I have often been described as a ‘colorful personality.’ The editor and the journalist in me rankles at the theatrical term - personalities don’t have color, and I’m really only one or two shades of pasty yellow if you’re talking about my skin. Psh. So I have lately been doing my best to make sure it holds some literal truth.

I am now the proud owner of… a purple toe. Which goes by The Zombie Digit. Once again, softball is to blame. In warm-ups my teammate threw very VERY hard, very wild and low – directly at my right foot – discovering perhaps the only way to get me to utter a proper expletive. The moment I was done hopping around and gritting my teeth, I pulled my cleat and sock off to discover that my big toe was already a lovely shade of blue that was darkening to purple and the surrounding skin was a very unhappy swollen red. Just. Great. I could still move it though – so break or no, it seemed useable. I put my shoe back on and decided to play the awaiting game anyways.

Of course, running, when your big toe feels like an oddly-placed, slightly-numb and very swollen heart in your shoe, is not that easy. When my turn came to bat, I luckily made it to first base ok – thanks to perhaps to a new pain-induced ability to smash a ball over the center fielder’s head – but that ended my good fortune. When the batter following on came up and hit a high one over third base, I took the customary lead off, only to see an unusual act of gravity defiance from the shortstop – who reached high and caught the ball on the fly – making a direct out. At that point, the runner has to get back to their starting base otherwise they are also out. But when I tried to change direction, mid-run, I discovered how crucial big toes are for such things. I fumbled my footing and went down hard. Sadly, I couldn’t recover fast enough to get back to the base and was tagged out. Did I mention, also that I landed on a rock? My toe had company in its discoloration with the lovely bruise that resulted on my leg.

Fast forward this week. Against the usual clucking mothering from all my friends, I decided to go to softball practice last night. Afterall, my toe wasn’t likely to fall off or anything. And it didn’t hurt too bad, so long as I wasn’t thinking about it. So I went out. Practice went fine for the first hour – kind of slow and boring really – but boy did things liven up. We were hitting and fielding when my toe decided to remind me that all was not well. The batter hit a hard and fast grounder my way. I was running to get it when I must have blinked or spaced out or something, and the ball missed my glove but was beautifully stopped in its careening to the outfield by…you guessed it…my foot. The big toe in particular. Which apparently is my ‘crumple button’ – resulting in a shocked pile of Owlness on the baseline. There I sat quietly, willing my toe to stop its thundering. When it did, I got back up and put on a big smile. “It’s fine guys. Just that foot again. But I’m ok. Can’t hurt it any more than it is now, right?” and shakily returned to my position.

Just a few minutes later, there came another grounder, far to my left. I took off after the ball and dropped down. Again, my glove wasn’t low enough to stop it… but my knee was. Perhaps it thought, “hey I’m wearing a ‘cap’ as well, I must also be a softball player!” But we don’t catch WITH our caps, stupid knee, we use a glove for that. And you didn’t have one. Still, I stopped that ball rather nicely with my kneecap, which btw, makes a lovely sound that induces winces in all that hear it. Then, for the second time in five minutes, I was nothing more than a mound on the pitch. This time I kept my head down and laughed. I mean, I’m fairly hazard-prone and flippant, but this was a bit much even by MY standards. Before they could send out the stretcher, I lurched to my feet. I tried favoring the bad knee, but found the big toe wasn’t going to accept that manner of partiality, and issued it’s own protest. I quickly shifted my weight off the right foot then, back to the left leg, and did a strange teeter totter back and forth before I figured how to keep them both happiest - left leg locked straight, right foot weight on heel. I finished practice looking rather a bit like Dorothy’s Tin Man plus The Scarecrow, but thankfully with no OTHER additional injuries.

When I got home I discovered that I was multicoloured. My knee is red, yellow, and magenta. My toe is pink and purple. My shin is brown. And I am blue.

No false advertising here any more. ;)

(I am, apparently, still broken. I don’t know exactly how it happened. I never noticed the point of contact – that imperceptible blow that weakened the hull of this Unsinkable Molly Brown. From that instant on – whenever and wherever it occurred – subtle hairline fractures have been appearing, running down and across, happily zig-zagging and jumping all over. And now, the structural integrity is compromised. Things aren’t running the way they should. Something is not right.

