Lugeu-ing into قصي خولي (Kosai Khouly) and catching something (anything & everything…)
.1. I’ve quite nearly finished defining categories for this blog, creating two more this very evening: Feminism & قصي خولي / Kosai Khouly.
While sorting through all previous entries, I came across this little gem about none other than my very own Kosai Khouly. Did you catch that? I’ve defined Him as “my” = “my very own” = “my property”. I point this out to you just for clarification and not because I think you’re dense and potentially dangerous to my endeavor where He (“mine”) is concerned.
There are a slew of other entries that reminded me of situations and people I’d forgotten long ago. With that in mind, I present you with the following…
.2. I found The Time My Uncle Dragged Me Across The Streetand then laughed at me and realized that I’d promised to take y’all down this following and particular trip down memory lane.
What follows is the story I promised you quite nearly a year ago…
It was in fourth year university and I was in Southam Hall with T & J. Southam Hall’s stairs are an unfriendly mix of concrete and marble. The staircase is an odd winding one that is – for the entire five or six floors of the building – of an open concept nature. While standing on any floor, you may watch everyone moving up and down all level of stairs.
I was wearing black crack with relatively small wide heels. In the crook of my left arm I was carrying my winter jacket and two of my gigantic leather-bound law books. In my right hand I was carrying the most precious liquid known to wo/mankind: Coffee.
We were going down the stairs in a single row, T in front before me and J behind me. Seeing as how we were in between periods, traffic was heavy.
As we were descending the final eight or ten steps, someone from two or three flights above called down to me. I looked up, saw my friend and waved a friendly hello as I continued down the stairs.
A grievous error this attempt to multi-task. As you are all undoubtedly aware, I am wholly uncoordinated yet determined to keep active engagement in this physical movement which many of you take for granted. It haunts me often, this thing others do so gracefully: Walking.
As soon as I looked up, both of my feet came out from under me as my coffee holding hand went up to engage in The Greeting That Could Have Ended My Life. At that very moment, Kosai / Kusai / Kusay / Qusai / Qusay / Kosay Khouli / Khouly was awakened from a deep slumber by his 6th sense, feeling that his future wife – I – was in grave danger. His sensitivity is lovely.
I hit the cement steps with my body fully laid out like that of any world-class lugeuse and then, at inhuman speed, made my way toward my best friend who was, by now, at the bottom of the steps. As in the Winter Olympics, I was hit with an image of me wearing a full-body nylon suit and matching goggles. Naturally, there is no crack when one is luge-ing…or, at the very least, the crack is ugly enough to not warrant serious mention.
When my feet were within inches of T’s bottom, the top half of my body sprung up and I found myself seated -with most excellent posture - like a debutante on the bottom step. Within my left arm rested my jacket and books, and in my right hand, my coffee neither shaken nor stirred.
There was total silence in Southam Hall at that moment. Everyone had ceased to descend or ascend and were, instead, watching The Dork spill down the stairs. If my friend above hadn’t called out my name, no one would have bothered to look at me and no one would have noticed me and no one would have know that I, Dork, am in fact: “Maha”.
T took one look at me, started laughinghard, turned around and blew through the doors. I love that my best friend was so supportive. I looked over my shoulder, somewhat shocked, and found J standing at the top of the stairs staring down at me, eyes wide and mouth hung open.
I smiled.
He asked: “Oh my God?” and then ran down the stairs to see if I was hurt. A quiet murmur began to cross the crowd and I could make out: “Duuuude. She totally didn’t spill ANY of her coffee. Duuuude! Waa-ooo-www.”
Mynemesis friend above called out to make certain I was alright. For a second and third time, she called out my name. Because the first time wasn’t enough, and just in case folks were too busy talking and the opportunity had slipped unnoticed, they caught my name the second, if not the third time she yelled: “MAHA ARE YOU ALRIGHT? MAHA!”
J called up to her and said I was okay…
T had decided to come back, but she’d not finished laughing. Like a good Clarica commercial, she clarified: “That’s so embarrassing!” before realizing that her stint as “best friend” was in danger if she didn’t make amends.
She asked: “Are you okay?”
“My knee hurts, but I don’t know why.”
“That’s weird. You didn’t even spill coffee and your hair still looks good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“My knee hurts.”
