Apples + Adventures in the Great Outdoors = Awesome Sauce!

Autumn is here, or at least that’s what some of us insist upon believing despite the ‘unseasonably’ hot weather. Regardless, we are heralding it in by sweat-ily sipping steaming hot cups of pumpkin spice what-the-fuck-ever while baking in our own juices in 80+ degree heat (that’s Fahrenheit for us yanks). And because I love everything that is fall, including colors, smells, feel, when someone suggests something (really anything) fall-y, I squeal like Ivanka Trump when she sees her daddy. (Yes, that was off-color…what of it?)

A dear friend suggested we take a trip out to the orchard to pick apples last Sunday. Apparently, I went mute, eyes got super large (dare I say wondrous?) as I just nodded like a bobble head. I was definitely down and then some because…well apple picking. This would be my first time. My apple picking virginity would be taken from me and I was thrilled about it, hussy that I was being.

If you’ve never been (I am, in case you’re still stuck on the virginity comment, referring to the actual action of picking said apples), you should go but be prepared. I think we have this visual of running (in slow motion) through orchards wearing gauzy clothes which floating about us while picking the perfect apple from trees that are fairly teaming with plump red or green bulbous treats. Subsequently, there often is some handsome man, a beautiful (blond) woman, and perfectly dressed radiant children who exchange a lot of hugs with their parental figures. A dog is on the side jumping up and down, it’s a golden retriever for some reason. Oh, and Lots of laughter, lots and lots.

Is that just me when I think of apple picking? TV is of the devil, I tell ya.

Anyhow, the reality though is a bit different so let me prepare you for it while giving hopefully helpful advice, so you don’t go into shock, particularly you city-dweller types.

Check the weather

It’ll determine attire and orchard conditions. Even if it’s autumn, that doesn’t mean its autumn weather and this Sunday it was just simply hot. Wearing shorts was a better choice than long pants (particularly jeans) because you’re sure to bake. Of course, those who do protect their legs aren’t liable to get eaten alive by bugs but let’s ignore that for a second. Oh, and sneakers you don’t care to get muddied up are essential vs say loafers or flipflops because oh boy was there mud after weeks of torrential rains and those apples that had already fallen hurt under feet.

Orchard distance

They are never close, or at least not from me since I’m DC adjacent. Be prepared for the drive.

Time of month determines fruit available

If you’re looking for a specific specimen, just double-check to see when those tend to be optimum. In case you didn’t know, and cared to, the season for apples are almost finito.

Be prepared to walk

While this farm allows pickers to drive into the orchard itself with cars, we opted not to deciding instead to get some exercise. It was a lot of walking. Orchards are not flat; did you know that? Up and down, winding hither and yon. Just be conscious that if you do not wish to drive, then you best wear sneakers (this point is worth repeating) and you’ll sweat, like gallons and them bags of apples can get super heavy after a while. Also, sweat running into your eyes sting. 

Creepy Crawlies

Hey, it’s outside which means bugs. If that’s not your thang, don’t be going out there into nature. If you still decide to go, please shut up about the bugs because THAT IS THEIR HOME, NOT YOURS and absolutely NO ONE wants to hear your nonstop bitching.

Interesting smells

Due to the rains, a lot of the apples had fallen off to adorn the grounds, stankin’ up the space. It wasn’t as bad as say if you went to a dairy farm. The air, for the most part, was perfumed with the sour smell of apples and while it wasn’t unpleasant to me, it was surprising at first. I admit I looked around trying to figure out who had spilled a vat of apple cider vinegar.

Picnicking

I found this quaint actually. Plenty of groups were sitting around under trees breaking bread together. Had I known this, I would have armed myself appropriately but there’s always next time.

Chi’ren

Look, if you’re not down with the ankle-biters squad, then just avoid places like this because they are everywhere running, screeching, laughing, running…did I mention running? One little dude almost ran me over hence I mention this a couple of times. I love kids so to me it’s just beautiful to watch them but that’s me. If it’s not you than don’t be a butthead to go out there and be all sour-pussed. I say stay safely in your coffee-houses concerned about eating healthy whilst punctuating all your conversations with “organically” while not really having a clue as to the root of the source or ever having laid eyes upon open spaces.

