NYC this day (10 things to note, +1)

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."
...and I plan on doing just that tomorrow, Inshallah. Find Patrick Collins' art here, please.

(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, you creepy f*cknut? 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.

Patrick was cool, though...

.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 talk to her about my boy problems.
P.S. Marisa Tomei is a beauty - she has a face untouched by botox and she is beautiful.

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



.7. I ate a pretzel.



.8. We hung out at Gramercy 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.

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!

Men and *That* Woman

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. Bare with me as I write in generalizations and from my own experience and observation, please.

(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.) 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 he wants to commit to. 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 - otherwise, he's not much of a man...at least not in my books). 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.

The Secret Lives of Churches: Muslims Gone Wild

Proof that a Muslimah can be inside of a Church without catching Hell fire.



Someone tell McBush, STAT.

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!

Shawn & Kelly (Part 1, 2 & 3 of 4)

You all know Shawn, who I have mentioned on numerous occasions as 'S'.

Shawn and I have a rare sort of friendship. I don't believe that beyond a certain age, men and women can be friends. I do believe - that for the most part - in order for us to be close friends, there needs to be a certain level of attraction that exists, and so friendship in its purest form as it exists between two straight women (for example) can never be attained between a man and a woman. Or so is my experience because men always fall in love with me due to my never ending charming.

Shawn is unique.
Shawn and I fell for one another's friendship immediately and without hesitation and our friendship was based on the trading of secrets (our own, not those of others).

He has offered support when I least expected it and talked me through the most obscure, surreal and craziest moments. He has also always offered an honest and sincere interest in and support of my life. Even though it should go without saying, I will write it anyway: the last two sentences are dittoed on my end.

Understand that Shawn has a special place in my life...and on Saturday he was married.

Part 1: The Wedding
Shawn met a beautiful and sparkly girl named Kelly.
Shawn and Kelly fell in love.
Shawn and Kelly got married...because that's what folks do when they want to adventure together for an extended period of time. Or so is the case, in my world, shared by the likes of Shawn and Kelly.

My heart nearly exploded through my chest when I walked up to the church and saw him standing in his tuxedo, I was so happy - a word that falls so short of what I actually experienced.

(My heart also nearly exploded because I was wearing a shade of sl*t red entering into a church while others were in subdued hues of brown, black, blue and grey. Hurrah for D who showed up in the same - entirely unplanned - shade of red a wee bit later.)

Not surprisingly for a girl who cries when she sees any act of kindness, I cry at weddings.
On Saturday, I cried a lot, and for two reasons.

The first was because it was in a Church.
I am a Muslimah and so I heart Jesus (as well as Moses and the rest). Consequently, it fills me with unbelievable amounts of warm and fuzzy when I see people standing / sitting before a priest, sheikh or a rabbi and entering into this very 'covenant' before God.

There was an incredible moment when the priest mentioned the etymology of the word 'sacrifice' and how it is sacrifice and forgiveness that make a relationship work. Sacrifice is rooted in the Latin concept to come together, and so when entering into a union of this sort, sacrifice (a word that too many frown upon) is the key to unifying as one, rather than existing as two solitudes and feigning unity. (Remember that. Also remember that our worth is measured not by our ability to remain a single unyielding entity, but rather how we enrich, improve, challenge to make better the lives of everyone in our path. You did not become so great had it not been for the sacrifices made on your behalf; so always work to return the favour to the universe (so long as you're not going against your moral code, obviously).)

But I digress.
I still remember Shawn sitting across from me in the fall of 2006 and telling me about Kelly, who he'd already fallen in love with. (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.))

Needless to say, Kelly's an easy girl to fall in love with because she's of the rare few who seem to have an endless amount of love to give, leaving others to wonder how such a tiny chest cavity can hold a heart so big.

Shawn didn't merely fall in love with her, but rather he fell into a state of adoring her. Seeing this so clearly and in such palpable manner was the second reason I cried more so than usual.

I heard it in Shawn's voice two years ago and I saw it all over his face on Saturday. What a pleasure it was to be witness to what may very well be the key to 'ever' after.

