Major Writer's Block

As I type this, my cat is staring straight into my soul from 20 feet away, with those piercing emerald eyes of his. He is probably wondering why I'm not giving him a treat and how he got stuck with such a low-life human.

Also, if there was a reality TV show on who could make the best three-course meal living in the wild, pretty sure my family would win. Our kitchen consists of approximately 2% of the tools a normal kitchen would have. Grater? Nope. Kettle? Nope. Potato masher? Of course not, Indians don't eat mashed potatoes (yay, stereotyping). That weird triangular, pointy grapefruit fork? Don't think so. Apparently, a dull knife and a cutting board dating back to the Cretaceous are the only requirements for proper meal-making. I'm serious, there needs to be a show on this madness. Food Network, do ya hear me?

In other things, dating rules are such utter garbage. What moron decided you shouldn't reply to a potential beau's message immediately because it makes you look desperate? REALLY? 'Cause for some people, responding as soon as possible would be considered the polite and responsible thing to do. If you're actually preoccupied in your passions and cannot reach a communication device, that's hot. If you deliberately set a mental timer to respond three days later while you play Candy Crush on your smartphone... well, do I have some words for you. Can we just be ourselves and honest?! Please.

No, the above is not implying that I am a bitter, jaded spinster; that's still fifty years down the road. But I see way too many people (including myself, I admit) confused and anxious about how to leave the best impression on a romantic interest. Even if you do succeed with your hard-to-get act, the other person then does not know the natural, spontaneous you, which I think is the saddest part of all.

Anyway, that is all. I had no idea what to write when I started this post, so here is a glimpse of what spins around in my brain cavity.

Until next time, my homie Gs.

Dear 24-Year-Old Samaa,

Hello, 'tis I, from the past. I am here to put things in perspective for you with my teenage, know-it-all attitude. Listen to my words of carefree advice:

1. I don't know what this "#YOLO" business is, but I hear it's all the rage in the future. It sounds hella annoying, but use it as a philosophy, not to ignore responsibility, per se, but to grab each moment by the horns and realize that once it's gone, you will never get it back. I would know, I'm from the past.
2. Speaking of which, don't let anything from your past keep you from your future. I had to build a damn time machine just to talk to you, but once I get back to 2006, I will really be nothing more than a figment of your imagination, which you future people call "memories." A memory does not have the power to harm you today and it certainly cannot predict what's going to happen to you tomorrow or the next day. So learn to let go.
3. I have yet to experience a romantic relationship of any kind, so I really do believe in all my wide-eyed naivety that a fairytale romance is possible. You should believe the same even though you have experienced heartbreak. I can see you are scared of getting hurt again, but take it from me, it's a lot more exciting when you love each guy like he's the first and will be the last.
4. I have severe self-esteem issues, but you, my friend, are lovely. Don't underestimate yourself. I'm glad you are what I grow into :).
5. I drive my parents crazy, but I also give them plenty of hugs, so cut me some slack. I also openly express my love for them to the point of being a nuisance. Please continue this tradition.
6. I'm too young to worry about the future! And so are you, for that matter. In fact, the age at which you should start worrying is: never. You can definitely dream of a better future, but worrying is totally futile, if you ask me. I have more important things to focus on - like this boring calculus homework, kill me!!
7. I don't brush my hair because I would rather have the extra ten minutes of sleep. I really don't care what people think of me, and as long as I am clean and don't smell, what does my HAIR have to do with how I am as a student, friend, daughter, etc.? (Yes, I do believe you just got owned by your past self.)

That is all. See you in eight years.

Love,
16-Year-Old Samaa

Dear 16-Year-Old Samaa,

Hello, 'tis I, from the future. I am here to save you many gallons of tears and subsequent dehydration. Listen to my words of wisdom:

1. If you think high school is hard, prepare to poo your pants when you get to university. Don't worry, you will make it through, but you'll wish for lightning to strike your institution and burn it down several times a year. Anyway, my point being, do your best right now and don't let stress eat away at you. There are bigger and better things out there, which you will get to in good time. Enjoy the ride.
2. That being said, quit thinking that you can get away with everything because you are intelligent. Please stop procrastinating, assuming you'll do well regardless. I am still suffering the consequences of your well-engrained habit.
   Also, I see how you treat your parents like you know more than them. Shame on you.
3. In fact, your parents will continue to make you feel stupid when you scoff at their advice, only to find out later that they were correct on every count. This will happen throughout your existence.
4. Popularity is hardly fulfilling. Be grateful that you have a few friends, but your bond with them runs strong and deep.
5. Eight years from now, you will still not know what the heck the future holds or what to do with your life, but just take it one day at a time.
6. You will never stop being a hopeless romantic, and your heart will get smashed multiple times because you are such a sucker for all that mushy crap. It's okay, all your failed romantic encounters will shape you into a fine human being, if I do say so myself. Stay strong and know the right man for you will treat you well. In the meantime, being single is pretty legit. Keep your standards high and be proud of your independence.
7. Lastly, please brush your hair. I know the extra sleep is tempting, but at least tie it up in a ponytail or something?!

That is all. See you in eight years.

Love,

Samaa

Confessions of an Indo-Canadian

I mentioned in one of earlier my posts that ethnicity doesn't - or rather, shouldn't - matter when first meeting people. Well, call me a big, fat hypocrite, because today I am going to tell you all about being a strange, mutant hybrid of two cultures and its influence on my sanity.

As background, I am genetically 100% organic Indian, my parents both born and raised in the overwhelming phenomenon that is the city of Mumbai. I am a first-generation Canadian, having come to this fine nation when I was five years old. For most of my childhood, I was totally fresh-off-the-boat (a fob, as we racist people like to say) and hardly integrated into Canadian culture. I surrounded myself with Bollywood everything, and I am so grateful to my country for being perfectly accepting and supportive of my unnecessarily Indian behaviours: I recall having a birthday party where I danced to several Hindi songs in front of all my Caucasian classmates and fourth-grade teacher. They politely clapped their hands and nodded their heads, but even my ten-year-old brain could tell that they didn't know what on God's green earth I was doing. Good times.

