As a child, I knew when someone loved me from the way they would say my name. You can sense the difference. I knew that my name was safe in their mouth.

FenMag

"Sibiki min hal faan!" (forget about this art stuff)

Words that come out of my mom's mouth ever so often, regardless of the fact that her past was filled with faan, one that is now replaced with numbers.

I write for FenMag, an awesome online magazine that you should read. It's about time Arabs and all their quirkiness got a place to post their own faan right?

Staying true to the yuppie activist writing style, check me out homies.

From my ears to yours: Cassettat wa manakeer

When I was young, our home was filled with cassette tapes that had Arabic written on them in red nail polish. I was amazed by how well my maman could write with the nail polish and how much writing she could actually fit, alongside the "A" and "B" to represent the side, on the cassette. The other amazing aspect of these cassettes was the content. Inside was the best old Arabic pop music ever (not the classic Fairuz, Abdel Halim, Farid El-Atrach or Oum Khalthoum, those were in the tapes with the fuchsia nail polish) but Warda, Azar Habib, Ragheb Alameh, Samira Toufic and Majida Al Roumi, to name a few. A recent soirée at my place had me yearning to find some of the classics for my guests, the ones that used to make my mom's hips sway and give Fifi Abdou a run for her money (true story, she outdanced Fifi herself on stage discussed briefly in this post, another note, Nancy please see Fifi's real name for a laugh at what yours was going to be). I've already sent my cousins a message to pass onto my aunt (the dancing machine) to make me a CD of these incredibly difficult songs to come by, but I got a little impatient, and being skilled at finding anything (I wanted to be a secret agent when I was young), I did manage to get my hands on a ton of old hits including a 1978 version of "Linda Linda Ya Linda" sung at the Sheraton Hotel by a young George Wassouf, and "Aamelli Aantar" by Ferial Karim, which is an awesome song and the name of my pretend cat. Pretend because I'm allergic to cats, but c'mon, a cat named Aantar? GOLD.

Below is a link to download some hits I compiled for your listening pleasure, mostly old Lebanese songs (tracklist below). And since the Arab world doesn't believe in "copyright", you don't have to feel guilty about it. A-HHHH-AAAA (I'm brushing up on my Masri)!

Download "Al Nostalgia"

Tracklist:

Ragheb Alameh - Bint El sultan

Marwan Mahfoud - Tahet El Chebbak

George Wassouf - Linda Linda Ya Linda

Georgette Sayegh - Ya Nassini

Hekmat Wehby - Ah Ya Tamara

El Helwa De

Ferial Karim - Aamelli Aantar

Sami Clark - Oumi Ta Nor2oss

Edward Society - Linda Linda

George Wassouf - Terghalle Ya Terghalle

Georgette Sayegh - Dellouni Al Aynayn El Soud

Samira Toufic - Bassak Teje Haretna

Mohamad Hussein - Maryam Maryamti

Farid Saker - Ma Be2der Khabbi Aalayki

Ragheb Alameh - Hamdilla Al Salamah

Azar Habib - Kteer M7alaye

Azar Habib - Lawlaki Ya Malaki

Ali Hemida - Lolaky

Conversations with my mother

"I've been published mom, in print!" I tell her, happily.
"Send me the link honey!"
"Print mom, print!" I say.
"There's no link?" She asks.
"Paper."

"Your grandfather wants me to tell you to stay away from politics. He says live life and forget about this nonsense."
"Life would cease to have meaning," I respond.

"You know your dad's second cousin's wife's dad? And your late grandfather's brother's wife?"
"Yeah what about them?" I reply.
"Well they got married. She's 68, he's 80."
"Woah," I respond.
"I know, your father and I spent the entire day laughing, I almost left work!"

"Your grandfather also told me about his new venture. Hooking up widows his age."

"I came back and the house was a mess so I spent the entire day cleaning. I mean you know how your sister is, if death came knocking on her door she wouldn't get up for him."
- her love of directly translating sayings from various languages to English.