Part 2: The Party
Too much to tell you, and I've already told you the most important part.

Let me say that I danced with three wonderful folks, one of whom I will discuss in the following section. First, though, and perhaps most importantly, is that Shawn's mom and dad taught me how to jive dance.

They had the patience to teach me how to jive dance!! I couldn't believe my luck - I was so excited and kept tripping at first, throwing my hand up at all the wrong moments, but still keeping the beat and so they kept at it with me.

I can now - sort of - jive dance. I need a little practice, but I appreciate that they took the time to graciously waste on me.

(A little note on Shawn's family, just so you understand the sort of creativity that exists in their world: Shawn is adopted and in order for the mama and the papa to teach Shawn about that, his mum created a story book about their lives and how they found Shawn. Mama and papa were bears, and Shawn was a penguin brought into their family. I will forever think of Shawn's mom as The Penguin Lady whose sense of imagination I love.)

Part 3: Salt
I've mentioned previously that Shawn is a writer with several Hollywood scripts already under his belt.

A while back, Shawn started telling me about "Max and his amazing family", with whom Shawn was working on a new project. Whenever Shawn mentioned Max, he lit up with energy and admiration and an overall sense of awe. When discussing Max's family, I could almost touch how much Shawn's come to love them, most definitely how grateful he is for their presence in his life.

Max is 27 years old with cystic fibrosis. His beautiful beautiful sister also has CF.

I must admit that before I met Max, I'd not known anyone with CF. I will also admit that I had a deep misunderstanding about what CF does and how it affects those who have it. Max pretty much shattered every misconception I had of this disease and I spent the better part of yesterday grilling my med school cousin about CF.

Please learn more about Cystic Fibrosis and consider supporting a foundation in your local area. Also, please read about and get to know the labour of love that is Salt, borne between Shawn and Max McGuire. (I will provide more info on Salt as it becomes available.)

For all of my blogging brothers and sisters, please consider placing a link to Salt's home. (Shukran.)

Part 4 is forthcoming; the day in pretty pictures, happy faces and a lot of red lipstick.

Three honourary mentions:
(1) Folks were trying to guess where I was from - behind my back - until Shawn told me.
(2) I fell in love with all of Shawn's uncles, the Riopelle men, one of whom provided one of the three greatest lines of the evening: "How can the Jews be fighting your kind when all they need to do is look over the fence and see that Palestinian girls look like you?! WHY ARE YOU SINGLE??"
(3) The other two "greatest lines" of the evening belong to Kevin, the best man, who started the evening's hilarities with his speech as follows: "Fornication! Oh. Uh. Sorry, I tend to speak too quickly when I'm nervous. Let me try that again: For an occasion..."
& ended our night with this goodbye to me: "When I saw you coming towards the church in your red dress, I thought 'holy shit! I've forgotten everything Freud's taught me! All of that therapy down the drains. Damn!" (Because, really: What more could a girl ask for, yes?)

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.)

War, Inc

I don't have a clue how to work myspace, but hopefully you do and you will be able to do something with this link.

John Cusack's latest and greatest is War, Inc. and it is, from its attempted (& failed) murder by Those Who Would Have You Never Know to the brilliant and shiny reviews of Those Who You Should Be Getting In Bed With...sounding rather spectacular.



Please support it any way you can; it's these sorts of challenges to the status quo that require our attention.

And if anyone does know how to work myspace, please let me know what the hell I'm supposed to do in order to become an official myspace supporter of War, Inc.

(I like to go here in order to find out in which manner Iraq and it's folks are being screwed on any given day.

And remember:

Vote McBush, y'all!
Keepin' Whities strong and darkies screwed.
Your natural resources Whitie's Mine All Mine.
Praise his Jesus!
Vote McBush!
*Insert pompoms and back flips and fists in the air and up your bum, Darkie! and short skirts over blonde McBush*
YAY!
HURRAH!
GO RICH WHITIE GETTIN' RICHER & HILLBILLIER!

