would we call their...plugs?

I even began to think how they looked comfortable enough for a lie down (the FNs, not the Plugs) and considering my state, I would have gladly taken a nap had it not been for the half-Man employee who darted over and looked accusingly at me while I stood watching as he re-shelved the inanimate FNs. I tried to help, but dropped two more pillows and was asked rather rudely to "don't" (like that's a proper sentence?) and so instead answered with "I didn't know they could make so much noise".

"Whatever", said half-Man, and the fat lady grumbled as I mumbled: "Sorry".

Unlike the bouncy pillows of FNs, I immediately became sad and deflated and grabbed at the first pillow in my view, deciding that the A to the Q is: Foe.

(& p.s. Girls: Don't send a boy to do your bidding; for the love of all things that make us girls and them boys buy your own. Otherwise, you might just as well ask the poor bastard to "pee sitting down".)

Javier Bardem smoulders between randoms

.1. The entry right before this (On Forgiveness & Apology) was updated on Saturday. If you read it before then, I recommend you read it again. (Thank you for all of your feedback; it's definitely a familiar and popular subject matter, which says more than I'd like to know about how poorly we treat one another.)

.2. Really? WOW. WOW! Javier Bardem is "smouldering". Every time I look at this picture, I can hear my ovaries giggling and fluttering their eyelashes.

LOOK!



If I walked past him and he looked at me that way, I would become immobilized. I'd turn into a ramrod and maybe start crying because he's just so "virile". Masculine. Do you think he hunts? I think he hunts. Maybe I'll start gathering stuff just to prepare myself...

I sound like a cheap romance novel, thanks to Javier Bardem. I can't stop staring at this photo.
Javier. Haw-Vee-Yay. I love it.

But seriously, wtf was he looking at that made him smoulder on that level? Seriously?

He makes my teeth rattle.
WOW.

**Photo is courtesy of Lainey, who is a rocking super star and a funny woman even in regular email interaction. I was under the false impression that I'd met her at TIFF when it was, in fact, her co-host on that Canadian celebrity news show. That wasn't Lainey. So anything I said about the 'woman' does not pertain to Lainey. Lainey is as-hilarious-in-email-as-she-is-hilarious-on-her-site.

.3. I took the plunge and purchased a Canada Goose jacket, in "Steel". I wanted to purchase their Resolute Parka in red because it has "Secured plastic ID pockets on chest and sleeve", which would have been perfect for me. I would have walked around with MAHA emblazoned above my heart, and protected behind plastic.

When I shared this idea with the sales lady, she didn't address my interest but instead said: "These jackets are for expeditions up North. For serious expeditions up North" because clearly, I'm not a serious expeditioner. So I took my un-serious self out of her shop and instead spent my a-little-more-serious money in another store. Ha Ha.

(On a not so funny note, she asked me what country I was from and made an openly snide remark about how 'immigrants wear anything when they come to this country'. After I made my purchase at another store, I went back to the store in question and showed the manager my receipt and indicated why I had made the purchase elsewhere...you know, in my best broken immigrant English and a little sign language to really communicate my immigrant feelings.)

.4. The yoga studio who aids and abets The Man Who Wears A SPEEDO To Class still hasn't responded to my email re a potential "at minimum shorts" policy. I haven't seen him at my last two classes, so here's hoping he slipped on the ice and was traumatised by his own hammock.

Bending Over The Line

Being at Bikram Yoga once a weekend allows me to focus my energy and my mind. It forces me to be still and really pull everything together for a minimum of 90 minutes a week. To some of you, that may not seem like a lot, but to someone like your WebMistress, that is an excruciating amount of stand-still time.

Unfortunately, that allowance has recently been raped by The Man Who Wears A SPEEDO To Class.

That's right, ladies & gentlemen, he actually wears a SPEEDO to Bikram Yoga.

Look. I get it. I get that it's insanely hot and that you sweat your a** off. I also 'get' that Speedos are made for water, but so are ducks and fish and last I checked no one was wearing either to my yoga class.

