shifting the blame

So apparently men want women to know that as long as they are chill, easy-going and simple, the world is perfect and the ball is in their court. Which is great advice, truly. But in case the relationship fails, the woman gets dumped, or the man is driven to do the unthinkable, like cheat for example, well then, it must be the woman's fault... Because she wasn't chill enough. Or simple enough. Or cool enough. 


Men are Masters at Shifting the Blame. They all have PHDs in how to turn around every situation and always make it seem like it was the woman's fault, no matter how it starts. And I have proof. Rats and non-rats alike have admitted to me that they have the skills required to turn any fight into a losing battle for the lady. Even if she started it (which I'll admit, we usually do), and even if, and I quote, "even if she is completely right," they will always find a way to make her apologize without even knowing what for. Ever notice when you're so angry at your man and you start explaining yourself, when suddenly he cuts you off and gives you one argument after another, and you end up so confused you can't remember why you're fighting? Shifting the Blame Professionals, I'm telling you.

Just like the mouse wieseled it into his post. If women could just realize that men hate "the complaining, the stubbornness, lack of attention flip-out" and just not do it, then the world of relationships would be perfect. Hmmm. And women should just let men be themselves. And if the man acts like an asshole, cheats, leaves her with three kids and runs off to another side of the planet, she must be to blame... of course... because the ball is her court. "A man can only raise his standard to the point a woman allows him to.” (The wise words from Red in That 70s Show) Men are so good at doing that, it's frightening. At first glance, it seems flattering: means that if they do anything right, it's thanks to you... and if they do anything wrong, it's because of... you? 

Now I agree with a few things the mouse said: a woman who knows how to entice a man will turn any Rat, any player, any man out there into a lover boy, and he will be happy to be. But remember that it is all relative. If you're writing in the context of being super-happy-in-love, you are just not in the same mind-frame as a broken-hearted-singleton or a newly-single-and-enjoying-it, or even a married-divorced-and-blase perspective. 

A lot of the time, the woman is to blame. Yes, we can be annoying, stubborn, complaining girlfriends, and those are flaws men have also, by the way. And if women should let men be themselves, men should let women be themselves as well. And that includes jealous outbreaks, bursting-out in tears for no reason, the notorious PMS, and putting on those couple of winter kilos. 

I'm not trying to say that women are the eternal victims of some evil male scheme. But for once, it would be nice to see a man accept responsibility for his actions, and not shift the blame. Admit that she complained because he really exaggerated. Admit that he left her, not because she wasn't easy-going and simple and cool, but because he got bored. Admit that just because she's wrong, doesn't mean he's right.

Beirut RATShodies: The ball is always in your court

The Rats complained that I'm too biased when I write my posts... "Women are always the victims, men are always the bad guy, blablabla..." Well, although I disagree about the posts, I admit the bias --obviously, I am a woman at the end of the day. But I'm fair game. So today, I'm introducing Beirut RATShodies... it's the counterblog, or rather, the added value of the male perspective... Every month from now on, one of the Rats or someone close enough will honor us with their unique opinions, in their own words. I thank "the mouse" for braving the first post.


The ball is always in your court, so don’t complain…

“The Mouse” – a name bestowed upon me by the rats. I don’t mind the name, as I don’t fit the criteria to be a rat, which is fair enough as I wouldn’t last a year alive based on the criteria to be a “rat”. The drinking til’ you blast a fire hose at a club, falling asleep on the road, going into a bar on New Year’s eve for literally 2 minutes just to take your clothes off and then leave… definitely not this mouse’s material.

Now, I’ve been reading this blog since its inception and too many times I’ve disagreed with what’s been written, especially about how women are the victims of some conspiracy that all men out there are horrible beings looking to hurt you. Someone has got to reply.

I’m going to dive right into the middle of this whole “we are the women and we suffer” thing you’ve got going (it seems to work somehow for you ladies…), because I’ve got a woman of my own and I’ve got to admit, very rarely has she showed me the side of women that we men hate (the complaining, the stubbornness, lack of attention flip-out…etc).

