Mangoes are back!

Guess what Guys and Girls?  It's mango season!  Yes indeed-y and the ripe juicy fruit are now available just about anywhere.  I confess though I've never been a huge fan of them but every few years I suddenly am overcome with the irresistible urge to consume my body weight in the sweet succulent treat.  I guess this is one of those years.  Incidentally, I do not buy them at the American grocery.  I find those to be bland and blah.  I prefer those sold by my countrymen.  Now those folks know their mangoes.

A few days ago I went to the Bangladeshi store to purchase some Hilsa fish and pick up some other staples for my cupboard.  Due to work pressures I can’t always prepare a home made meal for my little family of 2 and thanks to my rather traditional upbringing, I do suffer from a good bit of (Muslim, Bangladeshi?) guilt for this reason.  Therefore when this feeling of “I so need to feed my husband” becomes overpowering, I find time through my exhaustion to be a good wife.  Doesn’t always happen but I try.  Unfortunately these times of being that good spouse are becoming fewer and further apart and poor lil P has had to pick up the slack (not that this man could ever be labeled as lazy anyhow). 

Lately P has been doing all the grocery shopping for the house since well, you know, I’m always working but once in a while I volunteer to do some of these mundane everyday tasks in order to feel at least as if I’m getting back in-touch with the world (even if it’s not true at all and only a temporary reprieve).  It’s bad though when you walk into your grocer and the proprietor looks at you and says “wow, haven’t see you in so long, did someone hold you hostage?”  I’m thinking and wondering to myself, “Why yes, yes in fact, I have been, how did you know?”  Instead I smiled politely, gave one of those nervous tittering laughs and changed the subject.

It was while I was checking out when I saw a tall stack of boxes but before I saw them actually; my nose had detected them, the ripe smell of mangoes lingering in the air.  This sense alone triggered a few happy memories and I made the snap decision to buy a box for home.  There are about 9 to a box I believe.  A little bit of overkill for a family of just me and my hubs but oh well.  P was actually surprised when I walked in with the purchase since he knew that I wasn’t such a big fan but he was also aware that I had my impulses and he should just not question.  After 16 years, he best know these things!

Later though, as I was elbow deep in Hilsa guts (oh it’s just about as yuck as it sounds) when once again the mangoes aroma wafted at me (yes, even through the strong presence of the fishy odor) and I had to pause once more, lean against the counter and hold one up to my nose to take a long slow breath (oh I did wash my hands like 4 times before picking one of the orange orbs up, don’t worry). 

I know that studies have been done endlessly about ‘triggers’ for memories.  A sound, a scent, a taste, a feeling (?) but for me I think the strongest may just be scent.  I mean I can be anywhere and smell something and suddenly become transported back, back into the past.  Some aren’t so great, but most are pleasant.  This one was.

When I was a young bride, 16 years ago as I had mentioned just a few lines above, my husband and I decided (or rather was told by our families) that we had to go back to Bdesh to introduce each other to the rest of the extended members of the clans.  Since our wedding was here in the states, we had tons of very important people who missed the blessed event.  Of course we didn’t mind which meant 6 months after getting hitched we were winging it back to the land of our forefathers.  There was to be a big wedding reception (again, in fact the 3^rd one…talk about redundant) thrown in our honor by P’s brother and family.  My mom’s and dad’s relatives were (of course) all invited but before this big shindig, we were both going to introduce each other to our grandmothers.  Both of our grandfathers had long since passed away therefore this meeting was special.  And I can report to you that the introductions went brilliantly.  We were both embraced by the two oldest members of our individual families with much love and adoration.  Phew! 

So where does the memory mango come into play?  You know folks; I always have to give endless background before getting to any point, ever.  I would apologize for this but I know I’m not about to change and I hope to some degree you don’t want me to either. 

Moving on…

P’s family lived in the main city of Dhaka while mine, for the most part, lived/lives in Chittagong.  I’ve already spoken about these two places before and even provided a map; I’m so not doing that again.  Use your awesome Google or Bing skills and look it up for yourselves!  After about a week with his folks, we took the 5 hour bus journey to see my mom’s fam.  That bus ride in itself was amusing as heck and I could probably generate plenty of stories from it alone but no thanks, I’ll pass.  Just one little detail that I can share, the bus driver, within 10 minutes of leaving the bus depot, managed to get into an accident with another car.  I don’t believe proof of insurance and registration were exchanged by either parties but a lot of yelling and flailing of arms were to be seen and heard.

We stayed in Chittagong for about 1 week since my darling husband had limited time.  Our plan had been for him to stay for 3 weeks in the country and then fly back home to get back to work while I would stay on an additional month.  If he was going to bond with the family, it would have to be quick, so you can imagine to my vast relief, P seemed to fit in very well with the crazy crew which in retrospect shouldn’t have surprised me.  He’s really one of the nicest most congenial guys you’ll ever meet (don’t know what the poor guy did to deserve me though or how he managed to piss God off so bad that I ended up as his wife…heh).  He was the first arranged marriage son-in-law to join the family and that in itself was considered pretty awesome to the Bengali contingent.  I don’t think for a moment they ever thought that a.) I would get married to a brown guy b.) If I did, it wouldn’t be a Bangladeshi guy for sure c.)  More likely I would marry a white/Pakistani/India/other man d.) No way would I agree to an arranged marriage.  I sure did prove them wrong.  Booya!

As I said, he blended in so seamlessly that not even within days, but hours, he almost seemed like a permanent fixture amongst the aunts, uncles, cousins.  He never stood on ceremony like other new son-in-laws would/could do and after the initial shock of how instantaneously comfortable he had become, the family also loosened up. 

How exactly comfortable were all they with each other?  Well, one fine morning as I got up sweating from a fairly fitful sleep, I would discover the extent of not only them accepting him, but how much he was just a fantastic heartfelt uncomplicated ‘real’ person.  Btw, why was I sweating?  No Loves, I hadn’t had a bad dream, it was just so damn hot that summer that you often fell asleep and woke up drenched in perspiration.  And because falling asleep in such heat was undoubtedly difficult hence not actually drifting off till very, very late, I wouldn’t wake up till a lot later also than P who was very much an early riser.  To this day, even on days off, he will bounce out of bed, shower, dress and putter around for hours while I’m snoozing away to glory.  I’ve tried to feel bad about this in the past but I can’t seem to muster the real emotion.  I’m just not a morning person.

Anyhow, I got up, took a cold shower (which I didn’t mind in the least) and with a grimace put on a salwar kameez that seemed to instantly stick to me...blah.  I recall feeling put out due to the lack of a restful night of sleep so I was ready to snap anyone and everyone’s head off.  But this was not to be for within a few seconds, my mood itself changed. 

The house at that time, no not the tin-roofed one, had an open courtyard in the middle.  That’s where a lot of time would be spent in preparing food, sitting and talking, maybe someone would be putting oil in someone else’s hair or just soaking in the sun.  Just know that this was a popular congregating place.  That day, a hawker who was selling a basket full of mangoes which had been perched on top of his head, had been hailed and brought into the court yard by none other than my husband who hadn’t had a ‘desi’ mango in far too many years.  He was downright giddy with excitement and as I stood there watching from the shadows of the outer lying veranda that created a giant “U” around the premise, I couldn’t help but smile.

There he was, my handsome new husband squatting down next to my grandmother who was radiant in a white sari.  Their heads were together as they carefully picked through the mangoes, rejecting most, setting aside a few until there was a largish mound.  My Nanu kept telling P that they didn’t need that much but he insisted pointing out that the family was large so everyone had to have at least one.  I watched them banter and laugh, P telling Nanu about how he had missed the taste of the real Bangladeshi grown mangoes (which, yes, taste different than anything you can get here or in Mexico) while she in turn was shocked that he had been so very deprived all these years.  Their interaction was fantastic to watch.  The way she smiled at him brought tears to my eyes.

