"listen to your mother"

"and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again."
Caliban, The Tempest, William Shakespeare


I stayed up all night to watch the Oscars live until almost 7 am. It's kind of a tradition that I've created for myself since I was thirteen years old --no matter what, every year, I watch the show live. It may seem futile to you --I could watch the replay at a decent hour the next day, and not be at work downing coffee after coffee on  Monday morning, having only slept two hours. But to me, watching the Oscars is more than finding out who won Best Picture. The truth is, when I first started my tradition, watching was all about the dream to be a part of it one day. I would sit and smile and visualize myself walking down that red carpet in a signee-something gown, embracing Tom Hanks and having a laugh with Nicole and Sandra, giggling at the joke some reporter made. I'd rehearse my acceptance speech in the shower, varying it a little from time to time, switching from funny to emotional or mixing up both. Eh. I wanted to be one of those people who dream big and actually make it.
A lot of girls dream about being an actress when they grow up. Maybe you dreamed of being a singer, a dancer, a football player; and maybe you're not surprised that it didn't happen.
Now I watch the Academy Awards, and it's a reminder of what I didn't do. I look at the young and upcoming stars on red-carpet, the Hailees and Jennifers who are nominated on their first time around, and I remember that I never even tried --that I gave up before giving myself the chance. I remember what I once was: ambitious, motivated, hungry.
And now I realize that I sound like I'm 80 years old and my life is behind me. But I'm not. I'm 25.
One of last night's winners, David Seidler, who won best original screenplay for The King's Speech, is 73 years old. In his speech he laughed it off and said his "father said he would be a late bloomer." So we never know... Maybe I'll surprise myself at age 70 and be up there after all.
But my favorite part of the show last night was something director Tom Hooper said when he won. He told the story of how his mother went to a stage version reading of The King's Speech, came back and told him she found his next film. "The moral of the story is: listen to your mother."
Yes, I'm a sucker for mother tributes and such. And this made me think that maybe every time I feel lost and dwell in the misery of my quarter life crisis, I should listen to my own mother. Problem is, she died three weeks before my 16th birthday. But a lot of the times, I forget that she left me a really important, and quite specific message. On that first birthday she missed, my father presented me with a gift, from her. He said she had them run around the city for weeks trying to find the one she had in mind: it was a beautiful silver quill and ink set. And her message to me was: never stop writing.

till death do us part

Today would've been my parents' 27th wedding anniversary.
And I would like to honor that by writing about them in today's post. It makes sense: I write about relationships, and to me, they had the best kind of romantic relationship you could wish to have. It's true, I will never know if they would have stayed together had my mother not passed away, but it doesn't matter because it didn't happen.
So here's their story.
27 years ago like today, my parents stood in front of a mayor in Cyprus, and exchanged vows. They had a civil wedding because she was Sunni and he was Catholic, and Lebanon didn't allow that in 1984. It still doesn't.
It took a while before they got to exchange those vows. The first time my father saw my mother, he was 17, she was 18. He spotted her in front of a school, looked at her and thought: "this woman will be my wife." That's what he says anyway --but it's so cosmically romantic that I want to believe him. They only met several years later, through a friend in common, and started dating. They dated for 7 years before they got married. It was during the Lebanese civil war, Christians and Muslims were killing each other, and they were in love. You can imagine how my grandparents felt about their relationship. And so they left each other a few times, trying to comply with society's wishes... but they always got back. I once found a letter from my father to my mother, written during one of those times. He wrote "If you're not in my life, my life will never be complete. You are the one. There is nothing else I want."
It may seem futile --anyone can write these words. But do they? Writing a letter is already romantic enough. I barely ever got a greeting card from my ex --you know, the ones that already say everything for you, and you just sign underneath. Very personal indeed.
But the truth is, although beginnings are very important, the real test of love, I think, is what happens with time. A lot of couples start out madly in love, can't-live-without-each-other passion and whatnot. But they don't all stand the test of time. To me, the greatest proof of love are my parents. Not everyone can say that --in fact, many people around me would say the exact opposite. Our generation's phobia of commitment obviously comes from their parents' examples. And my hope for love obviously comes from mine.
10 years ago like today, my parents celebrated their last anniversary together. My mom had a brain tumor, lung cancer, and liver cancer; she had three months left to live; but she wanted to celebrate. She knew it would be the last time. She made me her accomplice. She rented a hotel room which we decorated with rose petals and balloons. She took my father for dinner at the hotel, and had the waiter bring the room key in stead of the check. My father blushed as if he was 18 years old. And it was just like when they were.