Quite the opposite actually, she’s shown me that some women out there can accept a man the way he is with all his random joys and stupid flaws. I’ve seen to what distance a man could go for a woman who’s just easy-going, cool and simple. I’ve seen that happen to me, then I’ve seen the same happen to, not one, but two of the rats…

Yes, the very same rats that have been called all sorts of names in this blog; the very same rats, that you (the ladies out there reading this) keep thinking to yourselves are dare devils and evil specimens that go get drunk to mess around with ladies. No ladies, these rats and all men, are what YOU want them to be.

You must be wondering what I mean by that. I’ll put it in the famous words of a character called Red from the sitcom ‘That 70s Show’: “A man can only raise his standard to the point a woman allows him to”. Meaning, dear rhapsodians, that the ball is always in your court. Anything other than that and it’s considered assault (yet somehow you manage to complain about men).

Still don’t get it? You want a bad boy, you will get a bad boy! Even if he’s the most relaxed dude in the world, because a man can smell what attracts a woman from a million miles away and will know how to play his game to give her what she’s looking for.

The rich guy, the confident guy, the sporty guy, the musician, the drug addict, the business man, the “eben 3ayle”…etc. These are roles (key word: roles) that are so easy for any guy to portray to a woman; because men can easily guess what type of guy a woman is looking for (you aren’t that mysterious you know). Men know what you like, so they adapt to turn into what you like. You make us the way we are. You are the choice makers.


I’m sure you’re thinking to yourselves right now “that’s not true, we just want a guy to be natural and himself…”. This brings me back to my initial point, only if you want him to be himself, will you really see his true colors. Hence why for example you have the 2 cases of the rats and my case as the mouse where the women that lured us showed us from the start that they wanted us to be ourselves and they understood that roles could be played and that they could be fooled. But the girls played the game as well. They gave the tiny signals, they asked the little questions and they let us do the rest (I salute those ladies by the way).

So you see ladies, the point I’m trying to make is the ball is always in your court to begin with therefore don’t victimize yourself over something you chose – don’t hate the player, play the game.

The Mouse has spoken…       

the paradox of freedom

"Better a mistress than a wife." Coco Chanel


Anyone who's ever watched an episode of Mad Men would probably agree. Being the wife was so boring --sitting at home tumbling her thumbs, smoking cigarette after cigarette until her husband came home from work. And every husband had a mistress, or five. For the mistress, the husband would cut work in the middle of the day; he would actually communicate, share his thoughts, connect. For the mistress, the husband would unleash the passion. But for the wife... well, she got the sleepy, tired husband, who made her feel like coming home was like walking into a cage. Well, that's what I got from Mad Men anyway.

Then I watched "Coco," the movie, a couple of nights ago, and the man Coco Chanel is in love with is set to marry someone else. He says marriage is like a business deal, has nothing to do with love. And she says "better a mistress than a wife." Made me think. The wife represents the commitment, the settled life, the family. Boring. And the mistress is forbidden excitement, a daily escape, the adventure. All those words that seem to define men's needs.

So at the beginning of the 20th century, marriage was a social contract and love was to be found in the form of an extra-curricular activity. By the 60s, marriage was halfway between love and financial statements, and passionate sex was to be found in a variety of mistresses. And now there's a new century in the works and it's a little harder to define the terms. Maybe it's because now, we want it all: we want it to be love at first sight, passionate and enticing, but we also want it to be a calculated connection, with a check-list of culture, education, social class, religion and nationality. We want the love to be so strong we could live on bread and water, but we also want to ensure that chalet in Faqra or those trips to Paris twice a year for fashion week. We want the picture-perfect family, with the dog and the back-yard, but we also want the constant adventure and excitement and freedom of taking off with no strings attached. In today's world, we've become demanding, unforgiving, and uncompromising. If we don't get what we want, we bail, because we only live once and we want it all.

I guess that's the paradox of freedom. People paid with their lives for the choices we get to make today, and although freedom is a beautiful thing, it is also exhausting. How do you make the right choice? Do you go with rational, or do you go with instinct? Do you play it safe or take a chance?

Can you be the wife and the mistress?

If she was here today

Every year this beautiful day that celebrates all the wonderful mothers comes as a bittersweet sting for some of us. Those of us who don't have a mother to celebrate, it reminds us of what we're missing --even though we miss it every day, somehow, on those days, it aches more.