I've managed to ignore the idiot men who think it's acceptable for them to display their hairy backs and chests, their big bloated bellies and unnaturally large nipples. BUT THE SPEEDO IS KILLING ME.

IT'S KILLING ME. And not even softly.

I've actually got heart palpitations because of it.

And this past weekend, I was next to The Man Who Wears A SPEEDO To Class...and when we had to bend over, I didn't really much appreciate the free-flow of information provided by his SPEEDO. Imagine if I'd slipped and went tumbling forward? I'd have had to scrape my face off to recover.

(It took every ounce of self control for me to not start sobbing WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR SENSE OF SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOUR AND WEAR, MAN? I'm not even entirely certain I know how I made it through that class without strangling him in his own little hammock or forcing the teacher who didn't say anything to bend over behind The Man Who Wears A SPEEDO To Class.)

I sent the centre an email asking if they'll consider having an 'at minimum shorts' policy. I don't think they'll take me seriously and I expect they'll send me a "the body is beautiful" email. If they do, I'm donning a fat and hairy suit and going in with a tanga and a string bikini top. As a man.

I rue the day Speedo was born.

Baby Sings

This morning I was seated next to a baby bundled up in a blue snowsuit and singing Frère Jacques. (The baby, not I.) My trip into work made me revisit the following High Security Incident that transpired many years ago.

Aged four and while in kindergarten, my teacher had us sing Frère Jacques. When done, she asked me to sing it alone and in front of the whole class.

I remember this as though it were yesterday. I smiled and began while clapping and swaying.

Beaming with pride (because I was the only one who was singled out), I sang at the top of my small not-yet-grown-to-size lungs:
Fray-row Jaack-uh!
Fray-row Jaack-uh!
Vous lay vous!
Vous lay vous!
Suh muh leh mateen-ah!
Suh muh leh mateen-ah!
DING! DANG! DONG!
DING! DANG! DONG!

Teacher asked me to stop singing and told me I was "wrong", to which I threw my 1inch fist into the air, palm facing her, and declared "Like hell I am, Teach", only it came out "why?" and I began to cry. Amidst the great confusion and my young black civil rights tendencies, all other pink, white, olive and brown babies located within the same room followed suit and also began to cry. The over-emotional one of them - a little white one from Poland - went so far as to run over and hug me (I often wonder what's become of him whose name I can't remember; he was my bff and on to the freezing cold ground we would place our 2x4 towels side-by-side when it was time for the teacher to have a cigarette break nap time. Bunch of fat babies laid out like beached dwarf whales, forced into REM. Odd indeed.).

Anyway. I was an Arabic baby and we'd arrived in Canada that same year. My mother tongue was Confused Arabic and the Teacher should have recognised that my effort was enough instead of singling me out for a "wrong". To my "why", Teacher never responded and I stood dissolved. Until now, I don't know the proper lyrics to the song and I've created an auditory block whereby I don't hear those proper lyrics even if they're being shouted directly into my ear. Worse still, the incident is - I am certain - the cause of my mental collapse re lyrical abilities, something of which I was reminded this morning.

Nearly twenty nine years later, I stand by Suh muh leh mateen-ah!, if for no other reason than the empathy shown by the little white Polish one.

********************
Aside no 1 re children's songs: I used to sing London bridges falling down, rather than London bridge is falling down. The true lyrics I swear to you, I only discovered while in Dubai this past December when my baby cousin Ahmed sang it to me. I was stunned as I had no idea it was only one bridge rather than all of the London bridges. Brilliant, yes?

Aside no 2 re Frère Jacques: He's 'Brother John' in English. Gives little French and English boys a complex, I would think...

Behold

.1. 'The Pantaloon', a type of pant that was once worn by Folk Not of This Century.



This particular photo is of a pantaloon that's to be worn beneath one's outer-wear and to that I say: (1) Better this than a piercing and chains in that region; and, (2) Actually, they might not be so bad while CURLING!

I've only noticed this this year and so I'm not quite certain what that makes of all years prior...although I'm certain I always did wear pants, I guess I never tucked them into anything, let alone my boots.

