I’m Baaaccckkk: A Limited Series Event

Preamble: The world is in turmoil now — this, I know. But the arrival of COVID-19 doesn’t mean the exit of humor and laughter (it’s the best medicine after all!). So, I’m bringing back the good ol’ blog for a limited series event. Suddenly, I’ve got a little time on my hands. Let’s find the lighter side of self-isolation: I’ll share my inconsequential non-adventures and invite you to share yours ❤️.

I’m baaccckkkk! I know — I’ve written those words so many times before, they have absolutely no meaning now. So, I took a break from blogging. A reallllllyyyyy long break. But, I decided enough is enough. I’ve got to get back to entertaining all my eager fans — and by fans I still mean Mom!

So, a lot of things have changed since we last chatted. Let’s see, I changed jobs ... twice. I grew out my hair and cut it, hated it, and grew it out again ... twice. For long-time readers (again, Mom), I have given up Starbursts. I know, that is shocking! I’m still obsessed with the Starbucks app and Target is still an incomprehensible, money gobbling temple of stuff I buy but don’t need. Except now, it doesn’t have toilet paper 🧻. Also, most tragically, I now need reading glasses. OMG, that was painful to even type, let alone admit. *Sigh* But it’s true 😭.

I was in denial for a long time. NSS, Miss HotStuff and Pixie Minxie all told me I need glasses. Each time I would scream, “NO I DON’T,” as I held my cell phone about a mile from my face, squinting, trying to read a text. When I started asking friends to sign receipts at restaurants, I knew it was time to bite the bullet and make an appointment with an eye doctor.

During the appointment, when it was finally confirmed that I did indeed need glasses, the doctor saw my crestfallen face and said — to make things a million times worse — “You shouldn’t be upset, you’ve done well for your ag...” He didn’t finish saying the last word. My eyes grew small and dark, and he had the good sense to not say it. My age indeed! Anyway, he handed me my prescription and I thought, If I have to wear glasses, I’m going to wear them in style. And anyone who knows me knows that by style, I mean one thing: Prada.

So, I marched right into the Wal-Mart eye glasses place and asked, in all seriousness, “Where are your Prada frames.” At a Wal-Mart. The sales guy looked at me with a WTH expression that befittingly said without words, “You know you’re in a Wal-Mart, right?” I still didn’t get it. Reeling from the insult of needing reading glasses, I demanded designer frames. So, he took me to a wall with the pricey ones, naming them and the cost. And still I asked, “So, you don’t have Prada?”

No ... no they did not have Prada. Finally he asked to see the prescription. He then said, “You’re eyesight really isn’t bad enough for you to be investing in expensive frames. You’re better off buying the ready-to-wear kind.” He had thrown me off. I had a plan. Now my plans were thwarted!

I walked the aisles of Wal-Mart wondering what was I to do? Then I spotted this turntable display thingy with all these cheapito glasses and I did a complete 180. If I can’t get designer frames, I thought, I’m going to get the cheapest pair I can find. And the cheapest pair I did get — $9.99, thank you very much. And off I went.

I kept the glasses in my purse and only brought them out when I needed to sign a receipt at a restaurant. I didn’t use them for anything else. Not even for reading, and I love to read. So, guess what? I stopped reading. I did buy another pair to keep by my bed just for that purpose, but could not bear to use them. Don’t ask me why. So, when self-isolation started, I decided to get over it already and start reading again.

There is a book on my nightstand that has been collecting dust for 18 months. I started the first 25 pages, then realized, Hmmm, these words are blurry, and never picked it up again. But now ... now is the time to finish this book. The other night, I picked it up, put the glasses on and reached for the remote to switch the TV off.

Oh, Superbad is on. Okay, I’ll just watch the beginning, then I’ll read the book. Took the glasses off. Ten minutes went by. I’ll just wait for the McLovin part, then I’ll read the book. McLovin came on screen, fake ID in hand. Right, I’ll wait for the scene at the liquor store, then I’ll read the book. Another half hour goes by. That’s it, when the party scene is over, I’m switching this off. Party scene is done. I go for the remote again. Wait, I simply can’t turn this off without seeing the Panama scene. That would be crazy! 

I turned to the book, still in my lap, placed it back on the nightstand, reviled glasses on top. Tomorrow ... I promise, I’ll read you tomorrow.

#WeekOne

Exciting News!

I know you've all been desperate to hear from me. Where has Anissa gone? Why this extensive absence (again, for the 100th time)? Well this time, there's a good reason. Really! I have been working on something new – something HUGE! It's my second book people! So, I think that's a pretty good excuse, don't you? So if you really missed me and my words of infinite wisdom (and humor) all you have to do is buy a copy of Beirut to the 'Burbs, which will be available starting January 19. I will give more details soon.

It's got everything a good book should have mystery (why did Anissa write a new book?); tragedy (why did Anissa keep away from her blog for soooooo long?), and, of course, romance (Netflix, Netflix, Netflix).

So forget about Shakespeare, Austen and Dickens... there's a new player in town and she's way better *wink*. Don't believe me? Just read the synopsis below and judge for yourself!

Beirut to the 'Burbs
From the writer who brought you Miss Guided: How to Step into the Lebanese Glam Lane comes this hilarious book at surviving life in suburban America after 18 years of living it up in Beirut. Anissa Rafeh tells you all you need to know about essential life skills, like: 1. Microwaving (dinner in two minutes or less), 2. Knowing what’s playing on Netflix (every Friday is a holiday), and 3. How to shovel your driveway without chipping a nail (get someone else to do it). It’s clear that you can take the girl out of Beirut, but never Beirut out of the girl, especially when it comes to socializing, dating, shopping, and getting picture-perfect. Leaving her Louboutin’s back in Beirut, but forever clutching on to her Prada bag, she maneuvers the bumpy transition, taking detours and making wrong turns, but always remembering the number one rule to surviving the ’burbs: life’s a laugh!

For the Love of Gossip

So I decided to come out of hibernation. I’m really riled up about this whole ‘Arabic is scary’ language drama that’s going on right now. Really? To put things in context: a guy was escorted off a plane a few weeks back because he was speaking Arabic on the phone. A passenger heard him say a common Arabic phrase ‘inshallah’ (God willing), misinterpreted it and reported the poor guy as a possible terrorist.

I’ve read several articles about the incident, but what’s really making me nuts is the ignorance over the language. First of all, Arabic is not an Islamic language. It is spoken by some Muslims but it is the language of the people of Arabia, who happen to also be Christian, Jewish, Druze, Buddhists, Atheists, etc and, in Lebanon at least, 18 different religions. The Arabic language pre-dates Islam, the alphabet was actually created by the Ancient Phoenicians. FYI: the first three letters of the Arabic alphabet – aleph, be, te – is where the word ‘alphabet’ comes from. 

Many non-Muslims, like myself, speak Arabic in public. I am really shocked by the idiocy of the people in the comments sections of these articles justifying the removal of this guy for saying ‘inshallah’, because it’s an ‘Islamic terrorist war cry’. I understand there is a lot of fear, but that is no excuse for such extreme stupidity. There is nothing remotely terrorist-like about the word 'inshallah'. In fact, the so-called 'war cry' these people are referring to is 'Allah wu akbar' (God is great), which is totally, completely different. Where the latter is indeed from an Islamic prayer, the former is a universal, pan-Arab saying.

