...after the porno theatre became a revival house...

By some miracle of the football gods, we beat Korea today. Thank the lord for Karimi and Mahdavickia. I would love to be wealthy like my cousins, who can satisfy their soccer urge and then some by having already purchased airline tickets to Germany for two years from now. The furthest soccer excursion I can fathom is going to 1001 Nights with my dad and cousin to watch the Iran matches.

An afternoon spent furniture shopping at Ikea with my parents. Shopping with autocratic Iranian parents is always a pleasure. They dutifully listened to my opinions and suggestions (it was my room we were shopping for, after all) - then proceeded to disregard all my thoughts, and go with their own, completely based on functionability, ideas. So, now I have a set of very useful and competent furniture for my room - all in different colours, none of which matches. Gotta love'em.

It's three o clock. At 5:30 I will meet the Nickster, and we shall meander towards Burwash for the reunion. I am decked out in pink. Pink is how I want to feel, so Pink is how I must dress. It's all very simple, really. My parents decided to go to Oakville for the weekend. They will leave after they drop me off at the train station. I could still get out of this if I so desire, and go to Oakville with them. But I won't. Because once upon a time I took my gin like a man. I have a reputation to live up to, ya know? It's how it is.

...suddenly we're back here again...

i) I hate the scent of my own skin. The smell wafts up and catches me unawares. I ran out of my favorite soap two days ago, and they had no more in the store. So I bought a different brand. Know who used to use this brand? Yeah - it has been disconcerting. Funny how just a smell can bring back waves upon waves of memories.

Funny strange. Not funny "ha ha".

ii)I don't want to write for them because I am particularly fond of the magazine or its demographic. Frankly, I just want to write for them because I think I am a better writer than anyone else they are currently employing. Also, they are paying me $50 an article.

iii) My legs are oh-so-silky smooth right now, and my toes are pink. Pink from clean scrubbing, and pink from Sparkly Cotton Candy nail polish. My hair is curly and will stay this way. Eyebrows are done. Everything is done. I called in the troops on this one, we are going to a warzone. Which is fine, because even without the pink toes, I will come bearing armour. The kind of armour that is a person, who has my back because he is who he is, and it is what he does.

Have I done a post on how much I love my friends? Can I? It shall be done.

iv) It is called "Chunky Monkey". It is the new love of my life. I want to marry it and have its yummy ice cream babies. Twin babies. To be named Ben and Jerry, respectively.

...the post-mod world of romance. and then some...

I don't play head games in romance. Or do I?

Greg has proclaimed himself, somehow, to be my romantic guru. Today he advised me to purchase "The Rules", a self-help relationship guide for women by two women whose greatest  credential seems to be that they are married.

So Greg says (because the book says) to play hard to get, bat eyelashes. I say it's mind games. He says not. He says it will be nothing more manipulative than applying lipstick to my lips. But that is not the way I do things. There is something inherently wrong (I think) with doing things with the express purpose of "catching a man".

I like my own way a lot better. Attract people by virtue of being impossibly cute and funny.

Comme aujourd'hui - when M said "I wish girls were in love with me on a regular basis". To that I sheepishly admitted that I had had a huge crush on him when I was 15.

"You made me blush - this made my day. So where did that crush go" he replied, laughing.

"Oh you know", I said, head bent, "Into the wind like all my other adolescent adorations.  Gimme a break, I was 15. These things came and went with more frequency than Beverley Hills reruns".

It was his turn to be sheepish, and coy: "Any chance I can get that crush back?"

Now I am the one blushing, and I didn't even have to bat my eyelashes.

 

...lisa loeb: too fast driving...

Driving I was...thinking
You're my flat tire
Not a blow out, but a screeching halt,
lots of ice, no salt
...And too fast driving

...think of me when you get a pedicure...

My Joe G. is leaving me tomorrow, to return to his snowboard peaks and clutch low-rent high-character apartment in Colorado.

No more lunch dates for sushi, no more green tea at my desk, no more curly blond hair to run my fingers through as I pass his station on my way to the board table. I am left with only letters-by-email to tide me over until December in Kenya.

My Joe G. is leaving me tomorrow, and I am not there to give him a last goodbye hug. We had "goodbye lunch" yesterday, but today was the last day, and I am sad to miss him. But I am at home, not at work, hunched over in pain, of the can-barely-stand type.

The point is - I am going to be bereft my Joe G. tomorrow. And I will miss him. And miss him. And miss him some more. And probably run away to Colorado on my way to see Jenni in Valporaisa (the fact that they are in totally different parts of the country means NOTHING - I have Will thus I have Way).

...it's a movement, and philosophy...

In preparation for a book meeting today, we all had to have read the final version of the manuscript of the new C + M book for this morning. Inundated with packing concerns, and other projects that somehow threw themselves at my head this week, I didn't get around to starting the book until last night. A fast reader, I was able to read through it (more or less) in about three hours.

Most of my impressions are being harboured for the book meeting at 1:30 this afternoon, but I will tell you this. First of all, I expect everyone to read this book once it is out on store shelves. Otherwise, expect a copy as a present at any and all gift-giving occasions. This comes out of the fact that Me 2 We is one of the most powerful books that I have read in a long while, and is absolutely my favorite of the C + M publications.

Do you understand that from Chapter 8 to the end of the book at Chapter 11, I did not stop crying? I won't give away everything from the book, but Chapter 8 talks about forgiveness. Forgiveness and the fact that by not granting it, you assume you are the centre of the world of pain and cling to a self-reinforcing stronghold of vengeful thoughts and anger that are counterproductive to everything we should aim to be. When you are filled with so much anger and hate, there is no ROOM for anything else, and there are so many things out there that need our help that we have no business staying so angry. It's life, people will hurt you. Fine - I have to accept that, forgive it and let it go, and use the space that is left to continue what I do, what I love to do, which is so completely wrapped up in this amazing organization and what they do.