At the office, I have three pairs of Crack. I wear boots to the office and then change into more appropriate Crack for the duration of my day. Two evenings back, I noticed the very disturbing reality that: When I tuck my dress pants into my boots, I appear to be wearing a variety of The Pantaloon. Nothing can be done about this, it seems.

I've been eyeing others who tuck their dress pants into their boots and no one else appears to be wearing The Pantaloon. I am distraught (and stupidly dressed, it appears) and would appreciate any advice and guidance you may have to offer. (Perhaps galoshes would provide enough room for the dress pant to lay normally, rather than bunching up and out? They would compliment my Paddington Bear look and afford me the opportunity to repeatedly and sanely say aloud 'galoshes' as opposed to my turretic inclination to do so now for no reason apart from 'I love the word'.)

.2. The Sierra Designs down-filled Pratt coat.



I have called every single sports expedition shop in Ottawa. I have emailed every single on-line source for Sierra Designs. I have prayed to Allah. I have begged eBay. And yet: No one can find me a size small in this model.

I found an XS, which fit perfectly (and with quite some room left over) around the body. Unfortunately, and apparently, 'XS' was in reference to the size of one's head because as soon as I zipped closed the hood, I stopped breathing and my eyes slanted at a beautiful Far East degree. But, as we all well know, I have an unusually large head when compared to heads such as Sarah's. That's neither here nor there and all this fuss to say: If you find one of these in either black or white, size small, please purchase her for me and I will repay you promptly.

One Female Canuck With A Broom! (Updated)

I am having difficulty expressing my extreme excitement re CURLING!. Luckily, I am capable of sitting long enough to write my first review of this fabulous sporting activity. Check back in the coming couple of days to read all about me standing on ice with a slider and a broom. And then me falling on ice with a slider and a broom and the thing that is a STONE NOT A ROCK.

I will be posting in this spot immediately below the line of MA-tildas (I know they're called 'Tilda's but I deem MA-tilda more appropriate because this is my blog).

OH! I tried to make CURLING! an Extreme Sport and was lovingly called a "big Goof".

LOVE CURLING! I LOVE IT! I WANT TO BE ON THE COVER OF A CURLING MAGAZINE DECLARING MY LOVE OF HER!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are three things you need to know about me:
(1) When I say 'curl', I am usually referring to the state of my hair at rest.
(2) When I utter the words 'sweep' and / or 'broom' it is only to indicate that I don't.
(3) My body takes to athletics extremely quickly though no one who knows me well would ever consider me ‘athletic’.

Odd this because until my late teens, I figure skated and swam four times a week. In my early twenties, I lifted six times a week at three hours each turn (I didn't have much else going on and having a six-pack was addictive). As an adult, I box, swim, shop for Crack, walk almost everywhere, do bikram yoga on Saturday mornings (avoiding thinking of the heat, the dripping sweat, the bacteria and the men who, unfortunately, assume it’s necessary for them to remove their shirts and show their disturbing bodies) and as you all know, I purchased LULU last summer. Even with all of this, no one who knows me considers me 'athletic' by any stretch of the imagination. UNTIL NOW!

Well, maybe not, BUT, but when I make it on to the cover of SWEEP!, then my friends will consider me 'athletic'. (I’ve already been called 'a new convert' at Curl News blogspot, based on which the voices in my head and I concur that SWEEP! is a true and real possibility.)

The lead up
At the end of December, the Super Head Biggest Cheese at my workplace asked me if I would be interested in joining her curling team. I'd always been under the impression that curling was for folks over the age of eleventy million and so was a little shocked to learn that people I considered young were doing and digging it.

Because the women on this team are luminous and magical creatures, but short of unicorns and faeries, I accepted the invitation to CURL!, thinking I could always hang back and chat rather than get my ice on. Curling was as appealing as golf, and the closest I ever came to coveting it was in terms of the hilarity of “Men With Brooms”.

The follow through
I joined!

