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Great Quotes

Some quotes from books I have been reading:

There was frost in the air.  The dry, rasping crack of a striking match broke the silence.  The black shadow of our house on stilts looming a few paces away was weakened in the yellow glow and shivered against the backdrop of night.

The match spluttered, was almost snuffed out in its own black smoke, then flared up again as it approached Pere Goriot.  The book was lying on the ground with the others, in front of our house.  The flames licked the pages, making them twist and stick together while the words disappeared in the wind.  The poor somnambulant French girl was roused by the conflagration, she tried to flee, but it was too late:  before she could be reunited with her beloved cousin she too was engulfed in the flames, along with the money-grubbers, her suitors, and the legacy of millions — all went up in smoke.

Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, by Dai Sijie

Sigh…I could read quotes from this book all day long.  The vibrant portraits the author is able to create with his words, the idea of the characters in the book fleeing from burning of the pages, the menace of the match, the flame, it all creates such powerful imagery in my head.  I am enamored by great writing, and it is clear that this writer has a great love affair with books, like me.

She wished she had cancer instead.  She’d trade Alzheimer’s for cancer in a heartbeat.  She felt ashamed for wishing this, and it was certainly a pointless bargaining, but she permitted the fantasy anyway.  With cancer, she’d have something that she could fight.  The was surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy.  There was a chance that she could win.  Her family and the community at Harvard would rally behind her battle and consider it noble.  And even if defeated in the end, she’d be able to look them knowingly in the eye and say good-bye before she left.

Still Alice, by Lisa Genova

This was the paragraph in this book that I kept re-reading — it really gave me a different perspective on Alzheimer’s disease and those who suffer from it.  Dr. Genova presents a very unique, very personal take on how it affects the patient, their family, friends, and even the community.  I am not sure this was intended, but this book scared me more than any horror/thriller book.  Yet, at the same time, it gave me hope.  Please read it.  I assure you, you will look at life differently.

Verily, I say, fasting is the supreme remedy and the most great healing for the disease of self and passion

This quote was emailed to me early during the fast, and I think about it every time I am craving a burger at 10am.

A love is he who is chill in hell fire;

A knower is he who is dry in the sea.

Perisan mystic poem, taken from the Seven Valley by Baha-u-llah

I really like the idea of being dry in the sea.  Something to strive for!

I went to a concert last month — the artist is Coeur de Pirate, a wonderfully talented Quebecoise who an amazing live performer.  Everyone was taking pictures, so I did too!

She is well known for her song “Comme des Enfants“, which is light and adorable.  Listen to it a few times, and then try to get it out of your head for the rest of the day.  She debuted a few of her new songs – Place de la Republique, and it blew me away — it is phenomenal live.

I obviously don’t understand it all, but there is a line where she talks about “je dois traverser l’ocean demain matin” or something like that — tomorrow morning I cross over the ocean.  That line and the whole song reminds me of the time (2 years!) that Pedram and I were struggling with our long long distance relationship — trying to build a committment over short periods of time on two different continents, and how saying goodbye and taking that trip back over the ocean always left a hollow, sinking feeling in my stomach.  Many times we would be walking along the Seine, like in the song, finding precious and capricious moments in Paris, occasionally in the Place de la Republique.  Long distance relationship — both so incredibly glamorous, romantic and tender, in such a way it makes you blind to how silly it is.

Speaking of frenchie french, last month I was invited to hone my artistic abilities in a collage-making gathering with some lovely French women who now live in Montreal.  I was very honored to be invited, and although my lack of french skills made me the most shy person ever, the frenchies were incredibly hospitable and patient with me.  It is really hard for me to 1 – be creative and artistic and 2 – speak french.  Doing both is too much for me to handle.

I snapped a few pictures of the gathering, and my creation from my phone.

Finally, take a look at this.  I am ice skating outside.  OUTSIDE people!  On a canal that has frozen up.  A canal!  A moving body of water that is frozen so thick that hundreds of people can skate on it.  I know it is March, but I am still coming to terms with winter in Montreal (this picture was actually taken in Ottawa)

I didn’t grow up with Sesame Street, but got to enjoy it with my little brother while he was growing up.  While I was in Belgium, I started to sing the school bus song one time, and then (to my horror), found out that Sesame Street never really made it with the French-speaking population.  I remember trying to expalin it to my cousin-in-law Laurence — Tu connais la Rue Sesame?  Avec le grand oiseau jaune?  Et Oscar, qui habite dans une poubelle?

