Naps and a Bagel (or 3)

Last night, I think most of the world tuned in to watch the clusterfuck that was the first Presidential debate between Hillary and Trump.  I could write something pretty scathing in description of Trump and his idiocy, but I shall refrain…for now.  Suffice it to say that this, in my humble opinion, was no contest and no surprise at all as to who would trounce whom.  I’ll leave this topic alone after saying that I do not care how dishonest Hillary has been, I still refuse to vote for the orange-faced buffoon, period.  Don’t bother to argue with me on this point, I have other reasons I support her as well but again, I don’t need to justify my decision and nothing on earth will convince me to throw away this particular vote, that to in a swing state, just to make a point that neither are good choices and I wish there was someone else (who I would legitimately want to vote for because the other two options?  Just no).  And as I explained to someone recently, I wish I was thinner and richer right at this moment but that’s not the case so I have to deal with reality as it is for me right now.

Because the debate wasn’t enough, I stayed up till 5am watching the pundits and “experts” expound and dissect the hell out of the 90 minutes till I finally decided, or rather my body demanded it was time to sleep otherwise it would stage a mutiny of sorts.  Alas even though I listened to it immediately, I believe it still wanted to exact revenge as my eyes popped open at the repulsive hour of 7am.  7 am.  SEVEN AM!!!!!  In case you’re not good at math that’s pretty much 2 hours of sleep.  And trust me, I am not, and I repeat not, a morning person. 

Many of you who know me may be thinking, “okay so what’s the big deal, you’re an insomniac anyhow” but even we insomniacs make up the sleep somewhere, like while driving, under the desk at work or even behind a potted plant…but I assure you we definitely need some significant amount of it, not necessarily 8 hours (because that’s just insane) but more than 2 is all I’m saying.  Truthfully though, and knowing my body, I never ever make up sleep.  As in if I get two hours, that’s all I’m gonna get and will have to suffer through the rest of the blasted day exhausted out of my mind, closely resembling a zombie.  This has sadly become my normal.

This morning I lay in bed praying I would doze back to sleep but the grey cells were firing at all cylinders as I pulled myself out to get on with the rest of the day.  I don’t want to or need to bore anyone with the mindlessly boring crap that I did but at one point I stretched out onto the sofa to read some information sent to me by a friend and apparently I feel asleep.

Remember how I mentioned I don’t nap?  Well, I really don’t.  And if you hear that I’ve napped know that I’ve managed to hit a wall of exhaustion pretty hard and my body gave me the mental middle finger and decided to shut the hell down.  This was precisely what happened today. 

15 minutes later I woke up with a jerk, my heart beating out of control, body shaking, and the overwhelming urge to puke.  And this, my friends, is precisely why I loathe napping.  I have never, ever, EVER felt rested after resting.  It sucks big ol’ hairy….um…yea this is a pretty PG blog so I won’t finish that thought.  You know what I mean though.  This is also the reason my mom and I would get into epic showdowns when I was a child as she insisted I take an afternoon nap (probably because she needed ‘me’ time and I was a lunatic kid who followed her around like a shadow and ask her such questions as “why is the sky blue?” and “why can’t I color my hair pink?”).  Now that I think of it, I was a really annoying child.  Thank God I’ve shed that, eh?  Shut up. 

Anyhoooo…the reason for my resistance was, and I know this now although not then, that my mind rarely rested.  But my mother wasn’t having any of my demands to make brownies or going to the mall and would command me into bed and force my eyes closed (she would gently put her fingers over my eyes in desperation at times).  My eyelids would eventually start to hurt not from her fingers but from keeping them closed on my own because I would start to feel bad that she even needed to force my eyes shut.  And yea, every once in a while I would fall asleep only to wake up with a start and all those horrible feelings I described above zinging through me.  This is the sole reason I hate napping and now at the age of 43, nothing has changed.  I like to fantasize about it though.

Knowing that my stupid body has never been down with the whole napping concept, I decided today to shake the lethargy and leave the house to run errands after quickly sending off a few emails and checking job boards.  Best to be as far away from the bed or sofa as possible in sheer fear.

If you bothered to read yesterday’s blog, you will recall that I spoke about how cool the weather had turned but also mentioned that Mother Nature had been terribly fickle as well of late.  Well, today she decided to turn up the dial.  As soon as I stepped foot outdoors I knew once again that MN (That’s short for Mother Nature because we’re pretty close and I can be all casual when referring to her) had betrayed me.  Did anyone notice how unseasonably warm it was?  Off came the scarf and sweater in an instant as I sat in the leather interior of my sweltering car jacking up the AC.  I would love, love, LOVE it if for once the weather would reflect the actual month it was.  Thanks, Global Warming.   Oh wait, that’s right, there’s no such thing as Global Warming [insert major eye roll here]. 

At Trader Joe’s (for those who have no clue as to what this is, it’s basically a fancy grocery store where you can’t get generic toothpaste but has the most kickass frozen meals and a plethora of chocolaty treats not to be found anywhere else), I was thrilled to find a spot under the one tree in the blasted parking lot.  Industrialization really does suck, doesn’t it?  I headed into the store and as I weaved down the side walk a gentleman in front of me craned his neck in the most exaggerated way to gaze at a woman who was at that point striding past me.  I figured she must be beautiful or something like that and decided to peak.  He hadn’t looked at her because of her looks but rather because…wait for it………….she was wearing a Kevlar vest, above her clothes, and muttering rather loudly to herself.  She was not sporting a uniform either.  Um…

*Pause…crickets…scratch head…shrug shoulders* 

This was basically my reaction.

Amazing the ridiculous shit you get used to seeing when you live in a pretty overpopulated area.   Nothing seems to faze me anymore.  Not even Kevlar worn over the clothes.  I wondered though why she felt as if she had to and then realized I was, yet again, overthinking stuff and needed teriyaki chicken instead.  That’s what I did.