The other section that brought me to tears was the "My Story" section profiling my friend Joe. To begin, I have to commend him on his bravery for sharing his story with everyone. He is such a phenomenal person, and I am grateful everyday that I met him, as well as all the other amazing young people involved with the FTC/LT camp. The reason I cried was because I read about someone who had lived a very very difficult life, and survived and conquered it with an incredible amount of warmth and integrity and Level 3 - something I am not sure I could have pulled off with as much grace, if I had been in the same situation.

Once the book hits the market, I will announce it duly, and you will all go out and buy. Yes, you will.

 

 

...the simple, and the not so...

Greg clears his throat before he starts. "The thing with Love, Sanam", he says, "is that attraction is not a choice".  This means that:

a) you cannot choose who you fall for
b) you cannot choose who he falls for
c) even if that person is your friend
d) your best friend
e) you cannot do anything about it

He goes on for awhile, philosophy this, motto that - advice, advice, advice. He thrives to advise me, always with the subtext "if you had gone out with me, you wouldn't have all these problems". You learn to get around that subtext, with time. Between 10th grade and now, I have become pro at sidestepping the subtext of Greg.

His point, in the end was that he thinks I am proceeding with the reptile part of my brain that wants him for sex, as supported by the emotional mammalian centre which wants him for, you know, the L-word, and in complete and utter denial of the logical part (the part responsible for hunger strikes, creation, destruction) that knows what I *should* want him for - because, essentially, where I see crimson/magenta/tomato, he just sees red. Because I am subtle woman, and it is what I do.

Then he started talking about light switches and volume knobs.

Do you understand any of this? Because I sure as hell don't.

PS: In trying to analyse me and fix my life in-so-far as it needs fixing, he brought up as an example the adventure that was Reza #1 back in grade 12. How he still remembers that is beyond my ability to contemplate without getting completely wierded out.

PPS: Before he finished his lesson, he mentioned offhand that men speak directly and women indirectly, having to run it through at least one filter. I run it through at least five. They are Rachel, Farnam, Inna, Melissa and Nick. Do you think that with each successive filtration, something integral to the concept gets warped?

I will have to think on this some more.

And run it through my filters.

Before sharing my findings with you at a later time.

...could this be communist earth science...

so that the clam could eat me? 'Member Sheida? - yeah.

Where to begin? The day began as every other. Wake, shower, wrestle with hair and force it to comply per my instructions, pack lunch, catch bus, breathe.

Normal enough, and so good. But as the day went on, the frustrations began and disappointments, and now it's 7pm and I am replete with ennuie and overwhelmed with decisions to be made and things to be done and people who have to be a) scheduled, and b) avoided, respectively.

Naturally, this resulted in headaches. Added to other aches (for which Bextra did marvelous things, but led to drowsiness).

Add to that, general malaise and the uncomfortable thought that everything I own makes me look fat (it's been one of those days) and I came to the understanding that I want to burrow away in a hole and hide for a little while. On that note, would anyone be terribly upset if I bailed on the MHR on Saturday? Please?

Well even if you wouldn't mind, I'm going anyway. If only for the fact that the Derelit is coming to Toronto, and it is an occasion not to be missed, even for my insecurities and discomfiture and the prevalent feeling that I would just so much prefer to not acknowledge or attend, but like I said, I will. So... I will. And... fine. If I must.

But I plan to have three days of nausea in the wake of the event, and leading to, and following. If that is alright with everyone, we may proceed. And by "proceed" I mean "end" because I have nothing more to say.

Goodbye.

...relationship etiquette (and then some)...

The author of "Bedside Manners" was on Breakfast Television this morning talking about her book slash philosophy. I only caught a couple of sections, but here is what I learned.

i) Can you date a friends ex?

No. It's like eating food off someone else's plate. Fish in your own pond, there are plenty of guys in the sea. It is NOT worth losing a good friend over.

See Rachel and I know this, it's the Golden fucking rule.  Mess with your friends ex, you won't have a friend. So - we were right. And - L was cut.

ii) Can you be friends with an ex?

She looked away and tried to answer diplomatically. That was answer enough for me. And I fully agree.

 
Not even 8 in the morning, and I'm already starting to panic, overwhelmed. Why? Because Thursday, Friday, Saturday we are moving the office to the downtown location. It will take some slick maneovering to get out of moving early Saturday so I can make it to Reunion. Also on Saturday, as well as Sunday and Monday, I am moving into MY new place. So there will be painting, furniture moving, shopping, packing, unpacking... it goes on. So I am freaking out. I hereby claim the services of Farnam, Rachel, and Tward for the painting process.

...awww, would you look at the KIT-ten...

The only thing that has ever stopped me from having a kitten are the allergies of my father and brother.

I am moving out into my own place (sans allergy-ridden father and brother) on Sunday.

The Humane Society has an emergency overpopulation of kittens currently.

Do we see where this is going?

..and one day we will be french...

Me: Ugh.. I need to figure out what to wear for Saturday. Can I run it by you first?
Farnam: Of course, I love fashion analysis.
Me: This is more than fashion analysis. This is fashion analysis with subtext.

I didn't go to work today and I lost all sense of time. Disconcertingly, it was 48 hours of Sunday and I didn't even change out of my pyjamas this morning. It was course selection day (dum dum dum), so I perched in front of my computer, all day, hands at the ready on the keyboard, ready to whip through my courses. I managed to secure all but one.

In this temporal flux, there was no plan but to sit in PJ's all day, possible clean my room, play piano and eat ice cream. But in the real world, it was Monday and I was supposed to be at Deanna's for 9:10 to go play bingo. I completely forgot, and it was only when the ringing of the phone interrupted my Moonlight Sonata at 9:37 that I remembered. So here I am before you, the ultimate uncool because I forgot Deanna, bingo, and Monday, marvelous Monday.

So apologies x10 to Deanna.

And to Monday (even though we all hate Monday, not even secretly).