Eventhough I don’t know all of the Sesame Street characters, I can tell you one thing — Elmo is overrated.  My favorite is Grover — who is just a silly blue spazz.

Kissing and hugging and helping and living together?  Sounds like fun!  I love the broad definition of marriage whenever this was made (in the 70s?). I also find the kid really cute, I like how he shuts his eyes tight from saying the word kiss.

And it took me a while to figure out why Pedram never sang along with me when I would chant “cookie cookie cookie starts with C” whenever cookies were around.  This is probably outdated, as mothers would prefer their kids to associate the letter C to words like carrot and capsicum, but C is for cookie, and that is good enough for me.

The way he walks

I recently got a request to learn more about the things I appreciate about Pedram, other than his conscious respectful decision to keep the porcelain bowl spotless, and I automatically thought of a few things I wish he would change, like his incessant desire to leave me alone at home for 9 days alone with the needy dog.  I do NOT appreciate how he cannot resist finishing all the desserts in the house without leaving any for me.  Or his inability to not comment when I wash dishes and they are not spotless.  If only he saw how I washed the dishes last night, they were definitely not spotless — ha!

I digress from my intention to make this a positive post.  One of the things I do appreciate about my husband is his character, which is sometimes the hardest thing to describe about him.  He isn’t romantic, at least not in the definition of modern times, such as flowers or chocolates or surprise love poems in my lunch box.  He doesn’t serenade me before I go to bed, he doesn’t profess his love to me in public, and he doesn’t even always tell me what I want to hear.  Not that I would necessarily need that — he recently wrote an endearing post on my facebook page and I called him a liar.

But in the hidden track that is our relationship, between the loud sonatas of our arguments and the whimsical steady rhythm of our ease with each other, through all the trombones blasting our fun trips, or jazz relaying our meditations, in the fine lines of the musical sheet of our marriage, there lay small details that make me appreciate him so much.

He has great manners in a way that is effortless.  He is respectful to elders, and shows patience towards children.  The way he helps me with my coat, the way he ensures I am having a good time in a crowded party, how he opens the door for me, all without ever feeling obligated to do so.  These are things that he was taught or learned from watching his elders, clearly, but that he also encompasses truly and fully, naturally.

It is the kindness he shows when he actively listens, even though there are a million things on his mind.  The way he supports me in my endeavors, making my priorities his priorities.  How easily he can have a conversation with people from different backgrounds with ease.  And I have a love/hate relationship with how many languages he speaks.

It is more than that though, it extends to the way he folds and organizes his clothes, the creases in his shirts, how he eats his food, it is all like a delicate sport.  He waits for me before starting a meal, a courtesy I rarely return.  He finishes my sentences in french when he sees that I am struggling.  He is attentive to my outfits, he carries my handbag when I need him to, the way he walks — never rushed, never clumsy.  I used to attribute this behavior to him being European, but the truth is, I married a gentleman.

You can’t learn it in a book, and in my humble opinion, you can beat it with any set of roses.  I always call him an old man, but maybe that is a part of his charm, the essence of him, which is hard to find in younger generations.  I don’t think it can easily be taught, but it really should be.  It is the difference between telling someone to give up their seat on the bus for an elderly person, and them just knowing that they should.  It is the right thing to do — and for me, it is very romantic.

Wow — that was much cheesier than I was planning on being.  Excuse me if you found that excessive.

When I think of other men that I admire in the same way — a few come to mind immediately.

My father, and how he treats all the women in his life, me, my mom, my sister, his mother, his sister.  He was the first feminist in my life, a model figure for that old style of charm and chivalry mixed with “don’t let anyone put you down cause you are a girl”.  I could write a book (maybe I should) about the things I learned from my dad, and another one for all the things he never intentionally taught me, but I learned by watching him.

My father in-law, for so many reason, but for sure how he dresses up for every occasion — always looking stylish and impeccable.  In a world where people wear sweatpants and sloppy jeans, he and his friends wear three piece suits to have coffee together, and they don’t slouch.   Ever.  I need to stop slouching.