Now, I’ve written entries before about my obsession with Panera’s cinnamon crunch bagels.  I would post the original blogs for reference but I kinda don’t want to scroll through to locate them so either you can do the honors or just take me at my word.  But I’ve put this (the famous bagel obsession) on the backburner for many months now.  It doesn’t help with the waistline in the least and I got pretty sick of it after having at least 3 in the span of 3 weeks (which is a lot for me).   But then…

Alright, I’m either really easily influenced or my mind is weak.  Now that I think of it, the two probably is linked.  This is a sad realization for me, I have to admit because I’ve always thought I’m pretty safe from too much external influences.  Oh how wrong I was today because earlier as I sat on the sofa scrolling through Facebook, I had stumbled upon a video of a bunch of people being asked how they liked their bagels.  It was an advertisement for cream cheese hence they were expounding upon how much cream cheese to bagel ratio these consumers preferred then had the audacity to actually have them show the audience what they liked and then...consumed it...slowly, happily, blissfully...oh god...  I was riveted, my mind screeching to a stop and my mouth flooding with saliva.    

I really should find the marketing genius who created that video and smack him upside the head and then tell his boss to give him a raise because oh wow was I Jonesing for a bagel and schmear (I don’t think I spelled that correctly but then again why should I start now, right?), right then.  

Subliminal foodie messages works on me like a charm, apparently.  This is something I know but love to deny.

Anyhow today was also Tuesday which meant music classes and the realization that I was yet again woefully unprepared and that I needed to practice…a lot more…like a lot, lot more, as in I should be busting out the harmonium on a daily basis and going at it for 4 hours at a time kinda practice more instead of the zero practice I actually do.  Thank my lucky stars that I have musical genes within me otherwise I’d be screwed.  I’m still astounded that my wonderful father, ustad, music teacher doesn’t throw his hands up in frustration and simply fire me as his student.  I wouldn’t even be mad at him. 

Now it’s nearly 3 am.  Yea, still working on 2 hours and 15 minutes of sleep.  I'm surprisingly awake...darn it but on the bright side I’m finishing up this blog.  You know what, it’s not all that exciting, sorta boring, just a silly entry of my silly life in this silly platform.  And yet, I’m smiling because my fingers are flying across the keyboard, something that hasn’t happened in so long and you know what else?  It really, really feels good.  Even if there isn’t much substance to this blog, it doesn’t alarm me.  It’s a simple testament to the fact that a few blocks have been removed mentally from my cranium.

I have some weighty topics in mind that I may end up posting soon.  Let’s see what tomorrow brings other than coloring out the white in my hair and eyeing my treadmill as the enemy.    

Till we meet again…

 

Once I was Lost...

And here I am, sitting at a quaint little neighborhood coffee shop not far from where I reside.  The floors in this particular cafe is blond wood, the walls are painted a calm soft gray with white trim and the proprietress along with the barista are charming ladies who chats pleasantly but doesn't overdo it.  The coffee is yum, the ambiance relaxing, the music a mix bag of popular covers in soft tones and eclectic whatever and there's free parking to boot.  If you know what this area is like, you know what a huge bonus free anything is and one shouldn't turn their noses up at this minor fact.  

It's turned cold here in NVA/DC, almost instantly as one day we woke up and realized, we need sweaters.  But Mother Nature is a Fickle Friend so who knows what tomorrow may bring.  As for today, it's dreary with a hint of rain in the air.  My iPhone boldly displays raindrops but they have yet to be felt or sighted.  I'm okay with this.

Staying home is not an option though in fear that I may opt for snoozing the day away on the sofa or snuggled under the covers as opposed to doing what needs to be done, mainly applying for jobs.  Besides, I needed a change of scenery due to the blues, which I've had.  Note, I've mentioned that I'm applying for jobs...still...a year later.  Yea, now you know where the blues are coming from but moving right along...

Last night on FB, as I was looking through "on this day" I reconnected with some of my own musings from years past which inevitably led to opening up this very blog (back then and now).  The reception of those thoughts had been so well received that maintaining a digital diary seemed to be something that was doable.  I was wrong in so many ways.  Although there is proof that I've blogged plenty through the years, it really isn't much at all in comparison to others who make the blogosphere their universe.  Life and laziness, both in spades, got into the way of my ponderings as I found days and then weeks slip by without typing even a single letter towards an entry.  Let me be clear, this is no excuse really but rather a fact.

Clearly I've been MIA for a while now if you go by the last thing I wrote.  In a post yesterday on FB I expounded at length about how I needed to get back to it (nearly a daily bellyaching from yours truly) and figured I needed some sort of motivation or even possibly a muse, inspiration.  I couldn't understand what stopped me over and over again from finishing up those entries I had already started (and there are many that I've saved on varied subjects).  Why did they remain unfinished, unwanted even when the topics were relevant in many ways to what's happening in the world, even to my life?  I wasn’t sure.

Then today, as I texted via Whatsapp with my girl S from Germany (I told you I'd mention our convo), I had an epiphany: I had lost the joy of blogging somewhere along the way because it was no longer fun.  I had lost the very purpose as to why I opened up this thing in the first place.  Initially it had been sharing bits and pieces of my life.  The mundane, the boring, the normal, the everyday.  But I had a unique way of looking at things (or so I was told), in how I observed the world and would spit that back out in words that would amuse others.  All this was in a way to prove that although I was of a different race, a different religion…my experiences weren’t all that different from anyone else’s, regardless of where I hung my hat.  It was my distinctive way of proclaiming “hey look, regardless of everything, we really are the same, I mean look at my life…”   Think of it as a bridge in this world where everyone seems to be on an island all by themselves with their own outrageous thoughts with no will to see similarities, only differences. 

The gain from it all was that I would enjoy the reactions I got from readers.  At times I would get commendations for making readers smile, giggle or laugh and maybe that's what I really wanted, what I liked.  The bonus would be some sort of personal epiphany or ‘aha’ moment that was delivered via my thoughts.  Commonality was achieved, a meeting of minds, a connection.  It was wonderful.  The small joys were often in watching my Google Analytics display that at least 20+ people had read my writing and it always astounded me without fail that anyone would even take those few seconds out of their world to read my rubbish.  Maybe…it wasn’t rubbish, huh?