I say ‘inshallah’ all the time and NEVER in a religious context. We use it whenever we are talking about a future plan. ‘You coming to dinner, tonight?’, ‘Yes, inshallah’. It is commonly used in the context of ‘hopefully’. In Lebanese culture, it’s said mostly out of superstition by all communities. You should never say you’re definitively doing something, because then you are tempting fate to stop that thing from happening. So, you always tag a ‘hopefully’ at the end, just in case. It’s also used when you want to avoid giving a definite answer: ‘You coming to my kid’s violin recital?’, ‘Um, inshallah.’

Now, of course things are different. I have to think twice about saying something in Arabic when in public to avoid Homeland Security detaining me. This is a problem, because you know, how am I supposed to talk about people when they’re right in front of me? I’m sure people are like, Oh, how can she be making light of this? People have died because of terrorists. Yes, people killed them, not a language. People can be scary, not a language. The fact that I’m ridiculing the vilification of a language is because the notion is entirely ridiculous. Arabic is not scary, but ignorance surely is.

So, let’s use some common sense. And, for the love of gossip, let me talk about people in Arabic in public without turning me in to the authorities!

Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

Blonde Ambition in a Mad, Mad World

In your resume, when there's a big gap in your work experience, you always have to have a good reason. When you're a blogger (or in my case, 'blogger'), you simply own up to being the world's worst. Where has the time gone? And, most importantly, did you miss me?

To be honest, with all that's going on in the world and a personal family loss, I felt I could not write about the trivial and inane. You know, I usually don't get political, but things are too nuts to not even mention. So, yes, pretty terrible things have happened around the globe since May.

I was waiting for one, tiny bit of news that would show me that the world isn't so doomed after all, and it finally happened a couple days ago in the homeland. Lebanese soldiers that had been held hostage for nearly 18 months were finally set free! It so gladdened my heart to see these brave men returned to their families that I thought, hey, it's ok to talk about dumb stuff now.

Now, let's talk. A lot has happened, so where do I begin? Since we're on the subject of how mad the world is nowadays, I should mention that since we last touched base, I dyed my hair blond! I know! And not Lebanese blond, either, but real bright, yellow Scandinavian blond. It was not a good look on me. My entire head glowed in the dark, even during the day (I know that doesn't make sense, just go with it). In some lights, it even looked kind of green.

I don't know what came over me. Like I said, the world is going mad, so I thought I should dye my hair to match. Reactions were mixed. Some people, like Miss HotStuff and, of course, Mom, thought it looked fabulous. Mad Glam said I looked 'pale and kind of tired'. She is not one to sugar coat things, like ever, which is why I don't really ask her opinion on my appearance. But I changed my picture on What's App for like 3 seconds and I got a message at 3am my time with the delightful comment above.

FFF was very diplomatic and said that it looked good but she preferred me with brown hair. Pixie likened me to a fluorescent bobble head, which you know, was not too far off, if I'm going to be fair. Mr. B saw the same What's App pic as MadGlam and simply said, 'You're a blonde!' He did use an exclamation point, though I'm not sure if that was in excitement/approval or disgust/horror.

It did not take me long to regain my sanity. A couple glances in the mirror and blinding my corneas with my now neon locks were enough to convince me to go back to brunette. But the whole thing reminded me of when I dyed my hair black when I was in graduate school. I had just moved to Beirut but was on Christmas break in RIC when I woke up one morning determined to look like Elizabeth Taylor (because when you're 21, you think anything is possible, even the impossible).

As a student, I was on a tight budget, so I just bought one of those supermarket brands that was supposed to be a temporary shampoo color. At the time, I thought it looked awesome. People back in the 'Root did not agree. One day, I was walking to class at AUB and a friend came up to me. 'OMG, what did you do to your hair?' she asked. I replied I dyed it black. Duh. 'OMG, all I saw across campus were these big purple eyes!' she said. Yay, I thought, mission accomplished. I totally look like Liz Taylor now. Then she finished with: 'You look like a witch.' Ouch.

The moral of the story is that I should stop dying my hair. And also, people should seriously compliment me more.


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

My Two Cents

Penny pinching has never been my thing. It is the most un-Lebanese thing you can do, but now that I have a mortgage, well let's just say that the honeymoon period of buying Prada bags at my leisure is officially over. (Insert tragic crying emoticon face here. Insert it more than once. And one more time for good measure.)

MadGlam would be (is?) horrified at my new frugal ways. We once traveled to Greece together and rented a quad, which broke down in the middle of the road... at the bottom of a hill. She sweet talked some young (Italian, I think?) teen to push it up the hill for us, but it still wouldn't work.

Much to my horror, she then attempted to get me to hitchhike with her back to our hotel. 'What? It is safe! Nothing will happen,' she proclaimed as she literally tried to shove me into a random pickup truck that pulled over. She thinks vacations are like Dirty Dancing with hot Johnny Castles picking you up. I think they're more like an episode on Discovery ID with Freddy Krueger lurking in the shadows. Anyway, we scuffled for a bit, with her pushing me by the shoulders to get in, me yelling for her to get off because I didn't feel like getting kidnapped by possible serial killers in a foreign country, thank you very much. The truck driver finally drove off. Either he understood the whole serial killer thing and got offended, or he just got bored. Either way, there was no hitchhiking.

We did not have our cell phones, but somehow managed to find a cab to take us back to the hotel. Once we got there, I told her to call the quad guy and demand her money back, since she's the one who rented the thing, and to ask him to reimburse us for the cab fare. Now it was her turn to look horrified. 'It's only five euros!' she said, too embarrassed to fight over what she considered such a small sum. This is, after all the Lebanese way. It is ayb, or shameful, to argue over money. But my American sensibilities would have none of that BS. 'It's the principle of the matter,' I shot back, reminding her of the ordeal that had just transpired. It wasn't the amount, I reminded her, but the fact that he cheated us and we shouldn't have to pay for that, no matter how little the sum.

So, she called the quad guy and he came to the hotel. I was with her for moral support. She agreed to argue over the five euros but not the cab fare. After some wrangling, the quad guy gave MadGlam her money back and she was ecstatic. She opened her palm to show me the money and there was actual glee in her expression. 'My mother will be mortified,' she said. 'Well, I'm proud of you,' I replied.

But now that I'm back living in the US, I may have taken that 'matter of principle' a little to far. I got my cable bill and it was up by two cents. Yes, I know two cents. But since the ad said that my bill would stay the same for the first year, I thought, you know, it's a matter of principle. I probably shouldn't be admitting this, but I called. And complained. Over the two cents. I didn't express outrage or anything - this is the same cable company that had sent out bills to 'annoying' customers with curse words in place of their names. I was super calm and explained the change, no matter how small, had messed up my automatic payment system.

Can you guess how this story ends? Well, I got my two cents!


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

The Un-Princess Diaries

I think the daylight savings somehow affected my brain activity last week. I didn't even know it was daylight savings. I had brunch plans with NSS and her brood. I was in the kitchen, looked at the microwave clock and thought, wow, I have like 2 hours to kill, let's do some housework .