Once the transaction was completed a tussle to pay the hawker ensued.  I was proud to see that P would not even consider letting my grandmother, nor any of the other members of the family who had by then joined them, pay.  Once the amused, rather emaciated looking, seller had left with his pockets a lot fuller (P paid way more than the bargain price even though everyone protested it…he didn’t care, to him it was helping the poor when he himself had enough to do so…yes, I am a proud wife.) P sat there smelling the fruit while talking enthusiastically to the others.  They figured he would want to eat one after breakfast but clearly he couldn’t wait so the cook was called and instructed to peel and dice a few for him immediately.

However, P seemed to be in the mood to go old school.  He told the cook that he would take care of it himself, much to my family’s horror.  He took himself off to give the piece of fruit a good wash and then came back to plop himself back down next to Nanu.  She watched fascinated (as well as listened) as he systematically softened the uncut mango in his hands, explaining how as a child he would do this after stealing them from somewhere (I can’t remember where now) and that’s how he loved to consume the fruit the best…the ‘natural’ way.  I laughed softly, as did all the others not so quietly, while we watched my brand new groom sit there in the sun with is hair slightly wet from the shower he had taken a bit ago, sprawled next to my grandmother on a wicker stool of sorts, biting off a small piece of the top part of the mango (which he spit out) and then simply sucked the softened pulp and juices right out of it.  It was sometime around that point when he finally spotted me, motioning me over enthusiastically and insisting, and I mean insisting, that I join him.  What did I do?  Well…I joined him of course.  Love makes people do silly things I tell you. 

We sat together, my grandmother, me, him, a smattering few of the cousins all enjoying those mangoes, sucking the life juices (literally) out of them and nothing, I seriously mean nothing, has ever tasted so amazing.  The juices left our fingers, mouths and even our arms all sticky but it was incredible, nothing was quite like it.

Truthfully, since then, mangoes have never tasted the same either.  Not even this one that I’m about to consume, yes that too at work, but no I shall cut it up and eat like a person, not a heathen ; )  Here's a picture of the before...I won't show you the after. 

boring mindless nonsensical ramblings of a crazy woman about to hit writers block

Oh gosh today is one of those days when I want to write about something but absolutely nothing comes to mind.  Have you ever experienced this, particularly you other bloggers out there?  I have before and what this usually means is impending and looming writers block.  Yes Crickets, writers block!  And it’s usually pretty horrible.  Can you almost hear the dramatic music crescendo-ing?

So I agree that this may not be quite the ‘end of the world’ scenario that I’m making it out to be, I mean after all I am sitting here and writing, right?  Ironically enough I’m writing about not being able to write.  What’s wrong with this picture?   And haven’t I actually blogged about this same darn thing before?  =\

Here’s something I realize (although I don’t think this ‘light bulb’ moment is recent but I’m just being redundant), when my mind is going a hundred miles an hour in a hundred different directions, thinking a hundred crazy things that I shouldn’t be thinking about, inevitably I feel much calmer when I can focus on putting my thoughts down onto paper.  Of course this works when I have one thought that I can most zero in on but, oh frustrated growly sigh, that doesn’t always happen.  Sometimes I may have a thought that, a few days ago, seemed rather brilliant to write about but by the time I take keyboard to fingertips… *poof*  gone or worse I start to type and I’m staring at the page like a zombie wondering why anyone, and I mean anyone, would want to read this nonsense.  That is the oncoming of writers block for me.

And what precisely does this mean?  I don’t mean the dictionary term for it but as in how does it manifest exactly?  I stop writing.  Truly stop writing and I don’t mean for a few days.  No, this goes on for months.  Once I went for a year not having memorialized one single thought at all.  Yea, I dropped off blogosphere completely while successfully dodging questions as to what had happened.  When I couldn’t totally get away with a flippant explanation to some more adamant readers (mostly close friends) my response was that there was a severe lack of motivation, nothing to say in the least and more pointedly during that time frame I just did not want to share my thoughts.  Yes, dark thoughts they were, unhappy and most certainly very private.  Those were the times when I used to think that nothing in my existence was worth sharing with anyone, not even with me to be frank.  Do I still feel that way? Yes.

But then again to some extent I must want to share right, since here is the very evidence of my need?  Actually to tell you the truth, it’s not necessarily my present that I mostly convey in my writing, it’s my past.  My future, well that’s yet to be realized hence what can I say about that?  I’m one of those annoying folks who don’t like to talk about my hopes and dreams since 9 times out of 10 they never materialize any way.  It’s bad enough that I know that I can be an epic failure, but for the whole world (and those 12 people who follow me) to also know?  No way.  That’s just too humiliating for words. 

Back to my past, yes, let’s thank those memories that honestly were the reason this blog was created.  Of course you could be cursing them as well for the exact same reason but if that were the case, then get off my damn blog page, what the heck are you doing here anyway?  Sheesh.

Um, wait was it that I was saying?  Oh right, so the past of course is what has helped me decide to open this blog and share.  And truly I do love it although sometimes too many reliving of memories can be a bit depressing.  I try hard to go from serious reflections of the world around me, to funny anecdotes about what’s happening to me (or others) which can jump to such topics as childhood recollections of this or that and even sometimes simple conversations retold from my POV.  These aren’t things you haven’t witnessed if you’ve been following me.

Dang it, I don’t even know where I was going with that thought.  Talk about being scatter brained today.  I’m glad with this blog at least I took the time to look back and re-read.  This is total crap!  Ok, onwards I go, even if the next paragraph is in no way connected to the previous, just read on and get it over with… 

Let me restate again, today writing seemed neigh on impossible and I, up to this moment, was not happy about it.  I was in fact just biatching to my girlfriend S about how I feel as if I’m about to hit a wall particularly because the topic I started on was going no where.  She asked me what it was that I was at least attempting to write and I told her “Bollywood”.  Honestly I could have told her I’m writing about a paper clip and she would still be ‘intrigued’ to see what I came up with.  She’s so totally awesome and (at least I believe) one of my biggest supporters, my cute little Chocolate Cupcake : )   Oh incidentally, she’s a pretty fantastic writer herself (as well as a kickass photographer, an amazing teacher and so artsy creative that she makes me downright envious of her talents).  I’ve added her blog URL at the bottom, do check it out.  She’s worthy of the read : )  Heck never mind looking at no darn URL, let me give it here:   http://saltyyfish.blogspot.de/

 

So yea, the Bollywood blog, where is it?  No, don’t bother going back to the home page to see if you can find it, you won’t be able to I assure you.  Clearly I did not post it and that’s because after about 2.5 sentences I found absolutely nowhere to go with it.  I mean nada Crickets, not a damn place.  Even those 2.5 lines seem far too contrived and frankly boring to me.  Mind you, I did give it my old college try.  I think I sat here for far too long wondering how I could spin it to make the story/retelling/whatever interesting but nope, I believe this one is dead in the water.  I can’t, I just can’t post something that I’m at least not somewhat pleased with so that particular one shall be put back onto the shelf until such time that my thoughts have managed to gel themselves together and I can come up with something noteworthy to say (yea right, because like anything I have written thus far has been so superiorly astoundingly groundbreaking-ly awesome, right?)

Err…weird though, in my effort to warn you about the impending and looming wall of non-writing, I managed to write.  Hmm…I wonder if this will keep working.  Like every time I fear writer’s block I just write a blog about it and whammo, I’m back?  Seems like a plan to me.