Anyway, as I grew older, I delved into local pop culture and was whitewashed (racism) into a happy medium of eastern and western influences.

I am lucky to have a good blend of friends from all over the demographic map, but sometimes I wonder who the heck I am supposed to marry. My parents are very lax on the subject; I'm pretty sure I could wed a bag of marbles and they'd be fine with it. Well, my dad likes to sing old, depressing Hindi songs at random, inappropriate times, so I'm sure he'd appreciate a son-in-law who could join in on his late-night karaoke sessions. My mom, on the other hand, thinks I should spread my wings and marry someone exotic, a.k.a. a pure, well-mannered Canadian. My perfect solution to such conundrums is to do absolutely nothing and leave it to divine intervention. I'm totally proactive like that.

Clearly, I have a "#blessed" life if my biggest problem is deciding which of many options is right for me (note: this does not imply I have a line-up of men waiting to be screened... I'm all alone, with no one here besiiiiiiiide meeeeee).

Alright, I think I successfully managed to humblebrag my way through this post (humblebrag: to sneakily discuss how perfect life is with the pretense of suffering from an identity crisis), muahahaha.

Sayonara, y'all.

Kitchen Tales

Hello,

Today I cooked a meal for my parents. It was my very first time puttering around the kitchen solely to feed my old folks. Usually, I am a giant freeloader and just wait for my mom to get hungry and cook for all of us in the process of satiating herself. Today, I decided to pull up my socks and take control of all things culinary.

It took me four hours to cook a three-course meal. In good news, it is a Saturday so I can afford to work at my leisure. Also in good news, I expended so much energy double-checking my cookbook at a rate of nine times per minute, that I worked up a hearty appetite by the time the food was ready.

My tummy is making strange, rumbling noises, though. The fish I had is probably merrily swimming its way through my GI tract. I have a feeling, both literal and figurative, that gas will be coming out of my orifices soon. (Yes, men, I am this sexy.)

*Awkward transition.*

Once upon a time, I was cutting green chillies for my mother and I, the fool that I am, decided that my itchy eye was worth rubbing halfway through chopping spicy peppers from hell. Well, as you can imagine, I thought I was going to go blind, and I actually dunked my eyeball in a glass of milk. Yes. I filled a glass with my dairy saviour and stuck my eye into it. It was the only way to save my cornea, I tell you. Maybe I absorbed some calcium in the process?

That is all for now. Hardly a Pulitzer-prize-winning post, but I am too busy digesting marine creatures to think of anything poignant to write.

Good evening to you.

Failure to Launch

One of the main objectives of this blog is for you, the reader, to learn from my idiotic mistakes. And trust me, any wisdom I have acquired is from all my experiences being inconceivably stupid.

I am lazy beyond belief. Any indication otherwise is one giant, guileful façade. If I have an energy-packed day (e.g. dancing, socializing), I legitimately take the following day off to recuperate and nap in the fetal position for an ungodly number of hours. A colleague of mine once said I have a less-than-robust constitution, a.k.a., "you are weak and feeble." Alas, I tend to agree.

However, this is mostly of my own doing. I am quite skilled at not taking care of myself. If I didn't have my dear mother forcing proper meals down my throat, I would probably be living on an IV drip by now. I am so bad at meeting my daily nutrition requirements. No, this doesn't mean that I starve myself or that I'm getting ready for bikini season; I just cannot motivate myself to make a proper meal when I can eat a granola bar or devour an entire bag of premade popcorn instead. Perhaps this is something many singletons face: if you're the only mouth that has to be fed, why bother with the intricacies of a recipe that makes twelve servings?

Such a philosophy has, unfortunately, led to the demise of my properly-functioning immune system. I woke up in the middle of the night with a sore throat from Satan's toy box. Usually, I would begin my journey into illness by cursing the entire microbial world for being a pain in the tonsils, but this time, I hung my head in shame as I admitted I had brought this upon myself with my poor eating habits. I have not taken care of myself and this is the lesson I need to learn.

If you think I am being quite dramatic about a measly sore throat, let me tell you how much I dislike being sick. A lot. And a sore throat? Gurl, that ridiculousness HURTS. As far as I'm concerned, germs are the greatest evil masterminds to roam the face of the Earth. (If something delicious falls on the floor, though, I will still eat it... #YOLO).

Anyway, learn from my failure to be a grown up that it is so important to take care of yourself. No matter how much success you achieve in every area of life, without good health, it is truly pointless.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have some premade popcorn for lunch.

P.S. YES, I wash my hands. Excessively. Hence why they resemble elephant hide instead of soft, velvety epidermis. Thank you.

Granny Sammy Says

I grew up with the sound of dial-up ringing in my ears and memories of contemplating life during the ten minutes it took for a single webpage to load on my computer screen. That wasn't even that long ago, and it is mind-boggling to consider how far technology has advanced.

When I reached high school, Facebook was gaining momentum; although at that age, it was mostly a race to see who could have the most "friends" (heavy emphasis on the quotation marks, a.k.a. literary sarcasm). And since then, there has been a slew of social media applications geared towards connecting people. Texting/SMS is also the main go-to nowadays.

Awesome (no quotation marks = sincerity). Connecting with old friends over long distances is sweet as pie, as is using the far-reaching marketing power of these systems.