PS: We never actually got around to cleaning the room.

...the mad girl's love song...

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Sylvia Plath

...entertaining to the max...

i) Slick Tatum is moving in, and I love his family. LOVE THEM LOVE THEM LOVE THEM. His little Jewish step-mother sang me "Jaane Maryam". Talk about things I wasn't anticipating at dinner.

ii) Because Derek is constantly providing me with entertainment - today I am sharing: http://jet.ro/dismount/

iii) Course enrolment tomorrow. Shite.

...this just in: I am not a people person...

[truck. go. CRASH.]

I think the problem is though, that I just can't deal with people if they are significantly more dumb than me. Or are quite obviously trying to play me.

Whatever, it's gorgeous outside and I am wearing a pink t-shirt, heading to a BBQ with Slick Tatum (as he now prefers to be stealthily called).

Oh, and I killed the evil bug. Turns out it was a firebrat, not a silverfish. Same family, scarier mutherfucker of a bug. Took me a nice hour of hunting, with the words "I'm gonna git you sucka" running through my mind, and finally, got him I did.

...mmm... better than cookies...

I. am. drained.

Just spent 6 hours talking to Derek. And actually only left because my non-denominational self has to be in a Lutheran church for 9:30 tomorrow morning.

But like I said, I had 6 hours of Derek so I am contented. I can maybe, *maybe*, deal with this summer of non-seeing business if I can have him for 6 hour stretches of conversation at a time. That and the fact that I am finally seeing him on Saturday, more than two months overdue.

From another conversation (parallell and opposite simultaneously), this one for two hours. In which the question was asked "so do you have a boyfriend right now"? Now what on Earth am I supposed to do with that?

Why can't people who chose to leave my life stay left. That is NOT too much to ask, and this is NOT okay.

There is a silverfish in my rom and I am scared. Fully two inches long and I tried to kill it and it hid and now I can't see it anywhere, and I am going to sleep in the guest bedroom. My dad can hunt it in the morning.

...a resentful attack bred of economic concerns...

My brother is essentially the root of all evil. Let's talk about how he hasn't worked a day all summer, is going to an out of province university next year with not a whole lot in scholarship money, and is doing nothing about it. So essentially he is putting all this like an albatross around my parents neck.

I worked all summer last year, and paid for all my entertainment and groceries and purchases. My tuition was fully paid for by scholarship money, as well as part of my residence fees with the remainder, which left my parents paying just for the balance of the residence fees. This year, I worked full time all summer, again, as well as side babysitting jobs - I am paying for rent next year, and all other purchases. Tuition is again covered, as well as books, so my parents are just chipping in for rent if I end up needing help at some point.

I  just really resent my brother's inherent selfishness, that he isn't even considering that he is leaving my parents to completely support him. He has no concept of money, or responsibility at all. Just spends his days around the house bumming around or doing lord knows what, playing card and computer games with his loser friends. Not so much that he is a delinquent - he got past that phase. More like a self-chosen n'er do well. And yet, his girlfriend is a brilliant, high achiever. Talk about things I don't understand.

On a totally different point - there are some romantic attachments and attractions I just do NOT understand. But this is not a new argument, or a particularly interesting one. So I'm done.

Resume your regularly scheduled lives.

...so essentially, we can never go back there...

Friday night at the Duke of G is a tradition. Now, we can never go back there.

Porque?

In one night (this would be last night) - Deanna was asked out by the bartender, I met the infamous JD and he scared me (go look at the plaque on the wall, he said), Eric the Pool Man wanted to show us his piercings and thankfully we were able to stop him as he reached for his zipper (note to self: ewwwww).

Also, I am a poor and a wretched boy - a chimbley, chimbley sweep.

Earlier that night, in the car on the way to Finch Station, we see Rob, Rachel's manager, on the street corner. So we roll the windows down and Rachel belts it out "Roooobbbb!". He hears us, waves in the general direction of my champagne coloured mini-van, and turns away, having no idea who had called out to him. Rachel was in the back seat after all, tinted windows, and such.

On the subway, she decides the Rolling Stones zip tank I got her isn't going to cut it tonight, and right there starts changing into a white cami. In just a bra, on a rapidly filling up subway, Deanna and I holding our coats around her - in walks Rob the Manager. Of course he does, because this is our lives and this is what happens.

"But this kind of stuff doesn't HAPPEN to me", Rach cries, "it happens to Deanna!".

Damage control must now ensure she doesn't get charged from this job, in which she has had three shifts just.

In a completely unrelated matter, it is over between me and George Clooney. I haven't talked about it in a long while, but we had something going on (mm hmm). Then I saw Intolerable Cruelty again, don't even ask me why, and I decided that even he could not be forgiven such an error in judgement. Despite his pretty brown eyes.

Besides, I am lately more attracted to the punky, piercy, blue eyed boys a la Jacob from Canadian Idol and Sean "too bad I'm 16-almost-17" Newmarket. His last name isn't Newmarket, but he's from there. See?

C'est tout.

...mihir! you there!...

In brief, because it's late and I am intoxicated:

i) Rachel, sans shirt, on the subway - of COURSE her manager comes onto our car.

ii) Sean is 26 but is really 16 - that was disconcerting.

iii) Nick baked me a cake! Nick, I <3 you soooo much.

iv) 7 shots. On a less than full stomach. In less than 3 hours. I sang "you don't make friends with salad", and talked to Eric the Pool Man.

v) Oral Sex coupons. They say "Tie Domi". There is more to this story, but you don't hear it.

More when sober. G'night.

...the comic adventures of my job...

This is what follows when trying to eavesdrop/participate in a conversation while listening to music with headphones:

Jenny: He’s mad at his brother.
Me: Who?
Jenni: Craig
Me: It’s Craig’s birthday?
Jenni: No
Me: Then who?
Jenni: His brother.
Me: It’s Marc’s birthday?
Jenni: No!
Me: Then what are you talking about?
Jenni: Marc is mad at his brother, Craig.
Me: For forgetting his birthday?
Jenni: It’s no one’s birthday!