What happened then because it seemed to be going so very well?  Truthfully, along the way I became big headed.  Yes, I said it:  Big headed or otherwise known as egotistical.  I convinced myself that my thoughts about religion and politics and world issues were important and I needed to, no...no HAD to, put them out there, to deliver a message along with every blog because otherwise what was the point of writing anyhow if not to get across something important, ground shaking, foundation rattling?

I was severally deluded.  While my thoughts are important, to me and a few close friends, the reality is that it doesn't make a damn bit of difference in the larger scheme of things.  Who precisely was I going to transform?  What was I trying to achieve other than saying "look at it from my point of view" and whereas that is important because every revolution and change starts with a simple "my point of view" I wasn't saying anything that wasn't said before.  But this need to get a message across overshadowed the fun of why I started to do this in the first place.  And now...sitting in this charming coffee spot, I realized that I didn't always want to be mired down in the 'heavy'.  Yes, I’m soul searching.

I know this much about myself and this writing talent (if you wish to call it that at all) which is that it is organic and free flowing.  Sounds super hippy dippy as if I'm burning sage and twirling around in a tie-dyed skirt with a big ol' crystal around my neck to balance my chakra or whatever, right?  Trust me, not my thing.  But truly my strength has always laid in observing the world around me with a humorous angle/twist.  At one time when I wrote, I wrote with no agenda or topic in mind (unless it was a challenge), allowing my fingers to fly freely and a stream of consciousness to prevail rather than rigid hypothesis' that requires evidence.  I have always wanted people to read some of my blabbering and think to themselves, "I've never quite looked at it like that" or "she's funny" or "maybe everything isn't so terrible/boring, it's just about perspective".  And I know now, after today, that I need to, actually have to, get back to that frame of mind in order to validate why I write at all and bring back the joy. 

And yea, I need validation.  I'm not above that. 

So here's the first entry after so long that I'm enjoying writing.  Truly enjoying.  I've been sitting here for about 3 hours enjoying the coffee, although now I’m onto a mango flavored iced tea (super delic).  The place isn't crowded at all, the music is still lovely and I had a great convo with the barista, a young woman who just moved back to the East coast from San Diego about 3 weeks ago.  We commiserated over the weather and I gushed on about how much I love this place.  It was in all honesty a sincere expression of my thoughts.  I was feeling mushy.  Did I mention that the food is good too?  It is.  There’s outdoor seating as well!  And this joint offers wines as well so if that's your thing, I say check it out.  Here's the info for my local friends: 

Emma's Espresso and Wine Bar
106 Hume Avenue
Alexandria, VA 22301

 

Here's a pic for reference of what I'm looking at: 

 

 

If you're all about helping out our local business owners, than I say take a chance and come here.  You won't regret it. 

Oh, it’s worth backtracking for one minute:  I will still write here and there about heavy, weighty topics.  I could never really give that up, particularly because it’s a way of me purging and at times my stupidly analytical brain needs to vomit thoughts all over a blank Word page.  But I won’t restrict myself any longer or stuff myself into some serious box that I can’t get out of when all I want to do is rant on about how hot/cold/whatever it is outside.  Or how the neighbor’s stupid dog barks at me and only at me every time it sees me, which I find to be rude because otherwise dogs generally love me.  Or how I stood at Ross for 10 minutes debating whether I needed to buy another pair of cowboy boots that were on sale for $22 (yes, I bought them).  But that’s for another blog.

Ramadan '16 - Preping for the Hunger Games

It’s 7:41pm and Magrib (sunset) is still a good hour plus away.  A storm, like an unexpected and unwanted guest, has been threatening to descend for quite a while now but has yet to arrive.  I believe like myself people have been watching the skies trying to gauge whether to venture outside and like myself they are deciding to play it safe and stay home. 

And it would have stayed that way had today not been a bit significant.

What’s going on today, you may be wondering?

Well…it’s the eve before Ramadan.  You know, the holy Month of fasting for Muslims around the world.  One of the 5 pillars that define the very foundation of Islam.  Yup, that.  By now I’m sure that whether it’s been through social media, random articles, word of mouth or even the news, you know what Ramadan is all about…somewhat.  And if you don’t, I’m always here to help.  How?  Why via blogging, of course.  I will be a fountain of information throughout this coming month and will share the trials and tribulations, like I have done in the past.  Hopefully I can put a humorous twist on it, making the experience human and relatable on the way to informative.

This here's the Black Chana

Now my mother saved me the pain of having to do too much prep by sending me a few staples that we break our fasts with, namely dates (not the type you have to get dressed for) and black boot (not footwear but rather a small bean of sorts that you have to cook forever) also known as chana.  Of course these two things are more or less staples in Bangladeshi households during the fast breaking.

All around the world though, from various cultures, other Muslim’s have their own staples but I’ll blog more about that later.  For now this is about me and today so back to my story...

Regardless of Ammi’s generosity, I had to make my way to the grocery store for my own goodies.  Off I went to one of the larger halal stores in Falls Church, VA hoping to score some chicken keema (ground chicken).  Not that I couldn’t get the same thing in like 100 stores between my home and that spot but I wanted the drive as well while I had the energy to drive and sing.  It wasn’t till I walked into the otherwise quiet grocery store that Ramadan came and smacked me upside the head.  Oh like so many others I knew it was on its way, mentally if not physically preparing myself, but the fact that it’s here, that it’s knocking and we have to open the door wide and welcome it, didn’t quite infiltrate my active consciousness until the doors of the market swooshed open and I was immediately greeted by a kindly old man holding a big box of dates (again not the type that you gotta groom for) offering me one with a toothless smile. 

Now I’m not a “sample” kind of girl.  When others go to BJ’s or the food court of malls and they are offered morsels to try, I’m the person who waves off the hawker and keeps it moving.  Maybe to that extent alone I’m a bit of a germaphobe?  (Incidentally there’s a red squiggly line under the word ‘germaphobe’ so I’m either making up this word or my dictionary is stupid, either way it stays). But this old dude was such a cutie that I wanted to pinch his cheeks, an action I’m certain he would not have appreciated. 