And still, I don’t know exactly what. Some days, I think I do. But then, I turn the theory over in my mind, considering its taste, spit it out and hold up it the light, only to find that, no, it’s not quite that. Close, but not entirely there. There’s something more. Something else. It’s not just this. Maybe it’s this plus that, paired with the appearance of this and the sudden loss of the other. Maybe it’s this mysterious cosmic combination of otherwise innocuous things creating that perfect storm. Or maybe I’m still way far off the mark and not able to see the elephant in the room.

Then, there are days when I think I imagined it all. Everything is fine. This is all I’ve ever known. I’m just paying too close attention – like when you accidentally start listening to yourself breathe, and wonder how on earth you’ve been going around sounding like a small steam engine all your life and no one’s said anything. You only delude yourself into thinking you ever more or better than this. You’ve always been a mess. Who are you kidding?

But then, I know this isn’t the usual. It’s something else. But what? Nothing sticks. I change things, but it makes no difference. There is no pill or diet or philosophy or maxim that sets things aright. And I can’t even say yet what’s wrong. Except that, maybe, something is.

Turns out writing it out doesn’t help either. It’s still here. I still don’t know why.)

Dudes. I have bad news. I’ve been hit. With a meme. As if this blog couldn't get any more half-assed. ;)

So Iffat says it goes like this: Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 16 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 16 people to be tagged.

But hold up, what on my blog is NOT random. It’s all 20 shades of crazy these days and TMI in the extreme. And as batty old lady of blogistan – been at it 6 years this March –is there ANYTHING left that I haven’t told you about. That I should. Hmm? Well we’ll see.

1. My coffee mug at work is black with two scary pirate faces embossed on it. I got it from Hamburg. Which makes it a Hamburger Mug. Add in the pirateyness, and you get The Hamburglar Mug. Yes. I’m nuts.

2. As I am writing this, I have blue fingernails. I am often freezing cold for no discernable reason. I’ve learned to tell people that I’m wearing blue nail polish.

3. I never planned on living this long.

4. My main regrets in life are: that I didn’t speak up when I should have, and I did when I shouldn’t have. I’ve yet to get my timing right.

5. I have a fear of banks.

6. I’ve ‘met’ rather a lot of heads of state – but I never bother getting a photo with them cuz I’m a brat. There is one of me with Shaukat Aziz giving him the death-glare though. THAT may one day go on my wall.

7. Once upon a time I aspired to be a shariah scholar. Even went to Uni for it. Lasted a week.

8. I am nearly always either in converse or knee high boots. That is - when I’m not wearing cleats or running shoes. I tried to mix it up and wore high heels to the office last week and ended up falling out of them five times. Oh yeaaa, I am SO slick.

9. I am not formally trained to be a journalist – or anything really. I just get away with it.

10. When I was a little girl, I used to tell people I was a Chinese dancer. No, I’m not sure what I meant by that.

11. People have asked me if I’m Chinese though. But I think it’s because I look like Manga.

12. Apparently, I’ve lead a very adventurous life. But honestly, I can’t remember half of it. I am growing ever more senile.

13. I’ve had more people than I can count tell me that they think I’m psychic. Ironically, still never know how to respond.

14. I wish I was though. I am an intensely curious person who spends far more time than is healthy wondering about things I’ll probably never truly know or understand. It would be SO much easier if I could just read people’s minds. Boo.

15. Despite my jet-set life, I still think I’d like to get a cabin somewhere and live out my Little House in the Big Woods fantasy.

16. I’m not sure what my natural hair color is.

And 16 people is a big ridiculous to tag. I'll go with Hem, Knicq, Abbas and TFL

Dear reader,

I fear this blog is misnamed. It needs to be called DeBiteySquirrel. Or… DeSlowMovingWombat. Or…DeConfuzledHibernatingSlothMonkey. OR OR OR… DeCrazyFutureBagLadySleepingOnMattressFullofMoney

That is better than DeGrouchyOwl. Not that I have, since 2003 when I cobbled together this hot mess and pushed it onto the blogging freeway, somehow abandoned my grouchy, bird-brained, wise-talking, big-eyed, nocturnal, mouse-eating ways. No, I’m still strigine (a real word meaning owl-like, which I only now, 6 years after being The Owl, have discovered.) But lately, I am just channelling other weird creatures as well.