As someone very picky with her socialization tactics, however, I have my reservations for the following reasons:

1. Commitment: Remember (or go ask your parents about) having nothing but a landline to make plans with friends? You would dial their home phone number, which you knew by heart and could rattle off in record time, and the simple question of whether your friend was able and willing to hang out would be finalized in one swift response: yes or no. Then, unless he/she had some serious guts to call back at a later time and withdraw participation, it was pretty much set in stone that you and your respective mates would be meeting at so-and-so place at such-and-such time. There wasn't as much leniency as there is today with the convenience of text to decide that you feel too lazy or unenthusiastic about the pending get together. Today, it's just so easy to type out within 140 characters that you're running late or that you'd rather stay home in your PJs. The response, "maybe," is all too prevalent. (And yes, I myself am guilty of such behaviour.)
2. Interaction and communication skills: I have witnessed with my own two vision-corrected eyeballs the effect of giving children smartphones. I was working in an office, and a family of six came in. The kids were told to take a seat while their parents filled out boring paperwork. The entire forty minutes the adults were doing their thing, each of the four children had their eyes glued to their respective phones. Not once did they look up to confirm that their fellow housemates were still alive and breathing. They were completely oblivious to their surroundings, which happened to be incredibly scenic, and their eyes were glazed over, their faces motionless, like they had lost the ability to express. This is not healthy, people.
   Why only children? I remember taking a friend out for her birthday and the entire time, she texted her boyfriend, occasionally looking up from her phone to say sorry for her lack of attention. Apology not accepted. It was rude, humiliating, and I would have loved nothing more than to just leave her to text away on her own. That is not how to treat someone who has taken the time and effort to come see you in person. In fact, I think basic etiquette should be to keep your phone out of sight, out of mind as a sign of respect.
3. Effort and thoughtfulness: I really like Facebook, I do, almost to the point of obsession. It has become a reflex to check what's happening on my news feed every time I use my phone. But when it comes to special occasion announcements, dear Lord. Before I begin my third tirade, I would like to thank Facebook for at least notifying us forgetful ones of our friends' birthdays. Your reminder system is legit, I have zero problems with it. The actual act of wishing someone a happy birthday or congratulations, however, turns me into a raging rhino because about half of the senseless, cookie-cutter greetings you get are from people who really wouldn't give two hoots about your special day if it wasn't for the nagging reminder on the side of their screen. People who have forgotten you even exist all of a sudden write gushing, flowery sentiments as if you're the one who taught them the meaning of life. I guess something is better than nothing, but I do not tolerate insincerity so it gets my goat. I feel like it's a cop-out for putting in the effort to wish someone properly, either with a phone call or by meeting them in person to give a hug of congratulations. If you are known for being a minimalistic person in general, then go for the wall post. If you care about someone, please go above and beyond to make that special someone actually feel special.

That is all. I love my iPhone with all my heart; I would probably give it my kidney if required, but there is a time and place for these things and having been burned myself by the overuse of technology, I had the urge to write this post. I don't even think I'm being dramatic or overemotional. We should all demand a certain standard of respect and commitment from the people in our lives. Because we're worth it. L'Oreal Paris agrees.

I'm a Homo sapien! You?

Oh hihihi,

You know how sometimes you attend a party where you don't really know anyone, so spend most of the night introducing yourself until your tongue is numb? I don't know what that feels like, I stay home, but my point is, oftentimes the small talk veers off into, "So, where are you from?"

"Pickering?" is my usual reply (when meeting strangers not at a party), my voice going high at the end to intone that I have no confidence in my answer. This is to prepare for my companion's predictable follow-up.

"No, I mean where are you from? What is your background?"
"Oh, well, I have a PhD in procrastination and I also enjoy poutine --"

"No, Goddammit, I mean what is your ethnicity?"

At that point, no matter what I say, I never get a second date.

Okay, seriously, I find it odd when people ask that question, but not because it's unreasonable. On the contrary, any similarity allows for instant connection. At my university, I've seen many students happy to meet those of the same background, running towards each other in slow motion to unite in romantic embraces. And then all these different ethnic groups travel in little herds for the rest of their time at school, happy to be among their own kind (and the Most Patronizing Writer award goes to...).

I just think it's weird because, being a visible minority myself, I have never made use of my Indian radar. My strongest and longest friendships are with those of completely different races and cultural backgrounds. Throughout our formative years and innumerable moments together, never even in jest did we ponder our differences in skin colour or cultural activities, even though in hindsight, it was obvious we were quite exotic to each other. Not until I reached university and noticed blatant racial and cultural segregation did it hit me that it must be easier to make friends with people of similar ethnicity. I now realize that my childhood friends unintentionally embraced my own cultural nuances without batting an eye, and we saw each other as nothing but fellow human beings.

I'm sure our friendship was facilitated by other, more substantial commonalities, but I've known these wonderful people for over a decade and it blows my mind that to this day, we see past all the facets of our ancestry straight into each others' hearts. We bond because of the words we speak, the ideas we have, and the new memories we form each time we meet.

Like I said before, there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a foundation of shared culture, language, etc., to start off a relationship, but what if we were drawn to people because of deeper characteristics that we all share?

Let's just be friends because we are all human.
...I probably won't come to your parties, though. Juss' sayin'.

Take a Chill Pill

Does anybody ever actually relax when you tell them that? It's like poking someone in the eye and telling them to see clearly [now the rain is gone!].

I am writing this primarily to avoid studying, but also because I realize that my writing often gets heavy in delivering insightful commentary. As such, it is important to stop being a self-righteous know-it-all and talk about some airy fairy things every once in a while. I mean, I wouldn't want your head to explode with too much of my twenty-four-year-old wisdom. Leave some things to the really old people, shall we?