As is the norm, that meant I was also extremely over-eager, over-excited and over-layered. Over-layered because when I went into the washroom, I thought I had undone all of the layers only to discover that the one nearest my skin was still clinging on for dear life. When I asked The Panty about it later, she cried and explained this because she was being smothered by three layers of pant, six layers of top, one puma zip-up and a very large woolen jacket. (The Panty was calmed only when I promised to never ever again take my dressing cues from Paddington Bear.)

As I wobbled into the arena, I quickly realized that CURLING! appreciates and encourages The Pretty. Clothes clinging to the body help your flexibility, form and mobility. You can even wear your hair down and bouncy. Hurrah for CURLING!

The delivery
A wonderful woman named Fleure showed me how to serve / volley / throw / launch the stone / rock / ball down the lane / sheet / ice / arena / rink / field.

Please pay very close attention to the following illustration:
(1) As I’m right handed, I place my right foot on this angled at 45degrees plastic thing-a-ma-bob.
(2) My right leg is bent at the knee and I am positioned as though preparing to shoot off and wobble a race in my over-layered excitement.
(3) My left leg is also bent and positioned behind my right leg.
(4) On the bottom of my left foot is a ‘slider’, or rather, a piece of plastic that allows one to slide forward at breakneck speed. (Thank you, B.)
(5) My right hand is holding the small handle of the stone / rock / ball which weighs an approximate 7000 pounds (this I discovered while attempting to pick it up, lost a war against gravity and instead tripped forward. Because I maintained a firm grip on the stone / rock / ball as I tripped forward, I was snapped back and so I experienced my first ever full-bodied bobbling motion.)
(6) Using the stone / rock / ball to generate momentum, I was sliding her back and forth and back and forth and then propelling her forward as I held on and went along for the ride.
(7) In tri-dem were the propelling forward motion, the pushing off from the plastic thing-a-ma-bob and the bringing forward of the left leg so as to slide all the way forward, aiming and then letting go of the stone / rock / ball.

Surprisingly, my body froze up (ha! ha!) during my first two serves because I envisioned falling on my face and breaking it. First this happened, I lost my Cool Demeanor & Focus, tipped over and smashed my right knee relatively hard against the ice.

Second this happened, I fell backward on to my bum and remained seated for a good two minutes, pouting and watching others serve / deliver / volley / launch / propel in perfect form. (As is my weirdo nature, I was having trouble understanding why I wasn't already perfect at it; it was, after all, my second turn already.)

I spent the duration of that particular game watching the technique of others and so when it was my turn to play again, I added the following three steps:

(8) As soon as my left leg came forward, I dropped my right knee to the ice and extended my right leg back, bent low and pretended to aim.
(9) I ran to my team-mates and asked if they had witnessed MY 'FORM’! MY 'FORM'! MY KNEE WAS ON THE ICE AND I CAN CURL!
(10) My team-mates patting me on the head as their eyes glazed over and I kept chattering on about MY FORM! (Really.)

What not to do
First. As the other team ‘delivered’, I was in the end zone and knew we could broom their rock out of the point area if we broomed a little faster. So, in my over excitement and due to my over-layering, I over-heated, started laughing to myself while a voice in my head screamed “WE’RE GOING TO GET THEIR BALL OUT! BROOM, MAHA! BROOM!” and began to broom alongside my other teammate who was already brooming.

Apparently, you can only have one person brooming the stone / rock / ball of the delivering team. It doesn’t matter how happy and excited the second broomer may be, they are not allowed to broom. (I shake my fist at this rule.)

Second: Do not “I’m just going to push your rock out of the way for a moment”. Ever.

Third: Recall that this is not an Extreme Sport, and so when at the end of the game, you are sliding all of the rocks / balls / stones to one end, do not ‘let it rip’ and start smashing them all against one another and laughing at the fact that “they don’t break” or else you risk being called (lovingly, and with the biggest laugh and smile) “ya big goof” by the aforementioned Super Head Biggest Cheese at your workplace.

Fourth: Don’t smash your team-mate’s broom as you are brooming together. Most definitely, don’t do this and then ask them why they kept hitting you…

Fifth: Don't wear a long scarf, no matter how pretty and colourful she may be.

