dear mom,

I remember looking forward to this day. A few days after you were gone, I thought to myself, I can’t wait for it to be ten years from now, because it wont hurt as much anymore. And in some ways, it doesn't. It’s hard to admit, but we do get used to everything in the end, even not having the people we love most in the world around us. But I think about you every single day.

It was ten years ago, the last time I saw you. I’m not sure I remember your voice anymore, I don’t think I remember your smell. And I know it doesn’t really matter, but the thing is, it does. When I watch a video of you and you say something, I find myself surprised, not recognizing your voice.

I’m sending you this letter out in the open, over the airwaves, through a blog. It would’ve been really funny trying to explain to you what a blog is, just like I spent two days teaching you how to send an email. It’s not because I want to share this personal moment with the world. It’s because I want the world to know who you were. Who you are still. I didn’t understand it back then, I couldn’t understand what you were going through. I was so young even though I thought I was so grown up and already knew the world… I knew nothing, and I was selfish, because even when you were the one who was dying from three tumors growing relentlessly in your head, in your lungs, in your liver, I still thought about my own suffering more than I thought about yours. I couldn’t understand how scared you must’ve been, to know you were dying. How alone you must’ve felt. How terrifying it must be to know you will not see your children grow up. That your son who was only seven, might not remember you.

I once asked you if you were scared. You said “I’m scared for you.” Because that's who you are. And I still learn from it, every day.

You’re the kind of wife, who when doctors told had a life threatening disease, your first instinct was to turn to your husband and ask if he was okay. You’re the kind of mother who asked me if you could remove your wig, because it was itching you, but you wanted to make sure it didn’t bother me to see you without hair. You’re the kind of woman who consciously opted for no chemo, so that instead of living an extra few months but being sick all the time, you would live a little less, but be able to enjoy it with us. The kind of mother who has the courage to put her children around a table and tell them that she may not always be physically present, but that she would always, always be around us, no matter what.

And the truth is, even though my faith has gone up and down and sideways in the last few years, that I barely believe there is anything out there, that I am as skeptical as they get, I have no doubt that you are around me somehow. Your words, they resonate in my mind as if it was just yesterday that you said them to me. Everything you taught me, I use in ways I could have never imagined. And I try my best to pass them on to Soraya and Karim, because they weren’t as lucky as me, they didn’t have as much time. But even though they had you for so little, you left your mark on them too. I look at Karim and I see you in his eyes. I look at Soraya and I see you in her smile. Your three children have your name tattooed on their bodies --because we take you everywhere we go.

There are days where not having you here is torturous. Yes, it’s true, I miss you like hell when it’s Christmas morning and you’re not there. You were the only person I thought about the day I graduated from Columbia. And it kills me to know that you will not be there the day we get married, or the day we become parents. But I would give up all these days, gladly, if I could have you on all the other days. The days when I’m sick and I feel like crap and I want you to be there so you can hold me and nurse be back to health. The days I’m in total quarter-life crisis mode, and I am dying to talk to you about it. The days I screw up. The days I’m scared. The days I fall in love and the days I get my heart broken. The days I look at Soraya and Karim and I don’t know how give them enough love from you and me. And mostly, the days I’m happy, and all I wish is for you to be part of that happiness.

But I haven't shared any of that with you in ten years. The last time I saw you, in that moment, in that hospital bed, I thought you were already gone. I looked at you in so much pain, and all I wanted was for you to be at peace. I held your hand, I told you I loved you, but I truly thought I was saying it more for me than for you. I thought you couldn't hear me, but I was wrong. Even at your worst suffering, in your dying moment, you found a way to come back to the surface, and to give me one more proof of unwavering love. I will never forget how you suddenly came back to your body and reached out for me, consciously grabbed my hand, even though you had not an ounce of energy left in you, you put it on your heart and I could feel every beat. I’m still alive, is what you trying to tell me. I love you too. Even though you couldn’t say it, you found a way to make sure I knew. The love you gave me was so big, so strong, it has kept me going for the last ten years. Even in your death, you know how to make me feel better. Because that’s who you are.

And yes, I want the whole world to know how proud I am to be your daughter. That I have a mother, who despite the distance between heaven and earth, still manages to help me through the day. I’m so grateful for you, and all I can hope for is that wherever you are, I can make you proud. But I miss you so much and no matter how many words I write today, I’ll never be able to convey it.