Instead, shuffling my phone and purse around in my hands I took one and smiled at him, wished him a Ramadan Kareem, stuffed the tasty date into my mouth and moved along.  Will admit though that the date was indeed good but I had nowhere to throw the pit so kept it in my mouth like a moron as I shopped.  Yea, so that man?  He somehow brought Ramadan front and center to me, along with the scads of humanity that were also purchasing foods to prepare for the holy month.  The air itself was actually charged with a repressed excitement as the meat counter was inundated with customers 3 or 4 deep vying for service and well stocked shelves were being wiped clean only to be restocked.  What did this trip to the store yield for me?  2 tubs of yogurt, 2 mango juices, 2 cans of mango pulp and 1 baklava box.

Right.  I went to get chicken keema, remember?  The damn shelves of the meat case was darn near empty and when I asked the butcher if he had more, he shrugged and said in a very thick Middle Eastern accent that if there were none left, there was none left.  I wanted to ask him where his Ramadan spirit went to but bit back the comment.  He didn’t look happy as it was and I wasn’t about to push him over the edge by adding to it since I could imagine the chaos that day must have brought.  No one wants to risk being beaten by a skinned goat leg anyhow. 

In my endeavor to pick up the rest of whatever I needed, which turns out wasn’t much since I mentally calculated those things I already had at home, I again noted how crowded the aisles were.  This one woman, who had a perma-scowl on her face, practically knocked me over in order to snag yogurt while not bothering to apologize and another group of glaring women cut rudely in front of me in line at the register.  I shook my head and paid for my own purchases, leaving the store with a few heavy bags in hand.  I couldn’t help but wonder that if these folks were so bad tempered now, what would happen when we were in full blown fasting mode.  Yikes.

But here’s the thing, even if I didn’t get the things I was looking for, and I nearly was assaulted twice, I felt Ramadan finally for the first time.  The energy, even the excitement, remembering that millions of folks just like me were all preparing to get to the business of doing the exact same thing…namely going without something that most people just took for granted, eating.  Does that sound weird?  I know the sentence structure could be improved upon.  Dunno but to me, there truly is a solidarity in numbers.

Let me just say this now, and I promise I will repeat this on many, many occasions to come:  I’m not such a great Muslim. 

Yup, there I said it.  No shame in that admission I don’t think.  I don’t pray 5 times a day, shamefully hardly at all.  I don’t thank Allah for his blessings daily as I should nor turn to Allah as I should.  There are a lot of other things that I’m not mentioning here that I do that I shouldn’t but I have no interest in scandalizing everyone who is reading this, nor do I feel the need to reveal that much about myself.  Hey, we all have skeletons, right?  Anyhoo…I really am not a good Muslim.  I strive to be but I fail, all the damn time (maybe using the word “damn” proves precisely how much a lousy Muslim I am?). 

And I watch others, online or in person, who seem to embody the true meaning of being a believer far better than I and I feel nothing but admiration.  When I read that people are excited about Ramadan, looking forward to it, downright giddy about it, I’m left feeling even worse.  Here’s what I’m pretty much thinking, “what the heck is going on?  Folks are looking forward to 17+ hours of starvation?  No water, no coffee, no nothing but a debilitating headache? What am I missing here?  What in the world is wrong with me??  WHY CAN’T I BE BETTER AT THIS???”  (The voices are pretty loud in my head too and real accusatory.) 

That’s a great deal of disgust for myself, not others.  Sure I’m not a good Muslim, but this bad?  Really?  My ability to get jazzed was broken, clearly.

But what I couldn’t recall, because often these thoughts are pre-Ramadan, was that once I’ve surrendered myself to the holy month, once it has arrived, I find my mind transforming slowly.  Yup, it’s a fact.  Call me a Ramadan-Muslim, which incidentally I didn’t know was a thing until like two days ago, if you wish.  I don’t care about anyone’s opinion on this one.  (What’s a Ramadan-Muslim, you may be wondering?  Apparently it’s a person who otherwise doesn’t follow many of the tenants of Islam throughout the year but during Ramadan it’s on like Donkey Kong.  Many followers who are true devotees scoff at these interlopers, these fakes, but to me I think to myself, well at least they try and who are we to judge anyhow?  It’s between them and Allah anyhow so Imma keep my opinion, to myself.)

I know you’re just DYING to know what I’m like during the oncoming month, right?  RIGHT??  Well allow me to enlighten you…As I begin the submission process, allowing my body and mind to adjust, I will become quieter, more introverted, my thoughts more reflective.  I will read and immerse myself into the study of my religion to gain knowledge and clarity, I will try to speak softly (which anyone knows is not an easy thing for me), be gentle and find patience.  I will spend a lot of time prostrating in front of Allah asking for forgiveness as well as seeking the peace that eludes me nonstop.  I will educate myself so that I glean more awareness than I did the year before regarding Islam and pray that it stays with me well past Ramadan. 

Here are some other more realistic, really, really human things I will do or become:  I will drag Muslim bootay.  And I mean, lethargic city.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, will be done with any sense of urgency or energy.  In fact, I will want to lay down on the floor of wherever I am, work, grocery store, 7-11….you name it and I will want to lay down right there.  The struggle is to stay upright.  I will crave coffee like a mad woman.  The very smell of it will cause my eyes to glaze over with a maniacal gleam.  This yearning never goes away, I won’t lie, even if it’s day 28.  I will pray for my period (yes, I know you’re cringing but I think my Muslima sistah’s knows what I mean) so that I can indulge in daylight eating which almost feels like a naughty, naughty thing to do.  And I will hide it from everyone that I am eating even if I can, even when there’s a legit reason.

I will go to the grocery store and buy the most ridiculous food products that would otherwise never be consumed if I were not fasting and I troll the internet for new recipes, gazing at pictures of dishes as if it were porn, and to an extent it is I suppose.  I will endlessly fantasize about gracing various restaurants that boast a plethora of different cuisines even if in reality my exhausted butt wouldn’t make it to even one.   And yes, I will miss a few prayers here and there as I try to sleep long hours away in hopes that the breaking time arrives faster (it never ever does).  I curse the fact that I’m an adult and often times it falls to me to make the fast breaking food unlike when I was a child when Mom took care of it.  Oh childhood how I miss thee sometimes.