Here is a list of things that are not of any use at all:

1. Today, one of my ten fingernails is shorter than the others. This is because I was cutting onions yesterday and, possessing the culinary skills of a vacuum cleaner, I managed to slice off the tip of my fingernail. I then trimmed the rest of the damage off with nail clippers, but was too lazy to do the same to all the other nails.
2. Speaking of being an amateur, I literally sob every time I cut red onions. My poor vulnerable eyeballs are exposed to that onion-y chemical of doom and it feels like I am going to burn my retinas into oblivion. There are tears and ample amounts of snot running down my face after a single onion, and I beg the vegetable gods for mercy.
3. My cat is shedding fur thanks to the changing weather, and now I am quite positive my entire GI tract is lined with his hair. This is a result of cuddling him for excessive amounts of time (which, to him, probably feels like some sick, twisted form of abuse; he likes his freedom) and consequently, his hair enters all my facial orifices only to end up in God knows which organ of my body. I am constantly picking his fur off my face. I don't even care, I just love hugging the life out of him (wait, what?).
4. My parents love my cat more than they love me. I am not even upset, because it is impossible to love anyone or anything more than my cat. I suspect he has some feline hypnotic powers that can charm even the most resistant.
5. I am a crazy cat lady (under hypnosis).
6. I have two very fancy-looking vodka bottles that I use as water bottles because they hold a good amount of liquid and they are just plain nice to look at with their artistic forms sitting on my end table. However, they consequently make me seem like a bedside alcoholic. Especially because the way I drink water is to chug until my stomach starts cramping in horror. I just can't remember to keep sipping at a normal pace over the course of the day, so I end up compensating with Olympian chug-a-thons.

That is all for now.

Congratulations, You're Beautiful!

Where does the time go, am I right?!

Dove's latest ad campaign on the RB-X beauty patch has triggered quite the hot debate, and of course, it is time for me to add my two cents.

At a stretch, I can appreciate Dove's emphasis on natural beauty. However, at the end of the day, it is a marketing ploy intended to win the favour of your average, insecure woman... who now feels Dove understands her and shall therefore shell over her hard-earned cash to buy their skin-rejuvenating foaming cleanser. Oh well, at least the execs at Buy My Shiznit HQ are catering to the non-supermodel demographic.

Before you call me a big bully, let me establish myself as an even bigger bully by saying that I am not just against Dove, but pretty much the entire beauty industry in general. Whether by presenting you with a plain, sullen laywoman to seem more down-to-earth, or else by showing off a bedazzled bombshell (no fault of the models themselves), these companies want women of the Earth to believe that being "beautiful" is the epitome of success.

Well, what about being intelligent? Friendly? Compassionate? Can you live a successful and fulfilling life with those qualities independent of how you look? Could a young girl who is considered to be ugly go on to make a scientific discovery that changes the course of mankind, or heal people of their emotional afflictions simply by her words and actions? Would she not then be successful, even if she was deemed to have the sexual appeal of a rusty nail?

Yes to all of the above. Our society is obsessed with physical beauty. If we were as obsessed with enhancing the lives of our fellow living creatures (my cat included), then God knows our planet would be in the finest condition since its inception.

Okay, I love my makeup and facial scrub. I enjoy being pretty. But unless I am feeling up to the task, I do not need flawless skin and curled eyelashes to feel fulfilled. My appearance will not leave one ounce of a legacy after I die. My body is a piece of art that will disintegrate when I am gone, and trying to make myself a permanent fixture is a waste of my skills and talents. We all have beautiful minds that can truly change the world when we accept the impermanence of our looks.

So, let's not perpetuate that everyone (men included) needs to be beautiful to be successful. There are so many more adjectives to describe the amazing you. Let's use them, shall we? (SMART, FUNNY, BOMBDIGGITY, etc. etc.)

P.S. I do not mean to put down those who enjoy looking their best and enhancing what their mama gave them with the use of skin products and cosmetics. I just mean to say that it should be enjoyable, kind of like a hobby, something that doesn't consume you. Thank you.

Springing Forward

I can now finally wake up in the mornings without cursing my existence, for temperatures have risen along with the Sun, and I don't have to worry about cold toilet seats and that incredibly difficult decision to step out of a warm shower into the cold air bubble that is the rest of my abode - SPRING IS HERE!

Most associate spring with new beginnings, growth, the ground smelling like manure after festering under snow piles for six months, etc. This year also happens to mark my venture into the real world after I finish my undergraduate studies at the end of the month; which, as of now, entails a lot of uncertainty.

My parents want me to have a well-paying, high-status job, my friends want me to have any sort of job at all so that I can go out for drinks without counting pennies (or should I say nickels... Canada has entered a new age, my friends), and my acquaintances don't care because they have better things to worry about. Amidst all that, I have to figure out who is right - get a job that looks good in a matrimony ad, or get a job, period. But most important of all, I want to figure out what I think is right for me.

My mother and father dearest have this horrible habit of always being right, which has caused me much anguish during my teenage years. Their years of wisdom compel them to give me career advice that I would be foolish not to heed. And yet, the heart does not work with reason, and I cannot help but feel that I was not put on this planet only to make other people happy. I want to do something that makes me feel alive, that makes me feel like the work I do will leave a legacy behind for all of humanity to treasure; that I will be an inspiration well after I am dead and gone. I mean, if I love what I do, won't I automatically be successful and make others proud and happy?

To be honest, I do not have the faintest idea what my calling is (something with trees?!?!), but I am fortunate to be surrounded by people who are following their passions with no regard to the paycheque that follows. They do what they do simply because they love it and it makes them happy. It inspires me to find that one thing that lights my fire, because that is what I am meant to contribute to the world in this lifetime.

I am reading Harmonic Wealth by James Ray Arthur (2008; Hyperion, New York), and he tells a story (pg. 126) of an old man (your Average Joe) who dies and goes to heaven. He meets God and says, "What a mess down there, why didn't you send someone to fix it?"

God replies, "I did. I sent you." (My young, tender heart feels all the feels.)

So, are you doing what you were put on this planet to do?

A Note from the Editor

I am the editor.

My father happened to read my blog post entitled Maggot Chocolate?!? and expressed his disdain at my statement that, and I quote, "he'll eat anything."