You know it's love when a man still wears his wedding ring ten years after his wife died --and wears hers on a chain around his neck. You know it's love when even "till death do us part," doesn't.

introducing girls and boys

Meet the Lebanese girl.
She's the one who gets her nails to match the buckle of her Chanel bag. She goes to the gym six times a week, has her hair professionally done, wears the latest Louboutin and when it's time to walk that body in a bathing-suit, she looks like she was copy/pasted from Playboy Magazine.
She's the one who sits in the back of Torino Express sipping a beer and inhaling a cigarette with her hair kinda falling in front of her eyes. She reads books written by obscure Russian novelists and shows up at every Art show in town --which most of us don't even know existed.
She's the one who works 15 hours a day, but still manages to look good when she walks out of the office and into Myu at 10pm, ready to put her flirt on. She's the one who goes biking and skiing and climbing --just for the fun of it. She's the one who stands up for gay rights, women's rights, children's rights, and always has an opinion. She's the pretty one, the smart one, the snobish one, the fashion-addicted one, the diet one, the plastic one, the business one. She's all of that and none of that and there's one for every taste.

Meet the Lebanese boy.
He's the one with the black Porsche and the 4 digit car-plate even though he's only 21. He orders Champagne at Palais, and has a table every week of the Summer at Sky Bar. He wears a Polo Ralph Lauren shirt and a Rolex watch, none of which he could ever afford without Dad.
He's the one hiding behind his beard, drinking Tequila shots at Behind the Green Door, sometimes dressed like a homeless drunk, sometimes looking edgy and hot. He smokes weed to chill-out, and ends up at B018 on any given Friday night.
He's the one who works in the family business, and acts as if it was not handed down on a golden platter. He's the one who watches sports on TV, 7 hours a day, and spends the other 7 playing sports --on his Playstation. He's the funny one, the expat one, the sleezy one, the political one, the gay one, the workaholic one, the rich one. He's all of that and none of that and there always seems to be a girl who digs it.

Now meet the Lebanese couple.
They're the ones who are both good-looking, have three beautiful children, and have a professional photographer take their family pictures. They have two Philippino maids, a driver, three cars, and an apartment with sea view. She used to match her nails to her Chanel bag, but now matches it to her kids' clothing. He used to have a table a Sky Bar for the summer, and he still does.
They're the ones who are chilled-out, she still dresses like she was twenty-two, he alternates between the business look and the homeless look depending on the mood. They've been married three years but don't have any children because they're not ready to give up smoking just yet. She's an architect or a journalist, he's a self-made consultant or something financial.
They're the ones who have been dating for seven years, finally got engaged last summer... and then broke up because it suddenly felt too serious. They're the ones who seem to really like each other, especially because they're both from prominent Sunni (Maronite, Chii'a, Orthodox...) families and their parents love each other. They're the ones who are head over heals because their parents can't stand each other, are from different religions, and the boy has no real prospects and the girl doesn't care. They're the ones who cheat on each other like it's just another thing you do, the ones who act like a couple but refuse to acknowledge that they are together, the ones who fight constantly and you wonder why the hell they're still together.

We're all of that and none of that and that's what makes us a little bit Lebanese, and a little bit of that something else that we all bring to the pack.

my celebration of love

It's Valentine's day. And I write a blog about dating and relationships, so I'm guessing the expectation is for me to write about this celebration-of-love. I could talk about the two different schools of February 14, those who are haters of the "Hallmark Holiday" and those who want the full treatment of flowers, jewelry and candle-light dinner. But everyone writes about that --and no one really cares.

So in stead of coming up with some grand theory about this day, I'm just going to tell you about my valentine. You see, at first glance, you might think someone like me could be depressed on Valentine's day, without a man at my side. But you would be wrong.

Because my Valentine is my friend Jen, who spontaneously asked me to have dinner tonight, just because. It's my friend Jana, who even though lives hundreds of miles away in Montreal, sends me vibes of love three times a day. My Valentine is my friend Mario, who spends hours listening, advising, or just being there whenever I need him. It's my sister, who every year gets me a Valentine's card and every week sends me a text of how much she loves me. It's a new friend who makes me laugh. It's my friend Carlo who cooks me brunch every Sunday. It's that gorgeous boy who kissed me and made me blush. It's my brother who tells me I'm the woman of his life.

You see, I've had the whole traditional, red roses V-day, and in the end, it doesn't mean that much. Last year was non-stop teddy-bears and heart-shaped cookies and candle-light dinner, and today that "Valentine" is a complete stranger. But my real Valentines... they're those who have been here through the years, the ones who could never, ever become strangers, even if I don't see them for years. You know the kind. You have one, maybe five. I have more and I'm lucky.

Valentine's day is a celebration of love... and I have been blessed with so much of it, all I can do is be grateful. And even though I didn't name all of them, all my Valentines know who they are (we don't want anyone to be jealous now...).