Finally, don’t broom with the wooden portion of the broom. Use the straw end…though this may go without saying for all normal folk, it was something I needed to have pointed out after I scraped all of the ice and stood wondering WHY THE ICE KEPT PEELING AND SLOWING ME DOWN

What to do
Join a recreational CURLING! team today. Enjoy an extremely fun sport and smile because you could be the next to grace the cover of SWEEP!

Girl With A Broom

I start curling on Tuesday.

Right. That about says it all.

Edit on 20 Jan '08: Read about it here.

One of life's great mysteries...

Does anyone know what a 'post doc' is? I'd never thought about it until New Year's Eve when the following conversation flowed around our table (performing a slow and quiet interpretive dance):

D: "...blablabla...working on their post doc."
Maha: "What is that, anyway?"
D: "What?"
Maha: "A 'post doc'?"
D: "Something to do with their PhD?"
P: "Isn't it work done post your doctorate?"

(silence)

Maha: "Do they get letters?"

(silence)

Maha: "You know, letters. Like, with their name? Like an 'M.A.' or a 'Dr'?"
P: "I don't think so, Maha..."
Maha: "Oh. Well. That sort of sucks; They really should consider at least giving them one extra letter. And if not, then they should make it a PhD²."

So...uhm...any of you know what a post doc amounts to? (I'm too floppy to Wiki as I've just come home from yoga.)

A Capital Idea (perhaps?)

OK. So this isn't one of the posts that took me a long time...it's just a post that came to me as I listened to the merry Carollers on Elgin Street. I asked them to sing 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town' and they did. I LOVE Carollers because they make me so happy! They're so brave to be out in the weather, and they're so awesome because their only aim is to impart holiday cheer, and I am all about holiday cheer.

Granted, I don't celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus in the same fashion as other Christians, but I love Him and I know He loves me back and so we're all good, the Baby Jesus and I.

Anyway, back to my (perhaps) Capital Idea. I THINK CAROLLERS SHOULD TRAVEL WITH A BEATBOX, and I want to be her.

I almost flew out of my skin just typing that because of the excitement the idea shoots through my body. I've been doing the work and using the How to Beatbox - wikiHow guide. If you scroll through the Wiki, you'll see that as a Beatboxer, I can make my own rhythms. So I've decided that I'm gonna raise the ante and bring home some Eastern beats when the Carollers are singing a little Hallelujah and a little Silent Night....most definitely when they're breaking down the Fa La La La La La La La La. It'll be the wickedest Interfaith Beatboxing, ever.

Once I've got the beatboxing down solid, I plan on tackling the How to Survive a Freestyle Rap Battle, because between the Catholic and the Evangelist Carollers, there may just be a throw down in the Carolling community. And as a Muslimah, I plan to ride low with the Catholics and have their back with my excellent beatboxing technique.

Whatever you do, just don't call it a comeback.

Thank you.

Crack at an Embassy Dinner

Went to a special embassy dinner Thursday evening at the National Press Club. The room was filled with people who all had the same first name: Excellency (what a neat coincidence!). I love to socialize and was in my element from beginning to end, with only one problem.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I am ON CAMPUS. 'Professore' starts his class at 4 and so I am obligated to get out of bed at approximately 5:45 a.m. in order to be at my desk by 7. I leave the office at 3 p.m. and walk the approximate mile and a half to get ON CAMPUS. On Thursday evening, I idiotically chose to then walk to the National Press Club another mile away.

This shouldn't be a problem, only...I was wearing Not Really A Wedge Heel Crack Wedge. By the time I arrived at the dinner and was being pulled around the room to start sentences with "So GOOD to see you..." and end them with "I adore your jewelry...we really need to get together for lunch. And SOON!" I was ready to collapse. And I don't mean collapse a teeny tiny bit, but collapse in melodramatic fashion and take three or four Excellencies with me.