So, not to pull a Gwyneth Paltrow or anything, but I'm just not used to housework. I relayed this to my co-worker, who then put on a British accent (it sounded kind of Swedish) and said, "Oh, did you used to have servants do that for you?" And so I responded, "Um, yes." He was a little surprised, but you know, in Lebanon, many people do have housekeepers - it's not uncommon. Anyway, of course, in the past I have had to scrub toilets and do laundry and sweep floors, etc, but it's been a while. I have been doing just fine since I moved, though. There was hick-up with a blanket I put in the dryer that got a thick layer of lint stuck to my new sheets. But other than that, I have been managing.

That Sunday, after the blanket debacle, I decided to take care of an old cast iron skillet my parents had in storage and gave to me. It's been sitting on my kitchen counter top for weeks, waiting to be 'seasoned' to remove the rust. I looked up the instructions online and followed the steps: 1. put layer of cooking oil, 2. line bottom of oven with aluminum foil, 3. heat oven to 325 degrees, 4. place pan in oven upside down and leave for an hour. Fine, done.

One hour later, I go retrieve my DIY work and see that even though I used the aluminum foil, the oil had seeped through and now black gunk was super-glued to the bottom. I tried scrubbing it, but nothing came off except for my manicure (which I'm beginning to think are a waste money with all the manual labor I'm doing). I spied a self-clean button on the oven and thought, Great perfect. This should be easy. I pressed the button and went up to get ready for brunch. Five minutes later a loud, deafening noise goes off. I was a little stunned at first, but then realized, Oh, burglar alarm. And although I should have been panicking that there may be an intruder in my home, I was more concerned with the noise bothering my ancient neighbors.

I checked the alarm and it was fine, but I still had no clue what the sound was. Daylight Savings Brain. After a  minute, it clicked: smoke alarm. So I rushed downstairs and saw that the self-clean had totally stunk up my entire living area and caused the smoke alarm to go insane. How do I stop this? I asked myself. Believe it or not, some random movie scene popped in my mind of a broom being waved in front of a smoke alarm. See, you do learn stuff from movies!

So, I'm standing in my living room after opening the windows, waving this broom and gagging on the stench, and finally, finally, the ear-piercing alarm stops. Two minutes later, it goes off again. Back with the broom waving, and so I just turned off the self-clean. I looked again at the microwave clock with broom in hand and thought, Hmm, I still have an hour, so let's sweep the kitchen floor. I swept the floor and then mopped and felt very domestic and proud of myself. Then I picked up my phone to check my messages. I saw the time (which had switched automatically) and freaked out.

WHAT? I have 15 minutes to get ready and arrive at the restaurant for brunch! I immediately called NSS and said I was going  to be 15 (Lebanese) minutes late (i.e. 30 minutes in real time). I explained the whole smoke alarm and problem with the clocks and told her that I'm sure the power must've gone out to explain the missing hour. She then says, "Anissa, it's daylight savings, how could you not know." OMG.

To say I felt stupid was an understatement. I was starving, my 'clean' sheets were covered in fur, the house stank, and my oven looked like something from the Walking Dead died in there. But hey, at least my kitchen floor was clean.


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

The Lebanese Princess

Sometimes, I really miss Lebanon. I know people reading this might get the wrong idea about me, but living here is definitely different from life in Beirut. Yes, Lebanon is behind in so many ways, but we live a pampered lifestyle, which I'm not saying is a good thing (so please, no hate mail). It's just that it is a big adjustment when you move. Even if you live alone there, you're never alone, alone. Car issues? Call dad or your brother to take care of it. Plumbing issues? Call dad or your brother, who then calls Abu Handyman to fix the problem.

I know, I know, but I am not a terrible example of a feminist. I am a staunch believer in equal rights, equal pay, equality in the eyes of the law. But does that mean that I have to shovel my own driveway from the snow? Does being an advocate for women's rights mean that I have to do manual labor?

This has been tough to get used to. I have always been independent, paying my own bills, etc, but when it comes to yucky stuff (see above), I always deferred to someone else to take care of it. Not because I'm incapable, but because I can't be bothered. I mean being alone, alone, sucks. In Richmond, you can't call dad to please call Abu What's-His-Name to come fix things. I have to do it myself, which - did I mention? - sucks.

For example, last week we had like eight inches of snow (we're getting more tonight). I could not get into my garage and I nearly broke my neck walking down the steps of my house to my car. I did not even have the foresight to salt my steps. I didn't even know there was special salt for the outside.

NSS called and asked where I was. I told her I was going to the grocery store to buy salt. She asked why, so I told her about my snow/ice problem and she started laughing. She was like, "Um, you can't just buy table salt." Oh. "Unless it's kosher," she quipped. "Really?" I responded, relieved. "NO," she said like I was world's biggest idiot. "Go to Home Depot."

So I head over to a hardware store and see giant burlap bags outside, praying this wasn't the salt I needed. How was I going to carry that to my car? It's not like Abu Somebody will do it for me. Luckily, they have small bottle sizes that even a wimp like me can carry. The guy there told me I would need two for my driveway. I gave him my Lebanese I-know-you're-trying-to-sell-me-something-I-don't-need side glance, convinced I only needed one. He shrugged, handed me the one and wished me luck.

So, of course, I needed two. But it did soften the snow a bit so I could ram my car into the garage. I drew the line at shoveling. I am not a prisoner in a Siberian detention camp! I was just so proud of myself that I got in with just the salt, until my car skidded and I hit a door in my garage. I still considered it a success.

I did manage to change a light bulb in my garage using a ladder all on my own. I was going to wait for the always reliable Dr JH to come and do it when he next visited, but then thought, nah, I got this. The glee I felt when the light came on was really undeserved. I felt like I was Thomas Edison. I proudly proclaimed to NSS, "I changed that light bulb all by myself," as if I had actually invented the light bulb. She wasn't impressed. "Now you need to change the filters of your air ducts."

Wait... what? Doesn't Abu Help-Please do that?


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

The Fabulosity of Anissa

Mr. B inspired me the other week. He is great at combing through headlines in the local papers in the 'Root, posting them on Facebook and then slamming them. I particularly love the ones about Lebanese who have achieved a modicum of success in the arts and are completely in love with themselves. I don't understand why most of those people are born without the modesty gene. I guess the ego gene is just far too dominant. It made me think of how I would be if I were one of those people that thought that paid for followers and one newspaper article meant I was a 'star'.

So, sit back, relax and enjoy the article (that could have been) with Anissa the Fabulous.

Disclaimer: I realize people not familiar with the local Beirut papers will not get the sarcasm, so I just want to emphasize that this is a satire and I don't think that I am the world's greatest anything, except maybe worst cook.

Anissa Rafeh is a vision sitting on her comfortable sofa, the sun shining through the windows in her luxurious townhouse in the uber glamorous city of Richmond. "Do you like it," she asks me, as her fingers caress the lush white cushions. "It's Laz-eh Boiyh," she says with her upper crust accent that just drips with class.

We start talking about her great passion: writing. "Writing is my passion. I am so passionately passionate about it. I write passionately about passionate things because I am a passionate person who approaches everything in life with passion," she explains. "My life is writing; writing is my life. We co-exist in harmony in my soul and in my heart... which is full of passion."

Her phone then pings and she picks it up. It is a common sound for her, as she receives an endless (not really) amount of mail from fans (or her mom) each day, telling her how much they adore her blog and relish every word that emerges from her perfectly manicured fingertips.