Romance

Yup, romantic…if you want to be that is, but try to be so with the person you’re with and not just a random stranger, IJS. If you’re attempting to get all cuddly/close with yo boo thang than that’s cool but admittedly if you’re trying to do more (*wink wink nudge nudge*), most likely you won’t find that sort of privacy unless a kid catching you with your hands in the proverbial cookie jar gets you off and if so, ew and yuck. But don’t lie, you were wondering so you’re welcome for this bit of salacious information. Wait till it’s darker outside and then have at it is what I say.

Bathroom lines

This one was about 2 years long with 150 folks in front of me all clearly doing their business as slow as humanly possible. Alright, I exaggerate. It was not that long, it took a bit of time, and (at least at this place) it was super clean. But the alternative option there was the dreaded port-a-potty *cringes* Bring antibacterial everything or don’t drink water.

Picking from a tree vs picking from a bin

We were determined to pick right off the trees but thanks to the weather of late, that actually became frustrating. As we tromped through rotting apples we wondered if there was anything left to be had. As varied breeds of apples were already becoming one with the earth, there were other types that still clung on and for the Tatin that would be made later, there just wasn’t enough variety on the boughs. With little other option, and exhaustion from the beating sun and excessive walking, and even while we didn’t want to resort to the bins, we did…and it was okay. We weren’t cheating, they were there for just that purpose so in case you think that it is duplicitous, it’s not.

Tantalizing scents

The place we went to “Stribling Orchard” not only offered various fruits to pick, it also had a sinfully good bake shop so in case you wanted nibbles (outside of the fruit hanging off the trees), you got it, and all of those mouth-watering aromas fairly screamed fall. There were also refrigerators full of freshly pressed apple juice…mmmm…apple juice *says like Homer Simpson*Be ready to shell out though because that shiz ain’t cheap.

 

Pumpkins

Here the pumpkins had been picked from the patches therefore no Linus sightings. Still had fun doing this but remember, they charge you by the lb. and of course take the required selfie squatted next to the orange mass as you caress it lovingly because you must.

Water

Just take it along with you. We didn’t. We were unprepared.

Breathe…

Slow down, bask under the rays of the sun, live in a moment, fully. Leave the concerns of life behind for they will all be there when you return to the mundane that life tends to be. You’ll have plenty of time to rail at whatever happens to be pissing you off at the moment and remember not to let the heat and walking shorten your temper. It’s fun so keep it fun and don’t ruin it for others because your ass is feeling crabby.

Memories

I’m so bad at creating them because I’m also the person always looking forward. Maybe with age, I’m a bit wizened therefore I try to generate as many reminiscences as I possibly can for now I realize that these will possibly be all I have when it’s all said and done.

Okay, folks, I hope you enjoyed these insights. Maybe they were ultimately totally unhelpful, maybe not. The point though is that if you have never experienced something like this then go do it. I hope I inspired you to fall into fall with enthusiasm.

*Photo-cred goes to me!

Let Me Straighten You Out a Bit

Here’s the thing that you may or may not have realized while reading my blogs, I’m brown. There I said it. I’m brown. Never mind that I’ve mentioned it many, many times before but it needs to be said over and over again (apparently) not because I’m trying to box myself in or even categorize me, but rather in a way to explain that due to the color of my skin (which was not something I controlled anyhow) my life experiences are vastly different, yet I’m not all that dissimilar from anyone else. But damn near every day, as I strive to prove I’m ‘the same’, others want to ram it home that I am not. Read that as “do not belong”.

Nowhere is this more evident or pointed out the most than online. Due to a simple picture of myself on a profile, I am instantly and swiftly judged as a few things in quick succession.

They are as follows:

-Submissive or subservient
-Un-hip or Uncool
-Backwards
-Oppressed (aka Muslim female)
-Stupid
-Boring
-Prude
-Mysterious

Let me gleefully burst some bubbles here, kiddies.

