Best friends Sara Al Madani, of the United Arab Emirates, and Apple
Wang, of China, got together to formulate a fresh and unique balance
between modesty and fashion. Out of their ideas comes a fusion of the
Arabian and Chinese cultures and a line of classy, custom-made abayat
for the modern Middle Eastern woman. Traditionally, the runway—from
New York to London to Tokyo—has been decorated with often revealing
and over-the-top creations of the new and established designers that
populate the pages of Vogue and Glamour. There was once no room for
fun and ornate clothing for the women that chose to cover up. High
fashion, historically, had comprised a desire for shock value and
flaunting a figure. With Rouge Couture, that is no more.

What Sara and Apple accomplished with their brand is present a direct
challenge to that standard in society. They threw that phenomenon in
the face of the fashion world, and offered an answer to the vast
number of women yearning to add a little (or a lot) of flair to their
monotonous wardrobes. They can now treat themselves—to color, to
timeless sophistication and style, and to the unique designs these two
eager businesswomen aimed to bring to an ever-ready client base and
audience. Rouge Couture is fashion, luxury, and thoughtful elegance
that while achieves to cover and conceal today’s woman, drapes her
figure tastefully without sacrificing personal style.

The women of Rouge Couture have spearheaded a new trend that is bound
to change the face of fashion on a global scale. They ignored the
expected, they took a chance, and they decided to revolutionize a once
predictable, forgettable piece of clothing—the abaya. Today, Rouge
Couture’s boutique is now a haven for the everyday woman to have her
shot at a pleasurable, private, and one-of-a-kind shopping experience.
Clients may schedule a free consultation in the comfort of their own
homes. Rouge also offers gift certificates and bridal packages and
even furnishes its customers the opportunity to style and create their
own abaya or jalabiya named after them.

What has come to fruition is an innovative line that accommodates the
mentality of this generation’s abaya-wearing women that lost
themselves in a sea of black cloth and are no longer interested in
complete conformity. Al Madani and Yang pulled through and created a
brand that deeply considers both the constantly evolving styles and
trends of the fashion world, but still maintains the needs of women
that adhere to customs. Rouge Couture, truly, is a marriage of fun
and function that is sure to please. To see it yourself, please visit
www.rouge-couture.com.

Route-Couture Home Page

I’ve been here before. It’s a bittersweet memory, the all too familiar taste of nostalgia, of our childhoods, of the pain and the tears that resurface every once in a while.

I step out into the sand and enter the rusty gated area, plot upon plot of stories that ended; sometimes too soon, sometimes in vain, and other times before scores had been settled. We take a deep breath, and begin chanting the words were instructed to. As the desert sun tingles the skin on my cheeks, I squint, as the lines of a tired face take shape, and the buried tears stream down slowly along familiar patterns.

Sigh. I miss you all. Life makes less sense now that you aren’t here. Good day to you, and them, all of you.  Walking away never gets easier. It’s the same guilt, the same series of questions that riddle one’s minds when life deals such unfortunately grim hands, the flush that destroys your three-of-a-kind.

Copyright BBC

I sat in the car for something like a half an hour, pondering what I had just seen and felt, and steadily wiped the clumps of eyeliner and mascara that had smeared into an abstract face painting. What I saw next made me both sad and equally nauseous; a flood of the world’s lost children surrounded the vehicle. Tapping and begging ensued, and it did not stop until we managed to inch our way off the property.  My line of sight was populated by dirty faces and hands, soiled by life’s hardships and by the poverty that consumes them.  I could barely look them in the eyes and let my older cousin do the talking. She had fanned most of them away until the rest of our group opened the doors to re-enter and a flash of fingers and hands and cuffs appeared as my aunt pulled a few candied almomds out of her purse. It, of course, didnt stop there.

A young and stubbornly persistent boy hung on the window and tapped on it, so desperately, as we drove away, exchanging the cliche slew of words that most beggars utilize to guilt the fortumate to share their wealth, even just a tiny bit of it.