Le Caire

My mother's best friend, a woman who passed at an age far too young, was Egyptian. She had a boy and a girl, which my older sister and I hung out with frequently. When my parents worked late, we'd sleep at their house. When I was five, I was playing at the park in front of the apartment complex we lived in and I heard an older Egyptian woman yell at her son. I rushed home to tell my mother that someone is yelling our language downstairs and I think they should meet. To this day, I consider her and her late husband like my grandparents in Canada.

"We are cooking some Egyptian dishes today, and Umm Ali for dessert, " she says. "I thought you said Egyptian food isn't good?" I reply. "Yes, but they have some good dishes, like zaghareed bil freekeh." "Oh yes! Remember when we ate it that time before the Fifi Abdoo play?" he jumps in reminiscing one of their many visits. "How can I forget it? The taste is still in my mouth 20 years later!" she replies. They both laugh.

As I ventured out to explore a Canadian city and province I had never visited, everything suddenly turned Egyptian. At the Forks, Egyptian 3D puzzles and Pharaoh figurines filled the shelves of toy stores, and chocolates in the shapes of Pharaohs lined the bonbonnerie. My return to the house is greeted with a call from my mother's Egyptian friend while my bookmark stops at a chapter when the main character begins her new life in Egypt.

I sit there imagining what it must've been like, how happy a time it was for them. I think to myself, it's too bad I was so young that I can't remember it. It's even worse that I don't think they'll ever feel joy about little things like that again.

Inquest of boys

See maman et papa have made me become so obsessed with criteria when finding the right mate that when a friend attempts to set me up with one of their friends, it turns into a giant fiasco of questions via this patient third party. My parents' criteria, according to them, is simple: same race and religion (preferrably hailing from the same village and avoiding a long list of villages they've laid out for me along with reasons why I should avoid said villages), a degree in one of four majors (masters is preferred), a good job that can provide (be a provider gurl), his parents must also have good jobs and a good reputation, he must be tall, good looking, polite, be prepared for a wedding fiasco (weddings are for parents, the more you learn to accept that, the more of your life you'll live), left wing, no health concerns, no more than five years my senior, a sense of humour fitting to mine (bless their hearts), open minded, speaks more than one language (with French being one of them but this one is not that big of a deal for them), and be prepared for interrogation questionning about anything and everything while surrounded by 75 of my closest male relatives (60 extra men that are friends of my parents will be considered "family" for this day).

Here's a conversation that took place between myself and a friend today regarding someone she'd think I'd be perfect with. Since I'm always the pessimist (even my boss tells me so), this convo was more complicated than it should've been:

N: So I just thought of one of my guy friends who'd be perfect for you. Fits all your criteria (race, religion), however, he's in Ottawa
Yuppie: What's his name? I probably know him.
N: Joe Average*
Yuppie: I just facebooked him, we have 11 mutual friends
N: Adddddd himmmmmmm!!!! He's super nice, gonna text him now, I was talking to him all day!
Yuppie: I don't add people I don't know.
N: Let me give him your number.
Yuppie: No. I'm terrible on the phone and no. I don't know him.
N: Then Facebook add him.
Yuppie: No!!!
N: Why not?
Yuppie: He doesn't even know what I look like and I don't know what he looks like! His profile pic was a side profile. Some people's profiles are better than their faces.
N: He's cute, I wouldn't send you an ugly.
Yuppie: We have different taste.
Yuppie: Is he educated? What does he do for a living?
N: Yes educated he does work but can't remember what company he works for
Yuppie: How old is he? What degree? How open minded is he? Where does he hang out? How do you know him?
N: No more questions. Message him.
Yuppie: No you can't expect me to talk to some random! He can message me!
N: Okay can I give him your number?
Yuppie: No! Let him facebook msg me or something. Send me a photo will you?
N: Okay he'll be adding you shortly. He's at the gym.

Hours later. During these hours, I get hit on agressively by the employee at the pizza shop who attempts to guess my ethnic background and provides me with the best service a dingy pizza place can provide. He guessed all the usual ones and didn't get one right.

