The Stand-Up Guy

His name is Daemon (Scott) Fairless, and he recently married Lyana, a beautiful and brilliant gynaecologist (as Scott says: "It's nice to have a shared interest") who I can't wait to squeeze next they're in Ottawa.

Scott was the first boy I ever loved, though I never told him that. I believe I loved Scott, but wasn't in love with him. Being the first boy I dated, it was complicated and unclear at the time.

We met while he was working as bartender at Oliver's on Carleton University's campus. He was 6'2" and quite possibly in the most prime shape of his life, considering how he describes his physique today ("fat" - I've seen recent pictures and he's anything but (not to mention that it is relatively difficult to be "fat" at his height)), with green eyes and sandy brown hair. He made me laugh to the point of peeing myself, was a reader and a boxer and so proved the most beautiful combination for me.

We were both children then and I loved him the only way a 22 year old Maha knew how: Stupidly and confusedly. We argued about religion - he was then an atheist, though now believes in God - and poetry. He read to me, we had dinner with his step-mum and father who called me "gregarious", he read to me some more, he had dinner with my mother who called him "handsome" (he is, to this day, the only man whose met mama), we argued more, he read to me some more, we had dinner with his mother and he attempted to play the guitar only to find a condom wrapper inside of the guitar throwing us into a hysterical frenzy of laughter, he cooked, we read, I cooked, we argued even more, his love of Johnny Cash rivaled my love of Madonna, we made fun of each other, I was confused by him, we danced to really bad and fast pop music, we watched ER, he wrote his number on a piece of paper I had kept for years. He was beautiful and brilliant to me and he introduced me to Vietnamese rolls for which I am eternally grateful.

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

Among the memories I hold of Scott, there are these two following particularly vivid spots in time: First, Cathy and Dino had come to meet me at Oliver's for a drink and to meet Scott, who was working that evening. I was walking past him when he pulled me over and whispered "you are so beautiful" to which I couldn't respond because I didn't know how. I was 22 years old and I'd never heard it from anyone but my mother because, essentially, I am a muppet. (In fact. Up until that point there had only been one other boy who'd ever referenced my looks, and that was George Logaras of Brookfield High School in Ottawa nearly 7 years earlier: He'd called me 'ugly' and 'fat' (I was a size 12), and referenced my 'four eyes' (glasses, yes) and my unibrow WHICH I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE HAD! I have never plucked between my eyebrows. The unibrow misobservation dumbfounds me to this day. He was a real dream boat, that one, aged 18 to my 15.)

Second, he was the first boy to hold my hand and when he did, I nearly threw up because it was so intense. (Remember: I am a muppet.)

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

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

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

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

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

Ha! Ha! (That's God batting for Team Maha, kids.)

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

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

I accepted because his apology was honest and clear and true, appreciating the fact that it had played on his mind for five years (look: if a boy becomes a man at 27, then that's pretty damn impressive). Since then, we've remained in contact at a relatively good level - though it's not regular contact, it is worthy contact when it happens (quality here, in fact). For the women who live here, I wish to share something with you, sent to me by Scott about men nearly a month and a half back. My mind was experiencing a logjam, and he forced me through it. (There is something to be said for those who knew our hearts intimately, no matter that with Scott it was 11 years ago. As with very very few others, he will always have an edge.) Take the following with you and keep it somewhere safe so that you may access it when you need it (this is something I've always believed and expressed without hesitation, but it's nice to have it confirmed and backed by a man):

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

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

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

Pretty brilliant.

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

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

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

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

Really. I love it.

Every Girl Should Have One

Arabic

Your movement, as your language;
Hushed like curtains
back-drawn and passed through

Whispered into antechambers
that you've dressed before the dawn
with offerings and incense

or the tap of bare feet
on marble intricate as if
through girded iron interlaced
smoke were woven

and the swish of silk
about your heels

and something carried
high and in your hands.

***************
...every girl should have one: a poem inspired by her.

Every Girl Should Have ‘One’

Initial Aside: The boy discussed below is a good friend of mine and is single; if you are in the UK and wish to meet him, let me know! Am not at all beyond pimping my single friends...and have I mentioned? He's single...

By ‘One’, I mean her very own personal British Special Air Service Officer. I found Mine last year in Beirut – he is of the Air Troop variety, flying out of planes, doing ‘stuff’ which he can not even allude to, and then somehow super-leaping back to the airplane.

I nicknamed him ‘Killer’. Only I didn’t tell him about his nickname, for fear that he would parachute into my hotel room, ‘Killer’ me, and then leave without a trace. (He’ll know now that it’s on here; Hi Killer!)