The long and bumpy drive back to civilization was somewhat quieter than expected. All I could feel was the bass of the speaker (blasting the cheesy local tunes) in the side panel of my door, the achiness in my feet and my heart, and the noises of car horns and screeching tires typical of the ambience of this place.

Days go by, death imminent for all of us, and yet we are never content. We always want more. We forget to enjoy life’s simplicities, and focus on the complexities we have no hand in changing. Oh where has the selfishness and self-absorbed nature of modern society landed us?  Quite frequently empty, apparently. Hollow until we are reminded of the loves we lost, the familiar faces that are no more, and our sheer audacity to overlook all the wonderful blessings bestowed upon us.

Shame on us.

That decision was inspired by a very typical evening at my home a couple of years ago. The parents invited their usuals over for dinner, dessert, tea, and of course…great convo, company, and memories. I came down the stairs to greet our guests–after taking way too long to get ready (per usual). One of my parents’ old friends attempted to sneak her way passed many of us in the foyer. Before I made it all the way down, I saw her face. I saw her tired eyes, the flesh on her face oozing with exhaustion. And then I saw her wig. I felt the tears force their way through their all-too-familiar passage down my flushed cheeks. I was so saddened; the uninvited visitor that was cancer had left distinct tracks on her usually bright and smiling face. I couldn’t help what I was feeling about a woman I had known my entire life, someone I was always excited to see walking through our front door.

She told none of us. She wanted no pity. She had been married, divorced, and alone for years; and to our surprise, she felt it was acceptable and appropriate to endure the hellish days of chemotherapy, unending doctor’s visits, and the horrific side effects that left her so overwhelmed with pain, nausea, and most notably, uncertainty……alone. Sure, she told my aunt. She figured she would need someone to at least transport her frail body to and fro via car. Why, though? We were family. We ARE family. It was terrible.

So I filed the tears and fears away, grabbed and pulled her close to me, shaking…and she assured me she was OK. Oh, how selfish was I to be the one she had to reassure? She beat it, though. Today, she is cancer-free. But that moment resurfaced for nostalgia’s sake when the pink-ribbon-emblazoned e-mail flashed in my inbox at work. I had run a cancer 5K in London last year, and one for brain cancer last month. This meant more, more than diabetes (and nothing, naturally, tends to mean more than what I have fought for 13 years and going)…

I never ask what-ifs about my sugar intake, my constant rollercoastering weight, and the subconscious fears of slipping into a coma someday. That has been and God-willing, will always be within my control. Cancer is not a switch one can turn on and off, it is not a slap on the wrist, or a less than favorable episode you can neglect and turn your head away from. It is there, it will not magically disappear, and it requires resolve, faith, and hope that not all of us know we’re in possession of. The battle that cancer sets into motion, if one decides he/she will take it on, is the battle of a lifetime, and the most trying task one most likely would ever imagine completing. But it happens every day.

I am grateful to take part in this great event this year…I only have two more days to fundraise, so I urge you to evaluate your what-if’s, realize they are nowhere as miserable as you have always tried to convince yourself.

I will run Saturday morning with my head up to the sky, well-aware of the gifts I take for granted, and aiming to be better at enjoying every minute I am given on this Earth–healthy, happy, and relevant.

Live well, give more, love always.

D

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All I hear is my heart pounding, my heavy breathing, my thoughts circling round and round in my brain. My entire face is numb from the clenching. I turned up the music to drown my thoughts out. I started singing aloud to myself. OK, I’m no Mariah or anything, but refocusing my energy on hitting that note feels much better than what I was consumed by beforehand. Deep breaths; in through my nose, out through my mouth. Over and over again.

Traffic hasn’t made this episode much better. The usual interstate rush-hour hell; lather, rinse, REPEAT, five times a week. Where are my matches? I just spilled my coffee again…typical. I kinda wish the truck driver staring down at me was even remotely cute. Ignore, ignore. Mmmm, the calming cigarette complements my hot, frothy french vanilla concoction I brewed while brushing, plucking, and blowdrying. Note to self: Pants go on one leg at a time. That one’s going to leave a bruise, ha.