What I meant to say is that as long as it is edible and accepted by society at large, he will eat it. He is NOT a tasteless diner by any means, but he is far less picky than I am. For example, I do not eat grapes unless they are cold (i.e. refrigerated) and crispy. If they are soft, that is a giant no-go and I throw them out as starving children in various parts of the world shake their heads at me with pursed lips and glaring eyes. My dad, however, does not mind eating soft grapes as long as they are not rotten, obviously.

SO. I apologize if I gave my readers the impression that my father eats maggoty chocolate. He would never eat maggots, but I do profess that if he was a contestant on Survivor, he would win the jackpot prize because he is brave, adventurous and has taught me that one should never turn anything down without at least trying it once. He also likes coconut and fried fish.

End.

Long Overdue

Hello, world. I have finally emerged from my cave of academia to type out this entry. Thank goodness for the "thesaurus" function in MS Word: four essays later, my brain has been drained of all expanded vocabulary. But don't worry, this post will be 100% organic Samaa.

I am all for shamelessly writing about bodily functions (I think it is becoming somewhat of a trademark for me... 'tis the end of my intellect as we know it), and here I offer a list of things that should continue to be done in private as they are today, but should also be less taboo. This list is PG-rated, unless you are squeamish and/or proper with highly refined table manners, in which case, I do believe there are tea and crumpets in the next room.

1. Picking noses: Yes, it is gross to witness, but I'm pretty sure every child does this as their go-to method for nostril cleaning, and I think kids have it right. Just take a deep breath (if your sinuses will let you) and admit that there is no better way to get the debris out of your nose. I obviously reach for a tissue when my blocked airways call, but it is so frustrating having remnants left over and nine Kleenexes later, I am counting down the minutes until I can get into the shower and use the proper "tools." There is so much oxygen just waiting to be inhaled. When alone, don't be ashamed to use what God gave you.
2. Pooping in public washrooms: For hygiene reasons alone, this can be stressful, but sometimes you gotta go when you gotta go, and having to be super self-conscious if someone else is in a neighbouring stall, or washing their hands, or combing their eyelashes, is the final straw. Yes, world, everyone poops, including women (shocker). Being of the female persuasion, I often wish I was a fruit fly that could poop freely without fear of judgement. I don't know if guys have this issue with their fellow stall-mates, but I fear that if my end-products dare make a noise, I shall be condemned to Loserville by my peers for the rest of my life. I know I'm waging psychological warfare on myself, but can we all agree to not judge the various noises we hear when we are in the bathroom? Poo happens.
3. Hiccuping: Unless your loud, drunken hiccup interrupts the launch of a spaceship, I don't think hiccups should be embarrassing. I've seen enough people blush and guiltily excuse themselves for something that isn't smelly, messy, or even voluntary. Your diaphragm appreciates your concern, but it will keep on going regardless of how you feel. So unlike that air bubble trapped in your throat, just go with the flow.
4. Smiling at strangers: Okay, I'm getting off the body talk train before I lose all my readers. Years of working in customer service have brainwashed me into smiling at whomever I cross paths with. However, I find that younger people (ages preteen to twenty-I-know-everything-five) tend not to smile back and, on the contrary, look at you like your sinister face is a portal to the underworld. I've seen people recoil in fear as if I'm about to mug them, or else look at me like I have real nerve trying to be friendly with someone of their high caliber. I have no ill intentions... unless you blatantly disregard my toothy grin. Then somebody gonna get a hurt real bad.

I hope you agree that we need to slow down on the judgement. I think if animals had the capacity for human language, they would tell us how silly we are for confining ourselves while they poop freely in open grass. Although I do agree we should all go potty in enclosures, we should also accept that we, too, are animals (with iPhones!) and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

I shall write with words that incur more pleasant imagery next time. Thank you for sticking around... like my boogers.

Rotting Garbage is Amazing

Ask my parents and they will tell you I am Mt. Vesuvius when it comes to angry outbursts. Unfortunately for them, I am only like this at home because, hey, they're my parents, they will forgive me forever! Right?

However, to ease their suffering, I have figured out a solution to make the nasty feelings go away.
Contrary to popular belief, venting anger just makes you angrier by activating the anger/aggression centres of your brain - PSYCHOLOGY, woohoo! Of course, it's equally unhealthy to suppress it, but stewing in it is just as bad. So, I have come up with a handy dandy technique that will make you go from a raging fire to a calm quagmire (...this is why I don't write song lyrics).

Whenever I am mad at something or someone or all of humanity, I will first bask in it for a while so it doesn't manifest into some kind of intense craving for Cheez Whiz (seriously, what is that stuff made of?!). Then, I start listing everything I like about my object of hatred. I force myself to appreciate that motherchucker like it is my last lease on life. I don't even care if my reasoning is hardly valid - like how I enjoy the never-ending cold and ice (welcome to Canada) because it motivates my cat to snuggle with me and mooch off my body heat. And I like the pouring rain because I get a free car wash; plus, if it's warm enough outside, I can reenact scenes from all my favourite romantic movies, i.e. I dance with my invisible "air" boyfriend.

It's surprising how quickly my anger dissipates. Appreciation of all things, annoying or otherwise, is a force to reckon with!

Before I sign off:

My blogging application is kind enough to let me stalk my reading audience by listing which countries you all are from. I just want to thank every single person out there for reading what I write. I am quite biased towards you non-Canadians because, in my head, I imagine I am making someone smile many miles away. However, no matter where you're from, you externally validate me and I LOVE it. Thank you!

Stuck in a Polar Vortex

My immune system is forming a union to protest the extreme temperature fluctuations that are keeping spring at bay.

Anyway. I participated in a photo shoot with my dance team yesterday, so the day before, I went to get most of my body waxed. Yes, people, I am a hairy animal. I like my body hair, it keeps me warm in winter, but to conform to social norms, I decided to bite the bullet and evict my follicular babies from their anchors. (I have reasons for waxing vs. shaving, but let's not discuss all my bodily functions!)