I love you.

that little angel

I know a little angel whose birthday it is today. When you turn 13 years old, you're expected to be going from boy to teenager. Your voice is expected to start changing. Your facial hair is supposed to start growing. You're not expected to be dead.

But if I've learned anything so far in life, it's that nothing is ever as expected.

That little angel is my cousin, Philippe. He was born on May 26th, 1998, when I was 13 years old, and even then, he already looked like an angel. The type of cherub whose blondish hair say one thing and mischievous eyes say another. And those eyes, they were open to the world. Very young, he could see through anyone, and ask the right questions. I remember when he was four years old, and he saw me sad one day, and he asked me if it was because I missed my mother. A four year old boy could see my sadness better than anyone else around me. That's the type of boy he was.

You'd think a boy at 10 or 11 would be shy around girls. But not Philippe. He had them lined up, girls of all ages, and had flirtatious lines for anyone and everyone. "You've become so beautiful I didn't even recognize you!" he once said to a fifty year old friend of the family. She smiled and giggled and he had her under his spell in half a second. And he had that magical power with everyone.

He died on July 31st 2009, in a tragic, horrendous accident, that had the entire country talking. But I wont tell that story, because he shouldn't be remembered for the way he died. He should be remembered for the way he lived.

And what I learned from his life, is that sometimes eleven years can be more meaningful than a hundred. And even in his death, his presence is felt every day. I know this because I see his family, his mother, his father, his two older sisters, who are able to talk about him and smile. Who have the strength, despite what they've been through, to turn the tragic into a positive power, to take Philippe's memory and make it enduring, everlasting and immortal.

What I learned is that life is fragile. That in a split second, you're here and then you're not. The only thing you can do about it is decide how the memory of you will go on.

The Big O or the Big NO?

Here are the facts: 15% of sexually active women have either never experienced an orgasm, or as rarely as two or three times. 25 % say they experience orgasms "rarely" or "very rarely" and 40% say they experience them "sometimes." Only 25% of women always climax.

Compare that to more than 90% of men who climax every single time. Seems kind of unfair, doesn't it?

The idea for the post came over girlie drinks and a conversation about sexual pleasure. My friend said she has experienced an orgasm "only once." This is a woman who's had several sexual partners, a long term relationship, and a lot of sexual pleasure. But, it was only on that one occasion that she realized what an orgasm actually was --and what she'd been missing out on. Before that, she was unsure. Great pleasure during sex can feel like an orgasmic sensation when you don't have anything to compare it to. But once you do, you can tell the difference. The truth is, it's hard for most women, and for some, even harder, to achieve that state of out of this world, mind blowing, infinite sensations of ecstasy that take over your entire body and brain functions in that moment of climax.

And so I poked around. I surveyed 41 girls (who answered anonymously) and 20 guys and put it all together in rhapsody form --I'm not gonna sit there and give you accurate data in percentages about everything I say, I'm just gonna hope that everyone will benefit from this post, on the long run.

Here's the thing, guys: most of you believe that your partner climaxes every time you have sex. And I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but it just isn't so. Now while a lot of girls actually tell their partners when they haven't had an orgasm, most do not. Why? Well, because girls know how much the male ego is correlated with sexual performance, and men seem to believe that they are all sexual predators. That women only fake it with others. That they can tell whether or not she fakes it. Hum. You're gonna have to take a little bruise to that big ego of yours, and accept that it is physically harder for women to have an orgasm. Even if you are god-like in bed.


The reason is simple: it's not a mechanical process for women, as it is for men. Men should already know this by now... we are complicated creatures in almost every aspect  --why should sex be any different? Climaxing is not just physical for women --and I'm not saying we have to be in love (although some do) I'm just saying it's very "mental" for us too... a girl needs to want to have an orgasm before she can get one.

Now when girls try to explain this to their boyfriends, they don't always get positive reactions. While some guys are great about understanding that "it's hard to please women!" as one of my Rats said, many others do not. They are "shocked, upset, deceived." They "freak out, are annoyed and completely turned off," but mostly they "feel sorry for her." They believe the girl is "frigid" and "has a problem." One of my friends tried to tell her partner about it, and he didn't even believe her. That's how big of an ego he had. "Every girl I've ever been with always climaxed," he said. Yeah, right. Believing she had no orgasm, that's inconceivable. But believing she has two or three orgasm every time you have intercourse, now that's believable!

