Happy V-Day

Thanks to Dribble UnLimited for the way...

Originally posted on 2/14/06; still makes me laugh as hard today...

Snow Blowers vs. Shovel

I did it. With the help of a very lovely neighbour named MING, who may or may not capitalise all letters in his name, which rhymes with KING.

The instructions were clear, and so I:

(1) Inserted the toy key which matches my festive nail polish, see...

(2) Then pushed a squishy thing that supposedly splooshed gas all over something on the inside. I think they're lying about this because I couldn't hear anything happening. Even though I think this instruction is just for fun and really nothing more, I followed it carefully.

In tandem while pushing the squishy three times, I was supposed to ensure that I physically covered some other part of the snow blower. Maybe. I didn't really understand that part and so didn't do it.

Instead, I pushed the squishy six times with the following logic: if something had to be covered, this was because the gas could sploosh outside. Six squishes instead of three ensured that even with the escaping gas, enough splooshed gas remained within to coat whatever.

Smart, yes?

(3) Anyway, then I made sure the slidey bar was atop the rabbit, rather than the turtle.

(4) And that Olga the Snow-blower was being Choked rather than Run. (Weirdo sl*t.)

(5) And finally, I pressed the Start button.

Only, nothing happened. Repeatedly I pressed, but Olga just yelled ME'KH and then stopped talking.

I stood confused.

Across the way was KING MING running around with Olga's older brother. I rolled down my driveway and sidled up to KING MING. As I am the size of a Rice Tank while wearing my parka, as this to-scale drawing confirms, I stood at the bottom of KING MING's driveway and yelled for help.

KING MING very graciously came to assist me and gave me the greatest and most important secret handshake to the world of snow-blowers: GASOLINE.

I didn't have any in Olga.
(You'll have to pardon her inclination for drunk. It is the holidays, after all, and who doesn't like a little punch in their day?)

Rather naively, I assumed that Olga was already full of gas; that she would be delivered as such. Wrong. (And maybe now that I see that before me in print, maybe had she been transported with gasoline inside of her, she would have been hazardous or explosive? I don't know...I'm not smart around the holidays. Sparkle distracts me much too much and I see snow and think that God keeps forgetting to stop dumping icing sugar on us, please and thank you.)

As a final and small end to this, I will say that snow blowing is difficult and lonely and an extreme sport of domesticity. If I could sit on Olga and drive her, I wouldn't mind, but as it stands, Olga doesn't even reverse her ass up like a proper Ho in a 50 Cent video and so she is of little use to me at this time.

My love affair continues with Mr. Shovel. Strong, steady, durable, light and flexible, just as God intended.

'Twas the night before Ramadan

And all through the house, not a something-something was stirring, not even a mouse.

Then, Maha decided to go downstairs.



Ensuing conversation:
"What was all that noise...?"
"I fell."
"Oh my God - you didn't make a sound!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you didn't scream? I only heard the falling."
"I don't tend to scream when I fall."
"What?"
"It happens so often, anyway. I just get sad that it won't stop."

I thought to share my awesome drawing talents with you. I hope you like it; it took me 17 hours to complete.

An Earwig drinks a frappuccino and plays a sport

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

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

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

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

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

Let me know how that works out for you.

.3. Conversation at a restaurant / bar.

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

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

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

Kyle Chandler, Connie Britton & Taylor Kitsch: Friday Night Lights (again)

Are you watching Friday Night Lights yet? I have forced 7 friends to start watching Friday Night Lights - all but one are in love and in obsessive watching mode. They are also making sure to make their viewing count, which is critical to the longevity of the brilliant and amazing Friday Night Lights. You too must do the same, please.

Dear Coach Eric Taylor -

Hi. How are you?
I like you very much.
Who is this doppelganger pretending to be you, neither from Texas nor in angry man shorts, angry sunglasses nor angry headset?
What the hokey pokey hell, Coach?
My state of reality is highly fragile and I become discombobulated much faster than most.
I am deeply troubled and I need you, Coach Eric Taylor, to point your right finger at me, whilst your left hand sits atop the angry belt of your angry man shorts and you state "nominate a teacher now, son. It's what men do. It's the right thing to do, son." (For the record, Coach Eric Taylor: I don't have a peen, and so am a girl, but will allow you to call me son.)
Can you please record a new public service announcement for me?