Well that’s that.  Have I managed to make your eyes cross?  I promise, promise, promise that the next blog I post will be far more amusing and less mindless.  If I was less lazy, I would hashtag this as ‘boring mindless nonsensical ramblings of a crazy woman about to hit writers block’.  Can one do that?  Never mind, I won’t do it anyhow.  But Oh, it will make a great title.

 : )

Chicken Run

I was chatting with a friend earlier and I admitted to her that I'm not scared of guns, knives or other such instruments of death and destruction.  She asked me what I was afraid of and I admitted with a pause "chickens".  I could almost hear her stunned gasp, almost but since this was after all the internet I imagined what my reaction would have been and did a total transference thing, hence that's what I figured it was.

Right, let me repeat: what am I scared of?  Chickens.  Not dead ones, those are fine and yummy in my tummy (you vegetarians can shudder with disgust as much as you want, I'm a happy carnivore) but I'm talking about the real live ones that squawk and peck and flap their feathery wings.  Those are the types that scare me.  You're probably wondering how and why live poultry puts the fear of God in me.  Well Crickets, in my world, there is always a story that explains all my lunacy.

During summer holidays when I was in grade school, every few years my mother would drag me to Bangladesh to spend all of it sweltering in sticky, humid, hot equator heat.  This wasn't just to torture me but it was her effort to expose me to the land she called home as well as the folks that were her family.  FYI, my mother was only 19 when she left Bdesh so these jaunts back must have been liberating and welcome. 

Back in the good old days my grandfather’s home was big and sprawling with a tin roof that repelled heat amazingly well.  All my mother's 3 sisters (those that lived close enough) would come for an extended stay in order to catch total quality time with their otherwise MIA sister and their husbands were awesome enough not to mind, hell they came along also.  The cousins were all little (many hadn't been born up to that point) and I can only remember the uncles and aunts being young, beautiful and pretty darn funny.  My grandparents were still alive too and so I, who longed for the attention lavished upon one by grandparents, j’adored those times where I would always be given special attention. 

The house itself boasted coconut and mango trees in the back and in the front yard there was this huge ginormous Tethul (tamarind) tree.  My mother told me that it housed Jinn's.  What are those you wonder?  Well lemme wikki cheat and tell you... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinn.  There is a whole other blog that will be dedicated to the Jinn but for now suffice it to say that there were Jinn's living in the tree which was why from sundown to sun up we were not allowed to play under the tree or go outside without tying our hair back.  Call it superstitious if you like but when someone told me that I could get snatched up by some spirit, I did whatever it was that I had to do in order to avoid such a thing from happening.  Period.

Back then also my grandmother was quite the fashionista in her burqa of different colors.  She preferred not to wear the traditional black but instead went with soft pastel colors.  My favorite was a sky blue one that she looked so angelic in and I used to love going out with her, taking pride in the fact that she was so fashion forward.  She would often take me to go visit a friend here or there or to the market when I was getting bored at home.  I loved the alone time we had and she was very curious about my life in the states.  Not more so than my grandfather but yes, she was very interested in knowing if what we did in the states were anything like how things were done in Bangladesh.  I think she often was astounded by the similarities. 

During those few months I was there though, I was treated like royalty.  Someone was always buying me something, plying me with sweets or taking me here and there.  For my grandmother, it was always asking me what special thing did I want to eat and my response ultimately was always: chicken! 

And this is where my trauma and life long fear of live poultry started from (bet you were wondering when I was about to get to the point):  I remember the first time she took me to the market to buy some chicken for the evening meal and there in a cage was like 50 hens all sitting and looking forlornly out at the world.  How sad they appeared all cooped up there not able to move seeming almost comatose until one was yanked out to be inspected.  Then boy o boy would they kick up a ruckus.  I think I was confused at first though.  After all at home we went to a grocery store and pretty much bought one that wasn't so...um...alive.  But dang these things were like clucking and stuff.  After some molesting of said chicken on my grandmothers part (well more like she was checking them over but it sure seemed like molesting, hell I would have been offended and filed a police report if I was those poor cluckers), two were chosen and we moved on to buy a few more necessities.  Once we finally hailed a rickshaw, a kid who worked at the chicken stall showed up and to my great consternation, the claw-bound chickens were deposited near our feet.  I was horrified.  What the hell??  Weren’t the darn things just supposed to sorta…appear at the house?

The damn chicken’s tiny little heads were turned towards me, beady little eyes sort of accusing.  I swear it!  No really, it was as if they were trying to say to me 'you'll get yours...just you wait and see'.  I was petrified all the way home albeit trying not to show it but every time the rickshaw lurched, the chickens would flop and I would gasp inwardly, even cringed.  Oh it was a torturous ride, thankfully quick too for when we pulled to a stop, I literally jumped clear off the rickshaw and made a run for it.  By the time my grandmother walked in the door, I was cowering on the bed trying to compose myself.  She had, at one point, figured out what was up with my erratic behavior and immediately started to heckle me.  I don't blame her now that I think of it. 

So what does my sweet grandmother decide to do?  Do you think she sat next to me and consoled me?  Or explained to me that chickens, indeed, are not dangerous creatures as I had figured them to be?  Do you think she used soothing words to put my fears to rest?  Nope, not my Nanu (which means Mother’s Mother a.k.a. Granny).  No, this sweet lovely woman who adored me, waited till later that afternoon when I was lazing in the sun on a bedspread soaking in some vitamin D in the front yard whilst reading a book and at which point she called my name, I turned and there tucked under her right arm was one of the two chickens.  The darn thing was like inches away from my face just staring in this crazed way. 

I literally screamed and scrambled off and up; asking her what it was she was doing.  She said she wanted to 'introduce' her new friend to me.  With that she took after me in a dead run.  I was not to be outdone hence I also went screaming and tearing through the house, past my mother who did nothing but laugh, as did her sisters, brothers, servants, cleaning girl, grandfather and myriad of cousins.  No one helped.  Not one soul.  Now that I think of it...man those were some mean people.

I realized even back then that the worse that chicken could do to me was squawk up a storm, probably super unhappy to be squeezed to death as Nanu clutched it and ran but I assumed that if I was to stop, it would be unleashed upon me and would peck my eyes out.  *shrugs* It so could happen, right? 

Anyhoo...that event, that one singular event, has turned me off to chickens.  Not the eating of them of course but to me they seem like sorta scary Bride-of-Chucky beings...like clowns.   They appear absolutely normal, even cute (right, I admit the girl doll was never that cute but you get what I mean here) but in reality they have evil built into them!  Mind you a few years prior when I was in Bdesh I had kept a pet chicken but who are we kidding, it didn't come near me (which I wasn't too upset about) and eventually it became dinner (I witnessed the murder of it and may I just say...ugly). 

Oh btw the end of that story was basically that I finally ran to the neighbors house.  My grandmother had no intention of chasing me all the way there and therefore proceeded to kill the sucker and yes, we had that for dinner also.  I ate it with a lot of joy, I do admit. 



This is Ninja Chicken...Yes I drew her but I copied the sketch...Be afraid.  She shall come for you.



Memorial Day (+ nostalgia)

Ah, its Memorial Day weekend, Crickets!  And do you know what that means?  We can start to wear white now!  Lol…okay sorry, that’s not what it means but I had to throw it in there.  Actually though as a child growing up I always was told that you couldn’t wear white until after Memorial Day and up to Labor Day.  I followed that rule until a few years ago when I was watching this popular show called “What Not to Wear” and the host and hostess (Stacy and Clinton) declared that the aforementioned rule was stupid and ridiculous and that you could wear white anytime you so felt the need or want.  Since then I have thumbed my nose at society and have rocked the saafed (white in Hindi) whenever the spirit has moved me.  Oh yea, watch it!