...we do what we do, when we gotta do...

My dad is an executive at an architectural firm.

My dad is also conveniently wrapped around my little finger.

Therefore, getting my dad to consider his firm to become a corporate sponsor for the 10th Anniversary event next year was surprisingly without serious impediment. On Monday, I will bring business cards, and broach the subject with the Boss Man.

In an unrelated but no less critical matter - I already know what I am wearing to Mid. House. Reun. Is that horrible? Of course, what I know I am wearing, I don't exactly own yet, which means quite a hefty shopping spree with money I don't readily have. I suppose that part is what is horrible.

Well what are you going to do? When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

Actually that is completely the wrong phrase. It's more like "When facing people you don't particularly like, look fucking hot". That kinda thing, ya know?

...this just in: this is WAY too easy...

Damn, if I knew all it took was a ballerina miniskirt, I would have got on this plain months ago.

Shit son, that was validating. The double-take look? You know it? Yeah, I got it. Those are the best moments, when an instaneous reaction emerges completely unbidden and you're just like, yeah I know. It's like that.

HAHAHA... I just feel like laughing, the whole day, laughing.

As it is, I have to go to work. But after, there will be laughter. Oh. Yes.

...just to watch it all come undone...

I am wearing my ballerina skirt to work today. Yes I am. I am, I am, I am.

So there.

One week and change to the middle house reunion. Haven't decided yet if I am going. By which I mean that of course I am going, but I would be exceedingly more comfortable if I knew exactly who is and isn't going to be there, tu comprends?

Friday night and the Duke of Gloucester - it's my (late) b-day yall. So come and celebrate with me, if ya love the Sanamana, and you are in the city. Oui?

...Canadian Idol: my two cents...

Theresa: I love her. I was enchanted, and entranced, and I adore her.

Kaleb: Was I the only one who noticed he was wearing EYELINER?

Kalan: Too pretty. It's a drawback, sorry. Like Brad Pitt.

Jacob: Did you see those eyes? I want to marry him. I'll make it easy on him. He doesn't even have to speak to me, or have any semblance of a personality. Just has to look at me with those blue blue blue eyes every once in a while. And sing Paul Anka.

I still maintain that Melissa would have blown them all away - next year, baby. Next year you rock their boat, capisce?

...damn this punk...

He's getting gutsier/spunkier/fiestier. Grabbed the zipper of my cardigan, half pulling it down. "Aren't you hot in here?" he asked incredulously.

Well I'm certainly hot *now*.

Personal space, man. Personal space.

Update: I described the occurance in a conversation with Rachel. She says she is keeping the transcript and will read it our wedding. I laughed. Then looked down uncomfortably. Hmm.

...the lamp post muttered...

I was going to paste three lines from a T.S. Eliot poem, but I changed my mind.

Because when it comes down to it, I am not a broken spring from a factory, rusted, curled, ready to snap. At all.

I'm tough, and gorgeous, and did I mention tough? Yes. I may not be able to control thoughts come unbidden in dreams, but I can control my actions in the waking hours. So actions? Get ready to be slapped down like nobody's business.

Cheers.

...this is the story of the boys who loved you...

i) He doesn't really love me. He says he does, but he's a liar (pants on fire). The hair is diverting when he's just come in from the rain, pouffy and so. Has character, not like these silly Canadians. 
   
ii) We need two roomies. Great place, cheap price, four terriff roommates.
 
iii) I don't know why all this drama follows me around. Sometimes I think I create it, but sometimes I just seem cursed. Insensitive boyfriends, secret family divorce/affair spectacles, house stabbings, and kitchen fires. Do I have it all or what?
 
 

...a question, if you don't mind...

Is it just my neighbourhood, or is this a common trait of grocery stores that the cashiers all have bad eighties hair?
 
Just checking.

...chikar konam?...

My aunt tonight said to me that I look like I am losing weight. Beautiful she said, and that my butt looks great. I'm glad I am finally pleasing someone. Though I won't lie, I have put a few back on in the past couple of weeks. This will have to do I suppose, until school begins and with it a nomeat diet, cigarettes, biking to work and a nice absence of parental supervision.
 
Incidentally this is the same aunt who once, the day I firsttimeever got my eyebrows sculpted, said to me "your eyebrows look beautiful but they would look much better if you were thinner". I was 13. And it is this comment (as well as myriads of others from "well-meaning" relatives) that I blame for my eating disorder adventures circa grade 9-10. Living in the commercialist/consumerist culture that is Thornhill didn't help much either.

...feels like the world is closing on me...

i) Coming home last night around 1 am, I almost passed our house by completely as there in the driveway was a car I did not know, a black shiny new Ford Explorer with tan leather interior. Leave it to my parents to do something crazy like get a new car on a whim.  I loved it, it was like Christmas. With new car smell.
 
ii) My parents ability to come up with new and subtle ways of demonstrating the fact that I am only a second-rate daughter never ceases to amaze me. In this latest example, my father bought a top-of-the-line Dell for my newly-collegiate brother to take to McGill, when for my approach to university he had spent $800 on a piece of shit machine from his Persian "connection" concocted from independent and likely illegal parts none of which was related to the other. A Daytek monitor and a Compaq CPU shell filled with god only knows what.
 
Of course the demeaning treatment endured by virtue of being a girl has it's pluses as well. I can take whatever general liberal arts bullshit major leading to unemployment I want to in school. I'm a girl, who cares what I do? My brother on the other hand is being coerced into the professional fields sure to garner lots of money. Currently, he will be studying Life Sciences and pre-med at McGill.
 
iii) Who wants to see Jill Scott with me in August? Yes?

iv) I'm exceedingly amused by the fact that a tiny little creature of a thing like Alice the Fairy at any given moment has 15 sensible adults absolutely glued to her attentions and wrapped around her little finger. Sunday today, sees me in the typical family tradition of littlebabymonopolization. Today she was entranced by my cellphone which played pretty tunes. The kid dances and everything, at 10 months. Too much fun for words, is the days of Alice-visitation.