Ryan, the husband of a close friend, who, in a sea of immature boys, represents class and character.  When we would go out, Ryan would always walk me to my car, without question, without even offering.  It just always felt genuine.

Seb — just cause I know he is reading.  Seb is a good guy.

I am blessed to have so many great men in my life.  I’d love to hear about any stories other people have to share about great men in their lives — and what they consider romantic.

It is no secret that I am obsessed with animals and their well-being, but I am often torn between my love for animals and our dependency on them as humans.

I loathe factory farming.  Yet, I am not a vegetarian.  I do, however, try to limit my meat intake, and try to only purchase from local farmers.  We actually talk to the farmers, about the animals diets, their habitat, etc.  As a result, we pay twice as much for our meat, which is another reason we eat less of it.

I have always had a problem with animals in captivity, and animals in zoos and marine “pools” that confine them and prevent them from living their lives fully, even knowing that some of these efforts are not in vain, and for conservation purposes.  But the tragic death of a SeaWorld trainer reminds me again why animals, such as Orca whales, should not be in captivity.

I don’t doubt that SeaWorld and their marine biologists do some great things for wildlife conservation and education, but I can’t help but hope that these entertainment zoos and parks will soon become a distant memory.  Animals who live in captivity often get sick and killer whales, on average, live 20 years in captivity, as opposed to a female in the wild who will live into their 50s.  These are highly intelligent creatures who are stressed because they are forced into spaces that go against their instincts — no natural social groups, chemically treated water, inability to travel freely in an ocean.  I read one article that talked about the killer whales need to travel in straight lines as opposed to being forced to swim in circles in a tank.  Most animals in captivity have breeding problems, emotional distress, problems eating and behaving as they would in the wild.  It is not our place to interfere.

This also applies to “swim with dolphins” in Hawaii, and any of the those “feed sharks” adventures in South Africa I’ve seen. It just isn’t right for us to manipulate animals for our entertainment, and I don’t think it is entertaining.  It all makes me sad.

But, then again, I am a little animal crazy.

The Fall — Ouch

Alone for nine days, my doggie and I

We decide to leave the house, since the weather was dry

We went to the park, where the snow was abundant

And threw around the ball, a chore that is redundant

Then the ball disappeared around the linked fence

In order to get to it, we had to climb a snow hill that was immense

Rusby climbed it with ease, using his four paws

Scaled the mountain so fast, I gave him a round of applause

He looked at me as if saying “what are you waiting for”?

And so I scrambled up the hill, more and more

On top of the hill, I sighed a breath of relief

Thinking that there was no ice to give me any grief

How simple I was not realizing the mistake I made

one side of the hill had remained in the shade

the other side, was slippery and frightful

and with only two legs, one bad step would spiteful

Oh!  How I fell!

My legs slipped out from under me, up in the air

My arms were not fast enough to save me from despair

I fell on my ass, “bum” in the local tongue

So hard I fell, my head spun and spun

Alone on the ice, such a disgrace

was the moment my dog thought he should start licking my face

I knew I wasn’t paralyzed, cause I could push him away

And he returned, dropping the prized ball on my chest — wanting to play

After a moment of catching my breath I tried to move again

But fell, this time face down, once more in pain

Third time, I crawled my way away from the hill

Back into the park, I stood up, using all my will

They say falling in the snow is a true Montreal experience

I have felt the glory of surviving, and have been ready to leave since.

Last weekend, I was in Florida, with the crazy cousins, and my sister took this picture with my phone

In case you were wondering, this is me happy, dancing like a fool because I am not wearing 20 layers.  I am not just happy, I am exuberant, ebullient, vivacious, alive!  Today, a week later, it has snowed a foot in Montreal, and I occasionally look at this picture on my phone and smile, remembering the warmth on my shoulders, the sand in between my toes, the peaceful sound of the ocean around me.  Then I look outside at the snow, and cry and cry and cry.

Want to see another happy picture of me?  Take a look at this one, again, exactly one week ago.

I spent something like six hours in a spa, where I just felt all the stress just melt off of me.  I had no treatments done, just spent time relaxing and eventually taking the deepest, most profound nap of my life.  I am pretty sure my snoring ruined the serene experience for everyone else.