I’m none of these things. Not a damn one. Let’s start from the top and work our way down because, why not!

Submissive or subservient? Take your pick of either or both words for folks seem to think they are one and the same even though these two words can mean vastly different things. Ask just about anyone in my world who has faced me for any length of time and they will confirm, or cringe, or laugh, at the use of these words in connection to me. Granted their opinion will also be determinate upon what roles they play in my world. After all, I can be submissive, but under the right circumstances *wink wink*. As an alpha-female, neither of these terms apply to me, and for the most part, no to most of my friends either. I guess like attracts like.

Unhip or uncool? Frankly, I don’t particularly care about these. To some I’m about as standard (maybe ‘basic’) as they come while to others they see the flare, the interesting in my person and dress that denotes someone far from unhip, whatever the fuck that means anyhow. As for uncool? Shoot, you’ve never met a cooler person than me unless you’ve met Prince in which case, Prince.

Backwards? I step with the time. While I may resist doing something that the nation is over-the-moon about (e.g. Game of Thrones), in things other than TV or popular consumer goods, my ideologies are far from backwards. Equal right for all is not just a bumper sticker or passing ideology to me, it’s something that I will march for and believe in to the bottom of my core. Every moment that slips past, we need to learn to adjust to it for every moment also reveals new realities. If we cannot embrace these changes, we are doomed to be stuck forever. No thanks.

Oppressed? Ok, I’ve written about this before, I’ll write it now, and I’ll probably have a go of it in the future but there are things worth repeating. Just because I’m Muslim hardly means that all Muslim women are oppressed, least of all me. I don’t wear the Hijab, but my mother does and trust me, if you meet her, you’d look at me in total confusion because she is one badass matriarch. My dad, god bless him, has tried (joking but not) to tell her what to do, which has never gone over well, never ever. She won’t bend to someone else’s arbitrary dictates or limitations. Bravo to her too. Incidentally and if you were wondering, my dad isn’t a fan of the Hijab, my mother still wears one. So, put two and two together. Oh, let me just add as well, this is not rare to my family. This is across the board common among the other Muslim families I’ve known all my life and have met throughout that same life. You white women really need to stop telling us brown women that we’re oppressed. Move it along and maybe look into your own homes to see the ways you yourself is being oppressed, IJS.

Stupid? Usually connected with theism. Being a theist hardly means I’m stupid. Do I subscribe to what people have often snarled as “a mythical winged creature in the sky”? Yes, yes, I have. Do I believe there has been evidentiary or scientific proof? No, no, there isn’t…yet. So then how do I still believe when I tend to be a logical, evidence-driven person? This answer too is rather simple: it’s my own fucking business. I’m not putting my ideologies on you, don’t put yours on me. The moment I start to lecture or even come close to converting you to Islam, please tell me to go pound some sand. I’ll deserve it. Until then though, leave me the hell alone. I’ll believe as I wish, despite what you think or your opinion of me. My intelligence, just so you know, isn’t limited to what I see but also sense and while one could be a fantasy, and the other factual, neither is random in my universe. There is logic behind it all, a process that I personally go through to validate findings. That far from makes me anything close to brainless. If you still believe so, then maybe you need to plaster yourself with that particular label, eh?

Boring? I have my moments. They are vast, often encompassing the sofa and a remote control. #Noregrets. However, to say that I am boring as a person is giggle-inducing. Okay, granted I’d much rather sit at a coffee house working on writing something or having philosophical discussions regarding a plethora of topics with like-minded folks over going to a club/bar to get drunk or maybe even bungee jumping, but it hardly means I’m boring. Rather I have interests that differ from others and they are not all Indian-centric, thank you very much. My brownness doesn’t dictate to me a total lack of an adventurous spirit or exclusivity to my own community. Heck no! In all honesty, I don’t spend all that much time with the fambam anymore although at one time I had; I prefer to learn more about other cultures and traditions than only focus on the one I already am well-versed in, specifically, mine. I’m always down to try something new, once. Anyone wanna try some Rumba classes? Anyone?