How to meet and nab an SAS Boy for yourself
Obviously, you will need to be located in a war torn region. Look for the boys jogging and smiling as bombs drop around them; quite likely, they are of the SAS variety.

If you are really adventurous, hang out near cubby holes where ‘insurgents’ (but only those defined as such by the lucky few not belonging to The Axis of Evil) hide and make chai.

If you are not too adventurous, there’s always the internet café of said war torn region. Spy the only boys who are reading neither the news nor the most recent updates titled Where Can You Hide Today?; they will be wearing shorts, t-shirts, sporting a tan and using a British tongue nearly incomprehensible. If you listen closely, they will make subtle ‘vrooming’ sounds as they move their mouse.

My Own SAS Boy and I met in the business centre of his hotel (my hotel sat across the street with a sick internet connection). I didn’t know how to work the computer, he helped me manage and we got to chatting. He had seen me the night prior – a memory I do not hold - when I was lost and asked him if he was Australian. (In my proper defence, I was told that we (Canadians) were to be hanging out with them (Australians); I saw a blonde, heard an accent and so approached. Very simple equation if ever there was one, little did I know the level of treachery I had committed when I asked a Brit – an SAS one, to boot - if he was an Aussie.)

On the physical size of The SAS Boy
They appear ‘small’ (please don’t Killer me) – My Own being perhaps 5’9”, but they’re packed with strong fibre goodness which allows them to take out a man thrice their height and ten times their weight. Upon great reflection, I do think the compact nature of the SAS Boy has to do with the agility required to leap tall buildings and propel oneself from planes, landing squarely in cubby holes 10,000 feet below.

They are, for those of you interested in knowing, rock hard. I threw random items at Mine and they bounced off as though hitting a brick wall. Eventually, Mine asked me to stop being a child and to stop throwing random objects at him. I mumbled and pouted and he finally let me throw a tire at him as a farewell to the activity of throwing.

On the character trait of The SAS Boy
Focussed.
Determined.
Alpha.
Male.
Fear-LESS.

These are not Boys with whom one should mess about. While walking around Beirut with My Own SAS Boy, I can tell you that I felt very safe. Very safe, indeed; the safest, in fact. There’s something about their line of duty that makes them radiate an aura of complete and total blanket safety (unless, of course, you’re their target).

The word ‘hesitate’ does not exist in their vocabulary, and for that they are to be admired, as it runs into all aspects of their lives, not just the physical embodiment of their ‘work’. Case in point: Within moments of teaching your BlogMistress how to work her computer, My Own SAS Boy asked to take me for a coffee. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so I accepted.)

After coffee was over, he asked to take me for dinner. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so goes the rest of the story.)

Nothing stands in their way and if an SAS Boy wants something, he does what is needed to make certain he gets it. And this I mean literally; nothing stops them, neither physically nor spiritually - it's a pretty spectacular thing to watch as it drips from them and engages all aspects of everything they do and touch.

On the nature of conversation with The SAS Boy
You will not be surprised to learn that among one of the first lines of conversation I had with My Own SAS Boy was “So…do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is wrong?” and then “So…uhm…will I, like, one day be sitting in my living room in Palestine and you’ll fly through a window and Killer me MEANING you may one day get wrong orders MEANING have you ever wondered if you’ve already received wrong orders MEANING have you ever Killered anyone?”

Lucky I that Mine has a sense of humour and answered all of my questions, even if it was a mere “I really can’t answer that!” which I think is code for That’s The Line That Wins Most Chicks. But I’m relentless and he nicknamed me ‘Unnie Ot’ which is Canadian to the British ‘Honey Pot’. I stared in wonder and confusion, looking for a translation on the wall, the floor and even the window as I had no idea what that was. Nowhere was there closed captioning for the British Hearing Impaired. (Stupid, Beirut.) Mine was nice enough to finally tell me that 'Honey Pot' is, apparently, a term of endearment used to describe someone who can pull secrets from people very easily. Upon hearing this definition, I smiled and asked: “So, was it you who caught Saddam? And have you Killered anyone? And can you fix the World Cup?”

On the reliability / loyalty of The SAS Boy
Apparently, SAS Boys have to be at the ready at the drop of a pin, throw of a hat and wiggle of a bum. They all have a special beeper that, when it beeps, they have to meet at a certain location, are given their orders and then flown out. My Own SAS Boy was riding his motorcycle when he got beeped; he had to leave it and his keys with his friend so he could fly to Beirut within two hours. This would mislead one to believe they are unreliable to anyone but Her Majesty. As I can attest, I’ve had Mine for over a year now and even though we did lose touch for some small amount of time, he has always been kind enough to ping a Hello email and send others with winning titles such as ‘Photographs Only Men Would Take’.