But okay other than the whole white thing, this weekend represents a few more important popular American…um…stuff.  I couldn’t think of a better word so you’re stuck with ‘stuff’.  Mem Day weekend is all about the real coming of summer, the shedding of more clothes than has already been shed, the busting out of bikinis, the cleaning off of grills that hadn’t already been cleaned and vacations being planned.   Kids are tromping around every where prepared to graduate; parties are being plan up the yingyang and nearly everyone gears up to spend a few long lazy warm evenings on stoops or decks chatting with friends/family.

In fact, some of my best memories come from what I still think is the ultimate childhood, the sort that kids of today unfortunately no longer experience.  This was how any typical summer day was for me (with a few variations thrown in): 

*Get up, have breakfast and watch cartoons.

*Complete some chores.

*Change and go outside.

*Play, play, play and then when you’re tired…play some more.

*Ride bike everywhere and nowhere. 

*At one point score ice cream from the trucks with the pretty music as you clutch a dollar in your hand and sprint for them.

*Rip or dirty clothes was a must.

*Biking to 7-11 to buy a big gulp sometimes, also a must.

*Learning to ride a bike without hands, and master it by the end of the summer!

*Monkey around on the jungle gym at the nearby elementary school.

*Fly high on the swings.

*Play freeze tag with the neighborhood kids.

*Have lunch at your friends place or they come to your place but there was always apple juice.

*Going to a friend’s home was okay because everyone in the neighborhood knew each other.

*Play, bike, play, bike.

*Got called in before Magrib to wash up.

*Have dinner with family.

And after dinner, what did we do?  This is where the nostalgia really kicks in and makes me yearn for those days:  As the hot days would morph and cool into lesser heated evenings, the sun sinking slowly into the distant horizon as the moon would rise, glorious and pearly white; the fireflies would come out and twinkle in the darkness.  My mother would make her way out to the stoop to sit and catch the breeze after a long day of chores and cooking, as would so many other parents in the neighborhood (although what they did, I wasn’t sure).  They would all be relaxed; some would wander over and congregate together to catch-up and gossip.  The kids would run around in the dark catching fireflies in glass jars after poking holes in the lids.  Or we would pretend as if we were princess, pirates, living in other lands, the darkness of the grass our ocean, the stars above our navigation.  These were our nights.

Those were the days of innocence.  Where there were no cell phones, no Smartphone’s, no tablets, no violent computer games or whatever it is that kids do to occupy their time.  Summers meant us forced to stay outside and play or if we were inside we had allotted time to watch television or otherwise you would read.  But the main theme was:  go out, you’re children, run and play because for the rest of your adult life, you will have little time to enjoy this luxury.  GO!

Anyhow those were our summers, and the heralding in of those wonderful days and nights?  Memorial Day! I know I sort of went off on a trip down memory lane here (and a bit of a tangent), like when don’t I right?  But to be honest, if I had to pick another time of my life to relive, those would be it.  *le sigh*

Oh and another thing that is definitely synonymous with Mem Day Weekend?  Why Rolling Thunder, of course!  Want to know what that is?  Well check it out:  http://dc.about.com/od/specialevents/a/RollingThunder.htm  now I can’t think of this weekend without picturing bikers on all sorts roaring beauties cruisin’ all around DC.  Anyone into bikers, y’all should hot foot it toot-sweet into town cause they are literally everywhere! Good stuff. 

Anyhow folks, have a lovely weekend, long weekend, day, night, whatever…just make it good.

Something about me

Okay, I know that I often reveal tidbits of interesting information about myself here and there but for the most part I hold back anything too terribly personal (personal as in stuff about my person, not my life)...um...well at least I think I do.  I would go back through all the 60 odd blogs I've banged out to confirm this but hey I'm the first to admit that I'm too lazy and those damn things are wayyyyyy too long.  Jeez, I mean how long winded can a person be?  How do people not fall asleep mid-read?

Oh but I digress...(which is something I do all the time as you all well know hence deal with it.)

Back to the initial point though...so it's a well known fact around my friends circle, and I'm talkin' about those folks who hang with me, have gone out with me and have had the glorious pleasure of spending evenings with me about town, that for some odd reason, I tend to get a lot of free things.  You're thinking, what's the big deal?  I suppose it's not but when you're out for an evening with your girlfriends and the waitress hooks you up because you're 'her girl' and therefore at least 50% of the bill is knocked off, that's not such a bad thing, right?  Or like when you go to Starbucks every single day, to the point where the barista knows what you'll have and starts to make it for you immediately, and you're charged anywhere between .55 to nada...well then again, it's not such a horrible thing.

Now I've been told by a few gal pals that the reason I get these hook ups is because yours truly is a flirt.  Ummmmmmmmmm...no.  It may be hard to believe, and a few of my pals who are reading this may even be rolling their eyes, but it's a fact.  I do not flirt.  I have never flirted.  Wait, wait, that's not entirely true.  I remember long ago, and I mean long ago, I attempted to flirt with this guy once and as I was busy batting my lashes at him while flinging my hair about in what I thought was a sexy manner, he looked at me with a tilt to his head and said in a concerned voice 'you got something in your eyes?'  =\

Right...after that flirting, I realized, didn't like me nor did I like it.  Crashing and burning in that way teaches ones lessons, I learned it and have stuck to it every since which was basically to leave the flirting up to the professionals (whoever they may be).  But you may wonder then, how do I garner attention enough to score these free-bees?  Is it because I'm some stunning model-esq sort of ethereal being?  Pfft...Not even in my dreams.  Is it because I have a killer bod that makes men drool?  Bahahahahha...that would be the joke of the century.  I have a figure; I mean round is a figure, right?  The so called 'baby fat' that my mother swore I would grow out of as a kid, decided to stick around as an adult and loves me so much that it refuses to leave.  I'm perfectly comfy with my size but weirdly enough others are more discomforted by it than I am.  Oh well.  I do have an okay face and people say I have beautiful eyes (thanks Mom and Dad) but at the end of the day, I'm very much your average Jane.  Nothing special, nothing that stands out, nothing that is noteworthy.  I won't walk by you on the street leaving some sort of impression.  I can guarantee that you will not twist your body around to watch me walk away because I'm just that smoking, not unless it's because I've dropped something or you want to point out to me that I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe or you need directions to the nearest monument. 

This, btw, is okay by me.  I mean hey, I'm all about blending.  As it is by being desi, I always tend to stick out so a bit of DL never hurt.  As I've said before, don't feel bad for me, I'm very comfy in my own skin and writing all this down is actually nice, refreshing even. 

Um...oh yes so what makes me the recipient of all these free things?  And that too sans any flirting or cajoling?  Well...its simple people, doesn't take a genius to figure this out:  I'm nice. 

Are you going 'ooooohhhh!!' or 'hmmmmmm' or 'impossible, she lies!'?

I assure you it's true.  I am nice.  Now don't mistake this for me being nice on the street to anyone who walks by.  I mean I'm not a psycho who walks around grinning and patting people on the back and loving all of humanity.  I've told you, I don't like people as a general rule, mankind disappoints and depresses me.  What I do though is to be nice to the person I'm looking at.  Let's take for instance that barista I spoke of...well...if I walk up to a cashier who has just had about 100 people in line before me demanding their morning java, barking out orders, generally being unpleasant...well how many do you think among those sour faced disgruntled patrons actually took the time to say 'good morning, how are you' and meant it?  Right, think about that and then you'll see why I try to be the person who walks up there and says with sincerity 'Hi, how are you? Hope you're morning improves!' with the inflection in my voice that conveys to them that I'm truly asking (and/or commenting, wishing, etc...), not just using it as banal filler before getting the elixir of life.  They are not a stepping stone for me, they are humans. 