Prude? This one actually makes little to no sense because I am half Indian, after all. India, the very land of the Kama Sutra. Let’s pause and think about that for a sec, now shall we? Sure, we Indian’s seem like we don’t have a sexual bone in our bodies when we’re out and about with all our buttoned up-ness and covered-selves but do you have any idea the populace that resides within the boundaries of these countries that are inhabited by people of the same shades as me? Yea look that number up and then get back to me. Those kids aren’t being born by immaculate conception, I’ll tell you that much. There’s some fuckin’ going on, foh sho. Because I prefer to keep my private life, private and not wear sexuality on my sleeve is because, yet again, I have chosen to do so, not because it’s been told to me (in a way it has but I ignore them anyhow) or that I shy away from it. When I decide to flip that switch, no doubt it’s flipped and no excuses are made.

Mysterious? Sigh. According to some, I clearly have Bollywood danced off some mystical mountain top surrounded by a cloud of incense with Henna adoring every peepable spot of my bod while at the same time wearing layers of gauzy material with my coal-lined cat-eyes and long flowing black hair that blows in the wind.  What the actual fuck? This one probably annoys me the most. I get that I’m not the norm, that I look different, that I’m a bit unusual in the light vs dark department since I hover somewhere in-between but that’s where it ends. And if you haven’t been paying attention, the point to blogging has been to bridge some gaps in assumptions. While I grew up in different environments, had vastly different experiences, ate different foods, spoke different languages (yes, and I mean multiples) as well as dressed differently once in a while, that didn’t (and doesn’t) mean I didn’t (and don’t) have the same feelings and emotions as everyone else. In fact, I’d say that no matter where you come from or who you are, we tend to react to things in similar manners, such as loss, love, etc. We are humans, when everything is said and done. I am as standard as anyone else in this respect. I don’t want to be fringed because I’m looked upon as dissimilar, I want to be accepted, I am not an island.

Now that I’ve clarified things, I feel better.

Inspirations

I am inspired.

Yes, I can honestly say those words without flinching or feeling like a pretentious boob. I’m totally inspired, and I can equally exclaim without batting an eyelash that I didn’t expect to be ever again.

So, what am I inspired to do and how did this all come about? Well, it’ll take some background here. 

Let me explain…

After 3 years of agonizing unemployment, no steady income, no sense of self at all, I managed to quite suddenly land myself a solid gig. I’ll get more into this later but suffice it to say, there was a lot of relief involved. Not only was I looking at losing my home if it lasted any longer, I was slowly losing my mind which wouldn’t have been good for anyone, least of all myself. As I grew a shell of hopelessness, uselessness around me, I wondered if ever the day would come that I didn’t feel those two particular emotions.

In retrospect, I don’t think it was that I missed working (who the hell would do that, really, if there were other options and it was willful?), I knew eventually if it wasn’t one thing it would be another that would have me worker-bee-ing again, but it was just an all-around sense of absolute nothingness that got to me. I looked around and saw no purpose of being. Every day I opened my eyes but didn’t comprehend the purpose of that simple action. No one needed me, no one was looking for me, no one was impacted by whether I was eyes-opened or eyes-shut. I would lay in bed to stare at the ceiling trying to come up with something to do, something that made me feel as if I had a reason to get up.

Pathetically enough, there were many times when I stayed just where I was with my chest feeling as if a 100lb boulder lay right there, smack dab in the center which suffocated but somehow it went ignored. Not totally ignored, I gave into it but emotionally I decided to shove it into a closet somewhere thinking I would deal with it later. Mind you, I knew I was in despair but wasn’t always willing to acknowledge it to anyone, not even me. I find that a bit bizarre since I’ve always been in-tune with my true emotions even if I failed to admit it aloud. Those days though to turn my face away from the depth of my sorrow was easier so that I didn’t cave into those demons that told me to do some fairly horrible things to myself. Sometimes just turning on the TV and getting lost in whatever drivel was there saved my life. 