Reading becomes a headache, writing becomes damn near impossible.  Splashing water on my mug is the only way to rouse myself to pray, which is harder this month than any other although it’s far more rewarding.  You end up hate on anyone who can eat and you seriously consider snatching ice cream from the hands of babes only to run away to eat it in private, closely resembling Gollum and that damn ring.  Wait, I mean me…I want to do that.

I’ll watch TV with a sense of incredible guilt that it’s not something ‘Islamic’ but yet not stop myself because it’s several moments of mindless nothingness which exerts zero verve.  Oh, and throughout the day?  I will dream of the meal that will put me out of my misery.  My temper will always be on tight reign as I pray over and over again to Allah to bestow on me patience so that I don’t snap someone’s head off and when someone who is a non-Muslim tries to ‘sympathize’ with me that they know what fasting is all about because they forewent eating meat for a Friday…well I want to lose it on them.  This is ME, not anyone else, Folks.  I’m just telling you how I feel.  Remember, I’m not that great a Muslim.

I will take that first sip of ice cold water and breathe a sigh of relief as I count down the days that I have left.  The night prayer will be the one I most fear for it goes on FOREVER and ever, and ever.  I will obsess over what to eat at night often settling on a piece of fruit and a glass of water and then…it all starts again.

Yes, and even as I do all this stuff which to me is not so pretty reality, I will remember the meaning behind why I’m doing it which is what will propel me into the next day and the next and then another…

Why am I even telling y’all this?  I guess it’s because knowing that I sorta suck at doing my religion, I’m giving a prospect of reality…from my POV.  Maybe there are plenty of believers who feel the same, find themselves struggling with the same issues, secretly nodding their head and grimacing.  I don’t know.  If you’re out there, just let me say, you aren’t alone.

I’m going to be hopefully posting more blogs during this month.  Now don’t hold me to this promise because last year I think I lasted a whooping week before giving into total lethargy.  Hey, at least I’m being honest. 

OOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, one last thing:  For those who are not Muslim’s, and there are a LOT of you out there…it’s okay to say “Happy Ramadan” to your friends.  I can assure you, those who are observing the fast will appreciate the kind gesture.  It’s on par with how you feel when a non-believer of your faith wishes you a “Merry Christmas” or a “Happy Diwali” or “Happy Passover” or whatever holiday you hold dear…got my drift?   

Okay, peace and Ramadan Kareem to one and all. 

Let the Hunger Games begin and may the odds forever be in your favor!!

Pretty Much..

 

Reappearance and the Ugly (Personal) Truth Revealed

There’s something that I can reveal about being a semi writer, a true struggle to some extent.  Oh mind you it’s not a terribly big secret but I’m going to treat it as one just because.  So here goes:  writers often lose their mojo and it’s a tragedy.

Yes, so as you see I’m writing.  Something. 

Since my last blog, I can honestly admit that the words did dry up.  I found myself on so many occasions staring at a blank screen which afforded so many possibilities and yet…nothing.  I struggled with questioning myself as to how dedicated I was to my craft (at least I like to think of it as such).  How could I call myself a blogger when I failed to post anything for months and months at a time?  Where had the passion gone?  Even when inspirational struck, I couldn’t manage to get thoughts down.  There was no use.  I had failed.  I told myself this but then again after reading the rest of this entry, you’ll know that this is something common I’ve been feeling of late and precisely why. 

So what’s kept me so preoccupied?  What’s happened that has made those elusive words escape me as I search high and low?  Besides the regular every day annoyances of life which everyone suffers, what could possibly keep me away from the one thing that I’ve always felt most at peace while doing?  Well here’s a not so hidden secret (another one, so bonus!):  I was laid off (again) back in September.  Some of you out there will be nodding, knowing already what has happened.  Others will be taken aback, surprised.  These will be those who are my Facebook friends.  And the last bit of you who only know me as the writer of this blog, you may be shrugging and saying to yourself, ‘okay, and…?”.

But let me talk to those of you who haven’t ever gone through a layoff, to those who have no clue what this particularly lovely experience is like.  Let me talk to you folks.  Let me expose the quiet reality of it, in all its psychological backlash-y ways. 

Back in September, on a day that had gone down in infamy anyhow, I was called into the HR admins office at about 3pmish (why does everything nasty happy at 3?  3pm or 3am doesn’t seem to matter) and told in a very comforting, calm and sympathetic voice that I was no longer needed.  My position had been terminated (even though there were others in the same position and they were clearly not being targeted).  I was also told that I would get a nice severance, and assistance to find a new job and…it was at about that point where the buzz started in my inner ear.  Her voice sounded like the adults voices in The Peanuts…wohn wohn wohn…  The buzzing was soft at first, slowly getting louder and louder as she spoke.  My mouth had fallen open initially at one point, staying that way, possibly giving the impression of a grade A idiot.  Initially whereas I stared at her with eyes large with shock, later those same eyes must have strayed, unable to look at her any longer, focusing instead on the bottom of the desk.  There was a piece of dark lint against the lightness of the carpet very close to the trashcan.  I don’t know why I stared at that or even remember it so very clearly.  It’s funny the small details we take as mental snapshots yet are completely befuddled by what was being said or the more important words thrown at you.

I heard everything though, somehow maybe they sunk in because they were ‘important’ yet still I had so much trouble really focusing.  Questions zipped about in my cranium, what to do next, who to tell, how would I handle this, how would I say goodbye...and she must have been clued into this because she kept asking me if I was okay.  She handed me a tissue box.  I didn’t know I had started to cry.  Or at least that tears were slipping down my cheek.  My Director, who was also sitting there silently avoiding all eye contact, suddenly leapt up, mumbled a ‘good luck’ and left.  Nothing more.  This was the man who I had been so close to, who had mentored me and I had consulted and even advised when he asked.  He said nothing.  Ties broken.

After the door closed behind him, the HR person asked softly, “you really had no idea this was coming?”