While seated at our table, I made the mistake of laying off the crack. I'M A GIRL WHO OFTEN-TIMES USES CRACK, HOW COULD I HAVE MADE SUCH A TACTICAL ERROR? Needless to say, my feet expanded at an alarming rate and when it came time for more socializing, taking a crack hit was more akin to being showered with shards of glass and rusted nails. BUT I DID IT, AND, I MANAGED TO SOCIALIZE FOR ANOTHER HOUR ON MY FEET. By the end of this hour, I was short-tempered, impatient and ill-mannered not giving a rat's ass what the next story or punch-line was going to be because I don't care about where you went to school or who you went to school with and Newfie jokes are so 80s anyway and WHY ARE YOU TALKING SO SLOW? I was staring at people and willing them with my super powered eyes to HURRY UP OR SHUT UP (because I can do that sort of thing). But Excellency would have none of it. At this point in the evening, I was hanging out with my ovary donour, mom, and kept trying to get her to leave. How did I do this? I kept poking her in the back while people were in mid-sentence. WHO CARES ABOUT THEM? my eyes screamed. She would have none of it, either.

After saying my last goodbye, I noticed that I was standing braced and against a chair leaning with my full weight on that chair. It took everything for me to actually move and perform the Cirque du Soleil acrobatic of walking. My mother told me it was inappropriate for me to use the chair as a walker. As she wrenched my hands free, I almost hit her.

As soon as I slipped out of the National Press Club of HELL, I went off the crack and walked around with naked feat. It was raining and it felt good. So good that I almost cried.

Some other notable points during the course of that evening:
- Among the people seated at our table were two Catholic priests, one of whom was in his 90s, the other a man whose known me since I was a wee thing no taller than two feet high on crack (me, not the Priest). I kept staring at the former because I was certain he would, sooner rather than later, fall asleep and never wake up. He didn't. Phew. I wanted to give him a big squeeze but feared he would break if I did. I kept myself in check and my hands behind my back.

The later Priest and I discussed the inner workings of Opus Dei (yes: the albino in Davinci) and the philosophical underpinnings and their natural extension to oppression. After positing my opinion of Opus Dei, I found out that his brother's an Opus Dei member. (Ooooh. Maybe they're the ones trying to break into my account?) I'll probably die "accidentally" for what I said; if I do, make certain to investigate, SVU style s'il vous plait.

- My father kept pulling me all over the Press Club to introduce me to people (I couldn't let MY FATHER THE FEMINIST in on the agony of my crack hit because he refers to crack as 'tools to oppress women and I don't understand why you feel you have to wear them, just look at how comfortable I am in my squeeky clean white cushioned running shoes never mind that I hardly walk anywhere and prefer to instead drive around in my luxury Mercedes and what were we talking about anyway?'). At one point, one man made the following "joke": And here I was thinking that (insert baba's name) was a lucky man to have such a beauty at his side! I thought he SCORED! HA HA HA! I SEE WHERE YOU GET YOUR LOOKS, AAAAAAHAHAHA! I threw up a little in my mouth, but managed to keep smiling. I offered the diplomatic response of: "Why in the HELL would I date someone OLD? Are you CRAZY OR JUST DRUNK?" only it sounded like: "hee hee, that's funny. You're sweet. I get my looks from my mom, dumb ass."

- At one point during a speech being given by His Excellency Something Or Other, some guy yelled out "VIVE LE PALESTINE LIBRE!" It stunned me and gave me the hiccups.

Dispatch no 1, Toronto: Dork, extraordinaire

Seated across from me on the airplane, I knew I recognised him but I couldn't quite place from which television show. Because...it's difficult to name That Canadian Actor under the best of circumstance - seated behind and at an angle made it slightly more difficult.

While waiting for our luggage, this gentleman and I chatted and I instinctively KNEW. I knew how I knew him, and I was so excited! For a brief moment, I hesitated to ask but then gave in because I thought he would feel really good if a girl in my age category told him she remembered him and loved him on L.A. Law. I didn't mind that he wasn't a fellow Canadian; a girl's allowed to make mistakes.

Discreetly, I leaned over and enquired: “Are you the gentleman from LA Law?”

Richard Dysart:



To which he graciously and as equally discreetly responded with: “No, I used to be the leader of the opposition…”

Bill Graham:



My middle name is: Smooth.