And finally, honestly and with deep sincerity:

May Allah indeed bless America by giving it back to those who would uphold the values that should be cherished, the freedoms that should be protected and the rights that are owed to all and not merely a few.

Support War, Inc.
Tell your friends.)

K

Most of you should remember K of "M & K", inspiration for A Home Can Not Be Built on the Table of an Architect.

Before your day is over, please send her your best energy.

(It's nothing serious, but still warranted.)

Comments here are closed.

Q after Q

"how to tell if you've had a boy or a girl"
If it has a peen, it's a boy.
If it doesn't, it's a girl.
If it looks dumb, it's definitely yours.

"fuck in arabic"
We usually call it: The Terrorist Jab.

"Gerard Butler dates black women?!!"
GO MCCAIN!

"fell backwards knee was bent and sat on leg"
For $800, What is a poorly performed yoga move?

"angelina jolie crotch dropper"
That would be Bradley Pitt.

"female ass and legs"
No head, please.

"what is a canuck"
It's a duck.

"kinky things to do in london"
...as opposed to the kinky things one does...in other parts of the world, of course.

"recurring dreams of driving from back seat"
You must learn to cede control, immediately.

"can i the lyrics to the child of glass frere jacques songs"
You can to do it any which way to whom it may be possible just ask the moron trying to figure out if he had the boy or of the girl baby above.

Big Hair Dork

Please note how pleased I am with myself, proudly displaying my Krav Maga Certificate:



I am giggly and happy because I didn't know my hair had done that, whatever that may have been.

See that everyone else's hair looks relatively normal? And yet no one, not even my best friend, thought it appropriate to mention I looked like Medusa just crawled through The Commando Bush to get to the photo op, but FIRST! Stopped at the Texan hair salon where she had her hair teased and aerosol sprayed just so.

And remember: Nothing says self defense like a weird little loop of 'is that really her hair?' hair over one's left shoulder.

DO YOU SEE MY HAIR?

WHAT IS THAT LOOP?
I'LL TELL YOU! IT'S JUST. WEIRD. AND AWKWARD.

Moments before this was taken, T had been pulling on my hair (a common tactic used by men when they are attacking women). At one point she stopped and said: "your hair", but I thought she was merely making a point because I'd just had my hair coloured the day prior.

T has a wicked habit of thinking outside her own head (& I love her for it), and so I merely assumed she was talking to her self. Little did I know it was a "WTF" kind of observation rather than a simple and appreciative one on my newly coloured - shade of red, please - hair.

(Of special interest: It was T who took this photo. Seriously...her hair was perfect.)

Krav Maga

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. This photo was taken moments before T kicked me in the leg:



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.

Obama mama fo mama! Fe fi fo ma ma! OBAMA!

"YES WE CAN, TOE THE LINE!"

Congratulations to Obama...

...and to the United States of America. This is one of the most important and brilliant days of your still young life, America, and it is one of which you should be proud - no matter which nominee you supported.

Bravo.

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.

Oh

"Children as young as 6 have been forced to have sex with aid workers and peacekeepers in return for food and money..."

I started crying when I read the above article, and it didn't get much better as I was reading the report itself. Please read it if you can as it's just a quick 37 pages. Then do something about it, either by donating money or sending an email or writing a letter or volunteering at a local shelter for abused children.

I've been reading a lot lately about child sexual abuse and exploitation and I can not actually coherently articulate what I think should happen to adult men** who so much as touch anyone below the age of 18. My 'articulation' can't form a linear coherent and logical train of thought; it does, though, give rise to images of crowbars, bats, chains and rusty saws. Without exaggeration, the Saw films would look like a Disney undertaking compared to my imagination.

Sad aside: Did you know that most of the time the (vile, repugnant, unworthy of life) Molester is a trusted family member or someone that would be characterized as a family member, such as an 'uncle' figure?

Even sader aside: Most of the time, the parent(s) is aware that something is going on.