Just like this, when I'm at a bar with friends, out to dinner with those I love, I do not treat the waiters or waitresses like servants saying to myself 'that's what they're for, what they're being paid to do'.  Well so what?  Yes they're being paid but does it mean that you have to marginalize their existence?  When you're at work and your boss or clients fail to be civil to you, does that mean its okay because after all they pay you?  Hmm, when did a job actually mean you're their own personal whipping boy/girl simply because they employ you?  Is that how it is or should be?  Yea, not in my world it's not.  "Treat others like you'd want to be treated", ever heard of those words?  May be I'm quoting it wrong but it's something like that, you get the gist.

This is why I get free stuff, not because I flirt, not because I flash skin or make suggestive comments, truly I am not built to do all that nonsense.  What I am is friendly, nice and I will talk to others with compassion and caring.  I will joke with them and I will make sure they feel at ease with me.  I will basically humanize them, as they should be, as they are.  I never ask for anything, and when they do give it, I often feel humbled.  I do not take it as my due...that the smile I have been bestowing on them deserves payment.  The only thing I do want in return is that may be next time, they smile in return or say a kind word back when I may most need it, even if it's not calculated.  I like the idea that I'll walk away from someone and they will think to themselves 'well she was nice'.  That's truly all I strive for.  If the world tomorrow stopped giving me free things, I can tell you in all honesty, I would still smile, still be nice.

That's just how I roll.

I am in hell a.k.a training. 

The most boring training on earth to be specific.  One that makes me want to tear my hair out by the roots.  Worse, I have to go to the bathroom...really badly.  Like as in, pee in a cup sort of bad or rather may be just walk out to go to the ladies room so I can relieve myself bad.  Oh, it's also via video conference hence I'm watching the trainers desktop while she rambles on endlessly in a monotonous voice over conference call. I want to scream in agony.  This is truly akin to torture, seriously. 

I can't help but wonder: is this even allowed in the USA, this brand of slow death?

I'm sure there's something in the books saying that this sort of torture is illegal or at least frowned upon.  Someone just hand me a gun and let me end it all...meaning shoot my phone and computer, not myself or the trainer.  It's not her fault that she's so boring.  Actually it is, but I don't think the subject matter can be spiced up by even the most brilliant of orators.  

Regardless, all I can do is sit here and stare glassy-eyed at the screen and I don't know about my counterparts who are taking the same training but I for sure have zoned in and out a few times.  I keep thinking about how I need to get out of here and go shopping for cute clothes for the weekend trip away my girls and I will be taking to AC in two weeks.  Surely that's way more important than this training, right?

Oh this is seriously horrid.  As soon as this is over, I'm out.  I'm flying the coop.  I'm done for the day.

END ALREADY!!!!!  

REPOST: Chivalry Is Dead

I believe I mentioned once (or twice) before that I had another blog for a while, actually longer than just 'a while', approximately 3 years.  Why didn't I just continue with that blog instead of creating a whole new one?  Well honestly because most of it wasn't fit for general public consumption.  Let's just say that I bared my soul on that blog and only a few lucky folks had full access to it.  However nostalgia has been knocking at my door lately which has prompted me to go back to read that old blog and whereas most of the 200+ entries are still not appropriate for republishing, a few are good enough so I think I'll go ahead and do so. 

Keep in mind that many things that are in these reposted blogs are now irrelevant in my life.  The friends are still friends but may not play a big role any longer, the situations have long since lapsed into nothing but memories but I think for the most part, the feelings behind the words remains.  I STILL think that chivalry is dead.  *shrugs*

My first thought was that I may need to edit a few words here and there to tone these down somewhat but I've decided against that.  That blogger was me as much as who I am today and therefore I should represent myself completely honestly.  Through the years I have changed, calmed down, become a bit more careful with my choice of words but regardless I think you deserve to see who I was as much as who I am.  Beware, the language isn't all that clean and therefore if you don't like to read curse words, please don't read on.  If you're okay with it, enjoy : )  This was posted in November of 2007:

Believe it or not darlings, it's dead. It's gone the way of the Dodo.

I've had a lot of time to reflect on this considering certain key events in my friend (and yes even my) life. It's proof positive that all sorts of chivalry and romance of yor is dead. And worse of all, our modern woman asses don't even expect it anymore. Sure there are relationship anomalies...the rare happily ever afters but those are just that…rare.

You may be sitting there frowning, thinking, what’s wrong with her? Well let me assure you, there was a time when I believed in knights on white steeds, castles, beautiful princesses and the above mentioned ‘happily every after’. I wasn’t always the pessimist I am today. If you’ve read any of my earlier entries, than you know that I still in some small part of my soul harbor hope that it is still alive and well (most likely living in Sweden). For right now, I don’t believe in it. Bah!

I once sat watching television, zoning in and out as I often do while multitasking, and caught a commercial. It was for the United States Army. A guy fighting in shiny gleaming armor suddenly morphs into this marine with a big saber. I sighed at how awesome that commercial was.

Now if I saw that blasted commercial, I’d launch my red leather kitten heeled Nordstrom boot right at it (the one with the real sharp point).

There are no knights. The knights of today are men who love to play with their big guns (yes, plenty of pun intended here) and who like to have control and scare the bejesus out of anyone who may look at them funny. What are police, Secret Service, CIA, FBI and the militia but a lot of men who love to dawdle with their beloved firearms more than their loved ones?

Okay wait, I’m not being fair in my rantings darlings, I know this. No, of course there are those men out there who fight for our country, protect us, shelter us…blah blah blah…however…(and I’m focusing on men here for a second because I know a lot of you are thinking, oh hell there are a lot of women in the military and all those other agencies but let me get this out)….however, true chivalry is dead. Not the kind that involves tanks, bullet proof jackets and black sunglasses.

The chivalry I speaketh of is the type that makes a man turn to the one he loves and allows himself to care for her in the face of all adversity, even in the face of his own self. The chivalry I speaketh of darlings, is the type that makes a man step up to the plate and declare himself for the world to behold. It’s the type that makes a man keep his ass at home where he is needed instead of gallivanting all around hither and yon. It’s the type of man who gives of himself and expects only love in return and is thankful for it. It’s the type of man who knows how to appreciate the woman who loves him more than her own soul and is gratified by that mere notion and thanks God for her in his life. That kind of chivalry is dead in all but a very select few. I feel blessed that I happen to know some of those select few but believe me, they are truly few. *le sigh*

What more evidence do I need than how my dearest sister from another sperm has been treated by her loved one. The cur. The wimp (No worries, I won’t launch into another tirade about him cause that’ll take up more KB than you can imagine) which I knew he was for a long time anyhow, however standing in a lonely quiet hall while she wept brokenly into my shoulder, quacking all over while she was wracked with sobs, does nothing but solidify my views and harden my resolve to hurt him one day (i.e. lay him low). He could have come out and said it long ago, “this isn’t going to work, let’s just walk away from each other.” And yes, see that period at the end of that statement, it would have been essential to her peace of mind. But did he? Nah. Of course not, because the jackass has absolutely no sense of honor. It’s his selfishness that drove him to say nothing to her, not a damn peep but still allow himself endless opportunities to peek into her life through her blog while he stayed incommunicado about his own life. What an ass wipe.

Do I need further proof? Well here’s more for you in case you aren’t already nodding your head along with this diatribe.

I went down to have a …erm…break with one of my colleagues (who I shall refer to as "Precious") and she told me that her bf D, knowing she was diagnosed with pneumonia, knowing she was at the hospital just a day before, knowing that she needed some TLC, knowing that this girl got out of bed, bundled herself up and trooped all the way to his apartment while she suffered from said pneumonia because he didn’t come to her place, still went out to a club and then, to add insult to injury did NOT return even after he promised he would! Instead the jackass went out with his friends to Fly (where he goes all the time) and then to some jack-off’s place until the wee hours of the morning. I’m not kidding about wee hours friends, he called Precious at 5 am. Hello...you call an ailing Precious at 5am??? Where the hell is your head? Oh yeah, now I remember, right up your ass!