And so, like a friend eloquently wrote: "Happy Arbitrary Unit of Time Celebrating a Year-round Human Emotion for the Sole Purpose of Liquidating Flower Stocks." (Nasri Atallah)

the politics of sex

We all know the cliche --women who sleep around are whores, while men who sleep around are hot playboys. And I'm actually sick to death of hearing about this: everyone knows the difference between a whore and a girl who likes to have sex a lot, and it has nothing to do with the number of men in her little black book. That's just something men and their egos created, because they don't like sharing, they don't like to know how many men were here before them, blablabla...

But whether we like it or not, sex is a game of politics. It's so filled with subtle innuendoes and so many rules it's almost enough to take out all the fun of out it --almost. Here's the bottom line: when girls have a one night stand, or sleep with a guy on the first date, they are perceived as easy. And when a guy thinks a girl is easy, he usually never wants to see her again. The "Bitch 101" bible says when you like a guy, you should keep his hands off you as long as you can, because the more he waits for it, the more he'll appreciate it, and the less he is likely to walk out after the deed is done. Now guys reading this are thinking "no, what, we like girls who sleep with us right away and don't play games..." Yeah, of course they like it when their penis is about to explode in their jeans. But afterwards... not so much.

Now my friend Wiserat says men like both kinds of women: those who sleep with them right away, for when they're "horny and want to bang on the spot." And they like those who make them sweat for it, when they're not too lazy and feel like chasing. Now he calls this men's "sexual attention span" --you can make the guy wait and chase, but not too long, otherwise he's just going to get pissed and tell you to go f*^# yourself.

My friend Curls went on a date with this guy, and decided, in advance, that she wouldn't sleep with him that night. Girls do that a lot, decide in advance --it helps us keep control, or decide not to shave so we have to keep control. Anyway, on date two, she thought to herself: if I have a good time and the guy is a keeper, I'm not going to his place. If he turns out to be a loser, I'm going to have sex with him. Weird thought? Actually for girls, it's starting to all make sense: if you like the guy, you wait. If you don't care whether he calls tomorrow, you go for it.

The politics of it can make your head spin. But at the end of the day, sex is supposed to be fun. Pleasuring. Spontaneous. And, believe it or not guys, sometimes all a girl wants is a good time, in the moment, without the headache of political innuendoes.  But why do guys always assume they're using the girl, not the other way around? 

love-struck-silly

While it's true that we have to go through many disappointments (ref. "lonesome cowboy") to get that one good spark, when you actually get there, it makes it seem all worth it. There aren't many moments in your life that can quite match up to the feeling of a wonderful new beginning. You know, that time when you can't seem to stop smiling, even though your jaw starts to hurt? You wake up with a smile, you fall asleep with a smile, you catch yourself giggling because you just remembered something he said, and you feel love-struck-silly and it's the best.

It's those knots in your stomach --but the good kind. It's that can't-eat, can't-sleep, can't-help-but-being-cheesy, want-to-jump-up-and-down kind of stuff. And boys and girls alike, we all love it.

My friend Rebelious had that look a couple of days ago when I saw her. To be honest, she gets that look a lot, but who can blame her? I wish it was all beginnings, all the time --without the ending part. "Not all guys are assholes," she reminded me, with that gushy smile plastered across her face. I had forgotten.

Actually, there is no such thing as an asshole or a "good guy." The same guy has been one and the other, it just depends on the girl, situation, timing, and that whole complicated cosmic effect that makes two people either feel the spark --or not. Actually, when the guy feels the spark, he can be so much cheesier than a girl! Even one of the Rats, who will not be named even by nickname because he will kill me, had that beginning-blush not so long ago every time he mentioned this girl with who nothing even happened... she's the kind that could make him drop everything and runoff to some desert island and get married. He didn't use exactly these words, but it was something along those lines. He was love-struck-silly.

In the beginning, everything seems possible. The last time I felt that, my boyfriend and I were almost ready to get hitched within a month with not a care in the world. It's like when you're tipsy: you feel so happy you can't think of anything going wrong. And then eventually, you sober up. Reason starts to come back to you. You realize that you can't runoff to a desert island and it's not true that "all you need is love." All the annoying realities of life come into perspective, work, money, family, parents, religion, social class, culture... oh, and that temper of yours that had vanished eventually crawls back, and it's all a lot more complicated.

Beginnings are just amazing... and it's too bad they only last for so long. Once you transition into the this-is-a-real-relationship mode, all you ever do is try to get back to that tipsy feeling. Actually, the reason why you continue to make an effort when it's not all pink clouds and roses, when the other person seems to have lost their way, or you don't feel quite as special anymore, it is because you remember how good it felt when it first started. And you hope that maybe, tomorrow, you'll wake up with that smile plastered across your face, with that can't-eat bunch of knots in the pit of your stomach and want-to-jump-up-and-down kind of stuff.