I definitely snoozed an entire hour this morning. Last night’s sleep was good. It’s been a long time since I had a night of rest untarnished by a nightmare or that blood-boiling moment I’ve become so accustomed to; the one when you wake up, blink a few times to see the clock displays a random ’4:27 a.m.’ Ugh. Turn over to the other side. What feels like five minutes later it’s 7:15. “Hey..Wake up!! Go to work,” mom insists. I groan. Fiiiiiiiiiiine. Manic Monday.

Today is a no makeup day. I’m OK with that, not dependent on the stuff anyhow. I let this weekend’s late nights out take over my face. Who cares? I just wish I didn’t feel like this. I’m not at all used to lacking control of my emotions. I’m good at this. This is what I do. I don’t come apart at the seams. I mean, it’s been years since I let that happen. So what is this? Why is this happening? I can’t focus. I feel like shit. My head is spinning. Breakfast feels like it’s coming right back up. No, no. I’m OK. Right? Is it my asthma? The inhaler hasn’t done anything. I took all my allergy meds. I think.

Why is everyone asking me what’s wrong with me? Is that supposed to help? This is one of those internal battles, the type that doesn’t manifest itself externally. It’s my damn facial expressions. My pa-pa-poker face is terrible. Maybe I’ll shut my door. Take a few deep breaths. Put some happy music on, turn the lights off,  close my eyes, and let go.

I’ll still be here when I open them. I always am.

Welcome to the panic. Let me introduce the paranoia. Unpleased to present the fear. Face it, face the fear.

But give me a break here. I’m not so negative to claim chivalry is dead. Because it isn’t. My doors are sometimes still opened for me, my seats pulled out, my shopping bags whisked out of my aching hands, yada yada. Here’s what I don’t get, though. What happened to the bold boys? What happened to being swept off my feet? Why am I being asked if YOU look fat in those jeans? I don’t really care, do I? I have a reputation for being some sort of a Mama Bear to my close girl friends. They come to me for advice, they come to vent, they seek insight. I usually have answers, but on this topic, I don’t even know what hope I can offer because I’m losing it myself.

As much as females enjoy making SOME decisions or possessing SOME control in this so-called ”new” society we’ve built across decades of submissiveness, would some of you please grow a pair? I’ve already given you my best bedroom eyes, for the love of God. Grab my hand. Take control. Give me something to be curious about; reel me in, even if you aren’t exactly sure what you’re going to do. We like mystery, too, gentlemen. Give us a challenge. Please don’t give me a “Oh, yeah, you look nice tonight,” and then boyishly sway from side to side the rest of the evening contemplating if you got it right. You clearly haven’t, because I’ve either rolled my eyes or yawned at the boring bullshit you call your ”game”. Take me by the waist, peck me on the cheek; sheesh, even body language you emit my direction from across the room gives me something to look forward to.

Boys, I’m not going to give you a lecture about “independent women”, because sometimes I don’t want to be in control. Sometimes, I need you to TELL me where we’re going to have dinner, TELL me where we’re going out afterwards. I’ve been making decisions all day; I just want to take a load off. After I go home tonight, text me something saucy. Let me know you’re thinking about me. Don’t call me the next day with some insecure garbage questioning why you didn’t have it in you to do what you’ve been talking about day in and day out. UGH! Keep me engaged. Otherwise, I’m gone. Really. Out the door. Not interested!! There’s only so much I can do to let you know you have the green light.

Now, with that in mind, keep it respectful; please? I’m definitely not inviting you to put into action the animalistic images you’ve let your testosterone muster up in your mind in last night’s steamy dream. My face is still up here, thanks. Keep it classy, but keep in mind moderation in anything is what we want from you. Strike that balance and if we’ve still managed to remain interested, we’re all yours. But please please, don’t just stand there. Don’t expect me to take your hand all the time. Twirl me around on the dance floor, even if you’re not the greatest dancer. Make the move. I kinda sorta maybe want it, too, I just don’t want to be wearing the pants while we’re dancing. Sigh.

Thoughts? Questions?

Remember–I say what I mean and mean what I say. Is it too much to ask you to honor that with a little reciprocity?