“Maybe it’s because it was too straight when you…when you…BAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA AHAHA HAHA AAAHAHAHAHA HA HA.”
“Nice.”
“Sorry. HA HA. I’m sorry. HA HA HA. But you tobogganed! HA HA HA HA.”
“I Luged?”
“Yes! HA. AHA. HEH. HA.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t think we should go to class.”
“Me either. Hey! J! Let’s all have coffee instead!”
“Fine by me. Can we walk?”
“Yes.”
“How’s your crack? Are they broken?”
“No.”
“Thank God. I love that pair.”
We proceeded to campus’ non-first-year pub / coffee house / hang out, Oliver’s, where we spent the rest of the day enjoying free coffee and food. The bartenders / cooks / staff were determined to pamper the first lugeuse born of our University, and I’m never one to turn down a moment of pampering or spoiling.
While on my way across campus later that same day, a virtual and beautiful stranger called out: “Hey, Maya, I saw what you did in Southam man! That was AWE-SOME! You’re hilarious!”
Had I, at that moment, been at the top of any stairs, I would have willingly propelled myself down.
.3. Did you know that: Your blogMistress is a hypochondriac?
I am. Just as He = Mine (please see point above, no. 1), I am a hypochondriac.
To prove it, here are snippets of recent conversations I have had with various friends…most of which occurred after one of my classmates sneezed and I dove beneath my desk (en Francais):
Conversation no.1
“I have nerve damage.”
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes my upper shoulders lock because of it.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I HAVE NERVE DAMAGE, TOO. I’M TALKING TO YOU AND I CAN’T WIGGLE MY SHOULDERS.”
“Maha. We’re on our backs with our legs thrown over our heads. It’s yoga, not nerve damage.”
Conversation no.2
“He has a disease specific to the male body.”
“ME TOO!”
“Shut up.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Just. Stop. Maha.”
Conversation no.3
“One of the symptoms is a rash.”
“OH MY GOD! I HAVE A RASH!”
“You do?”
“YES! LOOK AT IT! IT’S ALL OVER MY FACE.”
“Those are pillow lines from where you slept on your face.”
Conversation no.4
“She is schizophrenic.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! AND ME TOO!”
Conversation no.5
“He has Alzheimer’s.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I THINK. BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER.”
Conversation no.6
“I have a folder.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I KEEP WANTING TO PLACE PAPER IN MY MOUTH AND THROW MYSELF ACROSS A TABLE AT FULL SPEED.”
…so in other words, if it has a name then OH MY GOD! I have it. I’m certain this has something to do with the fact that I have anunhealthy overactive imagination.
While sorting through all previous entries, I came across this little gem about none other than my very own Kosai Khouly. Did you catch that? I’ve defined Him as “my” = “my very own” = “my property”. I point this out to you just for clarification and not because I think you’re dense and potentially dangerous to my endeavor where He (“mine”) is concerned.
There are a slew of other entries that reminded me of situations and people I’d forgotten long ago. With that in mind, I present you with the following…
.2. I found The Time My Uncle Dragged Me Across The Street
What follows is the story I promised you quite nearly a year ago…
It was in fourth year university and I was in Southam Hall with T & J. Southam Hall’s stairs are an unfriendly mix of concrete and marble. The staircase is an odd winding one that is – for the entire five or six floors of the building – of an open concept nature. While standing on any floor, you may watch everyone moving up and down all level of stairs.
I was wearing black crack with relatively small wide heels. In the crook of my left arm I was carrying my winter jacket and two of my gigantic leather-bound law books. In my right hand I was carrying the most precious liquid known to wo/mankind: Coffee.
We were going down the stairs in a single row, T in front before me and J behind me. Seeing as how we were in between periods, traffic was heavy.
As we were descending the final eight or ten steps, someone from two or three flights above called down to me. I looked up, saw my friend and waved a friendly hello as I continued down the stairs.
A grievous error this attempt to multi-task. As you are all undoubtedly aware, I am wholly uncoordinated yet determined to keep active engagement in this physical movement which many of you take for granted. It haunts me often, this thing others do so gracefully: Walking.
As soon as I looked up, both of my feet came out from under me as my coffee holding hand went up to engage in The Greeting That Could Have Ended My Life. At that very moment, Kosai / Kusai / Kusay / Qusai / Qusay / Kosay Khouli / Khouly was awakened from a deep slumber by his 6th sense, feeling that his future wife – I – was in grave danger. His sensitivity is lovely.