She reads the screen and giggles charmingly, as if to herself. "Oh, this fan just said that my writing touches his soul. And that I am the mirror image of Elizabeth Taylor when she was in her 20s. Ha ha ha," she trills in modesty. "Surely he miss-typed and means when she was in her 30s." Yes, she is that modest. Such compliments clearly embarrass her (not in the slightest).

Her blog has recently caught on fire (she accidentally burned her laptop with a scented candle from Bath & Bodyworks). Just yesterday, it recorded five unique visitors. Yes, you read correctly, five. This, of course, is an amazing accomplishment. What other blogger can boast such phenomenal numbers? 

"Yes, it's true. My blog is just so popular. People stop me on the street all the time (to ask for directions). They could stop anybody and ask where the mall is, but no, they ask me. It's their way of saying, 'Hey, we recognize you but don't want to embarrass you, so we're using this excuse just to get to talk to you.' I get this all the time, but that is the price of blogging fame."

Writing about her amazingly exciting life of going to work, shopping at the mall and being in awe of Target (which she so classily pronounces Tarjeh) have made her an internet wunderkind. Not many bloggers can boast such a fascinating life. To prove her immense popularity, she has one million (minus 900,960) followers on her blog alone. She used to have a huge following on Instagram too, but a 'glitch' in the system brought down her 500k followers to five. 

"My (non-existent) followers were devastated when they were suddenly dropped from my page. I still don't understand what happened and I'm working to fix this horrendous situation. Luckily, I don't feel alone, because Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian have had a similar problem. Oh, the injustice of it all," she said, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. 

When asked why she thinks readers are so attracted to her one-of-a-kind, unique, nothing like it at all blog, she pauses briefly and carefully ponders her well thought-out, original response.

"I think it's about my passion, which I don't think I properly emphasized before. My reader(s) feel it through my passionate writing, and this is what draws (all five of) them to my blog. Yes, it is all about my passion. Did I mention my passionately passionateness passionate writing yet?"

How eloquently said. 


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

Ho, Ho... Huh?

'Tis the season to be jolly, at least that's what the song says. I actually really like how everyone is so into the Christmas spirit here. I know that a lot of people get stressed over Christmas shopping, but I'm not one of them. I am an expert shopper. This year was a world record, even for me. Black Friday, laptop... BOOM! All shopping done in two hours.

You can't really online shop in Beirut. There were about two destinations where I could do my Christmas shopping: ABC Mall and downtown. I do miss the tacky decorations along Hamra Street, though, and the smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner intermingled with shawarma roasting and manakeesh baking. I don't know if they still do this, but they used to play Christmas carols through loud speakers all down the main road as people shopped or sat in cafes. It was a nice counter-balance to the constant 'toot' of car horns and people yelling out of car windows because of traffic.

Over here, we get the Tacky Christmas Light tours instead. I have to admit, they are a lot of fun. The lengths people go to to make their homes look like the North Pole threw up all over the place just to blind your retinas is really quite extraordinary. As for music, there's even an incredibly annoying festive radio station solely dedicated to playing carols (no, it does not make me roll my eyes; no, I did not just roll my eyes thinking about it). And of course, every mall in the country plays Christmas music while you shop. (Side Note: Mariah Carey must get tons of residual checks this time of year. All I want for Christmas? Stop hearing that song!!)

Because I am so thoughtful and considerate, I pick out my own gifts and send the wish lists out so others don't have to stress about what to give me. These gifts rarely work out for me though. Although I am a great in-real-life-shopper, my online shopping persona is not so effective. I look at things online and think, Ooh, this would look so cute on me. Click, item put on wish list. I put so many things on my wish list that I often forget what I picked. So, come Christmas morning, when I open up the present and see what's inside, I'm almost always like, 'Oh... this is um nice.'

This year, for example, I got red pants. I opened up the box and inside there were red pants. They made me think of Mr. B and his red pants, for which I constantly made (make, he still wears them) fun of him. I think I must've been drunk when I was picking them out because, WTF, Anissa? Red bloody pants! Never Sits Still was like, 'But you picked them'! I did a quick recover and immediately professed my love for them while trying to remember what the hell other questionable pieces of clothing I sent out as part of my disastrous wish list.

I soon found out. A pair of still-can't-determine-what-color-but-could-be-some-kind-of-beigy-grey pants with giant pockets down the middle of the thigh with huge shiny buttons. Because, you know, my thighs don't look large enough as they are, so let's add more material and bling to accentuate them even more. Tres chic. Surprise, surprise, don't remember those either, but apparently, 'They were on your wish list,' said another gift giver, who shall remain anonymous because she is awesome, and I did pick the hideous thigh enlargers, so it's totally not her fault.

Ok, so the moral of the story is Christmas is not about the gifts (yeah right, but had to put that in there to stave off hate mail or any chastising about the true meaning of the Christmas spirit, etc), and also don't do your own shopping online.

In fact, if you're in Beirut, head over to Spinneys (or any number of official resellers and pubs) and get yourself a few bottles of this instead! (Shameless plug for J2 Vodka, but it's my blog!) The best present you can give and the true 'spirit' of the holidays!

Merry Happy New Everything!


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh 

Amusement Park Fun a la Libanais!

I'm just going to pretend that it hasn't been six months since I last wrote a blog entry. I'm going to be one of those people that sweeps things under the rug in hopes that no one will notice. (A six month absence isn't really such a long time in the blogosphere, right?) Sweep, sweep.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago I had the immense pleasure of spending a weekend with Harry Potter. It was AWESOME! I hadn't been to an amusement park in decades, literally, because of my whole complete disinterest in roller coasters and such. But this was different. This was the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. To walk in Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley and take the Hogwarts Express was a dream come true! Yes, I am that much of a geek.

The long weekend trip could not have come at a better time. Benedict Cumberbatch got engaged (insert tragic crying emoticon here)... and I was definitely in need of a bright picker-upper. With Never Sits Still and her gang in tow, we headed to sunny Orlando for the vacation of a lifetime.

First thing was flying there. We found a great deal on some tickets, but at the airport, I discovered that this airline does not have assigned seating. It's a first come, first serve kind of thing, which made me kind of panic. My Lebanese blood started to churn as I imagined everyone fighting to get a seat. This was going to be a nightmare, I thought. Images of my life in Beirut and the enigma of the Lebanese people's inability to wait in line in a cordial manner consumed my thoughts.

But then I remembered, Hey I'm in the US now and Americans love to wait in line. Since I moved back here, I noticed that whenever there are two lines, there are always 800 people in one and only two in the other. Sure enough the ordeal was short lived and we all found seats with little fuss (and no bruises).

As soon as we arrived to our hotel, we dumped our bags and headed to Diagon Alley. WHOPPEE! I was literally jumping up and down in excitement, but with grown-ups dressed as cartoon characters on every corner, I didn't feel like too much of an idiot. But then on the second day, we decided to try some other non-Harry Potter attractions. As always, I styled my hair in the morning and wore a comfortable yet stylish outfit that I thought was suitable amusement park attire. Maybe in Beirut. Boy did I feel like an idiot after going on a water ride! I looked like a drowned rat.