Like squirrels. Because lately I am dutifully hoarding away lovely emails sent to me by friends and family far nicer than I deserve while doing NADA in response. And in true squirrel style, my madness is paved with good intentions. When I get the letters I think “Aw *SNIFF*, I’ll send a nice answer once my powers of wordage return to me,” which, of course, never seems to happen. Like a good squirrel with a yummy nut, I happily bury the letter someplace I think will be easy to find (top of my new mail list) and wander off. When I finally remember them – come winter - and return to the place where I last saw the mail, I find it is not there. Instead it is lost in the pile of emails I’ve received in that time since. And just before I can roll my sleeves up, root out the unresponded-to mail and answer my patient correspondent, I spot something shiny on the floor and rush off to poke it but get distracted along the way by a new tree which I run five circles around.

Also, I am lately VERY wombatish. Which shouldn’t surprise older readers of this Mischa Barton of a blog. (Hey, remember when she was hot news? Exactly.). Wombats have been much present in my life – I have written blogs on how they are the ideal pet and even made a birthday cake in the shape of one a few years back. And btw, yes, I realize, when you add it all up like that, I am utterly off my rocker in ways that cannot be denied. But in my defence, again, I find that I can’t seem to get anything down but tea so I’m caffeinated on an empty stomach. ZING. But why I am wombatish is because I am just soooooo curmudgedly lately. I kind of wander around with my head down, like a wombat which is a creature, if it were to take modelling photos Tyra Banks would yell at it: WHERE’S YOUR NECK? Which is to say, it can’t really move its head around much and that includes looking up. So I’m stuck in head down mode, just sort of shuffling along. That is, until someone puts something in front of me I no likee. Which I either quietly go around, or take apart. This includes unasked for social interaction (Uh, dude, when I’m being a wombat, I am NOT fun. Please don’t punk me with cocktail parties because I will not show or throw chips at people if I do).

And then there are slothmonkeys. I realize these, technically, are not real animals. But then, neither are hotdogs but we still eat them. So, yes, a slothmonkey is something my mother used to call my sib-things and I when we were being that charming combination of devious and lazy. Also, she’d tend to pair the title with wicked, as in “GET UP HERE AND CLEAN YOUR ROOMS YOU WICKED SLOTHMONKEYS. “ Well momma, lately, I am MUCHNESS a slothmonkey. My closet is in total disarray. If it wasn’t for Dubai’s very sporadic rains and the occasional car-napping-cum-maintenance of certain overly nice brother-types, it would be a rolling dust-mobile. Also, my desk at work is currently about four layers deep in books, magazines, spreadsheets and press releases. I seem, in all the chaos, to have lost rather important things but can’t be bothered to find them – like my thyroid medicine and also, maybe, my sanity. Good thing I don’t wear dentures cuz I bet if I set them down in the mess and they went missing I’d just go toothless.

And the last one… well. Ok. Maybe not so much. I mean, come on. I have standards. Just because I’ve lost my focus, I want to be left alone and I’m being lazy doesn’t mean I want to abandon hygiene, fashion, and the banking system altogether. Ok, maybe the banking system. But that’s because banks are run by evil sharp-toothed cannibal clowns (no offence my dear).

Love,
Owl/Squirrel/Wombat/Slothmonkey

P.S Don’t worry ya'lls. I will shortly be returning to normal. Once I fix what ails me and get on some kind of schedule. There aint nuttin wrong that regular sleep, some food and softball can’t fix.

P.S.S Also remember, I'm a writer and an entertainer. Hyperbole is my friend. ;)

I did it. I …… ate a sandwich. PUMPAMPAAAAM!

One small sandwich for a woman, one giant leap for “I’m never hungry any more” kind.

Just when I thought I’d been through nearly every kind of ridiculous wringer life puts in your way, I discover another. I have, after a lifetime of having a more than healthy appetite, lost mine. As in – ZIP – it don’t live here no more. I wake up and barely want my cup of tea, which I sometimes manage to have with a half a piece of dry toast. Lunch isn’t. There is only some fruit and a few cups of nauseating tea before what should be dinner. But also isn’t. It’s more like a few mouthfuls of whatever I cooked, followed a few hours later with a couple peanuts or an orange. I just don’t feel like eating, and when I finally have a real meal, feel so sick that I wish I hadn’t.