You think that’s bad? Isn’t that reason enough to apply boot to ass and kick this dude right to the curb? Well get this loves, he proceeded to promise to spend Sunday with Precious and what does he do? Sleep in till 1:30pm (cause who wouldn’t with a pneumonia stricken gf suffering around the house?) and then inform her that he’s going to a fucking game. A game! Forget the fact that a day earlier he promised to spend all of Sunday canoodling with said Precious.

Listen to me carefully loves:

Chivalry is dead.

Let’s all (read that as females) bend our head for a moment of silence and congratulate ourselves for:

a) not being that stone hearted

b) possessing emotions

c) knowing how to love

d) being able to give of ourselves selflessly wanting nothing in return but a hug, smile, pat, love

e) knowing that chivalry is indeed dead and therefore having no expectations of it manifesting itself in anyone

f) if it does manifest, then we are nice and surprised and take it for what it is and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth

g) can smile through our tears

h) and do a lot of other things as well!

Hey Challenges...you can stop now...thanks : )

I didn't want to write another sad maudlin blog but honestly I can't help it.  My life, whereas I thank God for it, sucks.  Seems like everything that can go wrong, is.  And I admit that I'm just totally ready to crawl into bed and not leave it for a really, really long time.  What's causing this need to become a bed hermit?  What's going on you're wondering?

 

Well...as you guys have read, we recently had a death in P's family, his grandmother to be specific and whereas she did live a long life, death is death and always difficult to grapple with.  I told a friend about her death sometime last week when he had asked how I was and I answered 'okay'.  He didn't think that response sounded like me and so after a bit of insistence on his part I spilled.  His response caught me off-guard slightly as he said "must've been old...but RIP".  I said that age doesn't matter, death is death and it hurts and his response back was "I disagree.  The death of a child is vastly different from the death of a 100 year old but that's just my opinion." 

 

Um...Okay.  May be I'm too sensitive sometimes, or since P's Nani's death had happened a mere 2 days prior to this conversation, I was still very much tender and these words brought me no comfort whatsoever, in fact I became pissed.  What the hell was wrong with this person?  I didn't want to tell him, when I did, this is what he says?  Is this normal?  Are people this insensitive?  I know I'm not.  And I would never debate that a child's death would be/is way more tragic than that of one who lived a longish life but honestly was that the right time to say such a thing?  On top of that, isn't it tragic when one lives a long but an unhappy life?  Do we have to start going into details now?  Why was it even a debate?  Anyhow, so yea that wasn't a great convo to have had.

 

Then there is the fact that two other close family members in P's family are also in and out of the hospital fighting for life.  In fact, these two are husband and wife.  Here we were waiting word that any day that one of the two would leave us and instead we get word that Nani dies.  I mean wow.

 

Okay and I know that what I'm about to say does not compare with death but hey this is my life and my blog so I have every right to jot down what I wish.  Most of you who have kept up with my blog knows that I was laid off from work a little over a year ago...from a place that I really loved.  And it took me a few months along with battling horrible depression to finally get off my butt and get myself a job.  Even as I signed on the dotted line I will admit that something, a 6th sense or something, told me that this wasn't going to be a good fit and well...I should always listen to that damn voice in my head because it was totally right. 

 

It is indeed a bad fit.  Let me say no more about this in fear that I may start to slander left, right and center, risking some sort of law suit slapped against me.  But one thing I can tell you is that I work nonstop.  You wouldn't think so considering I manage to eek out posts every now and then but that's because I jot down things in-between billing.  Which will explain why sometimes I'll start to write something for a particular day but end up posting it several days later and the references will seem a little off.

 

The thing is that I don't do anything that is about to save the world, hell not even one person.  I'm not some powerful CEO, the head of an organization which employs thousands, indeed I'm not.  Nor am I a great scientist looking for the next big cure to help humanity or even someone who is responsible to protect...well anything!  I'm none of these things.  I'm just another ho-hum worker bee that at the end of the day will probably leave no big legacy behind.  No one may remember me, no one will recall all the good I've done, no one will give me a second thought and although this thought does bum me out, I accept that only a select few are blessed to make some sort of impact in this world.  I don't begrudge them this because they've worked hard for what they've done while me...well okay so I lack that sort of get-up-and-go.  I most certainly do not have that killer instinct that propels folks to incredible heights.  Really, most of the time I'm just looking for moments where I can catch a few winks...I'm a simple person. 

 

Still, I'm stuck in a rut which I want to get out of quickly.  I used to find fulfillment in my job which I no longer possess and this makes the long hours of working that much more difficult when your very soul is crying out in agony.  *sigh*  In the last 2 months, I've worked every weekend, either Saturday, Sunday, or both.  It's horrid.  I'm a mess folks and every Monday morning brings fresh angst.  This has got to stop right?  But the economy isn't working with me and jobs are not abundant therefore the rut is here to stay for the time being.  I guess I'll deal but it is a challenge for sure.

 

Oh also, up to about a week ago, P was also miserable at work.  Two bitter people living under one roof is not fun FYI, just in case you were wondering but at least he was able to find another job fairly quickly and seems satisfied.  I envy him and even am a tad jealous...of my own husband.  How wrong is that? 

 

Heck, I admit that lately I've been jealous, or may be I should say envious, of so may people who seem to be making strides forward in their existence while I sit stagnant.  Bah. 

 

And then today, as I was leaving work I was told that another family member just suffered a stroke and is right now in the hospital.  I will not lie, I stood outside of work and the wind left me, my eyes misted and I let the tears flow from already red irritated eyes that had been staring at the computer for far too long.  I realized that my reaction was mostly due to a combination of exhaustion and constant overwhelming bad news that had been coming at us for weeks along with my own personal issues as well as little to no rest at all but seriously, how many more challenges are going to be thrown my way? 

 

Should I even ask this question?  Am I jinxing myself?  Does life ever stop throwing challenges our way?  Heck no, of course not but it shouldn't be like this I don't think, right?  I've heard people say that God will never give you more than you can handle.  Um...right I'm not quite believing that right now.  Frankly I think I'm a bit top-heavy in the challenges department.  No more please.

 

My dearest readers, here's the plain fact:  I'm tired. 

 

Do me a fav?  Say a little prayer if you can for yous truly?  It doesn't have to be with you down on your knees with your hands clasped or even on a prayer mat, but just..like a quick murmured word of 'hey Lord, take it easy on her'.  That would work too.  I would appreciate it much.

I'm off to bed to mentally prepare for the week that approaches...pfft...as if I can ever.   

Follow Me!

I've been asked by a few people why they can't 'follow me'.  I had to stop and wonder why anyone in the world would want to randomly follow me around and then *LIGHT BULB*...Ohhh you mean my blog!  Hehe.

So now, at the wayyyyyyyyy bottom of my blog you'll see the option to follow ADR.  This way whenever I write down my pearls of wisdom you will get alerted via email.  Handy right?

Enjoy!  

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un

Today was a bad day. 

Woke up to news that P's grandmother passed away.  There isn't much to say in the face of death.  Not really. 

I didn't know her well, didn't have the opportunity to spend much time with her but the bit that I did was fulsome and I am glad for this.  I believe she liked me and thought I was surprisingly Bangladeshi and very un-American for an American : )

If you're wondering: P is handling it, his family is also doing the same.  But honestly, can anyone ever cope with loss easily?  I don't think so.  And this is the initial stages which means the true pain will hit more forcibly later once the last dua is said and people return home after lending their shoulders to cry on.  It's in the middle of the night when that persons face flashes across your minds eye that it truly just...aches. 