While other people were screaming in fear, I was screaming because my hair got wet. I'm not kidding. Through all the 'Ahhs', you could hear me yell, 'My hair! My hair!' This one couple on the ride started laughing at me, and rightly so. They were like, "Um, why'd you dress like that?" I gave them death stares and said, "I'm Lebanese, ok? We only wear gym clothes to the gym!" Ok, you caught me. I didn't say anything, but laughed along with them. I really was a sight. I tried to imagine MadGlam in my predicament, with her gold and diamonds dripping all over the place. At least I'm not wearing jewelry, I thought.

I looked over at the couple that were mocking me (in good fun, but whatever) in their gym gear, hair in a hassle-free ponytail or a cap, and flip flops, and where 10 minutes before I was thinking, pick up a copy of InStyle, I was now thinking these people are amusement park fashion geniuses.

Before going on the ride of hair-disaster-hell, I saw people cramming into these giant hot air blowers and thought how moronic. It cost $5 and I was like, what a waste of money, suckerrrrsss! Guess where I headed as fast as my soaked, denim-clad legs could take me afterwards? You guessed it: the giant dryers. If my hair looked bad before, you can imagine how it looked after five minutes in those dryers. I sent a picture of myself to a What's App group of my peeps and one wrote back that I looked like Monica from the episode of Friends where her is so awful frizzy, she has to put it in dreadlocks. That was one of the nicer comments.

I looked around for a hat store or any place I could buy a hair band. I messaged the What's App group and informed them of my emergency hair rescue plan. Miss HotStuff responded immediately, "No no no, your hair will stick out at the sides and look worse." "No no no," I countered, "I look good in hats." Well, not to toot my own horn, but I do. Long story short, I found a hat. It cost $30 and was made of paper, but it did the job so I consider it a good investment.

The moral of the story is this: you can take the girl out of Lebanon, but not Lebanon out of the girl. And also, water + Anissa's hair = disaster that not even Harry Potter's wizarding can fix!



Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh 

Madness with MadGlam

Pic courtesy of MadGlam

So the great RIC had the pleasure of MadGlam's mighty presence recently. Before she came, I warned her: "Are you sure you want to come to Richmond? I repeat: Richmond." And she fervently expressed her excitement at coming. I may be slightly exaggerating on the excitement part. It is RIC after all.

Anyhoo, I picked her up at the train station and she arrives in typical MadGlam style: wearing leopard print pants and sparkly shoes. But then there is the enigma that is MadGlam, she carries her own luggage and travels by train (first class, but still, by train).

The first thing she says to me is, "Take me to get a po-boy sandwich." And I was like, "What the @#$% is a po-boy sandwich?" I literally had to Google it. MadGlam turned to me, amazed, "You live in the South and don't know what a po-boy is?" Even with the Google image and description in hand I had no clue what she was talking about. MadGlam comes to Richmond and her first request is... a gargantuan sandwich?

Well, her wish was my command. We headed over to Pixie Minxie's, who is much more informed of all things RIC, and asked her about this mysterious po-boy and where I could procure one for my dear leopard-print clad friend. She immediately Yelped it and we found a place that was, of course, a million miles away. I had to use Google maps, because I'm one of those RICers who sticks to my neighborhood. If I have to cross a toll, I avoid the place at all costs. But this was MadGlam, so toll be damned.

After the po-boy, it was time to parrttyyyyy, of course. I had devised a plan beforehand with Pixie Minxie to take MadGlam to a typical, no frills bar. I thought, how hilarious it would be to see her in what my co-worker would describe as a 'Murica setting. She is used to glitz and glam, after all, not beer and buffalo wings. But when we got to the place, it wasn't 'Murica enough for her! My plan backfired.

"Let's go to a redneck bar," she then said. I laughed. As if. Pixie was like, "OK, I know a place." Wait... what? This is a serious plan now? "Uh, no. It's going to be full of truck drivers," I said. But apparently MadGlam really wanted to hangout with truck drivers. She met one on the train who told her he was best friends with drug dealers. She then thought it was a good idea to let him watch her suitcase while she went to the restroom. I told her she was nuts, he could've stuffed something in her suitcase! "No, no. I checked," she said, as if it were totally normal to hangout with truck drivers who are best friends with drug dealers.

So, of course, we ended up at a redneck bar. As soon as we got there, MadGlam went to the restroom and came out, eyes bright with excitement, "I love this place already! These ladies in the toilet - who complimented my pants, by the way - told me that last week, this 'skank' was so drunk, she couldn't wait to get to the stall, so she pulled down her pants and peed all over the bathroom floor." Oh. My. God.

To say I was horrified is an understatement (and since when does MadGlam use the word 'skank'?). But MadGlam simply took the drink I had ordered for her and went to the dance floor, where a live band was playing. Pixie is a laid back gal who is very cool and has fun anywhere. She grooved with MadGlam while I leaned against a pool table and tried not to touch anything for fear of contamination.

The band was actually really good and they played classic rock tunes that I love. I was surprised that MadGlam was so into the music, since she prefers Frenchie pop. She claimed to recognize a few of the songs - actually one song - but I'm pretty sure she still confuses band names with designer handbag labels ("No MadGlam, you're thinking of Balenciaga, this is Bon Jovi.")

She then decided she wanted to meet a cop. Don't ask me why. So she goes to the bartender and says in her French accent, "Hello, excuse me, are there any cops here?" He looked confused, so I explained that she is from out of town and it's on her to-do list. I realize now that that sounded really bad, as he then turned to her and said, "I can be a cop, baby." Oh. My. God. Unfazed, she turned around and went back to the dance floor. I laughed uncomfortably, asked for the tab and tried not to grimace when he said, "Sure, baby." Ew. Really?

When we turned to leave, we spied MadGlam chatting with a guy. "Shoo, was a he a cop?" I asked a bit later. "No, another truck driver, but I don't think this one is friends with drug dealers."

What can I say? There is always madness when MadGlam is around!

Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

Unleashing My Party Gene with J2 Vodka - Woot, Woot!!

Adam Aboulhosn makes J2 happen!

So, I know you're all wondering, where oh where can Anissa be? Still mourning the loss of her once-future-husband, George questionable-taste-in-fiancees Clooney? Sulking away at Tarjeh spending way too much money on lip gloss she will never use? Drowning her sorrows in caramel macchiatos from the only-fools-pay-$5-for-coffee Starbucks? Stealing Starbursts from unsuspecting 11-year-olds? I'm glad to tell you 'NO' to all of the above (except the Tarjeh thing - damn that place! Okay, and Starbucks - damn that drive-thru!). So what have I been up to? I'm happy to say that this week, I got to unleash my party gene - yes, even here in the mighty RIC! Yesterday, J2, Lebanon's first premium vodka celebrated its pre-launch in Beirut, and although I could not be there physically, I was definitely there in spirit.

The story of J2 is actually four years in the making. It started as a dream on a balcony in the mountains of Lebanon when two exceptionally forward thinking men decided that Lebanon needed its own vodka. Adam Aboulhosn and Paul Koder, his brother-in-law, were sitting together when Paul said, "Adam, let's make a Lebanese vodka." Adam, the founder of J2 said yes, and the rest, as they say is history.