Let me tell you something about getting my legs waxed: worst pain of my life. "Suck it up, princess," you say. NO. I sucked, slurped, and vacuumed all of it up and it was still so painful, halfway through the process, my body started trembling and sweating profusely from shock. God knows why my dear esthetician didn't call it quits after I turned into a vibrating sprinkler. As I dug my nails into the spa chair, convincing myself not to escape half-naked, I thought about how ridiculous I would look to an alien. There I was, turning red from inflammation because my hair was being ripped from its roots, serving me absolutely no biological advantage. I was removing a natural, functional part of my body because I have learned that doing so makes me more of a "lady." Of course, the hair on my head should be thick and lush, but anywhere else is, "Ew, gross!"

Hair wicks away moisture (underarm hair), creates a barrier to prevent pathogenic bacteria from entering (nasal and pubic hairs), and keeps us warm (body hair). In my humble opinion, hair growth is symbolic of good health, fertility, and vitality.

No, I'm not hippie enough to parade around looking like an animated shag carpet, and I would be lying if I said that being "smooth" doesn't make me feel confident and sexy. However, these psychological rewards are a product of our culture and I don't think young girls should grow up thinking the removal of something so natural is necessary to be beautiful and accepted.

That is all. I will continue waxing when it is required of me, but a message to my future husband: I have hair, it is a part of who I am, and I will remove it only when I feel like it. Caress that, sucka!

Glitching

The other day, my mother dearest was making her way to the kitchen when she tripped over the vacuum cleaner. From a good five meters away, I immediately said, "Sorry."
Soon after, the same word came out of my mouth when my friend tripped over her own two feet while we were traipsing through the mall.

Apparently, I apologize on behalf of all Newtonian laws. These last two instances really got me thinking, what on God's green earth am I sorry for?

Now that it is a part of my awareness, I have caught myself saying sorry A LOT, for absolutely no darn reason. I cringe every time I say it, but it reflexively pops out like I'm a malfunctioning PEZ® machine.

Source: http://www.candywarehouse.com

(For all you non-90s children, this is a PEZ® candy dispenser, akin to my free-for-all "sorry" delivery system.)

I thought of possible reasons for this. I am either subconsciously taking every opportunity to compensate for my own wrongdoings/failures, or else I have the programmed self-esteem of a slug.

Well, that's all I got. My sinuses are currently infected and it hurts my head to come up with anything profound and enlightening. Love yourself, don't be sorry for who you are, etc. etc. All these notions are already within you! That's why they resonate so well when you read the same words on paper (e-paper?).

Alright, I am going to go wallow in self-pity over my illness now. I think a nice, steaming cup of tea will do...

Oh yes, and I shall stop unnecessarily apologizing. The world can kiss my sorry butt.

Somebody Give Me a Prize

First off, I would like to thank my readers for encouraging me to blog regularly.

When I was a child, I used to lose my marbles when someone took credit for work that I did. I had to make sure that my accomplishments were trademarked in giant capital letters: "SAMAA ALI THOUGHT OF THIS." In elementary school, when teachers would pose questions to the class, I would often know the answer and whisper it under my breath to myself (my shyness prevented me from actually putting my hand up). Sometimes, a classmate would overhear my musings and claim "my" answer for him-/herself, subsequently gaining the teacher's stamp of approval. Man, if there ever was a trigger for my transformation into a psychotic rage machine, that was it. How dare my classmate steal my answer! It made me want to take a mallet to that poor, innocent soul's face.

I still struggle with the need for ownership to this day. I have to sit my attention-seeking butt down and tell myself that one day I will die, and all the recognition I cling to will mean absolutely nothing. What's more important is that I learn to share my ideas so that others can help me bring them to life. I have to trust that my contributions will better the world and the benefits will affect everyone including myself. Maybe instead of hoarding what's in my mind like a darn scrooge, I can let it all out knowing I will receive what I give, that prosperity is available to all who act in abundance.

So, if you ever witness me being a selfish brat, you have my permission to tell me to shove my ego up my butt. It's for my own good, you know.

Thank you.

Care Bear Confession

This past summer, I was going through a rough patch (heartbreak and a half, dear God, it was horrible) and a very well-meaning friend offered me advice as I sat next to him and sobbed, snot rampaging out of my nose and onto my clothing. He said to me, "Even though it's painful right now, keep asking yourself, 'Will this matter to me five years from now?'" He is a wise and successful man, so I decided to follow his instructions. I closed my eyes, inhaled and exhaled like one of those Punjabi yogis on daytime Indian television, and asked myself, "Will I care about this in five years?"

And the answer is 100% yes. I care about everything, past, present, future. Yes, I've gotten over painful events so that when I look back on them, my emotions are neutral. However, whatever occurred does still matter to me. I still consider them lessons, important experiences.

Now, everyone fits in differently on the spectrum of caring. I know people who are so unconditionally loving you want to smack them for making you look like a savage baboon next to them. And then there are others who enjoy proclaiming to the world that they don't give a damn fudge brownie about what's happening.
However, I've noticed it is trendy to be the latter, and those who do care are labelled as doormats, passive, weak, overemotional, or fundamentalist loonies holding picket signs to fight for a futile cause.

Well, I say NO (in my most Indian accent). We must care. Somebody has to care. The world would never progress if everyone sat around happy with the status quo. Mother Teresa, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. all cared. Even Thomas Edison cared about giving humanity a lasting source of light. In fact, his caring enabled him to persevere through ten thousand trials to finally invent the first working light bulb. Heck, Steve Jobs is a very recent example of someone who cared for technology and connecting people. Every inventor, every activist, every artist, every athlete, anyone who puts in the blood, sweat, and tears to make the world a better place has one thing in common: they all care.