...seedy little town on the verge of extinction...

I work weekdays. Saturday is not a weekday. So tell me why I pulled 12 hours today? Literally. 10am started. Left at 11:30. Home at 12:30. I am either insane or extremely dedicated.
 
Today was paint day of the new office, and I have the marks to prove it. White, yellow, blue and green - I am a veritable multicoloured collage of paint experience, garnered while simultaneously painting and shaking my booty to The Best of 80's Modern Pop-Rock. Props to Swig, who has achieved never before seen heights of respect in my eyes, because she did this as a living. One day painting for me, and I will never do it again. Except, that is, until tomorrow when I have to do it again.
 
StorminNormin is back from Arizona, as is Weezy. They did not bring Scout back. They should have.
 
Weddings are a shame, when they interfere with my plans. Especially when I looked so cute today in my paint clothes. Hair curly and wild, child-of-the-eighties style, to match the soundtrack. Bum-jeans with rolled cuffs, strategically cut purple voodoo t-shirt. Wasted strategy I say.
 
I had more to add, but it's late, I'm tired, and my bed is fluffy with clean sheets.

...if there's a way, meet at the bar...

i) I had. A con. Ver sation.
 
Just one, but hey look at me go. I was calm/civilized/clever - all my favorite "c" words. Here's another: "chill". I was chill too, and not snide/petty as I am oft to do.
 
This is the answer I think - I had Secret Knowledge. The knowledge that I looked hot wearing brand-new skinny jeans and the makeout shirt, that I was on my way out on a Friday night, that I had people waiting for me, that I had better things to do than sit there chatting with him, but I would for a few minutes. I deigned. Witness me deign, la la la. Secret Knowledge and skinny jeans are a dangerous combination. No end to my beauteous charms, I am knowing it, and left regal and magnanimous in spirit. If you're only now learning how cool I am, how unfortunate for you.
 
"I'd like to hold you still, remind you of all you missed".
 
ii) I don't take kindly to criticism. I am very, very defensive most of the time, about any and all things. God help any who try to tell me I am not doing right, and do different. There aren't many people who can get away with telling me the truths I need to hear; at this moment they count at three. Everyone else is ignored to varying extents, on a sliding scale.
 
LessThanThree belongs to the three. He knows me quite well you see, and he may have seemed a little harsh last night (*clears throat* he was) but he speaks for my own good, and my own good knows that he is right. Hence, new leaf. As of 7:49 a.m. I am no longer to be hung up. I am hang-ING up. As in a receiver, as in shutting it down, as in getting over. Aren't you proud of me?
 
"I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on."
 
iii) The nature of fear and love in the modern world. By which I naturally mean, my modern world, in which I am distant and ever ready to take flight.
 
"Could you be his girlfriend", asks The Best.
 
"Ack.. don't say girlfriend", I spit back.
 
That's it though, isn't it? That's the point, completely. I couldn't be his girlfriend and I really really want to be: there's a monstrosity of issues, insecurities, intimidation - there's a monstrosity of intimidation standing in my way. Completely without inference or insinuation, he speaks of how he is ready to settle down and date someone longterm (he has always been the player, in past), have a serious committed relationship, share with someone - all kinds of wonderful things to make me feel completely uncomfortable. So here we are, and here is a hard place.
 
iv) The black stretch limo was standing at the corner of Bloor and Balmuto as we came out of the Scotiabank. D waved to the driver, he was on his cell phone and put up one finger, the international signal for "one minute, and I'll chat with you". A creepy limo driver gesturing his intent to chat with us? The Best and I suggested we leave. D gave the driver the pouty look and waved sadly goodbye.
 
Not even four steps further, we hear a door open and close behind us. Finished with his call, the driver had got out of the car and was motioning us over.
 
"We just wanted to ask if you could give us a ride to the TD Bank" D shouts over to him.
 
Amazingly, he says yes. Amazingly to D, The Best and I say no and start dragging her away. But I mean, a driver randomly willing to pick up three girls in his limo? Who knows what would have happened to us. He seemed creepy anyway and maybe he had someone in the back already and THEY wanted him to pick us up for devious purposes of their own.
 
I am a little paranoid, but the decision was made. A block away, D lets us have it.
 
"I hate you two! You get one year older and lose all your fun. Obviously Ben Affleck was in there, and Matt Damon, and obviously they were naked! And you made me miss it!"
 
A sad thing to miss, I know. But it's alright. Playing pool later that night, four pairs of guys hit on her. I think she had a good time, lack-of-limo notwithstanding.

...infinite motion, never still...

Words, clever or otherwise, seem to fail me more often than not these days. They're an abstract creation anyway. Why talk about this or that, or any of that, when it's all the same to me? Shrugging helplessly, in the guise of a conversation I hardly listened to in the first place. What is he talking about anyway, a Persian girl? Bus stop?
 
"Oh was she cute? You should ask her out".
 
That is not what I meant to say, not at all.

...music makes the people come together...

Newsflash: Madonna is tiny. Teeny weenie. TEENY! You think I am short? Pah. That's NOTHING to her.
 
Ask me how I know. G'head. Ask awaaaayyyy!
 
Last night and finally getting out to go to The Best's party with D. By virtue of being 18, D was turned away (even though her ID is quite good, if I say so myself), so we bailed on Milwaukee's and headed to Piccadilly. Standing in line, suddenly the bouncers and club managers get everyone up against the walls and off the street. "Someone's coming" they said. A huge police van drove up, disembarking 10 cops on bicycles. From down the street, four officers on horseback approach. Behind them, two massive black SUV's with a black SUV stretch limo in between. They stop and a throng of people emerge. Bodyguards, friends, associates of... Madonna. With Madonna in between them, they shuffle past and into the club. She was stunning, in white cowboy hat and blondblondblondblond hair. Witness the rest of us standing, jaw-floor, up against the wall. There were shrieks. Mainly from me. It was good.
 