Another guy was so upset, the next few times they had sex, he was constantly asking if she was faking every sound she made. He was a complete drama queen about it. Made her feel terrible for ever mentioning it, and she ended up faking it again. The truth is, most "sounds" aren't fake at all. They are moans of pleasure that are very real. But they are just not the big O. Unfortunately.

So what's the faking all about? Well, most of the time, it's to get it over and done with. When a girl knows she's not going to cum, especially during penetration, she fakes it. Girls fake it because they don't want their partners to "feel bad," they fake it because they are "bored" or "tired," they fake it "to boost his ego." One girl said "because I was bored and wanted it to be over... so I thought if I faked it and then he came, we could all just go home..."Sounds like something I've done, to be honest.

But some girls maintain they have never faked it, and they let their partners know when they couldn't climax. And some guys get more excited and want to do everything they can to make her cum. And others are frustrated (and selfish) and decide that there is something wrong with her. It seems to me, from the conversations I've had over this topic in the last few weeks, that talking about this openly makes for much better sex. When guys drop the ego act and just understand the difficulties of the female orgasm, when they put in a little extra effort to understand how this particular girl feels pleasure, it comes highly appreciated. For one, most women cannot ever cum by penetration, so unless you've got preliminaries covered, you can be pretty sure she's isn't having an orgasm. Again, it's not because you're not good --it's because intercourse alone is not very good at stimulating the woman's clitoris. Annnd it's not by rubbing her clit for two minutes that she's gonna cum either. It takes 15 to 40 minutes on average, so... put in the time.

It's not about how long you can last. It's not about how big your penis is. Although if you last under thirty second and/or your penis is the size of a bean, then yes, it most definitely does matter. If a guy just lets a girl take him through it without making her feel like she's killing his ego, and if the girl just communicates her needs to her partner without being afraid of his reaction, I'm pretty sure those percentages would change dramatically. And guys, you would feel pretty good about it too. One guy appropriately said "When a woman orgasms, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world to know that I had something to do with making her feel that good."

And here's another good thought to end on, courtesy of a guy I've never met but who sounds pretty darn great: "Orgasms bring out the woman in every girl, sometimes the girl in every woman. They say a lot about the character and how a girl truly is, or is not. I would say I like them a lot, they're the biggest turn-on... when they're real."

:)
 
PS: I just want to thank everyone who participated in the survey, especially those I don't know... I really appreciate the help!

happiness

I have these flashes of memories that make me smile when I close my eyes.

When I was little, my dad used to travel for months at a time. It was during the war, and sometimes he had to come back by boat. My mom and I would go pick him up from the seaport in Jounieh. I was three or four at the time, but I have this vivid image of me spotting him from afar, coming towards us with his luggage in both hands. And I couldn't wait one more second for him; so I'd crawl beneath the wires, and I would run. I still see it now, and it looks like something out of a corny movie, a slow motion moment with some insanely cheesy soundtrack, of a three year old girl running and running towards her father, arms wide open, in tears, screaming "papa!"

There is a story my mother used to tell me all the time. When she and my dad were still dating, and she lived in "gharbieh" and he lived in "char'ieh" and sometimes, crossing from one part of town to another was the most dangerous thing you could do. The bridge we take hundreds of times now, the one that takes us from both sides of Beirut in a matter of seconds, used to bear the worst of the fighting. But all it took was a crescent moon to help you cross over it. You know when the moon is so thin you can barely see it? It was my mother's favorite thing in the world. And every time the moon was that thin, she kissed the people she loved, for good luck. And so one night, she saw the moon, and she wanted to kiss my dad. So she got in her car, and took the long way. Up the mountains and down again, so she could cross over to his side. It took hours, but she didn't care. When she finally arrived, she rang on the intercom (how they survived without mobile phones and internet is beyond me) and she told him to meet her downstairs, so they could look at the moon together. And kiss.

This might be the cheesiest story you've ever heard. I think it's the cheesiest one I've ever told. But it made her happy. Anytime, anywhere, if she closed her eyes and remembered that moment, it made her smile.