So, I am here to stand up for those of us embarrassed or ashamed of feeling strongly about something or someone. It is our duty to be true to our passionate, empathetic, sensitive, emotional, generous, and unconditionally loving selves. We are designed to be that way for a reason; because it is the strongest force for positive change. Never apologize for who you are.

May everything matter to you five years from now.

Awkward is the New Black

Using the word "awkward" to describe a whole slew of mishaps and door traps (okay, I just wanted to rhyme) seems to be all the rage. However, I am here to put a large mammal on the tracks of this roaring trend train and argue that the term has lost its meaning. Tripping over your own feet or choking on air is at the most mildly embarrassing and inconvenient, but not awkward. Allow me to enlighten you with more apt examples:

1.  Losing your balance and falling face first into a stranger's groin, then having said stranger bore holes into your eyes with his accusatory stare as he demands an explanation for your carnal behaviour. (True story.)
2. Asking your friend what time his birthday party is starting while simultaneously finding out the party is a surprise arranged by friends, with subsequent interrogation by the birthday boy to spill the beans. (True story.)
3. Walking in on your parents doing the diddly-doo. And making eye contact. (True story. Also traumatizing. Sorry for the mental imagery.)

Well, if you don't feel sorry for me now, then you probably need to work on your lack of empathy.

Even though I would rather have those events erased from my long-term memory, the lesson I gleaned from them is that your response to your circumstances is all that really matters. The degree of awkwardness/humiliation/embarrassment you experience is completely up to you. Yes, you may fart trumpets at a workplace meeting (true story), but you can either laugh it off or curl up into the fetal position and beg for Mommy. The great thing about your response is that others will mirror it, too. If you are worried what people will think of you, people will think about it and pass judgement. If you don't give a single dang and act like you were born to entertain, people will realize you are easy-going and can roll with the punches. And that's a pretty sweet image to have.

Even when things get painful, like running into someone who grinds your gears the wrong way, it is up to you to either avoid eye contact like you're trying to impose blindness on your perfectly-functioning eyeballs, or to graciously accept this perpetrator's presence in your life and give a quick, polite nod of the head and carry on. In the grand scheme of things, it is really no big deal.

Let's face it, we are all blossoms of the awesome (Rhymer of the Year, am I right??), we have all had our cringe-worthy moments. So let's toast to more for the sake of humanity.

Here's to your pants dropping unexpectedly or walking into someone who regards you as the scum of the Earth. Go out there, be awkward beyond comprehension, and create your own anthology of true stories. Trust me, they make for great conversation.

Happily Never After

When it comes to romance, if there was a prize for throwing all caution to the wind, I would be the all-time world champion. If love is the laboratory, I am the heavily-drugged and always-willing guinea pig.

This post is about my exes, bless their wonderful, handsome, loving souls!

"Dang, Samaa, are you still in love with them? Who else gets that excited about their exes?" No, I don't doodle their names on notepads, nor did my break-ups with them end in puppies pooping jellybean rainbows. Quite the contrary. I am an intense person, so getting out of a relationship has always been a torturous process, regardless of whether I was the heartbreaker or the heartbroken. I don't even know if "ex" is the right word, because a lot of my youth has been spent dragging my reluctant butt out of one-sided crushes, where there was never really a relationship beyond friendship to begin with. Heck, sometimes I would fall for a guy without ever being within a five-meter radius of him.

I do, however, wish to ship each of them off to a land of sweet honey and all the riches in the world (honey and money make Samaa sunny). That, too, with their significant others.

"This chick needs to calm down on the meds." No, concerned friend. I am genuinely indebted to all the failed relationships in my life because they taught me to say yes to myself and no to situations that weren't serving me. These men have contributed to my growth in ways that would not have happened if they hadn't sent my heart through an industrial meat grinder. And what's more, every time I said goodbye, I was pushed one step closer to my soulmate (yes, I believe in soulmates, sue me). Do you know how much time these people have saved me? What if I had spent years with any one of them only to find out they were the wrong person? I have been spared excessive tubs of ice cream and Kleenex!

Now I know what I want in a partner and what I have to offer - resilience, faith, and optimism. And a nice bum. I like my bum.

Confessions of a Hermit

Dance class is always a humbling experience for me. When I freestyle like a freak in the privacy of my bedroom, I feel like no one can compete with my grace and booty shaking. Then, in the presence of my talented, skillful dance mates, and under the tutelage of my superhuman teacher (seriously, her abilities are off-the-charts good; I suspect she may be an extra-terrestrial), I am reminded that, yes, I have potential, but my booty also has to do a lot more shaking before it can win a prize.

Anyway, I am here to talk about my desire to live in the Stone Age, which, in today's terms, means pre-social media.

I have nothing against what Facebook, Twitter, this blog, etc., does for society. They are a great way to share and discuss ideas and events on a global platform.
However, I also feel that there is a fine balance between using it as a fun means to connect with others, and forming a codependent love-hate relationship with it as I have. I can hardly open my eyes every morning without hankering after my phone to check up on the people and groups I follow, instead of appreciating the arrival of a new day. And - getting to the heart of the matter - I really just want the high of being notified that someone has liked, commented on, or shared my post. This is where things get nasty.

I always struggle with social media because I start to rely on it for external validation. I have friends who will attest to the regular deactivation and reactivation of my accounts. This yo-yo behaviour occurs because I start comparing myself to others all the time. I get addicted to feeling superior based on the quality of my posts, but then my inflated ego writhes in agony when I see how much more popular, well-liked, and accomplished my contemporaries are. Of course, this is all an illusion. What we portray on our profiles is just a snapshot of what is happening in our lives. That's the whole point, but my perception of profiles as the be-all and end-all is what gets me into trouble. That is when I feel the need to send my electronics through a cheese grater, 'cause, gosh dangit, why isn't my life as great as theirs?

I'm not sure if occasionally shutting myself off from the world is the right solution. This is most likely a matter of working on my self-esteem. However, using social media in small doses seems to keep me in a happy medium while I figure out what the heck my deal is.