Returned home not long after, having given up on the club scene (we were turned away by four places, in total), to eat ice cream and chat till much later than is good for me considering I have to be at work in an hour.
 
Tonight and the Duke of G, yes? Yes.

...do I dare to eat a peach?...

Birthday wishes from:
Best friend (first thing in the morning, yeah baby), Best Dodo (with kittens), and others.

Also, parents. And grandmother. And, as ever, my aunt who never never forgets, ever and who showed up at my house with jewellery, turquoise dontcha know, from Iran.

In the office - flowers from the ladies, kind words from Trouble, and Lovah telling me I am his best Persian (damn straight I am).

Great balls of fire, I have been alive for two decades.

Cheers to me.

And to the French, who had fireworks today. Bastille day/My birthday. One is a national holiday, the other should be.

PS: I had flowers, presents, kind wishes, kisses... but no cake. There is definately something wrong with this picture. Out of all the people who love me, no one got me cake? *sigh*.

...did I hear somebody say good shot?...

Due to the blogger server going down last night, this review is a little late in coming.

Fahrenheit 9/11. I finally went down to see it last night. In the first 5 minutes I thought it was going to be propoganda garbage, but by 10 minutes in I was already hooked and silent.

A note to the audience: there was a lot of laughter in inappropriate parts of the film. I don't know if this is a Canadian phenomenon but it was not appreciated.

About the film - I think it brings up a lot of important questions and thoughts, as well as being an entertaining film. However, if Michael Moore was intending it as a serious documentary, he missed in this regard. With the blatantly biased slant of the movie, and the focus on shock/entertainment value (i.e. dressing the Bush administration as cowboys), I think he loses some credibility and the risk is that it will be seen my many as reason to discredit the movie itself, along with the important message it conveys.

That being said, there were many powerful moments in the movie which really struck me. Some of these were quotes from the Bush camp, for example when Bush is being questioned by the media on the golf green.

"I call upon all nations to do everything they can to stop these terrorist killers. Thank you.... Now, watch this drive".

Or this quote:

"What an impressive crowd: the haves, and the have-mores. Some people call you the elite, I call you my base."

The last minutes of the movie were also very strong, including the point where Moore is trying to get congressmen to enlist their children, and the bewildered shock on the congressmens' faces.

In terms of imagery, there were four that have really stayed with me.
i) The little boy whose arm is shown completely decimated and torn out.
ii) The man who is carrying the body of a young boy, and as he turns you see that the boy wet himself from fear before he died.
iii) The interview with the soldier in the military hospital, who lifts his leg and only then do we inadvertently see he has lost his leg.
iv) The burned and hacked bodies of the contractors in Iraq, strung up, images which I had not seen yet.

A powerful movie, and one which I think I need to see again to pay even closer attention to the facts, names and statistics without being distracted by the emotional shocks along the way.

...just call me the Dapper Don...

...get it? Dapper because of the bingo dapper thing. Or is it dabber?

D Chronicles: Part 1
This just in: My town has a bingo hall. Where have I been through all of this? These people were hardcore, it was scary. They commanded absolute silence and nearly threw us out when Matt couldn't comply. So we told everyone he had Tourette's. He doesn't.

Max the Agent stared down my chest. His wife offered me a babysitting job. 70 year old Russian Vlodny from the table in front of us hit on me. Turns out he's known as the "Stud of Delta Bingo" and conveniently (or discomfortingly) lives down the street from me. We hate Matt because while the girls ran to Timmy's to supply our collective caffeine dependencies, he ran outside to chat with Jory on the phone and left me to the attentions of said Vlodny. Vlodny spent some time in Iran years ago. He turned to me with his charming smile and said "dooset daaram". I shifted my chair a little away, but smiled nicely in my turn.

Also, we did not win tonight. At all. The whole night. Through 10 games.

D Chronicles: Part 2
Almost 10 months worth of catching up with D. It turns out that in some paradoxical occurance, I am K, and she is A. Except I am not moving to Newfoundland, and she is not emotionally unable.

I had some insights tonight. I'm not going to share them but it is enough to know that they were had. They aren't of any use because what's done is done and I can't really go back in time and be less emotionally charged, but good to know for future? Maybe. Except this is probably who I am and I can't change it. So what then, I ask you?

You know, I blame myself for us not being friends. But friendship is a pipe dream anyway - I couldn't not care, and he couldn't care so it was all horribly mismatched and we are where we are.


In other news:
Tomorrow I am wearing the outfit that I wore on Thursday in the hopes that tomorrow he will be where he is supposed to be, which is somewhere where I will be seen. Because I have come to the realization that he should not be the only one with tease powers. See, because gratuitous flirtation should be a constitutional right. Equality and all that jazz, it is the 21st century after all. And also, the top is off the shoulder, so, you know.

...shab ke ba mani, sheytoon bala-yi...

He's a tease, do you understand?

T-E-A-S-E

With the shoulders, and the winking, and the saying incredible things to make one melt/swoon/breathless, and such. Apparently it is as much my fault because I am not putting an end to the teasing. But he has hands, famidi? So the massage-of-shoulders thing I am physically unable to stop. When you're melted with eyes glazed over, it's a little difficult to say "stop this completely frustrating behaviour, if you don't mind", or anything else to that effect.

And I play into it. I dress in cute little outfits and get upset when he doesn't show where he is supposed to show, and tell him he's a jerk for not visiting as much. So really, this is all completely my fault.

Now, I am fairly certain that followup to the constant flirtation could probably occur if the age thing were a little less gaping. Not that I mind, we all know me. I like age. Age is good. In fact, there is an inverse relationship between problems with ex-boyfriends and their ages. The greater the age difference between, the less problems were had. The point is though, that I like age, but aged do not like young. Yes? So we have me in a bind.