I hit the cement steps with my body fully laid out like that of any world-class lugeuse and then, at inhuman speed, made my way toward my best friend who was, by now, at the bottom of the steps. As in the Winter Olympics, I was hit with an image of me wearing a full-body nylon suit and matching goggles. Naturally, there is no crack when one is luge-ing…or, at the very least, the crack is ugly enough to not warrant serious mention.
When my feet were within inches of T’s bottom, the top half of my body sprung up and I found myself seated -
There was total silence in Southam Hall at that moment. Everyone had ceased to descend or ascend and were, instead, watching The Dork spill down the stairs. If my friend above hadn’t called out my name, no one would have bothered to look at me and no one would have noticed me and no one would have know that I, Dork, am in fact: “Maha”.
T took one look at me, started laughing
I smiled.
He asked: “Oh my God?” and then ran down the stairs to see if I was hurt. A quiet murmur began to cross the crowd and I could make out: “Duuuude. She totally didn’t spill ANY of her coffee. Duuuude! Waa-ooo-www.”
My
J called up to her and said I was okay…
T had decided to come back, but she’d not finished laughing. Like a good Clarica commercial, she clarified: “That’s so embarrassing!” before realizing that her stint as “best friend” was in danger if she didn’t make amends.
She asked: “Are you okay?”
“My knee hurts, but I don’t know why.”
“That’s weird. You didn’t even spill coffee and your hair still looks good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“My knee hurts.”
“Maybe it’s because it was too straight when you…when you…BAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA AHAHA HAHA AAAHAHAHAHA HA HA.”
“Nice.”
“Sorry. HA HA. I’m sorry. HA HA HA. But you tobogganed! HA HA HA HA.”
“I Luged?”
“Yes! HA. AHA. HEH. HA.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t think we should go to class.”
“Me either. Hey! J! Let’s all have coffee instead!”
“Fine by me. Can we walk?”
“Yes.”
“How’s your crack? Are they broken?”
“No.”
“Thank God. I love that pair.”
We proceeded to campus’ non-first-year pub / coffee house / hang out, Oliver’s, where we spent the rest of the day enjoying free coffee and food. The bartenders / cooks / staff were determined to pamper the first lugeuse born of our University, and I’m never one to turn down a moment of pampering or spoiling.
While on my way across campus later that same day, a virtual and beautiful stranger called out: “Hey, Maya, I saw what you did in Southam man! That was AWE-SOME! You’re hilarious!”
Had I, at that moment, been at the top of any stairs, I would have willingly propelled myself down.
.3. Did you know that: Your blogMistress is a hypochondriac?
I am. Just as He = Mine (please see point above, no. 1), I am a hypochondriac.
To prove it, here are snippets of recent conversations I have had with various friends…most of which occurred after one of my classmates sneezed and I dove beneath my desk (en Francais):
Conversation no.1
“I have nerve damage.”
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes my upper shoulders lock because of it.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I HAVE NERVE DAMAGE, TOO. I’M TALKING TO YOU AND I CAN’T WIGGLE MY SHOULDERS.”
“Maha. We’re on our backs with our legs thrown over our heads. It’s yoga, not nerve damage.”
Conversation no.2
“He has a disease specific to the male body.”
“ME TOO!”
“Shut up.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Just. Stop. Maha.”
Conversation no.3
“One of the symptoms is a rash.”
“OH MY GOD! I HAVE A RASH!”
“You do?”
“YES! LOOK AT IT! IT’S ALL OVER MY FACE.”
“Those are pillow lines from where you slept on your face.”
Conversation no.4
“She is schizophrenic.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! AND ME TOO!”
Conversation no.5
“He has Alzheimer’s.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I THINK. BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER.”
Conversation no.6
“I have a folder.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I KEEP WANTING TO PLACE PAPER IN MY MOUTH AND THROW MYSELF ACROSS A TABLE AT FULL SPEED.”
…so in other words, if it has a name then OH MY GOD! I have it. I’m certain this has something to do with the fact that I have an
Labels: Dork, قصي خولي Kosai Khouly
posted by one female canuck at 10:18 PM
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