Lifting my head up to look at her was so hard….so very hard.  How I did it, I have yet to recall but I managed to connect with her and say in the softest voice ever, “not at all”, choking back a broken sob.  I was humiliated.  Not tears.  Not in front of this person.  Not in the face of no reason for this abrupt parting of ways.  Not without any answers, which I knew I wouldn’t get.  That fact was in her banal words of ‘economic decisions’ and a ‘bad year’.  The tears may have been the reason for the flash of something in her eyes, maybe heartburn/indigestion, who knows, before it disappeared swiftly.  I was glad.  I didn’t need compassion from the very person who had suddenly made me homeless.   I wanted to scream, shout, throw things, even threaten, but my professionalism held me back.  The tears had really been bad enough.  So instead I took a very shaky breath, squared (no, really I did, snapshot) my shoulders and told my frantic mind to shut up.  After all, now I had plenty of time to freak out at my own leisure.

Soon I was handed a packet, told to look through it, sign the right forms and to return it as soon as possible.  Then I knew what was next:  The walk to collect my belongings with my own personal escort. 

It was a surreal experience to be treated like a criminal, one that had been tried and convicted without any form of defense.  The halls of the office were eerily quiet, everyone having been sequestered into one office while the deed was done.  I had no chance to say goodbye, to hug those who had been my partners in crime, to even act like I was brave or that everything was okay.  I was robbed.

The rest of that day was a blank.  But I remember the tears.  If truth be told, the last few months have been blank as well, yet I assure you the tears have also dried up, much like the words.  It’s sad that I don’t know what I do daily anymore.  I send out resumes, a lot of them, I am always interviewing here and there, I get my hopes high and then they crash like water breaking on the surf.  I have spent hours and hours taking courses to brush up, supplement, educate, hoping that someone would take me in and give me a new home.  I ponder and muse, I accuse myself, I talk to God, although that was something I did much more in the beginning, not-so-much now.  So many have reached out from the company to talk, reassure, calm, assure some more.  I’ve heard all sorts of things that range from “what the hell happened” to “you were the best project manager here” but not surprisingly I remained a quiet mess.  The doubt piled/piles.  If I were so damn good, then why was I laid off?  The questions…oh my but the questions were/is nonstop.

I didn’t give any of this away, I am proud to say, other than to a select few.  And what I mean by that is talk about this new found status of my life.  Even to them though I revealed my initial shock, confusion, anger…then that too stopped.  I couldn’t stand to hear my own voice.  Have you ever had that happen?  When your own voice grates and irritates you to the point that you want to hear it stop?   Yea, well it’s not pleasant.  I found my mute.  When friends would ask, my standard response was “let’s talk about something better…”.  I meant it to some degree and to another I wanted to scream out that I wasn’t okay and that this sucked.  That I was no longer a viable member of society.  I was, in reality, completely useless.

And that’s still how I feel.  Sometimes the deep sense of not belonging haunts me.  I’ve spent a lot of time alone and I mean a lot.  If I said it healed me then I would be lying blatantly.  Time alone is a mixed blessing.  No matter the need to be with people is overshadowed by the fact that I want the quiet so that I can continue to belittle myself.  I mean why not admit this?  After all that’s precisely what’s happening.

A lot of you reading this last sentence are probably flinching, feeling bad for me, thinking that someone should tell me not to do this to myself, dare I say pity?  Truth be told, it’s okay.  I am self-aware enough that I can intellectualize that what was done to me, was a business decision.  I have little pride in my abilities for the most part but when it comes to work ethics and a job well done, well I am good at what I do.  Period.  No one is going to take that away from me, that’s for damn sure.  I also can comprehend that what I’m going through is not unique and that eventually things will turn around.  I know that forever I will not feel this way and that I will find a job, indeed soon enough I shall be bitching nonstop about the crazy work hours I must suffer through.  For now though, I need to do this.  I need to hit bottom with nowhere else to go because at that point, I’ll have no other choice but to start to rise again somehow.  Okay, that was mighty lyrical of me, right?

All I can tell you guys at this point is, don’t feel bad for me.  I’ve shared all because there maybe someone who is going through a similar situation and feels this terrible sort of solitude and worthlessness.  To them, I suppose this entry is to help understand that we all eventually face struggles that bring us to our knees.  I am not ‘glass half full’ enough to say that life is still beautiful and you should count your blessings and blah blah blah…I mean those are things that you should be doing even when everything is going your way.  I’m not here to be your therapist, after all unless you want to wire me some duckets and then heck, I’ll tell you whatever you would like to be told!  What I will advise, however, is that you realize that nothing is status quo.  Things eventually will change and you will look back upon the time of your greatest struggles in astonishment and wonder how you got through it. 

As for me?  I’m freakin’ lookin’ forward to that moment.

Yea, that’s what’s happening in my world.   The silence is broken, the secret is out, my behavior, who has detected a slight change, answered.  Sorry for the suspense.  I’ve long since realized that I’m the sort of person who needs to deal with what’s going on with my life, really digest it, before talking at any length regarding it or handling my feelings.  This blog doesn’t mean though that I’m past this particular low.  Nope, I’m still walking around with a dark cloud over my head specifically.  If I laugh, then I thank God for that moment because it is indeed rare.

Hopefully this is a breakthrough for me, posting this blog.  I can’t make promises but working at the laptop and getting out these thoughts have been cathartic.  I am recalling why I did this before and why I may just do it again.

For now, good people, I wish you adieu.

Amar Shonar Bangla...(My Beloved Bangla)...A Pictorial of My Birth Country

I've spoken about where I was born on many occasions but the fact is that most that I've had a one-on-one convo with about my country of birth has cocked their head, rubbed their chins and shrugs their shoulder in clear indication of no knowledge of this particular place.  Okay, not totally surprising and I'm not about to give any of y'all a history lesson.  However, I will pull myself out of epic laziness long enough to show you some pics I think aptly captures Bangladesh and share some thoughts while I go along. 

Enjoy...

In case you've never ever seen the flag, there you go.  A visual knowledge bomb has dropped on your butt.

