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 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

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

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!).