Further, I would greatly appreciate if you were to wear your green t-shirt a little more often, thank you.

You are my angry hero in green, Coach Eric Taylor, and I am sincerely yours,
Maha

Dear Connie Britton / Tammy Taylor -

Hi. How are you?
I like you as much as I like your angry and oftentimes confused husband, Coach Eric Taylor. Please understand I would never make a pass at your husband, no matter how angry and hot he is in his angry man shorts and angry headset. I wouldn't do that to the sisterhood, Principal Taylor. (Principal Taylor? I might be a liar.)

I am writing this to you because I was wondering: Would you like to have a drink with me sometime?
In the future, I will probably have some boy problems that I will need to discuss with you because you are very clearly the world's greatest listener of all time and I really like the way you communicate with your angry husband, Coach. I also wonder, do you ever call him 'Coach' when you are having adult private time?
That just made me giggle. I hope you giggled too.

By the way, my best friend and I are going to a combo of Morocco, Turkey and / or Cairo this coming Christmas and we were wondering if you'd like to join us?

I've used three variations of the word 'wonder' in my letter to you. It's because I like that word and you make me shy and nervous with your fantastic breasts and large pretty brown eyes.
I wonder if I am now starting to creep you out?
Please don't be scared of me if I show up at your backyard and try to fix your broken air conditioning unit. It's because I like you very much.
(Also, I agreed with you about your dream home. I think you wanted to cry when Coach said no - I wanted to cry for you. I wonder, did you want to cry but the writers didn't let you?)

I would like some pointers on how to do the same as you in the boobs department, please. (See what I just did there, Tammy? "Pointers", like boobs? That made me giggle, too. I wonder if I can call you "Tammy"?).

I am yours in sisterly solidarity,
Maha

Dear Tim Rigging / Taylor Kitsch -

Hi. How are you?
I don't squeal easily over boys, but I am squealing like a little school girl over you, my Rigglett.
I become seriously frazzled every time that your 17-year-old self shows up on my screen.

I am writing to you because I would like you to please stop screaming on my screen. Unfortunately, every time you do scream, my Rigglett, I hurt my hand in my small effort to place a lozenge in your mouth. And honestly, a lozenge is all I would ever try to place in your mouth. (Tim Riggins? I might be a liar.)

I am also sending you this letter because I would like to know which name brand and colour of blush you use, please. If you can spare a further moment, I would also like to know what stain of lipstick you use. On. Your. Mouth.
Your. Mouth.
You have the greatest mouth in the history of mouths and if ever I meet you, my Rigglett, I will try to poke your mouth in an effort to see if it is, as it appears to be, very cushiony to the touch.

I'm pretty sure my vision just blurred a little, Rigglett.

I am yours with the sincerest of sentiments: I would very much like to touch your hair if only to shampoo it,
Maha
P.S. Do you like bubblegum? I do, very much. I thought you should know. Bazooka is my favourite. Bye.

Geeking out a sushi order

I am an excitable sort of girl; little things make me extremely happy. One thing which never fails to excite is my love of sushi ordering.

In fact, I become so excited that much like a drunk I lose focus and coherency and become slightly short of breath. Sushi is a feast of an experience for me, no matter how many times I may have it. I arrive to dinner early and stare at the menu with great concentration and expectation. Usually, I also become extremely confused by the many sparkly menu items and flavors presented to my mouth by my eyes, as well as very agitated if someone interrupts my strategic approach to ordering, which usually consists of my answering the age-old question 'how much can I eat without puking'.

Aside from my sushi feast with Na.oh.mi this evening (visiting from Calgary), last I ate sushi was with A two weeks back. This image is the tissue upon which I placed my order. When I handed it to the waitress, she smiled at my clear mental awkwardness as I beamed up at her and then read the order out loud before starting to walk away.

A had to call after her to indicate that the tissue was filled with items for me. Alone. Just I, the piggy. It took me nearly three hours to eat the entire order and I am most certain the waitress had a bet with the sushi chefs as to on which piece I would tap out. I never did because I'm a strong piggy like that.