N: Did he add you?
Yuppie: No add.
N: Ugh I am going to msg him and see what's up.
Yuppie: Stop being a pushy mother.
N: No no, I just told him to add you and invite me to the wedding.
Yuppie: Loser
N: He's at a BBQ
Yuppie: I can't see what he looks like you know.
N: Are you shallow and only care about looks? Bahahahahah he's good looking with a nice body, trust me girls stalk him.
Yuppie: Ahem, I wanted to see how Gino he was.
N: He isn't!
Yuppie: Where does he hang out?
N: I have no idea?
Yuppie: K did he go to u of o or carleton?
N: He went to college but I think he went to Uni after...
Yuppie: I see. I see. Does he wear white shoes? LOL
N: Well he did work at Aldo during school....
N: OMG you two keep on asking me about looks, LOL!
Yuppie: How did you describe me?
N: I didn't, I said he has to find out on his own.

*Name changed

Dear Winter

Dear Winter,

Remember when we met? It was a long time ago, when my unsuspecting immigrant parents moved from a really hot place to Canada and took the kids with them. Did they know you threw freezing cold weather parties about six months throughout the year and forced them to attend without their consent? Um, no. Like all immigrants, they thought leather jackets sufficed in this weather, that scarves were for revolutionaries, gloves for wedding ensembles, and simply refused to sacrifice style for your cold boogies. Eventually, they learned. Scratch that, my father still wears a leather jacket. My mom just gave up on style period and it wasn't because of you, it's because she got a boring job.

Well any way, the reason I am writing you this letter is because it's March now and I know you have a few weeks before you leave for another few months or so but do you consistently have to throw -35 degree weather parties in my foreign face? I mean seriously, like, cut us some slack here, you should've saved these bitter cold days for January and February, which were so last month. Like sometimes you send out invites to your cold parties a few weeks and/or months earlier than you are supposed to and make me have to wear socks and shoes, then my winter coat, which has no lining anymore. And then when we think it's all over but you come back for another round. Oh and let's not talk about those "mock" invites you give to the weather channel, they are never accurate, ya know? When will your partying addiction stop? For God's sakes, I want to take my winter jacket off, is that too much to ask?

Love love,

The one that's been hatin' on your cold behaviour since back in '88 (uh huh, uh huh and I don't quit).

Lilac

Last month, my mother phoned me to tell me about this great gift she got me from Coach. Now I'm not fond of Coach (for all you fake purse loving girls it's Goach), but I sincerely appreciate the gesture. Let me rewind back to the eighties and early nineties before proceeding with the story. My mom was an artist with great style and a killer hair cut. She was a total head turning babe. In the nineties, she decided to drop her fine arts degree, switch over to commerce and get a "real" job. By becoming a corporate suit, my mother's style evolved into something that my sister and I don't quite understand. We've classified it as "hodgepodge", translation: she loves the flashy Coach stuff. So when the package arrived, I opened it and immediately panicked. How am I supposed to tell her that if I wore these items I'd look like a member of the newly formed "Baby Lilac Soundcrew"? After minutes of being the subject of mockery by my roommate and ignoring my mother's calls (to ask if I received the package of course), I found, tucked inside the bag, a receipt. Thank you mom, you did something right in this purchase! I quickly headed to the Eaton Centre and discussed my dilemma with the Coach staff. I actually told them I am not a fan of the brand and lilac isn't exactly my colour so I was hoping to get the money instead (hey, I'm broke okay?). But, since mother paid with her credit card, I was offered only store credit. And since I don't like making trips to the mall, I decided to browse and found these:




Amazing aren't they? The cashmere and the cuff is what sold me. I've never been able to find a pair of gloves I like since I lost my beautiful Pegabo ones in a cab two years ago. These babies came to just about the total of all the stuff my mom got me AND I managed to get candy money ($5.10) back. So the next time mommy called, I picked up and told her that I really needed leather gloves so I had to return the other stuff. I also put emphasis on the fact that cashmere was involved. Surely she was upset, but if she saw these gloves, I'm sure she'd understand.