You know what else made me happy?  Hanging out with these crazies

We were all melting at this point.  We walked in there tense and full of anxiety, and left unknotted, relaxed and limpid.  Everyone was escaping from something.  Some from work, some from responsibility, some from husbands, some from this little screaming terror waiting for her at home.

How could you call this little cutie a terror?  Look at those eyes!  Look at that smile!  She melts my heart.  She is nothing compared to the little terror waiting for me at home

No dog, I will not throw that ball again for you, no matter how pathetically cute you look.  We are alone at home this week, and he is always looking for an opportunity to cuddle up with me.  Which would be great, if he didn’t smell so dog-like.  And didn’t snore.

I guess I have him to thank for exposing me to the beautiful scenery tonight.  Otherwise, I had no intention of leaving the house.  I was planning to pump up the heat and put back on my sundresses and pretend I was back in the sauna.  But instead, I put on my woolly layers and took Rusby to the dog park, and quit my grumbling about the weather long enough to enjoy the sunset.

My valentine

Last Friday, I got a package.  It was addressed just to me.  And it was from my Valentine.

I have had the same Valentine for about 10 years now, someone who is so thoughtful and considerate.  I got so giddy when I saw the handwriting, cause it is a dead giveaway on who it is.  Isn’t the packaging great?

Someone who knows that I love candy, and chocolate, and the cute little candy shop at the University Village in Seattle.  And who has always remembered me during this silly holiday.  Of course, I don’t think it is silly when there is chocolate involved, and yogurt covered pretzels, and all other sorts of goodness.  Then I take it all very serious.

Ten years, I have been rubbing my tongue raw with these wonderfully sour hearts.  I don’t like to share these.

Thanks, Khanh, for always remembering me.

Scene — I am at my first doctor appointment at a clinic in Canada.  I have an appointment at 3:30, I show up at 3pm.  I am never early to an appointment, but am giddy in delight to try out the health care system in my new residence.  I am directed to the waiting room, which is filled with people slumped on chairs, most of them looking bored and grumbling complaints.  I seat myself, and in anticipation of being called, take a brief moment to check the news on my phone.  There I see an article that my sister might like.  I send it to her with the following text:

Mahsa

Hey sis!  Look, they recalled that horrible vaccines equals autism study, the one that you have been fighting as a pediatrician

Nava

yeah…i still blame jenny mcarthy.  and oprah.

Mahsa

Vindiction! Is that a word?

Am at doc office surrounded by sickies and a woman that snaps her gum. Shoot me. I want private healthcare.

Nava

vindiCAtion?!

i hope he doesn’t diagnose you with laziness like my doctor did with me…maybe you’re anemic?!

At this point, 20 minutes have passed.  The door opens, and a small baby wanders out.  It is an adorable little girl, her hair in braids.  She stumbles around, no parents in sight.  I think I love her.  I think she loves me.  Maybe I should take her home with me.

Mahsa

My doctor is a she.  As a female physician, you should know better.

Still waiting.

See adorable black baby. Want to steal.  Is that wrong?

I say hi to the baby.  She is too cute, giving me a shy smile.  I am almost positive that we are meant to be.  I love the braids in her hair, and temporarily think about braiding my hair again, like I did in Senegal.  But then I remember how itchy my scalp was, how bad it looked, and how all my Senegalese friends laughed at me.

Nava (ignoring me)

mine is a she too.  she’s indian.  they love me.

I look around the waiting room, which has filled even more with patients.  One of the geriatrics sitting next to me, the one with “doctor appointment – 2:30pm” written on her hand, starts snoring.  She looks skinny and sickly.  I wonder if she has been here waiting for days.  Two people come out of the doctor’s office and pick up their child.  Guess she won’t be coming home with me.  Guess she won’t be my new best friend.  Guess I won’t be braiding my hair.  So far, nothing good has come out of this.  I yawn for the millionth time today.  I have the feeling I am always so tired.  A man walks in holding his head, with an enormous bandage that has blood seeping through.  Now I feel nauseous.

Mahsa

Update – baby has parents.

Can I get anemia checked out without giving blood?

Nava

no.  blood work is good.  get your cholesterol checked.  mine is randomly really good…

Mahsa

Mine is bad. I blame the pain-au-chocolat diet. Have been waiting now for 45 minutes.