This would be a sort of nice departure from the norm - a gastric holiday if you would - if it weren't for the fact that living on nothing apparently isn't good for you. It's making me sick. As in, I am unwell. As in I’m constantly freezing and nauseous. As in I am accidentally pulling off the “pale and interesting” look. As in my lips tend to be blue, my skin fluorescent white and my face drawn. That all, I don’t really care about. I mean, when is my face anything to write home about anyways? But what’s so weird to me in all of this is the fact that I’m so damn weak. I get the shakes all the time and have no focus. I’ve stopped running and if it wasn’t for the odd grudge match, I would probably grow roots.

This is -- in case you can’t tell -- NOT me. I never skip meals. Seriously. That used to be one of my many mantras – along with “McDonalds is against my religion,” “I never met a corn chip I didn’t like” “Say no to escargot” and “I didn’t do it.” I am generally always sorta hungry. Granted, I don’t eat much when I do, but I usually have something or another every two hours. And I’m also one of those absurdly energetic people. I bounce my knee most of the time, am always moving about because holding still is literally painful for me and have an annoyingly overactive brain.

Now, however, I have become -- to my utter disgust -- one of THOSE girls. You know, the-pale-and-interesting-can’t-fend-for-themselves-needs-to-be-rescued-please-open-this-jar-for-me-move-that-box-catch-me-as-I-faint girls. Weak. And wobbly. And doesn’t look after herself. And requires intervention. Gross.

Because that is what it has come down to. After about three weeks of being this bizarre zombie creature, I have apparently worried/offended all who have to see my ugly mug. Which, come to think of it, was a pretty big group of pissed off people. Yesterday alone I had received three separate orders to go to the doctor. Even my adorably absent minded Big Boss came by, and after one of his typically random absurd soliloquys, added “By the way, you look terrible. Eat some bread!”

Haha, um, don’t you love it when people shout EAT SOME BREAD at you. It’s kinda got a ring, like Stop The War. Which, btw, we should ALSO do. But then, I had come off the no carb insanity weeks back and was still blech. So yesterday afternoon I finally got my health insurance card and booked an appointment right away to have my sad sack self seen.

And there, in TYPICAL Owl fashion, my doctor turned out to be bonkers. He was an aged Arab gentleman of African extraction in suit with shiny gold buttons. He asked me if I was on slimming pills. Uh, no. I’d want my money back if I was. He asked me if my work was very stressful or demanding. I wish. Then he asked me if I saw Benazir Bhutto’s daughter’s wedding.

*screeches to a stop*

Pardon? “You are a journalist, don’t you know?! Look, she is so young and beautiful. See! See! I will show you!” And The Doc stopped my examination, turned to his computer and started opening up his browser. From his hotmail box (btw, is it not hilarious that aged Arab doctor granddads use hotmail?), he found an email that had pictures of some very pretty and excited girl in what I guessed was the Presidential Palace, surrounded by some of the who’s-who of Pakistan’s mafi –ahem- government. Btw, for all her powerful companions and fancy backdrop, the girl was NOT Bhutto’s daughter. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him, excited as he was about the whole thing. “And her mother just died! So good she is married to this nice boy! So young and beautiful!” he sang again. Right. Uh, Doc? Can we get back to the case of the creeping malaise?

So we did. And after lots of intrusive questions and poking, the doctor decides that I am probably a number of things I shouldn’t be – which my parents will heartily agree with. And to find out exactly what form of deviant I am (anaemic? diabetic? misanthropic?), I should have my blood tested. We need to find out if I'm not eating cuz I'm sick, or if I'm sick cuz I'm not eating. In the meantime, I should drink juice. Preferably “red grape juice. I quite like it. It is best. You can have it plain. Or with vodka. Or however you enjoy.” Uh, dude, did you just tell me to have my juice with spirits? 0_0 Um, thanks. I’ll remember that. Oh, and “make yourself eat!” And “we shall rush your lab results in the meanwhile. But also, do you want me to send you the pictures of Benazir Bhutto’s daughter?” he asked again, hopeful and happy. Er, only if they induce hunger.