Quite honestly, more of an effort made than most, and for that, My Own SAS Boy is special.

I have already secured the following from Mine, as he graciously accepted the responsibility should the need arise (and to which he is beholden until I drop dead). If ever I am in a state of terror and I need to be saved, then he shall do the saving. Because if we’re talking true loyalty, it never hurts to have that loyalty come from a friend who knows how to disentangle a b*mb, make one, crash through a window, leap off a building, outrun and outfight most all other men, make ‘vrooming’ noises as he uses a mouse, ride a motorcycle, and look good in a suit. (I knew you’d agree.)

*****
If My Own SAS Boy doesn’t Killer me for this entry, then perhaps he will allow me to post a photo of him as he flies out of an airplane. Check back later…

My Favourite Boy

Two of my cousins are in town from Denver this week. These boys are the closest thing I have to brothers and they have never once let me down. Naturally, we get into fights, as do all family members...but 99% of the time, we're solid. We share sibling mothers and so are quite aware of the attempted emotional terrorism and torment the sisters often wield; this serving as a special bond, much like the one shared by POW survivors. (I have to say here that I have an edge because mama's changed dramatically these last few months and is still doing just that; it was either that or further fragment our relationship. Maybe one day I'll post about this point in particular...I'm not sure yet.)

This is Homer (Omar):



He's had a pretty rough year about which I will only say that I, Alhamdulilah, am so thankful and amazed to see him so well and vibrant and healthy and back. I love this kid to death and I've yet to meet anyone with a heart the size of his. He's finishing up Business something-or-other and he'll own half of Denver some day - he's a hustler of the first order and can manage and charm anything and anyone. He also grows the world's tastiest tomatoes.

This is Major (Maher):



Currently working construction and soon to begin pre Med in January, Inshallah. It's been interesting having him around because he's matured so very much in this last year and a half and it's an absolute pleasure to talk politics, religion, family, friends, relationships and life with him. He's a sponge for knowledge, and I can see him in ten years being such a strong and solid man in the lives of those lucky enough to know him.

The only one that's not here at the moment is this guy (who you may remember was the first boy to ever send me flowers), Rock (Ragheb), the soon-to-be 'Homo Doctor' (currently in Tempe, Arizona studying at Southwest College of Naturopathic Medicine):



...this being my favourite picture of him because he's not even posing. Needless to say, women tend to drop trou around him and I'm sure the girl who took this photo passed out as soon as she went Click. (Re the beads, I think in Tempe there's something similar to Mardi Gras and chances are he started with a U-Haul of those necklaces.) He's here receiving a special blog entry because of how much support he's given me these last few months, and how engaged and patient he's been. He is my touchstone and my comfort blanket. Period. (When we're not chatting on the phone, he's offering me support via email such as found here.)

I can only here discuss him because the other boys are still developing who they are; I have no doubt that within the next few years, they'll be the same calibre of man as Ragheb...God knows they're well on their way. Also, I'm going to talk about Ragheb because it's to him that I'm closest. (And he knows all of my secrets.)

There are two things I admire most about Ragheb - apart from his obvious willingness to listen to me for hours and actually pay attention to what I'm saying and then provide feedback. First is that's he's a fighter, and from this comes a fierce confidence. I've never known him to back down, to be scared of anything, or to ever simply stop. Ever. Nothing to him is unattainable and it is amazing to learn just how engaged he is in this life. Even when he's f*cked it up - which we've all done - he's immediately stood up and forged a different road to get to where he needs to be. His only fear is one: God.

Second, he never imparts blame and instead takes full responsibility for his actions, absorbing the repercussions of his choices without so much as a sigh of protest. I am reminded of this at every conversation and I am pushed to be a better woman because of it. I've recently discovered just how critical it is to acknowledge all of the errors I've made as an individual and that find me where I am today. The moment we blame others is the moment we say: I am not responsible, I am not accountable. There's a fine line here between moments in life where we are truly not responsible, and those instances where we actively cede responsibility because it's the easier thing to do.

The bottom line is, we live and we learn and we make mistakes - for most of which we are responsible - and we move forward still. (I think the choice here is that we live our lives either blaming everyone else or acknowledging our engagement in the composition of who we are and where we are. Obviously, this doesn't mean that people don't wrong you, because sooner or later someone most definitely will, it just means that apart from you dealing with that particular wrong, those people are of no concern to you - your concern is your own character and how you treat people, even when you've been wronged.)

Back to My Favourite Boy. I've said this before and I'll say it again: the woman to whom he will be devoted is blessed, because for all of his fierceness, the core of him is of unshakeable devotion and loyalty.

I LOVE HIM.

Ok. I'm done gushing.