So many times we forget. We get wrapped up in the cloudiness of everyday nagging, tears and problems that seem beyond our capacity to deal with. But the truth is, if you close your eyes, it's full of happy moments to pick and choose from. That day at the beach with your friends, when you got tipsy and laughed your heart out. That time you got a phone call telling you you got that scholarship; you got that job; you got into that school. That second the stick turned blue and you wanted it to be blue. The first time he said "I love you;" the first time you stepped onto a stage; the first time you went out past curfew. That compliment that made you feel like a million bucks. I close my eyes and see Sunday Brunch with my best friend making piles of food for a bunch of hungover fools. I see my brother and my sister around the Christmas tree, with sappy Christmas songs in the background as we are putting up the lights and the ornaments. I close my eyes and there are so many pictures to choose from, I feel unbelievably lucky.


Today, I'm happy. I'm writing, I'm acting, I'm doing the things I love again. I wake up early and I can't wait for the day to start. And the best part is, it has nothing to do with anyone but myself. And I can smile without closing my eyes.

seasons of change

Summer is peaking out its nose.
It's been a long winter and we are all craving lazying by the pool, showing off tanned faces, drinking on rooftop bars and acting like we're on vacation even when we're not. There is a feeling that comes together with the change of seasons... something about renewal, feeling happier, rejuvenated, more alive. And after months of gray skies and cold nights, the sun is something to look forward to.

I was speaking to a friend this morning, and we realized that all our friends had broken up at some point during this winter, including the both of us. All long, serious relationships that came to their end, each for their own reasons, each in their own way. We each try to overcome it as best we can, we each have our own process, but it's not easy for anyone. It's crazy how one person missing in your life can create such damage, such change.

For weeks at a time, everything can seem fine. And then someone tells you he saw your ex kissing another girl. Or you spot that girl on Facebook that seems to "like" everything he does. Or something really great just happened to you, and your first instinct is to share it with her --and then you remember you can't. Most days you've moved on. He doesn't even cross your mind, until you see his car parked in front of you. You see her best-friend walk out of a shop, and you wonder if she's close by. You open a random folder on your laptop, and you stumble on dozens of pictures of the both of you. And then the wound bleeds a little.

Sometimes it's a song. A movie. The other day, it was a book. I read a passage that gave me the chills, as I felt I was reading the exact scene of my breakup. It was kind of creepy actually.

But then the stings get more and more rare. One day you see the car and you forget it was his. Her picture still evokes a memory, but doesn't hurt as much. You meet someone else that makes you smile and feel special, and suddenly it doesn't feel as hard anymore.

They say time heals all things. That as seasons change, things that seemed to have died come back to life. Right now, there are rays of sun one day and gray clouds the next. It's 30 degrees in the shade, and then all of a sudden, it starts to rain. Summer is peaking out its nose. And we're not there just yet; but we're close.

busy world

The world is busy.
Bin Laden is dead. Will and Kate got married. Gaddafi's son is killed. Scarlett Johanson is dating Sean Penn. I can't keep up.
What's funny is that even though "Bin Laden Dead" is all over the place, the "Royal Kiss" is just as big, even though it's three days old. I guess it's because love and death are the two things life revolves around.
I mention this because I walk up this morning to a flood of world news, and the only I have to do today was write a blog post. I'm a journalist --or I was a journalist before I decided daily news was too depressing and I developed plane phobia from reporting on so many crashes. But here I am, writing a blog, funnily enough, about love and death. And there is nothing more obscure.
I mean, what the hell do I (or anyone else for that matter) really know about how love works, lasts, breaks, hurts? Yeah so we love, and then we don't; we each have our stories and sometimes it feels like we go through the same thing, but the truth is, every story is its own.
And yes, I've lost quite a few people I love to the "other side" but it hardly makes me an expert. Last year I went through a "I'm afraid of death" phase and I bought about thirteen books on the subject. One's the story about a four year old boy who remembers a previous life (creepy) and another is written by this man who supposedly sees and talks to ghosts (even creepier). I thought it would help if I could get some proof that there is something going on after we go through the (inevitable) expiry date of our bodies. But it confused me even more.
And the truth is, despite everything that happens, the world keeps going. Today Bin Laden is dead and the prince has a fairytale wedding.Tomorrow the headlines will change but the heart of it will be the same. Love and death keeps the world busy. Keeps us all busy. Even though we know nothing about it.