There were many hurdles along way, but with a lot of hard work and a dedicated heart, J2 Vodka - which gets its name from the genetic marker of the ancient Phoenicians - finally made its entrance in grand style on the rooftop of the Lancaster Plaza Hotel. And what an entrance it was, amid the lovely backdrop of Beirut's shore! I couldn't be there, of course, but I saw a lot of familiar faces in attendance from the photographs splashed all over Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, like comedian Nemr Abou Nassar, DJ MadJam, band members from the Wanton Bishops, and Radio One personality Gavin Ford.

Although I was in front of my computer screen and constantly checking updates on my phone, I felt like I was there, clinking glasses of signature J2 caviar shots with other party goers and letting my party gene loose. Mr. B got to go and he gave me some firsthand accounts throughout the evening. This is a big deal considering that the World Cup is going on. But since England lost to Italy (sorry, mate) I guess he figured there was no better way to lift his spirits than with some good ol' J2!

MadGlam is probably reading this and going, 'Anissa, you have a party gene?' She has her doubts because when she came to visit last week, she dragged me to a redneck bar along with Pixie Minxie to hang out with truck drivers. I am not kidding. This was what she wanted to do. She had a great time, but I was miserable, trying to stand as still as possible so I wouldn't touch anything (but more on that later). And to make matters worse, there was no J2 there to make the night more enjoyable!

You might be wondering why I'm so excited about J2 Vodka. Well, as I said when I moved in November, I left behind my heart and it will be there, always. But at least now, I can pick up a bottle of J2 and have a little taste of my beautiful Lebanon any time I want.

So, yeah, even I have the party gene! Doesn't every Lebanese?

Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh 

Like J2 on Facebook, follow them on Twitter @J2Vodka

Oh George, it could've been me!

Did I say 'could've'? I meant 'should've', it should've been me! I mean seriously, George, if you were going to end up with a Lebanese chick, why not me? Like your present fiancee, I too hail from the glorious mountains of Lebanon - albeit, the other side of the mountain, but many would argue that it is, in fact, the prettier side. I also speak Arabic (kind of, sort of) and French (bonjour!), and although I've never tried a case, I do object to a lot of things (there are how many calories in this caramel macchiato? I object!).

Admittedly, the similarities stop there: I wasn't born in Lebanon like Amal, no, I was actually born in Kentucky, like you. Ha! See how much we have in common? Also, I'm not a fancy lawyer, but I do own fancy handbags. And I'm not British, but hello, I have about three or four Burberry bags, and that's close enough. Oh, and I went to a British school for seven years and can do a killer accent. Just ask Mr. B, who as a native can vouch for my totally authentic Englishness.

I'd also like to point out that I have been a loyal fan since you played Falconer on the TV show Sisters, and remained loyal while you played Dr. Ross on ER and saw all your films. Ok, you got me. I missed The American. And the March of Dimes. And The Monuments Men. And Ocean's 512. But I really liked Syriana. And that movie where you played the lawyer that fixed things for bigwig clients, kind of like the male Olivia Pope, but without the affair with the president and designer shoes.

So what if over the years my dedication waned ever so slightly. Yes, I had a brief thing with Michael Fassbender. But in my defense, did you see the Jane Eyre remake? I mean, who wouldn't, right? And then there is the whole Benedict Cumberbatch thing. I'm going to plead the fifth on that one on the grounds that I may incriminate myself (psst, hey Ben, ignore this, I still adore you!). Despite these, um, transgressions, when I wrote my book and my publishers posted my biography on their site, I gave a shout out to you (as my future husband) and only you. But were you even remotely appreciative? No! So ungrateful, George, really.

Yes, so I should be the one wearing that ring and going to parties with Cindy Crawford and her husband. On second thought, Cindy still looks amazing and if I wanted to feel bad about myself, I could just sit in front of the TV and watch Victoria's Secret commercials all day. (OT but don't you just hate it when you're watching The Mindy Project and you think to yourself, hmm, I could eat a lovely bowl of ice cream right about now, and then that commercial comes on and you're just like crap, no more ice cream for me?)

Ok, I digress. You still with me, George? No? Well, you should be! (Psst Ben, call me!)


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh 

Let's Get the Party Started!

Things just keep getting more and more exciting here in the RIC. I'm going to use RIC from now on, because I think it makes us Richmonders all the more cooler that we have our own INTERNATIONAL airport, and by international, I mean that you can fly to Hawaii or somewhere in Canada. But still, at least we have an airport.

No, seriously, Richmond is great. Very cosmopolitan. Just the other day, I attended my very first live minor league baseball game to cheer on our very own Richmond Squirrels. So what if I left right after the national anthem. So what if I only went because my niece was singing the national anthem. The point is, I went to the baseball game, stood in line to get in holding a ticket and everything and sat in the bleachers. Yes, bleachers.

As I looked around the stadium, watching people in baseball caps chug beers from plastic cups, I thought to myself, Wow, I've come a long way since sitting at a frou-frou beach club in Beirut while some ditz was taking selfies of herself at the pool bar carrying a Chanel bag. People were actually interested in the game, not looking around to see who got the latest plastic surgery procedure and/or $10,000 handbag. Different worlds indeed.

In addition to baseball, other fascinating things I've been up to is figuring out the black money hole that is Target - oh excuse me, Tarjeh. If someone can please explain how it is possible to go in for a stick of deodorant and end up paying $300, please let me know. I am convinced someone from Hogwarts has cast a mysterious 'spend all your money here' spell on the place, so that you end up with 10 different colors of nail polish that you will never wear and hair products that will sit under your sink collecting dust for the next 20 years.

I think it's really scary how much I love Tarjeh. Whenever MadGlam calls and asks what I've been up to, I really want to lie and say that I've been hanging out at all these amazing clubs and restaurants, but it's weird how  99% of the time when she rings I'm actually at Tarjeh. When she asks where I am, I give the vague 'running errands' answer, because I think the mystery will make me sound more interesting. One time I was on the phone with Miss HotStuff and going through the Starbucks drive-thru, and she was like, 'Starbucks has a drive-thru over there? That is so neat!' She lives in London and was totally impressed so I felt cool for three seconds.

So come on over to the RIC - it has everything: live sports, international airports, drive-thru Starbucks and a magical Tarjeh on every corner! Did someone say partayyy?

The Richmonder

Hello dear reader! Are you still there (yes, Mom, I'm talking to you)? Welcome to my new blog (actually, it's the same one but I just switched the word 'Lebanon' to 'Richmond' because I couldn't be bothered to create a whole new template). Anyhoo, it's been three months since I left Lebanon, the longest I have been away in 18 years, so I think it's fair to now call myself a Richmonder. Since you all know me as Anissa in Lebanon, I thought I would take this opportunity to introduce myself as Anissa in Richmond. I feel like maybe I need to make myself a little more relatable to my now much wider American audience (hey Mom, can you send this to your friends?). So here are some things you should know about the more American me.

(Disclaimer: I am not schizophrenic. Disclaimer II: I am not a conformist. Disclaimer III: I still love Benedict Cumberbatch. Disclaimer IV: I know that has nothing to do with this blog.) 

1. I am still living with my sister and her family until I find a job, although I have been upgraded from nephew's room to bonafide guest bedroom. This is a good thing because a) I am no longer surrounded by Lego and b) There is a TV set.