Or there was the option of logging onto Facebook, which I did…a lot. It should come as zero surprise to anyone that it was my one gateway to the world, to not being so isolated, or feeling so damn invisible even while that’s exactly what I wanted to be, isolated and invisible.

I used that particular social medium to make others laugh or think, cry or consider, basically whatever I was feeling was somewhat conveyed through the words I would bang out onto the screen. I wanted folks to know yet not know. The duality of my own personality confounded me then as it does now. And even as I punched “publish” with some feeling of satisfaction, instantly after I was again deflated, dare I say bereft? I got positive reinforcement through simple thumbs-up emojis and when I felt particularly angry about life, I took it out on hapless victims. I became a troll and was unapologetic for it. Rather, I felt totally justified even as that too, left a sour taste in my mouth. So, while I was doing something, it wasn’t necessarily something that brought me any modicum of pleasure, other than momentary. Sadly, after some of these episodes where I would rip some douchenozzle to shreds, I couldn't always look myself in the eyes, that's just how appalling I had been.

But hold on, let me not delegitimize those bonds I did create on FB over these personal tumultuous years. They were and still are real, virtual or not. Some gone, yes for sure, but others stronger and so valuable because they were there for me without realizing it. It was astounding to realize that while some knew me ‘in real life’ couldn’t quite connect with me, while there were these other souls I had never met face-to-face who knew me at times better than I did myself. As those who actually had met me asked why I was so vested in these online ‘personas’ my go-to response became (with a sneer), “they’re no less real than you or I when we get online”. End of story. And while I did use the platform as an escape, I also made some long lasting, I-see-you-and-get-you precious connections that I can say are, as far as I’m concerned, the forever type.   

But even while that was all there…

My daily routine had become get up, listlessly make coffee, listlessly choke down food, listlessly turn on the computer, listlessly (along with pessimistically) apply for jobs, then listlessly do whatever else I could think to do like laundry, cooking, gazing out the window wishing I was brave enough to walk into traffic and just end it all. That last thing was actually always a blanket over my world. Why wasn’t I braver to just give into the temptation of permanent escape? Even then, even with that, I was losing. I didn’t have the guts. Now, in hindsight, I realize that it wasn’t a matter of bravery at all. Quite the opposite in fact, I was brave to just stay breathing, or at least I think. I don’t know.

Anyhow, back to explaining inspiration, which isn’t always an easy task. I was posting all kinds of things on FB, writing out thoughts with alacrity, knowing precisely how much I wanted to reveal, as I also (attempted) to finish writing a book that I had started almost 8-years prior. Two things that I was doing, FB and book. Not bad, all things considered. However, and here’s the ah-ha moment I had, through all that writing, the one thing I wouldn’t touch was this blog – the very thing that had at one time brought me probably the greatest joy and satisfaction. Seems odd, right? Not totally, if you know me.

I'm fantastic, absolutely jaw-droppingly beyond amazing good at denying myself happiness/pleasure. Yup, I'm that girl.

On FB, I only spoke of what I wanted to disclose, never my personal, truly tortuous struggles. Those made me uncomfortable to admit to anyhow, so I resorted to alluding to them - VagueBooking as it's popularly called. Writing the book, well that was an alternative world anyhow where I could dump all the fantasies I wanted sans judgement or anyone’s input. Nothing in the world of storytelling was wrong other than the limitation of one’s own imagination and since mine was always a fertile breeding ground, it was a natural outlet. 

However, my blog, this thing right here…ultimately, it’s personal. Very personal, and I’ve always felt a super profound need to discuss the weightier topics because although I post the link on FB, I know beyond maybe 5 sentences no one will really read on unless there’s some sense of dedication, vesting. Asking anyone to go beyond 2 minutes (which could be tough in itself) of reading time could be requesting for too much, which was exactly why I gave into speaking of cavernous pains, recalling ever-lasting poignant memories that shaped me, confessing thoughts I wouldn’t otherwise want to speak but if someone were to stumble upon the post, wasn’t afraid of them reading either. But those three years? Those thoughts were so very murky that writing them down scared me witless.