Nava (with no sympathy)

whatever…i’m sure your doctor is overworked and underpaid.  and still will be much nicer than i am because she is canadian…

i came 15 minutes late to my appointment and had to MAKE the front desk lady page my MD to let me in.  it was bizarre.  I was only 15 minutes late!!!  and she’s indian?!


A woman comes out and yells out a name in a thick accent “Ayexxia Porsch?”.  Everyone looks around, confused.  Some of the older people adjust their earpieces.  The woman repeats herself.  Patients glance at each other, until one finally steps up and says “Alexander Pots?  That’s me”

Mahsa

Mine is polish and I can barely understand her as she calls out names. She has no nurse.

Place is filled with geriatrics.  They must be the worst.

Nava

yeah…they’re actually all depressed.  did you know that as you age, your sleep quality gets worse?  a 70 year old has the same sleeping pattern as a severely depressed person. then again, there are tons of happy old people too…

I drift off into sleep, then wake up suddenly to the dream where you are walking off a cliff, and you are grasping around you frantically so you don’t fall.  I think I gave the old woman next to me a heart attack.  I fall asleep again, this time dreaming that it is 2011 and I forgot to take vacation in 2010.  These are my kind of nightmares.  I wake up to see that nothing around me has changed.

Mahsa

Took a quick nap. Have now waited one hour and half

Why are naps so great?  I feel refreshed, even in this claustrophobic, virus infested clinical space.  I think we should reinstate the siesta.  It is such a good idea.

Nava

Have so much work to do, but am feeling lazy and just got a grant

Obviously, Nava also needs more siestas in her life.  Maybe napping is a genetic disorder, and I can get the doctor to prescribe me a mandatory daily nap.  If I ever see the doctor.

Mahsa

Congratulations on the grant.  Am about to self-diagnose and steal prescription pad from nurse.

Pretty sure the nurse has fangs and does not want to be messed with.  Man with bandage on head is rushed to the front of the waiting list, understandably so.  Note to self, next time you need to see the doctor, first give yourself a contusion.  Beginning to get a headache.  Wonder if it is the horrible lights and stagnant air, or if I was dropped as a baby.

Mahsa

This might be a good time to tell me our family medical history

Nava

father’s side:  Hypertension, coronary heart disease, hypercholesterolemia
mother’s side: Diabetes, uterine cancer, and hypertension

Okay, obviously NDD (napping deficit disorder) is not the most concerning genetic trait I may be carrying.  Oh sweet lord, man walks into clinic wearing Uggs.  That is not okay.  Pinch myself to see if I am napping. I am not.

Doctor at 5:45pm

“Masha Yegmeh?”

YES!  My turn, finally.  The doctor was pleasant, friendly, but brief — I don’t get around to discussing NDD. Three hours of waiting for a 15 minute doctor appointment — can’t say I am happy about it.  But on the other hand, the visit was completely free.  And thanks to technology, a good way to catch up with sister.  And finally get my afternoon nap.

Canadian Gold

Are you planning to watch the winter Olympics in Vancouver this year?  It starts tomorrow people!  This year, Canada may have a chance of winning Olympic gold, for the very first time on their own soil.  It didn’t happen in Calgary, and it didn’t happen in Montreal.  This year, all my colleagues and Canadian friends have assured me — it will happen.  The land of snow will win a gold medal for doing sports in snow.  It all just makes so much sense.

The spirit is in the air, with people wearing Olympic scarves, gloves and hats to support their country.  I am also rooting for Canada, hoping this country will get some recognition that prevent international journals from making comments like this:

“Theirs is a vast country that in many ways is run like a small town, with small-town values, and it has a highly developed culture of modesty, if not a collective inferiority complex. The athletic record in general is a little underwhelming, and some Canadians think that is because their countrymen prefer that, considering a good effort just as valuable as a trunkload of trophies, maybe better.”

courtesy of the New York Times (even if is true, it reeks with smugness)

Sigh…ask me a year ago, and I could have written a testament on how Canada is an inferior country, the 51st American state, the distant cousin you were embarrassed to talk about because they mispronounced every word, ay?  And now I am crossing my fingers and toes that the Canadian national team will win the Olympic Gold in hockey, cause that is where they wear their pride.

Sigh…after 7 months living here, I am on the Canada bandwagon.  Who am I?

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