It's mother's day and I can't possible not pause and mention my mother. She may not be here today but if she was, I would've celebrated her just like you. If she was here, this morning, my brother would've walked in her room to give her a kiss before he went to school. My sister and I would've made her breakfast in bed, like when we were little, just to remind her that we still love her and need her as much as when we were seven. Maybe even more. We would've made her coffee, black I think... but I can't remember how she took her coffee, and that breaks my heart.

If she was here today, I would've written her a letter, enclosed in a funny Peanut greeting-card, because those were her favorite. It would say she was the best mother in the world, because we all think our mothers are the best in the world and we're all right, they are for us. And I'm sure your mother is special in her own way, but to me, my mother was the most special of all. When I was a little girl, maybe six years-old, my grandmother told me that one day, my mother would be my best-friend. I remember this distinctly because I laughed and said "no way." But it was true. And it didn't take that long. And it was at the peak when you're supposed to be rebellious and go through that phase when you hate your mom or something and I have no clue what that phase is because my mom was my best-friend and not in a loser-I-don't-have-any-friends kind of way... She had this magical power that made it impossible for me to lie to her, the way any normal teenager should. I tried once, and I have a witness --my friend Rebellious, of course, who was a professional mom-liar. I told her I was sleeping over at a friend's when in fact I wanted to go clubbing --I was 14 I think. She believed me, but I couldn't live with myself for more than ten minutes. I went back and told her I lied. And I had a lot more fun knowing I went with her blessing.

If she was here today, I would've gotten her a nice bouquet of colorful tulips. I got a white bouquet and they're in a vase next to her picture. That's what we have now, her face in a frame, immortal, present, beautiful, unwavering. If she was here, I would go lie next to her in bed, put my head on her chest and ask her to stroke my head, just to feel like a little girl again, protected by her mother. If she was here, that's all I would want.

They say you don't know what you have until you lose it. I knew what I had and when I lost it, I knew nothing would ever replace that void she left. And even I am celebrating my mother today, here or not here. That's the thing about wonderful mothers... even when they haven't been around for ten years, you still hear their advice resonating in your head; you still feel their love getting you through the bad days; and you still think about them every single day.

Happy mother's day, mothers.

The exception to the rule

I feel like writing silly again. Not that I don't enjoy pouring my heart-out and making people cry with my posts, but from time to time, I prefer to get back to funny rhapsodies about men and women and dating and playing and breaking hearts. Unfortunately, I've had very little material to work with lately. The Rats aren't being much of Rats, or at least they're not feeding my inspiration enough. And the girls, well all seems to be going well for most of them. Which is great, but makes poor blog-value.
But my friend Rebellious fell head over heals in love in the last two weeks, and I think that's worth a mention. There's been a lot of back and forth all year long, cuties, hotties, very cool guys, sometimes for months at a time, but something was lacking. And then, out of nowhere, and completely unexpected, she met Prince Charming. From the first moment they met, it felt different.
And that made me think: Yeah, I spent a lot of time talking about the game, being a bitch, following the "rules," deciphering what makes a love story work. But here's what I realize now: most of the time, when it's actually going to turn into a love story, it's very different from the start. So many times, when we're lonely, when we're looking, when we're almost desperately searching for the one, we meet lots of okay guys that we set-up in our heads as being great. We try to play the game, we ask our Rats what to write in this text message, how long to wait before calling back; then we analyze every other word he says with every other person we meet. And all it's such a big effort on our part and we don't even realize it. Because most of the time, you try too hard and it dies down because it wasn't even worth trying for in the beginning. When you meet someone whose okay, you should see it for what it is: a fling, a one night stand, maybe a few months of casual dating.
And once in a blue moon, you meet someone, and it clicks. There's instantly that notorious chemistry and it's always felt both ways. There's a different vibe to the flirting, it feels easier, more natural, and if there's a game being played, it's instinctive. When you meet that person, you're a lot more confident about the way he feels about you, because you feel it. No need to analyze and no need to think a million times before acting. It's effortless and it's wonderful.
It's the exception to the rule. And all the other times should be recognized for what they are, to avoid useless disappointment. We shouldn't settle for making the okay-guy great. We should be a little patient, and have a little faith. You know what they say: it always comes when least expected. 

the tumors of life

I wanted to write a love story today. Something that would make everyone smile for the new work week ahead. But I woke up this morning in sweats, after having spent the night having nightmarish dreams about having a tumor. The one word that sends shivers down my spine and makes me want to puke whenever I hear it. My second most hated word in any language, after cancer.