My blog, in essence, became something worth avoiding, not embracing.

I wonder though, had I continued to post would the road I’ve traversed been somewhat easier? I’ll never know, I don’t want to live in the past. Whatever I went through was what I was meant to experience. I just hope that I took from that long dark tunnel, the lessons I needed to learn. I think so.

While I did my best to avoid blogging, revealing truths, sure that there was nothing bright in my future, not even a tea-light worth of luminescence, somehow the days slipped by and there it was: a job. It came on like a speeding train, breaking through all my fears and rejects. Quite suddenly I had hope, a glimmer, a flicker, a spark. Truly, without any expectations, I had a reason to rise up, in more ways than just a simple old bed. It came on so swiftly and unexpectedly even while I waited for it, sometimes with patience, sometimes with rage. But one day after an interview, one single interview, not multiple ones, I received a call 2 short hours later that I had been hired. I was standing in front of my dressing table cleaning up the mess of jewelry there. Indian fancy stuff that I had probably used for some party or event. My fingers had become nerveless as I dropped a handful that I had been holding. My body seemed to numb, I sat down hard on the floor with eyes wide open in shock, the legs I used every day suddenly unable to support the frame I had been carrying around for 45-years, as I whispered into the phone to my recruiter, “are you sure? This isn’t a joke?”

Suffice it to say, it wasn’t. Proof is that I sit here right now, at work, typing out this blog as I wait for comments of a project I completed. It still seems incredible to me that I’m employed. Nothing any longer seems to bother me. Too much work? Okay, bring it on! Long hours? No problem, at least I’m making a paycheck, right?! Ridiculous timetables and turnaround? Oh, I got this, bring it, bitch!

Admittedly, it still seems incredible that I have made it to this place at all and not having given into those black thoughts. Trust me, there were a lot of them also. But let me not speak of that, so not ready to speak of them.

Last evening, as I enjoyed libations and nibbles with a new but quickly trusted friend, he read one of my random blogs commenting that he had enjoyed the post. I forgot, legitimately, how it felt to receive praise for the thing that I really did think I was good at. He sowed the seed right at that moment that maybe, just maybe I could write again? Inspiration.

This morning, as I was driving into work, sitting in traffic jamming out to music piped into ears through buds, body moving on its own accord to some upbeat Hindi tune or another, I looked about to espy the other worker zombies like myself who seemed as if life had been straight-up sucked out of their beings. And guess what? I was thrilled to be apart of them. One of their ilk. I belonged. Yay me! Inspiration again.

So, here I am, once again putting characters to screen to write down thoughts, trying to live in these moments that have been awarded to me for it had been touch and go for a bit. I’m going to, at least try, to make the best of this. I want to observe more. I want to taste more. I want to live a lot more. I want to stop compromising. I want to stop making excuses. I want to stop settling. I wasn’t born to be miserable, I wasn’t born to constantly give up my own happiness for someone else, I was meant to be the most authentic me I could be without, of course, hurting someone else in the process.

Hey, maybe after all I did learn lessons, eh? Whodda thunk it!

This comes back to the inspiration(s)…why indeed I’m writing now, so many years after my last blog, besides those I mentioned above…

The main inspiration though was simple, it was just whatever inside of me has decided to live again. Thus, along with that inspiration came the will to write a blog entry. I recognize that this isn’t something ground shaking awakening singular only to myself, I’m in fact quite typical in behavior. Things go well, my mood is better, I want to type. Things suck, I want to crawl under a rock and bury myself under inches of dirt and crap. The whole point is, things are well. And after the last three years (god, I am so redundant), I realize that there is truly no shortage of suffering and heartbreak but if I could get through that, then whatever life decides to throw at me can’t break me.

Let’s hope it can’t, at least.

At this point though, it’s time to just start sharing again, until I can and when I can’t, I’ll stop.

Wish me luck.