Do you know what he said today? That marriage is not about settling down, for him. It is a new adventure. The ideal marriage for him is one where he can have pillow fights with his wife. I told him I do not understand how no one has snatched him up. I truly truly do not.

I love him, and he's a tease, and these are the circumstances of my life as I know it.

...and i arrived when you were weak...

Anonymous and surrounded on the northbound platform at Dundas station, the gust of air accompanying the oncoming train swept something into my eye. Tears sprang, and as the doors slid open and people emptied, I thought to myself how easily I could have pitched myself in front of that train, before it came. Hardly a pleasant thought, I know. It surprised me too.

Then I watched "Seducing Dr. Lewis" and I felt a little better.

...plot keywords: terrorism...

Juliana Margulies. Dylan McDermott. Jemma Redgrave.

Big names. They'll sell. What are they selling? As we understand it, hate .

At a theater screening in New York to watch the second Spiderman film, he was stunned to see a trailer for an upcoming TNT program called "The Grid", which is being marketed as a fictional account of counter-terrorism against "Islamic terrorism" in New York.

He describes that the ad is longer than a typical movie preview and begins with interviews with the show’s actors, executive producer, and technical advisor (himself incidentally a former Bush administration policy advisor who admiringly refers to Donald Rumsfeld during the trailer.)

Straddling the line between fiction and reality, the trailer juxtaposes the actors’ recollections of 9/11 with clips from the show depicting “Arab” individuals (mostly played by non-Arab actors, of course.)

Among the most offensive scenes are:

(1) A collage of images, including ones of Muslim individuals, as the
voice-over states: “they taught us to fear, now it is their turn to be afraid” and, most shockingly, “human life means nothing to these people.”

(2) images of Muslim men praying and Muslim women in Hijab as the background voices discuss an Islamic terrorist cell operating in NYC.

(3) an image of a man who appears to have been physically tortured while Julianna Margulies says: “You speak to me truthfully, and I’ll get you out of here” (a shocking image in light of the Abu Ghraib incident).

(You can watch a much shorter, and admittedly far-less-offensive version of the trailer at: www.tnt.tv.)

The trailer in its current form is intrinsically and carries the potential for consequences arising from the misrepresentation of Muslims as terrorists; consequences such as increasing attacks against those believed to be Muslim. The Center for American-Islamic Relations reports that last year, about 1000 incidents of hate crime occured in the United States.

For this reason, I am echoing his request that we take action, by urging you to contact the TNT studios and asking them to stop running the trailer in its current form. You may wonder why we are asking them to stop running the trailer in its current form and not protesting the film itself - well, I asked myself this as well, and the answer is that we have not yet seen the program (it is set to air on July 19) and thus cannot rationally argue against something we have yet to see. I assume however that if the show plays out like it appears to, that I will be urging you at a later date to write TNT to protest the program as well. For now, the very least that we can do is to protest the blatant racism put forth in the trailer.

You can contact TNT at:

tnt@turner.com
1010 Techwood Dr. NW
Atlanta GA 30318
TNT programming: 404-885-4538

I passed on the email I received about this trailer to many of my friends, and already they are responding to me that "oh, it is not so big a deal". Think about that if you will - in what way is racism not a big deal? In what way is creating an association between Islam (a religion of peace) and terrorism not a big deal? It furthers the kind of racial stereotypes and generalization that breed resentment and anger among populations, and create division. Hate breeds hate, we all have heard this phrase. By protesting misrepresentations such as those depicted in the trailers for this film, you help to stop the cycle.

...like a single drop lucid and heavy...

Her cousin is one of the cutest children you will ever see. Charming, polite, and completely beguiling. He is also four years old and easily frightened, which makes living in the terrifying environment of Gaza particularly difficult.

She came home on Wednesday, and we have been hearing about how it was to be back in her hometown of Rafa after four years. The culture shock was more than she had anticipated. Used to the safety, calm and luxury of Toronto, she was unprepared for round the clock curfews, military planes and helicopters flying constantly overhead, and bombings and missiles close enough to be seen.

One afternoon, the house was quiet when all of a sudden the sound of an approaching plane could be heard. The house began to shake and through the window, an Israeli missile was seen as it flew past and crashed into a building 200 metres away from her home. At the first sounds of the plane, her cousin wet himself and burst into tears, embarassed because all of his relatives witnessed his shame. They hardly noticed though: his loss of control, like the missile and bomb attacks, happen more and more these days.

What are we doing? All of us, everyone - what are we doing, when innocent people are dying around the world, and four year olds can't even control their bodies because they are so afraid? What are we doing, and what can we do?

...from Nas: what goes around...

Never to worry, all the wrong doers got it coming back to em
A thousand times over
Every dog has its day and everything flips around
Even the most greatest nation in the world has it coming back to em
Everyone reaps what they sew that's how it goes
Innocent lives will be taken, it may get worse but we'll get through it
Yall be strong...

...I contemplate, believing in karma
Those on top could just break and wont be eating tomorrow
I know some bitches who be sleeping on n***as dreams
They leave when they n***a blow she the first bitch on her knees
Knowing dudes thats neglecting their seeds
Instead of taking care of em they spending money on trees
I pray for you deadbeat daddies
Cause when them kids get grown its too late for you
Now you old and you getting shitted on
Its all scientific, mystic, you know the Earth and the stars
Don't hesitate to say you heard it from Nas
What is destined shall be
George Bush killin' til George Bush kills me
Much blessings be healthy, remember:

What goes around...

…it’s not a crush so much as it’s “appreciation”…

i) As she was leaving the office yesterday, she commented on my outfit, said how nice I looked. I mentioned it was because we were going to see Sascha Trudeau speak and to attend his reception. She smiled and said I might just end up walking out with Sascha Trudeau. I didn’t… but that would have been nice.

ii) The best had a dream last night where she and Jacob and I were sitting chatting in a restaurant somewhere. I made a fuss about my name and decided to change it to something else – pronounced the same but because I felt it looked prettier with an “o”. It doesn’t. The best says she thinks I’m becoming a whackjob. That could be.

iii) I want to live vicariously through the interns.