What would you have done to both the parent and that 'uncle'? What would you do? Because there is nothing that you could tell me you would do that I've not already imagined I too would do. And then some. Or maybe: And then too much to merely call "some".

Parents have a duty to protect their children with their life. As I type this, I choke on the mere thought that my parents would shirk this responsibility where I was concerned, as a child, or where I am concerned still, as an adult. This duty, I believe, is among the most important - if not the most important in our lives. I can't possibly imagine what kind of weak, pathetic, disparate character one would possess if they suspected that their child was being molested and DID NOTHING. I actually can't imagine it. I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't think straight if I try to understand it and I loose all cool even writing about it.

When those duties are not taken seriously or with the ferociousness as the protection offered in the animal kingdom when a mama or baba has to protect their cubs, then that "parent" deserves to have every bone in their body broken. And I don't give a rat's ass about the cycle of violence; I don't care if that parent was previously abused or neglected because there is NO EXCUSE. There is NO EXCUSE. You want to cry me a f*cking river about your past; I'll tell you to f*ck off, still.

As with the situation referenced above, there is - and I don't use this term lightly - an 'evil' to the character of those who would commit such a crime against children. A parent's silence is an equally - if not more so - wretched complicity in the act.

There is no recourse, there is no apology, and there is no forgiveness of these individuals. There should only be death.

I've just donated to Save the Children (Canada); I recommend you consider doing the same. For those of you in the USA, you may donate here, while those of you in the UK, can make contact with the organization here.

--------------------
** Save for very rare situations, the impulse to sexually molest children does not seem to be part of the psychological composite of females, but is, rather, a compulsion that seems to lie deep within the male psyche.

Apologies for my going off topic, but the subject of child molestation is one of a handful of subjects that throw me into a tailspin...as you've just witnessed.

Writer's Block!

I'm drawing a blank and need your help - please let me know what you would like for me to write about and I will.

Please feel free to ping me an email with any questions and / or topics you'd like to see up for discussion / random ramblings: one.female.canuck@mac.com

Comments here are closed.

Conversation snippet

Maha: "Are you going to eat that lemon on your cola, 'cus if you're not, then can I have it?"
T: "GOD NO! I watched a show on lemons and they're completely covered in e.coli and disgusting bacteria and people pick them up and drop them in the washrooms and on floors and restaurants never wash them because they're covered in a peel! There are so many horrible diseases you can catch from lemons, it's amazing and really sort of UGH just gross and filthy I can't even see one without thinking about disease and it's almost touching my cola! GROSS!"

(pause)

Maha: "So. Uhm...are you going to eat that lemon, 'cus if you're not..."
T: "Just take the damn lemon, already."
Maha: "yay. shhh."

Searching the engine

"you love your girlfriend but she when you do be his friend"
your grammar be when it is with the illin' really bad amigo.

"pantaloons pattern for petite ladies"
NO.

"what does a man mean when he calls you sweetie"
It means he's in love with you and wants to marry you. Please feel free to start shopping for a wedding dress.

"groundhog female color"
EVIL.

"onion under armbit"
Hello, Arab.

"how to be the alpha male like tyler durden"
Sweetheart. If you need to ask that question, please understand that you'll never be able to fulfill the answer.

"are libra women true whores?"
No. We're 'whore' of the False variety. (& p.s. WTF?)

"do guys like to touch hair"
Yes. But only that of the "libra women true whore" sort.

"what does a typical libra female look like"
Look for the female with the two large scales on either side of her body.

"trumping pigs"
Really? Where? I'd like to see them, too, please.

"donkey flipbook"
ha ha ha. That's just funny and I'm going to use that in a sentence soon. (At work in a meeting with the senior executives.)

There is a real and complete blog entry coming soon! Thanks for your patience and all of your wonderful and kind and hilarious emails.

'Happy Birthday Israel"

"We have come and we have stolen their country...We must do everything to insure they never do return."
- Israel's first Prime Minister David Ben Gurion

"apartheid nature of Israel state"
- UN Resolution 338/339

Not everyone in the Jewish community celebrates this day. Please visit NION for more information.