2. I have never in my life had a Twinkie. My sister and brother-in-law could not believe this. An American who's never had a Twinkie? What sort of travesty against all things Americana is this? (My sister still watches General Hospital, so it is totally believable that she would react this way.) I told her not having a Twinkie was gonna be 'my thing'. I pictured it as this really cool conversational opener I would have with my new American potential friends when I met them for the first time. New Potential Friend: So, tell me a little about yourself. Me: Well, I've never had a Twinkie. NPF: No way! That is so neat and unusual. You must be a cool person. Let's be friends. Me: Yippie!

(Incidentally, I have also never been on a roller coaster, but that is mainly because I like having my internal organs stay where they are internally in my body.)

3. Because I am so exciting and have such an irrepressible sense of adventure, my new favorite hangouts are Costco, Kroger and Target (which I pronounce Tarjeh, because it sounds more 'clah' and I've still got some Lebanese in me).

4. Whenever friends or family from abroad chat with me and ask why I seem so distracted and I tell them that I'm busy working, in reality I am probably just playing Candy Crush. I went to the hairdresser the other day and brought my iPad to play. The stylist asked me about the game and I told her not to download it because it was like crack or meth. She gave me this strange look and I realized, this chick does not know me, she thinks I'm being literal. So I had to say that I've never done crack or meth, I just imagine that it would be like a Candy Crush addiction, except it doesn't age you by a gazillion years like those people in the meth mug shots that are posted all over Facebook so that people won't take meth. She looked relieved, I'm not kidding.

5. Do not put a Starburst candy in front of me, because I will do whatever it takes to take the entire packet away from you and eat them all. This is not a joke. Even if it's the jumbo sized Halloween bag. I will eat the whole thing. My niece got Starbursts for Valentine's Day. I waited til she went to bed and then stole them. She somehow heard me rustling through her things downstairs, came to the landing at the top of the stairs, caught me redhanded stuffing them in my face, and gave me this look of utter betrayal. 'You're eating my candy?' she cried. I did not flinch. 'You should thank me for saving you from cavities,' I said. 'Okay, you can have them,' she replied with watery eyes as she retreated, head down, back to her bedroom. I was moved for about 2 1/2 seconds, then proceeded to finish her Starbursts.

And there you have the essentials of Anissa, the Richmonder. If you have any questions, leave them in the comments section and I will be sure to answer you in between Costco runs and Candy Crush sessions (unless, of course, you are Benedict Cumberbatch, in which case I will even give up my Starbursts!).

So Long, Farewell

So, this is my last Live From Lebanon... After 18 years of a journey full of ups and downs, I moved back to the United States. It was a tough decision, but one that has been in the pipelines for a while. Right now, I'm sitting in the closet of my nephew, which my sister converted into his homework station (I have usurped the poor kid's room until I get settled), and reminiscing about my last big move, the one that took me to Lebanon. It was a happy time back then, even though Beirut hadn't been even close to being rebuilt. But there was hope and optimism, and I was glad to be a part of it.

I lived with my grandmother and had a medium sized bedroom that my parents refurbished for me, because the old furniture had been there since the '50s. I put up two posters: one of Brad Pitt in 'Legends of the Fall' and one of 'Forrest Gump'. I had a little TV set with a VCR attached, a dressing table and an electric blue office chair that I never used and still don't know why I bought. My grandmother still has it and the posters are still up. I was studying at the American University of Beirut and typed all my papers on a laptop my dad gave me while sitting on my bed. I never folded my clothes and just threw them on the second bed, and my grandmother gave me a lecture about how I needed to be tidier so that I'd be a good homemaker when I got married. I still hate folding my clothes, but I'm not married so I guess it doesn't matter!

I got dysentery the first week I moved so after I recovered, I only drank Diet Coke for like six months. I also sustained myself on Kinder fingers and Cadbury Time Out bars when my grandmother was away, because I never cooked. Even though the elevator broke down for six months of the year I lived with her, and I had to go up and down the stairs a million times a day, I still gained weight because of all the chocolate I ate. I also walked to class everyday, except when it rained. I loved the smell of za'atar and tea in the mornings, and the hustle and bustle of Hamra actually gave me a sense of calm.

It didn't take me long to get used to the way of life in Beirut. I never completely conformed but always felt I was home. At first, the extended family were convinced I moved to Lebanon for a guy. They couldn't believe I would leave America, my parents and siblings just to come to AUB. But there was no guy. Just this crazy, wonderful, grating, charming town that I fell in love with. Through thick and thin for 18 years. But I like to think of myself as a lady, and a lady always knows when to make her exit.

So it's time for me to say goodbye to you, my beautiful Lebanon. But I leave behind my heart, and it will be here with you always.

UnBreaking Bad

So, I've been binge watching Breaking Bad lately. I wanted to know what all the hype was about and be in on all the references and jokes, but mostly I just wanted people to think I was cool. I was really drawn into all the Walter White drama, but thought that what Lebanon needs is the complete opposite - basically to unbreak bad. We've become so jaded over the years that no one is nice anymore. I know it sounds trivial, but for some time now, I've noticed that many Lebanese have lost their goodwill and manners are a thing of the past. I know, I know, you're thinking, Anissa, you really expect fighters in say Tripoli to take time in between trying to blow each others' heads off and say, 'Yo, thank you for missing a major artery', or 'please don't aim at the heart'? But you know what? Perhaps if we were kinder to one another, such conflicts would be less the norm nowadays.

For example, I have been going to the same gym for about eight months now. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, says 'hello'. But the thing that irritates me the most is the parking attendants at the cashier window. Every time I pull up, I greet whoever is on duty and all I have gotten in return are Walter White death stares. So, I made it my goal to get them to say hello back. I can't explain why, but it just became so important, like if I could get them to be polite, then maybe it was a sign that there is hope for Lebanon. I had like this Rocky moment, but instead of 'Eye of the Tiger', Katy Perry's 'Roar' was playing in my imaginary mission montage. I was gonna do it, whatever it took, Parking Attendant the Elder and Parking Attendant the Younger (they don't wear name tags) were going to acknowledge my 'hellos' and 'thank yous' dammit.

I explained my admirable goal to MadGlam and she said, 'Maybe they don't respond because you talk in English. Say it in Arabic.' Aha! That must be the reason, I thought. So the next day, I said, 'marhaba' and 'shukran'. Walter you-stole-my-meth White eyeballing was the response. 'Okay, maybe they think you're a peasant or something. Say it in French,' MadGlam advised again. (She has the answer for everything, as long as you don't ask her to name a song title.) So I tried the 'bonjour/ merci' route and got Walter I-am-the-danger White in return. (Anyone else getting that I am really into Breaking Bad?)

Then one fine day, after six months at the gym, I pulled up to the window and Parking Attendant the Younger was on duty. I said, 'hello' and miracle of all miracles, HE SAID HELLO BACK. I was so stunned that when he handed me back the ticket, his arm dangled out his window for a good 30 seconds before I noticed and took it from his hand. I felt victorious, but my mission was not yet complete. Parking Attendant the Elder was still holding out. He became my Everest.

Until last week. Oh my god! Eight months of unrelenting politeness in return for eight months of Walter shut-up-Skylar White evil eyes, and Parking Attendant the Elder finally, finally, caved in and said 'hello'. 'That's right, b**ch!' I shouted back triumphantly in my best Jesse Pinkman. Okay, not really.

But long story short: Mission accomplished; Everest climbed. Please acknowledge my awesomeness. Thank you.