Aside: I really most appreciate my artistic rendition of a cone, not a roll, please. No doubt the sushi chefs were just as happy as I.

How To Feel As An Underachiever (& so off to Portugal & the Azores)

When I was 13, a boy broke my femur. We shall call him 'K'.

K was the son of our neighbors at the time. He was only a year older, but to my 13, he was an older man worthy of my secret crushing. I believed him to be the cat's meow, being drawn to the alpha of the male even as a child. He was the cool one, always at the gym, always busy, always with his equally cool friends while I ate twinkies and coveted from afar in my knee high socks, awkward shorts, puffy hair and glasses covering half of my face.

As a child, I would have followed K anywhere and on one unfortunate day, I did just that. He said we should go across the street to the store, and so I quickly pulled up my socks and followed. Followed is here the operative word, so please pay close attention to this next...

As we were about to cross the street, we noticed the You Should Not Cross But If You're Already Crossing Then Please Hurry It Up hand signal was already flashing. K said we could make it and so began to run. Naturally, I followed, only was incapable of running as fast as K. He made it to the median and sadly, I did not.

I made it to the pavement as I had been hit by a car.

Luckily, I wasn't run over, merely knocked over, and so what could have been complete devastation was just a broken femur. (Enter 5 weeks of traction in a hospital bed, 6 months inside of a body cast and 2 years of physio therapy to complete the cycle. Not only had my femur been broken, but so too was canceled the high probability of a very successful career in figure skating.)

That I should blame him for any of it never crossed my mind. I poke fun now only because he will be reading this (Hello K!).

I have very few memories of K past this point.

Fast forward to now.
Saw him, chatted with him for a few hours, and were caught up on bits and pieces of our lives and adventures as much as time permitted.

He has come a far cry from the boy who broke my femur.
He has achieved, my friends.
He is today a surgeon. Specializing in urology. Specializing in cancer in urology.

Bravo.

*****

You have all read me about H. She is among my handful of best friends who has kept my secrets hidden safely within her heart. H is a writer for Elle UK and last I saw her, I jumped over to London for a short weekend to do nothing more but be caught up face-to-face, eat at The Wolseley (yum) & The French House (yummier), attend a play, shop and become sleep deprived over the course of said weekend.

A little while back, H bought a summer home on one of the islands of the Azores. She is now in the process of purchasing a second stone cottage - also only for summer - in the hills of Portugal. It is to be a writer's retreat, with ramblings in the hills and many long luscious nights of food, drink and conversation.

We are working out details as I will be, inshallah, heading over to roam in Portugal and write while there. We may pop over to the house in the Azores, but we're undecided on that at the moment.

Spring is looking as though it will be among the best as trips are in the works for the above, also to Napa Valley, NYC and Paris. Late summer is to take me to London and one as-of-yet undefined destination, though I know it must be a hot one. I am inspired & excited by it all...

On Judgment: Monkey, Pippy & Thomas Shop @ Consumers

.1. All week, I have been thinking about the promise I made > to write a new entry < and I must admit that it's weighed heavy on me, this promise. Oddly, it seems to have both placed pressure on me to think of something coherent and also, to paralyze my move to puzzle old words together in an effort to create something new. For this reason, I have decided to simply write. This is more a stream of consciousness, rather than an entry with one specific idea and purpose. But it is an entry and it has been promised and now here it is...

.2. Because so many of you seem to have found something which resonated when you read The Story that Hides, I will provide a small contextualization for this written bit.

I began writing that in November of 2007, a couple of weeks after I had my heart completely beaten to a pulp by someone, an occurrence that had never happened before and one by which my entire self had become displaced. That's all anyone needs to know about that piece.

That and the fact that a slight variation of it will likely become the first chapter of a more complete story some day.

.3. I spent 10 days in Vancouver in October. It was lovely as Vancouver is a stunning city and the weather gorgeous.

The most incredible day spent there was the one during which I spent a few hours in Pigeon Park. This is the most notorious park in the City in terms of poverty.

I picked up 25 sandwiches, coffees and cookies from my favorite shop (Smart Mouth Cafe at 131 Water Street, no 117 - highly recommended next you are in VanCity) and took them, with the help of three employees across the way to the park.