...learning by example...

Wednesday night, and the launch of the World Youth Centre, an initiative of Canada World Youth and WorldCouncil. Held at the Labatt Breweries John Labatt Hall at the Queen's Quay, it was a styling affair bursting to the seams with incredible people. Case in point: I had the privilege tonight of meeting Alexandre Trudeau, the youngest son of Pierre Trudeau, who, by virtue of my being a years-long student of Shulman, was a favorite among Canadian politicians for me. His son, then, naturally does not disappoint.

Not a natural or particuliarly phenomenal speaker, his reservation in public in no way diminishes his impact as a truly exceptional individual. His technique in journalism of "immersion" and his devotion to covering the "human" story of international events makes him one of a kind in the world of media. His support of learning and education, and life education, is inspiring. He spoke of learning from those around you, and not being fully dependent on books and institutions for your education. The best education you can get is from people, in your world, and by example.

The World Youth Centre is a new initiative that supports a number of students each year who are committed to social entrepreneurship in their endeavors. We met the 10 or so young people who are this years recipients of the awards this evening. Among them was a student from Iran, Amir, with whom I had a chance to converse. About what? What else - my intention to begin education projects and schools in the areas of Iran most lacking in it. We spoke for about half an hour, and I am dying to go to work tomorrow to speak to Lloyd, so I can continue being in contact with this individual.

That is the "profound" aspect of tonights events. Here is the "spazzy":

i)Sascha Trudeau is beautiful. And before he went up to speak, he was standing right in front of me. And I touched his sleeve. He is my new hero, and I love him. Case closed.
ii) I saw Clara, a girl I was in Quebec with a couple of years ago, here tonight. She is as annoyingly perfect and false now as she was then. Watching her spill beer on her self, while Trudeau and Nigel Miller were close by, was frankly just blissfully entertaining for me.

...moderated, non-anonymous...

Let it be known that I never smoked for effect.

That isn't to say my reasons were any better, but for the record, smoking was not about appearance for me, ever. Weight loss, stress, a strange attraction to the smell of cigarettes - those were my reasons (albeit none particularly great).

This morning, Faezeh invited me to join the community of Iranian Female Smokers, an Orkut community dedicated to - you guessed it - Iranian women who smoke.

This is the profile image to this community. Most of the individual members have a sexy silhoutted picture of themselves, cigarette in hand, exuding confidence and a willowy wisp of smoke. Reminiscent of old Hollywood, circa 1920's.

I find it sad that in this day and age, people still correlate smoking with sexiness and the appearance of cool. I won't regale you with medical evidence to dissuade any smokers out there: we all know it's wrong. Smoking is a personal choice however, and if it's the one you want to make, knowing all the reasons why you shouldn't, well who I am to stop you? Just a fellow smoker.

Actually I haven't smoked in over 2 months now, but I won't lie, I will probably take it up again when school starts. But I know all the reasons why I shouldn't, know that in this age it has actually become the anti-cool, and as such won't be bragging about it to anyone.

Or joining this community.

Invitation declined.

...from "The House in the Sand"...

What do we leave here but the lost cry
of the seabird, in the sand of winter, in the gusts of wind
that cut our faces and kept us
erect in the light of purity,
as in the heart of an illustrious star?

What do we leave, living like a nest
of surly birds, alive, among the thickets
or static, perched on the frigid cliffs?
So then, if living was nothing more than anticipating
the earth, this soil and its harshness,
deliver me, my love, from not doing my duty, and help me
return to my place beneath the hungry earth.

We asked the ocean for its rose,
its open star, its bitter contact,
and to the overburdened, to the fellow human being, to the wounded
we gave the freedom gathered in the wind.
It's late now. Perhaps
it was only a long day the color of honey and blue,
perhaps only a night, like the eyelid
of a grave look that encompassed
the measure of the sea that surrounded us,
and in this territory we found only a kiss,
only ungraspable love that will remain here
wandering among the sea foam and roots.

~Pablo Neruda

...and freedom for all...

I wonder sometimes if my parents regret moving us to Canada. On paper, they shouldn't. Political freedom, opportunities for their children, a greater quality of life. When they left, they left overpowering pollution, oppression and a repressive way of life.

It was a hard adjustment, and not an easy transition. Sometimes, my parents are still transitioning it seems. My mother especially found it difficult. The pace was very fast for her, the culture was foreign and the weather was horrid. We moved in November, remember, in a particularly cold 1987.

Our first summer in Canada we took a trip to see the Niagara Falls. Everytime one of our relatives comes to Canada, we take them there. In the same way that Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty are synonomous with the sights of freedom for those who went to the eastern US, in my family the falls have filled this capacity. Being able to go visit the falls was what told them "hey, we made it".

It will be 17 years this year. My mother can never believe it. Almost a quarter of a century in this country, and I hope that they are happy with the decision they made. I couldn't be happier. As the beer commercials say, I am "proud to be Canadian". Some rough stretches to be sure - but hey, we made it.

...a delicate procedure...

Before we begin:

i) Keep an eye on candidness. Say nothing that can be used against you.
ii) Things of the too-personal will be kept to an absolute minimum.
iii) Things of the too-political will be kept to an absolute minimum.
iv) We strive for balance; extremity is disconcerting and awkward.

With those in mind, here be blog the fourth. Editions 2 and 3 were both temporary and topic-specific. Really then, this be blog the second when speaking in general and not particular terms. Welcome, nonetheless. I doubt you'll be very well entertained, but it isn't as if I dragged you here kicking and screaming.

Yes, you did.

Well, yes I know I did, but you weren't supposed to mention it. Gracious, remember?