Hence my happy news regarding the eating of sandwich-type-things. First one in about three weeks. Didn’t want to, but I did. And why it is er, not quite, but close enough, to Semi Blog Worthy. Cuz I am NOT gonna be one of THOSE girls. Nope. *scowls*

My goodness is my brain malfunctioning lately. It seems to have forgotten it’s supposed to be patiently collecting the residue of my not very gentle brushes [read as “wipe outs”] with the absurd so they can be used to paint a technicolored blog for your very much amusement/time wastage. But I barely remember that I have a blog, let alone what’s been going on in my life over the past couple days that is worthy of an entry. And the sad thing is, PLENTY has been going on of the most ridiculous kind, but I seem to not be doing my dutiful filing for later use. But I’ll try and make a go of it anyways. Here is my life lately in ADD-squirrel-brain-bullet-points. If you will allow...

* I went to Germany. Hamburg to be specific. Where I had more laughs than appropriate over the constant use of Hamburger as an adjective denoting “of the city”. And sometimes, its residents – though I think only we daft foreigners did that. But still - “Hamburger Bank?” Yes, I’d like to withdraw a cheeseburger please! *falls over self laughing in the middle of downtown Hamburg, much to the chagrin of very well contained German peoples who mutter “Ach, AmERicans!”*

* I accidentally made someone fall in love with me. Or something. In my defence, I didn’t do anything! Dude musta been cruising for a heart bruising cuz you do not DECIDE YOU WANNA MARRY SOME GIRL YOU MET THREE DAYS AGO BECAUSE SHE WAS FRIENDLY! I COULD BE A PSYCHO AXE MURDERER WHO COLLECTS THE PELTS OF NAÏVE JOURNALIST-MEN! This was flattering for all of five minutes, and now it’s just bewildering and I am sorry it happened. Dear world, please keep the sweet but ingenuous boys away from me? Thank you.

* My propriety wiring is shot. In the past few weeks I’ve been the most unfiltered gasbag EVER. For some odd reason, I am taking especial joy in shocking people. Normally, when I have to do that superficial socializing thing, I’m quite the pro. I can make smalltalk with mommies about teething pains and the latest theories in child rearing. I can talk politics with the menfolks while still seeming respectful and feminine. I can do the polite inquiries about health and the sympathetic clucking and nodding when some old aunty or uncle feels like sharing descriptions of latest carbuncle or gastric disorder. I stay well below all of the radars and come out of parties and suchlike without anyone the wiser that I’m a snarky brat.

But not so much no mores. At one party, I told a young mother of two who had been bewailing her badly-behaved progeny that “Aw I know, kids are like, whoa, so much work! And they don’t even give you training or make you get a license for them beforehand. I mean, what if you don’t like them? It’s not like you can give them back. Hospitals don’t have a return policy!” *wide-eyed innocence* To which she gave me the most hilariously suspicious stare.

Another time, when meeting a friend’s friend who I am not fond of, it awkwardly came up in the convo that I would not be attending the latest gathering of the group. “Uh, why, you don’t like the crew Owl?” the offensive fellow asked. Instead of offering a tactful assurance of my affection, I smiled a mile-wide grin at him and said “No, just you!”

And I think I told a sweet aunty with designs on me for her son that I thought the kids underfoot at picnics made everything like a cool extreme sport, provided they didn’t cry so loud when you knocked them over. By her stunned blinkblinkblink I am guessing that is not what one does with kids. *shrugs*

* And someone bought me charity cheese. Now this is perplexing. When one goes to the supermarket, and takes their painstakingly-selected groceries to the counter, they assume THEY will be paying for said items. But this, apparently, is not always the case. Perhaps it is optional. Or a regional quirk. Like eating dogs or wearing toques. Because last week, someone paid FOR mine.

The queue had been moving abominably slow, helmed as it was by a trainee, and the wait was made more excruciating because in the meantime the gentleman in front of me was doing that “friend holds the place in line while I run off and pick up a few more items.” That is not illegal or even wrong, per se, but it is damned crafty and annoying to those of us who are slow-like and do not think of such time-saving tricks. *shakes fist at smart people*.