There we handed them out to anyone who wanted and I spent some time speaking with the prostitutes and the junkies and peoples' grandchildren and grandparents covered in lesions and cuts and bruises, scrapes and scraps of clothing not warm enough for even a summer's day.

I left there a little broken and invigorated, a little sad and a lot confused. I wandered for a few hours in my own head considering that any individual making different choices or living different experiences could be in that park. None of us are immune and we must extend grace and love to all.

.4. Speaking of which, we were recently out to dinner and had a very heavy discussion about this particular idea of 'judgment'.

Among the folks at dinner was someone vehemently opposed to judging the actions of others: "People who judge are assholes. Who the f*ck are they to judge me?" Interestingly enough, in their judgment of individuals judging others and opposition to said judgment, they had become complicit in the very thing they were opposing: judgment. (Tautology is the vice of Dr. Seuss, didn't you know?)

I kept my mouth shut and didn't point this out, choosing to instead name the shrimp in my Yum Mamuang and wrote in my head their journey from ocean to kitchen. It was called "Monkey, Pippy, Thomas and Famke Fall Into A Trap, Are Caught, Then Get Grilled". Maybe I'll share it some day...

But. I think since judgment is inevitable and a part of human nature, perhaps the key is to temper it with a sort of mercy. Attempt to understand the actions you've judged and do so in as gentle a manner as possible, remembering that people are not inherently bad, though we all tend to act in foolish and hurtful manners many times in our lives (whether it's because we're spoiled a**holes with a heavy sense of entitlement, or because we actually didn't know we were being a**holes).

On this note, here we need to acknowledge the difference between understanding an action and justifying that same action. Also, that there are some things we simply can not stand for - now, extend this perspective to social justice and then make no difference between the shit and unacceptable behavior of one individual against an other individual (e.g. one man refusing to serve another because of the colour of his skin // one man abusing his wife) and collective behavior against any group (e.g. laws supporting segregation // women not being allowed to vote, own property, etc.).

There is great danger in us denying the direct link between the individual and the collective. (See below End Note.)

The moment we recognize and own the reality that each action we take must be a reflection of a social fabric wherein we look out and care for one another in an equal and respectful manner is a first step to doing away with the horrible atrocities we commit against one another, be it collectively or individually.

Don't ever think that we, as individuals, can act without impunity, or that our actions are disassociated from our world view or the freedoms we fight for, the social justice me must uphold.

(I am guilty of falling short of this on many an occasion and I've behaved like a Grade-A a**hole, but I work hard to recognize my stupidity and then remedy it when I can and as immediately as possible. The above is as much a reminder to myself as it is a reminder to anyone reading it.)

End note: If you are of the belief that we - and only we - are responsible for ourselves and no one else is responsible for us, and that we can't be held to a higher standard of extending responsibility and comfort to others who are hurting or who have been oppressed or whose rights have been sh*t on, then you can take your nihilistic individualistic perspective and f*ck off - this writing isn't for you, and neither are the opinions within.

.5. And in a small effort to end on a funny note, I'll ping you a little story that came to mind while out at lunch with S some days back.

Do you remember the store Consumers?

One would walk in, choose from their catalog, mark their choice on a paper, take said choice to counter, place order and then one of the employees would bring from the back room the item and the customer would pay.

It was, in essence, on-line shopping without either the 'on-line' portion or the waiting for the snail mail portion.

I would become so excited at the prospect of going to Consumers with my parents that I would reach a level of both near hysteria and near black-out excitement.

Seated in the back seat almost incapable of breathing, I would, as baba came to a rolling stop in the parking lot, shoot running from the backseat and into the store, aimed like an arrow for the Consumers counter.

Why?

Because they made pencils for Me. Each and every Consumers pencil was made specifically for Children - they were half the size of Adult Pencils and so made with only Me and my brethren in mind.

I coveted the Child Pencils and left Consumers with at least 10 lining my pockets each trip as my mother dragged me pouting and unhappy from the store declaring "there must be something else we can buy".

I was grateful for their acknowledgment that the world was not for adults alone. No one has come close since...

RIP, Consumers.

.6. Sorry this entry is completely lame. But it is an entry and it's a first step to me overcoming the shit writer's block that has placed my mind in a logjam...xxoo

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!)