Pray that her soul rests in peace and she is granted entrance into heaven (which I believe, Inshallah, she has *Ameen*).  Truly, she was a good simple person.

I Hope You Poke Your Eye Out!

Yesterday, I was driving into work feeling like death warmed over.  This was primarily because the hell hole that I call 'work' had me doing it's slave labor all weekend.  I swear I put in more hours over this one flipping weekend than the whole damn week.  But that's okay, it's a paycheck which means I can keep myself home-d, fed-ed, clothed, purse-d and scarf-ed, all good things I suppose.  But man o man getting up this morning was pure and utter torture, more so than other days.  I laid there listening to my alarm scream at me but my body refused to budge.  Seriously I laid there like a bump on a log wondering how in the hell I had managed to kill a whole weekend by working as opposed to frolicking.  You guys know by now that I can be a super bitter person but this morning I woke up down-right angry.

And this anger showed itself in many ways, such as when I got into the shower and threw the shampoo bottle onto the wet shower floor.  And then, to my incredible irritation, it bounced out and onto the bathroom floor and rolled as far away from me as it could.  Then there was the epic battle between me and my hair as I stood glaring at it for a long time wishing it would just be scared into doing itself.  No dice.  So I simply pulled it up into a very "I so don't have time for this crap" hairstyle and got going, which incidental means that I look like a homeless person. 

To say that I was just 'in a bad mood' would be an understatement.  By the time I joined traffic, I had to chant to myself "I shall not kill anyone who pisses me off today" over and over again like a litany in my head.  I actually think I may have murmured the words aloud to be honest.  But regardless at least the normal horrible DC rush hour seemed to be working with me (translate this to my 7 mile trip to work that normally takes me anywhere between 45 minutes to an hour wouldn't take that much, possibly only 40ish minutes).  Yea, commuting here blows but I can't complain since I love this area and wouldn't be anywhere else.  Well that's not entirely true, I mean if someone said move to Jamaica and open up a chicken shack on the beach, I'd do it in a heartbeat. 

So I merged into traffic and sat there still muttering prayers of strength for patience when I look at my rear view mirror and what do I see?  A chick, small and petite, very pretty really, who is holding a cell phone up to one ear yacking away while applying mascara!  =\  If in case you couldn't figure out what was wrong with this picture, let me explain:  NEITHER of her hands were on the blasted steering wheel, not one single solitary digit even.  And she wasn't driving like this for a few measly feet, no she was doing this over plenty of asphalt.  WHAT THE HELL???

Really, Lady?  Really?  You are going to help propagate an already horrible stereotype (one which may I just say is totally and utterly unfair) and prove that it's true after all?  The whole stupid assumption that all women are dangerous, can not drive and will idiotically put on makeup in the car while she's actually driving, is okay with you?  You couldn't have gotten up a few flippin' minutes early and flippin' put your darn idiotic face on before leaving the flippin' house?  Really?  No, instead you wait till you're in ridiculous rush hour traffic before you decide to apply like what seemed to be 10,000 coats of mascara (Does anyone in the world really need that much?  How non-existent are your lashes precisely?  Heck, do you find people yelping and telling you that you have a spider on your eye only to discover that it's caked on mascara?  If they have, then tone back on the stuff okay Doll?  Great, thanks!) onto one stupid eye while navigating a ton of moving metal that could go crashing into anyone at anytime because you were being a vapid unthinking git who felt it necessary to multi-task.  Great...perfect...fan-freain'-tastic. 

Hey, I mean never mind the others around you right?  Their lives and safety isn't nearly as important as your stupid conversation and mascara application, correct?  Forget the fact that may be there are kids in the other cars, or elderly, or hell just simple folks who are trying to get to work in one piece and obeying traffic laws!  Pfft, clearly they (nor the laws) matter in the face of your lack of mascara, right?  Sureeeeeee, I totally get you and your need for a beauty session while driving sans hands on the wheel in manic traffic.  Mhmm.  I, in fact, applaud you...yes.I.do. 
And of course I'm right in front of her just waiting, and I mean waiting for her to rear end my beautiful Stella cause no kidding I was totally prepared to get out of the car, stomp over to her only to rip her little blond air filled head clean off her shoulder with my bare hands so that I could happily present it to the cop that would inevitably show up.  I would also explain with glee what had happened and I'm sure no court in the land would convict me either.  Personally I think my actions would be well justified at the end of the day and I could end up becoming a national hero...just sayin'.

Um, wow...so I just realized something as I re-read paragraph immediately above this and that is that I can really be a pretty violent person when consumed with towering (out)rage.  Actually I always knew this but the deliciously evil thoughts written above even took me aback a little right now, I must confess. 

Anyhow, using an abundance of caution so that I could avoid being thrown into jail due to road rage as well as committing a heinous crime and also because I had to get my butt to work before I found myself unemployed, I changed lanes and got away from the twit as quickly as I could in that horrible mess of a parking lot.  Oh, the initial assumption that it would be a light traffic day was wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Look ladies, I get it, you want to look 'purty' and the applying of makeup necessitates this happening however there is a time and place for everything.  Putting on your 'face' while driving without either hand on the steering wheel is not it and let me just state the obvious here for one second:  IT IS NOT OKAY!  It's one thing to swipe on a quick lip gloss without taking your eyes off the road but this...this total disregard to life and limb (of yours or others around you) is just simply not acceptable. 

Next time either get up 5 minutes earlier or scare a few people between your house and the ladies bathroom (or your office for that matter) but do NOT endanger the rest of us.

Consdier this a community service message if you must, one filled with disgust and anger but take it to heart, and stop being so damn narcissistic!

That is all. 

Mother + Child = Life Time Love Affair...Happy Mommy's Day

As Mother's Day swiftly approaches (in fact a mere few hours away), I confess I am very sad.  This year, my Ammu (Mom) is visiting my cousin in Europe.  Although initially when she booked the tickets and I was told the dates, I hadn't taken note of the fact that she would be gone during the holiday but by the time realization dawned, I knew she couldn't change her plans.  So this year I won't physically be with her which totally sucks but I've also thought of it this way: doesn't matter where in the world she is, she's always with me.

This year, my gift to Ammu will be this blog.  May be it's not much but I know that the best way to express my feelings is through my writing so here it is:

What is my mother to me?  It's actually a very hard question to answer.  She is the person who gave me birth, that's the obvious isn't it?  Yet I could never say that it was in fact just that simple.  My mother to me is everything.  Keeping in mind that my father is no less important to me but since Father's Day isn't for another month, I will take the liberty to only speaking of my darling mommy.

Have you ever looked at someone and thought to yourself:  this is the person I want to become?  I've had a few people through the years who I have wanted to emulate but no one quite like Ammu.  And this isn't a recent  thing.  As a child I recall laying down on my stomach on her bed watching her with rapt attention as she would get ready for some party or event.  My eyes would trace the almost lyrical movement of her hands, I would be in awe the way she would deftly apply the barest of makeup yet transform right before my eyes and when she would so skillfully wind the beautiful 6 yards of sari material about her, I almost held my breath.  When would I grow up to do just these things?

 

But that was but one small thing that goes into the whole picture of what my mom truly is and I'm sure I can write for days and not really be able to give you all the details that make her in essence not just an incredible mother but the unbelievably kind human being, which is in itself the best part of her.

 

And what are those "more parts" exactly? 

 

Her smile, which makes me feel as if all is right with the world. 

Her laughter, which makes the day a bit brighter. 

The way she welcomes people with warm open arms even if they are completed unexpected guests.