But for the last year-and-a-half, I’ve been alone. Not really alone, because I’m blessed to have surrounded myself with lots of people who love me just the way I am…but, you know, alone…in THAT way. Most of you reading this that know me–know I’m not the type that needs to be in a relationship. Most of you that know me also know that the last relationship I subjected myself to enduring constituted probably the worst two years of my life. So, in reality, one could conclude I should be celebrating nearly two years since my emancipation.

And what’s more is that I’ve probably never been this sane. I’ve never been OK this way, by myself, with no one pending on the sidelines. It resembled some sort of life detox. Enough was enough; I couldn’t care so much for members of the opposite sex that hardly cared for themselves at all. It’s a sickness, probably tied with my smoking habits. At 23, you’d think I’d never even have cared enough about anybody other than mememememe. There have been a few of them!

So as I turned a leaf, set the old book to a sea of flames that engulfed every bad decision, every regret, every fear … I started writing a new story, a new song, a new soundtrack of my existence… the kind that can slow down with no consequences, or speed up to ear-drum-popping noises reminiscent of one’s first concert or clubbing experience. I take care of me now. I’ve always told people in my life how true I find the notion that you can’t love anybody else until you completely fall in love with yourself.

Now I’m not endorsing extreme forms of narcissism here. On the contrary, I also find a humble soul to be the most enticing. The lessons I’ve learned that I want to share revolve mostly around my ability to forgive myself and to forgive others, and my inability to avoid listening to my gut when the red flags are saturating my line of vision. It’s kinda nauseating, really. I’ve done so much growing up. Yay me, huh?

It’s hard to be alone. You have about 20 percent of your capacity to lose yourself. Sometimes, you need to lose yourself. It’s hard to be alone not because you need a crutch, but because sometimes you just feel the need to fall to the ground fearlessly, certain that cushion you’re pushin’ has a safe place to land. It’s hard to be alone when everyone else seems to not be. But it’s OK, because quite frankly, it’s not as hard to be alone as it is to be with the wrong person. It’s not as painful, it’s not as disastrous to your mental health.

So I’m OK, and it feels pretty damn good to say so. All that life I intend on living ahead of me is marked by the right man, not the little pathetic boy standing on my shoulders because he never really learned to walk on his own. I’ll strut the alleyways of life in my stilettos, proudly, loudly, and I hope all of you continue to watch me grow, watch me live, watch me love.

Always…more..later…

D

Upon arrival, my jaw dropped so low it could have been wiping the floors clean. It was as if you stuffed middle-aged prom dress-clad women from all walks of life into a train station dragging about men who knew better than to resist their dates’ excitement about the day’s activities. Here they were in their absolute best dresses and feathery fascinators, long coat suits and top hats, laughing away and having a jolly good time on their way to Ascot. It was a LONG hour train.

Excuse my francais, but what a clusterf***! Swarms of people flooded the tents of fast food and alcohol vendors lined up. Outside closer to the action, “Ascoteers” laid blankets out and sprawled themselves out in the grass. We were lucky it was a sunny and pleasant day out. A friend and I sat for a bit amidst the sunbathing crowds, throwing back glasses of the Pimm’s and lemonade jug we purchased, with a 10-pound deposit (it was a plastic jug). Of course most of it WAS lemonade, so sobriety was never an issue.

Five minutes into it, of course, a couple of truly questionable girls in undeniably cheap attire smoking even cheaper cigarettes start chatting us up, making awkward comments. It must have been our American accents. One of them had dreads in her hair, smeared lipstick, incredibly ashy heels, her dress hiked up to inappropriate levels, swinging back and forth and smacking her elbows into my friend’s back. Classy.Then, a few obviously wasted guys dressed in jeans (yes, jeans) started blabbing away about how they don’t really care to get dressed up for Ascot (yeah, no kidding), and that they’re just there to have a good time. Really? You came all the way to Ascot on LADIES DAY to drink Guinness and hang out with the boys? Puhhhhleeez. We managed to sneak away just in time.