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.

The Most Popular Game in 2008

It's called: Bash The Muslim, Just Because. (Soft sell bigoted rhetoric that serves as foundation for hate mongering.)

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...

Quote Unquote

"Faith is the daring of the soul to go farther than it can see."
- William Newton Clarke

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.

Search search search

"random female ass"
I guess s/he was bored of the specific one they've carried around for the last x amount of years.

"secrets about boys every girl should know"
There's only one secret that matters, and it is: Boys Lie (whereas Men do not).

"he she her Ibiza met attracted went ate tried liked love came over"
you him her internet bad repellant fool go away.

"HAS A NYONE WASHED THE IKEA SLIP COVERS"
I'LL TELL Y OU BUT ONLY IF YOU STOP YELLING.

"who is gerald butler's girlfriend"
Who is geraLd butler?

"he touches my hair"
Uhm. I guess this is alright so long as (a) his hands are clean; (2) he is a friend; and, (3) he pats and does not tug or pull or twist or rip or drag.

"extra large woman absolutely no porn"
You are weird. (Absolutely no question about it.)

(I am battling with a groundhog; real actual entry coming very very soon...)

"Obliterate" Iran?

Thanks for this, Hillary: "Clinton told ABC News: "I want the Iranians to know that if I'm the president, we will attack Iran.

'In the next 10 years, during which they might foolishly consider launching an attack on Israel, we would be able to totally obliterate them.'"

I love that! "Obliterate". She will "obliterate" an entire country.

Less Muslims in the world. Hurrah!

100 acres of land

Is one of the properties my (father's) family owns in Gaza. On this land were thousands of orange, grapefruit, lemon, olive & valencia trees. We've owned this land for generations and it has fed and housed generations.

There are pictures of me as an infant playing and sleeping among the trees, covered head to toe in dirt.

It was where we welcomed guests; it was where my cousins and I ate fresh cactus fruit and hid from the adults.

It was there pictured my mother and my father and a newborn infant, still a happy couple.

It will always be there that my favourite picture of my paternal grandfather and I was taken; it's a black and white photo of him seated shelling peanuts and handing them to a four year old me in bloomers and a sleeveless dress covered in flowers. I was looking at the camera squinting, smiling and waving with a fat hand because my grandfather was spoiling me.

My paternal grandfather commanded respect, not love. As an infant, the barriers paid attention to by adults meant nothing to me, though I would later grow into a teenager who was scared of this man, who held her tongue in his presence and who often wondered why he'd bothered having children.

I have become a woman who understands that the choices we make in this life define who we are, and even though his choices made him a difficult man to love, I hold on to that photo, on that land, in that summer house, and let it guide my heart when I think of this Seedo.

This past weekend, the Israeli Defence Forces went on to our property and uprooted each one of those trees.
They demolished our home.
They have left: Nothing on 100 acres of land.

There is no justification, but there is an explanation: Apart from the psychological warfare in which Israel is engaging against the Palestinians, so too does it every day engage in economic warfare. This instance is one of them. The land was viable. The land was productive and healthy and offered fruit and vegetables to Palestinians. That is reason enough for the State of Israel.

Our property is not unique, we are not to be pitied for this loss as there is nothing 'special' about it (only that we've managed to escape the bulldozers for so long); our land is one of thousands that has been raised. It will not be mentioned in history aside from a default into the land that was destroyed by the State of Israel.

Only, it is unique to us, my family; it is a part of our history and no matter the size of that tank or the size of that bulldozer, that is one thing that - try as they might - the State of Israel will never occupy or demolish.

"Stop, O people, that I may give you ten rules for your guidance in the battlefield. Do not commit treachery or deviate from the right path. You must not mutilate dead bodies. Neither kill a child, nor a woman, nor an aged man. Bring no harm to the trees, nor burn them with fire, especially those which are fruitful. Slay not any of the enemy's flock, save for your food. You are likely to pass by people who have devoted their lives to monastic services; leave them alone.”
-Islamic rules for engaging in warfare. (If only...)

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