The ability to make a person feel as if they are loved and beloved, a skill greatly lacking in most.

A heart that is so big that anyone else pain, becomes her own.

Also a heart so large that other peoples joy will be equally celebrated within her own self.

The tireless sense of humanity to help those who are most in need of it without any regard to herself.

The generosity of spirit and kindness that rules every step she takes.

The core beliefs that she has held close to her and has shaped her for who she is and will always be.

The ultimate conviction that being a 'good' person is enough to fight anything bad.

The amazing ability to smile and welcome even those who are unkind or unwelcome with a simple phrase of "be kind to even your enemy".

The unshakable faith in Allah (swt) and his benevolence.

That family is above all the most important thing in this world and that through good or bad, you stand as one.

That true fact that when she cries, it is not just for herself, me, our family but for the whole world and those tears are real.

That with one word from her I feel as if those hard things I face are a bit easier. 

That even when I don't know that something is going on with me, she has the innate ability to know. 

That when I'm sick, she can cure it with one light touch, one soothing hand, one sweet word.

That she can bring tears to my eyes still when I leave to go home after spending a few days with her.

That she is and will always be one of the most spiritually solid Muslims I know.

That her love for family goes deep and binds.

That she was able to make me believe that mothers and daughters can truly be best friends.

That whatever I should do, I should do it with love and consideration for my fellow human beings.

The imparting of wisdom with generosity.

The ability to make me feel as if I am still her little girl and will always be.

The person who had told me once that my life would be wonderful and would not let me forget that even when I was most hopeless.

The very basic fact that she sacrificed all big and little happiness's in her existence for us.

That she will always be my first greatest love affair.

 

There truly is so much more to say yet actually words do fail, sometimes they are just not enough.

 

Gosh, it's funny how hard this blog is for me to write, not because I don't have anything to write but it's almost like I have too much to say, too much to tell you. She is truly that incredible to me, one of Allah's greatest creations.

 

To all those who have their mothers still around, don't take them for granted because I can bet you if you ask those who no longer have them walking the earth, they would tell you to cherish every moment, to appreciate every second, to embrace every bit of them.  Because of your mother, YOU are here.  Never forget this.

 

For those who no longer have your parents, I pray that you find smiles on this day coming from memories of this days in the past.

 

For all those wonderful mothers out there in the world and who are reading this, you are all Gods gift for without you, there would be no mankind.

 

And finally...

 

My darling Ammu,  Happy mother's day, I love you.

Do Clothes Accurately Reflect Ones State of Mind?

I was sitting and talking to one of my colleagues a few weeks ago in my office, fighting post lunch coma.  We were chatting about all sorts of random things which isn't weird for us.  I'm not sure how one topic bleeds into a totally different one but before we knew it, we were discussing clothing.  Now maybe a few of you male readers are thinking to yourself 'what's new about that, women are always talking about clothes,' but I'm here to inform you that we in fact rarely talk about fashion, at least my friends and myself.  Sure we'll tell each other we look nice or speak of some sale here or there but that's the extent of it.  We are intellectuals darn it. 

I had mentioned to K, my sistah from another mistah, that back when I was working at another smaller law firm, shortly after returning to the east coast, I had given very little thought to my wardrobe.  I hated the place I was employed at so much that dressing up to look pretty just wasn't top most on my list of things to-do.  Actually just not slicing my wrist open topped that list to be perfectly honest.  Yes, that's precisely how much I loathed it.  And that feeling reflected in what I wore completely.  The clothing choice for each new work day was generally elastic pleated pants (*horrific gasp*), shapeless over sized button up shirts that I didn't even bother to tuck in and clunky shoes that even the most typical fashion challenged nerd would reject.  My hair was always up in a ponytail and I barely put on any eyeliner.  I was a mess.

When I finally left that place and got myself a new gig, suddenly I felt like putting an effort into my appearance which meant I also went on a few shopping sprees (P wasn't thrilled about this fact although he was relieved to see me not looking like a bag lady).  I hadn't realized how extremely different I looked until an x-colleague from the prior firm met up with me and was astonished at the transformation.  She couldn't stop going on and on about how different I looked, how fashion forward I could be, how I seemed like a totally different person.  Okay, so I mean I looked bad, but that bad?  Hmmm...yea she was right.  It was just that bad.

Now after years of sort of priding myself in the ability to put colors and patterns together, to be someone who would get a 'hey you look nice today' a few times a week, I've lapsed back into the whole 'I can't be bothered to dress for work' mentality.  Does this tell you much about where I stand in my career?

I didn't even realize what I was doing until a few days after the convo with K regarding my old dressing habits, she said to me, not unkindly at all, that "I know you're unhappy here because you barely dress up anymore and you're always wearing that darn black hoodie".  Ah yes, the infamous black hoodie which was/is my perpetual companion when everything seemed/seems to go wrong.  Call me Linus if you must for my black hoodie was/is the equivalent to his blue blanket.  Anyway that was the moment when it struck me that indeed, at least for me, my clothes do accurately reflect my state of mind.  I had never really put the obvious signs together.  And she was right.  I am unhappy where I am and it reflects in every sense. 

After this I noticed a few things about myself.  Like when I'm in a good mood, I will sing (a lot), I apply a touch more eyeliner with a flourish making it a bit more dramatic, I will cook something that otherwise I wouldn't because of laziness or grumpiness and I will do something to my hair that makes me feel like a shampoo commercial model (well to me if to no one else).  Hell, when I'm in a fantastic mood I've been known to roll down the windows of my car, slid open the sunroof and blast my radio as loud as my eardrums can take it only to totally rock out (have I dated myself by using the term "rock out"?) while singing along at the top of my lungs, no matter what the person in the car next to me thinks!  I'll eve go as far as to smile at strangers...okay not widely but smile for sure.  Everything I feel on the inside will somehow reflect itself outwardly.  Now I see it more and I admit this is fascinating information about myself. 

I recognize the fact that a lot of you out there are probably already greatly in tune with this phenomena, maybe even wondering how the heck I've been so clueless since this isn't really 'news' but hey, I have to make my own self discoveries at my own pace, right?  We can't all achieve enlightenment exactly at the same moment of time, how boring would that be? 

But seriously, why did it take a random conversation for me to see the obvious?  How many obvious-es am I completely overlooking because I'm too dense or because I haven't had someone else point it out to me?  Goodness gracious what sort of a bubble of denial do I live in?  Would it be even called denial?  Is that the right word?  Maybe I lack the ability to self-realize.  I always thought I was good at that but possibly not.  This is weird in itself since many of my closest friends can attest to the fact that I am very savvy to what they're going through, the things that they ignore, I point out to them and help them find a way if necessary.  I can look at a friends situation, mull it over and come up with a reasonable explanation as to why they are the way they are or why things happened the way it did that makes sense.  Apparently I suck at doing that for myself. 

So, to answer the question in the title of the blog, yes my clothes truly accurately reflect my state of mind.  When I'm happy I care about every article of clothing that I put on and spend much time agonizing over it while when I'm in the 'screw-the-world-and-everyone-in-it" mind set, clothes are the last thing I'm considering, unless it's retail therapy I'm after in which case I'll buy the clothes only to put them in my closet and totally forget. 

Let me ask you though, do you feel as if you do the same (about the clothes thing)?  Have you ever really given it any thought at all or are you generally as tube-light-ish as me, often coming to some great realization ages after the rest of the world?  I can't possibly be alone in the dark, can I?

I can't wait (yes, that's sarcasm) to see what else I 'learn' about me.  I guess one could say that I'm growing, exploring, learning but at the same time jeez, shouldn't some of these things just come in a manual when you're born or may be instantly planted into your subconscious? 

Okay, onwards and upwards I suppose.