That is all. I wanted to end this post with an inspirational message about not comparing yourself to others, but I am still on a journey of practicing what I preach, so I will hold my tongue (and typing fingers) for now.

Call of the Uterus

I am lying in bed while my uterus protests its existence. It is that time of the month, and no babies are being made; my ovaries are not pleased.

Anyway, tolerating my organs' inner turmoil got me thinking, our bodies are pretty bomb diggity. While we go about our days, tackling dirty diapers, footballs, office files, whatever it is we do, our bodies operate without asking for direction or even a thank you. At any given moment if you were to stop what you were doing and think, "What is physically going on inside of me right now?" I'm sure you could come up with an inexhaustible list.

There's a plethora of articles on body image, so I won't go there, but I implore everyone to stop waging war against the beautiful vessel that holds your powerful, intangible spirit. Everything your body does, it does to protect you. Excessive weight gain/loss, exhaustion, maladies are simply by-products of your body trying to save you from stress. When we focus on our unwanted condition - "I need to lose weight!!!!!" - what do we tell our bodies? "This is stressing me out!" and your body dutifully responds by tinkering with your metabolism, expending unnecessary energy, taxing your systems - all to prepare you for battle against your imaginary demons.

I used to be overweight. Not by a lot, but enough to take a hit to my self-esteem. I deprived myself of "bad" foods, I exercised diligently, I fought and fought against the fat, the fatigue, the absence of vitality. And nothing happened. I didn't lose weight, I was tired all the time, and the disappointment hacked away at my feelings of inadequacy even more. So I gave up. I ate healthy when I felt like it. Other times, I ate junk to the point of sickness because I felt like it. I irregularly got off my butt to do yoga and dance, because they were the only activities I enjoyed.
Guess what happened? I lost all the weight. I got my energy back. My acne subsided.

As soon as I LISTENED to my body and ACCEPTED the extra lumps, my body heaved a sigh of relief and worked at its optimum.

I'm not saying I have the figure of a supermodel or that my complexion is porcelain doll-esque. I just don't care anymore, because I love my body for whatever it is right now. It keeps me alive, for God's sake.

So throw your scale out the window, your "cheat day" schedule out of your mind, and your diet books into a raging bonfire. Bless every morsel of food that enters your mouth, even those chili cheese fries. Your body lets you do what you love, connect with the people you love, and it also unconditionally takes care of you. Let it be. And go live your life.

P.S. If you do enjoy fitness, body-building, specialized nutrition, etc., that is great!! You do yo thang. I'm not preaching otherwise. As long as it brings you JOY. You could be living off earthworms for all I care.

So Much Cringing

Every time I look at my past writing, I am taken aback by how hormonal and angst-y I was. Which is okay, because I was (still am?) a hormonal, angst-y person, like many people at that age.

I almost always read over my past work and think, "Pssht, my writing is much more SUPERIOR now," as if it was once a warty toad that has blossomed into a wartless toad (horrible analogies live here). However, five years from now, will I look back on this post and think, "Dear God, please forgive me for being a loser?"

I think it's important for me to embrace my overemotional, melodramatic past self because it obviously shaped me into who I am today. I should also relax about how I am now. Self-judgement is a very strong force, and I choose to just accept what I am, what I write, and how I behave. Some days I am the epitome of grace and class, other times I have boogers hanging out my nose and wear the same clothes repeatedly until I cannot stand the stench of my own odour. It is what it is, people.

P.S. To my future husband: I will be considerate of your nostrils and aim to smell like a fresh petunia once we meet.
P.P.S. To my friends who are disgusted I would not extend them the same courtesy: I don't have such friends.

Complimentary Compliments

I am the type of person who very openly likes to appreciate people. This is usually well-received, except sometimes younger members of the opposite sex (I speak of you, teenage/young adult boys) think that any mention of their nice shoes/good looks/talent is my way of flagging them as fresh meat, targets for my powers of seduction.

To be honest, that is a perfectly reasonable assumption. Flirting very much involves flattery. However, I wish for the male species to know that even if you do register in my psyche as a hot tamale, all compliments come from a place of platonic admiration, as my ability to flirt is that of a potato.

I very recently told someone I found him handsome and I think it made our acquaintanceship/budding friendship spiral dramatically into the awkward-avoidance zone. I am sorry, handsome acquaintance! I didn't mean to come onto you like a rabbit in heat! I just wanted you to know you are well-made!

I know I could easily just bite my tongue and express my appreciation later, when the relationship is more developed. Or I could precede the compliment with a warning: "I promise I'm not trying to hit on you, but..."

I find that really lame, though. If you give someone a compliment, how they react to it should be none of your concern - if they think you are nutso or desperate for sexual healing, then that is their interpretation and has nothing to do with your delivery.
For me, everything that comes out of my mouth is meant to be taken at face value, because most times I say it without any undercurrent of a deeper meaning. Perhaps when others start dissecting my words to find the hidden message, misunderstanding ensues.

Also. Since when did "conversating" become a word? It's CONVERSING, people.

End

Hello, Stranger

Oh hai, world.

I was told by a most kind and beautiful soul today that I am such a good writer, I should leave all other pursuit of work with wild abandon and focus on my talent. And I replied with, "Yes, I am quite good at writing. I am indeed." And then I thought about how I spend my days fretting over my less-than-ideal grasp of biological science (a.k.a. my university major) instead of celebrating this seemingly God-given gift. And then I thought about this blog and how I leave it to shrivel and die without love and attention, like many a holiday fruitcake. And then I realized I use conjunctions to start new sentences. And then --

So (doh!) I figured, why not hone my amateur skills on this blog by writing about whatever drivel spews out of my mind. Let me tell you, my gray cells register "above average" on the randomness scale. If randomness was measured by skyscraper privileges, I would have a penthouse suite in the stratosphere.

Enjoy.