Thank you.

(P.S. I also saw Roméo Dallaire, who I recognized without problem. I didn’t approach him because it’s Roméo and when one sees the General, one should just ogle in great wonder and awe.

THEN I saw The Naked Chef, Jamie Oliver, only he was fully clothed. Lovely man, of whom I took a few photos that you can find at this link. The photos make it look as though I was hiding in a bush, which maybe I was...)

The PIGS! come in different shapes and sizes and don't always pull their weenies out to show you

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 of incredible proportion 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 young coffee makers was fired without reason and everyone avoided the subject around me, I suspected something was up. 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 could 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 YUCK YOU! YOU'RE GROSS. AND '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!)

‘Marvin Under Glass’

This is my contribution to the world of hilariously pretentious art: Marvin Under Glass. (I am certain Marvin’s great great grandfather served as the muse to Kafka.)

I am quite terrified of insects – only recently having accepted that Lady Bugs don’t bite and inject you with a venomous substance driving you to Mad Lady Disease when you least expect it.

Borne of that fear is ‘Marvin Under Glass’. I can’t kill insects in the normal way (swatting or stamping) – this affliction being so bad that I once ran all over our apartment with a can of Easy Off oven cleaner, wearing oven mitts, chasing down a moth. I needed to kill it and I thought suffocation was the best venue. When she died, I used an approximate 2,716 tissues to scoop her up, while still wearing my mitts. I then threw her off the balcony.

If I were into killing people, I’d have come up with at least 58 different gases and toxins that wouldn’t force me to either see or hear the sound of Death. (Lucky I’m only into Crack.)

Back to Marvin. Marvin and I were alone in the apartment and I had no idea he was even home because that is just how sly Marvin really is. I hear he’s always been that way, and so I accept this reality. Anyway. I was crossing over from the kitchen to the television room when Marvin decided to run past me at top speed. His hundreds of legs can really move, and considering he was quite nearly the colour of the carpet, I mistook him for a ripple in the carpet itself until I stopped walking and took a closer look at which point my gag reflexes kicked in.

I screamed repeatedly and then calmly walked into the kitchen, put down my bowl of Frosted Flakes and took out the only glass mug baba has. I approached Marvin very carefully and more quietly popped the glass mug over top of him.





Rumour was that Marvin’s family is sneaky and so I decided to add another layer of pressure to the original glass mug so that Marvin’s family wouldn’t come over, raise the original mug and allow him to flee.




I was particularly scared that he managed to bring in a glass cutter with him and so I sat by guarding him until baba came home, at which point I stood on top of the chair and asked him to please kill Marvin. (Not to mention that I wrote for baba and taped to the front door a "Newsletter On: The Circumstances Which Led to Marvin Under Glass, and would you please kill him already".)

My father stared at me as though I should have been the one beneath glass. But he still killed Marvin, of whom all that’s left is this memory.

Pooling the Weirdness of the Manual Fix

The following is a compilation of the entries I had to make (and then delete) over the last 48 hours, in an effort to fix something manually. The bolded text denotes the title of each entry.

I've always been intrigued by Zodiac signs
...and the alignment of the planets. I don't understand any of it, and I usually laugh at it - unlike the fortune cookie, which I take very seriously - but deep down inside, I'm always a little bit curious.

Another thing I'm curious about
Is the infinite stupidity of wo/man. I'm usually left agog - is that the correct spelling? - by it. I am the first to suffer from it, too.

I am about to head out for dinner with some friends
Late dinners are the best, n'est pas?

How many of you watch television?
I usually watch shows online.

I don't know if this one will make it through!
Did it?

1969
Was a good year...

So was 1846
Or so I hear.

1456
Was a boring year.

But 1948 most definitely was not
Jog your political memories, kids.

Dinner this weekend
Was a lot of fun and I managed to get some excellent pictures.

And I will post them soon
As soon as I get my BabyMac back from her Doctor's. It's on her I have Bluetooth.

And then I can simply sit back and enjoy you enjoying them
Because as much as I think I need time away from here, here is really where I belong.