I remember the first time I heard it. I was nine years old and I heard the adults talking about it. I remember asking "can anyone catch it?" and they said yes, anyone could catch it and no one knew what it was from. I was scared shitless. So scared, in fact, that the word cancer stayed buried back in my mind for the next few years. Little did I know that this word would come to define the first quarter of my life. When I was 13, I wrote a book called "I Believe in Angels." It was about a sixteen year-old boy, dying from Cancer. It may seem odd for a 13-year-old girl to write a story with such drama --which at the time, I knew nothing about. I could only imagine what it was like for the boy to find out he was dying, for his friend to deal with the news while still being there to make him smile, and for his family to accept this tragedy. It was all made up in my mind, all my imagination.

I had no idea that three years later I would come to experience this word so close it would feel like a gun to my temple. When my mother got sick, at first, no one mentioned the scariest-word-in-the-world. It was "a mass" that she had to remove from her brain, and a "treatment" that would make her loose her hair. And then one day, I sat across from a therapist who asked me questions about my mother's illness, until she made me say the word. Worst moment of my life.

From then on, it was like living with a ticking-clock inside my stomach. I was afraid to find myself alone with my father because I was worried of what bad news he could tell me. I was too scared to look anyone in the eyes, because I didn't want to see the worry on their face. I was terrified of speaking to my mother, because I was too scared I would break-down and burst-out crying, when everyone specifically said no crying and no negative energy around her. It was exhausting.

When she died, we thought we buried Cancer with her. Never wanted to hear that word again. Ever. But then two years later we buried my grandmother with the same word. And I thought that must be it. And then, some odd years later, I fell in love and was happy and the word came back in my life. Again.

When my boyfriend looked at me and told me he had a tumor in his chest, with tears in his eyes, I became a rock. I couldn't even blink. I held my breath, afraid of what would happen if I lost control. This time, I wasn't going to burry anyone but that fucking word.

I was older now and it was different. No one was trying to protect me from the realities anymore, I had to protect him. I came to realize, very quickly, that this wasn't happening to me again, but rather, this was happening to him. And so he fought, and I fought with him, and I was happy that for once, Cancer was the one getting its butt kicked. And he did it. And last year like now, like this very week, we buried Cancer, on its own, hopefully for good. It wore us out, changed us forever, made us take different paths then we expected. But this morning when I woke up, all I could see was his face, that first day in the hospital, when they were wheeling him down to the biopsy. And all I could see was my mother, who put on a brave face, smiling at her three children, pretending that word hadn't just shook her whole world around. And all I could see was my grandmother, once the symbol of beauty and elegance, weak and ravaged by this savage disease.

But people fight this everyday, I've seen it. And I just wanted to write a tribute, to those who fought, those who lost, and those who will join the fight.

the walk home

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” Matsuo Basho


There are days when the walk home stands out.

When I lived in New York, I'd walk in between skyscrapers, with my ipod blasting "Suddenly I See" at full volume; I'd take a short-cut through Central Park holding a Starbucks Tall Skinny Late, and watch random people jogging at any given hour with their dogs running at the exact same rhythm. I'd feel like I was part of a movie-set or something. And that thought always made me smile. "I live in New York," I'd remind myself. But when I'd get home, to that 6th floor apartment on East 20th street, with nothing in the fridge and a pile of laundry waiting for me, my heart would sink. I missed the smell of caramelized onions in the kitchen, and the feeling of freshly ironed sheets. My roommate worked 23hours a day, and home was most often a combination of Grey's Anatomy, a soup from the downstair-deli, and me.

One of my worst walks home in Manhattan was on a hot day in August, when I stepped into a store for ten minutes, and by the time I got out, it was pouring rain. And when I say pouring, I mean the streets turned into a river with strong currents. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Never mind that I was drenched from head to toe, and that every car that passed by splashed me with disgusting sewage water... the worst part was when I had to cross the street and the current was so strong that it removed my flip-flop from my foot, and dragged it away before I could catch it. Walked half-barefoot the rest of the way, trying not to think of all the diseases I could be catching. Needless to say, I was never so happy to get home.