Soon though it was the turn of Smart Arab Man In Trendy Glasses – who we will refer to henceforth as SAMIT-G – cousin of Ali-G. When his things were nearly done being rung up, I put my items on the conveyor belt – with a considerable distance in between to make it obvious that they were separate in lieu of the divider stick thinger. Hey, my momma raised me right. But the confused cashier, perhaps lost in the joy of the picking up and beeping of cantaloupes, did not notice the gap and happily pulled my items into his. Before I could stop her, she had rung up my cheese. “Um, excuse me. Those are my things. Not his. The soap was his last item.” The cashier – a cute Filipino woman – looked up, scared and confused, and hesitantly picked up the offending cheese and put it back on the bar-code reader. That was a start, but not quite enough. I was about to discretely tell her to void the purchase when SAMIT-G jumped in, with his swishy English. “No, iz ok! I bay! I like cheese!” and puts my cheese back on the other side of the unpaid-paid line.

*collapses* But I WANTED that cheese, my tired brain wailed. It took me FOREVER to pick it out. I was torn between Bega Mild, Bega Tasty and … get this… Bega EXTRA Tasty. I mean, I want my cheese tasty, like any person, but what makes it EXTRA tasty. And can I handle such cheesy tastiness? And also, if you had the option of Tasty and EXTRA Tasty, what kind of nutter goes for Mild? After much deliberation, I had hedged my bets on Tasty and was anxiously waiting to get it home to find out if I had made the right choice. But then, maybe SAMIT-G was wondering the same thing too. Perhaps, behind the well-coifed hair, mall-mannequin outfit, and expensive sneakers, there was a devious opportunist with a gourmet bent. But whatever yo. He could uncover the mysteries of Bega Tasty on his own time. “Er, that’s ok. I’ll pay for my own cheese,” I answered. To which SAMIT-G offered a dazzling smile, displaying a good use of the Lebanese banking system’s loans for cosmetic improvements, and said “Iz ok! Do not worry! I bay, I bay!”

At this point, I am lost. I am tired. I am confused. I have had a long day. I like cheese, but not enough to argue with some Arab Ken-doll about it in the middle of Union Coop. Maybe he needs it more than me. Maybe the bleach from his highlights has gone to his head and he’s an addled fromage-fetisher. Maybe this cheese was his destiny. Meh. There is always tomorrow. And there is more where that brick of Tasty came from. So I put my vague smile back on, tried one last time to communicate with the bewildered cashier – though my masterful combination of The Force, blinking and telepathy – and then surrendered myself to the fates. SAMIT-G seemed satisfied with that. Grinning all the while, he paid his bill, checked the receipt, and gallantly bid me and the cashier adieu and went away.

Leaving behind – my cheese. To which I am thinking – oh, maybe the cashier did some very fast sleight of hand and un-rung the cheese. She will obviously ring it up with my things now. But she did not. She beeped all my other items and pushed them close to the suspect cheese. Again, I am wondering what will become of the unfortunate Bega Tasty. Will I have to remind her to ring it up and include it in my purchases – which seemed impossible after such a big to-do about it. She can’t have forgotten a brick of cheese whose affections two random customers fought over. Unless perhaps that happens often, which somehow diminishes my story’s greatness so I’d rather not think about it.

But then she picked up the cheese from the far reaches of the paid side, put it in my bag and handed it to me with a knowing smile. Confused, I took it, and waited for my receipt to make all things apparent. And yes, I realize if I was a smarter monkey, I’d have been able to tell if I had paid for Bega Tasty or not just by the size of my bill, but I already told you I’m slow-like. I needed to check the receipt. Which I did. Only to find – indeed. I was NOT billed for my cheese. Musta been SAMIT-G was. And he was long gone before I could have it out with him for trying to buy my fromage’s honor or make him tell me what was the big idea about buying my cheese. I mean, what kind of girl does he think I am?

Life is full of mysteries. Some of them involve Arab men and cheese.

Ok my loves. That is all of the self-deprecating destruction of my good-name I can produce in one day. Be well. Think happy thoughts. Keep your hands off my fromage.