 

Now keep in mind, I was born not in the Capital of Dhaka, but rather the port city of Chittagong.  Here it is for y'all on the map.  See how I cropped?  Nice, right?  That light blue is the Bay of Bengal, in case you didn't realize.:

 

 

Also see that blue circle?  Yea, there.  Between Myanmar, Bhutan and honkin' huge India.  It's a small country absolutely ridiculously overcrowded as all of these countries tend to be.  The top 1% has all the wealth while the rest...meh...not so much.  Poverty is everywhere, or at least the earmarks of it even when you're in the more affluent areas.  Want to go somewhere that doesn't remind you about the harsh realities of the world?  Well, Bdesh may not be your choice destination although the country does boast gorgeous beaches and resorts along with a thriving, active, bustling capital and mountains that will,  I guarantee, take your very breath away.

But be warned that as soon as you land at the airport the air is rife with overripe fruit, oppressive heat and yes, poverty (I will point this out many times yet don't believe this is the only aspect to this country (I will also clarify this point as well)).  You cannot miss it, cannot turn a blind-eye to it and you most certainly cannot help but wonder how people survive. 

However, survive they do.  And as people who live in adversity are want to do, they thrive, adapt, adjust, change to their environment.  They cling to their culture and religion, using that as the shield against what is otherwise grossly lacking, the basic comforts that we first world folks take for granted like running water, electricity, plentiful food, variety of options, etc...They celebrate, laugh, cry,  deal with all those issues you are probably dealing with but their surroundings simply look...different.   

But let me show you some pics of the precise city where I was born:

 

Somewhere in the above craziness I came into the world on a December morning...okay lemme stop, I am not poetic enough...not even giving my mother the time to get to a hospital.  Yea, since then I've been an impatient soul, won't lie.

 

But looking at that pic, it looks lunatic, right?  No real beauty, just chaos.  But take a closer look, even in such extreme crazy, there is some loveliness, I think because this shows a thriving country steeped in adversity indeed:

 

 Yea, but that looks pretty cray cray no doubt...Hold up I have another one for you...

Those are Rickshaw's, the bike thingies.  Only two people can sit on them at a time, sometimes 3 if you're anorexic and 1 if you're well...not anorexic.  You may have seen them here in the States or other countries tooling around big cities, also called the same thing but yea, different in every other respect.  Think socio-economic, think cheap labor, think necessity.  The greater part of the population is dependent upon this incredibly difficult means of earning a few taka (the currency).  The physical exertion is bad enough but couple that with the heat?  Yea...yikes.  And where it would seem just wrong to even take advantage of this nearly inhumane labor, keep in mind that for every one that you step back from, another person is going hungry from lack of earnings. 

Moving along though, I don't want to show only lunacy.  My birth country isn't all about congestion.  Darn it, I know there are some picks I stole (sorry) from the net which aren't so...so...chaotic...

Well this sure ain't it.  But since I've already pasted it here, let me tell you what you're looking at.

That's an outdoor bazar.  Regular grocery stores are only for the high and mighty....lol...kidding.  Even those are showing up with regularity now (from what I hear) as well as gargantuan malls but for the most part you send your servant boy/girl/man/woman or sometimes even the household folks, to go into the crush up above and haggle themselves into a fit.  There is a wonderful sense of accomplishment when a few taka's are knocked off and they come home with a live chicken in one hand.  Yup, seen that many times.  It's awesome until the chicken is killed...then...*shudders*.  Don't get it twisted, I still eat the thing though :P

Remember how I mentioned that Chittagong is a port city?  So let me show you the port.  Admittedly the picture above is sort of depressing.  Muddy water, sad pathetic barges, but...here's another look:

 

 

These picture represents a bursting trade...a port full of possibilities. 

 

And not far from here is the beach, but an hour from where my family lives.  Potenga is a beach which I've visited countless times, on so many occasions that I can't pick one out.  There's a military base close by  hence you see a lot of men in uniform strolling along taking a break from their regimented life.  You also see couples sneaking some romantic moments, families splashing around in the sand and all other sorts of humanity.   If you do happen to stop by?  Get the piaju (fried lentil balls with all sorts of yum spices) which are handed over in rolled newspaper and a cup of thick sweet creamy tea that coats your mouth and in conjunction with the spicy eats, burns so good...yea, we have this place too...

 

 

And here's an areal shot of the lazy river snaking it's way by.  Which river, you may wonder?  Heck if I know.  I'm not that well versed in Bdesh geography (I'm ashamed to say) but seeing as how I pretty much immigrated and settled in the States at the age of 3, is it any wonder?  Although that being said, I should have paid more attention when others told me, tried to edjumicate me...you live and learn, right?  Never to late.

Oh yea, see this here hills below?  They're located in Chittagong also, literally steps away from those above busy streets you saw.  Yup, what a handy little city right?  Mountains on one side and the ocean on another.  The beauty here never ceases to amaze me.

Those little green things in the pic below are called 'Baby Taxi's".  Let me assure you they are loud and obnoxious and the quickest mode of transport and cheap.  Did I mention cheap?

Love this picture...nothing to say really...I didn't take it so I'm sorry for the possible copyright infringement but I really do take NO credit for the beauty here, so like, don't sue me, k?  Thanks!

Beaching it.  Not me, whoever took this pic was but I think this shows you another facet of my beloved birth country.  Although I have more pictures of the beach below, there's a reason why I put this one here...

 

 

See, juxtaposition between the busy and the serene.  Or maybe I like to use the word "juxtaposition" wherever I can to make myself sound way more intelligent than I am.  Just sayin'...you decide.



 



Okay, I absolutely had to post a picture of this shot from a traveler on a train.  I've been on these loud clacking, swaying, out of control monsters that have transported me between Dhaka to Chittagong.  They are fantastically scary and so much fun.  The hawkers in the train offer terrible chicken cutlets (breaded flattened pieces of fried chicken) that are so good that I still to this day can practically taste it upon my tongue.  And another reason to show this shot?  I've often been the person to stick her head out at a certain bend to look back and marvel at how long those darn metallic beasts are.  Let's not talk about safety though.  There is no such thing but let's just enjoy this one second memory from childhood, shall we?  

 

Let me keep it moving...