No Sh** Sherlock

It recently came to my attention that someone has created a new car bomb app specifically for Lebanon. It is sad to say, but when I first learned of it, I was like, that's such a good idea! I know, in other parts of the world they get excited about new iPhones, Google glasses, etc, but around here, car bomb apps are the bomb, no pun intended (okay, yes, intended!). And this coming on the heels of our very own Electricity Cuts app, which lets us oh-so-very-advanced and civilized (we like to think) Lebanese know when our power is going to be shut off and for how long. Impressed with our inventiveness yet? No? How shocking.

Anyway, since this car bomb app came to be, I really wanted to download it, but someone cautioned me against it - 'You really want to download something that came from the army?' Good point. But as many living here have been going through as of late, nearly every car we encounter is a suspect. Just the other day, I parked my car in the underground parking of my gym and there was a car with tinted windows in the spot next to mine. The engine was running and the license plate was from a Gulf country.

I immediately got suspicious. Why is the engine running? This was a dinky looking car and usually cars with Gulf license plates are on the fancy side. Hmmmm, I thought, I could really use that car bomb app right about now. I considered going to security and reporting the car, but then thought, what if it's just some sleazy couple too cheap to get a hotel room? If only Sherlock Holmes were here (the Benedict Cumberbatch one, not RDJ). He would just look at the car, examine the dust particles and the pressure of the tires and surmise that there was no bomb, just a couple of randy teenagers going at it.

It might seem blasé to joke about this, but I rushed to the elevator just in case. I then decided not to report the car because I would be too embarrassed if my other suspicion of cheapo sleaze bags was actually the case. Stupid reasoning, I know. Since when is it better to get blown up than embarrassed? But this really was my thought process as I got in the elevator and calculated how far I had to be to be clear of the maybe car bomb. Perhaps only in Lebanon do average citizens go about their daily life in this manner. Car bomb? Nahhh, couldn't be. But maybe? Nahhh, just go the gym and shut up.

I was lucky that day, but damn if I didn't wish we had a Sherlock app, so that we could make sure that suspicious cars weren't bombs in waiting. You'd press a button on your phone and - pouf! - Cumberbatch would show up and give you the 411 in seconds. And I'm not just saying that because I'd want Cumberbatch to show up at the click of a button. No, I'm a genuine concerned citizen and said app would be solely for the benefit of Lebanon. Completely. Entirely. I do not harbor any selfish intentions whatsoever.

Say Cheese

Last week, I went to the beach with Mr US and Mr NYC. It was a semi-frou frou place in Beirut, but since it was a week day, I didn't mind. When we got there, there was a woman posing for pictures at the bar, with her friend behind the camera. She kept moving around to make sure that her precious handbag was in every shot - a hot pink Chanel - because, of course, there is no other reason to post pics on Facebook if you can't show off that you bring a Chanel purse... to the beach. This is not an exaggeration, readers. This really happened. Imagine... posing for pics to highlight your designer handbag AT THE BEACH! I think I have seen the epitome of superficial materialism/ stupidity/ desperation.

Now, let me be clear. There is absolutely nothing wrong with owning a designer handbag. I love my bags. But I don't feel the need to a) take pictures of them and post them on Facebook and b) tote them to the beach (of all places). This is mainly because a) I have a life and b) I know that there are more important things going on in the world than who has the latest designer purse.

Women from a certain segment of Lebanese society need to wake up and realize that most people outside their little bubbles care about how much money they have about as much as they care about what Amanda Bynes has been arrested for since she went bat-sh*t crazy. Who is Amanda Bynes, you ask? Yeah, exactly, I rest my case.

MadGlam was over the other day and we were exchanging horror stories about these supposed 'society' women and how they abandon their kids to the care of housekeepers so they can galavant around town getting manicures and attend mindless society events to show off about their bags, jewelry and extravagant vacations. I avoid such events like the plague. I'd rather hang out with the ghosts of Saddam Hussein and Qhaddafi. But Beirut is a small town and you hear things.

When I look around and see what is happening in the world, what is happening in our backyard, and then I see how these women behave, I become totally disgusted. I want to ask these women, aren't you tired? It must be so exhausting to always be in competition with your so-called 'friends'. Why try so hard to out do everyone when there is always going to be someone who is richer than you, prettier than you, thinner than you and - not that you care - smarter than you.

It is so freeing to just be who you are and to surround yourself with people who accept the real you. Step out of your bubble for once and see. 

I'm Baaccckkkk!!

I know, I know. No comment/excuses necessary. The world's worst blogger is back! So, after a six month absence, where do I begin? You'd think after such a long hiatus I'd have at least gathered up some juicy, sexy morsels to share with you all. I guess some things did happen since January. I grew my hair out, and then in a sudden fit of madness, chopped it off again. I know, exciting. Just FYI, don't, no matter how hard a time you're having styling your hair, take a pair of scissors into the bathroom and think you can channel Vidal Sassoon and a create a new Jennifer Aniston craze by trimming your own locks. Unless you enjoy looking like Raggedy Anne. I have to admit, I'm not enjoying it so much.

Okay, moving on...  I FINALLY joined a new gym after moaning about it for the past year. In the last four months, I have gone four times. I am so fit! I found a hilarious internet posting saying something like, 'my bathing suit told me to go to the gym, but my sweat pants, were like, nah!' and I totally decided to take it literally. Sweat pants are far kinder. But yesterday, I opened the scariest drawer in my cabinet, the bikini drawer, and reality hit in. They just kept staring at me, tauntingly saying, 'You're never gonna fit in me.' So I went to the gym. Yeah, I'm gonna be a supermodel (hey, miracles do happen)!

I also went to London to visit Miss HotStuff, who is now the constant companion of a Mr ToughStuff. A Scotsman on the subway - excuse me, Tube - wondered if I was in town looking for a British husband. Since he did not look like Michael Fassbender, you can guess my answer! Unfortunately, most crushing of all, I could not get tickets to the Harry Potter Studios, but I did get to Platform 9 3/4 and pushed a trolley straight on through to the Hogwarts Express. Kind of. Miss HotStuff embarrassingly accompanied me to Kings Cross station as we asked 20 security guards how to find it. When we got there, she made one grave mistake: the 'conductor', asked what scarf we wanted and she, gulp, said Slytherin! I near had a heart attack and made her go for Gryffindor, naturally.

Let's see. Oh! I also went to the Guns N' Roses concert, which was AWESOME! Appetite for Destruction was the first album I ever bought as a teen, so it was nice to go back in time and rock out to 'Sweet Child O' Mine' with Axl Rose. I have to admit, I was kind of annoyed with all the teeny boppers there, crying and going nuts over the band when they weren't even fetuses when they came out. I kept thinking, This is my band! Go and see a Justin Bieber concert! You can have him and his stupid hair!

One other tidbit from that night: I went with my brother, we took a picture, he posted it on Facebook and next week, we were apparently engaged. To each other. Yep, that's all it takes, one pic on Facebook and you're getting hitched, even if it is to YOUR OWN BROTHER! EWWWWWWW! And the picture was LABELED, as in appearing with the same surnames!

Anyhoo, I don't want to overload you all dear readers with too much info, so I will sign off for now! I could promise to be a better blogger in the future, but we all know that we shouldn't make promises that we can't keep!!!