We decided we would catch a pair of seats in the bleachers and see a couple of the races properly. The old people really didn’t seem to warm up to us, but we just thought we’d finish our pitcher and get the hell out of there. In any case, we watched two races, saw the Brits get overly excited or disappointed about their bets. We got up before it was over, hoping to get a head start before the crowds flocked to the parking lots and the lines for the train got too long. It was bad anyway. We finally got on a train that was too packed and had to stand for a while. I finally got a seat but my friend did not. And what a shame; the only thing we had learned by the end of that ride was that chivalry was dead. In our train car, tons of men had seats, and not a single one offered them to ANY female that was standing! I was exhausted, sniffly, sneezy, and I certainly left with a bad taste in my mouth.

Overall, though, the Royal Ascot was a treat. It was just one of those days I’ll talk about as long as it’s fresh in my mind. A truly British experience, and although I have some complaints, it was worth every penny spent.

More later.

Pip pip, cheerio

D

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhee raji3oon. Uncle Fred, I hope you are resting now. I hope you’ve found that cushy seat in Jannah, where we all wish to be someday. We all can’t believe you’re no longer with us. We all wish for one more day, one more conversation with you, one more photograph, one more hug and kiss. Anything. Instead we will grasp our prayer rugs and prayer beads as the tears drop down our cheeks. Instead we will ask God to forgive you and forgive us. We will ask Him to take good care of you. We will try to smile reminiscing and thinking of yours, because, Farid, it was a great smile.

I remember how you and your cousins took such good care of me when I came to LB. I remember your greetings and hugs in the hallways between classes. I remember all of us standing around the showcase. I remember Halloween. I remember the football games… Your wit and profound intelligence. You are loved. Thank you for loving us. You are missed. You are in our thoughts and prayers every single day and we wish your family the strength of a thousand soldiers as it becomes apparent to all of us that reality cannot be escaped, at least not for very long.

I am sorry that you didn’t get to do all the things you wanted to, but I assure you, and I assure all of my friends that are mourning you this week, you are protected now. You are safe. And we live on knowing so.

Rest in peace, brother. We’re not that far away. Please, please look after us.

’nuff said. i think I’m done kicking myself in the ass for being young and stupid and up to next to no good. lesson learned, i think? maybe the issue is that in conjunction with this shitty habit, retail therapy is the only kind i know, i’m still partying like it’s 1999, and i’d really really really like to go skydiving this year. 22 has been quite an adventurous year. i think i’ll go have my egg and cheese croissant, nescafe spiked with just the right amount of…splenda (don’t get any ideas, it’s 1015 in the morning) and maybe open up the new york times to catch myself up on more of the cyclone/earthquake/election same ol’ same. sigh, world. sigh.

more later.. always.

loves,

d

p.s. dear sharon stone, any respect i may have had for you as an actress has been completely destroyed by the lack of respect you have for yourself as a human being in claiming the chinese earthquake and its aftermath is a result of “bad karma” in relation to china’s handling of tibet. nearly 100,000 people dead and tons more missing and you have the balls to say they had it coming?!? argh! bitch.

OK, back to my happy place.

It was the day I found Dina. And the journey that followed that day has been the most enriching and simultaneously exhausting experience of my life. But, finally, I see results. I saved myself from a constant feeling of bitterness, jadedness, and utter disgust with my lack of control over my own golden path.

It’s so hard to admit this, but perhaps this year has signified one in which a certain level of respect for myself I had not attained before was suddenly within such close reach that I could taste and smell and see it with my brown eyes, pupils dilated, of course, from the amazement I was undergoing. It’s so beautiful, so fulfilling, and so inspiring to know that despite my lack of what may seem “adequate” to others in terms of “life experiences”, I’ve finally entered this stage of development and progression in my life that I haven’t really had the chance to give myself credit for.

It’s the first time I write about this, and I need not go into detail about what the last few years of my life have been personally, seeing as many of you reading already know; and those who don’t, don’t really need to.

Just thought I’d share with you my celebration of life, love, friendship, and every dream and aspiration that I’ll ever aim to achieve. Despite the bitching and moaning of my LSE experiences, I thank God for every passing day I’ve been privileged to call my own. The race has only begun, and I’m in no hurry to reach the finish line.

Loves

D