 

Just a man working hard for his money.  These hawkers are everywhere and will sell you even underwear (new, not used) if you wait long enough.  My favorite was the cobra hawker.  For a price he will come into your house and make his cobra do tricks for you and your gawking family.  Get your minds out of the gutter folks, this is a family channel.  When I say cobra though, I mean the real deal with the fangs and venom and all the hissing.  It never struck me how inhumane this spectacle was as a young girl of 17.  I wasn't that clued in.  I just wanted to see a snake.

No, nothing about the life of a poor man/woman/child is easy.  This picture has left me a little lonesome and hopeless.  But still I wanted to share.  If you think YOU don't have enough, remember you have more than this guy below, right?

And to properly show you once again the extremes, here's a picture of the inside of a mall.  Yea...look at them dresses.  So pretty, colorful, vibrant...what's not to like?  It's funny, I've had several dreams throughout the years that I went to Bangladesh and was struggling to go shopping.  No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get to a market.  What's that say about me?  Heck, what's that say about how kick-butt shopping options are there? 

Once again, back to the harsh reality of life...

Oh, those things the men are wearing that almost look like skirts?  They're actually lungi's.  Long fabric that is tied around the waist and then can be doubled up to make a sort of mini-version.  I won't lie, I've loathed these things from the beginning of my fashion consciousness and possibly one of the reasons is because often you can find some idiot with his back to the street and his thingie all out and peeing against a wall, no shame whatsoever.  It's easy accessibility.  -_-

Another picture that inspires such longing in my being to book a ticket back home.  Next year though...

 

 

Can I please talk about the food for a second?  Oh the gastronomic joy.  And if you're a meat or fish lover?  This is the country you should go to and partake because lordie, the options are astounding and all so very good.

 

 

 

*Wipes the drool away and continues to blog*

 

Have I highlighted enough how hard the vast majority of the population work just to make a few bucks?  And I know, I haven't shown the gentleman/lady in suits heading to their nice air conditioned offices.  But just because I didn't show you doesn't mean they aren't there.  But you've seen them everywhere anyhow.  They don't change because they're in another country, they are all exactly the same.  They are all corporate drones that burn the midnight oil, hate their bosses, become excited for COB and drink coffee to wake themselves up (or tea) and keep them going.  I'm sorry but there is nothing fascinating or unique to show you in those pictures so like the snob I am, I'm not.  I'd rather show you what you, if you've never been to these types of countries, can see.  Real struggle as well as triumph.

Anyone for jackfruit?

 

Yup, this is what Bdeshi's would call the projects if they knew what that terminology meant, otherwise it's just a house for some soul and his family but...nice view I suppose. 

 

 

Added this because who can't like the vibrancy of this picture?

 

 

So here's the thing...I have no faith in the local airlines, Bangladesh Biman (Biman literally means airplane).  I'm not trying to malign them or nothing, I've in fact been on these planes a few times but this picture makes me not want to ever again...never board a flight.  How the hell did this happen in the first place?!

 

 

Did you know that the national sport in Bdesh is cricket?  And the team is pretty kickass.  If you're ever visiting, then try not to go during a World Cup season because nothing gets done.  The whole country stops to watch the games that seem to go on for not just hours but days.  Want to see the ranking?  Check it here.

 

 

Bdesh isn't all about poverty, as I mentioned before.  Here's a good example of homes that can be found.  The architecture is quite beautiful, the rooms opulent and right outside the door?  The villages of the poor.  But don't judge these people too harshly.  The affluent cannot always help being so nor can the poor.  We are all, at the end of the day, victims to our environment and change isn't always sought even though we think it should be.  If you're sitting at home right now in the non-3rd world countries thinking, "we don't have that sort of poverty here!"  Well then take your happy butt on down to the less tasteful areas of your town and have a look-see.  You'll be shocked.

 



 

Oh!  Remember the snake charmer?  I found this pic and was so excited cause this is sort of how the guy with the snake was, even the box (not a wicker basket like most believe), that visited my family.  This isn't the guy I saw so many ions back but close enough...

 

 

Rainy season is sublime, in my humble opinion.

 

 

 

And an epic pain and mess...

 

Highways are now reaching every outlier village to make traveling easier.  Yup, and this means modern conveniences being spread far and wide.  Slowly but still, progress is progress.

 

 

 

Here are a few more examples of the opulence, so don't be under the impression that 'rich' doesn't exist.

 

 

Mosque...Bangladesh is a Muslim country, FYI.

 

 

I don't know what this is but it's pretty, ain't it? 

 

 

Confession time:  I went through and found all these images (well this isn't the actual confession) and I've 'uploaded' them to this blog in a totally random order.  But this has worked to my advantage because I think in this way, you're seeing not any one idea clustered together but rather all the realities that entwine together to create this country.  

 

Like here, you see a woman scrounging for food?  Or  possibly something to resell?  I don't know what she's doing specifically but I can tell you this much, I've seen her.  Not her specific but those very much like her.  This is truth.

 

 

And another reality. 

 

 

I could go on forever showing picture after picture of my beloved birth country but I run the risk of becoming far too sentimental.  Besides no place can be captured accurately in just images but rather in the experience because none of these show the warmth, love, humor nor fighting spirit of the folks that inhabit this little space within the global mass.  You cannot see how they dance with joy at weddings or cry in heart break when suffering through a death.  You can never imagine the national pride of those who fought for liberation or how that very spirit permeates every citizen. 

 

Yes, Bangladesh is a small country, overpopulated, polluted, underprivileged in so many ways yet it contains within it some of my most wonderful memories. and people I have every had the luck to meet.  They are heartfelt and caring and emotional and crazy but they are real (a word I've used so many, many times throughout this blog but it's worth repeating even though I'm risking redundancy).  Even as I sit here typing this up, I can visualize the streets, the smells, the sounds, those faces and I feel...yea, I'm a bit choked up. 

I have done my self a great disservice not to have gone back in 10 years.  I will remedy this, that I vow.  

 

But for you, my reader, if you've never considered this a viable destination for your wanderings, please go.  Above I've shown you just a glimpse of what it's like, but there is so much more and trust me, you will be welcome with open arms because well...That's how Bangladeshi's roll.