But most memorable of all was me going through the walk of shame like it was a scene out of Sex and The City. Long story short (and to spare me from sharing too much) I was leaving the Four Seasons Hotel at eight o'clock in the morning, in my clothes from the night before --and as I was stepping down the entrance stairs of the biggest hotel in New York, hangover and in heels, I fell.

The walk home, that's the journey. Sometimes it's the best part of the day. It's three o'clock in the morning, and that gorgeous guy you met is with you, and there are butterflies in your stomach because you wonder if he's going to kiss you. And sometimes it's tortuous. It's raining and you don't have an umbrella, your phone falls and breaks in ten different pieces, and your new shoes are ruined.

And on days like these, it's uneventful. I walk home every day from the office. It's a three minute walk, and not a lot happens, except for the valet-parking guy who feels the need to make a disturbing comment every time I walk by. Now the days of skyscrapers and the Four Seasons feel like they never even happened, just memories among others. But still, they're my own. Part of my journey.

the breakups

All of us, at one point or another, have suffered from a broken heart. And most likely, we have broken a heart or two along the way. Truth is, no matter how many different stories I hear, it seems that there is no right way to get your heart broken --and no right way to break someone's heart. While it's true that there are very bad ways to do it (i.e. breaking-up on a post-it like that Berger dude in Sex and the City) in the end, the result is practically the same: broken pieces of your heart, tears, boxes of kleenex, playlists that include Celine Dion songs, and pints of ice-cream.

The Romeo and Juliet breakup
Usually a heart-wrenching story about true love, the perfect-couple madly in love... who had to breakup because of some evil outside force/influence who couldn't let them be together. It might not be as tragic as Shakespeare's most famous play, but parents, friends, siblings, do love to get in the way. And the problem with this breakup is that it always feels like it should have worked out. My friend Anonymous went through the Romeo-and-Juliet some six years ago, and she still closes her eyes and imagines what it would've been like without the interference.

The I-don't-know-what-I-want breakup
Notorious with the mid-twenties crowd. Starts off with a "I'm not sure I'm happy" and ends with one of you out the door for good. Often unexpected for the second party, this breakup is one that comes after a couple of years together, once the routine had settled in and comes the fear of never-again feeling the rush of excitement that comes with new beginnings. You wake-up one morning in cold sweats, terrified that "this is it" and confused because you are also scared of losing the person you're with. You sum-up the courage to say you-dont-know-what-you-want, and off you go, single, onto the next part of your twenties, always wondering if you did the right thing.

The betrayal breakup
Almost as dramatic as Shakespeare, but more on the Hollywood side. She finds out from the friend of a friend who saw him with that girl at that bar God knows where. He finds a text message on her phone from that guy he's been suspicious of. They fight they scream they insult each other doors are slamming tears are streaming and it's going to be hard for these two to ever be civil again.

The break(up)
I can't talk about this one without hearing the "we were on a breaaaak" from Ross and Rachel. This one, let's be honest, is for cowards. Usually a precursor for the real thing, the break is a way of soothing into it. It's easier than going all the way, and it warns both parties that things are on shaky grounds. They most likely get back together, but things sorta go downhill from there.

The off-again-on-again breakup
We all know that couple. The ones who can't seem to make-up their minds. They break-up every few months, always back in a "honeymoon phase" at the beginning, then they can't really stand each other again, break-up... don't last more than a couple of weeks. Spend hours debating on whether or not to see each other to "talk about it". The conversation never really changes, but they end up sleeping together, agree that they can't-live-without-each-other, get back together. And it's the same dance all over again. They're the reason why we have the "it's complicated" status on Facebook.

And so we all go through the phases. Denial, depression, anger, acceptance --or something of the sort. It takes tears and friends and long nights of wailing while watching Pretty Woman or When Harry Met Sally (I don't know what guys watch). You've put on a few kilos, maybe went a little too long without taking a waxing appointment, and you don't exactly look your best. But then you wake-up one day, and you're not feeling sad.
And it's onto the next.